Living above ground

Begin Again...

2006-06-28T22:55:00.000-07:00

I've thought a lot about these 100+ odd posts and wonder why I've spent so many hours at it. It most definitely has stopped me from dedicating time to other work and yet, a part of me has actually enjoyed it. After all, we are all so damn isolated behind screens and in cubicles most of the day that this starts to feel a little social. But then I began to think about how few of us, if any, actually view life in the same way...so a blurb or two with a catchy phrase only rests briefly as a gauge, a limbo pole set at a different vantage point, but nothing more than that. I'm going to pull this thing off the net like boiled skin. Time to begin a new project...

These Toilsome Times and Custer's Last Stand

2006-06-01T22:14:00.000-07:00

Wasted my day at an Open House. A condo. Six hundred and sixty nine square feet of black leather and boredom. Not a book in sight...just a lone IKEA pine shelf full of manuals and software. The place as memorable as a used Q-Tip. At least the seller left me what he must have considered mood music...Prince. I have to wonder what he must have thought popping Purple Rain into the player before scurrying off to work. I took him for a Michael Buble fan...and when he wants cutting edge he puts on Acoustic Alchemy or Luther Vandross. But, hey, I love surprises! Besides, I, too, was feeling a slight nausea on what best accompanies leather and cat hair balls the size of cotton candy. Not to mention dander drifts that could reroute an arctic traveler...or the fact that dried crap has somehow missed the confines of the litter shitter and cemented to the carpet. In hindsight, Prince might be a perfect choice although I felt a tad overdressed greeting people at the door to "Jack U Off." Nothing to worry about though...the majority of St. John knits and blue blazered brokers didn't seem to notice a thing.

The place has been sold twice and both times the sale has flipped due to financing and now it's back on the market once again. A realtor called me yesterday to tell me he was bringing in an offer but he never showed. What's up with that? Today the potential buyers seem to be little hipster MicroSofties who got into the company after all the splits but still have dreams of retirement like their forty-something siblings. There is a look to these guys--boyishly clean cut, wire-rims, thin and unathletic, quick of speech. They seem to always be checking their blackberries, calculating something. Another give away...the neighbors know them. Obviously more Bill Gates wannabes. Each parking stall holds a new leased BMW and on every terrace --an elaborate Weber blow torch barbecue. One over-achiever neighbor tells me, "I've currently locked into a 5 year arm based on my life goals and work expectancy. I plan to be married and settled by the time my mortgage payment adjusts." Obviously a programmer. I know I sound like an enlightened piece of shit but sometimes things are too hard to swallow.

Today the clouds are fighting each other...and then small breaks of sun appear out of nowhere. It brings me to a somewhat sad reflective state. When I get like this I start pulling out old writing and trying to resusitate it. I've started a story that I might try to add to...or not, SHIT, it's wild when you vomit material on a page and then cut it lose and begin again. The story of my life. But I guess what I try to do is unleash imagination. Take a proposterous situation and open up possibilities. Anyway, this piece is a convulsing combination of truth and fiction with no marketable value. It needs a lot of revision but I'll give you a taste of bile at its best...

My name is Custer J.C. Callahan. I know it's a mouthful but I'm my mother's last stand. You see, we're Irish Catholic which means if it doesn't fly with the Pope it's not happening at our house. I'm the tenth child and the youngest. My brother, born eleven months prior is named Will, after the little boy in Lost in Space...and my sister Ginger, after a shipwrecked castaway. Our older siblings lucked out. They're biblical figures --Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Peter, Paul, and Mary. My parents must have been on a roll back then but lost steam somewhere between the girls.

My father is a doctor. We don't see him much. He's a soft-spoken man who is always performing surgery on some foreign kid who needs him more than we do. Lately we found out that a certain nurse needs him too but that's not a subject worth discussing unless you want mom to take a few hefty swigs of holy water.

As long as I can remember our mom has been working at home. She says her job is never done. One hundred and sixty-eight hours a week she tends to our needs. Lord knows I'm not challenging her performance record but one can't help but notice a change in hours. More often than not we find her sprawled out on the sofa, flipping TV channels and taking communion (or at least that's what she calls it though I have never heard of anyone falling down from communion except Baptists, and we aren't Baptists.)

It wasn't long after I started school that mom began dressing mannequins and leaving them on the front porch. The first was Mae. She wore a long blonde wig and had a little round crotch and breast. Mom dressed her in camouflage gear, the shirt unbuttoned to her waist so when the wind blew you could see her nips. The next thing we knew Mae had accessories --a toy MK47, a plastic grenade in her shirt pocket and a Lucky Strike behind her right ear. I thought the cigarette made her look cool until the neighbor kids smoked it in the graveyard behind our house.

I've got to be honest, the thought of one more body requiring space left me cold but I found myself growing fond of Mae and her army fatigue. Even though she was a girl and made of fiberglass there was something that appealed to my growing sense of duty. Besides, I recognized the importance of the opposite sex in battle having discovered my sister Mary's tampons make great missiles. I could launch a Tampex torpedo from the second floor landing and wipe out an entire nativity scene in the entrance hall.

Then more mannequins began to appear. They were multiplying so fast that it was hard to find a place to sit. Mom was dressing them too. Some in her fancy gowns with cocktail glasses and magic marker name tags that said, Hi my name is Tallulah, Zsa Zsa, Marilyn and Greta. There were others trapped in dad's nice suits, striking poses with adhesive labels attached to their lapel --Errol, Humphrey, Freidrich, and Winston. Then the furniture was out there. Initially it was just a couch and chair but not long after the side tables and a lamp joined them. When the weather got better mom placed herself between the dummies and carried on long conversations. The rich smoke from her cigarette would billow upward like soft, puffed pillows and ever so often her head would rear back and she would laugh like it was coming straight from her calloused toes. The oldest twins, Matthew and Mark say she's bordering looney on account of delivering so many babies in such a short piece of time. They say it's the equivalent of coming up from the bottom of the sea too fast and getting the bends. I don't rightly know what they mean but if that's the reason she's bloated and acting crazy, it works for me.

For six months mom had 'get a divorce' written on the kitchen chalkboard. It loomed at the top of the list like a large phosphorescent planet. And then one day it slid to the fifteenth position, wedged between 'get the dog neutered' and 'buy vacuum bags.' We thought that was a good sign although we still hadn't seen much of our father and frankly, all of us were getting pretty tired of ailing immigrants breaking up our home. And what made it worse was the idea that God will punish our sorry souls for wishing our dad would come home and resume his job. Our only salvation was Sunday school and bedtime when we'd purge our sinful thoughts and pray with all our might that Jesus cure every dang invalid and return them to whence they came. Good riddance! But after each prayer mom would let out a heavy sigh and say, "It's not that easy."

Next thing we knew mom has hopped a train full of frozen chicken parts. She cleaned the house and made ten little sack lunches like she thought we were Disney dwarfs and headed for the tracks. Word has it she got all the way to Missoula, Montana before they pulled her frost-bitten buns out of the boxcar and sent her back to Seattle. Trouble is we didn't know any of this until we got home from school that day. Instead of finding mom propped on the couch watching test patterns, Cora Mae Jones and her sultry singing voice was butchering sea life in our kitchen sink. She was wearing mom's apron and when she saw us coming through the back door she wiped all that odoriferous fish on the cotton and gave us a squeeze. Cora Mae was a big black woman, so big in fact it felt like you were buried alive in her skin folds. She helped clean on Tuesdays, but this was a Friday so we knew something was fishy.

"Where's mom?" We asked.

"Your mama has decided to do a little traveling," Cora Mae said, swinging a jowl in our direction.

"Traveling? When is she coming home?" We hollered.

"Well, we aren't exactly sure, but don't you worry all of your pretty little heads...I's fixing you something special to eat."

So that night we ate catfish with as much tartar sauce as we wanted and went to bed without a bath. When mom's hobo excursion was over, we met her at the door like a pack of wild hyennas running down an antelope.

"How was your trip?" "What did you see?" "Why did you leave?" "Are you going to do that again?"

But she was not much on words that evening. Her arms hung limp at her side, her lips pressed tight as a zipper as she curled into a potato bug on the sofa and closed her eyes. Cora Mae said traveling has a way of doing that to a person.

Things returned to normal for awhile although we noticed a few changes. Mom wasn't making lunches anymore and rarely changed out of her bathrobe. If she did venture from the house she dressed the way teenagers experiment with alcohol; mixing the wrong taste and proportions until eventually the effect makes you sick to look at it. She had also become quite proficient at cussing and spanking until the skin turned raw.

"If you F****** kids want your F****** dinner, you better get down here right NOW or you'll be fighting the F****** crows for it," all the while slapping at us like she was beating demons from our clothes. Things were escalating...there was no denying.

Matthew and Mark called a meeting. We gathered in their room and sat in a Montessori circle on the floor. Matthew walked around us slowly, his hand massaging his chin as if he was experiencing new growth. Although identical twins, he was born a few minutes before Mark and never ceases to remind him of the fact.

"I've thought a lot about our situation since mom took to the rails and I've come to the conclusion that we've reached a crisis stage," he said.

"That's a slight exaggeration, don't you think? I mean, come on, she hopped a train...she didn't rob a bank," Mark said. Two minutes can seem like a lifetime to a twin in second position.

Matthew glared at him. "Your opinion has as much pull as a rubber teat."

The remark created a few chuckles, except from Ginger, who has always claimed Mark as her favorite. Regardless, the comment shut him up and we turned our attention to the eldest.

"The first thing we need to do is restore order which I hope to accomplish in two phases."

At this point Mary lifts herself from the floor and raises her hand, one leg extended like a kick stand.

"Yes, Mary?"

"I want to be secretary."

"All in favor?" Matthew scans the room.

A unanimous "I" bounced off the bunk beds as Mary ran off for paper and pen. When she returned, he implemented his two step plan.

"First, we must call dad and demand he come home. Now here's where this gets a little dicey...if he does, we need heavy surveillance. No more knocking up mom."

Mary drops her pen, pushing her index fingers in her eardrums, "LaLaLaLaLa,"she chants. I was thinking about joining her until Luke pulled her fingers out and told her to be quiet or she'd lose her secretarial status.

"Now if he doesn't come home, we have to resort to Plan B. Mutiny. That's right...we've got to take control of this sinking ship. What I propose is that each of us take responsibility for the child below us. Make sure they dress right, have a lunch, bath, and brush their teeth. That means watching who they hang out with during and after school and any change of behavior. And if anyone breaks the Callahan code of conduct, report to me. At that point we will call an emergency meeting in which we will impose a swift and harsh punishment. In other words, don't expect to have movable parts if proven guilty. All in favor say "I."

Voices rang out, though despite all the mass enthusiasm I could not help but lift my hands in prayer to the heavenly forces that be and ask that mom and our absent father somehow come to their senses and take the parenting back from the disciples.

Blessed...

2006-05-31T21:45:00.000-07:00

Tonight has been somewhat of a ripper. I just got home from a candlelight vigil for a 43 year woman who died of ovarian cancer. Her diagnosis was originally less than a year but she managed to hang on for five, and in those depleted years, she
helped bring twins into the world. At 7:30 last night, she died with her husband lying in their bed beside her, holding her hand, listening for her last breath.

I've written about her before. When I walk my dog late at night I would see their silhouette behind a curtain locked in an embrace. It's strange because I've only moved here about nine months ago but I couldn't help but notice they were dancing like boxers in the tenth round, clinging to each other as if they didn't have the energy to separate...or else they'd be sitting on the couch and he would be stroking her hair. More than once I questioned why they didn't just lay down...take that embrace under the covers. And then I found out that she had cancer and that the reason they were awake at all hours of the night is because she was frightened to die.

This evening about 75 people holding candles in the rain showed up at their home. We stood outside in front of their window until her husband slowly walked by and saw all of us in his yard and he broke down and cried. I don't think I'll ever forget the look on his face. He held his hand firmly to his lips and his eyes slowly scanned each and every candlelit face. Damn...when you experience that sort of energy and watch a husband weep at the passing of his wife you realize you have no problems. It puts life in perspective. We are all blessed.

Send in the clowns...don't bother they're gone

2006-05-08T18:34:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about it lately...how we've lost the art of comedy. Oh sure, we have a form of comedy --the nasty, cynically kind, but we've lost the innocence of a clown. It seems like comedians today feel the need to take caustic potshots at social and moral issues in order to bring awareness...fancying themselves sarcastic educators of fools. I find it annoying because rarely do the comedians of the day lift the morale. Instead, they pride themselves in being the hunters of bad news, making easy target practice out of something already so full of holes -- namely the White House and any raw sewerage running from it.

Last Friday night I went out to dinner for my dad's birthday. During the course of the evening he starts talking about WWII. The soldiers were being shipped out of Newport News, VA. to catch the boat to Italy. The year was 1945 and the men were saying goodbye to loved ones and slowly climbing onboard the train. As my dad tells it, the guys were pretty low, not knowing if they'd ever be home again and to top it off, the rain was coming down so hard that it was bouncing off the station floor...puddles growing as fast as a pregnant woman. Finally the train started rolling and at that exact moment out springs Red Skelton. He'd heard the troops were leaving and realized they may be in need of some comic relief. The next thing anyone knew, Skelton is running with the train...flopping into mud puddles...doing huge acrobatic dives and then face plants right into deep pools of mud. Instant laughter took over the railcars as the guys crowded in front of the windows to watch his antics. Skelton ran alongside in long bounds as far as he could...tossing himself into the muck and coming up with a face full...all in the pursuit of distracting human suffering.

He said, "I personally believe we were put here to build and not destroy. So if by chance someday you're not feeling well and you should remember some silly little thing I've said or done and it brings back a smile to your face or a chuckle to your heart then my purpose as your clown has been fulfilled."

Red Skelton had a lousy start. His dad died two months before he was born. His mother, left to raise four boys on her own worked as a cleaning woman and an elevator operator. Red grew up poor, hungry, and unable to trust the world and yet he somehow figured out that if he brought others joy than he would survive.

In 1977, Skelton told the New York Times, "When anyone hurts us, my wife and I sit in our Japanese sand garden and drink iced tea. There are five stones in the garden --for sky, wind, fire, water and earth. We sit and think of five of the nicest things we can about the person who hurt us. If he hurts us a second time, we do the same thing. The third time, we light a candle, and he is, for us, dead."

Okay, so all this made me think about his role in the world and how many people he touched along the way. His humor was designed to strengthen the whole, to bolster and lift those whose energy had fallen behind. He thought little of his own preservation and self-aggrandizement, but in the flowering of all who needed a boost. And the world learned to rest upon Red.

And then I happened upon this quote by Andrew Cohen called "On Our Own Shoulders" (wild how life's invisible string asks us to connect the points of comparison) --"The only way for this miserable world to truly change is when the individual is willing to go beyond the personal in a way that is nothing less than heroic. Anything less will allow us to remain in a condition of always wanting only for ourselves. Like a beggar we will live a tortured existence in a perpetual state of need. This is the way most of us are willing to live our lives.

In order to be able to live up to the liberating idealism that many of us have experienced clearly at one time or another we have to be ready to assume a great burden, and that burden is the evolution of the whole. Because to succeed, we must be prepared to do battle with the powerful conditioning, conscious and unconscious, of the whole race. That means we have to come out from behind the shadows and be seen. Like Atlas, we have to be willing to hold up the whole world on our own shoulders. It's an awesome task."

Simple tales and love betrayals...

2006-05-05T09:25:00.000-07:00

I've been twice married. And twice I never had a clue what love and marriage was all about. Though somewhere deep (or what I've come to know is commonly referred to as 'touching the surface') it never stopped me from placing a band on my finger and setting up shop with a virtual stranger who wasn't sure what it was either. It reminds me of a woman I met recently who lost her husband after sixty years. She told me, "I didn't know a thing about him when we married but he promised to take me to Japan on our honeymoon. Well, I had to marry him. It was Japan, for Godsakes."

Sometimes I think back at the person I must have been and it shames me. But, in my limited defense, I believe I cared as deeply as I knew how...or as deep as my well ran, at least for the first husband. And then he propelled me around the world like I was his co-pilot in a prop plane. I was so easily interchangeable with anyone else who could sit in the seat beside him and fulfill his mission. We moved from Seattle to Phoenix to Oxford to New York, and finally to Oslo, all in a matter of eight years. After a multitude of cardboard boxes and popping babies out in an old army barracks in Norway, I finally pulled the ripcord and asked to go home. I don't really know at that point if what I wanted was a divorce but I definitely wanted to be back in a land I understood, around people who didn't make fun of my accent...a place where I could get out of the snow and darkness. This plea was met by the level-headed voice of my ex who informed me I could pack my bags anytime I wanted but the kids were Norwegian citizens and their U.S. passports were no longer available. I became crazy with anger. The next day I dragged the pram up to the American Embassy to stand outside in a long queue in the driving snow. After a few hours I was escorted into an office where a middle-aged woman wearing a blue suit and a jeweled American flag pendant informed me that the U.S. could not reissue passports without my husband's signature since the children were born on foreign soil. "Hadn't you thought about this scenario when giving birth in another country?" she asked.

The story doesn't end here because I did eventually return to my hometown with two small children and my tail tucked tightly between my legs. I was gaunt...86 pounds upon my return, and most definitely, brain-dead. I remember a few weeks after my arrival I'd gone to the store to get a box of diapers for the kids and my brother teasing me, "Why did you buy that kind? They don't absorb half as well as Bounty tissue and some duc tape." I guess I didn't even hear him. I began apologizing profusely for making a mistake...for picking the wrong brand. He looked shocked, "My God, what happened to you over there?" It was humbling...though I soon became aware that I had more lessons to learn and deeper wounds to lick.

We lived with my parents for awhile. They helped with the kids, they fed us, and we eventually arrived at ways in which I could get back into the work force, find good schools, and ultimately, a home. I was making a thousand dollars a month before taxes and over half of that went to daycare. There were moments I thought I had no choice but to return to a husband who had lost interest in me, though adored his kids. I convinced myself that at least they would feel loved. Still, something told me that I couldn't do it...that a martyr fails everyone.

A few years passed and things got better. The divorce was final. I'd received a little house. I was feeling good about the solo tour and my kids were doing fine. But there was this nagging question pounding in my head...kids need a father and theirs was too far away to fill the shoes. I began to dread all those occasions emphasizing father/daughter bonding --Father's Day, Indian Princess Troops, Father-Daughter Tea, "Take Dad to the Ballpark Night." As each celebrated date approached and all the other little girls were chattering enthusiastically about it, a new river of tears would flow at my house. It felt tragically sad....pushing every guilt button I had. That's how they learned to play upon weakness, strike when the iron is hot. They would find me cowering in some corner of the house, rocking frantically and picking out my eyebrows and suddenly, like a platoon who smelled victory, they moved in for the capture and kill, administered their demands slowly..."if only I could have a puppy...a parrot...a cat....a turtle." In hindsight, what powerful negotiators they've become! What job opportunity await in politics and the legal field! I listened to their pleas like a devout follower of justice, but all I heard shouting from the rooftops was a bellowing cry to free each kennel and cage...unlock zoo doors and livestock gates. I listened...the understanding becoming all too clear that if their demands weren't met they would fill every shrink chair from here to Taiwan. As my guilt grew, so did their list of animals. You name the breed, we've had it at one point in time. Yes, I know it was a lousy fix, but nevertheless, the steady stream of animals filled our home like a stationary ark.

But even though the house was stuffed to the gunnels with canines and cockatiels, I could still hear the echo for a male figure. I began to open my mind to the possibility of marriage again. Besides, I found myself fantasizing over sharing the responsibility...someone who enjoyed family life...and who might possibly address my needs and bend me over a clothes hamper and have 'their' way with me. The whole thing started to sound like a plan. With this new idea intact I became more social...inviting people in and serving them a variety of chips and dips.... accepted blind dates from friends who thought they had the perfect match. One such couple told me they knew of a man from California. "We don't really know that much about him," they said, "other than he wants children in the worst way." Mine, I thought?

So I put on a short dress and high heels and went on a blind date with this man who was desperately seeking children. I had not been at the dinner table more than five minutes when he announced that if he didn't find a decent partner soon, he was going to adopt. Decent? Shouldn't that have been my clue to bolt? I felt like a bloody organ donor being interviewed by a perspective parent...Do you smoke? Drink in access? Are you athletic? Parents alive? Drug free? I made the decision after giving my position on circumsion that if asked to do this dating deal again, I would politely decline. But, the guy was persistent. He called everyday. He begged for another chance. I eventually caved.

The second date I showed up in a loose fitting floor length grey knit. It spoke volumes of my enthusiasm. I looked like I'd just resurfaced from a tent and couldn't unzip my sleeping bag. "The pope has arrived," he sarcastically said as I sat down. But I've got to hand it to the guy...he completely dropped the Spanish Inquisition and focused on pleasing me...and filled me with a multitude of lies. What I didn't realize and what I came to know over time is his truth changes as naturally and with as much grace as if he's exchanging partners on a dance floor. In his world, truth is only a lie told successfully.

I'm not going to get into a lot of details but the whole story plays out pretty ugly. The movie trailer would run a little like this...a quick flash of us getting married...having a baby...(happy...happy...happy...a few frantically gay Snoopy leaps into the air) then the days grow dark...he starts knocking back tumblers of Jack Daniels...work stops...we lose the house...bills stack up in piles like National Geographics...the cars are repoed...he stumbles off to rehab...and the unraveling continues until even hell's handbasket is nothing more than a couple of measly twigs and we can't make enough gravy to get on the train.

I remember thinking...Goddamn it, here I am again. I've got to pull deep from some resource that I'm not sure I still have...got to find some strength from within to pull the family through. We'd lost pretty much everything at that point. What money was left was promised. There were liens on our house from a lot of people I'd never heard of in the state of California, including ex-wives and business partners. When the moving truck came I hadn't a place to go. As the men were loading the stuff in the back of the truck the foreman kept asking me for an address to deliver. I stalled. When everything was loaded the man tracked me down again and asked where it was going. I hadn't a clue. All those animals and kids and no destination. I remember walking out into the driveway with those three burly guys, sweat running down their shirts and hair greased back...me and my brood looking limp and lost. I asked them if they could do me the biggest favor of my entire life and keep the things on the truck for a few days...maybe park it somewhere and I'd call them with an address in a day or two. They must have known I was at wits end because they said they'd see what they could do.

The only reason I'm telling all of this is because this is actually where my life begins. I finally gave up and grew up. Life has a way of humbling you...reminding you of what's important. Now I just write from the seat of my pants...trying to make sense of it...holding fast to the life that feels good.

Immigration....

2006-05-03T08:37:00.000-07:00

On Monday my parents decided to drive their 30 year old Cadillac from Palm Springs to Seattle. I questioned the stability of the car for such a journey but my mom told me not to worry...that they'd put in a new transmission and given her one of those quick and dirty lube jobs. And then I got the call.

"Your father and I are lucky to be alive."

"Mom, we're all lucky. These are trying times."

"No, I mean we are REALLY lucky. I don't think I'll ever forget the intensity of that heat or the sound of the windows popping out of the frame."

"Wait a minute," I said, "are you talking about the Caddy? Are you guys okay?"

"Oh sure, just a little shaken up is all," she says. I swear my parents have got to be reincarnated stuntmen...this stuff happens to them all the time.

And that's when she tells me the whole dramatic details of how the car exploded...literally burst into a ball of flames on Interstate 5 outside Sacramento. They were driving along and without warning there was a pop, then a bang, followed by some loud hissing noise and the next thing they knew the entire car was engulfed in flames.

The last time I rode in that huge beast was Easter. Thirty years ago when it rolled off the assembly line it must have been the equivalent of today's Hummer or Suburban. You could easily fit an entire marching band (with instruments) in the back seat and still have room for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I remember bouncing along on that black upholstery just two weeks before her demise and thinking I could probably do trampoline acrobatics with relative ease and not disrupt a passenger.

For its years, the car was in mint condition. The only noticeable flaw was the felt headliner which had come loose. My parents kept it in place with a million silver thumb tacks. "Think of them as stars," they told us. I was working with the concept until the sun started baking those black seats so we rolled down the windows and the tacks took off like shooting stars. For the record, a few thumb tack in the skull outlining the general parameters of Gorbechov's mole relieves a tension headache nicely.

But, here's the main point of the story. So my parents are trying desperately to pull themselves from the burning wreckage while cars continue to whiz by, some slowing slightly to look for casualties before speeding up again. But who pulled over to help?

"Six Mexicans saved us," my mom tells me. "They immediately jumped out of their truck and came running. They got in that burning car and started pulling out all our belongings. They even pried open the trunk and grabbed your dad's accordion and all of our clothes. It was incredible. One guy risked his life over and over to make sure he saved everything he could. We offered to give them something but they said no. They told us they'd be offended. It wasn't about money, they said, it was about doing the right thing."

On a day when millions took to the streets to march for immigration, these six stood tall. Legal or illegal, they are my heroes. I could get all sentimental and teary, but damn, this was a beautiful thing that took place. There are those who say, what would happen if 20 million Mexicans demonstrated against their own government and boycotted their countries businesses? Imagine what they could do for their own land with such numbers. Well, I can't answer that. I don't believe it's that cut and dry. All I know is these six "foreigners" performed a selfless act of humanity and I want them here. Heroes are few.

Yesterday, my parents told me they have never seen the world in a more hollow, destitute place. This news coming from people who have always prided themselves on being the salt of the earth, the meat and potato of this great land they are proud to call home. Retirement? That's a myth, they tell me. Both are still working twelve hour days. They are the classic American tale of immigrants pulling up their boot straps and rolling up their sleeves...who believe with every breath they take that it is only with hard work that you build a strong nation.

Though the words go unspoken somehow I've always known they've found my Generation X to be a little soft. Lame boot licking lackeys who want to retire at 30 because life has been rough. A sluggish and constantly growing mass of granite and marble mankind who think they deserve...and deserve...and deserve.

Well, last night I posed the question which rests upon my thin lips all too often lately, "How do you think things are fairing in the world?" For the first time my parents responded, "We've lived through eighty some years on this planet and we don't remember a time that has been so globally sick and challenged. We may be doomed...and to think our grandchildren have to see this." What? I thought they were kidding or maybe even light headed from the wreck. After all, they'd lived in the afterglow of WWI (or as Lawrence Welk and his bubble-blowing band called it, World War EYE,") and fought in round two.

"No, really," they continued, "never has the earth been in such turmoil with so many variables of destruction at play." I wanted to say, Yeah, but what about Russia and all those hideous bomb shelters you guys erected? Those "hide-under-the-desk" drills we endured once a week because someone somewhere in the hinterlands of hate was about to launch something in our direction that would melt our skin like candle wax? I got in a groove and started to pick up the momentum. Let's not forget Kennedy's assassination...and Viet Nam when no one could figure out how to get our guys out of the rice paddies. Nazi Germany? Or Hiroshima? The Great Depression? And even before all of our time... ...the Plague? And TB, for Godsakes...thousands left on front porch cots in the fresh air...all those frost-bitten, oxygen-sucking folks dropping like flies. It must have looked a lot like that war scene in Gone With The Wind where all those soldiers are splayed out, coughing blood over slave-tended soil. Then suddenly my historical knowledge failed me..."Ah, and don't forget...um, witch burnings, the KKK, stonings, scalpings...oh yeah, and Bush."

"Now hold it right there, young lady," my dad said.

I've seen this look before but it's usually from Dungeness crab when you throw them in hot water.

"Bush?" he says, "Are you trying to link our president to the downfall of America? Do you actually believe one man can be responsible for all of this? Because if you do... I have just one question to ask --WHO GOT TO YOU? Bush may not be our finest president but at least he didn't teach my grandkids about blow jobs."

Summers on Camano Island...

2006-04-30T10:12:00.000-07:00

Just when you think the news can't get any stranger they raise the bar. I read today that a veterinarian faked the death of a German Shepherd so he could give the dog to someone else. Then how about the woman and her adult son who have been convicted of trying to extort money from the Cracker Barrel restaurant claiming they found a dead mouse in a bowl of soup. Charges were filed after a necropsy showed the mouse died of a fractured skull. Not a bloody drop of broccoli cheddar soup graced that poor little rodent's lungs..not even a single turn of the ladle bitch-slapped his furry behind. Come on, folks. You've got to do better than that! If you're going to drop something in the soup...at least make it worth jury duty.

It reminds me of summers on Camano Island...I know it's sometimes hard to track me when I segue like this but stay with me for just a moment. Camano is one of those pearls on earth...an idyllic spot about an hour door-to-door from Seattle (or at least that's what my dad tried to tell us everytime my brother and I would scream "Are we there yet?)

From the day school let out, my parents picked us up with our final reportcards in hand, the car fully loaded and we'd take off for the cabin. My dad and his father built the place right at the waters edge and that's where our old friends "the Barnacle Butts" would meet each June. It was never ackward...we just picked up and resumed play where we left off. We'd scour the sandy shores like a pack of wild animals, smoking driftwood like they were Lucky Strikes and taking turns ripping our arms out of the socket to see if we could start the old five horse Evenrude engine and go fishing.

It was so different from city life. We felt like we'd been sprung from a cage. Each day there were no rules, no fences, just open land that we were told was ours to explore and white sand dunes to build Robinson Crusoe forts. Sometimes I have to admit it felt more like we were reinacting the final chapters of Lord of the Flies, but I was the youngest and came from another persuasion. You see, I was the token girl. The anomaly who the boys protested from the moment my foot hit the driveway dirt. Thank God my parents weren't big on exclusion. The station wagon door would open and all would be privy to hear, "Now remember young man, you either invite your sister along or you won't be going. Have we made ourselves perfectly clear?"

So, because my brother seemed to be one of the leaders of the motley mess I became a member by default. This played out in many significant educational ways --I got to watch the boys do sword fights with their dicks, and place firecrackers in bullhead's mouths to get the hook out. One kid even put his penis in a blender full of Smoothie and twirled it at low speed, eventually becoming over zealous and changing the velocity to a more aggressive liquefy and that's about the time his parents arrived home with a pail of blackberries, just a tad early and a shaving too close, and well, let's just say we never did get a piece of that berry pie we'd been promised.

But as the summer progressed the boys quickly got used to my tagging along and after awhile no one treated me like the girl that I was unless it suited their follies. Usually this had something to do with a musical number....one in particular comes to mind...a song called "Barnacle Bill the Sailor," (which we would change to Barnacle Butt" when we were out of adult earshot.) The boys would make me sing the fair maiden part with a high pitched squealy voice or else I'd be pantsed. (For the record, they never did. They actually looked after me like a kid sister.) But there was a part of me that could never be 100% sure, so I'd immediately belt into a raring rendition of, "Whose that knocking at my door? Whose that knocking at my door? Whose that knocking at my door, said the fair maiden?"

Then the boys dug deep into their pubescent souls and mustered --"Get down on all fours, you dirty old whore, said Barnacle Butt the sailor."

At which point I'd toss my next innocent phrase into the northern sky --"Will you take me to a dance? Will you take me to a dance? Will you take me to a dance, said the fair maiden."

"The hell with the dance and down with your pants, said Barnacle Butt the Sailor."

There were more verses...plenty more....enough to make seaweed dry and crabs cower in steel pots...but I'll spare you all the raunchy verses because although it surprises me the lyrics seem so fresh in my mind (damn) it is mostly the memory of those guys falling to the sand and laughing like a bunch of screaming banshees afterwards. This went on for years until we had to get summer jobs in the canneries or pick strawberries in the farmlands outside of Camano. I got stuck in the fields making five bucks for an entire crate that took about four hours to pick. But the boys, all of them, except my brother who was a few years shy, worked in the cannery and made decent money. They left each morning sitting in the back of a truck bound for the same shuck and shredder, even the kid who put his dick in the blender. It was rough...knowing them as I did, trying to figure out how they aced a job interview. I'm sure they showed up with hair combed back into the big wave and wore clean clothes but there was just something about them that spelled trouble. And I was right on the money because from the first day they started they were tossing live shit into that contraption.

That was the summer before they went off to Nam. All of them were turning eighteen, their last year of high school--so packing a little dough aside canning corn that might ultimately buy a car or rent a tux for the prom seemed like a nice gig. Besides, where else could the Barnacle Butts get a paycheck and kill stuff? Which reminds of one such episode. One day they saw a seagull that had been whacked something fierce by a passing truck. One of them picked it up, still flapping SOS with whatever was left, and they shredded him with that creamed corn so that the only telltale DNA would be a little sharp grizzle of beak and acouple feathers. After that, well, I lost track of them for a year or so...

The next thing I know ...two are home filled with shrapnel and dragging limbless parts around from the war...rocking on porch swings and telling bloody tales while staring trance-like out to sea. All the fight was out of them. Only two of the four returned from Viet Nam and I think they never really got over it. For years the two remnants of men remaining would see each other driving along on one of those two-laned country roads and barrel into each other. Point the front of that car at the other and step on the gas, just like they thought they were in go-carts at the county fair. Then they'd step out from behind the wheel and laugh like they were kids again...both cars spewing stuff from the wreckage and blood running off them. My mom spoke to one of their mothers and the poor woman said the boys weren't right. They felt guilty to be walking around and that guilt never gave them a days rest. Never escaping the memory of blender boy and his buddy with the sword fighting penis who weren't so lucky to have failing parts.

I don't know why all this is coming out today. But I guess I miss the freedom of those summers...even though it could be said with conviction the group was derelict in so many perverse ways, but there was a vulnerable side that I witnessed...and they were so full of life back then. The two remaining have since killed themselves...there was not enough to sustain. But as I've come to know...sometimes you don't want to see whats right in front of your face. You distract yourself from the obvious because let's face it, shitty as it sounds, it's tiring keeping someone on the planet when everything about them, subtle or otherwise, longs to leave.

So, I guess what I'm thinking is a mouse in the soup sounds rather tame. All I know is I've never touched a can of cream corn since the Barnacle Butts managed the shredder.

Tibetan Prayer Flags...

2006-04-25T08:49:00.000-07:00

I used to own this old truck. An Izuzu Trooper. My kids called her Ethel. A real gas guzzling relic with a bumper that hung so low she left sparks on the highway. She wore a two-toned armor plate full of dings and dents and if I happened to venture under the hood there were things that leaked and others that steamed, but damn a nation, what a car! Turn the key and watch her go. We all should be so lucky. No maintenance, not even an oil change could she count on, but the old girl ran like so many divorced women I know. I eventually sold her to my old boyfriend because he needed a ride, and more importantly, it had a kick-ass stereo. Much later he told me he'd run her into the ground...left her on some deserted beach road up on Whidbye Island and walked away while the engine was spewing and Mick Jagger was rotating his lips. And to think I sold her for bird droppings.

Don't know what made me think of that old car tonight but I guess it's because the ex hung Tibetan prayer flags from the back window. I watched him drive away with all his stuff jammed in the back and a multitude of colored cotton squares flapping in the breeze and just for a brief instant I distracted myself from the sadness of separation by wondering if he was spiritually cutting edge or just irreverently corny.

He'd come home at lunch to get his stuff. We both looked like hell --dark circles and drawn faces met at the door. The smell of tobacco on his clothes. A habit he'd licked long ago. At first he packed a few impartial things --a coat hanging on the chair, a few dirty shirts he stuffed into a duffel. I followed him around like lonesome tumbleweed. And then the sign of permanence began to disappear --an easel and paints, his toothbrush and razor. Every memory of our lives together transported to Ethel and heaped high as Friday's garbage. I still can see him drive away...those sun-bleached prayer flags dancing in blissful ignorance to the tune of our rabid relationship and I recall thinking how wrong to have sacred streamers tangled up in this. They ought to be flying on some high mountaintop where reincarnated monks take refuge and vow to live in gentle kindness, not in the company of tobacco and love gone bad.

What's wild is I now realize that I paced the sadness and padded the pain in whatever way I could...only allowing it to conquer me in doses I could handle. Like a morphine drip, I numbed myself to the feeling and unraveled ever so slowly just like the tattered strings from that Tibetan flag. After all, he and I had made some sort of history together. He'd become my close friend. And what I've come to learn over the madness of time is that love is not transferable. You can't just pack it up and move it to another or rebuild the cracks and debris and make the foundation stronger for the next. Once you've loved someone with your heart exposed I'm not really sure where that is supposed to take refuge. In what fold of the skin does it hide? Oh yes, I'm told you become stronger over time...that you grow a thicker skin...that life deals you only what you can take (yawn), but I have to wonder at times...does a twig lose the will to become the tree?

It reminds me of something a woman told me the other day. She said she has been struggling with CCP. God, do I hate all those awful three letter diagnosis. Anyway, I humored her and said, "CCP? Lordy, what's that?" She sighed heavily as if she was sucking airflow from her toenails and said, "Chronic Commitment Phobia." Oh, for the love of God! Anyway, her counselor (and I use that term mighty loosely) tried to tell her that if she could just find a man that would club her over the head and place a ring on her finger, she'd be fine. It's the act of shoving the band in place that terrifies. The mental health counselor tried to make an association between CCP and the Indians looking out into the harbor at the first sighting of Columbus and his ships. I wasn't tracking the connection one bit but she wasn't going to let it go either. I know dogs who would give up a bone quicker. "Don't you see?" she said, "The Indians learned that when you see a ship it means white people and white people bring trinkets." I now know why I have two large creases at the bridge of my nose...it's the facial equivalent of "Holy Shit! How did I get here?"

I don't usually resort to a ball sport when navigating my way through life but on this day I pulled from the only two locker room mantras I could muster --"Punt, damn it, punt!" (I think the other is, "I love Brian Piccolo" but that doesn't apply here.) So I smiled and said, "Oh, I get it! When you see a man holding a club and a ring...it means a wedding and a Cinderella ending." Disney sure messed with us, didn't he? What a balding hatchet man he turned out to be! Setting up a directional sign for young kids that had failure written all over it. That plan gives way to a house coat, a bad perm and a coffee mug full of wine. Because if truth be told, and someday it will be brought to light...I think Snow White deserves an Oscar. Stuck in the woods with all those creepy dwarfs. Making beds and seven little lunches so they can skip off to some mining shaft singing "Hi Ho." What fantasy was Disney channeling when he created that mob? Seven little men who are sleepy, sneezy, dopey, droopy? Talk about sprinkling fairy dust a little thick! I don't know whether to administer Tylenol to the tots or uncork a large jug of wine with my teeth and have at 'em. I guess I just want to know what everyone is smoking because I've DEFINITELY missed a toke or two.

But I suppose this is just another example of one of those women (who happen to suffer from CCP) that I should add to my growing list...who'd wet their bikini wax over a box full of popcorn stuffing and a matching candy dish...who drive safe cars to compliment their riskless worlds and join Oprah Book Club to educate their pulsating noggins. The growing mass who allow designers to decorate their homes and then manifest pleasure in someone else's supposed refined taste. I don't know...there seems to be a tribe of folk who have the sad resemblance of survivors of a storm...shell-shocked and searching for a piece of their lost soul after a tornado ripped through their trailer. All I know is probably my shit is barking...that actually if I wasn't so frayed and fragile in my own existence I'd be merrily swaying in the breeze listening to Mick's meaty lips flap on that deserted beach next to Ethel, the wonder car.

Sing along...I'm a realtor and I'm okay... I sleep all night and I work all day...

2006-04-10T23:35:00.000-07:00

I went to a real estate seminar yesterday. The instructor began the class by telling us that February was the highest foreclosure month in the history of the United States. Moreover, it's predicted that the numbers for March will reach higher.

There are probably many factors that attribute to this statistic but one thing is for certain, lenders can take some responsibility. Short-term arms and zero down loans promoting programs that over-extend naive buyers is in my view, flat out despicable. Particularly when most of these people who are accepting these programs are up to their nostrils in debt (the average person has a credit card balance of at least $14,000 and buying power up to 100 grand)....and all the while interest rates are rising which make housing costs lower and ultimately cause these attractive programs to feel like a noose and a collapsible floor when the gig is up in three to five years. (A 30-year fixed is currently between 6.25 and 6.68%. A year ago it was at least a point lower.)

A perfect example of what I'm talking about is a guy who has been renting one of my client's homes. Divorced and raising his teenage sons alone, he's let the place go to hell. I got a call from the owner who lives out of state and hasn't set foot in the house in eight years. He asked me to go by and give him my opinion of the value as he was seriously considering selling.

The renter met me at the door at two in the afternoon in a open bathrobe and his boxers. I asked him if there was a better time to stop by (I'd made an appointment beforehand but I thought he'd obviously forgotten) He said that he had no intention of cleaning up for me and this was the way he usually dressed.

I walked into the foyer and was met by a large stain on the carpet --a piece of pizza face-down with yellowish mold outlining it like a crime scene. He saw me staring and became defensive, "I told you on the phone I've got teenage sons" he spouts, "Boys are slobs." I followed him through the house scribbling notes on a legal pad, looking for a distraction from my growing panic. I wrote --"Cage doors open. "Pets" have taken over the asylum --rats on the kitchen counter eating crumbs, snake door open. God knows where that beast is. Two very aggressive boys. Father explains that when they are angry they kick their feet through the doors. All need replacing. Entering teen rooms, there are posters of naked women everywhere and in small frames are photos of little girls...ages 6 to 10. The father tries to make excuses but all he can muster is a lame statement about life changing after his wife left. "I'm still in love with her," he tells me, "but how long can I wait?" For some reason he feels the need to give me some of the sorted details of his background...how in the 80's he was living high on the hog (as opposed to today's low in the sty.) Could a man like him actually have such a day? And what does the 'top of his game' look like? The conversation was moving south rapidly so I plowed my way through the clutter and crap and raced for the front door (the only one still in one piece)...but all the while he is telling me about 'his woman' and how she used to be a model... a real beauty. "Every feline's nightmare," he joked, and using his hands he charts the curves of a long legged belle with (as he put it) "double D's that could make a grown man cry." He shakes his head like Wilbur the Talking Horse and says, "A fine rack, but she has her issues." And that's when his anger took off in a whole new mentally deranged state that tested my ability to discern. "You better tell the owner not to sell this place or you, Miss Realtor, are going to be personally responsible for putting my family on the street." He looked at me with utter contempt and said, "Jesus, I don't know how you sleep at night." Me and my blazer got out of there pronto.

When I got to my car I jumped in and locked the door. I had visions of him calling hit men to break my kneecaps, but while my mind was going into those dark cavernous recesses of panic, he was on the phone calling lenders. With very little information and hardly enough time to run a credit check, one loan officer gave him the thumbs up. The lender told Mr. Double D to write an offer...that even though he didn't have a cent to his name there were ways around that. So, the next thing I know the renter calls me with an over the asking price offer in which he had the seller pay the closing costs...and then he discloses a few nonconventional shinanagans. Here's where it gets real dicey. You know those checks that banks mail out every few months that make it so damn easy to get extra funds when you're desperate? Well, he wrote an earnest money check with one of those and made the purchase price of the house that much higher and asked that that sum of money be credited back to him at closing. In other words, he bought a house with NO money. Not a bloody cent. And what about those checks from the bank? Well, as luck would have it he didn't have to begin payment until June so he paid his debt in full before he even had to find his checkbook. Crafty plan? You betcha, but instead of $1400 rent that he was scrambling each month to come up with, now he's got a whopping $3500 in mortgage payments...not to mention taxes and insurance and home repair. Just another foreclosure waiting to happen...

So we discussed many such cases like this in the class. Multiple examples of people stretching for the brass ring and aggressively buying homes they most certainly can't afford with only six months reserve onhand and a shitload of debt because basically they've been told by people they think they can trust that they are a good risk. (Don't you think I know that's a run-on sentence and if I had the energy I'd edit?) And who are the worst offenders? Baby Boomers. That's right...a mind-blowing 40% of home buyers across the country (49% in the state of Washington alone) are Boomers. What is it about this group of people who haven't really had to fight for anything or gone through a depression (other than the chemical kind) that make them feel entitled to a palatial marble and granite castle? And once they purchase this display of opulence, statistically they spend between 6-10% of the total cost of the house on furnishings and upgrades.

With all these boomers buying, people are under the false assumption that real estate is the next big gold rush. It looks so good in print --"Be your own boss! Set your own hours! Make as much as you want! Retirement can be yours!" Come on folks, besides a disease, what have you ever gotten for free? I swear real estate is calling every lazy-ass just like that damn pyramid scam. Oh, but don't get me wrong...I understand the draw. It looks sleezy and easy and a perfect opportunity for someone who doesn't want to work that hard to bring home more than bacon bits. First, a license doesn't require a college degree. I have a lot to say on this subject, but no one is going to listen to me spout the importance of an education even though real estate lawsuits have doubled in the last few years. That's just the way it is. And here's another mind-boggling fact...it take 2000 logged-in clock hours to cut hair...and only 60 hours to sell real estate. I don't care if you've always dreamed of fondling follicles...the scale tips quickly toward Green Acres when you're hungry and time is running out.

So, for all these wannabe hair-cutters but don't feel they have 2000 hours to spare and have to compromise to their second choice...let me tell you about my week. Oh, and by the way, I do have a college degree for whatever that's worth.

About a year ago, I gave a price opinion on a piece of property for an attorney who was handling an estate sale. His friend, a partner in his firm had died of cancer and he was looking for a fair market value for the estate. I brought an agent with me who had been an appraiser for ten years in the area. After doing the market analysis we didn't hear anything more so I put the file away. Then, out of the blue, I get a call from the executer of the estate who asks me to sell the property immediately. I call my apraiser/realtor friend and offer to split the listing since she was gracious enough to help with the initial pricing. All we were told is that the place still needs "a little bit of clean-up but it shouldn't take long." When we asked when he wanted it to go on the market, he responded, "yesterday."

On Monday, the two of us drove out there to poke around. What surprised me is that I had the assumption that things might have been taken care of...clothes to Goodwill hampers...food tossed, etc. but the place looked roughly the same as when we last saw it. The things that struck me were the four Blockbuster videos that needed returning...stiff clothes in the dryer, a book open in his bed on page twenty-four with an underlined passage that roughly translates to no one cares, open bills on the dining table...lights on, heat at seventy, mice droppings on the carpet, coins and keys on the bed stand, pant pockets pulled inside out and then those same trousers laid carefully on a chair like he had high hopes of putting them on in the morning.

The house has remained in a constant state of disrepair --gutters missing, a number of floorboards gone, the deck in construction with a rusted hammer and a couple nails in wait...insulation stacked in long sheets in the attic, doctor's and hospice telephone numbers written on the walls. Beside the emergency numbers there are pen marks drawn with a ruler like parents of small children do when they are charting their offsprings growth although as these marks were moving downward toward the carpet it became painfully obvious that he was calculating his demise.

I started off with a plan...a goal in which I wanted to get the optimal amount of cash for the family because I felt sad they couldn't face the task of discarding their loved ones belongings. So, I was going to tackle the task for them...systematically put things in piles that would generate cash for the children or benefit those in need. In each corner of the living room I designated a space --one for the family, one for Goodwill, one for a garage sale, and another for Craig's list. But after a few hours the whole plan muddied. I couldn't get a handle on where others would place importance. What held significance? What would he want his children to have in remembrance? Was that Grateful Dead t-shirt a favorite? And what about the baseball cap his friends signed? Did they know about the life insurance policy that he'd hidden? How about the photos in the attic? The speeches he'd written on legal pads and practiced on a dictaphone? Would I find everything? The fact that the family hadn't been there in a year placed the burden on me. Plus, the house was packed...as most are...with a lot of things of little value but needed to be boxed and rid. At the end of the day, after removing soiled bed sheets and doing multiple loads of wash, scrubbing, vacuuming, laundering, and everything else to do with disposing of a human life, I lost the will. And to top it off, at some point over the course of a year a stray cat had entered through the crawl space and sprayed everywhere. The smell could make anyone sterile. Okay, so maybe this isn't a typical week as a realtor, but I can honestly say I've got a pretty hefty database to rival these tales.

Decaying conference in Vegas

2006-04-09T11:34:00.000-07:00

I just read today that Vegas is hosting the 8th Great Obituary Writers' Conference in June. That's right...internationally acclaimed obit writers from around the world will be discussing their cadaverous craft in Sin City for three days. Don't they start to stink after two? Anyway, this is suppose to be a real celebration of obit stars with a potted panel to discuss such topics as how to write in wartime without ticking off the president, policy and standards of excellence, style and research techniques, plus wonderful/true/untrue obits. Damn, I'd love to be a fly on that decayed wall before they dearly depart...

I began a google search on obits and found some interesting subsequent articles. For instance, here is a list of ten regularly requested songs at funeral parlors.

1) "Wind Beneath My Wings" - Bette Medler
2) "My Heart Will Go On" - Celine Dion
3) "I Will Always Love You" - Whitney Houston
4) "The Best" - Tina Turner
5) "Angels" - Robbie Williams
6) "You'll Never Walk Alone" - Gerry and the Pacemakers
7) "Candle In The Wind" - Elton John
8) "Unchained Melody" - Righteous Brothers
9) "Bridge Over Troubled Waters - "Simon and Garfunkle
10) "Time To Say Goodbye" - Sarah Brightman

And famous last meals? Well, a winner in that odd category went to a death row inmate in Lucasville, Ohio when he requested a single unpitted black olive accompany him to the gallows. When it arrived at his cell, he swallowed it whole. I can only assume that shot out of him like a beebee.

There was another strange story out of Wisconsin where police were called to a house after the owner heard suspicious noises coming out of his garage. When police arrived they found a nineteen year old had cut off his own head with a miter saw. The local sheriff said, "Because of the nature of this, we'd like to find out what his thought process was at the time."

And a fifty-one year old woman in Lousiana was found living with her dead husband. He died of natural causes a few months prior but it was only after neighbors filed complaints of a pungent smell that she reluctantly passed him over to authorities. She explained how she regularly bathed him and appled hygiene products like deoderant, toothpaste and fungi removal. When police entered the trailer they found the man propped up in a life-like position...leg crossed at the kneecap, one arm resting non-chalant on his favorite recliner. And to think I thought a stalemate was a chess position.

Then I started reading famous obits and it lead me to an article about Billy Wilder - one of the most talented Hollywood moviemakers of all times. (Sunset Boulevard, The Apartment, Some Like it Hot)

In the army Wilder took over a program to prevent former Nazis from working in theaters or films in postwar Germany. It is said that he was asked if ex-Nazi Anton Lang could play Christ in the Oberammergau passion play and Wilder responded, "Permission granted, but the nails have to be real."

Wilder met his second wife on the set of The Lost Weekend. She was an extra, playing a hat-check girl and on screen only her arm was visible. "I fell in love with that arm," he said. At a visit to her parent's house in a poor part of L.A., he told her, "I would worship the ground you walk on, Audrey, if only you lived in a better neighborhood."

In 1957 in Paris, while he was filming Love in the Afternoon, his wife asked him to buy her a bidet. Unable to find a plumbing company who would ship one to the states, Wilder cables her and says, "Impossible to obtain order Stop suggest you do handstands in the shower."

Wilder had a grudge against Marilyn Monroe, even though Some Like it Hot could arguable be her greatest role on screen. He said of the starlett, "The question is whether Marilyn is a person at all, or one of the greatest Du Pont products ever invented. She has breasts like granite. She defies gravity. She has a brain like Swiss cheese -full of holes. She arrives late and tells you she couldn't find the studio, and she's been working there for years."

At the end of his life at 95, despite drinking daily martinis and smoking more than two packs a day, Wilder finished out his days accepting as he put it, "Quick-before-they-croak" awards.

In my morning search for answers to the decomposition of the body and how quickly to get that obit in print, what did I find? Link after link of oddities. For instance, there is a place called the Body Farm, located at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville which has a number of bodies laid out in various situations in a fenced in plot so that scientists can study how the human body rots. Ten to twelve years seems to be roughly the grueling answer...unless you are the Pope, who is supposedly unembalmed and unspoiled, or Lenin, who was submerged in a special tank of fluids for decades and still looks like Sleeping Beauty...or newborns, who are said to mummify because they've never digested food. These are the kind of answers the Body Farm digs up. And I thought my job sucks ash...

Venting gripes...

2006-04-04T19:08:00.000-07:00

This morning I turned on my computer, booted up, and downloaded all those horrendous Viagra ads and crown prince pleas for a way to launder funds into the country, and there amidst all the rubble and scam was an email from a man I've always considered to be a friend. Obviously my perception was off. The email said, "Now that I am married to my wife Margaret, I think it best not to send or receive emails. Hope all is well with you."

First, I didn't know he got married but had I been given the chance to respond I would have happily wished him a lifetime of love. Secondly...and what really irks me...if people are truly friends, what the hell does it matter if they marry or not? Why oust someone you've known for years because you've placed a ring on another finger? What prompted that call for silence --insecurity or security? I'm happy for him...don't get me wrong, but I disagree with the sucky way he chose to tell me that our once-every-six-week-check-in-email doesn't fit the grander plan.

I decided to get out and take a walk in a little park with a fake lake that supposedly has the oldest algae in the world. Now that's worth celebrating! Anyway, it was a Chamber of Commerce day out here in the good ol' NW...blue sky and a perfect Spring temperature. I sat on a bench with the sun on my face and watched a few butterflies frolick and ducks picking at new grass shoots. Yep, there I was, smack dab in the middle of ancient surf and growing turf so I tried the shut eye again and took a deep breath of all that flora and fauna stuff...and that's when I felt someone sit next to me. It was a man..scraggly beard and cardboard sign. I tried to close my eyes again but my comfort level had dropped to "Crash" levels...and then he started mumbling. I turned and he said, "We got to find ourselves a new planet." And for whatever reason I laid back on the bench and said, "You lead, Magellan." But he wasn't leading anywhere except behind a bush to take a leak. When he returned, with his zipper halfway down, he said, "God is everywhere...EVERYWHERE. Look, he's sitting right here." He taps the bench between us and asks me to move over and make room for the Light of the World. So I probably should have high-tailed it and made room for Jesus too, but I scooted over a few inches. Then he tells me that I've been transported here. That God planted me on that bench at that exact moment to be a witness to this guys wanderings. "Are you tracking me?" he asks, "'cuz we're onto some pretty deep shit here." I decided to make my own tracks and leave him to his beaming.

It reminded me that if I think I understand the world than all I've done is accepted the limited perception that I've grown up with...the understandings and dreams that others have "planted" in my brain...and have not accepted the real truth...that everything is an illusion, including truth...and yet somehow we still seek it...otherwise all we are doing is grazing in a wasteland. How's that for a run-on sentence and late night psychology?????

Okay, so my afternoon enjoyment was cut short. Just another grievance to add to my growing list. And while I'm in this sort of sour mood, here are a few others annoyances that rub me raw --IRS agents, meter maids, fanatic religious groups, emissions men who make you hold your foot at 35mph, John Tesh's music, dental hygenists who discuss the dangers of plaque and gingivitis while you have a suck saliva tube lodged down your throat, back hair, nose hair, reality shows, phone soliciting, coffee lingo, blood tests and urine samples, men who pick their women like expensive ties, changing the filter in the furnace, winterizing pipes, designer Christmas trees, bead stores with little color coded trays, Country Clubs, anyone whose ever lied about acid flashbacks, commercials on feminine itch, people who speak in the third person, Rotarian handshakes and usually the sport coat that goes along with it, hippie folk with flowing skirts and long braids who bring their miss-matched offspring to the grocery store at lunchtime and eat all the free samples, the executive marketing mavericks who feel it necessary to hire those poor people to dress up like mattresses or chickens and make them wave at passing cars (one can only believe they were teased as children and are seeking revenge), automobile nose-pickers, Las Vegas and the whole "beat the house" mentality (including those hideous theme hotels with long lines of bad food and ATM rapes)...mean delivery room nurses who smile wide when they tell you it's too late for an epidural, piercing, tattoos and mutilation of any kind, oh yeah, and I guess we've circled back to pre-historic pond scum and men who sit next to me on park benches and tell me to move over for the Omnipotent.

Boundless Compassion For All

2006-03-28T10:19:00.000-08:00

I've been reading a lot about the shooting incident in Seattle's Capital Hill district which claimed the lives of seven youth, the youngest being fourteen. The more I read, the more disturbing the facts.

The man who fired the shots and then killed himself, Kyle Huff, 28, left Montana four years ago with his twin brother and headed east to Seattle. He had been living paycheck to paycheck as a pizza deliveryman and sometimes attended raves. The party on Saturday was called "Better Off Undead," where a crowd of about 500 showed up dressed in fake blood and ghoul makeup. At around 4AM, the rave ended and a small band of carryovers made their way to a rental house not far away. That's the spirit of a rave. Everyone is welcome. But afterwards, in hindsight, consensus has it that Huff didn't exactly fit the profile of that good-natured group. He was a big guy in stature who 'seemed like he was from a small town, drinking bottled beer instead of from the keg.' He hung out in the kitchen by the refrigerator...silent, tired, but smiling. One young man described him as a wallflower who didn't talk much but listened intently to others' conversations.

We've all known big, shy guys who aren't the life of the party, but rarely do they snap. In retrospect, looking back on the evening there were some signs of unraveling. One kid remembers that it was "sorta creepy" because when he walked by him he repeated about three or four times, "What's going on here? What's REALLY going on here?" Not long afterwards, at around 6:30 in the morning, Huff slipped out and walked to his pickup. About 15 or 20 people were still winding down inside the house. He pulled from his trunk a couple cans of spray paint and warfare. Huff first sprayed "Now" on the sidewalk three times and then returned to the house. He spotted a man on the porch finishing a cigarette who was apparently just leaving. He blasted him with a shotgun, striking the young man in the chest. The victim, reeling from the momentum tried to open the door to say 'call 911' but collapsed. Then Huff shot another person on the front steps. Neighbors tried calling police, but already the chaos was in full swing inside. Kids were hiding behind furniture, running for the backdoor and scurrying to the basement while Huff calmly moved through the room opening fire. At one point, he cranked up the music and sounded almost cocky as he told the frightened group not to worry, there was enough ammunition for everyone. And there was...an assault rifle, a handgun, a shotgun, a machete, and hundreds of rounds of ammunition.

Here are the details that bring this story to a haunting close. As Huff shoots the two on the way inside the house, supposedly a few others tried unsuccessfully to stop him from entering but he's was an supersized Rambo dude, and blows through.

The entries on the 911 log tell the grueling details --

7:04 "Hear gunshots. Heard people screaming at the beginning."

7:05 "Gunshot blast from house" and "man down in front."

7:06 Caller inside house "now whispering, said she cannot talk." "Suspect just shot himself in the face in front of the house.

7:09 Dispatcher "staying on the phone with terrified caller. Caller in the back of the basement. Three males are hiding down there."

7:12 "Caller upstairs. Does not know the address. Says he believes the people were shot downstairs.

And this morning, photos of the downed are on the front page of the paper. Graduation shots and quirky MySpace moments. The youngest, 14, is a cute little girl who was shot at close range twice. Where do you put this sadness? How do you find a comfortable place of rest for another young girl who was only fifteen year old, whose role model was Gandhi and dreamed one day of starting a nonviolent movement to end terrorism? Or Jason Travers, 32, whose mother called him "Atlas" because he worried so much about others that he seemed to carry the weight. Another who loved to cook and worked as a clown, and still another...a free spirit nicknamed "Sushi" with a kind, big smile and a knack for languages.

So today I try to find a way to manage these thoughts. A place to understand how the world could escalate into such a heinous home filled with disastrous choices. I began by picking up a book in my shelf by Arthur Schopenhauer called "On the Basis of Morality." As the foreword explains, which I think is well worth understanding how this work came to be, David Cartwright from the University of Wisconsin writes, "In 1837 the Royal Danish Society of Scientific Studies posed the following question for a prize essay contest: "Are the source and foundation of morals to be looked for in an idea of morality lying immediately in consciousness (or conscience) and in the analysis of the other fundamental moral concepts springing from that idea, or are they to be looked for in a different ground of knowledge?" The contest drew just one single entry by Schopenhauer...though he was not awarded the price.

But here is where I look for comfort today...in a man who died 50 years ago. I should probably be dusting off my real estate blazer and merrily hitting the pavement looking to fulfill someone's dream of a new home, but I'm taking a mental health day.

What struck me with possibly an insight...Schopenhauer stated that there are generally only three fundamental incentives of human actions, and all possible motives operate through their stimulation. 1) Egoism, 2) Malice (which goes to the extreme of cruelty), and 3) Compassion.

He says that to an egotist, only egoistical motives are options, and those appealing to compassion or malice will be out of luck. Or, another man who is susceptible to malicious motives, will often not shrink from great harm to himself in order to injure others. For there are people who find more pleasure in afflicting suffering on others and find a pleasure that far surpasses their own suffering. These characters expect to receive as many wounds as they inflict. Schopenhauer concludes, "In fact, experience has very often shown that they will deliberately murder the man who has done them no injury and will then, to escape punishment, at once commit suicide."

He also said that direct sympathy with another is restricted to his suffering. (As in the example of this shooting rampage...we are currently at the stage where no one understands the motive... people are shocked, confused and bewildered) but if suddenly it was disclosed that he'd been abused as a child, that his father beat him or something else had happened to upset his composure, than we would have to find a place of compassion. "Nothing shocks our moral feelings so deeply as cruelty does. We can forgive every other crime, but not cruelty. The reason for this is that it is the very opposite of compassion."

Schopenhauer goes on to say that we seem to only be able to feel compassion for those who show us they are worthy...the stories escalate and the tales more gruesome because that is how we have been programmed to understand compassion. We do not find compassion for a wealthy man who wins the lotto or acquires another asset. It is an emotion not derived from success and enjoyment but from pain and suffering. And since we have to "put ourselves in the shoes" of one who suffers it is actually a deceptive device because clearly we can never know exactly what that feeling entails because we are not the one who suffers. Unless we lift the ante to the pain and suffering of all...and that's where I have to hope we are heading.

What can we take away? I'm still searching within myself for a place to rest. I could launch into an angry cry to parents who find it appropriate for their 14 year old to be at a party all night long...but damn, there will always be people with poor judgment. Or, I could wonder about the fact that there were "no signs" of malicous intent before his gunsmoke rampage...I mean, after all, he did shoot the hairy head off a moose sculture in Montana four years ago and police did momentarily take away his armament but it appears everyone out there is still scratching their heads in Montana...maybe it got passed over for a buckshot pancake festival or a Whitefish watermellon harvest. I don't want to make light of this, I just wish people took more responsibilty instead of passing the buck so freely. I can feel the boilage about to hit the neckline, so here is how I hope to find balance in an unbalanced world. What ravages my unsettled mind about this shooting spree and the lives of young people who have suddenly been made into a shrine of wilting flowers and rain-soaked messages...whose free-loving peaceful tone and Gandhi-like nature will escape our memories soon...is that they were brutally gunned down without warning. Never again being able to display those compassionate acts of kindness they were known for. Only the good die young? Not good enough for me. What I take away from my reading of Schopenhauer is that there are those who claim malice to be their guide and for whatever pain they are internally feeling they seem to find their only solution in violent ways. I'm not sure this makes me feel better...I'm just milling it around in my brain and trying to feel how it sits in that cracked cavity.

What if the hokey pokey is really all it's about?

2006-03-26T19:02:00.000-08:00

As Tom Waits sings, "Christ, you don't know the meaning of heartbreak," but I think we are all coming a little closer. So here's the recap of the weekend....

There seems to be an escalation of brutal murders in Iraq. If it's not a Civil War, for godsakes tell me what constitutes rebellion? And if Civil War doesn't ring true in the White House could we agree on another relatively unpleasant term -extermination? Shiite men captured by armed men and dumped home again with their skulls cracked in half or holes bore into their flesh with power tools before ending their suffering and dropping them into waste sites. One man whose brother was kidnapped from his pet store said, "What would we do without the Americans? We'd all be dead"...and then he paused and said, "We're already dead."

Richard Root, a highly respected infectious disease doctor in Seattle was in Botswana and while canoeing for a glimpse of wildlife in between helping long lines of patients with medical needs, an alligator pulled him over the side of the boat and ate him. His wife, in a nearby canoe watched as he fought briefly and submerged.

Followed by a seven person killing spree just a few miles from my house where a young man left a party and came back a few minutes later with enough artillery to free a prison. He walked into the house, after spray painting "NOW" on the sidewalk and shot everyone in sight, completing the rampage with his own life. No explanations. When interviewed, the survivors who looked like love-based kids seemed emptied from the inside. I drove by the yellow taped house this morning and there were about fifteen kids standing outside a shrine of flowers and sentiments, all silenced by misery.

Barbara Bush offers funds to the Katrina rebuild. She donates computers for schools as long as they are bought from her families distributorship. Give me a fucking break. I'm sure there are people who find nothing wrong with this...that if she is "nice enough" to donate money to a cause, why shouldn't she be allowed to designate how the funds be alloted.

And in the next breath I turn on the television for distraction and Tyra Banks has a doctor squeezing her breasts on primetime to clarify once and for all if a boob job has been performed. He presses on them, grips and releases, and then smiles..."in my opinion, they are real," he says, and the audience cheers. My God...this world gets more bizarre by the minute.

Where are the heroes? How do we even identify them anymore? They seem so distant and abstract. The only hope I find is in something new...someone who brings fresh life to a rigormortis regime. Not the power which forces others to kneel or that which converts others to follow but we need new direction...humble energy....like Barack Obama. Now that guy excites. Please, no one burst my bubble and tell me he's espionage material. I just want to believe in someone who can make me trust in the system again. I want to believe...maybe that's enough. He brings me to that place. But regardless who steps forth, they have to be willing to leave a monsterous footprint in history...a man/woman of virtue and power who ignites earthly change. That the only thing hiding within him is a love of mankind...not someone charged up by more bloodshed and better warfare stategies. And unless someone is hiding in the wings, like an understudy waiting for the lead, Obama is the person I lift my hands in prayer to. I want leadership...not piracy or puppetry. I understand the tugs that make a man work for another even though his belief system has been compromised but we have to show the face of integrity. Right now we share only prisoners thoughts of a government that holds the ring of keys.

This whole topic reminds me of a story I heard about Winston Churchill. The year was 1941, when sergeant James Allen Ward was awarded the Victoria Cross Award for climbing out onto the wing of his bomber plane at thirteen thousand feet to extinguish a fire. With only a rope attached to his waist, he smothered the fire and returned along the wing to the aircraft cabin. Churchill, an admirer of heroic bravery, invited Ward to 10 Downing Street. In awe of the prime minister, Ward was unable to speak. Churchill said, "You must feel very humble and awkward in my presence." Ward mumbled, "Yes, sir." "Then you can imagine how humble and awkward I feel in yours," said Churchill.

The world is in such a state that we must ask as a nation for a hero to appear. True heroism arrives with little warning and undramatic. It is the urge to finally cast aside the ego and serve others in whatever way acknowledges the greater good of the whole. I truly believe one of our heroes will step forward...I just hope we recognize him in the debris. But as we've been told countless times before, history repeats itself. The part they forget to tag onto that sentence is when things become utterly destructive and immoral, a leader with a vision appears out of nowhere. I feel like a little kid on a family road trip, "Are we there yet!"

Springtime in Progress....

2006-03-24T07:29:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting outside on my front steps. It's got to be damn near 60 degrees out right now...a pleasant Spring day in the NW. The birds are carrying on, or as NPR explains, they're socializing before the hunt. Alright, I'll buy that. I mean, whose going to argue with NPR about the conversation patterns of birds? Certainly not me. Besides, it makes perfect sense there should be some sort of pep rally before the pursuit. God knows I have to psych myself up to go to the store for a loaf of bread. Furthermore, socializing sounds more soothing and logical than where I was going. Not that anyone cares to ask me, a layman in bird brogue, but if they did, I'd say feathered hunt-and-gatherers sound more like crotchety old women discussing why their offspring never visit, and how the food they peck has a nasty new odor...a lip-smacking tang of pesticides which seems to have messed with the harvest. Yes, gone are the days of those plump free-range worms. Now they travel through oil tank decontaminated slicks and Weed-Be-Gone spray and come out looking like kite string. The rebellion is loud in this fowl world. "We're going to end up like the chickens...pooping on ourselves in cages and turning into McNuggets. Hell no, we won't go!" God, where did that come from?

You never realize how much you hunger for Spring until it arrives. The candles go back in the closet, the thermostat solidified in the off position, the days longer, the light more brilliant, and the art of unlayering the masses of clothes that you've taken refuge in for the last six months find a fiesta bowl release in freedom. It feels like the break of a fever.

The mailman just arrived in shorts...dressed in gray with stout hairy white legs and wide kneecaps that look like shin guards being exposed to the first light. Usually the guy is dressed from head to toe in rain gear, mumbling like a madman on his way to his execution...but today he greets me with a handful of bills and a few pleasantries like, "Lovely day!" "Have a good one!" and "Don't forget the sun block!"

Along with bills he fumbles in his shoulder bag and passes me an invitation to a baby shower. It's dedicated to a neighbor who got tired of waiting for her boyfriend to ask her to marry him so she planned this elaborate proposal by way of scavenger hunt. They both work at Microsoft so they need organized plans. But the hunt turned into a frickin' real life reality show that would set The Bachelor on its ass. Why hasn't some corny Hollywood producer come up with this idea? Anyway, she spent months organizes the thing...notes left with office staff, bartenders, grocery clerks, doormen..you name it, she sent him running for clues. The only problem with the whole "find the bride" plan was he really had no clue what was happening and lost interest halfway through. As it turned out, the bar that was supposed to have coveted the fourth clue got real busy and they lost it so he just stayed there for a few hours and tied one on. Meanwhile, she was sitting at a park under a Weeping Willow tree with a basket of perishable items and the rain exploding down on her. Night started to fall and she called him on his cell phone. He was precisely 45 minutes over the allotted time. The noise level in the bar was high and she could tell he was getting trashed with a couple of strangers who were helping him decide why his girlfriend of one year had sent him on this wild goose chase. One guy thought it was a decoy for a date with another guy. Another felt she was too high-maintenance...a love note on the bathroom mirror would suffice...a post-it on the steering wheel, terrific...but all this racing around town falderal with nothing but a little "meet the sheets" in promise? Hell, drink enough and she'll probably be so glad to see you come home that you'll get that anyway, slurred another. Okay, so when the hopeful but dampened bride in question finally was able to pull his attention away from his new drinking buddies at the bar, she told him where she was and what she had planned..."And if you don't show up in twenty minutes I'm packing up this picnic basket full of cheese and bread, sushi and tenderloin tips and heading home to extract my belongings from your house." Yes, extract was the word she used...like a tooth. So, I guess he got the message and excused himself from the bar to join her at that Weeping Willow and exchange vows. Now here we are...a few months later with a bun in the oven. A little girl. There is a photo of the ultrasound that accompanies the invite. It's black and white and there appears to be something with a certain genetic form in the fluid. Regardless, I had to smile because she even found out the sex of the child beforehand because obviously an emotion that derives from an element of surprise is too scary. A fifty-fifty chance being too much uncertainty...like a marriage. And then I realized that control seems to be a characteristic of this late 20's and 30's age group, particularly those I see around me who work for hi-tech companies like Microsoft. That whole system failure thing --if you do something wrong, the system cracks and mayhem meets miasma.

Yes sirree Bob, moods have risen here in the NW...people are mowing their lawns, washing their cars, pulling weeds. It's a mass exodus from the house into what appears to be the change of the season. How does one truly calculate the shift you might ask? Well, I would say the first signs of this phenomena have to do with hygiene. With the onset of warmer weather a razor has taken on a more vigorous routine. No longer do women resemble Neanderthals with dredlocked underarms and legs that could hide Easter eggs. I tell you folks, as of today it's a whole new frontier in the bluest skies you've ever seen! The Wild West is wild no more!

Enough writing I've been told by my youngest child. She's in the mood to talk so she sits next to me on the porch and tells me the latest gossip --whose going out with whom...whose grounded. I segue to school and her classes. She explains to me that they've completed a science project --an elaborate construction site in the back of the classroom in which dams were built out of wood blocks and some flooded small popsicle stick towns. After three months of hypothesizing about the nature of moving water the unanimous decision by the budding engineers is that levees are "stupid." Okay, onward and upward.

Now she tells me the class will be studying the sky. As she gives me the synopsis of the material they will be covering, she rolls her eyes. "What is hands-on about the sky?" she asks. It's everything, I wanted to say. The pathway. No, it may not carry a designer label or a VIP pass, but it's all that we need to follow.

It reminds me of a great poem by Naomi Shihab Nye called Rebellion against the North Side.

There will be no monograms on our skulls
You who are training your daughters to check for the words
"Calvin Klein" before they look to see if there are pockets
are giving them no hands to put in those pockets.

You are giving them eyes that will find nothing solid in stones.
No comfort in rough land, nameless sheep trails.
No answers from things which do not speak.

Since when do children sketch dreams with price tags attached?
Don't tell me they were born this way.
We were all born like empty fields.
What we are now shows what has been planted.

Will you remind them there were people
who hemmed their days with thick-spun wool
and wore them till they fell apart?

Think of darkness hugging the houses,
caring nothing for the material of our pajamas.
Think of the delicate mesh of neckbones
when you clasp the golden chains.
These words the world rains back and forth
are temporary as clouds.
Clouds? Tell your children to look up.
The sky is the only store worth shopping in
for anything as long as a life.

writing...

2006-03-23T15:22:00.000-08:00

I've been reading a few different books on writing lately. I'm curious to find out what drives the greats. Was it the urge to tell a story? Or document history? Or a combination of the two?

Alice Hoffman wrote, "It is the deepest desire of every writer, the one we never admit or even dare to speak of: to write a book we can leave as a legacy. And although it is sometimes easy to forget, wanting to be a writer is not about reviews or advances or how many copies are printed or sold. It is much simpler than that, and much more passionate. If you do it right, and if they publish it, you may actually leave something behind that can last forever."

Albert Camus claimed, "It is immoral not to tell."

And Moliere said, "Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for the love of it, then you do it for a few friends, and finally you do it for the money."

Okay, so the money. A few years ago the Authors' Guild found that the average author earned about $4,000 a year. So here's what I wonder...if you write for groceries and you happen to become financially solvent from the profession, have you somehow lost that place of risk that accompanies mind-blowing prose? I don't know, it just stands to reason that when you become a commercial commodity and publishers have first-right-of-refusal, you probably don't even realize your writing has become safe and marketable works like Danielle Steele and John Grisham. I can't imagine they want to break loose and write like Bukowski or Kerouac. They may in fact be popping the next bottle of Dom Perion and celebrating their newest Costco best-seller with the intention of laughing all the way to the bank. They remind me of ants. Queens of a colony built by those who refuse to think for themselves. And if you can't tell, it bothers me. To me, it's not about the paycheck or the fans who adore mediocrity...it's about stretching yourself and bringing something new. If you are fortunate enough to print with a reputable publisher you have to throw yourself away...cast whatever ego or mortgage you have into the wind and work words like a little bitch. Make that idea that's been washing around in your head new and challenging...if not, than you are still a prisoner plotting your escape.

Be in love with yr life
Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
Blow as deep as you want to blow
Write what you want bottomless from the bottom of the mind
Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
Write in recollection and amazement for yourself.
--Kerouac

When I think of the greats who inspire me I think of D.H. Lawrence, W. Somerset Maugham, James Joyce, Garcia Marquez, Alice Munro, Hemingway, Cormac McCarthy, Saul Bellow, Camus, Celine, Tim O'Brien, Jose Saramago, Ken Kesey, Raymond Carver, Chekhov, Thomas Hardy, and a few new authors that blow me away...Aleksandar Hemon, Danilo Kis, and Adam Haslett. They make me dream at night and lift a pen during the day.

Hemingway wrote to F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1934, "For Christ sake write and don't worry what the boys will say nor whether it will be a masterpiece nor what. I write one page of masterpiece to ninety one pages of shit. I try to put the shit in the waste-basket...Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously.

Whether we write to document a completely fascinating and terrifying point in history...or maybe we feel the noose tightening and must do something creative or die a slow grueling death of boredom...regardless, there remains in all of us a desire to express...a need to explain...a moment that you must stand up for your infinitesimal self and bare your weary little soul. If not, than it truly is a dark and dangerous time that we've chosen to live.

There's rumblings coming from the asylum...

2006-03-22T09:58:00.000-08:00

"Irregularity and unpredictability are important features of health. On the other hand, decreased variability and accentuated periodicities are associated with disease. Healthy systems don't want homeostasis. They want chaos." (John R. Van Eenwyk, "The Chaotic Dynamics of Everyday Life.")

Okay, so the last few nights I've woken feeling like I've spent hours watching myself sleep. It's pretty disconcerting on a lot of levels...a little like Bruce Willis in Sixth Sense. Maybe it has something to do with some tumultuous conversations I've had with friends lately. It seems like everyone I talk to is struggling with their spouse and they've decided to hurl their dissatisfaction in my general direction. I've become a poster child for chaos.

Just a few stories from late...

First, a friend called in the middle of the night. She was hiding in the bathroom, weeping into the phone. Seems she woke to her husband jacking off in the bed beside her. She asked him why he hadn't just woken her and he said he'd rather do it himself. "It's been 8 weeks and three days since he's touched me," she cried. What struck me is how she'd actually been counting the days. The whole thing felt horribly gloomy.

Another story I heard yesterday was about a man who called his wife to say he wouldn't be coming home for dinner. Same old story about the corporate meeting running a little late. But at the end of the conversation he dropped his cell phone on the table without realizing he'd forgotten to push the "end" button. "We've got a few hours," he coos...and then his wife listened to his conversation with the other woman for damn near thirty minutes before she called him back to tell him not to bother coming home. When he did arrive a few whimpering dog years later, he found his entire wardrobe staple-gunned to the house. What is it about a woman and a staple gun?

And if this isn't enough to mill over, another friend of mine recently told me her husband has admitted to having an affair. She would have never guessed that a mutual friend of theirs would leave a key under a potted plant at her houseboat allowing "Bob" free range. They've all spent numerous social engagements together. I asked my girlfriend if she'd ever noticed anything going on between them...any eye locks or lustful innuendos, but she claimed nothing obvious ever took place in her presence. I guess it's been going on for a few years but eventually guilt got the better of him and he decided to cum clean...so to speak. He explained to his wife that the affair meant nothing...that "their mutual friend" was nothing more than a poor decision on his part. Just something guys do when it's offered, he told her. And then she explained to him that the trouble with this whole disclosure thing is that he feels a lot better but she in turn can't wash her brain out with soap or hose that shit out of her head like dung from your best shoes. Thoughts flow...they may go underground for a dormant piece of time but they always find a way to resurface because that act of infidelity just blew trust right out of the water.

I suppose some people can master the flow of thoughts and betrayal can slide beneath the surface but my friend doesn't care how others find a cozy place for infidelity. She says the moment he put that key in the houseboat lock the marriage was in the tank. Destiny grabbed him by the short hairs and destiny rarely loses its grip. That night my drunken friend arrived at my door and began pounding. After what should have caused bloody knuckles, I opened the door and dodged her wedding ring that hit the fireplace mantle and bounced across the hardwoods to a stop under a couch.

Then a male friend of mine while home for a short parental visit picks up the telephone and hears his father having phone sex. He traces the call and arrives 15 minutes before he knows his dad will be pulling up to her house. The old guy arrives in his brand new Lexis at his mistress's and is met in the driveway by his middle-aged son. Dad quickly jumps out from behind the wheel and screams, "What the hell do you think you're doing? Mind your own business and keep your trap shut if you don't want to hurt your mother."

And finally...a man I know has fallen for his client. She is supposedly "smart, beautiful, and ambitious." Oh, and I almost forgot --"promised." There's a rock on her left hand that a blind golfer could tee off from without difficulty. But regardless of her status, he has begun to write "innocent" emails to her. "I certainly don't want to ruin what you and your soon-to-be-husband share because I have the highest respect for the institution of marriage. I'd just love to be a pen pal. You know, ask questions about how you got to be this incredibly beautiful human being." When I ask him if he truly believes he's being innocent in his verbal quest for her inner beauty, he insists he wants nothing more than friendship. Okay, in my opinion the only way men and women can be friends is if they've already had sex. Then the tension is over...the outcome known. But if that place of intimacy hasn't been consummated, there is always the anticipation or at the very least, the intrigue that lingers. Now maybe I'm naive... God knows I've fallen into that category many times in the past, but I'd just got done listening to him explain "the draw of the older man." Along with the more mature and financially secure position he might hold, an older man is better equipped to understand a woman's needs. He realizes that one way to a woman's heart is to make her feel comfortable enough to share her stories. And once she's relaxed enough to disclose, than she'll let down her guard and release that well-protected organ pounding away in her chest...and if those stories happen to be shared in a mutual bed, she is well on her way to falling in love with him. And Bingo, you've bagged her, he said. I suddenly felt like Bambi in the wild without Thumper...

I've already written reams and reams on this subject but it still surprises me how few examples of good hetero marriages there are to witness. Some can fool you for awhile but in the blink of an eye you feel the collapse...and then the roots pull free like a Weyhausser dozer tugging on a seventy year old Douglas Fir. That couple who started off with a wonderful support system of friends and family, a set of good china and a toaster, suddenly find themselves parachuting to a different land of compromise. The space where love meets trade-off and puts down permanent stakes. Damn, it always reminds me that when you are set free from someone...be it lover or friend, that you are set free from an outcome. You can begin again and that appears to be a sad but solid place for many right now.

The Dalai Mama's Day

2006-03-20T11:30:00.000-08:00

This morning started out a little rough for the Dalai Mama. Here's how the wee hours shook out.

Thrashed around in bed from about 4:30 on...finally got up to face the music at 6. Took my dog for a walk in which he hiked his leg on everything moving and stationary, including a new twig that probably once had high hopes of becoming a cherry tree. Damn, it's beautiful out in the NW, but hella cold.

My fourteen year old has a habit of strutting around with nothing on in the morning...blinds up, sun beaming in, and neighbors in clear view from their kitchen window. While reprimended her, I noticed the couple trying to enjoy a solitary moment. One hand grasping a coffee mug while the other picked at a muffin. Their eyes darting back and forth from their plates to our peep show. Okay, so I'm not a prude, but does everything have to be sprawled out like a yard sale? I think my kids know where I stand. I'm a strong supporter of "the touch and feel" of cotton. Besides, I've no desire to run next door and perform the Heimlich maneuver over a blueberry or orange currant...(segue time....) which reminded me we were out of anything that beared the slightest resemblance to breakfast. I decided to make a quick trip to the grocery store. I pulled the car out of the garage and began backing down the hill but the same neighbors (who have been jackhammering their driveway to smithereens all weekend) were having a Honey Bucket delivered. My only avenue of escape being blocked by six big Port-O-Potties. That should have been my first clue the day was going to shit. So, what does a Dalai Mama do when faced with resistance? Pick out her eyebrows? Opt for medication? No siree Bob...instead I sat in my cold car, semi-meditative...or comatose (I always get those two confused) and listened to Deborah Cox sing "How Did You Get Here?" Little fragments of darting thoughts like fish in a koi pond tried to sabatoge the still..like, should I fuck the entire day and opt for a simpler route? The path of least resistance? Or, at the very least, a mile or so downwind of a crapper? Maybe climb back under the sheets and doze off until the faint echo of a school bell pulls my sorry-ass back to life?

But the moment didn't last long and soon the five remaining Honey Buckets were onroute to another construction site and I'd arrived home from the Mini-Mart with Eggos in hand. Just in time to meet my ex at the door who'd arrived 20 minutes early to drive our daughter to school. He has a habit of being early which has a real adverse effect on my well-being. It usually means he wants to stand around and fill the house with his heavy cologne which is supposed to mask the fact that he smokes, while expounding on "his world." I immediately started to make myself busy, preparing her lunch for school, ignoring his ego deployment from my vantage point behind the breadboard (which doubles as a shield.)

After they left, my brother called and sang happy birthday to himself into the phone. He thought he'd beat me to it and by the way, he'd love to come for dinner. The house is trashed after a long birthday weekend for my daughter...there is laundry stacked as high as a Disney ride. Nope, there won't be any climbing back into the sack for me. I have to put my game face on and pull together another rip-roaring party-til-you-puke extravaganza.

Rage Against the Machine...

2006-03-18T12:59:00.000-08:00

The neighbors are jackhammering their driveway. The noise started at around 6:30 this morning. With every pulverizing pound the motion bounced me closer to the side of the bed and to my feet. Needless to say, it wasn't a wonderful way to welcome the dawn.

And since the heavy machinery hasn't stopped in the last 6 hours, I've had a terrific chance to focus on rage. It comes in all forms and it takes a person of strong moral fiber to repress the Cheney "drop the sucker" mentality.

So, here are a few things I'm thinking about in between the sound of asphalt cracking.

First, what's the deal with three shootings at California Denny's in the past three days? Anaheim (advertised as the happiest place in the world), Pismo Beach, and Ontario. One has to ask, is it the pork and beef patties, pancakes, and eggs arranged all on one oversized platter that triggers a pistol and a full round? Should the name of that enormous dish change to "Denny's Combo Splatter?" I just think it's vital to our well-being...(despite the fair game nutritional no-no of Denny's) that we move up the food chain and leave their sorry-ass to serial killers and anyone else who routinely cares to strap on a bullet-proof vest. (I still remember the time my parent's took me to Denny's for Mother's Day. I felt like stuffing the kids back inside the womb.)

My brother just completed a stint with the U.S. postal service. He worked there four months from two in the afternoon until four thirty in the morning for ten bucks an hour. TEN bucks before taxes. After hearing all the desperate stories of depression and shame by men and women unable to support their families with such meager wages, we should never question postal rage again.

Another story in the headlines caught my eye...so to speak. What to do when your eyeball is torn from the socket?" The reporter's advice --put it back in place and hold firm until you reach a qualified medical team. For the love of God --are we all frickin' stupid? What did they think we were going to do with it? Hold out for two more until we've really got something to juggle?

And still another headline distracted me from exploring different meditative states brought on by the mighty jackhammer...the paper read, "Pitbull attacks woman after just completing chemo treatment." The damn dog ripped her fake boob with painted nipple right off her body. The owner of the beast was quoted as saying that her pooch had never shown signs of aggression...that he would let small children ride on his back." Okay, now you have to ask yourself...what pathetic parent would let their toddler climb on the back of a pitbull? They'd have a better chance on the rodeo circuit on top a bucking bronco than sit on a pitbull's spine. Those parents have got to be equipped with a camcorder. Can you smell Whale Rider sequel? I say if parents are so insensitive that they think straddling a pitbull is good judgment, I've got some more good judgment...give the damn kid up for adoption. Let the child have at least a slim chance with someone who may have better sense.

Then I read Maureen Dowd's piece today. How she struggles with Ambien Eating Disorder (AED). It's supposed to be worrisome and well worth column time that Ambien-laced folk wake at night and clear out the hotel mini-bar without knowing it. Their only evidence being Toblerone chocolate smears on the pillow case and Snicker wrappers tossed in wreckless abandon on the floor. We've become a zombie sleep-induced society having sex before we pass out only to wake in the night hours to eat a cupboard full of something that we try to avoid during the day. One of the funny things she said is the next mishap is sure to be sleep-governing. "Study: Ambien Users Invade Countries in Their Sleep; Wake Up With No Memory of Reasons for Invasion, No Exit Strategy." But seriously, can't you see a court case in the making..."I killed my husband while sleep eating because he polished off my Mike and Ikes."

So, this is my trail of thought for today...and still the pounding goes on. I have turned on Jimmy Hendrix "Purple Haze" and I plan to stay there with the reset button in my hand. I debated playing "Foxy Lady"...number 11 on the best of Hendrix album but it's also the name of a porn theater in town and it brought me to different thoughts. I love that place...not because I frequent it, but because of its marquee..what a hoot. During the Academy Awards I watched as the letters appeared --"I'd like to spank the Academy." Today I was thinking about the excessive behaviors out there and the amount of pain people must be in to go on Denny's rampages...or postal unleashings...how Ambien is supposed to be the wonder drug to bring on a peaceful sleep but instead it's causing massive weight gain. Part of me wants to call the Foxy Lady porn theater and tell them a new movie title that I thought of...sort of a rapper/medical porn theme -- I-Be-Probbin.'

The Days of Dingdongs and Ho-Ho's...

2006-03-16T15:49:00.000-08:00

I opened the newspaper this morning and took my first sip of coffee while reading headlines like "Feds arrest 27 in child-porn ring." The kiddy-porn website features explicit sex acts showing highly aggressive and brutal assaults on children...the youngest being eighteen months. Then in my neck of the woods, a parish of Catholic pedophiles in Spokane feel it's somehow unfair that they should have to shoulder the 45.7 million dollar settlement offered to 75 victims who have been abused countless times by priests over the course of their supposed innocent years. And another disturbing headline...a basketball coach at my daughter's school has illegally been caught having sex with a 15 year old on the team. As the girl told police officers, she thinks she had sex ten or more times but she really wasn't sure. What? She wasn't sure it constituted sex or how many times? God, it puts a whole new meaning to Alfred Kinsey's quote, "The only unnatural sex act is one you cannot perform."

There are many more stories that line the dark printed pages of our daily lives but after a few of these really sicko readings I tossed the paper down. My mind drifted off to my own childhood. Even though we didn't know it at the time, we were blessed. Kids today waste so much time in front of a computer screen. Hour after hour they test how it feels to write swear words and interact with each other from an impersonal space. And then there is the addiction of video games. Doesn't exactly help develop social skills but hey, who needs people, right? I mean, it's much more important to win at a game...or if you're not winning, "reset." It carries over so well into adulthood -- if you don't like you're job, "reset", your marriage - "reset". It's teaching the worst values and cop-out skills.

The other day I got laughing thinking about growing up in the 60's and 70's....how it used to be an honor to clean the erasers. We'd get white lung beating the chalk out of those things and feel great. How we all knew each other and everyone's siblings and we protected one another like they were our own. And we were taught we had two forms of friends --those that you played with at recess and those who lived in the neighborhood that you played with after school. Parents didn't shlepp kids clear across town for sports or a possible new friend. Instead, we learned to entertain ourselves. We'd put on elaborate plays or build forts in the woods (yes, there were woods back then.) A whole afternoon could go by waiting for a train to squish a penny we'd placed on the tracks. And we learned how to be alone. Spending time by ourselves in our bedroom was not a form of punishment but a chance to get away from every day noise and clear our head. We were comfortable with quiet. Now kids have some form of electronics on all day long. If they leave a room where a television is blasting, they walk into another and flip the dial to a favorite radio station. There seems to always be an ipod or cell phone attached to their head. All those white noise waves never giving time to develop the essence of their soul.

Here me out...I'm not trying to do a Lake Wobegone deal. Things were not idyllic back then. There were problems...lots, in fact, a nation full of racial tension, but somehow we had hope. As kids, we didn't view the decisions of our parents or our leaders as out of control lunatics. They were usually morally responsible folks who we respected to teach us the ways of the world. Right or wrong, these were people who fulfilled commitments. Who lived life like they had no other choice but stay the course and do what was right. They didn't spend a lot of time wondering if the guy they saw at the supermarket would be someone worth jumping ship and setting up a new partnership with. They lived their life with dignity and enthusiasm, even if it wasn't perfect. The guidelines were in place for parents and rules were set for children...and somehow it felt as a kid as if these laws of parenting were universal. There was no place to run, no place to hide. Trouble with adults was something we tried to avoid at all cost. It seemed like we understood the boundaries better. If we did something wrong we waited all day until our dad got home from work to spank us. If the principal called, we knew we wouldn't be able to sit down for a week. And if we did something wrong at a neighbors house, well, good or bad, their parents might use the palm of their hand or send us home in shame.

And meals...okay, so there's a place to exercise the reset button. Parents weren't necessarily following nutritional guidelines back then. Meat and poultry was set out on the kitchen counter in the morning to thaw. Eggs and open mayonnaise containers were placed in the cupboard. I remember once my mom found a recipe to cook fish in the dishwasher. Run that piece of freshly caught salmon through the whole detergent-residued cycle and voila! We ate sugar cereals and Twinkies, Ho-Ho's and Dingdongs like organic vegetables. But you know the weird thing? Kids weren't huge like they are now. No one was large back then in the pre-Supersize-Me days, even though we were taught to clean our plates. Actually punished if we didn't eat every last bite. But portions were smaller and we weren't allowed to snack when we wanted. Cupboards didn't have an open door policy. We had to ask and we usually knew the answer.

Charles L. Bennett, of Johns Hopkins University was quoted today in the New York Times. He said, "It appears that the infant universe has had the kind of growth spurt that would alarm any mom or dad." The atrophy of the planet should make all of us wonder if reality television and media in general hasn't sunk it's poison to an irreversible place of disgrace. In the toddler stages of TV, it was all about a message...a moral and ethical entertainment media. Kids were taught to pick up after themselves, say please and thank you, brush their teeth and be respectful. When did that message leave the airwaves? How can forty years plant such a destructive seed?

100th post

2006-03-12T11:09:00.000-08:00

No big fanfare or streamers flying, but I'm celebrating. This is my 100th post. One hundred self-serving moments brought to print. Looking back there have been a few themes that come to mind -- love, the plight of women, relationships, and then some odds and ends that have caught my fancy. I'm blessed to find joy in writing and be able to explore a creative outlet in which I can express myself. I think back on days of old when people pounded away on a typewriter and then their finger would slip to a wrong key and they'd pull the white sheet from the roller in frustration and start again. It took discipline. Writing has become relatively easy in terms of technique...but it's still content that I stumble with. So many ways to say the same thing but try to find your own twist...something that sets your words to dance in another's mind. Even after 100 postings I question if I should say something...if it's politically correct or it might hurt someone. I should have learned from my friend C. D'Ambrosio, a great writer, who once told me that if you worry about others reaction to what you write you will never amount to much. Once again, he was just published in the latest addition of the New Yorker and in my mind, he deserves every bit of his fame. So, as I sit here this morning with a wide grin at my meager accomplishment, I refuse to compare...it still feels like something....a little bit of gravy train.

What's love got to do with it?

2006-02-25T20:47:00.000-08:00

My brother came over tonight. I haven't seen him for awhile. Seems it has taken a number of years for us to find our way back to each other. We were really close growing up but then something went south. I found a husband. He found God. Not just God, but the born again God which seems to be more intense than the other one. This supposedly new and improved God had him memorizing the Bible and living in the basement of my parents house. For one year he never resurfaced from the gloom of that dungeon but when he did, he could quote every passage in the Bible verbatim. I would try to bring up a subject and he would say, "Like John 2:14..." So our trails basically took a full-speed gallop down different paths. Lately we've been trying to mend fences. Giving it our best shot at figuring out how we lost love some 30 years ago. It's a slow process. Baby steps are being made to what we can only hope will be a full-fledged reunion. I would say that both of us are trying to open our hearts and hands to the lifelines that we've missed, though I have to admit a part of me still feels there should be a counter in which someone checks us in and we strap on a name tag.

He tells me he's just broken up with his girlfriend of five years. It sounds to me as if it was clear sailing for the first four years and then boom...he started to notice how much she complained about her life. How the conversations mainly centered around her friends and their problems, her kids and her arguments with them, and her ex. He tells me that the disintegration of love happens in a relationship when a woman becomes unaware how much she complains and is oblivious of how little men care to hear about it...how women think they bring shape to their worlds through drama, when actually they should spend more time developing interests. So, I listened, and all the while I'd begun a ticker tape running in my head of my own life and the way I carry on conversations with my boyfriend. (Because it's all about ME ME ME, isn't it?????) And then I dove head first into my own failings and feelings of insecurity because it was painfully obvious that I have a number of the same exchanges that make reference to my kids...my blasted job...and my friends who are dealing with their own daily braveries...which could possibly sound disgruntled and lame. Okay, so maybe it does sound like complaints to men, but damn it, are we just supposed to talk about the weather and how the Seahawks were robbed? How Tiger is still the king of the course?

We're sitting in my living room when my brother tells me that men love like that Charlie perfume commercial from the 70's...now I really am dating myself. For those who never saw it, there is this drop dead gorgeous blonde walking down the street with legs that would make an entire empire crumble and she's got the walk and the hips moving like a frickin' goddess (if you're into that sort of thing)...but the main thing is she's completely aware that she's got every straight cock on the block eyeing her wears. Then suddenly a man spots her and he freezes as if he's having a massive stroke...but instead of dropping to the cement and having medics strap a fibulator to his chest, he runs for the nearest flower booth and buys a bouquet. He carelessly throws money at the woman behind the counter as if love has attacked his nervous system and left him in total disrepair. She in turn laughs like she knows the fortitude of true love because she's married to Eros or something. She waves a farewell and this young man bolts down a crowded street after his conquest...the girl wearing Charlie perfume with a slogan something hideous like "kind of hip, kind of wild, kind of wow!" I know...it's a lot of build-up just to say that my brother told me that reaction is a typical response among men. That when a man finds someone incredibly gorgeous it's the same sort of adrenaline rush as one would feel stepping out of the way of a fast moving car.

So, I was listening to all this and trying to figure out what to think...particularly since I'm trying to rebuild a friendship and also, understand relationships. I think I told him something like all relationships are perfect because these people come into our lives at pinnacle points to show us something...to teach us and mirror something about ourselves that we need to understand. If we don't take on the lesson with one, then we get it down the road with someone else. The Universe seems relentless on passing on knowledge if you are open to the message.

So that's why I've been sitting here this evening brewing. Oh sure, there is always room for improvement in a relationship, but more importantly, why do we have to quantify love or break it down to complaint molecules or Charlie commercials with swishy hot girls possessing physical beauty that needs to be preserved like a Grecian urn in order for these chemically charged men to stay the course? Love needs to be honored no matter how long it lasts. And all who witness it must respect that someone takes the chance...the heart-stomping risk...to open themselves fully and allow another in. I don't care if Charlie perfume flows out of every orifice and men feel like they've been hit by a passing train at break-neck speed, to me, love is desire, respect, chemistry and a great capacity to make each other laugh. Then love flows like a morophine drip.

Bowling for self-esteem...

2006-02-20T10:10:00.000-08:00

Every Wednesday morning when I was a child my mother would take my brother and I to a bowling alley. She had her own ball and shoes back then and we looked forward to the opening of the hall closet and her dragging that black swollen case to the trunk of our Buick.

I don't know what about those mornings appealed to us...maybe it was a break in the menu of grilled cheese sandwiches and afternoon naps, but all I know is somehow those dark, dreary lanes and all that swirling smoke felt dangerous and disturbing. There was the smell of frozen meat thawing and french fries in greasy binds, socks unleashed and body odors that I remember wondering what area they may have first found origin. Lane after lane of brooding hangdog housewives seemed like a social movement gone array...like entering a bar on a bright sunny day and seeing the usual sentinel suspects at the counter...their eyes unaccustomed to the light quickly giving way to a susceptible glimpse of their descendible self.

Of course I didn't realize that at the time. Back then I didn't give much thought to the plight of women or finding a prestigous highbrow benchmark for daily household duties. I just loved the release and roll of the ball...the sound of it gliding down the lane...the excitement building...and then the force of impact. We'd raise our arms in the air precisely at the time the hard rubber hit the pins and sent those little wooden soldiers flying. I remember how my brother and I would hold our breath, wait for the crash, followed by the scratch on the pencil on the scorecard. We'd watch in amazement as the machine pulled back the downed pins and pushed my mom's black ball back up the spinning belt once again.

Skill never played a factor for us. We didn't even realize this was a sport. For us, it was just a mid-week event that broke up the routine. A day in which we learned to appreciate bowling as if an art form --the drop of the cigarette into an ashtray, blowing on the fingertips before putting those dried digits into dark holes, feet planted on the hardwood grain, the ball cradled in a palmed prayer position, the backward swing and toss. I remember being proud of my mom's ability...how she wore a hat on her head that looked like a salad plate and was able to keep it planted firmly there with bobbypins. For our mundane lives of coloring and building blocks, it felt explosive. We had no idea it was something our mother did to occupy her time so that she didn't lose her mind.

Today things are so different. Back then, feelings seemed as containable as bowling lanes. Even when drama occurred, they were able to rein it in and hold it at close range...or at the very least, in secret. I watched my mother's boredom and that dreadful cartoon bubble seemed to loom over, "Help, I'm a woman and I can't get up!" Somehow she learned to stifle the knowledge that she had more to offer, knowing and fearing that it would remain smothered in motherhood and chores. For years she seemed to hang on and then it was over...the dream escaped from her face, her hair style once loose and flowing in soft curls, suddenly one day pinned high and tight, and remains so to this day. Party games and gag gifts line the medicine case that once held contraceptives. I'm not saying she hasn't found her share of happiness... but happiness is surely not the same thing as the fulfillment of being fully used to your capacity.

Nowadays, I can only guess very few mothers hit the lanes with regularity. They seem too busy shuttling their kids to events and wrestling with machines at the gym. Oh, and surgically pickling and preserving themselves at day spas...resurfacing with faces and bodies as tight as the frogs I used to pin back and dissect in high school.

Of course I understand that we've made strides, but with each step forward I witness a few back. I have a daughter in 8th grade. She tells me that most of the girls in her class are sexually very promiscuous. I hear that young girls today don't view sex as sex. They have not even begun to assimilate what it means and yet they are actively engaged in using their bodies in sexual acts to erase their lack of identity. What I've heard is rarely does it matter who the boy is. The girl doesn't really "see" him anyway as she has no sense of herself. That has helped me to understand the recent stories by Dateline about MySpace.com and how more and more young girls will have online sex without any feelings of doubt or remorse and then she'll be easily coaxed into meeting in person. That's when all of these pedophiles decide to scurry over with a little alcohol and protection and have a real shot at a virgin. The pervs, lured through a set-up sting operation, were arrested in such large numbers that the Southern California police force were unable to adequately man the ambush.

College girls supposedly react the same way if they become sexually active. Those four+ years brings issues of security to a head...the whole "soon-I'm-going-to-be-kicked-from-the-nest-and-this-appears-to-be-a-cruel-world" stage. The moment of truth...when young women struggle, maybe for the first time in their lives with the reality that they have to work hard, face real competition, and think actively instead of passively, which is said to be not only a strange experience, but almost akin to physical pain. It's not so strange to think that security comes in the form of one of those immature young men who learned from some male figure long ago that the buck stops here. Why don't girls grow up feeling the same responsility for themselves?

Sex without self? Man, after all these years I can't help but wonder if we are supplying young women with a clearer image of themselves. All I know is if I see one more reality program warping the vision of teens with demented pitchy chatter about enhancement and enlargement...and bothersome broadcasts that echo the resounding hollow tug of shock value which has as much ability to shock as canned laughter had to make us laugh in the 60's. These are piteous times that have fallen upon us...full of prime time fat camps who helicopter supplies into these stretched teens like they think they are Katrina victims...where has-been actors step on scales with goals as big and meaty as a two pound Whopper weight loss...how America's top models are drawn to tears describing the scars of their beauty...and stupid shipwrecked survivors attack each other for a spot on an island of shame. Self-esteem? I don't know where you find it in this messy time.

Ashes to Ashes...Dust to Dust

2006-02-12T08:19:00.000-08:00

Here's how my brain works. Yesterday I walked by a crematorium. A beautiful cool crisp sunny day in Seattle and the smoke was billowing out of that place like a group of frolicking Icelanders in a hot tub. One of those poor-man air-conditioning units working hard in the windowsill. For some reason that cracked me up. Damn right it gets hot in there. Isn't that the point? So, I kept walking... singing that rap song by Nelly, "It's getting hot in here so take off all your clothes." And while singing I thought about a line in "Like Life" written by Lorrie Moore. She wrote, "I don't want to be cremated. I used to, but now I think it sounds just a little too much like a blender speed. Now I've decided I want to be embalmed, and then I want a plastic surgeon to come put in silicone implants everywhere. Then I want to be laid out in the woods like Snow White, with a gravestone that reads Gotta Dance." That entertained me for a block or two but then my mind toured the idea of ashes and how a few of my parent's friends are sprinkled on golf courses. What is it about living an entire life and deciding what would really give my remains a true send-off would be to sprinkle vigorously around the 9th hole? How pathetic is that? My mind clogging like an artery just thinking about it, but before I could go into a tailspin and tank into some dark hole I shifted fast to Dorothy Parker...a woman born on my birthday...August 22nd. Now there was a woman with a deep affection for death! Tried suicide four times but never really came with the goods to finish the job. Once she was asked to compose her epitaph and she quickly jotted down, "Excuse my dust" but followed it up with "This is on me." If you don't know much about Parker her life is really a trip. Best known for poetry but she wrote some brilliant short stories and screenplays too. A memory goes...while playing a word game she was asked to use the word 'horticulture' in a sentence. Dorothy wrote, "You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think."

Both of Parker's husbands died with drugs roaming to a final stop in their blood stream. In 1963, her second husband died of a barbiturate overdose at their house in West Hollywood. A neighbor came to console her. What can I do, she asked. Dorothy answered, "Get me a new husband." The friend told her that was the most tasteless thing she had ever heard. Parker's response, "Well, than run down to the corner and get me a ham and cheese on rye, and tell them to hold the mayo."

She died in 1967. Her memorial ceremony was held at the Frank E. Campbell funeral home...a place where a lot of mucks find their final rest, like Judy Garland, Lou Gehrig and John Kennedy Jr. With no apparent heirs, her will was simple. She left all of her literary estate to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Although she'd never met the activist she respected his journey. But within a year King was assassinated and the Parker estate rolled over to the NAACP. To this day, they benefit from the royalties of all Parker's publications and productions. So why hasn't the NAACP hosted a literary competition in her honor? That's what I'd like to throw out there into the swirl of dust...

Okay, forget the obvious. Here's where I'll detour...and the reason I'm writing this piece in the first place. Dorothy Parker was cremated but since there were no instructions what to do with her soot she sat on a shelf in that stuffy building for six years. Finally, in 1973, the funeral home decided to mail her. O'Dwyer and Bernstein, Parker's attorneys were the recipients. When the bundle arrive, Paul O'Dwyer didn't know exactly what to do with her so Dorothy's dust found a new place of rest on a shelf, and then for another 15 years in a filing cabinet. Somehow, in 1988, someone figured out that Mrs. Parker was unclaimed. God, would I have liked to have read her sharp quibs on that day! Even the 9th hole might have looked good next to all those years squeezed into a file full of depositions! Okay, so then a few New York tabloids ran stories and readers wrote commentary about what should be done with her. But before anything could bring hommage and directional hilarity to the problem, the NAACP stepped in and built a memorial garden at their national headquarters in Baltimore. She has a little plaque now. Oh happy day...

Finally, my mind eases away to more positive insights. Jiddu Krishnamurti, one of the great inspirational spiritual leader of our time spoke to a small group of listeners. He'd asked them what they would say to a close friend who is about to die. They offered assurances...verbage about life cycles that begin and end, but then Krishnamurti stopped them. He said, "There is only one thing you can say to bring the deepest comfort. Tell him that in his death a part of you dies and goes with him. Whereever he goes, you go also. He will not be alone." It's amazing how your shoulders drop and your breath becomes even. That was the end of ashes in my mind and I moved onto Bush and Mr. "You're-doing-a-heck-of-a-job" Brownie's latest criticism on why he did a shitty job with Katrina when everyone should have known he came from equestrian means...and then there's Abramoff...and bird flu...it just goes to show that there's only so much time you can devote to something that barely makes a dent in a Hoover bag.

The Pope, Darwin, Iraq, and all those experiments gone bad...

2006-02-03T09:51:00.000-08:00

Okay, I recognize that the title is a little aggressive in subject matter...and that one possibly shouldn't try to link the Pope to Darwin, the Iraq war and experiments that have gone to the dogs, but what the hell, right? I mean, this is a frickin' blog, not a meeting with the New York Times editor and chief. So, that being said, I plan to vomit on the page. Let 'er rip with some ideas and lift my blonde locks with a little volume...even if my black roots cast an ominous shadow.

So many things rumble in my head right now. One thought in particular has manipulated my morning -- Pope Benedict XVI's first encyclical called "Deus Caritas Est" or "God is Love." Some find it a strange choice for the aged Pope since he hasn't exactly made the importance of love a priority in the last forty years of his study. Many felt he might tackle a well-versed subject --relativism. But as the world of violence escalates and the argument that god offers absolute truth can't be heard over the gunfire, I think the pope is smart to offer something to the world that cannot be denied. Love. Four letters...a universal feeling that could change everything.

When Christianity first came into contact with the other religions and philosophies of the Roman Empire it was announced as a spiritual choice, but not necessarily a source of truth proclaiming the beginning of time. It fell into line with all the rest of the beliefs that one could choose to explore in those days. But Christians wanted more. They saw themselves as the truth and the way...the only path to knowledge and claimed to be the truest source and highest purpose of human existence. The argument that if a god offers absolute truth, then those who deny the teachings are enemies of that truth and therefore potentially harmful...no matter if that truth comes from a Muslim god or a Christian one.

Christianity has been freeze-dried in time...preaching acceptance but denying the rights of others who refuse to follow its course. I've always found this to be a point of contention. As one Christian told me not long ago...we come into this world knowing that we will break every single one of the commandments. Thou shall not kill...he says the minute we begin to walk we step on a bug. Thou shall not steal...who has not taken a pen? Thou shall not covet thy neighbors wife...well, if you look at her longingly, he told me, you might as well do the deed. After that conversation, I have come to realize how many lives are lead by guilt and shame.

And then I started thinking about our role in Iraq...how we have basically tried to perform a frontal lobotomy on Iraqi citizens...cramming democracy down their weary throats. Surprise, surprise. It has backfired...and all those lucky soldiers who aren't in a pine box, but instead lie in hospital beds with their brains loosened from car bombs, their limbs severed and bodies maimed ...can rightly argue that the power of religion and pompous leaders of politics have significantly stirred the violence pot. That is why I'm glad to see that the pope is taking a different stand...a higher road to an answer for mankind. God is love. No one should ever fear a God whose only role it is to love.

It reminds me of a wild tale in a historical novel called This Thing of Darkness by Harry Thompson. He tells of the voyages of the Beagle --a ship that carried Charles Darwin on an exploration of social change.

When the Beagle left Plymouth in 1831 for the south Atlantic, it was also taking home three young Patagonian Indians. An experiment gone array. Only three "savage" Indians left out of the initial four, were returned to Tierra del Fuego, after 15 months living on the outskirts of London.

The four --

Fuegia Basket, the youngest, and only girl, who was named after "Basket Island"
Jemmy Button, age 14, named after a pearl button that he was exchanged for
Boat Memory, the oldest, roughly 20, and
York Minster, named after a hill.

The experiment began poorly. Boat Memory died of smallpox shortly after they arrived at Plymouth. Capt. Fitzroy took the remaining three to London where he placed them in school to be taught the firm and fundamental ways of Christianity and gentility. The plan had always been to return them to their homeland in the strong belief that they would instill values and graces throughout their socially inept "dark continent."

The experiment went a little like this. The two younger kids made friends easily and settled in. They became the hit of the London scene. People loved seeing them all dressed up in high fashion, saying "please" and "thank you." Then Jemmy began to enjoy the attention a little too much. When he passed a mirror, it was hard to get him away. But tension grew when York Minster became sexually interested in Fuegia Basket and Capt. Fitzroy, not wanting a scandal to taint his record, quickly took the lavish bunch back to their home with a shipful of gifts like butter dishes and tea trays...completely useless items in their natural environment.

The story doesn't end here. Fitzroy had no interest in traveling alone as this excursion of lust and rebellion set sail so he advertised for a naturalist companion. In steps Darwin, then a pastor in training who believed strongly in the biblical account of the Creation.

The outcome of their experiment? Well, York Minster married Fuegia Basket on their return and robbed his traveling buddy, Jemmy Buttons of his overseas gifts. A year or so later, after a long voyage with Darwin, Fitzroy returned to check on his now motley crew.

Jemmy Button had returned to his old way of life. He stood trial for hijacking a ship of British missionaries, who were all slaughtered.

Fuegia Basket had become a prostitute "turning tricks on the beach" for British sailors.

No one mentioned York Minster.

So, do what you want of all this. I just find it interesting that we don't take note of history. That possibly trying to manipulate and change others because we find our ways so vital to the well-being of the world gives us countless examples of failure. BUT, on the other hand, had Darwin not traveled on that ship and seen firsthand the total crime of the experiment, he might never have begun his own quest for the theory of natural selection. Instead, he may have become a pastor and preached each Sunday on how we are all born into sin. Who knows? Maybe Iraq will be seen in history as our turning point from world power to the runt of the litter. I was taught as a child that money doesn't grow on trees. Obviously that was false advice...it better be growing on nobles and firs and parched cactus, and high flying tumbleweed and slow moving livestock if we have to support a war that is costing $100,000 per minute...oh, and embrace the profits of Exxon because afterall, we are the land of opportunity. So in other words, if you're not smart enough in business to screw another, America and our leaders are asking us to step aside...take our rightful place sucking hind tit.

Only time will tell but I think we have front row seats to the best reality show in town. The decay of a country that once belonged to the people. Take it from me, I'd be pleased...downright repentant, if I am wrong.

A bout with death...

2006-02-01T10:56:00.000-08:00

I just finished reading Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking." It is her personal process of accepting the sudden death of her husband...the loss of her only daughter's health...and her reflections on 40 years of marriage and parenting. Time as she knew it exploded the night he dropped at the dinner table and what she was left with was a remembrance of better days...or at least different days...the vulnerability of sanity...and the acknowledgement of the severance of all that was once known and loved.

What fascinates me is how she is able to reflect on the months and days...even minutes before her husband, John Gregory Dunne's death and in that painstaking review, she found clues that he was not long for the earth. And it made me think about my own experience with loved ones passing. When I think back, all the clues were there.

My good friend, Dan Bor, died of a massive heart attack at 42. He was newly married and much in love. One day I sat at lunch with him as he discussed how he was too tired to start a family. He couldn't seem to muster the enthusiasm to bring life forward. He had given all of himself to so many people throughout his years that the wick was running out. Instead of listening, I gave him one of my famous "Up Up" speeches, encouraging him to take the leap...that a child would bring such joy that he'd forget how tired he is. Two weeks later, he was dead. "A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty," wrote Philippe Aries. And I felt that way...I wanted him to stay close...not to take off. I could feel his presence. He was such a kind, dear soul that it was really hard to say goodbye. It reminded me of a passage in "A Farewell to Arms" by Hemingway. He wrote, "If people bring so much courage to this world, the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks everyone, and afterwards many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry."

When I was thirteen, my best friend committed suicide. She hung herself in a closet at the top of the stairs that I had helped the day before tape posters and set up candles. Where were the clues? I thought she was building a fort...a clubhouse so that we would have a place to hang out. Her excitement seemed so genuine and I could almost see the distant memories being built from that walk-in space. Even now when I think back on those days leading up to her death I can only remember one sequence of misery. A conversation we had an evening a few weeks before her death. I was spending the night. It was late and we were watching TV. She turned toward me and said, "Do you ever catch yourself wanting more?" I didn't know what she meant. I was thirteen...I mean, I had two parents, a brother, a dog. What more was there? But she went on....she told me she wanted more love...more good things in life....a sense of truth. Thoughts so clear that you could hold them, dance around the room in their strength and fortitude. We had smoked a little pot and I thought that was what was talking. How often I think of that conversation now. How I wish I'd asked her what she meant...what she needed.

Then, on a blustery night in late October in 1986, my aunt died. As she put it, "I'm going to meet my Lord and Maker." Earlier in the evening she'd complained, "I don't have the strength to die." The night nurse told her not to worry. After all, she had watched death meet many and my aunt must have looked like a loaf of bread coming down the assembly line ready to be ziplocked. She told her efforts would come. I watched her eyes follow the monitor and listen to my aunt's shallow breathing...the faint rattle in her lungs and the sour smell, like stagnant sea life left to dry in the sun. Gently, the nurse massaged the swollen veins in her hand, careful not to disturb the tubes that ran about her body. My aunt's eyes forced open for a brief instant, only to close again abruptly. "Just relax. You're doing fine," I remember hearing the nurse say. Two hours later, all eighty-six pounds of my aged aunt began thrashing wildly in her last moments. She vomited a greenish phlegm across her sunken chest and down the front of her hospital gown. A fresh garment was pulled but the nurse made little effort to change her. "Sweet Jesus, no more...." her agonizing plea could be heard down the hospital corridor. Two more nurses and a doctor entered the room. Upon my aunts motionless face, fear captured. I watched...almost as if I didn't belong, as if I, too, should have made my exit and left her to make the smooth transition into the hands of the afterlife. But I stayed and watched until the medical team made the final scribbles on her chart. Once times were recorded and procedure and protocol done to satisfaction, the standard routine began. The night crew would remove the body, the few articles of clothing and personal hygiene belongings would be placed in a plastic bag for pick-up, and then the disinfecting would begin. A life completely erased so that by the next day a new patient would not know they shared a bed with death. The following day, there would be someone new curled up in pain asking for mercy. A man, a woman, a soon forgotten face. The world beaten out of them...and for me, I would start my own process. The slow leakage of lovely memories would become less visual, emotions less raw. Years pass and my aunt has become a face I barely remember...a bout with death that I witnessed.

This is getting rather heavy so I'll close with something "uplifting"...well, maybe uplifting is not the right word, but I find it beautiful and sensual, touching and true. A good friend of mine sent this to me at Christmas time.

Lute Music

The Earth will be going on a long time
Before it finally freezes;
Men will be on it; they will take names,
Give their deeds reasons.
We will be here only
As chemical constituents--
A small franchise indeed.
Right now we have lives,
Corpuscles, Ambitions, Caresses,
Like everybody had once--

Here at the year's end, at the feast
Of birth, let us bring to each other
The gifts brought once west through deserts--
The precious metal of our mingled hair,
The frankincense of enraptured arms and legs,
The myrrh of desperate, invincible kisses--
Let us celebrate the daily
Recurrent nativity of love,
The endless epiphany of our fluent selves,
While the earth rolls away under us
Into unknown snows and summers,
Into untraveled spaces of the stars.

-Kenneth Rexroth

Caribbean...

2006-01-31T16:26:00.000-08:00

I've been away. My boyfriend is a musician and he was asked to perform on a cruise ship through the Caribbean. Girlfriends go free. The last few weeks we've been traveling to San Juan, Nevis, St. Barth's, and Half Moon Cay.

I've never been on a cruise before. I really never knew why I avoided it but I think somewhere deep in my subconscious I had a feeling that being stuck out at sea with a lot of people you don't know could get ugly...a little like Lord of the Flies without Piggy and a conch shell. Don't get me wrong...it turned out to be a lot of fun and of course, great people watch, but what I hadn't anticipated is that a lot of single folk (or bored married) take these cruises in hopes of hooking up. What they haven't probably thought through is that there is no such thing as a one night stand on a ship. You run into that person with as much frequency as a young Filipino man named Okie Dokie asks if he can refresh your drink. Basically, what I discovered is that you travel the high seas with this wild crew of drunken seafarers for 10 fruitful days in search of the tropical Grail, sea legs...oh, and some warmth in that 185 foot "Stateroom."

I guess the thing that fascinated me the most on this trip were the women. Most in their 40's and 50's --attractive, rich, sporting huge bling-blings...and aggressive as pitbulls. If they spotted something they wanted (and sometimes it must have been hard to keep those retinas in the front of their head) they moved in for the kill. No time to understand 'em, just rope and tie and brand 'em. Yeehaw!

Little to raise an eyebrow in complaint...the sun (better than any halogen bulb we can find in the Northwest)...the pristine beaches...the smell of flowers in the breeze...exquisite French food...BLUE BLUE water...all of that spoke to me. It was a great break from the torrential downpour that we are experiencing in Seattle. I'm just glad that the government has stepped in and asked all residents of Washington state to voluntarily turn in their potentially hazardous items including Cutco knives, nose and toenail clippers, wire and rope, firearms and fireworks, and any surplus of stock-piled medication to the nearest Fred Meyer, Wal-Mart, Walgreen or K-Mart. I'm guessing most will comply...particularly since they are offering bus passes and free pick-up.

Writing essays...

2006-01-08T09:19:00.000-08:00

I haven't been writing much. Can't seem to find the inspiration. Besides, my kids are home...all three...and days fill up with their stuff. One is applying to high school. There are 14 essays to write. 14. I don't know if anyone has the opportunity to go through this shit-ass process but I thought I'd give you a few topics that need a page or two of serious contemplation so that a board of ridiculous people can judge if she's 'good enough.' What bullshit. Anyway....here are the essay questions.

Complete the following: "Aarrgh, she said,"....

Your friend, Logan, and you enter a store to buy some candy. While you are in the store, you notice that Logan pockets a candy bar without paying for it. Logan does, however, pay for another candy bar. What should you do?

Please list any honors or awards you have achieved in the last three years. Include academic awards, all-star teams, art show prizes, athletic awards, honor roll, music awards, inspirational or character recognition, records, times, or anything else you take pride in.

(And for me to complete) Please provide us with some specific illustrations that demonstrate you child's academic strengths and weaknesses. What sets him/her apart?

What are your child's future goals and plans for the future? (She's 13...umm...should I write...remember to breathe? Remember her locker combination...her coat and lunch? Bath? Brush her teeth? And now that these kids have developed due to environmental and hormone factors way before their ready to understand what these huge tits and full hips mean...they need to start changing tampons...and worry about pregnancy and 12 year old boys making remarks about their bodies and wanting blow jobs during recess.)

Please provide an example of a situation in which you saw the applicant "at his/her worst." What, in your observation, are the applicant's areas of continuing growth."

Now I don't know about the rest of you...maybe this seems like healthy competition but most kids I know come from a divorced home...and they're stressed as hell running back and forth between families and many are cutting themselves and feeling like shit about their body image. Anyone who says it's a piece of cake to be a kid living out of two different homes should try one month of packing bags and changing bedrooms. And then they are supposed to be brilliant, 4.0 students and compile awards and honors worthy of self-esteem? Write essays about themselves like they are Nobel Prize winners? Come on. Back in the late 70's I remember attending an Entrepreneur of the Year award where Bill Gates was being honored. The guy freaked me out. He sat a few seats down from me and rocked back and forth so hard that he knocked over glasses. The table swayed like a 7 point quake. But the odd thing was when he got up to speak he was completely composed. What would his parent's have written about him on question 3, "Please describe your child's personal weakness and mental stability?"

And to all a good night....

2005-12-19T22:36:00.000-08:00

I'm off for two weeks. Back after the New Year. May everyone have a wonderful Christmas and write with a vengeance when there is inspiration. Have a safe and happy holiday.

Whom do I write when I face a blank screen?

2005-12-13T09:36:00.000-08:00

The thread that I have been following appeared again today. Why do we write? A good friend sent me a passage from The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon and the prose are so well written that I immediately went out to buy the book. If you get a chance over the holiday to sit down by the fire and read...or want to give a present to someone who enjoys a well sculptured storyline and crafted words, I recommend it.

The main character, a small inquisitive child of ten, is taken into a 'Cemetery of Forgotten Books' by his father. The shelves are lined with "invisible friends in pages that seemed cast from dust and whose smell I carry on my hands to this day."

His father explains to him that all of the out-of-print novels before him are treasures. Winning ponies put to pasture. He tells his son, "This is a place of mystery, Daniel, a sanctuary. Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens. When a library disappears, or a bookshop closes down, when a book is consigned to oblivion, those of us who know this place, its guardians, make sure that it gets here. In this place, books no longer remembered by anyone, books that are lost in time, live forever, waiting for the day when they will reach a new reader's hand."

Saul Bellows wrote that a writer is a reader moved to emulation. Joyce called the writer's path - "Silence, cunning, exile." For Kafka, writing was "the axe that breaks the frozen sea within." Blogs have become our diaries of old. They chart the under belly of a writer's life -- the slow, pouring drain of thoughts that ooze from clogged pores and then begin the torturous process of self-censorship.

One of my favorite writers was Katherine Mansfield. To this day I can't give you a particular reason why I've given her that place of honor in my bookshelf other than I can relate to her. Or maybe it's the fact that she got to hang out with some incredible writers...admitting that D.H. Lawrence used to 'deposit in her' when he had writer's block. Her work was fairly well received but never really made the big splash. She wrote, "How unbearable it would be to die --leave 'scraps,' 'bits,' nothing real finished."

Diaries were a way of beginning for a writer...a way of really not venturing into the deep end of the pool and finishing a work you dream about. Is this why I blog? Have I no need to be house-broken? Instead, maybe I should ask, why does anyone blog? For me, I think it's a way of understanding this loose drifting material that roams wrecklessly in my head. Couldn't I just as easily go back into days gone by...before computers... pull from my little Victorian writing desk a plumed pen and carve my thoughts? Dive into "that blankfaced old confidante" as Woolf used to call her journal. The heavily controlled printed page that until blogging I've kept holed up in my basement under a stack of tax returns? Finally accepting the realization that at my passing a handful of relatives will uncover it and use their shredders? Yeah, I suppose so. But, I'm casting it out there for curiousity sake.

Here's what I don't get...

2005-12-11T09:23:00.000-08:00

Here's what I don't get. I write a blog piece like my last one and I feel guilty for doing so. I scold myself for not getting through my crap and subjecting anyone who happens upon it. It's not that I want to cast blame. That's not why I write. It's more that I'm trying to make sense of things. I'm trying to figure out how to grow. I understand how it might look like I'm tossing a dark net on folks I love, but that's not my intent. We are all just hoofing it. No one has the answers. People come into your life to show you what you need to work on. So if I write about something or someone, it's only my means to gain a new perspective and broaden the search. I suppose it's my klutzy way of uncovering a peaceful place to put unresolved issues to bed.

So, I finished writing this and stumbled across a great quote by Mailer. Why is it always that passages find you when you need them most?

"Novelists are oxymorons. They are sensitive and insensitive. Full of heart and heartless. You have to be full of heart to feel what other people are feeling. The point is you are facing a true problem. Either you produce a book that doesn't approach what really interests you or, if you go to the root with all you've got, there is no way you won't injure family, friends, and innocent bystanders."

I woke up this morning thinking about a army reserve who is a friend of my daughters. He is being called up to serve on the 20th of the month. He doesn't want to go but he can't get out of it. There will be two weeks of intense training and then he's off to Iraq. This is what I was going to write about today. My daughter says he is going out with this girl who he is madly in love with. He's been told that his duty will be for at least one year so he asked if she will wait. She didn't answer. Damn, I guess we've moved past those women who stay at home and knit socks for our military men. All those boys who are supposedly defending our freedom and keeping the oil flowing but we can't seem to promise them a few months. I feel for this kid.

And then I came across another passage that made me stop and wonder what has changed in war? In the last sixty years since WWII what positive political and humanitarian shifts have transpired (and dismantled) to better the way we treat one another?

"Naturally, the common people don't want war. But after all it is the leaders of a country who determine the policy, and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in every country."
--Nazi leader Hermann Goering on trial at Nuremberg in 1947

Christmas Past and Present...

2005-12-10T10:08:00.000-08:00

This is a hectic time of year. So many events pressed into the same small sweep of the clock. If you don't stay in the present and become caught in the swirl you can fill with angst and the holidays become something to endure instead of enjoy.

I found some old writing I did in 2002 regarding Christmas. Things have changed immensely since then but the trail of my family lives on. My mom survived cancer last year and is back in full gear and my dad and I have found a better place in which to embrace our differences.

Here is what I uncovered in an old pile of my work.

Funny how holidays with my family tend to be neatly packed in stories, dramas of long ago. The old rustic tales of youth...the off-beat longings of rebellion. Christmas becomes a time to shed light on long forgotten potential. Dreams that we all set aside like ornaments that come out each year. No story larger than the mash potatoes, the frozen bag of peas.

You say thank you all night until your lips grow heavy like a child asking permission to leave the table. Never having learned how to love, how to recognize it, embrace it...or more importantly, keep it. It seems to slip by before you can grab it and hold tight. I tread through hours of holiday unwrapping, as if in soft moving water until my emotions seem to catch on a branch. The current, my oldest friend...my mode of survival, snags to some distant bruise I still carry under the skin.

My father's eyes show disappointment and disbelief. His mouth set like an old man challenged by new technology. He looks at me as if I am the problem. That somehow I invented his aging nightmare. I want him to stop telling jokes, playing music, to find a convenient resting place for the fadings of our life together. I want to be able to say, teach me how to love...day by day. Show me what it takes to be true and faithful for fifty years. What possessed you to chill champagne in the toilet on your wedding night? What lingers in the dark for so many years? Do you love sleeping next to mom? Do you spoon anymore? Do you whisper in the dark? Why don't you hug so that I can see?

My parents have weathered years like worn gutters. My brother and I remain youthful in their eyes, like strands of bright lights on dimmers. Those simple childhoods that they administered like a morophine drip of contentment...and now scratch their heads...how come they didn't turn out better? Why aren't there a multitude of happy, wide-grinning grandchildren? Lives full of pride and reflection of all that has been done right.

Tonight. Christmas 2002. We sit at the dining table and I ask everyone to tell me their New Year's resolutions. I guess more and more I try to understand what people do, their daily tasks, their braveries, their challenges. My dad said he would like to have a stereo that works in his car... one of my kids wants to learn to sing, another to attend fashion school in New York City...my mom wants to take more time for herself...my brother wants money. They turn to me. I say that this year I will only follow the path of unconditional love, no matter where it leads. The table is suddenly silent because they don't understand the difference. I feel as if I am sitting in the backseat of a fast moving car, drawing an imaginary line that cannot be crossed by siblings.

Later in the evening, just about the time that all food and presents are packed up in Ziplocks and are ready to find the trunk of a car, my father paraphrases our resolutions. Yes, this should be an exciting year! One granddaughter will be a singer, one will design beautiful clothes, my wife will rest and he will get himself a new stereo. And I, his only daughter, will be married and divorced once again (his interpretation of unconditional love.)

I realized on that day that I was in search. I was going to plant myself in the world like a bobbing anchor buoyed in reach of love that curls toes. Four years have come to pass and there has been a shift. Maybe the silence lingered a few years more...and the current pulled me deeper undertow for awhile, but I'm finally washing up on the shore of my own life. It's a beautiful place.

late night walks

2005-12-07T14:05:00.000-08:00

I've been walking at all hours. My sleeping pattern is really off and I can only lay it down for brief periods before I'm up... hot as a Cape Canaveral Lift-off. Menopause sucks...Pre...Post...Or whatever the hell this is.

I've taken to walking in the middle of the night. Yeah, I know it's not the safest thing to do as a single woman but I have mace and a dog. The mace is at least ten years old and never been tested and the dog is just about as worthless but they both give me the false sense of security that I need to venture off.

When I leave my house we head east. At the corner we cut north and then proceed west...and always at that junction I look into this wonderful little house and without fail all the lights are on. Sometimes when I walk by I see a silhouette behind a curtain of two people locked in an embrace. It's strange because I've only moved here a few months ago but I can't help but notice they seem to be up all night long. More than once I've thought, God, why don't you two just lay it down? Take that embrace under the covers.

There is a tree in front of their house that my dog has taken a fancy to. He sniffs and hikes his leg as I watch the couple. Sometimes I think I hear music and sense a little sway in their step...Other times, early in the morning they just seem to be holding tight like boxers too tired to deliver the final KO. The twosome attached together while my dog continuously relieves himself on their newly planted tree.

I've come to notice that the blinds are drawn until around 6AM. Small kids will do that to you. When I walk by there is a child, no bigger than a step stool who pounds on the window with a tippy cup. He gazes at the dog in excitement...wanting to make connection with something smaller and freely moving. I usually hurry past because I figure the parents have got to be exhausted...up all night swaying and then at the crack of dawn the little ones explode from their rooms wanting cereal and cartoons and banging on glass.

This morning the air hurt my lungs. It was so damn cold and my hands that were badly frost-bitten in Norway began to ache. My dog, Rup and I took off on the well traveled path. As we walked by the house, the couple surprised me. They had found their way to the couch. Now they looked like they were fused together...her head resting on his shoulder...He, stroking her hair. I found myself smiling and thinking how lucky they were to have found each other. I mean, from my vantage point....walking with my dog and a decade old spray bottle of mace, they seem to have it all --A happy marriage, beautiful home, and two gorgeous little babies. Then my dog began to bark and the couple turned slowly and in a sad, weakened smile and dark circled eyes, gave greeting.

This afternoon I ran into an old neighbor who is well acquainted with the area. When she saw me, she stopped to talk. After catching up with her mother-in-law issues and how the holidays were treating her I finally asked about the couple.

"What's up with them? They never sleep!" I said.

Her face softened.

"Okay, come on, there's got to be a story," I said.

She began to tell me what I had already come to fear. Five years ago the woman was diagnosed with Stage Four uterus cancer. She fought it with every conventional and non-conventional method she could find. Eventually when they felt comfortable enough that she'd licked it, they decided to start a family. Shortly after their second child was born she was diagnosed with liver cancer. What I've been watching has been the final stages of her death. Doctors told her that she has three months. Stay home, they said, and enjoy your last days with family. The dancing, silhouette husband, and two tippy cup tots. My neighbor said that she is scared. That they stay up together because she is panicked to sleep in case she won't wake. I'm just off to walk my dog again. I don't know where to go.

Break over...

2005-12-05T12:07:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not still celebrating Thanksgiving. Even the leftovers have seen their last casserole. I just lost the writing urge for a moment. Back shortly with hopefully something to say. I haven't even had a chance to read my favorite blogs --Texas Stream of Consciousness and Sangroncito. I'm sure I have some catching up to do with those guys.

Happy Thanksgiving

2005-11-24T08:56:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving! Yes, it's that time of year again. I don't know about anyone else but Thanksgiving always conjures up so many memories from my paternalistic past. My family has never been extensive...no long lost cousins or a slew of unknown relatives from a side you didn't even know you had. Instead, there is just a small splattering... which only means that whatever flaws have been identified definitely have more than enough air-time. A full day of coverage in which your moments of glory (somewhat like an Anderson Cooper wet dream) and scandal (where to begin?) can be inspected, categorized and pinned like a butterfly to the turkey tablecloth.

My earliest memories of the holidays would not be complete without the dynamic duo. They defied tradition. Repelled calm seas...and sent compassion packing. Putting my grandmothers in the same room was a holiday recipe for disaster. Both, now deceased, used to go at each other like two female wrestlers. One would bitch about lumps in the gravy and the other would counter the attack by complaining about how little crab was in the cocktail. Meanwhile, the rest of us would solemnly stare at our heaping plate and pick at our food.

Grandma Tillie was a nervous woman. Her life centered around her only son and meals. "How are the spuds, Stanley?" "You haven't touched the sweet potatoes. Don't you like mine?" "That stuffing took two days to make so you better like it!" My dad learned culinary survival tactics as a child. He would mix all of his food together into a large pile of slop so she'd leave him alone. We all developed the habit out of necessity. It was only a few years ago that I separated food items like siamese twins. It felt somehow odd and even though you know its for the best, there is just a moment that you feel a sense of loss. Before I'd known where all of it was. I didn't have to wonder if I'd taken a helping of the creamed corn...it was in there somewhere.

Grandma Vi had a bitter tongue that could torch a kiln. She also suffered from a hellish esophagus thing where your throat closes up and burns so badly that you have to throw up. It's supposed to be hereditary. Oh joy, I can hardly wait. Anyway, when the words heated up, so did her throat. One minute she would be nibbling on a dinner roll and the next that thing would lodge and she would dry heave at the table, eventually putting Linda Blair to shame.

Now that those two ladies have bitten the dust, holidays seem to go relatively smooth. No one seems to notice the lumps in the gravy and who can afford crab nowadays? Instead, we play lots of music and party games and stay away from combative subjects like -- religion, politics, race, the Middle East, same sex marriages, alcoholism, abortion, health care, terrorism, all forms of protection, patriotism, rising costs, retaliation, responsibility, Good Old Boys, and American made products...but damn, it's a beautiful day in the Northwest. Chamber of Commerce out there in this neck of the Daniel Boone woods. Yes Siree Bob, and we'll be discussing it. How the morning has been a little foggy and then it burned off. But it's still cold. Has everyone who still owns their home due to Republican tax breaks wrapped their pipes? (Who said that?) And watch that drive home! The roads should be slick as a politician (did I say that?) Oh, I meant slick as a pew at early Mass. No, no, not that either. Nothing wrong with pews. Or Jews for that matter. Just a little hard is all...the pews that is. Okay, let's start over. What I meant to say was slick as a Platex glove. And speaking of that, I think it's time for me to do the dishes. Please, just sit still. I'd be happy to stand in the kitchen alone, picking out my eyebrows and take a couple of shots of something lethally strong...

But instead, for just these moments, I come prepared. I put on my old pilgrim outfit that I bought twenty years ago. I must have been clairvoyant at the time. How was I to know that the bonnet and wide collar would bring outbursts of traditional laughter. Cut the air like a fermented cheese. My uniform for this particular holiday is a crumpled offering...A dress that has never seen an iron since I pulled it from the rack. But the way I look at it, the pilgrims weren't exactly spit and polish either. I may look like crap but at least I haven't been digging fields with clam shells and recovering from that scurvy deal. I wish all a happy Thanksgiving. I don't know about the rest of you but I'm going to try to keep the comments light and my food down.

November 22, 1963

2005-11-22T08:42:00.000-08:00

It's hard for me to believe that 42 years ago today Kennedy was assasinated in Dallas. I remember hearing that his head basically fell off into Jackie's lap and she pressed it back into his neck and held it there. And I also remember my mom's scream when she heard the news. It was the first time I'd seen my father and mother hug each other and not let go. The two of them rocking back and forth like they were dancing. Our house became a funeral home. It seemed to me as a little kid that the world had somehow died and all hope was lost on that ride in the motorcade. How many times did I watch that newscast? I have no idea but I'm sure it was about as many times as I watched Lee Harvey Oswald get shot by Ruby. His face scrunched up, upper body bent, one leg raised slightly as the bullet entered. God, what we have to draw from in the internal memory bank. Sometimes I wish historically happy times were as easily retrievable.

Picking the rough side of the sandpaper

2005-11-21T09:44:00.000-08:00

This past weekend my thirteen year old and I had a blow-up. It occurs with greater frequency now. She seems to be testing her wings more than the other two or maybe there is just a general rumbling on the earth that needs to vent. Regardless, she appears to be activating her blow hole in my general direction. I guess I don't blame her. I feel the unravel too.

In one of her more verbal moments she launches into an unpleasant experience she had at school. She tells me that the African American ghetto girls laugh at all the white kids singing rap. Instead of listening, I popped the pin on the grenade and sent it hurling in her direction. "Ghetto girls? What the hell are you talking about?" She just stared at me in disbelief.

Okay, so it wasn't right and I really don't know why I said it, but I lashed back, "Would you laugh if those girls flopped around on the playground in a wedding dress singing "Like A Virgin?" Where did that come from? Jesus.

That remark led to a huge discussion about race and we both walked away confused and angry. When I entered the room later that evening she didn't look up from the computer screen.

I said, "You think I'm a total racist."

And she said, "NO, you think I am! Ghetto has nothing to do with income or lifestyle. It's a behavior...a way of dress."

Then I tried to explain why I said what I did but the more I opened my mouth, the more I thought I inserted a heel.

Life can be so confusing. So many mixed signals out there. Everyone wants to be treated with respect, but I'm not sure without open communication we know what another wants. How can we possibly know what people believe to be respectful without talking with each individual? Believing that you know about a certain culture or race is like saying that because I'm white I understand Charles Manson or Billy Graham.(Yes, I understand most would not group those two guys so close to each other in the same sentence but I'm venting...)

All the mixed signals. Everyone is so scared to offend. I mean, take religion for an example. God tells us in the Bible that we are unique. That we come to earth with our very own talents and we need to discover them and share them with the world. Then there is the thought process that says that ego and personal separate-self growth is nothing more than an illusion of uniqueness and it is vital that we understand that we are all one. The sooner we undercut those feelings of grandeur and elitism, the higher the consciousness and the world will move into a better place of understanding and unity. No differences. No separateness. All of us just one big happy group.

I'm in mid-thought when I glance over at my daughter who seems to be watching me eat a tangerine. Suddenly, I become self-conscious. Mainly because I've learned there is nothing as disgusting to a kid as the workings of a parent's body. If I scratch my head, they wince. If I eat something, they wait for it to hit my face and stick. I may need a nap before I take on the world.

Blackbird

2005-11-19T09:40:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again. Fall brings a shitload of blackbirds to my neighborhood. So many in fact that it makes Hitchcock's foul look like a small cluster of bullies. If I come home in the late afternoon -- the roof, the yard, trees and telephone lines are full of dark feathers.

But heres a wild one...The other day I was driving along when I noticed what I thought was a roadkill. Right before I drove by (not over it) I watched two blackbirds dive-bomb the clump and nip at it before circling back up to a perch. Nothing too out of the ordinary, but for some odd reason as I passed I looked in the rearview mirror and watched the attackers swoop down again. Then I saw the downed move --a wing flap..the head raise just slightly. Damn, it was a crow. One of their own and they were eating it? My curiousity got the best of me. I backed up and got out of the car. As I moved closer the bird tried to scoot across the asphalt but its body had been punctured multiple times with deep holes and dark blood matted its feathers. From up in the trees the attackers cawed. They seemed to be angry that I was interfering. I returned the sentiment. I screamed like a homeless mad woman. "What the hell are you doing? "This is one of your own, for Godsakes!" Suddenly, the area became alive with aggressive birds. I looked at the almost roadkill and said, "Hey, if you know what's good for you, high-tail it. I'll cover you." His eyes blinked but he stayed there as if condoning his punishment. Each time I tried to get close to the bird, with a towel...a piece of cardboard to lift him...he painfully tried to escape my rescue mission. All the while, birds multiplied. Soon they worked in force. While a group of assailants attacked me, others continued on the bird. I felt horrible to leave the guy on the road but these birds had no intention of letting him get away. I got into my car and the tears rolled as I watched a large mass finish the job. I ended up calling a friend who is very knowledgeable about birds. She explained that they are dutiful creatures. That if one bird is selected to stand watch and protect the others and somehow is unsuccessful at his duty than he is punished and killed by the rest of the tribe. I guess I watched the execution.

It reminds me of a few years back. Such a different day I spent with these birds. Having read how smart and mystical they are....how the sight of blackbirds sitting together is often considered a good omen, I marched off into the park close to my home to join them. I was in one of those great places that I'm sad to say doesn't happen every day...a space which embraces the principles of the world we share with all beings - compassion, tolerance, consideration, the responsible use of knowledge, power and the belief that all are here to experience their life in extraordinary ways. So I walked into a large mass of darkness and after the experience, I wrote.

Walking at dawn
deep in the dead leaves of winter
the moon's fading light lingers to the West
while a soft breeze caresses my face
like the back of a lover's hand.
A congregation of blackbirds
perched high in naked boughs
Baleful sentinels, posted in ghostly trees
with glossy coats and open beaks
Somber, readied soldiers of the sky
A single bird sirens my arrival
an onrush of wings and
out of darkened trees
into the first light of dawn
these boisterous hang-gliders
fill the cold, grayness with
deep blue and purple wings
Looming like priests in the celestrial heavens
Demons of darkness
Temptresses of hell.
Impassioned, feathered critics of life and order
Their black shapes bending, darting about
without a single wing-beat,
Playing with light and shadows like children
Stirring up magic, singing creation
And on this frigid morning
I stop to listen to their clamoring wails
Such follies one can't deny
And since the world be for living
I dare to follow
My body and soul rising above cold flesh to fiery spirit
Rejoicing as if in God-like rebirth
leaping and dancing-mad
The reminder of life's secret joys
Soul's long-denied journey
through earth's almighty womb.

Predictions

2005-11-14T11:51:00.000-08:00

I'm better today. I've had a chance to get back to my old self and look at life from an impersonal space. Actually, I'm not one to feel sorry for myself for long...just a couple of bitch slaps and I'm good to go.

It seems that it's only when I travel into the ego state that my life turns up short...or at least, I begin to distract myself with visions of something better. I find myself discontent...searching for an upgrade. It's at times like this that I explore the "unique" side of myself, but it never lives up to expectation. I'm always disappointed. The process forces one to separate oneselves from others and compare. When you step onto that playing field, it's a never ending battle. So, that being said, I think I'm slowly getting back to normal (whatever the hell that is) and looking at life as an experience shared by many. Does Jesus want me as a sunbeam? Will God open up the gates? Will Buddha grant me enlightenment? Does Allah hear my prayers? I don't know...sometimes the more I read, the more confused I become. And after talking to one Christian friend a few weeks back I realized I might have a better chance at eternal life reincarnating as a cow. (He explained the love of God as a continual process of repentance. That just by living and breathing and using our senses we've already broken most of the commandments...oh, and another thing that came as news to me...absolutely everyone has the same ability to pick up a Bible and find a way into heaven...except babies, disabled, aborigines and all other tribal folk, and damn, there were a few other exemptions to the rule which I've forgotten at the moment.)

On the plane home from L.A. I sat next to a very talkative woman. At first I was not very happy about her moving lips because they didn't seem to stop and I'd had only four hours of sleep the night before. My eyes were totally trashed and my wrinkles felt like an Etchisketch branching off into new designs. There was no question I needed sleep...and I guess even less that she needed an ear.

While heaving my suitcase into the overhead compartment the chattster explained that she'd been visiting family for her 70th birthday and asked "PLEASE PLEASE be so kind as to not crush her gag gifts." I soon learned the oversized duffle that I was wedging my bag beside contained a cane, laxatives, Depends, fake dentures, a bag of dirt with the inscription, "Old as"....well, I'm sure you get the idea. God knows I didn't want to smoosh anything that could be vital to the aging process but all the time I cursed myself for being naive enough to think I understood the seating selection (I'd pre-selected a B seat thinking that it meant aisle.) OKAY...OKAY...so I'm from Seattle and it shows. Sure, we may be the hub and hutzpa of Boeing, but travel around here is about as adventurous and explorative as a puddle jumper to Palm Springs or Hawaii. A trip to France? Be prepared to hear, "You mean the people who are still charging us a burial fee for our boys who defended their asses in Normandy?" Or Japan? "Why visit a place that attacked us?" And I'm sure you don't want to even test the soil in Germany. WHEN will the world change?

But as we got to talking I realized this newly 70 year old had something to share. After the stewardess voiced her safety speel, my cabin mate started up again. I learned she loved seminars. My antenna went up. Spiritual, I assumed. I don't know...maybe I'm wrong but from my experience, seminars + women = spirituality. I waited for her to give me the final clue but she skirted the issue. I finally asked. "Alright, so what are these seminars exploring?" She started slow...guarded, as if she was afraid. The words she chose were "woo-woo, new age, shamanistic, wacky, and mumbo-jumbo. I turned, looked at her and said, "Calling spirituality and studying ways to raise the consciousness of the planet mumbo-jumbo is like referring to a painting by Picasso as "that artsy-fartsy stuff. It just shouldn't be happening. It could be our only hope. Say whatever you want."

Once I opened the door, she detonated. She told me about a man she heard speak twenty years ago who dreamed in headlines. At night he would wake in a cold sweat with a date and event in the future that was so vivid that he would write it down. Soon he had a notebook of predictions. When she heard him speak two decades ago, he was heckled and eventually booed off the stage. I guess people weren't ready to hear that a major war would occur in the Middle East that would be the downfall of the U.S., and Lousiana would cease to exist the way we know it.

And yet to come? A large portion of the west coast will drop into the sea after 2006, and there will be major floods from New York to Maine. He predicts that during the next six years natural disasters will occur so rapidly that government financing won't be able to sustain the damage and the country will fall into financial ruin.

Any good news, you might ask? Well, his latest prediction is that we will suffer a lot of change for the next six years...(until the end of the Mayan calendar) and then there will be a great period of prosperity and hope that arises on the earth. Sort of a new beginning. A time of peace. And tranquility. Mutual heartache...the kind that shocks...like WWII, that pulls the whole together.

Okay, so we could be into some rocky times but at least he offered hope as he left the podium. He said -- Keep your energy up and focused on positive events. Don't saturate yourself with world news in the early morning as that is your most vulnerable time to soak the turmoil into your heart and tissue. As the day wears on you toughen up and become better prepared to deal with the damage.

I'm thinking about this. Still processing it. Wondering where thoughts like this cement. On a heavier side, I feel overwhelmed, and then humor kicks in and I think...damn, I guess all we can do is hold onto our hats, get to the root cellar and party 'til the pinata pops.

home in question....

2005-11-13T12:53:00.000-08:00

I've been gone for a few days. Reevaluating a lot of my old patterns and trying to figure out how to simplify even further. I've been taking baby steps in that direction for some time but I'm sort of in a holding place with my daughter who wants the structure of friends and Seattle schools. She doesn't want to be confronted with change right now...and I feel change is what will stimulate me.

I was in California. The weather was beautiful...the people nice...the light brilliant. It energizes me. And then I think about writing. These gray skies make me bunker and blanket and focus, but God, they also make me suffer. Okay, supposedly you can find inspiration anywhere. A perfect example -- I've a friend who wrote a wonderful essay about artistry from his leanto constructed in an old mining shaft in Philipsburg, Montana. At the time he had this Richard Hugo fettish and was living out Hugo's detailed description of the area. You know, the whole 'You may think you've hit rock bottom but there's a bigger splat to follow.' I'm amazed my friend is still alive. I remember sending him a care package and hearing later that the can of peanuts, five hot chocolate mixes and ten packages of Top Romen sustained him for two months. I had no idea but I guess it just proves that brilliant stories push through regardless.

I feel stuck. Can't find a direction in which to write. I'm at a major turning point. I either write or I go back to a job that I hate. There needs to be some flow...cash flow...free flow...any flow that moves through this current of unrest. I'm well aware of all the millions of people who dream of writing for a living and so begin the game of vomiting their work into every contest known to man...even paying them to read their frickin' stuff. Am I missing something? You know the judge and jury of these contests are probably reading two or three sentences before tossing it into the trash and cashing the check. I'm looking for a new path. That's where I am today. Tomorrow?...Oh sure, yes, of course, tomorrow...I'll be a lot more uplifting...it's just re-entry day and that's a hard one.

The Curse of the Curtain...

2005-11-05T10:50:00.000-08:00

I've read all your comments and was in the midst of writing a new entry when I saw Anonymous had resurfaced for a little reflection...and deflection. Oh, and maybe a tad bashing of me and Maureen Dowd. Okay, first, bash me until the cows come home because I'm a mere hack in training, but Dowd...damn, well, she sits atop a perfumed pillow on the throne of editorial success. I respect her talent immensely and understand the dues she's paid to get there. But don't get me wrong, I salivate in her general direction over her place in print. A perfect venue to showcase her wit, forthright style and her give-a-damn attitude towards those who disagree. Impressive. The only similarity I may share at this point is that I also have come to realize that I don't need locked-armed and loyal folks to stand beside me in order to voice an opinion. Ah sure, it helps, but I just need to thicken my skin. I've spent enough years being milk-toast. It's time to pour out the fermented yogurt and get down and dirty with the culture.

It seems to me that in all of these discussions on friendships and relationship the thing that rises to the surface is the need to preserve our differences. What I notice more and more is that one person will tend to imitate the other or rebuild themselves in the image of another. While this may be a desire for total commitment and a sign inspired by love, it is also a self-inflicted head-on collision. I certainly can add to this discussion as my first marriage is textbook. Maybe that's what I've been struggling to express lately.

When my ex and I first met it was on my turf. He was a foreigner who was looking for companionship and a person who might make the adjustment easier -- a sort of seeing eye dog to help understand the ropes. I was in my element and starting to feel like I had a pretty sizable wick to burn. But as time went on and we picked up and moved from place to place in hot pursuit of his ultimate career, it was I who grew dependent.

I remember when we first moved to New York City. A day or two after we arrived we recognized the urgent need to buy a shower curtain when the water began to seep through the floorboard and the neighbors below took a broomstick to the ceiling. The same day we ventured to Bloomingdales. I don't know if anyone has ever seen that display of curtains but it's quite impressive. Jesus, four hundred shades of every color and any print you can imagine. If you have a dog or parrot fetish, or you want unicorns or hula dancers...look no further. Anyway, I stood next to him and grabbed a few...pulled them out of the lineup to take a closer look and each time I heard, "You can't possibly like that one!" In which case I would drop it immediately and say..."No, no...of course not." With each step I faced ridicule and began to erase myself. After awhile I felt my chest tighten and I prayed that he would just pick something so that we could go home. Eventually, he pulled one off the rack and took it to the counter. When we got home, we hung the curtain. A fucking blue and white stripe. And then he said, "Damn, we should have bought a second curtain for the other bath to hide your stuff." Yes, I know two baths sounds upscale for Manhattan, but take it from me, two baths in a 595 square foot apartment was first and foremost, overkill closely followed by poor design. Particularly when those two honey buckets took up at least 200 feet of space that would have possibly made room for a full size bed instead of one twin. Besides, I'd already designated that second bath as my closet with shoes and underwear stacked in the tub and clothes on the rod. But he didn't like the set-up and asked if I'd go back the next day and pick out another curtain.

I didn't think much about it until after work when I remembered that I had one more stop to make. Bloomies. Walking into that same over-stocked department, the dread suddenly overwhelmed me. For two hours I pulled from the endless racks of fabric, too paralyzed to make a decision. Finally, a very nice woman came over to me and asked if I needed help. You'd think she was offering salvation. My shoulders raised as I explained that we'd bought a curtain the day before...a blue and white stripe...and needed another with a similar feel.

"Well, we certainly have an amazing selection," she boasted. "Let's start with your favorite color and then pick a pattern."

I began, "He hates brown...it reminds him of Burberry...and nothing with animals...no fish, bears or birds. Actually, forget wildlife altogether although he sometimes likes ducks, but only on a plate. No hint of pink, gray, or black. And gold is definitely out...so are pastels, plaids, florals or anything too busy. And it can't be corny or bold. Nothing political or religious because it's a shower curtain for godsakes...but it also can't be plain...nothing white because the walls of the bathroom are white and he doesn't want the whites to clash."

For a moment the woman stared at me and then she broke into a pathetic grin. "And what about you?" she asked. There was silence and I couldn't catch my breathe. Then I spotted a red and white striped curtain. "That!" I said, "I like that!" "Fine,...a good choice," she said, and ran to the register. When I got home my ex said, "Why would you pick the same curtain as the other one?" Ten years later, I returned to Seattle with two kids in tow...89 pounds and not an original thought in my head.

The irony is that it is usually the difference between people that makes one person attractive to the other. It is so important to preserve and nurture those differences at all costs because our best emotions aren't the exclusive right of our relationships. We pour them into everything we do...our friendships, our pets, our work. We bring those differences to our creative expression...even to the arrangement of furniture. We attempt an almost artistic urgency to a lot more than the people we share a bed with or a plate of sushi. Our relationships are maybe even the place that we practice love so that we can go out into the world with a bigger vision and more clarity. It makes small things matter; it even saves the small from feeling small, bringing importance.

In the movie, What The Bleep, one of the segments that messes with me is our addiction to love. How we are dependent on the feeling that the other person brings us. If they "shower" us with love, we expect that behavior to continue and any alteration creates a disturbance. And if the behavior changes drastically, we may fall out of love because the needs of our emotions aren't being met and the addiction is no longer being fed. Call it expectation...call it whatever you like, but the rules suddenly shift and both parties have to begin to work on the REAL relationship and begin to understand the person masked behind that addiction which has kept you in that soft warm glow of love. And because your unconscious mind desires to complete its unfinished business from childhood by getting you to pick partners or friends who will help you play out those dramas, we are basically all running through the land mines of our lives... All I can say is what a mind fuck!

This morning I woke up with a very clear thought in my head. Before I was even fully awake, I grabbed a pen and jotted down -- "Of course the image in the mirror is mine. It is only the reflection I can't face." There's probably a therapist with my name in his daytimer.

Jane, you ignorant slut...

2005-11-02T14:21:00.000-08:00

I received an anonymous message after my last post. This guy (and one could only assume it was a guy) had some relevant points but he was playing a little bit of the victim. Don't get me wrong. I love good banter and appreciate those who take the time to comment but what is it about men and their confusion with the female race? Has dating and the dance changed so much that it's unrecognizable? I just thought I should add my female perspective and maybe respond to a few things that got my temptress tail feathers flapping.

First, he punched a pretty hefty 'tude centered around the premise that women have an agenda from the moment they set eyes on a guy. You'd think we were all praying mantis, only taking time out to snap off our partner's head before doing the deed. (ME ME ME...because it's all about me!) Oh, and supposedly all we have to do is toss a little cleavage here and twirl a short skirt there and suddenly a man becomes pud in our hands. Reminds me how magazines are calling Pitt pussy whipped by Jolie, but even I have to admit, that's some major pussy to whip. Ah Shit...I've lost my train of thought. Anyway, I guess the main point I'm fondling is I don't believe that when a woman meets a man her brain immediately fast-forwards to the bridal registry, two beautiful offspring, a house in the burbs and a foreign nanny (okay, the nanny part blurs out a bit) Well, I hate to break it to this guy but women aren't that calculating...or at least no more scheming than a man trying to get into a woman's pants. That's premeditative! A simple test...ask a woman what is a synonym for compass and libido won't come up.

One comment that I'm still picking out of my plumage is, "Meanwhile, women have planned well in advance, knowing that the bed (or the living room floor, stairs, backseat) is just the vehicle that once in gear and moving forward will propel the situation towards some form of security that they don't dare try to provide for themselves." Wow. Let me say that again. Wow. That we don't dare try to provide for ourselves? Damn, that's a three organ plunge into my skin-tight boob bouncing shirt with a dagger. One more and I'd be trying to save more than my uterus in question.

Hey, I'm not saying women are saints. There are those who pick men by the size of their wallets and others who fall in love from the waist down, and of course, no one would fight that there are a multitude of games being played out there. But, where have you been? That shits been going on since the dawn of time and the reason a large number of us are single.

Okay, so here's what I take offense to. At the end of his essay, he mentions his perfect mate who is 'somewhere out there.' A woman with enough self-assurance that she knows who she is and what she's got. "Someone who is that perfect blend of intellectual, emotional, spiritual, and physical herbs and spices that is really the foundation of a partnership between two people. She doesn't have to show her cleavage because the guy she wants to impress knows that isn't where the brainstem lies." Alright, this is all beautiful and touching, but I'm having a hard time believing this guy can't find his mate because "we" are trying too hard to seduce and take him off the scent. But, here's a question I want to ask. If women are dressing for success and that isn't what it's all about...and men are basically offended by the game, then who forks over all that dough for paid porn in hotels? Whose roaming around porn shops in the wee hours? Who buys Sports Illustrated Swimsuit addition and finds the articles in Playboy fascinating? Who still watch cheerleaders and frequents Hooters? (I'm sorry but I can't tell you the last time a group of women got together and said, "Hey, it's Friday night. Let's head down to Hooters for Happy Hour and a Caesar Salad."

Men have always been the hunters and gathers. And that has meant learning to function to a degree void of a lot of emotion. Their job throughout history has been to bring home the bison and protect. And women have been the caregivers and nurturers. While females tended the fire and kids... men, continuously fought battles. They plunged us into war while women evolved into a race of bandage-applying-nurses and sock knitters. The feminist movement was supposed to change that...move the parallel races into a place of equality which in turn would balance those roles. But it hasn't gone there and so we continue to face an orgy of war. And I don't see a major shift in the temperament...because let's face it, as long as we are engaged in bloodshed as our right to protect, we're promoting that hunter and gather thing. Maybe I'm smoking something but historically a battle field has never been an opportune time to tap into your feminine side. Funny, but this reminds me of a conversation I had with a man not long ago who told me...and I believe he was serious...that if men could just be hooked up to a milking machine each morning there would be less aggression in the world. But what about all those calculating women who've snagged one of those milk-an-elk males? Are they destined to stand on the front porch wiping their hands on their aprons and screaming at the poor sap about shucking his responsibilities?

Erica Jong wrote, "Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it...It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk anything, you risk even more." So, that's my counter to this very articulate man but if he comes back with some argument about Eve and the whole Tree of Knowledge snafu, well, that's below the belt.

I am woman hear me meow...

2005-10-30T15:57:00.000-08:00

All the media I've picked up lately --the local paper, New York Times...(and okay, shoot me...a People Magazine) seem to focus on articles dealing with the feminist movement. God, how I loathe that stagnant phrase and the role it's played in evolving relationships.

The Seattle paper offered up a poo-poo platter of complaints by men who've tried to date 40-something women. A full page spread dedicated to what these dating warriors believe to be the peck and claw flaw of females -- the bitter, income-driven species whose main interest is the 'capture and conquest' of a faithful, financial and fine piece of male meat. And then the NY Times and one of my favorite columnists, Maureen Dowd, wrote a tremendous piece called "What's a Modern Girl to Do?" Messed up with the same stuff I encountered growing up, she tackles how women have faired the Age of Aquarius -- the whole "hard-charging feminist-in-tennis-shoes-and-dark-suits," hot in the pursuit to tie the male package into a poodle dog and take over their desk.

I remember working in New York in the 80's --surrounded by women who smoked cigars and pot, perfecting the disconnect of free sex and notching their belts nightly...all, in what was assumed was the advancement of women. And, as Dowd artfully described, we held faith in that tribe of revolutionary Birkenstock and black turtleneck Ms. who we believed would pave the way for all of us. But, there was conflict. While we were busy watching Shirley Temple, they were carving up board rooms...and while we explored Katherine Hepburn's girlish swagger and analyzed Diane Keaton's suspenders and smoking jackets, they were doing their best to weed out bunny behavior. Now I'm starting to wonder if they only delayed characters such as Samantha in Sex in the City, followed by the next logical jump to Angry Housewives...those bitter, sassy, forties who feel they have things to prove...a smart comeback to every hit life lands...and men find a relatively easy target to hurl complaints into their fox hole.

Okay, let's get over ourselves. Women haven't really evolved. We've composted into some sort of jello mold. Most are still looking for three things...convenience, security, and companionship. Love born out of ritual which can move swiftly as long as it carries a motion sickness bag of independence.

Maybe it shouldn't be a surprise to me but I have to admit I've been amazed lately to hear men tell me that if they asked a woman to marry them they'd want her to share their name. What's up with that? If I hadn't had my feet pressed to the fire when I moved to Norway in 1983 I might not have questioned the tradition but because I received such a huge rash of shit from men who argued that if I had an ounce of pride in my family and the struggle of their years...and a true sense of myself, it wouldn't even be an option. At the time, I rebelled. Mainly because we'd started a family and I didn't feel right being the only one out of the loop. And the whole hyphenation thing felt pretentious, long winded and corny. Yeah, I'd divorced my surname from time to time but it suddenly hit me that when my brother and I die, the name goes too. I have no intention of speeding up the process.

As Dowd concluded, "What I didn't like at the start of the feminist movement was that young women were dressing alike, looking alike and thinking alike. They were supposed to be liberated, but it just seemed like stifling conformity. What I don't like now is that the young women rejecting the feminist movement are dressing alike, looking alike and thinking alike. The plumage is more colorful, the shapes are more curvy, the look is more plastic, the message is diametrically opposite - before it was don't be a sex object, now it's be a sex object -- but the conformity is just as stifling."

Embittered women? Sure, you'll find them, but not all have signed up for the Bitch Tour. Hey, at least our foremothers tried to hike their leg and leave their mark. Strides were made. That's a beautiful thing. But none of us should lose sight that there are chores left undone. I must admit, sometimes it feels hopeless. Some women feel changed if they get a yeast infection.

Alright, maybe we're expecting too much...spending too much energy analyzing feminism and the plight of the female race. Maybe we need to get real...relax in the knowledge that mankind will always find a pull of attraction between the sexes and a need to procreate...and because there is famine, disease, bird flu, terrorism, and just plain fucked-up behavior everywhere, we need to dedicate more research and funds to what is truly important...explore the real issue....Closet Space...now that's a deal breaker.

Aisle Three....

2005-10-28T12:13:00.000-07:00

Supposedly there is a meeting today in California in which scientists are discussing the very near possibility of implanting a microchip in the human blood system for early disease detection. Now, I have to admit, sounds a little sci-fi but curiously so. It's the type of mind candy that makes my brain wander. I mean, all the early preventative measures that we've been led to believe cutting edge. This would make body scans and boob flattenings obsolete. Well, its damn excited...but a few questions arise. Insurance being one, but a random silly thought. When you go through grocery check-out will the scanner send off a buzzer? The whole, "Welcome shopper! Please do yourself a favor and pick up anti-toxins on Aisle Three, and a do-it-yourself Last Will and Testiment on Aisle Seven. Oh, and don't forget an urgent trip to your hospital and a call to your priest."

My only experience with microchips have been with my wide variety of pets. We've microchipped every four legged beast that has entered the house. I even contemplating injecting the kids before a Easter trip to Disneyland but my doctor felt the next step was a leash. Anyway, one day I was driving my group home from school and as we raced by a telephone poll we saw a familiar cainine face. I threw the car in park. All the small heads flew forward and then smashed against the back of the car seat in unison. "Hey, I know it was a blur, but did any of you catch that photo of a dog on that poll? I thought there was a slight resemblance to Rupert. You know, the whole splattering of black and white hair thing?" They agreed, so we jumped out to get a closer look. The bad teeth gave him away. "Damn, that is our dog!" When I returned home I found a message from a nearby vet who said someone had found him hiking his leg all over town and brought him in for scanning. He'd only been gone for five hours but voila, there he was...locked in a little cage...totally excited to see me...his whole backend circling like Shikira during Live Aid. So, of course now I'm singing the praises of injected microchips.

I've also heard that Rand...the think tank who've been famous for projecting instant replays to future event have made predictions about the next terrorist attacks and what the world should prepare for. They pegged how the first walk on the moon would play out and have futuristic wild predictions on what is in store for all of us. Okay, I'll be honest...I loathe fear. I hate anything to do with limiting behavior but I also think that if I had knowledge of a posssible attack or flu that would totally deplete the world population I could make decisions based on what would be best for my family instead of reacting from shell-shock 9-11 behavior. It would be a little like pulling folks out of natural disaster areas before the hit. I guess the main thing that I'm reaching for in this experience of life is living whatever days I exist with a positive attitude. Yes, I know at times I struggle and meet the worst head-on, encompassing the "poor poor me" stuff that has no place in developing society today, but I have to remind myself....at least I'm looking for answers. All my thoughts have been formed through experience, study, and heart. I've researched the Mayan calendar and how the earth is suppose to come to an end in 2012 (IN THE WAY WE KNOW IT...whatever that means...and damn, those guys were on track....fuckdamnshit) to the Bible's prediction of end times and even to the birth of the white buffalo which the Indians felt would be the beginning of the end...and that little bundle of joy came to pass a few years back.

I just wish I believed in our leaders and that they mustered the integrity of our forefathers. But in my way of thinking government could give a shit about me or my family. If I hit the streets, I'll die on that asphalt. No one in the White House would come to my aid or give a rip about my well-being. And any "official of the earth", as all of us are in some form or another, including grave digger who most definitely will have their work cut out if this keeps up, please feel free to respond. I'd love to hear your opinion. I really want to know what people are thinking. I've read polls but I can't quite figure out who those people are.

Changing gears... when I look at people who are strong and vivacious in later years they surround themselves in a positive light...a strong sense of self and an attitude driven by energy. They look at life as an opportunity. Always searching for the positive. Yes, the world is in a mess. I truly believe Bush has been a huge deficit to our country, but maybe we are done being the world super power. Is that so bad? I don't think so. Personally, I don't live in the U.S. because we are #1...I live here because of our values and ideals concerning democracy and free trade and borders. In the past, I've been proud of our sense of limitlessness and free speech. Now, I feel those borders closing. I want to keep them open and strive for a new beginning...maybe give someone else a chance at solving the ails, and instead spend a little time lobbying our young who may only receive a mediocre education due to economy only to be killed in war. Education is fundamental. Instead of spending "reserves" (God, remember when that was a word?) on killing our heroic young, why don't we cast our dollars to their education? Let's be honest, if we built a society full of options, how many guys would really enlist if they had advanced education or other work force options? How about instilling a sense of peace? It has nothing to do with super power. Drop us to the bottom of the poll. And if anyone who might stumble across this feels a tightening in their belly? That might fall under the category of ego. That's where I am today...

Tokyo Time...

2005-10-25T09:37:00.001-07:00

I started writing on the plane to Tokyo. Spent about two hours jotting down some thoughts on travel only to leave the journal in the seat pocket as I pulled my tired ass off the plane. I remembered it while in immigration but by then there wasn't a damn thing I could do. I sure wasn't going to jump out of that hour long line to rummage through some airline housekeeping full of plastic cups and throw up bags.

On the day I left I got up early...cleaned the house and changed the sheets. This is the weirdness of my life. For some reason I'd told my ex-husband he could stay at my place so our daughter wouldn't have to be in a hotel while I was away. (Her father lives in S.F. and hotels have become a way of life for her when he visits. Not one of her favorite things.) I don't know about anyone else but there is just something frickin' strange about having your ex shack up in your place. They're sleeping in your bed and possibly rummaging through your life. It just feels wrong. I'd do anything for my daughter but this challenged my comfort level.

I'm getting off track...so as I was organizing the bed-and-breakfast, the phone rang. An "unavailable" caller --which I could only assume was my boyfriend who was already in Tokyo. He's a musician in a jazz band and they have quite a following in Japan. I ran for the phone but just missed it. Then I decided to try his hotel. The woman on the nightshift obviously didn't understand English. I asked if she could please ring his room but she was struggling. I spelled out his name. Silence. Then I repeated the name. No answer. M as in mountain. Nothing. Okay, M as in Mister. Mister yes, she said. No, M...AS in Mister. We were back to square one. Feeling like the call was getting pricey I thanked her, said goodbye and wondered what I was getting myself into.

The plane ride was relatively effortless. I was in economy -- the middle seat of five across but I had a really nice couple on their way to Taiwan beside me...and on the other side, a man who informed me he was married almost before my ass hit the seat. I don't know what vibe I was sending out but I wasn't looking for anything but a safe trip and a little sleep considering the 16 hour time difference.

After Narita immigration I found my bag which definitely was experiencing the spins, bought a bus ticket to Tokyo and stood in line with a guy from Texas who was there for an art show and a woman attending U.N. meetings. My first reaction is how friendly and efficient. Everything works...and then I began to notice how dark it is at 6PM in late October. It was hard to get a sense of the area and I found my eyes growing heavy. Two hours later the bus pulled to a stop at the hotel where my boyfriend was waiting with a huge smile. After a little re-entry period, we surfaced onto the narrow streets and found a great little noodle joint. We ate something called Genso (butchered that spelling) but basically a high level pot sticker. They melt in your mouth!

The next morning I toured the city by myself because he had to do a sound check with the band. It's strange how fears creep up. I have been spoiled. English is common everywhere I've been and although possibly a second or third language to the people of a land I've visited, they've accommodated me. But in Tokyo I felt a reluctance. It's not that they were inhospitable...it was more that they just didn't have the means to communicate. I never sensed a resistance to help, just a lack of skill....like me speaking Japanese. Oh sure, I can make hand jestures and point profusely in a direction, but there is just something that leaves both parties in depletion mode. It reminds me how Americans expect people to make the effort. I need to learn the languages of the earth or at least stop expecting others to bend over for me. It shot me back 25 years when I first moved to Norway...but I found Japan to be an even greater communication barrier because of their strong culture and daily ritual. I didn't want to offend but sometimes I felt like I did anyway. People never intentionally made me feel bad, but it was just a sense. For instance, a few things I learned-- if you dine Japanese-style, men cross their legs and women sit on their knees...if you drink sake, you always pour for the other person and they pour for you... and always take your shoes off in their homes and sometimes in their cars. Tipping is never expected. Slurping soup and shoveling in rice from your bowl is fine. There even appeared to be an etiquette to passing someone on the street while carrying umbrellas.

But what impressed me the very most is how there's NO garbage on the streets. Rarely do you come across a trash can, but there is no litter anywhere. No cigarette butts, no wad of gum to cement your shoes to...NOTHING. Even in their highly efficient subway system you can basically lick the floors. The air is clean and the water tastes bottled. (God, isn't that true...but wrong.) And I never encountered homeless until I went to a wonderful park in the center of the city where Elvis impersonators, street musicians and skateboarders find solace on weekends. This is where some of the homeless survive in tents behind a roped-off area. And there appears to be even structure and survival in their community.

(Point...counterpoint...Jane, you ignorant slut) Okay, I'm told I missed a side of Japan...the side that is dealing with major domestic violence, porn and trafficking of women (the whole "Do you want a massage and happy ending" routine.") But from my limited vantage point, the homeless were few in comparison and never a recognizable panhandler or prostitute did I see. Instead, I found a hard work ethic, a sense of accomplishment...and a pride in appearance. People who dress to the nines. Everyone decked out. No one casual. Rarely did I see jeans, tennis shoes or shorts...except on us...and I must admit I sometimes felt self-conscious. Damn, it looks like a hell of a lot of work! But I couldn't help but be impressed with women strapping on three inch heels and walking like goddesses and the men looking like they bought their grey suits in bulk. All this talk about crowded streets and people pushing....I never once saw it. Yes, the streets were confining but never uncomfortably packed and no one pushed. Though little eye contact, I later learned that is cultural too. The men were tall and the young were hip...or at least giving it their best shot. And the women? Sophisticated, stylish and absolutely gorgeous. They could make a windmill twirl in a Dutch painting. Yeah, I encountered an occasional kimono, but for the most part I saw very thin, short-skirted beauties who packed a Louis Vitton bag full of self-esteem. And then there was another random and off-beat feline...a couple of those "Hello-Kitty" girls...dressed like little porcelain dolls with big bows in their hair, poodle skirts, thick tights and platform shoes. What's up with that?

Oh, and the night life is a blast...any kind of club you can imagine...Brazilian bars, "Lost in Translation" karaoke, gay bars, fabulous music...including the most incredible Beatles impersonators called The Parrots. Close your eyes and you'll swear you are being transported back to their first appearance on the Sullivan show. A must see...plus, exquisite parks and temples and of course, the Imperial Palace garden. We even went to a hemp festival. Happy hippies in Japan. There were punk and rap bands and hemp coffee booths...Peace tye-dye t-shirts, pipes, homemade knitted scarves and jewelry. But, don't let any of this fool you...on any corner you can find other influence...American enterprise has struck. Starbucks, Tullys, Tony Romas and 7-11. Yes, we've done our best to projectile vomit all over the East.

One day a wonderful man who we met at one of the concerts took us surfing at Shiba...about three hours outside Tokyo. A quaint little seaside area where the beaches resemble Hawaii and because they'd just had a pretty significant storm, the waves were abnormally high. Our new friend drove us to an isolated mountaintop to pick up his buddy, the number one surfer in Japan. Nothing like a little intimidation...but we soon learned that he had no ego. We picked him up at his house that he'd built with a couple other guys. A clapboard structure made from a variety of materials with limited necessities (the outdoor bathtub consisted of a round tub in need of a kindling fire in order to heat and timed entrance in order not to become human stew...a hole in the floor for a toilet and no heat or electricity) But they had managed to construct a skate park and surfing set-up. When we first arrived I found the place incredibly clean for four bachelors...no dishes in the sink or clothes laying around...old tunes on the turntable and a sticker that said, "Bush killed Superman." After we drank some coffee with them, we filled the van with surfboards and headed for the water. The #1 surfer was incredible to watch...very shy guy but amazing on a board. Then the sax player in the band who had never been surfing before grabbed a wet suit and a seven foot board and decided to give it a whirl. He struggled into a wetsuit and tried putting the leash on his wrist until they stopped him and told him it wrapped around his ankle. Initially, he stayed with the white water but soon he tired of the confined experience and paddled out to the rest of the guys. Everyone panicked when they saw the nose of the board heading out to sea and two legs kicking madly through gigantic swells. I don't know how the guy lived to talk about it but I think it's a testimony to his belief system. Life beats you up, he said, but if you don't try, you'll never know where to draw the line. He gives everything a shot until defeated. If you could listen to the way he plays the sax you'd realize few things stand in his way.

We took the guys to dinner at a local beach hangout and they ordered all sorts of delicacies that we would have never ventured to try...mainly because we couldn't read the menu. Absolutely amazing food. So many different flavors --Sword fish, duck, sushi, tempera, noodle dishes, pasta and curry. Though one thing I struggled with...a form of meat that had been pressed thin and looked like some sort of plucked/boiled foreskin. I managed to eat one and smile...but hide the other under a clump of rice. I also made a limited effort to avoid chicken on this trip though Avian flu doesn't seem to be a problem in Tokyo. I think I'm going to follow that path anyway in the months ahead.

The plane ride home took only 7 hours and 35 minutes....strong tail winds. Tried to watch Mr. and Mrs. Smith on the way back. Pitt and Jolie...if that's chemistry we are all living in toxic waste. I was hoping for some entertainment to ease me into the longest day of my life but Brad and Angelina didn't cut it.

My closing words. If you get a chance to travel to Japan, do it. That beforehand advice I received? -- "All they seem to know how to do is push and shove... Get aggressive, you're going to need a thick skin." Well, I found it to be just the opposite. The people were extremely thoughtful, respectful, kind and concerned for my happiness. Anyone who enlists in 'the sky is falling' routine about visiting Asia has to get on a plane and see it for themselves. There is something really wonderful about a common preservation of people. We have melted into something that does not seem to be able to ferment into a family structure or a shared culture. It may turn out to be a flaw in the long run. I hope not. I love the whole aspect of democracy and opening borders but I'm starting to see that other countries are thriving because they are able to ban together through common beliefs. We seem to be challenging our structure right now. I don't know...I guess I'm just rambling though a trail of drop-eyed jetlag.

Back....

2005-10-23T18:56:00.000-07:00

Back from Japan. What an amazing time. I'm not quite ready to put thoughts to the page but I'm hoping that comes tomorrow. Until then, I'll try to keep my eyes open 'til dark. Spent the day staring at walls but managed to throw my cell phone into a load of wash. I could have upgraded to business class with that little move. With all the other stuff going on in the world my cell access seems minor.

Tokyo

2005-10-14T08:37:00.000-07:00

I'm leaving for Tokyo tomorrow. I'll hopefully journal a lot and have stories to blog when I return. All the hoopdela to get there sounds a little gruesome...the long-ass flight followed by bus and then cab...yikes... but it's an opportunity that I can't pass up. Seventeen hour time difference...billions of people...sushi coming out my eyeballs. This should be quite the time! If you haven't seen the movie Crash, I recommend it. It's a well done piece about prejudice and preconceived ideas about race and cultures. Without an open mind this would be a different trip. Since I've mentioned I'm going I've heard comments like, "Why would you want to go there? All those people basically living on top of each other? Running and pushing constantly? And you know they hate Americans. If they can, they'll hide chicken in dishes and pass you avian flu." My Lord, people, no wonder the world is sinking in fear and bad energy. I plan to travel with lots of free space in my brain to hold all the wonders of Asia and discard any small minded preconceived thoughts that I've heard. I plan to embrass the experience with both arms. I've heard there is very little crime. I feel really blessed to be able to go right now. Has anyone been in Tokyo who has GOOD advice for me?

the story I mentioned...

2005-10-12T20:32:00.000-07:00

So here is the story I promised. As I've mentioned before, my parents own a tour company. They just got back from taking a band of merry travelers to Europe on a cruise. The last night onboard my mom and one of the other passengers took a walk on the deck. After a few laps they decided to sit down and rest before continuing. From what I gathered they had little time to warm that bench before an elderly gentlemen in a suit and bow tie shuffled up and asked if he could join them. He launched right into his history...how he was 93 years old and on the cruise with his son. "How many kids do you have?" my mom asked. "Well, I had two but my youngest died when he was 28 in Seattle." "Our whole group is from Seattle!" my mom said. "I'm sure it's a nice town but I've only been there once to identify my son. I can't recall much else." Emotionally, he told the story of how his boy had become gravely ill while on vacation with some buddies and before the old man could reach him his son had died. All those years later the tears still fell freely. But, as he explained, it has tortured him to think that he wasn't there to comfort him at the end...that he couldn't tell him what an amazing son he'd been and how proud he was to be his father. My mom and the other man sat quietly and listened. At one point they tried to change the subject but the old guy segued back. Then another passenger from the tour spotted them. A Norwegian woman in her 80's who'd become a nurse during WWII and after the war she'd met another Norwegian and they decided to make their home in the Northwest. They introduced her to the old man and when he said his name she stopped. "That's a very uncommon name," she said. "Yes, it is," he agreed. "Strange, but I've only known one other person with that name and heavens, it was long ago. I was a nurse and he was a very sick young man." They all stared at her in disbelief. The rest of the evening she reconstructed his sons last hours. My mom and walking partner allowed them that moment alone so I have no idea of what closure it brought. I have to believe it was an amazing moment.

What are the odds? A cruise ship in Europe and a nurse who'd worked in a hospital some forty years prior remembering a name and details of a boy's last moments. Life is incredible when you think about it.

World rumblings...

2005-10-08T11:54:00.000-07:00

My daughter flew in from New York for a few days. We touched on a lot of subjects while she was in town. It's fascinating how the young still find hope and change in future times. And what strikes me is how they feel somewhat responsible for the welfare of what ails the earth. I don't remember feeling passionate about the planet when I was her age but maybe the difference is when I turned on the TV I watched test patterns and occasionally heard Sandy scream into a Florida lagoon, "Flipper, find Bud! Find Bud, Flipper!"

I suppose the conversations stemmed from the earthquake in Pakistan, India and Kashmir. We discussed how natural disasters are a form of war without blame. How devastation brought about by nature displays the disharmony in the world that wants to express it's discontent in earthly anger. As humans interacting with a force much larger than ourselves, we need to accept nature's call to awaken us and allow us to partake in its return to a homeostasis state. Unlike battle or a suicide bomber who inflict intentional pain, it's impossible to shake an accusing finger at nature for its attempt to find balance. Natural disasters teach us to take action without paralyzing criticism. It forces nations, whether previously conflicted or not, to unite and rebuild. To piece together a new form of life with harmony ...or at least a resurgence of energy that will restore the land.

This sense of rebuilding the world can be a way of living. What these disasters support in a very real sense is how the world works. On a huge scale, the planet seems to be transforming almost without us...taking choice into its own hands and altering land mass to bring about necessary change.

I guess what we started to think about today is how trust in a higher force is no assurance that we will coast. Sometimes that trust deters responsible action by offering confidence in place of hope. If we are told we are in the hands of an omnipotent God who will take care of us as long as we live a good clean life then the urgency can disappear and inaction takes place. Confident Christians sometimes look with complacency at activists as if they just had faith this wouldn't be happening. Regardless of what belief, we should all do our part to improve life around us...whatever the outcome...wherever we end up. The main thing is that we share in the divine adventure and leave the outcome to the unknown. We all know what feels right. It perks us up to give. It makes us feel shitty to become recluse and look souly at our own needs. But when we participate in the experience of giving back the journey becomes one of joy. And the one who experiences this joy in the process of rebuilding for the urgency felt today take the risk that the only reward may be in the joy itself.

I've got a great story to tell. That will be the next post. For now, this seemed like something I had to get off my chest. I do have a sense of humor...I know it seems lacking but I still can kick it around sometimes.

Small Hiatus...

2005-10-04T09:37:00.000-07:00

I took a small hiatus from blogging. Needed to pull out of the socket and recharge.

After moving to my new place I'm aware how much of our lives are throw out. Perishable. Recyclable. Biodegradable. Torchable. Buriable. Rid-and-resumable.

We drag our keepsakes from place to place in hopes that these few treasured items will remain a connection to ourselves on the planet...Continuing to offer pleasure or necessity. I think about all those who lost their homes and belongings to Katrina. How many insurance adjusters have been instructed to find whatever policy loophole available. And it makes me think that a huge part of the lesson of this earth is finding the loopholes ourselves. The ones that lead us out of temptation from false security. And instead, lead us to what is important. Don't get me wrong...my heart aches for the suffering of all those who have lost everything...supposedly the ultimate torture of our society. It is a reminder to everyone. I continually ask the universe --tell me what I need to survive. What is okay to ask for? What is too much? And sometimes I hear the false voice of the world laughing and saying...don't be stupid, grab for the brass ring...

The other morning I watched Katie Couric on the morning news and the hammers were flying in Rockefeller Center as volunteers were building new homes for evacuees of the disaster. Then they brought one family forward...a family just like one of thousands who had lost everything. Suddenly there was an outpouring of gifts...keys to a new home, a purse for mom, TV for the boyfriend-slash-dad, computer games for kids, 100 books, a few pots and pans...and as the hours rolled on they continued to present the family with Good Samaritan tokens of love. It's nice. I get it. But it's like putting a fat person on primetime and giving them an all-you-can-eat Smorgasbord pass. Mom needs a job so she can put something in those pots and health insurance because she has cancer...and boyfriend needs a job...kids need a school. A Gameboy is great, but shit, where will that third grader be in a few years of reality TV and videogames? But of course, Katie and the network have ratings to worry about. They were looking for the right image of help...that warm-and-fuzzy response of reporters with a conscience. An Oprah thing. 'Cuz damn, that woman has made a living out of tugging on the heartstrings of America. She came into television like a cat in fresh litter... illuminating what's wrong and capitalizing on answers. Okay, If you have a conscience, I'm thrilled. But, exploiting sufferers that you hope will elicit the right response on your network is sad.

I have fewer friends now. Like silence following sound...they have disappeared just as quickly. The ones that are left, I treasure. In the big scale of things they may be perishable, recyclable, biodegradable, torchable, buriable...but in my mind no life is rid-and-resumable. This is an incredible time of history...

A Plot Without Participating Characters....

2005-09-24T11:47:00.000-07:00

Last night my parents delivered some boxes for my move which must seem to anyone whose read this blog as the sequel to the Never Ending Story. But to minimize this saga into some form of clarity (which is probably irrelevant,) my family own and operate a tour company where they are privy to a warehouse worth of cardboard containers filled with duplicate crap like thermoses and name tags to fake nose-and-glasses. When they arrived at my striped and hollowed home, I poured them a shot of Grey Goose as we sat around one of the last remaining stick figures left to pack --the kitchen table and a couple of scraggly chairs. They were telling me about an upcoming tour they'd scheduled and how a couple suddenly cancelled because the wife hadn't finished writing their obituaries. Now, I don't know about you but I haven't given much thought to my obit...or my will for that matter. I know the latter is most important because in my case two ex-husbands would be splitting my meager worth instead of the kids.

What I should have seen coming was the conversation switching gears from packing and carting to some sort of upcoming 60-second trailer of life with the Almighty. As my parents age into the twilight years they discuss their plans for the grave as if they're booking a cruise. I understand the sense of urgency because let's face it, how many summers are left...six or seven? Or at least in my ancestry that figure seems to tap the keg dry. But they are beginning to coordinate years as if they can control the ride...you know, book an aisle seat or possibly a vegetarian meal...a movie and headset, or wheelchair assess as they enter the pearly gate...Oh, and not to forget an overhead compartment for the stuff that we've all been told NEVER NEVER come with the full-meal good deed deal.

Last night my mom asked me what are my last wishes. Without hesitation I answered, "A crab cake...maybe some fries and a great glass of chardonnay." "No," my mother said, "that's if you go to prison. I mean burn or bury?" God, I hate when I answer before all the options have been given. But in my defense... I feel I recovered fairly quickly and acknowleged a full turn-'em-and-burn-'em-event complete with urned remains for a mantle display. And that seemed to be the right answer. They beamed. Maybe because it WAS an answer...or maybe because people are asking the ground breaking question... do we really need all these zip-locked corpses camped out under little pockets of earth? All those incredible people housed under prime real estate with nothing left but bones that family members will maintain until they join them --dropping handfuls of two-day old flowers and carrying on conversations into well-manicured lawns as if the deceased are able to gargle answers under a 6 foot mound of wet ground. Let's jolly well get with the program.

Okay, now I'm going to unleash a little. My observation is that very few people have witnessed a great relationship. If you have one or are privy to a few, my hats off, but most relationships I see are flat-lining. Living lives where there is nothing to cling to besides momentary happiness in between large hiccups of pain-- people just going through the motions out of necessity, schedule, routine and of course, God-filled orders. And then those gestures of boredom are buried deep in the cavities of earth with the body. But first, a memorial. A fake and fabricated ideal of their relationship memorialized in some sort of superficial adornment. As if someone dies and it's as if they've become some sort of fucking shrine. And what I've realized is sometimes it doesn't necessarily shatter people that the person is no longer there, but that their whole mode of conversation, their pattern and process of communicating that relationship has been eliminated. Their glee at the things they did right and their disdain for the things they did wrong is suddenly gone. They've lost that person they could communicate with and sometimes more importantly, the person they could communicate about. "My wife doesn't like oral sex...My husband is a slob...You don't know how much money she's going to spend shopping if I drink this beer...If he forgets our anniversary one more time I'm going to upgrade this ring myself..." And I'm not making this shit up which is one of the reasons I'm being so cynical...

What it seems to me when a partner dies is that they grieve the loss, but they also grieve their lost connection with the world. Because there is certainty in complaint and with a person passing they've lost the habit. Same with calling off a relationship. You are no longer a member of the pack. The things that others find humorous about their spouse or mate are instantly gone. Of course anyone who has gone through the process understands that another will come along to bring them the same lie but they need time to wallow in their self-righteous self-pity first and when that bout with pain has subsided, they pull in another. It just goes to show that when one is set free from someone --a love, a life which they've become accustom, they're set free from an outcome of success. That is why divorce is so prevalent...and why we initially embrace it as a new starting point...a sort of rebirth and chance to start over...and then the realization sets in that it's going to be difficult as hell, that's when one or the other tries to scurry back and make amends...but usually to no avail. Because somehow we realize that the same problems will surface again...and so when we pick a new person the same fat rises to the top but on a little different poo-poo platter. Because it is OUR shit...not particularly theirs. And when we have a chance to rechew this thought, we either have the guts to go back into the ring and face a new partner with full disclosure... or drench ourselves in interests and pretend that a relationship of any kind is a distraction from "who we are."

All this being said, I've found that most people love a person for what they represent. They love their directness. Their power. Their artistic side. They're sporty side. Their bad girl...Their bad boy...Their nerdness...whatever mirrors them and makes them feel good, because most people love qualities of another because it's what they want or wish they had...their accomplishments and success. And of course, their potential. Think of it...I doubt there is a kid alive that feels their parents love them because they're a sloth. Because they are praised for laying around all day on a couch and don't go to school and have relatively few ambitions. Most kids feel like parents love them in the only way they know how...in accomplishments and success....and yes, more of that potential. ("You're father was a late bloomer...you'll grow out of the couch.") And usually, the people spouting off this 'unconditional' love are held together by harm and hatred and haven't even heard a word the kid is saying.

Chekhov said what does one do...do actively with one's honest revulsion and disgust with the lies and deception of the middle-class life? I don't rightly know but maybe it is true that every indecency is incubated in restriction. Regardless, it seems like many people are like hunted animals...answering false love calls from the unworthy. It's as if they think...how could we...intelligent people no less, allow ourselves to be deceived? And once the poison of that seeps in, why the continual sacrifice?

I know this is getting long and heavier than few want, but I'm working on an idea here! Let me go! Maybe I'm not thinking clearly, but I'll write it anyway. What if we only connected as souls? No human form but a magnetic pull of all souls. There would be no survival or reality shows...no war or wish to extinguish others...no image of perfection or need for cosmetic surgery... we would work on the planet and improve the whole. Then all the superficiality could be buried once and for all with the dead.

This land is your land...this land is my land...

2005-09-21T13:59:00.000-07:00

It seems like things change so rapidly. First, I'll start with an observation. Have you ever noticed how if you remove a spider's web they never rebuild in the same place? Unlike birds and ants AND PEOPLE who duplicate, spiders move on. I wonder if they know something we don't.

Now I realize I've spent a good piece of time writing about materialism and it may seem redundant and overly critical, but I have to finish my train of thought. Besides, maybe I'm onto something. Last night I had a horrible fight with my 13 year old. She seems to be taking the brunt of my wrath since the others are away at college.

Here's how it started...I picked her up at soccer at 8:30 last night and on the ride home she tells me about a boy shes crazy about because his parents gave him a Jag for his 14th birthday. A fucking Jag that will sit in a heated garage under a designer tarp for the next two years until the golden child gets his license. I can just see one of those strings with a tennis ball dangling from the rafters so that the car and owner know it's pulled in 'correctly.' I don't know...maybe I just need to lighten up because this is what is out there. We've created this fucking land of opportunity. The whole "come with a steamer trunk" immigrant shtick (hate that word?) and rise to mongul...or maybe now it's evacuee. Hard to keep up. And what's even more odd...if you're not used to writing a word like evacuee, you have to look it up. It doesn't sit right on the page. It looks like it's missing something...like a home.

My friend wrote me last night. He said, "One is of ones environment. What they see around them...the cars, clothes, beautiful homes and luxuries that money provides, makes it extremely difficult not to want what they see. Economics are not taught by bad relationship choices or seeing the motivation behind parents perspective on values. You have to ask yourself --when did you 'get it' in life? I doubt at 13."

So then I was feeling all fucked up. Mainly because I screamed at her and felt lousy about doing it. She's a great kid, but like a lot of teens right now, she's into "who has what" and every reflection she catches of herself appears to be an opportunity to rearrange something. My teeth clench with each hair toss.

But here's the beauty of the whole thing. Today there was a hush in the house. Although I apologized for the screaming last night (which I KNOW never works) my words fell upon deaf ears. And I realized there is a feeling of stronghold you have as a parent to want to voice your rules and ways into a child which is necessary and then there is a control deal. That being said, I want her to grow into her own person, but I also would like her to know her roots...or at least my current roots (which will remain intact until the cedar box.) I understand we live in an environment that is charged by materialism and a lot of people still seek their happiness from such avenues, but for whatever reason, I want to speak out that materialism sucks...understanding of course that the way I went about it failed miserably. The lesson feels like it was widdled down to fine dust never to become the creation.

So then I opened my email. Amazing how things show up to guide at just the right time. It came from DailyOM...great website if you haven't come across it. Today's message --

Resisting Control -- Imposing Your Will On Others

The right to make your own choices is a precious one. We grow when we have the freedom to decide our own paths and determine what makes us happy. Yet there are those who are inclined to try and control others. They may be driven by insecurity, envy, fear, or the need for power. These people are deeply critical of themselves in their own minds, and underlying that critical nature is unhappiness. Their need to feel sure-footed and secure is quenched by controlling those around them, whether they are friends, colleagues, or even pets. However, nearly everyone has found themselves imposing their will upon others at one time or another.

Trying to impose your will on others can be tempting for many reasons. You may feel that your way is the best way or that you have a keener insight into the direction their life should be taking. But, in imposing your will, you are indirectly saying, "I want to control you." Even when you have the best of intentions, others may end up resenting you for your actions. It is always helpful to remember that it is possible to influence people and change their behavior through education or example without imposing your will on them.

If you've caught yourself being a bit bossy on a regular basis, make a note of it. Write down what the situation was and why you acted the way you did. It can feel natural to impose your will when you feel that you "know best." But there is a freedom to trusting others to find their own methods and joys, even when they might differ from yours. Sometimes the best course of action is to step back and relinquish control. You may, in doing so, see everything from a different point of view."

God, I wonder what that Jag and hanging tennis ball look like from an aerial shot?

Slinging 'Tude....

2005-09-19T17:42:00.000-07:00

A friend wrote me today. He wanted to discuss attitude. The email went a little like this...

"For people like you and me -- it is 90% attitude -- however, that 'other' 10% (and 10% of the time) is where the trouble lies. We say something really mean -- we take advantage of someone --we become furious at a wrong done to us. In other words 'shit happens' --atttude can NOT take care of that - that is the Pollyanna approach to life that is not only fake, but it develops into this amazing hidden psychosis that keeps popping like pimples on our skin. How do we unload that crap? That is where God HAS to be the bearer of all of the 10% crap we do. Then, we can get back to attitude."

And I thought about this and responded because...well, let's face it, something you can set your teeth into? That's hard to pass up. A chance to think about the psychosis of life...at the dull druids I encounter on a day-to-day basis? Plus, perks like pimples? God and the word crap in the same paragraph? Hell yes...

"Attitude is a good door for me to open today since I tanked into the 10% mode yesterday. I won't bore you with the details. Besides, I'm back out of it today...never plagues for long. I'm like you in a way...I loathe the Pollyanna routine. There are moments the shit hits and if you try to hide the truth under an oriental runner instead of giving it light, I think you're not being honest with yourself or anyone else around you.

My daughter told me that she is taking a philosophy class at Bard and her professor explained life as a gigantic sandbox. I've incorporated that into my own philosophy but with some modification because I've witnessed times that the sandbox feels like quick sand. Moments that I've felt like someone threw a shitload of water into the mix and ruined all the fun... but then the sun comes out and dries it up and it's back to buckets and shovels and watching the light illuminate individual kernels of sand. And that's where the attitude has to kick in. Knowing that it will change. The planetary playground will reopen. But with age comes the realization that no one person, situation, act of kindness or act of hate will go unnoticed and you will most likely experience the flip-side. So you learn that you have to meet every experience you encounter from a place of excitement and intensity because without both, you miss the experience. We are capable of anything...what makes us go there depends upon variables and belief systems.

Kanye West was on TV the other day. The interviewer asked him how he became a star. Unlike Johnnie Carson who answered, "I started out in the gassiest state and then I cooled," Kanye answered (and I'm taking liberties here...but hell, it's only been a few nights...think about keeping the dialogue correct for 300 years until the Bible hit the presses) -- "I held a dream tight. I know that we create our own realities and each day I told myself that I was going to be a star and believed it. Really believed it. Never doubted it...Lived it...Breathed it. Walked the walk before I even got there." Basically he was saying that we all are living a dream and we can change it once we realize that we can doctor it with the right attitude.

Which reminds me of a documentary. An 8 year old girl left all alone in Africa because her parents and siblings died of AIDS. Each day she puts a huge wooden container on her head and walks at least five miles to pump water for her village. She receives the equivalent of a penny for each 10 mile round trip. Sometimes she makes the trip five times a day. The interviewer could not even pick up the full jug of water, let alone raise it to her head. By the time she returned to the little girl's village in the sweltering heat, the anchor was in tears. Then the girl showed her the hut that was now hers alone. She had painted little pictures and shoved them into the bamboo slats. As the cameras rolled the little girl smiled as if life was the most amazing present anyone could be given. Not a complaint. Not a feeling of sadness at being left alone. The newscaster began to weep openly and the little girl did not understand the emotion. She tried to comfort her. She wanted her to see the beauty in what she'd created.

Yesterday, I asked my thirteen year daughter about a birthday she'd been to. She told me that it was a lot of fun and the birthday girl "totally scored" in the present department. What does that mean, I asked? Well, she got gift certificates to Frenchy's for manicures and all the boys gave her cash. One boy pulled out 60 bucks from his pocket. Manicures? Cash? What's next? Do they all pool their money for implants? How shallow is this going to become? I don't know about you but 60 bucks is ludicrous for a teen gift. I'm nearly 50 and I don't think I'd pull out a wad of 20's for a gift. How did giving get so fucked up? (And as my ex-husband tells me when I swear..."I'll argue from a more intellectual base and leave you to that playing field" at which times I'd like to cram something up his intellectual base.) I digress...anyway, then I heard of another family I know who are letting their daughter have an MTV Sweet Sixteen party. That show is the epitome of what is wrong with this place. Parents throwing cash at kids so that all those horrible emotions can come to illumination --greed, envy, jealousy, fake body parts and personnas. I can't figure out why any parent would spend thousands of dollars on a party for what they must believe is a limited edition princess. Jesus...what a place (and I mean that in the most pustulant intellecutal way.)

But, I'll end on an interesting note. My daughter in New York went to an art editors home for brunch this weekend. The entire house was decorated white. Everything. The only other color being the egg yolks used in the omelettes. Floors - white hardwoods and marble...art and sculptures...white. No color whatsoever besides the people who entered the room. The focus immediately goes to humans instead of objects and space. Each guest stood in his own framing. A person has to feel real comfortable with themselves in a white room. And the owner of such a place has complete comfort in himself. He doesn't feel the need to show off or convince you who he is through cool stuff...or impose himself on others in any materialistic way. Supposedly his office is the same way. I mentioned this to a friend tonight and her response was, "All white? How boring...Jesus, talk about pressure."

Slinging 'Tude signing off for now....

September 13, 2005

2005-09-13T10:21:00.000-07:00

I don't have a lot to say today. I suppose I could just recap but I'm not sure I have the right spin on things. The ol' "Up-Up-With-People" pitch that creates a positive new awakening has lost its helium. I've been watching the news...80 dogs rescued from New Orleans...45 found dead in a hospital which they are hoping were already cadavers. How long should that take to determine? Were they flat-lining in their beds or in a drawer in a morgue? Or huddled against a wall with their arms wrapped around each other? 1700 kids still looking for relatives. Anderson Cooper...CNN's new hope for a legend in reporting said he watched a rat gnaw on a dead body. Police officers set orange cones around the deceased as if trail markers. At least one toddler escaped rape when the predators head was blown off. Yesterday, Laura Bush called it Hurricane Katerina twice and Barbara thinks evacuees are living large in Texas. Brownie is gone, replaced by the fool who told us all to run out and buy duct tape to counter terrorists. Jesus...is this a SNL skit? And now I hear Bush is supposed to apologize tonight because his locker room logistics aren't jiving with the people.

The world is a different place. How horrific 9-11 was, it suddenly doesn't hold the power to move people the way it did. New catastrophes have overshadowed...and as long as we continue on this course, it will become an event like the Holocaust. An isolated incident of terror. The difference being today there are new forms of terror. Only the numbers change...but the pain is constant. I feel so sorry for our kids. Look what a mess we've leaving them...

Here's a little diddy...

2005-09-10T22:22:00.000-07:00

Here in Seattle we take our seasons serious. From the moment August is over - BOOM - it's right into Fall and the many frightening hues of darkness. Today is Code Grey --hella depressing for those who wonder.

This morning I pulled out my NW Climatic Chart and gave it a whirl. The sky dropped somewhere between the category of squirrel gray and battleship gray...proceeded by yesterday's cement gray and my weekly forcast for missle gray, guard-rail gray, Dorian Grey, and my personal favorite, pubic gray. God, I'd love to be a weatherman in the Northwest. Talk about job security!

From here on this place is as predictable, dull and dreary as the Rap-etitious MTV Music Awards. (How's that for a segue?) Jesus, could anything bring on a yawn with more gusto than diddy hosting this year? "I'm not here to entertain you, I'm here to blow your mind." I don't know why he thought he was capable of blowing anything unless he brought a handgun. Or maybe he should focus his target on humility. Stop acting like buying shit and getting pussy is what it's all about...oh, and sometimes sharing with the little people. I'm sure he can tell the difference between himself and us wee ones because we haven't changed our names six times to a one word icon. Truly, I don't think I've seen an ego detonate with such deployment since Mohammed Ali entered the ring. But at least that guy had style...and he knew his place. "I didn't say I was the smartest guy in the world, just the greatest."

Rappers...now there's a real brain feeder for ya. All those guys asking for respect while throwing expensive jewelry into the audience like pearls to swines. Offering huge amounts of money to the best dressed so they can donate it to Orange County. Why not Beverly Hills? Or South Beach? Jesus, what a joke. I know I sound angry...and I guess I am. It's just that it seems people in the limelight have a responsibility. If they don't want it...get off the grandstand. That's part of the gig. Those at the top of the materialistic train must become heroes. Must show cash doesn't mean personal power, but power to make positive change. We've been shown lately that our leaders aren't up for the job...so it moves up a tier...to the people...and that includes all those bad boys of rap and raunch. Unless everyone wakes up in a dramatic way, nothing will change. This year rappers dominated the awards. They are leaders of a huge population of kids. I'm not passing the buck...I'm just saying that for whatever reason rappers have been given a place of immense power for change. As Bush will have to find compassion for his fellow man...truly believing that every life is precious (and don't get me wrong...I'm not holding out a lot of hope) rappers will have to guide and strengthen the young people of today. Become humble as a servant of the world. It's possible..but we seem to be racing against the clock. We're not on a maintenance program...we're on a recovery mission and what singers like R.(put-his-ass-in-jail) Kelly, Eminem and the rest of the angry clansman seem to be accomplishing is illuminating just what is so fucked up. Pulling the grenade pin and tossing it into a crowd of impressionable teens makes the job harder and cuts into our recovery time.

Real Niggas
by Puff Daddy, Lil' Kim and Notorious B.I.G.

Yeah Yeah Yeah
I tot gats wit my nigga, clap wit my nigga
Break bread and then break backs wit my nigga
Jack wit my nigga, cock the latch wit my nigga
Now how you gon' act wit my nigga?
Just remember there's a gun to your dome
And I will lick shots and run through your home
Or better yet I put your son to the chrome
Turn the music up and unplug the phone
I will kill him, read my lips
You too, motherfucker if I don't see no bricks
See, I flips when I don't see no chips
Yeah, nigga, I know you in pain, I don't care nigga
I want the stash, keys, hash, weed, G's motherfucker freeze
Cock sucker, you better bring the things outs
Before I blow your motherfrucker frame out
Nigga what...

Stop the noise... I can't hear myself drink...

2005-09-09T17:07:00.000-07:00

What is it about vodka? Believers are loyal to a fault.

I grew up watching women fondle their vodka glass like a well-oiled lover. Each night singing its praise as if they'd tapped into the Fountain of Youth with no cover charge. Some call it the Eighth Wonder. One night I made the mistake of asking why all the bloody hype? A small splattering of martini maidens perched against a piano bar in Palm Springs hurled answers as if they thought they were participating in a think-tank. "Vodka won't bring on those nasty broken blood vessels." "Or a bloated stomach, another announced. "I can't remember the last time I had a hangover." (This said by a woman who had broken vessels and enough bloat to keep the Titanic upright.) "You can nurse one for hours," another said. And my personal favorite liquid-loving line --"It's easily disguisable in water bottles in case a cop pulls you over." So, I said, "In other words, vodka hides the symptoms of alcoholism." They gave me a 'Jesus, there's always one in every crowd' look and went back to singing Copa Cabana until they rode off into the moonlit night in matching golf carts.

Then I received a mass email. The heading was "Vodka. Who would have thunk it??" I'm not going to bore you with the full declaration but here's a jiggers worth.

To remove a bandage painlessly, saturate the bandage with vodka. The solvent dissolves the adhesive. (along with a patch of hair, a layer of flesh and a vein or two)

To scrub the caulking around bathtubs and showers, fill a trigger-spray bottle of vodka, spray the caulking, let set five minutes and wash clean.

To clean your eyeglasses, simply wipe the lenses with a soft cloth dampened with vodka. (If fuzzy vision continues, you've licked the lenses.)

Spray vodka on vomit stains, scrub with a brush, then blot dry. (I can only assume this is after you've thrown up vodka. Take it from me, it's not as effective with red wine and chunkage)

Using a cotton ball, apply vodka to your face as an astringent to cleanse and tighten pores.

Add a jigger of vodka to a 12-ounce bottle of shampoo and watch it stimulate new follicle growth! (if you're not a big fan of Chia Pets --wipe eyebrows, ear cavity, nasal passage and mustache after application.)

Fill a sixteen-ounce trigger spray bottle and spray on bees and wasps to kill instantly. (Larger forms of life may need a second coat)

Pour one-half cup vodka and one-half water in a Ziplock freezer bag, and freeze for a slushy, refreshable ice pack for aches, pain, or black eyes. (Frozen Steak? Bag of peas? Over-rated, I say! Leave it in the freezer and watch the burn grow.)

Make your own mouthwash by mixing nine tablespoons powered cinnamon with one cup vodka. Seal in an airtight container for two weeks. Strain through a coffee filter. Mix with warm water and rinse mouth. Don't swallow...

Using a Q-Tip, apply vodka to a cold sore to help dry out. (Not FDA approved but some studies indicate genital herpes show significant improvement with as little as a cotton ball application....uhh, I can just see someone buying a big bag of cotton swabs, a case of Smirnoff and then suing my sorry self. So here's my disclaimer...I wouldn't know what the FDA was working on if they bitch-slapped a patent on my ass)

If a blister opens, pour vodka over the raw skin as a local anesthetic that also disinfects the exposed dermis. (Too clinical...I'm not touching those open pus-pockets or any other exposed whatever)

To treat dandruff, mix one cup vodka with two teaspoons crushed rosemary, let sit two days, strain through coffee filter and massage into scalp. Let dry. (Okay, this one may be an old wives tale, but BFD...at least you've got some damn happy flakes.)

To treat an ear ache put a few drops of vodka in your drum. Let sit a few minutes. Then drain. (This treatment also works with earwigs....or anything else that starts with the letter E. Warning...if you begin to pick up signals from air traffic controllers out of infected ear, discontinue use and consult your doctor)

To relieve a fever, use a washcloth to rub vodka on your chest and back. (Leftovers? Try our delicious meat marinade!)

To cure foot odor, wash your feet with vodka. (spritz a little under your arms and between your legs while your at it)

Okay, maybe this celebrated 15-step vodka program can cure hoof-in-mouth and head lice, but damn, we're all going to smell like a Russian fraternity pledge after a three day hazing. Hey, don't get me wrong...I love to drink as much as the next lush...I mean lady, but it's a little like politics and trying to convince ourselves that government looks after the well-being of the people.

Then it suddenly came to me...an answer from beyond the Pearlies. If vodka can cure all that ails...lets drench the planet in hooch, Saran Wrap it for two weeks and whatever hasn't rotted beyond recognition, colonize.

taking a packing break...

2005-09-08T15:35:00.000-07:00

I haven't been able to write much lately. I've got to pack and move...plus find a new home for my cat. It's leaving me feeling less than creative. I'm sure I'm be back in the swing of things soon. In the meantime, I'm having fun reading everyone else's blogs. You guys are pretty damn creative...

the removal of the feedbags...

2005-09-03T14:44:00.000-07:00

I've tried many times to write this post. Always I have to stop myself because the anger flows and as we all know that isn't necessarily the most productive way to voice a situation. But let's be honest, the Gulf Coast has opened the scab of America and what's underneath is an angry voice of the people.

The latest reports say things are slowly straightening out...that all the 'refugees' have been evacuated from the filth and grotesqueries and are now settled in a few domes in Texas. I can only hope Americans aren't breathing a sigh of relief. As if a few peanut butter sandwiches and cardboard boxes of OJ are going to pacify for long. People with modern sensibilities know the temporary holding pen is a band-aid on a fast-growing cancer. The federal government acts as if this move to a new cot will somehow work as a muzzle and transform these sad, desperate folks into harmless grass-consuming cattle. They were left to die for nearly a week. No excuse can possibly soften the facts. It was Lord of the Swamp Flies in technocolor.

The worst moment was watching Bush briefed. Flanked by yes-men giving him a positive spin on the destruction, Bush stood with one hand resting on his forearm, his jaw set in an expression of too-late generous self-control, and his sleeves rolled up as if he was going to single-handedly fix the levees himself. I'm surprised someone didn't adjust his pant legs to clam-diggers before his heart-wrenching speech about every life being precious. I can only assume he's including those precious lives under tarps and blankets who died from lack of water and medicine while he was on vacation. Or possibly he's thinking of the police officers so overwhelmed with their task that they committed suicide? Undoubtedly he's set aside a heaping preciousness for all our young soldiers in Iraq. He looked into the camera and spoke to Americans as if we're all about to run out of the locker room with zip and vigor, tossing a spiral to victory. I'm suffering in his Texas Friday Night Lights pep rally. Suffocating in his ridiculous rhetoric. He is a counterfit. An actor of his own ideal. How stupid they must think we all are! As if his mere presence in some environmentally control area strikes us as an immense comfort and salvation. All I know is the tension is going to rise just like the water in the Big Easy and the pressure will become gradually intolerable in the weeks to come. When reality of the situation becomes less life threatening but more desperate I hope that our leaders can muster more than phony phrases and pats on the back. Rising gas prices, extended war predictions and thousands left homeless and jobless could be our swift kick off the totem.

I've once heard it said that the problem with the rich is they don't need anything. When they do come across something painful they have a hard time coming up with the right reaction because they've never experienced true displeasure. We need a leader who doesn't do drive-by assessments from his private jet, but get's down and dirty with those who have suffered too long. How can we show other countries democracy works when we can't even take care of our own? The rumblings in this great land of ours will get louder as the realization hits that the feed bags have been removed. Who needs to roll up our sleeves? Those of us who still knows what it means.

Womanly Issues

2005-08-31T18:18:00.000-07:00

Well, it's that time again. Time for the 'ol Sex and Puberty talk. Maybe I'll get it right this time. After all, it's my third attempt at success. It seems to me that I get progressively better with each offspring or maybe just more lackadaisical as they round the bend into womanhood.

I still remember the first time I tried to give the speech. It was nine years ago. My oldest walked into the kitchen where I was tackling some culinary form of dinner...Death by Casserole, or something just as threatening. Anyway, her legs were bowed and it looked like she'd ridden Old Nell from Fort Briggs.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked.

"You know..." she said, her head cocked, eyebrows raised slightly.

"No, I don't," I said.

"Come on, you knowwwww!"

I lifted my head from the boiling noodles and her eyes darted toward her lower extremities and then back to me in rapid succession. I suddenly understood, and I wasn't prepared. I immediately prayed to any menstrual God there was...God of Curse...God of Flow...God of Pads and Pons...I was desperate. But no wise words arrived. Instead, my daughter whispered in a voice even God would be hard-pressed to hear, "I think I put it in the wrong hole."

"What?" I said.

"You know...those things. I don't think I put it in the right place."

"A tampon?" I said.

"Mom, please! You don't have to say it!"

I took a deep breath. "Honey, listen, I doubt you put it somewhere it shouldn't go. I mean, it's hard to..."

"Just tell me...which hole does it go in?"

For whatever reason my thoughts went to that old joke about the bowling ball. The minute my lips curled, she started to walk out of the room like one of the Cartrights.

"Wait! Wait!" I said. "Oh God, this is it, isn't it? The day you want me to explain things? Damn, I thought I had more time. And now I'm supposed to be clinical and useful. I'll probably be responsible for the way you embrace womanhood and your body and all that stuff that launches you into success without therapy. It's a lot of pressure....Just give me a minute...I mean, I'm not exactly prepared. I'm cooking dinner...and, I've had a couple glasses of wine...and now you come in here asking about holes. I'm sorry...I'm a little off my game plan."

"Mom...I just asked you a question. WHERE DOES IT GO?"

"Okay...okay...I can do this. A tampon...well, it's fairly rudimentary. It goes in front...no, actually behind ...that flipper thing."

"Flipper thing?" she said, "What is that? Jesus mom, is that the best you can do?"

"Yeah, actually it is. Tonight...after a long day of work and slepping you kids to hell and back... Yep, that's it...that's my bloody best. I'm sorry, I didn't mean bloody."

And then the second one splashed into that womanly wake. Like her sibling, she cornered me in the kitchen and the conversation started out much the same way until I stopped her in mid-sentence and told her to ask her older sister.

Now those two are off to college and I'm all alone with "the baby." The other night she walked into the kitchen...always the scene of the crime. She held a tampon up to the light like a mouse caught in a trap. "Yo Mo, where do you put these bad boys?" This coming from a kid who has watched every lick and tuck on MTV.

I'll give you the good news first...I've forgotten the bowling ball joke. I was even fairly factual to boot! But this new batch of kids are much more in touch and open with their bodies. One day I walked into the bathroom and she had adhesived a Kotex to the wall like a piece of art. I looked at it for a long time...finally I said, "What is this doing here?"

"I'm preparing," she said.

"Preparing? People prepare for a hurricane, a tsunami, or an earthquake...but you can't strap a Kotex to the wall."

I remember when I was growing up. No one said anything. I guess we were just supposed to instinctively know what was going on like birds flying south in the winter. One day I overheard some girls on the playground. When I walked up, they became silent.

"What were you talking about?" I asked.

"Womanly things," one sneered. Then they turned their backs and giggled.

"I know all about that," I said. They abruptly did an about-face.

"Have you started bleeding?" one of them asked.

"Bleeding? What kind of bleeding?" I asked.

"Ah geez, you know...DOWN THERE." another said.

When I got home from school I asked my neighbor Mani. She was two years older.

I said, "Mani, how does that blood get out of you anyways?"

And Mani said that it just sort of gushed out of a hole.

"A hole?" I said.

"Jesus Christ," Mani screamed, "Don't you know anything?"

I began having dreams, frightening dreams that made me wake in a cold sweat. I saw myself sitting in my classroom when suddenly a gigantic tidal wave of blood explodes from this blow hole down there, knocking over desks and children, carrying them out the door and into the hallway. There were kids trying to keep their heads afloat, desperately grabbing for lockers and mounted fire extinguishers for support. Miss Delbert, the school nurse lunges toward me through the rapids of blood with a huge pad and a belt lifted over her head. The vital fluids of life erupting from me like red hot lava, oozing with such force that it was all I could do to hold onto my desk and watch my best friend Margie Kinkerbush swept away.

Okay, so the Kotex art is gone...and I've finished my speech for the last time. I can't really say it went any better than the first, but at least I'm off the hook.

Traveling in the Yellow Submarine...

2005-08-30T10:31:00.000-07:00

I've heard the analogy -- looking for the meaning of life is like peeling back layers of an onion. Each twist of the skin unraveling more thoughts, experiences, emotions, fears, loves and goals. How unless we are on the quest to uncover our purpose, when we look inward we see ourselves as a whole. A body and mind moving forward doing daily tasks...being inherently human to judge the world as we see fit. That becomes our reality of the world and our place in it. And, if we use our ego in alliance, we may choose to test our reality theories in weaker moments by way of judgment, gossip and criticism...based on 'our wholeness' in our full regalia onion suit. But if you once decide to proceed forward and venture down into the deep damp unknown of the onion fold you'll encounter many layers underneath. Barriers...all the "push" buttons of your life. Everyone has a shitload.

When I venture, I find I uncover all my demons. Fears locked tight in many stash points, long tucked in petrified pus pockets of past hurt...but also joys and talents that I never knew I had. In the past, if the pain surfaced too quickly like deep sea bends, I'd scramble back topside and vow never to try that again. But that was years ago when I didn't understand the joys of exploration.

For some I think the hard lesson is that you may decide to venture down a layer or two and encounter the fear, only to find another on its coattail. I understand those who choose to stay on the bridge. The underworld of exploration seems so corroded and complicated...Sad and lonely at times. It may seem as if the layers are endless and there is no resolve...the process slow-moving...or completely void of answers. Pain is the path and who the hell needs to go there, right? Like an endless barrage of muddy water to wade through before you find some framework of 'Ah-Ha!'...or don't. No wonder folks avoid the process. It's not a joy a moment but it does give you an insight into yourself. That is the journey...the yellow submarine ride to the center of the onion. I believe the passage is called Sunyata in Sanskrit. As we breakdown each barrier and face the lesson, the knowledge becomes cumulative. I know it's crazy, but I can't stop the search-and-rescue. I'm hell-bent on discovery...even if at the end of the path I find not one answer. Maybe it would be easier if I could go back to the person I was in my 20's --rarely questioning anything...instant pleasure was my mantra...my thoughts as deep as a Bounty towel. I spent days worrying about a certain guy...or if I'd be asked to a dance, to go skiing, to marry...all fast-forward projections...never in the moment. Living in a constant state of "me-dom. Okay, so recapping this hurling derbish of shallowness, I guess I'm damn glad those days are behind me.

The world reflects where we are right now. All I see is a desperate need to help in whatever small way we can. But maybe even more importantly is a mind-set to uplift for the cumulative good of all. I'm coming to a place of belief that tells me that we are all together on this journey. War has been done and I think we've damn near perfected how to kill each other. Something new has to take place. Enlightened leaders with greater vision need to step forward. But that comes from minds filled with compassion who believe no one is worth sacrificing for the good of the wealthy...No matter what creature --human, animal, plant or thing. And only that will awaken through a greater sense of wisdom and insight about the way we need to repair the earth. Men who think compassion instead of compensation.

Alright already...that's probably enough out of me. I guess I'll go read the tabloids. I hear Jen has a new crush and Britney made someone cry.

Hypocrisy

2005-08-29T10:43:00.000-07:00

I woke up last night around 2:30 in the morning. Couldn't get back to sleep for the life of me. Neurotic to a fault, I started making lists for my upcoming move. Not just..."stop by the post office and pick up some change of address forms and check the water meter," but emotional stuff like "find a good home for my cat." I flipped the next page of the tablet around 3:15 and then my mind wondered to a new place. I found myself thinking about hypocrisy. I know this may be rough to work with on Monday morning but it suddenly struck me. Here are the questions I asked myself in the dark last night...

In the eyes of the church, why is it okay to have a vasectomy but not okay to take the pill? Aren't they both pre-emptive strikes?

And "If thou shall not kill"...then why are there certain circumstances that we can? Why are humans in wartime a fair target? And if it's because they are enemies...I might be able to come up with a list of people on our own war-free zone that I feel have done me wrong or have done others wrong. Of course I wouldn't shoot them, but someone who has held a gun, pointed it and killed during war I would think would find the process disturbingly easier to re-enter that sector of their brain and pull the trigger again. And I guess the weird thing is I understand it. How can you shut that valve on and off. You either are able to kill or not...or you pain yourself forever with the knowledge.

Instead of thrashing about all night I got up and read Albert Camus, "The Fall." He wrote, "There are always reasons for murdering a man. On the contrary, it is impossible to justify his living. That's why crime always finds lawyers, and innocence only rarely. But, beside the reasons that have been very well explained to us for the past two thousand year, there was a major one for that terrible agony, and I don't know why it has been so carefully hidden. The real reason is that he (Jesus) knew he was not altogether innocent. If he did not bear the weight of the crime he was accused of, he had committed others --even though he didn't know which ones. Did he really not know them? He was at the source, after all; he must have heard of a certain Slaughter of the Innocents. The children of Judea massacred while his parents were taking him to a safe place---why did they die if not because of him? Those blood-spattered soldiers, those infants cut in two filled him with horror. But given the man he was, I am sure he could not forget them. And as for that sadness that can be felt in his every act, wasn't it the incurable melancholy of a man who heard night after night that voice of Rachel weeping for her children and refusing all comfort? The lamentation would rend the night, Rachel would call her children who had been killed for him, and he was still alive!"

Well, this didn't exactly make me fall back into a deep sleep. Instead I thought of what it must have felt like to carry that burden. The sadness that the church still holds for me. The weight of those solemn vows, the stiff pews...those sacred sad hymns...I find the place deadening. I know it's suppose to be God's house...a place to worship Him and feel His presence, but we all walk with burden. I'm not sure there are any answers. I feel His presence in the beauty on earth...in good deeds...in love. This could be our only ride at the theme park or we may reincarnate for more. No one knows. The only thing I know is that my goal is to love as deep as I can...to try not to judge others...be kind and respectful to all I meet and hope in the process maybe I'll find that the outcome doesn't matter because I will receive all I need through the process. I'm sure then I'll feel rich among corpses.

Cannibalism and Irezumi...

2005-08-28T09:09:00.000-07:00

I started reading this book on cannibalism today. Don't ask me why...I guess it's so taboo that it intrigues me. Strange how the human body is one of the richest sources of protein but no-can-do. The idea of consuming a big slab of human flesh is enough to make me toss my Wheaties. But the book details lots of folks who are singing its praises. For instance, in Britain's Iron Age, the Celts chowed down on anyone who showed signs of keeling over, and during one particular four day binge in 1487 the Aztec Indians supposedly sacrificed about eighty thousand prisoners and then roasted them to a golden brown and served 'em hot.

The late Joseph Campbell (I believe he escaped a fork)...in his book The Power of Myth tells of a New Guinea cannibalistic ritual that is suppose to enact all sides of life and death.

First the tribe enters a sacred field where they chant and beat on drums for five days and then they break into a full-fledged orgy. In this rite of passage, young boys are introduced to sex for the first time.

Campbell writes, "There is a great shed of enormous logs supported by two uprights. A young woman comes in ornamented as a deity, and she is brought to lie down in this place beneath the great roof. The boys, six or so, with the drums going and chanting going, one after another, have their first experience of intercourse with the girl. And when the last boy is with her in full embrace, the supports are withdrawn, the logs drop, and the couple is killed. There is the union of male and female...as they were in the beginning...There is the union of begetting and death. They are both the same thing. Then the couple is pulled out and roasted and eaten that very evening. The ritual is the repetition of the original act of the killing of a god followed by the coming of food from the dead savior."

Okay, I have to ask...what crack came up with that idea? Can you imagine the first time someone brought that up. "Hey guys, stop the chanting and drums for a second...how about we build a little lean-to and grab a couple virgins..." And how do you decide whose the last poor stiff? I mean, the girl is screwed any way you look at it but do the guys draw straws or play musical chairs ...like when the drum stops is that the signal to get off the girl fast because the shit is going down? The way I see it the last guy is totally fucked too. He has to watch a pile of his friends get on the deity date...and then he makes one feeble stab at an orgasm and that's when the pick-up-sticks are pulled. Somethings wrong here....

Yes Sirreee Bob, I'm going to make a big segue here and talk about another oddity. I read that in Japan there is a something called Irezumi, which is a full body tattoo. Head-to-toe their skin becomes a form of landscape or story-telling canvas. With ink covering 90% of their body the flesh is unable to breathe properly and shuts down. Just as our driver's license denotes us as willing and suddenly able organ donors, a Japanese wearing the work of a tattoo master donates his skin to a museum or university. Tokyo University has over three hundred such "masterpieces" framed. So many lives in full stretch must be a trip! I guess roasting those guys is out of the question.

Granny Vi

2005-08-24T20:15:00.000-07:00

My brother came over last night. Somehow we got on the subject of Grandma Vi. I thought my opinion was harsh, but he matched mine and raised the bar. Funny how growing up we're told that family deserves a certain level of respect. Blood and all. But both my brother and I find Granny Vi to be an exception to the rule. I swear her venom is still burning holes through the red velvet lining of her casket.

I could bore you with a lot of details but I think a few examples will suffice.

Grandma Vi thought she was sexy. As she aged she became more and more convinced. For those who have never experienced this phenomenon...horny old pud is SCARY. Her favorite song was Willie Nelson's "All of Me." I can't hear that tune without thinking of her rubbing against something. And when my grandfather died, granny didn't stay for the dirt toss. It was raining that day and she thought her hair would frizz. Then there's Easter. As predictable as chocolate bunnies, she would hide an egg in her cleavage. We all knew it was lodged between "the perfect ones" because she would shake her mounds in our face and point. And I can't forget one Thanksgiving when my mom became hysterical at the table. "Mother," she sobbed, "What would it take for you to love me?" And Grandma Vi responded, "Five thousand dollars."

I know my mom took a lot of abuse growing up but when she ceased to take it anymore, my grandmother transferred it to me. One evening she skipped the verbal attack and moved right to the physical. She beat the crap out of me. I know what you must be thinking...Come on, some old granny beat you up? And you'd be right to think it because she was a small woman...about 5 foot three...but she packed a mean punch. In hindsight, I probably could have taken her out but I kept my hands at my side while she wailed on me. The next day, she'd forgotten everything. That's the beauty of a lot of cocktails.

Shortly after the attack she became sick. Cancer had spread from her Easter basket double D's to the bones in her lower back. A medical team offered her six months to live. We moved her into a hospice. Toward the end she lay in bed barely able to drink a can of Ensure...down to 70 pounds but she still was able to unleash her lethal tongue. She accused the hospice help of stealing. The staff threatened to evict her. We begged them to reconsider.

The last time I saw my grandmother alive she had tubes running everywhere. Too weak to move, but still begging for someone to light a cig. Like a directional sign, a thin trail of blood ran from her encrusted lips where she wanted us to place the nicotine. Her hair, no longer coiffed but matted to her scalp in dredlocked thin white strands. When I lifted her head to drink from the straw, I noticed the pillow had a long standing indent from neglect.

It was a beautiful Fall day. The sky was alive with colored leaves dancing across the parking lot. I wanted to get the hell out of there. The room smelled of age and medicine, PineSol and rotting flesh. Her eyes, dull and lifeless as a porcelain doll, came to rest on me. She lifted one finger for a brief moment and motioned me to move closer. I took a few steps.

"Where the hell have you been? Hasn't anyone told you I'm dying?"

Then the pain overtook her and she began thrashing back and forth. I rang the emergency buzzer above her bed. A nurse entered. She moved through the room with professional distance.

"Is there anything she can take? She seems to be in a lot of pain," I said.

She flipped open a chart. "Her next dose is in two hours."

"Yeah, but look at her. Maybe you could crank it up a notch," I said.

"I'm not authorized without a doctor's permission."

Granny Vi began to moan. Her eyes rolled back in her head. The nurse spoke to me as if my grandmother had already passed to the other side and she was recapping. "She had a dreadful night. Rang that bell continuously. When we'd arrive, she'd holler at us. Called us butt-swishers and round-heelers...and God knows what else. She refuses to learn our names. She calls Betty, "the squaw." I'm sorry ma'am, but we don't get paid enough to take abuse. Pardon me saying so, but she's a bitch. Oh, and for whatever it's worth, we didn't steal anything from her. She gave one of the day nurses a music box...the Eiffel Tower, I think. Maggie didn't even want it but Vi insisted. I'm sure she'd gladly give it back to you."

I told her it was a difficult time for all of us. That Maggie could have the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, or anything else my grandmother dolled out.

Grandma Vi died the next day. My mother stayed until 4AM but true to her rebellious self, Granny shutdown at 4:55. All of her things were immediately packed up and waiting for us at the nurses station at 9 that morning.

A week later we scheduled her memorial. None of us knew how many would attend. My grandmother talked of friends, but we had never met them. I know that sounds strange, but that's just the way it was. The day of the memorial we arrived at the chapel an hour early with two hundred announcements. We stood at the door waiting for the crowd. No one showed. Just five family members.

A huge woman sat down at the organ and arranged her sheet music. Her long flowing dress circled her like the Great Lakes. She played a light and lively version of "Carry Me Home" and then Pastor Nordsletten appeared from behind a side door. "Should we wait a little longer?" he asked the five of us. "I think this is it," my mother said. "Well, I'll be damned," he said.

Just as we began to bow our head in prayer a little old man wearing a brown suit shuffled into the chapel and sat in the back pew. I tried to be discreet...keeping my head down as I turned to stare. He had short gray hair and pale blue eyes. His back and shoulders were hunched as if he'd spent the good part of his life in physical labor. What I remember most was his face. The lines were deep as pot holes...his eyes red and swollen. He looked like the type of man who would tell you important things to pass on to another set of ears. A man who had actually lived, not just skirted around, but felt the weight of life.

"For those who wish to continue to celebrate Vi's life there will be a special gathering at her daughter's home." Pastor Nordsletten smiled at us. Even a minister can do stand-up.

The little man in the brown suit slid out of the pew. He wandered out into the foyer, looking a little disoriented, until he pushed his way out through the large wooden doors and into the parking lot. The rest of us collected the flowers and stack of announcements. We piled into the old family station wagon and headed back to our house. Upon our arrival my dad immediately started pouring stiff drinks while my mom pulled trays from the fridge. "What are we going to do with all this food?" she said.

Then the front door opened. The man in the brown suit climbed the stairs and met us in the living room. His eyes moved from one to another and his humble smile grew. Time stopped. I think it was my mom who broke the silence. She introduced herself, extending her hand to the stranger. He said, "B. I know who you are." He held both her hands in his.

"Excuse me, but how did you know Vi?" my mom asked.

He took a deep breath. When he began to speak a chill fell over the room. "I've loved your mother for as long as I can remember. Since the time we were little kids, I suppose. You see, we were neighbors. I used to carry her books to school. That was in Kansas. I know this probably sounds old fashion to you folks, but it's what we did back then when you were smitten. And I certainly was taken with Vi. Then her mom died in childbirth and her father married someone else. They were going to move to Sacramento. That's when I asked Vi to marry me. She was only fifteen at the time. I remember how she laughed...telling me that she couldn't possibly marry a farmer. She wanted a man of means."

He cleared his throat. "Could you spare some water?" he asked. My dad quickly passed him a glass and the old man took a long sip and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Vi ended up marrying John shortly after they arrived in California. I never met the man. I couldn't bring myself to do it, but the last letter I got from her said she thought he could give her what she wanted. Believe me, that hurt. I nearly lost my mind. I found out they moved to Seattle so I packed my bags and left the farm. I'd sacrificed enough for that place anyway. I got to the Northwest and bought myself a home and a few acres. I figured even though she wouldn't be my wife I was going to be near enough if she needed something. I probably sound like a silly old man, but damn it, I know what I like. A few years later I met Mary Beth at a church gathering. I told her I have a big heart but a piece of it would always belong to Vi. She said she'd take what was left. Mary Beth was a good wife. We raised three sons and were married 42 years. When she died, I knew I had to take a little time. It would seem disrespectful if I looked up Vi so soon, right?" He took out his hankerchief and wiped his eyes. His voice began to shake.

"This morning I woke pretty early. I got the phone book and circled her number. I was like a schoolboy with his first crush. I barely ate any breakfast. But sixty five years is a long time to wait for a dream." Then the tears dropped...one after the other onto the carpet.

"It was too early to call so I grabbed the newspaper on the porch and sat down to read. I always look at the weather first. That's the farmer in me. Then I look at the obituaries. A bad habit I guess, but when you get to be my age there's a good chance you'll know someone. This morning my eyes weren't focusing, but then I saw it. Vi's name nearly jumped out at me. I must look pretty awful. Can't seem to stop crying. It took all my energy to put on this damn suit. I thought I was saving it for our date."

No one spoke a word. He was honoring a woman that none of us knew. The grandmother that needed guarantees. The man that stood before us was the lover who had been waiting, always present...in case she wanted to experience unconditional love. But the possibilities and intensity of his heart would stay forever unknown. Growing up, I was given the love advice, "A rich man takes up just as much room in bed as a poor man." All I saw was compromises for cash. Women who settled for the abstract of security. A grandmother racked in resentment and regret, continually watching my Grandpa John go bankrupt at every turn. Her worst fears brought to light. The lessons suddenly illuminated in our living room. A pattern to be broken.

As if he couldn't stand the pain a minute longer, the old man lowered his head and pointed to his heart. He put his empty glass down and walked toward the stairs. Then he stopped. "I need to ask you one more thing. When we were young we talked about traveling the world. I told Vi that if I had a good year I'd take her to Paris. I even gave her a music box of the Eiffel Tower. Did she ever get to Paris?"

"No," my mother whispered.

He nodded. With one final look in our direction, he descended the stairs.

celebrating is so underdone...

2005-08-20T18:53:00.000-07:00

Maybe I'm milking it but it's my birthday this week (month?) and I've been celebrating. Going up to the island to squeeze out the last of the summer. Back on Tuesday and hopefully will get to writing a little and of course, reading my favorite blogs.

Statistics...

2005-08-16T09:53:00.000-07:00

Well, the latest stats are out and it doesn't look particularly promising. According to a recent poll women over forty have as much chance of getting married as being struck by lightening. Four times as much chance of finding Mr. Right as hit by a train and a thousand times less likely to tie the knot as survive a shark attack off the coast of Honduras. Today, I'm considering my options.

The man who felt the urgency to supply the forty-three million middle-aged women with these long-shot calculations appears to have made a sound occupational choice in studying relationships. Perched on a Ponderosa size farm way the hell up the train tracks of New Hampshire he tallies my meager marital status on legal pads, probably gloating next to his equestrian wife of twenty years and their three "Here Come the Brides" daughters. Occasionally he will fly off to do a guest appearance with Leno or Oprah, but most of the time he says he's quite content in his home office overlooking tranquil pastures of thoroughbreds and random livestock while expounding upon my spinsters chances of copulating and coupling during the "slip-sliding-away" years. (How's that for a run-on sentence?)

I know it may sound a little harsh but I'd lay odds that this calculating, No. 2 pencil-pushing, bald guy is dry as a menopausal woman. I've got a little advice for him in his twilight years. Lighten up and get a hair piece. Set that rider mower on full throttle and let the wind blow through your synthetic locks.

Besides, I don't know if marriage has ever been a goal of mine, but I do know living with someone is. I would like to share the experience of day to day life. Wake up with the pillow beside me occupied with someone I love and launch into a new day laughing about a dream over a cup of coffee. Maybe during the afternoon receiving a phone call to check in...making plans for dinner...exchanging intimate innuendos. It's a good thing though I could be just plain naive. Maybe the honeymoon would be over after we did commit to the move-in thing. He would take up half the closet, the bed, garage, and probably all of the remote. And I would become an advocate for lowered toilet seats but lifting wet towels off the bathroom floor...a promoter of toothpaste squeezed from the bottom and drinking orange juice and milk from a glass instead of the container. I can see it now...we start out like lovesick teenagers until he switches off NPR for the sports channel and watches hour upon hour of little golf balls suspended in the air and eventually dropping into a hole. I might ask him to help me with something and he'd respond, "In a minute, honey. This is the best part." And then as if he knows I'm questioning what could be the best part of television golf, he'd counter with,"You know last night you REALLY were snoring. I had to roll you on your side and cover your head with a pillow." But if that comment didn't silence me like Jimmy Hoffa, he might throw in for good measure... "Jack's wife came into work today with this great dress on...how come I've never seen you in a dress?"

And that would be fair criticism...maybe not the snoring part, but I'd admit to slackage in the clothing department. I guess I've just been living out the frontier days with the rest of the folks in Seattle. I can't tell you the last time I saw a man in a suit. The dress code seems to hold an uncanny resemblance to the renown designer known as Daniel Boone...one pair of Eddie Bauer shorts with multiple pockets for Swiss Army knives, compasses and camping crap, a pair of Levis, a buckskin leather bomber, a random assortment of flannel ranging from shirts to boxers...and mandatory to this whole year round lumberjack collection is the baseball cap. I must confess, it always excites me when I see someone step out of the norm...like accessorize with belt attachments. A hammer, a flask of Kentucky Bourbon, a couple bullets, clamp-ons, a hiking and fishing permit. Men here are like housing projects. They look so much alike that if you drink a fair amount you could wind up going home to any one of them and not finding your way back for months. Their personal billboard mantra --"If you slept with me you'd be home now."

Okay, maybe an occupied pillow is over-rated but I'm still holding out no matter how much Hoss Cartwright in New Hampshire wants to calculate my odds.

Yard Sale

2005-08-12T06:45:00.000-07:00

Today we had a yard sale. I put directional signs out around 4am and stuck little adhesive price tags on everything that wasn't bolted down. Oh sure, it's probably premature since I'm temporarily without a place...but save all that, if I sell this stuff it will be less carting and packing later on.

One revelation came as I was setting out kitchen utensils on a card table. My daughter looked at me and said, "Mom, you've got to hold back a little." I told her, "There is always someone searching for cutlery." "But plastic forks and knives?" I told her straight out..."You've got to get with the program. What we are doing today is vomiting our entire existence onto this little patch of burnt grass. No ego allowed." The rest of the day we watched people pick at our belongings like they were rummaging through Salvation Army bins searching for Halloween costumes.

One woman who is known in the neighborhood as the Dog Whisperer stared at a rack of my old expensive clothes and shook her head. "I look at all of these elegant things and think, Who is this woman? And then I look at you and I can't even imagine the transformation that had to take place." Alright, could be a slam, but I chose to take it as a compliment. I focused on the message. Back when I wore all those expensive things it was all about the image. I remember reading somewhere that 90% of the people in this country base all of their decisions on how it will appear to others. Isn't that a sad state of affairs? What was my focus and lifestyle when I bought those designer things? Because if I was truly honest, I waded deep into that 90%...put my face in it and smelled the fumes like women in a bath tub of rose pedals. And then something happened and I began to unload the things that held me hostage.

I relish today because the people who came by to barter and pick through the bins made out like bandits. I was in the mood to unload. An underwater camera, flippers, snorkel and a mask for a buck, an antique table for $5. I made a silent prayer that all of it was blowing out of here because the way I see it...if I'm not enjoying the stuff and it sits in the garage, pass it on. And then my mind wondered back some 25 years to a different yard sale...a time when I was young and married (in an even bigger brain sieve)...when I lived in Manhattan.

I was twenty-four. I'd taken a job in a clothing store on the Upper Eastside. Back then, my resume was challenged. Hard to elaborate on experience when I'd only babysat a few summers and ventured into the real W2 work force once for a limited gig at the Seattle Space Needle. I ran the elevator...but on the seventh day, I rested. I was fired. It wasn't entirely my fault because truth be told, if they'd been testing back then for all those popular three letter defects that supposedly plague kids nowadays I'm sure they would have uncovered something. I had a real hard time focusing and memorizing stuff. So, riding up and down to the revolving restaurant for that one pinnacle week of my newfound career, I was given a small pulpit to expound upon many fictitious geographical points of interest and "roughly" calculated travel velocity. My last day I was on a roll. Really cracking myself up actually...until one of the owners took a ride to the top and heard my dribble about a mountain range to the South known as Perky Peaks after a Dutch explorer's wife. I was relieved of my duty as we unloaded onto the observation deck. Okay, so I regress. I told you I had trouble focusing. I started this blog discussing yard sales and Manhattan and that's where I'll return damnit!

Like I mentioned, I got a job in a clothing store in the city. The first day I silently followed the owner around his corny boutique while he filled my head with inventory and how to make customers buy knock-off goods at designer prices. Ron, the other salesman leaned against a rack of half-priced shirts and smiled. Not exactly a "welcome onboard" sort of smile, but more of a "Oh God, look who I have to potty train" smirk. My head was reeling when the owner finished his morning training session. "Wow, there's a lot to learn!" I whispered to Ron. He studied me for a moment and said, "There's only one thing you need to remember...when a good looking man walks in, he's mine." That moment I knew I was going to get an education far greater than how to operate a register. I learned quick that when Ron hurried to the door to meet a customer, BACK OFF. Or if he poked his head behind the dressing room curtain and asked how those pants were fitting, turn around and start folding shirts. In the year that I worked there, I don't think he knew my name. I was called little douche bag...but in an affectionate way. Not malicious, just irreverent and I grew to love it...and him.

The year was 1981 and AIDS had just gained front page publicity. Ron's partner had been diagnosed and had left for San Francisco for treatment. I remember one day Ron came to work stinking drunk. Completely plastered. That was the day he found out Bill, the only man he had ever loved had died. Bill had no one at his bedside, spending his last hours alone, shitting himself and coughing up blood in a quarantine ward. His parents lived in Texas and swore they had no idea their son was gay until the hospital called. On the morning of his death, there were two contacts...his next of kin and Ron. The only difference in the message being that the hospital advised Ron to get tested. He was sad and scared, and immediately began to drink in the hours before dawn. By the time he zigzagged his way into the store, he was an hour late and three sheets to the wind.

"What a goddamn fall," he said. "I've now lost everyone...except you, Douche. Say, did I ever tell you I used to sing opera? For ten years I had the lead in all the great operas throughout Europe. In my day I received a standing ovation in twelve countries in twenty-two days...shook hands with Kings and Queens and was invited everywhere. But then my voice withered like the devil in holy water." "Drink," he stuttered as he plopped himself down on the floor and customers side-stepped around him. "Along with my voice went the men in my life. They scattered like rats in the night. Only one remained and that was Bill. He saved me actually. Still treated me like a diva although he was incapable of love. Now he's gone and I'm through with men. The whole race of mankind...earnestly shallow. Fucking void of real affection. You know something DB, if I happen to show someone my scrapbooks of my early opera years, they stare at the photos like they think someone doctored them. I see their horror. The realization that never again will anyone jump to their feet and applaud such a man. And as they turn the pages, all I see is their own self betrayal for spending a night with a defeated man. Men are fickle. A pretty body and a handsome face is the only thing they want. No one wants an aging gay man."

For some reason I'm unclear as to why he changed gears but that is what happens to people when they're drunk. They don't need a segue...just the appearance of a thought. Like a soap bubble before it pops, life feels expansive for that brief breath of time. Conversations become uncensored... with relatively little screening of words for appropriateness and content...and that 90% reason that most people make decisions based on others perceptions? Kick it to the curb because all inhibition has migrated south to the toilet bowl. But, in one of Ron's lucid moments he asks me to help sell his lover's things on the street.

On Saturday, we put a few items out in front of their apartment. The first thing to sell was Bill's bedside table. There were a few water marks on the wood but other than that, his side was in good shape. A single woman bought it. I watched her carry it down the street and eventually round a corner out of sight. People stopped by, picking up a brush, a book, a throw rug, a tattered pillow, or quickly ran a finger over his writing desk before moving on. It seemed Bill's life filled very few voids. Then an old woman came by, stared at his accumulated possessions perched on an old tablecloth on 85th Street and said, "What crap!" And Ron began to cry.

Strange after 25 years this memory comes back to me. Ron is dead. He died of AIDS in 1992. My yard sale went smoothly. I thought of Ron many times as people loaded my crap into Dodge Caravans and Subaru wagons. I think he would have been proud of his little douche bag who is lightening her load. (Picture to follow if I ever figure out how)

The Fountain of Youth and Asia

2005-08-09T06:59:00.000-07:00

I was talking to a friend of mine who works at a spa. She had just returned from an all day seminar with some ageless Asians. My God, I'm so out of touch. The whole fixation with preventative aging seems weird to me. Why are we trying to look like a twelve year old gymnast? I learned that besides Botox and boob jobs, there is cellulite removal, pub fluff and feathering, twat tightening, and my personal mouth-dropping favorite...anus bleaching. Okay, I suspect I know why, but how do you do it? Do you bend someone over and pour bleach? Is it called Chor-ass...for that stubborn rectal grim? And why do women think men want a Mexican hairless? Jesus, the world is one sicko psycho mess when we have to pull, tuck and shave to feel good about ourselves. I mean, we talk about the cost of war. To get rid of the ripple effect of cellulite it takes at least ten treatments at $875 and there is a HUGE waiting list. And anal bleaching...well, God only knows what that runs a crack.

It seems to me there are beauty products lined up from the moment we're born. "Don't be caught with those embarrassing forcept marks. Try Womb Away." Or when you die and they're keeping you preserved in cold storage. "Want an open casket but afraid those embarrassing age spots will take away from your final curtain call? Try Last Hurrah."

Aging is such a delicate process. First it's the pencil-thin lines under the eyes, followed by crows feet. Incredibly easy to spot in those close-up wedding shots. Then surface lines appear around the mouth, almost simultaneously after two pink lines wet themselves across a pregnancy test and the signing of a 30 year mortgage on a house you can't afford. A few years pass and things stabilize...you catch your stride and look relatively warmed through and happy. A kid or two later...as if without adequate notice...your husband opts to quit corporate America and become an actor in a neighborhood theater group or the lead singer in a garage band. He names the flab four -- Big Prick Nick and the Slap Happy Ball Sacks. You tell him to stop being corny but he finds himself terribly funny...as do the eighteen year old backup singers who are touting hogans large enough to keep twenty overweight seamen afloat. At this point, kids are out of diapers and running amok in a montessori somewhere and you've exchanged your dreams for a new upright vacuum and a bunk bed with 101 Dalmation sheets. Worry lines set in, embarking into fresh territory with intricate hieroglyphic patterns and your neck which has always seemed a function of little design other than to hold your head upright looks like a four year old has been let loose with an Etch-a-sketch. You tell your boss you need a raise and he tells you there are a large aggressive army of college graduates who would love to take your place. Coming into those wonderful years of understanding your body, now you can actually feel the creases and puckers popping like veins. Bordering hysteria and bouts of uncontrollable laughter, you toss your topical cream to the wind because, well, after all, the wrinkles have cut through your face like a backhoe takes to acreage....like a dog with a damn chew toy. Advice? Cover yourself with a towel and about face it...NO, I mean, throw in the towel and embrace it.

It just doesn't seem fair. We shouldn't be so concerned with our appearance. My face wouldn't look bad if I'd crossed 48 states by covered wagon through dusty trails, forged rivers into Apache territory and climbed mountain peaks with my hoop skirt wrapped around my neck. Yes, if I were a pioneer woman lucky enough to reach the settlement before the first snow molded me into an ice sculpture, maybe my weathered face would draw cheers from the other settlers. I probably could have been a show stopper at Fort Laramie...but today, all I have to do is sleep in a little longer and muscle tone spreads over the sheets like KY jelly.

GE repair...

2005-08-05T15:24:00.000-07:00

My dryer went out. Actually, it didn't just go out but this is the day I decided to fix it. Okay, I know what you're thinking....Toot the horn! Stop the presses! And you're probably right. It's not exactly a human bomb headline or a new Bush appointee, but it's going to take up most of my damn morning. Here's how it plays out.

Shortly before nine the doorbell rang. A guy in a navy blue uniform stood on my porch. He's a mid-size man...eyes that narrow, small and dark. Handlebar mustache...petite torso, but a bit of a barrel gut going on. His hair is brown and short like burnt grass. The tag on his breast pocket says Ronald Metcalf, Appliance Engineer.

He follows me to the basement with a splintering of small talk..."Man, isn't it hot? Hard to sleep. 90 degrees again today?" We stand in front of my ancient GE appliance, each of us waiting for the other to speak.

"What's wrong with it?" He finally asks.

"It doesn't work," I tell him.

He punches the on/off button and nothing happens. I follow his gaze from electrical cord to outlet. He jiggles the line as if he's hitched up old Daisy to a wagon, then he pushes the cord deep, giving it to the wall socket. Once again, no response.

"It's not getting juice," he says, "the motor's shot."

"It's shot alright," I tell him.

"How longs it been out?" He asks.

"A few days," I say, but I'm not fooling him. There's a mound of clothes on the floor. The cat has made an indent in the dark pile.

He drops his cloth tool bag on the floor and pulls out an electric screwdriver. The front of the machine comes off and I peer at the belts and intricate workings much the same as I do under the hood of a car.

"Any strange sounds?" He asks.

I launch into an imitation of the machine's final stages of operation. The sound is remarkably similar to a prop plane. I make a mental note that if asked to impersonate Orville Wright's first flight, I'll be up for the job. Suddenly I feel witty.

"How about a smell? He asks.

"Just smoke," I tell him.

He wrinkles his forehead. "If there's smoke, you've got a problem."

"Don't I know it," I say, and walk upstairs.

This house has been sold. I've no real attachment to the place other than it keeps the rain off my head. There is a new owner and a contract I signed which I have to find. I can only imagine I'm to keep everything in running order until they take possession. I follow the rules of humanity. Treat everyone like you'd like to be treated yourself.

Ron, the Appliance Engineer, climbs the stairs. He spots me in the kitchen on my computer.

"It was lint," he scolds. "Blew the motor to kingdom come. You've got to clean the sweeper after every load."

"I clean it, but maybe not every time. That seems a little excessive...don't you think?"

His head shakes as he sets his tool bag on my counter and pulls from an outer pocket a silver clipboard. A pen he grabs from his shirt pocket and scribbles something on a form. He passes it to me and points at the place to sign. I wait while he fiddles with the click of the ballpoint and then hands me the pen.

"Buy new," he suggests. "It's basically cheaper than replacing the motor. Your washers gone too."

"Jesus, what next?" I say.

"They're old rigs. You got your moneys worth."

I didn't tell Ron that I sold my house. That money is tight...so tight it's coughing up blood clots. I knew that would create a whole new topic of conversation and any new direction might prolong his stay. I give him the clipboard and pen and step away from the counter and into the hallway. In my mind, it signals the use of the front door.

"And another thing," he says. "Most people don't know this, but we've got soft water. Where I grew up the water was so hard you could bite it. Good for the teeth though. Lots of nutrients."

I didn't speak. Water is not a subject I expound upon.

"People always want to blame static cling," he continues, "But detergents the culprit. The answer is use less."

I thank him. God knows why but I guess I'm always looking for answers and although not specifically about laundry, Ron's a knowledgeable enough guy and a good resource.

I instantly regret the decision. He looks around. His eyes settle on a picture of my kids. Three girls.

"Wow...they'll keep you busy," he says.

Ron has one daughter. His wife died (most likely of boredom) and now little Maggie does the laundry. Since cutting back on the soap, her acne has eased up and the best part of all, their clothes continue to smell summertime sweet. Ron tells me he skipped college. "What's the point? It would have been a waste of time and money. I'm a repair man. Never doubted it for a moment." He professes to his craft with almost biblical conviction, much the same as I would imagine Jesus to stand behind his carpentry.

Suddenly, as if he wishes to lighten all of our load, he raises his arms, flexes his muscles and jokes, "I'm here to rid the world of static!"

Cling. I guess we all suffer. Good news? I think we actually nailed it this time...got the right man for the job.

I sense he's getting comfortable. I know this about men. They tell you a little bit about themselves and that gives them the green light to ask all sorts of intimate details in return. He takes his time putting away his clipboard, making sure the bag is zipped and the pen is closed before he tucks it back into his breast pocket. While he fusses, he shares a repair motto and a simple whitening trick. I find my mind wondering to a long time ago. When women --real women --pre-GE women, would stand knee deep in river beds and pound the horse and buggy shit out of clothes with smooth stones. Clothes pummeled and left to dry in sand paper rock formations. Maybe technology tripped us up.

I'm envisioning myself in a river bed, wearing a wet skirt, the dampness inching up my mid-section...and then I hear Ron's voice.

"How would you like to proceed?" He is staring at me and somehow I sense he's repeating himself.

Proceed? Suddenly the word feels threatening. That if life had taught me the skills to proceed I wouldn't be discussing lint sweepers and front load washers. It's apparent that if I had boundaries in place, his service call wouldn't have gotten so friendly. But, that's the problem. At forty-eight, I'm still trying to please... still buying my children every pet they see...still horribly fearful of commitment, of making the wrong decision. How do I tell Ron that a washer dryer choice...stack or side-by-side, scares me. That I'm in no rush. I want to drink this appliance-free feeling slowly. That I pray my lack of commitment eventually disrobes me so that I will stop living like a frightened fish, skirting from view behind painted rocks and abandoned castles.

Eight years I lived in a neighborhood where the neighbors didn't speak. Well, that's not exactly true. If we were outdoors at the same time, watering or what-not, we could carry on quite a lengthy conversation about a near miss of a golf ball to the front window, or a possible placement of a speed bump. We conversed on day cares and lawn cares and no cares. Sometimes we caught each others eye as we pulled out of the garage, and then our hands would fly into the air in a salute, but that was the extent of our relationship.

I find most women really don't want to get close. They want someone to listen. If you happen to turn their admissions back on them with criticism, they'll cross you like a lion with fresh meat. The anger and resentment they've stored comes spilling out like afterbirth. And then around the age of forty, there becomes a quiet reserve in women. A collective punishment in which they form new bonds. If one is to look close, you see it. Women who have fooled themselves. Among their best friends they ask the same sad questions. "What is enough?" "Are we selfish to ask for more?" "My husband hasn't made love to me in eight years...is that normal?" "Should I be worried if he masturbates in bed with me when he thinks I'm asleep?" "Every time we make love he immediately gets up and takes a shower and washes his mouth out." I can't tell you how many women ask these questions and wonder if it's okay to voice them.

Okay, so Ron, my Appliance Engineer, just left. It's quiet...so quiet that I can almost hear the mesmorizing hum of the washer and dryer.

I'd Like To Solve The Puzzle Wink...

2005-08-04T20:09:00.000-07:00

We're experiencing some major global warming in Seattle. Bloody hot. There are only four seasons here --damp, cold, dark, and gray, so this fifth planetary shift into heat wave is making people mighty testy. Last night I went in search of fans...ventured into every Target, Home Depot and Rite-Aid within city limits, only to find the shelves empty. I was willing to drive --Oregon, California, Montana...East to Iowa. Hell, I was focused. Finally I found a couple high voltage jobs...thought about buying their entire stock and setting up a roadside stand but cooler heads prevail. Now we have fans that flip back and forth like wipers on speed. Makes my teeth chatter...but am I complaining? HELL NO...not one damn complaint will leave my blue lips.

I was thinking tonight how love removes the world for you. Any past pain becomes a grief ago. All those dreams full and round suddenly dangled within reach. Pillowed in promises that leave you giddy and dumb with longing. That sort of love suddenly washes you clean... covers you like cool prayers...offers happiness you can taste...pleasure you can unbutton...and the ancient dance that we've all come to perform begins its rhythm and ritual. Funny how all of our life is a struggle between freedom of the self and that wonderful sense of belonging.

I have heard countless times that one cannot love another without finding love in themselves. Then you can move closer to another, not out of need or with the wearying apparatus of projection but out of genuine intimacy and affinity. I also know that love is not containable. It leaves the body, spilling into the streets, out of our beds into our daily braveries, and the souls of all we meet, building a sacred path through eternity. I'm not exactly conventional in my religious belief, but I know that there is something greater than us. Something that we gently move toward in our short dash of life. I cannot tell you what that is with certainty. It is just a profound knowing which I enjoy exploring. A slow trek to rediscovery, through the detours of friendships, art, science, and love.

D.H. Lawrence once wrote, "A woman unsatisfied must have luxuries. But a woman in love would sleep on a board." Okay, maybe a sharp aphorism, but I still find it hard to believe that a man could lure any woman to a plank. I don't care if he has the sexual prowess of a male lion...I'm not sure it's possible to tempt another to reside on some two-by-four next to the on-ramp of I-5...or live in Compton with cockroaches gleefully flinging themselves about while bullets ricochet up through the floor boards. So, this is what bothers me. I have a problem with the material world. I can't seem to balance my thoughts about money but I know I hate the draw...the catch...the hook of it all. I still want to believe in the little flame that grows...that it doesn't matter what one does or has...that is not what you fall in love with. You fall in love with the essence...the kindness...the warmth...the beauty of a soul. The incredible sense of rest and release you find with them. And somehow you understand that your meeting was never random...that you recognize them from another time. There is that sense that the gap has never been broken. I want to believe that love is one of the great colors of life...not the only shade but certainly an abundance in the landscape. And that light...that radiant love light seems to be most important right now to ward off the darkness that has taken the earth hostage and left all of us holding tight to a ransom note.

"Most people would think of the material world as representing purely money and greed and take offense. But in my view, it means a physical world. It's the idea that if it is money and greed, then give the greedy world away in the material world." --George Harrison

This morning was rough...met the world without an airbag

2005-07-27T07:57:00.000-07:00

I've been gone for a couple days. Blowing it out some 70 miles north of Seattle. Doing all that island stuff we're famous for up here in the Northwest --fishing, clamming, smelt raking, walks on the beach, sunsets in front of a crackling fire...sky the color of a 50 year college reunion of blue-haired backcombed wonders ...and mountains...humble giants so white and wonderful, splayed against that rinse and set sky. And what occurred to me during that breathtaking range is how mountains are like great men of wisdom who when they see one another there is this resignation of respect that is also met with undeniable and unchallenged proportions of strength and gratitude. Each know...each taste the others struggle. And I found myself looking for those friends of mine who have built their lives on paths that most would avoid...acquaintances who've challenged the directional signs...and those thoughts brought me to people who've gone full-tilt in a wild-ass way and then at the last minute, pulled back...cranked it like a horse unable to jump a hurdle. The rules suddenly kicking in. Painful to watch. Even more painful to understand the medication that it takes to keep that wild stallion in the corral. Shit...why is it that all the great minds I know are medicated?

Today I feel like a buoy bouncing about at sea...a small anchor that once miraculously held an oceanliner of hope, but as the years and tie-ups become shorter so has my hold on that reality. Not a bad place...just a new understanding of the world. So I write to Father Blog. I add to the collection plate and confess. But what good is writing if you don't explore ideas? Taste taboos and speak a form of truth or live to regret it? Even if it starts by whispering secrets in the dark. Sometimes you have to dig the grave and let your eyes rest in the hole before you let go and just write what's on your mind. The ego has endless excuses why you shouldn't worry your little head about it.

I find a good many live life on the surface. Grounded in routine. Rarely challenging the mix. Daily decisions made from personal experience and once that conceived notion about the way things work is in place, the walls begin to close in. And life starts running like a well-tuned car. The theory pretty straight forward...if you oil and lube, wash and service, it should last 100,000+ miles and everyone will throw up their hands in glee and say, "Yes, you certainly got all you could out of that one." And like the car, when they bump up against a challenge, the pain is eased by whatever remedy makes life run.

Then there's another lot who ask for the lessons. Ask whatever higher being to give them a ride they'll never forget. A long tour of duty. Whatever issues will be brought to task...no longer swept under the oriental runners. Every baby step toward that means will bring those learnings to light. A lifetime of being continuously KO'ed until you face them head-on and eventually find some framework of peace.

Strange how life has become like a one-night stand. Flesh quickly admired, tasted in eagerness and then discarded with as much enthusiasm as sorted recyclables...with as much haste as a Noble Fir that has served its holiday purpose and then tossed curbside for pick-up. Or sometimes I find our existence like a God-made holding pen...a large ant farm. How we cohabitate, build, live, worship, love, and dream...all under world wraps of little colored warriors. And like ants,some will scratch their way up through the particles looking for openings and possible exits and others burrow below to a false sense of security and escape. We start out with black ants diligently building civilizations and then when the process becomes too predictable, we add the red ones and watch it topple. But sometimes I imagine the red and black armies joining forces...building intricate designs...pyramids and shit, or like Charlotte's Web, they weave words in the grains, "Peace," "Sand Sucks" or "Dump Bush."

I distract myself with such thoughts...yes, of couse, I need a job. Maybe a life too, but although necessary, a job is just another escape into distraction, unless you take the risk to do exactly what you want to do. And until you reach that place, the world gives you warning...subtle overtures which leave you wondering why things aren't quite right. Then something major hits. Another "gentle" reminder that you're about to hit the world again without an airbag. And then you realize that a double wide trailer doesn't mean half the problems...maybe just twice the trash. And this is where life truly begins. But, to explain this to folks who live day to day in such casual delight is not always easy. When I speak to friends who have been married for twenty years and derive pleasure from the constant effort to maintain their world just as they know it, they give me the lowered eyebrows look....followed by the "you've made poor choices" speech. A dialogue that makes my thoughts and actions resemble road kill, something to pick apart, run over countless times and eventually scrape free from the cement so no one has to look at it. My words whittled to such fine dust that nothing becomes of them. As if I'm a vein to poke and prod and fill vials of what lies underneath only to be carried off and tested for disease.

Who knows what's in store? I suppose it's the breakdown of the dream. The dismantling of every thought that has been programmed since birth into a virused database. God only knows...but I do know we're here to break through every one of our illusions about the meaning of happiness, safety, security, wholeness, and being loved. What's on the other side is the real stuff. What's on this side is sand. We've made a pact with God or whoever you make vows with, and there's no turning back. So, maybe what it all boils down to is every one of our hearts desires will be met, just not in the way we've planned.

Pancakes with Vertical Vern...

2005-07-25T13:57:00.000-07:00

I sold my house and am currently unemployed and looking for a rental. I can make this easy for anyone wondering...No Job + No Home = Bad Combo. And add kids and pets to the platter and you're pretty much looking at enough stress to make a dormant ulcer kick into high gear. It's shitty because I'm not finding anything and the days are tick-tick-ticking by. Everyone tells me it will work out but they are safely tucked away in their homes and have no immediate plans to box up their entire fucking existence ONE MORE TIME and hit the road. Oops...that just sort of slipped out.

Went to look at a rental today. A real dump. The owner advertised his place on Craigslist...made it sound like the fucking Taj Mahal in the ad, but when I got there it was trashed. I should have seen the scam coming...after all, I'm in real estate! He had this beast who he said was part shepherd, part Pitbull. The damn thing bounced. Didn't walk and wag, but bounced...and right into my crotch. I thought the guy would restrain Rin Tin Terror, but he just watched. "Damn," I said, "if this keeps up I may have to file a police report or get rid of my battery toy." No sense of humor...just showed me around his chewed Pimp My Crib dump and kept telling me about its perks. "Look, a laundry shoot...and a crawl space!" I'm sure it's a dream to someone, damn sure it's a palatial palace to a small cluster somewhere...under the right medication. Then he turned and looks into my eyes with an intensity that frightened me, "Do you garden? Cuz' the person I pick has got to love to garden." I lied. "Good," he said, "because the garden is real important to me." He takes me outside to what I'd envisioned as a mini mock-up of the best of B.C. Butchart, but all I witness is one lone struggling tree still standing in a trampled bed of tall grass and weeds. My breathing changes to something butterflyish but hardly free...I say, I might have to think about it...gardening is an art form...full of undue pressure...which I'm moving away from...hence, the rental,...besides, I still have a little time...no need to rush into these things...commitments scare me...believe me, I know it's going to go fast and I may live to regret it but hey, sometimes you have to let the good ones go so you can jump on the next one...blahblahblah.

I decided to take a break and have lunch with Vertical Vern, a glass blower. He's a completely wild, eclectic maniac, bordering old and incredibly horny. Of course I've never given him the slightest indication that I'm interested, but for some reason he likes to fill me in on his escapades. This afternoon was fairly tame, though I'll give you the conversation as I remember it because ol' Vertical should be documented. By the way, I asked if I could scribble about him and he said, "Until you use me up, baby." Bill Withers, he's not.

Vertical Vern orders pancakes...it's two in the afternoon and he orders a short stack with fresh berries. When they arrive, he drowns them in syrup and asks for sweetener for his coffee. The waitress pulls a packet deep from her apron pocket and he says, "Now that's what I call Sweet and Low." I roll my eyes at him, and then at her, but they both seem to find the line clever which disturbs me. He takes a couple bites of the drenched buttermilk and lights up at cigarette.

"I smoke two packs a day. Two damn packs. Have you checked the price of cigs? Fucking ridiculous. I'd sell my mom for a pack so they got me by the short hairs. Been smoking ever since I was this high. Tried the patch and gum. Shit, they don't work worth a damn. My lungs got holes the size of moon craters. What's the point of stopping now? I've known people who've quit cold-turkey...and what do you know? Dull as dirt. "Hi, I'm John. I'm healthy...eat raw fish, hit the gym, don't drink, smoke, or have sex." Christ, those people dry my nuts. And you know why? Because boom, that's the end of them. Not me, man. I'm going down with a Marlboro and an IV of scotch. Sixty-three years old and look at me...liver's pickled, lungs shot, but hey, I'm vertical. Has anyone ever told you you're the spitting image of Jackie O? You've got her lips and nose. Anyone tell you that? I mean it. I ain't shitting. I know what I'm talking about. You need canvas time. Stop looking at me like that. What can I say? I'm a guy. Hell, I got a daughter your age. Lives in Portland with her baby. She don't want much to do with me...a dad who blows glass. You'd think it was a crime. I used to paint. I almost captured a Cuban in oil. Made love to her instead. Her mouth was motoring the whole time I banged her...laid there like a mattress with a hole in it and told me about her family. Afterward, I painted her in the bed. That's the last time I oiled. But you know something...she got under my skin...she really did. We all got faults, but let me tell you something...do you think old Vern painted her with small tits? Hell no. She has a goddamn goddess rack on canvas. Now I teach her kids to blow glass and we get it on just fine. See how it works? You're smiling, but I know about life. Lived long enough to write the whole damn book. And I've been married too. My wife left me and married a knee surgeon. Now there's a fucking racket. People born everyday with two knees ready to crack wide open. I guess I'm lucky. Got two good ones. But my lungs are shot. What do you expect? Smoking two packs a day."

Yes, it took my mind off the hunt, but damn...

Miss Cinerama wants her day damnit...

2005-07-24T10:20:00.000-07:00

Today I read another wonderful blog -- Daily Dose of Dave. He'd looked up his birthday on Wikipedia and found out that in 1919 "The Boston Molasses Disaster" occurred which killed 22 and injured 150. Bowled over by 35 mile an hour molasses? Not exactly a car bomb, but hey, in 1919 molasses may have been a threat...followed by helium, hydrogen and nukeage (Spellcheck, please.).

I decided to look up my birthday. August 22. I was glad to see E. Annie Proulx and Dorothy Parker on the list but not so sure about Norman Schwarzkopf fighting his way through the birth canal. On the exit side, a bunch of popes and king's croaked, but it seemed like the Wikers were hard-pressed to come up with events. Oh sure, the Trojan room coffee pot on the Cambridge campus was turned off on August 22, 2001...a sad state of affairs for those fat asses who can't check the pot themselves, but other than that... the date left little mark in time. And then I suddenly realized my calling...a mission that had to be rejuvinated. It came to me like a canary let loose in a mine shaft.

I remembered a letter I wrote to Paul Allen, co-founder of Microsoft, after he bought a wonderful old theater in Seattle (Cinerama) and retro-renovated the hell out of it. I didn't understand the Jetson look, but I knew Allen to be a man of passion...or, at least expansion...a man who should embrace the founding father's of our historic cornball city. After all, forty-three years prior, I was crowned Miss Cinerama.

I wrote, in longhand, mind you...

Dear Mr. Allen,

On August 22, 1956 two events, seemingly unrelated, but in fact mysteriously and inextricably linked came to pass in the city of Seattle. The Cinerama theater was opened to the public for the first time, and a child was born in the hospital on the hill overlooking the city. Three wise men, the owner of the theater and two attendants were moved to visit the baby girl. They came bearing gifts.

From that day onward, the infant, a meager seven pound six ounces with a milk rash in full bloom, heeded the call. She accepted the title, the gold key to the theater, a few free passes and became the reigning Miss Cinerama. Her duties were few, hardly worth noting. A brief interview (the more eloquent portion of which was furnished by her undoubtedly doting parents) and a photo shoot (no elaborate costumes --just a loose fitting sleeper, booties, binkie and banner. Her hair coifed in a simple up-do with a pink bow.)

Needless to say, the child, known only by her hospital I.D. writstband, did not attend the Opening Night Ceremony and the party that followed. There was no sight of her at the ribbon cutting or imbibing at the champagne bar, nor were her first steps taken on the red carpet that lined the runway. For Miss Cinerama, nestled between the rest of the newborns in the maternity ward, the hype went unnoticed. Mr. Allen, that child was me.

Except for the article in the Seattle Times, now creased and fawn-colored, the gold key with Miss Cinerama engraved neatly in Tribune font, and a few old ticket stubs, I have no recollection of the jubilee. But you can change all that. You, the man with vision beyond Windows, Word, Jimmy Hendrix statues, EMP, can give this aging Matron of the Arts some glory days.

I realize that next month the Cinerama will open it's doors anew. With a fitting new profile and an aggressive technological facelift, there will be much to celebrate. My question to you. Can Miss Cinerama attend the Opening night or has the gold key lost it's luster? I don't ask for much...no royal resurrection...no silk banner or gold crown...just a little leg room, a small space, possibly pressed against the wall toward the back. I eat very little and champagne gives me gas. How about it?"

I sent this letter on March 19, 1999, right before the opening. Signed it "sincerely," and although I'm sure he's a very busy man...very very busy man, I'm still waiting for a response. How long does one hold out for this sort of thing? After all, you've got to believe the popcorn is stale...even a Jujubee hardens to rabbit droppings. I drove by the theater the other day. They're featuring Star Wars Revisited or Rejoined or some god awful thing...but I still wouldn't mind a ticket.

Running Deer and Passing Buck...

2005-07-23T17:06:00.000-07:00

Woke this morning from a crazy dream. It was 5AM. I actually heard the newspaper hit my front stairs and bounce. Birds were doing their thing, a couple cars passed, and I moved slowly into the day.

Okay, who am I kidding? Enough with the character set-up and plot....back to the dream. I guess I'm pushing six years old and it's my mom's birthday...or at least there's a banner on the door that says, "Twenty-nine again." She's behaving like one of those Hollywood Betty Davis types, the kind that laugh too loud and fondle their drink like a comfortable lover. The party is in full swing --cocktails sloshing about, ice cubes clinking merrily in empty glasses all too quickly refilled and the continuous shrieks of those who play. It feels distant...like they are screaming into the past or at least into another time zone.

Standing in the living room...decked in down-filled sofas and over-stuffed guests, I watch the performing seals hold each other up against the piano and sing recklessly. I sense confidence, as if the slightest encouragement could mean a bus and a few Elk's Club gigs from here to the desert. Confidence is a scary thing when it comes to adults and alcohol. They repeat shit that has no relevance and later in the evening they call you by your brothers name and confess things about their sex lives. There is a disassociation that takes place around 10PM, a stare that lingers way too long...as if all they're really asking for is a little respect in life but at the same time they're spitting on you. I've learned, even in this dream, when a woman's face bleeds together into a big bowl of cream of wheat and their eyes resemble the L.A. freeway...Cover, drop and roll out of there. And if a man blows cigar smoke through his mouth while saying stuff like, "You kids don't know how lucky you are, why, when I was a boy..." the party is fucking uncharted. It's going south and you are going to regret coming downstairs to sneak a meatball and a fruit kebob from the buffet.

Funny how I really don't remember much of my childhood. When I conjure up something it's like my thoughts hold together for only a brief, fragmented moment and then flatten and disappear. My memories are more like an adult recalling a circus that came to town some thirty years before -- undoubtedly, there must have been a tent and inside, probably a lion who roared, a whip that cracked, and a few clowns controlling happiness. Just as a circus, my childhood was simply there, set-up and in place. The entire event contained and complete, with little space for creating new acts.

Though I don't remember much of those years, I remember the band. Give my family an instrument and they all played. It was a little like musical chairs...when the music stopped, they dropped whatever they were holding and raced to the next instrument. Even the Bassett Hound, Roadie, was dressed in bright colored boxers and tennis shoes, a tambourine strapped to his leg.

Although supreme efforts were made to find me a suitable musical draw, it became painfully obvious that I couldn't carry a tune or hold a beat. With every awkward childhood moment that passed, I tried to escape the horrors of band life. Instead of living in reality, I fantasized that there had been a dreadful mistake. As I lay in bed at night I prayed for a recall, like a hazardous set of tires or a car seat. I imagined a messenger of God secretly entering my room and tapping me on the shoulder. He would apologize if I'd begun to bond with the entertainments but the heavenly forces had made a bad call. Then this celestrial being would explain a new living arrangement. A tone-deaf, childless couple that derived pleasure from books and the Discovery channel. The kind of people you find pulling up organic roots in their garden or reading Chekhov by the fire, their hair long and frantically free, who wore thick glasses and soft flowing all cotton clothing. My new family would not notice my pigeon toes or the fact that my teeth looked like God pitched them down with His bad arm. They would love me unconditionally, teaching me to make candles, weave wools, compost crap, make a three-course meal out of grocery store samples, save rain forests and hug. I'd heard the voices of change...a switch...a new Mecca for the musically impaired. But the heavenly Herald never appeared. I spent an entire summer waving a flashlight into the starry night in which I imagined many failed rescue attempts, but no omnipotent being landed his rig in our yard and offered to beam me to a new post. While I waited, I took piano lessons.

Burton Huntley became my instructor. Placing his fingers over mine, he would press my hand into a bell curve. The second he released his grip, my arch fell limp...my back slumped...and my legs began to swing below the bench. Burton would turn the page of my Loeschhorn Book One for Beginners and flip the metronome as if the switch to the electric chair. The only sound in slight unison being Roadie scratching himself in perfect three-quarter time. When I did decide to let loose on the ivory, it was met with a sudden burst of brilliance followed by unabridged chaos. It's at moments like these that my mother would pop her head out from around the kitchen door and give me a small, suffocating grin. "She has my gift of improvise. Can you hear it, Burton?" But Burton didn't hear it and eventually he suggested to my family that I consider a less challenging instrument, possibly the recorder.

Musically defeated, I joined an Indian Princess tribe. Once a month my dad and I attended meetings which consisted of middle-aged business men dressed in war paint and leather and their daughters in matching beaded vests and moccasins. We were given Indian names. I became Running Deer and my dad named himself Passing Buck. Life was grand. I knew that every month it would be just the two of us stepping into the tepee with an occasional tribal drum to get in the way.

As I walk down on the streets of Loreto...

2005-07-22T08:47:00.000-07:00

A few years back I took a vacation to Mexico with my old boyfriend. We booked a one week stay at Hotelito Desconocido in La Cruz de Loreto...the city named after a famous bullfighter in the 50's. I think Jack read about the place in some travel magazine --a 400 acre sea turtle reserve along the Pacific coast and the Sierra Madre Mountains, 60 miles south of Puerto Vallarta. The resort is owned by an Italian investor who we learned upon arrival didn't have much to do with the day-to-day operations. Instead, he'd entrusted his employees with the whole enchilada. A little like Lord of the Flies after they broke Piggy's glasses.

The place was exquisite - beautifully manicured grounds tended by men swinging machetes, each white sand path raked in intricate design like a Zen master...or maybe a large band of neurotic women with a vacuum attachment. Anyway, there are these amazing huts extended over the water on stilts with bamboo thatched roofs, swinging hammocks and large canapy beds. The place is famous for a couple of reasons...it's proximity to nowhere...complete anonymity, incredible food, and no electricity. At night the entire resort lights up like a tiki torch parade. Sure, there's no TV, cell coverage, or media, but you forget within the first inhale the world exists. Hopefully I'm not that shallow, but I was surprised how the routine becomes effortless -- you wake and raise the flag outside your hut for coffee service, eat breakfast in the beautiful restaurant and then row a boat across a narrow river full of bison and pink flamingo to a deserted beach where umbrella drinks and poo-poo platters abound. It's damn decadent. Today I would never go to such a place. Maybe my father is right...I've been brainwashed. I choose to believe that I have grown. We still need to enjoy the world, but just not at the expense of others. A mix I struggle with.

All I can say is you learn a lot about people when you travel. Everyone should have to take a trip with their partner before getting serious. It's wild how personality traits appear out of thin air. It started for us when we got to the airport. The check-in attendant grabbed our tickets and asked for proof of citizenship. I handed over my passport...Jack, his drivers license. (As he explained later, "We're going to fucking Mexico for godsakes, not Indonesia.") Needless to say, boarding passes were not issued and we missed the flight. We were instructed to visit Ken in baggage claim, a man capable of forging identification. Ken sat behind a counter in wait of folks (fools) like us who needed red-white-and-blue star spangled I.D. Twelve dollars and two hours later, Jack signed a paper (I wouldn't be so bold as to call it a document) with an embossed "American" stamped in red. We ran back up to the Alaska Airlines counter where a large black woman with heaving breasts booked us on another flight but not before a tongue lashing. "How could you not know you need a passport to travel in a foreign country? If you were going to Italy, would you show me your drivers license?" "We're not traveling to Europe. It's MEXICO," Jack said. "Same thing," she said, and went back to her computer screen. That's when Jack lost it. "Have you heard of NAFTA?" he yelled. Yes, she had and now she wasn't happy either.

When the plane touched down, the Mexican officials waved us straight though. No bag check, no stamp in my passport or Jack's "official" paper. Out of baggage claim, we grabbed a taxi where the driver immediately drove us a few blocks and stopped in front of a strip mall liquor store. He turned around and looked at us, "Booze?" he asked. We must have looked parched...or three shots behind everyone else. Two bottles of tequila later and a can of coke for the driver, we were off again.

The trip roughly took two hours in which we wound around one car-sick hairpin turn after the next...starting out along the coast but eventually winding through forests, then mountains, mosquito infested swamps and then back to the coastline. If there was a pothole, our driver hit it. A road kill, he nailed it again. Mile after mile of unpaved roads full of stray things --dogs, chickens, strange rodents, women sitting in doorways fanning themselves, their legs spread. The last thirty-three miles we rattled along dirt-bike paths until we arrived at a gate where a man in army fatigue and a machine gun over his shoulder stood posted. He pulls out a walkie talkie and discussed our entrance with a man in the watch tower. We later learned that guards are on 24 hour duty to ensure locals don't steal from the tourists.

They must have fired the receptionist because she never did show. Eventually, a machete man opened a drawer and threw us a key. We found our bungalow, La Bandelona, unpacked and headed for the restaurant. This is where things pick up. We soon learned that there were only five of us staying at the resort that week and two had not arrived, which meant that we had the place to ourselves, save a lone woman who seemed to be crashing herself on Tecate. As the week progressed we realized she must have a hollow leg. Each morning she met the day with a Bloody Mary, followed by a Sunrise...then a Sunset, a few beers and shots of tequila during lunch and then an overdose worth of whatever in the evening. Now this goes on for a few days...just Jack, me and whoever this Tecate woman is. All I know is she's on a mission to kill herself with solar rays and hooch. I don't think she cared...whatever came first. Regardless, she was carrying out a death wish and we had front row seats. I told Jack we needed to interrupt the process. It was lunchtime and I walked up to her and asked if she'd like to join us. She smiled wide, her sunburned face almost cracked and peeled from the effort.

What we came to find out was poor Tecate Mary was celebrating her fortieth birthday. She had planned the trip long ago, made all the subtle hints to her boyfriend to join her, but as the days drunkenly dragged on and her birthday hours ticked by, it was becoming painstakingly obvious he was a no-show. Jack suddenly took an interest, defending mankind. "Subtlety doesn't work for most men. You've got to spell it out. Make it clear you want to be with him...nobody else." Well, that set Mary off in tears. Over-weight, in a string bikini with a wife beater shirt over, she cried like every tear the world has ever known was pushing free from a duct. "It my fortieth birthday, damnit," she wailed, and then she drank. And Jack drank. We all drank. As the sun moved across the sky we dropped our empties like tossed lovers.

About the time we should have stopped the commissary train and moved onto glasses of water, enters Beth and Robert, (Scene 6 Act 5)...the last of the hotel guests to check-in. Beth is in the skimpest bathing suit I've ever seen...one of those "why bother" suits with an amazing body to match and Robert is doing everything he can to keep up. He walked over to us and said, "You look like sinners. Can we join you?" We started swapping stories. Robert was in commercial real estate in New York. Beth started the first all women title insurance company with two other partners. "We're twenty-two gorgeous women with brains and talent and Manhattan doesn't know what to do with us," she said. Robert and Beth had been together seven years...bought a house in the Hamptons, and he'd just proposed in Costa Rica. As she explained, she got tired of riding horses in her own stable. And with that line she took off her "whatever" and jumped into the water. She paddled around for a moment and then made a grand exit where she was met by Robert holding a hotel towel to cover her, though she seemed disappointed, as did the bartender, the guy in the row boat and Jack too if he could focus.

To make a very long short....or at least close the Mexican stand-off...the five of us end up rowing a boat back over to the restaurant and having dinner. It's late...candles are lit, and the staff has been watching and waiting in the kitchen until we arrive. Beth immediately retreats to the reception office to call Manhattan and check on her kids -- two Yorkshire terriers, a Pekinese and one Great Dane. When she returns she fills us in on their walks through Central Park..."two poops and a pee." And then as if something reminds her, she stops telling us about her cainine lineage and launches into a story about their stressful morning. They couldn't get into the spa before 7 AM to have a pedicure and manicure and she was afraid she wouldn't have time for her facial but at the last minute it worked out. "But can you believe this shit," she said, "As the woman was massaging my face she said, "Would you like me to take care of that mustache?" I could tell this was supposed to be a moment of vulnerable hilarity, but that's not the part that Jack heard. Drunk and moving swifty into a baggering and belligerent stage, he slurred, "So Bob, you're a spa sort of guy, right?" "Not really," he said. "Oh come on, Bobbie, you're not pulling anything over on us." And the night spiraled. Robert left the table and didn't return for a long time. When he did, he was carrying a portable CD player...obviously a means of distraction. Jack rifled through the selections of CD's. When he didn't like a band, he tossed it into the river. Then he spotted The Clash and went crazy. "Man, I love this CD. The thirteenth song 'Train in Vain!" The next thing I knew Mary was crying again and cursing men, Robert had almost punched Jack out, and I was left trying to figure out how to navigate a drunken man back to our hut in the damn tiki light which had totally lost its romance.

I went to bed. Didn't say a word which probably suited him fine because I doubt he would have understood it. Around two in the morning I woke to gunfire. I looked over at the other pillow and found Jack gone. I panicked. Where does a tequila drenched man go in the middle of the night? I went searching. The guards stopped me. They said they were tracking down a naked man running through the gardens. "Don't shoot," I said. "That's my...my...boyfriend." Oh hell, reality planted itself like lyme disease with that declaration.

I eventually found him. As he explains it, when he heard them fire he ran zig-zag toward the water like he'd seen in Platoon. With the earth flying in small dust clouds around him, he beelined for the river and dove in. Damn fuck could have drown. I spotted him on another deck...howling at the moon which he claims was just a damn good imitation of R.L. Burnside. The next morning I packed my bag and took the ride back to the airport. Jack was with me, but just in body. The rest of him was lost.

Lie back and think of England...

2005-07-21T10:45:00.000-07:00

I watched Shall We Dance the other night. Save yourself the misery, but I did pick up a pearl that has stayed with me. Jennifer Lopez and Richard Gere had a dialogue that went something like this...Why do people fall in love and marry? And the answer was...Because we need a witness to our life so it won't go unnoticed. A lover and friend who takes a vow to watch. There are billions of people on the planet but in a marriage there is only one who promises to care about everything...the good things, the bad, even the small and mundane. All of it.

It hit me. Made me vulnerable for a moment. My shoulders dropped a few inches and I let out a long sigh of relief. And then I gave myself a few good lashings and came back to my senses. The truth is most people can't even name a really happy couple. The institution has lost its stride. Partners are more articulate describing a car ding to an insurance adjuster than their spouses longings. Rarely does a man understand what drives a women...SECURITY with a capital S. I see it on their faces, lodged in every tight-lipped smile. They weigh each choice on a scale of safety. Freedom of choice means you are able to pick a mate who is risk adversive. I've heard it all --couples who stay together because of a club membership, the house, the kids, the cars. How tolerance and endurance and great amounts of patience and humor must mean love. I've celebrated Golden Anniversaries with couples who barely know the other exists. The remote holds more fingerprints than her breast. Constantly dabbing at their eyes, blotting the pain that comes from disappointment. All the risks not taken...the years unfulfilled. Fifty years running through their slide show like a march to prison camp.

Because let's face it...people want to change you. One day you're wearing your favorite shirt and worn out jeans and the next minute some woman says to you..."What about cotton dockers? And this Polo shirt? Ahhh, look at that cute little gator. Pink is nice with those blue slacks, don't you think? Then you can meet my folks...or not."

I find myself drawn to women who have a moment of doubt. Who wonder how much they've sacrificed to keep those thoughts in check. Women who risk because they can't stomach complacency or delusions of mediocracy. Who question if today was the last, would you do anything on your list? Would you fall in love if he didn't have a dime? Someone who pleads--"Promise me you won't let me become a turtleneck with pearls. Someone who gets excited about a matching candy dish or riding around in golf carts in Palm Springs like the fucking Flintstones." Those are the people I gravitate to. I realize we are not Twinkies. Women like us have a shelf life. But if we're lucky enough to meet a partner on that plane of thought, it's as if a wave knocks us down and carries us away laughing.

There is no food in my house. My daughter found a lone can of tuna in the cupboard. She wonders if she'll ever see bread that hasn't begun the rebirthing cycle. I suppose I should take a trip to the store...a place I loathe. It's right up there with taking a bristled brush to the porcelain goddess.

Reading the paper

2005-07-20T08:23:00.000-07:00

Some guy in Plano, Texas has a Cocroach Hall of Fame Museum. For years he's been collecting cockroaches and dressing them in tutus and bikinis. He's created little styrofoam worlds for the likes of H. Ross Peroach and Liberoachi, who I guess is dressed in some flaming outfit seated at a tiny piano. The article says people travel across the country to check out these guys. "It's not the Smithsonian folks, but if you show up we'll have some fun," he said. And I worry about hearing scripts and story lines in my head? Jesus, any guy who would spend his life dressing cockroaches leaves me in the dust.

Then there was another story about a young kid in Ottawa who was clocked driving at 115 mph. He told the judge that he was going to the gym and overdosed on a protein drink. At the time he was pulled over he was desperately looking for a place to relieve himself. Whose he kidding? Guys can pull over at any junction and find a bush or tree. What nineteen year old is looking for a Honey Bucket?

And an article about Victor Edward Willis, the original policeman in the Village People. He was arrested last Monday in California for driving without a valid license or identification. If I were him I would have launched into a roaring rendition of "Macho Man" or "YMCA" though I doubt it would have helped much when they found the handgun and cocaine. Pretty much fried his ass.

And the rest of the paper? Blah...blah...blah...just more bombs, bad guys, dead people and corrections.

Your Mama Knows...

2005-07-19T10:34:00.000-07:00

Wild how voices and story lines come to me in the night. They wake me with uncompromising urgency...determined as flowers in drains. I turn on the light and start writing. I know it seems random and weird, but I'm just glad I've got a place to park these characters. I've been told people don't always take advise...they see it pass and wave.

Your Mama Knows...

Stop touching yourself. Pay attention boy. Listen now. Here come the rules. Remember who you are, what you are and what you stand for. Don't do anything to embarrass your Daddy, God rest his soul. And don't do anything to embarrass your Mama. When the time comes, keep in mind a rich girl takes up just as much room in bed as a poor one. There's no such thing as a homely rich girl. Stop touching yourself. I said take your hands out of your pockets boy, the hunts been called off. Lord sakes, give it a rest. Leave the damn thing alone. Leave it alone...leave it alone...leave it alone. No genie gonna pop out of there. If you keep touching it, you'll lose your sight. You want to sit in the dark listening to your Mama tell everyone how you come to be blind? What are you? A champ or a chump? Don't act like you don't understand boy. You're just like your sorry-ass brother. Fool put his dick in a blender. Damn near bled to death right in my kitchen. If you pick your nose like that you'll bleed to death. If you eat what comes from that nose of yours you'll shrink. You'll shrink if you smoke. Coffee'll shrink you too. You die if you drink. And leave them drugs be. The law is the law and they'll lock you up. Go directly to jail just like your sorry-ass brother. Some people ain't worth a shit and that's all I'm going to say about it. If you call your mother a crazy bitch again you'll be picking your teeth out of your undershirt. Put the toilet seat up before you use it. Put it down when you're done. Don't call your sister a douche bag. She is your damn sister. Tampons are not torpedoes. The Lord did not create a nativity scene so you can play army. Don't try to pull anything over on Our Lord Jesus Christ. He don't like being blown up in a manger. The Almighty gonna strike you dead if you pull that Christmas stuff out again. Don't lie. Never cheat. Or steal. Never touch a girl. You will live to regret it. Leave 'em be. Leave 'em be. Leave 'em be. Always treat girls with respect except for the bad girls which you can spot a mile away. If you touch the bad ones you'll get a rash on that thing the likes you've never seen. Red hot coals, I'm telling you. And just when you think you can't take one more minute of pain, that's when that damn thing is gonna fall off and you'll be wishing you was dead. But, if you must touch girls, AND if you're lucky enough not to have your thing fall off, don't knock one up. Shoot out of the basket. Any girl worth her salt is protecting the target. Do you hear me? Because let me tell you something right here right now...a girl come round here with your child in her belly you better find yourself some running shoes with good treads. You got to be a smart boy. A libido ain't a compass. Girls can spot a good man like a bargain. With that sugar-sweet voice and their eyes kinda shut like so, they gonna tell you its all cool, they got it covered. Don't you listen. This is something your mama knows all about. They'll rub against you and shake that groove thing and you're gonna feel like the Devil himself is tugging on your dick. And He is. God know no one wishes Eve would have left that apple alone more than your old mama, but I wasn't there to slap her silly. I'm telling you for your own good, don't touch them girls. When those kind of girls come around acting all fired up you tell them I got just two words for you --"A Dios." For Christ sakes boy, stop touching.

A horse is a horse...of course of course

2005-07-16T11:44:00.000-07:00

Yesterday there was an article in the paper about a man who had sex with a horse. A friend called to rant about it. That's one sick prick, he said. "There were chickens and sheep, and he picks a horse."

"It actually killed him?" I asked.

"Hell yeah, tore him a new one. You know how big a horse is?" And then he stopped and said, "Answering that question will either incriminate you or I'll have to explain it...either way I don't want to go there."

I guess the guys at his office were talking about it too. A fairly low-key place with some obvious down time. One guy wondered what it would take to make a horse excited. "Do they hook him up to something or let him watch National Velvet? Maybe lock him in his stall with Winner Circle photos?"

"Who cares what gets Mr. Ed in the mood. I've been trying to figure out 'why' and you're struggling with logistics. Instead maybe give some thought to a couch and therapy."

"I'd rather think about a remote and a drink."

"Then pour me one too 'cuz I need to forget what you just said."

Listening to him tell the story reminded me of when I took a time-out for therapy. Her name was Judith or Faith or something...equipped with some high-strung, overbred degree and a practice in one of those newer commercial buildings where the furnishings are carefully staged in non-hostile hues. Like airport security or lockdown, the place carried no sharp objects or irritating angles. Decorated like a theme park for creatively challenged individuals struggling to buy a can of spagettios and make it home without curling up in a corner like a potato bug.

Judith-slash-whatever's high-powered office was different -- lots of shit going on there. Wicker chairs and recliners, a glass table with a few years worth of magazines and enough tissue to make an origami museum. There were paintings of little girls carrying buckets full of sea treasures, a country home with a big wrap around porch surrounded in wild flowers...and an abstract --an ink blot of what appeared to be Russians wearing Ushankas dancing in a field or maybe the beginnings of a crop circle with field mice running for cover.

Each week we talked about something new. The last time I went she wanted to discuss my appearance. She thought I should spend more time grooming. Get my hair cut, stop chewing my nails, make a conscious effort to dress in the light. I promised to have my eyebrows separated and give it a whirl.

"You seem a little combative today," she said.

"I'm not trying to be," I said, "I'm just not in the mood to talk makeovers."

"Alright, what would you like to talk about?"

"How about why my marriage fell apart."

"Why do you think it did?" She asked.

"I don't know. This is your expertise. It's a big mystery to me. I mean, the way I remember it, we were happy one day and miserable the next."

"Marriages don't just fall apart," she said, "There are certain things that happen...a sequence of events." She stared out the window at her view of the monorail and Space Needle with a smug confidence that only a masters degree and a large client base can muster.

"It sometimes starts with a fight," she continued, "followed by long periods of silence. Sex becomes stale, and gradually non-existent. Then you may find a hotel receipt in his brief case, a pair of crotchless undies under the car seat. Dishes are thrown, then the undies are staple-gunned to the new girlfriend's house...you see what I mean? A progression of events." $120 an hour for that tidbit...the guy with the horse was raped with more dignity.

Picking Mars out of our ears...

2005-07-15T12:08:00.000-07:00

Ben Franklin and Leo Tolstoy kept two diaries; one for themselves and one for others. Picasso threw all of the art he didn't want to be remembered for in a large pile in his yard. Man, blog writing seems to have raised that curtain and opened the window to new forms of hurlage. We are the exhibitionists with open trench coats and 8x10 glossies--displaying our diaries to whoever wishes to read. I'm sure the jury will be out for a long time as to the import of it all, but at least this point in history will be well-documented in the spirit of Anne Frank.

Maybe it suffices to say man searches for meaning, though most on the surface. We are an impersonal bunch --sitting on our database typing madly to all those friends rarely contacted, family seldom called. We drift on the outskirts of love like orphan longings, a little more world-beaten and brain-mauled than we expected, but persistent. We might be picking Mars out of our ears in a couple of years but at least in the meantime we can try to accomplish something difficult and wise. And under the powerful microscope of it all I can't help but feel a sense of hope. It takes effort to change...to bring about something new. I know that the compass may wobble for a piece of time, but then it will right itself again. Henry Miller wrote, "For a hundred years or more the world, our world, has been dying. And not one man, in these last hundred years or so, has been crazy enough to put a bomb up the asshole of creation and set it off."

The wanna boinks...

2005-07-15T07:21:00.000-07:00

A friend called last night. "Tell me if I'm overreacting," she says, "The woman with the big hair who works in the next cubicle? She wondered if I'd mind if she dated my ex."

"That's just wrong, I said, "what did you say?"

"I told her he has a dick the size of a golf tee."

"You didn't?"

"No, I didn't, but damn, I thought about it."

And then I remember the same thing happened to me when I got divorced. It was one of the first times I'd seen my ex since signing the papers. I thought it was going well. We'd crossed over the line into small talk with relative ease and then this woman walked up. I hadn't seen her for awhile but I'd heard her husband left her for an upgrade. She lives in one of those posh neighborhoods where you raise children like potted plants. A woman who speaks of Palates like it's a secret password to a club...who enjoys long martini lunches with her twat tightened friends. She flipped her hair and whispered in my ear, "He's so good looking. Would you mind introducing me?" She threw me a look like, "Hey, you dropped the meat so I'm taking it." He obviously overheard and gave her a broad smile. "Keep your pants on Spartacus," I said. His smile vanished along with months of damage control.

What's wrong with women? They're like those little fish in the rivers of Brazil that attack swimmers and in a few minutes they clean away the flesh. Bring a single guy to a party and the little teeth attack with precision. Aren't we on the same team? Maybe I'm wrong but guys would never do that to each other. They might hit on their friend's girl, but they won't ask first. (I am kidding...I think.)

A phone call...

2005-07-13T07:55:00.000-07:00

The phone rang at quarter to seven this morning. I don't know what greeting wedged free from my lips but if I had to guess there was a Slavic undertow.

"Have I ever told you I have this thing about short people?" It was a good friend of mine whose a real up-and-at-'em sort. Maybe it's the fact he has a job. I wouldn't know.

"What? Are you kidding?" I managed.

"No, I really do. They freak the bejesus out of me. I think it started with the Wizard of Oz... those munchkins with the spiky lard hair and weird socks. Remember them?" And then he started singing the song. The image returned...those three short stacks swinging their legs from side to side, little fat arms buckled together like a chain link fence.

One thing about having a conversation that early...no one expects much out of you. A simple grunt suffices for a commencement address...a yawn for a eulogy. There is something profound about the state of just being alive...breathing in and out...slowly making body parts move. Sometimes I fast-forward and I see myself becoming one of those old people on exercise programs who believe blinking improves their circulation.

Anyway, for whatever reason I launched into a story about selling lemonade when I was a kid. One day I thought things were going a little slow so I pulled out my mom's Waterford glasses. The way I saw it, if I could make a Dixie cup fly for 5 cents then a crystal glass should at least double my odds. The plan was working well until a neighbor spotted me and called my mom. I was back singing Dixie, recovering from a swat that left me unable to sit down for a week. That's some major entrepreneurial shit, said my friend. My first clue it was early for him too.

Just trying to get ahead, I told him, like the two guys I saw panhandling. One held a sign that said, "I need beer money," and the other, "Yeah, and I want half of his." They were well-dressed, probably majoring in business. My friend thought they momentarily lost their frat. "But they're messing with the system," I said, "Thinking outside the box. Stirring it up. Having fun." "Damn," he said, "I remember when I used to do that...when I was young and immortal." The conversation could have changed course and sobered up, but instead he remembered a joke from some cavern of the brain...or is that tavern of the maimed? An old Billy and teacher joke.

The teacher asks the class, "There are four crows on top of a wire. You shoot one...how many are left?" No one raises their hand but Billy. "Okay Billy, how many are left?""None." "None?" "Yes," Billy says, "because the sound of the gun scares the others away." The teacher smiles. "Well now, that's not exactly the answer I was looking for but I like the way you think." Then Billy says,"Teacher, I have a question for you. There are three women holding a lollipop. One is biting it, one is sucking and the other is stroking it. Which one is married? The teacher hesitates for a moment and then answers, the one sucking.
"Wrong. It's the one with the wedding ring, but I like the way you think."

Immediately he launches into a drum finale. "Ba-ba-ba-boom. Thanks folks. I'll be here all week. Hey, where are you from? So am I." And that's how the conversation went. Still trying to scraggle my ass into the dawn. Some suffering poet probably wants to call it daymake but I'm sticking with daybreak.

History repeats...

2005-07-12T10:09:00.000-07:00

I've been reading this book called The Fourth Turning by Strauss and Howe. It explains the cycles of history and the patterns of repetition we play out. They categorize four turnings per cycle--a turning being a social mood that changes roughly about the length of a phase of life.

The FIRST TURNING is a HIGH - an upbeat era of strengthening institiutions and weakening individualism, when a new civic order implants and the old values regime decays. (American High 1946-1964) Usually postwar when the epic crisis has been settled.

The SECOND TURNING is an AWAKENING - a passionate era of spiritual upheaval, when the civil order comes under attack from a new values regime. (Consciousness Revolution 1964-1984) The year after Kennedy was assasinated. Ed Sullivan brought the Beatles onto his show, the US economy flourished as did flower children and riots.

The THIRD TURNING is an UNRAVELING - a downcast era of strengthening individualism and weakening institutions. (Culture Wars 1984-2005?) A growing mistrust in the government but a new sense of self-esteem and trust in the individual. A common voice is heard --"The institutional order is not working and is not worth defending." Americans become cynical, viewing every social arrangement as unworthy of long-term loyalty, deserving only of short-term exploitation. In the Awakening, the system had looked corrupt from the outside; now it looks that way from the inside too." A time to enjoy and harness money and travel because it will feel less accessible in the fourth turning.

The FOURTH TURNING is a CRISIS - a decisive era of secular upheaval, when the values regime propels the replacement of the old civic order with a new one. "A solstice era of maximum darkness in which the supply of social order is still falling but the demand for order is now rising. A time of trial. A time of fire and ice, of polar darkness and brilliantly pale horizons. What it doesn't kill, it reminds of death. What it doesn't wound, it reminds of pain. There have been six such turnings dating back to the fifteenth century --i.e. American Revolution, Civil War, the Great Depression, and WWII.

What's fascinating is that these guys published this book in 1997. One of the last chapters is called A Fourth Turning Prophecy. "Sometime around the year 2005, perhaps a few years before or after, America will enter the Fourth Turning." Here's the wild part. One of the examples of what they sited as potential events that could bring about the new era--"A global terrorist group blows up an aircraft and announces it possesses portable nuclear weapons. The U.S. and its allies launch a preemptive strike. The terrorists threaten to retaliate against an American city. Congress declares war and authorizes unlimited house-to-house searches. Opponents charge that the president concocted the emergency for political purposes. A nationwide strike is declared. Foreign capital flees the U.S." Not exactly a blow-by-blow, but man, you got to wonder. Did bin and the boys read this book in a candlelit cave somewhere?

"In recent years, many Americans have despaired that their nation no longer produces leaders who can galvanize and inspire. Yet it is the Turning, not the nation, that elevates great people to the apex of power. Lincoln and FDR are both cases in point: Both had to wait for the Crisis to hit. An unraveling is an era when most people of intelligence, vision, and integrity do not seek (much less get elected to) high public office. After the Fourth Turning arrives, however, a Lincoln-like leader will be more likely to seek office."

We may be coming up on some major doom-and-gloom in the coming years but at least the authors left us in the optimistic dust. Five of the six Final Crisis phases have ended successful. I don't know exactly how they calculate success, but I'm working with the odds...banking on the fact that most of us will recycle beautifully.

BIG BIG CARS...

2005-07-11T06:11:00.000-07:00

Just once I'd like to see a bloody carcass strapped to the grill of a Range Rover. Maybe then I'd understand the significance of having a seventy thousand dollar safari car in suburbia. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad to wave goodbye to those wood paneled station wagons, but what's the fixation with larger than life transportation? The new mom rigs --Minivans, Hummers, Suburbans, and Land Cruisers. Makes me wonder...Do we really need a car that can push a rhino up the side of Mt. Kilimanjaro? I thought most of us were just driving back and forth to work and delivering little Suzy to her swim meet? These are cars that need a runway and a hanger.

And the rules have definitely changed on the road. Pressures off. We no longer have to be good drivers. Just bigger than the guy we hit. There's a new sense of confidence behind the wheel because now we can play chicken with buses and fast moving trains. We laugh at cautionary signs. The classic deer in the headlights that used to signal major body work is just a flattened road kill to a Suburban. Of course, we still can't park. But now we have an excuse.

I watch these gigantic vehicles endlessly circle grocery store lots. Then a side door opens and a small object is thrown out onto the sidewalk like a hostage after a twenty-one day standoff. A little Tiny Tim begins to hobble toward the store with a list of food items clutched in his shaky palm. No need to wonder why kids are blowing out their knees. We'd like to claim a sports injury on our insurance forms, but it's these damn cars. I guess it would be different if couples were still having a litter of kids but folks I know have two or three. Why do we need a car with 24 seat belts? Any car that you can play Marco Polo is too big. And if you start the wave and it takes more than five minutes to get back to the driver...TOO BIG. And if you can hide forty illegal aliens in the glove compartment...WAY TOO BIG. And to think I've been spending energy contemplating the invention of the bomb shelter. Hell, who needs an underground cement block when we have a Hummer in our driveway. "Quick, kids, get to the car. It's a twister!"

All this talk about cars reminds me of a couple of guys I grew up with. The year I turned ten they were just old enough to be drafted to Viet Nam. When they came home, they weren't right. One had shrapnel so bad he couldn't find comfort in his skin and the other really never spoke much. It was a small town where they grew up and only a few of their friends made it home. I remember their mom crying one night. She said there was something wrong with them and the worst part was she couldn't fix it. She told us how they would go out driving and if they saw another ex-marine they'd run their cars right into each other. Plow into each other like go-carts. She said, "What do I do? Their cars are all but totaled. I swear they have a death wish."

Let me get back on a lighter note. Last night I stayed up and watched one of the funniest comedians I've seen since Pryor in his prime. The guy delivered with the timing and cynicism of George Carlin. He made his job look effortless. I came in halfway through his program so I never did catch his name but I'll give you some tidbits...

"Now we have heightened security with colors. Red. Yellow. Green. Blue. Who are we fighting? Skittles?

"And why are we so surprised that terrorists were able to navigate planes into the WTC? We had foreigners with visas taking flying lessons who had no interest in learning how to takeoff or land..."

"This Michael Jackson thing. Maybe people aren't very happy about the outcome but you've got to wonder, what parents would drop their kid off at Neverland? "Okay honey, mommy and daddy are off to work so you're going to stay with Uncle Michael with his black glove and monkey. Bye bye. We love you!"

Janet Jackson. "Everyone is so shocked to see her breast during the SuperBowl. How hypocritical is that? What goes with beer and Viagra commercials...tittie.

"My son...he's taking flute in school. That's a soundtrack for an ass-whipping.

"And the pope? Maybe we could have gotten a few more good months out of him if he'd taken off that heavy-ass hat."

"White people...I'm so tired of hearing about you getting shot at work. If you see a black person run, you run. Because most of the time were already home watching you get shot on the news."

"I just read about two hikers being mauled to death in the woods. I can tell you now...they weren't black. We're not hikers or daredevils. It's exciting enough just being black...or driving with one tail light out, or filling out a credit report and hanging around until they print it out."