Author Archives: avr

Witnessed

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So, remember way back in June when I posed Writer’s Challenge #2? It had to do with writing about something that had been witnessed; the form of the piece was left open. I gotta say, though several of you said you were excited about this challenge, I wasn’t exactly flooded with responses; however, since this was only the second one offered, I guess technically it is the second most popular EVER in Smaller Adventure history, so YAY!!!! Keep up the good work, peeps!

The staff here at the blog was delighted to receive three cool witness poems, and so, in no particular order, here they are:

Mary Pierce Armstrong said…
motes float in the gray ray

from the bench, a scowl

turkey neck folds dip and bob

a nod, quick and bored

the witness approaches with downcast gaze

her fingers outline a blur with vibration

oath taken

seat taken

time taken

I become the hostile witness
July 31, 2009 11:45 AM

Alisa R. said…
Mathematical Witness

Simple Tuesday carpool

Is there a math quiz today?

Staring out the window I see him

minus all clothing

plus 1 tangent man part

divided cheeks as he leans over to get the newspaper

adding to my knowledge

but multiplying my wonder.

Did I really see that?
August 2, 2009 5:57 PM

The Forest. RIP. Jan. 24/09
By Liliane Richman

The forest resisting
arching and groaning
under the rush of violent winds
succumbed to the last tree
each mature pine falling
embracing its neighbor
the crush of branches
littering of giants on the ground.

“You should have heard the howling,”
says my dear Paulette.

“The forest is dead.
Killed by a roaming cyclone
imported by global warming.”

Paulette is 82 years old
lives alone and walks with a slow shuffle.
She had no water for a week
no electricity for two
no telephone, no television.
She was cold and stayed in bed all day

And wishes she were younger
to move from her ancestral home
far from this desolation.
“You know how
how long it takes
to regrow such tall pines?”

Ah, Paulette, I’m with you
mourning for the forest, the ferns,
the sap, the deep silence, the cicadas
the pines are cut through
a long incision near the bottom of the trunk

the amber colored resin
collecting in a clay pot
sent to the one existing factory
the commercial hub
of the townlet in its heyday
when you father was CEO

Once upon a time it was
Nineteen forty-two
I appeared in your family
grew up and thrived
and departed again
then returned year after year
as late as last summer
surrounded by you
and the forest

of tall pines that died
on January twenty four
two thousand and nine.

Emoticute

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This is my favorite emoticon, by far. When I am very happy, or if I’ve done something sneaky, I smile showing all of my teeth. This proclivity (great word, huh?!) is responsible for a multitude of pictures in which I appear sharky. It’s not the best look, but it is better than my usual photo, which shows me looking decidedly Dobermanny, or like Geddy Lee (same look). Worse still, this is just the overall impression of me that one gets from my photo image. If you examine my parts separately – and, let’s be honest, who among us doesn’t enjoy examining the parts every now and again – it’s even worse. My various parts resemble food or animals. I got the turkey neck, chicken legs and sparrow ankles (so small, so narrow; is it any wonder I’m always falling down?). I have Mickey Mouse hands (but with linguine veins), Camembert breasts (it will happen to you some day, too, little missy!) and cottage curd ass. I sport the fruit bat triceps, Sharpei chin, and sometimes, the crazy horse nostril flare. I have bunny teeth, peanut smile and Beagle eye. My figure is reminiscent of a Dairy Queen ice cream cone. Since I stare at myself an awful lot, I find this somewhat distressing, because really, I am cute – you just can’t tell by looking at me!

Because of this, I am always on the look out for products and practices to make myself appear better. Recently, my friend Denichiwa, who alerts and advises me regarding all things Japanese*, told me that Dove Body Wash now comes with Nutrium. *Asians, for centuries, have had some interesting ideas about physical beauty, as evidenced by making men look soft, smooth and sexy for Japanese Kabuki theater, women look like gorgeous, dead clowns in their white geisha makeup, teeth look like licorice nubs in traditional Vietnamese tooth blackening, and feet look like gnarled stumps with the Chinese trend of foot binding.


But I digress….

Imagine my HORROR when I find out that Dove soap, purveyor of purity, innocence and cleanliness, is using the essence of the vile, destructive, repulsive NUTRIA (media, medium; nutria, nutrium) in their product, and then having the AUDACITY to market it as a GOOD thing! Anyone who knows me knows that nutria hold a place of honor in the Top Ten Things that I Hate, sub-category Things that Evolve:Freakish Animals and Robots. For those of you still in the dark about nutria, I suggest you stay in your state of ignorant bliss; once you know about them, you are doomed to live in fear. Even your dreams will be haunted by their horrific, lurking presence. However, if you must know, here are some quick facts: nutria are an aquatic rodent, so specifically revolting that they are the only members of their animal family, Myocastoridae. Even their closest cousins, the disgusting water rats, won’t claim them.They can get up to 25 pounds, and are an average two feet long, with an additional foot and a half tail. That’s almost four feet of fast-swimming, baby-making, large-pooping, big-assed RAT, my friends, and that’s not even the half of it! They have a double row of nipples up their back so that their rat bastard babies can suckle while they swim and they are voracious eaters, destroying so much land in Louisiana that the state began a program that paid hunters to shoot them on sight. They play host to a parasite that infests humans and causes a type of dermatitis called “nutria-itch”, and their teeth are huge, constantly growing, and the color of Cheetos. What? You don’t believe me? Would I lie to you? OK, you asked for it….

Indeed, this is the stuff of which nightmares are made. Don’t even get me started on the snakehead fish, the common cockroach, gars, the Nile Monitor, pigeons, or the Burmese python explosion going on in the Everglades (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IckkZVwShd4 , http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/04/20/090420fa_fact_bilger) – it’s just too much.

But I digress.

How we view ourselves, our ideas of the boundaries and specificity of beauty, and what we will do to obtain what we consider to be beautiful are all concepts that are interesting to me. There are obvious examples of those who will defy nature, good sense and the laws of gravity (see Micheal Jackson, that cat-lady, and the Texas lady who has had her breasts blown up to a size KKK to break the world’s record for implants this year, even though numerous doctors refused to do the operation because it was feared her breasts would explode.) It is common practice to inject ourselves with poisons and dyes, break bones, and starve ourselves in the quest of physical perfection. We have 9 year old anorexics and bulimics, a multi-million dollar beauty industry, clothes designed to make us appear anatomically different than we really are (Spanxx, push-up bras, Speedos), tiny tots in tiaras and tube tops, and on and on, ad infinitum. We don’t even know what we really think beauty is anymore; we are just sold images to emulate, and then we feel badly about ourselves when we can’t live up to some ridiculously distorted advertisement. Ladies and gentlemen, I am here to tell you what is truly beautiful…

and that is….

Ta-DUM….

Bunny teeth, camembreast, and turkey neck! SEXY!!!!!

How Ya Gonna Keep ‘Em Down on the Farm?

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So, yeah, I’ve been gone awhile. Miss me? Awww, don’t try to hide it, you know you did…anyhoo, I was in France, and it was fantastique. I saw things that filled me with all kinds of emotion, and spent the 15 days careening through spells of extreme joy, wonder, fascination, confusion, understanding on a deeper level than I am accustomed to (though I did learn that the French fully comprehend the meaning of the word, “Huh?”), empathy and awe. I felt overwhelmed often, but in a positive way, as if I was experiencing without really thinking about it; I think the word for that is ‘living’. I felt very alive and vibrant while I was there. It was hard to come back. In fact, I started a blog post entitled “Ten Reasons the Entire Country of France Is Better Than Where I Live Now“, but I flooded it so full of pictures that it got all messed up, and I got frustrated and quit. Now I have a huge backlog of backblogs, and that’s daunting, believe you me! I mean, my devoted readers expect a certain level of quality in this blog, a sharp, wise, well-reasoned look at the world we live in, a witty, unique commentary on truths that, without my unblinking eye and commitment to accessible explanation of the global trends, trials and in-depth analysis, you might not be able to grasp fully, and, most of all, news of me…well, that’s a tall order, and I have to have some big feet to fill my own shoes, I tell you what! I make it look easy, but…well, I digress…

Suffice it to say that even though I know you are all eagerly awaiting my certain brand of voyage reportage, I’m not telling. It was such a big adventure, and this blog is devoted to smaller adventures. All you will get is drips and drabs. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has got to be. Und now ve look at pictures:

Going to the ball at 9:00 a.m.
And yet, there aren’t that many fatalities…

Just a screen door…

Caption: Man’s best friend

Pig pastry
Yeah, I loved it. My grandmother, rest her soul, was a world traveller. Of Paris she said, “Mmmm… it’s not so nice. We have Turtle Creek, which is a lot cleaner and nicer than the Seine. Tom Thumb makes French bread, and our museum has wonderful paintings and is a lot easier to get around than The Louvre. Less crowded, too!” I loved my Mom Mom, but I have to disagree. There’s a big world out there and a million ways to be happy. Seeing art and music everywhere, eating delicious, diverse foods, smelling the odor of life (sometimes not so good, but honest!), getting lost in sound and color, and people, people everywhere…it wraps me in hope for the future, humanity, and myself. I’m glad I got to see things from a different perspective.
More photos to come! Au revoir!

Bonjour, Y’all!

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Have ya missed me? Surprise! I am on a wonderful adventure! I meant to blog all about it, and I even lugged my heavy computer over the ocean, but I have been having Internet difficulties and lots of fun, so I haven’t had a chance…maybe later this week things will be easier, and I’ll try again.

So…want to know where I am? What? I can’t hear you! Ah, how I do love that game! Anyway, I’m not telling. Psych! However, if you tune into the Tour de France tomorrow, maybe you will see me. I’m not riding this year (my old war injury flared up; Nam – the quagmire continues!), but I will be at the third to last stage, eating chocolate and yodeling in the hills that are alive with the sound of music (Subtle hint; don’t feel bad if you missed it!), to cheer on this guy who is all into me, some Spaniard named Contador. So… au revior until then!

Alberto Contrador, upon seeing me from his bicycle as I exited the museum. I told him that as a Texan, I only went out with guys who drove cool cars, like Hummers, but he is very persistant. It’s charming, yes, but a little tiresome, know what I mean?

Not complaining can kill you!

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Hedberg-hey

I just got back from a fantastic mini-vacation, magnificently planned, I must say, to have a maximum amount of fun for a minimal amount of time and money. All went swimmingly, except for one little hitch; I couldn’t turn my head. I’ve had a little problem with tension in my shoulders for about six months or so, but lately it’s gotten worse, so I went and had a massage, which I enjoyed. The masseuse rubbed my neckial region and then told me that my glutes were activated. Of course, I thanked him politely; I’m nothing if not polite. He informed me that active glutes are not a good thing, and spent the rest of the session gouging his elbows into the fat of my ass. I was bruised for much of the rest of the week, which completely took my mind off the fact that my shoulders felt like they had been cranked up to my ears and been superglued there. I would have just sucked it up – I’m nothing if not a sucker -but my friends kept making fun of me whenever I tried to turn my head. “Ha ha!” they laughed. ” She looks like that robot from “Lost in Space!” Hey, Barney Rubble! Where’s your neck, Barney? Ha ha!”

My friends are hilarious.

Still, I figured I couldn’t spend the rest of my life never looking left, so I decided to do something about it. I’m nothing if not a decider.

I looked up my old bud from college -I’ll call him Jon, because that’s his name – because he is an expert in relaxation. In fact, my most in my most vivid memories of him from those days, I always picture him in bed. In the days since, he has continued his higher education, and become a massage therapist, and now he knows lots of stuff about muscles, tendons and connective tissue. He was kind enough to clear his schedule and give me a bit of the magic touch.

I expected candles, water noises (always makes me have to peepee), scented face pillows, and soft, whispering touches, and experience from which I would emerge as loose as the elastic in Britney Spears waistband (Get it? On account she don’t wear no panties! They’re never on, get it?!) Alas, none of this was to be. Jon proceeded to tell me everything that is wrong with me, and Lordy Lou, I am jacked up! I have pinched nerves, swelling around my L7 (a swollen lesbian band?), Darth Vadars Spatula, TMJ, REM’s , Sphygmoidal Redaction, Carpet Tunnels, Primae Faciae, and Pectoralis. There is a chance I misunderstood some of the things he told me, though he explained very patiently; I was just so OVERWHELMED by everything, and it was hard to focus. I do recall that he said that I had some muscle tone under my fat, which I took as a bold flirtation – flattering, yes, but inappropriate under the circumstances. Anyhoo, Jon was as shocked as I was at the extent of my tension. Muscles that should feel like rubber bands felt like piano wire, and at one point, when he pressed a spot in my jaw, I burst into tears. How did I get this way?

That’s right, ladies and gents! You guessed it; I haven’t been complaining enough! It is just NOT good for you to contain your poisonous stress levels, and if you don’t eject that venom onto society as a whole, it backs up and clogs your system. You need to roto-rooter yourself with a good dose of cacking and get that stuff out of you! Take your lambda probe and clean out your bitch-filter! Let it fly, people! Don’t hold that stuff in!

PROBLEM SOLVED!

Of course, there are other things you can do to reduce tension. One of those things is to relax. In order to facilitate this, I have decided to talk like Matthew McConaughey or Mitch Hedberg, two guys who actually sound a lot alike, except for the first is stoned and stupid, and the second is just stoned. And also deceased. Anyway, when you talk like that, it’s hard to be uptight, alright, alright. I am also considering developing a prescription drug addiction, but so far my doctor hasn’t been altogether cooperative in this venture. I am definitely going to take more vacations, because the fun is good for me. Finally, more massage is key. Maybe next time another human being touches me, I can bear it without sobbing. In the meantime (Mean time? What does that even mean? Average time? Aggressively unkind time? Significant time?), I have a new challenge for myself: chillax and be happy, and when I’m sad, frustrated or angry, or if my feelings are hurt, I’m telling. So, I’ll listen to your complaining if you listen to mine. Even if it’s boring. Anybody want in on this action? I’m nothing if not generous with my solutions to life’s little problems.

Poem that Complains About the Heat, by Liliane Richman:

The Killer Heat

We’ve been in the hundreds
a couple weeks lasting
so unfair
fraying memory
of the changeling Spring
who lulled me
into believing
it would stay forever

This is what it looks like when things are going swimmingly.

This is what it looks like when things are NOT going so swimmingly.

QUESTION TO PONDER: When fish are whacked, do they say, “Yeah, Louie the Fin? He’s sleepin’ with the humans, now!”?

ANOTHER QUESTION: How would you punctuate that last question? I’m nothing if not puctual…

Things I Complained About in the Week I Gave Up Complaining

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#1 – New Mexico, including the climate, road system, alcoholism rate, dust, Hatch Chilis (not so special!) Southwestern Art and Kokopeli. I don’t know what got into me. Let’s just say I was not all that enchanted by the Land of Enchantment.

#2 – When Click and Clack, the Car Talk guys, laugh about things that are not funny, which is all the time. How funny can it be when you need to replace your catalytic converter or the heating coil? Woohoo, that’s a good one Click and Clack!

#3 – When Garrison Keillor sings. I gotta say, I grew up on A Prairie Home Companion, and while I don’t seek it out, when it comes on my local NPR station (Holla, KERA!!!), I feel a lovely, warm, nostalgic wave. I like the sound effects, some of the running characters, and even the news from Lake Woebegone. I realize this shatters your image of me as one of the COOL KIDS, but I cannot lie. I like A Prairie Home Companion…until Garrison sings! I hate it when he sings, especially when he has a real singer on the show and feels that we would all appreciate Garrison adding his particular old guy croak of a voice to his/her song. He’s a man of many talents; why does he have to sing?! Ooh! That pisses me off! Makes me want to stab him roughly and repeatedly with a lambda probe (see handy schematic above).

4. Heat and all things heat-related. I’m an outdoorsy kinda gal – no, really! I enjoy getting out in nature (especially if it’s a controlled kind of nature) and mixing it up with the elements, but DAMN! It’s hot in the summer! I’m sick of sweat, sunscreen sweating down my face into my eyes, sweat-stench, changing my sweaty clothes, wearing clothes, sweating in the shower, sweating in bed (but not the good kind), heat stroke, heat waves, hot flashes, when the steering wheel in my oven of a car is too burning hot to touch, and being blinded by the sun when driving my oven of a car. I don’t like when people say, “Hot enough for ya?” or “Whew! It sure is hot!” or “Well, she’s either drunk or passed out from the heat; poke her with a lambda probe and see if she comes to!” I also hate when Paris Hilton says, “That’s hot,” and that she had the balls to trademark the phrase, but that’s a whole different rant. By the way, I don’t understand this diagram at all. Science! What the hell?!

5. I don’t like when people say farewell to dead people. It seems so condescending. What mortal ever has fared poorly at death? It’s the one thing with which we are pretty much guaranteed success.
So, that’s only five complaints. Not bad! I realized some important things with this little experiment. People complain a lot, and it’s hard not to join in. There is a sincere desire to complain to show empathy. We complain more about small things than large. We complain to make conversation and to show that we understand the human condition. We complain in literature, poetry, art and song. Many times, situations are bad, and we feel powerless, so all we can do is complain; it makes us feel slightly empowered. Or culture encourages complaining; after all, the squeaky wheel gets the grease. Still, I am going to try to complain less. It’s boring and unattractive. Maybe if I complain less, I’ll be happier. Maybe if I spend more time thinking of good things with which to start a conversation, the dialogue will be more pleasant and productive for everyone. Of course, that takes a lot of planning and effort, and the spontaneous, organic nature of conversation will be ruined. Plus, nobody likes or trusts a Pollyanna. And also, it really is so damned hot…..

Yakety yak, don’t talk back!

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I think I am going to try not to complain for a whole week. This is a challenge I sincerely doubt I will be able to meet. Not only do I enjoy complaining, but I am also enamored of engaging in any of the acts synonymous with complaining, i.e., grumbling, grousing, griping or even growling. In fact, I feel great when I grasp the grooviness of a grand, graceful gripe! I gravitate towards groups of graybeards greedy to groan gregariously, and with gravitas, over matters both great and gram-like. (Alliteration – always a good time, but can be so addictive – not that I’m complaining!)But I digress. As I was saying, I come from a long line of kvetchers. I can’t help it. It’s in my blood.
I was a bit unsure as to what exactly constitutes a true complaint. I mean, if I tell someone about something that is negative that has happened, like the fucking caterpillars eating my beautiful tomatoes, but I just state it as a fact, is that complaining? If I someone asks, “What do you think about all the big blockbuster comedies coming out this summer?” and I tell the truth about how I don’t think they are funny, and that they’re stupid and I get really bored during the flick and start thinking that all of America is part of an idiocracy that just keeps getting dumb and dumber, is that complaining or just answering a question? (Did ya see how cleverly I worked in the titles of two such movies? I got it goin’ on!)
I went to an expert. My friend Denichiwa can complain fluently in two languages, and has the soul of a poet. She has raised the bitchfest to an art form. She says that a true harangue is dependant not only on content, but more importantly on tone and intent. This means that I will have to think before I speak of not only what I say, but how I say it. ‘Pre-think’, as I like to call it, is not my strong suit. I’m more of a let-it-flow kind of gal. Still, I decided that I was up for the challenge. I am resolved not to pollute the cosmic, karmic airwaves with my poisonous negative vibes, at least not for a week.
Of course, one should never be too hasty when embarking on such a daunting trial.
As fate would have it, on Monday, when I decided to quit whining, I had a doctor’s appointment. To not complain at the doctor’s office is irresponsible. Patients have the obligation of holding nothing back from their chosen medical professional. So I complained about everything: waking up to pee in the night, allergies, the heat, vertigo, impetigo (I don’t know what this is, but I think I probably have it) moles, weak ankles, hdl, ldl, dsl, the lds, how tightly the blood pressure cuff squeezes, hair that is lacking in luster, dry skin, entropy, plastic surgeons who did that to Michael Jackson’s nose even if he asked for it, Sarah Palin, things that look delicious but aren’t, summer movies, dental floss, how pets won’t clean up after themselves, fucking caterpillars*, cleaning the toilet, not clean toilets, when the lid of your urine specimen cup falls into the toilet, blog entries that go on for too long, the education system, the sewer system, the renal system, war (past, present and future), Drew Barrymore’s childish lisp, how my sister is always right about everything – you name it, I complained about it.
I have to say, I feel much better. Cleansed, even. Lighter. Almost holy. I am ready to shut my piehole and not whine for a week. I’ll let you know how this develops.
*The word ‘fucking’ is used here as an adjective, not a verb, though I imagine the actual act would be a cause of myriad complaints.
http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/piehole

Reminder

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Come on people, let’s give the latest Writer’s Challenge that ol’ college try! I’ve received some that are fabulous, but, as always, I want more! Bring it on! The challenge was to write about something you witnessed. There are no restrictions as to style or form. So easy! Want me to do another one? OK, I will!

Strange land
Roman ruins, the blare of angry traffic
Seat of history, mystery and romance
Under fragrant, lilac wisteria
In the corner
Of a park
Near a pond, with a fountain, kissed by the sun

High noon:
Quacking ducks,
Happy daffodils,
Laughing children in shorts and strollers
I saw three boys beat another almost to death

Blood arcing from his face
as graceful as the water in the fountain
Dancing in the sky
Ruby droplets spinning in the sun
Crashing, splashing hard
On silent, cold cement.
Ummm, yeah… I’ve witnessed some pleasant things, too! One time I saw a proud, gleeful cat run from a lake with a big fish in his mouth. Of course, that wasn’t too pleasant for the fish. Anyway, you get the idea, right? Come on, WRITE!!! You said you would! It’s good for you! Do it!

Hilarious Bonus:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vJUlcIDsVM

Dream On

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Lately I have been keeping a dream journal. This is mostly because I wake up 5 or 6 times a night, and I wanted to know why, so I thought maybe if I wrote down what was going on when I woke up, I could figure out why I wasn’t able to sleep. Of course, the acts of waking up, flipping on the light, and searching for a pen and paper to write down the dream are all conducive to jolting me thoroughly awake, which hasn’t really been so helpful. I have taken to writing in the dark on Kleenexes from the box on my nightstand. Again, this has not proven to be ideal. Still, I am learning some things that are seemingly important and revealing. For example, it seems I am overly concerned with the possibility that there is a rising trend among my friends and acquaintances to keep wild, vicious animals as pets. On Monday, at approximately 4:13 in the morning, I dreamed the adorable adopetd wolf cub of my dream neighbor leapt over the fence to rip my arms off. My dream neighbor was Paul Rudd, and I’m pretty sure he is sweet on me, but that has nothing to do with the dream. On his way over the fence, he- the wolf, not Paul Rudd- morphed from a fuzzy, cheerful furball of a cub into an enormous bear who apparantly was offended by my appendages. Evidently the grizzly had never heard of my right to bare arms, and his huge, razor-sharp bear claws (Yum!) left me only a gushing, bloody shoulder stump before I woke up, sweaty and panicked.

During the course of the week I was attacked by a squirrel (just because they are small doesn’t mean that they are not wild or vicious) that my friend E. was nursing like a baby (Gross!), and I ran screaming from a nutria that was living in Paul Rudd’s pool. Paul Rudd had invited me over for a little night swim – told ya he likes me! In the dark, I mistook the rodent for a floatie. HORRIFYING, I tell ya! Really put the kibosh on any sweet, sweet liquid lovin’ for me and Paul Rudd. Then last night, my friend Mary brought her pet cougar over to watch “The Biggest Loser” with us. Having learned a thing or two over the last couple nights, I was adamant about letting her know where I stand on the wild, vicious animals as pets thing. ” Number One, ” I said, “your cougar scares me. He’s big and sinewy, and his breath smells like carcass. He likes to play that game “swallow-your-head” all the time, and I’m just not into it. And B, he takes MASSIVE dumps!” I pointed over to my king-sized waterbed, where Mary had spread pounds of kitty litter. The cougar dropped a steamy load, growled, and cuffed me on the back of the neck, knocking me into the closet. Nightmare #543, right?

When I told Mary about the dream, she said, “You don’t have a waterbed. Look at you, dreaming about cougars and getting a little of the motion of the ocean in your bed! It’s not the size of the ship, know what I mean?”

I had no idea as to what she meant.

“You ARE the cougar, get it?! It’s summer time, and you’re a hot, older lady on the prowl! RAWRRR!”

Wow. Hot, older lady. Like Carole Channing? Joanne Whorley? Mrs. Roper? Great.

So what have we learned here?

Number 1: I love Paul Rudd, and he loves me. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XFXm4qj54hU

Number 2: Wild animals should be left in the wild. You can never train them, they will never be your friends, and they will always want to eat you.

“Hush your mouth, trained white tiger! I am master of the cats, and I know you are my friend!” Roy

Number 3: Sometimes even domesticated animals, or even good friends should be left in the wild. Sometimes so-called friends who call you “older” should not be allowed to watch quality television programming and eat Tofutti Cuties in your house.

Number 4: I think Paul Rudd is younger than I am. Maybe I could be a cougar. RAWWRRR!

Pretty hot, non?!

I’ll keep you posted on any other dreamemories as they develop. I leave you know with some words to ponder, digest, and finally, to live with, by the reknowned psychedelic philosopher, Steven Tyler:
I know what nobody knows
Where it comes and where it goes
I know its everybodys sin
You got to lose to know how to win

Think about it.

Watch and learn!

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Hi, there!*

I think I have decided on my next writer’s challenge. This one is called “Bearing Witness”, and the assignment is to write about a time when you saw something unexpected. This can be in any format; poetry, prose, short story, essay – whatever. I’m going to try to keep mine short; I’m thinking I’ll do moments in time that revealed something interesting or unusual. Like one time, when I was in Paris, I was on the subway, trying to look native and bored. We roared through a tunnel and screaked** to a stop, where I was to exit. You don’t have too much time to get your stuff together on the Metro before the doors open and then close again, and if you miss your window of opportunity, that’s how the train rolls. I was watching as the car pulled into the station. Up ahead in the crowd of people, a lady in a black coat and a purple scarf caught my eye. She was facing a handsome man who was holding both of her hands in his. They looked like they were about to kiss. The train stopped right in front of them and the doors slid open. All of a sudden, the woman yanked her hands from the man’s as if they were burning her, and she burst into tears. She turned on her heel and I saw her face and she saw me. Such pain! Her heart was breaking. She seemed naked, but not so much in a hot way. So angry,and fierce, but also vulnerable, puny na d frightened. It was all so raw and powerful. Tears welled in my own eyes. I put my hands on the window. The man came after her, worried, shaken. “Sylvie, please!” The doors glided together. Her purple scarf fluttered in the whoosh of air the subway left in it’s wake. I missed my stop.

Sad, huh? I wonder what happened and how things turned out. The whole thing only took a few minutes, maybe just seconds, but I’ve never forgotten it. I have a million moments like this, though many are happier, some funny, some scary or poignant. A few seem to reveal great truths; others, meaningless but memorable. La vida del voyeur. Send me what you have witnessed, and I’ll post it. You can either email me or leave it in the comments section of this blog. Do it! How often do you get a chance to share one of life’s little pearls with perfect strangers***? Come on!

*Try reading this in the voice of Freddie “Boom Boom” Washington. Ah, sweet sweathog! You and Vinnie are never far from my heart…

** But it should be a word, right?!

*** And by “perfect strangers”, I mean me and my mom, as we are the only people who read this blog anyway, and she only does it when I guilt her into it.