Introducing Atticus!

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So, the little dog’s name is Atticus, after a true hero, Atticus Finch. If he was one-dimensional, he’d be flatticus. After he returns from his walk, he has shatticus. If he was feline, he’d be kitty catticus. (I recently tried this terrific comic patter out on a good friend, as kind of a hilarity preview. When I get to this point- the “golden arch”, as I call it- she said, and I’m quoting here, “I don’t have to listen to this shit.”  This proves to me that she doesn’t get the sophistication of my humor, and that I just might be – dare I say it?-the Lenny Bruce or Mitch Hedberg of my generation. The great ones are always misunderstood.)

I like Atticus now, but for awhile, I was  NOT into him. See, he can be a real asshole. Sometimes, just for fun, he’ll gnaw on my skull when I bend down to tie my shoe, which I have to do all the time, because he demands about 40 walks a day. he wants me to get up with the sun to go for a wee promenade, and he whines if he doesn’t get his way. Perhaps you will recall that I do NOT like to be told what to do. He doesn’t care. He’s seven months old, but he acts like he’s only five months, like a stupid dog baby. He shits wherever he wants and acts like he can’t clean it up, and when I stick my hand into a sweaty little plastic bag to scoop it, you know, to be cool, I notice, as I clutch a squishy, steaming, repulsive mound of doo that he has chewed holes into the plastic. What a dick! I swear I can hear him laughing. Also when we walk, he tries to rip my arm out of its socket and drag me down the street like a queen ( I had a little trouble of thinking of an appropriate comparison of something you drag.) Especially if we see a squirrel or a cat. Or a bird. Or sometimes a flower. When I don’t let him pull me, he bites the leash, head butts me, or works a tooth into the bottom of one of his plastic poop bags. As I alluded to before (see ‘sweaty, steaming, squishy mound of filthy poop in a plastic wrapper that works like a shit strainer’ reference above.) Uncool! Why would anyone do that?

Because of him, I am way behind on my TV. I’m way behind on everything. I can’t read, can’t write, can’t grade any papers…the dog is going to get me fired. Worse still, Atticus has exhibited signs of cruelty to my other pets, Junior, Duckless MacArthur and the twins.See if you can guess who is who. This is an odd turn of events, because these poor stuffed angels have been victimized before. I had an ex-boyfriend who would also torture them, sometimes in a rather obscene psycho-sexual, sociopathic manner. These sweet stuffed pals ask for nothing, and are the absolute least deserving of such abuse. Still, just because Duckless is hot, he is treated like a plaything. Junior is just the sweetest little corporate bear you have ever laid eyes on (he was born in a Starbucks factory; is that his fault?) but he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, bless his heart, and everyone becomes wicked Uncle Ernie as soon as they see him. I don’t know why. Starbucks skimped on his little pillow brain, and he has had to pay for it over and over again. The twins are special. Just because they look a little unusual, people hate. (Unless you are a direct descendant of the original Siamese twins, Cheng and Eng; then they look pretty common, right? It’s all in the perspective, baby!)  Different is beautiful and conjoined is sublime! Attticus tried to separate them at the carotid artery, and he attempted to bury Junior alive under the prickly holly bushes outside. He wanted to mount the duck, repeatedly, which is the same reaction the ex-boyfriend had to the this fowl tempter. I am disappointed to report that this behavior was NOT the reason the relationship with said ex-paramour was terminated, but I kid you not, from now on, fellating  a stuffed animal is going to be a deal breaker, and I simply will not tolerate it.

So yeah, Atticus has his faults. He isn’t the hero I thought he’d be, though he does hold his urine all night long, which requires a heroic effort of which I personally am no longer capable. He has a ways to go before he saves Tommy from falling down the well. But he’s cute. He trots like a little lamb, if sheep trot. People stop me on the street to ask about him. Note the looks of enchantment on their faces. He’s especially cute when he sleeps: I had to give him a quaalude to get this shot. Kids, do you remember ‘ludes?

Anyhoo, now I love him. He makes me sit quietly and watch the night while he digs up the radishes in my garden. He’s so happy in the morning when I finally wake up. We walk for miles and meet new people and new dogs. I know he’ll be there when I get home. He follows me all around the house and eats the crotches out of my panties. He loves my niece, and she loves him, and he is allowed to go to Friday night dinner with my family, a very high honor indeed. Atticus, not so baddicus!

BONUS: For Milo

Epitaph May 2011

We are mourning the passing of Milo

Sweet prince of a cat with a dreamer’s face

and miss the unique trombone voice he used to express himself

We shall not forget you

Liliane Richman May 23, 2011

Rest in peace, Milo Butters. We loved you.

Lost and Found

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It’s been almost a month since I have written. It’s not that I have lost the will; lately, I haven’t found the time. Thanks to Becky for noticing I was gone! Anyway, here are some other things I have lost or found since I last checked in.

Found: First robin’s eggs, in various shades of Tiffany’s box, officially marking the most glorious season of all, Spring! I think finding one unexpectedly means good luck, and I pick them up and cradle them carefully all the way home, where I put them in a small square vase. Every time I look at them, I’m struck. They are so delicate and thin, but are colored so lushly and extravagantly. Admiring them, I feel like surely the good and the wondrous are everywhere, and that possibility is bursting forth all the time.

Found: A story by Robert Coover in an old NewYorker. I love me some Coover. He is a professor at Brown University who has been described as a “metafiction fabulist”. I don’t know what that means, but it’s a pretty cool way to be described, right? I first read him in a college anthology in the post-modernists section, which again, means-nothing-but-fun-to-say. The story, which was written in 1969, the year I joined the good folks of the Daisy Mae Yahoo Ranch for the Progressively Evolving and Hopelessly Deconstructed*,  was called “The Babysitter”, and I have already written about it in this blog, so if you want to read it or readmore of what I have to say about it, find it in that weird word cloud or the tag list. Anyway, I found this new story, “Going For A Beer”, and yes, ladies and germs, even when not tripping balls with the hipsters of my youth, I still love me some Coover! He does a lot of strange things with temporal perception; his stories always remind me of that Super Elastic Bubble Plastic stuff I used to play with as a kid, but which was so much fun, but which I guess was actually toxic, as I haven’t seen it in at least twenty years.Must See TV presents “Coover Town”, starring your friend, Courtney Cox! It’s an angst-ridden, hilarious pre-natal, post-partum, pre-pubescent, frustrated adolescent, shamefully narcissistic, fleetingly satisfied, achingly longing, grindingly monotonous, dutifully perormed,  pseudo-psycho-sexual, post-modern-fabulist romp through the fads and foibles of middle aged depressive light hearted tragicomedy! RAWR!!!!

* None of that meant anything either, but there is something so satisfying about spewing ridiculous misinformation as if it was the truth, for no reason except to just do it! Good times!

http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2011/03/14/110314fi_fiction_coover.

Then, when I was looking for the link above for you lucky lamb chops, I found this article on my boyfriend, David Eagleman, from another old New Yorker, and it’s all about time, which you know I love to obsess on, and I know you love to read me obsess about! Man-O-Man! O ye gods of serendipitous synchronicity, receive my huzzahs and exultations as I fall on bended knee to praise your bad-assedness! It doesn’t get much better than this! http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/04/25/110425fa_fact_bilger

*BtDubs: the article is long, but it really is fascinating. The Coover story is short, but is a perfect companion for the article, as it looks at time like the dilation and constriction of an eye, expanding between past and present, or narrowing sharply to focus on a moment. Outstanding!

Found: Lots of plants in my garden that I did NOT plant, but that are growing magnificently on their own intrinsic motivation! The technical gardener word for plants like this are “volunteers”, but I like to call them “Palinesque”, because they just go rogue and pop up whether you want them or not. Fortunately, my tomatoes, cantaloupes, peppers and basil aren’t assholes from Alaska, so it’s all very exciting. I also have beans, radishes, Japanese eggplants, turnips, onions, roses, cosmos, daisies, asparagus, carnations, carrots (oh boy!), and herbs galore!

Found: Music to look forward to! My friend has a band who put out a cd and I like it, which is kind of rare. I mean, I love my friends, and some of them are really talented, but lots of times their stuff is …well, you know, to each her own, right? I can’t help it; even though I don’t know anything about music and have no right to judge, I’m picky. But, I can honestly say I love this cd. It’s called “Dirty”, and the band is the Electro-Magnetics. Go here to listen to some of  it: http://www.theelectromagnetics.com/#!__songs. For still more titillation, (Grrr! Now there’s a word that means business!) here’s a photo:

Watching the band from under the tableAlways leave ’em wanting more, that’s what I say! No, seriously folks, here’s a better picture:

Oh, snap, suckah! I played you again! Guess you’ll just have to check them out for yourselves!

Also, that band I told you about from Austin, Okkerville River, are putting out a new cd on May 10. I realize that they are not for everybody, but I am a fan, and I can’t wait! Listen to that cd here:

http://www.npr.org/2011/05/02/135734357/first-listen-okkervil-river-i-am-very-far

Lost: My ability to sleep through the night. It’s been touch and go for awhile, but it’s all over now. Thank goodness for the BBC. And Nyquil, or as I like to call it, “Crystal Blue Persuasion.” I am growing fond of the mild hallucinations I succumb to during the day, so the sleep deprivation really isn’t all that bad.

Lost: My patience. I am so glad the school year is almost over, because I am really finding it difficult to be tactful or polite to those I work with every day. A boy told me he didn’t know why he couldn’t remember to bring paper to school with him, and it was all I could do not to tell him that the obvious reason that he had these lapses was because he was very, very stupid, and that I have known that ever since I met him last year, when he was a freshman for the first time. I told my principal that I had to break protocol by calling an ambulance for a student that couldn’t breathe and was having chest pains instead of taking her to the clinic because the nurse is incompetent and doesn’t have the authority to hand out aspirin, and that she could stick her protocol in her protocolon. OK, I didn’t actually say that, but I thought it really loudly. And finally, I told these kids who have been shyly flirting with each other for the entire year to go ahead and get a room and get it over with, because their pent-up hormonal desire was becoming tiresome and quasi-distasteful to me. Oh, all right! Again, I guess the word ‘told’ is a little strong here, as no actual words escaped my throat. Still and all, I really feel like I’m gonna blow soon, fo’ reals!

Found: I found a field full of fireflies. If you haven’t seen one lately, it is every bit as wondrous and delightful as you remember it to be.

Found: Under my bed, a shirt I have never laid eyes upon. That’s odd. It’s a little big and definitely not mine, but I do LOVE gifties, so I will accept it with pleasure.

Dear Universe,

Thank you for the shirt! It was very thoughtful of you, and I frequently find myself in situations in which it behooves me to not be naked, so I will be able to use it often. You always know just what I like! Love ya like a sis, and stay sweet,                                                                                                                                   AVR

Found: In TIME magazine, it was reported that Americans purchased approximately 330 million cases of wine in 2010, making us for the first time the world’s largest wine-consuming nation. USA! USA! I really had to step up my own personal boozing to help us kick some French wino ass, but I’m a patriot, and I do what I can, selflessly, so here’s to me! Of course, I didn’t do it alone, and so I’d like to thank a few of those that helped me achieve this honor:
Please note that most of these lushes are three fisted drinkers, and only one of them is still able to stand. Everyone meant to show how much fun they were having for the photo, but their mouth muscles were too drunk to smile. It happens.

I think someone slipped a tiny oil slick into this glass. That’s all right. A little BP additive just lubes the throat and helps everything slide down real quicklike.

When I drank this glass, I saw drunk people! Creepy, right?

Anyhow, I know I am forgetting someone or something, but that’s the beauty of being hammered.

So, all things considered, many gains to few losses; it’s been a terrific month! I did miss you, though…

Oh yeah! I almost forgot! I also found a dog! I found him at the pound, where, coincidentally, I was looking for him.

Congratulations to Bonnie and Matthew on their wedding, and to Big Salty on her upcoming birthday! Also, Happy-So-Close-To-Being-A-Full-On-Mom to JR and to all you Big, Bad Muthas out there, Happy, happy day to you!



All Roads Lead to Me!

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When I was a little girl, the skin on my shoulders and chest was very white and delicate, almost transparent. My veins stood out like turquoise ropes, and that embarrassed me. I told my dad about how I felt, and I think I may have cried a little.

He sat me on his lap and held me in his arms, and I was a tiny pearl, safe in her oyster.

“You are beautiful,” he said. “You have an especially big heart, and your veins draw a map to it, so that everyone will know how perfect you are.”

I pictured tiny people in miniature trucks,  pulled over on dusty roads, consulting the little, squiggly blue lines on their creased road maps, trying to figure the most direct way to get to my heart and see my goodness. My dad always loved a good road trip, and I liked to stay up late while my mom and sister slept in the back seat, to help him navigate and listen to Radio Mystery Theater.

Good answer, Dad.


Utah Moon

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Tonight I tried and tried to photograph the the moon, but no image was as beautiful as the sliver that got caught in my eye… I didn’t take this picture. This here’s a Utah moon. I got it off of the Google. But did I ever tell you about when I used to be a Native American and lived in Bluff, Utah for awhile? That was weird. Here are some pictures from then:


Where the Rubber Meets the Road

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This morning on my way to work, I started thinking of the phrase “where the rubber meets the road.” Maybe I heard it on the radio or something. I pondered it for awhile as sort of a philosophical question: what is the exact point where the rubber meets the road?Why is that point more important or meaningful than the moment that directly precedes it or that which follows it? I considered the efficacy of the phrase as a metaphor; when you think about it, really, what does that even mean? What happens when the rubber meets the road? Progress? Forward momentum? What if you’re in reverse? I noted the similarities and differences of rubber on the wheel and the tar on the road; you know, both come from trees, both melt, both smell, stuff like that; and then I realized that ten minutes had gone by and that, even for me, this line of thought was unusual, especially at 7:30 in the morning, so I let it go and concentrated on not hitting pedestrians.

Later, I was teaching my head off about success, its definition, and what one needs to have, foster or obtain to achieve it. My students love when we have topics like this, because that means we will have lots of discussions and they can ask me questions about my personal life that will distract me and get me off on tangents, and by the time I get to their writing assignment, we will only have three minutes left in class, so we might as well just save it for next time instead of doing it for homework.

“So what you’re saying to me is that success depends more on the attempt, or the striving, than it does on the actual achieving? Is that right? It’s the journey, not the arrival?”

“Miss, you were a bartender, right? Did you feel successful when you got people really drunk on tequila?”
Just then, from behind me, the door opened, and over my head, in a perfect arc, sailed a condom filled with water. It exploded under a desk on the black, four-inch spike heel of Enjoli, a young lady who had recently had her named tattooed on her neck.

“Oh, hell, no! Was that Shequavia? Did anyone see that fat tranny? I will rip out her weave and stuff it down her throat!”

“Ah,” I thought. “Where the rubber hits the floor! Now, that makes total sense!”

There is one thing that continues to baffle me about the whole episode, though. The prophylactic was a bright, neon blue. Why would anybody buy a neon blue rubber? It’s like dressing up your penis like a disco wiener, or a clown willie, or a really extroverted scuba sausage. A cockstume, if you will. That’s just ridickulous.

I saw this in this Paris outside of the subway. The caption says, “Man’s best friend.” It’s part of an AIDS prevention program. Clever, huh?

Lovely to See You Again, My Friend

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Last night I dreamed my car was stolen while I was taking a nap in it. I was sleeping in the driver’s seat because I couldn’t go into this scary house filled with weird relatives I had never met, because there was a wild wombat running around that no one else but me could see. Since I don’t really know what I wombat is, in the dream it was a lightening-fast, matted-furred shadow that hurtled out of nowhere to wombat me in the knees, and then disappeared before anyone else noticed him.
Wombat?

As my car was being towed through a maze of dark alleys populated with nefarious hoodlums, I managed to call 911 on my cellphone.

“Hello? 911? My car is being stolen and I’m in it!” I whispered loudly. Even though the chances of the person towing the car hearing me on the phone while driving in a completely separate vehicle are slim, I’m not really one to take chances.

“Oh! Well! That’s not good, is it?” The 911 operator seemed a little too cheerful to assuage my growing panic. “Well, we’ve got you on the world-wide radar, so I’ll send someone out to find you. Your service number is ‘B, as in Boy; R, as in Rectum; 9…”

I had to hang up suddenly because we had come to a stop. I dropped my phone in my pants so that when the bad guys found me, they wouldn’t find the phone when they frisked me, and I’d be able to have constant communication with the police when I made my Die Hard-like escape. 

I waited. Nothing happened. I heard a man call, “Petunia! Pickles! Where are ya’s?” A screen door squeaked open and slammed shut. A breeze came through the sliver of window I had left open. I smelled bacon.

Tentatively, I opened the car door. I put one foot down, then the other. I stood up behind the cover of the car door, and my phone immediately fell through my pantleg to the muddy ground. Should have put the phone in my panties. And set it to vibrate. Ah, hindsight!

As I reached for it, I heard a low growl-snarl from some hideous, feral beast. It was coming from behind me.

You will probably find this hard to believe: sometimes, even in my dreams, I am not so brave.

I stood stock still, with my eyes closed. I did not breathe. I made myself invisible.

Well, I couldn’t see me anyway, on account of my closed eyes, but the beast could, and it’s  rabid, plaque-encrusted, yellow fangs sliced cleanly into my calf. Just then, as I was feeling a bit woozy with a touch of the vapors, there was all kinds of commotion; chickens squawked, hounds barked, porch doors squeaked and slammed, frying pans sizzling with bacon fell into sinks. From the distance I heard the bass-line of Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold”.

I opened my eyes to see a short man who looked a lot like Maude’s husband, Walter, only a lot more skeezy and menacing.

At his heels was a vicious, howling, crazed Pomeranian, obviously bred for illegal dog fights and craving blood. Still gnawing on my calf so fervidly that all I could really see was an enormous bat ear and a wildly rolling eye was a Nosferatu-chihuahua, the most ferocious of an already overly aggressive and inbred breed.

“Petunia!” Walter shouted. “Leggo that lady!”

It is impossible for chihuahuas to obey commands, because their walnut sized brains are jammed too tightly into their head casings. That is why they are always angry, and why they shiver even in the summer. They are deranged and act purely on their killer instincts.

Walter set about detaching his carniverous rat from my leg and said, “Sorry you got bit, lady, but that’s whut you git when you cross onto property that aren’t yer own.” He worked Petunia’s snaggle fang from my flesh and held her like a baby, which repulsed me.

I didn’t think. I didn’t have a plan. I just reacted. I looked him on the eye and punched him in the face. I don’t think I have ever punched anyone in my life, and it felt great. I liked it so much, I punched Petunia in her face, too, and I tried to step on Pickles tail as he attempted to slink away. Pomeranians are pussies, like mops with mouths.

Walter looked at the blood that was flowing from his right nostril onto his dingy white tank top. Out of nowhere he was holding one of those big, double-barreled rifles that Elmer Fudd or Fifty Cent carries.

Uh-oh. I did not see that coming.

All at once I knew that it was all over for me. I had used violence imprudently and now I was going to pay the price. Curtains. Lights out. And….scene.

But where were the cops? They said they had me in their cyber-eye! What about the big shoot-out where some Officer Studley folds me into his muscle-bound arms like a protective wing, while bullets whiz by, and pieces of cement chip off of walls and rain down slow motion plaster snow onto a black and white set? As the bullets ping off the parked cars, Officer Studley pulls me down into a clump of grass and covers me with his body, but I squirm free and grab a gun out of his pocket – at least I think that’s a gun in his pocket, but maybe he’s just happy to – no, wait that’s definitely a gun, and I stare into his mirrored sunglasses and say, with a jaunty, fearless grin, “Good always triumphs over evil, Officer Studley, and I am going to live to show you that I’m awful damn good!” He smiles, too, a perfect Pepsodent smile, and I hear him say, even over the bullets and the barking and all, “Gosh, you’re beautiful!”

But actually, that part didn’t happen in the dream I had last night. That part only happened in the dream I’m having right now. So where were we?

Right. Lights out and all that. I look down the vacant street for the cavalry. Nobody. Nothing to do but try to be invisible again. I close my eyes and hear Walter cock his shotgun, or whatever you do with a shotgun.

And then I hear another sound. It’s a thunderous bark, deep and sonorous, but it doesn’t scare me at all; I know that bark, though I haven’t heard it in years. I open my eyes just in time to see the figure of a dog, sleek, strong and massive, gracefully jumping the fence and swallowing Petunia in one gulp before leaping on Walter, who was quaking with fear, and knocking the gun from his hands. It hit the ground and fired, instantly vaporizing Pickles in a cloud of fur. The big dog turned and looked at me, smooth fur like black ink, ears slightly raised and alert. I took in the white patch on his chest and his soft, warm, brown eyes. He wagged his enormous plume of a tail.

“Sidney! Sid! Oh, Sid!” He ran to me and I got down on my knees and hugged him, felt the great barrel of his chest heaving and the muscles of his back taut and firm. He licked me and I kissed him and I was so, so glad to see him, because, after all, he’d just saved my life, and I loved him and he loved me, and also because it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him.

He’s been dead about seven years now. I’ve never had a pet since, because I can’t imagine ever loving one as much.

Man, he was one great dog.


Here is a poem my mom wrote about seeing someone again in a dream:

Fred

Strolling through invented yet familiar sights
Even if in my heart of hearts
I know I have seen them before
probably in the course of other serendipitous excursions
through the night
when everything is so very real

The breezy day draped in noir no surprise
a gauzy film a clever decoupage
superimposed over radiant daylight in Paris
nurturer of my dreams
the nouveau the deco buildings shine
the buzz the beat of the city a compact blend
music of a guitar passers by
their conversational voices and suddenly I hear his
my beloved Fred
I run to him he is unchanged
in another dimension
features brighter sharper
erasing need of a photograph for recall

I cry for joy
You are not dead
I love you so
He consoles me we hug
an overwhelming peace embraces us
alas a movement a tear in the fabric
I fight the untimely waking
there are tears on my cheek

Liliane Richman, 2011. Copywrite. All rights reserved and used by permission.

BONUS!!!!!! http://miamiflorida.wordpress.com/2008/03/29/wombat-rape-claimed-to-cause-australian-mans-accent-change/

OTHER BONUS!!!!!!!! This picture of Ted Nugent reminds me of my friend Bryan Wakeland. If you know my friend Bryan, you will think this is funny.


If You Build It, They Will Come…and They Will Pay For It, Too!

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So, ever since I got this fantastic new web-planet which broadcasts all me, all the time (jus’ the way I likes it!), I haven’t written a word. Nothing. Nadissimo. Nyet.

I have my reasons. Step off Nosy Nelly, and quit your prying ways!

Still, I feel badly about it. I know you depend on me to tell you what the cool kids are wearing, or how to pick up chicks by the copy machine, or what kind of pliers to use on the heating coil orbaspectrophone manifest. I feel your pain when I don’t write, and believe you me, it hurts me deeply. Ouch.

Here’s the thing, though. I’ve been busy. The garden won’t plant itself, and March is birthday season. And I went to Build-A-Bear with my niece, which was quite the experience.

First you pick out a fluffy animal  carcass. All the Build-A-Bear buddies start out as soft flaccid skins, which reminds me of something I can’t quite place right now; hmm, maybe if I give it time, it will come… anyway, they even have Owl Build-A-Bears, which I think is some sin against nature; I mean, owls are wise and bears are assholes – how’s that personality combination supposed to work as a toddler’s fluffy friend? It’s like creating a toy that is constantly totally enticing and always coming up with innovative and efficient ways to rip your baby’s head off and suck out his still beating heart, while posing the ever-intriguing question, “Who? Who?”  A cuddly smart bastard, that’s all that is!

So, you pick out your animal and then they give you a tiny heart pillow that says “I love you” -you can pay extra for one that actually beats or plays a ditty – and then they make the kid perform some Jedi voodoo ritual that activates innate Build-A-Bear powers (“Hold the heart up to your right ear…no, the other right! That’s it! Now rub it gently on your ear so that your Build-A-Bear can hear all of your secrets, no matter how softly you whisper them…”). Then a friendly looking college student on Spring Break, who applied just a wee bit late for the cool mall jobs at Chik-Fil-A or Abercrombie and Fitch, and got stuck at Build-A-Bear comes up to you with a fluff-blowing wand-machine gadget and says, “Want me to stuff your kitty, little girl?”

That was probably my favorite part of the day. That kid was everything I like in a man: willing and with his own power tools. Can’t beat that combo, I tell you what!

So anyhow, then he jabs the animal with the wand (I guess by now you know we chose a kitty Build-A-Bear, which is not the worse combination; at least you know to run when the little jerk starts twitching it’s tail and squinting it’s eyes. Stupid cats! They think they’re so hard to figure out!) He blows it full of stuffing, and then ties a bunch of knots in a secret special rigging technique known only to the cadre of highly trained Build-A-Bear professionals that seals up the now fat cat’s back, and then the kid is free to play with the plush toy by giving it an air bath (air bath? What the hell’s an air bath? Do I have to pay extra for the air?), and fluffing it with little brushes and combs. Then the kid takes the  parent through a gauntlet of Build-A-Bear accessories, and $4, 374.21 later, the Build-A-Experience comes to an end.

It was well worth it. I even bought the kitty, which she named Lulu Butters, tiny underwear with a cut-out place for a tail. And sunglasses with rhinestones in them for Lulu’s light sensitive plastic eye units. My niece wrote me a card that said I was “the best ant ever.” I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I might even pay extra for a ditty.

P.S. I send a huge appreciation shout out to all of you who took the time to comment on the new site, and also to those of you who sent me or my family good thoughts for my mom. She is doing marvelously, and I really am thankful for the support!

We’ll leave the light on…

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Hi there! You found me! Welcome to my very own website! Isn’t it fabulous! My friend chm chm gave it to me because she found out that I did not own the content of my blog as long as it was on blogspot; in other words, everything I wrote was the property of Google, who had the right to delete it or edit it as they saw fit, without notification or reason. Also, with blogspot, if something goes wrong, there is nobody to talk to to help you fix it. That happened to McAdams, with a blog she was doing with her students on their reaction to the book Night, by Elie Weisel. Her students were happily contributing their ideas to the blog when all of a sudden their posts disappeared. POOF, just like that. She redid the entire blog twice, and it kept happening. Weird, huh? And who did she have to explain this possibly anti-Semitic censorship? Nobody! Oh, the cruel silence of the cold corporate entity!

If anything happens to The Smaller Adventure, chm chm will fix it. I just have to bitch about it and VOILA!  It is magically taken care of, with absolutely no effort on my part. I am extremely fond of absolutely no effort, so this works exceedingly well for me. We have great plans for all kinds of features and wicky-woos, so the site is a work in progress, but the good thing for you is now I am greater, stronger, smarter, more raw and undiluted than ever! I am a virtual whitewater cascade of clever, a big, sloppy bucket of yowza, a smorgasbord  of pretty witty ditties! With my own website I am a virtual PLANET in the the Interuniverse! Let’s face it people, this is what I have worked for and what I deserve! It’s one small step for Smaller Adventure, and one step away from being Oprah!

So I’m moving. And this is my new address. I won’t be posting to smalleradventure.blogspot.com anymore. If you go there and want to get here, just click the link. It’s a whole new world! Much as I hate change, I am excited about this one, and I hope that you join me.

If you want to sign up and have my posts sent straight to your email, jump in my box (but please, be gentle!) at the top right corner of the blog. If you want to  see if I’ve added anything by just checking randomly, gosh-dangit, do that! It really don’t make no never mind to me, so long as you keep comin’ back. And remember, we’ll leave the light on…

BONUS!!!! If you or your business have a website that needs maintaining, or if you would like one created, designed or customized for you, contact chm chm at: cmorris@me.com. You can also go to her website at geekadelic.com.


Just a Few Words…

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The Supreme Court recently clarified that freedom of speech, even if the subject, tone or intent of that speech is vile, incendiary, misguided or hurtful, is a sacrosanct and inalienable right in this country; for the time being, at least. Even though the Court found in favor of the vicious, hate-spewing, possibly inbred Phelps family that picket schools, funerals and public thoroughfares in the hopes of convincing the masses that we deserve the punitive fury of the Divine because we tolerate homosexuality*, I say, “Yay!” While I use that word often, it is one that is well-chosen, not just for its resounding affirmation, but also for its exuberance and joie de vivre. Even if your words are truly shitty, I think you should be able to speak them. I also believe there is a responsibility that comes with having a voice, and that you should think before you speak. Or type. Definitely before you text, especially if you’re drunk. Sometimes I forget that I believe this, and sometimes thinking is just too much effort, but I still want to talk or write, so I do it anyway, but this post isn’t about me, it’s about WORDS. Why don’t you just shut up, Imaginary Cyber-Conscience that’s always interrupting me? Always nagging, always whining! You’re not the boss of me! Shut it!

Like I was saying, words are potent. As Chief Justice John Roberts wrote in his ruling, “Speech is powerful. It can stir people to action, move them to tears of both joy and sorrow, and…inflict great pain.” In 1984, arguably the best book written in the history of ever, one of the cornerstones of mass control is the manipulation and restriction of words. This is a partial explanation of Newspeak, the language Orwell created in the book. Here Syme, who is working on the latest edition of the Newpeak dictionary, is speaking to Winston Smith, the protagonist of the story:

‘Don’t you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed, will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten. Already, in the Eleventh Edition, we’re not far from that point. But the process will still be continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a little smaller. Even now, of course, there’s no reason or excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It’s merely a question of self-discipline, reality-control. But in the end there won’t be any need even for that. The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and Ingsoc is Newspeak,’ he added with a sort of mystical satisfaction. ‘Has it ever occurred to you, Winston, that by the year 2050, at the very latest, not a single human being will be alive who could understand such a conversation as we are having now?’

Diabolically brilliant, non?

Self-expression is a gift we shouldn’t take for granted. Nate Fisher, the fictional character in Six Feet Under (played by Peter Krause, now Adam Braverman on Parenthood, if that means anything to you), said in one memorable episode that I have completely forgotten, “If there’s one thing about death I know it’s this: death will shut you up right quick, so if you have something to say in this world, just say it.” (I forgot the ep, but I wrote the quote down on a Kleenex that I’ve been carrying in my pocket ever since. I do that. I’m big on scraps and stickies.)
Of course, sometimes just saying it is easier said than done.
Henry B. Adams said: “No man means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean, for words are slippery and thought is viscous.” Robert Frost said “Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can’t, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.”
I was explaining the importance of choosing your words carefully to my 10 year old nephew, who I’ll call Eli in this blog. He was talking about how kids in his school use the “…B-word and the F-word and the C-word (I later found out that one was ‘crap’; who’d a thunk?) all the time,” and how there was profanity in the music that he likes, which includes Weezer, the Clash and Beck. He’s really cool.
I told him that those kids probably didn’t understand all the things the words could mean, and their connotations, and that if you were going to cuss, you should make sure that profanity was the best option for the situation. (I know what you are thinking here; something along the lines of “practice what you preach.” Shut yer piehole, Judgey! Nobody cares what you think and your mama’s ugly! Burn!)
Eli is profound, and has great depths of understanding.
“Yeah,” he concurred. “It’s gotta be at the right place at the right time. Like if you were in the bushes, takin’ a pee, and you really had to go, but then you got abducted, that would be a good time to let the F-word fly.”
Excellent speculation. That would probably be a fine time.
His sister, who is six, says “poop” a lot. Poop is a great word. Easy to say, easy to spell.
Here’s an interesting example of the use and interpretation of words:

Really, are those the words you would associate with this guy? Actually, now that I look a little closer, he kinda has it going on…

Here is a brief poem I wrote a long time ago about words, kind of. It’s called:
SCRAPS

Scraps of paper

In your pockets

In your shoes

In your memory

Shreds of love

Curled at the edges

Witty quips

Shards of a life

Stuffed in a pocket

To be read

and reread

Read between the lines

Underlined in red

Unfurled far away

In a piece of a place

A slip of a spark

Slipping

So little

So much

On a scrap of paper

Well, oddly, I’m out of words right now. I didn’t feel like I had too much to say, but I didn’t want to deprive you of me for more than a week. That would be uncool.

P.S. to Mr. Roll ‘Em If You Got ‘Em Mario: You’re in adenial …so clever!