On the road again…

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We started in Omaha, Nebraska. That’s a great first line to a novel nobody really wants to read, right? Don’t hate on Omaha, y’all! There’s a lot going on there, and I’ll tell you more about that later, because I’ll be back there before you know it. Here’s just a teaser for the Omaha homage I am going to write up: Omaha is the 40th largest city in the U.S.; a dog bit me there; I met the mayor, who was drunk and looking for a baby to kiss; I met the head of the mayor’s security detail, who was stone-cold sober and looking to kiss the mayor; and people get dressed up as superheros or furry creatures and roam the downtown area for no discernible reason. What’s not to love?
By 6 a.m., McAdams was up and at ’em, busily flying all around the house, last minute packing, loading up the car, blah, blah, blah. I’m not really the type to get up before my coffee’s been delivered, but I sat on the couch and kept her company, cuz I’m cool like dat. She loaded the suitcases and the cooler and a million other things we would soon deem unnecessary, and we were off! Lest you think I didn’t pull my weight, let me remind you, I have very delicate wrists that appear to be made of tiny hollow bird bones, so the union won’t let me do any heavy lifting. I’m not up to code.
The first day we were on the road for 10 hours. Here are some of things we saw:
*11 animals “sleeping” by the side of the road, including 3 possums, 2 raccoons, 2 deer, 1 half porcupine, half badger, a baby chupacabra, and two ULFM (Unidentified Large Furry Masses).
* A sign that informed us that Le Mars, Iowa, is “The Ice Cream Capital of the World.”
* 168 bikers, some with more than one “fatback” on the “hog”. (NOTE: I’m not exactly up on my biker lingo, so please don’t stab me if I don’t use the proper terminology.) I notice that almost all of these motorcycling enthusiasts are middle aged, and almost none of them wear a helmet, which is legal in some states, including South Dakota. There is a huge motorcycle rally in Sturgis, South Dakota every year, with bikers coming in from all over and loads of entertainment; this year Bob Dylan and Stone Temple Pilot are playing and Pee Wee Herman is showing up and Jim Rose of the Jim Rose Circus is the emcee. Have I told you yet that we are headed for South Dakota? We are!!! Congratualtions to Smurp for guessing right away.
* A trucker who looked just like Charles Manson, pre-forehead swastika, who tooted his horn and smiled a grisly, psycho killer smile at us.
*85 signs for Wall Drugs, that began at the beginning of the state and followed us all the way until, well, Wall Drugs. We didn’t stop, because we can’t be manipulated by hype and propaganda (and also because we decided we’d do it on the way back to Nebraska. Something to look forward to!)
* The following signs –
I’m Senor Weiner! You know you want me! (Advertising hot dogs…I think)
Candy Corn and New Potatoes, next exit (Yum! Another roadside farmer diversifies!)
Prepare to Meet Thy Maker (This one was in the middle of nowhere, stuck in a cornfield. It freaked me out for miles.)
2,500 loose slots- you’re bound to get lucky! (For a casino; gambling’s big in SD.)
Reptile Gardens – One of the Top Ten Places to Stay in America! (I don’t even need to comment on this one.)
*One awesome, way-cool sculpture garden off the highway near Montrose. I’ll post the pictures as soon as I have the technology.
*The following towns-
Burbank
Yankton (named after the famous Native American tribe that go around doing practical jokes and yankton my chain)
Vermillion
Winner
Pukwana
Murdo
Tea
De Smet (home of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s famous little house)
Spink
Wakonda
Reliance
Alcestor
Wasta
Viborg
Volin
and
Oblivion

The dog that bit me in Omaha is named Belle, so my Wild West name is going to be Belle Scar.

Oh Boy!

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Before I begin, a word to all you cyberstalkers, gangstas, hood rats, bad guys, evil doers and ne’er do wells: Don’t think that I am going on vacation and leaving Casa Paradiso unprotected and vulnerable. First of all, you don’t know where I live. You may think that I live in the city recently voted to be the second ugliest city in America (Detroit, we’re gaining on you!), but I am not going to confirm or deny that rumor. Second, I have people – large, powerful people- staying at the casa whilst I am away. I don’t want to scare you, but they come from the NEW YORK area and you might refer to them as “a family”; take that as you will. The “patriarch” of “the family” is named Mario, and he’s in “construction”; that’s all I’m saying, kapish?
I am going with McAdams to ….I’m still not ready to tell you where! The only guess anybody wagered was “to take a nap.” I like your thinking, but no, we are going to somewhere magical, mystical, and miraculous, some place exotic and off the beaten track…oh, it’s going to be so fun!
So, oh boy! Today is the day my friend McAdams and I are leaving for our annual roadtrip. You may remember her from the big Montana Adventure (adinarich.blogspot.com), where we drove 7,000 miles and conquered the wilderness for about a month. Perhaps you remember when we joined the Navajo nation in the Four Corners are of Utah. McAdams is key to these trips. She is in charge of planning, booking reservations, hotels and extras, driving, heavy lifting, packing, protecting me from wild beasts and rednecks, holding my hair if necessary, the itinerary, and adaptation to my whims and moods. I am in charge of chatter, research (factual or imagined) and not forgetting my toothbrush. Each of us has jobs that are customized to utilize or strengths, and we run like a confused gender African racer, which is to say real well.
So, what fantastic destination spot are we headed to now? Is the anticipation just killing you? Can you just not wait? OK, I’ll tell you…we’re going to South Dakota! WOOOOOHOOOO!!!!!!!!

Vacating the premises

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I am going on vacation. Actually, I have already been on vacation twice, and you didn’t even know I was gone! I don’t have to tell you every little thing! You’re not the boss of me! Anyway, now I feel like telling you about those trips, and so I will…if you can guess where I went. Here are two pictures from iconic places in the cities that were my last destinations:

So, did ya guess? Were you right? We’ll never know! Still, I’m having a great time playing this game, so I’ll just carry on.
The first set are from Salt Lake City. That’s the famous organ in the Mormon Tabernacle in Temple Square. It has 11, 623 pipes. That Brigham Young had a mighty big organ, I tell you what! The smallest of the pipes is only as big around as a pencil. It’s not the size of the pipe that matters, it’s how you blow it, right? The building that houses the proud organ, the Tabernacle, was built by a civil engineer in the domed shape of a bridge, because Brigham Young liked the acoustics under the Remington Bridge. Very clever, Brigham! The roof structure is nine feet thick, and lots of people thought it was destined to cave in on itself, but it has not had any structural problems in more than a century.
The second picture in the set shows Mormons from the Mormon Tabernacle. They will tell you pretty much anything about pretty much anything, whether you want to know it or not. In the picture they are telling where they are from, though I can’t recall anyone asking. The things they don’t seem to want to talk too much about are if their lives resemble the HBO series Big Love, if they want to be my sister-wife, and anything about the funny Mormon panties. http://www.mormon-underwear.com/
The second set of pictures are from….New York City! The first is of a building. New York has lots of buildings.
The second is one of many fantastic scenes carved into stairways, bridges and columns all over Central Park. They are very beautiful and I never saw two that were the same. The park is one of the greatest places EVER! It’s huge and diverse, with lots of different areas, and tons of stuff to do and see for everybody. All kinds of special things happen in the park; for example, in August, the play The Capeman by Derek Walcott and Paul Simon will be performed there. That’s a cool event, but hundreds of other once-in-a-lifetime things happen there every day; there are a million stories in the naked city, and here is one of them, written on the plaques three park benches:



Awww! So sweet! Here’s just one more perfect park moment:
Bubbles! Look how happy that kid is! Good times, I tell ya! Needless to say, I loved the park. Of course it can be very dangerous; I found that out the hard way. My NYC gal pal, E.D.B., plied me with sake and then took me for a midnight stroll through the park. It was dark and deserted. We wound our way deeper and deeper into the park, cuz E.D.B. is crazy like dat. She’s kind of gangsta from the hood. All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, an enormous RAT, big as a nutria, big as a Doberman-nutria, flashed his red, devil eyes at us and started chasing us across the bridge! You heard me, CHASING US! That rat had Big Apple balls, I tell you what! He wasn’t afraid of anything; in fact I think he was energized by my screams, which quickly changed from tough he-man warning cries to 7th grade watching Nightmare on Elm Street shrieks of terror. I could just imagine the saliva dripping off his yellow rat fangs; I never actually saw him, I mean not with my eyes, but I knew exactly where he was and what he was doing from the scritchy scratch of his knifelike rat claws and the way the ground shook with his heft. The monster rat kept coming, and, being no fool, I pivoted to run in the opposite direction, but alas, my touristy flip-flop got stuck in the gutter on the bridge and I fell flat on my face. E.D.B. must have been under the spell of the blazing, rabid, NosfeRATu eye, because all she could do was stand, unmoving, like a pillar; like a pointing, laughing, nay dare I say CACKLING pillar, her normally compassionate self convulsing in rat induced hilarity, head thrown back with a little tear trickling down her chin…it was horrible, I tell you, HORRIBLE. I still have the scar from the injury I suffered, a perfect commentary on the shock and pain of the situation. OUCH! Consider this a cautionary tale…

Anyway, I’m fine now. Betcha can’t guess where I’m going next….

The Mepod Delta

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Pet Portrait, by William Kincaid

I never thought I needed an Ipod. For one thing, I’m prone to losing things, and even if I manage to keep hold of my goods (ha ha, holding my goods!), I work in da hood and usually get jacked, once in the spring and once in the fall, so it’s best not to become too attached to material things, like my lunch money or driver’s license, much less an electronic luxury. I figured if I had a pod I’d have to read the instruction manual to learn how to program it – mama don’t read no manuals! – and I don’t like those ear buds on account of I have tiny, little earholes, and Ipods make you deaf or maybe give you brain cancer, like cell phones do, and besides, there’s always a song playing in my head anyway, so maybe there’d be weird interference. For a couple of months I’ve had Chaka Kahn’s funkinfantastic “Tell Me Something Good” stuck in my head, which is probably the best default brain song I have ever had, though it has led to some awkward instances in which I have asked a question (like of my new doctor), and then immediately demanded, “Tell me, tell me, tell me!” Once I just barely caught myself before I told a total stranger in the peanut butter aisle that I could “groove like a mother fucker.” I’m pretty sure that those words are not actually written in the lyrics, but they definitely are in my brain version of the song.

Anyway, a friend finally gave me a pod for my birthday about five years ago, and let me tell you, I have changed my I-tune, yessiree, Bob! I loved that Ipod, which has since been stolen, and every other pod I’ve ever had: Babypod, Juniorpod, Pod III, Newpod, Tinypod, Mypod, Bluepod, and the latest one, Sunpod. My whole family pitched in and bought me Sunpod. She’s gold, and “You are our sunshine” is engraved on her back. So cool! She does everything; I can make movies on her, watch videos, or listen to (and pause or back up) the radio – Holla, NPR! I’ll never miss another Nina Totenberg word! She has a pedometer and I can see what time it is in Maine on her, and I can listen to podcasts, and she fits in my pocket. I listen when I take the bus or go to the airport, so I don’t have to make conversation with others (stranger danger!), and when I go for my walks or ride my bike. I love the pod!

Except…

Lately, Sunny has been doing some weird voodoo shit. Songs I never downloaded have just popped up in my library. I have a whole Posies album in there. I don’t know the Posies; I’m not even sure I like them! Some of the new songs don’t even have artists or names attached to them, like the mysterious and inscrutable “Track 16.” I have a lot of songs on Sunpod in languages that I don’t understand, but “Track 16” is in Latvian or Mandarin or Urdu; really who can tell which one, when all those languages sound like a bunch of made up nonsense, right? Still and all, “Track 16” is kind of catchy, especially the part about “yo mandu izba corik, subar! Click click,” so I don’t really mind.*

That’s not all though. Sometimes I’ll be listening to my New Yorker fiction podcast (don’t judge!), and all of a sudden, Sunpod will decide that’s enough of that, and just switch me, willy-nilly, to something like Queens of the Stone Age (again, not so bad) or Iggy Pop, which can be disconcerting, because Iggy recorded really loudly, and if you’re not prepared, he can blow the top of your head off. Conversely, I have imported an Okkervil River cd SIX, count ’em, SIX times, and it refuses to show up on Sunpod. It has been DENIED, REJECTED for reasons unknown. Sunny has a mind of her own.

This is not the first time my electronics have surpassed me in intelligence and taken control. I had a toaster that would sometimes just depress its own little lever and pop up a delicious, toasty slice of nothing every now and again. My alarm clock refuses to be reset, so I have to wake up at 6:30 in the morning, even on weekends or holidays. And my answering machine just started talking in a new voice…oh, wait a minute…that’s just me, talking like a robot. I forgot I did that. Gotta lay off the Nyquil, I tell you what! Anyway, you see my point, right? We have allowed all these electronic thingymajigs into our lives, and everyone knows that eventually they will become Cyborgs and just take over. Just the other day, Sunny begged me to “press your space face close to mine, love” – she crooned to me in David Bowie’s voice, and I have to say, the thought of crossing over into a world where I was the one who was programmed all full of cool stuff was really enticing! What if I could pause right at a moment of of intense joy or pleasure and just stay there, indefinitely, until finally I pressed play, and moved on, only to rewind and do it all again?! I could completely delete irritants like Click and Clack the Tappit Brothers or my principal right out of my life, and if something unpleasant did sneak in, I could just fast forward right through it! Best of all, I could probably patch into other people and see the videos they are playing in their heads…I’m sure a SuperSunPod could totally do that! I’d finally understand what’s up with people these days!

It’s official…my new goal is to become Mepod! Now all I need is to read the manual to figure out how to program myself…but I think I lost it…or maybe it got stolen…Damn.

*Even in languages I do understand, I am often unsure of the words. For example, remember when I told you I got Spoon’s Transference cd? Well, I love it and my favorite song on it is called “I Saw the Light.” I’ve listened to it about 12,000 times, and I always sing it really loudly, too. The other day I got to thinking about the part that I sing, “I felt so green dog and light.” For awhile, that actually made sense to me – green means all natural, hopeful and go, dogs are real happy, and light is pure and not heavy. That’s a mighty fine way to feel, right? But then it struck me that those might not be the exact words the band was singing, so I looked it up, and man-oh-man, was I mistaken! Those aren’t the words at all! Unfortunately, now that I know better, I still don’t get what the words mean, so I just decided I am going to stick with my version. Spoon won’t mind. I’m sure they love me like I love them. http://lyrics.wikia.com/Spoon:I_Saw_The_Light
BONUS: This video is really bad, but all the ones I watched for this song were. However, it serves my purpose really well, and I think it’s funny that someone out there thought that this was worth putting it out on YouTube. Turns out, to me, it was totally worth it! Thanks, dude who put this out on YouTube! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NzBPOpUPCYk&feature=related

Angel Juice

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What do they drink in heaven? That’s right; ADINA! This delectable, morally correct, holy-water -and -coffee concoction comes to you from the divine partnering of beverage Buddhas from Sobe and Odwalla. You’re probably curious about the truly unique and melodic name they gave their products; I know I was! According to literature from Adina Holistics, the company name is derived “…from the word “adina”, which loosely translates to ‘life in its holistic and spiritual dimension.” The press release didn’t mention from which language this word comes, but why quibble, right? I just thought Adina was beautiful, like a poem or an aria, but so deep, so fraught with meaning, so…holistic? Who knew? Adina sounds fascinating, right?
They also leave it up to me, the consumer, to figure out what makes the stuff so spiritual and righteous, though they do say it combines powerful antioxidants with it’s caffeine, and that it “…blends just the right ingredients.” The right ingredients? Those are my favorite ones! Antioxidants keep you young, and caffeine keeps you awake, so this is the perfect drink for time-fighting truckers! Hallelujah! As if the name and the blend and the pure goodness of the elixir wasn’t enough, under the cap of every product is an “herbalism” (how clever!) so you can think while you drink, like “hear no evil, see no evil, drink no evil.” Words to live by if I’ve ever heard them!
Finally, just when you’re hugging yourself with barely restrained glee, you notice the monkey. Adorable! Who doesn’t love monkeys?! John Craven, Founder of BevNet describes it as “…an irreverent monkey character…that’s fun and on point with what the mainstream but “trying to be healthy’ consumer is looking for.” Not only do monkeys always make me feel mainstream and healthy, but that’s just me in a nutshell! I say we all support ADINA! Let’s buy cases of the shit! I’ll make it easy for you … just write a big ol’ fat check -stock up now, save later!- and make it payable to ADINA. I’ll take care of all the rest! Yeah, you just fill in the amount, sign your John Hancock, and make it all payable to ADINA. That’s A-D-I-N-A, ADINA. Damn, I just love how that rolls off the tongue! Do it y’all! It’s spirtitual! With a name like ADINA, you know it’s got to be pure-D good and good for ya!

And now a word from…

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Margaret Atwood, poet, novelist, critic, essayist, feminist:

You Fit Into Me

You fit into me
Like a hook into an eye
A fish hook
An open eye

Ouch. Didn’t take too many words to see that relationship’s probably not going to work out so well.
Here’s what I know of Ms. Atwood:
1. She wrote The Handmaid’s Tale, which I didn’t really care for, and she wrote a FANTASTIC poem based on the documented hanging of a woman, for being a witch.The woman’s name was Mary Webster, and she was left hanging all day and all night. Here’s the kicker; she survived, and went on to live fourteen more years. Here’s the other kicker (I wonder where that expression comes from….): Mary Webster was a relative of Margaret Atwood. Ooh, snap! Betcha didn’t see that one comin’! The poem’s called “Half Hanged Mary”, and it’s told from the woman’s perspective. I always use it when I’m teaching The Crucible. Here ’tis: allpoetry.com/board/topic/268610949
2. She wrote another poem called “Siren Song” that I also love, and use when I am teaching The Odysssey. www.poemhunter.com/poem/siren-song/ You’re welcome, English teachers. If you look closely, ladies, you can find the key to getting any dude.
3. She also wrote lots of other great stuff. Find it yourself.
4. She’s Canadian. Canadians are cool and their French is hard to understand and their Egg McMuffins have Canadian bacon in them, only they just call it “bacon”, and they are real delicious, even though McDonald’s is evil.

Burned again

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Just a brief follow up: The Environmental Working Group rates my sunscreen, that which I liberally slather, as a product to avoid, because it is filled with retinyl palmitate and oxybenzone. Here’s what they say about those chemicals:

This year, new concerns have arisen about a form of vitamin A called retinyl palmitate, found in 41 percent of sunscreens. The FDA is investigating whether this compound may accelerate skin damage and elevate skin cancer risk when applied to skin exposed to sunlight. FDA data suggest that vitamin A may be photocarcinogenic, meaning that in the presence of the sun’s ultraviolet rays, the compound and skin undergo complex biochemical changes resulting in cancer. The evidence against vitamin A is far from conclusive, but as long as it is suspect, EWG recommends that consumers choose vitamin A-free sunscreens.

EWG has again flagged products with oxybenzone, a hormone-disrupting compound found in about 60 percent of the 500 beach and sport sunscreens analyzed. The chemical penetrates the skin and enters the bloodstream: biomonitoring surveys conducted by the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention have detected oxybenzone in the bodies of 97 percent of Americans tested.

Great. That’s just terrific. Perhaps it’s time to rethink the burka. Find your sunscreen and more information at: http://www.ewg.org/2010sunscreen/

Bathing is Overrated

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Louis XIV, by Hyacinthe Rigaud

Guess what! I managed to work in one of the only three jokes I remember more than the punchline to into this post! Yay, me! See if you can find it!

Well, it’s officially summer. Regina Spektor* sings a song about it that starts out, “Summer in the city – it’s cleavage, cleavage, cleavage!” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=syqLReA_okU&feature=related That seems like a fine “summary” (Yay! A pun!), but it doesn’t quite address the other part of summer, which is MIZ-ER-A-BULL, if you live in, well, most of the continental United States.

I deliver this seasonal rant every year: Summer is so HOT! People die in this heat. It’s like living on Mars. Mars is the one that’s real hot, right? It’s hot when the sun comes up and it’s hot when it goes down, too. Birds walk with their beaks open in pathetic yellow v’s; it’s too hot to fly and they have to be ready, in case, inexplicably, a of drop moisture from unknown origin flings itself down their gullets. Fat chance of that, dummies. (What? Birds aren’t particularly known for their intelligence, are they?) There are bugs EVERYWHERE, in the sky, in the water, even in the grass…what are those little bugs in the grass called again…Chiggers? I think they prefer to be called Chegroes, but that’s not the point; the insects are crazy this year! (Did you see it? Get it? No matter how many times I tell it, it’s still funny, right?! By the way, before you berate, it’s not racist, it’s word play, you know, like Shakespeare did! Racism’s not funny, but Chegroes are hilarious!) The mosquitoes look at me as if I am their takeout order delivered. Just to go into the garden in the morning I have to cover myself in bug spray and slather on the sunscreen, which then makes the mud from the constant watering of the garden cake up all over me, especially between my toes, and, oddly, behind my left ear. When I ride my bike around the lake, even early, perspiration pours from me as if it was on tap. I’m dirty, sweaty and greasy all the time, and I’m sick of it.
I once had a boyfriend – no, really, I did!- who said that I was a closet dirty person. It’s true – my personal hygiene has always been a little questionable, but nobody can ever really tell. For example, is that a lovely golden tan I’m sporting, or just a thin patina of grime? Can’t tell, can ya? Well, I’m coming out of the closet. I’m not bathing for the rest of the summer. I mean really, what’s the point? I’m setting my funk free. Not only that, I’m not wearing anything tight, restrictive or uncomfortable, which pretty much leaves me in a sports bra and man-panties. Grrrr! That’s a whole different kind of hot, right?! It’s summer in the city man; nothing wrong with cleavage, cleavage, cleavage! I haven’t showered in two days, and I’m not going to start now! Join me, people! Let’s not let our actions be dictated by the undeniable forces of nature! Surrender to sweat! Dive into dirt! Grime is groovy! Revel in your own rank ripeness! Who’s with me?

* I believe I have already mentioned that in another of Ms. Spektor’s songs, “Apres Moi”**, she gives a piece of advice I find myself revisiting surprisingly often: “Be afraid of the lame – they’ll inherit your legs.” I don’t really know what she means, but since I’m afraid of so many, many things, I just added this to the list. Better safe than sorry, non?
**As you are probably aware, “Apres Moi”*** is an allusion to Louis XV’s famous qoute, “Apres moi, le deluge,” or “After me, the flood.” I have always quite liked this quote, and have declared it loudly, with a flourish, to the lucky patron’s of various adult beverage establishments, during festive, celebratory periods. Invariably, I get an identical response: I am stared at in an awed silence, then mocked, and subsequently cut off. I have always understood it to mean one of three things: EITHER, “after me, or my reign, there will be chaos and turmoil”, which seems a little harsh to put on a bunch of happy drunks; OR, “after I’m gone, I don’t give a crap if you folks are all swallowed by a flood” – again, kind of a buzzkilll; OR, “after me, everything will be different, like it was after the flood.” This last one suits me, for while I am completely self-aggrandizing and self-centered, I am in no way a mean or spiteful drunk. Louis the one-five, was, by most accounts, a real jerk, but he can kind of be forgiven because he was born into it; he was king by the time he was five years old, and his dad, Louis XIV, who declared himself “the Sun King”, was a real asshole. He ruled for something like 70 years and was an absolute monarch, and while he built France into a major seat of culture and power, he bankrupt the country and levied enormous, crushing taxes on the peasants while exempting the rich from payment. He adhered to the Divine Right of Kings, which says that a monarch is subject to no earthly authority, and is granted the right to rule by God Himself. Louis XV’s big quote is “L’etat, c’est moi,” which means, basically, “Oh hells no! I AM the state, bitchez!” Rumor has it that when he gave a ball, nobody was allowed to leave the room as long as he was in it, not even to go to the bathroom. When I visited his castle at Versailles, I noticed that the Great Hall still smells like pee-pee. Still! It’s been 300 years! Louis himself sat on a big throne with a hole cut out at the bottom and a chamberpot underneath. Oh, snap! Clever crapper, right?! This British tour guide I know, Michael 1 (not to be confused with Michael 2, who was also a British tour guide, but so not the same) told me that Louis XIV had hemorrhoids-probably from spending so much time on the toilet, I’m thinking – and that his doctors developed these special needle-nosed poop-hole pincers to remove them. Because everyone at court was supposed to emulate Louis, it became fashionable to have the operation, regardless of whether or not you had the ‘rhoids. Gnarly!!!! (By the way, sometimes in this blog I just repeat what I’ve heard, without actually researching it. I just thought you should know.) Anyhow, neither of these guys was the king who hooked up with Marie Antoinette; that was the next Louis, the XVI. I don’t know anything about his bathroom habits or the state of his sphincter.
***Also in the song, Regina Spektor sings in Russian. I always thought she was just repeating a verse, but, according to the world wide web, she’s quoting a poem by Bruce Pasternak, author of Dr. Zhivago. Some people just make you feel damned uneducated, huh?
BONUS: No discussion of the Louis XIV, XV, or XVI, or of French History, or of monarchies, no matter how cursory, would be complete without the mention of Louis CK. Louis CK, I crown you a king of comedy. You are welcome. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4u2ZsoYWwJA&feature=related

This image is from Joey Devilla, at joeydevilla.com, under the title, “From Sun Chips to Sun King.” I like this blog. The latest post has a teacher in Korea leading the class in American cursing. You should check it out.

Memorial Day

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I keep trying to remember to write about something other than memory, but I guess I forget, because, guess what? I’m doing it again! Yay! This in spite of the fact that the only comment I got on the last couple of posts were, “I love you, I really do…but you are so weird!” When I asked my dad if he read the memory posts, he said, “Yeah, of course…well, I skimmed them…what were they about, again?” I say, “Readers’ interest be damned! As long as I have that blue meanie on the blog, I will continue to get hits from around the world, making me an international success, even in places where they only like to look at the pictures, so screw you!!!”

One of the reasons memories are front and center right now is because this week brought two important memorials. One was for my friend Krissy Balhorn-Sines, who I mentioned in earlier posts http://smalleradventure.blogspot.com/2010/03/and-now-for-something-completely.html
and
I have, sadly, been to many funerals and memorials. I am always glad to go, as I think it is a fitting way to honor the memory of a person I care about, and also to show the others who are mourning loss that they are not alone. I think it’s important to show up, but, as you all know, these ceremonies can be brutal and extremely difficult to get over. Krissy’s was not like that. All she ever wanted was for people to be happy, and she was tireless in helping them get that way. Her memorial was a party, a gathering of old friends, a celebration of a spirit of optimism and delight. There was a lot of drinking and dancing and love was in the air. The music was good, there was a smorgasbord of delicious food, and long stemmed Gerber daisies – the happiest flowers of them all – shared vases with pink flamingos. Here are some things I overheard:
“I swear, that girl is more fun dead than most people are alive!” This was said by a very drunk dude with the utmost reverence and respect.
“Your sister is the only woman who makes me wish I was a woman,” spoken by a man who is obviously barking up the wrong tree.
“Feel of my tongue…so cottony!” This was probably my favorite comment of the night.
“Relatively speaking, you are the least stumpy, thumb-like person here!” A compliment from a true friend.
“No, they’re real! Big, right?! Feel ’em why don’tcha? No it’s not surgery…it’s sheer bloat. I drink a lot.” Sheer Bloat – great name for a band, don’t you think?
Special kudos to Carple, who seized the day and made it a fantastic tribute to a wonderful lady. Carpie Diem!
The second memorial of the week goes to my grandfather, Pop Pop, who died this week in 1987. When I typed his name into the web to find out what cyberspace knew about him, this picture from sleeveface.com popped out:

Needless to say, this is not my Pop Pop. My grandfather was a larger-than-life personality to me. As a child, I got him confused with iconic historical figures; he was a lawyer, and I imagined everyone in Dallas thinking of him as Honest Abe, striding through the courthouse with spurs on his boots, a la John Wayne, and law books in his hands, working tirelessly for the downtrodden like Atticus Finch. In reality he was a short man who never rodeo’d and practiced tax and estate law. I thought he was the strongest man alive. He could pull me and my sister and six cousins from a tire with a rope attached to it all around the pool, so fast that it almost made me sick, like a ride at Six Flags. He stood on his head like Jack Lalanne and once was a champion gymnast. He swam every day, long, clean strokes slicing through the pool he was so proud of, and I remember watching his brown back ripple through the blue water. He taught me how to swim, patiently and lovingly. He called my grandmother “Pud”, short for Puddin’, smoked a pipe, wore cufflinks, played bridge, and traveled the world. He loved football, the stock market, golf and gardening. He was meticulous in his record-keeping, and had a neat, blocky print, but a lovely, flowing cursive. He loved to eat, and chewed more slowly than anyone I have ever met. For breakfast he liked a soft-boiled egg in a cup into which he dipped his toast. At night he liked to get up and eat a bowl of ice cream with pretzels broken into it. He loved soup. Here is a piece of a poem I wrote about a dream that I had:

Suddenly, back in my grandparents’ house, though it’s been seven years sold to a couple just married

Eager to start their life together, with new china and sheets

Yet somehow I live there, and I am me, but me of all ages: Infant, toddler, child, teen, woman, old

I walk through the rooms, feeling the floors beneath my feet

Cold marble, shag carpet, wood parquet, worn linoleum

I sit at my grandfather’s desk and fan crisp, white papers, sharpen pencils, twirl the Rolodex

Then to the fat corduroy chair that lays back, and then back again,

where, with my cousins, I told scary stories and watched “Love, American Style”

I stroll through the seasons of the seventies

Harvest gold, burnt orange, avocado, sunflower, burgundy

I hear family dinners, Johnny Carson, football, Everyone Knows it’s Wendy, You kids slow down!

I smell brisket and Vitalis, the white linen tablecloth, clean and pulled from the cedar drawer, my aunt’s perfume, Windsong or Woodhue, I think it was

And my cousins laugh with me, and jump on the bed, and sneak a look at the Playmates in Uncle Marc’s bathroom, under the towels, behind the toilet paper

Ghosts in the living room, the attic, under the bed, watching from the pictures in the hall

A faint wisp of Cherry Blend tobacco from a pipe long cold

One time, he was riding home from the law office he shared with my Uncle Marc. Suddenly, a foul odor filled the car.

“Pop, did you fart?” Uncle Marc asked from the front seat.

“Of course I did! Do you think I always smell this way?!”

He died a long, drawn-out, death after suffering with emphysema. He snuck smokes almost until the end, though my grandmother, his “Pud”, quit cold turkey after more than 50 years so that it would be easier for him to stop.

After he died, I was so sad. My mom and sister were out of the country and my dad went on a long, solo road trip to California. I had a dream about Pop, just one, where I cried to him because I hadn’t visited him often enough when he was in the hospital. He listened to all I had to say, and then replied, smiling, “Hospital, shmospital! You did everything you are supposed to do! I love you and I am fine! I played 18 holes this morning and I’m going on a cruise soon!” He laughed, ug, ug, ug-oh, like Popeye.

I woke up feeling better. Pop thought I was a good girl. Over the years, from time to time, I have wondered if he was checking up on me. Sometimes, when I was doing something bad or nasty, I became ashamed. But really, I think that’s all just me. Pop would probably tell me I was just doing what I was supposed to do and that he loves me.