The Brooks who are funnier than you

Last night, I dreamt I met Mel Brooks. It was in the late seventies. I was waiting tables at a crappy restaurant in NYC. Mel Brooks and Albert Brooks came in to eat at the lunch counter. I shook Mel Brooks' hand and talked to Albert about the latest movie they had in production together. They left without eating. However, a woman sitting beside them ate french fries covered in bacon and BBQ sauce. Then, a drunk Mac Davis showed up. He started singing and wouldn't stop.



Then, it was suddenly the late eighties. And, I moved to LA. I was looking for jobs, but got lost in some winding street bazaar. Stoners and queens selling old clothes, candles, and bongs. I stopped to try on a pair of pants. But, someone stole MY pants while they were off. A black cat kept following me everywhere. I stepped gum at one point. And, I spent a significant amount of time trying to wipe it off on things as I continued to walk. Eventually, I got to an open farmer's market full of yuppie eco-lovin' vegan types. They were all wearing the same green plastic shoes. It was subtly sci-fi. Then, I had lunch with Sean Carnage. He said he'd try help to get me a job. I was still telling everyone I saw how I met Mel Brooks.

In real time news, I swallowed a huge chip from one of my canine teeth last night while eating hard, sourdough pretzels. At first, I thought maybe a piece of pretzel was stuck to my tooth, feeling all jagged-like. But, then I realize it was my tooth. By this point, it was too late-- I had already swallowed my chip. Then I proceeded to throw a temper tantrum. "It's not fair! I brush my teeth AT LEAST three times a day AND floss!!! And, I don't smoke or drink soda!" I know why it happened. I have been grinding and clenching my teeth since I was a toddler. I have another crack in one of my back molars from the same thing. It torques open when I eat sometimes. And, it hurts enough to make me wanna drop whatever I am holding. Because I never had braces and have pretty fine looking teeth (which receive great care), I was always convinced I'd trip and fall during my drunken days, cracking off my front teeth. Now, I thought I was safe. Someone told me it was a sign that I am getting old. And, I guess I realize, despite my preemptive measures, it will just be me and Old Chopper one day. I am more concerned how these events are influencing my bite mark impressions.

The State of Affairs

I was told never to discuss politics, religion, or money with strangers. Well, let's get this out of the way now. I am a non-practicing Catholic, considering myself mostly agnostic. Now, on to money! My father once told me NEVER ask how much a man (or woman) earns for a living. Because, it will either make you feel bad or him feel bad. Of course, my father didn't tell me that part. He gives you the meat and you have to trim the fat yourself. So, that said, I make no more or less than any one I know. Because, I don't know how much other people make. I don't pay attention to other people's finances. I pay attention to the coming and going in this house. Sometimes, well mostly, it goes as fast as it comes. And, the failing market with its inevitable bail out? We had nothing to lose before it all went down, so we lost nothing. However, the prospect of paying for other's loss is infuriating. I understand the stock market exists to give deserving and needy business that extra boost it needs. But, I do not for one minute believe there is any investor (since Mr. Ross died) investing out of some sense of altruism or patriotic belief in the growth of capitalism. Those who invest have the extra money to invest. Meaning, they don't need to roll pennies to buy a loaf of bread. So, they have it to begin with... and they want more.

Or the retirement funds? I don't want to be a 70 year old either pitchin' plates like a crypt-keepin' Flo at Mel's Dinor [sic] or a stealin' cat food from the Dollar Store for dinner retiree. Either way... more is more! I wish upon entering the feeble years you could just pitch your accomplishments and contributions to an unbiased, unaffiliated council and go free range in some sort of Pleasant Ridge interment camp. I think my idea of retirement homes is a bit skewed, though. I have the nightmare of urine-stinking hallways filled with rambling wheelchair bound residents, pushing themselves back and forth by the heels like battery charged Matchbox cars on a circular track. That vision is nicely balanced out by all the Duplex Planets I have read.

Speaking of work, as you may have read in my last ventilation, I can not stand nor understand corporate retail. I have finally decided after all these year of thinking hard work, a level-head & logic, pride, and stamina were to be continually pursued-- I am completely out of step with the rest of the current US workforce. Example, a woman who shows up early for every shift, who works hard her entire shift, and who stays late if asked has been told she will be fired if she accepts one more out of date coupon. No, not me. However, the former burned out Meth head who doesn't show up and doesn't even bother to call, who has to sit on a stool her entire shift because she has a self-diagnosis blood clot in her leg, and who continues to whine about work although she is sitting on a stool her entire shift doesn't suffer any consequences of her behavior. NONE! Not a one! Whhhhhaaaaahhhh? I know this is a crazy mixed up world, but really? Really? Really. I can collect scrap metal. Or I can... anything is better than corporate retail.

Things at the restaurant are still going really well. I think my husband likes it when I come home smelling like braised lamb shank. I got my youngest sister a job with me. It's funny, although she is twenty now, I still feel like I need to watch over her. Like, if a someone addresses her, I'll walk over and say, "What's going on now?" It's gotta be a bit irritating to her. However, I am almost seventeen years older than her-- and, she will always be the baby out of us six kids. So, don't mess with her or we'll all clobber you!Okay, I mean, our brothers will clobber you. By the time sissy was walking on her own two feet, I was out of the house and out of town. So, I never really spent a whole lot of time with her as she grew up. I'm glad to have some time with her. Hopefully, I can show her what an ass I have made of myself during various phases of my life to keep her from doing the same. But, I guess we all have to be an ass when the time comes.

My sister and I also had a nice talk about parenting. I brought up the pendulum theory. She and I have different mothers. She wasn't allowed to leave the state unchaperoned by an adult until she graduated high school. I, on the other hand, was going to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds in seedy Cleveland bars with a fake ID at the age of fourteen. Dead shows in Wisconsin at the age of sixteen. Etc, etc. So, now I know I will be a hammer when it comes to the girls. Their dad and I have been around the block a few times. We are very familiar with the gutter around the block as well. It is a frightening prospect because I also understand the more strict you are the more likely your children will rebel. But, you say, all those harsh times made you who you are today, a soft and cuddly kitten. Don't my girls deserve that opportunity to completely screw up the first thirty some years of their life, too? No. No, they don't. Also, I plan on having the girls learn a trade before going of the college.

The Cold War and the Peter Principle

I recently sent a compact disc to Russia. It was purchased/won in an Ebay auction I had posted. For some reason, I can't help but to speculate about the bidders in the auctions I post-- the basic demographic. Who has disposable income these days? What's their zip code? Does it look like they live in an apartment or are they possibly a home owner? No, I don't have too much time on my hands. My brain is just constantly folding over on itself like that.

Like when I see gum on the floor and I wonder, " What flavor is that? Did someone accidentally drop it? Or spit it out? What kind of person spits their gum out?" Or, "Hmmm, is that package is on the floor because the cardboard wasn't strong enough to support the product from the tiny hole used for hanging it on a peg? Or did someone try to aggressively put the package back? Carelessly?" And, "Why is this person walking so slowly in front of me? Are they lazy or do they have a physical handicap? Don't they hear me behind them? Can't they move over? Are they deaf?"

So, I am thinking about the amount of money this Russian guy paid for CD I almost gave away to the City Mission. And, wow, I think the Russian economy has been really out shining the US economy. And, what a bunch of crap we feed the rest of the world in our fight against communism or former embracers of communism, supporting the Grand Ol' Flag and Democracy... I mean capitalism. Since we watched the Wall fall, we get to watch our arch enemies do what we do better than we do. Or are they simply more corrupt and, therefore, more successful? Do they not care about the widening gaps between classes? No, because before the USSR only had two or three classes: government officials, individuals with ties to the government, and the rest of the stinking, starving masses. Only difference now is the stinking masses have heat for two more days a year and possibly a TV. And, you should realize I have no idea what the everyday citizen in Russia has or has not. I'm just creating wild generalizations like any good Liberty embracing American should do about something they are less than informed about. The point? The Russians with all their dollars wrapped up in their domestic investments, celebrating rising employment, and an overall surging economy must think it is absolutely hilarious what we've done to our own economy and are so glad they've maintained a healthy relationship with China (the lenders of the Great American Mortgage).

Sure, I took a month or so of Russian back in college. It is buried next to the German, Spanish, and French I do not use. And, yes, I was horrified when the manager at the bookstore where I used to work had no idea who Karl Marx was. And, yes, I am a big fan of the writer Nikolai Gogol. However, I do not consider myself a "commie" or a "red". I mean, hell! I am convinced I was a cowboy in one of my past lives since I love coffee and bacon for breakfast so much! But, I didn't mind seeing Putin with his shirt off. And, even though I'm no longer entertaining any idea of voting for the crazy heart attack on legs, McCain, I would love to have a wizened, savvy president with a menacing snarl like Putin.

Speaking of the economy, have you ever wondered where the chaos begins? Well, many of you living on the Great Lakes are very familiar with water spouts-- swirling with force, picking up water only to toss it about, and dancing across the surface with no real purpose except for trying to maintain its own existence. That, my fellow citizens, is management in corporate retail. I have had the pleasure of working for small business owners most of my life. That too has it's own fistfuls of razor wire. However, I recommend it over corporate retail. I think I might recommend panhandling over corporate retail at this point.

Corporate retail thrives on a few things like poor time management, wasted resources (staff), and high turn over. During a phone call with my Uncle David, my one-time atheist Godfather, I shared with him some of my recent revelations. One was this: if you stick it out long enough in corporate retail, you will move into a higher position by default whether or not you possess any skill sets appropriate for the job. He told me about the Peter Principle. Amazing. Just amazing. Conversely, I have also noticed you get "punished" with more responsibility than your pay reflects if you do these simple things: show up for work on time, do not call off or not show up without calling, and actually seek out the activity of working during your paid shift at work. I do these things. These are things I assumed were just what you do when you work. Not the case in corporate retail. The deltas don't think they are being compensated well enough, so the deltas do nothing. I always figured before you start your employ, you are told the responsibilities and the correlating wage. At that point, you make a decision. After that point, you perform the tasks outlined as your responsibilities and then get financially reimbursed for your time. If you choose (like myself) to do more because you can't sit around catching flies in your gaping maw, you do so under the advisement there may or may not be an further reward or recognition except your own pride and satisfaction. These views have repeatedly put me in the position of the hard-ass, exasperated freak in the workplace. But, I still can't convince myself I'm wrong.

I have very similar views to nepotism in the bureaucratic arena. But, I don't wanna dig into the secretaries' pool today. There are also those steaming hot piles of EOE controversy in the white collar world. So, I will save the story about the woman (I make no reference to race, religion, age, or physical ability) who was completely inept at her middle management job. She couldn't perform any of the analysis work necessary. And, if she tried to perform the analysis work necessary when not surfing the web her entire shift, she would screw it up so completely and nearly cost the company millions, yes, MILLIONS of dollars. Well, her boss couldn't fire her in fear of legal battles up the whazoo. So, you know what the company recommended? A promotion! They moved her out of the department to a higher salary! Long story short, she was as equally inept at that job, too. She ended up where she started. And, I'm sure she is just biding her time there 'til she can suck the sauce off the juicy rib I call her pension plan. How do I know this? She was a co-worker of mine. A co-work who loved leaving me lists of things that didn't get done on her time, but needed to be competed on my time. But, I've let that all go now. Well, until I think about it again.

Halloween costume? Misogynist!

This year for Halloween, I will be dressed as a cook. I will be going to a Halloween party in the kitchen of Pie in the Sky cafe. Meaning: I'll be working. For a moment I got all jazzed up with the idea of the girls trucking around the neighborhood in their little red wagon. But, then Matt and I discussed the idea of losing a third of my student loan payment versus the girls having no idea what the hell is going on and being too little to eat any candy. So, again, I'll be working. No, I won't be dressed up, seeing I do not wish to catch a wig on fire while grilling up a tuna steak.

Sure, I used to love Halloween. The challenge of the costume! As Bonnie Parker or as stereotypical trailer trash or as a dead Laura Palmer or as an IRA catholic school girl or as Pris from Blade Runner or, my favorite, as The West Nile Virus.

Now, I am not sure what holiday I love. Actually, I think holidays are simply the tools of the labor unions anymore. Well, seeing my kids get excited about a room full of wrapping paper, gift bags, and empty boxes is heart-warming. However, having people in my home, even people I love, makes me edgy.

Thinking about the Catholic school girl costume I wore for twelve years of my life reminds me of one thing. Somewhere along the line, I think it was the four years at an all girls' Catholic high school, I became a misogynist. During those years, I had ONE close friend in that House of Mary. Robbe. And, we would spend time pretending to walk in slow motion down the hallways or quoting slapstick Westerns, "Don't put beans on table." Other than that, I didn't eat in the cafeteria. Well, I guess I had to at least once since I was caught setting a fire atop one of the tables while tryng to illustrate a point. Anyway, the point? I hated it! It seriously made me suicidal! But, then I discovered drugs and being alienated was more of a choice than an affliction.

I've always had this image of myself like a B-movie sci-fi creature. A pulsating brain with googly eyes. Just strolling around, taking it all in. Oh, the ugliness that lies in the hearts of teenage women! Watching girls beat each other with their shoes because one girl's guy gave his phone number to the other girl. But, we learn and grow, right? Nah, the majority of women are fundamentally catty, clique-y, self-hating, self-important, and vapid. And, these qualities do not mature of age. They are honed and used like knives.

I will, however, admit I do have some spectacular female friends. Most of which are also misogynists and act like they have bigger cajones than a sex-starved bull.

I overheard this the other day, "Did you see Sex in the City movie yet? I cried at the end!" That person deserves to be treated as an object. Yes, I've seen five minutes of one episode. And, I instantly hated every character.

I am starting to think similar things about vegetarians. But, I will hold off on any snap judgements. Right! No really, I do have some vegetarian friends. And, it is a let's agree to disagree situation, because I refuse to have scripted arguments about food.

As, I plated up a beautiful mound of grilled pork chops with a mustard-apricot glaze, a waitress said to me, "Those look delicious. But, now I know what they do to get the meat from that pig, I can't eat it."

My reply, "Do you know why God put pigs on the planet? (pause... waiting for a response... but getting none). "For me to eat."

The Aesthetics of Art (Patronage)

I was working at a tattoo shop in town and also doing some volunteer work setting up exhibits at the local museum. An exhibit of circus banners was scheduled to have a gala opening, with little freaky things thrown in like croutons. Like me, giving fake tattoos to the philanthropist around town. I drew up a sheet of pseudo-flash and grabbed some Sharpies (my passive aggressive way of wishing days of flesh scrubbing).

Me: What do you want me to draw on you?
Face lift: Barbed wire like Pamela Anderson.
Me: Are you sure? I have all these other ones. Some are even kind of historical!
Face lift: NO, barbed wire.
Boob job: Oh, look at that! I want that, too.
Me: The same exact thing?
Boobs: Yeah.
Spray tan: Ooooooh, wow! Me, too!
Me: The barbed wire??? Really???
Spray: Yeah, do it.
Me to my friend Gary after their departure: What the HELL was that! We're done with this. I have a prior engagement I forgot about. Can you f*cking believe that?
Gary: Yeah.
Me: I just know they're hoping their lying, cheating husbands will think it's hot. I hate myself.
Gary: HA! You should. You enabled that whole thing. You're an jerk.

Those are the types of people who are making our shared spaces more beautiful... eh.

I studied painting and illustration for two years in college before slightly waking up and finishing with a Liberal Arts degree with a minor in psychology and a minor in creative writing. I am now a stay-at-home mom, a freelance writer/illustrator, a retail jockey, and a cook. My husband has two degrees-- one in metalworking and another in art history. He works at a shop, manufacturing hand wood carving tools. I am pretty sure we both hate 'art'.

There! I said it again.

Newsflash! Don't ask me about my tattoos. Especially, don't touch them. Yes, there is a certain degree of art involved. But, the flattery of strangers is not necessary, said the spider to the fly. Get this straight! I've never been to Ozzyfest or whatever it is called. I don't like Tommy Lee and I don't like this new old wave of Hot Topics-goth-alterna-crap. I like Glitter Rock. I like Pink Floyd with Syd Barret. I like the Jam. I like Hank Williams, Buck Owens, Red Sovine, and Lee Hazelwood. I like bluegrass and classical, too. I don't read Rolling Stone. I read British MOJO. I don't like the dude that wrote Fight Club. I like Harry Crews. I like Mencken and Faulkner. I'd rather have lunch with Studs Terkel and Groucho Marx than that Chuck Whiny-ass rock & pop culture critic and Dane Cook. I watch Lawrence Welk every week and get excited when Joe Finney comes on. I haven't watched MTV since pre-1990's. I am an old lady stuck in a body 40years too young. The zeitgeist of today is a flaming bag of dog poop sitting on my doorstep. I think my tattoos are a barely acceptable form of self-mutilation. And, piercing is DISGUSTING! People leave your tongues, nipples, and penises alone! And, if you can't, please don't tell me about it just because I have a bunch of steak tattooed on my arm. When will they realize I think they are bigger freaks than their grandparents do! So, if you're wondering... which you probably aren't, I consider my practices more closely related to a religious zealot whipping himself into a frenzy than some kid with bad posture at some straight edge or Emo or this is when we sing really soft and this is when we yell and then this is the rap part and now we are singing really soft again only to get mad and yell and rap at the same time show.

"Ah, little lad, you're staring at my fingers. Would you like me to tell you the little story of right-hand/left-hand? The story of good and evil? H-A-T-E! It was with this left hand that old brother Cain struck the blow that laid his brother low. L-O-V-E! You see these fingers, dear hearts? These fingers has veins that run straight to the soul of man. The right hand, friends, the hand of love. Now watch, and I'll show you the story of life. Those fingers, dear hearts, is always a-warring and a-tugging, one agin t'other. Now watch 'em! Old brother left hand, left hand he's a fighting, and it looks like love's a goner. But wait a minute! Hot dog, love's a winning! Yessirree! It's love that's won, and old left hand hate is down for the count!" --Rev. Harry Powell

On my way home from work tonight, I was waiting at a stoplight at the corner of 8th & Pittsburgh. It's a creeper light. It takes so long to turn. If no one is around, you creep. Well, I am singing at the top of my lungs. If my foot weren't on the break pedal, I'd be tapping it. What was I singing you ask? Bobby Vinton, of course. Then all of a sudden I hear some bass thumping next to me. My nails start to dig into the steering wheel. Then all of a sudden I realize I am seriously BLARING Bobby Vinton! Hah. Stick that in your blunt and smoke it, jerks!

An Irishman by any other name still smells like a Mick

This weekend we went to the tail end of the Irish Fest. I'm mostly an Irish cake with delicious pipings of German and Scottish icing rosettes. So, when someone makes a comment that I am negative, alienating, and critical, I say its in my DNA. And, no matter how hard I try to gold leaf all the crap inside of me, it still smells like poop in the end.

Anyway, the fest was just coming to an end. We weren't able to buy any potato soup (mmm-mmm-mmm) or corned beef sandwiches. But, we were able to buy a bag of corned beef for Matt's meat fist lunches. I did drink a Guinness, and liken it more to a frothy coffee treat than a beer. I don't really buy into the kelly green shamrock bull crap. But, it was nice to be reminded of the Aran sweaters my great Aunt Mama Jim used to be able to pump out in a weekend. Instead of shopping, I had more fun watching all the aging Irish with hooked back and cataracted blue eyes shuffle around saying, "Huh??!?!" to everything. It's like a Christmas in the late seventies at my Aunt Betty's house. With close to twenty people crammed around the table.

All in all, a much better experience than German Fest. I told Matt, I think the Irish have a bad wrap. They like to have fun, but when you mess with their fun... Jesus Mary and Joseph up on the Cross, WATCH OUT! 'Cos, unfortunately, I think the Irish perceive most other people as screwing with their good time.

Ebay is making me go EBlind!

I always said I wouldn't be one of those people with piles. No, not hemorrhoids. What I'm referring to are stack of shit piled up everywhere all over the house. I know how it happens. It happens while you're paving the road to Hell with good intentions. I am sure someone somewhere will link it to an adult with ADD but my attention span has such a choke hold that it makes you wanna vomit from lack of air.

Okay, so these piles keep popping up all over the house. They are very neatly organized piles but still speed bumps to nuclear family living. In order to move piles from the basement upstairs or to simply create new piles, I have started listing the boxes of crap I have to sell on Ebay.

Some stuff would seem like things I'd own at one time or another. Various books, Western wear shirts, LPs or CDs, vintage Halloween costumes, etc. And, some stuff you'd never expect to find within a ten mile radius, like vocal selections from Broadway musicals (I can dig opera but hate musicals) or Avon perfume bottles (although showering daily is important to me, I do not wear make-up and infrequently sport scent). It's like this-- I find things and people give me things. If I was a fat old man with a foot long bead, red suspenders and a beat to shit pick-up truck, I would want to be a junk man. Selling other people's abandon possessions for my bread and butter.

Anyway, there are few things as monotonous as listing things on Ebay. Do not listen the the Grateful Dead's Blues for Allah while taking on this task. The MOJO free CD of Paul Weller's influences, yes. Greatest Hits of the Jam, yes. Brian Eno's 2005, Another Day on Earth, maybe... but, you'll find yourself thinking about Doctor Who episodes.

Das ist nicht ein Germanfest!

I forgot to mention German Fest this year was an abomination! We plan on NEVER returning to the Zem Zem Shriner grounds for such a farce. Okay, some things have changed in the past handful of years to finally pull all the straws from my fist. First, the Fest moved from a lush wooded park on the edge of town to a grass knoll usually reserved for additonal parking on the way to the Mall for cat shows and Shriner balls. Secondly, I gave birth to the two most beautiful children on the planet and have since changed my lifestyle a bit. Meaning, I don't like to go out and get blasted all day at Germanfest or anywhere. Thirdly, when a group of us took it upon ourselves to shield the other patrons from our fowl mouths and wrongly viewed as subversive lifestyles, we were told we couldn't sit outside of the ropes in the adjoining mini-pasture. Leave it to the Germans to get bossy about off-the-cuff-spur-of-the-moment rules.

And, finally, I almost got in a fist fight this year. We pulled up in the Grand Marquis about 5pm on Sunday, the final day of the Fest. We were looking forward to some tunes from the Mad Bavarian and some spatzle. After tugging the girls' wagon through the main tent toward the teeny tiny exit heading towards the petting zoo, I encountered a jackass.

He stood in the doorway, "Blah, blah, blah! Ha! HA! I'm the boss. And, my wife thinks I'm hilarious. And, I should just stand here and talk really loud and ignore the world around me 'cos I am such a dude."

I let that go on for about two minutes, because I've heard it said patience is a virtue and virtue is a grace and they all go together to make a pretty face. And, god knows, the most important thing to me is being pretty. I, finally, piped up with an, "Excuse us, please." Nothing. No repsonse. No acknowledgment.

"Did I mention my fat, sweaty ass is FUN-NEEEEE?!?!? Did I tell you my wife who looks completely beaten down and drained of all life thinks I'm the MAN?"

Again, a little louder this time, I said, "Excuse me."

Well, don'tchya know! I guess thems is fightin' words. The jerk turns to me with my wagonful of little girls by my side and says, "Ohhhhhh, well. Sorrrrrrr-reeee, sweetie! Let me just get right out of your way, honey! There you go swwwwww-eeeeee-teeee."

By the last remark, I had walked past. Before I knew what I was saying, I turned on my heels, walked toward the gentleman, and inquired, "Excuse me, sweetie?" And, after only hiccup of silence from him, "Yeah."

Matt later told me he was five seconds away from clocking the Teva wearing son-of-a-gun in the chops. That's assuming he had chops. Which means I was less than a minute from punching him in his knotty red face, because Matt is far more patient than me. Nice. Really nice. Picking a fight with a nice lady in her Eich bin ein Berliner t-shirt, in front of her toddler twins on a sunny Sunday afternoon at a family festival all because you can hold your booze.

After that feather ruffling, we went to see the chickens, pigs, goats, geese, ponies, llamas, etc. at the petting zoo. Of course, I wasn't too thrilled about the girls petting any of these animals since hoof and mouth disease can be transmitted from herd to human. Who knows what conditions these four-legging petting slaves have to tolerate at "home"! And, although my bacon loving self is far from being a PETA member, twelve animals locked in a pen the size of an electric oven didn't sit well. Also, I was aching to see if someone could douse the panting calf with a bucket of water.

Next, we moved on to the inflatable jumpie castle. While watching our friends' son jump around, I had a vision of tiny soldiers crawling and limping out in cast and on crutch. I saw black eyes and swollen lips. What happens when you take a physique with a feather light torso, noodly limbs, and a head constituting seventy-five percent of all body mass and let it hapzardly fling around with about twenty-five other similar physiques in an inflated netted room? Mayhem. No, I don't think my daughters should be wrapped in bubble wrap. But, c'mon. Then, suddenly, the castle started to deflate with about fifteen children trapped in its bowels. It's like it read my mind. We moved on.

Only two things left, spatzle and the Mad Bavarian. I bought an ox roast sandwich and a plate of the worst looking spatzle ever. Disappointment. The girls wanted nothing to do with the saurkraut and sugar sweetened noodles. The ox roast? A bite.

Okay-okay, the Mad Bavarian. Well, the speakers were so loud that standing on the wooden dance floor may have caused twitching and bleeding from the ears. No place for tender still forming neuro-pathways. At this point I did see an old friend, Mr. Shadle. He had his lederhosen on, of course. And, had danced the afternoon away. His tiny little self was all sweaty, but I kissed his cheek anyway.

"Let's get the hell outta here," Matt and I spit out as a chorus.

It isn't that I don't enjoy myself anywhere. It's just that people go places, and those are usually the places I like to avoid. So, maybe next year, we'll just have a little German Fest in our backyard. Like the MDA backyard carnivals I remember seeing in my youth. So, I won't burn my JFK quote in iron-on silver disco letters shirt yet. YET!

Sandbags through the hour glass

I collect suitcases. More specifically, I collect things that I put in suitcases. One full of found objects, another of original drafts, another of photos I've torn out of books & magazines, another of electrical cords, another of vintage pornography, another of found slides, another four of old fabric, and another of folders filled with scraps of paper, etc. Every scrap of paper contains notes about someone, something, or somewhere.

The other night my husband told me I was being critical. "Isn't that the point," I asked myself.

While trying to find something I thought I had printed out before deleting from my hard drive, I found a folder filled like a fat blister. Some pages 8 1/2"X11". And, some only 1"X1". All packed with some of the worst handwriting ever. Mine. I've decided I have to go through them ALL. I was hoping to maybe use bits for my new pack of essays. But, OH! The things I've seen. The things I've done. It's kinda sick, sad, and exhausting. Kristy Korea has often asked me to simply write an autobiography. But, I'm not famous, I tell her. Just jaded and burnt. She seems to think there are some life lessons contained in my sticky nougat filled life. But, are they lessons or just critiques of things that won't ever change? Things that just might get worse. Maybe a snapshot of the time the poop all cooled on it's way to hitting the fan. Or maybe I could just teach this: people, including myself and yourself, can be jerks. But, keep pushing through the meat locker of life. Although I am not a Calvinist, I do believe in a certain degree of predestination since having my daughters. I should have been dead ten times over. But, thirty-seven years into the game, I am only starting to figure out what the hell I might be doing here.

The first found pages written on rice paper are about an Australian I met in the early 1990's named Mickey. When waiting for the bus home from my pharmacy job, I used to hang out at a bar appropriately called Shooter's. Shooter's had elderly shaking drunks and young shaking drug addicts and drain flies in the can. The only reason I can figure I went to Shooter's regularly was this-- I was a self-loathing drunk. And, the only reason I made it through a couple of years at Shooter's was unfulfilled destiny.

Before we get to Mickey, let's think of a few other patrons. The Captain, a veteran in his seventies with Parkinson and the desire to dance. I liked Captain. He would sit and drink his beer, piping up with a giggle now and then. He would show up at 9am and leave promptly at 3pm with a six-pack under his good arm. Lee Mayberry, a welfare case who loved the song Green-eyed Lady. I hated that song and hated Lee for constantly playing that song on the jukebox. And, for his permed, red hair. Rich and Chuck, two men who realized you can always count on a hot meal in jail. And, the easiest way to get high is to provoke someone into beating you up, getting a script for morphine patches to dull the pain, but wearing them on the soles of your feet for a better buzz. Vinnie, the owner, a former cop and hopeless gambler. High-stakes, high-speed outlawed card games eventually made him lose the bar and gain an ankle bracelet. Pat, the literate heroin addict who knew more about the Beat writers than about himself. Some nameless whore with bleach blond hair back in the States after stripping in Asia, looking for some coke to shoot up and her shoes. The crackhead who disappeared to the joint after falling asleep behind some folding chairs while hiding from the cops during a break-in gone bad. And, on. Think of the old saying, "Who lifted up a rock in this place?" There I sat, in the corner like a lighthouse of innocence. And, every once in a while some scumbag who hadn't been beaten down enough yet would saddle up next to me. And, every once in a while, the scumbag would be handsome like Australian Mickey. I didn't think anything of it.

Back in 1988, tattoos still had bad connotations. Bikers, criminals, and a few punks. I was seventeen. I got a tattoo of a cherub with a skull face and bat wings by a woman named Brenda, in her living room which functioned as her husband's tattoo shop. Her husband, Perry was passed out on the couch. So, it was up to Brenda in her Care Bear sweatshirt and sweatpants to earn my ten dollars. I wasn't a biker yet. I had only experienced two run-ins with the law by the green age of nineteen. I had a really bad attitude and didn't much like listening to authority, but I certainly didn't consider myself a punk.

Mickey had a star tattooed on his earlobe. He was a criminal. He got it in prison. And, the "Fuck you" tattooed on the inside of his lower lip? Prison, too. Mickey explained the Gothic letters coated in spit had historical roots. The Romans soldiers used to have the same thing, in Latin, tattooed in their mouths, he told me. After battle it wasn't unheard of to rape an enemy's person for souvenirs. Before a victorious opponent could stomp on your face and peel back your lips for a handful of teeth, he would read, "fuck you". Unfortunately, the straight-edge hardcore punks have appropriated this little lip trick, using phrases like "4 Life" or "XXX". Yawn, I guess that's like having your testicles drop for a Mama's boy.

Clever and smart that ol' Mickey. I let Mickey buy me beer. Amongst the American dollars, Mickey weeded through various other currencies from far away places like Singapore. "Oh", he'd told me, "yeah, my brother is in Singapore." Sure. One thing about Shooter's, ninety-nine percent of the clientele would lie through their teeth if they had 'em. Mickey wore cheap loafers. My mother always told me to stay away from men in cheap shoes. All the more reason to talk to Mickey. Mickey told me he was just in town for a little while. However, getting arrested for beating up an old lady during a purse snatching turned mugging turned ultrviolence may have changed up Mickey's travel plans a bit. I never saw Mickey again.

About five years later, Shooter's would be torn down after the landlord refused to renew the lease. The building was beyond repair. So, it was just gone in day. Sadly, the building did have a bit of history. I had seen pictures of the bar from the early 1900's. Working men sitting on benches, kicking up the sawdust floor while waiting for beef sandwiches cooked up on a spit in the window. Somehow, that idea got skewed; because, during Shooter's last days, the owners decided to start serving food in order to get a Sunday liquor license. A hot dog that had been floating in a Crock Pot for a day and a half with a bag of chips for a dollar-twenty-five. Classy, I know.

Happiness makes me sick

What is the neuro-chemistry behind this? These two songs make me so happy I feel like I want to puke. Just smiling and puking uber sweet browned butter frosting everywhere while clasping my hands to my heart. I guess that's what they mean when they say music "moves" people. But, I always thought that pertained to gay men at roller discos with cock rings laced into their skates. Not me, at home, grinding my teeth and trying not to bite my fingers off with joy.

Yup. Just a little Sweet and Bob Welch to render me helpless.

Pins and Needles

I was digging through a metal suitcase full of original publications containing the wisdom and wit of myself when I happened upon my old tattoo portfolio. Did I ever tell you how happy I am not to be tattooing anymore? No? I am so happy not to be tattooing anymore. There are a couple of reasons why. There's the Sponge Bob smoking a joint reason why. There is the Tazmanian Devil in a baseball cap with the Puerto Rican flag on it reason why. There's the fairy clown on a sagging breast reason why. And, the I don't really like talking to people much but somehow always find myself in the position of working with the public and it kills me slowly reason why.

I always found it amazing how shocked and dismayed people seemed to be that I would walk away from all the glamour and the hardcore rock'n'rolliness of the tattoo world. The blood didn't bother me as much as the constant yapping. I realize getting a tattoo is cathartic, but it is not an excuse to take an emotional and psychological dump on me. And, things only got weirder and weirder when guys started sending me uninvited Snapple and sandwiches from local pizza joints. Not even sandwiches I liked! And, then there was the guy who wanted me to slowly tattoo is his whole body while pining away, telling me I looked like Trinity from the Matrix. Ugh.

That was not the first time I had ever been courted to please, please, please inflict some pain on a doting individual. But, my favorites were Alina, a blond buxom dominatrix and her attentive, cross-dressing brother Arthur. They first showed up when I was working at a place in Chicago called Earwax. I was a night manager, book keeper, waitress, cook, and video clerk. In general, a run your ass off type of gal. Sometimes, during my runnig around, I would get a bit, umm, curt. Maybe even hostile. Regular customers like "Ol' Hole in the Ankle" (huge holes between his ankle bones and tendons perfect for hooking one's self upside down) would show up for his daily bottle of cherry soda and cower in the corner. However, Alina and Arthur would beam up at me. Waiting patiently for their beverage and a few words. She would show me the latest photos of herself, would complain about the slob of a boss she had, would tell me where I could find her if I ever needed to find her, and would ultimately end the visit by begging me to take the twenty dollar tip for her double latte. And, Arthur would just nod his head and finger his freshly waxed eyebrows.

Eventually, I left Earwax to go work at a record shop selling used vinyl. Alina and Arthur found me. They asked around and asked around until they got the answers they wanted. And, to show how much they missed me they promised to bring German chocolate cake and Orangina whenever visiting. The record store proved to be a far better arena for Alina and Arthur. They didn't have to share my attention with other customers. I would price records and Alina would tell me stories about her clientele while Arthur shuffled through the used porn we had for sale. "Hmmm", I'd say. She would show me photos. "Hmmm, " I would say. She even brought one of her little Eastern European gangster boyfriends in to meet me. "Hmmm, " I would say.

One day, I up and quit the record store because the owner was a liar and a crook. And, liars make me turn beat red in the face and almost stroke out... so, I left. I lost any contact with Alina and Arthur because I never kept her phone number.

The other night, I was talking with a friend about boxing and wrestling stories. Mine happened to be about a guy who liked to wrestle women and give commentary the whole time like Howard Cosell. The ladies would put him in a head lock and he would report the series of events, ending with, "Can he do it? Can he do it?"

I'll end this with a funny bondage story. Years ago, before Sean "Carnage" Carney fell into the arms of Hustler and LACA, he went to a Black and Blue ball in Cleveland for a US Rocker article. Or maybe since he was already there, he decide to do a US Rocker article for it. Anyway, he tells me the bits and piece... the knots and bolts. "Hmmm," I said, until he relived a Birthday party scene. Apparently, some gentleman stretched out in a barber's chair was having his scrotum stretched out and pinned to a foam core board. Once the pins were all in place, candles were jammed onto the pin heads and lit. A crowd circled around to sing "Happy Birthday to You". And, then, he blew out the candles between his legs akimbo. "Hmmm, " I said. Sean went on to describe the man: pastey white, mustache, red vinyl tanktop, and dirty tube socks. "UGH! That is disgusting," I exclaimed. Sean was dumbfounded. Usually, I can handle the bizarre, unnerving, and extreme. "The socks", I explained, "the socks! Dirty tube socks!" So, it was known for years if you wanted to give me the willies, just mention the dirty tube socks.

Ausgang! Five!

Original published in Ausgang under the grouping Walking.

Have directions, will travel.

My parents owned a Volkswagen Beetle back in 1974. My father, usually wordless, drove. My mother, always riding shotgun, dealt with me repeatedly whispering lyrics to my favorite songs into her left ear as I stood, leaning in from the backseat. At three-years-old, "Sunshine on My Shoulders" made me happy. Parents despite their unconditional love for their children can take only so much of such abuse. So, one afternoon my father pulled the car over to the brim of the road, and both turned to face me. Looking at them with their heads framed between the pleather seats , I realized, "Man, I loved these folks so much! The beginning and end of my little world.” Joy like that puts a song in your heart. But, before I could start, my mother cracked, "Honey, we're gonna let you out of the car here... and you can walk the rest of the way home, okay?" "Mmmm-hmmm," I replied. My father nodded. She continued, "When you get out here, you wanna head three blocks straight ahead... and, then, turn right and go about two more, okay?" "Mmmm-hmmm, " I replied. She popped the door open, hunched over the dash as I squeezed out onto the street. "Okay, we'll see you at home," she waved. My father nodded again, a shiv smile sliced his lower face open. I waved back, and headed off. They watched my little silhouette diminish into the sunset for a few moments. Maybe, they laughed their asses off. Or maybe, they sat silently, wondering why their three-year-old would just abandon ship like that. My heels hadn’t kicked up much dust before “Mommy” & “Dad” edged up beside me and told me to hop-in. I did... and promptly broke into a sultry, smoky version of "Delta Dawn". That event marks the day I became a conscientious walker. I'll blow through a pair of Campus faster than most... with pride.

Ausgang! Four!

Originally published in Ausgang under the grouping Cops.

Inspiration for a Lumpen comic.

In 1987 while visiting some relatives, the NYPD busted myself and this kid from Ithica (never asked his name) for smoking a joint and drinking a couple cans of beer in an alleyway a few blocks from Madison Square/Grand Central. The man in blue worked up a good hassle about us going to jail with all the hookers and junkies, while he earned overtime booking us. We’d have to call our parents, he said. That thought, more than being a 16-years-old girl sitting trashed in bum vomit with some guy I didn’t know, scared the crap out me. The finger-wagging seemed endless, like the sun had set and rose twice over. Then he said, “What the hell are you smiling at?” “Nothing,” I replied. I never realized that the acid I had eaten about 2 hours before kicked in, and I had just beamed up at him the whole time. After a slight pause, he smiled and said, “Don’t smoke your stuff on my beat. And, put your beer in a bag. Have a good night, kids.” We finished our beers as he walked back onto the street. Later, we went to the top of the Empire State.

- Melissa Sullivan

Ausgang! Three!

Originally published in Ausgang under the grouping Rooftops.

The abandoned oil tanks on the lakefront fit our purposes perfectly, to smoke a bunch of weed and waste a bunch of time. Our voices echoed metallically off the inside walls of the rusty hull as we played tag in the dark. Only the moonlight spilling in from the porthole door reminded us that we hadn’t been swallowed up like Jonah. On warmer nights, a spiral staircase carried us three-stories up to its domed roof. Looking down, we surveyed all the cottonwoods lined up on the shore, intermittently projecting a dock or two. And, as we arched our backs to hug the metal sheets, we felt the stars push down towards us. If the stars were magnets, the whole tank would serve as a ship cutting through the waves of space. With our heads full of these celestial bodies and pot, no one cared if they plummeted to their deaths. Many kids in my hometown had dropped over the edges of discarded structures over the years. Mostly, those were the heshers climbing the grain elevators. But, we were goths and punks; and no matter how bad we wanted to die... we couldn’t. By the time I graduated, developers razed the tanks, fell the trees, and crumpled up the docks to build condos.

- Melissa Sullivan

Ausgang! Two!

Originally published in Ausgang under the grouping Bus Stories.

Back in 1992, I lived in the white trash neighborhood of the bad side of town. I rented a $180 apartment above an old electrician’s store front, officially zoned as office space . The heater’s pilot light never stayed lit; and the orange shag carpet hid a million dead fleas woven into the pile. But, the beer distributor two blocks away delivered for free, the pizza shop across the street baked good pepperoni balls, and the record shop kitty-corner from my front door special ordered LPs for me. So, it wasn’t all bad. I’d stay up throughout the night, contemplating if more insects crawled through the soil of the cemetery visible from my “living room” window or beneath the pavement under the dumpster of the butcher shop up the road. By 8am, these philosophical queries had me a little loopy. A twenty minute ride to my pharmacy technician. job downtown became my depleted dreamscape. I squinted past the Jeri Curl streaks, scanning the never-changing urban decay. Until one day, in a field of patchy sod, a goat bent its neck down to graze. But, then I realized it was only an abandoned shopping cart in the parking lot of a discount/close-out department store.
- Melissa Sullivan

Ausgang! One!

Originally published in Ausgang under the grouping Jokes.

New Jokes from Melissa Sullivan.

Joke One:
What's the difference between Ian Curtis and a toaster?
A toaster doesn't hang itself in the basement!

* you can change this one up using any appliance and any famous death, like--

What's the difference between Sonny Bono and a George Forman grill?
A George Forman grill doesn't kill itself by accidently skiing into a tree!
HAHAHAHAHA!


Joke Two:
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Oh, don't worry. It's just me, Martin Luther, nailing the 95 Theses of Contention to the door.
HAHAHAHAHAHA!

The Mistress of the Mayor of Buffalo

Back when I was young, I didn't like kids. In a couple of decades, not much has changed. Except now, I know it is not that I didn't like them as much as I didn't understand them. However, living my life wearing a pair of friendship blinders hasn't left me friendless. Most of my currently closest friends have been in my life for close to twenty years. I can find a few exceptions to this rule, but those exceptions are still within a five plus year range. I'd love to say I don't plan on making any more friends. But, I guess no one plans on making new friends. Once I do, though, I plan on keeping them.

Back around 1978, I was living in a four flat with my mom. It was a vintage dump. It wasn't a fixer-upper. It was a letter-rotter. The landlord had no interest in anything but the rent. Because of my throbbing brain filled with decades of useless memories and data, I remember many things about this place. The hallway was covered in a velveteen wallpaper straight from the 1920's. I once had a nightstand lamp thrown across the room at me by unseen forces, bursting into flames. I had to apologize to the old sagging, clown-faced whore who lived downstairs for telling her and her lap dog to shut up. I spent nights spent making slides of urine to inspect under a low-powered microscope. Hours spent hiding in cupboards, waiting to jump out and scare people walking past. I used to lay in bed and practice not breathing, because nothing would kill you if they thought you were already dead. I figured out my theory of spontaneous combustion and Hell while living there. It goes a little something like this: spontaneous combustion is simply an act of the Devil and since the basement is the closest place in the house to Hell-- you are more likely to spontaneously combust in the basement. I would cry heading down to change the laundry over from the washer to the dryer. There are other things about that place. But, the best thing was Bev. My first best friend.

Bev Rosencrantz lived directly across the hall from me. She was probably about 78years old when we met. I was seven. We shared a wall running along the hallways in our flats. "Pound on the wall if you ever need me to call the police. And, you do the same for me. I'll be listening," Bev would tell me.

I spent every day after school with Bev. I was a latch key kid. Do they even still use that term? If they do, they shouldn't. It's a stupid term. By no means should you ever believe even the most intelligent young child is willing or capable of staying alone in a house for hours on end without incident or fear of incident. What they should be called is we-don't-have-any-other-choice-kids. But, I didn't have to worry about that once Bev and I became friends.

I would run up the stairs, throw my coat in my apartment, and then take my homework over to Bev's. As I did my homework on her marble (no, not marble TOPPED... MARBLE period) coffeetable under the light of a chandelier shaped like of a bunch of grapes, Bev would watch Guilding Light. I would be spread out in my Catholic plaids. And, Bev would be decked out in her rhinestone encrusted, velvet housecoats with a headwrap and black slippers. Bev would offer me peanut britle, and it would always be stale. Bev wouldn't eat, she would just chew on the rhinestone encrusted cigarette holders that she kept next to her chair in an unused standing ashtray.

Bev's apartment was lush. Ebony and teak dining room pieces, constantly set with goldware for six. I once saw inside her bedroom on a trek to the can. And, what would the next two sizes up from a king-sized bed be? Well, that's what she had... with a red velvet, pillowed headboard. And, I was always amazed the crumbling plaster ceilings never gave way under the weight of all the suspended lighting (mostly more chandeliers). And, on and on. Not the typical decor you'd find on a retired school teacher's wage. Yeah, I forgot to mention Bev was a school teacher.

Bev didn't use her kitchen much. Not since someone tried to kill her by setting her refrigerator on fire back in Buffalo. That was decades ago. Back when Bev was the mistress of the mayor of Buffalo. Yup. And, according to Bev, there were plenty of people who would like to have seen her dead. That's why Bev had her windows and the doors eletrified. Yeah, electri-mah-fied. Bev would talk and talk and talk while I did my worksheets.

Another story Bev used to tell quite frequently was about a scientist with snakes forever crawling over his grave. She was a Jew for Jesus before the Jews for Jesus knew they had a choice. She converted to Christianity and had a priest come to her house to give her communion. All so she wouldn't spend eternity covered in snakes.

It's pretty easy to see how Bev and I became close friends. I was a young kid with a wild imagination and an edgy paranoia. And, she was an old lady with one foot in reality and an edgy paranoia. I am surprised we never wound each other up enough to accidentally kill the agents of the Mafia and Satan otherwise known as the postmen.

It might seem kind of sad that I wasn't running in the sun and scabbing my knees in a hearty game of tag. But, I truly enjoyed all my days with Bev. I just wish I knew more about her life than just what she told me. But, don't you know! I can't find a damned thing.

Is it him?

RIP Petey

Petey was a good, hard working, generous man with about 48 grandchildren. He was one of my favorite people during my purgatory at a local tavern.
"Petey, whatchya been up to?"
"This and that... now and then. (Followed by muttering and mumbles.)"
Petey had great picnics where the ribs and the card dealing never stopped. At one of these picnics, one of Petey's young third-forth-fifth cousins, known for knocking up gullable white chicks (apparently, he doesn't believe in equally opportunity impregnanting) and then beating them senseless, tried to start a riot by loudly announcing, "She doesn't like black people." I paused, patted him on the knee, and said, "No, I just don't like you." You see, I loved Petey!
As if we didn't know, years of Black Velvets with a Bud Light chasers finally wrecked his liver. I guess they scheduled him to die by this past Christmas, but Petey did things in his own time.
I'm glad I just found out, because I am not one for funerals. I tend to stare-- at the corpse and the mourners. I am taken by their sense of seperationtheir seperation, not so much their loss.
There was only one Petey. Meaning, I will NEVER meet anyone that could even slightly reminded me of him and our conversations of about decent soul music. I am proud to have been considered one of Petey's Angels-- although there were just tow of us (Kristy Korea and me) and he was no Bosley. It worked for me.

Making Your Money Work for You!

Here's my two cents worth, which is probably only worth about 1.00087 cents on any given day depending on the arbitrary gut feeling of some suits on the Market floor.

DO NOT open any accounts at the Erie Community Credit Union (not to be confused with the Erie Federal Credit Union). Today, I called the bank and spoke to a gentleman who provided no reasonable explanation for the following situation. On August 8th, 2008, I had three transactions posted to my account. First being a withdrawl of X, which according to ECCU put my balance into negative numbers. Secondly, a overdraw fee of $25 was inflicted. Thirdly, a deposit of 2X was posted. There are no time stamps on these transactions. They are simply all dated the eighth. Any bank I have dealt with or any bank anyone I have spoken to about this has dealt with experiencing any transactions posted on the same date has deposits coming before withdrawls. However, the bank representative explained that the withdrawl dated 8/8/8 actually went through on 8/7/8. And, the deposit that I actually made on 8/7/8 didn't actually get posted until 8/8/8. Ummm, yeah. That's my point! So, just 'cos the bank felt like accepting a withdrawl before it was actually posted to my account... and didn't really think it mattered that the deposit slip I hold in my hand dated by their machines as 8/7/8 didn't get posted until the following day, I'm out $25. Blood-- pressure-- righ--zing!

Okay, I am not financially illiterate. Actually, the opposite. When I was in seventh grade, I made a hobby out of reading stock quotes because I flirted with being a stockbroker when I wasn't entertaining the idea of being a vampire. I pose this to you: the whole right brain vs. left brain argument is bullshit. I have excelled as a published illustrator, made a living doing graphic arts, and enjoy dipping a creative pen nub now and then. Yet, back in second grade, I learned computer program languages when all data was only stored on cassette tapes. I studied college math in middle school, having a teacher give me a physics book for kicks. I received A's and B's in all my math classes without barely cracking a cover. I loved all my college accounting courses, and thought about dropping my Liberal Art major to become a CPA with a speciality in tax law. Sooooo, don't act like I don't understand the facade of the banking system we have in this country, Mr.Bank Representative.

But, it just isn't the crunching of numbers that leads me to FINALLY close my account at the ECCU. It's the little things like watching the teller clip her nails (all fingers on both hands) in her little cubby while I am the only person standing directly in front of her in the slaughterhouse lines. Or maybe it was when I was depositing a personal check from my husband and had the teller crassly ask me if it was a support check. "Oh, you mean from my babies' daddy," I should have said. But, instead I said in a close to Steve Martin impersonation, "Excccccuuuuseee me?!?!?!" I don't care if it is a personal check from Hilter for all the paintings he bought from me in any Ebay auction. It is none of your DAMNED business! Blood-- pressure-- righ-- zing.

Initially, I had asked to be patched through to the bank manager about the situation. Apparently, Julie was on the phone. I left a voice mail with a detailed account of the situation. Then, I went to hang out with my daughters to eat a ham omelette I had just cooked for all of us. After some hugs and kisses and internal processing, I called Julie back. And, I said, "You know, Julie, I'll just be in tomorrow to close my account." Sounds like I just bent over, huh? Well, I suddenly had a flash back to the years and years and years I didn't have a bank account. The happy years with a little more leg work to get money orders... but happy years all the same. I want those happy times back. So, I cancelled my direct deposit. Don't start scheming to steal any wads of cash hidden in my mattress. Those aren't the wads you'll find in my bed. The majority of my cash goes to the family budget which is locked up at another bank that hasn't pissed me off enough yet.

Am I being too rigid by expecting the 8th of August to be the 8th of August? Not the seventh or the ninth. Or is it completely inflexible of me to consider public records something that should be made readily available to me, a relucant member of the public?

C-I-L-L my O-C-D

This is a copy of the certified letter I sent to my former landlord as a response to his certified letter. I did not include the graph illustrating all usage and payments. Take a person with frontal lobe issues, a photographic memory, an acerbic wit, and a bad case of obsessive compulsive issues thrown into a mental, economic, or familial threat, and I will show you a mess of words that cut like a thousand knives. But here's the fizzle, I found out he can't ask a penny from us after six months have passed since our occupancy anyway. I still love the unemotional retaliation. It's so... so... ummmmm, reptilian.


Mr. (Blankity-Blank),

In reference to the certified letter received June 18, 2008, we dispute the factuality of its content and the accuracy of the sum owed to you towards supposed unpaid garbage collection.

Mr. Shimek and myself tried to maintain a courteous nature in our interactions with you. We even took it upon ourselves to repair certain aspects of your unit, such as broken toilets and faucets. However, the stress caused to our family during the fifteen months in your rental unit proved to be too much. Water pouring down bedroom walls, drain flies coming up from a permanently water soaked basement, broken windows, monthly shut-off notices for water, and no working heat were just some of the situations which slowly eroded any pleasantries. Some of these circumstances were doubly distressing, being the new parents of infant twins. Once moving out from our month to month agreement, we decided not to speak ill of you but to maintain no further contact. After not hearing from you for over six months, I found it illogical to simply write you a check for $200-300 as you requested without any physical proof, such as an invoice (as I requested numerous times). However, I took it upon myself to trace all bank transactions and to discuss usage and fees with the Erie Water Works-- the collector of garbage payments. They suggested we take this matter to a District Justice, as I specified to you in our second telephone conversation.

In your conversation with myself, you stated, "I can use that money however I want." It is unfortunate you did not use the money gained from cashed checks (all noted with the memos either "garbage" or with the specific invoices numbers in question) to pay your long standing overdue bills.

As a courtesy to you, so you do not waste your or our time trying to collect money that is not owed to you through public means, we are giving you the information we used to figure what was owed to you during our rental of your property-- the payments due for all months are separated into quarters like the Water Works billing and the amounts of the checks you cashed specifically marked for garbage payment (which are COMPLETELY separate from checks you cashed slated for water usage or rent). We are offering no payment, as our figures show OVERPAYMENT on our part. This mirrors the overpayment we gave you towards water bills. The overpayment you accepted and made no mention until we took it upon ourselves to go down to the Erie Water Works offices to straighten out usage and billing with one of their representatives. As far as any late fees, we do not feel it is our responsibility to pay fines on an overdue bill that stood at $463.75 (close to twelve unpaid quarters of usage) owed before we even moved into your unit. You can consider this letter and its accompanying information as resolution to your self-described problem, or we will be more than happy to share this information with a District Justice at your cost and convenience.

Steamy German Summer

Oh, and just a few more things. Just in case you didn't get my Germanfest call to arms, here it is for your viewing pleasure. They think they can push us around, eh? They think they can tell us where to sit, do they? Where the HECK is the corn on the cob? We deserve the Mad Bavarian! We will cook our own spatzle, dammit. The DANK should know better than anyone. You start telling downtrodden people what to do-- they'll suddenly pick some maniacal leader and bodies will start to fill the pits! So, leave our picnic table alone, I say!

You are nothing! They people are EVERYTHING!



And, this weekend was the Steam Engine show. And, once again, I am impressed. It is probably one of my favorite outdoor events. I base this favoritism solely upon the people. Well, okay, the chugging engines and brightly colored farm equipment always tickles me, too. But, I have never been an outdoor event with such a display of grace, manners, and courtsey. I know I am not the norm in my gas mask t-shirt and toaster tattoo, but you'd never know it by the way people treat me. Friendliness from the past middle-aged women serving sloppy joes and smiles from the flea market table manned by the children the system forgot (Amy told her daughter one day she'd have to watch Deliverance to truly understand any references made). When the rain started pouring down and everyone hunkered down in the outdoor kitchen, many people struck up conversations with Matt and I about the girls. And, uncharacteristically, I didn't feel put off or oogled. Ahhh, and who can forget the vague odor of manure in the wind.

Now, I am not being overly romantic about country folk. I know it is simply human to judge others against yourself. But, you know what? Publicly, keep it to yourself. Be polite. Respect the fact that the person in front of you has the same capacity for emotion and even (possiby) knowledge. Just nod your head with a smile and move on. You've got bigger fish to fry, like packing your antique bulldozer up on the trailer or breaking the fingers of the methhead next door who stole your rachet set.

Oh, and I got some goodies at the flea market. Some Christain comics by the same publisher, Spire, of The Cross and the Switchblade. These titles include: Up from Harlem, Live It Up, and On the Road with Andrae Crouch. I also scooped up a New Krofft Supershow comic and The Science Fair Story of Electronics (the discovery that CHANGED the WORLD) comic. I'll put them with the September 1976 issue of Playgirl Kristy bought me until I can properly file them away. Shudder with me. Also, I picked up some LPs, of course. The shining star? Lee Hazelwood's Houston. I like to think of my husband has the best mix of a young Orson Wells and the weirdest parts of Lee Hazelwood... and more. Man, I love Lee Hazelwood. In the same way, but more than, Bobby Goldsboro. I guess there is a physical similarity. But, Lee definitely seems like more of a hardass.

And, the other LPs include The Giants of Country Music, Country Girls Sing Country Songs, Mr. Guitar by Billy Strange (I am pretty sure I already own this), Great Speckle Bird by Roy Acuff and his Smoky Mountain Boys, Here's Loretta Lynn, and a radio program called American Country Countdown dated 5-29-1982.

I guess that's all I have to share right now. Umm, the Borax-honey-sugar-hamburger-grease experiment has rid the house of ants. Thanks, Smith. I am starting a new sweater. My first cable knit. The poppies have overrun my garden like weeds. My longest standing roommate in life, Jason, is in town from Spain. And, he got married. Amy and Pat had their little boy, Hunter "Porkchop" Lord. And, he is beautiful. Danielle and Justus are expecting their first child. She is very ill-- so, I try to make her laugh by making an ass out of myself. And, that's not too hard. Kristy is in Korea. Matt needs a haircut. My mom got another bassette hound. And, no doubt about it, hounds stink. And, last but not least, another brother had a son. The world needs more Sullivan blood. I just hope everything works out for him. Of all of us, I never thought it would be me taking the American Way of Life route. Married with kids in a nicie-nice house. Also, to my horror, I accidentally discovered my daughters enjoy Barney. Why? Why? WHY!!!!

I think it is going to be November tomorrow. I can't keep track.

Mungo Jerry obviously didn’t have ants

Before the summer officially arrived, the ants came. First, the BIG, BLACK pick-in-their-afro Carpenter ants showed up on the scene. Their love for water kept them pretty localized in the upstairs bathroom. I have to thank them for showing us the ancient, yet on-going, water damage occurring next to the tub. Now, you'd think they would be coming in from the outside perimeter; but, no! Our next door neighbor, a Snowbird retiree, infiltrated their lines. More specifically-- telephone lines. These mercenaries were climbing a telephone pole ACROSS the street, walking the lines with the agility of an Eastern European circus performer, and barging right in! Clever buggers. It isn't so much that I am afraid of these semi-trucks of the ant family. It's more of a territorial issue. Like the Furies versus the Orphans. Like my old neighbor Troy Cochran used to say, "Thiz izzzz MAH house!" We don't like uninvited guests. Thank god, we're not drinking enough anymore to whip out a gun and start blasting the son of a guns.

Then, one day, they were gone. Moved on the damper fields, I thought. I felt relieved, yet somehow rejected. Soon we discovered Joel the Snowbird had taken matters into his own hands. Unable to burn the pole, Joel got out the old Vemon or Viper or Liquid Death spray and soaked the joint. I had some ethical issues with the mass ant genocide. They were here first, I sighed. We're in trouble when they figure out how to Vemon us. They're just little aliens trying to gather information, build homes, and feed their colonies. What right do we have? Then, I remembered I am not down with imperialism. And, I wondered when Dr. Who was going to show up as the multi-dimensional exterminator. Maybe I'm the Dalek in the ant world. Maybe their Dr. Who will show up one day and dig my spine out of my back like the vein on a cold shrimp. Or maybe I thinking about bugs too much. Yeah, maybe I thinking about smart, conniving bugs too much.

Whheeee! Thank god those ants are gone, huh? But, nooooooooo. On the heels of the Carpenters-- Gee, what if Karen and Richard showed up one day and just started messing with the wooden structure of your house? What if they were too busy to even sing you a song? Music, I'd say, or beat it! So, on the slender ankles of my Karen Carpenter ants came the teeny, tiny, maybe-I'm-a-crumb-maybe-I'm-not brown ants. Maddening! That's how they break you down. First, they're here. Then you spray them with Windex and they break up the party. And, not even a whole day later, they're over there now. They sneak in from crack and crevice. You never knew how many cracks you had until the ants come to town. They squeeze into the spaces even too small for a draft! They like bananas, peanut butter, minuscule splatters of bacon grease, the green cat food kibbles, and apple juice.

Again, this isn't a phobia. Like the screams I hear in my head when I step to close to the edge of a building or cliff. It is more an economical issue. With the price of gas, groceries, and the overhead of raising two growing girls, I can't afford daily handouts to the whole neighborhood. But, I am willing to make a deal. I am willing to treat the whole situation like a mob transaction. I'm willing to offer up a honey glazed ham once a month for a little peace and quiet. Until then, I will fight the losing battle like a store owner battling strong arm tactics only to end up face down on his front stoop. But, every day, I get a little stronger. I can freely squash any little brown ant under my thumb (as long as I hear no crunching) and rub their segmented carcass on my peddle-pushers. Sigh, deflation of chest, strong inhalation through double-wide nostrils, sigh. Where's my cinnamon?

In other insect news, the silverfish population growth seemed like it hit a few months of inactivity. But, now, the youngest of the brood seem to be testing their limits by peeking their little shiny selves out of the shadows. I think, after some mental adjustments, they are silly. And, they remind me of the cover of The Stooges Raw Power. However, they help dust off that schizophrenic part of my brain, too. The bugs are watching me, I whisper in the twilight. They are watching me... waiting... patiently, waiting. Years ago, I read a short story about an obese women, driven to consume by this unceasing hunger-- until pop! She split open and a HUGE larvae slithered out of her bulging belly. Ray Bradbury? Who? Tell me! It's things like these that made it IMPOSSIBLE for me to go to school in Athens, Georgia. Yes, acceptance letter in hand, someone told me about June bugs. And, bugs. And, some more bugs. Heck, pill bugs (rolly-pollies or potato bugs) kinda gross me out. But, like any good parsimonious Scot-Irish-German territorial teeth clencher, start messin' with my home or food and ye shall suffer the wrath!

Hmmm,what else? Contaray to Whiteman's prodding, I am not a Republican. But, yet, I feel I am becoming very conservative in my pre-golden years. Yes, I cry during the Harlan County footage. Yes, the Jungle is scarier than any Koontz novel. But, no, sorry... I don't think unionized G.E. employees need two more weeks of paid vacation. Is the minimum wage a barbed wire fence around the lowest socio-economic classes? Yes. But, do I understand why companies move overseas? Yes, it's called capitalism. When American citizens finally started whining louder, major corporations had to find someone else to exploit. I am convinced small-business owners would jump on that cheap whore if they could; but the government just doesn't make the penicillin as readily available to them yet. They are the medium fish in the big pond trying to decided if they should eat some small fish or have the small fish collect some plankton to sell to the big fish. Or better yet have the small fish collect the plankton and give it to you for a fraction of the price you plan on selling it back to them for. Go, Wal-pond!

Other recent considerations-- my favorite president, James Buchanan. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Buchanan

And, secondly, "Silent Cal" Coolidge. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calvin_Coolidge

SATUR! DAY! NIGHT!

Tonight, Matt and I finished the Albums of the Seventies. We both went cross-eyed; but we did it.

Soundtrack? Shuffle of five disks.The Future is Unwritten/ Joe Strummer, 20th Century Masters/ Chuck Berry, Appalachian Mountain Bluegrass 30 Vintage Classics/Various Artists, I'll Sleep When You're Dead/ DJ El-P, and End of an American Dream/ Lee "Scratch" Perry.

Here's a sneaky peek at the Bird in Hand. We plan on applying some shellac to the 550 pieces, hanging it on the wall right next to the black velvet cobra, the Keane girl in an alleyway, or the Magnum PI breakfast tray.

You are all sheep. My beloved sheep.

Years ago, the Rev. Bill Roe and I discussed starting our own cult. Years later, I am realizing this wasn't such a half-crocked idea. However, it's not a cult I want to start. It's more of a religion (as an institution). Faith in something beyond us as a way of life. Something which, on a daily basis, realizes our shortcomings and acknowledges our failures, but as achievements not mess-ups. I figure it will be almost unitarian in its approach, but not so touchie-feelie. We won't worry about the afterlife, because we are already in it! We're dead, not dying. So, let's make the best of it! There's no need to get mopey and transgressive. Entropy should be enjoyed like a ticker tape parade.

I will establish some tenements, and get back to you. From this moment on, I will make myself available as a spiritual consouler (sic) to help you realize the benefit of even the worse things in your life. And, hopefully, get you to stop complaining about it all.

Of course, I will have to accept tax-free donations. The apocalypse isn't a courtesy in this global climate, you know. But, I am working on a goodie bag for those interested in my brand of salvation.

I highly suggest you keep your current belief system. I will function merely as an supplimental everyday prophet. I make no claims of holding the bejeweled keys to any pearly gate, any golden razor of ventilating self-abuse, or any waxy, flowered Dixie cupful of a sweet Kool-Aid starship outta this joint. However, I truly believe we can all make it a better day for ourselves by not focusing on others so much. No, not in a Satanic dragon ring wearing self-absorption. A little bit more carefree than that. But, not as much as a nudist commune of hedonism. It's all about balance and decay.

Please brush up on the writings of Rod McKuen. I am expecting some visons will direct us to his wordplay. Also, as balance, we will refer to the autobiography a Col. Harlan Sanders, finger lickin' good, on a continual basis.

Signs will follow, along with a catchy jingle.

Going bananas for charity!

Today, I became one of those sweaty geeks in blinders with superficial manners. I walked in exactly seven minutes after they opened the doors. It's not the first time, nor will it be the last.

These are the things I bought at the Friends of the Library sale-- in no particular order. All long-playing vinyl unless otherwise noted. Some we don't have and want. Some we don't have and will take a chance. Some we have, but these might be in better condition than the ones we already own. Or some we have and I will sell the recoop the money spent on the ones we want. Get it. Whew.

There is something sickly fun about seeing people eye up the stack under your gritty palm with its blackened fingertips, turning to them to say, "Oh, no, I'm sorry. Those are all mine." I patiently wait my turn for the next stack and reluctantly nod at the other sweaty geeks when they talk to me. But, baby, don't you line jump or pick into my stack as I'm flippin' through it. Have some manners. Or I'll give you some serious elbow! I mean SERIOUS ELBOW! Oh, and to the one or two familiar faces who tried to talk to me in the midst of my offensive. Sorry, can't talk... eating. Yay, good times!

They Harder the Come VHS, Roy Orbison/ 1965-1968 cassette, Journey to the Center of Time VHS, Original Surfin' Hits/ Various Artits (Crescendo Records), Hank Locklin/ My Kind of Country Music, Mel Tellis/ Me & Pepper, Melanie/Leftover Wine, Leonard Cohen/ I'm Your Man, Enviroments/ Induced Mediation, Western Heritage/ Ted Hockridge & the Peter Knight Orchestra, Xavier Alberto & his Orchestra/ Brazil Today, The New CBS Audio-fil Sound Effects Library, CCR/ Cosmo's Factory, Home Movie Sounds Effects, Sound Effects Vol. 1 & 2 , Ravi Shankar/ Festival from India, The Now Sounds of the New Generation/ Various Artists, Slim Whitman/ Home on the Range, Willie Nelson/ Pretty Paper, The Four Seasons/ Gold Vault of Hits, Kenny & Dolly/ Once Upon a Christmas, Big Men of Counrty/ Various Artists, 144 Genuine Sound Effects, Television/ Adventure, A Treasury of Gregorian Chants, The Dovells/ You Can't Sit Down, Cat Stevens/ Tea for the Tillerman, James Taylor/Sweet Baby James, Ray Charles/ Modern Sounds in Country Music, Sons of the Pioneers/ Cool Water, Roy Clark/ Greatest Hits Vol. 1, Down a Country Road/ Various Artists, Mel Tillis and the Statesiders/ S-s-superstar!, Waylon Jennings/ Ol' Waylon, Banjo Bandits/ Roy Clark & Buck Trent, My Country America/ Various Artists, Guantanamera/ The Sandpipers, Lionel Newman/ Exciting Hong Kong, The Three Suns/ Fever & Smoke, Sergio Mende/ Best of Brazil, Burl Ives/ Songs of the West, Marty Gold/ Skin Tight, Martin Denny/ A Taste of Honey, Martin Denny/ Exotic Today, Arthur Lyman/ Percussion Spectacular!, Chet Atkins/The Most Popular Guitars, Kool MOe Dee/ Wild WIld West 12", Henry Mancini/ Mr. Lucky Goes Latin, Martin Denny/ Exotic, Leo Diamond & his Orchestra/ Subliminal Sounds, The Platers/ Super Hits, Bright Lights & Country Music/ Various Artists, The California Poppy Pickers/ Today's Chart Busters, A Boy Named Sue & Other Country Hits/ Various Artists, Country Hymns/ Varous Artists, Gene Pitney/ Big Sixteen Vol. 3, Page Cavanaugh with Art Van Damme & Les Paul/ Three of a Kind, Discover the.../Bitter End Singers, Solid Gold '68/ Chet Atkins.

And some seven inches by: Glenn Campbell, The Buoys, The Jaggerz, The Dacrons, Bill Carmichael, Bill Black's Combo, The Byrds, The Robins, Tommy James, Mary Hopkins, Gerry & the Pacemakers, Bobby Darin, Dawn, Edison Lighthouse, The Cowsills, Sheb Wooley, Mike Douglas, Johnny Maddox, Dinah Washington (singing Hank), The New Yorkers, The Rivingtons, Les Baxter, Tommy Roe, Looking Glass, Bryan Hyland, Johnny Rivers, Freddy Cannon, Randy Newman, Little Caear & the Consuls, Gene Chandler, Crow, Emerson Lake & Palmer, Crazy Elephant, Dave & Ansil Collins, Led Zepplin, Lou Christie, Dolly Parton, Marvin Gaye, Teresa Brewer, Lenny Welch, Robert Davie, and Ronnie Dove.

I got some VHS tapes for the kids, too.

I have realized having children finally justifies our pack-ratting nature. We are building an estate for our children, see.

Whew.

I’m shocked, but not nearly horrified enough!

Last night, I had a dream that I was back in London. It's been years. And, I am sure the London in my dreams is just another one of my alternate dimension cities. I dream about other cities in other dimensions 'cos I am the white solar wind (Mayan symbol http://www.astrodreamadvisor.com/M_white-sol-wind.html ). Pause... cough... sip of coffee. Anyway, I am in London standing around as an extra on the set of Eastenders. We are inside some auditorium. Well, it's more like the gymnasium of my Catholic grade school with a basketball court on the floor, a stage at one end, a bingo kitchen at the other, and a bunch of folding bleachers. And, I'm eating a danish. Something tasty like the ones from Alliance bakery on Division in Chicago. Mmmmm.The dream goes on like that for a while. Pretty boring stuff like when I was an extra (bartender) in tthe movie High Fidelity. A lot of standing around with me watching knuckleheads try to get discovered in a crowd of 150+ starlets in between my chapters of Lester Bangs' essays. Yawn. But, it's cooler in the dream because it's Eastenders!



Suddenly, I am in a hotel. But, the hallways look like something out of a college dormitory with all sorts of notes on the doors. Only a little more ghetto, because the notes are spray painted over blood splatter. Oh, let's not forget all the litter moving around like tumbleweeds. Doors are hanging off of hinges and lights are burnt out. I think it is a memory conjured up from a hotel room where I stayed in Paris. Old broken elevator, hair in the sheets, and blood on the walls. I am not scared, though. Mostly, because I have plans. Big plans to do some sightseeing! Apparently, I have a car parked out front. But, it is just a large, unfinished model of a car-- just the molded plastic shell. Instead, I try to take the tube. However, I don't have real money in my pockets. I have cardboard nickles. I'm mad! How am I gonna get to the London Dungeons!?



Which brings me to my point: I thought the London Dungeon was awesome! Some day, I will take my children there. Supposedly, it is quickly becoming more of an amusement park of sorts. With some Demon Drop-ish ride and labyrinth of the lost. What I remember are the wax works and the torture museum. However, I didn't really take akin to the thespians trying to "booga-booga" around the joint. Highlights include: dioramas of the plague (everyone knows I love plagues), a man being drawn & quartered, and the noise of bones crushing under piles of stones. I remember wondering how one would cleanly, effectively void their bowels in a chastity belt. I bought my best friend a black skull candle there. And, it blew up all over her bedroom.



Other exhibits high on my list include: the surgical impliments on display at the International Museum of Surgery in Chicago (did you know doctors were the carriers of disease with their pretty, yet absorbant bone handled tools???), the Bog People at the Carnegie in Pittsburgh (I want to be buried in a bog after death), the Dead Sea Scrolls at the Field (I'm convinced it's a hoax... those naughty Nephilim!), and any early DeBuffet like Portrait d'Henri Michaux. There's more, but I'll end this here.

Nicknames

These are some of the nicknames I've received in my life... or least, the ones I've heard used to my face: Botch, Cueball, Butterball, Missy, Mel, Mellie Mel, Meluta, Betty, Militant, Militia, Meow-meow, Nana, and Aaaah! (my daughter Ginny's).

These are SOME nicknames I have given or helped give or have used through family proding: Woo, Mama Jim, Daddy Chick, Rumpus, Bucky Boy, Meecack, Prish, Mimi, Eug, Beko, Mavis, Pseudo, I Like Dogs, Auntie Shrew, Staffordshire, Porkchop, Spoke, Numchucks (Chucks for short), Who's Drivin', Wack Job, Meow-Meow, Ustus, Cupcake, Pancakes, Hotdog, Hat, Shirt, Good ol' Hole in the Ankle, Tippy Toes, Debbie Womb, Nervous Elk, Joe Chang & the Supernatural Doo-Dads, Kevie Kev & the Kev-kev, Nonna Clancy, Baseball Mit, Jive Ass Turkey, Quarter Eye, Holly Bibble, Shits & Giggles, Joe Stellars, and Thomas Dolby.

I've named my cat, Itty-bit because she was small when I got her. I named my last cat Miss Kitty because she was a cat. So, apparently, there is a very simple logic behind my technique.

I like to call my husband The Big Fuss. I like to call our daughters-- the Dumplings, Mar-Bear, Ginners, Peanut, or Skinny.

It is easier for me to recall the names I have given people than to "see" what their names are as written on their unseen name-tags.

You will always find me in the kitchen with allergies.

One of my all time favorites-- Jona Lewie.

This guy is cooler than 99.9999 percent of the people I have met in my life.


Oh, and I have been doing lots of landscaping and gardening which is rewarding... however, miserable on the allergies. And, the blooming dogwoods? Simply gorgeous if I am able to see them through my blurry eyes. I feel I am constantly having a spider web dragged across my face. Ah, spring! I remember once my dad pretty much told me to buck up and just get over my allergies. After 37yrs., I still haven't been able to pull that off.

To all the Mummies and Mofos

Gotta love Northwestern PA!

Thanks for sharing Kelly.

Miniature gardening

My little red pea-tato

By playdate, do you mean a little of the ol’ ultra-violence?

We recently moved into Millcreek, the 'burbs. Everyone on this side agreed it was mostly for the school system. Yes, my mother works for the Erie school district; and yes, I went to Catholic schools all my life but I'm not dumb. I know what is, or more percisely, is not happening in the Erie school district. And, from what I have heard about Jesus Christ, he would not send his kids to a school run by Catholics. Another bonus in our new neighborhood, a park right across the street. A park with trails, a park with a baseball diamond, a park with a BMX track, and, best of all, a park with bucket swings, slides, and those old school rocking animals on industrial sized springs. Oh, and picnic pavilions with grills! Okay, I once saw a guy drinking a fifth of liquor on a park bench in the middle of the afternoon once. Maybe I have also hard to was a good place to score drugs in the public restrooms. But, it's a park with swings.

When I was growing up, I was a latch key kid. I came home, ate close to a whole box of pop-tarts, and then sat two inches away from the TV screen until my mom got home anywhere from three to five hours later. Or I'd hang out with my 78yr old neighbor. I do remember playing with the neighborhood kids a few times. Always watching more than participating... but, I do remember this: kids were out of control then, too. However, they were more likely to harm THEMSELVES, not someone else! They'd jump from garage roofs, scale porches, and blow up bottles of dishwashing liquid with cherry bombs. Or, they'd pet matted, unknown dogs.

So, you'd think I'd be startled when I heard about the little girl who was so severely beaten by a ten and an eleven year old that she needs a hip replacement. I wasn't surprised at all. Apparently, this girl, new to town, walked from 8th and German to 12th and German by herself. Oh, no, wait! She wasn't by herself-- she was with her LITTLE sister! I also have some inside scoop information that would make your stomach twist even a little more... but I can't go into that now. Okay, that area isn't necessarily a total ghetto. But, it isn't anything you'd see in a back issue of Better Homes and Gardens. As the story goes, the littlest sister was being bullied and had water tossed on her. Big sister cuts in to defend little sister and tells the bullies to, "Cut it out." They then proceed to beat her close to unconsciousness. It didn't stop until a passer-by, no relation to either party, ran over and found her. I feel a great deal of sympathy for that little girl. How can you expect an elementary school aged kid to weigh out all her options and any related dangers?

But, again... Mommy? Daddy? 'Ere re ooouuu (I love Waiting for Guffman)?
my husband supposed Mom was at home taking care of the other three to four kids and that Dad was at the bar. Or was Mom working, and there just wasn't anything good on TV like M*A*S*H or Taxi or Barney Miller or Dr. Who? Maybe if those shows were still on, this never would have happened. It kills me to think this Mom and Dad will be all over the media crying about the injustice, the violence, and shuffling some blame. I wonder if anyone will have the backbone to ask, "Where the HELL were you?!?!?!"

Gee, that reminds me of the story my husband recently told me about his co-worker's niece or granddaughter or somethin'. She was at a skating rink on the eastside of town. I guess some group of girls didn't like the way she looked. So, they did the only thing they could. They struck her in the head with a roller skate and knocked her unconscious!

WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAATTTT!?!?!

Should I even bother to mention the murder plot organized by third graders? When I was in third grade, I was playing Star Trek, collecting dozens of bags of horse chestnuts, making potions out of chalk and Jean Nate after bath splash in my tiny tea set, collecting EC horror comics, or making beds for Tinkerbell out of shaving cream and Kleenex. Gee, maybe I was just a loser and didn't realize it.

It would take me about three months to truly convey my opinions about the youth of today. And, by youth, I don't mean the whippersnappers hanging on the corner, thinking about burning the rec. center down. I mean the kids who still secretly enjoy Sesame Street, who secretly don't know why they are calling their teacher a motherf*cker nor do they understand why they are asking the little girl next to them in reading and spelling class to give them oral sex, when they meant to ask to borrow her eraser.

Notice how I make no mention of race or socio-economic background here... 'cos TRASH IS TRASH! You can smell it when it is sitting in the schoolyard parking lot, even if it is dressed up in a suit.

A few final words about the guy drinking a fifth in the park across the street. This jive-turkey pulled up in his rickety Mercedes with his purple pants and race jockey-ish satin shirt. And, then he drank a fifth (not even in a paper bag) on a picnic table while we pushed our daughters on the swings... at 3pm in the afternoon... in BROAD daylight... RIGHT next to an elementary school! Pre-babies, I wouldn't have even noticed. Post-babies, I wanted to either call the cops or go over, knock the bottle out of his mouth, drag him back to his barely running diesel, and send him cruising over the cliffs of the lake. But, all I did was huff and puff. I was confused and enraged. Recently, my husband found a couple garbage bags full of clothes next to a used condom off one of the trails, while walking with the girls. Did my highscool friends and I sleep in this park at night during like documented in the movie River's Edge? Yes. Have I read enough of serial killers to think every wooded area with trails is a potential dumping gound? Yes. Do I shut the shutters in our library/office/study room at night for fear a creepy-crawly from the trailer park down by the peninsula might saunder up for some peeping? Yes. Am I glad to have a park right across the street? Hell, yeah! 'Cos I know I will, in a blind rage, protect my kin with tooth and nail. It will be a sorry sight... and I shall be victorious! And, we can still have fun out of doors.

In writing this, I feel I am judging without all the facts. I probably shouldn't do that. I am a small person. But, c'mon! You don't need to read a Dr. Spock book to have a little bit of common sense. I think fish have more protective qualities than some parents today, and they eat their young! I certainly realize one day, my daughters may be involved in a situation which will lead others to judge me and questions just what the hell I was or was not doing. I might be mortified. I will question what the hell I was or was not doing myself. Sure. At least, I can say I tried my BEST... some people don't even bother to try.

I won't even get into the families I see at the bookstore and at the art supply store with severely overweight (abuse) children in filthy clothes, stinking-- unbathed (neglect). Guess what, though? Mom and dad are severely over weight and reeking, too. Ahhh, their future is dim and walking with labored breath and heaving chest, right in front of them.

Time to scramble some eggs and try to figure out the mystery that is Elmo, while the girls go bananas for the squeeky, red rug.

***Here are some side notes I've added to clarify after receiving a few emails about this blog. First, I did not intend for anyone to infer all persons living in trailer parks are creeps. Anyone who knows me, would know better. If you've known me long enough, you'll know I once dropped out of schoool to go work at a donut shop and live in HALF of a trailer by the railroad tracks. Secondly, I am not suggesting you have to pay top dollar to move out of the 'hood to find safe playgrounds or childcare. Teaching your children to do what is right, to have some working morals, ethics, and respect for other living things DOESN'T COST A SINGLE THIN DIME! As a kid, I remember sitting at the kitchen table rolling pennies to buy a loaf of bread and I never ended up in Juvie (almost but not quite). Good people can come from bad places.