Bendy Straws

Bendy straws.

A Treatise on Blog War

The little town I drive through every day has three old churches, none of which actually serves as a house of worship, unless you worship antiques, guns or squatters. People just don't go to church anymore (GUILTY). I think it has to do with the loss of much of church's erstwhile entertainment value, namely violence. Gone are the days of preachers breathing fire and brimstone (REPENT). In fact, most people don't even know what brimstone really is (LOOKED IT UP JUST NOW).

It all brings to mind an internal conflict I’ve suffered through of late, the resulting TRANSFORMATION of which is more than meets the eye. Dan commented a ways back about a desire to become lifelong adversaries only to reconcile at the end, and this seemed a fine thing, because that always makes for good folklore. I mean raise your hand if you didn’t shed a tear upon first hearing that John Adams’ last words were, ‘Thomas Jefferson – still surv—hack wheeze cough grlblblbb…’ Those former adversaries who in their last days would likely have been co-hosting giant plantation orgies save but for the invention of a little blue pill, probably saying things like, ‘It’s only gay if the balls touch!’, but not the least bit uncomfortable in doing so. Old men are funny that way. And reconciled adversaries are touching.

So in my mind, I’ve been competing with random bloggers, to get a feel for competition, and it reminded me of a time in real life when another popular fellow took me under his wing, and as I grew to be his equal, stopped talking to me, other than in passive aggressive undertones, making it perfectly clear that we were now at war, and that he regretted the first time he ever helped me out and in fact probably wished that I would be stricken with herpes (NOT THE GOOD HERPES), and I remember finally discovering this and thinking, ‘THIS IS THE MOST AWESOME FEELING IN THE WORLD.’

There are so many analogies here. Think of raising a child to take on the family business. Unless you can look back on plenty of fond memories humiliating the kid in front of the neighbors, the resulting satisfaction of his superior sales will feel mostly hollow. Or in acting, imagine that moment when the director calls for the understudy to take the lead, leaving you consequently unable to pay your rent without a dancing gig that leads to the following line of weekly phone call dialogue: ‘No, Mom, it’s LEGITIMATE.’ /rolls eyes

And this little imaginary war with the other bloggers was going well, in my mind, anyway, until I discovered that suddenly all of them had surpassed me in the Technorati rankings, and it was then that I realized that WAR IS STUPID ANYWAY. Violence is never the answer, and people who think so should be beaten. And when C-list bloggers go to war, the only winner is Haliburton.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that you shouldn’t pick an adversary, but for God’s sake, don’t pick someone who actually cares about this sort of thing, and for God’s sake, don’t actually TELL them you’re at war, just do it in your head, and for God’s sake, don’t fight with a boy, because boys are stronger, and even though I was once beaten up by a girl, that doesn't detract from the truth of this statement, it only makes it harder to digest. EVENTUALLY, WE ALL COME TO REALIZE THAT TRUTH IS HARD TO DIGEST.

RECAP:
War is fine so long as:
1. You only fight with the weak.
2. Once the weak become stronger than you, you reconcile and have sex.
3. You don’t ever tell the person that you’re fighting that you’re at war.
4. You don’t hit girls, and if they start to hit back, run, because they’re surprisingly accurate and strong.
5. You go to church afterwards, or at the very least DRIVE by a church, even if it’s a church that sells firearms.

Contest Time

Not to keep harping on Colleen's awesomeness, but she forwarded me something that turned into quite a little challenge. Basically, I was forced to condense several of my past posts into segments no longer than 200 words. (NO EASY TASK BEING AS HOW IT USUALLY TAKES ME 85 WORDS JUST TO ORDER A BEER).

1. Romania
They write a postcard to their mother, who works through these summers, and tell her they miss her. She has grown shorter with them as they've gotten older, and rough, pulling hair and slapping; frustrations manifested in midday rants and midnight regrets. At home they pretend to sleep when their father stumbles home drunk, looking for a conversation, to speak loudly over the jealous sobs of their mother. Sometimes they cannot help but give in to bathroom urgings, and steal quietly so as not to rouse his attention. He usually hears and calls them into the kitchen, where he asks them about their days, running through cornfields, and reminds them that summer camp looms, like the promise of an impossible gift. His eyes light up like the child, his shirt stained, as by perfume; the alcohol burns their eyes. Their mother cries louder and screams at the girls to go back to bed if they do not want lashings with their breakfast. But he doesn't release them, and talks even louder, slurring the joys of his life, and they stand next to him at the table, knowing they will get those lashings, and bear the welts meant for him.

2. Romania
He stumbles home late, and they hear laughter at the door; keys dropped time and time and time; at first by accident, but not subsequently. The door is unlocked. When he finally commits to coming inside, he actually locks the door with the key, and the laughter outside sounds like ridicule launched their way. The lines draw tightly around their lips.

The girls smell like salt water, and they breathe each other in, in voluminous comfort, to drown out the gasoline. He is exhausted on these nights, so they don't fear midnight conversations. Their mother is back home, 7 hours and a week away, so they don't fear the sting of vicarious abuse. It was always meant for him. Their sweet father who taught them to swim and carried them across mountains and through valleys on his back. It was meant for him. Their dear father who never grew tired of their whimsical tales, when sober; who never touched them in anger. Always meant for him. Who had forgotten the pictures of childhood that his own wife once painted.

3. Romania
As a child, you stand outside at 2 in the morning, impossibly cold, and quite possibly bitter; You shouldn’t be here in this moment, shivering, waiting for a bit of food. As a girl, you stand outside a bar mustering the courage to enter and drag your father home, his paycheck already spent, but you walk in anyway and navigate the darkened room no safer than among the flying bullets of a revolution. I think I understand your fear of bears. You told me once that in the middle of a game, your coach hit you in the face for not following his instructions. I dare not think about this scene too often, or how desperately I want to catch his hand. But to do so would rob you of your moment. You stand up to him. For the first time, I’m sure he knows what it’s like to fear a woman. He never touched you again. I would let you keep this memory, though I would wipe it from my own mind.

4. Dandelions
Entire industries intent on the dandelion’s demise, legions of chemists sent to extinguish a solitary blossom.

Can I tell you a secret?
Tell me your secret.
And you’ll keep it?
I’ll never share.
Not even with him?
I have no secrets from him.

There are creatures who surprise me with their ability to survive, and when we allow ourselves to be inspired by that resilience we call it hope, because to give credit for another’s will is to lessen our own. And when that resilience angers us we call it stubborn, and they become like weeds.

My son helps me place the ladder against the eave. My wife encourages me, tired of the backed up rainwater.

I find the blockage, a clump of moss, tar and pitch, enveloped in pine needles. Amid this detritus a small tap root, rosette of shiny, hairless leaves spread out to collect moisture along the grooves of jagged teeth, which the French called Dent de Lion.

“I can’t see anything.”
“Some husband!”
“I know.”

Why do you call me a dandelion?
Because that’s what you are.
I am not! I’m a little boy!
Yes, you are that, too.
Then catch me!
I have you!
Again!

5. A Break-up
Do you remember that old cartoon where the man down on his luck finds the frog who could sing and dance, but around other people remained oddly silent?

When I cleaned out the last of my items from her drawer and moved out, the shadows along the road had a carbon quality. They seemed drawn upon the pavement, black dust that blew away with the wind gusts from passing semis. In those moments, I wondered how unfortunate she was to have lost him, how much taller and more beautiful and more sensitive. I imagined them together, in some perfect union of youth, and wondered if she occasionally thought of him. I wanted so much to best him in a struggle, but you cannot compete with a ghost. The ghost always wins.

The imaginot line was that emotional distance separated by time zones and Great Divides that existed only in my head; An excuse, not a true barrier. More of an unconfessed invitation I wanted her to cross.

Still, it’s an awfully lonely feeling to be the only one who believes in you.

6. Arkansas
The hatred I learned in childhood is my world-is-flat truth. I constantly fight my belief that the world of my memories is flat, not wanting to believe that the past is three-dimensional. The photo of that pretty, uneducated girl from Arkansas haunts me. Unlike the other people who have left my life, she hasn’t forgiven me. That photo of her, lodged in my memory like a truth, reminds me that I once visited those hills where she was born; that she came from my side of the tracks. She reminds me that while my grandfather was taken from her, I chose my exile.

When she fell ill, I had already sworn never to cross those tracks again. I didn’t answer her letters, which shamed me with their 8th grade vocabulary. The prettiest girl in Arkansas had never finished school.

You hurt those you love at your peril. Just see now if you’ll look back upon a happy childhood, a wonder year amongst the adolescence. You won’t, and it’s because of what you do now. Karma doesn’t wait ‘til after the sin. She’ll gladly pay your future debt at any time, and let you live on credit.

7. Arkansas
When the cashier turns around to get the pack of Viceroys he asks for, my dad takes the Matchbox and slips it into his jacket. He pays for the gas and cigarettes and we leave.

“Get up,” he breathes into my face. We wake in the darkness, and the warm air tells me we’re home. He has brought us to my mom’s apartment at Rachel Arms, where we moved when he left. It’s much smaller than our old house, but there are more kids and we’re happy.

When my mother opens the door, she covers her mouth with her hands and reaches down for us, taking us both into her arms. She is shaking, and holding us too hard. She pulls us inside and tries to shut the door, but he pushes his way in. She begs him to leave, and my sister and I take each other’s hands and back away.

We watch and grow full of memories that seem like time lapse photography of county fairs and carnivals, and magnolias coming into bloom, white blossoms opening and closing like fireflies through foggy hills.

8. French Class
Ms. Houchins repeats the conjugation of avoir. J’ai, Tu as, Nous avons.

Nobody notices me at this new school. Except Natalie, who sits behind me, takes the end of her pen and begins to write on my back, tracing intricate shapes and patterns. It’s paralyzing.

Wonder become torturous, leaving me only able to concentrate on when she might stop, hoping I will at least remember that final moment.

Now she’s creating flowers and now she presses slightly harder, carving riverbeds and valleys. Now she’s redrawing the borders of the countries in this New World so quietly I can feel my pulse along the back of my neck.

The next quarter, Ms. Houchins rearranges our seating, and now I sit behind Natalie. She hands me a pen and says, ‘Write on my back.’

Whereas Natalie drew shapes and traced endless, winding paths, I can only spell. I write my name with hers, in cursive and in print. I describe the places we visit and how we feel when we leave. I learn by her breathing that she likes most the faraway foreign lands with long, unfamiliar spellings. And I conjugate the new words I learn, ‘J’adore, J’adore, J’adore.’

9. Rural EMS
I dread the dirt-road calls. In town, you can turn around an alleyway and suddenly come face to face with an underworld of poverty, neatly hidden away. That’s how it is here, too. The ambulance turns onto gravel, passes through an abandoned orchard and there is our poverty. The kid in elementary school who didn’t have a jacket and quietly disappeared after 5th grade lives here. Last night, he passed away quietly, an unfinished cigarette has burned a hole in his flannel shirt.

Outside, his daughter is there with a man. He’s rubbing her arm, encouraging her to go inside. She hesitates, flicks her own cigarette. Wipes her eyes.

She returns as soon as she enters. Just long enough for her to curse that old man for whatever he did. We feel the need to defend the dead, but we don’t. We assume he suffered from remorse, that he was once a little kid without a jacket who got picked on and forgotten in grade school. But we don’t know what he put her through, so we keep our mouths shut, other than to ask her if she knows where he kept his prescriptions. She doesn’t know.

10. 10:55 AM February 28, 2001 Nisqually Earthquake
At 20 seconds, the walls shake loose of their bookshelves and photo frames of smiling children. At 25, the lights go out, and the library wails. The screams punctuated by the breaking of a water main above the only entrance. At 30, the first of my co-workers rushes through that water into the light. An office that seemed to hold only 20 people suddenly produces 60, all in full sprint. At 35, I stand at the exit and hold it open, amazed that no one has come running through the glass itself. I am passed by angry, determined eyes that have either seen their lives flashed before them, or worse, nothing at all. I am struck enough times by flailing arms that I am no longer convinced the blows are all by mistake. At 49, the library falls back to sleep and I walk through the office calling for any good boys and girls. Only one managed to stay underneath his desk the entire time. He thanks me for waiting and we walk out. I grab the first aid kit and apply a bandage to a person I see crying outside, a 50-year old woman holding a scraped knee.

11. Uncategorized
At your lowest, after the bonds are broken, she knocks.

Words fall from her lips like honey feathers, gently landing and sticking. She lives for the making up. The hug and the tears. The never agains. It's her way of strengthening the bond. Breaking and re-setting the bone until it's thick and solid at the site of the fracture.

I think ahead to the future and wonder at how pliable we are, like the bones we break when young. How quick to heal. Hello Kitty stickers on a cast.

After the worst episode, I wait at the door. She enters.

If you ever lock this door, I'll take it off. He does, eventually. I watch him line up a nail at the bottom of the hinge pin, tapping it out with a hammer. He strikes his hand and curses. Another break.

He brings a sheet of paper to me. Letters scrawled, broken and jagged. I look at the words, at what he's written. I wonder, will he be okay in the world, bones unbroken? How will he possibly cope with the hurt we inflict upon ourselves? He still thinks that honey is sweet, and that feathers float softly like forgiveness.

communicatrix versus attractive

communicatrix

(Colleen demanded I write on the following topic: Good-looking versus Attractive. The issue presents a certain challenge, since all the people who visit here are technically good-looking, so they might not understand why none of them are attractive. Therefore, I've had to take a different approach to this dilemma, being as how each of us is blinded daily by the light that is the Blogosphere, and there is not one of you who wouldn't kill me if I attempted to unbind you from the chains that are the INTERNEST.)

Imagine a world where people were bound to desks. The only images you could see were in fact reflections of reality, rendered photographs of how your captors wanted you to see them (FLICKR). So that if you were to be released, you would be overwhelmed by non-fluorescent light, and sunlight! Gah, don't even think about sunlight, ye pasty victim!

What would be attractive to you? And what would be good-looking?

Fire
Fire, by definition, is a chemical reaction, and therefore, would seem UNattatractive. But chemistry is THE VERY DEFINITION OF ATTRACTION. Therefore, while seeing your hopes and dreams converted into a steaming pile of ash and smoke might not be "good looking," it is undoubtedly ATTRACTIVE.

Scars
Scar tissue, by definition, is a result of healing, the inferior replacement of tissue lost when wounded. Raised, sunken or otherwise discolored, it is the epitome of NOTPRETTY. But OMFG are scars attractive. Show me your scars and you have a free ticket to feel me up in the grocery line, even though I was initially put off by your fascination with the Soap Opera (Non-Refereed) Journal du Jour. I once got into a fistfight as a child, and the resulting keloid tissue grew and grew like an extraterrestrial tumor, and when the doctor was finally forced to cut it out, I felt less attractive than at any point in my life.

Pirates
If pirates were truly good-looking, each of us would cut off one of our legs, one of our hands, one of our eyes and buy a parrot. PIRATES ARE NOT PRETTY. But for some reason, they are nearly as attractive as ninjas.

Ninjas
Attractive, sure. But not pretty. WHY ELSE WOULD THEY WEAR MASKS?!?

War
If ever a contradiction in terms of 'good-looking' versus 'attractive' existed, it is armed conflict. Nothing we know could be uglier than war, and yet NOTHING could be more attractive. The bombs, the passion, the conflict, the movies, the heroism. God, is there anything NOT attractive about war?

Peace
Finally, something that is technically VERY GOOD LOOKING, but extremely UNATTRACTIVE. Nothing is prettier than peace. Children not being blown up, flowers not misshapen due to radiation, winters not artificially created. Peace is gorgeous.

But the problem with peace is that it's plain. And BORING. Whereas war comes with dozens of military decorations (Medal of Honor, Distinguished Service Cross, Silver Star, Bronze Star, Purple Heart, Most Likely to Succeed with Napalm, etc.), negotiation has no recognition. What do you get for negotiating peace? The table setting, IF YOU'RE LUCKY. Sure, it's pretty, what with all the designer suits and silver tea cup holders, but no one ever made an Oscar-winning movie about a bunch of guys sitting around a card table saying, 'PEACE IS HELL.' I mean no bombs, no fire, no black and white photos of naked children on fire. Peace is good looking. And peace is unbelievably unattractive.

Smoking
Another example of something that is incredibly good-looking, but disfiguringly unattractive. The local convenient store still has a vintage poster of James Dean puffing away on a smoke, and had he lived, he'd certainly be hooking up his Pall Mall to the gaping tracheostomy in his neck, which would no doubt send your erection into dysfunction, but at the time, there was nothing more good-looking. Smoking is pretty. It's unfortunately unattractive. It could be the smell. It could be the light sweet crude oozing from your pie hole.

Nipples
What is more attractive than a nipple?
a. nothing
b. see A
c. ALL OF THE ABOVE

Nipples + nipples = CRAXY ATTRACTIVE

But good-looking? Put a nipple on any other part of your body (forehead, forearm, foreskin, etc.) and tell me if it's pretty. It's not. Nipples are essentially untreated sores. But it's just like the realtors say, LOCATION LOCATION LACTATION.

Squash
I was actually done, but my son just walked in and said, 'SQUASH. UGH.'

Squash is gorgeous. For an 8-year old, however, it's about as attractive as a fist-fight ending in a hug and a handshake.

aster-isked

Smerinthus cerisyi

I used to think everyone had these kinds of depressed fantasies, because I’m an egotist, but then I realized this isn’t true because no one else exists. And I patted myself on the back for being so clever.*

* Reference to daydreaming about coping with unbearable loss.

Thoughtful sadness, like you’re putting some effort into it, as though you have it all planned out with a Venn diagram, complete with an appropriate analogy, proud of the resulting sense of worthlessness because you are, after all, an artisan. Olly olly melancholy. Alle, alle auch sind frei. All ye, all ye, oxen free!*

* Memory of being taught a silly childhood game. Anachronistic, like London Bridge and Ring Around the Rosey.

It may manifest prickly and thorny and in all manner of misshapen affection, but it is love nonetheless. And at some point you’ll understand it’s the only love worth cherishing, that which drives you to the point of insanity and back. It’s not conventional, but she adores you, and she’s so proud, she is, and I would adore you that way if I could.*

* To someone who needs to hear it.

Why?*

* Because I opened my eyes once to current events. I didn’t like what I saw. So I stopped looking. My friends said, “You cannot run away from the world’s problems. That’s cowardice. You have to…”

But by that point I had already covered my ears with my hands, and all I remember is NANANANANANANANA

This has untold implications for guilt.*

*The Russians covered their tanks in reactive armor. When attacked, the surface explodes, leaving a scarred and ostensibly destroyed shell that still serves to protect what’s left inside.

The Yellow Pants Will Rule Again

Has it been a year already?

“The Yellow Rose of Texas, sometimes known as the Pioneer Rose, or alternately Harrison’s Yellow, might perhaps be the most storied of all our flowers. Steeped in mystery and folklore, the delicate yellow pigmentation remains among the most difficult to imitate. Sadly, the flower blooms only once a year, though this brief time is marked by the pitiless slaughter of all who would take the field against me, and it is very likely I will once again bat 5 for 5 (or was it 7 for 7?). THE MERCY RULE SHALL NOT BE IN EFFECT FOR THE NONBELIEVERS. Seriously, if any of you reading this are al-Qaeda, feel free to meet me on the baseball diamond. I’ve got your 99 virgins. If by 99 virgins you mean 99 MINUTES OF PAIN AND HUMILIATION AT THE HANDS OF YELLOW PANTS. HAHAHAHAHA *gasp wheeze cough* HAHAHA!”

(The above encyclopedic description of Harrison’s Yellow is 100% faithful to how I remember the wording, but probably only 88% true. I’d score it a B+ in terms of accuracy.)

* * *

Oh, and hey, has anyone noticed the Typekey and Blogger Commenting pass codes are getting a bit complicated? Here’s one that took me several tries today:

l1Ll71llLll1i111lill11ill1i1lliijll1111llllll

If internet spam and al-Qaeda joined forces, we’d all be wishing we could return to the salad days of dial-up. I’M SAYIN.

* * *

ed. note - I should probably point out that this may be my last post, being as how i'm likely to be booked into county jail for MANSLAUGHTER following the game. HAHAHAHAHA! i hereby leave my domain name 'satiragram.com' to anyone who can tell me how to enjoy prison sex.

* * *

update-

fuck

almost imperceptible

almost imperceptible

When I was firefighter, I exceeded all the other volunteers in my ability to project my own baggage onto the lives of those with the misfortune not to have accidentally dialed 9-1-2. A bit like the Couvade Syndrome I so proudly displayed during the birth of our first child, putting on 40 pounds and offering Jehovah’s Witnesses $40 if they’d rub my swollen ankles. I didn’t just feel their pain, but found the gaping hole and poked around if the wound didn’t seem small enough for my time. The paramedics told us how to torment alcoholics and wife-beaters without leaving any marks. ‘Run ordinary tap water through the IV,’ they’d say, and laugh at each other knowingly. As an EMT, I couldn’t run an IV line, so I had to limit my equalization to emotional vicariousness.

It takes some time to gain a paramedic’s trust to the point where he’s willing to share this kind of insight. I rode a full 6 hours with two old pros from town with neither saying one word to me. I sat in the back rattling against the side of the rig with the oxygen tanks, wishing I had a cigarette. We finished a call in the middle of the forest, a hand-carved gate guarding the property, the architecture of which reminded me of the woodwork in the Maramures region of Romania. I said as much, mostly to myself.

What do you know about Romania? the one of them asked.

I talked about the year I lived there.

The other of them asked me more questions, before finally spilling that the character of a very important book they were both reading was Romanian.

Which book?

Left Behind.

I’m smart enough never to laugh, and when a firefighter tells you a joke, you respond by saying matter-of-factly, without the least hint of a smile, ‘That’s funny,’ as though all the physical manifestation of joy burned up long ago, because it did, I was there. It was that surround-and-drown blaze on 156th in November started by old wiring buried in lathe-and-plaster. All the humor went up in smoke that day, and we kept running out of water, partly because I got the tender stuck while trying to figure out how to suck water into the tank by creating a vacuum in the pump, and I forgot to keep at least two wheels on the pavement. It rained the next day. That was funny.

Left Behind. Haven’t read it.

They opened up good, these two, and explained the Bible to me frontwards and backwards, and I didn’t tell them my joke about how God had to explain 7 times to Noah why he didn’t need to collect two of each FISH, or my old man’s thesis on how Judas was in fact the only believer of them all, the only one with the fidelity to stand up for his beliefs. And it’s well I didn’t. Because these two men’s lives were changed by Left Behind, and if I was lucky, they’d let me in on the secret. I managed to read two chapters before my shift was over, apparently not nearly enough for epiphany.

* * *

In three years I was fortunate enough to only respond to one potential child-abuse call. The whole business about innocence until proven otherwise doesn’t apply to Frontier Justice, and rural firefighters are like so many Marshall Dillons, but with even shorter fuses and poorer aim. Everyone was fuming in the rig on the way to the house.

I assessed the baby while the volunteers glowered. The mother shot accusing glances towards the husband, an elegant looking man, a bit frail, and tired. The baby seemed absolutely fine.

'What about this?' she asked, a slightly foreign accent on the tip of her tongue. She was pointing at a fleck of blood on the baby’s nose, almost imperceptible.

I recognized this wound. Our own son had done this to himself many times, his fingernails potent like the ironically named safety razors, the old ones that you used to find in the little tin boxes behind your grandfather’s medicine cabinet mirror, never having been thrown away even though he passed on years ago. It was 1977.

‘You might want to tie some socks around his hands,’ I said. ‘This is what we did with our kid,’ I added, trying to make that elusive connection you’re not supposed to make with the patient.

She went on to try and explain how it was the husband who had bloodied the child, and as she spoke on and on with her odd invectives, the volunteers stopped glowering and rolled their eyes, leaving me to complete the paperwork. I caught the husband watching her, hopelessly. I could tell that look. He was thinking, ‘Loving this girl is like standing on the old Mississippi River Bridge in Cape Girardeau, wanting desperately to jump, full knowing that no one’s ever survived that alluring fall, but utterly convinced that you’ll be the first, because, in any case, you know you’re not walking away without tasting that water.’

When I went for the door, she asked, ‘You’re just going to leave me with this monster?’

Before I could answer, he said, ‘You could have him tie some socks around my hands.’

That was funny.

Amputate

Amputate

I tend to dwell inside my head, where I share space with two men: one of whom is the most awesome boy I know (think: MALE PATTERN BADNESS) and the other is a little rough around the edges (think: BEDWETTING). And occasionally the awesome boy meets someone and pinky-swears BFF, but then the BEDWETTER steps in and starts telling stories.

“I remember in college I was once invited to a guy’s house, and not really knowing anyone at the time, I eagerly accepted. Sadly, halfway through the evening one of the guy’s friends decided it would be entertaining to use up all of his childhood anger on me, and this went on and on and on, just like it seems to once you realize that someone who has been nice to you steps back as his friends pummel the shit out of you. But I remember thinking that at some point, naively, my friend would step in and put a stop to the insults, but he didn't. I left feeling about as low about myself as I ever had, and as you might imagine, never returned again. And let there be no mistake. I WAS at fault. Not my friend. He was only doing what friends do: turn away as their friends make mistakes. He was forgiving. I was the enabler.”

The BEDWETTER is always saying shit like this. Pealing in the background like so many premature knells announcing the right answer after everyone’s already turned in their game show tickets. Forcing you to make a stand.

Occasionally, I de-link people in real life, too.

* * *

You know that old cartoon where the man down on his luck finds the frog who could sing and dance, but around other people it remained oddly silent?

It’s an awfully lonely feeling to be the only one who believes in you.

And yet when I witnessed this phenomenon the other day, I realized that in the scenario I just described, I was acting remarkably similar to the frog. I always thought that it was ME who was the man down on his luck.

But apparently I give just as good as I get.

* * *

This is a blog. This is only a blog. If this had been an actual life, the post you just read would have been followed by official news, instructions or binge drinking.

my weekend foursome

trophy

If you’ve never started off a weekday morning at 5:30 am with a Bloody Mary, then I don’t know who you are anymore. And if you’ve never asked the other men in your foursome to lift their balls so that you could finish your stroke, then you only have my pity. And the only reason I choose to speak in double entendres is to underline the frustration of a week speaking with very sweet co-workers who are in desperate need of the URBAN DICTIONARY.

/Cue the dux

Scene 1: Curriculum Development Meeting
UNNAMED INDIVIDUAL: So we’re going to develop a new program: Piledriving!
ME: /giggle
UNNAMED INDIVIDUAL: Something funny? Dontcha know what a piledriver is?
ME: /giggle NO /giggle

Scene 2: Some other meeting, I don’t remember
UNNAMED INDIVIDUAL: Wow! Great photo!
ME: Thanks.
UNNAMED INDIVIDUAL: I mean that’s a real money shot!
ME: HAHAHAHAHA!

Scene 3: I don’t know, someplace or another. With people. Talking.
UNNAMED INDIVIDUAL #1: Oooh! So what did he get you?
UNNAMED INDIVIDUAL #2: He gave me a pearl necklace!
ME: WOULD YOU PEOPLE STOP TALKING PLEASE

But that frustration found an inglorious death on Friday afternoon on Hole #14 as I dropped a 40 foot putt for birdie, getting our team to 10 under and bringing home the championship by one shot, winning the lifelong hatred and respect of the other 140 players in the banquet hall.

I have to admit, of all my lifelong accomplishments (and they are MANY, the top few being:
1. I NEVER believed it was butter. NOT. FOR. AN. INSTANT.
2. I know how to juggle.
3. I’ve never received a pearl necklace.)
winning this tournament now sits firmly at the top of the heap. I can say unequivocally that I love this trophy more than any other thing in the world, which is saying a lot, being as how I have a son. But it really means more.

Oh, I have a daughter, too. She’s only 2 or 3, so you can understand how I might forget that, get off my back already.

Anyway, golf. I mean, how many other sports besides bowling and NASCAR does alcoholic beverage consumption actually IMPROVE your performance? Hmm? Hmm?

Though by the end of the day, I have to admit that I eventually conceded the point that beer is indeed a gateway drink. No question, it leads the user to harder substances, like Ketel One and the semi-coagulated juice at the bottom of the prime rib pan.

I SPY

I would offer that that the best way to guide your child through the dangerous waters of a stormy...okay, that metaphor's not going anywhere.

Ahem.

So that youth and normal development might proceed with…

Bother.

Ahem.

Okay, so you know like how when your kids get older, they’ll probably start hanging out with the one kid who likes to set fires and the other kid who likes to hurt animals and the other other kid who likes to hurt animals by setting them on fire?

Yeah, mine neither.

BUT, you do need to monitor who they /makes air quotations ‘hang’ with. And this is why the Lord invented MySpace. So that we can gawk at all the crazies that our kids are smart enough to tease into self-inflicted cigarette burns.

HOWEVER, you really can’t do an effective job of spying on your kids' MySpace activity so long as he/she/he-she thinks you are the least bit technologically adept. Otherwise, they’ll NEVER use your notebook to log into their pitiful excuse of a blog, they’ll NEVER leave their passwords so conveniently remembered in Firefox, and they’ll NEVER post photos of themselves dressed like Martha /swoons Stewart.

Here are some things you can do to make sure that your children think you are functionally e-literate:

PRETEND LIKE THE NOTEBOOK IS A TYPEWRITER (classic)

Approach your notebook when your child is nearby. Place a sheet of paper on top of the screen while the computer is off. Begin typing. Then yell, ‘HONEY! WHERE’S THE GODDAMN CARRIAGE RETURN ON THIS THING?!?’

PRETEND LIKE YOU’RE CONFUSED BY FANCY FONTS (old school)

As you are formatting a document in Word (really, I use OpenOffice, but THAT will DEFINITELY clue your kids into the fact that you’re savvy-tech), complain in your best OLDMANVOICE, “IN MY DAY, WE ONLY NEEDED TWO FONTS: COURIER AND LONGHAND! BALDERDASH!”

Cough, wheeze and then cough again for effect.

PRETEND LIKE YOU’RE FRIGHTENED BY THE PERIPHERALS

Approach the computer and wave your hand in front of the screen. Whisper, ‘PLEASE OPEN WORD,’ and sound embarrassed. Keep whispering, ‘OPEN,’ until your kid gives in and moans, ‘Daa-aad, use this.’

Ask, ‘What’s this?’

When he says, ‘It’s a mouse,’ screech, ‘Eek! A mouse!’

Jump on the table for effect.

Because apparently this used to really happen eons ago.

FEIGN AMAZEMENT AT THE ALL-NEW AOL!

Oh, Jesus.

PRETEND LIKE THE COMPUTER IS A TI-99/4A

Why can’t I just plug this thing into the TV?!? Can’t a man play Parsec without needing a goddamn diploma in Solid State Engineering?

Ahem.

/BEGIN SECOND BLOG POST BECAUSE I WAS TOO BUSY TOO POST YESTERDAY BECAUSE I HAD THE PLEASURE OF LAUGHING MY ASS OFF (GETTING PLASTERED) WITH THIS YOUNG LADY AND MAKING PRANK PHONE CALLS TO THIS FELLOW

Oh, hey, remember when it was all the rage to have a mold made of your penis to give as a gift to your wife for when you were away, and one day you noticed that your mold looked a little different than before and you couldn’t remember having made two of them?

Yeah, me neither.

God, I hate cleaning out the garage.

Yelm Area Crime Report

martha

As a parent, you face two choices in helping your children avoid rampaging livestock, and sadly, moving to rural Washington State, is the OPPOSITE of both these choices, and of course, it's the second mistake I ever made as a parent.

(The first was in Lexington, South Carolina, when I accepted Tristan from the Certified Midwife in the first place, when we had no business being parents.

/cue the ducks

Me, upon being handed the newborn whom we would eventually name Tristan: Oh, that's awfully sweet of you. But we can't take this. It's, uh, too nice.
Midwife: Oh, you're funny. The humor will help you through these first few days until you adjust. The two of you will be wonderful parents.
Me, pushing baby away: No, really. We just wanted a cat.
Midwife: Okay, now take the baby. You made it.
Me: WE WERE JUST WRESTLING.
Midwife: All first-time parents experience a bit of fear in the beginning. It's perfectly norm---
Me, covering ears with hands and shouting at newborn: YOUR LIFE IS IN DANGER! CALL FOR HELP, WEE ONE!)

So it only adds to your sense of dread when you turn on the AM radio and hear that the skies are practically red with the blood of crime victims. Today, in the town where I live, an area I once thought was safe, an idyllic haven from violence and fornication, one man was injured while he and his friend tried to 'maneuver' a bull into its holding pen. The attack, I should point out, and this is what makes the crime so senseless, was UNPROVOKED. Apparently the bull just DECIDED today would be the day he shattered our dreams. A sheriff was called in, and ultimately had to 'put the bull down,' but I have no desire to add insult to injury, so a letter to the local weekly will not be forthcoming. I'll be too busy nailing plywood over my windows and spray painting 'YOU'RE NOT SAFE HERE' on my neighbors' cars.

But lest you think I'm overreacting, I should also point out that less than ten miles up the road, a decomposed body was discovered wrapped in clothing. Apparently, the body was that of a family pet, but my question, had I not been so afraid as to roll up my windows and speed by the crime scene at 45 miles per hour would have been, "AND TO WHOM DO THOSE CLOTHES BELONG? AND WHAT IS OUR GOVERNMENT NOT TELLING US?" And I would have been duly sarcastic in stressing the word, 'OUR.'

This area, apparently, has been living a lie. Masquerading as Xanadu, its true identity SODOM. And as a Former Ex-Volunteer Firefighter/EMT, I know all about the dangers of LIES. And also that there is nothing more disgraceful than pretending to be someone you are not.

(Evening) Primrose

1

Opening up is so much easier when plied with sunlight and bourbon and slips-of-the-tongue, like so many elements that just naturally seem to go together: GUNS, LIQUOR and AMMO. And kids.

As kids, we had no shortage of any of it, because our basement was covered in army manuals, and our little heads reverberated with shots from the firing range, since occasionally that was our Sunday afternoon outing. We each took turns on the next weapon, until the very end, when he’d let me open up on the big Soviet rifle, fully automatic, and warned to keep it to bursts of three.

Three years I’ve tried to clear out the strawberry hill of Evening Primrose, a native plant I never grew to like, the flowers always too faded, too wilted, too temporal, always seeming to open up directly into impotence. I would squeeze the flaccid buds every morning, and marvel at how remarkably similar the plant smelled to semen. I was sure I was slowly poisoning myself.

Mithridates VI of Pontus gained renown for his ability to resist poison. The legend holds that he ingested small doses of offending concoctions each day to build up a general immunity. I think of all the ways to poison myself, with words and thoughts and memories, open up the medicine cabinet and drink it up, even though I don’t share his fear of falling victim to Roman sympathizers or the bite of wild animals.

When you begin to notice the birds and insects, your world suddenly starts to seem a little wilder. For years I came back from my hikes disappointed for not seeing bears and badgers, and I’d open up the patio door and ignore the nuthatches and white-lined sphinxes all around me, filling the afternoon with chirps and humming.

Like barely perceptible touch when sleep finds you in the afternoon. Soft liqueurs running with the arterial bulls. Laying on your side with the window open slightly, because spring feels nice in the room, and your children run in from outside, jump onto the bed and jump, never touching you directly, but stirring the sheets and the power cord to your laptop, and they brush against the bare skin of your back and soles of your feet, staying awake until night opens up nearly impossible how nice it all feels.

Overnight, three more Evening Primroses bloom. Suddenly, I think we understand each other, this flower and I. As its name suggests, the primrose only opens up at nightfall, when no one is around to bear witness. I stay up this time, open the lens as wide as it will go and behold its strength and luminescence, which it withholds from those who can only appreciate blossoms on their own daylight terms. Prettiest when no one is watching, as though it never even happened.

But it never really happened. I think I’m making that part up. It's nice, though, so I'll just keep adorning that memory with other details that never happened, because no one will ever know the difference, no one will ever open up this paper diary, and I'm not hurting anyone by making up a happy 1982.

I promise to sneak up on you when you think I’m not looking, to bear witness as you open up, marvel at your strength and wonderment when all others have given up and turned in for the evening; so that you’ll feel appreciated on your terms, when the world is asleep and blind and happy in its ignorance, you’ll hear the snapshot and catch me in awe and contrition.

Living

Living

When it comes to saying or doing something that deep down in my heart I know to be morally and/or legally wrong, my rule is this: Will I be embarrassed by this statement or act 5 years from now?

If the answer is NO, then I’ll do it.

If the answer is YES, then I’ll do it and deny the whole thing ever happened 5 years from now.

The thing is, I don’t WANT to do it anymore, though, because when I’m doing it, it makes me feel like the worst human on the planet, and that’s saying a lot for a piece of white trash born in Memphis who isn’t REALLY white (HISPANIC) or Tennessean (Arkansan, being as how my mother’s uterus burst before we could cross the bridge from West Memphis).

So the words still spill forth, this bizarre need to write, even when the sense doesn’t come together, even when the sentiment threatens to drive a wedge between your thin grip on sanity and the few loved ones left who still have the patience to hold tight to their faith that you’ll come through for them. You always have in the past, no matter how much you swerved from lane to lane on the way home. They still know that you would stand in the path of fire to get them safely into their beds, tucked in, bellies full. Children will put up with the contradictions when safety is the carrot at the end of the stick. They can sense when a guardian is more afraid of failure than of dying.

And the source of my main contradiction is Martha Stewart.

I don’t watch television. The only time in my life I’ve ever had a cable bill was 1994, and that was against my will. So I don’t know much about Martha Stewart’s television show or legal woes or appearances on reality programming. The only thing I know about Martha is her 1991 book, Martha Stewart’s Gardening.

This book accompanies me throughout the house. Its edges are moldy. The cover is long since gone. The picture of her on page 127, knees filthy, transplanting basil is dog-eared to a factor of 17.

I feel like I know this person. She built fieldstone walls, cooked trout outdoors on iron skillets, built her garden for May.

And I know that by the way she put together a centerpiece arrangement of poppies and bearded iris (page 151) that she occasionally engaged in rough, kinky sex.

And I know that by her devotion to natural pest control through companion planting (page130), that she at one point took her daughter for a walk and said, ‘I don’t care what you do in your life, so long as you only let guys with some talent stick their cock in you. Because worthless boys with nothing to offer the world don’t deserve what you have to give.’

And I know, above all else, that her meticulous method of drying flowers, setting the most delicate blossoms in silica gel, gave evidence that she fought this calling that kept her from her family. She fought it with everything she knew. She smiled for the camera. She pruned. She fertilized. She had faith that the blooms would survive Vermont’s winter. And sadly, the only way she knew to express this inner turmoil to her children was through a simple setting of the most magnificent yellow tree peonies you’ve ever seen in a plain, yellow bowl (page 109).

(hardly) noticeable

mag3

A bruise is a reminder that the play was a little rough, and female genetics are proof that God endowed women with the power of remembrance. A couple of years back I was building a rock wall (NOT A METAPHOR) and I smote my hand (NOT A METAPHOR). It was so smitten, in fact, that the nail of my left index finger fell completely off. I, of course, thought that once the nail came off, the pain would stop, but apparently the nerve endings are in the skin and not the nail, and if you so much as looked at the knob of pinky, uncovered flesh I would likely stick it into whatever foodstuffs you were eating, because people don't like it when you stick your finger in their meal (LESSON LEARNED), but they like it even less when said digit resembles a finger puppet with its head burned off (METAPHOR). DON'T LOOK AT MY GROTESQUENESS PEOPLE.

But the point is that in spite of having my finger smashed by an object large enough to bring extinction to 90% of Cretaceous period life, the skin only bruised for a couple of days. That's the benefit of being a man. You're tough. Masculine. You don’t bruise. The benefit of being a man is that you're manly.

So, anyhoo, the other day Alex comes up from behind while I'm congratulating myself for knowing that the answer to 27 Down is TAFFETA and tickles me in the side, and I DON'T LIKE TO BE TICKLED, so I screamed and jumped several feet in the air, dropping one of my PETA sandals in the process, which caused me to spill my herbal tea and my fountain pen flew through the air AND BARELY BRUSHED HER ARM.

Of course, within the hour she had somehow developed a Frisbee sized bruise which subsequently adhered to the following palette schedule:

Monday: Entire Frisbee pinkish-red
Tuesday: Entire Frisbee enters brown stage
Wednesday: Entire Frisbee dark brown
Thursday: Center of Frisbee yellow, outside brown.
Friday: Entire Frisbee somehow now purple
Saturday: Return to DAY TWO AND REPEAT PATTERN FOR FOUR MONTHS

This is how I know memories are directly related to bruises, and how come she remembers so much better than me the tiny inconsequentialities, whereas I only recall boulders smashed into my head, and tend to forget all the niceness and love and beauty in my life, like when my parents took such an interest in the Perseids for my sake alone, and drove me into the country even though they had to work the next day and even though I fell asleep on the lawn chair and missed the whole thing and carried me back to the car and told me the next day how proud they were I was interested in science. And how I remembered this last night watching my parents light firecrackers for my kids, setting the fuse and running, screeching, laughing hand-in-hand as the lights lit up the sky like so many memories that left no noticeable marks.

Well, hardly a mark.

cameos

cameos

Sadly, not many boys visit my site, and most are hopelessly attached to terrific girls (and boys), so this contest may not be one of those games people play. But it should be. Played. Because she is worth far, far more than a Daily Double, or a Phone-a-Friend or a Double Whammy or Solving the Puzzle.

You have to be pretty fucking beautiful to write this.

I don't care what she says, Harry Potter is the devil. And for 2 years I've been trying to get hate mail, and SHE accomplishes it just by reading about some lame wizard whipping boy who would crumble under the power of the force?

If I were ever to write a quirky television pilot, the main character would design toys for children.

No matter where you go in the world, someone has equated a body part with a food item. Personally, anytime a comparison can be made to booze, I’m sold.

In spite of all the fervor over the weblog as a path towards income, fame and celebrity captions (wtf?), perhaps the one saving grace of the medium is as a means for expressing loss and mourning. I remember as a young adult coming across the obituaries for the first time in the local newspaper and feeling remarkably hollow for the experience. Being able to read the brief stories of everyday lives as they pass into eternity has provided ample redemption for so much electronic chaff.

As wordy as I am, I should have learned long by now that in storytelling, less is more.

Sometimes, people write about heartache so well you can't help but think something must have happened. But asking the question is just tacky. Better just to take it all in.

If I ever have another kid (I WILL NEVER HAVE ANOTHER KID), I would name him or her Hollis. If I had another kid afterwards and it were a girl, K'ass would be the best name in history.

Parental lessons are really best told through stories.

Occasionally, I get a little depressed, so I just go and read the funniest post in (June 2006) history.

From the Safety of One's Home

safety

Wham-O Super Balls
Linking the wondrous lines that carom about inside these recollections, falling like Wham-O Super Balls on uneven concrete. I forget how easily I can revisit those days just by digging in the dirt. All I have to do is take off my shoes.

6am – I get it in my head to transplant ferns. Into the understory with a shovel. One sandal comes off, but I keep walking. I step on blackberry thorns and keep moving. I find the plant I want, hidden underneath bark and brush and detritus. Shards of fire in my legs, I've found a colony of ants. I cut my arm. I have the root ball in my hands.

The ant bites again. I don't understand why such a tiny creature would go to such great lengths for my attention.

Those friends of mine with no demons have always wanted them. Asked to borrow them. Romanticized them. Looked into our faces as the troubles faded away and wanted that peace. The peace you can only get through drowning the misfortune. But after some time you realize they're laughing the hardest. Their B minuses and metal braces instead of ceramic and the younger brothers with Down Syndrome that cause you to ask, 'You have a younger brother?', all combined into a very potent cocktail.

Misery loves chemistry.

Papier-mâché
Those of us who know better keep their glasses full nonetheless. Our little science experiments, seeing just how much vinegar we can add to the baking soda before the papier mache top explodes.

We had a co-worker in those days, a big, quiet guy. Played rugby and carried the pallets two at a time. Once, the factory where I worked got a shipment of lead bullets packed inexplicably into 40 kilogram crates, Asian characters seared into the wood. He lifted them calmly, pit-bull eerily silent and determined.

We thought he went to church on Saturdays, how clean-cut he was, but we asked him anyway, and he came and smiled. He started in with the shots, and we were so eager and curious we added more, and then the whole bottle, and wondered whose wrist he would break when the arm wrestling started, but he suddenly rose from the table and roared, the only person I've ever seen do so. I've seen yelling and screaming and other piercing sounds with no appropriate names, but never had I heard a human roar. He would come after us and throw us to the ground. We backed away secretly, and some of us would find ourselves flung from behind, shirts torn nearly in half. After the last of us had escaped, we watched him from the safety of indoors, sitting by himself at the picnic table outside, quiet, drinking from a plastic cup.

Afterwards, you might think we never asked him to return, but that's what separated us from the kids in college. We constantly invited him, eager to see what might come out of this kid. This is how we mixed each other, adding false catalysts and chemical antagonists. I forget how easily I can revisit those days just by hearing Fourth of July fireworks in the background. All I have to do is take off my shoes.

I wish it were easier to teach integrity, but it's even harder to teach experience.