SEEDS!!!
(Make sure you say this with the same enthusiasm as a toddler when she sees SANTA!!!!)
It’s that time of the year, I’m sick of winter and my trips to the mailbox rewards me with this year’s seed catalogs. Pre-planting, I’m full of optimism, nothing has yet failed to germinate or grow. Flipping through glossy pictures of promise, anything is possible.
Even more exciting though is the local events of seed swaps, plant sales, and holey-moley the Pike library branch has just added a seed library!
Why am I such a freak about this? Did you know Monsanto is the biggest owner of seeds? Or that 94% of our seed varieties have disappeared from commercial seed storage?
Now, you may be sitting at home and thinking why is this dippy hippy worried about this. Well, grab a cup of coffee and a seat and I will try to explain in a calm and a non-conspiracy-theory way.
How much do you trust companies to take care of you before taking care of their profit margin? In the event of a major disaster where you would need to feed yourself, what would be the price on seeds? Have you ever tried to buy pre-hurricane water? I don’t even have to tie this to our political climate – do a quick google search of the prices during the ’49 Gold Rush. To take advantage, is human nature.
There are advantages to getting local seeds. First and foremost, the seed you’re buying/swapping grew in your neck of the woods. It knows all about our wet boggy springs and our no rain summers. You struggled with your peppers last year? Go to a seed swap and ask the swapper about her garden last year. An hour later, you’ll armed with local knowledge (and probably five pepper varieties you didn’t even know you were looking for.)
Where do you find these spectacular events? Indianapolis now has nine libraries participating in providing seeds.
How does it work? If you have a library card you can check out 5 seed packets at each visit and 15 seed packets total per calendar year. Each library has it’s own event to celebrate their seed library opening.
Don’t have a library card? Why not? Your tax dollars pay for these services – use them. The library system has evolved into a wonderful multi-media treasure. I drink my coffee and search for the books I’m interested in. I put them on hold and wait for the email to tell me they are ready for pickup. Of course, librarians are devious creatures and have a display of ‘impulse’ books available for check out near the front desk. I go to check out one book and come home with three. One last thing about library books. Are you like me and have a plethora of books downloaded on your Kindle? Books you may never read because they are there and you never have the right moment to read? Your friendly 3-day reminder of books soon to be overdue is a heck of a motivator for me. I’m reading like a fiend, that book which sat on my table for almost two weeks, untouched.
Okay, let’s veer back to seed events. If you are on Facebook, you can search for seed swaps and other garden related events. Trust me, click on one event and Big Brother Mark will be flooding your feed with like events. Eventbrite is another great resource. Tracking is king these days, they will soon know what you’re looking for.
Ignore that snow out there, (last night we played Christmas music for our dinner ambiance) spring is just around the corner. Attend some events and make sure you’re stocked up, come planting time.
Even more exciting though is the local events of seed swaps, plant sales, and holey-moley the Pike library branch has just added a seed library!
Why am I such a freak about this? Did you know Monsanto is the biggest owner of seeds? Or that 94% of our seed varieties have disappeared from commercial seed storage?
Now, you may be sitting at home and thinking why is this dippy hippy worried about this. Well, grab a cup of coffee and a seat and I will try to explain in a calm and a non-conspiracy-theory way.
How much do you trust companies to take care of you before taking care of their profit margin? In the event of a major disaster where you would need to feed yourself, what would be the price on seeds? Have you ever tried to buy pre-hurricane water? I don’t even have to tie this to our political climate – do a quick google search of the prices during the ’49 Gold Rush. To take advantage, is human nature.
There are advantages to getting local seeds. First and foremost, the seed you’re buying/swapping grew in your neck of the woods. It knows all about our wet boggy springs and our no rain summers. You struggled with your peppers last year? Go to a seed swap and ask the swapper about her garden last year. An hour later, you’ll armed with local knowledge (and probably five pepper varieties you didn’t even know you were looking for.)
Where do you find these spectacular events? Indianapolis now has nine libraries participating in providing seeds.
- Brightwood Branch
- College Avenue
- East 38th Street
- Glendale Branch
- Haughville Branch
- Lawrence Branch
- Pike Branch
- Southport Branch
- Spades Park Branch
How does it work? If you have a library card you can check out 5 seed packets at each visit and 15 seed packets total per calendar year. Each library has it’s own event to celebrate their seed library opening.
Don’t have a library card? Why not? Your tax dollars pay for these services – use them. The library system has evolved into a wonderful multi-media treasure. I drink my coffee and search for the books I’m interested in. I put them on hold and wait for the email to tell me they are ready for pickup. Of course, librarians are devious creatures and have a display of ‘impulse’ books available for check out near the front desk. I go to check out one book and come home with three. One last thing about library books. Are you like me and have a plethora of books downloaded on your Kindle? Books you may never read because they are there and you never have the right moment to read? Your friendly 3-day reminder of books soon to be overdue is a heck of a motivator for me. I’m reading like a fiend, that book which sat on my table for almost two weeks, untouched.
Okay, let’s veer back to seed events. If you are on Facebook, you can search for seed swaps and other garden related events. Trust me, click on one event and Big Brother Mark will be flooding your feed with like events. Eventbrite is another great resource. Tracking is king these days, they will soon know what you’re looking for.
Ignore that snow out there, (last night we played Christmas music for our dinner ambiance) spring is just around the corner. Attend some events and make sure you’re stocked up, come planting time.
Deliberation
Deliberation – 1) long and careful consideration and discussions
2) slow and careful movement and thought
- Oxford Dictionary
(Bonus points if you sing this to the tune of Carly Simon’s ‘Anticipation’.)
Deliberation is my word for 2020. In fact, I’ve chosen this word instead of making any resolutions. Roger tried tossing some resolutions out, exercising, quit smoking, etc. but I informed him I’m over making resolutions. They don’t work in my world anymore.
Nor does listening to the news, debating issues on social media, even following politics – this doesn’t mean I’m through gathering information. I’m always reading and listening, weighing it against what I know and always eager to learn more, but I know this isn’t enough.
I sometimes cringe when the memories of my social media soapbox moments pop up. Only preaching to my like-minded friends, I wasn’t educating anyone but trust me, I alienated plenty. And still, I share too much. But I’m trying to slow my mouth and typing.
These days I stick to groups where I can glean information and learn from others. Oh, there’s still incidents of pissing contests, where this group is right, so the other group is evil – there seems to be a lot of that going on. I try not to jump at the bait anymore, I go about my business and keep thinking how I can improve my immediate surroundings. Understanding the frustration of hopeless of others, I’ve chosen to slow our lives down and focus on what we can change.
Imperative in the act of deliberation, is taking the time and observing how my action may have a rippling effect. I apply this to every facet of our lives. What are we bitching about as we eat our meals at the kitchen island? The environment? Governments? Crime?
Let’s face it – we can bitch about governments not addressing the situation. We can hate on all the shoppers we see with cases of bottled water. We can fill our pockets full of fishing line we untangle from the water’s edge at Eagle Creek and criticize. But none of this is going to change anything.
What we can do though is look inwards. How much trash are WE generating?
Yes, it is as simple as that. You want change, not some expensive bureaucratic feel good press moment, but real change. Do it your damn self.
Our goal is simple. Haul our trashcan out once a month, not once a week. We’re halfway there.
So first we had to take the time and observe what we were consistently throwing away. I haul the trash can to the curb every Thursday morning. What better moment but to ponder on the contents? It started with my coffee creamer – 52 bottles a year went into our trashcan. It’s been 2 years since I’ve bought coffee creamer. Last year we traded in our cigarettes to loose-leaf tobacco and wrappers. Not only did we reduce our trash, but the savings are incredible. I read an article on items that can’t be recycled last summer, and potato chips bags are included in this list. I gave up potato chips. I mean, come on folks, it’s not like they are good for us, so it was an easy decision. Bread wrappers are an excellent poison ivy ‘glove’. Better yet, if you bake your own bread – there’s NO wrapper. Milk jugs are fantastic planters and mini hothouses when you’re pushing your seedlings out early. Bread wrappers are free wire. Put a laundry basket and cooler in your vehicle and you don’t need grocery bags. Bonus, only two trips to the house! Then, I homed in on the biggest culprit in the trashcan – cat litter.
It was on a homesteading group where I learned about changing out the cat litter to pine pellets. After reading all the comments, I searched the internet for more information. Then I searched where to get it and how much it would cost. I put a post out on my page and asked for ‘real’ people, i.e. my friends, testament. With all gathered information, I presented it to Roger so we could discuss making the change.
We drove out to the Plainfield Tractor Supply Company. I bought two 40 lb. bags for $10. Our cats don’t appreciate change and so I approached it with caution. I did a half litter and half pellet mix. They weren’t too happy. We sat and watched Bad Cat travel box to box, never entering until he couldn’t hold it any longer. Gradually, it became the norm. I took the next step and cleaned out one box, using pellets only.
This did not go over well. They all started using the other box, which was almost exclusively Lizzie’s. Then Gatsby decided Lizzie shouldn’t be allowed to use her box at all. I stepped in and switch the other box too. (I also shut off all the extra rooms in the house, just in case.) It’s been almost two weeks and they’ve grumpily accepted the change.
I’m still trying to decide if we are saving money. I’ll start keeping track the next time I purchase, since we are now just pine pellets. I’m loving the cleanup, I just straight scoop out the poo and when the wee the pellets dissolve into a sawdust looking anthill. Which I scoop into an old cat litter bucket. Due to the winter weather I just leave the bucket in the garage until it’s full enough for the trip to its designated compost bin. (The dogs have been particularly interested in the compost bin, so I’ve been adding a couple of bowls of household compost every time I take a bucket out.
The pine pellets really don’t mask the smell of poo. Usually I scoop as soon as bad cat leaves the box. It does however absorb the ammonia smell of their wee. And I’m in love with absence of the never-ending kitty litter trail throughout the house.
The simple change has made us feel like we are causing less damage to the world we’re living in. Now I’m searching for the next trash saving idea. What are you doing to reduce your trash? What would you like to try?
2) slow and careful movement and thought
- Oxford Dictionary
(Bonus points if you sing this to the tune of Carly Simon’s ‘Anticipation’.)
Deliberation is my word for 2020. In fact, I’ve chosen this word instead of making any resolutions. Roger tried tossing some resolutions out, exercising, quit smoking, etc. but I informed him I’m over making resolutions. They don’t work in my world anymore.
Nor does listening to the news, debating issues on social media, even following politics – this doesn’t mean I’m through gathering information. I’m always reading and listening, weighing it against what I know and always eager to learn more, but I know this isn’t enough.
I sometimes cringe when the memories of my social media soapbox moments pop up. Only preaching to my like-minded friends, I wasn’t educating anyone but trust me, I alienated plenty. And still, I share too much. But I’m trying to slow my mouth and typing.
These days I stick to groups where I can glean information and learn from others. Oh, there’s still incidents of pissing contests, where this group is right, so the other group is evil – there seems to be a lot of that going on. I try not to jump at the bait anymore, I go about my business and keep thinking how I can improve my immediate surroundings. Understanding the frustration of hopeless of others, I’ve chosen to slow our lives down and focus on what we can change.
Imperative in the act of deliberation, is taking the time and observing how my action may have a rippling effect. I apply this to every facet of our lives. What are we bitching about as we eat our meals at the kitchen island? The environment? Governments? Crime?
Let’s face it – we can bitch about governments not addressing the situation. We can hate on all the shoppers we see with cases of bottled water. We can fill our pockets full of fishing line we untangle from the water’s edge at Eagle Creek and criticize. But none of this is going to change anything.
What we can do though is look inwards. How much trash are WE generating?
Yes, it is as simple as that. You want change, not some expensive bureaucratic feel good press moment, but real change. Do it your damn self.
Our goal is simple. Haul our trashcan out once a month, not once a week. We’re halfway there.
So first we had to take the time and observe what we were consistently throwing away. I haul the trash can to the curb every Thursday morning. What better moment but to ponder on the contents? It started with my coffee creamer – 52 bottles a year went into our trashcan. It’s been 2 years since I’ve bought coffee creamer. Last year we traded in our cigarettes to loose-leaf tobacco and wrappers. Not only did we reduce our trash, but the savings are incredible. I read an article on items that can’t be recycled last summer, and potato chips bags are included in this list. I gave up potato chips. I mean, come on folks, it’s not like they are good for us, so it was an easy decision. Bread wrappers are an excellent poison ivy ‘glove’. Better yet, if you bake your own bread – there’s NO wrapper. Milk jugs are fantastic planters and mini hothouses when you’re pushing your seedlings out early. Bread wrappers are free wire. Put a laundry basket and cooler in your vehicle and you don’t need grocery bags. Bonus, only two trips to the house! Then, I homed in on the biggest culprit in the trashcan – cat litter.
It was on a homesteading group where I learned about changing out the cat litter to pine pellets. After reading all the comments, I searched the internet for more information. Then I searched where to get it and how much it would cost. I put a post out on my page and asked for ‘real’ people, i.e. my friends, testament. With all gathered information, I presented it to Roger so we could discuss making the change.
We drove out to the Plainfield Tractor Supply Company. I bought two 40 lb. bags for $10. Our cats don’t appreciate change and so I approached it with caution. I did a half litter and half pellet mix. They weren’t too happy. We sat and watched Bad Cat travel box to box, never entering until he couldn’t hold it any longer. Gradually, it became the norm. I took the next step and cleaned out one box, using pellets only.
This did not go over well. They all started using the other box, which was almost exclusively Lizzie’s. Then Gatsby decided Lizzie shouldn’t be allowed to use her box at all. I stepped in and switch the other box too. (I also shut off all the extra rooms in the house, just in case.) It’s been almost two weeks and they’ve grumpily accepted the change.
I’m still trying to decide if we are saving money. I’ll start keeping track the next time I purchase, since we are now just pine pellets. I’m loving the cleanup, I just straight scoop out the poo and when the wee the pellets dissolve into a sawdust looking anthill. Which I scoop into an old cat litter bucket. Due to the winter weather I just leave the bucket in the garage until it’s full enough for the trip to its designated compost bin. (The dogs have been particularly interested in the compost bin, so I’ve been adding a couple of bowls of household compost every time I take a bucket out.
The pine pellets really don’t mask the smell of poo. Usually I scoop as soon as bad cat leaves the box. It does however absorb the ammonia smell of their wee. And I’m in love with absence of the never-ending kitty litter trail throughout the house.
The simple change has made us feel like we are causing less damage to the world we’re living in. Now I’m searching for the next trash saving idea. What are you doing to reduce your trash? What would you like to try?
With a Little Help From My Friends
‘Can I help you mulch?’
Nothing grips, with any icy hand of fear, my heart than an offer to help in my gardens.
‘What? That doesn’t even make sense.’ I hear you muttering.
Let me set the scene.
Sunshine and warmth knocked on my windows the second day of the year, beckoning me to come out and play in the always interesting and fun Barefoot & Braless Gardens. I obliged bringing my work crew of dogs and starting the Pandora station on my phone. Accessorized with my winter boots, wool cap, and gloves, (Henrika’s (the faithful wheelbarrow) handles store cold temps for days.) I prepared for a couple hours of mulching. I continued loading and raking a thick weed barrier and the future spring rains sucker-upper layer. I also cleaned up the willow border, cutting out the burr bushes.
Janis Joplin wailed she only needed one good man and on command mine showed up.
‘Can I help you mulch?’ He asked with the trepidation of one who’s worked with me before.
The truth is I come from a long line of ‘Either do it right or get the hell out of my way,’ working stock. The experience of last year’s work has bolden my ideas and vision. My sweat, blood, and I’ll confess – tears are in this meager patch. The polished end dream is etched in my brain and drawn in the garden binder. So yes, I get snippy when someone questions the why. He is not much better when it comes to his work so I know somewhere down the line he will understand my bad habits.
On the other hand, (Yes, I did just sing that in my meager attempt at Tevye’s rich baritone.) I have a pile of mulch as everlasting as a Willie Wonka Gobstopper, several large terra cotta pots as heavy and unyielding as a tantrum throwing toddler, and it’s January. The cooperative temperatures could disappear at any moment. Help should always be welcomed.
“Only if you enjoy it.” I answered him with a lesson I have learned in the last year instead of my usual ego-driven baggage.
The biggest obstacle I’ve found in the permaculture theory is the inclusion of ‘people.’ You can’t create in a vacuum. I hide in my yard and build on my ideas, the birds sing to me, the dogs laze in the sun, the flowers nod their heads in agreement. This is my paradise, folks.
Reaching out to others, causes me great inner turmoil. What if they think I’m stupid? What if I’m doing it all wrong?
But I do count on many people – Rick from Wolf-Beach Farms is always available for a quick question or an endless stream of complaints, Susan shows up about once a month not to judge but to offer suggestions to organize my many, many piles of disorganized projects, Dawn has come over and shared her artistic soul so I know I’m not the only weird one, Michelle comes out to do videos for her show ‘On the Couch with Michelle Gussow,’ a small but growing number of customers love and order my salves, I have two women on Nextdoor who save their cat litter buckets for me, and the people on my garden page laugh with me as I bumble my way through each day. And of course, there’s Roger, who didn’t appreciate the mulch mountain in his yard for the majority of last year (At one time it was covering a huge chunk of the driveway.), or the idea of ponds until he came home and saw the outlines dug into the yard, or the expense (Which I had to curtail to save our relationship-Yikes!), or the kitchen always looking like a chem lab with experiments brewing, drying, or fermenting. The idea of people might freak me out, but I couldn’t have come this far without them.
I agreed to play nice and our work was as harmonious as the blue skies. He attempted to make the mulch barrier thinner, i.e. closer to finishing, but I kept raking it to my desired one-foot depth. He fussed over the cockeyed pots and I agreed to shove mulch under to straighten them. (Though the contents grow regardless of the tilt.) He cussed as he dug out two big logs, but I ran over to admire them in excitement – two new borders for garden beds.
An accomplished day lay behind us and the mulch pile is almost gone. We walked around the ponds and decided where to plant the cattails and other plants. We even discussed where the future duck house will be. He made new rules for future mulch deliveries – a different drop sight and only one load at a time.
My left ear listened but my right ear is deafened by the roar of planning for the next new load and if it will squash my willows – should I dig them up in the spring, technically I should put up the fence panel before anymore loads are dumped but then I’d have to come up with the money for a few panels because I can’t start where the proposed dump sight is, shit I need to call 811 before I start digging fence post holes, I also need to hoard enough supplies to have a panel completed in one work day because I don’t think I can explain the finished project to get pre-approval - better to just showing him the final project, I know he will love it, can I pull off a living roof on the duck house?
His look of prior knowledge of me building worlds in my head instead of existing in the here and now stopped the tumble of ideas.
Breathe.
I murmured in agreement to the new plan. I'm sure he ignored his doubts, well versed in my rule-bending ways. We just accomplished a good day’s work and that is enough.
Nothing grips, with any icy hand of fear, my heart than an offer to help in my gardens.
‘What? That doesn’t even make sense.’ I hear you muttering.
Let me set the scene.
Sunshine and warmth knocked on my windows the second day of the year, beckoning me to come out and play in the always interesting and fun Barefoot & Braless Gardens. I obliged bringing my work crew of dogs and starting the Pandora station on my phone. Accessorized with my winter boots, wool cap, and gloves, (Henrika’s (the faithful wheelbarrow) handles store cold temps for days.) I prepared for a couple hours of mulching. I continued loading and raking a thick weed barrier and the future spring rains sucker-upper layer. I also cleaned up the willow border, cutting out the burr bushes.
Janis Joplin wailed she only needed one good man and on command mine showed up.
‘Can I help you mulch?’ He asked with the trepidation of one who’s worked with me before.
The truth is I come from a long line of ‘Either do it right or get the hell out of my way,’ working stock. The experience of last year’s work has bolden my ideas and vision. My sweat, blood, and I’ll confess – tears are in this meager patch. The polished end dream is etched in my brain and drawn in the garden binder. So yes, I get snippy when someone questions the why. He is not much better when it comes to his work so I know somewhere down the line he will understand my bad habits.
On the other hand, (Yes, I did just sing that in my meager attempt at Tevye’s rich baritone.) I have a pile of mulch as everlasting as a Willie Wonka Gobstopper, several large terra cotta pots as heavy and unyielding as a tantrum throwing toddler, and it’s January. The cooperative temperatures could disappear at any moment. Help should always be welcomed.
“Only if you enjoy it.” I answered him with a lesson I have learned in the last year instead of my usual ego-driven baggage.
The biggest obstacle I’ve found in the permaculture theory is the inclusion of ‘people.’ You can’t create in a vacuum. I hide in my yard and build on my ideas, the birds sing to me, the dogs laze in the sun, the flowers nod their heads in agreement. This is my paradise, folks.
Reaching out to others, causes me great inner turmoil. What if they think I’m stupid? What if I’m doing it all wrong?
But I do count on many people – Rick from Wolf-Beach Farms is always available for a quick question or an endless stream of complaints, Susan shows up about once a month not to judge but to offer suggestions to organize my many, many piles of disorganized projects, Dawn has come over and shared her artistic soul so I know I’m not the only weird one, Michelle comes out to do videos for her show ‘On the Couch with Michelle Gussow,’ a small but growing number of customers love and order my salves, I have two women on Nextdoor who save their cat litter buckets for me, and the people on my garden page laugh with me as I bumble my way through each day. And of course, there’s Roger, who didn’t appreciate the mulch mountain in his yard for the majority of last year (At one time it was covering a huge chunk of the driveway.), or the idea of ponds until he came home and saw the outlines dug into the yard, or the expense (Which I had to curtail to save our relationship-Yikes!), or the kitchen always looking like a chem lab with experiments brewing, drying, or fermenting. The idea of people might freak me out, but I couldn’t have come this far without them.
I agreed to play nice and our work was as harmonious as the blue skies. He attempted to make the mulch barrier thinner, i.e. closer to finishing, but I kept raking it to my desired one-foot depth. He fussed over the cockeyed pots and I agreed to shove mulch under to straighten them. (Though the contents grow regardless of the tilt.) He cussed as he dug out two big logs, but I ran over to admire them in excitement – two new borders for garden beds.
An accomplished day lay behind us and the mulch pile is almost gone. We walked around the ponds and decided where to plant the cattails and other plants. We even discussed where the future duck house will be. He made new rules for future mulch deliveries – a different drop sight and only one load at a time.
My left ear listened but my right ear is deafened by the roar of planning for the next new load and if it will squash my willows – should I dig them up in the spring, technically I should put up the fence panel before anymore loads are dumped but then I’d have to come up with the money for a few panels because I can’t start where the proposed dump sight is, shit I need to call 811 before I start digging fence post holes, I also need to hoard enough supplies to have a panel completed in one work day because I don’t think I can explain the finished project to get pre-approval - better to just showing him the final project, I know he will love it, can I pull off a living roof on the duck house?
His look of prior knowledge of me building worlds in my head instead of existing in the here and now stopped the tumble of ideas.
Breathe.
I murmured in agreement to the new plan. I'm sure he ignored his doubts, well versed in my rule-bending ways. We just accomplished a good day’s work and that is enough.
My Passive Aggressive Love for Punk Rock
I chased Mike Rippy of The Dockers down as the night was winding down. The perfect shoes to start my new blog series - he told me he wears these for every show. Of course, the perfect tube socks need a mention too.
Authentic fashion for the lead singer of such Docker's hits as Stabbity Stab. A crusty world commentator; if you need a real chuckle engage him for a series of Your Mamma Jokes. I promise you will lose, but laugh your ass off doing so. |
I like punk rock music.
Of course I'm not cool enough for it. I only have a couple of CD's and I save them for special occasions. Like when I can't verbally express angst or when my neighbors run their leaf blowers simultaneously. Then I grab my AnneFrankDux and let them rage for me.
I'm at heart, a rule follower. Even though I'm aware the game is rigged, I fear the chaos of anarchy.
History, of course, differentiates between propaganda and facts. Cities formed civilized societies. In the cloak of safety and sustenance - order and yes, echelons of power were formed. Rules are never for the rulers. Allowed to decorate our abodes, albeit prison cells, within reason, we express our individuality. Yet even that determines where we rank on the ladder of society.
Before we traveled in tribes or clans. The rules were simple - contribute and we all eat and share the fire. Sure, maybe successful hunters were the rock stars but you can bet if they lost a step - they better be able to gather firewood. I'm sure these people went to bed hungry, were cold, and we know had short lives. Yet, imagine their freedom of being only responsible for their immediate needs and circle.
Musicians of this genre are of the ancient tribes. They complete a circuitry with the audience. A messy passion carried on a beat connects us to a primal need to yell against the futility of a civilized corrupt world.
We attended the Punk Rock Night at the Melody Inn. This venue is an authentic dive bar. The clientele dress to please themselves and show up for the cheap beer and great music. I've not encountered another place in Indianapolis who accepts such varied genres of music. Attending the shows of Punkin Holler Boys, End Time Spasm Band,The Shake-ups, and many more - I've always enjoyed meeting and becoming a fan of the unknown acts they bring in.
This isn't a music review. I've done that gig and I sucked at it. Even if I don't care for the band or music - I appreciate the creative process. I understand the importance of such a selfish and defiant act.
The members of these bands have their feet cemented in our society. They steal time from their jobs, family, and what normal people do to practice, travel, and play. The cost of living competes with a new instrument, gear, or even drinks on the night of live performances. All of this to reenact an ancient ritual and tell stories to their fellow life-travelers.
Here are the actors of the night. Give them a listen. Watch a video. Hell, buy some merch. For the cost of a fast-food meal you could allow another dreamer to share their vision.
Punk Rock Night Indianapolis is orchestrated by the wonderful Rich Barker of GBR and Slappies fame.
On the Cinder from Buffalo, NY.
Gay Black Republican - USA L.L.C available now.
The Dockers - Fury of the Mindless Ones available (Msg Facebook page for details.)
AnneFrankDux
Of course I'm not cool enough for it. I only have a couple of CD's and I save them for special occasions. Like when I can't verbally express angst or when my neighbors run their leaf blowers simultaneously. Then I grab my AnneFrankDux and let them rage for me.
I'm at heart, a rule follower. Even though I'm aware the game is rigged, I fear the chaos of anarchy.
History, of course, differentiates between propaganda and facts. Cities formed civilized societies. In the cloak of safety and sustenance - order and yes, echelons of power were formed. Rules are never for the rulers. Allowed to decorate our abodes, albeit prison cells, within reason, we express our individuality. Yet even that determines where we rank on the ladder of society.
Before we traveled in tribes or clans. The rules were simple - contribute and we all eat and share the fire. Sure, maybe successful hunters were the rock stars but you can bet if they lost a step - they better be able to gather firewood. I'm sure these people went to bed hungry, were cold, and we know had short lives. Yet, imagine their freedom of being only responsible for their immediate needs and circle.
Musicians of this genre are of the ancient tribes. They complete a circuitry with the audience. A messy passion carried on a beat connects us to a primal need to yell against the futility of a civilized corrupt world.
We attended the Punk Rock Night at the Melody Inn. This venue is an authentic dive bar. The clientele dress to please themselves and show up for the cheap beer and great music. I've not encountered another place in Indianapolis who accepts such varied genres of music. Attending the shows of Punkin Holler Boys, End Time Spasm Band,The Shake-ups, and many more - I've always enjoyed meeting and becoming a fan of the unknown acts they bring in.
This isn't a music review. I've done that gig and I sucked at it. Even if I don't care for the band or music - I appreciate the creative process. I understand the importance of such a selfish and defiant act.
The members of these bands have their feet cemented in our society. They steal time from their jobs, family, and what normal people do to practice, travel, and play. The cost of living competes with a new instrument, gear, or even drinks on the night of live performances. All of this to reenact an ancient ritual and tell stories to their fellow life-travelers.
Here are the actors of the night. Give them a listen. Watch a video. Hell, buy some merch. For the cost of a fast-food meal you could allow another dreamer to share their vision.
Punk Rock Night Indianapolis is orchestrated by the wonderful Rich Barker of GBR and Slappies fame.
On the Cinder from Buffalo, NY.
Gay Black Republican - USA L.L.C available now.
The Dockers - Fury of the Mindless Ones available (Msg Facebook page for details.)
AnneFrankDux
Shoeless and Confused
'Where've ya been?'
I ask myself this everyday; since our last presidential election. A couple of weeks in this embarrassing regime, I took my infamous shoes down. I did it because I felt guilty.
How can I be mucking about with outrageous designs while our world is spinning into the realms of a major shit show?
I took my reclusive nature and doubled down. I too want a wall. A wall of blackberries and raspberries. Thorny and wild to keep the dogs in and the noise of my neighbor's leaf blowers out.
I want the happy faces of dandelions - you know the weeds? Dandelions make fantastic wine, salads, and jellies. They also leave a lovely yellow sticky smear on your brother if you can catch him. What brilliant douche decided to advise dumping tons of poison in the very yard our babies walk barefooted? Someone who owned stock in a fertilizer company?
My gardening has become more about making a non-toxic, environmentally friendly haven than a produce stand. I gather and exchange seeds, I'm teaching myself how to can, dry herbs, and make jellies. I talk to the various bees hiding out with me in my untreated yard. I'm dreaming of a chicken hutch and beehives.
And I go barefoot. A lot.
I've realized this is my defense mechanism. When mankind fails me, I strip it all off and fall back to what has always comforted me. Mother Earth. My first religion - it welcomed me back with raindrop kisses and warm sunny hugs. The smell of enriched soil offers a promise of nurturing and sustaining. As long as these asshats don't nuke the world - we can survive this.
The shoes are coming back. This time though, they won't be Cinderella's slippers. I'll be highlighting the shoes of the people of the earth. The ones this administration tries to demonize and scare people with. Shoes and stories of the people who rebel and yell truth the only way they know how. By being themselves.
I ask myself this everyday; since our last presidential election. A couple of weeks in this embarrassing regime, I took my infamous shoes down. I did it because I felt guilty.
How can I be mucking about with outrageous designs while our world is spinning into the realms of a major shit show?
I took my reclusive nature and doubled down. I too want a wall. A wall of blackberries and raspberries. Thorny and wild to keep the dogs in and the noise of my neighbor's leaf blowers out.
I want the happy faces of dandelions - you know the weeds? Dandelions make fantastic wine, salads, and jellies. They also leave a lovely yellow sticky smear on your brother if you can catch him. What brilliant douche decided to advise dumping tons of poison in the very yard our babies walk barefooted? Someone who owned stock in a fertilizer company?
My gardening has become more about making a non-toxic, environmentally friendly haven than a produce stand. I gather and exchange seeds, I'm teaching myself how to can, dry herbs, and make jellies. I talk to the various bees hiding out with me in my untreated yard. I'm dreaming of a chicken hutch and beehives.
And I go barefoot. A lot.
I've realized this is my defense mechanism. When mankind fails me, I strip it all off and fall back to what has always comforted me. Mother Earth. My first religion - it welcomed me back with raindrop kisses and warm sunny hugs. The smell of enriched soil offers a promise of nurturing and sustaining. As long as these asshats don't nuke the world - we can survive this.
The shoes are coming back. This time though, they won't be Cinderella's slippers. I'll be highlighting the shoes of the people of the earth. The ones this administration tries to demonize and scare people with. Shoes and stories of the people who rebel and yell truth the only way they know how. By being themselves.
When Lightning Strikes the Cottonwood - Now Available on Amazon
Divorced, with no where else to go, Margo returns to the small town she abandoned long ago. There she rekindles her friendship with old school friends: Justin and Kathy, but it's first love, Darryl who stirs the old memories and lies along with the passion they once had. Will revisiting their past destroy her second chance at happiness?
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PBS OR FOX SPORTS?
Things are sometimes not what they seem. My profile pictures on all my social media pages except LinkedIn are of shoes. Extravagant over the top shoes. I know people get this impression I am this 20-something-sex-pot-bimbo. I also know I get a lot of friend requests because of this. And a lot of judgment, even from the friendlies corner. But I am just an ole almost 50 broad who likes shoes. No more, no less. I am even not judging those who judge. Because I too, more often than not, judge harshly only to smack my face into truth. Such is the human experience and trying to live with an open mind. These beauties were brought to my attention from the fun if frivolous (We all need more frivolity in our lives.) Your Next Shoes. They are Alexander McQueen and can be yours for $1295.
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A month or so ago, I stopped to watch a clip for an upcoming PBS travel show. They were visiting Nuremberg so of course this clip was focused on the Nazi party rally grounds. I didn't really think anything about this because if you say Nuremberg to me, my brain latches on to the movie "Judgement at Nuremberg". Then I am once again torn between the characters of Spencer Tracy and Burt Lancaster.
The next day, I watched a new clip of the same show and it was about, wait for it, Nazis. Now before I proceed let's take a sidetrip...
I am not a professional internet troller. I am not that witty and frankly, my skin isn't tough enough. I usually am startled and puzzled by some of the venomous remarks I read. The other day I was listening to Billy Bragg on YouTube and made the mistake of reading some comments. Really? Such hate for a folk singer? What harm has he caused? Is his acoustic guitar a weapon of mass destruction? He is singing words, you can choose not to listen...
Now back to the PBS travel show. I stepped out of my norm and left a comment. I felt safe because these are my people. Home of Sesame Street and the perfect British crime drama. My comment was a kindly temperament question in the vein of "While I understand the importance of knowing our history, why do the History Channel and PBS on Germany have to focus only on Nazis? If we wanted sensationalism we would be watching the E! or TLC channels." Okay, so there was a smidge of sarcasm there; I don't think I can express my feelings without it. Call it a crouch; if you must judge.
So the response was mostly in accordance with my sentiments. I even met a lovely woman, Adriana from Munich, whose blog I will highlight another day. Just when I was feeling all warm and cozy the travel blog responded: "If it bleeds, it leads." I was taken aback almost as if I had just been physically slapped.
This wasn't some knuckle-dragging redneck worshipping at the shrine of good-ole-days delusion site. This was PBS! Not them personally, of course, even I know this. It was some staffer being clever but I responded anyways. There were three days of international cyber comments from both sides before some other faux controversy stole our attentions. We all moved on.
And then ... Saturday, I was watching the Bundesliga pre-game show for Bayern Munich-SV Darmstadt show on Fox Sports where they have this cool intro of facts of the cities playing. The term "Science city of Germany" caught my fancy and after the match, I went Googling.
Darmstadt is this incredible mixture of a tourist nirvana. A fairytale beginning - rulers of Russian and British royalty pedigree; we are talking the romance of Dr. Zhivago or The King and I. A center for Art Nouveau - the Wedding Tower and the Russian Church gives me goosebumps and makes me want to sale blood to finance a impromptu trip to Germany. They are a science and educational mecca. (Which was of course, the mainstay of my search but as always I was distracted by the "pretty" things.) This city's scientists discovered six new elements and created ecstasy. They also had Nazis and were the first city to shut down the Jew's businesses. Their city was almost completely destroyed by the Allies bombings.
Say what? I was more educated from Fox Sports than PBS? Not exactly. It was my eternal curiosity that fueled the search for more information. Life's funny like that.
Horrid atrocities are evident in our daily lives. We are also surrounded by breathtaking beauty painted by man and nature's brushes. We alone, get to decide which of these altars we worship at. In my case, I will be watching more soccer and less of a certain travel show.
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A month or so ago, I stopped to watch a clip for an upcoming PBS travel show. They were visiting Nuremberg so of course this clip was focused on the Nazi party rally grounds. I didn't really think anything about this because if you say Nuremberg to me, my brain latches on to the movie "Judgement at Nuremberg". Then I am once again torn between the characters of Spencer Tracy and Burt Lancaster.
The next day, I watched a new clip of the same show and it was about, wait for it, Nazis. Now before I proceed let's take a sidetrip...
I am not a professional internet troller. I am not that witty and frankly, my skin isn't tough enough. I usually am startled and puzzled by some of the venomous remarks I read. The other day I was listening to Billy Bragg on YouTube and made the mistake of reading some comments. Really? Such hate for a folk singer? What harm has he caused? Is his acoustic guitar a weapon of mass destruction? He is singing words, you can choose not to listen...
Now back to the PBS travel show. I stepped out of my norm and left a comment. I felt safe because these are my people. Home of Sesame Street and the perfect British crime drama. My comment was a kindly temperament question in the vein of "While I understand the importance of knowing our history, why do the History Channel and PBS on Germany have to focus only on Nazis? If we wanted sensationalism we would be watching the E! or TLC channels." Okay, so there was a smidge of sarcasm there; I don't think I can express my feelings without it. Call it a crouch; if you must judge.
So the response was mostly in accordance with my sentiments. I even met a lovely woman, Adriana from Munich, whose blog I will highlight another day. Just when I was feeling all warm and cozy the travel blog responded: "If it bleeds, it leads." I was taken aback almost as if I had just been physically slapped.
This wasn't some knuckle-dragging redneck worshipping at the shrine of good-ole-days delusion site. This was PBS! Not them personally, of course, even I know this. It was some staffer being clever but I responded anyways. There were three days of international cyber comments from both sides before some other faux controversy stole our attentions. We all moved on.
And then ... Saturday, I was watching the Bundesliga pre-game show for Bayern Munich-SV Darmstadt show on Fox Sports where they have this cool intro of facts of the cities playing. The term "Science city of Germany" caught my fancy and after the match, I went Googling.
Darmstadt is this incredible mixture of a tourist nirvana. A fairytale beginning - rulers of Russian and British royalty pedigree; we are talking the romance of Dr. Zhivago or The King and I. A center for Art Nouveau - the Wedding Tower and the Russian Church gives me goosebumps and makes me want to sale blood to finance a impromptu trip to Germany. They are a science and educational mecca. (Which was of course, the mainstay of my search but as always I was distracted by the "pretty" things.) This city's scientists discovered six new elements and created ecstasy. They also had Nazis and were the first city to shut down the Jew's businesses. Their city was almost completely destroyed by the Allies bombings.
Say what? I was more educated from Fox Sports than PBS? Not exactly. It was my eternal curiosity that fueled the search for more information. Life's funny like that.
Horrid atrocities are evident in our daily lives. We are also surrounded by breathtaking beauty painted by man and nature's brushes. We alone, get to decide which of these altars we worship at. In my case, I will be watching more soccer and less of a certain travel show.
Is This My Life? This Is My Life!
Let's open with another crazy ass shoe from Joco. This is Ember and is available, custom made, for $200. I am a fan because these shoes make me stop in my tracks, my toes curl and my brain agrees; we would like to wear these. Since I get to stalk Joco up close, I not only slobber over his shoes but see the struggle of someone who is chasing his dreams. I am envious of his drive and determination. In my darkest moments I can say he is young and foolish enough to dream so big. In the light of truth, I must admit, he will succeed only if he never loses this youthful foolishness.
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Today at 5:30 AM my day started quite abruptly. I’m sure as I was emerging from the depths of my slumber, I was subconsciously aware of the household events. How else could I picture the following commotion which finally woke me?
I can see Bad cat thundering down the length of the hall as he enticed Elsa to chase him. Elsa succumbed to the bait because she is just a precocious pup. Otto joined in partly because he probably chased his sister in the womb and because the cat allows himself to be caught unlike the squirrels in the yard. Bad Cat then gets pissy because Otto bites too hard and stands on his hind legs delivering blows to the head (the envy of any boxer in the ring), throws in a bite or two and then bounces into the bed and sits on my head. Otto and Elsa plant their front paws on the edge of the bed and bark. And bark. And bark. “Okay! I’m awake!”
After I throw on underwear and a stretched out, worn and washed too much tank top, I meet Roger in the hall. He tells me they woke him up at 3:30 AM, went outside to pee, and then went back to bed. He made coffee and eBay’d while he told himself he was never falling asleep on the couch at 8:00PM again. The ruckus from the animals started about thirty minutes ago, he figured the only reason why it didn’t wake because I was snoring too loud and talking in my sleep.
I made my pot of coffee, turned on BBC News, and took the dogs out to pee or AKA had my morning cigarette. Roger headed to bed to avoid another too early bedtime and I had a peaceful hour of dreadful world events.
It was the second smoke break AKA dog pit stop when all hell broke loose in the form of a plastic shopping bag. Now last week, I was on Facebook complaining/musing publicly on how our concerted environmental friendly efforts had cut down on our plastic bags which left me without kitty litter discard receptacles. So maybe this was manna from heaven, this abandoned bag blowing across the back end of the yard.
Elsa, maybe, because like her Dad, is not social media savvy; did not share my positive outlook to trash blowing in uninvited. No, she took it as an intruder the likes of Russian KGB. Immediately she grew 3 inches taller due to the bristling mane of aggression standing at combat-ready attention and led the charge with ferocious growling and a high pitched bark. Otto quickly brought up the rear because he is loyal to his sister and he likes to eat so protecting his never ending dog food bowl is an automatic response. Yet they didn’t attack and destroy. They maintained a defensive parameter and barked. And barked. And barked. Soon all the dogs in a five mile radius took up the battle cry and barked with them. This left me and a baffled Sammi with no other option but to shuffle out to the still moving bag – apparently it wasn’t smart enough to play dead – in my red rain coat and pink slippers to capture the bag and restore peace to the neighborhood.
As I was slowly making my way back with the hostage stuffed in my pocket, I visualized the image I was projecting. Then I throw out the question to the world, to the aliens who are now changing their destination coordinates due to the lack of intelligence, (Alright to tone down the dramatics, I will admit they were also browsing Fox Network.) but mostly to myself. “This is your life?”
It’s been a rough two almost three weeks around these parts. I’ve entered the shut-down phase because God forbid if my random and toxic thoughts would hit open air. Rejection letters, lack of funds, unemployment; all have me questioning what purpose there is. Last night over dinner and a quasi-holiday margarita, I was told: “I toss a firecracker and you unload nuclear weapons.” I laughed at the accuracy even while I chided my decision to pursue an intelligent man for once. Word skirmishes are so much easier when you can launch profanity, I’m quite fluent, and it is those damn truth bombs that trip me up every time.
So why am I here? What do I think I can accomplish? How can I be enough?
It’s been a long and tiresome journey and I will claim exhaustion whole-heartedly. The above questions truss me up like a holiday fowl. I, who pride myself on all the correct Jeopardy questions I can muster, am drawing a mental blank when I question myself.
Because let’s be honest here. All those right answers are just memorization. My life answers, or lack thereof, are because I haven’t found a life I wanted to emulate. This is not due to my previous lack of trying but because of some buried under-utilized instinct. I will never be happy until I accomplish it myself. So today, it is with a pink clad shuffle I travel. I guess as long as I keep breathing and moving forward, it’s some sort of accomplishment. Yes, this is my life.
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Today at 5:30 AM my day started quite abruptly. I’m sure as I was emerging from the depths of my slumber, I was subconsciously aware of the household events. How else could I picture the following commotion which finally woke me?
I can see Bad cat thundering down the length of the hall as he enticed Elsa to chase him. Elsa succumbed to the bait because she is just a precocious pup. Otto joined in partly because he probably chased his sister in the womb and because the cat allows himself to be caught unlike the squirrels in the yard. Bad Cat then gets pissy because Otto bites too hard and stands on his hind legs delivering blows to the head (the envy of any boxer in the ring), throws in a bite or two and then bounces into the bed and sits on my head. Otto and Elsa plant their front paws on the edge of the bed and bark. And bark. And bark. “Okay! I’m awake!”
After I throw on underwear and a stretched out, worn and washed too much tank top, I meet Roger in the hall. He tells me they woke him up at 3:30 AM, went outside to pee, and then went back to bed. He made coffee and eBay’d while he told himself he was never falling asleep on the couch at 8:00PM again. The ruckus from the animals started about thirty minutes ago, he figured the only reason why it didn’t wake because I was snoring too loud and talking in my sleep.
I made my pot of coffee, turned on BBC News, and took the dogs out to pee or AKA had my morning cigarette. Roger headed to bed to avoid another too early bedtime and I had a peaceful hour of dreadful world events.
It was the second smoke break AKA dog pit stop when all hell broke loose in the form of a plastic shopping bag. Now last week, I was on Facebook complaining/musing publicly on how our concerted environmental friendly efforts had cut down on our plastic bags which left me without kitty litter discard receptacles. So maybe this was manna from heaven, this abandoned bag blowing across the back end of the yard.
Elsa, maybe, because like her Dad, is not social media savvy; did not share my positive outlook to trash blowing in uninvited. No, she took it as an intruder the likes of Russian KGB. Immediately she grew 3 inches taller due to the bristling mane of aggression standing at combat-ready attention and led the charge with ferocious growling and a high pitched bark. Otto quickly brought up the rear because he is loyal to his sister and he likes to eat so protecting his never ending dog food bowl is an automatic response. Yet they didn’t attack and destroy. They maintained a defensive parameter and barked. And barked. And barked. Soon all the dogs in a five mile radius took up the battle cry and barked with them. This left me and a baffled Sammi with no other option but to shuffle out to the still moving bag – apparently it wasn’t smart enough to play dead – in my red rain coat and pink slippers to capture the bag and restore peace to the neighborhood.
As I was slowly making my way back with the hostage stuffed in my pocket, I visualized the image I was projecting. Then I throw out the question to the world, to the aliens who are now changing their destination coordinates due to the lack of intelligence, (Alright to tone down the dramatics, I will admit they were also browsing Fox Network.) but mostly to myself. “This is your life?”
It’s been a rough two almost three weeks around these parts. I’ve entered the shut-down phase because God forbid if my random and toxic thoughts would hit open air. Rejection letters, lack of funds, unemployment; all have me questioning what purpose there is. Last night over dinner and a quasi-holiday margarita, I was told: “I toss a firecracker and you unload nuclear weapons.” I laughed at the accuracy even while I chided my decision to pursue an intelligent man for once. Word skirmishes are so much easier when you can launch profanity, I’m quite fluent, and it is those damn truth bombs that trip me up every time.
So why am I here? What do I think I can accomplish? How can I be enough?
It’s been a long and tiresome journey and I will claim exhaustion whole-heartedly. The above questions truss me up like a holiday fowl. I, who pride myself on all the correct Jeopardy questions I can muster, am drawing a mental blank when I question myself.
Because let’s be honest here. All those right answers are just memorization. My life answers, or lack thereof, are because I haven’t found a life I wanted to emulate. This is not due to my previous lack of trying but because of some buried under-utilized instinct. I will never be happy until I accomplish it myself. So today, it is with a pink clad shuffle I travel. I guess as long as I keep breathing and moving forward, it’s some sort of accomplishment. Yes, this is my life.
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Do We Hate Louder Than We Love?Sometimes I carry my little notebook around for weeks; a blog scribbled in pencil, started, stopped, and then started again. At times they never get finished, my thoughts get so garbled I forget what I was originally attempting to say. Other times it is worth it if I keep hammering it out. This is one of those blogs. I finally get it done and then I am kicked in the ass by my own formatting requirement. Today I cheated on the shoes. I googled shoes, hit images, and found these that paired well with the blog. So I am going to claim ignorance on these shoes, follow this link if they have caught your fancy and you will know as much as me this time. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, humor me and help me figure out this Love thing. It baffles me, frustrates me, and when it is right, warms me to the tips of my toes.
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Let’s talk about Love. Love tends to come uninvited and sets up house. While we are out living life, we look up and see how certain people have stolen our hearts. The real reason, I am focused on this mercury (A reminder to those who are old enough to have had access to mercury in our home thermometers. We were all cautioned not to touch, but who could resist the ghostly like properties in this element?) like emotion is three separate exposures I have had to question the validity of love for each other.
The first instance was a Facebook thread. I know some of you are damned near professional commentators – you are witty, on target, and flawless in your sarcastic delivery. That is not me. So I choose to be a silent observer.
This time though, I joined in. I protested how anyone can say “I love you, but…” This doesn’t compute in my brain. Maybe I am old-fashioned, could be I have crammed my heart with too many fairy tales, Jane Austen, and romantic comedy movies; when I love I go all in. More than likely my heart will be broken or I will be disappointed. Yet that dizzy, stomach dropping, almost drowning sensation is always worth it. I can’t say “I Love You” if I place myself in a position to judge another’s sin. How can anyone?
The second love crisis I had was when we all received the news Fred Phelps was dying. I will admit, I was instantly right with the blood thirsty crowd who wanted to protest his funeral and make crude jokes of him in heaven/hell. Then a little voice from somewhere within me asked. “Do you really want to don his clothes?”
I came to know Phelps before most of you knew who the hell he was. It was a beautiful summer day and I had my two girls buckled into their car seats in my Subaru Justy. We were going to the Topeka Zoo; I had my windows rolled down (and probably the radio was blaring). Stopped at a red light, I was verbally and visually assaulted by the Phelps clan. Their noise was so loud my girls asked me what was going on. I couldn’t just roll up my windows (Duh, Subaru Justy was barely a car- automatic nothing). I was filled with rage because this kind of hate penetrated my children’s protective bubble of innocence.
So yes, I wanted to inflict grief on his family for a brief second. Then I calmed my thoughts and reminded myself I chose to live by a better doctrine; one of acceptance, optimism, and love. My girls are now grown women with quite the liberal outlook, they were not harmed nor, I’m sure, do not even remember this encounter. The comfort that I chose the better path has to be enough of a protest.
The last testament, is love for humanity. In this cynical day when the news and our social media highlight the degradation we inflict on others, might contradict the above sentence. Yet, I believe under all our materialistic trappings we still love our fellow earthly inhabitants.
A couple of weeks ago, we had the fantastic opportunity to hear Tim O’Brien speak at Butler University. He is the author of “The Things They Carried”. If you haven’t read this – put it on top of your to do list; yes, even above your marathon gorge of the latest TV series on Netflix.
Mr. O’Brien gave this speech in three story segments. He perfectly wove his past, present, and an unwritten future to a thought provoking crescendo. Having read his book years ago, I knew his backstory of being a Vietnam vet and his writing leaves no question he struggles with the reconciliation of honor, war, and the price of being human.
This has had me thinking for weeks now. Since the beginning of mankind, we have had no problems looking at each other and thinking, “I want what he has.” This want prompts some quasi-cause to formulate which allows us to kill to obtain our desires. From a good sized club to pint sized silent drones we have perfected our efforts to eliminate each other in our quest for these things. But this is all old news and isn’t what has strained my brain.
How come killing bothers us? Mr. O’Brien who is 67 years old was in Vietnam when he was a babe; only 21 years of age. He has made a living on fictional characters that live with the war experience, he teaches in Texas, and hits the lecture circuit. Still, he can’t quite get his story told without a hitch in his throat.
This week, we had another Fort Hood meltdown. We read the stats of veteran suicides and domestic abuse. How is it that war is almost a genetic marker in human kind, yet we can’t escape the consequences of killing each other, no matter how just the cause? Because love has set up shop in our hearts, our brains, and sometimes sticks in our throat. We love each other. Even if the religion, politics, personal choices, and core ideology is inherently different; we can’t help but cast fervent glances searching for the common thread we are certain is there.
Which came first? Loving or hating? To be logical, it had to be loving if just so we could create enough people to divide and conquer. Headlines tell me daily, hate is winning this war. Yet I don’t believe this. It just might be in this chaotic backdrop, we hate louder than we love. These three separate occurrences tell me it is so; that doesn’t make it right.
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Let’s talk about Love. Love tends to come uninvited and sets up house. While we are out living life, we look up and see how certain people have stolen our hearts. The real reason, I am focused on this mercury (A reminder to those who are old enough to have had access to mercury in our home thermometers. We were all cautioned not to touch, but who could resist the ghostly like properties in this element?) like emotion is three separate exposures I have had to question the validity of love for each other.
The first instance was a Facebook thread. I know some of you are damned near professional commentators – you are witty, on target, and flawless in your sarcastic delivery. That is not me. So I choose to be a silent observer.
This time though, I joined in. I protested how anyone can say “I love you, but…” This doesn’t compute in my brain. Maybe I am old-fashioned, could be I have crammed my heart with too many fairy tales, Jane Austen, and romantic comedy movies; when I love I go all in. More than likely my heart will be broken or I will be disappointed. Yet that dizzy, stomach dropping, almost drowning sensation is always worth it. I can’t say “I Love You” if I place myself in a position to judge another’s sin. How can anyone?
The second love crisis I had was when we all received the news Fred Phelps was dying. I will admit, I was instantly right with the blood thirsty crowd who wanted to protest his funeral and make crude jokes of him in heaven/hell. Then a little voice from somewhere within me asked. “Do you really want to don his clothes?”
I came to know Phelps before most of you knew who the hell he was. It was a beautiful summer day and I had my two girls buckled into their car seats in my Subaru Justy. We were going to the Topeka Zoo; I had my windows rolled down (and probably the radio was blaring). Stopped at a red light, I was verbally and visually assaulted by the Phelps clan. Their noise was so loud my girls asked me what was going on. I couldn’t just roll up my windows (Duh, Subaru Justy was barely a car- automatic nothing). I was filled with rage because this kind of hate penetrated my children’s protective bubble of innocence.
So yes, I wanted to inflict grief on his family for a brief second. Then I calmed my thoughts and reminded myself I chose to live by a better doctrine; one of acceptance, optimism, and love. My girls are now grown women with quite the liberal outlook, they were not harmed nor, I’m sure, do not even remember this encounter. The comfort that I chose the better path has to be enough of a protest.
The last testament, is love for humanity. In this cynical day when the news and our social media highlight the degradation we inflict on others, might contradict the above sentence. Yet, I believe under all our materialistic trappings we still love our fellow earthly inhabitants.
A couple of weeks ago, we had the fantastic opportunity to hear Tim O’Brien speak at Butler University. He is the author of “The Things They Carried”. If you haven’t read this – put it on top of your to do list; yes, even above your marathon gorge of the latest TV series on Netflix.
Mr. O’Brien gave this speech in three story segments. He perfectly wove his past, present, and an unwritten future to a thought provoking crescendo. Having read his book years ago, I knew his backstory of being a Vietnam vet and his writing leaves no question he struggles with the reconciliation of honor, war, and the price of being human.
This has had me thinking for weeks now. Since the beginning of mankind, we have had no problems looking at each other and thinking, “I want what he has.” This want prompts some quasi-cause to formulate which allows us to kill to obtain our desires. From a good sized club to pint sized silent drones we have perfected our efforts to eliminate each other in our quest for these things. But this is all old news and isn’t what has strained my brain.
How come killing bothers us? Mr. O’Brien who is 67 years old was in Vietnam when he was a babe; only 21 years of age. He has made a living on fictional characters that live with the war experience, he teaches in Texas, and hits the lecture circuit. Still, he can’t quite get his story told without a hitch in his throat.
This week, we had another Fort Hood meltdown. We read the stats of veteran suicides and domestic abuse. How is it that war is almost a genetic marker in human kind, yet we can’t escape the consequences of killing each other, no matter how just the cause? Because love has set up shop in our hearts, our brains, and sometimes sticks in our throat. We love each other. Even if the religion, politics, personal choices, and core ideology is inherently different; we can’t help but cast fervent glances searching for the common thread we are certain is there.
Which came first? Loving or hating? To be logical, it had to be loving if just so we could create enough people to divide and conquer. Headlines tell me daily, hate is winning this war. Yet I don’t believe this. It just might be in this chaotic backdrop, we hate louder than we love. These three separate occurrences tell me it is so; that doesn’t make it right.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How Not to Write a Review
Do you ever just get lost? As in you have a certain destination in mind and then you end up in BFE and look around and say "Hey! I think this will do." This happens to me on occasion and I must admit, I kind of like it. Plans are great but detours can be just as enjoyable if you embrace them. Today, I slipped on these pretty pair of Poetic Licence More is More shoes and set out to write a music review. Instead I think I took a trip through my musical memories. I didn't quite go where I wanted to but I think I am happy where I ended up.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was on the first song of this CD, when I knew this was my kind of music. Now most of you know, I have a great range of music I like to listen to. I really do love it all because music is a vehicle and it takes me where I need to be. Amelia White’s music though, is home.
Not the home of my past, or the home of who I once was – but the home I carry under my protective skin. The home where I shed my pretty dresses, flashy shoes, and caustic tongue. The place I go, where in my tank top, panties, and barefooted, I sip my wine and quietly murmur conversations to my cat or that one I trust.
It was in this philosophical mood I listened to her new CD “old postcard”. I smoked my cigarettes and drank my cherry 7up while she confessed her stories. The goose bumps came; I know this voice, this journey, and this veiled pain. It is an ancestral ode to herself, to me, and all the women before and after us.
I met Amelia at a Songwriter’s Circle. I will confess, it was her red cowboy boots which first piqued my interest. She had this old school country western aura as if she had seen too many smoke filled bars and endless stretches of highway. I gravitated towards her before the first chord of guitar; even before she opened her mouth to sing. Thankfully once she did, she didn’t disappoint.
Her voice, the weary wise traveling tone, brings me full circle really. The childhood days of Tammy Wynette, Dottie West, Dolly Parton, and Loretta Lynn telling me the stories of the womanhood I had yet to experience. Teenage angst camouflaged with the flamboyant silliness of Cyndi Lauper, hiding behind Pat Benatar for my strength, crying with Janis Ian (Janis is here because I bought her album at a yard sale and fell in love. The best quarter I ever spent!), reaching for musical nirvana with Barbra Streisand, and into the night with Bonnie Tyler; I reached adulthood prepared.
Melissa Etheridge allowed me passion with no shame. Lucinda Williams permitted anger and bitterness. Tori Amos’ sexuality transfixed me. Emmylou Harris crooned to me with tones of yesteryear but stories propelling me forward. I discovered Michelle Shocked, Sara Watkins, Neko Case, and Nanci Griffith.
Then life became too busy and I bumbled around in this man’s world and did my duty. I listened to the noise of what radio offered. Women were not my confidantes or inspiration – they were the competition. They were prettier, skinnier, better mothers, wives, cooks, and bread winners. They were the mirror I held up to myself to confirm I was lacking.
Fast forward when I met two beautiful women; Robin Coleman and Amy Pettinella. They, through their music promotions; Segment of Society and The Beat Lounge, have introduced me to these crazy talented women. Jane Thatcher, Martine Locke, Raining Jane, Michelle Malone, Cari Rae, Carrie Pietz, Jen Eds, Holly Reinhardt, Heather Aubrey Lloyd, Teneia Sanders, and of course Amelia White, they have enriched my life and my music library.
It might be my age but more than likely it is the place I am now in life – I need this community of bright strong women around me. We share a unique experience that only a woman understands. We speak a common language even though our baggage is varied.
I know this isn’t a review of any sorts. This somehow turned into a quasi-celebration and a journey listening to music along the way. Which I guess, if you think about it, comes down to a hat tip to Amelia White’s success on this CD. She just took me for one hell of a ride today, the equivalent of a Golden Ticket. So go buy yourself a copy and let me know where it took YOU.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Do you ever just get lost? As in you have a certain destination in mind and then you end up in BFE and look around and say "Hey! I think this will do." This happens to me on occasion and I must admit, I kind of like it. Plans are great but detours can be just as enjoyable if you embrace them. Today, I slipped on these pretty pair of Poetic Licence More is More shoes and set out to write a music review. Instead I think I took a trip through my musical memories. I didn't quite go where I wanted to but I think I am happy where I ended up.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was on the first song of this CD, when I knew this was my kind of music. Now most of you know, I have a great range of music I like to listen to. I really do love it all because music is a vehicle and it takes me where I need to be. Amelia White’s music though, is home.
Not the home of my past, or the home of who I once was – but the home I carry under my protective skin. The home where I shed my pretty dresses, flashy shoes, and caustic tongue. The place I go, where in my tank top, panties, and barefooted, I sip my wine and quietly murmur conversations to my cat or that one I trust.
It was in this philosophical mood I listened to her new CD “old postcard”. I smoked my cigarettes and drank my cherry 7up while she confessed her stories. The goose bumps came; I know this voice, this journey, and this veiled pain. It is an ancestral ode to herself, to me, and all the women before and after us.
I met Amelia at a Songwriter’s Circle. I will confess, it was her red cowboy boots which first piqued my interest. She had this old school country western aura as if she had seen too many smoke filled bars and endless stretches of highway. I gravitated towards her before the first chord of guitar; even before she opened her mouth to sing. Thankfully once she did, she didn’t disappoint.
Her voice, the weary wise traveling tone, brings me full circle really. The childhood days of Tammy Wynette, Dottie West, Dolly Parton, and Loretta Lynn telling me the stories of the womanhood I had yet to experience. Teenage angst camouflaged with the flamboyant silliness of Cyndi Lauper, hiding behind Pat Benatar for my strength, crying with Janis Ian (Janis is here because I bought her album at a yard sale and fell in love. The best quarter I ever spent!), reaching for musical nirvana with Barbra Streisand, and into the night with Bonnie Tyler; I reached adulthood prepared.
Melissa Etheridge allowed me passion with no shame. Lucinda Williams permitted anger and bitterness. Tori Amos’ sexuality transfixed me. Emmylou Harris crooned to me with tones of yesteryear but stories propelling me forward. I discovered Michelle Shocked, Sara Watkins, Neko Case, and Nanci Griffith.
Then life became too busy and I bumbled around in this man’s world and did my duty. I listened to the noise of what radio offered. Women were not my confidantes or inspiration – they were the competition. They were prettier, skinnier, better mothers, wives, cooks, and bread winners. They were the mirror I held up to myself to confirm I was lacking.
Fast forward when I met two beautiful women; Robin Coleman and Amy Pettinella. They, through their music promotions; Segment of Society and The Beat Lounge, have introduced me to these crazy talented women. Jane Thatcher, Martine Locke, Raining Jane, Michelle Malone, Cari Rae, Carrie Pietz, Jen Eds, Holly Reinhardt, Heather Aubrey Lloyd, Teneia Sanders, and of course Amelia White, they have enriched my life and my music library.
It might be my age but more than likely it is the place I am now in life – I need this community of bright strong women around me. We share a unique experience that only a woman understands. We speak a common language even though our baggage is varied.
I know this isn’t a review of any sorts. This somehow turned into a quasi-celebration and a journey listening to music along the way. Which I guess, if you think about it, comes down to a hat tip to Amelia White’s success on this CD. She just took me for one hell of a ride today, the equivalent of a Golden Ticket. So go buy yourself a copy and let me know where it took YOU.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tell Me a Story
I know I am not normal. It took many many years to embrace this and wear shoes any normal person would run from. I would have no problem stepping into these unique Giuseppe Zanotti Beaded and Fringed Suede Peep-Toe Booties, $1,366.05. I realize they aren't everybody's cup of tea, but I try really hard not to judge people for their inability to be adventurous shoe wearing freaks like me. Yesterday though, I was in a full judgement mode because of notes written into a book I was reading. I can tolerate people's differences, in fact, even if I don't agree sometimes I just stand back and admire someone's convictions. My pressure point is and always has been; ignorance. Knowledge is a never-ending quest, I get this. Yet, if in your dark age medieval all knowing world, you insist you have no need to stretch your mind, please don't speak or write in a book I may want to buy. (Oh and it should go without saying, DON'T reproduce. This world has met it's quota on douche-bags.)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I buy used books. The main reason is because I’m always broke. The reason I say publicly is so I can buy more. I’m a fast reader; a book of two hundred odd pages is only going to last me a day. So I go to the used book store and walk out with a stack. Yesterday, I wiggled my butt into the corner of the couch, covered my
lap with a blanket, and had my iced water to the left of me. (If I were male, I
would probably have an empty bottle handy too – sometimes it’s hard to pause
a book just to pee.) I dived in head first to “In the Lake of the Woods” by
Tim O’Brien. It was on page two where I was accosted by the penciled notes from the last owner.
Now I am grateful she used pencil, the sex of the ghost writer I
presumed because of the neat girly handwriting – a skill I never mastered. By
page nineteen, I wanted to meet this girl – maybe not to talk to but to size her
up; see if she was as I imagined. At page thirty-seven, I wanted to hunt her
down and tell her to stick to reality shows such as the Kardashians. Her last
notation was on page eighty-four and it left me wondering if she even finished
the book. I was torn between hoping she had – it is a masterpiece of writing –
and thinking she was too daft to be able to realize it.
I spent $4.99 for this book and I figure I doubled my money’s worth.
First and most important, I read this twisting, sentimental, and vicious tight line
of two lives. I was cheering for a happy ending and was instead, left with the
truth of an uncertain world. Yet the characters, John and Kathy are now
breathing in my mind. I know them and can even read their facial expressions
and we share their incredible life story. I’ve already have their next chapter
written; I’m not too sure if it would coincide with the author’s intentions; that
really doesn’t matter now. Once this book hit the shelves, Mr. O’Brien
relinquished these characters. Their dance is no longer his to choreograph.
This brings me back to the shady girl’s notations. She doesn’t know
how to read and I caught myself wondering if this was a class assignment for
her. Anyone who actively seeks out this author’s books knows you are in for a
prickly journey. It’s going to be uncomfortable, you are going to cry, you’re
going to fall in love in spite of flaws, and you are going to question humanity.
These pretty penciled notes scare me. As a writer myself, I wonder if
the skill of reading fiction is fading in our world of rapid sound bites. On page
two she was asking why. Do you walk into a room of people and start
interrogating? Or do you check out their clothes, posture, look into their eyes
and smell their human emotions? On page two, I am rapidly drinking words,
touching scenery, sizing up the cast. My mind and heart are opened, as if I
were on a first date.
I know I am a romantic optimist. My approach to books is the same as in life – I want to fall in love. Just like in real life, my heart demands layers of living and yet a redeeming quality which makes us all worth loving. I always have room in my head and heart for another person to enrich my life.
So where ever you are mystery girl; I hope it was youth and life
inexperience which made you so demanding and literal in your notes. Maybe
through a heart break or two, some more living and a great deal of reading; your mind and heart will open. Then not only will you enjoy a book such as this; you will know how to read and truly live.
P.S.
Many times after I publish this blog it continues in my head. So I'm popping back in to clarify. I am irritated not because this reader didn't enjoy the book, I have many friends I know would not want to read this. My issue is twofold: One, she didn't even try to be receptive and most important, I was offended for the author. Last Thursday, I heard him give a lecture. I know for certain as he wrote this he struggled to keep a truth arc going even as he spun this fictional story. I'm sure on occasion there were tears and doubts. A book is a living thing deserving of a certain amount of respect.
I know I am not normal. It took many many years to embrace this and wear shoes any normal person would run from. I would have no problem stepping into these unique Giuseppe Zanotti Beaded and Fringed Suede Peep-Toe Booties, $1,366.05. I realize they aren't everybody's cup of tea, but I try really hard not to judge people for their inability to be adventurous shoe wearing freaks like me. Yesterday though, I was in a full judgement mode because of notes written into a book I was reading. I can tolerate people's differences, in fact, even if I don't agree sometimes I just stand back and admire someone's convictions. My pressure point is and always has been; ignorance. Knowledge is a never-ending quest, I get this. Yet, if in your dark age medieval all knowing world, you insist you have no need to stretch your mind, please don't speak or write in a book I may want to buy. (Oh and it should go without saying, DON'T reproduce. This world has met it's quota on douche-bags.)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I buy used books. The main reason is because I’m always broke. The reason I say publicly is so I can buy more. I’m a fast reader; a book of two hundred odd pages is only going to last me a day. So I go to the used book store and walk out with a stack. Yesterday, I wiggled my butt into the corner of the couch, covered my
lap with a blanket, and had my iced water to the left of me. (If I were male, I
would probably have an empty bottle handy too – sometimes it’s hard to pause
a book just to pee.) I dived in head first to “In the Lake of the Woods” by
Tim O’Brien. It was on page two where I was accosted by the penciled notes from the last owner.
Now I am grateful she used pencil, the sex of the ghost writer I
presumed because of the neat girly handwriting – a skill I never mastered. By
page nineteen, I wanted to meet this girl – maybe not to talk to but to size her
up; see if she was as I imagined. At page thirty-seven, I wanted to hunt her
down and tell her to stick to reality shows such as the Kardashians. Her last
notation was on page eighty-four and it left me wondering if she even finished
the book. I was torn between hoping she had – it is a masterpiece of writing –
and thinking she was too daft to be able to realize it.
I spent $4.99 for this book and I figure I doubled my money’s worth.
First and most important, I read this twisting, sentimental, and vicious tight line
of two lives. I was cheering for a happy ending and was instead, left with the
truth of an uncertain world. Yet the characters, John and Kathy are now
breathing in my mind. I know them and can even read their facial expressions
and we share their incredible life story. I’ve already have their next chapter
written; I’m not too sure if it would coincide with the author’s intentions; that
really doesn’t matter now. Once this book hit the shelves, Mr. O’Brien
relinquished these characters. Their dance is no longer his to choreograph.
This brings me back to the shady girl’s notations. She doesn’t know
how to read and I caught myself wondering if this was a class assignment for
her. Anyone who actively seeks out this author’s books knows you are in for a
prickly journey. It’s going to be uncomfortable, you are going to cry, you’re
going to fall in love in spite of flaws, and you are going to question humanity.
These pretty penciled notes scare me. As a writer myself, I wonder if
the skill of reading fiction is fading in our world of rapid sound bites. On page
two she was asking why. Do you walk into a room of people and start
interrogating? Or do you check out their clothes, posture, look into their eyes
and smell their human emotions? On page two, I am rapidly drinking words,
touching scenery, sizing up the cast. My mind and heart are opened, as if I
were on a first date.
I know I am a romantic optimist. My approach to books is the same as in life – I want to fall in love. Just like in real life, my heart demands layers of living and yet a redeeming quality which makes us all worth loving. I always have room in my head and heart for another person to enrich my life.
So where ever you are mystery girl; I hope it was youth and life
inexperience which made you so demanding and literal in your notes. Maybe
through a heart break or two, some more living and a great deal of reading; your mind and heart will open. Then not only will you enjoy a book such as this; you will know how to read and truly live.
P.S.
Many times after I publish this blog it continues in my head. So I'm popping back in to clarify. I am irritated not because this reader didn't enjoy the book, I have many friends I know would not want to read this. My issue is twofold: One, she didn't even try to be receptive and most important, I was offended for the author. Last Thursday, I heard him give a lecture. I know for certain as he wrote this he struggled to keep a truth arc going even as he spun this fictional story. I'm sure on occasion there were tears and doubts. A book is a living thing deserving of a certain amount of respect.
Fun with Dick and Jane
Who doesn't want to sometimes put on a pair of Mary Jane shoes and a full skirt that twirls when you spin around and around? These Gabriella Rocha red patent lovelies I found at Zappo's, are just the ticket to take a journey back to yesteryear. When you are young, it doesn't matter if they see your panties. Well, not if you are the girl with the mussed up hair and scraped knees. The joys of youth are fleeting when you age. I will confess though, I have hung onto some of those little things which guarantee a smile. One such thing has always been the magic of words. As I pine for the wonder of youth though, I find myself happy to be at this stage of life. For eventually, if you win the struggle of embracing yourself, you just might bump into a person who also cherishes those simple things.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I remember these readers of my past. Dick and Jane taught us the basic words, together with their pets, Spot and Fluffy. Words were always magical to me. Throw words into a hat and you get a story. Discover a new story and you are able to journey to places you couldn’t even dream of before.
Yet, the real magic in words are the genuine meaning. Not Mr. Webster’s precise definition. Beyond the one-dimensional function of joining us under the same language roof, there is always an emotional backdrop to words.
For instance, this week’s words are “anal furunculosis”. Sounds dreadful, right? There is, in fact, a full cycle of life in these words. Here’s the full story:
Monday we lost six-year-old Miss Eva. The sassy pit-bull whose loyalty and megawatt personality made you almost, but not quite, forget she was aggressive and never completely trustworthy. Yet true love is unconditional and I did fall in love with her. The house was so still after her abrupt departure, I felt stifled with the silence of her loss. Miss Sammi her twelve-year- old sister, also was depressed.
This found us at three different animal shelters on Thursday. My heart was already broken; seeing the number of discarded animals didn’t provide a healing salve. Miss Sammi weeded out the possible candidates with either her indifference or our fear of her getting rough housed by a boisterous sibling.
Master Otto was selected in spite of his gargantuan size because he was gentle but young enough to coax her into playing. As we filled out the papers to take him home we were informed he had an anal ulcer which was treatable. We decided to take the risk.
Upon arriving home, Roger googled Master Otto’s condition and we were dismayed by the information. Skeptical of wanting ownership of this dog, who by the way lifted his leg as soon as we walked into the house, Roger still made a veterinarian appointment for him. Four days of medicine and no real change is not the outcome we had hoped for.
This is where a couple of words start weaving a tapestry. We have this huge two year old retriever who has come into the house and just wants to be a part of the family. He hasn’t had an accident since the first day. He sits, listens to commands, and is learning to play ball. There is an air of respect he pays to Miss Sammi, his elder and new sister, and I wonder if he knows she is dying of cancer. Then there is his condition, which is in an advance stage, so neglect is evident.
Throw into the mix, Roger. This complexity of a man who loves dogs better than most people. All week he has been walking around saying “anal furunculosis” because he is enamored with the word and is wanting to regret bringing home a lemon dog. How do you reconcile paying so much for a throw away dog? How is any life, even just a dog, not worth saving? Roger is a lot of things, impractical he is not.
So, in the throes of this doggie drama, I am still continuing to be impressed by this brass tacks man. On the surface, he is just a simple soul who makes a living with his hands. Which is admirable in its own right, but it is the inner ticking that keeps intriguing me. His insistence to know more, to continue to grow and expand; pssst, this is classic literature character material, folks.
Here is the corner, I just observe. I watch all the parts match up and try to stay out of the decision making. It’s not my money or dog, thus I forfeit an opinion by default. Maybe this is why instead, I chose to let a couple of words paint my world.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Who doesn't want to sometimes put on a pair of Mary Jane shoes and a full skirt that twirls when you spin around and around? These Gabriella Rocha red patent lovelies I found at Zappo's, are just the ticket to take a journey back to yesteryear. When you are young, it doesn't matter if they see your panties. Well, not if you are the girl with the mussed up hair and scraped knees. The joys of youth are fleeting when you age. I will confess though, I have hung onto some of those little things which guarantee a smile. One such thing has always been the magic of words. As I pine for the wonder of youth though, I find myself happy to be at this stage of life. For eventually, if you win the struggle of embracing yourself, you just might bump into a person who also cherishes those simple things.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I remember these readers of my past. Dick and Jane taught us the basic words, together with their pets, Spot and Fluffy. Words were always magical to me. Throw words into a hat and you get a story. Discover a new story and you are able to journey to places you couldn’t even dream of before.
Yet, the real magic in words are the genuine meaning. Not Mr. Webster’s precise definition. Beyond the one-dimensional function of joining us under the same language roof, there is always an emotional backdrop to words.
For instance, this week’s words are “anal furunculosis”. Sounds dreadful, right? There is, in fact, a full cycle of life in these words. Here’s the full story:
Monday we lost six-year-old Miss Eva. The sassy pit-bull whose loyalty and megawatt personality made you almost, but not quite, forget she was aggressive and never completely trustworthy. Yet true love is unconditional and I did fall in love with her. The house was so still after her abrupt departure, I felt stifled with the silence of her loss. Miss Sammi her twelve-year- old sister, also was depressed.
This found us at three different animal shelters on Thursday. My heart was already broken; seeing the number of discarded animals didn’t provide a healing salve. Miss Sammi weeded out the possible candidates with either her indifference or our fear of her getting rough housed by a boisterous sibling.
Master Otto was selected in spite of his gargantuan size because he was gentle but young enough to coax her into playing. As we filled out the papers to take him home we were informed he had an anal ulcer which was treatable. We decided to take the risk.
Upon arriving home, Roger googled Master Otto’s condition and we were dismayed by the information. Skeptical of wanting ownership of this dog, who by the way lifted his leg as soon as we walked into the house, Roger still made a veterinarian appointment for him. Four days of medicine and no real change is not the outcome we had hoped for.
This is where a couple of words start weaving a tapestry. We have this huge two year old retriever who has come into the house and just wants to be a part of the family. He hasn’t had an accident since the first day. He sits, listens to commands, and is learning to play ball. There is an air of respect he pays to Miss Sammi, his elder and new sister, and I wonder if he knows she is dying of cancer. Then there is his condition, which is in an advance stage, so neglect is evident.
Throw into the mix, Roger. This complexity of a man who loves dogs better than most people. All week he has been walking around saying “anal furunculosis” because he is enamored with the word and is wanting to regret bringing home a lemon dog. How do you reconcile paying so much for a throw away dog? How is any life, even just a dog, not worth saving? Roger is a lot of things, impractical he is not.
So, in the throes of this doggie drama, I am still continuing to be impressed by this brass tacks man. On the surface, he is just a simple soul who makes a living with his hands. Which is admirable in its own right, but it is the inner ticking that keeps intriguing me. His insistence to know more, to continue to grow and expand; pssst, this is classic literature character material, folks.
Here is the corner, I just observe. I watch all the parts match up and try to stay out of the decision making. It’s not my money or dog, thus I forfeit an opinion by default. Maybe this is why instead, I chose to let a couple of words paint my world.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Beauty is My Drug of Choice
I will admit I love beautiful things. How could you not fall in love with these Casadei boots? The Coke commercial almost made me cry. What a beautiful country we live in and I was so proud at that moment. Then I started reading all the negative comments and I was embarrassed, angry, and heartbroken. How can these people be born in the same country as me? How do people get this judgmental, hateful and ignorant? The United States isn't some third world country we like to judge over. Sure, things can always be better but we live in a place where we can wear down the most obstinate and pave the way for new ideas and equal opportunities for all, don't we? Let me slip into these jewels and lead the way.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't watch the Superbowl yesterday so I stumbled on this Coke commercial outrage this morning. I immediately watched the ad and was smiling in a nostalgic mood as I remembered the Coke song of my childhood; "I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing". I was too young to know if this was scandalous in it's day.
Then I began to read the comments of hate spewed and all those Facebook statuses of people who are on my friend's list. This made me immediately think of another song of my youth. The song I sang in Sunday School; "Jesus Loves The Little Children". Having left the church and my faith years ago, I will admit I still hum this tune. Especially when I'm faced with this sort of hatred, racism, and fear. Did I attend an alien church in my youth that taught the charitable works of a man who was sent to save the world of it's sin? Apparently I misinterpreted that message because today's Christians don't have the same compassion of their God.
I would like to add my two cents to how I feel about my country, this song, and hell even Coke. I have always loved Coke, but I boycotted them about a year ago for them pouring millions of dollars into blocking GMO labeling. I cannot change the world but I am a true believer of using buying power to get a company's attention. I will call a temporary truce and give them a well deserved kudos for this touching ad. I pause this morning to send them much love. Give me a beautiful image of heaven on earth and singing in harmony; yes, I realize the unlikeliness of it ever being possible but I'm a sucker for happy endings. Let's just hope it is not a marketing ploy to win over us tree hugging liberals because it would make sense we would appreciate this. If this is the case, I once again tip my hat at your clever crash commercialism. I'm still not buying your product though until you label your products.
Now let's get back to our founding fathers. They had this dream of a democratic society. The only limitation was they were just mortal men. Thus, they wrote this living document which could right the wrongs of their own personal prejudices.
Our constitution and country sometimes groans under the burden of all our personal needs of protection. Some of us object to any changes and yet some of us are impatient because it is not happening soon enough. Yet our country and constitution must continue to evolve if just to combat our fear and ignorance.
I am currently attending two classes of ancient world civilizations. I get lost in these ancient worlds; with their art, culture, and ingenuity. It saddens me when they self-destruct and are reduced to artifacts in a museum.
There are lessons to be learned from the past though. In fact, I wish I could mail out history books and force feed people PBS for a month. Do people not understand civilizations combust because of self-imposed isolation and their obsessions with their Gods at the expense of their people?
We are such a young country; just a speck of dust on the timeline of history. The struggle of our growing pains have painted our history books with blood and tears. Yet as a civilization we sometimes have moments of perfect harmony. These apexes shine so bright the whole world can see them and dream. When these immigrants walk onto our soil it is those dreams they speak of in foreign tongues not the destruction of the America we know and love.
So relax, grab a beverage, and sing a song. Enjoy life for a change and quit being afraid of every little noise you hear in the dark. The only fear that is a hundred percent legit is ignorance and if you are offended by this commercial, you probably need to go get a library card.
I will admit I love beautiful things. How could you not fall in love with these Casadei boots? The Coke commercial almost made me cry. What a beautiful country we live in and I was so proud at that moment. Then I started reading all the negative comments and I was embarrassed, angry, and heartbroken. How can these people be born in the same country as me? How do people get this judgmental, hateful and ignorant? The United States isn't some third world country we like to judge over. Sure, things can always be better but we live in a place where we can wear down the most obstinate and pave the way for new ideas and equal opportunities for all, don't we? Let me slip into these jewels and lead the way.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't watch the Superbowl yesterday so I stumbled on this Coke commercial outrage this morning. I immediately watched the ad and was smiling in a nostalgic mood as I remembered the Coke song of my childhood; "I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing". I was too young to know if this was scandalous in it's day.
Then I began to read the comments of hate spewed and all those Facebook statuses of people who are on my friend's list. This made me immediately think of another song of my youth. The song I sang in Sunday School; "Jesus Loves The Little Children". Having left the church and my faith years ago, I will admit I still hum this tune. Especially when I'm faced with this sort of hatred, racism, and fear. Did I attend an alien church in my youth that taught the charitable works of a man who was sent to save the world of it's sin? Apparently I misinterpreted that message because today's Christians don't have the same compassion of their God.
I would like to add my two cents to how I feel about my country, this song, and hell even Coke. I have always loved Coke, but I boycotted them about a year ago for them pouring millions of dollars into blocking GMO labeling. I cannot change the world but I am a true believer of using buying power to get a company's attention. I will call a temporary truce and give them a well deserved kudos for this touching ad. I pause this morning to send them much love. Give me a beautiful image of heaven on earth and singing in harmony; yes, I realize the unlikeliness of it ever being possible but I'm a sucker for happy endings. Let's just hope it is not a marketing ploy to win over us tree hugging liberals because it would make sense we would appreciate this. If this is the case, I once again tip my hat at your clever crash commercialism. I'm still not buying your product though until you label your products.
Now let's get back to our founding fathers. They had this dream of a democratic society. The only limitation was they were just mortal men. Thus, they wrote this living document which could right the wrongs of their own personal prejudices.
Our constitution and country sometimes groans under the burden of all our personal needs of protection. Some of us object to any changes and yet some of us are impatient because it is not happening soon enough. Yet our country and constitution must continue to evolve if just to combat our fear and ignorance.
I am currently attending two classes of ancient world civilizations. I get lost in these ancient worlds; with their art, culture, and ingenuity. It saddens me when they self-destruct and are reduced to artifacts in a museum.
There are lessons to be learned from the past though. In fact, I wish I could mail out history books and force feed people PBS for a month. Do people not understand civilizations combust because of self-imposed isolation and their obsessions with their Gods at the expense of their people?
We are such a young country; just a speck of dust on the timeline of history. The struggle of our growing pains have painted our history books with blood and tears. Yet as a civilization we sometimes have moments of perfect harmony. These apexes shine so bright the whole world can see them and dream. When these immigrants walk onto our soil it is those dreams they speak of in foreign tongues not the destruction of the America we know and love.
So relax, grab a beverage, and sing a song. Enjoy life for a change and quit being afraid of every little noise you hear in the dark. The only fear that is a hundred percent legit is ignorance and if you are offended by this commercial, you probably need to go get a library card.
The Dinner by Herman Koch: A Review
Who do you wear your shoes for? Why do you eat where you do? How and who do you love? "The Dinner" by Herman Koch makes you squirm while the characters answer these questions for themselves and then consider what lengths they will go to protect their answers.
While I will admit I like the good attention on the shoes, I would wear them just the same if the universe was blind. They are a small way I get to choose how I see the world that day. Theses yummy Poetic License Afternoon Tea boots are just the way to get comfy with this blustery winter we are having. I found them on musthaveShoes and they are available for $159.
Slip on these or another one of your favorites and come read this book with me. I promise you won't be sorry and I am dying to hear your take on it. Oh, there are no spoilers here, you have to find out how it turns out on your own.
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The other day I was at the library and caught myself looking for a book. I have become quite particular these days; usually I just try to read the classics I have missed when I have the time. This instance though, I was browsing in the new titles and I was beginning to think I was SOL when “The Dinner” by Herman Koch caught my eye. The jacket’s promise of a dark satire was the deciding factor.
Mr. Koch has an easy tone of voice as he sets the scene where this story told entirely around a single dinner captivated me almost instantly. There was a line of snarky comments that instantly made me sympathetic and cheering for the narrator. It wasn’t until chapter two, Paul Lohman, the main character, introduced himself in name but by then I had committed to dine with him. The writer, like all good writers, had disappeared by then and let his characters tell the story.
So I sat down at the dinner table with Paul and I too silently mocked the snotty waiter, feel in love with his beautiful and smart wife, Claire, and worried about his teenaged son Michel. I grew annoyed with his self-important brother Serge and pitied his sister-in-law Babette. Oh yes, I was committed to this relationship.
I dived deep. I smelled and tasted the food which was served in such a self-congratulatory manner you knew you deserved it and the pretentiousness served on the side. I too, judged the fellow diners with arrogance. Most of all, I fell in love with Paul’s passion, love, and fear for his family.
I gobbled the words down as if I hadn’t ate in days. It wasn’t until I was fat and content with the last bite did I feel the bitter after taste start inching back up my throat. I was experiencing emotional heartburn. Exactly who had I had I just dined with? An unflinching passionate honest man or a monster?
Herman Koch deftly wove this story with all the emotional triggers we carry around with us. What I took away from this story, besides being ecstatic about a writer capturing my attention, heart, and imagination, was how destructive the very things we admire can be. He is Dutch and this story was translated by Sam Garrett. I have made a brief search and haven’t found any more books of his that are translated to English but I am sure that will change in the near future. I was pleased to see he has been internationally recognized as a great writer and I hope Americans embrace him too so I can read more.
If you are tired of vapid fairytales, sipid romances, and the teen vampire, werewolf, and zombie phase this could be a just the ticket to restore your faith in good adult fiction. I like a book where I am writing the ending and the author sneaks up behind me and bites me in the ass. Kudos Mr. Koch, I hope we meet again soon.
On a side note, Cate Blanchett has bought the rights to this book for her directorial debut. This excites me; she is a bit quirky and being a foreigner there is a damn good chance she will fill the cast of characters with actors not just pretty faces. I hope she does justice to the book.
While I will admit I like the good attention on the shoes, I would wear them just the same if the universe was blind. They are a small way I get to choose how I see the world that day. Theses yummy Poetic License Afternoon Tea boots are just the way to get comfy with this blustery winter we are having. I found them on musthaveShoes and they are available for $159.
Slip on these or another one of your favorites and come read this book with me. I promise you won't be sorry and I am dying to hear your take on it. Oh, there are no spoilers here, you have to find out how it turns out on your own.
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The other day I was at the library and caught myself looking for a book. I have become quite particular these days; usually I just try to read the classics I have missed when I have the time. This instance though, I was browsing in the new titles and I was beginning to think I was SOL when “The Dinner” by Herman Koch caught my eye. The jacket’s promise of a dark satire was the deciding factor.
Mr. Koch has an easy tone of voice as he sets the scene where this story told entirely around a single dinner captivated me almost instantly. There was a line of snarky comments that instantly made me sympathetic and cheering for the narrator. It wasn’t until chapter two, Paul Lohman, the main character, introduced himself in name but by then I had committed to dine with him. The writer, like all good writers, had disappeared by then and let his characters tell the story.
So I sat down at the dinner table with Paul and I too silently mocked the snotty waiter, feel in love with his beautiful and smart wife, Claire, and worried about his teenaged son Michel. I grew annoyed with his self-important brother Serge and pitied his sister-in-law Babette. Oh yes, I was committed to this relationship.
I dived deep. I smelled and tasted the food which was served in such a self-congratulatory manner you knew you deserved it and the pretentiousness served on the side. I too, judged the fellow diners with arrogance. Most of all, I fell in love with Paul’s passion, love, and fear for his family.
I gobbled the words down as if I hadn’t ate in days. It wasn’t until I was fat and content with the last bite did I feel the bitter after taste start inching back up my throat. I was experiencing emotional heartburn. Exactly who had I had I just dined with? An unflinching passionate honest man or a monster?
Herman Koch deftly wove this story with all the emotional triggers we carry around with us. What I took away from this story, besides being ecstatic about a writer capturing my attention, heart, and imagination, was how destructive the very things we admire can be. He is Dutch and this story was translated by Sam Garrett. I have made a brief search and haven’t found any more books of his that are translated to English but I am sure that will change in the near future. I was pleased to see he has been internationally recognized as a great writer and I hope Americans embrace him too so I can read more.
If you are tired of vapid fairytales, sipid romances, and the teen vampire, werewolf, and zombie phase this could be a just the ticket to restore your faith in good adult fiction. I like a book where I am writing the ending and the author sneaks up behind me and bites me in the ass. Kudos Mr. Koch, I hope we meet again soon.
On a side note, Cate Blanchett has bought the rights to this book for her directorial debut. This excites me; she is a bit quirky and being a foreigner there is a damn good chance she will fill the cast of characters with actors not just pretty faces. I hope she does justice to the book.
Your Individual Rights Are Killing Me
Sometimes I expect the pain. I see shoes like this and after my initial out of breath (because I literally ran to at least pet them) panting I think to myself, these are going to hurt like hell. But pain is irrelevant when you are in love. Who wouldn't be in love with these beauties I found on the Your Next Shoes page? The designer is AZZEDINE ALAÏA and they are Ponyskin Hiking Boots. At a whooping $2,158, I will never own them but I can mentally pet them and know if I had the chance I would wear them until me feet bled. Sometimes pain though, especially internal pain causes me great resentment and distress.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------For three days I have tried to write a coherent blog about our insanity when it comes to the need for gun control. There are pages and pages of crossed out words full of accusations, sarcasm, and venomous anger and still I having nothing to post. Last night, in my frustration, I looked to find the flaw in the author.
My flaw is I don’t like to look in the mirror naked. Who really wants to see the unfiltered reality of a forty-seven year old body? With clothes, shoes, make-up, and hair styling I can make the best of what I have. Naked, all I can do is suck in the stomach and hold my chin high enough to try and alleviate the double chin.
In trying to write about this topic, I’m exposing the real ugliness – my selfish, vindictive mind. I, who wants a fair world and everyone to be loved, know I hand out judgments as harsh as anyone. The workings of my mind is as horrific as the needless deaths of these children.
The truth is I like being selfish too. I live in a country which labels my self-absorption as freedom of the individual. I have worshiped in a religion which preaches my everlasting forgiveness if I pledge my eternal loyalty. I can share my Facebook memes showing my sorrow for the victims. I can participate in the newscast vigils. I can cluck my tongue with the lady in the checkout line at the grocery store as we read the headlines. Then poof – I am absolved of all sins.
Today is anew, I’m washed clean and am allowed to be a proud full blooded American again. Encouraged to consume as a patriotic act, I can cover all guilt with pretty manufactured glitter. Especially this time of the year, I can hum tunes of the precious baby Jesus as I score big with the $9.99 sale priced item. I can wrap it up and present it to you as my offering.
Then you will smile at me and hug me because I thought of you; there is physical proof now that we are both worthy. We walk away self-satisfied as we continue this tradition of showing love. There is no thought of the third world child locked in the warehouse making this item so we can be assured this is real love. There is no thought of those parents in a daze looking at never to be opened gifts under their tree, because “WTF! We grieved yesterday” There is just this warm fuzzy feeling because we deserve it.
I know though, I am not a good person. For I have quit crying for those dead children. I look towards those parents with tired eyes and like the school yard bully I want to ask “Say Uncle yet?” I do this not with self-righteousness but pain in my heart because I have three children, two granddaughters, and a shit-ton of people I love and I know it is just a matter of time before your rights will kill my loved one. So pardon me if I practice our environment of God-given rights or shall we say selfishness and save up for my grief for my own.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------For three days I have tried to write a coherent blog about our insanity when it comes to the need for gun control. There are pages and pages of crossed out words full of accusations, sarcasm, and venomous anger and still I having nothing to post. Last night, in my frustration, I looked to find the flaw in the author.
My flaw is I don’t like to look in the mirror naked. Who really wants to see the unfiltered reality of a forty-seven year old body? With clothes, shoes, make-up, and hair styling I can make the best of what I have. Naked, all I can do is suck in the stomach and hold my chin high enough to try and alleviate the double chin.
In trying to write about this topic, I’m exposing the real ugliness – my selfish, vindictive mind. I, who wants a fair world and everyone to be loved, know I hand out judgments as harsh as anyone. The workings of my mind is as horrific as the needless deaths of these children.
The truth is I like being selfish too. I live in a country which labels my self-absorption as freedom of the individual. I have worshiped in a religion which preaches my everlasting forgiveness if I pledge my eternal loyalty. I can share my Facebook memes showing my sorrow for the victims. I can participate in the newscast vigils. I can cluck my tongue with the lady in the checkout line at the grocery store as we read the headlines. Then poof – I am absolved of all sins.
Today is anew, I’m washed clean and am allowed to be a proud full blooded American again. Encouraged to consume as a patriotic act, I can cover all guilt with pretty manufactured glitter. Especially this time of the year, I can hum tunes of the precious baby Jesus as I score big with the $9.99 sale priced item. I can wrap it up and present it to you as my offering.
Then you will smile at me and hug me because I thought of you; there is physical proof now that we are both worthy. We walk away self-satisfied as we continue this tradition of showing love. There is no thought of the third world child locked in the warehouse making this item so we can be assured this is real love. There is no thought of those parents in a daze looking at never to be opened gifts under their tree, because “WTF! We grieved yesterday” There is just this warm fuzzy feeling because we deserve it.
I know though, I am not a good person. For I have quit crying for those dead children. I look towards those parents with tired eyes and like the school yard bully I want to ask “Say Uncle yet?” I do this not with self-righteousness but pain in my heart because I have three children, two granddaughters, and a shit-ton of people I love and I know it is just a matter of time before your rights will kill my loved one. So pardon me if I practice our environment of God-given rights or shall we say selfishness and save up for my grief for my own.
Parenting 101
Today's boots are from the extremely young but oh so talented Joco Comendador. These beauties are available to order for $200. I have been watching him for a few years now and almost stalk him to see what he is going to create next. He has just graduated from college and I am almost excited as he is, as he prepares to take the fashion world by storm. Because I almost stalk him and probably because I have the mother instinct I have watched him as he has struggled with the load of homework, lack of sleep, lack of funds, and his skirmishes with his parents. Thank goodness he lives in the Philippines, or I might have had to go and give him a hug or two after reading some of his statuses. Instead of taking sides or even judging his parents; I think how outsiders must see my kids. Then I am ashamed of the things I find to nitpick about my offspring; casual acquaintances would never judge them with such harshness. Today as I imaginarily buckle my feet into these fierce shoes, I will remember, everyone I meet today, is someone’s child. Yes, it really is that simple.
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“So this morning when I woke up I had a nice little dread family in my hair. When I was brushing it out all I kept hearing was your voice, "start from the bottom or you'll rip your damn hair out!" Miss you!”
My daughter posted this on my Facebook the other day and immediately two thoughts came crashing into my head. First, and the most embarrassing thought I might add, I had a Sally Field’s Oscar speech moment. “You like me, you really like me!” Second, I questioned of all the things I told her – this is what she retained?
When you are knee deep in the trenches of parenting, you are fighting for survival not popularity. I started as most moms, propping the books on what to expect and how to prepare, on my growth of motherhood belly. As they grew outside the womb, I continued to read but with the weary pessimism of a veteran. The books didn’t have the answers because they based their knowledge on the broad strokes of humanity not the individual personalities my children were battling me to become without prejudice.
Our skirmishes were brutal as we struggled to find our places in the ancient epic battle. The sheer noise of the “raising” process was overwhelming. The yelling accusations (on both sides), slamming doors (again both parties), sobbing hysterically (need I keep repeating?), and worse still the icy silence of stubborn impasses left a lasting ringing in my ears – long after the last one left the nest. So when I get a random post of fond remembrance from them, I do a tiny dance of relief; for while they may need therapy to recover from their childhood, they do, on occasion, still love me.
Now to the hardest part; what did and should have they retained after all those years of me forcibly trying to mold them into soldiers of the army of acceptable society? How to comb their hair without getting split ends? Tell me it isn’t so….
What about all those other life lessons? Now I am going to play the Mom card here – I’m pleased by the compassionate, intelligent, but still whimsical adults I have accidentally raised. I say this with a God-like arrogance backed by the lies we have been taught ourselves.
Parenting is no longer an instinct of nature to protect and nourish our young to adulthood. Today with the volumes of scientific, statistics, and even celebrity driven superior knowledge, it has turned into a full contact sport. As we scramble to push our children to the apex of success, partly because their failure is a direct correlation of our inefficiencies and partly because we love the little buggers, we forget this is all societal produced propaganda. We, especially mothers – rightfully so because we incubated these hatch-lings in our own bodies, fall into the fallacy that we are raising better versions of ourselves. When in all actuality, we are just hosting these alien life forms who just happen to share some of our genetic markers. Oh we can wheedle, yell, cry, and guilt-manipulate all we want for the greater good. Yet our children, from the moment of conception are wired to be themselves. Sure they may succumb to family peer pressure and wear the suit of conformity that you have laid out for them on their beds for years. Until they are allowed to be dress themselves there will never be peace in the familial household.
My children are all gone, in fact, now there are grandchildren. This time though, I get to stand from afar and just occasionally throw a nugget of advice. Most times I convince myself to keep my mouth shut though. For even now, I almost get caught up in the self-absorbed competition of whose child is more “successful” and then I scold myself into a shameful silence. I want to tell my children it is all a lie, but then I know they would have to break their hold on societal conformity and this is such a hard step for young adults to take.
Parenting should only consist of the following three things. To provide nourishment, safety, and unconditional love; all else is just the trappings of a nosy ass society whose only participation is when it all goes wrong. Whenever I get that tingle of disappointment as my young adult children navigate their lives, I think of Jeffrey Dahmer’s father. Yes, this is an extreme case example but I think it is the finest example I know of parenting. You do the best you can and never stop loving them. That is the only universal parenting requirement.
Therefore, when my silly adult-child wakes up with dreads and immediately thinks of her Mom while attempting to brush them out, I will not allow the pangs of inadequacies engulf this mother/child moment. I will instead join her as she laughs at the frivolities of this life. As she sets her sights on conquering the “real” stuff, I will be her loudest cheerleader. For this isn't about us really, we are just two inconsequential specks in the world. It is about the workings of the machinery of life, which if you aren't careful will take off a limb, or worse, eat up your heart. With the stakes this high, it is okay to worry about operating with a head full of shiny, healthy hair.
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“So this morning when I woke up I had a nice little dread family in my hair. When I was brushing it out all I kept hearing was your voice, "start from the bottom or you'll rip your damn hair out!" Miss you!”
My daughter posted this on my Facebook the other day and immediately two thoughts came crashing into my head. First, and the most embarrassing thought I might add, I had a Sally Field’s Oscar speech moment. “You like me, you really like me!” Second, I questioned of all the things I told her – this is what she retained?
When you are knee deep in the trenches of parenting, you are fighting for survival not popularity. I started as most moms, propping the books on what to expect and how to prepare, on my growth of motherhood belly. As they grew outside the womb, I continued to read but with the weary pessimism of a veteran. The books didn’t have the answers because they based their knowledge on the broad strokes of humanity not the individual personalities my children were battling me to become without prejudice.
Our skirmishes were brutal as we struggled to find our places in the ancient epic battle. The sheer noise of the “raising” process was overwhelming. The yelling accusations (on both sides), slamming doors (again both parties), sobbing hysterically (need I keep repeating?), and worse still the icy silence of stubborn impasses left a lasting ringing in my ears – long after the last one left the nest. So when I get a random post of fond remembrance from them, I do a tiny dance of relief; for while they may need therapy to recover from their childhood, they do, on occasion, still love me.
Now to the hardest part; what did and should have they retained after all those years of me forcibly trying to mold them into soldiers of the army of acceptable society? How to comb their hair without getting split ends? Tell me it isn’t so….
What about all those other life lessons? Now I am going to play the Mom card here – I’m pleased by the compassionate, intelligent, but still whimsical adults I have accidentally raised. I say this with a God-like arrogance backed by the lies we have been taught ourselves.
Parenting is no longer an instinct of nature to protect and nourish our young to adulthood. Today with the volumes of scientific, statistics, and even celebrity driven superior knowledge, it has turned into a full contact sport. As we scramble to push our children to the apex of success, partly because their failure is a direct correlation of our inefficiencies and partly because we love the little buggers, we forget this is all societal produced propaganda. We, especially mothers – rightfully so because we incubated these hatch-lings in our own bodies, fall into the fallacy that we are raising better versions of ourselves. When in all actuality, we are just hosting these alien life forms who just happen to share some of our genetic markers. Oh we can wheedle, yell, cry, and guilt-manipulate all we want for the greater good. Yet our children, from the moment of conception are wired to be themselves. Sure they may succumb to family peer pressure and wear the suit of conformity that you have laid out for them on their beds for years. Until they are allowed to be dress themselves there will never be peace in the familial household.
My children are all gone, in fact, now there are grandchildren. This time though, I get to stand from afar and just occasionally throw a nugget of advice. Most times I convince myself to keep my mouth shut though. For even now, I almost get caught up in the self-absorbed competition of whose child is more “successful” and then I scold myself into a shameful silence. I want to tell my children it is all a lie, but then I know they would have to break their hold on societal conformity and this is such a hard step for young adults to take.
Parenting should only consist of the following three things. To provide nourishment, safety, and unconditional love; all else is just the trappings of a nosy ass society whose only participation is when it all goes wrong. Whenever I get that tingle of disappointment as my young adult children navigate their lives, I think of Jeffrey Dahmer’s father. Yes, this is an extreme case example but I think it is the finest example I know of parenting. You do the best you can and never stop loving them. That is the only universal parenting requirement.
Therefore, when my silly adult-child wakes up with dreads and immediately thinks of her Mom while attempting to brush them out, I will not allow the pangs of inadequacies engulf this mother/child moment. I will instead join her as she laughs at the frivolities of this life. As she sets her sights on conquering the “real” stuff, I will be her loudest cheerleader. For this isn't about us really, we are just two inconsequential specks in the world. It is about the workings of the machinery of life, which if you aren't careful will take off a limb, or worse, eat up your heart. With the stakes this high, it is okay to worry about operating with a head full of shiny, healthy hair.
State Fair Debacle
There has to be some thought process behind getting dressed to attend the fair. Two years in a row, I have struck out. Last year I wore wedges because I was in a newish relationship and he had yet to see me in slob mode. I never let on for the three hours we walked that I was losing the back of my heels. My actual foot heels, not the shoes. This year the same charming man took me back to the fair. He is quite accustomed to my bra-less shapeless working in the yard wear. We hadn't been out in a while though, so I wanted to dress up a bit. I wore a short short dress that is adorable with a built in bra. Unfortunately my boobs kept slipping down and I spent half the day hiding behind Roger as I put my hand down my front and lifted the girls back into place. For shoes, I picked a sensible pair of flats until I discovered half way through the day they were eating a 1/4" off my pinkie toe. The rant below will tell you why I don't plan on attending the fair next year; but if I do I am throwing caution to the wind and slipping into a pair like these Christian Louboutin's Blossom Pumps $228. If my feet are going to bleed, they are going to be looking good while they do it.
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I know this is my jaded age talking today, but last week’s fair experience is still sitting in my stomach like a hard rock. The state fair, where a person hopes to catch the wholesome glance of Laura Ingalls’ way of life and instead is inundated with an eyeful of a bloated painted whore, about broke my heart. Last year we swore we would not go again. For the expense, it would have been cheaper to visit Wal-Mart. Like perceptive shoppers though, we printed off the two dollar admission tickets courtesy of Turkey Hill. Immediately we were regretting the choice.
Growing up in rural Nebraska, I have a great fondness for livestock, tractors, and history based exhibits. I found more things that annoyed me than made me homesick though. The garish display of cheap commercialism was anything but a tribute to a country lifestyle.
The first thing I must touch on is the food because the smell of grease hits you full face almost as soon as you walk through the admittance gates. As a child, I looked forward to the melt-on-your-tongue sweet of cotton candy and wore more than my share of powdered sugar from funnel cakes. This was a once a year treat though not something you could buy from the dollar store. With our society’s current obsession with obesity it would be nice to see, the food area filled with actual farmer’s market items.
Another thing that annoyed me was the endless tractors hauling the shuttles up and down the fair area. You are attending the fair not speed dating. Plan the day; enjoy the walk, sun, and the fantastic array of flowers and trees planted on the fairgrounds. Exercise does not have to be in a gym to be effective. In fact, if it is incorporated into everyday life, I think it is much more effective and fun.
When did people lose their manners? In our world of self-centered reality entertainment heroes, I guess it is easier to mimic bad behavior than to say “excuse me” and to be aware who you are trampling, blocking from walking by, or how loud you are talking on the phone. People no longer know how to act in groups. We were there on a Tuesday afternoon so the crowd was not so immense for the personal space bubble violations. It is the State Fair not five o’clock rush hour.
There were great exhibits. The food pavilion highlights local food not items made in China as was the enormous tent city of camouflage. - A quick side note here. If you want to drape yourself in camo, enlist. I am so tired of the “USA” chanting crowd waving their made in Taiwan stars and stripes. No one ever came out worse for wear by truly serving our country. - Pioneer Village is fun with the displays of old farming and homesteading equipment. The bluegrass music is a great touch also. Though I found myself laughing at some of the women reenactors’ choice of clothes. I grew up with real farming women and they did not wear white dresses and hats with feathers in them. It was not practical financially or environmentally. These women getups resembled soiled doves not the salt of the earth. The gardening area rivaled the goats and cows this year as my favorite. Besides their great display of platform bed gardening, they had an ongoing scavenger hunt where they awarded clever seed packages as in the “pizza packet” for prizes.
My humble suggestions for next year’s fair planning committee would be a step back towards the agriculture environment. Instead of Jason Aldean music, blaring maybe there should be more interaction with the folks who feed us. All vendors and items should be a product of their world. We are fast losing these people who make this a living even as our population continues to grow. Who is going to feed them if not farmer’s? We live in a world where there is bad food and products on every corner. How about emphasizing what a farmer works 365 days to provide? Our society is in need of a re-introduction of fresh produce and farm raised meat.
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I know this is my jaded age talking today, but last week’s fair experience is still sitting in my stomach like a hard rock. The state fair, where a person hopes to catch the wholesome glance of Laura Ingalls’ way of life and instead is inundated with an eyeful of a bloated painted whore, about broke my heart. Last year we swore we would not go again. For the expense, it would have been cheaper to visit Wal-Mart. Like perceptive shoppers though, we printed off the two dollar admission tickets courtesy of Turkey Hill. Immediately we were regretting the choice.
Growing up in rural Nebraska, I have a great fondness for livestock, tractors, and history based exhibits. I found more things that annoyed me than made me homesick though. The garish display of cheap commercialism was anything but a tribute to a country lifestyle.
The first thing I must touch on is the food because the smell of grease hits you full face almost as soon as you walk through the admittance gates. As a child, I looked forward to the melt-on-your-tongue sweet of cotton candy and wore more than my share of powdered sugar from funnel cakes. This was a once a year treat though not something you could buy from the dollar store. With our society’s current obsession with obesity it would be nice to see, the food area filled with actual farmer’s market items.
Another thing that annoyed me was the endless tractors hauling the shuttles up and down the fair area. You are attending the fair not speed dating. Plan the day; enjoy the walk, sun, and the fantastic array of flowers and trees planted on the fairgrounds. Exercise does not have to be in a gym to be effective. In fact, if it is incorporated into everyday life, I think it is much more effective and fun.
When did people lose their manners? In our world of self-centered reality entertainment heroes, I guess it is easier to mimic bad behavior than to say “excuse me” and to be aware who you are trampling, blocking from walking by, or how loud you are talking on the phone. People no longer know how to act in groups. We were there on a Tuesday afternoon so the crowd was not so immense for the personal space bubble violations. It is the State Fair not five o’clock rush hour.
There were great exhibits. The food pavilion highlights local food not items made in China as was the enormous tent city of camouflage. - A quick side note here. If you want to drape yourself in camo, enlist. I am so tired of the “USA” chanting crowd waving their made in Taiwan stars and stripes. No one ever came out worse for wear by truly serving our country. - Pioneer Village is fun with the displays of old farming and homesteading equipment. The bluegrass music is a great touch also. Though I found myself laughing at some of the women reenactors’ choice of clothes. I grew up with real farming women and they did not wear white dresses and hats with feathers in them. It was not practical financially or environmentally. These women getups resembled soiled doves not the salt of the earth. The gardening area rivaled the goats and cows this year as my favorite. Besides their great display of platform bed gardening, they had an ongoing scavenger hunt where they awarded clever seed packages as in the “pizza packet” for prizes.
My humble suggestions for next year’s fair planning committee would be a step back towards the agriculture environment. Instead of Jason Aldean music, blaring maybe there should be more interaction with the folks who feed us. All vendors and items should be a product of their world. We are fast losing these people who make this a living even as our population continues to grow. Who is going to feed them if not farmer’s? We live in a world where there is bad food and products on every corner. How about emphasizing what a farmer works 365 days to provide? Our society is in need of a re-introduction of fresh produce and farm raised meat.
Hangdog Hearts - Under The Floorboards
Reviewing a CD to me is like wearing a pair of high heels with peep toes, like these beauties "Prudence" by Joco Commendador. I know it feels damn good to strut in these but there is going to be a great deal of discomfort. Still I can never resist either adventure.
I have had this new album for months. I listened to it immediately upon it hitting my email. I have talked to Austin Stirling several times since then. There are notes scribbled about the artist, songs, and album in every one of my writing pads. Yet I hesitated to bring it all together in a finished product.
Why the hesitation? I am not a music expert, by any means. I know not a thing about playing, technical terms, or even what the masses think is a hit. What I AM is a music lover who gets goose bumps when a song strikes a chord in my heart.
I am also not a music critic. If I have agreed to review a CD, it is because I love it. Therefore, I always am caught up with being able to interpret what I am getting from a song and what the artist had in mind. It is cringe worthy; the thought of misrepresenting an artist I admire.
I do understand the nature of music though. Once the first note escapes into the air it becomes public domain. Every individual gathers the musical information and uses their personal experiences as we add the new addition to the soundtrack of our lives.
Thus, I have hoarded this gem of a CD long enough. I have hammered out what I have perceived as its “truth”. I recommend you getting your own copy; available at CD Baby and see what demons Austin can call out of your soul.
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The Hangdog Hearts is this delightful dark and passionate creation by Austin Stirling. This is timeless “roots” music that is so earthy you can almost smell the ripened decay. While the music is familiar and comfortable it is the lyrics and his voice which imprint Austin’s individuality on his musical offering.
I interviewed him over a year ago after being stunned by a performance. I went to the Austin Stirling: Mouth of the Cave (Good Ol' Fashioned Gentleman's Music) release party and enjoyed it immensely. The only criticism would be the CD didn't come close to his live performances. Austin being the perfectionist he is, knew he needed a better platform. “Under The Floorboards” delivers with a dirtier, rawer representation of what it is like to see Austin perform live.
The lyrics are fierce; spewing blood and guts while conjuring demons who walk among us. The drum, banjo, and various other instruments are the heartbeat. Austin’s voice is a world-weary town crier who testifies of the darkness he has witnessed.
Listening to the album, I struggled with how to share with others the incredible journey one takes while listening to this. I finally decided on a short description on what captivated me on each song. As I said previously, this is my personal experience.
Intro: I love this sit up and take notice narration to prepare me for the album. It is a prophetic warning this ride is about to get bumpy. Hang on and whatever you do, keep all limbs inside the vehicle. There is some evil shit out there.
Oil In the Pan: The almost metallic Banjo sound of this song plays center stage in this dark destruction. The background impish sounding vocals enhance the deprived cannibalistic lyrics.
Terra Haute: This is a harsh Dear John letter to a town that has lost its soul. Never one of my favorites due to the harshness, nonetheless it has grown on me. There is something about the hopelessness of being stuck in a toxic place where your days of escaping are numbered. This song is quite lyrical; it is only in the words you get the “Hangdog Hearts” bite.
The Ground is Shakin‘: The simplistic organic sound of Austin’s music is what won me over the first time I heard him. On this song, it is the rhythm of wooden blocks clapping which encourage the listener to trudge through a horrific apocalyptic scene with just the faith of a higher power as protection. As always, the scene is grim, but I think this is the closest to a true love song I have ever heard from him.
A Wretch Like Me: Austin takes one of the most well-known and beloved hymns, Amazing Grace, stripping it to its bare bones. The final product is a more honest tribute to the flawed human qualities than the original.
Old Haunts: There is a depth of introspection to this song. It is a great depiction of the way Austin confronts life, charging full speed, questioning the whys of the truth he has always been told.
Still Is Gone: “I will murder this pain”. The juxtaposition of Austin’s lyrics have always delighted me. There is a layering of biblical, old world folklore, and harsh reality mixed to make this timeless song about the condition of man.
The Gypsy Song: I think Austin tinkers perpetually. He is not afraid to push himself or his music. This is an interesting minstrel ride of pauses, changes of speed, and sound.
Dark Strutter: This should be Austin's trademark song. The feel of this song hearkens back to the birth of the crossroads of the blues. The ultimate devil tale highlights his picturesque songwriting skills.
Drag The River: This has always been my favorite song of Austin’s. When I received the new CD and heard how Austin re-recorded this, I literally had chills. His raspy whisper, sound effects, and haunting verse had me imagining him locked in a windowless room with the ghost of Edgar Allen Poe. Was Austin writing to escape? Or was he writing this for his soul? I have always had the impression when I listen to him; it is a bit of both.
The White Trees: “I’ll see what you ate when I open up your throat”. Austin always digs into those uncomfortable places and uses stark images to grab the listeners’ attention. Once he has you, all the world’s paradoxes are exposed and you are torn between pitying the victims and mocking their weakness and eternal evilness. “We are out of fuel. We beg for oil to burn down the school.”
Austin brings this deep dark intellectualism to his musical game. It is a tightrope he walks using the words and music as a weapon. One misstep and he becomes a cheesy Sci-Fi script. Instead, his music seduces you. Without sounding manufactured, his howls, grunts, and growls enforces his passion. Holding the spoon to your mouth, his words you swallow unwittingly. They sit deep in your belly and fester until you feel the darkness descend. Do you pray, flee, or fight? I think I will let him deliver the punch line. “Not every plight is a curse.”
I have had this new album for months. I listened to it immediately upon it hitting my email. I have talked to Austin Stirling several times since then. There are notes scribbled about the artist, songs, and album in every one of my writing pads. Yet I hesitated to bring it all together in a finished product.
Why the hesitation? I am not a music expert, by any means. I know not a thing about playing, technical terms, or even what the masses think is a hit. What I AM is a music lover who gets goose bumps when a song strikes a chord in my heart.
I am also not a music critic. If I have agreed to review a CD, it is because I love it. Therefore, I always am caught up with being able to interpret what I am getting from a song and what the artist had in mind. It is cringe worthy; the thought of misrepresenting an artist I admire.
I do understand the nature of music though. Once the first note escapes into the air it becomes public domain. Every individual gathers the musical information and uses their personal experiences as we add the new addition to the soundtrack of our lives.
Thus, I have hoarded this gem of a CD long enough. I have hammered out what I have perceived as its “truth”. I recommend you getting your own copy; available at CD Baby and see what demons Austin can call out of your soul.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Hangdog Hearts is this delightful dark and passionate creation by Austin Stirling. This is timeless “roots” music that is so earthy you can almost smell the ripened decay. While the music is familiar and comfortable it is the lyrics and his voice which imprint Austin’s individuality on his musical offering.
I interviewed him over a year ago after being stunned by a performance. I went to the Austin Stirling: Mouth of the Cave (Good Ol' Fashioned Gentleman's Music) release party and enjoyed it immensely. The only criticism would be the CD didn't come close to his live performances. Austin being the perfectionist he is, knew he needed a better platform. “Under The Floorboards” delivers with a dirtier, rawer representation of what it is like to see Austin perform live.
The lyrics are fierce; spewing blood and guts while conjuring demons who walk among us. The drum, banjo, and various other instruments are the heartbeat. Austin’s voice is a world-weary town crier who testifies of the darkness he has witnessed.
Listening to the album, I struggled with how to share with others the incredible journey one takes while listening to this. I finally decided on a short description on what captivated me on each song. As I said previously, this is my personal experience.
Intro: I love this sit up and take notice narration to prepare me for the album. It is a prophetic warning this ride is about to get bumpy. Hang on and whatever you do, keep all limbs inside the vehicle. There is some evil shit out there.
Oil In the Pan: The almost metallic Banjo sound of this song plays center stage in this dark destruction. The background impish sounding vocals enhance the deprived cannibalistic lyrics.
Terra Haute: This is a harsh Dear John letter to a town that has lost its soul. Never one of my favorites due to the harshness, nonetheless it has grown on me. There is something about the hopelessness of being stuck in a toxic place where your days of escaping are numbered. This song is quite lyrical; it is only in the words you get the “Hangdog Hearts” bite.
The Ground is Shakin‘: The simplistic organic sound of Austin’s music is what won me over the first time I heard him. On this song, it is the rhythm of wooden blocks clapping which encourage the listener to trudge through a horrific apocalyptic scene with just the faith of a higher power as protection. As always, the scene is grim, but I think this is the closest to a true love song I have ever heard from him.
A Wretch Like Me: Austin takes one of the most well-known and beloved hymns, Amazing Grace, stripping it to its bare bones. The final product is a more honest tribute to the flawed human qualities than the original.
Old Haunts: There is a depth of introspection to this song. It is a great depiction of the way Austin confronts life, charging full speed, questioning the whys of the truth he has always been told.
Still Is Gone: “I will murder this pain”. The juxtaposition of Austin’s lyrics have always delighted me. There is a layering of biblical, old world folklore, and harsh reality mixed to make this timeless song about the condition of man.
The Gypsy Song: I think Austin tinkers perpetually. He is not afraid to push himself or his music. This is an interesting minstrel ride of pauses, changes of speed, and sound.
Dark Strutter: This should be Austin's trademark song. The feel of this song hearkens back to the birth of the crossroads of the blues. The ultimate devil tale highlights his picturesque songwriting skills.
Drag The River: This has always been my favorite song of Austin’s. When I received the new CD and heard how Austin re-recorded this, I literally had chills. His raspy whisper, sound effects, and haunting verse had me imagining him locked in a windowless room with the ghost of Edgar Allen Poe. Was Austin writing to escape? Or was he writing this for his soul? I have always had the impression when I listen to him; it is a bit of both.
The White Trees: “I’ll see what you ate when I open up your throat”. Austin always digs into those uncomfortable places and uses stark images to grab the listeners’ attention. Once he has you, all the world’s paradoxes are exposed and you are torn between pitying the victims and mocking their weakness and eternal evilness. “We are out of fuel. We beg for oil to burn down the school.”
Austin brings this deep dark intellectualism to his musical game. It is a tightrope he walks using the words and music as a weapon. One misstep and he becomes a cheesy Sci-Fi script. Instead, his music seduces you. Without sounding manufactured, his howls, grunts, and growls enforces his passion. Holding the spoon to your mouth, his words you swallow unwittingly. They sit deep in your belly and fester until you feel the darkness descend. Do you pray, flee, or fight? I think I will let him deliver the punch line. “Not every plight is a curse.”