Riders on the Storm

What always blew me away about the midwest was the sky. There’s just so damned MUCH of it there or so it seemed. Maybe it’s the lack of leggy, supermodel-ish trees, the dearth of mountains, the endless rolling fields of wheat?

When I was 11 and 12 we lived in Bloomington, Indiana on the seventh floor of a huge 11 story apartment complex -- Tulip Tree House on the campus of Indiana University. At that time, 1969, it was one of the tallest buildings around. Windows ran waist height to the ceiling and the full length of each apartment. I would stand goggling at the sky for hours especially when storms approached. I’d never before seen a bank of storm clouds coming at me like a express Red Line Train barreling through South Station.

I was used to the hilly landscapes of where we’d lived up until then -- the Berkshires of New England, the Alleghenies of Western Pennsylvania. Storms creep in softly, slowly here -- they don’t come running at you like some steroidally raging body builder.

I believe, while we lived in Bloomington, there was just one big tornado alert. We all knew the drill -- open all the windows and hallway doors, get away from the windows and wait. Not sure this was the official drill but that’s what we did -- that is, after watching the black clouds rolling towards us and  Daddy commanded us to get to the bathrooms for tub cowering time.

After this we moved back to Western Pennsylvania where storms were all polite, passive and even friendly.


It wasn't until years later -- my first year with the show -- that another baby tornado made my acquaintance. We were playing Ellsworth, Kansas, a town whose topography made anthills look alpine ski worthy. I was in my joint, the Nickel Slide -- slide a nickel to land in a prize diamond -- when the storm made its presence known with authority. Now, you must recall that in the mid to late ‘70s, most of the midway games were made of wood and canvas -- stick joints. In a big, fat windstorm we were larger marks than the tin can ‘mobile’ homes.

It was the start of the evening, still light out though dimming fast due to the speeding storm motorcade. The coming storm had us all out of our joints --  watching, gazing at our approaching madam of misfortune, who was suggesting worse. Mesmerized and afraid, at first, I quickly began affecting a bullshit teen ‘bored now, seen it all before’ attitude and hopped back in the joint only to be clocked on the noggin by a flying bit of timber.

I was knocked out, put into someone’s trailer (oh good -- SO much safer in a tin can on wheels!) until I came to and the storm passed. And it did. The tornado veered off, we were saved and I actually had a customer or 3 that night. Luck -- we had cubic tons of it.

I learned to respect weather though I’ve not become one of those severe weather fanatics. You know, the kind who follow all the severe weather sites and channels with an intensity, usually reserved for frat boys at their very first visit to The Lumberyard in Des Moines. We all know someone who salivates at the thought of a confrontation with 'real life' of the weather variety.

Riders on the Storm -- The Doors

Friday Cat Blogging!

Gaston

Obviously you can see the similarities!

Wild Ride

This is the first of six chapters --  a story by my friend Brian Luciano. 

I walked into my house with unbelievable pain in my lower back and the realization that Dan was dead -- never coming back to the house. The police had finished questioning me hours earlier and released me.

There were phone calls to Dan's family and explanations necessary, of course. All of which I was not prepared to do at the time.  I called my day program to let them know what had occurred and that I would not be attending that day, then I sat on a recliner and drifted off to a much needed sleep. 

I awoke in a swirl of commotion  -- ambulances, police cars and my roommate doing what she could to control the situation, which was well out of her scope. I walked upstairs and blurted that my back hurt, and was instantly on a stretcher. I'd thought I pulled some muscles dragging Dan to the tub and returning him to the bed after his overdose. I was taken in for observation where later I found that my organs were failing due to an overdose as well. By 'getting rid of the evidence' the only way I knew how, I'd ingested a lethal dose myself.

I was in so much pain that they prescribed morphine every two hours for what went on for days and I made this observation: drug overdose sometimes seems like a peaceful and easy way out but it can be more painful than death itself. I've never been in such a state of pain that doctors, knowing I suffered from an addiction to heroin, would prescribe morphine and, when asked, no one could say if I would live or die.  It was touch and go for about a week and still I played the game.

I was not suicidal by psychiatric standards and was improved to the point of release. I was not released to an institution or a detox but was put in a cab and sent home. Since I had money and no desire to go home, I was dropped off at the local tavern, where in agony, I squeezed onto a bar stool, ordered a beer and a shot and drank until the distance home seemed acceptable even with the pain.
I returned to my house, and stood in the space where Dan and I had so many escapades and was filled with a sudden anger with myself, which was followed by nothing, nothing but the knowledge that I couldn't stay in a world of Dan's possessions knowing they were always going to be a strict reminder to me of what had passed -- knowing I could no longer enjoy what average people enjoyed. I deserved far less, and was going to escape to a world where I received or gave nothing to anyone and would protect the world from a toxic demon -- AKA me.

I packed two bags of my belongings and left the rest never to return to the scene of the best and the worst times of my life. In my twisted way of judgement there weren't any other options.


Tune in this coming Sunday for chapter two of the Wild Ride ________________________________________________________
Brian is a bohemian writer with a fab-ola warped sense of humor and sarcasm, (provided at no additional charge). He married a great guy and moved out of the States to Australia.

Out of the Blue

I never assume anyone ‘speaks’ my new language, American Sign Language. I never figure that most folks know how to finger spell -- because they don’t.

 Still, as I clock more days, months years in the no-hear zone, even with my roots well within reality, I find myself fully expecting most folks to know even just a wee bit.

Seriously, I’ve come THIS close (picture 2 laminated sheets of paper OR anyone, of any gender, allowed to stand as close to Penélope Cruz as they wanted -- how close would that be) when unable to lipread one of the Powers That Be at work to telling, (not asking), them to sign it. I mean...sheesh...doesn’t everybody sign?! Ah, not so much.

Lip reading is one of those Jedi arts that most of us painfully human sorts can’t fully, 100% totally master -- not in this or the next 12 lifetimes anyway. Normally I’ll say/ask ‘I’m not catching that third word/that last phrase, can you use other words/say it differently?’

Get a partner and try this out (no, really. I’ll wait...........................................)

OK, ready?

Say ‘sheep’ without using your voice and DON’T tell them the word before you say it. Did your friend get it? No? Try ‘lamb.’ Any better? OK how ‘bout ‘vermin’ -- now say ‘vomit.’ ‘Bark’ versus ‘growl?’ ‘Extraordinary’ versus ‘extortion? You see where I’m going, si? A lot of words look way too similar to call.’ Try ‘nachos’ as opposed to ‘crudités.’ OK, bad example (we'll take 'nachos' on most any day)

Meanwhile back at work, if I still can’t get it, I hand over pen and paper and ask them to write it down, bitte. This all seems to work fairly well.

Today though -- a bit of surprise.

A delivery guy stops by my desk on his way to the loading dock. This big, burly mountain of a man, dressed in an oil stained adult onsie (OK, overalls) comes up and says something to me. I was busy as hell, didn’t catch what he was after -- told him I was deaf, asked him to write his need down and I’d be happy to assist (‘happy’ -- my default state or so it seems).

Did he take the pad and pen? NO, meine freunde, he began signing his request to me!!! Easy as you please, the man switched from spoken English to ASL. You wanna know how accustomed I am to that? NOT AT ALL! 

Pretty sure I’d have been less stunned had he broken out in a chorus, plus dancing, of Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend.

Naturally, I asked him where he learned sign (community college) and why (girlfriend’s sister is deaf). What a nice, NICE guy he was!

Damn, that small connection today was better than getting a surprise bouquet of bright, warm daisies.

Unexpected and just fabulous.

The Monday Kvetch Fest

I woke with a colossal headache — a headache which began it’s electric and vivacious life yesterday. You know what I attribute it’s longevity to? Nope, not my nasty Autumn sinuses and NOT my tumor ridden brain. I blame the server at work. My connection could NOT have been slower, buggier not even if it had taken a Quaalude or three with a Maui Wowie chaser. It did everything but tell me to piss off and leave it be.

I want what my computer was taking today. It was far more chilled out than I.

Of course, it could very well be that, like me, the computer is going through menopause — it is an older babe after all. Maybe it was having hot flashes (I prefer to think of mine as ‘personal sauna moments’), radical mood swings (what’s THAT supposed to mean?!) or was just feeling deeply anxious (no dear, the Macs are NOT making fun of you. You’re OK. Really. Just breathe deep and try to relax.). I need to be more caring and considerate of the old dear. Oh yes, truly!

Another thing, I only mention it but when, goddammit WHEN did the comics get so tiny? I actually keep a magnifying glass near the newspaper reading chair (oh c’mon, the chair was insecure — a title makes it feel better). Honestly, even the Sunday comics (the only reason we still get The Globe) has 6 strips wedged into one page. And the strips, besides Doonesbury, Rhymes with Orange and Bizarro that is, make the Readers Digest Laugh Lines look like gripping and hilarious social commentary in comparison.

You know, it's days like today, when I'm engaging in hand to pixel combat all goddamned day that I need a nice, big comics page.

And a martini. Sapphire, extra wicked dry, straight up with olives, thanks.

The Day the Music Died

I went down to the sacred store
Where I'd heard the music years before
But the man there said the music wouldn't play
And in the streets the children screamed
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken
And the three men I admire most-
the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost-
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died

It was the year I turned 46 that my hearing took the last train for the coast. It didn’t cash out completely, all at once but, when I woke up that otherwise beautiful early Spring morning everything was severely muffled. It was as though I was hearing through an MSA Sound Blocker™ 26. Bob, Jen and Oni sounded like the trombone-y adults on the old Charlie Brown cartoons and I could barely hear my own voice.

Though I’d known since I was 22 that this day would come, and thought I’d prepared for it too, I was scared and panicked with a side order of freaked out. I had Bob call Dr. McKenna, the member of my Brain Pit Crew charged with minding my hearing levels. I went in and he prescribed prednisone, a steroid to take down the tumor's swelling and restore my hearing to previous levels. We’d done this twice before and it worked. Turns out, in this case, third time was NOT a charm. The hearing didn’t come back up and, over the following year, continued to fade.

To prepare for this day I’d listened again, again and then 100 more times, to the music I never wanted to forget. I figured that, If I heard it enough times, my brain would remember it. I listened to Franz Liszt’s piano transcription of Der Totentanz, Aaron Copeland’s Fanfare for the Common Man, Steve Reich: Different Trains/Electric Counterpoint, Kronos Quartet Plays Terry Riley: Salome Dances for Peace and their Black Angels, Jeff Beck Guitar Workshop and Truth (Shapes of Things and Beck’s Bolero in particular off that album), Talking Heads (specifically the concert album Stop Making Sense) and Paul Simon.

My brain HAS remembered quite a bit of these plus so much more. Nine years later, I still occasionally wake up with tunes buzzing through my head. It's not the same as how y'all hear them but hey, I'll take what I can get. I can’t bring Kronos Quartet’s music to mind and it pains me mightily that I can’t hear, in my head or otherwise, Yo Yo Ma’s The Goat Rodeo Sessions or NIN’s The Downward Spiral or the second side of Abby Road.

This is my reality now. I understand, accept it and I'm learning how to roll through it though I still mourn the loss -- some days more acute than others.

There can be music still but it has to be heavy on beat -- there’s got to be a deep groove going on. I’ve got to be able to feel it in order to experience it. Luckily, I’ve always been a big drum fan. I took my Helen to see The Blue Man Group when she was here for her birthday. I expected it to be a wonderful visual thing for me but I could actually, totally feel the drumming. Not the guitars but the drumming was a zillion kinds of tremendous. Astounding. It was heaven. Major league heaven.

And, the next time the Kodo Drummers of Japan are in town, I am SO there!

So then, music hasn’t actually completely died, it’s just morphed into something different. I can dig it.

Don McLean -- The Day the Music Died

Friday Afternoon Cat Blogging!

Rocco attempting to look all thuggish

Keith succeeding

When They Were Young

Helen and Miles, The Amazing Bob’s son, are the same age. OK, Miles is 30 days older. Neither had it easy as kids and both have grown up to do wonderful and amazing things.

Miles is is the Senior Communications Manager at National Wildlife Federation and an environmental activist in his own write (see the blog The Green Miles). Helen has been the manager of an upscale Dallas restaurant and, with her husband, created and managed their own construction company (Troy Construction). Tremendous young'uns, I'm telling you!

In the summer before they turned 13, I flew Helen up from her mother’s in Texas for a week. Considering that what I missed most about my carnival years was Helen -- and ‘missed’ feels like a seriously pale verb here -- I suppose it’ll be no surprise that I harbored fantasies of her moving up here. I could tell her mother that it would be like a foreign exchange program -- Texas to Boston! Yeah, I figured that could work. (snort) Remember I have giant wads of imagination. I figured TAB, Miles, Helen and I would make the most darling little nuclear family. Miles and Helen would trundle off to Boston Latin each day as TAB and I took the T into the small printing company where we sweat and toiled (romantically...of course).

Dream a little dream for me

In any case, Helen was here, we were having a grand time shopping for school clothes, going to scary movies (Terminator -- YEAH!) and hanging out. The big day was when she, Miles and I took a day trip down to Martha’s Vineyard. We took the bus to Woods Hole, the ferry across to Vineyard Haven and the trolley to Oak Bluffs.

Granted, this was a zillion years ago so I just remember two things. Swimming at a gorgeous quiet beach outside Oak Bluffs with Helen and Miles awkwardly talking about their respective schools. The bus ride back when both kids plopped down in their own seats, plugged themselves into their Walkmen and tuned out. I LOVED it! Yeah, I needed my own quiet time too but more than that, these were two kids who felt comfortable enough to do what kids at that age do -- pretend they’re on their own, independent. OK that and I figured real parents must get this all the time -- the teen progeny shunning. I savored it. Yep, I did.

Flash forward 20 years -- Helen and I had been out of contact all these years. We’d each sent letters which never arrived, we’d thought much about one another but, fate being the cruel fucker that he is, we remained out of touch. Facebook to the rescue (and YES I realize that it’s so totally unhip for me to love Facebook but, really now, I’m 55. I don’t give a toss about hip or not anymore). Since rediscovering each other Helen and her family (wonderful husband and 3 girls) have come up from Dallas for a week, I’ve been down there and Helen was here for her birthday weekend  this past October.

Honest and true, I feel more complete with her back in my life. I never stopped missing my little sweetie.

My dream of familyness came true on this last visit of Helen’s. Miles flew up and we spent a day, all of us, hanging out -- lunching, beach walking, chatting and hugging.

You KNOW that was awesome squared for me, don’t you? Of course.
 ******************
AND the update!

Helen and family now live up in Hoosick Falls, New York in the old Maderer homestead. I'll see her tomorrow night for a Girls Night Out in Brattleboro, Vermont -- about halfway between our homes. I am just thrilled to bits that we can do this!
Miles is married and living in Fairhaven, Massachusetts. We'll see him on Sunday when we attend the baby shower! Miles and his awesome wife Bethanie expect Baby Girl Grant to arrive next month. March. Projectile vomiting sprogs, here we come!

Baby, You Can Drive My Car

Seriously, I’d rather anyone be behind the wheel than me. Not only do I hate the activity of driving with a planet consuming passion, it’s also not to be found in my skill set closet, (understatement alert!). Mind you, I don’t blow monstrous Mount Fuji sized chunks but it’s a near thing.

Given my driving challenged nature, you’d think I’d have been pulled over for moving violations far more than a piffling 4 times in the 37 years since I first got my license.

Let me preface this next bit -- I’ve always been scared near poopless of the police. I suspect it’s due to never actually having known any cops on a personal level combined with watching the news throughout the ‘60s. The men in blue, the visible ones, weren’t exactly shining examples of peace, love and understanding. OK and they carry weapons. To my mind there’s a fine membrane between carrying and using.

The first time I was pulled over, I was headed to Hoosick Falls, NY. One weekend a month I made the trip up to visit with my Aunt Mary Ann and help her care for her father, my Grandfather. It was a hard visit -- hard to see Grandpa so frail, so desperately ancient and difficult to see Mary Ann so worried, frightened and exhausted. I wanted to be cheerful and a take charge Wonder Woman for them both.

It was early on a Friday morning westward bound on the Mass Turnpike -- out in the Berkshires. I saw the flashing blue lights and fear, all of a sudden, replaced every drop of blood in my veins. Yeah, there was some irrational shit going on in my head but I was stressed and anxious about the weekend even before having my VERY FIRST COP STOP EVAH!

I rolled down the window, he said hello and I exploded in sobs. No, honest. The poor guy ends up talking with me for a while about my worries about Grandpa and Mary Ann, my deep sadness and then made recommendations (“just sit here for a bit and do some deep breathing before you get back on the road”).

And I got a warning. Really nice, warm guy!

The second time, more than fifteen years later, was just up the road from where I live now. A very gruff officer scolded me, seemed not to believe that I didn’t see his flashing lights but again, just a warning, no ticket. No tears that time either -- Yea me!

The third time was the first time while deaf. You know, when the hearing first tanked, a lot of folks asked me if it was legal for deafies to drive. While I couldn’t see why not I did Google it and found a very helpful, interesting and even funny (on this anyway) men in blue discussion.

I’d blown through a light on Comm. Ave in the Back Bay (hey it looked yellow, recently yellow anyway, to me). Instead of doing what you’re supposed to do, remaining in your seat and rolling down the window, I panicked -- leapt out of the car, ran towards the very large policeman, with my hands to my face saying “oh no, oh no, I totally blew that light. I’m sorry! Oh and I’m deaf so please, when you talk, speak slowly and you might need to write stuff down. ”  Poor guy. He calms me down, asks for my license and registration -- which sets me on another panic because, in my messy Volvo wagon, I could NOT find my current registration. “But I SO paid that bill, sir -- I have a cancelled check at home and everything!”  Yeah, again he calms me down, checks his car computer (TOO cool -- like TV!), assures me that yes it’s paid but I should find it, etc.

And I got a warning. Very, patient calm guy.

The last time, speeding on Sea Street here in Quincy, the very, sweet, nice young man (when did they all get so damned young?) was NOT subjected to panic attacks or torrents of sobbing. Nope, I just went through the “Hi I’m deaf, speak slowly please. Here, I’ve got a pen and paper if you want to write something down for me. Please don’t mind that I talk with my hands and I’ll shut up anytime now. Honest!”

He laughed, we chatted a bit and, yup, another warning. Really sweet kid. I wanted to fix him up with one of my young single friends.

Now, by no means am I saying, implying, advertising or lobbying for a ticket -- no, no, nein, NYET!  I do feel as though I’m, not cheating so much as, getting out of a bad situation (one of my own making) with a smile and stunningly, spectacular doofusosity. You know, sort of like the slapstick, Lucille Ball version of my gorgeous friend Joan getting all her drinks comped at the Ritz.

I don’t seem to recall ever feeling even a smidgen of guilt. Now that I think of it. I believe there’s a lesson in there for me.

Cars are Cars

You got a fast car
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere
-- Tracy Chapman

But cars are cars
All over the world
Cars are cars
-- Paul Simon

Now that I’m a driving versus subwaying commuter I spend a lot of time looking at the other boats on my slow river home. First off, gotta say there are a LOT of really dull x 12 cars on the road. For every Lamborghini, for every Bugati, for every Jaguar there’s a boring ass SUV or 50, along with a whole slew of chubby, featureless smaller boxes. It’s like being in the auto equivalent of a Botero painting only with less color and humor.

And the NAMES so many these poor bastards have are just embarrassing as all get out.

What’s a Passat for god’s sake? Did they, in a too many hours long, scotch fueled, late night marketing session, call it The Piss Ant? Then, when everyone sobered up the next morning, they just went all Boggle on the name -- be a shame for that meeting to have been a total waste.

The Ford Focus -- is Ford trying to, subliminally, get drivers to pay better attention?

The Mazda Protege? Really? A car named for an overeager, underpaid, bleached blonde assistant? Why not just call it the Mazda Trophy Wife and be done with it?

Toyota had a car named the Starlet. Ford had the Escort. The Dodge Swinger? Christ, why not quit beating around the **ahem** bush and just name it the Chrysler Harlot?

I’m just wondering but where are the cars that are geared toward women. I DON’T mean minivans and station wagons either. Where’s the studly Honda Hung? The sleek, muscled Buick Baryshnikov?

The Volvo Vulva -- fast car but you need to have the AC on at speeds in excess of 60 mph. Gets kinda steamy in there, doncha know. C’mon, women’s sex drives can be exploited too ya know!

I did see one good car name on the way home today -- the Avalon.

Now, apart from the luscious Bryan Ferry tune and the ethereal, mysterious, romantic hospice of Arthurian legend, this is a word, a name that just fills me with calm, with serenity. Totally not the fast, zoom, zoom nature of a lot of car names.

Makes me curious -- would the roads be safer if there were more cars out there with names like VW Valium, the Dodge Diazepam, the Kia Kava Root?

Why I left Facebook

or

 I didn't want to know you *that* well

thoughts from a much loved friend who prefers to remain anonymous. Thank you for letting me post this Señor Anónimo!

I left Facebook perhaps a year ago, perhaps more. This was after going away and then coming back with a "secret identity" so Señor Sugarmountain couldn't sell my personal info to corporations. In that guise, unable to "connect and share" as intended, there didn't seem to be much point being there. But even after leaving the second time, I missed seeing pictures that my wife told me some friends had posted. I also had trouble corresponding with some friends whose email boxes were always full. So I began to sneak on using my wife's account (and leaving her love notes in the New Device dialog box when logging in). Yes, the thing is addictive, and this stealthy login became more frequent. But now I've decided to leave for good, and let the chips fall. Why? I've finally pinpointed what's wrong with "social" networks.

One of the supposed attractions of these networks is to regain contact with old friends and classmates. That can be fun, or not. You see, people sometimes change, and some of them change into something distasteful. I did get in touch with many old friends and classmates, and a few of them were even more fun than I remembered. Likewise, friends of the fun ones were also fun, and I made what my wife calls "e-friends". But then there were those who had turned incredibly nasty, bigoted and strident. Actually even some of the fun folks were strident at times. That seems to come naturally on Facebook, where Declaring Yourself On The Issues is as easy as clicking "Share", and political organizers have decided that Americans don't hate each other enough, so they have posted a lot of extreme stuff, at which people can either nod yes or recoil in horror.

I doubt if, in real life, most of my nasty, bigoted former classmates (or, to my shame, relatives) would have opened a conversation with how much they hated politician X or people of group Y or religion Z. It might never have come up. In fact, I've worked out an unspoken truce with certain relatives that boils down to the old formula I learned from my mother: don't talk politics or religion in polite company. Conservatives (the old-fashioned kind who were worthy of the name, like my mother) used to understand this when I was a kid. Back then, it was only wild-eyed radicals like my "crazy aunt" who would preach over family dinner about the injuries done to Native Americans and the essential virtues of wheat grass juice when everyone else wanted to talk about how various relatives were coping with their illnesses and how the fruit trees were doing that year. It's not that her views were so bad (except maybe the stuff about UFOs), it's that I would have preferred to hear about them when I asked, not all the time.

I know it's election season, and I know how easy it is to feel one must respond to fire with fire. I, too, found it easy to do that when I was on Facebook. That's why I blame the medium, not necessarily the individuals involved, for my bad experiences. Facebook is no longer social, you see. More and more, it's just a multiple-choice menu of positions to endorse, with no thinking or consideration for others required. When I think of social, I think of real human stuff: pictures of your friends, your kids, your garden, your pets, your Harley, your drinking buddies if need be, but something real. That's still there on Facebook, but it's getting buried in sloganeering.

I understand everyone seems to want unconditional love these days, but I find it hard to connect that deeply solely by typing. Considering that typing and clicking is most of what we have on a website, I have to wonder if we'd all like each other better if we considered how well our long-distance friends really want to know us, and settled for conditional "Like". Unfortunately, I've ended up liking some relatives and old friends a lot less based on what they've posted in public. For the sake of being able to get together in peace, I'd rather not know more about them. If we do get together, I hope they'll just talk about the weather.

What's Your Dream Job

Last night, when Jen and I were sitting at Frog and Peach (OK, real name is Fox and Hound. I like our name better) having our customary post work adult bev, she asked me “what’s your dream job.”

Now, there’s 2 ways, at least, to answer this.

A) What would be your dream job if, in this real world we live in, you could afford to go back to school for classes/training AND you didn’t necessarily need to worry about making X amount of spondoolies in order to pay the mortgage?

B)  In the magical universe of dreams, what would you like to get paid to do?

Being the pragmatic, reality prone child (OK, ‘old broad’) that I am, my first response was to the A type query AND the answer was immediate. I’d want to teach art to kids -- any age but I’d be pretty keen on teaching the 10-12 range. It’s an age when kids are standing on tippy toes peering into the window of adulthood. It’s when natural talent begins to creep into sunlight. It’s before the elephantine weight of teen hormones crush creativity. Or so I’m imagining.

Perhaps some of this inspiration is because I had miserable, spectacularly crappy art and music teachers in junior and senior high school. They were soul stealing, spirit trashing, creativity enervating, joy crushers -- molto shocking since they were charged, lucky enough to be teaching subjects which, for me anyway, were the very essence of ecstasy. Every last one of these joy assassins should have received a giant slap with a 3 day dead, cold, stinky monk fish and then been forced to go for career retraining as Wal-Mart Greeters.

The teachers I happily remember, who I enjoyed and learned so much from were my 8th grade math teacher (I thought I hated math until Miss Ober’s class), 11th grade geography (thank you Mr. Malacarne!), Ms. Hutton (senior year English), Mr. Ruddock (Geometry) and Mr. Grove (10th grade Astronomy and Aviation/Aerospace). I’m sure I’m forgetting someone but these are the teachers, from an otherwise unbearable time, who inspired and encouraged me.

The point though, one of them anyway -- these were NOT my art or music teachers.

I wonder if I could manage teaching, now that I’m deaf (I’m no longer fluent in spoken English and not yet so in ASL -- I’m between languages, so to speak). I’ll bet I could though -- I’m all smart and crafty. I could find a way.

My response to the B version of the question will probably come as no surprise to anyone. I’d love to be able to support myself through my painting, sculpting and writing. NOT through creating an object, story or painting that’s been dictated and supervised by someone else though. That is, I don’t want to be a grant writer, a portrait painter or a production potter. I want to do what moves me, what fills me with joy and get paid big, mega Benjamins for it. And I don’t want to have to market my work, manage my sales or do anything beyond play in the mud, paint and glorious words.

Yeah, I want to be discovered, like Lana Turner at the Top Hat Cafe and lead a golden Johnny Stompanato free life.

What’s your dream job? Do you already have it?

Catblogging!

Coco and The Man

Everything Stops for Tea

We, that’d be Jen, Oni and I, have a weekend ritual that is just about sacrosanct. Tea time! OK our version involves an array of munchables, guacamole and a nice Pinot Noir (I think that last bit’s redundant) but this still counts as tea despite the decided absence of Darjeeling, Assam or even my fav Lapsong Souchong (how can you NOT love a tea that smells like filthy sweat socks but tastes like the most brilliant Italian Roast?). We begin at 3 or 4 and that totally makes it tea time.

In warm weather we sit on the veranda (our term for the porch which joins our two houses), reading and occasionally grunting at each other over the top of our respective sci fi novels (I’ve mentioned the high concentration of geekosity in our combined domiciles, have I not?). Bob brings his radio outside so he can listen to the game for a bit before declaiming “why did we buy perfectly good houses if we’re gonna sit outside?” I think his record for outdoorage is about 36 minutes -- this, of course, being one of the contributing factors to our soul matedness.

In the cold weather, Jen, Oni and I nest on their big couch and watch movies or TV shows on disk. Sci fi....but you knew that.

Right now, we’re big into Dollhouse. Yeah, another Joss Whedon series. Frankly, that guy could urp  on a dark sound stage for 40 minutes and THAT would probably be well worth watching. Funny trivia bit -- my old roommate Cynthia’s younger sister dated Whedon in college. And her current husband used to be a writer on Angel. Yeah, I’m so close to the fame, I practically glow.

Lately I’ve been itching for a vacation. Not one of my big travel ones but a stay at home, week long tea time, kind.  I feel like reading in bed until 10 (I’m normally up and at ‘em at 4 AM -- yeah, I hear you groaning from here and I’m deaf for god’s sake! Somebody’s got to feed the cats -- poor things got stiffed on the opposable thumb deal), going for a little walk on the beach (which is, just so you know I’m not expending an iota of energy, across the street) and then curling up on the couch for my Pinot Noir, roasted seaweed and rice crackers (oh hush, they’re fabulous!) and Buffy (final season, thanks). And, because I’m sure you were wondering, my favorite characters were Spike, Xander, Giles and Willow, particularly when she went all evil.

(Parenthetical Aside? No thanks, I'm good.)

I’m just worn out lately and this pretty much seems like an ideal vaca. OK, let’s throw in the fact that I’d get to bug The Amazing Bob daily--“can you bake me some oatmeal/butterscotch/spinach cookies again today? can you make me those tofu/eggplant pancakes again? How about baking a carrot cake today?”

Yeah he loves me despite my gustatory oddness.

Everything Stops for Tea--Long John Baldry

The Ring

Not to be confused with Der Ring des Nibelungen, The Lord of the Rings, The Ring of Brodgar, The Ring Nebula or Single Ladies Putting a Ring on It. Nope, this ring was my Grandmother Ruby’s -- my father’s mother, my much loved and missed Aunt Mary Ann’s mother.

She had it made from a gold nugget she picked up on her late 1920s Alaskan adventure -- the one where she hopped in her car (yeah, she owned a car of her own in the 1920s. She was Head Nurse at Toledo General Hospital in Ohio and most certainly her very own incredibly awesome woman) and drove North and then some more North to see Alaska before it was ruined, while it was still mostly wilderness and gold mines. Grandma was a tremendously strong babe and brooked no horseshit. She was formidable with a long side of scary and I loved her madly.

On one of my cleaning and organizing visits with Aunt Mary Ann in Hoosick Falls, New York (yeah, that’s honest and true the name of the town. Get all the Frostbite Falls jokes outta your system now. OK?), she showed me the ring, told me the story and then gave me this amazingly potent talisman.

tal·is·man
[tal-is-muhn, -iz-]
noun, plural -mans.
1. any amulet or charm.
3. anything whose presence exercises a remarkable or powerful influence on human feelings or actions.
Origin:
Ultimately from Greek telesma or from the Greek word "telein" which means "to initiate into the mysteries")

From a random on line dictionary -- looks like it certainly applies to my ring on, maybe/baby, a couple of levels. That’s cool.

I wear it on a chain, as a necklace. Why? Because, in addition to being a marvelous story and inspiration, while it instills me with trust in my own strength and sense,  it is definitively, seriously most ugly. I'm telling you now, this ring will never win prizes for style and grace.

Not all talismans are going to be objects of radiant, majestic beauty. That’d be way too boring mon ami.

Physical Graffiti

I like ruins, the remnants of ancient and not so ancient civilizations. I try to imagine what daily life must have been like. History is wild when you think beyond kings, queens and battles to the day to day life of average people. What would my life have been like had I lived then? What did folks do for fun? Had fun even been invented yet?

This was yet another reason for making the long journey to the Orkney Islands, ten miles off the northern tip of the Scottish mainland – closer to the Arctic Circle than to London. The 70 islands in the chain are simply lousy with Neolithic sites -- 2500 BC and 2000 BC (that’s just eleventy million kinds of old!).

I’d read of Maeshowe, a chambered tomb (cairn) with 2 separate rings of standing stones nearby – like Stonehenge but without the crowds, entry fee or souvenir vendors.

My first visit was in late winter/early spring -- not yet tourist season that far north. The first day was warmish as I set out, walking the 6 miles from Stromness and hoping to hitch a ride. There was a strong, annoying wind pummeling me and, sadly, no cars.

Maeshowe wasn’t open but I managed to find the elderly caretaker at the tea shop across the road. He, very kindly, agreed to take me in.

Getting in was a monumental challenge to my steel clad claustrophobia. We crawled 36 feet through a dark, low, arched stone tunnel to get into the chambers. I suspect the anticipated embarrassment of traveling all that way and then freaking out, is the only thing that kept me moving -- that and being exhausted from my long windblown walk.  I’d have been better off entering on the winter solstice when the perfectly aligned weak sun shoots straight down, illuminating the tunnel. Would've been way better than the caretaker's one small, weak ass flashlight.

While it was awesome as all get out to just be in the place, what grabbed me solid (and has me laughing and snorting still) was the graffiti dating from, at least, the early 12th century. These were runes carved into the walls, left by marauding Vikings.

"Thorni fucked. Helgi carved" -- Oh my. Thorni got busy while Helgi worked?  Real classy, man.

"Ingigerth is the most beautiful of all women" -- this was inscribed beside a rough drawing of a slobbering dog. Earliest known example of high sarcasm or was the graffiti artist, perhaps, the love sick slobbering dog?

A few examples of medieval tagging:
"Ofram the son of Sigurd carved these runes"

"These runes were carved by the man most skilled in runes in the western ocean"

"Tholfir Kolbeinsson carved these runes high up"

After I managed to get out, back down that panic inducing, interminably long tunnel, I hiked a short ways over to the Stones of Stenness and the Ring of Brodgar. These were/are magnificently breathtaking. It was late in the day, sun fading and not a soul about as I wandered around and wondered what the circles were for and how did those ancient people get all those ginormous stones there and upright? Was there a supervisor saying “no, no, a little to the left” as a crew of men lifted, dragged and cursed the supe?

So, this is what they did for fun in 2250 BC, then? No, really?

Galahad, Heracles and Keith Partridge

Part 2 of the Northline saga

Beware the beautiful, studly Tiger Beat-esque heartthrob lookalikes. More often than not they carry deep senses of entitlement along with the sure knowledge, if only in their own minds, that others will happily do for them.

The morning (OK early afternoon) after our tryst I was trying to sort out how to get rid of him and struggling mightily with that. Like most young women, I wasn’t as sure of myself and nowhere near as direct as the situation needed. I expect I figured he’d just get that he should vanish by, dunno, the set of my shoulders? the absence of giggles and rapt interest whenever he so much as farted? My saying that I wanted to spend the evening alone?

Ah...no, none of these brilliant methods worked. So convinced, was he, of the spell he cast with his charisma, beauty and self imagined slick grifteryness that he failed to grasp that I was utterly, soundly, and wholly unimpressed.

That evening he invited a bunch of his pals to join us at the hotel for a post work party. Great, now I was stuck with him AND his loser, hanger on buddies.

While strolling back to the midway the following morning, 'Cassidy' cast me a long and seemingly meaningful glance. He tells me, in a careful, designing manner, that back in Denver, he’d been a pimp. My very first thought was ‘what...is that supposed to impress me? wrong-o asswipe!’ my next was ‘oh shit, I think that might have been a job notification.’ I don’t recall what I replied -- I think I was just too stunned.

We arrived at the lot and I made a break for the relative safety of my joint. While blowing up my 450 balloons to start the work day, I was feeling fairly panicked with an extra large side of fear as I tried to figure out how to permanently ditch 'Cassidy' and his band of low lifes.

As luck, astronomically major luck, would have it, the affable, funny, lovely young man from the ring toss joint next door stopped by to say hello. He saw that I was agitated and and asked what the story was. I told him and he, like Galahad on a charger, came up with the grand escape scheme.

After the show closed that night, 'Cassidy' came by to tell me that we’d be having another big party in the room -- I’d anticipated and feared this.  Red, my ring toss Galahad, was right there and said to 'Cassidy' "Great. Looking forward to it. I’ve got a pick up -- I can drive us all over."  After a quick stop at the liquor store, 'Cassidy’s' minions climbed into the back truck bed. Red, 'Cassidy' and I climbed into the front cab with Red making sure I was sitting in the middle, between the two of them.  As we got to the front door of the hotel, Red told the boys to jump out -- he’d go find a parking spot. They leapt out, toting the cases of beer and bags of munchies. Cassidy slid out his door and proprietarily reached for my hand just as Red stomped on the gas. Hard. Con molto brio.

I swear there was dust flying out from the rear wheels. Maybe that was just my impression as we flew out -- gone, baby, happily/ecstatically gone. I gazed into the rear view mirror to see if I could catch Cassidy’s reaction. He just looked confused and surprised.

As we exited that parking lot at full on Dukes of Hazard speed I began to laugh. Best escape EVER!

Yeah, certainly I was not thrilled about needing and wanting the Heraclean rescue but I was sure as hell happy to get it. My goal after this was to become, to be my own Galahad, my own Heracles.

Friday Cat Blogging

Whistler's Kitten -- AKA Arrangement in Black and White No. 1. Clearly this was what Mister James McNeill Whistler really wanted to paint but, ya know, excrement happens. It was probably Mother's Day, he'd not bought a prezzie and thought 'Hey, the old broad'll be thrilled if I ask her to sit for a portrait!' And history was made.

Northline

and the close of my carny days

Northline was a big shopping mall in North Houston -- still is (and, going by the reviews on Yelp, it’s a pretty sad, nasty place). In November of each year, back in the my carny days of the late ‘70s, 5 or 6 different shows ended the season by coming together, melding into one giant carnival in the mall’s parking lot. A collection of small to mid size carnivals became one oceanically colossal midway.

After 3 seasons on the road, this would be my last spot. Afterward, I’d turn in my bushel baskets, my balloons, my dice table and move on to the next grand adventure.

I was psyched to finish at a big spot -- one I'd heard was a ten day solid party. Then I heard the news:

a) no water hook ups at the lot -- performing my daily toilette would involve gas station and McDonald-land bathrooms. **cringe!**
b) all the carny families were staying at a campground far away from all the excitement. They’d have running water and peace and quiet.

I wanted, hell I needed to splurge. These were my last ten days as a carny, for christ's sake -- SCREW the peace and quiet and to hell with bathing in gas station bathrooms.

I’d done pretty well that last season  -- there was enough dough saved to move to Boston and start painting. I felt sorta, kinda, in a very cautious Donna way, exuberantly flush. I got a hotel room (a bed! indoor plumbing!!!), booked a few nights and walked back to the lot (with the family types staying off in the boondocks, I was carless).

Now, to further preface what happened next -- leading up to Northline, we’d played a month and a half solid of circus jumps. These were back to back 3 day spots. We played one spot, worked 12-14 hour days, sloughed (tore down) at midnight on the third night, drove to the next spot, immediately set up (took all the lumber and cotter pins off the truck and transformed it into a carnival) and opened for a full day/night of business. Basically, we only got to sleep every other night. We did this for a solid month and a half. Sleep was a stranger, a myth, a fairy tale.

Even I, who’d previously been all “speed? oh no, chemicals freak me out,” was singing the praises of the always plentiful Black Beauties.

So, I’m standing in my joint, blowing up the 450 balloons I needed big and buoyant to start my night, thinking “you know, I can feel my hair growing -- WOW, these Beauties are fabulous!” when, who do I see strolling toward me? David Cassidy. OK, it wasn’t really him but the dude looked JUST like him....except all muscled and studly. Yeah, I hit on him. I mean hell, I was aiming to end my carnival career with a bang (so to speak) and he looked like just the thing.

Beware of beautiful, studly Tiger Beatesque heartthrob lookalikes.

The story continues here tomorrow.

Freedom!

Or why it’s great to be 53 years of age.

No one's looking at me like I’m some sexual contender/predator, some threat to or promise of future fun. I’m so clearly NOT still “in the game.”  Loving this -- I tell you, I’m, for reals and everything, loving this.

Why is this so great, you ask.

Jen and I were sitting at a bar, enjoying a lovely post work prandial bev, when I spied an extraordinarily attractive young man. OK, he looked to be somewhere around 40 or so but, hey, that’s still loads younger than me. Right?

He had long brown hair, shot through with grey. He was trim with angular, evocative cheekbones.  He looked like a cross between Egon Schiele and a young Jeff Beck.

Yeah, I had a little lust rush going on (of course, that might have just been a hot flash).

I couldn’t take my eyes off him for long and suspected he’d noticed. After Jen and I paid our tab, I strolled over and put my hand on his shoulder and my lips to his ear (the joint was loud. no really. K?) and said ‘Dear, you’re an extremely attractive young man. Thank you.'

Yeah,  I did  -- for reals.

Jen told me that he smiled, very happily and pronounced that I’d made his day.

That makes two of us.

Word Up!

Or, Why I’ll Never be a Scrabble Contender

The Amazing Bob™ and I’ve been playing our particular brand of Scrabble for years. We refer to it as Scrabble Dada which it is, sort of. For us, the game is all about making interesting words, engaging crossword shapes and entertaining juxtapositions.

We don’t keep score, we create words beyond the limits of the game board and, should a key letter be absent, it can be borrowed from elsewhere -- that is, IF the word’s got some killer allure. We have to have some restraints, don’t you know. Oh and we can use proper names too. Sometimes you just totally need to place ‘Freud’ next to ‘ass.’

With this as my Scrabble history, my word game DNA, I accepted AND have sent invitations to play Words with Friends on Facebook.

At first I paid no attention to the double and triple word squares. If I managed to get anything other than a single point scoring letter onto a double or triple letter locale, well, pure accident. Naturally I lost. Always. Every match.

This on line pursuit has just a passing similarity to the game that Bob and I play. We’re like puppies running tear ass around the yard after the linguistic equivalents of sparrows, squirrels and dust motes. We’re Calvin and Hobbes playing Calvin Ball.

This on line entertainment is about strategy and sacrifice. Goodness, just today I had to pass on ‘zither’ because, though I could create it with my tiles, there wasn’t a rule sanctioned space for it. Worse yet, I had to pass on ‘unmoored’ (such a lovely, romantic Heathcliffe-esque epithet) earlier today because it would have gone beyond the game’s edge. And ‘mylar,’ I could’ve made ‘mylar’ -- it puts the shiny silver, blue and purple balloons, bobbing along the ceiling of my past hospital rooms in mind. It’s a happy word but a proper name kind of happy word, I think.

OK, OK, there still are places to wedge some creativity in, a bit of Dada-esque fun.  Sometimes, when the hand I’ve been dealt and my creativity both fail me, I make up something that looks like a word. You know, consonant/vowel/consonant/consonant. Hey, that could SO be a word! Or, when the board is jam-packed with tiles and I’ve only got one or two left to play, I’ll randomly place my consonant next to a vowel or vice versa. Who knows? You can’t know until you try. The cool and curse of Words with Friends is the stern alert window that comes up when you’ve chanced a tile placement deemed ‘invalid.’

To my surprise, I’m enjoying this very different pastime quite a bit. I think it’s become a bit addictive for that matter. I’m now actually starting to win the very occasional round. Excuse me **cough** I need to go check in on my contests in play now.

Go Ask Alice

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here? That depends a good deal on where you want to get to. Said the Cat.”

It has always amused me mightily that people are, forever and a day, stopping me on the street to ask for directions — even way back during my hearing days. I’ve been stopped by tourists, fellow tourists mind you, in Galway, Prague, Berlin and Rome, in addition to here at home in Boston. I must emit some sort of a vibe, a she-knows-the-right-way beacon, a tractor beam for the map challenged.

I really thought this would change when I lost my hearing. How could I help? The language barrier would be all barrier-sh. Right?

The other night's funny happened when I pulled into a parking spot in Kendall Square in Cambridge. A place where parking spots are as rare as ocelots in Maine (or Cambridge for that matter). As I was rifling my wallet for quarters I noticed a man standing by the parking meters — he looked at me and I quickly went back to purse excavation. He didn’t appear to be a predator but I’ve been wrong before — more than once.

He appeared to be waiting. Waiting for a friend? Waiting for a fast train? Waiting to rob me blind? Waiting to witness to me of his faith in Rush (the band, not the fat man), the little baby Zeus (wait, I might have meant Jesus or maybe Kali — I get them all confused) and Gold Bond Foot Powder?  Couldn't know until I took the next step, could I?

So, I got out of my car, Horace the Silver Beetle, and plunked my two bit pieces into the meter. Out of the corner of my eye it looked like he was speaking to me (remember, deaf here — had to see him speak in order to ‘hear’ him). I used my handy dandy first line of defense — always employed when I’m feeling nervous, insecure or anti-social — ‘sorry, I’m deaf. I don’t know what you’re saying.’ Hey, convenient but true!

The poor guy responded by looking even more lost than before and NOW he even had a forlorn thing going on. It occurred to me, only then, that my poor lost amico wasn’t from around these parts. Like not even from this continent. So I asked, ‘are ya lost — s’up? Speak slowly and maybe I can lipread you.’ Yeah, I’m a real helpful soul like that.

Turns out he couldn’t sort out the parking meter. Which coin should he put in and how many for what period of time and all. His heavily accented English was so strong that I could see it even as I lipread him but funnily enough, hilariously even, I COULD lipread him!

So there I am, deaf old me, a cold night on a dark Cambridge street corner, chatting with a man who barely spoke English and needed a bit of assistance. AND we understood each other!

God, I love my life!

Through April Woods

Yeah, I'm a month early with April but, on this cold, snowy, sleeting late winter day -- I think we all need some April, some tales of the mysterious wood.

by Della Marinis
originally from Fürst Told Blog, April 13, 2010

I walked ahead because the others dragged their feet. The woods were damp and cool that morning and the sky a deep blue I hadn’t seen in months. The scent was resonant, speaking something other than the city so that I became lost in it and didn’t hear the approaching crackle of leaves underfoot. Not at first.

 Then I turned and scanned the stretch of birch, alder and pine for a face. I could see no one, just a low, swinging branch. Someone was there but had gone.


There was soft April light ahead and it drew me further in, nonchalantly, a smiling forest in a dawning season. Another quivering limb, this time ahead, and I knew I was on the trail of something. Something smaller than a person but larger than a bread box. I picked up speed.

 A glossy coat darted across my path and then slipped behind a tree. I expected it to be white but it was dark, coal black and coarse but oddly gentle against the spiky brush of the forest. Still, I felt a little like Alice chasing the rabbit, on the edge of an adventure.

  I steered clear of the mossy logs and (bottomless) holes camouflaged beneath the leaves. Where was everyone? I had set my own path and behind me the trees were quiet but for the clear phrases of the Song Thrush. Then it caught my eye again – the black knight trotted swiftly between heavy trunks, still playing his hand.

Finally I came to a stream that was cold and flowing fast, carrying along young leaves, clinging like cupped vessels for beetle-sized riders. I waited there, plunking in stones that I imagined lifted his spry ears. But I couldn’t see my absconder. I saw nothing but a whisper of his stare through the leaves.
I lost the trail but found my friends and once at home again, felt restless. I looked around absently until it dawned on me something bigger than a bread box was missing. Something not there before, but clearly gone.

I thought my wants started with want, but have discovered it’s the thing itself that sets the chase. Like the white rabbit. Down the path. It seems he’s out there and wants to be found.

_________________________________________________________________________________

An evocative bijou from my fabulous, Berlin dwelling cousin Della Marinis. She writes young adult fiction, has been a teacher, a toiler in the HR fields, has two amazing kids, a tremendous husband (Martin), is fluent in Dutch and German and she's 9 kinds of wise and funny besides.