Wild Ride -- The 6th and Final Chapter

Acts such as this were my downfall. I had lost respect by not carrying out my word but I kept myself in tact by not performing the feats that would have made him love me. He said he would love me forever if I did these things and still I couldn't do them.

At least I knew my brain was working even if it was costing me the man I was attracted to more that words.



While we were saving for our tent to call home, we were sent from our Cadillac home. We had to find somewhere to stay that wasn't expensive but also allowed us to come and go -- to forage for aluminum. At the shelter we had to stay indoors until four in the morning -- much too late in the night/morning to come and go unnoticed in neighborhoods and backyards. We needed to be out after midnite and until early morning -- Canyon said he knew of such a place; it was indoors and we could stay there for a week or two.

This was how, at forty years of age, I came to live in a roll away dumpster. We cleaned it up and gathered a mattress that was big enough for the three of us to sleep on. The dumpster became home.

Early mornings we were waiting to get our cash for the night before's take. We would gather alcohol, tobacco and food, returning to the yard where the dumpster sat amongst twelve others -- a yard that seldom had visitors. We had good nights and bad but we always returned as three men who had worked to gather supplies for home. We would take our sleep whenever possible. We spent time alone, in groups of two and, for the most part, as a family of three.

The weather was making a more than favorable turn and rain was hardly around -- we were living outside in optimum conditions. We bathed outdoors with gallons of water and would take turns soaking and rinsing each other. We all had toothbrushes and razors and did laundry to guarantee we were always clean -- one of Sean's many rules. We were seen by many people in the morning and throughout the days. No one was allowed to know where we were staying -- just that we had escaped the shelter and were now living on our own.

It was on one of the nights, when we'd had a particularly profitable morning, that I could no longer contain my love for Aiden. We had been drinking and napping all day -- a time when it was only me and Aiden. Opportunities like these didn't come around much. Canyon and Aiden kept the same schedule so it was often just me alone with my thoughts -- sometimes it was the three of us but rarely was it me with Aiden alone.

We sat outside the dumpster while Canyon slept, passing a bottle between the two of us, telling stories about life and whatnot, laughing. Our flirting was commonplace now but taken by the three of us as merely jest -- though all of us knew my intent was intentional.

I've never found it easy to hide what I feel when I feel something strongly and this was no different, no matter what the consequences would be.

As afternoon turned to evening, shadows fell on us as the sun dropped away -- we welcomed the dusk. I was entirely consumed by Aiden -- his presence, his warmth (which I imagine he still hides except for special occasions), and the moment which was being written while we watched.

Evening came and with it, bats from the woods beside our shelter came to life. They swarmed over the yard -- the sky was thick with them. We both became hypnotized by the mood that was set. I looked at Aiden with his long gray hair covering his eyes and shoulders, with his red tank top showing off the physique, betraying his true age. I leaned across and brushed the hair away from his face and kissed his lips.

Time froze. It wasn't until I put my hand to his face, as he turned his lips down to meet mine, that the moment was broken. He displayed genuine concern (or was it Jewish guilt?) with what had occurred and asked what my intentions were.

He detached himself emotionally from the moment and spoke of needing to digest what had occurred. There was a long pause between us as we stared into each others eyes. He then asked if this was a sign that we should try it again, and we did, longer than we had previously.

We grasped at each other with both of our hands in an embrace. I had told him I was in love with him and we kissed -- who knew what was to come? I was lost in what was and will always be the most romantic moment of my life; next to a dumpster, encircled with bats, with nowhere to call home -- I had found heaven. There would be a roller coaster of sexual tension and fulfillment, arguments that would end our special bond and lies and betrayals that would ultimately tear us apart forever. For this moment, however, we had found love between two men which knows no name and cannot be smeared or undone by events, strangers, or even ourselves.

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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.

Where To Now, Saint Peter?

When we last saw our heroes they were beating a fast retreat from their shotgun brandishing, feverishly crazed carnie ‘host’ in exceedingly rural east central Texas. Red and I were chased off Dan’s Pluck, Texas land in the wee morning hours, for the heinous crime of inadvertently tipping the cat house next door’s hand to the local undercovers.

Oopsie!

Red was thinking more clearly than I as we headed down the Neals Freeway out of Pluck.  Wouldn’t take much — my mind was reeling, tumbling and pirouetting from having a gun pointed at me by the father of the two wonderful bambinos I’d minded and grown to love over the past ten days.

Gotta say, it’s one hell of a way to sober up fast.

Red was originally from Lake Charles, Louisiana and was sure that his sister there would let us stay with her and her famiglia for a little bit. We were buying time. We were in transition. While stopped at the Flying J Travel Plaza in Orange, Texas at 6 AM, he called to give her a heads up on our imminent, surprise arrival.

You know, getting an hour’s notice about an unexpected house guest, close, beloved  family or no, and getting that call at an obscenely early hour would put most folks off their Post Toasties. Not Marie-Élise, who was wonderfully welcoming at 7 AM when we pulled in. She made us a big ol' breakfast, coffee and then tucked us into the queen size bed in the spare room of her surprisingly large, comfortable doublewide. A bed -- after months of sleeping on the ground, this was heaven!

I don’t recall now (hey, this all went down 430 years ago!) how long we stayed with the awesome Marie-Élise and her two lovely, wee bairn but it wasn’t more than a week. During that time we visited Red’s father, a Cajun shrimper and A-MAZING cook. He made us a deliriously yummy shrimp jambalaya (shrimp he’d caught earlier that day), collard greens and biscuits. Christ, all these years later my mouth still water at the memory of that meal.

During the 5 hour escape drive from Pluck (sounds like a horror movie title doesn’t it “Escape From Pluck” imagine the ominous soundtrack — dah-duh-dunnnnnn) to Lake Charles, Red came up with the beginning of a plan. He’d been a welder and had worked off shore before joining the show. It wasn’t a gig which appealed to him terribly much but the pay was tremendous and would totally finance whatever our next move would be -- back with the show come April or elsewhere.

What would I do while he was offshore? Well, I could get a waitressing gig like his sister. While waitressing can be a good paying job, it’s hard, hard, triple plus hard and, for me anyway, soul crushing work. Yeah, I’ve done it and I suspect I was THE worst waitress EVAH! To say that I don’t excel at this would be the consummate understatement. My part of the plan felt uninspiring.

Now, a few days before our hot footed escape, I’d thrown a dart at a map of the US, in an attempt to discern Where To Now, St. Peter. I figured on moving, on my own, to the closest big city to where my little future picker landed. The dart landed in western Connecticut so my potential choice was narrowed from anywhere and everywhere to NYC or Boston.

I took a Trailways bus north out of Calcasieu Parish, back to my parents home in western Pennsylvania. Red told me he’d join me in Boston after he’d earned his seed money in a 4 month offshore welder stint.

I hadn’t figured on company but Red seemed like a serious beau. Me, I didn’t feel that, at the age of 22, I was ready to settle down. The future, my next adventure, was just opening to me.

Where to Now Saint Peter -- Elton John

Friday Wooly Mammoth Blogging!

Wooly Mammoth

 Geez, it's like they're twins -- separated at birth!

Thelma

The 7 Deadly-ish Sins

I can only name 2 of the official ones -- laziness and being fat. Sloth and Gluttony. I believe I’ve got those covered.

I’m a wee bit unclear on the rest so I decided, resourceful soul that I am, to make my own list.

NUMBER ONE -- fashion faux pas.

At the top of this flock of odious sinners are adults who wear pastel, ruffles and, obviously most offensive, dusters. Pastel and ruffles are only appropriate for children UNDER the age of 8. That’s the cut off -- you can look it up!

Dusters? Oh please -- if you're at all unsure, you’re much too far gone. Your seat in Hell has been assigned. Dusters belong, if anywhere, on actual real, live cowboys. These men and women do NOT live east of the Mississippi, nor can they be found within 100 miles of an urban area. They’re all in far flung Exurbistan where we don’t have to view their poor clothing choices or watch them chew snuff. **shudder**

And, you know....while I’m at it, fur looks triple plus awesome on the original owner. In this advanced age, in this time, it really doesn’t come across as anything but ghoulish, insecure and all conspicuously consumptive on humans.

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 Learn your job, your craft. You’re a pressman, a mechanic, a teacher, a therapist, an electromagnetic physicist -- awesome. Do it well -- take pride in your fine performance. Do it to the best of your abilities every day and learn more. Every day.

Same goes for bartenders.

The Second Deadly Sin in the Book of Donna is this -- being a bartender and NOT knowing how to make a dry gin martini or a cosmopolitan. C’mon! I couldn’t have simpler wants/needs on a bet!

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 This, naturally, brings us to the snow closing/essential workers only announcements. Who decides who’s essential and who’s not? Yeah, yeah, I get that nurses, doctors, firefighters and cops are essential but....but so is that adorable barista who makes me the most awesome skinny moccacino!

So, the Third Deadly-ish Sin -- not considering my coffee enjoyment/consumption needs during nor 'easters.

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Weightlifting to the point that, in a man, you have bigger tits than me. Mind you, this is a challenge but if you ‘succeed’ through pumping iron versus the natural physical labors of your job -- well, you need to find a life. Desperately. PUH-leeze, do humanity a favor and get out of the gym occasionally! Have a real life. Read a book!

Fourth Deadly-ish Sin

Should you notice that your neck is wider than your head -- please take note -- ICK and GROSS! Not even Henry Rollins could rock that look. Go eat a slice of red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting -- you’ll feel better.

Really.

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A sin that's all personal to me -- Numero Fünf: Assuming a deaf or blind or lame person is also intellectually and/or emotionally crippled.

Christ almighty!

Hello? Do the names Beethoven, Evelyn Glennie, Gabriel Fauré, Stephen Hawking, Pythagoras, Newton, Einstein, Claude Monet, Ray Charles ring any bells? AND my mother, for fuck’s sake. With almost no hearing as well as rapidly fading vision she went back to school and then on to become an art therapist. She was in her mid 60s when she began her degree program.

So then -- I lost my hearing, not my intellect or talents. Phlbbt!

Hmmm, I seem to be out of deadly-ish sins for the night. Or maybe these are just kvetches. Ah well, you know me -- I’ll always find something new to whine about.

Or was that wine? A nice Sauvignon Blanc -- heavy on that wild grassy freshness, thanks!
Brian Eno -- Seven Deadly Finns

Prophets of Doom, Dragons and a Show Tune

No use permitting
some prophet of doom
To wipe every smile away.
 
OK, not ALL show tunes are unmitigated, drek from the Third Circle of Dante's Inferno. Some, actually make fine points. Yeah, I'm stretching it here, aren't I?

I was thinking about the whole customer/provider of goods relationship.

This relationship exits on eleventy zillion levels -- it's everywhere. It's the grocery clerk ringing up your order on a Saturday morning, the 3rd grade teacher with an 8 year old student, the big city, big cheese neurologist and his patient, (the annoying, pushy, middle aged deaf broad). It's that code writing geek who spends 20 hours a day in a dark room, in front of a glowing PC with his be-suited management type boss -- eh, you get where I’m going with this.

Unless you live in a vacuum tube in Antarctica, we are all service providers AND customers at some time or another. And those customers? They aren’t the enemy. They keep us in business -- they keep the martinis flowing (Sapphire, extra, extra dry with olives. thank you) and Coco's Whisker Lickins shakin’ outta the bag.

We spend 8+ hours a day at work, why not enjoy the time or at least not act to make it more miserable? The folks on the other end of the phone, on the other side of the computer screen are people just like you and me. They have family, cats, dreams (yes, yes. it's supremely unlikely that the Sox will win another Series in my lifetime but I can dream DAMMIT!) hopes and farts (brain and that other kind**cough**) just like us! 

No, we don’t have to be and SHOULDN’T be all gratingly, cloyingly, obsequious and OW-you’re-making-my-teeth-hurt-with-that-patter! BUT, you just knew there was a 'but', we can treat others as we want to be treated. Remember that this customer of yours is looking for assistance, looking to get what they’re paying for AND, more often than otherwise, are NOT looking for someone to kiss their ass and be their slave. (most of the time, that is) You don't have to be all Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm to have a positive human exchange.

We all have customer-from-hell stories as well as worst-customer-service-EVAH tales. I try to deal by turning everything into a game -- that is, how can I meet this grumpy, angry customer’s needs AND lighten the mood/make a positive connection at the same time? Or, how can I get this service provider to, ya know, provide service only much better than they’re pretending to do now. It’s a challenge for me. A gauntlet thrown down. A hurdle to clear, Mountain to climb....OK, OK, I'm stopping with the cliches already!

Now, New Englanders aren’t known for their outgoing, friendly, giving nature. Yeah, I know -- you're shocked. You'd totally never heard this execrable rumor. When I announced to my fellow carnies, eons ago, that I’d be heading to Boston and not coming back South, I heard nothing but horror stories. New Englanders, Bostonian’s in particular, were all mean, nasty, vile, ornery, smelly, RUDE dragons -- I’d be desperately unhappy and then eaten alive. Slowly...with much pain inflicted. And the rude dragon would laugh while chewing. A lot.

30 years later, I’m still breathing -- alive even. I now tell similar horror stories about the customer service in Krakow and Prague (honestly, it's mostly tongue in cheek-ish though) but really not about here.

As with everything else in life, we often as not get back what we put out.

Ah Christ, now I have show tunes stuck in my head. Someone's gonna pay for this, I tell you!

No use permitting
some prophet of doom
To wipe every smile away.
Come hear the music play.
Life is a Cabaret, old chum,
Come to the Cabaret!

Start by admitting
From cradle to tomb
Isn't that long a stay.
Life is a Cabaret, old chum,
Only a Cabaret, old chum,
And I love a Cabaret!

Wild Ride -- Chapter 5

 One night soon I would remove my bootlace and try to strangle him in his sleep because he asked me to. When I failed it would be the beginning of the end of us.



 We met up with Canyon at the recycling center and Aidan sprang his plan into action. We would be a team, not live in the shelter and we would split the recycling profits. Canyon was only one of the few people who could change Aidan's mind about anything but there was no going back once we’d agreed and toasted the occasion, with vodka and beer at eight o’clock in the morning. Aidan and I would live in the Cadillac until we had enough money for the three of us to buy a tent. Then we would live in the woods.

The owner of the Caddy had resigned himself to a thirty day stay at the V.A. detox and threw the keys to Aidan.  By any standard the car was dead so it was relegated to ‘home’ status. I took my place in the drivers seat to sleep, with Fred, another friend, shotgun, as well as the myriad people who stopped by, wanting to make the back seat their own.

Not only did we have the homeless people who needed a place to stay stopping by, we had other street people such as drug dealers and whores. They knew the car and its occupants and were always willing to bring something into our ‘home’ -- a bottle, a pipe or their naked bodies. The days were filled with adventures that no one could imagine -- ten dollars still goes far in the armpit that is our city.

One night as we were drinking and smoking and talking,  Aidan made a simple request that I kill him while he slept. He was at the end of his line and wanted out. He wanted someone he trusted to make it happen.

I thought I was that person and agreed. I gave him a handful of medication that would render him unconscious and helpless and, of the dozen pills I gave him, he secretly took only two, a sign to me that he was bluffing, that he didn't want to go through with it. He should be thankful I noticed the pills he had left in his hand, the ones he tried to hide. It's the only reason he's still alive.

I switched seats and sat in the back with our temporary occupants -- that left me sitting behind him. When he asked if I could be depended on, I told him I had some experience with untimely death but I was drunk and had little to use in the way of tools.

As I untied my boots, I made the connection that I had something to use to bring his sorry life to a conclusion. My preferred method would have been to drug him though.  I had tried choking him with my hands while he slept but his arms instinctively went to his throat and he was a big man. The laces would have to work. He took the first lace away, so I tried my second one. I had a vision of ten years at least in prison with a group of people who knew Aidan and would have a deadly interest in the man who killed him in his sleep.

I curled up on my seat and went to sleep knowing that I would have explaining to do the next day but that I'd done the correct thing at least to protect myself. He woke up groggy the next morning and was bitter. He came up with a plan that I was to cut his throat with a razor knife the following night as we were beginning to can our route. He placed the knife in my hand and begged that I not let him down again.

There was suspense the entire night as he walked in front of me, the plan was that I come from behind him and just do the deed -- he gave me many opportunities. As the sun came up, he admonished me -- he was disappointed to see the sunrise,

I looked at him and said that I was selfish, that I wanted him here with me and that I would not do it.

Acts such as this were my downfall. I had lost respect by not carrying out my word but I kept myself intact by not performing the deeds that would have made him love me. He said he would love me forever if I did these things and still I couldn't do them. At least I knew my brain was working even if it was costing me the man I was attracted to more that words can express.


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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.

Travel Evolution

My peregrinations, outside the US that is, began a good eight or nine years after coming off the road with the carnival -- I guess I had an itchy travel finger/foot/whatever.

I watched my pals with beaus head off to explore other worlds and was jealous. Sure, The Amazing Bob™ was in my life but he was a single daddy with big responsibilities (plus there wasn’t enough dough to travel con la famiglia) -- more, much more, though he doesn’t enjoy travel. Bob’s a homebody -- wandering the world isn’t his idea of a good time AT ALL.  I’m cool and down with that and totally respect his needs, wishes, inclinations. Still, I wanted to go, go, GO -- see other countries, hear foreign accents, listen to music in clubs where the headliners were introduced in languages I didn’t know. Maybe some of the urgency I felt was fueled by the knowledge that my hearing was on loan -- due back to that factory on an unknown date.

So I went. And he was OK with that. We missed each other madly but understood that one of us needed/wanted to stay home and the other had to fly.

I was a little scared to travel on my own but also thrilled by the adventure aspect. OK, relative adventure aspect. I’m def and without doubt NOT some living-on-the-edge thrill seeker. Oh my, no! 

My very first trip was to Scotland -- Glen Coe in the Highlands and on to the Isle of Skye. The big finish was in some singer/songwriter and punk-ish clubs in Edinburgh. Woo hoo -- way to get outta my comfort zone! Yes, this was a foreign country and, indeedy, I had one hell of a time parsing the accents when I was up around Oban and Airds Bay. Still and all, it’s not like I was trekking through Tibet or wandering the forgotten forests of Mount Mabu in Mozambique. Yep, I had guy friends who were doing both -- on there own too.

I’ve always felt that my solo travels have been timid -- even the one through Poland after it’d just opened to the West. I’ve been mostly about poking around, seeing new cities/towns. I’m not looking to scale Mount Olympus or join in with Rwandan freedom fighters -- no, no, I’m a shy girl (stop laughing -- am too!). And, yeah, I feel guilty for being such an undaring soul. Granted, I was raised Catholic -- I feel guilt when I draw a breath.

Honestly, music has determined my destination more often than not -- hearing old and new tunes on offer in safe, or relatively so, countries. In Scotland and Ireland it was trad fair (plus an amazing John Martyn show at Usher Hall). In Amsterdam, Prague too, it was about jazz, punk and an amazing Percussion fest. Random factoid -- when I was 42, my peak drum/percussion music ingestion level was 48 hours. Straight. That’s when I’d had enough drums and had to go out and take a wee break. Comparatively -- my reggae limit stands at 2 songs MAX.

In any case, at some point, back in the mists of my all too vast history, I met Jen who’s been joining me in my rambling walkabouts ever since. Solo travel isn’t over for me but, gotta say, I’m mad, crazy, wild about traveling with Jen -- the friendship, the camaraderie, the assist in lugging all the Black Cuillin and Hebridean Gold  back home (we had vicious shoulder aches for 3 months -- that’s some seriously heavy beer) -- it’s unmatched, unbeatable and too much fun to be legal. The chick’s a good time, I’m tellin’ you!

Our next big voyage will be in October -- back to a place we’ve earlier visited and loved -- An Daingean (Dingle) a town in County Kerry, Ireland. We’ll hike, bike, go to the clubs and see if I can absorb/hear the seisiúns through the vibrations in the wooden booths. All this AND our pal Brenda from Dublin (Slaine actually) will join us and MAYBE my cousin Della in Berlin will come up too.

Christ this is gonna be 500 shades of fun!

Internal Turntable Ride

A friend turned me on to Shawn Colvin way back before she was a big going concern. He’d heard her do Shotgun Down the Avalanche, accompanied by her own guitar playing alone, live on ‘ZBC out of Boston College. A-MAZING, totally brill!

I couldn’t wait for her first album to come out but was triple plus bummed when I brought home the album (remember vinyl?) and slapped it on the turntable. Sadly, like so many other beautiful clean pure, telling voices before her (Hello, Jennifer Warnes, Julie Driscoll, Judy Collins anyone?) the record company buried her under a ton of accompaniment. It would’ve been better/truer and far more magical with just her and her guitar.

Similarly maybe, is Richard Thompson’s song 1952 Vincent Black Lightning. I first heard him perform this at the Berklee Performance Center, acoustic, in 1991 — it hadn’t been recorded yet. I was blown away.

Even now I can clearly hear him singing/telling/seducing:

Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike
A girl could feel special on any such like
Said James to Red Molly, well my hat's off to you
It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952
And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems
Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme
And he pulled her on behind
And down to Box Hill they did ride

Thompson’s guitar playing is astounding — close your eyes and you’re sure there’s 2 people playing (Leo Kotke — same thing. He's a finger picking god). Mind you, the man’s done fab stuff with his various bands but it was just him and the guitar alone on Vincent Black Lightning that pushed me over into total aural orgasm.

Now, before you go thinking that I’m some folkie purist, a dense bit of orchestration can be slammingly inspiring. Think (hear!) the B side of Abby Road — with that final, sherberty, palette cleansing piffle ‘Her Majesty.’ NIN’s The Downward Spiral — the whole damned album. Ornette Coleman — Tone Dialing.

Jesus, what heavens these people created! Yeah, you oughta take a trip inside my head some time — I've got a SOLID jukebox.

Friday Catblogging!

Because I believe in honoring all Internet traditions. Of course.

Portrait of a Fuzzball as a young...em, cat.

The Teen Years

Yeah, you just know she's got a coupla good albums in her, a top ten tune and then, naturally she'll become a Scientologist like her dad. Right? You can see it coming can't you?

How I Got Kicked Out of Texas

Heading into Louisiana at dawn

the first time

*sigh*

You’d think, well I would think, that this would take some serious doing, I mean, honestly -- TEXAS. It's the home state of some definite eccentrics and troublemakers -- Molly Ivins, Janis Joplin, Clyde Barrow, ZZ Top and Gene Rodenberry to name a few. And I'm tossed?

This wasn’t an official state mandated “Get out you awful human” – this was personal-ish.

At Northline, the last big spot of the season, one of my fellow carnies, Jean, asked if I would go to their off season HQ and watch her 2 bairn while she was in hospital for a depressing and delicate operation. I agreed since:

A) I’m really all nice and giving like that there. HONEST!
B) It was a good way to put off making/deciding on THE NEXT STEP – deciding where to begin my life as an adult, a college grad, a person apart from the carnival and  my parental units.

Jean’s husband Dan, the father of little Michael and Jessica was unable to care for his children during those few days not because he’d be down by his beloved’s side, in the Houston hospital, where she was seeing to the very sad termination of a pregnancy gone horribly wrong -- oh no. Hospitals squicked him clean out – you know, they’re icky, scary and depressing. So, he’d be up on the land in Pluck, Texas NOT minding his very own progeny because....because? There was brush in urgent need of clearing?

Whenever I asked what he’d done all day (in a totally non-accusing kind of a way and, let me just tell you, that took solid, class A hard work on my part!) he’d mutter angrily about ‘fixin’ stuff.’ Oh yeah and he was big on visiting the neighbors – more on that soon-like.

More fun than Pluck on any given Saturday night

A few days stretched into ten. Hard going for 22 year old me – the Sunflower Galaxy had more fun going on than Pluck, Texas on its most thrilling day. Happily, my Northline beau, Red, had come along with me so I had help in caring for and entertaining the two astoundingly, fabulous bambinos. At the end of those ten days he and I were more than ready to cut loose, cut a rug, cut a fine figure and all that.

On that first free night we went to a roadhouse in nearby Seven Oaks. A place with all the charm of your elderly neighbor's faux wood paneled basement entertainment room but with marginally better lighting and a spiffy jukebox.

After feeding the racket machine (Red graciously gave me free reign but, sadly, they had no Captain Beefheart!), I returned to the table to find two Men in Black sitting with Red. Rut Ro! Before I could sit down, Red allowed that I should go ‘powder my nose.’

All I could think was “christ, I don’t EVEN want to know. I’m happy to play ‘little lady’ and hit the head if it means I don’t have to get into more carny drama.”

Well, waddya know – the feds were asking all about Jean and Dan’s neighbors up in Pluck. Turns out the joint was a cat house and gambling den. Heh, Dan was ‘fixin’ stuff’ my pasty, fat arse!

I was all chuckles when we got back to the land in Pluck until...until. Having heard us arrive home, Dan descended like a rabid terrier on WAY too many steroids. He ripped open the ‘door’ (flap) of our tent, brandished his rifle (hey, it’s Texas – you’re busted when you don’t carry a sidearm there) and loudly demanded we GET OUT NOW! NO, NOW!!!

I had hearing then but there’s no way I could sort out what the hell his anger tsunami was about. There was loads of yelling, screaming even, but no shooting. Yea! The man was radically, but not fatally, out of his head. I guess we, not on purpose, got his fave hookers and pimps busted.

So yeah, we got gone and molto rapidimente at that. I threw my shit into a duffle bag, tossed it into the back of Red’s ’57 Chevy truck and we headed east.

We hit 16 east through Beaumont, Texas and on into coastal Louisiana at sunrise. Who knew I’d be thrown into adulthood at gunpoint!

Tattoo You

OK, tattoo me.

I know, I know. I’m a 53 year old, deaf broad and it's been 30 odd (way odd, thank you very much) years since I came off the road with the carnival. Why now?

When I was with the show, tattoo ‘artists’ (and, believe me, that NEEDS to be in serious scare quotes) were everywhere. If you wanted a ‘lil’ devil, a valentine heart with birds or your squeeze-of-the-moment’s name emblazoned on a body part (just waiting to be tattooed over after the inevitable breakup) -- well, boy howdy that was easily done.

This was crap art with a capital E for Excremental Stinky Poopage.

Still and all I was sorely tempted. If I could have found someone with grand mas, QE2-loads of talent, I likely would have gone all Gustav Klimt on my ass (a canvas of some size). Yeah, yeah, I know -- it wouldn’t translate well to drawings on flesh. Luckily I’d enough sense to see that none of the ‘artists’ with the show had the talent to pull something like that off. The other thing I knew at that young age -- tastes change. I was laying odds on me actually growing, changing and maybe even *gasp* maturing.

So then, what the hell am I thinking, getting body art now, at this late age? Dunno, I just woke up and absolutely flat out knew the image I could see myself living with, committing to. Yep, Winnie the Pooh and Piglet. NOT the bloated, slicked up Disney versions though -- no, no, no, NO.  I want a faithful repro of one of the original illustrations, done by Punch illustrator, Ernest Shepard.

Why Pooh and Piglet? When The Amazing Bob™ and I first started seeing each other we often spoke to each other in Pooh-verse. Maybe that’s because he had an 8 year old who he was just  wild about. Coulda been due to The Tao of Pooh -- this favorite book, pretty much, encompassing our respective, belief systems. And perhaps the stories took us to the happy childhood neither of us had. Or, conceivably, we just loved the books just because and because.

No matter the case, Bob’s always been Pooh and I’ve always been Piglet. *Ahem* yes, we ARE strong with the sappiness, now that you mention it.  Truth be told, we’re kinda giddy with it too

I guess this is just another way to celebrate, honor and note our 27 years together.

Wild Ride -- Chapter 4

 I've never had such fun in a bush next to a church in the pouring rain with two strangers than I had that day.



Aidan snored, I snored, we both snored -- that's how we ended up together. At the shelter they group snorers together, like the brass section in the Miami Sound Machine.

For an entire week, we got to sleeping next to each other. I was in bed seven, he was in bed eight -- every time the staff announced our beds, I rejoiced. This unbelievable man was to my left -- unimaginable joy.

I had arrived to the shelter with my favorite book, and I leaned over him, in front of eighty men, and read it to him -- it was Dr. Seuss' The Cat in the Hat. I read it to him and he let me read it to him with a hand grabbing his upper arm, hidden from everyone in sight.

For that week I would be standing in line -- a leather bag would be thrust next to mine. Aidan would ask me to watch it, to guard his spot in line, a spot that no one at the shelter would be fool enough to say didn't belong to him. When we showered together, in separate stalls of course, it was mentioned that we were 'saving water.' Slowly everyone came to know what was happening and they became determined, as determined as I was to make us together, they worked to keep us apart.

It was also during this time that Aidan disclosed that we needed more money and that Canyon had a way that could provide it, so long as we became a team. We all had something to bring to the table, Canyon had his brain and intuition, Aidan was the muscle to provide protection if we were caught, and I was the guy who would push the cart -- affectionately know as the Ox.



The following week came with Aidan, Canyon, and I standing in line, having gotten there intoxicated. When we did our intake, Aidan went in front of me and I heard loud voices in the hallway. Aidan stormed past me saying he had been thrown out. During the search, the staff member had crabbed too close to his crotch and Aidan's arms went up in defense, enough to scare the staff member out of his mind. Staff members have the final say and Aidan was barred for life from the shelter.

I watched him from a window and worried for me and for him. Where would he sleep? Was I protected in a shelter where everyone had been threatened by our alliance? I had known the arrangement was too good to last but was dismayed that it could end so soon. Canyon came to my side, we rolled our cigarettes for the next day, and he swore that he would find a solution. We would all be together soon and it wouldn't be in the shelter.

Aiden was a popular guy -- there was a white Cadillac parked by the street in front of the shelter and that's where he'd stay for now.

One night soon I would remove my bootlace and try to strangle him in his sleep because he asked me to and when I failed it would be the beginning of the end of us.

________________________________________________________

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 New South Wales, Australia.

This is the Sea

Mary Ann, Grandpa and Grandma

OK this, THIS, is how claustrophobic I am — when I die I’d rather have my smelly, moldering, fat arsed nekkid corpse set out with the trash (and recyclables of course) on Monday morning than be put into a coffin and buried.**shudder**

 OK so I have a touch or so of taphophobia. I suspect this comes from reading far too many Edgar Allen Poe stories — The Premature Burial,  The Cask of Amontillado, The Tell-Tale Heart — as a child. N'est-ce pas??

Though, really now, I honestly don’t understand why anyone would want to be interred. I really don’t get it. Given the delicacy of the topic I’ve not done exhaustive Q&As of all my family and friends. Incredibly. even I know enough not to ask a recent widow(er) ‘why’d ya spend all that dough on the formaldehyde infusions for Rita, the fancy casket and then bury it where you’ll never see your investment again?’

Cemeteries have always seemed like a big, fat waste to me — acre upon acre of plastic flowers, granite monuments and unfarmable earth. And the funeral biz — OY!

From an Ask Leo&Lucy column in the Guardian UK:

'Environmental pressures (not least 7 billion people on the planet) make the issue of death very alive. Each year millions of tonnes of steel, reinforced concrete, copper, brass, plastic and thousands of tonnes of embalming fluid containing formaldehyde are used to cope with 60 million-plus deaths. We use arable land to bury the dead and cut down trees (50m per year in India) for pyres.'

I always figured I'd be cremated (yeah, face it — it's always been ALL about the cool urns for me)  but an article in Mother Jones, that came out just after Osama bin Laden took the final swim, got me thinking beyond cremation to burial at sea.

For cremation though, there are private ash scattering cruises — New England Burials At Sea being one of the folks in the biz. Hey, if we can make it one of those party boat type events, I can insure that I have an Irish style wake AND burial all at once! I'd hate to shuffle off without a grand spanking party.

But then there’s the concept of becoming fish food — a full body burial at sea.

“People who choose to be buried at sea, he says, "typically have a love for the ocean, do not want to be cremated, and prefer 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust.' They want to become part of the Earth again via our oceans."

"The natural burial shroud is a traditional, dignified and more environmentally friendly way to commit a loved one’s remain to the majestic ocean. It is also an affordable means of conveyance when compared with wooden or steel caskets."

"Flowers and wreaths consisting of materials that are readily decomposable in the marine environment may be placed at the burial site.

Mary Ann Maderer

~ Brad White, a 52-year-old licensed ship captain who has been depositing bodies in the Atlantic since 2005. His company, New England Burials at Sea, based in Scituate Harbor, Massachusetts

“Besides honoring nautical tradition, White says, a shrouded body has less impact than a corpse inside a coffin—the standard for the Navy, which offers full-body burials for veterans, provided the bodies are embalmed and sealed inside a metal casket with a few holes drilled in it. White prefers not to handle embalmed bodies. "We're into clean waters and clean oceans," he says. His system is designed to be as biodegradable as possible. Grommets in the shroud "help the body sink because air comes out. And when a body decomposes, body gases come out. It also allows sea life to go in and do what sea life does. What's left after everything degrades are the cannonballs, and they make their own reef." ~ Brad White

Why is this on my mind? Hard year. My beloved Aunt Mary Ann left this wondrous plain, Oni’s father died of cancer far too goddamned young, (if you ask me!) and my parents are in precarious health.

And, oh yeah, I’ve always had a bit of a morbid streak. If I’d been born 15 years later I’d have been one of those pretentious goth types. OK a happy, peppy, pretentious goth type.

Sheesh!

Waterboys -- This is the Sea

Caturday Night's Alright

What helps after an exhausting few days? Cats!

I have GOT to get Coco to stop watching Scarface while I'm at work though. Note to self: ask The Amazing Bob™ to monitor her Netflix time more.

Wild Ride -- Chapter 4



I was sitting on my bed, my thoughts full of how to do what's next, what to do. Then he was sitting

on my bed.

He told me he wanted to know how he should go about getting help -- he'd heard I was a person who could help him and was asking for an instructional of how to get what he needed. On my bed, sitting there, was the icon from my mind and he needed my help. And all I wanted was to get him under the sheets. Thank god I was drugged or he would have noticed my instant 'attention.'

 I tried to keep the conversation light. From the luck of the draw, his bed was just above mine. We were neighbors. He told me his name was Aidan but his friends called him Killer. I called him Aidan -- I will always call him that because we were not friends. We were never friends. These are his words and not mine, 'We are what we are.' That wasn't true though -- to his friends he would say "Me and Sam are me and Sam." He was a strong presence but at the same time was missing something in his life. I became determined to fill that void.

He was tired and quickly drifted off to sleep. This left me perched on my bed, looking over at him, thanking God for having sent him to my life. I also wished it was tomorrow, because I'd have the pleasure of having known him better for two days rather than just the one.



I returned from an appointment and was walking up the hill of what leads into the city's worst neighborhood when I looked past the church, towards the liquor store. Coming out the door was Aidan, with a brown paper bag and a spring in his step. I caught his eye -- he walked over to me and started talking. The dialogue was friendly and masculine -- within minutes I was invited to drink with him and Canyon.

Thus began the painful emotional struggle of always wishing we were alone, knowing that his friends had seen the appeal that he so clearly emanated. They were attracted to him differently than I was, no sexual tension, but it was the same in that they felt better about themselves when they were around Aidan. They fed into his desires, wishing to make him happy so they were able to bask in the light his soul radiated. We walked behind the laundromat with bottles in hand and began to bond in the way that men do.

Even in homelessness and poverty, there is bragging beyond measure of accomplishments -- where you’d come from, where you were going and how you would go about making your wishes come true. Canyon was smart, you knew it from talking to him for five minutes,. He was also directed in his goals by his priorities. His priorities were cocaine, beer, cigarettes and being with people he considered friends. He and Aidan had been friends for years. Over the consumption of beer in a back alley, I got the capsule version of who they each were.

Aidan, knowing the last fifteen years of his life was miserable entirely due to substance abuse and mental illness, was the voice of reason to dissuade any illegal activity. Canyon was the devil on your shoulder, waiting until you were just buzzed enough to consider listening to the suggestion to run astray. That and he had impeccable timing. We scored and walked down the street, looking for an acceptable place to consummate the relationship, substance wise.

 As we walked down that street, Aidan walked in front of me. I looked down at his hips, picked up an empty soda container and said "nice can." He thanked me, looked over his shoulder and saw I was pointing at the soda. I knew I had found a way to get my point across and that my point was taken. This is how you hit on someone who is clearly able to reject you without facing the rejection square in the face.  I was not rejected though. It was all I needed to pursue the chase.

I'm proud of myself for being so clever, thank you very much. I've never had such fun in a bush next to a church in the pouring rain with two strangers than I had that day.

Tune in Friday for Chapter 5 of 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.

Talent!

It’s far too easy for too many of us, hell MOST of us, to forget how valuable we are, to forget the skills and talents that we bring into the different environments of our lives.

Now, some skills/talents pay ridiculously, obscenely out of proportion well -- like Yankee third basemen (yeah, Mr. Rodriguez I’m talkin’ about you), professional statue (hey, that’s GOT to take years of sacrifice and endless practice to achieve a petulant look like that!), purse dog to drug addicted poor little rich girl (Paris Hilton’s dog Pug Mugsy? Poor bastard probably earns every one of those chicken jerky treats though).

You see where I'm going with this...right? I have some very special talents which have been totally underutilized. These should yield BIG paydays -- HUGE, I tell you!

Fer instance, and I believe there are others who have these innate skills but perhaps it’s all latent and shit:

1) Itinerant  Perfume Judging. This requires a heightened sense of smell, one which is particularly acute when in bars teaming with young urban professionals hoping to score big. Advising folks that the scent they’ve 'spritzed' on has all the allure of two day old gym socks after a marathon run through baby poop with just a hint of burnt Gummy Worm over top requires skill and talent. Boyhowdy, I've got this nailed! Not everyone can or will walk up to a total stranger and be this helpful and selflessly honest.

Alright, being able to duck very quickly and make a fast escape is pretty key too.

2) Misbehaving Driver Scolding. A lot of us do this, like breathing, but can we all say that we deserve to be handsomely compensated for it? No, no -- takes more than an erect middle finger to get the big bucks...or, it should. C’mon, unleash your inner Bukowski and go with it OR I should get a recording contract for my car time. You know “WTF are you doing, you jellied piece of toad excrement? What, you woke this morning and found you were Roger Miller? Wow, had I known I’d have packed flowers to strew in your path!” and then there’s the ever popular “Get the fuck off the phone and DR-II-IIVE!” Yes, 'drive' becomes a 3 syllable word here.

The Amazing Bob doesn’t drive, he likes to let me have all the jollies, but a few years back he joined in the fun and now even initiates. I am so too a good influence!

This is important stuff -- you may wish to begin taking notes.

3) Cookie Tester -- TAB and I would be just darling at this. It’s a spiritual calling really and we are nothing if not spiritual and shit.

4) Painter of Nekkid Folk. See this is an honest and true dealio but somehow I think I’ve a better chance of getting paid fto insult people.

What's your under appreciated talent? C'mon,
   I'd  really like to know!

King of the Road -- Roger Miller

Buona Pasqua!

On that same Italian trip, where I learned the wisdom of NOT naming one’s food before it comes to the table, I finally had prawns. I’d had shrimp, of course, but never these giant, prehistoric appearing sea beasts. Cindy’s right -- if I lived in Italy I’d be a total vegan. I just can’t deal with things on my dinner plate which look like either:
A) a pet  or  B) a creature out of a horror flick
no matter HOW fabulously tasty they might be.

It was Pasquetta, the day after Easter which, in Italy. is a bigger family day deal than Easter itself. Cindy, Giovanni, Jen, Oscar (their giant Bernese Mountain dog) and I headed down the Mediterranean coast to Giovanni’s brother’s for the big family celebration. We met everyone (a party which included Giovanni’s mother, his brother, sister, their respective children and mothers in law) at a restaurant on the water with outdoor seating (natürlich). I was seated across from Giovanni’s sister, Lucia, a senior high math instructor in Bari (my mother’s name, Lucia that is, as well as the city she’s from, coincidentally).

Lucia speaks English -- haltingly but FAR better than my, pretty much, nonexistent  Italian.

The trip happened while the very sad, big dust up over Terri Schiavo was going down in Florida.

Politicians inserted themselves into the fray. The case was the catalyst for Florida's controversial "Terri's Law", which gave Gov. Jeb Bush the authority to have Schiavo's feeding tube re-inserted when a court ruled that her husband could have it removed. The U.S. Congress quickly passed legislation allowing federal courts to intervene, and President George W. Bush flew back to Washington to sign the bill into law. It should be noted that this is the same George W. Bush who, as Governor of Texas, signed into state law the power of hospitals to remove a patient (in identical situations as Terri's) from life support -- a critical factor being the family's ability to pay the hospital bills -- even if such removal was against the family's objections.[3]

This inevitably and challengingly came up during the festive luncheon. I do try to never assume anyone holds the same opinion as me, you can, likely, tell what mine is on this, so I attempt to proceed softly. I don’t always succeed at the 'softly' stuff. Yeah, giant surprise, I'm sure.

Lucia was passionate in her belief that Schiavo should be kept alive artificially no matter what she reportedly had requested while sentient.

Oops, diplomacy time for Donna. I allowed that: 1) we all deserve the dignity, the honor of having our wishes honored -- especially those wishes which pertain to our existence's end. 2) It was a dirty rotten shame that Schiavo didn’t put her wishes into writing and have them notarized -- whatever those wishes might have been. And 3) it was magnificently sad that a parent could lose a child -- a child otherwise in the prime of life.

Lucia agreed and we moved on to the pasta course. SEE, I can SO be diplomatic, nice and socially ept!

Deaf Boars and Handsome Fish in Southern Tuscany

OK, OK -– it was me who was deaf – not the boars. They were just all dead-ish and shit. I guess that'd make them deaf too, huh? Hey, waddya know!?

I’d recently completed a round of relatively experimental radiation treatments in an attempt to stall if not fully duck the Nf2 fuelled deafness (which was coming at me like a fleet footed, coked up mugger on a dark street). Radiation left me tremendously weak for months, unsteady and mostly but not yet completely deaf. The treatment, like all of life, was a gamble – you know, you can’t win if you don’t play.

During a fit of “a good trip will make me feel better” optimism, “no illness will get the best of me!” determination and “geez, this invalid crap is boring” impatience, I booked a flight to Italy for Jen and myself. We would visit with Cindy and Giovanni at their new home in Sarteano, within the province of Siena.

When I was choosing the flight I noticed the button for special needs – “Deaf” in the drop down menu. I clicked it,  curious as to what this would trigger, what kind of help might be provided. Would the airline personnel communicate with me via American Sign Language or write down any/all announcements?  Nope but when we got to Milan to change planes there was someone to meet and escort us to the gate for our connection to Rome. That was it.

I found this pretty amusing. Sure, I was weak but it was my hearing that was gone not my ability to read signs or find my way ‘round an airport. I was just moving at a slightly slower than my usual speed walk pace. I still check off “special assistance – deaf” when I fly. One of these days an ASL fluent stewardess will come by, signing "Do you need more wine." Of course!

One of the first places we went, upon arrival, was a festival/fair in nearby Cetona. At the word “festival” my mind conjured craft fairs full of handmade pottery, finely woven shawls and silvery beaded earrings. There would, of course, be a bunch of booths selling the local cheese, Pecorino, and baked goods too. Back in reality though, few if any crafts were there but LOADS of food sellers. No  complaints from me – there was cannoli. CANNOLI!

What struck me funny, queasy-making even, were all the decapitated boar’s heads mounted on and around so many booths. Cindy explained that it’s one of the big local dishes.

Boar hunting? I thought that was just something they did back in The Taming of the Shrew and Canterbury Tales days. I felt as though I’d time traveled -– here we were in this small medieval town, in the twenty first century, high in the Tuscan hills, looking at severed boar’s heads next to trays of astounding, delicate pastries, breads and cheese.

Later, that night, we had a cook out with our hosts and their good friends Guiliano and Fausta. They had been out fishing on a nearby lake earlier in the day and caught our dinner. Now, I’m used to buying fish at the local US mega giant supermarket where the salmon, haddock and trout are filleted and bear little resemblance to actual fish – here the heads were still attached and their dead eyes were all staring at me in a challenging, dark and, possibly, evil way.

Naturally, I began naming my new, dead chums. This one is Horace, this one Celeste and here is dear Aiden. Important dining tip (pay attention here!) -– do NOT name your dinner, especially not before it hits the grill. Thankfully, Giovanni, filleted Celeste for me, removing her head from my squicked out sight.

Cindy allowed that if I lived in Italy, I would surely be a complete vegan. TRUTH!.

Next, I wondered how I’d fare with dinner conversation. As a hearing person I’d always been right in there, in the thick of things. I don’t know much Italian and, of our hosts and their guests, only Cindy spoke both Italian and English. My lip-reading, while significantly better now after a few years of practice, is not and will never reach, that totally mythical level shown in Hollywood spy movies. You know, it’s midnight, the spy is on the roof of the building across from the apartment where the suspect is having the game changing, all important tête-à-tête with his posse. Through a pair of binoculars our hero is able to successfully read everyone’s lips which enables her to foil the plot to overthrow the government/major corporation/clueless principle/prom queen.

Right. Sorry. Plot device not reality.

Dinner conversation was a swift paced verbal soccer match as Guiliano, Giovanni and Fausta talked, argued and laughed while Cindy translated at a pace rivaling Tour de France riders in the final stretch. In turn, Jen translated to ASL. Finally we all ran out of energy and called “fermata,’ ‘fine.” The Italians were a bit surprised since we all seemed to be keeping up, keeping our respective oars in the fast moving conversational rapids. We allowed that we just needed to catch a breath and then off we went again.

Conversation as long distance, endurance sport. LOVE IT!

Yes, I finally had boar – in a ragu sauce. None too shockingly, it was a bit gamey for my tastes. Nonetheless, I’m glad to say that I tried it.

Wild Ride -- The Crush (chapter 3)

 Winter’s end was nearing and the weather was starting to take a seasonable turn for the better. I had assumed my spot in line, the winter arrangement had ended. We had our beds assigned to us in the order of our appearance -- the earlier you returned to the line, the more favorable chance you had at a bed. It was never a guaranteed, done deal unless you had a permanent bed assigned to you. This made the wait longer, as you had to arrive earlier, which made standing in the line about as much fun as a root canal.

Talk always ranged from who had acquired what during the day, who you'd seen making way around town, and always, who was too intoxicated to fool the staff, who would not be getting 'in' that day. Our shelter staff consisted of easy going and not so easy going people who could, it seemed, smell alcohol from all the way down the line, and the rules were vague.

For some, just being intoxicated barred you from entering. For others, as long as you weren't trying to smuggle a bottle in during search, you could do no wrong. It was during the chatter of 'who will? who won't?' that I spied a new face in the line, talking to Canyon.

This was Aidan and, once seeing him, I knew we were going to join forces instantly -- the way you recognize an old friend. He was familiar and a charismatic stranger at the same time, clearly from prison with a 'the sun revolves around me' attitude. Like a Santa Claus who had taken the low road, he wore glasses that made him look smarter -- a tank top that made him look foreboding with a broad chest and muscled arms, long gray hair and beard that made him look wiser than any man I have ever seen. Incredible eyes that showed his enthusiasm for just being outside after being caged so long -- vitality effused from him and he had a voice that was, at once, all that I was willing to hear. Everything else was shut out, and I hung on his every word. He had a voice that was deep and masculine but clearly loved to laugh.

My mission was clear before I spoke to him and I planned my strategy immediately. I had food stamps, or what we affectionately call 'grub stubs', and headed to the corner store, breaking line and asking a mate to guard my bag, and my place in line. It was a warm day and I casually grabbed at ice creams in the freezer until the store clerk looked at me as if I were totally insane, loading them onto the counter. I returned to the line and started eating one and offered them to my friends in line and then made my way towards him. I casually looked in his direction and asked if he wanted one -- it gave me a chance to look more closely at him and introduce myself. AND also see if I could generate two flickers of interest -- one of genuine friendship and one that was entirely sexual.

In a Native American sense of understanding, it was clear to me that Dan had left this world and my life because he knew that Aidan was coming. There was nothing anyone could do to stop our meeting -- it was best to relinquish any hold on me, because the minute I looked, I was lost in him. In a world of wanting and feeling attraction to people that goes unanswered, hoping you're right, understanding when you're not, who'd have guessed that this guy would hear the message and have one of his own for me?

Who could know that he would ask me to kill him, and that I would agree to do it?
_________________________________________________________________________________

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.