Goin' Back To Texas

I'm headed out, after work, for a couple of too short days in Dallas with my molto awesome niece, Helen, and her tremendous family.

Her eldest is graduating from high school. Christ, where do all the years go?

How I Met Your... Family?

Oni, Jen, Bob, Miles and MOI!

Way back in the Stone Age, the Age of Aquarius. the Age of Enlightenment, back a good 20 years ago — Bob, Jen, Oni and I became friends and lovers (OK, not the ‘lover’ thing all 'round -- y’all know how much I hate that word — but the friend thing, oh yeah!).

I was the production manager (ooooh, quake in awe of my big title!) of a mid sized offset pressroom, within a larger quick print company.  We had jobs to fill and a reasonably big, local company from which I could steal workers....oops, I mean ‘offer advancement opportunities to interested parties.’

Me being a serial socializing type, I knew a lot of folks in different departments and locations. I knew a lot about them too — whether they were good print worker bees or nasty ass, lazy and execrable print worker drones.

We were creating a quality control department so, naturally I thought of The Amazing Bob with whom I was already twined for life (not sure if he knew this yet but it was sure down in MY day planner). He was doing the Quality Control Rhumba in the copy department and, with his eye for print related butt cobras, I knew he’d be perfect as the main dude in our department.

Next I found Jen. I’d heard she’d graduated from RISD with a painting degree. My thought was that maybe she and I could connect and score gallery exhibits together. That and I imagined she’d be a good quality control type as well as a good foil for Bob’s nonstop humor.  (So look, I married him for more than his humor, his hilarity. He’s got a great ass too.)

Next came Oni. He was working at a distant locale — I actually didn’t know him already. We met at the interview — I immediately knew that he was the one. The gig was bindery trainee.

On one night, multiple hours into handfolding hell, I realized that Oni and I were kindred spirits. He and I were working on an onerous job together when I announced ‘oh yeah, I went to college for just exactly this shit’ (pronounced with snark so heavy it needed wheelbarrows). Turns out, he went to Berklee for jazz — alto sax. Clearly, he went to college for a degree in menial work too!

Our conversation took off like greyhounds at Seabrook. All that and, as it happens, I was volunteering for the Mass Center for Native Americans (and doing my protest bit as well) — turns out Oni’s Seneca.

Somewhere along the line, Jen and On hooked up. Hooked up and decided they were in for the long haul together. I kinda helped. I knew that Jen was wicked warm (understatement alert!) for Oni’s form AND I knew that Oni’s current squeeze didn’t deserve him...seriously.

A few years later, the four of us, plus cats, began cohabiting on the top two floors of a triple decker in East Cambridge.

Bob and I eventually traded in our shack up status for a real, honest and true marriage license (thus defying the hippy creed). Jen and Oni? Well, they're gonna beat our record for most years getting-the-milk-for-free. We went 17 years before donning the smallest handcuffs in the world (for a total of 27 years). They're coming up on 17 years now and both still saying 'oh yeah, we'll get to that next Spring. Right, Pie?'

We’ve been co-habitating as a foursome for eleven years now. We’d do the big ass anniversary thing but something always gets in the way. Cats! BBQs! Stupid surgeries! We’ll get there. We’ll have the party (or ‘pah-tee’ as Jen insists I pronounce it — complete with guilt trips ‘but yur fatha, the linguist, would be devastated if you pronounced it othawise!’) one of these days.

And you’re all invited!

Panic in DE-troit

Always pronounced just like that too.

That song, off the album Diamond Dogs -- which was another absolutely KILLER tune -- always brings me back to Dime Box, Texas. This was the last spot we played, during my last season on the road, at the end of a long, too long, series of circus jumps (A difficult move between lots, usually calling for tearing down, driving, setting up and opening for business on the new lot without time to sleep). The town was beautiful, the lot, the midway, was positively bucolic -- so different from the scrub grass desert-ish spots we’d been playing over the last few months. We were set on a lush, green, tree covered undulating hill (which made the the Tilt even more Tilt-y).

And it was October. This was the first and only Autumn I’d spent in the South -- I was homesick for scarlet and amber colored trees, 50 degree temps and people who didn’t think I was a freak just because my vocabulary went beyond two syllable words (on rare occasion).

We skirted Austin on our way to Dime Box but, sadly to me, we didn’t stop. I’d been seeing the gimme caps all season with the legend ‘Austin -- Nothin’ But Steers and Queers’ and figured this’d be my kind of town. An oasis in a sea of swaggering cowboy wannabes, goat ropers and mincing, Maybellined and Aqua Net soaked bouffant babes.

Years later, a bunch of my band playing buds made an annual pilgrimage to Austin, to play and compete at South By Southwest -- the annual music, film, and interactive (interactive what? what does the ‘interactive’ refer to? Isn’t interaction intrinsic to all music and film?) conference and festival.

Much envy. Now, here in the present, my GRAND niece (how, in the name of all that is transcendent, did I end up with grandnieces???!!!) is graduating from high school, in Dallas, and moving down to Austin. Naturally I’ll need to visit. Visit and, undoubtedly, embarrass the crap outta her. Nothing like having your 53 year old Grand Auntie down for a visit -- the one who wants to hit all the live rock clubs and **shriek, horror** DANCE! Yes, yes...deafies can rock out. We can dance to the music. As long as there’s a solid beat goin’ down, I’ll feel it. If I feel it, I gotta move. No choice -- it’s how I’m wired.

In any case, back in 1980 Dime Box, TX, after a long blisteringly hot, yet profitable, carnival Southern summer, I decided to blow some of that hard won cheddar on an air conditioner. Yeah, I was livin’ under a cap on the back of someone else’s pick up truck but, dammit, I’d had all the steam bath level nights I could take. I got the frosty freeze hooked up, cranked to meat freezer in the Yukon levels and told everyone I was simulating Autumn in Maine. And YES, of course there’s frost on the windows in Boothbay Harbor in October!

Ahhhh, sleeping in 50 degrees, pulling my sleeping bag tight up under my chin with David Bowie on the 8 track.

Heaven. Of course.

Panic In Detroit -- David Bowie

Frankenstein's Hoodie

I’m not terribly talented at the traditional girl stuff.

Specifically, my sewing skills posses maximum levels of dubiosity. Final results always look a bit more like something Jackson Pollack might have thrown together or, probably more apt, the stitching bears a striking resemblance to Dr. Frankenstein’s handiwork.

Today, I attempted to put an elbow patch on my favorite deep purple, hemp hoodie. OK, it’s also my only deep purple, hemp hoodie which is why I wanted to patch versus toss. I chose an old bright pastel patterned, polyester scarf, bought and worn back in the mythical ‘70s, to use for a patch.  The colors and fabric are in a stark contrast to the near eggplant hue and rough texture of the sweatshirt. I figured this difference would be fun, interesting. And it is!

Then I started stitching the patch onto the hoodie's elbow. I used a bright teal colored thread because I thought it was different enough from all the other colors but would visually tie everything together. That and it was the only spool of thread in my sewing box.

I wish I could say that I started with neat, tiny, straight work -- that the loopy,  trippy, Edgar Allen Poe on a bender, stitching came later. You know, after I got bored with being good. Nope, I sucked right out of the starting gate.

Muti's sewing machine

My excuse for this, and I’m gonna stick with it too (!), is that I haven’t patched anything in eons. I’m out of practice. Really though, I was never good at this stuff. I’ve no patience for it.

I can throw plates (clay. on a potter’s wheel. thank you.) until the cats come home -- something which I would have thought required, for me anyway, reaching a whole other level of consciousness. Like I’d have to be unconscious to be so calm, controlled and focused. Or possibly dead. I bet I might be calm then.

I can throw but I can’t sew worth a damn. I don’t get it.

My father’s mother and my beloved Aunt Mary Ann used to do beautiful needle work. I still have some of the throws they created. My mother used to sew a lot of her own clothes. She even designed and stitched all my Barbie doll dresses. And, her mother was a professional seamstress.

It seems that some things just aren’t built into the DNA. I think I’ll go wedge some clay now.

I'm Melting, I'm Melting

Purple pom pom flowers in the Public Garden

Here’s how NOT to hook up with a dear old friend, one you’ve not seen in nearly a decade.  Meet at Park Street Station in downtown Boston on the hottest day of the year. Then walk, through legions of picture taking tourists in the Common, Public Garden and Back Bay, to the Museum of Fine Arts. Granted, that’s only a few miles -- really not a long walk -- but the temperature was near 90 and, well, I’m SO not a crowd or heat person.

I’m even less of a crowd person now because I don’t have auditory vestibular nerves (balance and sound) -- severed during my fun, little surgeries. My sense of balance comes from vision now -- if I’m distracted, as in large crowds, remaining upright becomes a giant challenge. Think Neo in the Woman in Red Training scene with Morpheus in the first Matrix movie.

 Like Neo I was trying awfully hard, mightily even, to pay attention to what the speaker, Joe not Morpheus, was saying. I was trying to adjust to how he speaks, how he forms words, so that I could 'hear' him. And I'm doing this while we're walking fast through a sea of humanity.

We get to the MFA, and I’m thinking ‘Hey, I’m doing pretty fair with the lipreading -- all things considered’ and then the John Singer Sargents, the Manets, the Monets and Morris Louis’ appear. I lost all ability to focus. Sargent and Manet are brushstroke gods. They describe, depict, bring so much to life in one stroke. I could spend a day in constant awe in front of any of their paintings.

We continued to explore through the new American wing, through Iranian ancient ceramic and glass, past Botero’s and Gaston Lachaise’s bodacious women.

And then, too soon, I was just done in -- I couldn’t  look at more art while walking and concentrating on lipreading anymore. I needed to just sit, have lunch and catch up with my old pal. So we did. We hit Symphony Sushi for a salmon roll combo plate and sauvignon blanc. YUM!

Next time we get together, and it won’t be ten years this time,  we’ll attempt less. That is, we’ll get together for a meal and conversation or a movie or the MFA again (but NOT on a feverishly hot summer weekend day).  Hey, maybe even a hike in the Blue Hills or the White Mountains! (No, I never learn.)

Note to self: wear appropriate shoes no matter what activity I attempt.  For the sweltering cross town walk yesterday I wore my new sandals.

Yeah I’m real bright like that -- bright and blistered that is.

I'm Melting, I'm Melting!

Friday Night of a Long Weekend Bay Blogging

Breathing deeply and oh so contentedly here. This is part of why:

Hey, You've Got To Hide Your Body Away

Male swimsuit fashion is utterly, mind bogglingly, mystifying to me. It’s not just chubby, old geezers sporting the baggy coverall look, it’s young hot guys too. I’m telling you, I just do NOT get this.

And, you know, there’s absolutely no female equivalent unless of course you’re sporting the beach burqa look this season — generally not seen on American shores, mind you.

 Hell, even my one piece black, I-coulda-been-a-nun, old lady suit has more going on!

No, no, I’m not expecting men to be all on display for my personal benefit (necessarily) but what’s up with the plaids, the stripes, the Hawaiian print male muumuu looks? Is this insecurity? Timidity? A return to the Victorian age? Are they not wearing more abbreviated bathing costumes due to male slut shaming from their peers, like so many innocent yet early developed teen girls have suffered ? (**cough** me) Does that phenomenon even exist for men?

And what, I ask you WHAT, is the big scary ass deal about men in Speedos? Why is this considered laughable, gross and/or massively eye roll worthy? Seriously. I want to know.

What’s wrong with the human body that it needs to be covered under yards of cloth? Precious few of us are Beyonce or Michael Phelps and, sure, I’m SO not keen on seeing Jabba The Hut in a Speedo either. (Come to think of it though, figure the odds of ever seeing said snippet, or any other clothing, under all those folds of flesh).

Really and true though, I’ve seen regular type men of all shapes, sizes and colors, Speedo wrapped, at Walden, Nantasket and even a couple of nude beaches right here in the US of A,  I’ve never found any of these gents to be hurl worthy or even eye roll inspiring. I’ve been far more inclined to applaud their courage — the courage to step out of the pack and show a little style and joy.

It’s absurd, and setting ourselves up for massive disappointment, to expect the populace at large or small to look like game on, peak form Hugh Jackmans or Penelope Cruzes.

Sure, I work out nearly every day but I still have a few pounds to shed before I’m comfortable. I’m not going to wrap myself in a tent just to possibly, maybe keep from offending the figure police. I don't expect men to either.

Dammit!

Pearl Jam -- You've Got to Hide Your Love Away

The Fine Art of Head Banging

I bet you thought there was just one way to do it. Hell, even within the relatively narrow spectrum of Metal, there are at least 3 distinct ways to bang.

On the surface there’s the whole hair issue. I’ve been told (naturally I researched this by consulting at least 2 bartenders as well as Jen, who counts as an expert since she’s so young. OK, so much younger than me, anyway), that head banging is all about the hair. Now, I can well imagine that hair is or can be a central aspect, a building block, of well executed banging — I firmly believe that there’s more to it though. You know, subtle shades, nuances, suggestions of a greater palette of emotion.

Gracious me, think of how much Malevich’s White on White tells us and that’s the very pinnacle of subtle — on the surface, that is. By comparison, head banging is speaking encyclopedias of...of...something!

Jen tells me that there are three basic paths at the root of the hair issue.

1) The long, straight or straight-ish do. This must be dyed either Billy Idol blond or Keith Richards black. It can also be blown dry, curling and flowing — length and color are key though.

The idea is to create a simple parabola — to begin by swinging those fluid sheets of hair forward, masking your face and then back. From there, you build in the up and down movement, add velocity until, voilà, you have Cartesian coordinates.

At the height of bang exuberance, your body repeatedly forms right angles, while the luxuriant streams of hair fly in inverse directions,

This dramatic style is favored by Metalheads. Granted, there’s many styles of Metal — OK, 3 that I can think of. Vanilla Metal (think Metallica), Death Metal (Pantera) and Speed Metal (Slayer) which brings us to the next hair expression.

2) The No Hair look. You must be totally bald (or close to it. shaved head counts) to pull this off.  The Baldini is generally found at Punk shows — think Screeching Weasel, a favorite of Jen’s.

Punk and Speed Metal banging overlap in that there’s a more shallow depth of movement. Instead of wide swinging arcs, you see short, fast head bobbing. Up and down, back and forth — rapid and, generally, with a grimace. Think concert halls filled with folks who’ve been tweaking for so many consecutive months on end,

3) The Mullet..... I’m not sure that I can call what they do head banging actually. How about “Lame Banging?” The head bobs, generally, in direct conflict with the shoulder movement such that the ‘banger’ appears, more than anything, to be a box turtle semi-frantically attempting to duck into his shell.

Is the Lame Banger really into the music? Oh goodness no! While ‘banging,’ they’re most often seen attempting to, surreptitiously, scout out the young female of the species (generally short and wearing pink. Ruffles are not unheard of). The apparel of the Lame Banger? The shirt will be a poly blend and plaid. The pants? Oh, who the hell looks? This guy makes train wrecks look fascinating!

Me and Jen? What’s are our head banging style? We’ve both had long hair and both been bald. We favor the long hair style of movement because we’re all emotive and expressive like that. We’re the Isadora Duncans of head banging!

I Don't Get It

Can’t say that I was ever a James Taylor fan -- not in his longish haired young hippy freak years or his gracefully balding older guy times. Nope, apart from a tune or two (whose names, tellingly, escape me now) I just didn’t/don’t groove to his beat,

Most, OK 100%, of my female freshman college class did though. Alright, to be fair, I only hung with music, art and English majors. Maybe the business majors and home ec. (or as we termed them -- MRS degree chasers) students were all about Lou Reed and Johnny Rotten -- huh? /snort/

In any case, my fellow girl type students sorts were wildly in love with “Sweet Baby James” to the point of cream colored muslin, trimmed in cotton lace, wedding dress fantasies. No lie.
I didn’t get it then, I don’t get it now. Granted, way back then, I was solidly into Bowie, Talking Heads and Dylan.

Though they were gods to me, I didn’t want to run off in my torn jeans and conveniently ragged, paint spattered red work shirts to walk down the aisle with any of them -- no, no, no. Those infatuations were all about the music -- seriously. Now then, Keith Richards, Roger Daltry and Franz Liszt (and YES I knew he was long dead, thank very much) -- oh baby, THEY were some serious fantasy inspiring dudes. No, I didn’t want to marry them -- just have my wicked way and all that. Yes, yes, yes, girls can have wicked ways and intentions too. No, honest and truly we can.

 Taylor seemed so...dunno...lame. soft, elevator music-ish. Like mashed potatoes without the jalapeños. Like whole wheat Wonder Bread with a schmear of cream cheese. Yes, I totally know that I’m committing huge crimes against something or other with these statements but...but...damn, I STILL don’t get the appeal!

Why does this come up now? I just found out yesterday that Mr. Taylor plays every 3rd Thursday, when he’s not on tour, at our neighborhood, 2 blocks up the street, pub. Louis. He’s buds with the owner apparently. Sheesh! The joint’s tiny -- the “stage” fits exactly one person (a ‘platform’ vs ‘stage’ and even that’s a stretch) -- the bar seats 15. Maybe. It’s only recently that anything other than Bud or Sam (Adams) was on tap, the crowd’s more like me (blue of collar and profane of tongue) than the Tanglewood or Newport Fest folk and god forbid you ask for a veggie burger at Louis.

So now, of course, I want to go there some Thursday. I wouldn’t hear him, duh (it’s that deaf thing, you know?) but it’d be fun to see this celeb plunking out the tunes at my corner bar. Awesome even.

Now, if only they could get Richard Thompson for Wednesday nights!

Late Spring Random Bits

on a gorgeous Saturday evening.

Conversation with The Amazing Bob:

Me: I got my period AGAIN last night -- what the hell? Menopause is pure, unmitigated hell.
TAB: When does it end?
Me: When I’m dead but there's no guarantee.

Funny/incredible happenstance:

About ten years ago, I was in some on line political chat room, chatting. One fellow and I really hit it off conversationally -- we had a total ‘like minds’ thing going on. We ended up continuing our conversation via email, independent of the site. We talked about our creative, not specifically political sides -- he’s a jazz pianist in LA and me -- blathering about the painting habit.  Within 3 exchanges he asks/says ‘I know this is going to sound funny but you remind me so much of someone I used to know. Are you, by any chance Donna Maderer?’ Previously we'd been all nom de plumey.

..the hell? All this time I thought I was a whole ‘nother, new person now— that I’d evolved to unrecognizable, stellar heights since my depressingly unhip, neurotic youth! At first I was all embarrassed but then, duh, realized that he liked me then and still does!

Maybe I wasn’t such a maniac at 17 after all. Or maybe I was a not-so-bad kind of maniac.

Waddya know?

This evening’s totally deep observation:

There’s horse racing and dog racing. Illegal dog fights and equally illegal cock fights. Hell, there’s frog jumping contests and pigeon races. Interesting that you never hear about cat racing or organized cat fight competitions, eh? Kinda speaks to their clear intellectual superiority, don’t ya think?

Language thoughts:

Bilious — great word. I love the way it rolls off the tongue. Say it — you’ll feel what I’m saying.

“Mastectomy is the medical term for the surgical removal of one or both breasts, partially or completely.”

“Mastication or chewing is the process by which food is crushed and ground by teeth.”

Funny how these very different words start the same way.

The Amazing Bob and I each reduced to one sentence:

TAB - Literature reading, poem writing, jazz and baseball loving, piano playing, earthy, beat generation hippy type.

Me - Comic book reading, bombastic music appreciating, painting, scribbling, team sport eschewing, earthy, bohemian-ish broad.

On our marriage license (at Cambridge City Hall, natch) he listed his occupation as poet. I listed mine as painter. Didn’t ask what we got paid to do, just what we were occupied with.

How to spend a sunny Saturday Afternoon:

Just saw Dark Shadows with an old pal. The movie, while fun-ish, was pretty bad all in all. Still, spending a couple of hours in a dark theater on a sunny late spring afternoon, sharing a bag of salty popcorn with an old friend, is hard to beat.

Friday Night Marsh Blogging

Sometimes there are egrets, sometimes ducks, sometimes geese. High tide at dawn is breathtaking.

Carny "Roommates"

I suppose these 2 qualify for worst roommates evah! but, really now, they were also fascinating glimpses into other, even crazier worlds, from my own.

It was my first season out on the road with the carnival. I was “living” in the back of a fellow jointy’s pick up truck. (all definitions are from GoodMagic.com and their dictionary of carny  lingo. Jointee or Jointy — An agent, a person working a game -- AKA a joint) He put in a Twiggy-width, one inch thick, foam “mattress” and a small light -- you know, so I could read at night after the show closed. Honestly, it was great -- it was a place of my own to escape. This was much more than I would have had otherwise.  If not for this generosity, I’d have been sleeping on the ground, in the joint at night. Amongst other obvious discomforts, just imagine how it would feel to sleep where you work every night. Not that the pick up was more than a 2 minute walk away at most spots.

There was also a cap over to keep out the rain and bugs. In the September Houston heat this also served as a sauna. You know, it was awesomely posh if you stretch your imagination around the world and back.

And then...and then....they gave me roommates. I suppose truckmates would be more apt.

The first was a girl, Jessie, around 21 to my 19 years of age, who’d just joined up. She’d been a  truckstop stripper/hooker but was getting away from all that. She was movin’ on up to the ultra swank carnival lifestyle.

My first thought on hearing of my new roomie was “Gee GOSH, fascinating! I really want to understand where she’s coming from.” My second thought, upon meeting her, was “wow, total skank but still, this could be interesting.” After three days of sharing the back of a pick up? “You bitch! You borrowed my shorts without asking and now you’re telling me you have crabs so I better burn them and take the ‘crab cure’ too, just in case?” You can well imagine how much this endeared me to her and her to me.

No worries, in short order she found some sugar daddy biker who, inexplicably, found her appealing, wanting her to move into HIS pick up truck bed. I wished her well.

My next roommate that season was a huge step up. OK, he seemed a step up in the beginning. Nice, respectful, hard working guy. At first. He was awesome on set up mornings -- up and in the truck throwing the lumber (the bones of the joints) without me having to clobber him awake, as was necessary with the rest of the crew. (Waking the crew was my job and yes, I was born an annoying morning person. It’s in my DNA). He helped drive stakes (incredibly, this isn’t a Buffy reference) and even helped me flash my joint -- one of the largest on the midway. (Flash as a verb: "to flash your joint", to make your joint more visible and attractive, and/or to set up an attractive display of prizes. One former carny said, "Flash is everything - the prizes you put out there and the way they are arranged.")

As we all got to know Jimmy better, we found out that, like a lot of other carnies, he’d blown probation. He was on the run. Hiding out. Sure, I got a few interesting prison snippets (such as ‘NEVER sit at the head of someone’s cot.' This was either a profound show of disrespect or a come on. I forget.)

In any case, it didn’t take long before, at spot after spot, there were plain clothes cops trolling the midway. They were looking for Jimmy of course and asking each of us all about him. A big shrug and “gosh, the name doesn’t sound familiar” were our standard responses.

Around the same time it was discovered that Jimmy had stolen some money and property from the boss. Jimmy was DQed (D.Q. — Short for "disqualified" (probably from wrestling parlance). To be thrown off the lot and ordered not to return. Might happen to a rowdy mark or to a worker who steals or messes with something he should leave alone, or causes more problems than he's worth. An employee fired from one joint can consider himself d-q'd, because no one else will hire him).

This trip into an alternate universe with it’s attendant major annoyances, was worth it -- fascinating shit. Better still, in the larger view of life, the annoyances were intensely brief.

I can very well imagine that we’ve all had bad, inconsiderate, crazy roommates without the extra, added, crazy, yummy benefit of them being carnies.

Tell me you stories, please!

What If

Have you ever thought ‘what if?’ Pffft, who hasn’t -- we’re breathing, sentient beings on the planet after all. For most of us, this what iffing is a healthy diversion, a daydream, a pack of parakeets hurrying into the sky.

I was reading, TBogg, one of my fav bloggers this morning. He mentioned that his daughter, who’d recently graduated from the University of Hawaii was living at home until grad school. This ‘what if’ landed squarely, solidly in my brain stem, inspiring me to wonder and dream.

You see, way back in the early ‘60s, (AKA The Dawn of Time, AKA When Dinosaurs Ruled The Earth, AKA Before Smart Phones and Kindles Ruled The Earth) my father was applying to grad schools. Apparently he didn’t want to be a prep school math/science teacher forever -- go figure.

He had enviable, swoon worthy choices, having gotten into all the schools he’d applied to. One of these was the University of Hawaii.

Just imagine! We were living in mega rural New Jersey at the time and, though we’d lived a couple of places before (New Haven, Connecticut and York, Pennsylvania), it was the only home, the only environment I was aware of. There were huge buttercup and dandelion filled meadows, cool, gentle streams, ponies and free roaming, happy cats. There were poplars, aspens and willows everywhere. It was pretty idyllic to little me but, boy howdy, I’ll bet I could have cottoned to palm trees and surf right quick. You know, little kids are adaptable like that.

I would have been 7 years old when we got there. We probably wouldn’t have come back to the Mainland much given the cost, time and high annoyance factor of traveling with children . Hey now, I was a total DREAM as a child! Though even dreams can be bothersome pains in the ass at times. *cough*

This was, I’m sure one of the bigger reasons we didn’t move there. Pop and mi madre had close, much loved family here -- all here in New England and Upstate New York. We visited, and vice versa, often.

I envision Lucy and Chuck dreaming of beginning this next chapter in life -- free of familial obligations and censure, raising their brood in paradise. And then I see them returning to reality with a big old heavy thud. Daddy also got into Brown. Providence, R.I. was closer to parents, sister, brothers and much loved cousins. It was Ivy too and that’s always counted for a lot.

I’ve envied my friends who grew up in military families. They moved a ton too BUT they got to live in and travel around exotic places, even if just for a few years of their childhoods. This isn’t me being all ‘oh, poor me!’ -- no, this is just my imagination gone on walkabout. I also wonder what it might have been like to grow up in NYC, Northern California and Prince Edward's Island (yep, the Anne of Green Gables books were my absolute favorite). These being equally exotic in my book.

Having said all this, I’m a fortunate, blithe babe here on Hough’s Neck on the Massachusetts coast. This is Valhalla.

Do You Know Where You're Going To

I was having this vivid dream featuring an ex, very ex, coworker and then boss. She called me into her office for a “chat.” Yeah, you know that kind of “talk” where you're sure, before you cross the threshold of the office, that you’re going to spend the rest of the day ricocheting between inexpressible volcanic fury, anxiety (anxiety that'd make Woody Allan look like an unusually laid back Deadhead) and fear. It's the kind of chat that puts you on notice—put one toe forward in just the wrong way and you’re out the door. On the street. Panhandling on Boylston St and bedding down under the Forest Hills Overpass.

Luckily, before the dream could go further into Nightmare on Sea Street territory my furry alarm clock landed on my chest. Ever notice how your cat weighs 8 tons at 4 AM and a feathery light 8 pounds after you’ve had your first cuppa joe? That’s my Coco anyway. I think she’s a shapeshifter—an elephant seal at night, an adorable small kitten by day.

Meanwhile, back at the bad dream's aftermath—at first I was wondering why Linda came to mind. I haven’t seen nor thought of her in a few light years. My pondering derailed as I remembered her, wondering who she is now.

When we met, in our early 20s, she was at the very tail end of her wild child years while I was still deeply entrenched in dancing life’s Extreme Tarantella and would be for decades to come. I know that we tried to do the social thing once but we were such a mismatch it was amazing enough that we could share a glass of wine without fisticuffs or naps breaking out.

She was going in the big corporate suit direction, went on to get her MBA even, and all I wanted to do was paint and play in the clay. And, oh yeah, hit The Middle East and T.T.’s as many nights out of the week that I possibly could. Not so horribly different from now actually.

Linda had parties to celebrate the Kentucky Derby and the Head of the Charles Regatta. I had pumpkin carving and egg painting parties. We weren’t on each other’s guest lists which made a ton of sense then and now.

Still and all, part of me wishes we could have formed some kind of connection. Why? Dunno. She was smart, strong, I respected her and felt that maybe there was some sliver of herself down deep, that wasn’t so hugely different from me. I could be spectacularly wrong on that. 

Where ever she is, I wish her well. I wish her molto grande joy-joy. If you know Linda Sawyer, tell her I said ‘hey.’
Diana Ross -- Do You Know

Heike and Emily

 In the days when I called myself a Christian, I often repeated the mantra, “God never gives you more than you can handle.”  In a life that has always seemed to have more than its shares of major stressors, the main evidence that it may be true is my amazing daughter.

She came into our lives almost two years to the date from when I lost my first child, a son we named Nicholas Michael.  Because of Nicholas’ death, I was treated as an at risk pregnancy the second time, which in those days meant that I had to spend the end of the second trimester and most of the third trimester in bed.  1988 was one of the hottest summers ever, and I spent most of it in our air conditioned bedroom.

The nursery had been set up two years earlier.  The walls were painted sky blue and there were sheep jumping over clouds around the room.  Dennis’ childhood dresser and my favorite bamboo bookcase had been painted white.  The brass crib my parents had bought was set up with a mobile hanging over it, and the changing table was stocked with two year old baby powder and lotion.  The blue and yellow curtains, sheets, and lampshades had long been given to charity, and blue newborn sized diapers had long been removed.  The room door was always closed now.  By the beginning of September, there were still no pretty dresses on tiny hangers.  The bassinette my nieces had slept in during their first three months on this earth was parked in my in-laws’ living room with some very tentative plans about going down to the fabric store in Getty’s Square to pick out white eyelet skirt fabric for it.  Also in the back of my mind was some gorgeous pink flowered fabric I had seen somewhere that I would make into curtains and a quilt if I made it to 36 weeks.

I did make it to 36 weeks, in fact, I made it to 40 and a half weeks.  Every day starting a week before my due date, Dennis drove me to his parents’ house about a mile from the hospital, where I then spent the day waiting to go into labor.  I had told everyone that I would have no problem driving the mile to the hospital when it happened. Then on a warm Tuesday in October, at about 2 pm, I called my sister in law.  All I could muster to say into the phone was a strained, “Andrea!!!”.  The response was, “You can’t drive, can you???”  Three hours and 14 minutes later, Emily Taressa came into the world.  Her 8lb. 12 oz. body on my belly just moments after birth was truly the most comforting thing I had ever felt in my life. 


At one point, a nurse came into my room and said, “Mrs. Schulz, your baby girl has violet eyes like Elizabeth Taylor – we’ve never had one like that before!”.  From that day, Emily has been the greatest source of pride and pleasure in my life. 

I knew from the start that I would never have the welcoming hug my grandmother had, or the total altruism that my sister has for her kids.  I knew I would never have the level of patience my sister-in-law had, or the energy and drive my own mother had.  The only thing I had was my love and passion for this beautiful bundle of happiness.

 Right from the start, Emily pretty much raised herself.  She slept through most of the night almost immediately.  When I had to go back to work for a few months when she was only 12 weeks old, she switched to a bottle during the day but was happy to return to nursing at night and in the morning. She would wake up cooing and playing with her toes, trying to grab at her mobile, or jibber-jabbering at Spanky, our 23 lb. cat who had taken to sleeping in her crib.  One morning, when she was six months old, she woke up crying.  I called the pediatrician, who told me “Babies cry.”  I told her, “Not this one,” and took her in.  That day, she was diagnosed with her first ear infection.

 That’s pretty much how it’s been for me as a mom:  Emily told me what she wanted, and I supplied what I could of what she needed to make it happen – then she did the rest:   She wanted to ride horses and be in shows – we bought the horse and took her to lessons, and she won the ribbons.  She wanted to play the oboe – we bought the instrument and took her to lessons, and she ended up on stage with the Pittsburgh Symphony at Heinz Hall.  She wanted to go to the University of Florida to become a journalist, I supported her in moving back to Florida without me (“Mom, I promise to go to the doctor, get my teeth cleaned, have my eyes checked, wear sunscreen, and bring water wherever I go.”) and she ended up being editor-in-chief of The Alligator.  She wanted to work on a liberal paper in a hip city, I drove with her the 4,300 miles from Gainesville to Portland the day after graduation – and she is flourishing.

So far, being a mom is one of the easiest things I’ve ever done because of an intelligent, beautiful, kind, hard-working, talented, determined, independent young woman, the love of my life, my pride, my joy…my Emily.

_______________________________________________________________

Heike Schulz is a mom and special education teacher in a public middle school in Pittsburgh, where she lives with her three giant rescued dogs and a 21 year old cat. She and Donna met on Facebook through Donna’s cousin and Heike’s lifelong friend, Gary Guzzo.

Ah, Mom

Written by The Amazing Bob on April 30th, 1997 -- the night before his mother shuffled off this mortal coil.

Ah, Mom
Over three months now
Since your stroke
And your strong peasant heart
Keeps beating,
Dragging your poor wasted body
Down, Keeping it on Earth,
Stripping it of flesh
And dignity.

Enough pain,
Enough misery,
Enough, enough.
Amazing enough
You lived 79 years,
Daughter of Polish
Peasant immigrants
In New Bedford --
Then a dying whaling city
Later a dying textile town,
Now, like you, lingering
On deathbed unconscious.

Ah, Mom,
You married young,
In haste --
“Marry in haste,
Repent at leisure”
You used to intone
On drizzly weekends.

Married young, pregnant.
Young, drunken husband,
Three children and
Decades of labor in
Sweatshops, laundries,
Five-and-Dime stores,
Decades of minimum wage jobs,
Decades of cheap porcelain,
Cotton dresses, Spam and
Fried baloney and corn
Chowder.

Decades of Polka music,
Decades of scrimping
And saving for some
Halfassed dream of
Home ownership and
Respectability

Culminating in dad’s
Drunken gunshot suicide
In basement of Dream House
In Fairhaven

One son at sea for 30 years
One son at home
One son seeking working-class
Bohemian bliss,
One terrific grandson --
He in university, free
Of family legacy of
Booze, gambling, deadend jobs
And emotional dysfunction --
And you glad to see it.

At ease in your last decade
With no husband to lock with
In mortal psychic combat --
Got rid of burdensome house,
Moved into quiet apartment
Back in New Bedford --
Where you could play
Your  scratch tickets,
Drink cranberry juice,
Take walks in the sunshine
Listen nights to talkshows
Of American semiconsciousness
On little bedside plastic
Radio

Having survived cancer,
Hysterectomy and radiation
Therapy,
Having lived to see
Your oldest son retire to New Hampshire with
His day job and Business
News

Having seen your youngest son
Survive leg amputation and
His own toughness,
Having seen your middle son
Settle into divorced
Single parenthood in Boston
Having assumed your own
Quiet heartstop in sleep
Some gentle night

But no!

There was instead
The stroke, the
Loss of speech;
The right side paralysis,
The hospital, the rehab
Clinic, the nursing home,
The wasting away.
No way to talk
No way to walk
No way to ever go home again,
Just the slow loss of
Function, the loss of
Appetite

Depriving you of your
Well earned rest
In the bosom of
The universe

Ah Mom
    I love you
    And I wish you death

            April 30th PM 1997
__________________________________________

Friday Drama Queen/Cat Blogging

Fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy night.

Friends, Lovers. What? Why? Huh?

What makes us want to be friends?
What makes us want to be lovers?

Oh no...TANGENT ALERT!

I really hate the word ‘lovers.’ I despise that painful designation with every fiber of my being as well as the fibers of three other beings -- human or not

The word just skeeves me clean out. It puts the '70s in mind -- being at parties where guys were heavily voguing the James Taylor/Jackson Browne/Kenny Loggins look and vibe. They’d each knocked over the Fort Knox of Self Confidence before breezing in the door and were fully confident that every last chick was gonna fall over them.

2 things:

1) yes, those guys did score big with their “god, I’m unfathomably deep, laid back, handsome and monstrously sexy in these cool, cotton scrubs -- n'est-ce pas. (and, no, it was never a real question, implied or otherwise) Of course you do. Now, listen to me expound on the wisdom of Allan Watts, the absolute beauty of a suspended 7th chord and ME”  rap.

Sadly.

2) None of them, (OK, one or three maybe), responded well to my *ahem* directness. The “no, look man. Talking Heads, Sex Pistols -- THAT’S where it’s at. Now then, you wanna f*ck or what?” response to their shtick rarely did more than get rid of the poseur. I’ve never been the Harlequin Romance type and, even pre-carnie days, not so easily snowed or taken in by such lame ass, condescending, unimaginative pick up line excrescence.

*Cough* -- back on topic. I was wondering how it is that any of us ever connect, stay connected and/or go deep on that connectedness stuff. I asked my fellow Valhallians, of course.

Me: “Jen, what do we have in common?”
Jen: “F*ck you.”
Me: “Yes dear.”

Mind you, she said this with a smile and a laugh but still, she can be a real wolverine on the way into work in the morning. Oh please, she can so!

Me: “Oni, what do we have in common?”
Oni: non verbal response. I got his WTF look -- half his face skews upward, half down. His eyes take on this gleam that’s half OMG-she’s-finally-totally-flipped. The other half is  all curious -- “the hell is she on about now?”

Me: “Honey Pie, what do we have in common?”
The Amazing Bob™: First there’s a look very similar to Oni’s. Second, the reply: “Does my Honey need a cuppycake?”

The man’s a god. Seriously.

Jen, as usual, came up with the response -- it’s how we view the world, how we function on a daily basis -- alone and together. It’s about our priorities -- they’re in line. It's not about specific details. Like:

a) We all play death match rugby
b) Read Wittginstein for fun
and
c) ONLY listen to Bach sonatas as performed by Glenn Gould. Period!

 Eh -- no.

Jen's the wisest chica I know. Or maybe she's just the wise-assest. I forget.

Her least favorite word on the planet -- the word that puts her into immediate deeply offended, wounded even, argot spasms?  “panty”

Simon and Garfunkel -- Old Friends

Brain On Fire

And not in the fabuloso way that I prefer either.

So I give you a poem by one my absolute favorite authors, the brilliant and funny Sherman Alexie.

If you haven't already, read The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. Check out Indian Killer and check out his website for interesting bits, short pieces and what he's into now. ALWAYS interesting.

How to Write the Great American Indian Novel

All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.

Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.

The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably
from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.

If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender
and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man

then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.
If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white

that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.
When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps

at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:
brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.

You can read the rest of this fab poem here.

Cheers!

I Don’t Know How To Be Deaf

I didn't get the manual. I think I was sick that day.

Imagine this -- you’re deep into middle age (46, thank you very much) when, all of a sudden but not wholly unexpectedly, you lose all your hearing. Once you get past the immediate shock, how do you function in the world?

Do you leave the hearing world behind and become the new kid on the block in a world where everyone’s deaf? Is there a deaf world running parallel  to the hearing one?

Maybe. Probably. Yeah, duh.

I didn’t leave Hearing World for Deaf World when my sound system (Bose  of course) took the last train for the coast. Granted, I’d gone to parties, formal socials and art openings within the deaf community but  I didn’t dive into the deep end. Think about it -- I was basset hound tired from endless surgeries as well as the shock of being suddenly, fully deaf. That and, throughout all this, I was working a full time job in a hearing environment. The company had just been sold, the economy was tanking and I was working my pretty ta tas off trying to keep up and not get laid off.

Not a lot of energy left at the end of the day for exploring new worlds with a new language. Unless of course I was Super Woman. Which I’m not. Sadly. I’d totally rock that costume!

In any case, I’ve got a few years of being all def deaf under my sash now. My motivation, my energy to go where no one has gone before (ah geez, hyperbole much, Donna?) is back. But, but....what now?

After work today, Jen and I were sitting at a pub in Kenmore Square indulging in post work Mint Mojitos and calamari (yum!) when a party of deafies came in. Heh, KISMET and shit.

I wanted to go over and say hello but got all shy -- especially when I remembered that I’m not exactly what anyone would call fluent in ASL. So, what’d we do? We sat at the bar, conversing in our pigeon sign (the norm for us), while watching, eavesdropping (as much as someone with rude ASL skills can), hoping to learn more.

I asked the barkeep, who was also waiting on their tables, how it was for him/what’s the communication like for someone with hearing, to wait on/serve a deaf party. Here’s what he told us (Jen, that peach, translated for me):

“It’s a challenge. I want to make sure everyone is happy. I want to get their orders down right. I need to slow down/speak slower and be patient. It’s not easy for me and it’s not easy for them. If we all take our time, it works out fine. No biggie.”

Yeah, he got a big tip. Me, I’m gonna start going to the South Shore summer deaf socials. Who knows, maybe I’ll learn something AND make new friends to boot.

Besides that, I’ve not worn my Super Woman costume in ages!

On the Book Shelf

Fairy Tales -- want ‘em, need ‘em and not feeling one bit guilty for indulging in this wee shred of escapism. OK, maybe there’s half a shred of guilt but NO MORE! OK, I”m working toward that NO MORE guilt stuff. This more than latent work, work, work (hello boys, how ya doin’) ethic which permeates every aspect of my being is totally in line with how my Catholic/cafeteria Buddhist mother raised me. She had mad love for just that very first noble tenet -- All Life is Suffering. So then, all reading should be about learning, growth and god. Heaven forbid I should have fun or obtain some balm for my often weary spirit while buried in some tome!

Well, screw that with an outsized, rusty shrimp fork.

I just finishing The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. It was a shining, magical, sad, inspirational story which transported me whole to a fantastic other world/life/time.  I hope there’s a movie and not. I’m not sure anything can live up to where her writing took me.

Before that I read The Red Garden by Alice Hoffman -- a wonderfully haunted bijou. And before that it was a collection of Charles De Lint’s ethereal stories. And John Scalzi's The Android's Dream 

"An interstellar scandal explodes when a human diplomat assassinates an alien diplomat by farting at him, albeit using a scent-emitting communicator."

How could I possibly resist!

What these authors have in common is more than just the sci fi, fantastic bend -- their writings all contain hope. It’s not all about sad, bleak horrific struggles. There’s promise, a bit of joy and a dash of enchantment mixed in with all the pain.

Just like real life.

When I was in high school I was heavy into Heinlein -- Stranger in a Strange Land, Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy and Ray Bradbury,

In college I went all mega deep, reading Alan Watts (The Wisdom of Insecurity -- read it!) and The Hobbit. OK, kinda, almost, sorta deep but not consistently.

As an angry young bee in my late 20s and 30s, The Amazing Bob™ would joke, a la Annie Hall, that all the books on our shelves with death in the title were mine. Favorites even now -- books that meant a great deal to me -- Tim O'Brien’s If I die in a Combat Zone and Going After Cacciato, Michael Herr’s Dispatches and Primo Levi’s Survival in Auschwitz

Now, at the ripe old age of 53, I want more joy, life and imagination out of the books I read -- a smackerel of wondrous, creativity cubed. With a side of escapism.

Nothinin’ wrong with that, eh?