Tell Me A Story 2013

I’ve done a lot of blathering over this past year.

Last January I rambled on about words (acerbicitousness, suq. os and xi) and word games. I praised the awesome, incredible Yale Art Gallery with their vast collections of Romantics, Byzantines,
and Moderns.

And then I told another carnival era story, Galveston, Oh Galveston.

It was January of 1979, off season for the show/the carnival. I was hitching around southern Texas with a fun, yet dodgy fellow carnie (there’s possibly some redundancy in that statement).

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In February there was the Nemo saga with Saint Erin of the Neck and The Five Stages of Blizzard. There was random bitching with scribbles, a guest post by Kay which originally appeared on the blog Balloon Juice.

And Chuck and Lu -- A Love Story.

My parents were madly in love. Chuck and Lu were bring-the-house-down mad for each other. Sadly, this didn’t guarantee immunity from the rages of life, the realities they were both not so ready for.

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March began with the confessions of a former teen feminist of the overly earnest and conflicted variety. Yes, that was moi.
We had random musings, Unpremeditated Cerebrations, about Pi Day, Rocco’s worrisome absences and really high high tides.
and Friday Cat Blogging with Thelma going all Van Eyck on us.

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In April I jumped through MRI hoops at MGH, posted pretty scenes with poetry and quotes, provided Handy Dandy Customer Service Tips and ranted.
Today’s Rant Is Brought To You By The Letter N

N as in Netflix.

There’s nothing I like better than sitting in the dark, watching some awesome, absorbing movie.

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May began with another rant and then some fabola art at Mudflat and the Vernon Street Studios, both in Somerville. I rambled, kvetched, dispensed timeless wisdom //snort// and wondered about
Clueless Social Pinheads

Mind, all these clueless types are or were once friends of mine. They were people of whom I was quite fond even.

So, what happened?

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At the beginning of June I managed to roll my recumbent trike, proving with finality that I am an  Olympic level uncoordinated spaz.

Jen and I saw more brill art at The Fuller Craft Museum.

I was visited by some astoundingly nice, considerate ASL communicating Jehovah’s Witnesses:
Intruder Alert!

Coco and I were sitting out on the veranda, peacefully watching the birds zip by, the leaves dance in the gentle breeze and the tide run out (for beer and smokes, most likely) when, of a sudden, she was all ‘INTRUDER ALERT, INTRUDER ALERT!’

AND found out that I have a fairy godmother!

June was a real trip.
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Linguist Man visited Tell Me A Story in July, I wondered and fumed about the Interpersonal Clubfootedness of folks I’ve had the misfortune to know and we had more tremendous guest posts.

And then we had more cats with Gus, Gaston, Rocco and our beautiful warrior Coco. My role of feline nurse, yoga instructor and all around doormat proceeds apace.
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August began a dream where that I was making out with Paul Simon.

My much loved Silver Beetle, Horace needed to move on to VW Heaven but, after some hurdles, I landed myself a magnificent NEW (I’ve never had a jalopy less than ten years old, let alone a NEW one before) Smartcar, named Bix.

I had a birthday.

I interviewed stain glass artist Monica Wing and zipped up to Hoosick Falls for the Garlic Fest in Bennington.
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In my September trip to Pennsylvania, a visit with Vati, I had a first. I was NOT frisked by security. Honestly, I don’t think this has ever happened before.

My friend Steve Raguskus posted this essay, the memory, which he wrote on the ten year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attack. 

Friend Dan had a spinal tap done which brought to mind the one I had back in my very early 20s.
This Is Spinal Tap

‘the whole experience was pretty wild -- by turns scary, fascinating, surreal, Dada-esque and hilarious.’

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October brought us another hilarious bit of snark from Michael Horan:

God I love her. She represents not only all that is best in America, but also exemplifies the ideal of American Womanhood in all her resplendent virtues, physical, moral, and, needless to say, intellectual.’

I posted a wholly uncomprehensive, random list of people and things that I love, art in Bennington, Vermont and bookstores in Brattleboro and Montpelier Vermont.
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November was kicked off with hard, wistful, wonderful memories. Steve gave us a memory of his father who died 20 years ago on October 31. My mother took the early Paradiso bound flight on that same day last year.

Though deaf for nearly eight years now, I still happily, get tunes lodged in there. I celebrate this.

I had the fabulous opportunity to interview the author, Kevin Tudish, whose new book 'health, happiness, LOVE, longevity, peace, prosperity, SAFETY' just knocked my socks clean off.

And there was a wee tribute to Jen. Saint Jen.

Shadow May

Lori Watts

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My fab bud Brenda Rock, a massage therapist, Hatha yoga teacher and founder of Ananda Centre, Massage and Yoga Therapy in Slane Co. Meath, Ireland graciously allowed me to re-post her essay on World Aids Day (December first).

Then I wrote of how she and I met.

I spoke of my long term shrinkage.

The Green Miles shared his list of Seven Things Louder Than Our Nearby Wind Turbines.

An anonymous friend gave us some hard memories in What I Have Against Virginity.
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There's been so many more stories and just a hella lot of fabulous guest posts. It’s been a busy year.

Grab a cup (by Lori Watts or Shadow May perhaps), a comfy chair and have a read.

Cheers!

The Sunrises of 2013

I try to follow Picasso's guiding counsel when ever possible. Given this, I've totes stolen this post idea from one of my fav authors, John Scalzi. He lives in rural Ohio and takes a lot of pics around his gorgeous area. His shots are usually at sunset versus sunrise though. We can't all be crazy ass morning people.

January

 OK, this is the token dusk shot. It was taken on the evening of the Killah Stawm Nemo, while we were all huddled at Saint Erin's house playing Scrabble by tea light and soaking up the heat from her wood stove.

February

 March

April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November

December

 Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter

Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting

Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
It's all right, it's all right

Here Comes the Sun -- George Harrison
(with Ringo Starr, Elton John, Phil Collin, Eric Clapton and more)

Open Marriage

Does NOT work! Yep, there’s a real shocker for you, eh?

I seem to have known a lot of couples who’ve tried this. I suspect, because I’m a broad minded, approachable sort, friends and acquaintances feel it’s cool to tell me their story.

And it is. Y’all know that I love a good tale.

Plus, sit at enough airport and/or high end hotel bars, look friendly and tolerant, like a listener (doesn’t take much) and the suit on the next stool will spill his/her guts.
Business travelers get lonely. They like to talk, to confess their secrets and fears. Often enough it takes no prompting at all to get them to tell me things they’d never tell their best chums back home.

From an LA Times column:

In a series of experiments, the researchers (Harvard) found that the act of disclosing information about oneself activates the same sensation of pleasure in the brain that we get from eating food, getting money or having sex. It's all a matter of degrees of course, (talking about yourself isn't quite as pleasurable as sex for most of us), but the science makes it clear that our brain considers self-disclosure to be a rewarding experience.

Couple One -- Kris and Ralf:
He came home from the office one day and told Kris that he was lonely. They talked, she suggested clubs he might think about joining (he was into long distance bicycling and tai chi).
No, he responded, he wanted a girlfriend.

My very first thought -- Ralf tells you he’s lonely and wants a girlfriend, doesn’t this suggest that perhaps the two of you should investigate what he means when he says ‘lonely’ and what about your relationship might lead to this feeling. Maybe find out what might be missing?

Perhaps too afraid of a possible divorce and the idea of being alone, she chose a different path. In her mind she took control of the situation.

Instead of saying ' let's talk; go into couples counseling‘ or 'sure, start dating. I’m cool with that’ she suggested they become ‘swingers.’ They embarked on some years of sex clubs, spouse swapping and risky, if not flat out dangerous high jinks.

Ultimately this made neither happy -- Ralf didn’t get his girlfriend and was still lonely. Kris was beyond tense. She came away from all their adventures feeling used up and degraded.

 I don’t know how the story ended -- my flight began boarding. I had to go. Rats.

Couple Two -- Harris and Leah:
After a decade of marriage it came out that she’d been having affairs on the sly for, well, most of those ten years.

Harris was devastated.

Their solution? He was now free to have dalliances too. Everything would be out in the open. No more covert hookups.

No secrets but there were tremendous hurt feelings on his side.

I couldn’t help but wonder -- if he did have the occasional fling, was it fun? Did it feel more like angry paybacks than a fun bit of hanky panky?

Couple Three -- Lloyd and Cathy:
He’d been having an affair for some time and assumed she was unaware. Maybe so, who knows?

One evening, over dinner, she announced that an old college friend (now living at the other end of the country) would be in town on business. Her friend ‘Sam’ and she had been having torrid email correspondence and planned to consummate their, up to then, text only passions.

Paybacks or independent phenomenon?

Lloyd’s response -- ‘OK, you can have time alone together but let’s do a three way too so I’m not left out. We can then have a shared experience.’

Yeah, that worked out well. //snark//

She went on to have other affairs, always in the open. He was as careful as he could be to have his future flings undercover, so to speak.

Why? Apparently Cathy was the violently jealous sort. Go figure.

 Couple Four -- Marie and Richard:
They both agreed, prior to signing on the dotted line, that they would have an open marriage. This was the mid ‘70s -- open marriage was en vogue. They agreed to be respectful of each other’s privacy but to be sure to tell the other about partners, occurrences and such.

She was the first. Then he found an occasional friend. What was sauce for the goose, was most def not cool for the gander though. She was stratospherically jealous.

There was no joy in that home after that and they eventually divorced.

Then there was couple six, George and Tim.
George told all his friends and coworkers that he and Tim had an open marriage. Sadly, Tim was wholly unaware of this.

This, likely, won’t end well either.

“Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.”
-- Robert Heinlein

Can  a marriage of this sort work? I imagine that it must be possible for some couple somewhere. Just because I’ve never met them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Duh.

Having said that, please keep in mind that Stranger in a Strange Land was a work of fiction. Don’t try this at home, folks.

IF you must, read Divine Caroline’s Ten Things You Need to Know Before Starting and Open Marriage.

You’re welcome.

Critter World

Schmooze Master Rocco Flash

Our ferocious Coco

The Amazing Bob and I were driving off the Neck yesterday to run errands. Just as we passed the Welcome to the Neck rock, we spotted a poor black and white pile of road kill. Naturally, my heart immediately pinged on our Coco and Rocco. I know neither goes this far from home though.

And then I breathed in. Skunk.

You’d think, wouldn’t you, that we’d not give it another thought then, eh? Nope. Of course we did. The proprietors of Bob and Donna’s Famous Valhalla Diner care deeply about all their guests. Don’cha know. We have a history of good, considerate skunk customers.

The conversation followed like this:

Me: Do you think he’s one of ours?

TAB: No, our skunks are younger.

Me: He looked old?

TAB: Yeah.

Me: How? What makes you think so?

TAB: He was bigger and had more white hair.

Ah. Can’t argue with that. We were still sad that such a beautiful creature met such a hard end.

Naturally, Mister Loudon Wainwright III's sad tune comes to mind:

Crossin' the highway late last night
He shoulda looked left and he shoulda looked right
He didn't see the station wagon car
The skunk got squashed and there you are!

You got yer
Dead skunk in the middle of the road
Dead skunk in the middle of the road
You got yer dead skunk in the middle of the road
Stinkin' to high Heaven!

La Grande Climatérique

Searing, long play hot flashes AND extended arctic cold flashes both in one night. Back to back? Seriously? Who invented this menopause shit anyway? It’s got some absolutely vile glitches. 

Yes, yes, what I’ve got happening here is The Human Torch squaring off against The Silver Surfer.

Johnny Storm, the Human Torch:
Following his sister, Johnny joined scientist Reed Richards  and pilot Ben Grimm on an unauthorized space flight. Riddled with cosmic radiation, Johnny transformed into a flaming monster when the flight crashed back to earth. Calling himself Human Torch in tribute to the World War II era hero of the same name, the youthful Johnny found new adventure as part of the Fantastic Four, proving to be an invaluable if somewhat volatile member of the team.
The Silver Surfer:
Originally a young astronomer named Norrin Radd on the planet Zenn-La, he saved his homeworld from the planet devourer, Galactus, by serving as his herald. Imbued in return with a tiny portion of Galactus's Power Cosmic,  Radd acquired vast power, a new body and a surfboard-like craft on which he could travel faster than light. Now known as the Silver Surfer, Radd roamed the cosmos searching for planets for Galactus to consume. When his travels took him to Earth, he met the Fantastic Four, a team of powerful superheroes who helped him rediscover his humanity and nobility of spirit. Betraying Galactus, the Surfer saved Earth but was exiled there as punishment.

The Silver Surfer -- geez what a babe!
And a philosopher too.

 They long for peace, yet gird for war! They search for love, yet harbor hate! If man is sane... then the universe is steeped in madness!

A regular G. K. Chesterton, he is.

I wonder, what would happen if Surfer and Torch went on an, ahem, date. At the grand, big moment, la petite mort, would they cancel each other out? Flames would extinguish? Ice would melt and evaporate? Would there be anything left of them?

Maybe just a couple of George Costanzas sitting on the couch, poppin’ some brews, watching the game.

How anticlimactic.

On investigation, I found the issue where they met and battled. I think I need to know more. Available now on ebay for the low, low price of $99.99
Ah, nevermind.

Wouldn’t it have made more sense for The Human Torch to be a middle aged woman? Maybe that’s just too much realism for the comics.

Seriously though, imagine the awesome, fearsome combined capabilities of a Fantastic Four of hot/cold flashing, sleep deprived, overworked cranky babes.

Hell, we could rule the world! Or, possibly, overheat it in our search for Italian roast coffee, cosmos, an air conditioner that simulates the arctic in January and a blanket woven from the wool of sheep who dined only on jalapeño infused clover.

In the inevitable big Hollywood blockbuster, I will be played by Monica Bellucci. Why? Why not -- that's why! Jen will be played by Salma Hayek because one of us should get to be her.

SAD

I haz a SAD. Well, maybe it’s not exactly Seasonal Affective Disorder but it’s in that neighborhood.

Seasonal affective disorder (also called SAD) is a type of depression that occurs at the same time every year. If you're like most people with seasonal affective disorder, your symptoms start in the fall and may continue into the winter months, sapping your energy and making you feel moody.

How can you tell Donna’s more moody than usual and possibly rockin’ a case of the SAD?

Hmmm, that’s a tough one.

Possibly, if you’re motoring around town with me, you’ll notice that I explode into expletive laden curses at our fellow asphalt voyagers less than usual.

Maybe, if you’re on the bar stool next to me at Froggies (AKA Frog and Peach, AKA Fox and Hound) you’ll experience the very rare event of being able to get a word in edgewise while in convo with me.

Perhaps you’ll note that I’m stylin’ the mega baggy, muted colors, no flash look. Yup, no reds, vibrant purples and, likely, just the one earring.

Some symptoms, courtesy of the Mayo Clinic site:

Depression
Hopelessness
Anxiety
Loss of energy
Heavy, "leaden" feeling in the arms or legs
Social withdrawal
Oversleeping
Loss of interest in activities you once enjoyed
Appetite changes, especially a craving for foods high in carbohydrates
Weight gain
Difficulty concentrating

Eh, I don’t have a lock on all of those but enough that I need to undertake some remedy action before I gain ten more pounds, stop painting, spend too much money on sparkly geegaws that I do NOT need and start nipping at the Jamisons by ten AM.

Been there, done that, it's nae good.

It’s not just the short days that get me down -- this is the time of the year when The Amazing Bob and I, often as not, fall prey to our treacherous, snake in the grass, double dealing, miserable bodies. This seems to happen, like clock work, every December.

Hate December!

This year we got the word on TAB’s arteries -- we see his heart doc again in a couple of weeks. Hoping that another round of cadiac rehab will obviate the need for more open heart surgery.

So there's that AND absolutely all of us are down with some appallingly vile, life essence sapping bug. I’m in the best shape of all of is which, in and of itself, is kind of strange and, yes, sad.

What to do, what to do?

I hoisted the drapes on all our windows. If there's sun, if there's a shred of light to the day, we're gonna have it.

I indulged my beauty need this morning by buying three of Lori Watts of Fine Mess Pottery’s brilliant blue bowls.

Next, I’m gonna head out for a long ass trike ride. Exercise always helps.

Then maybe I’ll nag TAB into making the rest of the gingerbread he started before this plague descended. After all, we’ve got brandy new cookie cutters! An awesome Christmas present from my spectacular sister Celeste.

Christmas Morning

Christmas morning and all us denizens of Valhalla have a nasty cold. All of us.

We will still have our traditional celebration though -- Chinese food and movies. I believe that's how the Pilgrms did it. Right?

I once wanted to become an atheist, but I gave up - they have no holidays.
 – Henny Youngman

Christmas at my house is always at least six or seven times more pleasant than anywhere else. We start drinking early. And while everyone else is seeing only one Santa Claus, we’ll be seeing six or seven.
 – W. C. Fields

I stopped believing in Santa Claus when my mother took me to see him in a department store, and he asked for my autograph.
– Shirley Temple

Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn't come from a store.
 – Dr. Seuss

Merry Christmas!

The Purple Prose of Boston

I only got around to reading the Boston Sunday Globe last night. Busy Sunday, what with The Amazing Bob and I motoring down to Fairhaven for a visit with The Green Miles and the fabulous Bethanie.

I love the Globe’s magazine section with Miss Conduct, the back page essay, letters to the editor and even the Dinner with Cupid page. Yeah, I’ve dissed the mag for it’s habit of writing to the über wealthy -- specifically when profiling home renovations. At the same time, while I’m seething, I totes enjoy seeing the pics. Em, maybe this falls into famed hatter, F. Scott Fitzgerald, territory:

The test of a first rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, "The Crack-Up", Esquire Magazine (February 1936)

This past Sunday’s big feature?

2013 Bostonians of the Year:
When bombs went off at the Boston Marathon finish line, the crowds fled for safety. But a group of everyday people like Dan Marshall, Natalie Stavas, and Larry Hittinger rushed in to offer whatever help they could. 

‘IN THE SAVANNA OF THE BACK BAY, a few tenths of a mile from the devastation, all the herds were charging toward her. The runners were fleeing something awful, screaming about explosions. The authorities were shouting something urgent, commanding everyone to follow the stampede away from the chaos on Boylston Street.’

The ‘savanna of the Back Bay?’ ‘herds were charging?’ ‘follow the stampede?’
Dude, you are SO reaching here. Hell, this writer’s headed into testosterone heavy, male pattern bodice ripping, Harlequin Romance territory. The prose is, right out of the gate, fluorescent in it’s purpleness.

Our author aspirant has perhaps read too much Hemingway and/or aspires to John Huston  levels of black hearted hunting fantasy.

Bubby, you’re a journalist not a romance novelist for the big gunned and tiny dicked. This is a newspaper. You’re not Hemingway and the Marathon bombing was in no way reminiscent of some magical, ‘manly,’ wild hunt.

Please.

Not only would his opening ‘graph give Radiant Orchid a run for it’s colorants, nowhere was Carlos Arredondo mentioned or even vaguely alluded to.

On the Fox News Latino site (a. Fox has a separate, english language, page with news for Latinos? Because, though we all live in Boston, their world is SO very different from everyone else’s? b. Did Mister Arredondo make headlines on the Fox News for White People site? ) there was this:

He’s being called the Latino cowboy and is being hailed a hero of the Boston bombings

From the Portland (Maine) Press Herald:

He (John Mixon of Ogunquit, Maine) and Carlos Arredondo, the father of a fallen soldier for whom a runner was dedicating the race to, sprinted across the street to the blast site and started ripping away snow fence and scaffolding that separated the crowd from the street.

In the regular Boston Globe from a mid November piece:

Since the bombs exploded at the Boston Marathon, when he rushed from the VIP stands to clear barricades and make a tourniquet from a sweater sleeve that saved Jeff Bauman’s life, the 53-year-old has become the face of Boston Strong, seen by some as an almost mythic embodiment of courage in the face of terror.

OK, I get it. The journo was highlighting a few of the heroes who haven’t been feted big and bold yet. That’s totally fab, cool and admirable but not even an aside? Like ‘You’ve all heard of Carlos Arredondo -- here are a few heroes you may not know.’

Odd.

And then, from our purple loving scrivener:

‘...confidence in those abilities is enough to override the potent countervailing phenomenon known as the “bystander effect,” where people fail to help a stranger in distress because they assume that someone else will.’

Land’s sake muthafucka, do NOT assume this is the reason why ALL unhelping strangers aren't assisting!  You may be too young and/or inexperienced in the ways of the world to understand this very simple concept -- SOMEtimes inaction is borne of shock, fear and horror. People can become frozen -- incapable of much, if anything, beyond escape. Not always is it because people are selfish, doltish shits. We don't think, so much, we react.

Stavas says she was simply reacting.

These are just a few of my gripes with this piece which was, seriously, the worst excuse of Sunday Mag feature writing I’ve ever read.

Spaced in the Bookstore Again

I’ve been reading Bill Bryson’s The Mother Tongue - English And How It Got That Way a history of the English language.

LOVE Mister Bryson and his smart, wry humor.

An excerpt from this book which, had it been written by some jargon loving pedant, I’d never have picked it up:

"The poet Robert Browning caused considerable consternation by including the word twat in one of his poems, thinking it an innocent term. The work was Pippa Passes, written in 1841 and now remembered for the line "God's in His heaven, all's right with the world." But it also contains this disconcerting passage:

Then owls and bats

Cowls and twats

Monks and nuns in a cloister's moods,

Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry!

Browning had apparently somewhere come across the word twat--which meant precisely the same then as it does now--but pronounced it with a flat a and somehow took it to mean a piece of headgear for nuns.”

As fascinating, illuminating, amusing and at times flat out hilarious as this book is, it’s missing something that I very much need at this very moment. Werewolves. Martin Millar’s latest The Anxiety of Kalix the Werewolf will not be available in the US for another month.

'Martin Millar is a Scottish author, living in London. He is the author of such novels as Lonely Werewolf Girl, The Good Fairies of New York, and Suzy, Led Zeppelin and Me. He wrote the Thraxas series under the name of Martin Scott, and won the World Fantasy Award in 2000.’

I am in pain.

That’s my excuse.

I bopped over to the Braintree Barnes and Noble. Not a bad joint but I HATE shopping at the big chain stores.

The closest independent bookseller, Paperback Junction, is in South Easton, a 25 minute drive. Storybook Cove in Hanover is 30 minutes.

I was desperate and B&N is a ten minute hop. Upon darkening their door, I made a beeline for the sci fi section and was happily surprised to find a Charlaine Harris that I hadn’t read before -- a novella paired with one by an author I’d never heard of.

Just so’s ya know, she’s written way more than just the Sookie Stackhouse series. I'm partial to the Lily Bard mysteries.

Cleaning woman and karate expert Lily Bard is a woman with a complicated past.

Ms. Harris’ books are a guilty pleasure, same as Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Milhone detective series. Reading either author is akin to snarfing a big bowl of real butter popcorn -- immediate gratification and gone/over in little more than a heartbeat or six.

Once home, I jumped into bed -- Coco in my arms, new book in hand, ready for an indulgent afternoon of reading and cat snuggling. Sadly and with a dash of horrification, I discovered that this novelette of Ms. Harris' was heavy on the bodice ripping romance and far too light on the supernatural. There was a complete dearth of werewolves and the vampires were just vaguely fanged, well mannered Declans, Finns and Tristans.

I then read the little bio for the second author -- previously published by Harlequin. You know -- the romance publishers! DOH! Make way for the technicolor yawns.

I’ve written of my need to pay better attention in the book marts. Seriously. I’ve GOT to work on this!