My friend Kathleen told me that when Mom died, my life would forever change.

She was right.

Mom passed over on October 28th at 3:27 a.m. The Redhead and I were with her during her last moments on earth.

It was very quiet and peaceful, her going.

Now that Mom is gone, I am alone.

I had no comprehension of how deeply she loved me. She loved me without limitation.

"I'll find you in the morning sun

And when the night is new,

I'll be looking at the moon--

But I'll be seeing you."

My Email to the Redhead This Evening.

Sarah Palin talks about "Momma Grizzlies". Heh. She's never met me and "Tenacious R.", my new nickname for my sister, The Redhead.

The below email is from me to Tenacious R. I was questioning what we share Mom at this point in her life.

My idiot cousin Richard sent an email to Tenacious. Richard requested Tenacious read his email to Mum and being the most awesome daughter ever, she read it to Mum.

I find everyone's sudden intense interest in Mum questionable. She's been sick for ten years; where have they been this whole time?

My email to Tenacious after seeing what Richard wrote to my Mum:

The last couple of days have been filled with unexpected emails! I believe this is par for the course because we sent out an "everyone" email. Naturally, people are going to respond.

Let's talk about the content of the emails that we read to Mum. Being a dutiful and awesome daughter, you read her Richard's in its entirety. I asked Mom what she thought about it and she said it was fine and she liked it. Richard had every good intention with his words, but here're my thoughts.

We agreed not to tell Mom about certain things because she doesn't need mental trauma. Mom can't do anything else but think at this point. So we have to be super-careful about what we say, read, share, do. I think this is a good plan.

Richard-- although well-intentioned-- wrote a really nice email until the last three paragraphs where he started asking Mom if she'd accepted Jesus as her Lord and Savior. Here are my thoughts:

- Mom has led a blameless life. She doesn't need to ask forgiveness from anyone.
- This "anyone" includes Jesus, who knows Mom has led a blameless life.
- Jesus knowing this about Mom guarantees her acceptance into Heaven.

The only thing Mom has been guilty of in her entire life is loving people she could have easily cut out because they treated her like shit (Dad). But this guilt of Mom's actions exists on OUR plane, in OUR dimension, which is why we're thinking, "Hey. Why does she still love Dad as much as she does and unconditionally?" Mom is and always has been on another plane; a plane where people love one another, no matter what. Which is why she loves Dad, along with all the other complicated reasons she loves him. Which is why she doesn't need Jesus' forgiveness.

This is why she appreciates and loves Richard, despite his email asking her if she's been "saved". She gets what he was trying to convey and she appreciates it.

My concern:

One email gets read to her that plants a seed in her brain. The seed grows. Mom begins to think about that thing that's been planted in her brain. She obsesses, she thinks about that thing. It's stuck in her head. So there she is, waiting for nurses to take her to the bathroom, waiting for pain to leave, waiting for food, waiting, waiting, waiting, and this completely unnecessary thing in her head is poking her brain pan, because she can still think.

I don't want anything to worry Mom in her last days. I want her to be completely at peace with every single decision, every single thought. I want her to be surrounded by love and comfort. I don't want the possibility of someone's "best intentions" fucking her all up in the head.

We have to guard her against things that might hurt her or worry her, whatever it may be. What if Mom didn't have a religious conviction and Richard sent her that email? For all he knows, she has no religion at all. So if Mom didn't have beliefs and Richard sent that email and we read it to her and suddenly she's pre-occupied with "Am I going to burn eternally in a pit of fire?" when she should just be loved and comfortable-- what a fucked-up end to a perfectly beautiful life that she's led for almost EIGHTY YEARS. Because we read something to her. From Richard. Who has had his head up his ass for most of his life.

With our conversation about (friend of Mum's) Michelle, who said in effect, "If there's anything I can do, please let me know AS LONG AS I HAVE TIME TO DO IT ON MY SCHEDULE AND I ACTUALLY WANT TO DO IT,"; Debbie with the "I'VE THOUGHT ABOUT YOUR MOM FOR THE LAST FOUR YEARS BUT HAVEN'T TAKEN THE TIME TO VISIT BECAUSE I'M TAKING CARE OF MY MOM WHO'LL LIVE TO PISS ON MY GRAVE" and various family members'- "WE LOVE YOU AND HAVE GREAT MEMORIES OF YOU, BUT HAVE YOU ACCEPTED JESUS AS YOUR SAVIOR, IT'S SO EASY TO DO"-- I'm of the opinion we need to be very careful about what Mom knows from these jokers.

There are so few "real" people. These are the people Mom needs now-- Harriet, Dell, Joyce, Anthony, Mary Jac., our family (My niece was THE QUEEN today- tell her I love her), Marcella and Howard, and anyone else who DESERVES to be with Mom and not only that, be real. Real.

I love you, Tenacious. You are the best. xoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Your Troubled-- Yet Optimistic and Clear-Headed-- T-Bone.
P.S. Sorry to be so Momma-Bear. This is my first experience with these feelings. All's I've gotta say is... NOBODY. Had better fuck with Mom's comfort, safety or emotions from here on out. I'm ready to go. I'm ready to take on whatever and whoever, and I know you are too. I swear to (Richard's) Jesus, I will personally have anyone's head on a fucking platter that tries to make themselves feel better by fucking around with Mom and making false promises, or lying about ANYTHING in relation to Mom.

La Queen

My beautiful friend "Q" passed away on Wednesday, September 21, 2010.

If you'd met her, you'd think to yourself, "How is it someone so beautiful can be so down-to-earth? She is priceless. I want her in my life forever."

I tried to have her in my life forever, but unfortunately, she left last week.

Her name wasn't "Q" of course. She had a real name, but I, in my insistence on giving all my friends and family nicknames, called her "La Queen". She did not like that. So I changed it to "Q", for "Queen", because dear reader, she was a queen. She was not aware of this fact. This was a large portion of her appeal; her complete ignorance of the effect she had on all those she met.

There are so many things I long to say of her here, but they have to be left for another time.

In the meantime, I'm storing things in my head to tell you about her, because she was amazing and I want you to know that she was here. God, I loved her. So many people did.

In the next 24 hours, every single beautiful thing you experience-- whether it's a song on the radio, a soft word from a friend or lover, a clear night sky, a delicious piece of pie, anything-- that is what Q was like to me. And you know what knowing her would have been like.

I love you, Gina. Gina, I'll miss you until the end of my days, then I'll see you again, my good friend!

Damn You.

I curse the day we met.

I would have been better off had we not met.

I miss you. Where are you?

Could I please be given a tiny scalpel-like instrument that will easily remove the part of my brain that remembers you? I want to scoop out the part of my brain that remembers you. I want it scooped out and thrown in the garbage disposal. Then I want to turn on the cold water tap and turn on the the switch that will emulsify this tiny portion of my brain. I want it to wash into the wastewater pipe in the parking lot below my apartment.

Then I want to continue my life, completely innocent of that moment we met.

We Are Nearing the End of the Road.

About three weeks ago, Mom descended into a new phase of her illness. She's slipping away. The light is gone from her eyes; her strength is gone; the few pleasures she had left are no longer enjoyable.

For the first time, The Redhead and I have been exchanging ideas about Mom's memorial service. The topic of Mom's memorial service was alluded to, but never approached with such openness between us. With Mom's recent change, our conversations have diverted easily to this topic, probably out of necessity more than anything.

Before Mom lost her power of communication, The Redhead approached the memorial service with her, but Mom waved it aside. Now it is impossible for Mom to share her wishes, so we're in a strange land without a compass.

The Redhead and I discussed music and poetry that'd be nice to incorporate in this event. We've agreed on several pieces of music and have shared quotations we will integrate into the service. We've pondered where the service should be held. We've agreed where Mom's ashes should be spread. We have pledged to one another a portion of Mom's ashes will be spread at the family plot in Illnois, while another portion will be spread on a particular mountaintop in Colorado, where, as The Redhead put it, "She'll always have her beloved view."

With this change in Mom's condition, I've discovered those things that were hard to face have suddenly become so easy to understand and grasp. I think it's acceptance.

I think The Redhead feels more acceptance these days too, although she'd tell you differently. Before this change, we'd draw from our bottomless well of anger to rail against the oncoming train that was about to crush our Mother. We'd get angry at her disease, angry at her, angry at the staff of her facility, angry at friends and their perception of her disease.

Now we see that not everything has some kind of answer or solution. There are things in life that are truly uncontrollable, devastating and cruel. All we can do--and all we want to do-- is cushion Mom's fall.

Often, I find myself trying to imagine what life will be like without Mom. These aren't detailed, cinematic imaginings; they are thoughts-- floating and unformed.

When I lived in faraway cities, Mom was always with me; I could talk to her on the phone and hear her voice; I could write a letter and receive one in return; I could visit her or she'd travel to me, and we'd be together.

This time when she leaves, she will still be with me; but I'll search the world and as hard as I'll try, I won't be able to find her.

Boyfriends.

People ask me why I've never married and I tell them it's because I've never been asked by a man I loved to marry him, nor has a man who loved me asked me to marry him. You have to kind of be on the same page.

But I think more than anything else the reason why I've never been married is because men are a pain in the fucking ass.

They'd say the same about me, and that's perfectly fine. I KNOW I'm a pain in the fucking ass.

The Wedding Industrial Complex.

A wedding: the legal and spiritual contract of two people who love one another and want to bind together for the rest of their lives. Beautiful in its simplicity-- two people find one another, fall in love, decide to spend their lives together-- a wedding ceremony seals them to one another. On that day, heaven shines its light on two fortunate beings and fate smiles upon them for having found their way to one another.

But because we're human, a thing that should be kept meaningful and private will eventually morph into a complicated and messy perversion of the original intent. The Wedding Industrial Complex (TWIC) is to blame.

TWIC is comprised of businesses who insist their presence in YOUR wedding is a must--florists, calligraphers, photographers, venues, DJs, caterers, dress makers, tailors, hairdressers, make-up artists, limo drivers, party rental places-- or your day (and thus YOU) will be a complete failure. TWIC wants a slice of your wedding day. TWIC will weasel their way into your plans and your wallet.

Used to be the bride bought a dress, the groom wore a suit. The couple showed up at an appointed time at the church of their choice, their families and some close friends witnessed the ceremony. The cleric read a few words. The groom put a ring on the finger of the bride. They kissed and left the church. Everyone would go to the home of some maiden aunt, where punch and cake are served. Guests waved while the newlyweds got into a car and went someplace for a honeymoon.

Those days are dead and gone.

TWIC realizes brides are just arrogant enough to think their wedding day is the most important day in the history of the world. The bride is encouraged to think this way, which leads to a lot of stupid behavior.

The next time you're at a store with a decent magazine rack, go ahead and count the number of bridal magazines. I'm guessing you'll see at least five publications dedicated to TWIC. The pages of those magazines are stuffed with ideas for a wedding. Engagement rings. Announcements. Gowns. Veils. Tuxedos. Registries. Venues. Travel ads.

Turn on the television. At any given time of day, it's easy to find a television show about weddings. "Bridezillas", "Say Yes to the Dress", "Whose Wedding is it Anyway?", "My Fair Wedding".

This is TWIC in action. They've created a multi-billion dollar industry that didn't really exist until about 25 years ago. My hat's off to them for their creativity.

Over the next few posts I'll examine TWIC and how it has changed how we celebrate weddings-- the good, the stupid, the tacky, the expensive, the silly.

Join me and as always, I'm really excited to hear what you think.

Shower Thoughts.

We call them "Shower Thoughts", the Redhead and I.

Shower Thoughts is the collective, gritty mosaic of things you wish you could undo, erase from your memory, or wish you hadn't said-- a lurid mosaic so spectacularly, carelessly bad it is housed in the permanent collection of the Self-Flagellation Gallery located on Subconscious Avenue (Open 24 hours a day! You're the only visitor!).

Shower Thoughts invade in the morning when I'm at my most vulnerable; drowsy, unmedicated, uncaffeinated. My little mental defense battlements haven't been completely re-built after the night's onslaught of unchecked dreaming, so Shower Thoughts are free to skitter unleashed throughout my brain.

To me, the most shameful Shower Thoughts are the many stupid things I've said over the years, of which no one needs to remind me-- because I know (now)-- how very, very, very stupid they were.

The stupid things were conceived and brought forth via ignorance of certain subjects. The stupid things were all proclaimed by me in an authoritative tone even though I didn't know my elbow from my ass.

So during Shower Thoughts, I think primarily of stupid things I've said. Today I'd like to share these stupid things with you, you lucky bastards.

T-BONE'S HISTORY OF BALLET

My friend, Nanci, was a classically-trained ballet dancer. She'd been in toe-shoes for twenty-plus years. As a responsible, busy adult, her dance classes and rehearsals had been whittled down to once or twice a week.

One day we were discussing her life-long passion of ballet and she said something in reference to its Italian/French origins.

"France?!?" I spat. "Ballet did not originate in France."

Sweet and gullible Nanci said timidly, "It didn't? I thought with all the French terminology..."

"Noooooo," I interrupted with conviction. "Ballet is Russian. Think about it, Nanci! Baryshnikov, the Kirov, Rudolph Nureyev, George Balanchine-- all Russian!"


T-BONE JEWING DOWN

My boyfriend Mark had an iguana named Spike for whom he built a very impressive outdoor cage. It was about six by five feet, screened walls, a removal top, and a large piece of driftwood bolted to the floor of the cage, reaching upward about four feet. Spike was very happy in this cage, splayed on the driftwood, relaxing in the sun, munching zucchini, spinach, and mango chunks.

One day, a friend of Mark's stopped by and asked to see the cage, as he'd just bought an iguana. I led him to the patio to see the cage and he was very impressed with Mark's workmanship and design.

The friend mentioned he'd been in Tijuana the week before and saw a cage very similar to Mark's. "The guy was asking $600.00 for it," summed up the friend.

"Really? Six hundred bucks?", I said.

He nodded, looking at Spike.

"Geez," I ventured. "I'm sure Mark would build you one if you just got him the materials, but honestly, if it's easier for you, you should go back to Mexico and talk to the guy and just--"

I then said something I'd never said before in my life and have not said since; as I said it, as the words leapt off my tongue in all their putrid offensiveness, I knew that what I was going to spew uncontrollably at that moment would offend this guy, because I suddenly knew, psychically, that this guy was a Jew and how I knew that right then I have no earthly idea, yet I didn't stop talking, I could not stop talking, my tongue kept moving and my vocal box didn't explode in consternation for me, and my lips obeyed my tongue not my conscience, I said:

"...see if you can JEW HIM DOWN a little."

Silence.

I couldn't bear the Jew's silence, so I filled the void by continuing to yap my big, Protestant/shiksa mouth: "Because $600.00 is really a lot when you've got Mark right here and he'll do it for cost of materials only because he really, really, really considers you a good friend and he really, really, really likes iguanas, just like you do!"

"I'm Jewish," he said.

Oy vey.

T-BONE CONSIDERS ETHIOPIA

A moronic and ignorant brute disguised as a teenager, I sat with my parents and sisters at the table eating dinner.

The Brunette was discussing Ethiopia and how people there were starving to death. A seemingly endless drought had done its damage, leaving Ethiopians unable to farm the soil. The cattle were starving and were unable to produce milk. People were dying by the thousands. The Brunette said the world was taking little notice; the big fat United States wasn't helping enough. Big fat Europe wasn't helping enough.

Everyone, said the Brunette, was turning their backs on these people and leaving them to die-- miserable, hungry, forgotten.

I piped up:

"Why don't they just move?"

Hello.

I'm going to start writing again.

Expect sharp criticisms, deep bitterness and complaints of mental exhaustion, with light sprinklings of puppydog tummies, butterflies and rainbows!

Needless to say, going dark was a decision I made hoping I'd be able to focus on gettin' happy. Stopping writing didn't help me get happy in the least bit. I only blocked myself from the necessary self-realization that writing provides.

I must keep in mind that Sixty-Four Twelve began as an experiment-- "An exercise in futility to exorcise the fertility of my mind."

Talk to you soon.

I'm going dark.

Life is just too much at the moment. My heart can't divulge any more crap to the general public.

I have so little energy and realize that any energy I have needs to be directed to finding my teeny-tiny little sunlit corner of life. This is hard to do when you're all kinds of fucked up, like I am.

So I'm going to stop writing on this blog indefinitely.

To my four or five readers, thanks for reading my bullshit over the last few years.

And to those who discover Sixty-Four Twelve by mistake or happenstance and decide to read my bullshit (like that actually happens), thank you for being here.

God bless you.

Because it is bitter and because it is my heart.

I don't know where to start except I am so fucking angry and disappointed right now.

I am furious.

You know what? If you are a man and you're just looking for some pussy, consider:

Women are people.

People must be treated with respect.

If you don't treat people with respect, you will hurt them, one way or the other.

Once they're hurt, it's very hard to undo the hurt.

To the pussy guy:

Do all of us a fucking favor. The next time you want some pussy, just say, "Hey, I really want to fuck you. Nothing more. I don't want to talk to you afterwards. I don't want to make any kind of future anything with you-- whether it be a weekend a month from now, a dinner tomorrow, a phone call to you. EVER. I just want to fuck you, then... nothing. I don't want to see you, hear you, touch you, talk to you, anything-- ever again."

Don't say instead:

"I'm at peace with you and feel so good about you."

"I can't wait to hold you in my arms, baby."

"I'm so looking forward to all the firsts-- our first kiss, our first dinner together, seeing you come off the plane at the airport."

Just don't say it. Don't.

Just keep your trap shut.

Because you know what? After 30 fucking years of hearing from my father: "Men will say anything just to get you into bed," and me not believing him, me being the eternal optimist, thinking he's wrong! How could anyone ever do that to me? I realize he's right. That son-of-a-gun is 100% correct, on the money.

In the meantime, I'm bitter and hateful and angry.

I hate this. Hate it.

Tenterhooks. Headache.

Weeks of phone calls, emails culminating in beautiful, magical weekend.

Hotel-- art deco, beautifully restored, swank. Room-- mid-century modern, fireplace, corner view, Egyptian cotton sheets. Accoutrements-- French champagne, bouquets of flowers. Food-- room service, fabulous Italian restaurant.

Man-- successful, warm, sexy, funny, intelligent. Me-- happy I've met him and I'm there with him.

Thirty-six hours of bliss, together.

Home. Me-- a week of pre-occupation. Him-- a week of travel, business.

Emails-- his-- two, one asking "How are you?" and "Everything's good" after his arrival in a particularly dangerous Central American country.

Phone calls-- his-- two, one after his plane landed in Atlanta after our weekend, the other the night before he left for Central America. "I've been thinking of you," I admitted to him. "I've been thinking of you too," he answered.

All's I can think is, and hopefully I might add, he continues to do so.

Yesterday at Hamlet Hall...

... a momma bear and her two cubs dropped by to see us.

Zombie Parades and Illiterates.

We've all met them-- those grim-faced, suspicious workers at government facilities. Their words are clipped, their sentences are to the point. They don't offer their opinions, they aren't expansive. They give only what you ask for and not one thing more.

Why are they like this? Why is it when you visit the DMV darned near every person who serves you is abrupt and stiff? Why is it at the Post Office the people behind the counter don't smile at you when you approach the counter? Why can't you engage the lady behind the bulletproof glass at the Social Security Office in a conversation about the weather?

I can tell you that the majority of these people were once friendly smiling workers who in the beginning of their governmental careers truly wanted to help every person that walked through the door.

Everyone is different; it could take a month, a year, two years maybe, dependent upon how resilient one is, but eventually serving the public becomes distasteful and some days it is impossible to serve the public without fantasizing about taking them outside and cracking their head open with a large stapler. And then walking away from their prone body, snickering. Because they are stupid.

Co-worker Kerri and I used to be happy, smiling workers. Eighteen months have passed since we started working in the same office and in this time we've noticed ourselves morphing into Bitter Government Workers. Our personalities are similar in many ways, so we've arrived in Bitter Town at approximately the same time, having been hired by the Hamlet just weeks apart. To Kerri's credit, she's a little behind me in the cranky department, because she's just a nicer person to begin with.

This is how it happens.

One day you realize that you are in no way in control of your work load.

Each citizen walking into the office needs something right now, wants to complain about something, or alternatively, they are there to pick a fight.

About ten percent of those you serve are in dire need of medication, the psychotropic kind.

A request from the public can be large or small, bad or good, do-able or impossible. Many times it is no one's responsibility because no one wants another piece of mangled, unmanagable crap on their desk and because you're in the service industry (don't kid yourself; government workers are in the service industry whether they like it or not) IT BECOMES YOUR PERSONAL PROBLEM.

These day-to-day requests are terrible time-suckers. Kerri and I both experience these kinds of calls at least once a day.

The guy who called a couple weeks ago and asked what permit was required to hold a parade in the Hamlet-- "A zombie parade!!!" he elaborated.

"A zombie parade." I stated. I heard Kerri choke on her hot chocolate behind me. Michelle cackled from the back office.

"Yeah!" he exclaimed. "Everyone dresses up like zombies and they shamble down the sidewalk. I think it'd be awesome for the tourists. They'd love it!"

"Alrighty. I'm gonna connect you over to Kerri, who will be able to tell you what kinds of permits you need for the zombie parade. Just a sec!" I said, transferring him to Kerri, whose face was a mask. She picked up the call.

"A zombie parade, sir?... okay, so will you march in the street?... well, I only ask because we'd need to block off streets and have traffic control down Hamlet Avenue... Okay. So you'd march on the sidewalk instead? What happens then?... You march into the park. Then what?" asked Kerri. She listened intently to the caller. "Well, sir-- typically when there's a parade of some kind, it's for a purpose, so I'm just trying to figure out-- so the zombies will 'shamble' down the sidewalk to the park, then at the park, the parade is over?... Will you have a barbeque or anything? Is this a fundraiser?... Okay. Well-- sir, I'm not sure you need a permit for the zombie parade. It sounds like you guys are dressing up like zombies and walking down the street, so you don't need a permit for that... Okay, you bet. Thanks for calling. 'Bye." She hung up.

"Shamble?" I asked Kerri.

"That's what he said." she answered. "That's ridiculous. I wonder if he'll actually get a zombie parade put together?"

"Are you crazy? He's already forgotten about it and is lighting up his next bong hit," I said.

Here's another example. Our office is located down a hallway behind the Hamlet PD. To get to our office, one must walk past the PD dispatch window which is encased in dark, bullet-proof glass. In the lobby of the PD, there are two large signs that state, "PLEASE PAY TICKETS AT THE DISPATCH WINDOW."

Naturally, people coming in to pay tickets wander through the lobby to our doorway, which has a sign on it that states, "IF YOU HAVE A TICKET, PLEASE PAY AT THE POLICE DISPATCH WINDOW".

They walk through our doorway and because of our many, many, many experiences with illiterates who amble (not shamble) through our doorway, we can spot a person who needs to pay a ticket from a thousand yards. We are talented that way, Kerri and I.

"Uh... I was at the Hamlet a couple of weeks ago... and I got this, uh..."

"Ticket?!?" I fairly screech at them.

"Yeah, this ticket... and I need to pay it. Is this where I pay?" Ugh. Another dullard who can't read signs.

"No. You pay at the dispatch window. It's that smoked glass window through that doorway," I say, pointing toward the window.

"But... there's no one there. It's dark!" they say doubtfully.

"Oh, there's always someone in dispatch. Just knock on the window," I instruct, for the five millionth time that day.

Then later that same day, another illiterate slob will shuffle through our door. Past the sign that says, "PLEASE PAY TICKETS AT THE DISPATCH WINDOW". And the second sign that says, "IF YOU HAVE A TICKET, PLEASE PAY AT THE POLICE DISPATCH WINDOW."

"Uh... I got this ticket yesterday... is this where I pay?"

"Nooooo... go through this doorway up to the smoked glass window. They can take care of you there," I say, my voice wavering upward an octave.

"No one's there," says the slob.

"Yes. They are. Just knock on the window," I say tensely.

"It's dark," the slob says doubtfully.

"TRUST ME. There's someone always in dispatch."

Combined, these little vignettes of constant idiocy and neediness knit themselves into a chain that wind around our necks. I shouldn't carry the chain home (like Jacob Marley, who forged his chain in life), but here it is-- Saturday night and I'm thinking and writing about it.

Mark Sanford and "That Sparking Thing".

It'd be so exciting to hear a philandering politician tell the truth about what really happened when he cheated on his wife.

Governor Mark Sanford of South Carolina said all the predictable things at his press conference yesterday, but had he told the truth, it would have been more like this:

"I cheated on my wife because I was bored out of my mind. I'd reached the pinnacle of my political career and felt I was bullet-proof. I felt I could do anything I wanted.

"I'd planned on cheating on my wife for a long, long time. That's why I fed my staff little clues-- for weeks!-- about my love of the great outdoors, that I needed time alone, that I wanted to go hike the Appalachian Trail. See, I planted those seeds in their heads so when I did disappear for a week and no one knew where I was, they'd guess I was off hiking the Trail. Hell, they didn't know where I was!

"See, it's my staff's job to cover my ass. They hate to look like a bunch of idiots, so they told the press I was on a self-reflective mini-break, enjoying the trees and birds, feeding my soul with nature, hiking the Trail.

"Plus I figured that in feeding my staff those clues, it would give me enough time to schedule a flight to Argentina and get a discount on my flight for booking in advance. Have you looked at plane ticket prices lately? It's expensive!

"So me and Maria had an awesome time drinking, dancing, having sex, sleeping in. I didn't want to leave! But I did have to go back and sign papers and things. I thought I'd really pulled off this trip, like I had before.

"But I flew into Atlanta and I was really bummed that the press was at the airport when I returned. Shit!

"So there it is. That's the only reason why I called this press conference. If the press hadn't been at the airport, I would have totally gotten away with it! But they were there, so I had to spill this to you. Bummer.

"So here I am talking to you. Now that my trip has been uncovered by the national press, I'll go ahead and say all those tired old things I'll need to say to the American people and the citizens of South Carolina to try and save my political career.

"I was wrong to cheat on my wife; this lady in Argentina was a dear friend; we've been emailing casually for eight years; a "spark" between she and I happened just a year ago; we became lovers only after "that sparking thing" happened.

"I'll also tell you I'm really sorry I let you down, I'm sorry I've hurt my family. Yadda, yadda, yadda. You guys have heard this all before. I'm actually surprised you're covering this, because frankly, this isn't anything new!

"Lemme tell you something though-- I couldn't resist this woman. People, she was hot. I was thinking with my dick and it was awesome! I haven't felt so horny since I was a teenager! Yeah, my dick didn't care if I was found out. He totally overrides any rational thought. Dude, my dick just pointed the way to South America and off I went!

"I'm really embarrassed and kind of pissed that you all found out about my trip to Argentina, though. Trust me-- I wouldn't be having this press conference if you guys hadn't seen me at the airport.

"Now I gotta go home and try to repair my life here. It's gonna be hard, because my wife made a deal with the devil when she married me, and now this has all happened, she's definitely got the upper hand. I hope my totally fake humility will convince her that she should take me back, 'cause if I blow it and can't convince her to continue with the First Lady act, she could screw me five ways 'til Sunday.

"I'm kind of nervous about it all, but I'm pretty sure if I say and do the right things, I'll be able to make a big comeback and convince everyone I'm a stand-up guy.

"Then all of this will be just a blip on my career's radar screen."

Genetic Superiority Rears Its Beautiful Head in Cannes

Redhead: Good Lord.

T-Bone: She is indeed the most intoxicatingly beautiful person alive. That dress is un-fucking-believable.

Redhead: How? I mean, honestly.


T-Bone: Brad looks like a schlub next to her. Flesh-toned chiffon-- don't wear it. You'll have corpse-pallor. But not Angie! She can wear it! She can wear anything! Doesn't matter what shape it is, what fabric it's made of, what color it is-- it'll look great! 'Cuz she's wearing it!

Vietnam.

We called the enemy ghosts. "Bad night," we'd say, "the ghosts are out." To get spooked, in the lingo, meant not only to get scared but to get killed. "Don't get spooked," we'd say. "Stay cool, stay alive." Or we'd say: "Careful, man, don't give up the ghost." The countryside itself seemed spooky-- shadows and tunnels and incense burning in the dark. The land was haunted. We were fighting forces that did not obey the laws of twentieth-century science. Late at night, on guard, it seemed that all of Vietnam was alive and shimmering-- odd shapes swaying in the paddies, boogiemen in sandals, spirits dancing in old pagodas. It was ghost country, and Charlie Cong was the main ghost. The way he came out at night. How you never really saw him, just thought you did. Almost magical--appearing, disappearing. He could blend with the land, changing form, becoming trees and grass. He could levitate. He could fly. He could pass through barbed wire and melt away like ice and creep up on you without sound or footsteps. He was scary. In the daylight, maybe, you didn't believe in the stuff. You laughed it off. You made jokes. But at night, you turned into a believer; no skeptics in foxholes.

"The Things They Carried" - Tim O'Brien

Phoebe.

So this is what happened:

My sweet cockatiel Phoebe has been laying eggs. Lots of them.

A week ago, I began to get a worried after the fourth egg. I was concerned that laying eggs over and over and over again would be depleting her tiny little four-ounce body. I've been keeping a close eye on her recently.

Yesterday morning (which seems like a million years ago) I uncovered her cage and immediately noticed that she was not her usual self. Usually she's chirpy and active in the morning; instead, she was lethargic and quiet.

I gave Phoebe her breakfast. She took a couple bites and that was it.

I noticed her feathers were puffed up, which is a bad sign. Along with the puffiness of feathers, there were other indications that she was "egg-bound"-- meaning an egg gets stuck and cannot pass out.

I did the Puritan Work Ethic Thing: I went to work and hoped she could pass the egg (her eighth!) and she would feel better.

Arriving home from work, Phoebe was obviously deteriorating. She hadn't passed the egg.

I went into crisis mode and called an emergency vet and described her symptoms to the nurse on-call, who thought Phoebe was egg-bound too.

Typically when a small bird is egg-bound you must get them to the vet within an hour's time or it is likely they'll die. The strain on their body is too great, then they go into shock. After going into shock, it snowballs from there-- they stop eating, they stop drinking, they have difficulty breathing.

So I got Phoebe into a little travel cage lined with towels and took her to the animal ER.

Phoebe was placed in an incubator right away, as the oxygen would help her breathing. An hour later, the doctor came into the little waiting room and said, "I suspect she's egg-bound." She asked me, "How old is Phoebe?" I answered, "I have no idea. She just showed up on my porch one day, fully-grown." "Oh my God!" the doctor said. "She found you!"

Indeed she did.

A nurse came in an hour later (Entertainment Weekly and People long since read and re-read). "This is what we recommend she have done," said the nurse, handing me a list/invoice.

The list included an x-ray (to determine if indeed she was egg-bound), a tiny little IV for nourishment/water, overnight stay, morphine for pain, etc.-- a bunch of things, totaling a little less than $600.00.

I started crying. I said to the nurse, "There is no way I can afford this. I can afford the initial exam ($100), but not the rest. Can I do a payment plan?" The nurse said she'd ask (whoever it is that decides these horrible things).

Another hour and a half. Entertainment Weekly and People. Again. And again. Checking out the art on the walls. Brochures for dog drugs and pet insurance. All. Read. Several. Times. Over.

The nurse returned. She doesn't say no, but what she does say is, "We will give her a morphine shot for pain, but that's all we can do." I said, "Okay, give her the shot. I'm going to take her home."

So I got the drugged-up Phoebe, paid the bill and left. I placed Phoebe, in her soft, towel-filled box, in the passenger seat. I got behind the wheel and burst into frustrated, angry and bitter tears.

Was she egg-bound? Was her body depleted? I didn't know if she would live or die. I didn't know anything about her condition. I did know, however, that I just spent $104.00 to remain completely ignorant.

I drove home and took Phoebe upstairs. I gave her a little warm bottom-bath hoping it would help her pass the egg.

I put some peanut butter on her beak so she could eat something. No dice. There is nothing sadder than a sick animal who lets food dribble off of their mouth without tasting it, or showing interest in eating it.

This is how much I love Phoebe-- I put a little lubricant on her "vent", hoping it would make the egg come out easier, if indeed that was the problem (because I still didn't fucking know).

I held Phoebe in my hands where she dozed for an hour or so, between my breasts, near my heartbeat.

I put her in her cage, making sure the room was quiet and dark. I banished the cats. I covered the birds. I shut the door. Phoebe needed rest.

Last night I slept, not knowing if Phoebe would be dead on the bottom of her cage in the morning.

I woke up at 5:15 and looked at her cage, shrouded in blankets, and didn't to know what was under there. Phoebe wasn't making a sound.

At 5:30 I climbed out of bed.

I lifted the cage cover and there she was. Sitting in her food dish. Looking at me.

She was still sick, but she was alive. I have her another bath, gave her breakfast (with veggies she normally likes) and did the Puritan Work Ethic Thing-- I went to work.

All day today was a struggle-- a real bugger.

I asked the Hamlet firemen for a syringe (thank you, Larry!) so I could get some baby food on the way home and feed Phoebe that way.

I didn't think she'd be alive when I got home.

I opened the door to the apartment and it was silent inside. Usually Phoebe greets me, chirping like mad when I walk in the door.

I went into the bedroom and looked around the corner.

Phoebe was sitting in her dish, alive. She chirped softly at me.

And guess what? On the floor of her cage was egg number EIGHT.

For the first time in ten years, I got on my knees and thanked God. I was so fucking relieved. I instantly got a headache too. Isn't that weird?

Phoebe is not out of the woods yet.

I attempted to feed her with the syringe (which she hated).

I removed the egg from her cage and put it in the little dish in my kitchen with the other eggs-- a new arrival-- company for the seven brothers and sisters.

I covered Phoebe so she could rest.

A Bad Visit.

To start, I stupidly, unforgiveably, brought her food she couldn't eat.

Secondly, I couldn't understand a blessed word she said.

Then I wasn't strong enough to move her into a comfortable position in bed.

Lastly, I couldn't read her writing when she tried to put on paper what she wanted to say.

I stood over her bed and held her hand, her calm face looking up at mine as I cried.

"Mom, I have to go. I can't understand a word you're saying. I can't understand you, Mom. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I said, bending down to hug her. "I'll bring you soup next time, I promise, Mom. I love you."

"I love you too," she whispered.

That I understood.

16 Messages.

A foul bundle of voicemails awaited me this morning.

Thursday afternoon, we were released early from work due to a wicked blizzard that was bearing down upon us. Friday was a snow day. The display window on my phone warned me of the expected irritants when I sat down at my desk today.

Sighing, I dialed my access code.

"SIX. TEEN. MESSAGES. MESSAGE ONE. THURS. DAY. MARCH. TWENTY-SIXTH. AT. FIVE. OH. NINE P.M."

Nasal, creaky, annoying voice. "T-Bone, this is Mavis up on the hill. We are completely snowed in. Can you send one of those plows--"

Delete! The snow melted on Saturday.

"MESSAGE TWO. FRI. DAY. MARCH. TWENTY-SEVENTH. AT. SEVEN. THIRTY-ONE A.M."

Hippie chick. "Hiiiiiiiii, this is Saaaaaaffron... my address is, uhhhh, 421 Main Street... I'm wondering if the plowwwwwwws--"

Delete! Melted. Saturday.

Messages three through ten were hangups: delete! Delete! Delete! Delete!

"MESSAGE ELEVEN. SUN. DAY. MARCH. TWENTY-NINTH. AT. TEN. A.M."

A man this time! Young. Sounds handsome.

"Uhhhhh... hi T-Bone? This is Troy? Me and my fiance are getting married at the park this June? I'm-- (chuckle) well, WE-- are wondering if the facility--"

Pound sign! Forward to Joyce, extension 2565.

"MESSAGE TWELVE. MON. DAY. MARCH. THIRTY. AT. SEVEN. FIFTEEN. A.M."

"T-Bone? This is Dave. I'm at the shop and we really need to know about use tax. Regional won't approve our addition--"

Pound sign! WHAMMO! Forward to Kerri, extension 2551.

Remainder of messages-- hang ups.

Delete!

Delete!

Delete!

Delete!

Mondays suck.