BLASPHEME!

I loved this!

LOS ANGELES, California (AP) -- Before Kathy Griffin won a creative arts
Emmy last weekend for her reality show, "My Life on the D-List," she joked that
an award would move her to the C-list.

Kathy Griffin was pleased to win an Emmy, but her speech will likely be trimmed.

She was right: "C" as in censored. The TV academy said her raucous acceptance speech will be edited when the event, which was taped, is shown Saturday on the E! channel. The main prime-time Emmy Awards air the next night on Fox.

"Kathy Griffin's offensive remarks will not be part of the E! telecast on Saturday night," the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences said in a statement Monday.

In her speech, Griffin said that "a lot of people come up here and thank Jesus for this award. I want you to know that no one had less to do with this award than Jesus."

She went on to hold up her Emmy, make an off-color remark about Christ and proclaim, "This award is my god now!"

The comedian's remarks were condemned Monday by Catholic League President
Bill Donohue, who called them a "vulgar, in-your-face brand of hate speech."

According to the TV academy and E!, when the four hour-plus ceremony is edited into a two-hour program, Griffin's remarks will be shown in "an abbreviated version" in which some language may be bleeped.

The program was in production and unfinished, an E! spokeswoman said Monday.

Requests for comment were left Monday evening by phone and e-mail with Griffin's publicist. They were not immediately returned.

The Catholic League, an anti-defamation group, called on the TV
academy to "denounce Griffin's obscene and blasphemous comment" at Sunday's ceremony (emphasis added).

I'll tell you what's obscene and blasphemous: those fucking idiots at the Catholic League who didn't call the Church on their obscene and blasphemous behavior while their priests were busy groping and raping the little kids entrusted to their care.

Don't you dare piss on my leg and tell me it's raining.

9/11

Six years ago, I was completely unaware of what was unfolding 2,000 miles to the east.

Driving to the office, I noticed many people had their headlights turned on. Was it a holiday I'd forgotten about?

I walked into my office, greeted by a ringing phone. It was Walt, one of our clients.

"Have you been watching the news?"

"No, why? What's going on?"

"Two planes crashed into the World Trade Center. Another plane has crashed into the Pentagon. The FAA's grounded all flights, but there's still a plane missing."

"Walt, that's not funny. Don't even fuck with me."

"I'm not fucking with you. Go turn on the news in Ed's office."

I put down the phone and ran into Ed's office. He and several others were crowded around the television. I looked at the screen, astounded. The taste of copper filled my mouth.

Ed looked at me and said, "The towers are going to fall."

"Are there people in there? Those towers can't fall, Ed. That's impossible!" I said.

"Yeah. The towers've been burning for awhile. People have been jumping," he said.

"Good God," I said. I felt tears filling my eyes. I ran back into my office and picked up the phone. "Walt. I'll call you later," I said, and hung up the phone. I ran back into Ed's office.

I was just in time to witness a tower of smoke and dust shooting upward, eclipsing the tower. I could see the lightning rod slipping downward, disappearing into the gray mass.

"That's not the tower falling. It's not. The rod must have just snapped off the building," I kept saying.

I was wrong.

I had to call Dad.

As a fledgling architect, my Father worked for Minoru Yamasaki, the gentleman who designed the World Trade Center. I remember Mr. Yamasaki as a very nice man, who always greeted us girls warmly when we'd run into the office to pick up Dad at 5:00 p.m. In those early days, we were a one-car family. Getting to go into Yama's office was a special treat, because mysterious, magical stuff was created there (we girls called him Mr. Yamasaki, of course. His associates called him "Yama", especially those who drank scotch and played poker with him).

The most wonderful thing about Yama's, however, was the model room. In it were scale models of the firm's projects-- skyscrapers (Yama's forte), university buildings, synagogues. The World Trade Center was, of course, the centerpiece. To my young eyes, it was hard to believe that something so tall and slender could stay standing. On the WTC model, teeny-tiny model people strolled across the tree-dotted plaza, admiring the fountain, walking into the building.

It was all gone now.

I dialed Dad. He answered in his serious voice. I started crying.

"Oh, Dad! Your building! I'm so happy Mr. Yamasaki's not alive to see this. How on earth could this happen?"

"T-Bone," said Dad, "Sweetheart, I've got to tell you-- for those buildings to fall that quickly, those planes must have been loaded with jet fuel. I mean-- those are fifty-foot steel girders holding up that building. The heat-- I mean, it must have been..." he trailed off.

"Dad, I love you."

"I love you too, Boo."

The remainder of that day I sat and stared at the clock waiting to jettison out of my chair so I could go home and watch CNN. Once home, I sat stunned in my armchair, cat on my lap, watching the news.

During that time I lived near a college campus, and all that implies. The nightly parties grated on my nerves, but that evening on September 11, 2001, the parties were silent. No traffic on the streets. Just silence. I finally went to bed at midnight.

I lay there, listening to the jet fighters fly overhead every 20 minutes, until I nodded off.

The next day, my brother-in-law, Bingo, said it best:

"September 11th should be called 'The Day Osama Ruined the World.'"

Odd.

Tomorrow night Leslie and I will be going to Hellstrum's CD release party. Together.

If you had said to me a year ago, "T-Bone, one year from now Mikey will be dead, you'll become fast friends with his ex-fiance and you'll attend Hellstrum's CD release party together," I would have replied:

"Well, first of all, Mikey isn't in a band called Hellstrum. He's in a band called Divine Ruins, and he's really excited about it. Secondly, he isn't going to die. That's ridiculous-- he doesn't even catch colds! Third, I doubt Leslie and I would have much to talk about. From what I understand, we're very different from one another."

Just an example of how wrong one can be.

I Never Knew This. I'm Forever Changed.

I sit here behind my desk stunned. The foundation of my life has been cracked. I will never again view humankind in the same light.

Prepare yourselves, readers.

According to a new study from Germany, when choosing a partner, men tend to overlook the subtle qualities in a woman and instead simply go for THE HOT WOMAN.

http://www.cnn.com/2007/TECH/science/09/04/dating.mating.ap/index.html

Because the Redhead and I are looking for ways to fund our Jane Austen pilgrimage to England, we have made a list of possible areas of study to submit to the nearest think-tank. Once we have our "study grant" ("airfare"), we will conduct in-depth, fact-finding missions to reveal truths about why:

- The lane you are in goes slower than the other ones

- The line you are in has one person finishing their shift, and a new one with a new tray of money

- They have boots in every size except yours

- If you don't water your plants, they die
- The store you go to had a big sale last week

- If you work out, you get smaller

- Teenagers treat their parents like shit
- Having your period hurts

- You will have a pus-filled zit at the corner of your mouth the morning of your wedding
- If you drink too much, you'll get a hangover

- If you eat McDonald's every day, you'll get fat

- If you watch too much TV, you won't get a lot of stuff done around the house

- They airbrush models in magazines, and
- Cats will vomit on your carpet, rugs, or bed before they'll vomit on the hardwood or linoleum floor.

I know, readers-- I know. It'll be difficult to view the world in the same way ever again.

The Wall

I've never felt so old. This week's events have finally caught up to me.

Normally when I'm dragging my ass I can get a good night's sleep and a decent meal and the following day, I'm full of piss and vinegar. Not so today.

Although I slept decently last night, I woke up exhausted. I cleaned my house exhausted. I got ready for work exhausted. My second job (of the dozens) usually leaves me rejuvinated, but tonight, I was a washrag being wrung drier and drier with each passing moment. I ran errands after work, picking up much-needed items at the grocery store and desperately-needed wine at the liquor store. Dragging my feet through the grocery store, I wondered how I was going to make it home and sherpa the bags up the stairs. I did get the groceries into the fridge, but I still had to cook dinner (at 10:00 p.m.) because I hadn't eaten substantively for over 36 hours. I managed to take care of that, too.

So here I am, belly full and wine glass drained.

The last week has been an autumn, and the days to come will be spring.

In Paradisum

In paradisum deducant te angeli,
in tuo adventu
suscipiant te martyres,
et perducant te
in civitatem sanctam Jerusalem.
Chorus angelorum te suscipiat,
et cum Lazaro quondam paupere
aeternam habeas requiem.

May the angels lead you into paradise,
may the martyrs receive you
in your coming,
and may they guide you
into the holy city, Jerusalem.
May the chorus of angels receive you
and with Lazarus once poor
may you have eternal rest.

Requiem, Mikey.

The Viewing

There is a heap of clothing on my bed; it's difficult to know what to wear to a viewing. Jeans are inappropriate. But what if they're nice black jeans? No-- forget that idea. It's ridiculous. My Mom didn't raise me in a barn. A skirt? No-- I don't have the correct underthings for that particular skirt. Finally I decided to dress just for Doris, Mikey's Mom, the original steel magnolia.

Driving over to the chapel, I checked my purse over and over again for the cards for Doris and Mikey's children, Brittany and Brandon. There was a third envelope in my purse; a letter to Mikey I wrote this afternoon. I picked some wildflowers, fashioned a miniature bouquet and placed them in the envelope with this letter. I thought he'd like to have some wildflowers taken from the dirt of The Hamlet to accompany him into eternity.

What did the letter say? It's too personal to share word for word, but I will say that I told Mikey about the memorial service last night and all the weird things that happened there, all the women that are crawling out of the woodwork and claiming him for their own, how angry I am with him for leaving. I mentioned old friends that are gone and how lucky he was to get to see them again, and how I too would see him again one day, hopefully many, many years from now. Most of all, I told Mikey how much I was going to miss him and just how much I love him.

At the chapel I was happy to see only a handful of people had arrived, as it was still early. I didn't relish the idea of standing in line to visit with Mikey for the last time.

While signing the guestbook, I heard the music from the chapel-- Irish folksongs. Oh, God.

I walked in, terrified.

Up front was the casket, open. I glimpsed his profile against the velvet. "Not ready. Not ready," I said to myself. With relief I noticed a board set up on an easel, covered with photographs of Mikey. I walked over, curious and very, very afraid.

There he is, a baby-faced Army infantryman, helmet on, rifle in hand. Smiling, holding baby Brandon. A studio portrait of short-haired Mikey and the kids, with their golden curls and Sunday best. Mikey with a really bad perm, peeking out from behind his drum kit, grinning. Mikey and his relatives, in front of a white clapboard church somewhere in Mississippi. Mikey in front of the Christmas tree, holding up a brand-new cymbal. A recent photo of Mikey behind his new kit, playing his ass off. Mikey and Sledje, relaxing after rehearsal.

I could have stood there for hours, gazing at those pictures.

I turned and saw Doris sitting in the front pew, speaking softly to the preacher about the service tomorrow, with Brandon and Brittany interjecting occasional comments. A couple stood up at the casket, looking down at Mike.

I sunk into a pew and waited.

After about five minutes, the couple turned and left the chapel. I stood and walked up to Doris.

"T-Bone, how are you?"

"I'm fine, Doris. I'm wondering how you are." I held her hand and chafed it. "Your little hand is cold!" I commented.

"Ah know," she said, glancing at the casket. Doris looked up at me and said, "This is so hard. So hard!" I hugged her.

I gave her the card, and walked over to Sonia, who hugged me. "Would you please give this to Brittany and Brandon?" I asked her, handing her the card. "Yes, of course. I will," said Sonia. I looked at Doris and held up Mikey's envelope. "Doris, may I put this letter in with Mikey?"

She raised her eyebrows and looked over at Sonia. "Well, ah don't know! Is that alright, Sonia?"

"Oh sure. Definitely," said Sonia.

"Thank you so much," I said. I turned to walk over to Mikey.

Mikey was dressed, of course, in a black shirt and jeans, his sticks in his hands. His skin was so pale. Reaching into the casket, I placed the letter next to his hip, then I held his hand, carefully curling my fingers around his. I wasn't thinking at all, of anything.

Finally, a coherent thought: "Well, I can't stand here all fucking day." I turned and said my goodbyes to Doris and Sonia, telling them I would see them tomorrow. I started down the aisle.

A dark-haired lady, dressed very conservatively, stood in the aisle and said hello. "What's your name?" she asked.

"I'm T-Bone Jones," I said, shaking her hand. "What's your name?"

"I'm Leslie," she said simply.

We reached out, held each other and cried.

"Come and sit down, T-Bone. I've heard so much about you. I want to talk to you," she said quietly. "Mike's told me so much about you. I'm so happy to meet you-- finally."

"And I'm happy to meet you, Leslie."

As I talked to Mikey's ex-fiance', I found myself transfixed by her. She was so adult, so eloquent, so classy. The cross on her necklace gleamed. This was not how I had envisioned Leslie; I was so happy she was this way.

After a bit of small-talk, she said to me, "T-Bone, I just want to warn you. Tomorrow is going to be standing room only in this chapel. There are going to be lots of girls."

"Well," I said with a smile, "That's not a big surprise."

"Do you know that these girls are still calling Mike's cell phone? Honestly. I had two calls on his phone today."

"Who? What on earth..." I said, confused. "Don't they know...?"

"Oh, they know," she said smiling gently. "They don't know what to do when I pick up the phone, though!"

I giggled. "What do they say?"

"Well, I answer the phone 'Hello'. Then they ask, 'Who's this?' and I say, 'No. Who's this?' Today one of them was a girl named Jamie."

"Jamie? Who's Jamie?"

"I have no clue," said Leslie. "But then she says to me, 'I'm Mike's girlfriend.' Well," said Leslie with a wry smile, "I told her: 'Get in line.' Then I hung up."

I snickered.

"So I wanted you to know, T-Bone, so you could be ready tomorrow," Leslie said. Then: "We, meaning the family and I-- I'm staying with Doris until the smoke clears. I'm really worried about her. But I also have been wanting to meet you for a long time. I've heard so much about you from Mike." Here she looked at me. "We know who the people are that really mattered to him, and you're one of them."

I looked at Leslie, amazed. Then tears. We held each other, there in the pew.

"Oh, Leslie," I snuffled, "Thank you so much for telling me."

Memorial

Mikey's memorial service was held last night. Approximately 150 people attended and were crammed inside the shop like sardines.

Candles were distributed to everyone, but mine remained dark. It's sitting on my kitchen counter with a still-fresh wick. Perhaps I will light it sometime this week, in private, as I didn't want to display my emotions at this event.

I knew a few people there, but for the most part the mourners were fellow musicians. Other than those fifteen or so of my acquaintance, the remainder of the crowd were strangers to me. I felt very odd being there, as if I was encroaching on their territory (similar to how I'd feel attending one of Mikey's shows).

Something I noticed at the hospital last weekend carried over to the service last night. For reasons I'm still trying to comprehend, the general conversations at the memorial were one-upmanships of how important each person felt they were in Mikey's world. In speaking to one another about him, there was a curious "I was far more important in his life than YOU were" tone to it all. No one listened to others' reminicses-- they just wanted to be at the top of the heap.

That silly game irritated me very much; in fact, I felt very irritable throughout the memorial.

I couldn't leave soon enough.

You Big Lug.

Why couldn't you have waited two more hours?

This morning, I was so happy to find out that you were still here. I even brought a book of Irish poetry to read to you, hoping that the beautiful words you love so much would somehow penetrate the void.

But you were gone.

Michael Jeffrey Pittman

September 18, 1962 - August 27, 2007

A Fond and Loving Tribute to The Amazing Weasel Boy.

This is the Amazing Weasel Boy, whom will forever again be known as Mikey.

Mikey inspired and encouraged me to write this blog. Sixty-Four Twelve's very first post, "Silvercliff", was about our daytrip there.

As you can see from the picture above, Mikey is a musician-- a percussionist and drummer-- and an excellent one at that. He is a late bloomer, having realized his calling just twenty short years ago.

After a lot of hard work and sacrifice, Mikey finally was on the cusp of greatness. He had opened his own drum shop about a year and a half ago. The shop was his baby and occupied his every thought. His customers loved him and asked for his opinions on every aspect of their drum purchases. He worked diligently to make his customers happy. He treated every person that walked through his door with warmth, respect and honesty.

His most recent pet project is Hellstrum, a band in Colorado Springs. Four like-minded musicians came together to write original music-- very hard, very fast, punk/industrial metal. Mikey was free to create his music without restrictions of any kind. He told me that after playing for twenty years in various bands, he had finally found the perfect marriage of musicians in Jack, Sledje and Terry. The joy these guys found together in their music was evident each time they walked on the stage. Hellstrum was also on the verge of greatness, getting attention state-wide and starting to reach out beyond the Colorado state lines.

Mikey and I met in high school in 1978. We now argue about who broke up with who-- Mikey said, "Oh, you broke up with me to go with that guy Matt," and I say, "Noooo... it was YOU who broke up with me, because I remember being broken-hearted afterward." He bought me my first diamond ring and I recall piously returning it after we'd split. I wasn't going to return it until my mother spotted me wearing it.

"You still have that? Why are you still wearing that, T-Bone?"

"Mikey gave it to me, Mom. It was a gift," I said ignorantly.

"T-Bone. You do not keep diamond rings after the relationship has broken up. You have to return it!" So I did.

What I would give to have that ring now.

One night, Mikey said to me, "You know what I remember? I remember your parents were out one night and I was over, and I got to lay on top of you down in the family room. God. That was awesome."

"How come I don't remember that?" I asked. "I want to remember it! Was it nice?"

"It was really nice," he said with a smile.

Again, as with the ring, what I would give to have that memory.

Mikey and I lost touch for about 25 years, when last year he suddenly popped into my head. I
Googled him, and there he was.

In my first email to him, the subject line said "You Are Not Going To Believe This." We got together for dinner and thus began the eleven month odyssey of getting to know each other again.

How he'd changed! The once painfully skinny, shy and tall Mikey with the feathered disco hair had turned into a bulky, long-haired musician. He was still so polite, so lovely, and smelled so good. After our first dinner, I was walking on air. I told my girlz Gwyneth and Deb, "Oh, I feel just the same. Just the same as I did all those years ago. Am I insane? I've got to be insane."

We met for dinner on a regular basis, either out or here at The Hovel. Mikey loved to come to The Hovel. "I love The Hamlet!" he said, gazing out the window onto the shops below. "I want to live here one day," he'd say.

"You will, sweetheart. One day you will. You'll forget all about The Other Side and live here," I said, "One day you're going to have everything you want. You just wait and see."

Immortality was a oft-discussed topic of our long conversations. "You know, T-Bone, I think you really ought to work on transcribing those diaries of your great-grandfather's. I think you're sitting on an amazing book and don't realize it." He looked at me so earnestly with his pale blue eyes. "You've got to do it! Life's too short, T-Bone. If you don't do it now, you're going to regret it."

"I know, I know..." I'd say irritably. I thought, God, but grandpa's writing is so small and spidery-- what a project!

He'd continue, "That's why I work so hard, T-Bone-- that's why. I need to make sure I make it so my Mom will know that I wasn't a complete fuckup my whole life. That's why this band and my music and my store are so important to me. I don't want her to die thinking that I was a fuckup."

"Mikey, she knows you're not. She loves you."

Throughout those eleven months, I wavered back and forth about the pursuit of Mikey. He didn't like pressure (who does?) so he backed away from me while simultaneously keeping his hand in.

When I went to San Diego to visit The Hessian, Mikey was very nervous about it. I didn't know this until one evening at The Hovel and over dinner, Mikey said:

"I have something to ask you."

"What?"

"I just... you know, your going to San Diego made me think about some stuff." Here he paused and I thought, Oh boy. Here it comes. He continued, "Don't you think we'd make an awesome couple?"

I looked at him, fork in mid-air. "Yes. Yes I do," I said. "I think we could be really happy together."

"Would you... do you want to try it?" he asked.

"It would be my fondest wish, Mikey." Inside, I was exuberant and so very happy.

But nothing changed. Over the next three months, he pulled further and further away, until I finally realized I had to completely release him. I did so quietly, without any kind of speech, letter, email or drama. I just let him go, and he went.

I hadn't spoken to Mikey for seven weeks, when this morning I called our friend Derek, who'd left a message on my voicemail last night.

"T-Bone, have you heard from Mike?"

"Nooooo... we haven't spoken in weeks," I answered.

"Well... he's in the hospital," Derek explained.

He went on to say that Mikey had a seizure yesterday and they found a brain tumor pressing on his brain stem. Mikey was in a coma on life support.

Needless to say, I jumped in the shower, got dressed and went down to the hospital.

Many people were there, all of them in the same state as I was (and am)-- stunned, disbelieving, shaken. A friend of Mikey's, Cheli, said that the doctors had determined Mike was brain-dead and his family had decided to take him off life support. That is going to happen this afternoon, probably as I write this. "You should go in there and say goodbye, T-Bone," said Cheli gently.

I was shaking as I walked down the hall to his room in the ICU. I felt as if I was being pulled along by a force much greater than anything I'd ever felt-- a kind of repulsive and dirty rope, yanking me along to Mikey's room against my wishes and my will.

I walked in, and saw him.

He looked beautiful. The ventilator was in his mouth, breathing for him, and the soft whisper of his breath escaped through his lips. His long, silky hair was on the pillow. His eyes were closed, and oh, how I longed to look him in the eye one last time.

I held his hand. Warm.

"Mikey," I muttered. "You've really done it now." His beautiful face in complete repose.

"I came to say goodbye and I want to tell you I love you, baby. I always have and I always will." I leaned over and put my head on his chest, and listened to his heart beat. His big heart.

I straightened up and looked at him again. I smoothed back his hair from his forehead, and leaned down to kiss his cheek. I kissed his neck too, and put my nose up to his ear to take a sniff, something which always made him giggle. "You always have to get the sniff, don't you?" he'd say. "Oh, yeah," I'd answer. "I have to get the sniff because it's sooooo good!" This time was no different. He smelled like Mikey.

I said to him, "Mikey, I know I'll see you again. I'm going to miss you. We are all going to miss you." Then I leaned into his ear and whispered a poem by Yeats we both love:

'Your eyes that once were never weary of mine
Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids,
Because our love is waning.'
And then she:
'Although our love is waning, let us stand
By the lone border of the lake once more,
Together in that hour of gentleness
When the poor tired child, Passion, falls asleep:
How far away the stars seem, and how far
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!'
Pensive they paced along the faded leaves;
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:
'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'
The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves
Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once
A rabbit old and lame limped down the path;
Autumn was over him: and now they stood
On the lone border of the lake once more...
'Ah, do not mourn,' he said,
"That we are tired, for other loves await us;
Hate on and love through unrepining hours.
Before us lies eternity; our souls
Are love, and a continual farewell.'"

I again straightened my back and looked at Mikey for the last time.

"Baby, I love you so much. Goodbye."

I turned and left the hospital.

War.

Because I work for The Hamlet's Public Works Department, I have access to all kinds of nifty things-- weed-whackers, tools, chainsaws, bulldozers, etc. By far the coolest thing we have is a street sign maker. Because my previous no parking sign was torn down by the angry man whose car I vandalized after he thoughtlessly parked in my space, I was thinking it'd be fun to make a new sign for my parking spot. It will read:

TOW ZONE

PRIVATE PARKING

Do not at any time park anything here including,

but not limited to*, bicycles, tricycles, unicycles,

motorcycles, scooters, skateboards,

baby strollers, cars, trucks, SUVs or RVs.

NO NOTHING. NO PARKING.

If you park your vehicle here, I will have it towed.

If you park something here that is small enough

to pick up, I will throw it off the nearest cliff.

* Had to toss that in. My legal background, don't you know.

The Tenth Circle of Hell

Each year for the last five decades, The Hamlet becomes the epicenter of the running world during the third weekend in August, hosting two grueling marathon races. To this I say:


"I fucking hate the third weekend in August."


Here’s the funny thing—I used to run. In fact, I used to be a jock in the complete sense of the word. Over the years, I’ve turned away from athletics. I don’t watch sports on television; I avoid athletic events such as professional football, hockey and basketball games; I don’t read the sports page; I laugh when yet another athlete is caught up in some sort of scandal; I feel contempt for the high salaries professional athletes receive; I am mystified by the adulation given to athletes. For this marathon to be happening outside my window, it’s a terrific irony.


I can't adequately convey the inconvenience this marathon places on residents' living conditions during this marathon weekend. Allow me to list my personal grievances:


1.) The street noise, usually a low roar during the summer, is heightened to a carcophony of loud music, cheering spectators and idiotic announcers. This is all punctuated by the clanging assemblage of large tents and street barriers.


2.) Parking is impossible, meaning residents cannot park in front of their own houses for four full days. If a resident parks in front of their own home, their vehicle will be towed. These parking restrictions are strictly and gleefully enforced by The Hamlet's Nazi Police Force.


3.) The street upon which the marathon embarks and finishes is closed to traffic. If you are a Hamlet resident and live on this particular street (such as the Brunette and me), you must locate a Nazi to ask permission to escape this temporary prison. If you manage to escape The Hamlet and want to return to your house, you must perform the same action-- locate Nazi, ask permission and drive up to your house. Remember though!-- no parking in front of your house, or your vehicle will be towed, motherfucker.



In my mind, there is a deep disconnect between the way I feel about this weekend and what I see outside in the spectators' shining, rhapsodic faces.


Some other complaints:


Music- the marathon organizers play one CD which has approximately 15 tunes on it, which is set to "random" play. "Random" takes on a different meaning when you have a choice of 15 songs from which to choose played during the course of a nine hour event. This CD has two songs on it that I really love, sung by Aretha and Squeeze, but being on the marathon loudspeakers, even these two fabulous songs take on a perverted, twisted feel. I don't think Difford and Tillbrook imagined while writing "Cool For Cats" it would be listened to by a bunch of middle-aged wanna-be jocks wearing "Life is good" t-shirts and Tevas, while swigging a Gatorade. Other songs on this pathetic playlist include "YMCA", "Get Ready 'Cuz Here I Come", "Shake Yer Booty", the "Rocky" theme (natch).


As the runners bottleneck at this point in the marathon, the noise is becoming louder and louder, the announcer's voice higher and higher.


I cannot think, people.


Please- someone stand behind me and shove an icepick into the base of my skull.


Another lovely scenario:


Fortunately, I happen to have off-street parking for The Hovel. I have a little private spot marked as such. I guard this spot jealously, because for some mysterious reason, the white letters painted on the side of the building that typically read, "NO PARKING TOW ZONE" are sometimes read as, "NO PARKING TOW ZONE EXCEPT YOU, MY SPECIAL FRIEND". When I come home to find my special friend parked my spot, I will either have them towed or I will vandalize their car, depending on how generous I happen to feel at that moment.


Friday night, coming home after a 15-hour workday, I drove into my parking lot and saw two rolloff dumpsters in my parking space. Imagine my excitement knowing the marathon organizers saw fit to place these in my precious parking space. I called Audrey at Nazi dispatch and explained the situation to her. "There's nothing we can do," she said. Ah, God. Why? Why?


Here's some stupid shit that the announcer has screamed into his microphone so far this morning:


"Well, folks- I just looked at my watch and it's three minutes to High Noon- we should be seeing Gary Cooper at any time now!!!"


During "YMCA", he screeched to the spectators just before the chorus, "OKAY! EVERYBODY! SING ALONG!!!" No one did, which was a cold comfort.


To an oncoming finisher, "Give me a high five!! Everybody gets a high five, you betcha!!"





Next year, I'm taking myself on vacation during the third weekend in August.


I know I'm not wrapping this posting up properly with a summary statement, but holy God. I am unable to hear myself think.

The Road To Hell Is Paved With Good Intentions

After a dinner date and a lunch date, I thought it was time to have Biggy over for dinner to show him appreciation for the feeding of moi.

"What would you like for dinner?" I asked him.

"Oh, whatever you'd like to cook is fine. I love all food."

"Okay. How about pasta?"

"Yeah! Pasta sounds good."

"Well, I'll make some pasta," I decided, "And we'll have a nice quiet dinner at my house."

"That sounds great," Biggy said with enthusiasm.

The afternoon of the dinner in question, I ran errands after work in preparation for my guest. Grocery store: prosciutto, pasta, onions, heavy cream, good pancetta. Liquor store: chianti. Home: cat puke/cat hair removal, clean bathroom, sweep, vacuum and dust. Myself: shower, dress, hair, makeup. Music on, candles lit.

Biggy comes up my steps and he enters The Hovel.

"Would you like some wine?" I offered.

"Wine?" he said doubtfully. "Uh, I'm not sure... I'm not a big wine drinker."

"Oh. Take a sniff of the bottle and let me know what you think."

Biggy puts his nose to the neck of the bottle and sniffs. "Well... I'll try it."

"Okay," I said, pouring an inch into his glass.

He tasted the wine, his nose wrinkling slightly. "I don't think this is for me."

I laughed. "That's fine. More for me. I knew I should have gotten some beer."

"Nahhhh... water's good. I'll just have some with ice."

We talk while I make dinner. I begin to slice an onion.

Biggy: "You're putting onions in the pasta?"

"Yeah, I'm sautee-ing them. What-- you don't like onions?"

"I'm just not an onion guy," he said apologetically.

"Biggy, this is why I asked you what you wanted for dinner. If you don't like onions, I wish you would have told me. That way, I wouldn't have onions in the pasta!"

"I like those little white ones," he explained. "I've never had the purple ones."

"Trust me. When these are sauteed, they're sweet. They're really good."

"Okay, T-Bone. It looks really good so far."

I got a bread basket out and started slicing the bread.

"There's olives in the bread?" asked Biggy.

Now I'm annoyed. "Yes. There's olives in the bread. There's onions in the pasta. I suppose you don't like olives either?"

"Not really. But it does look like a good loaf of bread."

"Well, now that you hate everything I've gotten for dinner tonight, how about I just scrap all of it and we order Domino's?"

"No, T-Bone, it all looks terrific."

So I light the candles in the dining room and bring all the food he hates out to the table. God, how insulting, I think to myself.

I start eating (it's pretty good, if I must say so myself) and Biggy picks onions out of his pasta and arranges them along the edge of his plate. The olives soon take up residence beside the onions. I pour myself another glass of wine.

He yawns throughout dinner. This is awful! I think to myself.

Biggy leaves at about 9:00 p.m. "Thanks for dinner," he says, leaning forward to kiss me.

We kiss. "Yeah, you're welcome. Sorry you hated it," I said a bit rudely.

"I didn't hate it! It was a very good dinner," Biggy fibbed.

After closing the door, I trudged back upstairs to The Hovel and stalked into the kitchen. Pots, pans, cooking utensils lay spread across the stove, countertop and in the sink.

I lit a cigarette and surveyed the scene. I mumbled aloud, "Yeah, well-- what the fuck ever. Guess I should have had Bud Lite and sloppy joes."

I went out to the patio, thinking about what had just happened.

The wine, the olives, the onions, the yawning-- what a colossal waste of time, money and effort.

A Great Mystery, Finally Solved

I have a few Achillies' heels (don't we all) but the one that certainly haunts me the most is the fact that I've never married nor have I had children. In a world filled with couples-- couples with children, couples without children, couples' vacations, tables for two, bicycles built for two, articles about raising children, articles about keeping your marriage hot, articles about retiring with your spouse and buying a vineyard in Napa (see Fine Living Magazine)-- being perpetually single has certainly cast a pall over my life.

As I've mentioned to my sisters and my Mom, being a forty-something single chick in this world tends to make one feel like a complete freak.

I try not to think about this subject too much or analyze it too deeply, because when I do, it becomes too depressing to chew on for very long. Overly self-critical to begin with, I find myself shooting into hyper-criticism mode when ruminating over my single state. This is not what I need. Consequently, my thoughts on the subject are fleeting and the "problem" never gets solved.

But this weekend I had a breakthrough, thanks to the fabulous Melissa Lafsky at Freakanomics:

"Picking up women has been getting plenty of press these days, leading up to this week’s premiere of the VH1 reality show The Pick-Up Artist. The show follows eight “socially inept” men through an eight-week boot camp on seduction techniques, led by a self-proclaimed Lothario called “Mystery.” The headliner (whose real name is Erik Von Markovik) initially found fame after being profiled in Neil Strauss’s 2005 book The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists, and went on to co-write his own book, How to Get Beautiful Women Into Bed: The Mystery Method.

"Under particular discussion is a pickup technique that Mystery advocates known as “negging” — a move that involves interjecting an insult during an initial conversation with a woman. The motivation behind the insult is, as Esquire’s A.J. Jacobs puts it, to “lower her self-esteem, thus making her more vulnerable to your advances."

Melissa does not condone negging, but plenty of guys left comments after reading her online article, and many agreed that negging almost always works. I didn't know this! I didn't even know it had a name! As the recipient of this approach, I've found the key to the greatest mystery of my lifetime-- why I've never been married.

I've been such a fool. The two times (that I remember clearly anyway) I've been the recipient of negging, I was mistakenly throwing away the possibility of a lifetime of happiness with a man I could truly love and who in turn would love me!

First Negging Example:

Standing in line to get into a nightclub, a guy behind me tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Nice pants. Are you wearing underwear?"

"You're an idiot," I answered.

See, had I known he was negging me, I would have hung around him all night hoping he'd ask for my phone number. We probably would be buying that vineyard in Napa right about now if I'd not given him a verbal slap.

Second Negging Example:

I stepped into an elevator containing a man, who turned to me and said, "You're such a beautiful woman-- it's a shame you smoke."

"Is that supposed to be a fucking compliment?" I snapped.

Now I wish I'd ridden up to the top of the building with this guy so I could have tried to get to know him better. He and I would have had a lovely destination wedding to Sandals Resort, had I just known.

Those boys in kindergarten who hit you because they liked you? They grow up to become men that turn their negging skills onto you. Just like a laser beam of love.

Now, That's What I'm Talkin' About.

From Nathaniel Philbrick's Mayflower: A Story of Courage, Community and War:

"To their amazement and delight... (the Fortune) proved to be an English ship... with thirty-seven passengers aboard. In an instant, the size of the colony had almost doubled...

"Everyone aboard the Fortune was in good health... many of them single men... (w)ith the arrival of the Fortune, there would be a total of sixty-six men in the colony and just sixteen women."

Those are what I call good odds.

Thank You. Love, Max

When my 9 year-old nephew's birthday was looming on the calendar, I was ruminating about what I should get him as a gift. I thought and thought and thought, and finally, I just asked him:

"Max, what do you want for your birthday, sweetie?"

He rolled his brown eyes up to the ceiling and pondered.

"I don't know," he answered. "But the minute I decide, I'll tell you."

The birthday got closer and closer. One day, I recalled the really cool gift that both my Grandma and Aunt would send to me on my birthday: cold hard cash. Fabulous! I'll give Max some money.

Oh, he was so happy when he opened the card and the bill fell out. He picked it up with his square little fingers, and smiling, held it up to his cheek and said, "Thanks!"

A couple weeks later, I received a card in the mail from Max. The card itself is one of those bought in bunches for a wedding shower, a farewell party, or the like. Max chose a manly, horizontal maroon, navy and white stripe design for his card, with block letters on the front saying simply, "THANK YOU".

Inside the card, Max wrote:

"T-Bone, thank you for the money. I spent it on (Mommy's) birthday presents. Love, Max".

Celebrity Mince Machine

Behold the beautiful English jazz singer Amy Winehouse; she of the hazel eyes, full lips, tousled-because-she-just-had-a-wild-romp-in-bed-with-a-man hair and perfectly, fantastically-shaped eyebrows. People-- this girl can wail. Her voice is sexy, deep, and it's got a sound behind it that's soulful and worldly. Perfection!


But look what happens when a woman gets ground up in the celebrity mince machine:





Sweetie, what the hell happened? What is that thing on your head? Where did your tooth go? Why do you have that mildly horrified, yet simultaneously crazed and amused look on your face?


Please correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't dental work free in England? I'm pretty sure it is. Honestly, Amy... go get a tooth put in.


Looking around on the web at pictures of Amy, I see that she's also succumbed to the self-inflicted starvation that seems to follow on the heels of celebrity status. Apparently she used to be a size 14 (she looked stunning) and she has recently starved herself to a size 3 or less. Amy shared with the press that she does a strenuous workout 6 days a week, then walks the 25 minutes home afterward, not to mention the 25 minutes' walk to the gym. Exercise into oblivion.


That thing on her head. I squint at the pictures and try to figure out how it's attached, where it starts and ends. It's all swirled and curled and very elaborately worked into her own hair (and not in a good way). Amy's secretive hair reminds me of this guy's:





Combed back to front? Front to back? Where is his hairline? When Donald comes out of the shower, is his wet hair hanging down past his shoulders? There's just so much length and it's like Amy's; all sprayed and brushed and fluffed.


Here's a picture of Lindsay Lohan gettin' her Anne-Margaret on:




Wow.


Later, Lindsay after the celeb mince machine gobbled her up:




No! Who told her she should be a brassy blonde? Where are her boobs?

Did Lindsay's boobs and Amy's tooth go get a place together?

More of the mince machine's handiwork:




Clearly she's as stupid as a sack of hammers and can't take care of herself.

What's mysterious is these people who crave attention finally get the adulation they've been seeking, then they come unhinged. What is that?

The Amazing Weasel Boy

Once a week, for the last three weeks, I've emailed my former Lust Object (now known as "Weasel Boy") asking him to return the Ken Burns' Civil War tapes which he borrowed. He responded to the first email, "Thanks for reminding me. I'll get them to you." The second email didn't generate a response. The third email prompted this: "They're in my car. I'll get them to you."

Today I came home from work and on my voicemail was a message from Weasel Boy saying, "I'd like to drop off those tapes tonight. Give me a call and let me know if you'll be home after six." So I called and told him I would be here. He said, "Okay. I'll be there after six and drop off those tapes." He actually used an emphasis on those words when he spoke them. Gosh-- is he trying to let me know that he'll be dropping off the tapes and that he won't be staying for a visit?

Okay, okay-- I get it. Jesus Christ, Weasel Boy.

So, I've gotten into the spirit of all the dropping off that's going on around here today. I want to make sure he understands that I understand he doesn't want to see me, nor do I want to see him (because I'm not convinced he realizes this). I shall leave a note on the front door that says, "Weasel Boy, please leave the tapes in the stairwell and shut the door when you leave. Thank you."

Just another "getting-the-upper-hand-and-trying-to-outsmart-the-other-person-and-show-this-guy-that-I'm-a-okay-without-him" joust.

I hate participating in this kind of crap. I wish I didn't care about him, but he doesn't need to know I do.

And truthfully? I really don't want to see him.

Forgive Them Father, For They Are Child-Molesting Freaks

After announcing the $660 million settlement reached between the Catholic Diocese of Los Angeles and the victims of child abuse at the hands of some bad-apple priests, the Plaintiffs' attorneys held a brief press conference. After a statement in behalf of the victims, Plaintiffs' attorney mentioned that the church representative would not be joining the press conference to make a statement regarding the settlement, as was previously planned.

Of course they didn't show! All the church officials and their little minions had to go into a tight little huddle and figure out-- in hushed, scholarly tones-- what the fuck they're going to say to everyone!

I'm happy that the victims have received some kind of recompense for whatever horrors they've lived through, however, I do wish the victims would have refused settlement and taken those assholes to trial. Obviously, I am not privy to the inner working of this case, but I do believe if it had gone to trial, there's a distinct possibility that the Catholic Church would not have recovered.



The powerful, secretive Catholic church chose to keep those priests under its protection by allowing them to stay put in their current parishes, continue counseling the parishoners, continue to ask for money on Sundays, all while intoning the word of God. These priests, under the church's protection and then therefore with its permission, continued to get whatever it was they wanted from those kids.


Now that the church's secrets have been held up in plain view for everyone to see, they are still trying to strategize and posture and justify. Truth is, church officials should be afraid because they have handled this in a clumsy, bad manner from the beginning. Just now, the church is beginning to realize we (the general public) see their ineptitude. Why else would the church representative be a no-show for a press conference following the settlement?

From the Archbishop of Los Angeles down to the lowliest priest in that Diocese, they are all a bunch of cowards. The priests molested defenseless little kids and the church covered it up because they were scared of the repercussions. The church made minimal effort to remove these maniacs from their service; rather, the church made the weasly, underhanded choice and simply shuffled the perverts, hoping no one would be the wiser (moving a child molester to a new town does not make him stop molesting children; it just provides him with a fresh batch of kids from which to pick and choose). I doubt the church will hold an honest, open discussion with their members about these recent events, because they are busy trying to cover their asses. They'll never implement or share with the members of their church a plan to ensure that this will not happen again, because it's too hard to change things that aren't working properly. In short, fear, subterfuge and greed will keep the church from doing the right thing, which would be acting like empathetic human beings. Tell me: where the hell is that priest who stands up and shrieks, "We are doing this all wrong! We are hurting people! We have to stop this right now!"?

Oh. I forgot. That kind of stuff only happens in the movies.

You can bet your britches that if suddenly it was discovered that a pack of elementary school teachers in Los Angeles were molesting hundreds of their students, we would be horrified and demand that the root of the problem be found pronto. We would say that there is something in the system that has allowed this behavior to flourish, and because of that, the system must change. Then the changes (good, bad, or indifferent, but the key word here is change) would be put into motion. With this analogy in mind, it's easy to recognize how the church must react, but I sincerely doubt they will.

Reality Taps Me on the Shoulder and Says, "Hey. Over Here."

I've changed.

I've reached the limit with My Lust Object. He is no longer an issue. For this I am truly thankful and kind of amazed.

Before, in thinking of My Lust Object, my thoughts were muddy. I was unable to remove myself from the situation and think clearly, the way I should have been thinking about him all along. Inobjectivity pushed me to act in ridiculous ways. I had no pride, I had no boundaries. I rushed forward to get a drink from the mirage that lay ahead. What I thought was water was dust.

The thought entered my mind: "Am I behaving this way because I think I will be rewarded with him one day, or am I behaving like this because I am trying to convince myself I haven't wasted my time and effort on him?"

I didn't like the answer, but I accepted it.

BANKRUPT!!! The Musical

Both my mind and my time have been thoroughly occupied these last four weeks with my impending bankruptcy.

I'm representing myself in this bankruptcy, called pro se in legal parlance. In my former life as a legal assistant, I remember the extreme annoyance I'd feel getting a document back from the attorney with yet another revision-- the 50th in a series of revisions to that same bit of information. Now I understand why the same snippet was revised over and over and over again-- because the client (in this case, me) keeps changing their (my) damn mind and keeps supplying the attorney (me) with new, previously forgotten information (because I'm a ditz).

***Curtain up***

(Open scene in filthy apartment. Large clots of cat hair drift across floor. Moldy dishes in sink. Chain-smoking, tense client (T-Bone) hunched over broken computer, attempting to finalize bankruptcy papers. She wears her thick-lensed glasses, black yoga pants covered in cat fur, and an ill-fitting cami which fails to cover her white, fat stomach)

***Overture (T-Bone sings)***

"Someday I'll be free
of hateful papers haunting me;
Happy days are soon to come
If these revisions soon are done!"

(Stage right door flings open and Attorney T-Bone, played by Kristin Chenowith, rushes in with large stack of papers in arms. She sings)

"T-Bone, you shall not be free

Until the revisions are done-- you see?
Once again you gave me a list

That fails to give me the full gist!"

(Client T-Bone slumps in chair. Lights another cig. Faces Attorney T-Bone and sings)

"Ah yes I forgot that house I cleaned
and the transcript that I typed
Income I felt did not deem
a mention on my taxes-- Oh cripes!
What shall I do? What shall I do?

I'm tired of schedules and disclosures

Of exemptions and drafts and laws and rules

When will this crap be over?"

(Cherubs float down from the ceiling as Attorney T-Bone sings)

"T-Bone, do not fear

Your work is almost finished here.

Just one more draft for these tired eyes

and from your desk you may rise."

(Attorney T-Bone and Client T-Bone link arms, smile at one another, and are lifted above the stage slowly, while music swells)

... and... scene.

My computer took another crap.

I won't be posting for awhile. Thanks for checking back and continue to do so, please!

Meanwhile, here's a picture of my new husband Damian Lewis.

*big sigh*




If you haven't seen "Band of Brothers", drive yourself to Blockbuster and rent it. Damian, of course, is fabulous in it as Major Richard Winters, but it's also memorable for other reasons-- the cast, the writing, the acting, the story itself.

Happy Fourth of July.

Jeanetta

At work today I had a phone message from Sylvia, which said, "T-Bone, please call me. I have some wonderful news."

I returned her call and she said, "We found Jeanetta."

**********
Three weeks ago I spoke to Sylvia for the first time, and she had a story to tell me that was filled with tragedy and regret. Her sweet little voice belied the facts.

"I'm looking for some cemetery records, and I hope you can help me. The person I'm looking for is a family member. She's my cousin, and her name is-- was-- Jeanetta." Here Sylvia paused and her voice began to quaver. "She kind of had a tough time of it. When Jeanetta was born, her parents divorced and she and her older sister stayed with her mother, which is what happened in those days. They lived Next Door. They were really bad off, because the father left town and they never heard from him again. Jeanetta's mother worked as a waitress, and you can guess that they didn't have a lot of money.

"Well," Sylvia continued, "One day the three of them were driving somewhere, and they got in an automobile accident. Jeanetta's mother and sister both died. Jeanetta was only seven years old at the time, and she had terrible head injuries from the accident. She survived, though, and my parents took her in, and raised her with me and my sister for several years. Then the state came and took her away. Jeanetta became a ward of the state."

Sylvia's voice broke. She said, "I don't know what they were thinking, but the state institutionalized her and wound up removing part of her brain, thinking it would make her better. It didn't. It certainly didn't.

"So the years went by and we still visited her, but my parents passed away, my sister and I both got married. Jeanetta's health kept getting worse and worse during this time. Eventually, my sister and I moved away from the state with our families, and," Sylvia starts sobbing now, "we lost where Jeanetta was! I don't know how it happened! They moved her, and they wouldn't tell us where she went, because we weren't immediate family!

"The closest we can track her down is about 20 years ago, and it's an address in The Hamlet." Sylvia mentioned the address. "She was so bad off the last we saw her, I'm just assuming that she's died sometime within these last 20 years, so I thought I'd check the cemetery records with The Hamlet. Can you help me?"

Oh, Sylvia. If you'd only known at that moment who you were talking to-- a person OBSESSED with vital records, geneaolgy, cemeteries, mysteries--

"Of course! Hold on just a second while I go back to get the books," I told her. I fairly skipped to the back safe, where we keep the books, listing everyone buried in the little cemetery I love.

Back at my desk and on the phone with Sylvia, I flipped through the pages. Jeanetta was not listed in there.

"Sylvia, you mentioned Jeanetta was at that address in The Hamlet. You know, I've lived here just about my entire life and frankly--"

Then a memory from long ago came to me.

Hiking beside the creek in the valley below our house, near the cabins! The CABINS!

"Oh! Oh my gosh! I just remembered! There was a facility below our house! It was a kind of compound where developmentally disabled adults lived! It was called The Lodge, but I don't think it's open anymore." I looked up The Lodge on the internet. "Nope, it merged a few years ago with some healthcare facility. But here's the name and phone number of the director of that new facility," I said, giving Sylvia the information. "Sylvia, I just know that's where Jeanetta was. I will bet you a million bucks that's where she was!"

With a promise to call me back and tell me what she'd learned, if anything, Sylvia and I hung up the phone.

Minutes later, Sylvia called again. "I spoke to the director of that facility, T-Bone. She remembers Jeanetta! You were right-- she did live there! But," she said, "She's lost track of Jeanetta too. The last time she heard of her, about 15 years ago, Jeanetta was living in Metropolis up north, so it looks like I still have some work to do." With another promise to call with any news, Sylvia hung up the phone.

For three weeks I kept the notes from our conversation on my desk, because I knew I'd hear from Sylvia again.

***********
Sylvia was crying, I think with happiness and relief. "We found Jeanetta. She's alive and well. She lives in a mobile home park in California. Apparently, she has a social worker who comes in twice a week to check on her. She also has a kind of helper who comes in once a week to straighten things up around her house.

"The best part is, we are flying out in August to accompany her back here for a family reunion. Can you imagine? After all these years? We'll finally get to see her. I don't even know if she'll remember us, but won't it be great?"

Sylvia, it will be great. Jeanetta has her family again.

"I lost nine of my best friends."

CNN reported today that nine firefighters died while fighting a warehouse fire in Charleston, South Carolina, when the roof of the burning warehouse collapsed on them. A Charleston firefighter said, "I lost nine of my best friends."


I've met lots of firefighters, including a particularly heroic group from New York City, who were at the World Trade Center on 9-11 (where they lost 343 firefighters). When you talk to these guys, they speak with a complete lack of pretension about what they do for a living. They just do it. They don't analyze it; they don't question it; they aren't maudlin about it; they just have a job to do, and when they are asked to help, they are right there putting their lives on the line to get what needs to be done, done. Going in, they don't think about the danger facing them; rather, they think about rescuing people and animals trapped inside the building, getting the fire out, and making sure they watch their buddies' backs. The last thing on their minds is their own skin.

The firefighters I met didn't dwell on the events of that morning, at least in mixed company. When they did speak of their friends, they recalled something funny they had said or done; they talked about what a great guy he was; they shared what a wonderful father or husband he was. Then they'd raise a glass and have a drink in their memory. Then they'd raise another glass, and another.

One of the Charleston firefighters stated on Tuesday, "I lost nine of my best friends."

Bravery like that is something I can learn from.

Simpituosity.

When I was a very young girl, I enjoyed singing along with commercial jingles on the radio. There was one jingle in particular that I loved. It was for BOAC, or British Overseas Airways Corporation (now British Airways).

"BEEEEEE OHHHHHH AAAAAAA CEEEEEEEEE
TAKES GOOD CARE OF YOUUUUUUUUU
TAKES CARE OF YOUR MON-EEEEEEEYYYY"

This is how I would sing it:

"BEEEEEE OHHHHHH AAAAAAA CEEEEEEEEE
TAKES GOOD CARE OF YOUUUUUUUUUU
SIMPITUOUS HIGHWAY!"

I have no idea how I created that word or what it meant, but my lyric fit very nicely in the phrase of the jingle, don't you think?

My sisters, of course, pounced on "simpituous", and now in family lore, it means "fake word or phrase used in a manner which suggests correct usage of word by the speaker/singer, ALTHOUGH IT'S A FAKE WORD OR PHRASE".

President Bush is a master of simpituosity. His two most famous simpituous words are "strategery" and "decider". These are excellent examples of simpituousness, executed according to Family Lore Guidelines.

Another great example of simpituousness is a person who called into a local radio station and confessed that she used to think the hook for INXS' Suicide Blonde was actually "soup and salad bar." Imagine Michael Hutchence writhing on stage and growling:

(bass line) DUH DUH DUH
SOUP AND SALAD BAR
DUH DUH DUH
SOUP AND SALAD BAR
SOUP AND SALAD BAR
WAS THE COLOR OF HER HAIR... etc.

From Jimi Hendrix:

'SCUSE ME WHILE I KISS THIS GUY

Lesson: when listening to a song, it's key to consider context.

I'm interested in hearing my readers' personal examples of their simpituosity. Please share in the comments section below.

Nuts.

At work, we love it when crazy people call us. We'll save the messages for those who don't have access to an office phone, such as our maintenance crew, then play back the message for them on their breaks. We also forward these phone calls to others at City Hall, so they can enjoy them too. We can enjoy the crazy phone calls for weeks. Boss has a phone call on his voicemail message system that's eight weeks old, and like children asking for a bedtime story, we'll ask Boss to play the message back for us. Unfortunately, most of my calls aren't forwarded to voicemail, so I talk to the crazy people directly.


"City Public Works-- this is T-Bone. May I help you?"

Woman with German accent: "I vent to pick up my son at school today, and there was rain flooding the gutter next to de curb, and ven he got in my car, he lost his shoe!" She was very agitated.

"Gosh, I'm sorry he lost his shoe-- how can I help you?"

"Vell, de shoe washed down de street and into de drain. I vant you to stop water from flowing tru de system and get the shoe."

I envisioned our rain-swollen creek and my boss running alongside with a butterfly net, trying to rescue this kid's stupid shoe.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid we can't help you with that," I said apologetically.

"Vell, dey are his favorite shoes! I can't keep buying him a new pair of shoes every time he loses one in de drain! I just bought him dis pair-- he lost another one in de drain before! Dey cost $17.00 a PAIR!"

Maybe she should just buy a new kid-- one who's a little less klutzy getting in the car.

"Well," I explained, "The shoe is gone from our water system. Why don't you call Next Door's Water Department? They might be able to help you find your son's shoe." When in doubt, dump the pissed off German ladies with Next Door. They can deal with her.


Recently, we received a letter from a citizen saying that her tires had been damaged by a pothole at the intersection of Y and Z. She wanted reimbursement for these tires, due to The Hamlet's "refusal" to fill this pothole. Boss informed me that this particular intersection is Next Door's responsibility, as it is just outside our city limits, which is why we didn't fix the pothole. I wrote the citizen a letter advising her of such. Two weeks later, she* called.


"This is Betty. I'm calling to report a pothole."

"Okay," I answered. "Can you tell me where it is?"

"It's at the intersection of A and B in The Hamlet. I blew out two new tires on this pothole and," her voice winding up, up, up, like a generator, "I want to be reimbursed for them! They cost me $100.00! I'm on disability and I don't have the money for this! I want money for my tires today!"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry-- can I put you on hold for just a moment?"

"I guess," she said, exasperated.

I pulled her letter out of my file cabinet. In the letter, she specifically stated that the potholes that ruined her tires were at the intersection of Y and Z, located in Next Door's city limits. I got back on the phone with her.

"Ma'am, thanks for holding. You sent us a letter about this about two weeks ago, didn't you?"

"Yes. I. Did. I never got any kind of response from you people about it! You just don't want to take responsibility for blowing out my tires! I want my $100.00 for those tires right now!"

"Ma'am, according to your letter, it says that the potholes were at Y and Z, which is Next Door. We don't fix potholes for Next Door."

"Well, I'm telling you right now, the pothole is at A and B! I want my money," she concluded stubbornly.

"Ma'am, I'm very sorry-- but we sent you a letter the day after we received yours in the mail. Did you not receive that letter?"

Betty, overwrought and apparently really confused, starting crying. She said, "Well, I just don't know where my tires were blown out. I just moved here from another part of the city, and I'm all confused and turned around. I know those potholes were outside my house."

"Ma'am, did you receive our letter?"

"Well. I suppose I did. But later I thought about it and realized that the potholes that caused my tires to go flat were the ones outside my house, not those other ones."

"Ma'am, I need to ask you this and I'm sorry if my question upsets you-- but how do you know that for sure?"

"I DON'T KNOW THAT!" she screamed, "I don't know! I just know that my tires had to be replaced and I can't afford it!"

God, she is losing it, poor thing, I thought. But I also wasn't going to let her try to pilfer us out of $100.00 because she wasn't sure which potholes caused this. I tried one last question, hoping she'd give me the answer I needed to help her.

"Ma'am, did you file a police report or an insurance claim or anything that'll tell us exactly where your tires blew out?"

"Nooooo! I didn't!" she yelled.


Oh well. I tried.



Following is the eight week-old message on Boss's voicemail. What started off as a credible, run-of-the-mill call quickly turned into something... not so credible and yes, a little creepy.


"This is Sue. With all the rain we've been having lately, I'm really concerned about all the erosion. I live near the mountain and lots of it is washing down the street-- lots of dirt and mud and lots of other stuff too. One thing I'm really worried about are the bodies buried up on the mountain. You know, I've heard all those stories about people being buried up there, and then washing down the mountain when the rains get really bad. I just want you to know that I'm keeping an eye out for those bodies, you know. There's lots of stories around town and lots of people who bury people up on that mountain, and I want you to know that I'm watching for them-- the bodies-- because did you know that there is no statute of limitations on murder? All the people in The Hamlet know about those bodies. So I want you to know that I know all about it and I'm watching for them. Because there's no statute of limitations on murder, you know. Have a good day!"



* Why are the barking mad callers always female? It's perplexing.

Doc Brown, More Like.

Tim the Enchanter had a good idea: we should meet for dinner before the "date" on Saturday. I felt this was a good idea, as I was imagining shaking his hand and introducing myself for the first time early Saturday morning, then holding on to his waist for the next 12 hours. Not a very comfortable situation.

I walked into the restaurant and:

I will say that he's a very nice man and I enjoyed eating dinner with him, but I just wasn't feeling it, so today I rung him up and cancelled for Saturday.

Life's too short to spend an entire Saturday with someone, wishing you were at home, reading a book.

Thingies to Share.

THE HOVEL

I've been ignoring the state of The Hovel, dear readers. The previous two-and-a-half years' worth of neglect have finally registered in my little pea-brain. Last week I looked at the cobwebs hanging in the corners, the filth collecting under furniture, the fossilized cat puke, the unfinished paint job in the bathroom, the dirty wood floors, the dust collecting on the baseboards, and the broken lathing on the deck, and I thought, "This place really looks like shit!" So I'm committed to tackling my home improvement list over the next several weeks. Soon my home will be tolerable to visitors! The thing I hate about these kinds of projects is the inevitability of the Pandora's Box flipping open once a task is started. For instance, this weekend I decided to do the paint in the bathroom. The water-damaged wall from last spring had been repaired, so a simple fresh coat of paint was needed to make it look decent. Hahahahahah! I'm so naive. Instead of just slappin' some paint on there, I needed to spackle, sand, wipe down, prime, mask-off, THEN PAINT. What a pain in the ass. No wonder I chose to live in squalor. Anyway, it's been painted and I'm very pleased with the result. Perhaps when my family shows up for Thanksgiving-- five months from now-- I won't be embarrassed to let them in.

WORKING WITH GWH

The Brunette thinks that GWH isn't stalking me; rather, he's a socially inept person who happens to like me a lot. I think this may be the case, as the last couple of weeks he has been seen rarely around my office, nor has he been found skulking around places I happen to be. I can tell you that this is a relief.

BIKIN' GUY

I have a "date" this weekend with a friend of a friend.

His name is Tim, like Tim the Enchanter in The Holy Grail, but instead of a wand, he has a cane. Apparently he suffered some kind of injury and needs the cane to help him get around. We will be taking a ride on his Harley this Saturday, then have dinner afterward. I hate blind dates, but I will tell you that I've spoken to Tim on the phone and he does sound like a nice guy. We'll see how it goes. If it's anything like the blind dates I've had in the past, I'll be sitting right here afterward, sharing some horrifying tale with you.

Okay. That's my update and I'm sticking to it.

High Hopes

Today, I daydreamed.

I haven't done this in a long time, readers. Months and months.

I daydreamed about my life, my possibilities. I daydreamed about things I want to do, things I want to accomplish, things I want to overcome.

In thinking of these things today, I felt hope and happiness.

The old me is sputtering to life again.

Jew Food

I'm lightening my tone today, dear readers. Today I shall share with you an email the Redhead and I call JEW FOOD.


Jew Food burst from my brain as a result of a forwarded email. This email asked we list, from A to Z, particular things in our life that we enjoy. I forwarded the email to my desired recipients, dutifully deleted the existing answers and added my own answers. After hitting "send", I had several responses from those who had received my forwarded email, and they supplied their answers in kind.


The Brunette, under Y, shared that she had recently fixed a Yummy meal-- "Swedish meatballs with latkes with lingonberry sauce" as something she'd made recently for her boyfriend and my nephew. It does sound good, doesn't it? But of course the Redhead and I couldn't just leave it at that. Rather, we honed in on the Brunette's idea that we have Jews in our family tree* and instead of saying to one another, "Wow. That does sound like a nice meal!", we started to feed off of one another about the Brunette fixing latkes.


Following is my A to Z list, originally prepared for the Redhead, of our purported Jewish heritage.

A- Anadama bread, which Marcy makes. She's a Jew.

B- Babushka, which our ancestors in Russia wore, and balaliaka, an instrument our Jewish ancestors probably played.

C- Cossacks, soldiers that raped and pillaged our Jewish ancestors in the ghetto in Russia, where we came from.

D- Dreidl, for Max.

E- Eastern Europe, where our ancestors probably walked on their way to Germany.

F- Frankincense. Gift for Jesus, who was a Jew.

G- Gifelte fish, which Jews eat.

H- Hannukah, which we celebrate right before Christmas, because we are part Jewish.

I- Israel, the holy land where our ancestors are from.

J- Judaism, which I practice around Hannukah.

K- Kosher kitchen, which I keep.

L- Latke. Good with Swedish meatballs and lingonberry sauce.

M- Moses, head Jew, and Madonna, studying Kaballah, mystical Jewish text.

N- New York. Lots of Jews live there.

O- Ohio. Not so many Jews.

P- Purim. Holiday that us Jews celebrate.

Q- Quest. That's what the Jews where on when they were in the desert for 40 years with Moses, head Jew.

R- Rabbi. Guy at temple on Saturday night.

S- Sandwich. It's what Jews eat for lunch.

T- Torah. The thing we read at temple on Saturdays.

U- Uvula. All Jews have them.

V- Verklempt. Yiddish word for how I'm feeling.

W- Why doesn't anyone believe I'm part Jewish?

X- Xray. Jews get these when they have broken arms.

Y- Yeshiva. Where rabbi studied.

Z- Zipper. We Jews have these on our pants.

* Which is fine, you understand. It is, however, unsupportable by any documentation we have of our family's heritage, which is why we give the Brunette such a hard time about it. We do love her very much, though!

Houston, We Have a Problem.

Years ago, I was living in Los Angeles and had the complete L.A. experience: I lived in a cute little bungalow off of Melrose and La Brea, had work as a personal assistant to society-type people and celebrities, and had the quintessential L.A. lifestyle accessory: my very own stalker.


This is something I would not wish on my worst enemy. Actually, my worst enemy is my former stalker, whom I christened "The Troll" (no need for fake names in this post, dear readers; that's just what I named the bitch), so I would wish a stalker on her, except she'd probably like it.


After leaving Los Angeles to escape The Troll, I had nightmares for years. Literally. The Troll reigned supreme in my nocturnal dramas, showing up in unexpected places, engineering evil outcomes to situations, sneering, laughing, conniving. You can imagine my joy, visiting with The Troll every fricking night, for three years after escaping from Los Angeles.


Well, that was twelve years ago, and dreams of The Troll have been dormant for a long time. What a relief.


However, something else came up last night and I'm fairly concerned.

Leaving a BBQ at about 10:00 p.m., GWH was across the street waiting for me.

"Hey purdy lady," he slurred, unsteady on his feet. "I was waiting for you."

"You were? How'd you know I was here, GWH?"

"Weelllll... I jes'... a little bird tol' me that there was a purdy lady up there at a BBQ, so I thought I'd come by an' see if I could escort you home."

Jesus Christ. Was he messing with me? Was it coincidence he saw me leaving (most likely) or did he really know where I was? I tried to think quickly and not panic. I had one clear thought: DO NOT LET HIM KNOW YOU'RE AFRAID.

"Well, sure GWH. If you want to walk me to my place, that's fine."

So we walked (rather, I walked and he staggered) down the street. He had been in Nebraska fishing over the holiday weekend, just got back this evening, was down at the local tavern where he "heard" I was at the BBQ. I told him nothing about my weekend, naturally. Anything I said was delivered in a neutral tone.

We reached my house.

"Oh! This's your place?" he asked. "Yes, it is," I answered, even though he knew full well where I lived. "Thanks for walking me down," I added.

"Oh, sure. Hey! I wanna tell ya that there's talk around the shop that I fried your cat. I dint fry your cat. I'm jus' a l'il 'lergic, thassal."

I said adamantly and firmly, "I NEVER said that to anyone. Never."

He replied, "Oh, well then-- they mus' jes' be teasin' me 'bout it. Can I have a hug before you go up?"

Don't piss him off. "Sure," and I gave him a quick hug, my skin crawling. "See you later." I unlocked my door and went it, shutting the door firmly behind me.

I went upstairs, drew all my shades, closed my curtains and turned off my lamp, leaving my house in total darkness. I kept walking to the windows, peeking outside from the shade's edge, hoping he wouldn't be standing across the street. I locked my slider. I performed my bedtime ablutions in pitch blackness. I got into my pj's and under the covers. It was difficult to get to sleep.

It's hard to know if GWH is toying with me, teasing me, or if he's telling the truth about knowing I was at the BBQ.

As far as Nicole the cat goes, I assume I'll never find out what happened to her. But I'll let you know-- when GWH mentioned the cat and that he hadn't "fried" her, then mentioned the guys around the office had been "teasing" him about her disappearance, it sent a chill down my spine. It makes me wonder just what kind of person I'm dealing with here.

A Note of Thanks on This Memorial Day.

Each morning on NPR, I hear Rene Montaigne or Steve Inskeep announce the day's number of deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Hearing this number, I think of the families and friends whose lives have been irrevocably changed by a late-night phone call (because those calls always come when you're asleep, while you're safe in your bed).

Every day I think, "What are we going to do?", and every day a reply comes: "I don't think anyone knows what we're going to do."

"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of
the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a
manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes
me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know
for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee."

-- John Donne

Last Night I Dreamt of You.

"... And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face."

-Sara Teasdale

Armor

A couple of years ago, I was having lunch with a man whom I'd just started dating. We were having a conversation about people and the possibility they may let you see only what they want you to see, and therefore, you will be unable to get to know them.

"Okay, here's an example," I said between bites of my sandwich. "If I'm feeling sick one day and have to go to work, I don't necessarily want people to know I'm not feeling well. Maybe it's for personal reasons or because of a work dynamic, but I don't want people at work to know if I'm sick. So when I get ready for work, I put on my armor."

He looked at me. "Your armor?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yes. I'll fix my hair, put on my makeup, and put on an outfit that makes me feel really good. Then when I get to work, they think I look terrific, and they don't know I'm not feeling well, because I have on my armor."

"So what you do to yourself to get ready for work, or to go out, or whatever, is a way of presenting yourself to the world that isn't necessarily truthful?"

Hm, I thought. He doesn't like this. "Well, I suppose that's one way of saying it," I said. "Don't you do that? Don't you have a suit you like to wear to certain kinds of meetings or doesn't the car you drive say something about you?"

"I guess what I present to the world is truly me," he answered, a bit frostily.

"Oh." I said, feeling abashed that I'd hit a nerve with him. "I mean, I'm being honest with you right now-- I'm not covering anything up from you. Just because I'm wearing this skirt and have my hair this way today doesn't mean that I'm trying to keep anything from you," I explained, smiling, afraid I'd hurt his feelings somehow.

But the damage was done, and he never contacted me again (which is okay).

Well, I still call it my armor, although I'm a bit more choosy with whom I share my theory.

Lord, I'm So Tired. How Long Can This Go On?

This getting-up-at-5:00 a.m.-to-get-to-work-on-time bullshit is beginning to wear me out.

Q: Why do teenagers sleep until noon?

A: Because they can.

A Terrible Suspicion.

Last week, Boss came over to my desk and said, "You want another cat?"
"Oh my God-- no, but thanks."
"How many do you have?" he asked.
"Three. They rule my life. If I got another cat to upset the balance, they would probably murder me in my sleep," I said. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, there's a cat that's been living under the shed out back for the last couple of months. She's a nice little kitty. I'll take you to see her." Boss and I stepped out of the office and walked out to the equipment graveyard. We stood by the shed and called out to the kitty.
She slunk out from underneath the shed-- a beautiful silky-haired ginger tabby, with enormous paws, a long narrow face, and a long fluffy tail. She immediately came to me, and started rubbing her sides and face along my legs. Back and forth, this way and that. Awww! So sweet! I fell in love, instantly.
I asked Boss, "Do we need a shop cat?"
"Well," he said, "We sure do have a lot of mice in the water department. That building is infested with them. We could use a mouser, because those humane traps don't work very well."
"If I got permission from Dick, could we keep her in the shop at night and let her wander around outside during the day? I'll take responsibility for her food and water."
"Sure-- I don't see why not. We probably could use her, that's for sure."
During my lunch hour, I went down to the grocery store to get our new cat some food. Kitty was very lean from living outdoors and could probably use a good meal or two. While on my errand, I decided that "Nicole" would be the perfect name for her-- after Nicole Kidman-- being ginger-haired, long and lean.
After my return from the store, I talked to Dick, the supervisor of that department. "Sure, I think it's a great idea," he said. "I can't do it today, but next week I'll make a kitty door for her in the shop, and she can come and go as she pleases."
Later that afternoon, a guy who works with Dick in the water department found out we were going to have a shop cat. I'll call this guy "The Great White Hunter" ("GWH") for reasons I'll explain in a moment.
"Aw, we don't need a shop cat," GWH complained. "The last one we had died because it ate poison, and it shit and pissed all over the place. Who told you we could have a cat here?" he asked me.
"Dick did!" I said, pointing to him standing nearby. "The cat's not going to eat the poison-- she's going to have a cat door-- she'll go outside to go to the bathroom. You probably won't even see her."
"Well, shit," he said. "We just don't need one."
Dick commented, "GWH is allergic to cats."
I explained, "Well, she'll be outside, so I don't think you'll even notice she's been there." GWH, however, was not happy about Nicole living in the shop.
Now-- GWH travels all over the world to hunt. The water department is plastered with photos of him with his latest kills-- bush bucks, warthogs, zebras, deer, elk, ducks, and even a monkey (which horrified me). In the shop, stuffed and mounted heads of his quarry line the walls. A warthog skull sits on the kitchen table of the shop.
The thought crossed my mind that GWH would hurt Nicole, but I guiltily dismissed that idea.
Saturday, I stopped by the empty complex to make sure Nicole had enough food and water for the weekend.
She was gone.

Ding Dong

Jerry Fallwell died today.

I would be very interested to hear Jerry's conversation with God upon his arrival in Heaven, wouldn't you?

I have an idea that God is going to inform Jerry that while he was here with us on Earth, busy polarizing, preaching and pointing fingers, that he had been wrong to judge his fellow man; that same sex couples who love and respect one another are not committing a sin by being together; that divorces aren't sinful; that having a baby "out of the holy bonds of marriage" is not sinful; that indeed Jerry himself had committed many, many sins by stirring up hatred in those who refuse to understand the many subtleties of this life; that by his condemnation of sinners rather than letting God judge them, is in itself a paramount sin.

I hope that Fallwell, humbled, shaken and terrified in the presence of God, finally knows and sees and acknowledges his many mistakes. I hope he will finally know that he is not more important, more knowledgable or holier than anyone else populating that plane. I hope he realizes that now there is only a level playing field-- everyone equal, everyone equally loved, throughout eternity, and there isn't anyone there to impress or scare or bully or alienate.