first comment - a color - Scott Jordan: fuchsia
second comment - a woman's name - Arana Estariel: Henrietta
third comment - a movie - Ross Sormani: Hairspray
fourth comment - a song (it has to be one that I know!) - Nancy Sirvent: Jingle Bells
fifth comment - a hobby - Chris Deboard: curling
Dear Topher,
Hey, babe! How the hell are ya? I hope they’re treating you OK up there. I’m sure it can be rough sometimes.
Anyway, maybe you won’t feel so bad about your own situation when you hear about the past few days that I’ve just had.
Let me just say that I have never in my life been so happy to be back in Manhattan.
I think I might have told you in an earlier letter that Bill’s younger brother, Stephen, was getting married. Well, the blessed event was last weekend and Bill was in the wedding party, so we had no choice but to pack it up and fly out to the Great Midwest. I’m not even sure what state I’ve been in since last Thursday, for Christ’s sake! I think it started with an “M”, like Minnesota or Montana or Missouri or something, but I couldn’t even find it on a map if my life depended on it. To be honest, though, I feel like I’ve actually been in some kind of bizarre alternate universe instead of some vast Midwestern state shaped like a Kia Soul, the way events have unfolded. It’s been horrible, both in an excruciating way; and in sort of a fascinating, horrifying yet amusing way like a John Waters movie (and how appropriate, for reasons I’ll get into later…). Half of me felt like I was being boiled in oil and couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there, and the other half kept smiling and mentally taking notes so I could somehow describe the scene to my friends back home, like you.
It started out alright. At least Bill was able to cash in some miles and we were able to fly First Class from New York out to Chicago. I hate flying Coach. It’s not that I’m elitist, really, but Coach is just so depressing. They’ve got them all packed in like cattle and everyone looks so tired and nervous all the time, with the flight attendants walking up and down the aisles and looking disapprovingly at the rows of seats like nuns at a School for Unwed Mothers. All that’s missing is a ruler which they can slap across the palm of their hand as they patrol the aisles, and brandish threateningly at anyone who dares to unfasten their seatbelt or lower their tray table at the wrong time. I much prefer First Class, where there’s room to stretch out and the flight attendant will actually offer you a second glass of champagne instead of making you grovel for a bag of roasted peanuts.
After we arrived at O’Hare, though, we had to change planes to get our flight out to Bill’s hometown. The E-ticket said the flight was on United, but a closer look showed that the fine print read “this portion of your trip will be provided by one of United’s fine regional code-share partners.” Turns out that the “regional partner” who would be taking us to Farmville was called “Traktor Air”, and as we approached their counter, in the basement of the airport, I saw that their logo pictured a pig in overalls waving from the pilot’s seat of a World War I-era biplane. This was the moment when I felt that things were somehow going awry and that I was now stepping into Backwards Crazy Upside-down Bizarro World.
They guy behind the Traktor Air counter was also wearing overalls. I could not tell if he was wearing them because that’s what he usually wore, or if he was supposed to match the pig in the company logo. Incongruously, he said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen, welcome to Chicago O’Hare. How can I help you today?” in a perfectly businesslike manor, despite the fact that he looked exactly like a refugee from “Hee-Haw.” Once we got checked in and had our seat assignments and boarding passes, he said, “I will be at gate B-56 to meet you guys at 2:20.”
“Are you flying the plane, too?” I asked, only half joking.
“Golly, no,” he said, finally breaking his businesslike character. “Jethreen is flying the plane today!”
This did not comfort me.
As it turns out, the logo of Traktor Air isn’t actually too far from its actual business model. We had to board the plane by actually exiting the airport and walking across the tarmac. While the plane wasn’t an actual WWI biplane, it was not much newer than one. It sat about 12 passengers plus the pilot and copilot and looked to be powered by two feeble propellers and an elaborate system of rubber bands. Captain Jethreen boarded the plane after we did, and made her way up to the front seat. She looked exactly like you would expect someone named Jethreen to look: like a linebacker dressed up as a farm girl for Halloween, complete with pigtails and a red gingham -check blouse. She wore overalls, too, with a pin in the shape of wings over her enormous left breast, and a captain’s hat which was two sizes too small for her hair, fastened on with bobby pins. She was followed onto the plane by the “flight attendant”, whom she addressed as “Momma” but who later introduced herself as “Inez, your Director of In-flight Services”. Inez was about 5’3”, probably about 89 years old, and wore a stewardess uniform from about 1964 which she must have bought at a Goodwill. It still had a faded “TWA” patch over the breast pocket. I thought that “Director of In-flight Services” was an impressive title for someone who did nothing more than show us how to open and close a seat belt as the plane was taxiing towards the runway, and point out to us the location of the door which we had just come through. No drinks, no food, not even a copy of USA Today, and Inez was asleep and snoring in the back row 10 minutes after takeoff. Anyway, I leafed through Skymall magazine for a few minutes, marveling at $300 barbecue covers and wondering if anyone ever really orders a whole new set of luggage while they’re sitting in an airplane. There were only two other passengers besides me and Bill, a tired looking businessman who never said a word to anyone and stared out the window the entire flight, and a middle aged housefrau who was reading “50 Shades of Gray” who kept saying “Holy shit!” every 10 minutes as she hungrily turned the pages.
As we flew along, I realized that I was on my way to a wedding and I didn’t even know the bride’s name. “What is Stephen’s fiancée’s name?” I asked Bill.
“Henrietta,” he answered.
“Really?” I said. “How unfortunate.” Henrietta always struck me as the kind of name that parents would give to a young daughter when they had really been hoping for a son. For nine months, they had planned for young Henry to come into the world, painted the nursery blue and got a crib in the shape of a race car; and then when they found out that he was actually a girl, they couldn’t be more creative than to just change his name to “Henrietta.”
“What do her friends call her?” I asked. I mean, if your name is going to be Henrietta, you might as well make the best of it and go by “Etta” or “Ri-ri” or something.
“Henrietta, as far as I know,” Bill answered.
Anyway, I spent the rest of our Traktor Air experience staring at the upholstery on the seats around me. I mean, who picks this stuff out? Who decided that orange fabric with streaks of brown and gray and little flecks of green would be the perfect complement to the interior décor of the Boeing Deathtrap 2000? For the rest of the flight, I couldn’t stop thinking how sad, how very unfair it would be, were this flight to crash in flames into some cornfield out here in Paducahville, that this hideous fabric would be the last thing I would ever see. Fortunately, we landed safely a little while later in a place called Springfield. This does not help me pinpoint exactly where I’ve been the last few days because there is at least one “Springfield” in practically every state in the union, not to mention the fact that it was an additional two hour drive from there to Bill’s parents’ house and further still to the town where the wedding was.
So, we said our goodbyes to Jethreen and Inez, and it was time for us to say hello to Stan and Harriett, Bill’s parents. This was the first time I had ever met them, by the way. Bill always described his folks as “good, honest Midwestern stock,” and judging by first impressions, that’s exactly how I would have described them. Both in their mid-60s, Stan stood about 5’10”, an average build, a windbreaker jacket over a plaid shirt, beige slacks and a white belt, and white sneakers, the no-name brand you buy on sale at Walmart. Harriett was about 5’4” and looked as if she had just stepped out of a JCPenney catalog from 1978. Stan and Harriett know that Bill is gay and that he and I have been “gay married” for over two years, but they don’t exactly approve and it’s not something they like to talk about. Harriett looked vaguely worried and nervous, like she hoped that if I was going to start singing “Hello, Dolly!” or something, that I would at least wait until we were in the car and nobody was watching.
The ride out to Bill’s old home was filled mostly with catching up on the siblings- there are too many of them for me to keep track of. All boys, except for the one sister whose name is Jane, and they all have such white-bread, ordinary names I’m afraid I’ll never figure out who is who. Bill, John, Tom, Steve, Bob- really? Not a Brandon, a Logan or an Ezekiel in the bunch.
Anyway, we finally arrived at the homestead but we were only there for the one night as we had to hit the road early in the morning to get to the wedding, which is even closer to the middle of nowhere, apparently. The town where Bill grew up is called Cabot Cove, just like the one on “Murder, She Wrote.” It’s not so much a town, from what I could see, as it is a quantity of space between some stop signs, although I did see a fire hydrant and a mailbox.
How shall I describe dinner with the in-laws? The food is precisely what I would have expected: meat and potatoes. Pot roast, boiled carrots and a baked russet. As I mentioned before, Bill’s and my “arrangement” is something that Stan and Harriett don’t really discuss, though, and after a while it became something like the proverbial elephant in the room. They were afraid of starting any conversation which might eventually lead into uncomfortable territory, and I had frankly run out of small talk and phony compliments on her bland cooking and her Fingerhut catalog décor. The last half hour of the meal was spent pretty much in silence, each of us pretending to be consumed by the act of eating. All I heard was the clang of silverware on Corelle dinnerware, and the constant tick, tick, tick, of the clock in the next room.
Mercifully, Bill excused us to bed right after dinner, citing a long flight and an early start the next morning. We slept in his childhood bedroom. In twin beds.
Anyway, the next day was when things really started to get colorful, when we actually met the family of Stephen’s fiancée, Henrietta. A three hour drive from Cabot Cove brought us to Oakdale, which is not really the home of the Shoemaker clan, but it is the home of the Château Trois Fontaines and its attendant accommodations, the Three Fountains Motor Lodge; which was to be the setting for the upcoming nuptials. The Shoemaker family live a few towns over, apparently, where they have a “ranch” in a place called Fairview.
We checked in to our room at the Motor Lodge. At least Bill and I would be able to sleep in the same bed, albeit a full-size. I was marveling at the little paper hats they put on the filthy water glasses and the strip of paper across the toilet which said, “Sanitized®! -for your protection!”, when Bill told me we had to get going for the rehearsal. It had to be kind of early because there was something special planned for afterwards, apparently, which involved even more driving.
Fortunately, I was not actually in the wedding party myself, so I did not have to participate in the rehearsal. Instead, I was able to find an inconspicuous spot on a pew in the Trois Fontaine’s “Everlasting Bliss” chapel and simply observe.
Henrietta’s parents, the Shoemakers, are named PeaceDog and Sunflower. Do I need to say more? They were both raised by hippies on a commune in California where they manufactured and sold macramé holders for hanging plants. After being married in a Pagan-Wiccan-Peyote ceremony in the 80s, they moved out to Fairview where they started "the ranch”. Everyone was sort of vague about what went on at “the ranch”, but I get the impression that it involves a lot of people who go for multiple days without showering, and some kind of “crop.”
Henrietta has three sisters: Roberta, Josephine, and Johnna. There must have been a lot of disappointment in that family. They are all totally plain and perfectly ordinary, but something about straight girls at weddings makes them look and act like giggly little schoolgirls playing Princess, and something about that I find kind of amusing.
Bill’s brothers are all tall and handsome just like he is. I actually have a hard time telling them all apart. Anyway, they all shook my hand and acted really happy to meet me; and they all would sort of slap me on the back and say stuff like, “How about those Yankees this year?” in an effort to make me feel comfortable, like “just one of the boys.” Instead, it had the opposite affect.
Anyway, the rehearsal went the way rehearsals do, with everyone bumping into one another and looking awkward and uncomfortable. I didn’t pay too much attention, and eventually it was over. I asked Bill what the special event was which had been planned.
“Curling!” he answered. “Turns out that Henrietta is very active in the Midland County Ladies’ Curling Association, and they thought it would be a fun thing to do as a family.”
I was very happy to hear this. Finally! Something I felt totally at home and comfortable with. Curling! Why, I had even brought along an extra blow dryer and a curling iron, knowing how frantic things can get at a wedding sometimes.
Imagine my dismay, then, when I found out that this had nothing whatsoever to do with aesthetics, cosmetology, fashion, or even sitting in a comfortable salon. Curling, it turns out, is some kind of sport, which involves giant stones, ice, brooms, and sitting in a freezing ice rink for three hours eating party platters from Subway and drinking hot chocolate from a vending machine. It’s kind of like, if Bocce had been invented by compulsively neat Canadians, you would have Curling.
Quite frankly, it was torture. My butt was frozen from sitting on that damp bench in that frigid ice rink, and I had run out of sincere-sounding ways to respond to all the people who kept coming up and saying, “Geez, isn’t this fun?”
By the time we got back to the Three Fountains Motor Lodge, all I could do was change into some dry Calvins, tune in to a Valerie Bertinelli movie on Lifetime and fall asleep with my face in the pillow.
The next day was the day of the actual wedding. The Three Fountains offered a breakfast, so we saw practically everyone from the day before in the breakfast room that morning. The women all looked nervous and had their hair up in curlers, and the men all looked bored and unshaven and like they’d rather be watching a ball game. That’s when Bill told me that the wedding had a theme.
“A theme? Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I don’t know. I was afraid it might freak you out or something. I’m sorry,” he answered.
“Well, what is it?” I asked him. “What’s the theme?”
“Hairspray.”
“What?” I asked, incredulous. “They’re theming a wedding based on hair care products? Like “Tying the Aqua-Knot” or something?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“No, like “Hairspray” the movie,” Bill said. “I guess it’s Henrietta’s favorite.”
I thought for a second. “The John Waters movie, or the John Travolta movie?” I asked, crossing my fingers for the correct response.
“John Travolta.” He must have seen the look on my face, because the next thing he said was, “I know. I’m sorry.”
I went back to our room to get dressed and prepare myself for the day to come.
Well, I hardly recognized the Everlasting Bliss chapel when I arrived and found my seat on the Groom’s side. Theme or no theme, the bride’s color scheme was, apparently, fuchsia on fuchsia. Fuchsia bunting hung from the ends of the pews along the aisle. Fuchsia flowers, fuchsia candles, fuchsia curtains, fuchsia this, that, and the other thing. At the altar, Reverend Jim, a practitioner from the Shoemaker’s earthy-crunchy Church of Hemp and Eternal Happiness, sat in his fuchsia vestments, looking like a cross between “Rosemary’s Baby” and “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”.
Then the wedding party filed in, and the whole “Hairspray” thing began to come into focus.
“It’s Madison time, hit it!” played through the chapel’s speakers, and one by one the bridesmaids, ushers, and the groom came down the aisle dancing the Madison. I could not believe my eyes.
Henrietta’s father, PeaceDog, had dressed in drag, like John Travolta had as Edna Turnblad. Except PeaceDog is tall and skinny and he came off looking more like Almira Gulch in a crinoline prom dress than a customer at Mr. Pinky’s Hefty Hideaway.
I struggled to take it all in. The men, looking handsome and nervous and a little wobbly, like men at weddings everywhere, in their tuxes rented from Men’s Wearhouse. Across the aisle, the girls, Roberta, Josephine, and Johnna, and Bill’s sister Jane, who was the Maid of Honor, in their “Hairspray”-themed, poofy 1960s dresses, all bathed in the angry reflection of fuchsia bouncing off of everything in the room: and PeaceDog in the front row constantly fiddling with his corset and scratching his head under his wig with a ball point pen. It all made my eyes want to bleed.
All eyes, bleeding or otherwise, turned to the bride when, instead of the traditional Wedding March, the opening bars of “Good Morning Baltimore” started playing, and Henrietta lip-synced, badly, her whole way down the aisle. Problem was, the song is like four and a half minutes long and it only took Henrietta about thirty seconds to make her way to the altar, which left everyone sort of uncomfortable and shifting in their seats as she mouthed the words to “Good Morning Baltimore” to Reverend Jim for four more, long minutes.
I should mention that Henrietta had chosen, as her wedding gown, a version of Tracy Turnblad’s “roach dress”. It was white, but that was where its resemblance to any other wedding dress ended. The dress had been appliquéd throughout with cut-outs of cockroaches, in black, including the veil. The overall impression was that the bride was about to be devoured by flesh-eating insects, and I personally found it rather unsettling. As the day wore on, I found myself at a loss when people would say to me, “Wasn’t the bride just lovely?”
Finally, the song ended, the happy couple exchanged their vows, and the solemn, ceremonial part of the day’s debacle had ended. We all filed in to the Trois Fontaine’s Versailles Ballroom for the reception.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Emory!” the DJ announced. Everyone applauded, and I was relieved to see that Henrietta had removed her veil, which at least lessened the illusion that she was being attacked by mutant cockroaches.
When the clapping died down, the DJ continued. “I’ve been told by Henrietta and Steve about how they met, more than four years ago. It seems they had both gotten seasonal jobs back then, as Happy Helpers over at Santa’s Village in Fairview. Henrietta was a waitress at Frosty’s Cafeteria and young Steve helped to care for the reindeer at Rudolph’s Petting Zoo. They met, they fell in love. And today, on their wedding day, the new couple would like to dance their first dance as man and wife to the same song they danced to together for the very first time, all those years ago, at the Santa’s Village Employee Christmas Party."
This was the moment, Topher, when all sense of logic, of order, of good taste, seemed to be lost. I sat down at my fuchsia-covered table and watched, as a bride wearing a homemade wedding gown decorated with cockroaches, took the man she loves into her arms, and started to sway as the opening bars of their First Dance started to play.
You may wonder, Topher, exactly how one dances to “Jingle Bells.” I wonder the same thing, too, even after witnessing it myself. From the opening bars of, “Dashing through the snow…” to the jarring refrain, “Jingle bells! Jingle bells! Jingle all the way!”, I witnessed as these people danced. They simply held one another and swayed back and forth, the way teenagers do when they play “Color My World” at a school dance. I have never in my life witnessed anything as absurd or as incongruous. As the song ended, and the final refrain of “in a one-horse open sleigh!” began to fade away, a stunned silence filled the room. Until one person began to clap, slowly, steadily.
The one person clapping was me.
I clapped. I clapped and laughed and cheered, because I had never seen anything so wonderful; so horribly, unbelievably wonderful in my entire life. That’s the thing about life: just when you think you’ve seen it all, heard it all, or know it all, you haven’t.
I could never have imagined that I would be witnessing what I was witnessing, and yet, there I was. You just never know what life is going to show you.
And then the DJ started playing “The Electric Slide” and it was a wedding, just like any other. We all started dancing and laughing and drinking and celebrating life and love, just like families at weddings everywhere.
The next day, as we made our way back east, back to New York, I felt as if I were slowly coming out of a dream. As we made the long drive from Oakdale to Cabot Cove, from Cabot Cove to Springfield and back on Traktor Air, and back into our comfortable First Class seats and back to New York, it felt as if the fantasy world was slowly fading away, layer by layer, kind of like a deep-sea diver slowly rising from the ocean floor, bit by bit, back to the surface.
Back in Manhattan, when we got out of the cab in front of our apartment building, the first thing I saw was a guy wearing an empty potato chip bag on his head, and a wino urinating on the sidewalk. I knew right away that I was home, back where everything was normal.
So anyway, Topher, that’s my adventure from the Heartland from the last few days. Hope you enjoyed my telling it to you; and that maybe it took you away from your situation, for a few minutes at least. Bill and I still find it hard to believe that you got so much time just for shoplifting one lousy pair of shorts from Abercrombie & Fitch, even if it was your third offense. We’re planning to come up for visiting hours next month. Let me know if there’s anything we can bring you, aside from the ol’ hacksaw baked into the bundt cake.
Stay strong, my friend, and we’ll see you soon.
Love and laughs,
Nathan
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
Q&A
PastaLover from Pawtucket asks: Do you throw your spaghetti against the wall to see if it is done?
Dear PastaLover: Well, if you are going to ask me a question about cooking, I am glad it is about pasta. Anyone who knows me will tell you that cooking is not exactly my forté. However, pasta is among the three dishes in my cooking repertoire. The other two, by the way, are BLT sandwiches and anything with the word “Helper” in it.
The answer to your question is no, I do not throw spaghetti against the wall to see if it is done. First of all, there are far more efficient ways of testing your spaghetti, such as actually tasting it. Secondly, as a gay man, it is abhorrent for me to intentionally make a mess in the kitchen, or in any other room for that matter, for any reason. Throwing any kind of food at the wall would be as uncomfortable for me as wearing white socks with sandals.
Serious in Seattle wonders: How can I fix this hole in my heart?
Dear Serious: Wow. We are treading on dangerous ground with this question. My high-priced team of attorneys has advised me against dispensing actual advice. For example, were I to answer your question by telling you to volunteer at the soup kitchen and you were later to slip and break a hip while serving pork & beans one day, you could somehow find me liable for not only breaking your hip but for not repairing the hole in your heart.
So, I have decided to answer your question by advising you how not to fix that hole in your heart.
First of all, do not try to fix it with drugs. Sure, it feels good for a while, but in the end you wind up with three teeth, no friends, and turning $12 tricks in the back seat of an abandoned Impala. (NB: “herbs” are not “drugs”, in my worldview. But even “herbs” are really only useful for taking the edge off and making Uno Night at the in-laws less tedious, not for fixing holes in the heart.)
Second of all, hoarding is out. No matter how good it feels to buy an outfit in every color despite the fact that they’re all the wrong size, or how comforting it may be to admire the pile of plastic bags you’ve accumulated over nine years, you’ll probably end up either being evicted or featured on one of those local news stories headlined, “Health Officials Uncover House of Horrors”.
Be careful if you try to fix the hole in your heart with food. It’s OK if you love food and can channel it into something cool and positive like a totally hip food truck. But if you love food and you turn to food whenever you are stressed out or sad or bored, you will only end up with early-onset diabetes and a lot of really ugly outfits. Plus, if you’re not careful, they won’t be able to get you out of the house after you croak and they’ll have to burn it down around you like in “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape”.
Kurious in Killeen writes: Who was your favorite teacher?
Dear Kurious: Wow, this one really got me thinking. I would have to say that my favorite teacher of all time was Mr. Prody. I had him for AP English in junior year of high school and then in senior year I had him again for a course he had titled “Humanities Seminar”. Humanities Seminar wasn’t exactly a class. There were no more than 10 or 15 students, Mr. Prody’s idea of the “best and brightest”, I suppose. When class met, we would pull our chairs into a circle and then Mr. Prody would sort of introduce a topic and get the ball rolling, and we would spend the rest of the time just sort of talking and throwing ideas around the room. He used to smoke cigarettes in class (the world was very different in 1978), and since there were no ashtrays, he would line up all the dead filters on end along the edge of his desk, as he would signal the end of class by picking up the trash can and sweeping all the cigarette butts into it.
A close second would have to go to Mr. Iampieri, who I had for two years in Film Appreciation, one of the few Arts-related courses even offered by my Jesuit, college-prep oriented high school. Sitting in a dark room, watching fleeting images as they flickered on a screen in front of us, Mr. Iampieri taught me that the more you know about something, such as the craft that goes into making movies, the more you can appreciate it. This can be applied to many aspects of life.
Honorable mentions should go to Miss Lavin, whom I mentioned in one of my short stories, who taught me that “lesser” creatures have as much “right to the air” as I do, and Miss Robertson, who I had for first and third grades, who was the object of my first crush.
As I thought about my teachers over the years, I began to see a common thread among those who I considered the best. The teachers I remember, the ones who really left a mark on my life, were not memorable because they taught me a particular fact, or what to think. They were memorable for teaching me how to think.
Officer Friendly asks: How's Dooby today? : ) woof!!!!
Dear Officer: My dog Dooby is doing fine, thank you for asking. His second birthday is in about three weeks. I have mentioned before that I believe he is inhabited by the soul of a Laughing Buddha.
Dooby is highly energetic, and I mean that in a totally euphemistic way. It might be more truthful to say that he’s completely hyper. But if you strip all that away, forget about the jumping and the pestering and the insane running around in figure-8’s, and just look at the creature, I think you would see it too. All those things will go away with time, anyway. And what we will be left with is a dog, a little soul, who exudes nothing but love for everyone around him and nothing but absolute joy and enthusiasm for being alive; a giant smile surrounded by 80 pounds of beautiful dog.
That’s how Dooby is today.
The Wondering Wine Merchant wonders: Are you REALLY going to eat that?
Dear Wondering: The year is 1847. Young Thomas Smith is aboard the U.S.S. Carolina, heading for his home port of Charleston, which he has not seen in over three years, since arriving as a lone missionary on that tiny, unnamed island in the South Pacific.
The natives, of which there were only a few dozen, called the island “Dubidoo:, which simply means “little island in middle of ocean where we live and where there are many trees and fish and the rainy season lasts 4 moons”. He had not seen another white face since arriving at the island, which was disconcerting at first, especially for a white man from South Carolina in 1844. But before long, Thomas had realized that humanity is something which lies far deeper than skin level, and he was returning to America as a man with a completely new view on race and racial equality.
There had been no red meat on the small island, and for three years, Thomas had eaten only the fruits and vegetables which the natives could gather, along with many delicious and varied kinds of seafood which the fishermen brought in every day. He had not eaten a steak in all that time, not even seen one, until tonight.
He sat at the table in his First Class stateroom. A fine goblet of wine, a chunk of buttered bread, and a beautiful steak sat on the plate before him. His footman, called Lewis, stood impassively across the room, watching him. The sight, the smell of the steak assaulted his senses, causing his nostrils to flare and his mouth to water as he picked up the knife. Ravenous, almost mad with anticipation, he cut into the meat and watched the juices run down and across the plate, soaking in to the crusty bread. It looked so good. So very good and he’d been craving red meat for so very long. He raised his fork slowly towards his mouth and closed his eyes.
Lewis was the only native of Dubidoo who had ever learned English. He was also Master Smith’s sole convert to Christianity, although he converted more as a kind gesture to Master Smith than out of any real religious belief. Lewis was ambitious, compared to the other islanders. His thoughts took him to the strange, bold new world that was America. He knew that there was much more to life than the tiny island where he was born.
Lewis had never eaten red meat in his life. He had never even seen a cow, much less a portion of dead cow on a plate. He hoped he was masking his horror as he watched Master Smith raise his knife and cut into the flesh on the plate before him. Was it still alive? It seemed to bleed as Master Smith hacked away at it, his eyes wide and his tongue wildly licking his lips. As he raised the fork and the quivering piece of bloody meat towards his mouth, Lewis could think only one thing.
“Are you REALLY going to eat that?”
Dear PastaLover: Well, if you are going to ask me a question about cooking, I am glad it is about pasta. Anyone who knows me will tell you that cooking is not exactly my forté. However, pasta is among the three dishes in my cooking repertoire. The other two, by the way, are BLT sandwiches and anything with the word “Helper” in it.
The answer to your question is no, I do not throw spaghetti against the wall to see if it is done. First of all, there are far more efficient ways of testing your spaghetti, such as actually tasting it. Secondly, as a gay man, it is abhorrent for me to intentionally make a mess in the kitchen, or in any other room for that matter, for any reason. Throwing any kind of food at the wall would be as uncomfortable for me as wearing white socks with sandals.
Serious in Seattle wonders: How can I fix this hole in my heart?
Dear Serious: Wow. We are treading on dangerous ground with this question. My high-priced team of attorneys has advised me against dispensing actual advice. For example, were I to answer your question by telling you to volunteer at the soup kitchen and you were later to slip and break a hip while serving pork & beans one day, you could somehow find me liable for not only breaking your hip but for not repairing the hole in your heart.
So, I have decided to answer your question by advising you how not to fix that hole in your heart.
First of all, do not try to fix it with drugs. Sure, it feels good for a while, but in the end you wind up with three teeth, no friends, and turning $12 tricks in the back seat of an abandoned Impala. (NB: “herbs” are not “drugs”, in my worldview. But even “herbs” are really only useful for taking the edge off and making Uno Night at the in-laws less tedious, not for fixing holes in the heart.)
Second of all, hoarding is out. No matter how good it feels to buy an outfit in every color despite the fact that they’re all the wrong size, or how comforting it may be to admire the pile of plastic bags you’ve accumulated over nine years, you’ll probably end up either being evicted or featured on one of those local news stories headlined, “Health Officials Uncover House of Horrors”.
Be careful if you try to fix the hole in your heart with food. It’s OK if you love food and can channel it into something cool and positive like a totally hip food truck. But if you love food and you turn to food whenever you are stressed out or sad or bored, you will only end up with early-onset diabetes and a lot of really ugly outfits. Plus, if you’re not careful, they won’t be able to get you out of the house after you croak and they’ll have to burn it down around you like in “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape”.
Kurious in Killeen writes: Who was your favorite teacher?
Dear Kurious: Wow, this one really got me thinking. I would have to say that my favorite teacher of all time was Mr. Prody. I had him for AP English in junior year of high school and then in senior year I had him again for a course he had titled “Humanities Seminar”. Humanities Seminar wasn’t exactly a class. There were no more than 10 or 15 students, Mr. Prody’s idea of the “best and brightest”, I suppose. When class met, we would pull our chairs into a circle and then Mr. Prody would sort of introduce a topic and get the ball rolling, and we would spend the rest of the time just sort of talking and throwing ideas around the room. He used to smoke cigarettes in class (the world was very different in 1978), and since there were no ashtrays, he would line up all the dead filters on end along the edge of his desk, as he would signal the end of class by picking up the trash can and sweeping all the cigarette butts into it.
A close second would have to go to Mr. Iampieri, who I had for two years in Film Appreciation, one of the few Arts-related courses even offered by my Jesuit, college-prep oriented high school. Sitting in a dark room, watching fleeting images as they flickered on a screen in front of us, Mr. Iampieri taught me that the more you know about something, such as the craft that goes into making movies, the more you can appreciate it. This can be applied to many aspects of life.
Honorable mentions should go to Miss Lavin, whom I mentioned in one of my short stories, who taught me that “lesser” creatures have as much “right to the air” as I do, and Miss Robertson, who I had for first and third grades, who was the object of my first crush.
As I thought about my teachers over the years, I began to see a common thread among those who I considered the best. The teachers I remember, the ones who really left a mark on my life, were not memorable because they taught me a particular fact, or what to think. They were memorable for teaching me how to think.
Officer Friendly asks: How's Dooby today? : ) woof!!!!
Dear Officer: My dog Dooby is doing fine, thank you for asking. His second birthday is in about three weeks. I have mentioned before that I believe he is inhabited by the soul of a Laughing Buddha.
Dooby is highly energetic, and I mean that in a totally euphemistic way. It might be more truthful to say that he’s completely hyper. But if you strip all that away, forget about the jumping and the pestering and the insane running around in figure-8’s, and just look at the creature, I think you would see it too. All those things will go away with time, anyway. And what we will be left with is a dog, a little soul, who exudes nothing but love for everyone around him and nothing but absolute joy and enthusiasm for being alive; a giant smile surrounded by 80 pounds of beautiful dog.
That’s how Dooby is today.
The Wondering Wine Merchant wonders: Are you REALLY going to eat that?
Dear Wondering: The year is 1847. Young Thomas Smith is aboard the U.S.S. Carolina, heading for his home port of Charleston, which he has not seen in over three years, since arriving as a lone missionary on that tiny, unnamed island in the South Pacific.
The natives, of which there were only a few dozen, called the island “Dubidoo:, which simply means “little island in middle of ocean where we live and where there are many trees and fish and the rainy season lasts 4 moons”. He had not seen another white face since arriving at the island, which was disconcerting at first, especially for a white man from South Carolina in 1844. But before long, Thomas had realized that humanity is something which lies far deeper than skin level, and he was returning to America as a man with a completely new view on race and racial equality.
There had been no red meat on the small island, and for three years, Thomas had eaten only the fruits and vegetables which the natives could gather, along with many delicious and varied kinds of seafood which the fishermen brought in every day. He had not eaten a steak in all that time, not even seen one, until tonight.
He sat at the table in his First Class stateroom. A fine goblet of wine, a chunk of buttered bread, and a beautiful steak sat on the plate before him. His footman, called Lewis, stood impassively across the room, watching him. The sight, the smell of the steak assaulted his senses, causing his nostrils to flare and his mouth to water as he picked up the knife. Ravenous, almost mad with anticipation, he cut into the meat and watched the juices run down and across the plate, soaking in to the crusty bread. It looked so good. So very good and he’d been craving red meat for so very long. He raised his fork slowly towards his mouth and closed his eyes.
Lewis was the only native of Dubidoo who had ever learned English. He was also Master Smith’s sole convert to Christianity, although he converted more as a kind gesture to Master Smith than out of any real religious belief. Lewis was ambitious, compared to the other islanders. His thoughts took him to the strange, bold new world that was America. He knew that there was much more to life than the tiny island where he was born.
Lewis had never eaten red meat in his life. He had never even seen a cow, much less a portion of dead cow on a plate. He hoped he was masking his horror as he watched Master Smith raise his knife and cut into the flesh on the plate before him. Was it still alive? It seemed to bleed as Master Smith hacked away at it, his eyes wide and his tongue wildly licking his lips. As he raised the fork and the quivering piece of bloody meat towards his mouth, Lewis could think only one thing.
“Are you REALLY going to eat that?”
Sunday, August 25, 2013
EXTEMPORANEOUS WRITING - "Dear John"
First comment: a time on the clock (AM or PM?): Erica Lynn: 1:15am
Second comment: a type of weather or weather event: Chris Deboard: electric storm
Third Comment: a holiday or observance: Alice Warmouth: Super Bowl Sunday
Fourth Comment: a landmark: Nancy Sirvent: The Golden Gate Bridge
Fifth comment: a hobby: Kevin Doherty: flower arranging
Dear Jack,
Well, I’m not sure exactly what time it is right now. It’s some time in the middle of the night but I don’t know really because we are in the middle of an electrical storm and all the lights have gone out. I was sound asleep in bed when the lightning flashed so bright that I could see it all the way through my closed eyes and everything, and then the thunder went off like a cannon like right away, which had me sitting straight up in bed and wondering what the hell was going on. It took me a minute to get my bearings because the lights had gone out and I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. Then the lightning went off again and I could see my apartment in the light for an instant, and then it began to dawn on me what was going on.
So, here I am, sitting here in the dark, but not the complete dark, thanks to the Olde Brooklyn Lantern which I bought a couple of months ago when I was kind of having a moment and spent the whole weekend getting drunk, ordering Chinese take-out and watching infomercials. So at least I have a little pool of light around me as I wander around my ultra convenient, ultra modern, all-electric apartment and my all-electric life and realize that my only real options at this point are reading or writing, because I’m sure not going to be getting back to sleep any time soon.
So, I decided to write- well, to write to you, actually, because I’ve been really missing you lately and thinking of you a lot and since I don’t have a graveside or anything where I can go and talk to you, I guess this is as good a way as any to, well, sort of let you know what’s been going on. It’s been 15 years, Jackie, so this could be a long letter.
Where do I begin? The last time I saw you? Well, the last time I saw you, you didn’t look so good. I mean, we’d been living with this stupid virus for so long and you were just fine, but then you got sick and like a week later, there we were. You were lying in that bed with all those fucking tubes and wires and things coming out of everywhere. You couldn’t talk because they had that breathing tube stuck down your throat, so you just looked at me and your eyes looked so sad and I couldn’t help you. And then that nurse sort of pushed me out of your room and told me to go home. So I did. And then when I went back to the hospital the next morning, they told me your mom and dad had already been there and were on their way back to Utah with your “remains”. So that was that. I just went home and tried to continue on my with life from there.
You know what I miss most about you, Jackie? I miss the way that you and I both looked at the world a little differently than everyone else. Do you know what I mean? Like, if you were to walk in here right now and saw me writing a letter to someone who’s been dead for fifteen years, I would fully expect you to drop whatever you were doing and break into your finest Baby Jane singing “I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy”. And we would both get the joke and I’d probably laugh and then realize how ridiculous I’m being. But nowadays, I don’t think there’s anyone in my life who would even get the reference.
And how every time I called you Jackie, how you would give me that look and say “My name is John.”, and I would say, “Well, I’m Irish!” and you would always answer, “Well, I’m not.” and try to look indignant but I could always see the ghost of a smile around your mouth. Even though what we were saying was “I’m Irish” and “I’m not”, what we really meant was stuff like, “I get you,” and “I’m here for you today just like I was yesterday.”
I really miss that kind of thing.
So, anyway, after you died, I stayed in Ohio for a few months. The first few weeks were kind of a blur. Lots of people were coming over all the time to “check on me” and cook food and stuff like that, and Jerry from the restaurant organized a memorial for you which was pretty nice. Everyone brought pictures of you, and they played sad music and cried and told stories about their memories of you. To hear them tell it, you must have been a pretty nice guy. Even that guy Dougie that you threw the Tequila Sunrise on that night at the Iron Horse got up and told a nice story about you. He told a story about once when he had been at a dinner party, and someone had knocked this beautiful centerpiece off of the table before the meal had even begun. He told how you had gathered together all the broken flowers and bits and pieces off of the floor and disappeared into the kitchen, emerging a little while later with a whole new, beautiful arrangement. He told us that you just said something humble like, “Flower arranging is kind of a hobby of mine.” What I really wanted them to know was that your actual talent wasn’t arranging flowers, but finding the beauty that’s left in something that’s been broken, and then bringing it out for everyone to see, like you did with me.
Anyway, after a month or two, all the visits and the phone calls started to stop and people just sort of moved on with their lives; and I guess they expected me to do the same thing, but it just wasn’t that easy for me.
After a few months, I began to feel like I couldn’t stay there much longer, in that apartment, in that city, in that state, even. Everywhere I went there was some kind of memory of you; and after a while I got sick of people looking at me funny and treating me like I was a fragile little china doll or something. When the lease expired on the apartment in October, I rented a truck and moved. I decided to move to York County, Pennsylvania, the “Snack Food Capital of the World”. I found an apartment in a little town named Paradise, which sounded like a pretty nice place to live. I’ve been there ever since, and in 15 years it doesn’t really feel like I’ve gotten very far since then.
Not long after I moved to Pennsylvania, I got a job at a factory where we make nacho cheese flavored tortilla chips. Everyone who works there just calls it “the plant”. It’s this humongous factory, full of big, loud, scary machines that look like they have about as much to do with the production of food as a goddam Zamboni, and we all have to wear these white jumpsuits and hairnets and ear protection so sometimes the plant looks more like a nuclear plant than a potato chip factory. I guess it’s an OK job, but after 15 years it gets pretty boring sometimes, even though they move us around from station to station every three weeks. So for a while I’ll be working in packaging and then they’ll move me to Batch Processing, but after a while it’s just one bag of Doritos after another, day after day after day. But at least it’s a Union job and I get two weeks of vacation every year and pretty good insurance. My biggest complaint about the job, I think, is that everything I own has been permanently permeated by the smell of Nacho Cheese flavor. Luckily, here in Paradise, nobody notices that sort of thing. Everyone in town smells like some sort of corn chip or cheese doodle.
You know what really gets me, though, Jackie, about this job? The biggest holiday of the year at a tortilla chip plant is not Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or even Halloween. It’s Super Bowl Sunday. Even though it’s not until January or February, we start getting ready for Super Bowl Sunday months in advance.
Just after Halloween, they’ll start putting up posters around the plant with slogans like “Let’s Get Ready for Game Day!” and “Our Customers are World Champions!”. Replace the words “Wholesome Fun, Wholesome Snacks!” with the words “For the Glorious Fatherland!” and you might as well be in an airplane factory in Stalinist Russia.
And then I think of you, and your standard rant about Super Bowl Sunday. For the six years we were together, every year we would go out for Chinese at the Lucky Panda and then walk from there to the Iron Horse for a couple of drinks. We would always be the only people out on the street, and we could see the faint blue flickering glow of television sets coming from every single house, with the occasional cheer or jeer as that year’s team scored a touchdown or a fumble or whatever it is they do in football. It felt like we had the whole town to ourselves, and sooner or later you would say something like “Ahh, Super Bowl Sunday, America’s High Holiday to Junk Food!” Then once we got to the bar, we’d order a drink and you’d raise your glass and say, “Happy Super Bowl Sunday, “ and I’d answer, “Go Team.”
Now, here I am, working in a place where Super Bowl Sunday means nothing more than three months of increased production quotas and smelling even more like a Frito.
I guess that’s what they call irony.
Anyway, so that’s how things have been going. Like I said before, it doesn’t really feel like I’ve gotten very far. I mean, it’s weird: sometimes time seems to be crawling by at a snail’s pace, like on Monday morning it seems like Friday afternoon is forever away. But then before you know it, five years have flown by, and then ten, or fifteen, and it feels like you spent the whole time just trying to pay the bills and keep the living room vacuumed. Every day, I remember that I had something precious right in my hand, and even though I’ve accepted the fact that it’s gone forever, there are a hundred moments of every single day when I remember what we shared, or what we could be sharing right then. It’s been kind of hard to move on.
So, when my vacation came up last month, I decided to really go somewhere and not just spend two weeks at home smoking weed and sleeping most of the day, which is what I‘ve done for the past couple of years. I remembered how you and I always said we would like to go to San Francisco. We would joke that you would go to see the architecture and I would go to see the Anvil. So, I decided to go, even though it freaks me out a little to travel alone.
Here are some interesting facts about the Golden Gate Bridge:
The total length of the Golden Gate Bridge is 8,981 feet.
The deck of the Golden Gate Bridge is 245 feet above the water.
The Golden Gate Bridge is the second most common suicide site in the world. After a fall of about four seconds, jumpers hit the water at about 75mph.
Anyway, I arrived in San Francisco and it’s a really nice city. I did tons of walking, which isn’t really that easy because the hills in that town are unbelievable. I walked around Haight-Ashbury and tried to imagine if you and I had been around back in the 60s. I can see you now, with a collection of John Lennon sunglasses in every color to match every outfit. But it’s hard to imagine Flower Power when it’s 2013 and everyone in Haight-Ashbury is driving a Dodge Grand Caravan and talking on an I-Phone.
I found my way to Alamo Square to look at those Victorian houses, the “Painted Ladies” that you always wanted to see. They are really beautiful, Jack, you would have loved seeing them. They reminded me of those beautiful houses in Oak Bluffs and that weekend we spent on Martha’s Vineyard just after our first anniversary. It rained the entire weekend we were there, but, I don’t know, sometimes you just don’t mind the rain.
I rode a trolley car. That was fun. I thought about how you remembered every word to every jingle ever written, and I could practically hear you singing the Rice-A-Roni song in my ear the whole time. I found my way to Fisherman’s Wharf and walked around there for a while. You can see Alcatraz from there which is really cool. And then I noticed they had a bus over to the Golden Gate Bridge.
So, I decided to get on the bus and head over to the bridge. I’m not sure how long the ride was. Like I said before, sometimes time seems to go by fast and sometimes it goes by really slow. In a way the bus ride seemed to go by really slow, because for some reason I was really noticing everything, like the smell of the Chinese restaurant that we passed and the bright red color of a potted geranium hanging in an apartment window. But it also seemed like before I knew it, I was walking across the Golden Gate Bridge, feeling kind of numb and conflicted and looking out at the 245 foot drop between me and the waters of San Francisco Bay. I stopped about halfway across.
I never came close, Jackie. I never climbed over the railing or leaned out clinging only by my fingertips. I just stood there, looking out, looking at the water, looking at nothing, really. I thought about jumping over, but I thought about a lot of other things, too. I thought that it would sure hurt if I jumped over, that I know. But I had to think that my life wasn’t really over yet, too. I had to think that even though you were a huge part of my life, maybe the biggest part, maybe even the best part, there must still be something more for me out there, even though I don’t know what it is.
Then, just as I was thinking how really cold that water looked, and how I really hate being cold, this little old lady walked up and stood right next to me. She was a tiny thing, no more than four and a half feet tall. She was wrapped in so many layers it was impossible to tell where she stopped and her clothes began. All I could really see was an old knit hat on top of a pile of sweaters and granny squares. She could barely see over the handrails, but she stood there, saying nothing, looking out over the water for a while as I had been.
After a few minutes, I could tell she was no longer looking at the water. I could feel her gaze on me, so I turned to meet it. I could see her face. It was an old, weather-beaten face but a kind and lively one. She was smiling, and I noticed a gap in the front of her mouth where a tooth was missing. “You know,” she said, “sometimes when you rescue someone, they end up rescuing you back.”
I was taken completely off guard by this and found myself struggling for something to say. I ended up saying nothing and stood there with my mouth opening and closing like a drowning fish.
“That water sure looks cold,” she said, at which point she turned and walked away.
I stood there for a while longer, no longer looking over the edge, but watching as the figure of the little old lady grew smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing in the distance. I decided to make my way back to the city, and back to my hotel.
I don’t know, Jackie, but I felt a little different after my walk across the bridge. I felt somehow that the hilly sidewalks of San Francisco were somehow easier to walk, that the California sun had finally burned through the San Francisco fog. I know it sounds corny.
Then, as I was making my way back to my hotel, just sort of meandering my way through the neighborhood, I passed what must have been at one time an old storefront. But now the sign read “Bay Area Animal Rescue”, and in the window sat the most pathetic, most beautiful little dog I had ever seen. A mutt, an obvious blend of what could be hundreds of breeds, she had coarse, wiry hair the red color of an Irish Setter. She was probably about 30 pounds, with one floppy ear and one ear which stood straight up. Her bottom teeth were sort of misshapen, her bottom canines overgrown and protruded from her bottom lip which made her look like a kind of pouting werewolf. It was both horrible and adorable at the same time. In one corner of the window was a small, handwritten sign which said “Rescue Me.”
I kept walking, initially. Four, maybe five minutes went by; four, maybe five blocks. I just kept hearing the voice of that old lady on the bridge, and seeing that pathetic little face in the storefront. I turned around.
Well, life has been a little different in the past few weeks, since I brought Peggy home with me from San Francisco. She gets me out of the house, she gets me walking, she gets me talking to people. Some days, she gets me out of bed. She loves me, and I guess I love her, too. She makes me anxious to come home from the plant in the evening, and I think she really likes the smell of nacho cheese flavor.
There is a park a couple of blocks away where you’re allowed to let your dogs off their leash. Peggy likes to run around and play with the other dogs but she never goes too far or too fast, because I think her life was pretty rough before I came along and she walks with a funny kind of sideways limp. Anyway, there’s this guy that I’ve seen there a couple of times. He has this great big grey hound dog who never leaves his side, and he looks like the kind of guy who is more comfortable with the dogs than with their owners. I guess he’s around my age. “Between 40 and death,” you would have said.
Well, a couple of days ago, Peggy decided to walk over and start sniffing around his big ol’ hound dog. I was a little concerned at first, but it ended up being no problem. “Your dog is so cute,” he said to me. He was scratching his head like he was trying to figure out exactly what she was, or if she was even a dog at all, I guess. “What’s her name?”
“Well, her name is Margaret,” I answered, “but I call her Peggy.”
“If her name is Margaret, why would you call her Peggy?” he said.
“Well, I’m Irish,” I replied.
“Oh, I’m not,” he said, and I could feel the ghost of a smile around my mouth.
Anyway, I’ve been sitting here writing to you for hours now. The lights came back on hours ago, but I still have no idea what time it is because every clock in the house is flashing 01:15 - 01:15 - 01:15, except for the one on the VCR, which is flashing 88:88 like it always does. I never did figure out how to fix that one. The sun is coming up, and everything smells really crisp and clean after the thunderstorm last night. I can look over and see Peggy asleep on the couch, flat on her back and her belly to the sky, perfectly safe, perfectly trusting.
A new day has started here in Paradise. So far, it seems like a good one.
Miss you, John.
Love,
Me
Second comment: a type of weather or weather event: Chris Deboard: electric storm
Third Comment: a holiday or observance: Alice Warmouth: Super Bowl Sunday
Fourth Comment: a landmark: Nancy Sirvent: The Golden Gate Bridge
Fifth comment: a hobby: Kevin Doherty: flower arranging
Dear Jack,
Well, I’m not sure exactly what time it is right now. It’s some time in the middle of the night but I don’t know really because we are in the middle of an electrical storm and all the lights have gone out. I was sound asleep in bed when the lightning flashed so bright that I could see it all the way through my closed eyes and everything, and then the thunder went off like a cannon like right away, which had me sitting straight up in bed and wondering what the hell was going on. It took me a minute to get my bearings because the lights had gone out and I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. Then the lightning went off again and I could see my apartment in the light for an instant, and then it began to dawn on me what was going on.
So, here I am, sitting here in the dark, but not the complete dark, thanks to the Olde Brooklyn Lantern which I bought a couple of months ago when I was kind of having a moment and spent the whole weekend getting drunk, ordering Chinese take-out and watching infomercials. So at least I have a little pool of light around me as I wander around my ultra convenient, ultra modern, all-electric apartment and my all-electric life and realize that my only real options at this point are reading or writing, because I’m sure not going to be getting back to sleep any time soon.
So, I decided to write- well, to write to you, actually, because I’ve been really missing you lately and thinking of you a lot and since I don’t have a graveside or anything where I can go and talk to you, I guess this is as good a way as any to, well, sort of let you know what’s been going on. It’s been 15 years, Jackie, so this could be a long letter.
Where do I begin? The last time I saw you? Well, the last time I saw you, you didn’t look so good. I mean, we’d been living with this stupid virus for so long and you were just fine, but then you got sick and like a week later, there we were. You were lying in that bed with all those fucking tubes and wires and things coming out of everywhere. You couldn’t talk because they had that breathing tube stuck down your throat, so you just looked at me and your eyes looked so sad and I couldn’t help you. And then that nurse sort of pushed me out of your room and told me to go home. So I did. And then when I went back to the hospital the next morning, they told me your mom and dad had already been there and were on their way back to Utah with your “remains”. So that was that. I just went home and tried to continue on my with life from there.
You know what I miss most about you, Jackie? I miss the way that you and I both looked at the world a little differently than everyone else. Do you know what I mean? Like, if you were to walk in here right now and saw me writing a letter to someone who’s been dead for fifteen years, I would fully expect you to drop whatever you were doing and break into your finest Baby Jane singing “I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy”. And we would both get the joke and I’d probably laugh and then realize how ridiculous I’m being. But nowadays, I don’t think there’s anyone in my life who would even get the reference.
And how every time I called you Jackie, how you would give me that look and say “My name is John.”, and I would say, “Well, I’m Irish!” and you would always answer, “Well, I’m not.” and try to look indignant but I could always see the ghost of a smile around your mouth. Even though what we were saying was “I’m Irish” and “I’m not”, what we really meant was stuff like, “I get you,” and “I’m here for you today just like I was yesterday.”
I really miss that kind of thing.
So, anyway, after you died, I stayed in Ohio for a few months. The first few weeks were kind of a blur. Lots of people were coming over all the time to “check on me” and cook food and stuff like that, and Jerry from the restaurant organized a memorial for you which was pretty nice. Everyone brought pictures of you, and they played sad music and cried and told stories about their memories of you. To hear them tell it, you must have been a pretty nice guy. Even that guy Dougie that you threw the Tequila Sunrise on that night at the Iron Horse got up and told a nice story about you. He told a story about once when he had been at a dinner party, and someone had knocked this beautiful centerpiece off of the table before the meal had even begun. He told how you had gathered together all the broken flowers and bits and pieces off of the floor and disappeared into the kitchen, emerging a little while later with a whole new, beautiful arrangement. He told us that you just said something humble like, “Flower arranging is kind of a hobby of mine.” What I really wanted them to know was that your actual talent wasn’t arranging flowers, but finding the beauty that’s left in something that’s been broken, and then bringing it out for everyone to see, like you did with me.
Anyway, after a month or two, all the visits and the phone calls started to stop and people just sort of moved on with their lives; and I guess they expected me to do the same thing, but it just wasn’t that easy for me.
After a few months, I began to feel like I couldn’t stay there much longer, in that apartment, in that city, in that state, even. Everywhere I went there was some kind of memory of you; and after a while I got sick of people looking at me funny and treating me like I was a fragile little china doll or something. When the lease expired on the apartment in October, I rented a truck and moved. I decided to move to York County, Pennsylvania, the “Snack Food Capital of the World”. I found an apartment in a little town named Paradise, which sounded like a pretty nice place to live. I’ve been there ever since, and in 15 years it doesn’t really feel like I’ve gotten very far since then.
Not long after I moved to Pennsylvania, I got a job at a factory where we make nacho cheese flavored tortilla chips. Everyone who works there just calls it “the plant”. It’s this humongous factory, full of big, loud, scary machines that look like they have about as much to do with the production of food as a goddam Zamboni, and we all have to wear these white jumpsuits and hairnets and ear protection so sometimes the plant looks more like a nuclear plant than a potato chip factory. I guess it’s an OK job, but after 15 years it gets pretty boring sometimes, even though they move us around from station to station every three weeks. So for a while I’ll be working in packaging and then they’ll move me to Batch Processing, but after a while it’s just one bag of Doritos after another, day after day after day. But at least it’s a Union job and I get two weeks of vacation every year and pretty good insurance. My biggest complaint about the job, I think, is that everything I own has been permanently permeated by the smell of Nacho Cheese flavor. Luckily, here in Paradise, nobody notices that sort of thing. Everyone in town smells like some sort of corn chip or cheese doodle.
You know what really gets me, though, Jackie, about this job? The biggest holiday of the year at a tortilla chip plant is not Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or even Halloween. It’s Super Bowl Sunday. Even though it’s not until January or February, we start getting ready for Super Bowl Sunday months in advance.
Just after Halloween, they’ll start putting up posters around the plant with slogans like “Let’s Get Ready for Game Day!” and “Our Customers are World Champions!”. Replace the words “Wholesome Fun, Wholesome Snacks!” with the words “For the Glorious Fatherland!” and you might as well be in an airplane factory in Stalinist Russia.
And then I think of you, and your standard rant about Super Bowl Sunday. For the six years we were together, every year we would go out for Chinese at the Lucky Panda and then walk from there to the Iron Horse for a couple of drinks. We would always be the only people out on the street, and we could see the faint blue flickering glow of television sets coming from every single house, with the occasional cheer or jeer as that year’s team scored a touchdown or a fumble or whatever it is they do in football. It felt like we had the whole town to ourselves, and sooner or later you would say something like “Ahh, Super Bowl Sunday, America’s High Holiday to Junk Food!” Then once we got to the bar, we’d order a drink and you’d raise your glass and say, “Happy Super Bowl Sunday, “ and I’d answer, “Go Team.”
Now, here I am, working in a place where Super Bowl Sunday means nothing more than three months of increased production quotas and smelling even more like a Frito.
I guess that’s what they call irony.
Anyway, so that’s how things have been going. Like I said before, it doesn’t really feel like I’ve gotten very far. I mean, it’s weird: sometimes time seems to be crawling by at a snail’s pace, like on Monday morning it seems like Friday afternoon is forever away. But then before you know it, five years have flown by, and then ten, or fifteen, and it feels like you spent the whole time just trying to pay the bills and keep the living room vacuumed. Every day, I remember that I had something precious right in my hand, and even though I’ve accepted the fact that it’s gone forever, there are a hundred moments of every single day when I remember what we shared, or what we could be sharing right then. It’s been kind of hard to move on.
So, when my vacation came up last month, I decided to really go somewhere and not just spend two weeks at home smoking weed and sleeping most of the day, which is what I‘ve done for the past couple of years. I remembered how you and I always said we would like to go to San Francisco. We would joke that you would go to see the architecture and I would go to see the Anvil. So, I decided to go, even though it freaks me out a little to travel alone.
Here are some interesting facts about the Golden Gate Bridge:
The total length of the Golden Gate Bridge is 8,981 feet.
The deck of the Golden Gate Bridge is 245 feet above the water.
The Golden Gate Bridge is the second most common suicide site in the world. After a fall of about four seconds, jumpers hit the water at about 75mph.
Anyway, I arrived in San Francisco and it’s a really nice city. I did tons of walking, which isn’t really that easy because the hills in that town are unbelievable. I walked around Haight-Ashbury and tried to imagine if you and I had been around back in the 60s. I can see you now, with a collection of John Lennon sunglasses in every color to match every outfit. But it’s hard to imagine Flower Power when it’s 2013 and everyone in Haight-Ashbury is driving a Dodge Grand Caravan and talking on an I-Phone.
I found my way to Alamo Square to look at those Victorian houses, the “Painted Ladies” that you always wanted to see. They are really beautiful, Jack, you would have loved seeing them. They reminded me of those beautiful houses in Oak Bluffs and that weekend we spent on Martha’s Vineyard just after our first anniversary. It rained the entire weekend we were there, but, I don’t know, sometimes you just don’t mind the rain.
I rode a trolley car. That was fun. I thought about how you remembered every word to every jingle ever written, and I could practically hear you singing the Rice-A-Roni song in my ear the whole time. I found my way to Fisherman’s Wharf and walked around there for a while. You can see Alcatraz from there which is really cool. And then I noticed they had a bus over to the Golden Gate Bridge.
So, I decided to get on the bus and head over to the bridge. I’m not sure how long the ride was. Like I said before, sometimes time seems to go by fast and sometimes it goes by really slow. In a way the bus ride seemed to go by really slow, because for some reason I was really noticing everything, like the smell of the Chinese restaurant that we passed and the bright red color of a potted geranium hanging in an apartment window. But it also seemed like before I knew it, I was walking across the Golden Gate Bridge, feeling kind of numb and conflicted and looking out at the 245 foot drop between me and the waters of San Francisco Bay. I stopped about halfway across.
I never came close, Jackie. I never climbed over the railing or leaned out clinging only by my fingertips. I just stood there, looking out, looking at the water, looking at nothing, really. I thought about jumping over, but I thought about a lot of other things, too. I thought that it would sure hurt if I jumped over, that I know. But I had to think that my life wasn’t really over yet, too. I had to think that even though you were a huge part of my life, maybe the biggest part, maybe even the best part, there must still be something more for me out there, even though I don’t know what it is.
Then, just as I was thinking how really cold that water looked, and how I really hate being cold, this little old lady walked up and stood right next to me. She was a tiny thing, no more than four and a half feet tall. She was wrapped in so many layers it was impossible to tell where she stopped and her clothes began. All I could really see was an old knit hat on top of a pile of sweaters and granny squares. She could barely see over the handrails, but she stood there, saying nothing, looking out over the water for a while as I had been.
After a few minutes, I could tell she was no longer looking at the water. I could feel her gaze on me, so I turned to meet it. I could see her face. It was an old, weather-beaten face but a kind and lively one. She was smiling, and I noticed a gap in the front of her mouth where a tooth was missing. “You know,” she said, “sometimes when you rescue someone, they end up rescuing you back.”
I was taken completely off guard by this and found myself struggling for something to say. I ended up saying nothing and stood there with my mouth opening and closing like a drowning fish.
“That water sure looks cold,” she said, at which point she turned and walked away.
I stood there for a while longer, no longer looking over the edge, but watching as the figure of the little old lady grew smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing in the distance. I decided to make my way back to the city, and back to my hotel.
I don’t know, Jackie, but I felt a little different after my walk across the bridge. I felt somehow that the hilly sidewalks of San Francisco were somehow easier to walk, that the California sun had finally burned through the San Francisco fog. I know it sounds corny.
Then, as I was making my way back to my hotel, just sort of meandering my way through the neighborhood, I passed what must have been at one time an old storefront. But now the sign read “Bay Area Animal Rescue”, and in the window sat the most pathetic, most beautiful little dog I had ever seen. A mutt, an obvious blend of what could be hundreds of breeds, she had coarse, wiry hair the red color of an Irish Setter. She was probably about 30 pounds, with one floppy ear and one ear which stood straight up. Her bottom teeth were sort of misshapen, her bottom canines overgrown and protruded from her bottom lip which made her look like a kind of pouting werewolf. It was both horrible and adorable at the same time. In one corner of the window was a small, handwritten sign which said “Rescue Me.”
I kept walking, initially. Four, maybe five minutes went by; four, maybe five blocks. I just kept hearing the voice of that old lady on the bridge, and seeing that pathetic little face in the storefront. I turned around.
Well, life has been a little different in the past few weeks, since I brought Peggy home with me from San Francisco. She gets me out of the house, she gets me walking, she gets me talking to people. Some days, she gets me out of bed. She loves me, and I guess I love her, too. She makes me anxious to come home from the plant in the evening, and I think she really likes the smell of nacho cheese flavor.
There is a park a couple of blocks away where you’re allowed to let your dogs off their leash. Peggy likes to run around and play with the other dogs but she never goes too far or too fast, because I think her life was pretty rough before I came along and she walks with a funny kind of sideways limp. Anyway, there’s this guy that I’ve seen there a couple of times. He has this great big grey hound dog who never leaves his side, and he looks like the kind of guy who is more comfortable with the dogs than with their owners. I guess he’s around my age. “Between 40 and death,” you would have said.
Well, a couple of days ago, Peggy decided to walk over and start sniffing around his big ol’ hound dog. I was a little concerned at first, but it ended up being no problem. “Your dog is so cute,” he said to me. He was scratching his head like he was trying to figure out exactly what she was, or if she was even a dog at all, I guess. “What’s her name?”
“Well, her name is Margaret,” I answered, “but I call her Peggy.”
“If her name is Margaret, why would you call her Peggy?” he said.
“Well, I’m Irish,” I replied.
“Oh, I’m not,” he said, and I could feel the ghost of a smile around my mouth.
Anyway, I’ve been sitting here writing to you for hours now. The lights came back on hours ago, but I still have no idea what time it is because every clock in the house is flashing 01:15 - 01:15 - 01:15, except for the one on the VCR, which is flashing 88:88 like it always does. I never did figure out how to fix that one. The sun is coming up, and everything smells really crisp and clean after the thunderstorm last night. I can look over and see Peggy asleep on the couch, flat on her back and her belly to the sky, perfectly safe, perfectly trusting.
A new day has started here in Paradise. So far, it seems like a good one.
Miss you, John.
Love,
Me
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Q&A
Troubled in Tribeca wonders: Why is the sky blue?
Dear Troubled: Well, this is certainly a tough question. One might even argue that it is a question without an answer. The question itself has become synonymous with futile curiosity. For example, you may ask something like, “Why do I always choose the wrong line at the bank?”, or “Why are the crazy people always drawn to me on the subway?”, and someone could answer you, “You might as well ask why the sky is blue!”, meaning you can ask all you like but you’ll probably never get a good answer.
Secondly, I’m not really even convinced that the sky even is blue in the first place. Half the time, it’s black, in my experience. And here on Cape Cod, it’s either grey or a kind of washed-out white from March until late May. You never heard anyone saying, “Blue skies at night, sailors’ delight”, did you? So, Troubled, I think you need to go back and re-think your question.
For now, I will give you the answer given by mothers to their young children who have asked this very question down though the ages:
Go ask your father.
Glamorpuss from Grant’s Pass writes: What causes El Niño?
Dear Glamorpuss: Let me see, how shall I put this in a way that you can understand?
Sometimes, when El Padre and La Madre love one another very much, they kiss and they lie down on top of one another. El Padre plants a very special seed inside La Madre, and a few months later, Olé! El Niño!
Go ask your father.
Twilo in Manhattan asks: Why are some people "cat people" and some are "dog people"? Very few are both.
Dear Twilo: It is disappointing that I will not be able to provide you with a romantic, mystical answer to your question, such as “It depends on whether you are an Earth or a Fire sign,” or, “Cat people are more likely to have been a nurturer in a former life.” But like almost everything these days, it has come down to a matter of simple genetics. Scientists at the Jeffs County Academy of Genetics and Hotel Management in Utah have isolated a sequence in the human genome dedicated to all the little “A” or “B” choices which define and divide us as human beings. The gene for “Cat Person” or “Dog Person” (which has a recessive gene for “Cat&Dog” or “Bird/Reptile”) is located right between “Toilet Paper Over/Under the Roll” and “Window Seat/Aisle Seat”.
Back in Town asks me: What do you really want to be asked?
Dear Back: “Will you be taking this all in one lump sum, Mr. Halley?”
Perplexed in P’town writes: Why does the view of Provincetown look magnified from the highway just before beach point and other times it doesn't?
Dear Perplexed: I must confess I was stumped by your question. In all the years I have lived in Provincetown, I never noticed the phenomenon which you mentioned. So, I made a call to my learned friend, Dr. Jeff Spiccoli at the Awesome Righteous Cannabis Dispensary in Burnhaut, Colorado. Dr. Jeff advised me that certain strains, such as Wahican and Golden Skunkweed can cause mild changes to visual perception, versus less potent types such as Lumbo or Homegrown from that guy in Wellfleet. This could account for the so-called “magnified view” of Provincetown which you mention. Awesome.
Just remember, no texting while driving!
Candy asks: How many licks to get to the center of a tootsie roll?
Dear Candy: Anyone who was alive in 1970 knows the answer to that question.
Three.
Dear Troubled: Well, this is certainly a tough question. One might even argue that it is a question without an answer. The question itself has become synonymous with futile curiosity. For example, you may ask something like, “Why do I always choose the wrong line at the bank?”, or “Why are the crazy people always drawn to me on the subway?”, and someone could answer you, “You might as well ask why the sky is blue!”, meaning you can ask all you like but you’ll probably never get a good answer.
Secondly, I’m not really even convinced that the sky even is blue in the first place. Half the time, it’s black, in my experience. And here on Cape Cod, it’s either grey or a kind of washed-out white from March until late May. You never heard anyone saying, “Blue skies at night, sailors’ delight”, did you? So, Troubled, I think you need to go back and re-think your question.
For now, I will give you the answer given by mothers to their young children who have asked this very question down though the ages:
Go ask your father.
Glamorpuss from Grant’s Pass writes: What causes El Niño?
Dear Glamorpuss: Let me see, how shall I put this in a way that you can understand?
Sometimes, when El Padre and La Madre love one another very much, they kiss and they lie down on top of one another. El Padre plants a very special seed inside La Madre, and a few months later, Olé! El Niño!
Go ask your father.
Twilo in Manhattan asks: Why are some people "cat people" and some are "dog people"? Very few are both.
Dear Twilo: It is disappointing that I will not be able to provide you with a romantic, mystical answer to your question, such as “It depends on whether you are an Earth or a Fire sign,” or, “Cat people are more likely to have been a nurturer in a former life.” But like almost everything these days, it has come down to a matter of simple genetics. Scientists at the Jeffs County Academy of Genetics and Hotel Management in Utah have isolated a sequence in the human genome dedicated to all the little “A” or “B” choices which define and divide us as human beings. The gene for “Cat Person” or “Dog Person” (which has a recessive gene for “Cat&Dog” or “Bird/Reptile”) is located right between “Toilet Paper Over/Under the Roll” and “Window Seat/Aisle Seat”.
Back in Town asks me: What do you really want to be asked?
Dear Back: “Will you be taking this all in one lump sum, Mr. Halley?”
Perplexed in P’town writes: Why does the view of Provincetown look magnified from the highway just before beach point and other times it doesn't?
Dear Perplexed: I must confess I was stumped by your question. In all the years I have lived in Provincetown, I never noticed the phenomenon which you mentioned. So, I made a call to my learned friend, Dr. Jeff Spiccoli at the Awesome Righteous Cannabis Dispensary in Burnhaut, Colorado. Dr. Jeff advised me that certain strains, such as Wahican and Golden Skunkweed can cause mild changes to visual perception, versus less potent types such as Lumbo or Homegrown from that guy in Wellfleet. This could account for the so-called “magnified view” of Provincetown which you mention. Awesome.
Just remember, no texting while driving!
Candy asks: How many licks to get to the center of a tootsie roll?
Dear Candy: Anyone who was alive in 1970 knows the answer to that question.
Three.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Q&A
Organic in Orleans asks: Is it cannibalism when you chew the insides of your cheek?
Dear Organic: No, it’s OCD.
It would be cannibalism if you were chewing the insides of someone else’s cheek. With fava beans. And a nice chianti.
Curious in Charlestown writes: do you think environmentalists are tree hugging nuts or truly trying to stand for just reasons?
Dear Curious: When I was in the fourth grade, I had a 3-ring binder which featured on its cover the image of a skeleton, wearing a hard hat, laughing demonically as he piloted a bulldozer. The skeleton was bulldozing a forest and all our little furry woodland friends were running away, terrified, trying to get out of the path of the bulldozer. For an entire school year, I looked at that picture of little bunny rabbits, chipmunks and Bambis with fear in their eyes as they tried to outrun the destruction wrought by mankind. This was back when “environmentalism” was called “ecology”, and between that binder and the commercial where the Indian Chief cries because he is paddling his canoe through garbage, I have fallen squarely into the camp of the environmentalists.
Of course, every movement, no matter how just, will have its nut jobs. Pro-lifers who think it’s OK to murder doctors and nurses, environmentalists who will chain themselves to a tree to prevent the construction if a children’s hospital, that sort of thing. But all in all, I applaud the environmental movement. The next time you are watching a rerun of “McMillan & Wife”, take a look at how dirty and ugly we had made the world back in the early 70s. Then take a look at the world we have now. It’s certainly not perfect, and the ice caps are still melting and everything, but it sure is a whole lot better.
Inquisitive in I-Beach wonders: Cats on keyboards....why why why????????
Dear Inquisitive: Such a simple question, one would think that it has a simple answer. But, alas, it does not. People like cats, for one thing.
The best answer I can come up with is that it’s a generational thing. For Gen-X’ers, before the advent of the Internet, it was Pokemon. For my generation, it was giant yellow Smiley Faces all over the place, and “Have a Nice Day!”. For my parents, it was cigarette smoking. Why ask why?
Bullhead City Cat Lady writes: Why does my cat Duke love to smell the carbon dioxide when I exhale from my nose? He thinks it is the greatest thing since cat food, and wants to lick my lips.
Dear Cat Lady: To answer your question, I had to consult Craig’s List, where I found the amazing Madame DeVille, Pet Psychic. She has the amazing ability, via Skype, to telepathically connect with Duke for only $5.99 per minute! Well, according to Madame DeVille, it’s not the carbon dioxide that Duke loves to smell. He simply loves the smell of your breath. He says you “smell like Catalina”. Sounds crazy to me, but Madame DeVille sounded quite certain. Hope this is helpful. It cost me 75 bucks.
Curious in Chatham County wonders: Who let the dogs out? Who? Who?
Dear Curious: It was Smithers.
Old man Burns huddled in the worn leather chair in the study. The heavy, dusty velvet curtains were drawn, and the room was lit only by a sputtering candle and the embers of a dying fire in the cavernous fireplace. He could hear the distant murmur of human voices growing steadily louder as he pictured the mob making its way up the winding drive, through the ancient oak trees and up towards the house. Trembling, he drank the last of his brandy from the Waterford snifter, and stood creakily, walking over to the sideboard and the decanter for more. Shaking, he poured himself another drink. He walked over to the window, and warily opened the curtains just enough to peer out. He could see the glow of torches, the muffled sound of the townsfolk sounding angrier and angrier as it grew louder. He downed the brandy in one gulp, then made his way over to the massive mahogany desk, where he picked up the ancient speaking tube and raised it to his lips.
“Smithers, release the hounds,” he said.
Konfused in Kapa’a asks: Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Aloha Konfused: It seems to me you have given me two options for answering your question. First, I could take the rather easy and obvious option and go with the “Bohemian Rhapsody” reference. I could respond with something easy and rather flip, like “caught in a landslide” or “Scaramouche! Scaramouche!” and be done with it. Or, I could go with the other approach, and actually think about your question in metaphysical terms; a question which has been discussed and pondered by countless philosophers, writers, poets, and pot smokers for thousands of years. So, I have decided to take a third approach instead, and answer your question directly, as if I actually knew what the answer was. (Let me be the first to admit, however, that I do not actually know the answer to your question.)
Yes, Konfused, this is indeed the Real Life. How do I know? First, I would say because it is persistent. Every morning when I wake up, I seem to be living the exact same life I was living when I went to sleep. After more than 50 years, it seems pretty real to me. And if reality didn’t alter itself after all the “experiments” I did during the 80s and 90s, I’m pretty sure it’s Real Life. Secondly, consider the concept of “fantasy”. Fantasy can mean many things to many people. For me, at least, fantasies sometimes involve untold riches and private islands, or flying, or this one fantasy where- well, never mind. Suffice to say that Fantasy and Reality have just about nothing to do with one another. So, yes, the next time you are standing in the parking lot at Target, looking through your car window at the keys you just locked inside for the second time that week, rest assured that this is, indeed, really your life.
Dear Organic: No, it’s OCD.
It would be cannibalism if you were chewing the insides of someone else’s cheek. With fava beans. And a nice chianti.
Curious in Charlestown writes: do you think environmentalists are tree hugging nuts or truly trying to stand for just reasons?
Dear Curious: When I was in the fourth grade, I had a 3-ring binder which featured on its cover the image of a skeleton, wearing a hard hat, laughing demonically as he piloted a bulldozer. The skeleton was bulldozing a forest and all our little furry woodland friends were running away, terrified, trying to get out of the path of the bulldozer. For an entire school year, I looked at that picture of little bunny rabbits, chipmunks and Bambis with fear in their eyes as they tried to outrun the destruction wrought by mankind. This was back when “environmentalism” was called “ecology”, and between that binder and the commercial where the Indian Chief cries because he is paddling his canoe through garbage, I have fallen squarely into the camp of the environmentalists.
Of course, every movement, no matter how just, will have its nut jobs. Pro-lifers who think it’s OK to murder doctors and nurses, environmentalists who will chain themselves to a tree to prevent the construction if a children’s hospital, that sort of thing. But all in all, I applaud the environmental movement. The next time you are watching a rerun of “McMillan & Wife”, take a look at how dirty and ugly we had made the world back in the early 70s. Then take a look at the world we have now. It’s certainly not perfect, and the ice caps are still melting and everything, but it sure is a whole lot better.
Inquisitive in I-Beach wonders: Cats on keyboards....why why why????????
Dear Inquisitive: Such a simple question, one would think that it has a simple answer. But, alas, it does not. People like cats, for one thing.
The best answer I can come up with is that it’s a generational thing. For Gen-X’ers, before the advent of the Internet, it was Pokemon. For my generation, it was giant yellow Smiley Faces all over the place, and “Have a Nice Day!”. For my parents, it was cigarette smoking. Why ask why?
Bullhead City Cat Lady writes: Why does my cat Duke love to smell the carbon dioxide when I exhale from my nose? He thinks it is the greatest thing since cat food, and wants to lick my lips.
Dear Cat Lady: To answer your question, I had to consult Craig’s List, where I found the amazing Madame DeVille, Pet Psychic. She has the amazing ability, via Skype, to telepathically connect with Duke for only $5.99 per minute! Well, according to Madame DeVille, it’s not the carbon dioxide that Duke loves to smell. He simply loves the smell of your breath. He says you “smell like Catalina”. Sounds crazy to me, but Madame DeVille sounded quite certain. Hope this is helpful. It cost me 75 bucks.
Curious in Chatham County wonders: Who let the dogs out? Who? Who?
Dear Curious: It was Smithers.
Old man Burns huddled in the worn leather chair in the study. The heavy, dusty velvet curtains were drawn, and the room was lit only by a sputtering candle and the embers of a dying fire in the cavernous fireplace. He could hear the distant murmur of human voices growing steadily louder as he pictured the mob making its way up the winding drive, through the ancient oak trees and up towards the house. Trembling, he drank the last of his brandy from the Waterford snifter, and stood creakily, walking over to the sideboard and the decanter for more. Shaking, he poured himself another drink. He walked over to the window, and warily opened the curtains just enough to peer out. He could see the glow of torches, the muffled sound of the townsfolk sounding angrier and angrier as it grew louder. He downed the brandy in one gulp, then made his way over to the massive mahogany desk, where he picked up the ancient speaking tube and raised it to his lips.
“Smithers, release the hounds,” he said.
Konfused in Kapa’a asks: Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Aloha Konfused: It seems to me you have given me two options for answering your question. First, I could take the rather easy and obvious option and go with the “Bohemian Rhapsody” reference. I could respond with something easy and rather flip, like “caught in a landslide” or “Scaramouche! Scaramouche!” and be done with it. Or, I could go with the other approach, and actually think about your question in metaphysical terms; a question which has been discussed and pondered by countless philosophers, writers, poets, and pot smokers for thousands of years. So, I have decided to take a third approach instead, and answer your question directly, as if I actually knew what the answer was. (Let me be the first to admit, however, that I do not actually know the answer to your question.)
Yes, Konfused, this is indeed the Real Life. How do I know? First, I would say because it is persistent. Every morning when I wake up, I seem to be living the exact same life I was living when I went to sleep. After more than 50 years, it seems pretty real to me. And if reality didn’t alter itself after all the “experiments” I did during the 80s and 90s, I’m pretty sure it’s Real Life. Secondly, consider the concept of “fantasy”. Fantasy can mean many things to many people. For me, at least, fantasies sometimes involve untold riches and private islands, or flying, or this one fantasy where- well, never mind. Suffice to say that Fantasy and Reality have just about nothing to do with one another. So, yes, the next time you are standing in the parking lot at Target, looking through your car window at the keys you just locked inside for the second time that week, rest assured that this is, indeed, really your life.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
EXTEMPORANEOUS WRITING - "Class of '84"
a country of the world - Cindy Hannah-White - Burma
a persons age - Nicole Tillbrook - 15
a specific dish or type of food - Casey Fogle - Beef Stroganoff
a song - Jan Feldman - Devo "Freedom of Choice"
an emotion - Ariana Estariel - Deja Vu
Well, here it is, 30 days since my birthday, which means I have been 15 years old for one month now. I guess it’s OK so far; I dunno, it seems pretty much the same as 14 to me. I have also been in the 10th grade at my new school for one month, since my birthday happened to be on the first day of school. I kept telling myself that it would be cool, that these kids didn’t know me and it would be like starting over with a fresh clean slate, but I guess it’s the same bullshit and the same drama no matter where you go.
I was happy to leave my old school back in Michigan after Mom and Dad got divorced and Mom decided she wanted to “get the hell out of that one-horse town.” I had been going to school with the same people for my entire life, and let’s just say I was never one of the more popular kids. I thought that starting at Fillmore would be my chance to prove that there’s more to me than the “loser”, “spaz”, or “faggot” that everyone seemed to have decided I am. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that it probably wasn’t going to work out that way.
You see, Fillmore is located in the really nice part of Durham, the town in Virginia where we moved with Mom. Mom says they all come from “old money” and that their families have lived here for a hundred years. Back in Michigan, all the kids I knew were pretty much like us; that is, we weren’t poor or anything but we sure weren’t rich. Some kids’ parents were even out of work and collecting Unemployment. We mostly got our clothes at Caldor or Bradlee’s, maybe at Merry-Go-Round if we were really lucky. Well, I don’t know where the kids at Fillmore shop, but I guess you would call the look here “Preppy”, and they all look like they bought their clothes back in 1955, even though they’re only 15 or 16 years old. So, when I walked into school on the first day in my red painters’ pants and my shiniest Qiana shirt, which were totally cool back in Michigan, everyone looked at me as if I had just flown in from Jupiter or something, and right away I was already a geek and a loser on top of being the New Kid.
Anyway, I’ve had a month to get some new clothes and stuff and try to fit in more. Mom took me shopping and I bought some button-down shirts and some corduroys, even some of those weird shoes everybody wears that look like you should be wearing them on your yacht in Hyannis or something. But somehow, on me it all looks too new, too “Made in China” or something and even though I blend in a little better now, I’m sure everyone still looks at me and only sees how much I don’t really fit in.
On top of that, my skin keeps breaking out and I wake up every morning to find some huge zit or twelve on my face, and always right where you can’t miss it like on the tip of my nose or right in the middle of my forehead or something. Mom keeps saying that it’s normal and that it will go away in time, but that’s not much help when you’re talking to people and it feels like they are just looking at the huge pimple on your face and not at you, the person. And then I look around the classroom at all these well-bred kids with their perfect clothes and their Old Money, and they all have perfectly clear skin on top of it all. Sometimes I blame Mom a little for not being from Old Money and having me in Michigan where everyone wears funny clothes and gets huge zits all the time.
Anyway, I decided to write in my diary today because it’s been a pretty stressful day right from the start and sometimes writing stuff down helps me get it off my chest and deal with things a little better.
The day started off bad right from the beginning when my big brother started blasting his stupid Hall and Oates album in his bedroom, which is right next to mine, a half an hour before I even had to get up. Ricky is 19 and is taking a year off from school before he goes to college. He works construction and some days he has to be there at the crack of dawn or something. He’s such a jerk he thinks it’s perfectly OK to blast your stereo when other people are still trying to sleep and that everyone wants to wake up hearing “Maneater”.
Personally, I have never liked Ricky’s taste in music, but of course Mom and Dad had to give him his own stereo for Christmas a couple of years ago, which means I’ve been subjected to listening to his crappy music collection blaring from the room next door since then. I even gave him a set of headphones for his birthday last year, which was really a present for myself so I wouldn’t have to listen to Diana Ross and Lionel Ritchie singing “Endless Love” while he smokes bong hits at 6:30 in the morning. But he never uses them so that was a complete waste of time.
I am more into New Wave and Punk music myself, and when I got on the bus to school I was listening to Devo’s new album “Freedom of Choice” on my Walkman. My Walkman is like the best present Mom ever got me. It is tiny, no bigger than a paperback book, and it only weighs like 4 pounds, and the headphones are so small you can hardly believe they will work at all. But when you put the headphones on and pop a cassette into the Walkman, it sounds amazing, like there is a band playing right inside your head.
Anyway, so I was listening to this new tape from Devo. Everybody likes their big hit, “Whip It”, but I was listening to the title track, “Freedom of Choice”, when the bus stopped at Culpepper Road to pick up the kids there. That was where Brad Simmons got on the bus and sat down in the seat next to me. Brad Simmons is a junior. He has blond hair which he parts just off-center, and combed back from his face in layers that looks like he just shakes his head in the morning and it falls right into place. He has clear, suntanned skin and blue-green eyes with really dark eyelashes. I have never spoken to Brad Simmons in my entire life, but today he sat down next to me on the bus, and he looked at me and said, “Hey” when he sat down. His leg sort of pressed up against mine, and I kind of left it there for a few seconds when he did. I don’t know why, really, but my heart started to beat fast at that point so I closed my eyes and took a deep breath through my nose, which is what Mom says I should do whenever I feel like I’m freaking out or anything. But when I did, all I could do was smell Brad Simmons and he smelled like Ivory Soap and clean laundry and that definitely wasn’t helping my heart to stop pounding. So I decided to really tune in to the music on my Walkman to take my mind off of things.
“Freedom of choice,” they said, “is what you got”
“Freedom from choice is what you want”
I listened hard to the lyrics and tried to figure out what they meant.
“Then if you got it you don't want it
Seems to be the rule of thumb
Don't be tricked by what you see”
It seemed to me that the guys in Devo were kind of warning us. It seemed they were saying that this “freedom” we’ve got, this over-abundance of options and alternatives, is really just an illusion. What good is the freedom to choose if we are all choosing the same things? We are all being sold something and if we are not careful and not vigilant we can choose ourselves right into total conformity. I suppose I should remind myself of that the next time someone is making fun of my clothes from Caldor.
Anyway, the song was just ending as we pulled into school, my heart had stopped pounding and Brad Simmons got off the bus and disappeared into the hallway.
My Homeroom teacher, Miss Lavin, is probably about 40 years old or so. She is kind of fat, and she always wears these vested pantsuit things like “Maude” on TV. She teaches Math, but I only have her for Homeroom because she teaches Algebra and I’m taking Trig with Mr. Jefferson. Anyway, today there was a bee buzzing around the room while Mr. Michaelson, the principal, made the morning announcements over the loudspeaker. Now, in my family, if there was a bee buzzing around the room, somebody would yell “Bee!” and then grab a rolled up magazine or a can of bug spray and try to kill it. But that’s not what Miss Lavin did. I watched her, while Mr. Michaelson talked about the yearbook committee and stuff, use her body to coax that bee over by the windows, and then she managed to get it to just fly away through an open window. She never looked worried that the bee was going to sting her or anything; she never had to kill it or even roll up a magazine to scare it. After Homeroom, I waited until everyone else had left, and then I went up to her and asked her why she did that. “That bee has just as much right to the air as I do,” was all she said; and somehow when she said that to me it made perfect sense. I guess I am going to have to think more about all the other living things in this world and their “right to the air”. Maybe stomping and killing every little thing that wants to share my space isn’t the only way to go. I will have to contemplate this as my life goes on.
Anyway, third period, I had Mr. Noble for Social Studies. Mr. Noble is this totally boring, totally clueless teacher. He’s like a hundred years old and he looks like an undertaker; skinny and pale and he always wears a black suit that looks like it’s two sizes too big. Anyway, about 15 minutes into the class, the radiator by the window started making this really loud, obnoxious knocking noise. So, Noble just walks over to the radiator and kicks it, twice. Now, this guy is so old and feeble that it looks like he couldn’t kick over a stiff blade of grass, so of course the radiator just kept on knocking and knocking. He ended up just standing there for like five minutes, shaking his finger at the radiator and saying, “Hush. Hush.”, like that was going to do anything.
Anyway, when the radiator finally stopped knocking, Mr. Noble gave us our assignments for next week. There are 23 kids in that class, so he wrote down the names of 23 countries on 23 little pieces of paper, and then put the little pieces of paper into a box. We each had to pick a piece of paper at random, and then we had to write an essay about whichever country we chose. Seriously, as if anyone could just write an essay on some random topic that someone else chose! Nearly impossible, I would say. Then, to make it even more impossible, I ended up picking Burma. Burma? Really? Does anybody know anything about Burma? I sure don’t. I mean, I know that it’s in Asia but that’s about it. Plus, it was much easier in Junior High, when all you would have to do is a “report”, you know, maybe some pictures of Burma and pages that say things like “Most people in Burma are Buddhist.” or “The primary exports of Burma are timber and dried legumes.”; stuff you could get pretty easily from the pages of the World Book. But now, in High School, you have to actually write an essay, so you have to say stuff like, “Although it is culturally diverse, approximately 89% of the Burmese people practice Buddhism, which is the sixth largest religion in the world.” This makes it ten times harder, especially when you get stuck with a lame assignment like Burma.
Thankfully, after Social Studies, it was time for lunch, which was a good thing because I was starving. My stomach had been growling so much during Noble’s class I thought everyone could hear it over the sound of the radiator knocking. The board said that today’s lunch was Beef Stroganoff, and I was happy about that because I love noodles and I like beef, even if I’m not so crazy about the mushrooms.
“Hi, Mrs. Thornton,” I said to the lady behind the lunch counter. She is really nice and really pretty; and she has really nice blond hair even though they make her wear a hairnet when she’s working in the cafeteria.
“Well, hey, y’all,” she answered me with a big smile. I don’t think she has ever learned my name even though she sees me like every day, but that’s OK, I guess, because I have only been here for a month. So, she’s smiling at me as she drops this huge glob of nasty, congealed goo onto my melamine cafeteria plate. It fell from her spoon to my plate with a thud, and when it hit the plate, it did not move, or spread out, or anything. It just sat there. Like a rock. A rock made out of Pennsylvania Dutch Noodles, dog food, and cement.
“Here you go, sweet heart,” she said. Mrs. Thornton always said “sweetheart” as if it were two words. Then, she scooped some succotash onto the plate and added a little dish of green Jell-O. Like, whoever decided that this would be a good combination? Oh well, at least I actually kind of like the succotash and I can eat Jell-O if I’m hungry enough.
I found a seat at a table with Darlene Gessner and Denise Moffitt. They’re pretty nice and at least they don’t roll their eyes if I walk up to their table and try to sit down, and they’ll actually talk to me, too. We were talking about our assignments from Mr. Noble. Darlene, it turns out, has a grandmother who is really cool, like Auntie Mame. She likes to travel the world, and every year or so, Darlene gets to go with her. She’s only 15 like me, but she has already been all over the world, to Norway and Japan and even Bermuda! The furthest I have ever been from Michigan is here, where I am now, in Durham, Virginia. I’ve never even seen a palm tree. Anyway, even though Darlene and her grandmother have been all over the world, she doesn’t know anything about Burma, either.
And Denise’s family, it turns out, is really into the Exchange Student thing. That’s where a student from some foreign country like Germany or France or Yugoslavia will come over here to study for a semester or for a whole year, and in their place a student from America will go over to their country. Denise’s family has hosted kids from Scotland, Belgium, Iceland- all over the world, but Denise doesn’t think there is such a thing as an exchange student from Burma.
Then, while we were sitting there, and I was listening to Denise talk about how cute she thought the guy from Scotland was who stayed at their house the year before, the weirdest thing happened to me. Denise was talking and I was kind of pushing the Jell-O around on my plate when somebody slammed a door or something, and suddenly I had the strangest feeling that it had all happened before. It felt like I knew just what Denise was going to say even before she said it. Maybe I had dreamt it, I don’t know. But I had been sitting in that chair before, hearing those noises, those words, before; pushing those green cubes of Jell-O around my plate before. It was a really weird, freaky feeling and for a minute I thought I might be losing my mind, but when Darlene and Denise looked at me, they just kept right on talking as if nothing were different. So, I haven’t told anyone about this experience but I am paying close attention. Maybe I am one of those people who have been given a “gift”, like predicting the next day’s headlines, talking to dead movie stars, or telling you what day of the week September 11, 2001 will fall on.
In the meantime, though, I have not been given any special powers when it comes to bullshitting my way through an essay about Burma. We still have the 1964 edition of the World Book that Mom brought with us from Michigan down in the basement. With any luck, I’ll be able to stretch their 3 paragraphs into a 3 page essay by Friday. It would have been much easier if I had drawn the name of a country that people actually cared about, like England or France, from Mr. Noble’s box of possibilities. But life, I am finding, hardly ever hands you the easy assignment. So I’ll write about Burma.
a persons age - Nicole Tillbrook - 15
a specific dish or type of food - Casey Fogle - Beef Stroganoff
a song - Jan Feldman - Devo "Freedom of Choice"
an emotion - Ariana Estariel - Deja Vu
October 10, 1981
Well, here it is, 30 days since my birthday, which means I have been 15 years old for one month now. I guess it’s OK so far; I dunno, it seems pretty much the same as 14 to me. I have also been in the 10th grade at my new school for one month, since my birthday happened to be on the first day of school. I kept telling myself that it would be cool, that these kids didn’t know me and it would be like starting over with a fresh clean slate, but I guess it’s the same bullshit and the same drama no matter where you go.
I was happy to leave my old school back in Michigan after Mom and Dad got divorced and Mom decided she wanted to “get the hell out of that one-horse town.” I had been going to school with the same people for my entire life, and let’s just say I was never one of the more popular kids. I thought that starting at Fillmore would be my chance to prove that there’s more to me than the “loser”, “spaz”, or “faggot” that everyone seemed to have decided I am. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that it probably wasn’t going to work out that way.
You see, Fillmore is located in the really nice part of Durham, the town in Virginia where we moved with Mom. Mom says they all come from “old money” and that their families have lived here for a hundred years. Back in Michigan, all the kids I knew were pretty much like us; that is, we weren’t poor or anything but we sure weren’t rich. Some kids’ parents were even out of work and collecting Unemployment. We mostly got our clothes at Caldor or Bradlee’s, maybe at Merry-Go-Round if we were really lucky. Well, I don’t know where the kids at Fillmore shop, but I guess you would call the look here “Preppy”, and they all look like they bought their clothes back in 1955, even though they’re only 15 or 16 years old. So, when I walked into school on the first day in my red painters’ pants and my shiniest Qiana shirt, which were totally cool back in Michigan, everyone looked at me as if I had just flown in from Jupiter or something, and right away I was already a geek and a loser on top of being the New Kid.
Anyway, I’ve had a month to get some new clothes and stuff and try to fit in more. Mom took me shopping and I bought some button-down shirts and some corduroys, even some of those weird shoes everybody wears that look like you should be wearing them on your yacht in Hyannis or something. But somehow, on me it all looks too new, too “Made in China” or something and even though I blend in a little better now, I’m sure everyone still looks at me and only sees how much I don’t really fit in.
On top of that, my skin keeps breaking out and I wake up every morning to find some huge zit or twelve on my face, and always right where you can’t miss it like on the tip of my nose or right in the middle of my forehead or something. Mom keeps saying that it’s normal and that it will go away in time, but that’s not much help when you’re talking to people and it feels like they are just looking at the huge pimple on your face and not at you, the person. And then I look around the classroom at all these well-bred kids with their perfect clothes and their Old Money, and they all have perfectly clear skin on top of it all. Sometimes I blame Mom a little for not being from Old Money and having me in Michigan where everyone wears funny clothes and gets huge zits all the time.
Anyway, I decided to write in my diary today because it’s been a pretty stressful day right from the start and sometimes writing stuff down helps me get it off my chest and deal with things a little better.
The day started off bad right from the beginning when my big brother started blasting his stupid Hall and Oates album in his bedroom, which is right next to mine, a half an hour before I even had to get up. Ricky is 19 and is taking a year off from school before he goes to college. He works construction and some days he has to be there at the crack of dawn or something. He’s such a jerk he thinks it’s perfectly OK to blast your stereo when other people are still trying to sleep and that everyone wants to wake up hearing “Maneater”.
Personally, I have never liked Ricky’s taste in music, but of course Mom and Dad had to give him his own stereo for Christmas a couple of years ago, which means I’ve been subjected to listening to his crappy music collection blaring from the room next door since then. I even gave him a set of headphones for his birthday last year, which was really a present for myself so I wouldn’t have to listen to Diana Ross and Lionel Ritchie singing “Endless Love” while he smokes bong hits at 6:30 in the morning. But he never uses them so that was a complete waste of time.
I am more into New Wave and Punk music myself, and when I got on the bus to school I was listening to Devo’s new album “Freedom of Choice” on my Walkman. My Walkman is like the best present Mom ever got me. It is tiny, no bigger than a paperback book, and it only weighs like 4 pounds, and the headphones are so small you can hardly believe they will work at all. But when you put the headphones on and pop a cassette into the Walkman, it sounds amazing, like there is a band playing right inside your head.
Anyway, so I was listening to this new tape from Devo. Everybody likes their big hit, “Whip It”, but I was listening to the title track, “Freedom of Choice”, when the bus stopped at Culpepper Road to pick up the kids there. That was where Brad Simmons got on the bus and sat down in the seat next to me. Brad Simmons is a junior. He has blond hair which he parts just off-center, and combed back from his face in layers that looks like he just shakes his head in the morning and it falls right into place. He has clear, suntanned skin and blue-green eyes with really dark eyelashes. I have never spoken to Brad Simmons in my entire life, but today he sat down next to me on the bus, and he looked at me and said, “Hey” when he sat down. His leg sort of pressed up against mine, and I kind of left it there for a few seconds when he did. I don’t know why, really, but my heart started to beat fast at that point so I closed my eyes and took a deep breath through my nose, which is what Mom says I should do whenever I feel like I’m freaking out or anything. But when I did, all I could do was smell Brad Simmons and he smelled like Ivory Soap and clean laundry and that definitely wasn’t helping my heart to stop pounding. So I decided to really tune in to the music on my Walkman to take my mind off of things.
“Freedom of choice,” they said, “is what you got”
“Freedom from choice is what you want”
I listened hard to the lyrics and tried to figure out what they meant.
“Then if you got it you don't want it
Seems to be the rule of thumb
Don't be tricked by what you see”
It seemed to me that the guys in Devo were kind of warning us. It seemed they were saying that this “freedom” we’ve got, this over-abundance of options and alternatives, is really just an illusion. What good is the freedom to choose if we are all choosing the same things? We are all being sold something and if we are not careful and not vigilant we can choose ourselves right into total conformity. I suppose I should remind myself of that the next time someone is making fun of my clothes from Caldor.
Anyway, the song was just ending as we pulled into school, my heart had stopped pounding and Brad Simmons got off the bus and disappeared into the hallway.
My Homeroom teacher, Miss Lavin, is probably about 40 years old or so. She is kind of fat, and she always wears these vested pantsuit things like “Maude” on TV. She teaches Math, but I only have her for Homeroom because she teaches Algebra and I’m taking Trig with Mr. Jefferson. Anyway, today there was a bee buzzing around the room while Mr. Michaelson, the principal, made the morning announcements over the loudspeaker. Now, in my family, if there was a bee buzzing around the room, somebody would yell “Bee!” and then grab a rolled up magazine or a can of bug spray and try to kill it. But that’s not what Miss Lavin did. I watched her, while Mr. Michaelson talked about the yearbook committee and stuff, use her body to coax that bee over by the windows, and then she managed to get it to just fly away through an open window. She never looked worried that the bee was going to sting her or anything; she never had to kill it or even roll up a magazine to scare it. After Homeroom, I waited until everyone else had left, and then I went up to her and asked her why she did that. “That bee has just as much right to the air as I do,” was all she said; and somehow when she said that to me it made perfect sense. I guess I am going to have to think more about all the other living things in this world and their “right to the air”. Maybe stomping and killing every little thing that wants to share my space isn’t the only way to go. I will have to contemplate this as my life goes on.
Anyway, third period, I had Mr. Noble for Social Studies. Mr. Noble is this totally boring, totally clueless teacher. He’s like a hundred years old and he looks like an undertaker; skinny and pale and he always wears a black suit that looks like it’s two sizes too big. Anyway, about 15 minutes into the class, the radiator by the window started making this really loud, obnoxious knocking noise. So, Noble just walks over to the radiator and kicks it, twice. Now, this guy is so old and feeble that it looks like he couldn’t kick over a stiff blade of grass, so of course the radiator just kept on knocking and knocking. He ended up just standing there for like five minutes, shaking his finger at the radiator and saying, “Hush. Hush.”, like that was going to do anything.
Anyway, when the radiator finally stopped knocking, Mr. Noble gave us our assignments for next week. There are 23 kids in that class, so he wrote down the names of 23 countries on 23 little pieces of paper, and then put the little pieces of paper into a box. We each had to pick a piece of paper at random, and then we had to write an essay about whichever country we chose. Seriously, as if anyone could just write an essay on some random topic that someone else chose! Nearly impossible, I would say. Then, to make it even more impossible, I ended up picking Burma. Burma? Really? Does anybody know anything about Burma? I sure don’t. I mean, I know that it’s in Asia but that’s about it. Plus, it was much easier in Junior High, when all you would have to do is a “report”, you know, maybe some pictures of Burma and pages that say things like “Most people in Burma are Buddhist.” or “The primary exports of Burma are timber and dried legumes.”; stuff you could get pretty easily from the pages of the World Book. But now, in High School, you have to actually write an essay, so you have to say stuff like, “Although it is culturally diverse, approximately 89% of the Burmese people practice Buddhism, which is the sixth largest religion in the world.” This makes it ten times harder, especially when you get stuck with a lame assignment like Burma.
Thankfully, after Social Studies, it was time for lunch, which was a good thing because I was starving. My stomach had been growling so much during Noble’s class I thought everyone could hear it over the sound of the radiator knocking. The board said that today’s lunch was Beef Stroganoff, and I was happy about that because I love noodles and I like beef, even if I’m not so crazy about the mushrooms.
“Hi, Mrs. Thornton,” I said to the lady behind the lunch counter. She is really nice and really pretty; and she has really nice blond hair even though they make her wear a hairnet when she’s working in the cafeteria.
“Well, hey, y’all,” she answered me with a big smile. I don’t think she has ever learned my name even though she sees me like every day, but that’s OK, I guess, because I have only been here for a month. So, she’s smiling at me as she drops this huge glob of nasty, congealed goo onto my melamine cafeteria plate. It fell from her spoon to my plate with a thud, and when it hit the plate, it did not move, or spread out, or anything. It just sat there. Like a rock. A rock made out of Pennsylvania Dutch Noodles, dog food, and cement.
“Here you go, sweet heart,” she said. Mrs. Thornton always said “sweetheart” as if it were two words. Then, she scooped some succotash onto the plate and added a little dish of green Jell-O. Like, whoever decided that this would be a good combination? Oh well, at least I actually kind of like the succotash and I can eat Jell-O if I’m hungry enough.
I found a seat at a table with Darlene Gessner and Denise Moffitt. They’re pretty nice and at least they don’t roll their eyes if I walk up to their table and try to sit down, and they’ll actually talk to me, too. We were talking about our assignments from Mr. Noble. Darlene, it turns out, has a grandmother who is really cool, like Auntie Mame. She likes to travel the world, and every year or so, Darlene gets to go with her. She’s only 15 like me, but she has already been all over the world, to Norway and Japan and even Bermuda! The furthest I have ever been from Michigan is here, where I am now, in Durham, Virginia. I’ve never even seen a palm tree. Anyway, even though Darlene and her grandmother have been all over the world, she doesn’t know anything about Burma, either.
And Denise’s family, it turns out, is really into the Exchange Student thing. That’s where a student from some foreign country like Germany or France or Yugoslavia will come over here to study for a semester or for a whole year, and in their place a student from America will go over to their country. Denise’s family has hosted kids from Scotland, Belgium, Iceland- all over the world, but Denise doesn’t think there is such a thing as an exchange student from Burma.
Then, while we were sitting there, and I was listening to Denise talk about how cute she thought the guy from Scotland was who stayed at their house the year before, the weirdest thing happened to me. Denise was talking and I was kind of pushing the Jell-O around on my plate when somebody slammed a door or something, and suddenly I had the strangest feeling that it had all happened before. It felt like I knew just what Denise was going to say even before she said it. Maybe I had dreamt it, I don’t know. But I had been sitting in that chair before, hearing those noises, those words, before; pushing those green cubes of Jell-O around my plate before. It was a really weird, freaky feeling and for a minute I thought I might be losing my mind, but when Darlene and Denise looked at me, they just kept right on talking as if nothing were different. So, I haven’t told anyone about this experience but I am paying close attention. Maybe I am one of those people who have been given a “gift”, like predicting the next day’s headlines, talking to dead movie stars, or telling you what day of the week September 11, 2001 will fall on.
In the meantime, though, I have not been given any special powers when it comes to bullshitting my way through an essay about Burma. We still have the 1964 edition of the World Book that Mom brought with us from Michigan down in the basement. With any luck, I’ll be able to stretch their 3 paragraphs into a 3 page essay by Friday. It would have been much easier if I had drawn the name of a country that people actually cared about, like England or France, from Mr. Noble’s box of possibilities. But life, I am finding, hardly ever hands you the easy assignment. So I’ll write about Burma.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Q&A
Bloated in Bellevue writes: Why is it that sometimes when I eat at The Fortune Cookie Chinese restaurant I'm perfectly fine, and other times the Moo Goo Gai Pan makes me swell up like the Hindenburg?
Dear Bloated: Surprisingly, the answer to your question has nothing to do with The Fortune Cookie, their use of MSG, your own metabolism, or any of the other more obvious reasons. A quick call this morning to the eggheads over at MIT confirmed that the actual reason is a little-known and little-understood law of Physics called Newton’s Fourth Law of Bloat and Breakouts. In layman’s terms, the Law of Bloat and Breakouts basically states that the more likely you are to meet a wicked hot guy, appear unexpectedly on television, or attend a Spring Formal, the more likely you are to experience uncomfortable water-weight gain, excess bloating and unsightly blemishes in the days immediately prior. So, next time you have the Kung Pao Chicken and your slacks don’t fit right the next day, check your in-box at E-Harmony because Mr. Right is probably heading your way very soon!
Wondering in the West End writes: How did the days of the week get their names?
Dear Wondering: The English language has been constantly changing and evolving since people first starting speaking it many centuries ago. Anyone who has read a manuscript from the Middle Ages, taken a walk through a Colonial burying ground, or even read the Declaration of Independence can tell you that things like spelling and punctuation weren’t even invented until well into the 1700s. And even then it took another hundred years before people knew the difference between an “F” and an “S”. For many years, the only day of the week was Sunday. That was because back then everyone was Catholic and everyone knew that if you missed just one Mass on Sunday you were going directly to Hell, do not pass Go, do not collect 200 shillings. They called it Sunday because they figured there it was, the Sun, up there in the sky day after day, something everyone could relate to and as good a name as any for a day. People got along fine for centuries referring to the other days of the week as “The Day After Sunday”, or “The Day the Peddler Comes”. In 1302, however, King Earl II of the British Protectorate of Hamm upon Rye, became frustrated with the confusion which inevitably arose when “The Day our Molly Flips the Cheese” fell on one day in one village and on another day in the next village. In the first of its kind, King Earl sent out a proclamation to all who could read and write (which, admittedly, was little more than 25 people or so) announcing a “Nayme the Dayes of Ye Weeke Conteft!”, with prizes and awards for the six winners. After a few weeks and much excitement in the kingdom, the winners were finally announced:
MONDAY- Sir Dion of Warwicke, astronomer to His Majesty. Originally, it was “Moon-Day”, but as mentioned earler, spelling had not yet been invented.
TUESDAY- George W., Village Idiot. So-named for being Two Days after Sunday.
THURSDAY- Sven the Marauder, retired Viking. Mr. Marauder had originally suggested naming the day “Thor’s Day”, after one of his local gods, but his accent had everyone in Hamm pronouncing it “Thur’s Day”.
FRIDAY- Michael of Shay, Esq., landlord and innkeeper. In a brilliant stroke of Dark Ages marketing, Master Shay saw his opportunity to remind locals of his weekly Fish Fry, a tradition which still survives to this day.
SATURDAY- Count Azimov, Russian diplomat. Originally “Saturnday”, after the planet and the Roman God of Agriculture, the spelling was officially changed in 1973 after a song by the Bay City Rollers swept the planet.
The one mystery which still remains is “Wednesday”. Researchers can find no evidence, nor see any reason or logic behind the name of that particular day or its remarkably byzantine spelling. Any insight from the public would be greatly appreciated.
Why do people toss the bagged poop of their pups in the recycling bins? Signed, Pooped-off in P’Town
Dear Pooped: There is a short answer to your question, and that is that those people are lazy, inconsiderate assholes.
But there is more to it than that, really. First off, there must be a deficiency of rational thought there, because if you’re going to bend over and actually pick up shit in the first place, why can’t you carry it around for a few minutes until you find a proper trash can? Secondly, it shows a complete lack of regard for other people, because they know fully well that at some point, some poor sucker who probably doesn’t even own a dog is going to have to deal with this bag of shit, and probably after it has had some time to bake in the sun or stew in the rain for a while. Who cares, as long as they don’t have to be seen walking around town with their $3000 CockaDoodle, carrying a bag of poop.
But, rest assured, Pooped, there is justice in this universe. There must always be Balance. Everything we enjoy, all the good things in life, come with a down-side, a price of some sort. If you want to eat, you have to wash the dishes. If you want to have kids, you have to live with the little bastards for up to 20 years. If you want to have a dog, you have to pick up its poop. If you keep going around enjoying all the good parts and not dealing with the responsibilities, you are throwing things out of Balance, and that, my friends, is never a good idea. For every little blue bag you find in your blue bin, remember that the person who left it there will, one day, get back all the shit he has left for others to pick up.
Dear Bloated: Surprisingly, the answer to your question has nothing to do with The Fortune Cookie, their use of MSG, your own metabolism, or any of the other more obvious reasons. A quick call this morning to the eggheads over at MIT confirmed that the actual reason is a little-known and little-understood law of Physics called Newton’s Fourth Law of Bloat and Breakouts. In layman’s terms, the Law of Bloat and Breakouts basically states that the more likely you are to meet a wicked hot guy, appear unexpectedly on television, or attend a Spring Formal, the more likely you are to experience uncomfortable water-weight gain, excess bloating and unsightly blemishes in the days immediately prior. So, next time you have the Kung Pao Chicken and your slacks don’t fit right the next day, check your in-box at E-Harmony because Mr. Right is probably heading your way very soon!
Wondering in the West End writes: How did the days of the week get their names?
Dear Wondering: The English language has been constantly changing and evolving since people first starting speaking it many centuries ago. Anyone who has read a manuscript from the Middle Ages, taken a walk through a Colonial burying ground, or even read the Declaration of Independence can tell you that things like spelling and punctuation weren’t even invented until well into the 1700s. And even then it took another hundred years before people knew the difference between an “F” and an “S”. For many years, the only day of the week was Sunday. That was because back then everyone was Catholic and everyone knew that if you missed just one Mass on Sunday you were going directly to Hell, do not pass Go, do not collect 200 shillings. They called it Sunday because they figured there it was, the Sun, up there in the sky day after day, something everyone could relate to and as good a name as any for a day. People got along fine for centuries referring to the other days of the week as “The Day After Sunday”, or “The Day the Peddler Comes”. In 1302, however, King Earl II of the British Protectorate of Hamm upon Rye, became frustrated with the confusion which inevitably arose when “The Day our Molly Flips the Cheese” fell on one day in one village and on another day in the next village. In the first of its kind, King Earl sent out a proclamation to all who could read and write (which, admittedly, was little more than 25 people or so) announcing a “Nayme the Dayes of Ye Weeke Conteft!”, with prizes and awards for the six winners. After a few weeks and much excitement in the kingdom, the winners were finally announced:
MONDAY- Sir Dion of Warwicke, astronomer to His Majesty. Originally, it was “Moon-Day”, but as mentioned earler, spelling had not yet been invented.
TUESDAY- George W., Village Idiot. So-named for being Two Days after Sunday.
THURSDAY- Sven the Marauder, retired Viking. Mr. Marauder had originally suggested naming the day “Thor’s Day”, after one of his local gods, but his accent had everyone in Hamm pronouncing it “Thur’s Day”.
FRIDAY- Michael of Shay, Esq., landlord and innkeeper. In a brilliant stroke of Dark Ages marketing, Master Shay saw his opportunity to remind locals of his weekly Fish Fry, a tradition which still survives to this day.
SATURDAY- Count Azimov, Russian diplomat. Originally “Saturnday”, after the planet and the Roman God of Agriculture, the spelling was officially changed in 1973 after a song by the Bay City Rollers swept the planet.
The one mystery which still remains is “Wednesday”. Researchers can find no evidence, nor see any reason or logic behind the name of that particular day or its remarkably byzantine spelling. Any insight from the public would be greatly appreciated.
Why do people toss the bagged poop of their pups in the recycling bins? Signed, Pooped-off in P’Town
Dear Pooped: There is a short answer to your question, and that is that those people are lazy, inconsiderate assholes.
But there is more to it than that, really. First off, there must be a deficiency of rational thought there, because if you’re going to bend over and actually pick up shit in the first place, why can’t you carry it around for a few minutes until you find a proper trash can? Secondly, it shows a complete lack of regard for other people, because they know fully well that at some point, some poor sucker who probably doesn’t even own a dog is going to have to deal with this bag of shit, and probably after it has had some time to bake in the sun or stew in the rain for a while. Who cares, as long as they don’t have to be seen walking around town with their $3000 CockaDoodle, carrying a bag of poop.
But, rest assured, Pooped, there is justice in this universe. There must always be Balance. Everything we enjoy, all the good things in life, come with a down-side, a price of some sort. If you want to eat, you have to wash the dishes. If you want to have kids, you have to live with the little bastards for up to 20 years. If you want to have a dog, you have to pick up its poop. If you keep going around enjoying all the good parts and not dealing with the responsibilities, you are throwing things out of Balance, and that, my friends, is never a good idea. For every little blue bag you find in your blue bin, remember that the person who left it there will, one day, get back all the shit he has left for others to pick up.
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