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Not. One. Dissenting. Vote.
We fully expect to hear that Alabama Chief Justice Ray Moore exploded in a Rumpelstiltskin impression over this story. That's fairy tale speak for apoplexy.
Y'all. Not. One. Dissenting. Vote.
Round of back flips on us.
Rex
This is a very sweet boy and his dog Rex who, as big as he is, has been the only dog this ten year-old boy has ever known for his own. It's getting close to the time to say goodbye to dear Rex and Mr. P wants to savor every moment he can.
It's almost too intimate to post, but if we don't share things like this then, as that ever curious Gauguin fellow might ask, "Who, indeed, are we?"
Thunder Puppeh
Because she was actually IN a funnel cloud, Mama Dog hates lightning.
"Hate" isn't a strong enough word: She's terrified of it. She once scratched through wood, wiring, insulation and halfway through sheetrock to get inside the house when it was storming back in Georgia.
To that end, living in LA has proved a blessing for her because, as the song and drought forecasts say, "It never rains in southern California."
Well, it's not only raining at this very moment, It's lightning up - a storm. Bad timing. The last of the dog tranquilizer, Acepromazine, was used up on the Fourth of July. (Tallulah, who was stone deaf, was the only pup who didn't see what the fuss was about.)
I don't know if this can be called a 'life hack' exactly, but I'm feeling pretty smart: Mama Dog's shaking so badly that I gave her two of her brother Roger's phenobarbital tablets. (For anyone keeping score at home, my boy had a bad couple of seizure episodes, necessitating the daily use of said strong medication.)
No, he's not her actual brother: He's a standard poodle who weighs 70 lbs and she's a big shepherd/husky mix weighing maybe 10 more than that, but they so share my last name. And medicine cabinet.
Which brings me to gratitude. Thunder doesn't thrill me, either, but how fortunate am I to no longer have the desire to WASH DOWN A COUPLE OF BARBS WITH A BEER TIL IT PASSES!?
On second thought, when I was getting loaded, I'm pretty sure I didn't need a special occasion to wash down anything. Lest I sound as if I saved up for legitimate reasons. Breathing was as good as any.
Except for how it's shaking up the beesties, I'm grateful for the reminder thunder brings.
Lemme hear an amen from my "one storm at a timers".
Selah.
Little Life Hack
The word 'hack' means something completely different to a comedian. Now that it's a synonym for 'helpful tip', looks like we'll have to come up with another word for lowest common denominator of funny.
(Then again, maybe 'mohels' weren't thrilled with 'tip' being used out of context, either.... Howard, that's for you.)
Anyway, here it is...
One night when I was about thirty, I realized I had dozens of books on the topic of meditation and that, despite being familiar with most of them, hadn't actually bothered to begin the practice.
Dr. Herbert Benson shot holes in my bucket of excuses with his book "The Relaxation Response", a bare bones technique just about guaranteed to 'work'.
My only quibble with the results had to do with the fact that I made my initial attempt late at night: The burst of energy I had was sufficient to deep clean the entire apartment. It's for this reason that I recommend trying it earlier in the day.
Btw, I'll assume those of you who are beyond this 101 technique will be too zen to quarrel with its appearance on some random non-enlightened person's blog.
I'm only submitting it in the off-chance that there is one person thinking that meditation requires a complicated ignition process. I was happily dissuaded from that position.
Happy Om-ing
http://www.relaxationresponse.org/steps/
Are you smarter than an atheist?
If she can do it, so can we , dammit.
A long time ago, on an open mic night at a North Carolina comedy club, we watched what appeared to be the world's oldest white woman trying her hand at the craft. We weren't really paying attention as the emcee said her name.
The club owner winced and whispered in our ear, "She's real dirty, Miss Brett." (We told you it was a long time ago.) Of course, we stayed to watch.
After what seemed an eternity, she finally spoke slowly in a thick country accent.
"Ah'm sorry Ah'm late, y'all. Ah seen a sign whilst drivin' here what said, 'Cockfights'."
(Long pause)
"If Ah knowed it was chickens, Ah'd've never pulled over."
Our guffaw rose above the shocked titters in the room. Then, with great exertion, our heroine took a seat on the stool which was next to the the microphone. Her legs splayed, slightly akimbo beneath her flowered dress.
"Y'all forgive me fer settin' down. Whew. Ah jes' paid rent an' Ah'm airin' out the receipt."
We damn near hit the floor laughing. But those few wretched words, instead of endearing her to the crowd, had the antithetical effect: People were actually asking for their tabs and cueing for the door, as if her octogenarian sense of impropriety was a contagion and that, somehow, perhaps by osmosis, they could give it to their own beloved Nana.
We discovered later that we saw one of the earliest performances of Faye Woodruff, AKA Grandma From Hell. We never did see her developed act, but heard she was quite good, with less 'special effects' to represent her as less of fossilizing artifact.
In the school of Moms Mabley, even if we're not quiiiiite as advanced in years as she was playing X-rated sold out shows in Vegas, we're realizing that truth can take its teeth out and still have a hell of a bite.
RIP, Pat Conroy
Sometimes, all of the elements seem to converge in a single person. His persona was as big as his books: it's hard to believe that we've seen the last of either. He was radiant, too, regaling anyone within range of his light, yet noticing the smallest details along the edges of things.
Our deepest condolences to his beloved Cassandra, his children and his many friends, including our sister Toren who was kind enough to introduce us years ago.
In heaven, where at least one wagging glad pup runs up to meet him, words are at half mast in his honor.
The Kids Are All Right
This gem - another pilfered from the good people at Awkward Family Photos - was accompanied by this explanation: The sender said that his 8 year-old cousin requested the following for her birthday: a bow and arrow and a Justin Bieber poster.
Some may be a bit disturbed by this little renegade's choice of prepubescent leisure. We're looking at it as a healthy response to pressure she isn't even aware is being exerted on her. We don't just mean the pressure on her pocketbook, but also on her body, mind and very soul to grow up much too quickly...
All-powerful marketing rushes children into sexuality not unlike the way science learned how to speed up how fast a chicken goes from egg to table: not necessarily with chemicals and keeping them in the dark, but the end game is similar.
The only thing awkward about this photo is the reaction that others may have to it.
As for us? We see a member of our tribe: She has our vote for today's team captain.
To be quite clear, however, none of this, where we are concerned, is about young Master Bieber. Except now that we see his name coupled with that particular title, we've an urge to say it three times quickly for effect.
We love her determination, her scruffy hair and, hell yes, even her proximity to at least 14 separate things that could give her tetanus. Just in case concerned parents think our barrenness has rendered us completely devoid of all sense.
We can hardly wait to see what she wants when she's nine.
Awkward Family Photo Tribute
One doesn't need to be psychic to know a few things here, but we do presume much when we say...
At least one of them currently supports Sen. Sanders.
Their bookshelves at home probably looked much different from this one.
They hosted a foreign exchange student.
Rehab counselor talent here and we don't mean the kind who has to go off the deep end with drugs/drink to become one. (Extra credit for them for this, btw)
Someone contemplated the seminary.
They still all talk to each other.
They don't buy lottery tickets.
Most of them are OK with cats, but one's allergic and still likes them.
The mom had to bite her tongue at PTA meetings, but, by God, they went anyway.
They're either Episcopalian or Jewish but largely don't find any differences between them.
And not one of them would be insulted by what we've written here.
Thank you, Awkward Family Photos, for another flashback to a lovely people we might've known.
Buds
And there are nine buds waiting to bloom on the same stalk. We've waited a year to see this. Although the temps have already been nearly 90 here, this looks like early spring... where it counts.
Join us, won't you?
Attention. The following post contains profanity so if you do not care for that sort of thing, you have been warned. On the other hand, yes, it absolutely had to to say what we needed to say.
PostScript at the beginning:
To our real friends - no, to MY real friends - this may be our favorite thing we've -make that I - have ever written, flaws and all. Whew.
(((((You know who you are)))))
Part I: Humoring the humorist....
Yo. Homies. (Thus spake an old white broad digging her tongue way in the side of her face for the following.)
Part II: When it's worth looking
Jorge Luis Borges wrote a brief prose piece called "Ragnarok". We found it long ago in one of his anthologies along with some of his metered poetry. ('Dream Tigers" in original Spanish with English translation) It's a page and a half, tops.
It's stayed with us all of this time, recollected, like a dream, in shards and chunks, which is perfect because it's about a dream. We can recite even less of it, but that's fine. If it commanded our consciousness thus, it's hard to imagine the force of it as it was being written.
Ha! How presumptuous of us to even imagine. But that's how we roll. And, dammit, it's a sin that we haven't learned Spanish by now because we bet it's more electric that way.
We'd post it but aren't for two good reasons...
(1) Maybe it violates copyright. Mebbe.
(2) And the best reason...
Not everyone will care enough to go look for it. By doing so, you're following a hunch that it's - off road. And you'd be right.
Speaking of being right, we also think the act of seeking might winnow. Out. As in filter or, better, short-circuit a pointy-headed sort: the ones who take umbrage with nearly all levels of discourse that don't run parallel with their own certainties.
Well, well. See what we did there? Wrote something that was a close approximation of that very behavior. (Tricky, damned tricky, this business of self-inventory.)
We're not sure how or why, but their numbers seem to be rising: that not-so- merry band of those who are comfortable maintaining belief systems that will not only fit on a bumper sticker but that also masterfully convey, simultaneously, a low opinion of anyone with an opposing view.
Think of it. How much more trouble to fit ideology on a fender AND factor in the self-esteem of those daring to disagree?
It approaches brilliance.
And yet, if we may humbly submit the following..
As if End Times will arrive and the rest of us who haven't honked at your exhortations to honk back or LIKE GRRRRRR or whatever spastic form of agreement you had in your thimble-sized cranium when you got up today wanting everyone to be as miserable as your ass is about a multitude of things that are entirely too SACRED, PERSONAL AND COMPLEX TO GO AROUND FUCKING YELLING AND CLUTTERING UP OTHER PEOPLE'S FREAKING PAGES then we'll be cast into the pit of flaming dysentery.
(Muffled sounds of disruption, muted roars and hissed whispers. Running water and brow gently wiped with cool cloth.)
Excuse us. Where were we? Ah, yes.
Regarding folks who do not crave nuance, who rejoice, perhaps, at the thought of being Right. All. The.Time.
That's just nutty, kooky and exhausting, isn't it? And they're not always ones with whom we disagree.
It gets interesting about then. We've noted their shocked expressions, as they find us compromised or, worse, spineless if we don't heed their rallying cry.
Belief-ville, Unincorporated. Sticky territory and almost any fervently held tenets end up being kin to the infant made of tar in the terrible old fable: How can we grab it without becoming mired in things we swore to exclude to begin with?
Like we said. Stick. Eee. Facebook pages become claustrophobic sparring places where petards and hoisting happens in tight quarters. Maybe the smart ones are at the concession stands and bumper stickers are just a sign of the times.
We reckon we'll see fewer of those thumbs up thingies on this post, but maybe it'll mean that who's left standing doesn't have to be on the same page to be on this same page
This was both a line drawn in the sand and the hot air that obliterated it. Join us, won't you?
How many metaphors could Peter Piper pick!?
So much for our pretend zen, rising above the fray policy we'd adopted thus far in the 2016 campaign. What the hell. A petite hissy fit will do us good...
Another Mom maxim wasn't planned but fits the bill at the moment. She once said, "When children turn out badly, I don't blame the parents, but when children turn out well, the parents are the first I congratulate."
That may not have much to do with the proverbial price of tea in China, but damn this business of throwing racist rocks at Donald Trump for things his father may have done. Do not mistake our intent:
Rather, look around the guy. There are truckloads of (virtual) rocks you can throw because of HIS words and deeds.
No sense resorting to trickle down sins of the fathers stuff. Cheap shots need not be taken when sporting ones are plentiful.
(Yikes. How many metaphors could Peter Piper pick!?)
We recall Sen.Robert Byrd of West Virginia who possibly evolved more than any other elected official in US history. From Klan member to genuinely contrite Democrat who, in the true spirit of public service, owned little more than a pair of brown shoes at the end of his career/life.
Sometimes when people change, they become far more than the sum of their parts. And in those changes we see what room there is for radical change in ourselves. "They" say it's never too late. We're unsure about that, but - to quote the guy who created the character for whom I was named, Ernest Hemingway and Lady Brett Ashley respectively, "Wouldn't it be pretty to think so?"
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