Yada Yada Yada

Gypsy Tales V.2

2011-12-22T15:50:00.000-06:00

The term "Gypsy" has historically referred to a person of Romanian descent who followed a generational inclination to not subscribe to cultural expectations of living in a home, in a neighborhood, for a lifetime. As far as I can tell, they come into and go out of the world without real deep tap roots. They are kind of hard to round up statistics on, by virtue of the fact that they never stay anywhere too long, but my educated guess would have to be that probably only .003% of the current American population fit the criteria to be called a Gypsy. They are not to be mistaken with the Homeless, the Grifters or the Gangstahs. They are also not thieves. They often have a bizarre super-power that makes you tell them your deepest, darkest secrets. Yes. Bizarre. But, true. Very, verrrrry good listeners here, baby. There aren't too many of us, so you needn't worry about your own personal depository of deep and dark escaping.

Contemporary Gypsies are nomads and drifters. Most of them grew up in conventional homes with typical expectations. They had limitations (I've not yet met a trust-fund baby who was a Gypsy, but I can't rule out the possibility) and they were rooted in what our culture told us was normal. Some still have family, mostly disenfranchised, and some have none. Some are grandmas and parents and some are on the run from the law and parking tickets. I've never met the bad ones, though I'm sure they must exist. The ones I know and love are smart, clever, reasonable, brave and articulate people who either chose to leave the grid, or got squished off.

The best equipped and most responsible Gypsies have actual transportation, but they are few and far between. The most clever and able one's have learned to navigate every single conceivable part of any transit without ever having to actually own a car. This includes all the major and secondary highways, state laws, campground sites and costs and train, plane and bus schedules. They know how to troll Craigslist for a ride and then how to conduct thorough research on the potential drivers they will be crossing the country with. Gypsies aren't really very stupid because they rely heavily on their cunning to keep them alive and moving.

Gypsies are, generally, awfully dang handy to have around, as well. This could easily be one of their greatest strengths. They possess MacGuyver-like mad-wicked skills and a ton of random crap to help pull off most impossible missions. I would always, most definitely, want a good Gypsy on my team. They are at least as valuable as dentists, lawyers and geeks. At least. They can reroute servers, birth babies, run metrics on your SEO, fix toilets, set broken bones, build digital brands, clean garages and pull teeth. At least. I'm talking about a handy little tribe of people, for the most part.

In tandem with their inherent handiness, is what seems like a defiant sense of tenacity. Tell a Gypsy that something is simply impossible, and there's about a 93% chance that the impossible will be accomplished. That's the equilivant of a double-dog dare and well, who doesn't love a good story?

Gypsies tell Fish Tales, while we're warming our feet by a fire with our comrades. Gypsy tales rarely involve fish, but they always involve the telling and embellishment of ...."oooohhhhh. Yea, Vlad......You think THAT was impossible?!? Well, this one time, guess it was about two years ago cuz I was in Minneapolis.God, that was a bad choice for a winter relocation. But, I'm walking down the road to camp and a bus full of orphaned unicorns rolls three times right in front of me. The nun who was driving had suddenly gone blind. I had that bus back on the road, that nun in glasses and those cute little unicorns all patched up by lunch the next day. Now, THAT was impossible, dude."

*Note: This story just for illustrative purposes, gypsies are not brain damaged. Our real stories involve the people who employed us to do the impossible, mostly. And, while sworn to secrecy within said employers jurisdiction: All is fair in love and war while in the company of other gypsies. We never use real names or share specific locations, but the stories are fabulous.

Gypsies don't stand on street corners, sporting signs that have sadness on them, begging for spare change. Not so much beggars. In fact, should it come to pass that a Gypsy has to ask for even so much as a smoke or a dollar, a little part of him has died inside. Gypsies are bound by the centerpiece of Gypsy wisdom that makes it clear: Gypsies don't beg. Now, we'll stand on a street corner, on a drizzly winter night and sing freaking Jimmy Buffet songs until the sun comes up as long as somebody feels like tossing dollars in the case, but we would rather die than ask you for a smoke. We are not beggars. That alone helps differentiate us from the Homeless.

Gypsies can transform into handsomely groomed, charming, gregarious, well-versed and subservient as hell partners in crime, too. It's a pretty sweet bonus feature. We work exceptionally well in positions of support - we will gladly do what ever it takes to help you steer this ship into the iceberg and we will tell you that you look fabulous while doing it.

We will, however, always hold you to the terms that were agreed upon when you elected to own a Gypsy for as long as necessary because it's only reasonable. We expect every agreement and handshake to be true and bankable. Although, not a lot of actual "banking" going on in the Gypsy world, just so you know. A whole lot of prepaid cellphones and credit cards. But, if you employ our services for 29 hours at $20/hour - rest assured that is on a list in a notebook and quite possibly on a spreadsheet in Excel. Gypsies are always aiming to get a little bit ahead because their computer is dying, the bridge broke on the guitar or there's this one tooth that is coming into a fine fine abscess.

It's hard to say whether the Gypsies travel because they have to or because they want to. My guess would have to some combination of the two.

I think that's enough for tonight, kids. You look tired.

Maybe tomorrow I will tell you more about The Gypsies.

I am hugging you goodnight.

A Little Dental Love.

2011-12-19T20:48:00.000-06:00

Hey you guys! I know it's been a long long time since I sat down and completely felt compelled to shower a random merchant or business or anybody with some unsolicited love, but it's your lucky day! I am so feeling it.

For reasons that defy description, and quite frankly are just too sad to go into, I have had the distinct pleasure (and I use that word with just a smidge of sarcasm) to spend thousands of hours in the company of dentists. Over the course of the last 40 years I established an opinion about dentists that was far from favorable. I truly thought they were all just a little crazy (understatement of the year) and were sadists. All of them. As far as I could tell, from my many years of sampling, they got off on causing other people pain under the guise of providing care.

Here in Kansas City, the penniless (artists) do have options if they are in dire need of some kind of dental care. I found a place, not far from home, that would agree to see me (maybe) if I could be at the clinic and in line by 6am. The clinic does not open until 8, but you are given a number determined by your place in line, that allows you to see a dentist that day. Or not. By the time the doors opened at 8 (and it was coooooooold!) there were no less than 30 people lined up. The security guard was only able to issue 6 numbers on this particular day because they were short on providers and I was lucky enough to score the 6th, and last, precious piece of paper that guaranteed I would be able to see someone. I felt a little like I'd won the lottery.

They used to let people wait inside on these cold and nasty days, but too many fist-fights had broken out and the arrangement had to be changed to minimize the violence. Once inside and registered at the right place, I was told to have a seat and that it could be a one hour wait, or it could be an 8 hour wait. After 7 hours I was taken to an exam room and told that someone would be in shortly. Shortly in this case was only an hour, so I guess it wasn't that bad.

The man who came in never introduced himself to me and was clearly, thoroughly pissed all the way off. That's cool, I figured he was just an unhappy soul and I wasn't about to hold that against him if he was going to make my mouth stop hurting. In the end, he pulled a tooth without the benefit of anesthesia, broke my jaw (not an especially hard feat given it's history) and I'm pretty sure his assistant (a slight little thing of about 300 pounds) cracked a rib when she used her knee to hold me down. The two of them had an interesting conversation about some "bitches" at a wedding the previous weekend and neither of them ever addressed me. It was, by far and away, the most unpleasant dental experience I'd ever had. And, I kinda thought I'd already raised the bar on dental unpleasantness. So, there was that.

A couple weeks later, one of my best friends told me about an incredible dinner she and her daughter had gotten to share with a gentleman who had a dental practice in North KC. They had shared some of my story with him and he encouraged them to tell me to get my self into his office as soon as I could and he would help.

It took me a couple more weeks (and another abscessed tooth) to get the strength to call and schedule an appointment. And, from the very first point of contact - I have to tell you: I have never ever experienced a dentists office anything like this one. All the support staff are genuinely kind and helpful; just the vibe from the phone call made my blood pressure drop dramatically.

Upon meeting my new dentist (Dr. Goodman) I was absolutely sure that this trip down dental lane was going to be a completely new and unexpected departure from any of the others I had experienced. And, I was not disappointed. I'll spare you the gory details but I feel the need to tell you: Don't be afraid to go to the dentist anymore. ONLY if you go to this one, I can only speak for the other 138 I've seen when I tell you to avoid them because they just aren't really nice people, but... Dr. Goodman has restored the element of virtue to dentistry and has become one of the strongest reasons I can find to stay in this town.

Y'know, he's good enough reason to drive from far away - you don't even need to live here. He'll be my dentist to the end and I wouldn't lie about something of this importance. We need our teeth on so many levels. It doesn't have to be horrible and dentists don't need to take out the frustration of their unfulfilled lives out on their patients. And, not everybody in the world is motivated by money - not to say any of this is free, but this practice understands compassion and real life. Trust me: If you need a dentist, you need to make an appointment. You can thank me later.

They can't take away public radio. Huh uh.

2011-01-17T20:51:00.002-06:00

If you listen to and like public radio in Kansas, you'd be well-advised to do a little cut and paste action on this letter, and send it to Governor Brownback.

(300 SW 10th Ave # 212S Topeka, KS 66612-1504)

Everybody loves to get good and meaningful mail, I'm sure our Governor is no exception.

Dear Governor Brownback,

I understand that you face a daunting task in working to rein in the seemingly out of control Kansas budget. I do not envy you your position and am writing in the hopes of making a salient appeal to your sense of justice and your deep appreciation for the nurturing of an informed constituency.

There is no arguing the fact that traditional journalism has taken a turn that leaves room for true investigative and in-depth reporting – the kind of journalism that is almost exclusively provided through the public radio venue.

The democratic principles this country was founded on are dependent on the citizens having access to balanced and fairly shared information. The proposed funding cuts you have suggested for Public Radio would greatly compromise this accessibility.

We are extraordinarily fortunate to have many different public radio choices on any given day in most parts of the state. If the currently proposed legislation, on both the state and national level, defunds public broadcasting, my favorite daily radio station (KMUW) will lose 20% of its annual budget. For me, this would probably mean no more Prairie Home Companion, Fresh Air (with Terry Gross – who doesn’t love Terry Gross?) and most of my favorite weekend and local programs. There probably wouldn’t be any more state house reporting or local news coverage as well. That sure makes it feel it like the end of the road for one of the bigger and more highly respected public radio stations in our state.

I sure wish you would reconsider, or maybe explore other options to save the kind of money you’re looking at saving by implementing this drastic funding cut. I would be more than happy to schedule some time with you and discuss some of the suggestions I have heard shared recently online. I have a schedule that can easily be arranged for a little you and me time, and I make a great pot of coffee

Thank you very much for your time,
Sincerely,

YOU NAME HERE
YOUR ADDRESS/PHONE HERE
ANY RANDOM PS: YOU WOULD LIKE TO ADD HERE

I wanna show you sumptin.

2010-12-17T20:03:00.154-06:00

This is one of my Happy Places. Some people go to desert islands or mountains or oceans. But I go here. This is the building where my good hair and skin care lives and I harvest hugs in the Real World. It was once the Firestone building, but I think we should call it the Abdiana building now (since they paid for and installed that big ol huge freaking sign up on top.)

Skyline Downtown Salon is on the 4th floor and that's where David makes my hair look like I've wished it would for the last 20 years. I never (in a million years) would have thought that I would find so much contentment in a salon. But, it is pretty dang cool.

This is an architectural rendering of this building that's taped on the front window.

There is way too much to tell you about in the course of one short blog.

The vibe is way Über-cool. The stylists and the clientele are all completely chilled out, as far as I could tell. Every single person that I saw either said something nice to me or smiled. I would pay for THAT on almost any given day. It's kind of phenomenal, really.

This is just how they roll at the salon.

I went there over lunch and didn't think I was hungry. The salon had offered me (and provided) a nice glass of white wine as I was getting comfortable and food wasn't a priority.

But, then Johnny came by with this tray of sandwiches and salads. "Seriously?!?!" I said to myself. "Somebody is bringing me food on bended knee?"

MMMmmmkay. I'm in.

I got a "Cuban" and would recommend you do the same.

Seriously.Good.Eats.

Mr. Mansour did the magic he does with my hair, we shared and absorbed some secrets and I enjoyed a satisfying and good meal. Yet again, it kinda rocked to be me.

He was so very contemplative. She seemed a little vacant

My friend (and my stylist) is a man named David Mansour. He has written a book called "From Abba to Zoom" and is showcasing a small portion of his vast Barbie Doll collection at the salon right now. I loved the way these guys looked.

Bling on the table. Holiday Bling. Right here. That's what this was.

I hopped across the street to The Cashew. They have a photo booth on the first floor and all the workers were sweet. The Boulevard Wheat was cold.

This is what the counter looks like. Delicious.

Nick applies make up, Jamie engages and all the clients are happy.

This is the door you would walk through to be well taken care of.

The boutique is colorful and contemporary.

The salon is spacious and busy but never hurried. I can just see you here.

They have a good selection of art and wearables.

That's it for today. Mostly a photo blog and mostly advertorial content, but seriously: You ought to check them out when you're in KC. I think you'll be happy.

one of the very best dives.

2010-11-30T11:53:00.011-06:00

Dear Kirby's

Thank you. So much.

Thanks for being my spot of home town kindness. Dude. I am SO glad you are right where I left you. I spent 40 years in your town being raised and raising others, and I'm so glad you are still around. All my blood-family is gone and all the estates have been settled - but you're still there for me. That rocks out loud and I get goosebumps just knowing what you've got there... And, wondering if anybody found that bit of safety that I hid under the tank in the girls room.

It's been a minute or two since we were first introduced and I am more amazed all the time that you remain my personal landmark when I'm in your town.

Remember that first time? That one time when me and Dickie Zundel made lightning happen over the pinball machine by the bathroom? I think it was Pacman. Seriously. We were both talking with our hands because the Blivets were bone-crushingly loud.... And, honestly - the wiring was ALL jacked up. There was blue lightning. That was a great night. I think I met the guys from America later that weekend. And, maybe Warren Zevon. I can't remember exactly.

I worked on the university Grounds Crew for so many years (with Caruzzi and Culp and Chenoweth and ...and, only because I could not pass algebra.) Then I got to get degrees there (not at your place, but across the street) with a whole bunch of other bohemians (Charlie and Mary and Shannon and Brian and Carmody and...) and then, I got to make money by singing in that teeny weeny corner. HolyCOW, I could hardly breathe. You have treated me so well.

Remember that night that we stood on the roof and drove golf balls at the President's house? I think it was a 4th of July. That was the first time my kids almost got to inside. There may have been cheap whiskey involved. There were fireworks, for sure.

I still can't believe that Playboy immortalized you recently by deciding that you are, indeed, one of the Best Dive Bars in America. That's just nutty. Of course you are... Like you needed those strokes. And, it took 'em long enough to find you...

You've often made me feel like I'm living in a Dr. Suess book... something about something, and OH the things that I've seen. You are not for the weak of heart (or mind.) And, thank the Gods that this is true. Some of the greatest friendships of my life have been spun in your wake. It's like your reputation precedes you.

Just recently I have been schooled in the science of Dominoes ~ at that table by the jukebox where you check your Book of the Face. I have engaged in several lively debates where I was successfully dissuaded and I have gotten to hug friends I hadn't seen in fifteen years... all there... in your living room. I put my feet up on your coffee table and I've always been gardening. My bad. Sorry 'bout that. I have a dust-pan and a good stiff brush...

So glad you tolerate fools. Thank you for that... it just makes the landscape more rich. I have lived in many places and worked as a musician in most of them - Kirby's is very uniquely Kirby's. nobody rolls quite like you. That old-school jukebox full of 45s. Mmm. Yea.

I walked out of Wichita a decade ago and not only did I not look back, but I expressly walked away as fast and as far as I could. I didn't pull a complete Forrest Gump, but what I did shared the same zip code. OHHH Yea, sure - I was an unbalanced girl with a laptop and some seriously great walking boots. I needed some space and I was holding a grudge. Like none other. I'm bad that way.

Some number of days ago, I was being severely beat up in Dominoes at one of your tables and my friend Jody showed me this. It's in that notebook, under the TV to the left (to the left) and it's kinda worn. I laughed so hard I cried. OR I cried so hard I laughed. I had traveled almost half a million miles to see this, and it was right where it should have been. Thanks for this.

"What happens can be sad. You can find yourself lost. Just keep moving forward. It's rarely easy. You can't wish your situation different.You can waste lots of time looking for external wisdom, signs, motivations, advice - but ~ ultimately what you need will come from within.

It will hurt. Just know that now. It isn't fair and it sucks. But it is what it is. At the end of the day, you are still you, and that IS an amazing place to be. There is no way around it, you can only go through it. Go full force. The pain is only temporary. Feel it completely so you never find yourself here again. Indeed you are alive.

Find peace and joy where you can. Paint, dance, pray, eat, have sex, create, play. Pick up an instrument or a book. Wherever it is for you, go there frequently and drink up. You need to gather it where you can to endure this time with a heart like yours.
Darkness is never really pitch black. Keep moving toward the light.

You will fuck up, it cannot be helped. Stop striving and just be.... It's too exhausting and quite frankly ~ It's a waste of time. Look around you... be aware of the human condition and extend yourself some grace.

And for God's sake, don't be so self destructive."

copyright 2010 moemasters/anonymous KIRBY'S BEERSTORE

Meagan Bernadette has a Birthday

2010-09-19T12:21:00.000-05:00

My little sister is celebrating a birthday today.

Meagan (bernadeegan) is my little sister. She was born 7 years behind me and we share very limited memories of living in the same house and growing up together. She spent a lot of time in boarding schools and I did not so much. Unless you have known me from birth or so, there's a good chance you've not yet met Meagan. She's a peach and you ought to meet her.

Short of that - the best I can do is introduce you to her like this. Hey! This is my sister Meagan:

She has four sons and lives near the mountains in Colorado. She and I never really had the opportunity to know each other until we had to share a couple funerals.

She has perfect nails and unbelievably enviable hair. She can sing like a lark and either doesn't know it or hasn't realized it yet. When she laughs it's not really all poetic like a good north wind stirring up a strand of Aspens, but it so seriously heart-felt that it makes anyone near her laugh too. She laughs often and just thinking about her laugh makes me laugh. I'm so very lucky to know this. And, she doesn't even know this. She's nutty-humble and quick to a blush.

And,yet - girls got some serious sassy goin' on. She has enough backbone to raise four sons and keep a life on track while still laughing. Tell me that doesn't take some doing. One time we had a fight (yea. one time.) It was the only really serious screaming disagreement I have ever entered into and it was with her. She held her own and we both almost fainted. She was my first Sensei in the study of Sassy. We were both able to laugh about the screaming match within days. I had wanted to scream like that for about 45 years.

Meagan has no real governor between her brain and her mouth, so you never really have to wonder what she's thinking. Her candor is invaluable. If you want an honest opinion (or, many times even when you don't) she is more than able to deliver. It's really cool, to tell the truth. She's become a barometer for how I am and what I'm up to. It's an unexpected and sweet little slice of life to find out what it's like to have a person who shared your mom. She can channel our mom like none other. She calls me on my bullshit. Not many people do that. She is one.

Once, when she was very little I told her that my best friend had a tail. She believed me. Another time I told her that all those little utility stations along the turnpike were UFO tracking stations. I think she believed that until she was in college. And, once Meagan believes something - it IS the truth. Dad told her about the annual spaghetti harvests in Italy and I still have to fight that battle on the holidays. You've really got to work overtime to make her believe anything other than what she's sunk her teeth into. She is pliable, gullible and naive. It's so endearing that you'll stay up way too late just to feel it. You just want to hug her.

She sent money to our brother in prison longer than anybody else. She has hope. She believes in the intrinsic goodness of everyone and is completely open to whatever the wind blows in. I can talk her into just about anything. She exercises forgiveness like most people eat and breathe, it's just organic.

She is amazing. And, it's her birthday.

So, Good vibe my sister Meagan today.
Life is short...good vibes are forever.

(Subliminal messages portion of this love bomb: Meagan ~ You guys need to pick a date during the winter to come HERE and do the holidays. All of you. I'll try and wrangle up my kids and that will be our holidays this year. NO gifting, just time shared. THINK about it.)

photo credits: Lauren Grace Photography Chicago, IL and me

Best Bluegrass Year Ever

2010-09-16T20:02:00.006-05:00

Hey! I almost forgot this one story, and I thought I'd already told it before, but I can find no evidence of having done so. Y'know... But, then again - it was 20 years and 3 laptops ago, shit really does just happen sometimes. Regardless, I call dibbs on do-overs. I gotta tell you about this one other year in the Grove.

I wax romantic on the whole Bluegrass Festival thing this time of year because it marked the only extended times in my adult life where I was as carefree and well-tended as a six-year old for some days every September, and it truly was a life-changer. For me. I get that it's not for everybody.

I've made it pretty clear lately, and through a 30 year pattern of living: I am all about the collective. I find value in our strengths as a collaboration. Lots of people playing together nicely totally blows the wind up my skirt.

All that being said: I totally dig the vibe of the Bluegrass Festival in Winfield. Sure, it's got some short-comings (First of which is that you practically have to rob a bank to do it right anymore!) but, it's way more good stuff than bad. And, I can just about guarantee that you've not felt the electricity of setting up camp in a cool grove of trees with about 4000 other people. The whole thing is just a rush.

And, everybody is nice. I know that sounds like hyperbole, and I may or may not be inclined to lean that way, but seriously - I swear. Every single person is nice, and laughing and joking. Some are singing and playing already. They are all just so happy to be there. It's just this crazy chill, and for lack of a better word, collective vibe.

One of the very first years I got to go with a band, we had crafted an elaborate plan that involved Joolz and I setting up about 8 dome tents and helping Pete with the Tepee. It didn't seem too terribly unreasonable, and we pulled it off with minimal calorie burning.

We dropped like stones on our bags in the tepee after dark. At some godforesaken time in the middle of the night, we were awakened by a clap of thunder that would (and probably did) wake the dead. The skin of the tepee had been caught in some sorta updraft deal and was like an upside down umbrella in some torrential rain. The ropes on it helped us get reigned in and we tied it down enough to make it quasi-secure.

When we turned around to check on the dome tents - they were all completely gone. Seriously. Blown away. Then we saw them rolling into the future like big ol' tumbleweeds, It was a serious long moment of slow motion "nooooo." And it's pouring rain with a hard-core driving wind. Yea, it's every bit as awesome as it sounds. And, we probably had some beers before bed, weren't quite awake yet... The stars had aligned just right to provide this moment of hilarity.

A succession of people were trotting by, with the wind at their backs. When we all gathered to where the tents in the Grove ended up, there must have been 60 of them. Not many of us could remember exactly what kinds of tents we had, and we'd all put up tents for other people and they all kinda looked the same at 4am in the driving rain. We discussed it and made a pact to split up the tents so everybody got the right number, and not worry so much about the make. It worked out fine in the end. I don't think anybody ever noticed.

A couple of days later, some series of events intersected and we found ourselves all loaded into the back of Julie's truck with our instruments in hand. We were headed out of the Grove to give somebody a show.

There was a little house out near the edge of town (I just threw that in for poetic license. I think it was really on 9th street, but can't swear to it) with a large, multi-generational family living in it. The grandma was a woman who had a name like "Mama Sumptin." Not really Mama Sumptin, but she had the air of someone who had a "Mama" before their name. She walked with a walker and she had her hair all up in one of those colorful turbans that some older girls wear.

For the life of me, I cannot remember who brokered this deal. But, we had arranged to give her a concert on her front lawn, with her entire family and some of the neighbors assembled on the porch, in exchange for some fresh-out-of-the-oven Sweet Potato Pies. She was famous for 'em.

As far as anybody could tell, she had the time of her life. As did her kids and their kids. I know, for certain, that those of us who got to do the playing felt like we'd totally gotten the better end of that deal. All we did was what we normally would have done, just in a better location. AND we got steaming hot pies for it. And, they were so thankful and gracious. It was one of the best gigs ever.

The rest of this festival is a blur of all-night song showdowns on dusty roads, nerves before taking stage, the smell and fog of a thousand campfires, banjos, pickled things and chemicals from Boeing that made the fires go crazy. And that one Proclaimers song. We were an army that night. We stormed the castle AND we took prisoners.

I know for certain it was all about the collective back then. I haven't been there much for a while, so I like to imagine that it still is. This year was just one of many, in terms of stellar times. I see the pictures and hear the stories - I know it's still a collaborative effort and this makes me smile.

Breakdowns, Bluegrass and Butterflies

2010-09-16T16:49:00.003-05:00

This is a re-post from last year. I gave myself permission to use it, so it's cool. I have about ten years of these essays and they illustrate what I think about ... about now... every year. If you've never been to the Bluegrass Festival, really - you may need to go try it on for size.

Photo: Hutmacher. Boots: me.

Up here in the NE corner of the state, it's full-on autumn.

It's gotten down in to the 40s on some nights. And, it's still (really, kinda sorta) just the first of September. Down south (Winfield way) it's about time to start seeing the first of the Monarchs that come through as the harbingers of Fall.

Blankets. Big orange moons. North breezes. Skies full of Monarchs.

That smell (what is that smell? I've always imagined it's a special Kansas thing that is the combination of clovers and smooshed grains and soybeans and ripe humans wearing patchouli and just a hint of skunk. Mmmm skunk.) Oh, man - the way it smells when the moon's coming up all fat and colorful and the final summer heat is rising up off the last of the beans in the field. Ohmygod. I love that smell. Ah, but I digress.

One of my first mass-monarchings came on an adventure down to the Bluegrass Festival, it was probably early September (and yea, probably half a million years ago.) It was that same year that we had Red Fraggle in that gigantic bird cage. What a great landmark that was. It was that year.

I had my first VW bus (the '71 tan and white one with big letters all over it: The Alphabet Bus. And, yea - the kids loved getting dropped off at school in it). John Byers (To this day the best and only VW mechanic any human should ever pick for their team) and about 8 other friends in three other VWs were in one caravan headed south for Winfield.

Somebody's car messed up. I can't remember the details which tells me it was probably mine. We all pulled over as quick as a road would allow, and went a few hundred yards down on a dirt road lined with over-ripe something (it had started to go brown) we stopped and all got out and mingled.

These occasions of cars breaking down when you're in caravan are seen as much as social bonding opportunities as they are traveling frustrations. We were deciding what to do next, and probably knee-deep in a Safety Meeting when about 38 bazillion Monarchs descended upon us.

Yep. At least 38 bazillion. Maybe more.

I used to have a picture of John Byers, just about two feet away from me, with butterflies on the rims of his glasses and his baseball cap and shoulders. The world behind him was mostly orange.

You could hear all their bazillions of wings flapping and making a sound that was like a weak, but very healthy, teeny weeny generator... Itsy bitsy teeny weeny, but you could hear them.

For real. I swear this happened.

It makes me think that soon I'll smell camp-fires. I'll sleep where I fall and wake to strangers bringing me coffee and aspirin. I'll play and sing and laugh until every single fiber of my being is twisted and blissed out.

Don't know that I'll be there in person for this year's fiesta, but I know that the Monarchs up here are just starting to come through and it smells fantastic. I have sent people, they'll report back. We have facebook now. Have fun and play responsibly.

Shoutin' out on this one to all my friends from the Grove who only are there in spirit now: Janet, Dana, Kirk, Kelly Wayne, Annie ~ Keep on RIP-ing and thanks for hanging with us when you did.

The Alphabet Bus and the Pecan Grove

2010-09-15T16:21:00.002-05:00

I raised at least two, and maybe many more, kids in a home that was heavily weighted in words, art and music. There was always a band practice, a deadline or an installation. There were a hundred specks of paint everywhere, half written pieces on every desktop, and instruments against every wall in the house. We had rulers and tuners and Pantone books.

The house was full of strays, adoptees and family from other states or countries. None of us engaged in serious athletics or politics. We were all refugees. We had a tepee for a spell. We ate a lot of Ramen noodles or beans. I bitched for an entire 17 years about who drank the last of the milk or didn't tell me that we were out of toilet paper. None of it was planned, it just happened while we were busy living. It's the life I cultivate. I was then, am now and probably always will be a right-brained kinda girl. Abstract math is just not often compatible with my brain. I make sure you feel the love and overlook the retirement plan.

Our little tiny island was populated with people who came from almost every walk of life (I love the way a perfectly populated island always seems to work out that way) but we were all unified by a passion for music and the need to feel collective for a minute or two. We got together often enough for pot luck dinners and gigs and shows, but we all only took one vacation a year. For real. Like, all of us built entire years and careers out of this one vacation that took us to within one hour of our homes.

We were busy people and we didn't get to feed our muses as much as we would have liked or needed. We all needed more hugs and more heart-felt belly laughs in person. We needed to feel a hand on our back and hear a perfect harmony. (And, quite honestly, we were younger then and we could do this with little consequence: We needed to shoot some Tequila till the sun came up.)

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It's bizarre, now in retrospect, how much more than a Bluegrass festival this thing is. I haven't been in some years and still have the same goosebumpy feeling for all my people who I know are going to be there. I have spoken with people for the last 8 hours about this. It's kinda huge.

And, (I feel like a broken record every time I say this) It's not really all that much a Bluegrass kinda deal. There is PUH-lenty of Bluegrass to find there, 24/7 - if that's your gig. I get it. I just know I have a 15 minute limit on straight-up Irish Fiddle Tunes and perfect family harmony with no teeth. I need my music to growl at me from time to time. God lives in the Growl.

This is the only place on earth I have ever been that can stay up later than me. I stayed up for three whole days and nights, I sang until I was little more than a rasp... my fingers were bleeding. And, there were still two more jams I wanted to make it to. And, I don't really play Bluegrass, just for the record - I'm more a Talking Heads and Finn Brothers kinda girl.

Hundreds of people I have hugged and loved are either on their way to, or sloshing around in The Grove as I write this. The Grove (for me) is the Pecan Grove (aptly named as it is a thick little stand of Pecan trees by the river) in Winfield, Kansas. I think that about 30,000 people descend on this little town, but I'm too lazy to go confirm that.

The third weekend in September of every year, since the dawn of time (or maybe 1974 since that's when it fell on my radar) the Redford family throws down on a Bluegrass festival (Walnut Valley Bluegrass Festival) unlike any other that I have ever attended.

And, I've got festival cred, if you want to know. I spent some years in researching this. I've scoured the country, turning up rocks and poking things with sticks to find out if the deal in Winfield is an anomaly or if not. It's an anomaly. Yep. Nothing like it anywhere. Every festival has it's own flavor, and the one in Winfield is all about the Collective. Yes. With a capital C.

Oooohhhhh! Story time! So, it's like this....

One year, maybe it was the 90s but I'm not sure... could have been the 80s. I had that one bus. The Alphabet Bus. I think it was that year that we built the false bottom so we could bring in some extra stuff, and the boys rode their bikes from Wichita. That year. I remember this one night like it was yesterday.

I had played and sang for a day and a half without sleep, and I found those guys around the corner who had the cherries soaked in Everclear. And, I was both hungry and thirsty, and probably ate more than I should have. Then I ran into that nymph in the woods. The hairy hippie girl who gave me the dulcimer. I may have done some mushrooms that night too, if memory serves.

There was no moon and it was before they had the Grove wired for electricity. Or, lots of electricity anyways. I stumbled to the bus and the side door was open even though I thought I'd closed it, and I crawled in and thought for the micro-second that it took me to fall asleep, "Damn. I thought I built a better bed than this."

When I woke up in the morning, to the smell of campfires, bacon, coffee and premium weed - I looked up and saw no headliner in the bus. I had a near-comatose moment of going, "WTF!?!? I just put this headliner in. I'm gonna kill somebody." It was like when you're under general anesthesia during surgery, but you accidentally wake up and you can only move your eyes. It was just like that.

Then I rolled over and realized that these weren't my linens, and this wasn't a feather pillow. About the time I got the look of abject horror on my face, a boy with a beard like one of the ZZ Top boys, peeked around the corner with one hand fulla coffee and another with aspirin and a Marlboro Light.

Turns out, this wasn't my beautiful bus. Nope. Not at all. I was a few hundred yards from my bus. While a very lovely bus indeed, this one was not mine. Y'know. It was dark, I had had some alterations, there were a lot of VW buses there. I think they used Bread and Butter pickles as a lure. They knew I couldn't resist. And, then (by the Grace of God and the Muses of the Grove) they let me sleep soundly till daybreak. That they also brought me things upon my waking is only a testament to what this one festival is like.

At the risk of letting the cat out of it's bag..... I would go there if I were you. There's some good folks in the Grove. Give 'em a hug for me.

PS: The next piece will be about how to do this if you have no bank. It will be on the DL.

Down From the Mountain

2010-09-09T22:06:00.002-05:00

I have been home long enough now for my blood to return to it's normal sea-level mix. My red cells and my white cells are getting along nicely and I may actually have moisture in my skin and some curl in my hair. Therefore, I shall tell you a story. Get comfortable. I'd get a fresh drink if I were you. I call dibbs on the good end of the sofa.

View from the babbling brook.

About 50 of us converged on the town of Manitou Springs in Colorado for a wedding last week. The bride and groom were gracious and resplendent for the entire 5 day period of parties and dinners and lunches and receptions and rehearsals. The weather cooperated beyond our wildest expectations and the accommodations were completely off the hook for those of us with the sense to defer to the natives and book early.

Our rag-tag tribe of family included relations too far from the roots of the tree to even try to explain it, but suffice to say there were about 20 of us together at the Green Willow Motel on Manitou Avenue. We had come from as far away as the coasts and as nearby as Kansas.

Rehearsal Dinner. Nothing to see here.

Only because the Gods of Favor were smiling upon us did we fall into this completely sweet little collection of cabins. The Green Willow Motel is right by the RV Park that Loree spent 3 weeks a year at with her parents when she was growing up. She knew that creek, the big red stone house (think Red Rocks) and she knew the lay of the land. We had booked way early and had arranged for the largest of all the cabins.

Excellent planning, I might add. At the height of our occupancy we had 11 people with us. Granted, 3 of them had to sleep in a van by the cabin (two were really really short and one was their mom) but, we all shared that one bathroom. It was epic. And awesome. Probably not so cool for those lacking a collective identity, but no lives were lost in the balance ... So, apparently it all worked out great.

Blue Spruce right outside the front door.

The Green Willow Motel is a family-owned motel-ish place that feels entirely like it has been appointed by Grandma. In a good way. A seriously good way. A great way, truth be told. I haven't had a grandma in so so many years that it was turbo-sweet to be reminded of what that felt like. It came stocked with an old-school cheese slicer. For real. Where else can you find that kind of attention to detail? It had a working stereo, (A Hi-Fi) just like my grandma's, and it got public radio AND it played records.

We joked that it felt like our grandparents went on vacation and we were taking over their house and having a kegger. We didn't actually have any kegs (there... specifically...) but we certainly kept it fresh for the kids. I think we only shut down for about 4 hours a night. We're just team players that way. Some of us got up early and some of us stayed up late. We were usually open.

We were tended to by 3 generations of family who made us feel like their family. When we pulled in and settled there was one girl in the creek with two Mennonite kids, and I thought "Right ON! I love the way Mennonites interact with the world! This place is going to rock." I just assumed that it was run by Mennonites. Yea. Not so much. That was Evie (pron: EH-vee) and she was just hangin' with a couple guest shorties and looking at rocks. Her sister Terry was in the creek, and for the life of me it looked like she was panning for gold.

I know. I know. You're thinking: Who does that anymore? Like right in the heart of town? Panning for gold!?!? But, she wasn't panning for gold, silly - she was looking for glass. It's a pretty cool arrangement, given that the babbling brook just literally calls out for you to walk in it. Terry gets all the glass out. So, when you're all barefoot and walking 'round - your feet don't get trashed. That's just over-the-top, Grade-A-thoughtfulness there.

Yep. Unspeakably cool. And then (!) because that's not nearly cool enough... She and Evie are going to take all that glass they've gotten from the stream and build a mosiac-stained-glass art piece out of it - in the shape of a tree. A Family Tree. Does it get any more cool than this?

Ummm... yea. It does. But the essay to outline the coolness would take more than 5 minutes to read, and we don't have that kind of time. So....

What follows is my Top Ten List of why you should stay at the Green Willow Motel in Manitou Springs, Colorado:

one Location.Location.Location. Right across the street from our place was a 7-Eleven AND a Pancake House. If they don't have it - you don't need it.

two Random deer visitations. The deer just, like, stroll through, all randomly and mostly nonchalant, when you least expect it. They are always on their way to somewhere else, but they walk right by you to get there.

three The coffee is on by the time you wake up every single morning. Seriously? I love coffee and this coffee was fresh and hot. There was accoutrement as well. Sugar and creamer, spoons and napkins. It's just right there by the office, where you checked in.

four Really great linens. Yep. The linens and towels rocked. AND, they were plentiful! There was a seemingly never-ending supply of soft cotton. I'm sure that's not exactly the case, but they met our needs and we were one big ol messy family.

Campfire singing

five There was a Mennonite family of 10 waiting for us to break out instruments. They sang with us and for us and marveled at our blatant contemporary-ness. They were on their way to Wyoming and some of the most excellent company.

six The marshmallows are provided. And, they have great pokey things with which to roast them.

seven They stoke the fire and provide the firewood. (Again: Really?!?!)

eight Downtown is a 10 minute walk away. There's always something happening there.

nine You will get to meet Ed. We got to meet Ed. Ed is a turbo-cool Grandpa kinda guy who keeps the flower beds (of which there are an abundance) perfectly dead-headed and neat. He is quiet but he is quick with a compliment and an offer to lend a hand.

And, finally:

This is what it looks like without the dryer

ten They have laundry lines. Just like in the Old Days. They hang the towels up on the line to dry. Do you know how good those towels smell?

Good. Really really good.

So, here is what I'm proposing:

I say we all meet here in one year. One year from Monday past, to be specific. (Monday, September 4th, 2011) IF we book early we could rent out the whole place. 50 whole humans could hang here for some days. I was thinking about breaking it down to an aggregate cost, but, for this first round of pressure, I say - you ought to meet me there. Rent a cabin. Say that you're with Me.

We'll sing and play and pan for glass all night long.

Waxing Sentimental: Touchy Feely.

2010-09-02T00:26:00.000-05:00

The moon is not full.

It is not Blue nor is it harvest-ish.

It may be waxing ... rather than waning.

I can't say for sure.

I do not intentionally set out to wax ... all, like, sentimental on you, but I know that I do. And.... y'know? If you weren't all up into it, you wouldn't be here.

I understand, on a fundamental level, how my currency is de-valued with you. I say things like "EVER!!!" and "Never EVER." I don't mean to be so absolute. I really don't. I just mean for you to know that I know you that you know that I know....

Kabuki theater.....

I don't mean to do this, but at least I know that I do.

Worse things have happened to nicer people.

I mean it when I say: Good.lord ~ You make me smile.

I usually have a double six domino or one of those extra large tablespoons that come-with-your-set, spoons..... under my laptop.

Or I cook your frozen cranberries when you aren't lookin' ..... I love that smell. I think of turkey. I don't even like turkey... the country OR the meat. If I were a cat... I would lick your toothbrush, and smile ... in a smug cat way, and look to the left and blush.

The crickets and cicadas are insane.

insane. I tell you.

And, we haven't even discussed the Peeper Frogs.

*jeeesh*

I looked over the babbling brook, at Scott and Loree.... and... well.... They looked like freaking Fraggles.

Yep. Fraggles.

I am holding on to you.

Thank God you are here.

I am a mile and a half high.

I have sung 3 part harmony with people I've never met.

I have watched a girl work for 16 of the last 24 hours.

In a creek. Looking for burnished glass.

She laughs out loud and dances.

There are babies and babbling brooks.

This is nuts.

I am a mile and a half high and I dare you.

Nobody has ever been here before me.

UH.huh.

Postmodern Contemporary American Gypsy

2010-08-30T11:26:00.004-05:00

Once upon a time, I was a gypsy.

Apparently, I needed to walk through the empty streets and feel something constant under my feet (to borrow from The Postal Service.)

I was ill-equipped to process the full extent of the change and loss and whatnot that too-short-a-time brought me. The only constant I had was the change. It was all arguably pretty big change that did not become devalued with frequency OR over the passage of time.

I completely lost my mind and all my bearings. I still can't remember right from left and my sense of smell is not fully restored. I can't sleep if I don't know what direction the sun will rise from.... But, fortunately, I found myself in a unique and sweet position to re-write the book and change all the pages.

I sold everything and I walked. Sometimes I hitch hiked from Craigs List and very often, I talked people into rides. I always gave more than I got and I met some amazing (and amazingly, wickedly-nuts scary) people. But I am certain that I can talk anybody into almost anything. Look at the International House of Pirates day.... It's one of my Super-Powers.

I don't get to change the details, nor would I if I could.

I never woke up one morning and went "Hey! Dude! I'm going to go be a gypsy." We only get what we are dealt. I gotta admit, this has worked our really well for me, for sure. My version of a Postmodern contemporary American Gypsy is one that is reliant upon your smiles and kindnesses, I count on you to feed my spark and make me taller. I expect you to speak well and not show me any bloody train wrecks. Nobody needs to see that.

I repay this with hard work (I'm handy and strong,) long songs full of teeny weeny mistakes (I meant to practice a lot more,) I will tell you stories that will curl your hair (NOT my fault. I was raised this way) and provide a fairly steady stream of laughter.

I used to say that I travel light - but here in the middle of an extended journey, I would have to say not so much. I load up like a Sherpa and I explode on a home like the best kinda fireworks. (Depending on whether you are an accountant or an artist.) It's a sea of either clean or dirty clothes, hats and half-finished projects and cowboy boots. I almost always need a needle and some thread and a Band-Aid.

I also almost always leave, as all good gypsies do. I almost always leave something behind. I don't usually take any more with me ~ as I'm in a constant state of lightening my load.

I woke up this morning, all silly-aglow with the comfort of knowing that through all of this coming and going, I know people who are thinking and moving and changing. They travel and step outside their comfort zones, they sing and prank and talk smack.

They are artists and architects, geeks and engineers, doctors and teachers, writers and editors, children and grown ups, some itsy bitsy babies.... They all paint and write and talk and laugh and sing. They coo and articulate.

They are Republicans and Democrats and Libertarians. They are liberal and conservative and gay or straight or black or white. They were, or were not, born in the Midwest. They read. They read a lot. They are positive and generally happy people. Their hugs could rearrange the tutonic plates.

They feed me good food and beer ~ sometimes. One of them will almost always dance with me. Dancing is good. We talk the sun up off the horizon then we wake up and realize we danced way too much last night. It's awesome.

I am in love with being a Postmodern contemporary American gypsy and sharing these people and their conversations everywhere I land. I love it that a seed can be planted in one city and given a new home in another. I can hear something in Wichita and take it to Manitou Springs (Where the kids and hippies live) and it will flourish.

Right on. Just for the record.

This is what gives me hope for the future and helps me believe that we can be the change we want (and desperately need.) We just have to get out here and shake it up as much as possible. I am taggin' you.

Never stop talking to and/or never stop smiling at me when I drop in. I know I can piss you all the way off and all this incessant cheerfulness gets under the skin. I promise, I do know this. I am sorry and I would be somebody different if I could or cared or wanted to.

While I haven't completely retired my traveling shoes, I am good with this home and this family and processing the last 6 years or so. It's coming on winter and I am not the spring chicken I once was. The lack of constant is no longer the only constant. It's been a great change, and now I'm going to rest here. I would like to formally thank "Change" For getting all over me.

Now, it's your turn to go Gypsy on me. Seriously. My hips are shot. You need to come here. Come visit - there is always a conversation in the kitchen if you're hungry. There's plenty of protein and grain. You will be well-tended. I am strong, brave, funny and strong. I don't sleep much. I'll get your bags. If I didn't like you ~ you wouldn't be here, right?

You just need to get here.

(TOTAL SIDEBAR: We are in the middle of what I think will historically be referred to as The Some Kinda Ages.)

Shit's gettin' real - we ought to talk. Seriously. I'll put on some water for tea. And, don't be thinkin' you can walk into my kitchen in those shoes. Leave 'em at the door. Gimme a hug, and, I love you. You are growing up so nicely. Look at those shoulders....

Family Rules for Beginners

2010-08-12T09:25:00.000-05:00

I am an orphan. It's not all high-impact, like being an orphan when you're three or four years old, but I have no parents at the end of the day and therefore: I am an orphan. I keep good company though - I know a handful of other middle-aged orphans.

I often joke that I could stand to be adopted by some really nice family with both parents, where neither one is completely jack-bat crazy and nobody has physically tried to kill each other.

To that end, I have found a new potential adoptive family. Granted, these parents are my same age, so I won't be able to defer to them when it comes to needing seriously sage advice, but one of their daughters (Rachel) was just officially certified by the State of Kansas to be a Sex Therapist (the youngest in the state) - so I can see where this would probably be more beneficial than wise words from an 80 year old, and could work out really well for me.

When I asked Sarah and Mike if they would consider an adoption, I received this in reply:

Moe- a few rules you need to know to be a kid in the family:

1. You must ask me how my day was before you ask what's for dinner.
2. Don't wake the dog when you sneak in - cuz then I'll wake up too.
3. Absolutely NO SNAKES - most other critters welcome.
4. Don't park in dad's space in the driveway.
5. "Command Performances" are must attend events - no excuses.
6. Always have your 'big girl' pants clean and ready to wear cause no one promised you that life was fair.
7. If you leave beer in my fridge I will assume the 'Beer Fairy' has been here and left ME a present.
8. If anyone anywhere at anytime picks on one of us, they have picked on all of us!
9. and lastly....always remember that Mom does NOT fight FAIR.

So - you still in???

Shortly after this post, potential adoptive father Mike weighed in with this: "And in order of importance pay particularly close attention #4, #2 and #9.
And #1. Mom does NOT mow the grass. That's why she has children and a husband."

These are all solids, as far as I'm concerned, but my favorites are numbers six through eight, with Number eight being the clincher for me. Haven't had much of that action in the course of this lifetime, and have always thought it would be oh-so cool.

So, Hattrups: Know that I've got my professionals going through the contract and we should be able to get some stuff signed by this time next week. We are all glad that the vetting process is so simple and not terribly deep, and that I won't have to pass any tests in order to be accepted. This doesn't mean I have to live with you nor will you have to feed me (very often) but, I do expect big ol' messy family holidays and an occasional disagreement where somebody screams about somebody else using or taking their "stuff," and includes some decisive door slamming.

Oh yea, and I've got your back on the lawn.

Big ol' messy Thanksgiving dinners. This is what I'm talking about.

REM: From Brian's Point of View

2010-08-10T11:59:00.002-05:00

Brian Bell & His Kat

Today I'm sharing this space with my friend Brian. He lives in Edinburgh and has a darling daughter and a clever mouth. I find myself on the receiving end of good stories so much of the time, I feel an obligation to share them. Some of them (like this one) do so deserve to be shared.

I record myself singing songs to my grand daughter (Evie Mae) because she lives all the way across the island and I will not get to be near her enough for her to know who I am. These videos are my way of, at least, introducing her to the idea of me. Yesterday's recording was one of my most favorite REM songs ever (You Are The Everything) and I received what follows in response to that.

Evelyn Mae Bartel - Shockin' it

23rd May 1989 - REM is pretty much an "Uh, Who?" band here but, I'm into them through some college friends who have a band called Baby Hurricane (yeah, possibly one of the coolest names I've ever heard.)

We have had tickets to see them on the Green tour at the Playhouse in Edinburgh for months and finally the day has come around - it's a 60 mile drive from home and we'd no travel booked as I knew I was getting my first car for my 19th birthday the day previous (22nd.) I had been told by the parents that no way was I to drive the motorway in what was a pretty old and unreliable hunk of junk, but hey I was 19 so one white lie later I was off on the road with three quarters of the Hurricanes and pretty much the whole REM back catalogue on cassette for company.

We hit Edinburgh early and went to the bar next to the Playhouse for a drink. Quite a crowd had gathered at the back of the bar, and to our astonishment there was the band - Buck, Mills, and Berry around the pool table, and Stipe sat cross legged and cross armed in the corner in almost a meditative state.

REM when they were just babies.

Names went up on the blackboard, coins hit the side of the pool table, and about 30 minutes later there I was, cue in hand, standing next to Peter Buck as he crouched over the table to break - and what a break it was! Memory suggests he cleared from the break but I know that's not likely so I guess he dropped maybe 3 or 4 balls, but within another couple or three shots the game was over without my appearance at the table. He shook my hand, made some quip about being 'lucky' and that was it, my game of pool with Peter Buck over!

The gig itself rocked obviously - World Leader Pretend still lives with me - I think mainly because Stipe sang it a Capella, keeping time with the beat of a drumstick on the back of a metal framed chair he'd pulled onstage. Memorable also for his request before beginning for complete silence from the audience - yeah right! In that fine old Scottish tradition, a solitary voice rang out through the hush "Go on yourself, big man!" Ignored at the time by Stipe but once the applause had subsided he did encourage everyone to "Lynch that asshole that screamed out" Humour not his strong point that evening, but musically they were on fire!

Nobody had the foresight 21 years ago to record it for YouTube, but I found this from the same tour but in Germany 5 days before we saw them - the same baggy white suit - the same eye makeup even back then - and I love the memories it brings back... This is just about what it looked like.

The next time I saw them was '94 on the Monster tour. They'd graduated to stadiums over here by then and despite the lack of intimacy we were giving it a shot anyway. This time, just myself and my Uni (Uni = University) buddy Steve (more of him later in the tale but he's also the guy that I went with to Bill Hicks which I think I ranted on about some time in the past?) We'd been to countless gigs together during the 4 years at Uni, and this was to be the last one before we went our separate ways in the world.

The plan was straightforward enough - catch a train to Edinburgh in time for lunch and spend the whole afternoon drinking before heading out to Murrayfield Stadium for the gig around 8pm - we'd timed it to maximise pub time and skip the support bands - from memory The Cranberries and a couple others who escape me now.

As the afternoon wore on we became more and more engrossed in the beer and less and less inclined to be bothered with R.E.M. and hatched a plan to walk to the stadium from the city centre, hitting every 2nd bar on the way, and attempting to sell our tickets to fund the evening's alcohol abuse and japery instead.

It backfired - despite our best efforts we couldn't shift the tickets, we were clearly lousy touts, although the state we were in from all the beer probably didn't help. We 'resigned' ourselves to attendance at the gig instead and somewhat dejectedly ambled onto the pitch and squeezed as close to the front of the crowd as we could get.

REM when they grew up.

Whether it was the drink, or the atmosphere, or God knows what, everything changed when the band came on - to this day I couldn't tell you what they played - I guess it's obvious - given the album they were touring and the songs that went before - but we came away at the end raving about probably the best gig we'd ever been too, and how goddamn stupid we would have been if we'd sold the tickets and missed it.

I haven't seen R.E.M. since that day, and have only crossed paths with my buddy maybe a dozen or so times in the 16 years that have passed - but here's the small world part...

I hadn't seen or heard from Steve in maybe 12 years by 2007 when I was flitting across to Wichita, I used MySpace at the time and had my home location set to KS - mainly because for the times I was back here, it still made me feel 'virtually' there. So I get an email on it, totally out of the blue, from my long lost partner in crime ... bizarrely he's been living in Kansas City for the past 6 years!! Spooky small tiny world indeed!

One of the guys had his cousin who lived in the States with him - I forget which State now - but he had seen them at home before he came over for his vacation and was blown away by the gig - I don't know if you ever went to the Playhouse here but it's an old traditional Victorian theatre with about 2500 seats. He had just seen REM on a US Arena tour from behind a security fence so the experience was night and day for him.

What really nailed it was that we all went around to the Stage Door at the back after and just walked inside and got our T Shirts signed by the band (except Stipe who just very politely apologised that he didn't do autographs) You could do that here back then - I miss those days!

And if you ever get the urge to film yourself singing some Waterboys to the little one (I would recommend This Is The Sea) then I'll dust down my tale of chasing Mike Scott through the streets of St. Andrews after a gig one night trying to get him to sign a poster.

Thank you for sharing, Brian. You rock.

Homage to Incarceration

2010-08-05T13:05:00.004-05:00

This story today, has got me thinking about injustice and blunder. Now I have to tell you a story so I can purge it from my memory bank. I need that room for much much more happy stuff.

All of this is true (as best I can remember it) and I don't think this leaves me open for any kind of libel trouble. You may not like me anymore, but that's a risk I'm willing to take.

About a million years ago (that's how all my best stories start out) I had the distinct pleasure of getting pulled over for a DUI. I'd love to say that this was unjust and I was as pure as the driven snow, but that would be a flat-out lie. I was so jacked up on Valium, it's a wonder that I could walk, much less drive. These pills were a prescription gift from a thoughtful doctor, following the entire year it took my father to die.

I don't have the benefit of having made perfectly reasonable choices for all of my 49 years, and this one was definitely one of my worst. I got a DUI and it was a just call - I should have gotten one, I deserved it.

I was summarily hauled off to the holding tank at the Sedgwick County Jail. If you've never been there, I don't advise rushing off to make that happen. The holding tank is a cinder block room that is about 12' by 8'. It has a toilet thing (that didn't look anything like any toilet I'd ever seen) and it has built in cement benches on two sides - enough to hold about 10 people if nobody lays down. It's about 32 below zero and it's got one whole wall of glass so you can see your captors, and your captors can see you. It reeks of this industrial Pine-Sol kinda cleaner that hurts your nose and mouth when you breathe in. The smell didn't make it feel any cleaner.

On this visit, there were about 30 women in there, in various states of undress, and the majority of them were visiting for meth and crack related offenses. Most of them seemed to know each other and it quickly became apparent that this wasn't their first rodeo. Any of them. All of them. I'd never felt so much like an outsider in my whole life, and was I fine with that. I kept my head down, avoided eye-contact and was pushed through the system in about 26 hours (with no food and no water.) A court date was set and I got to leave. I was really happy that I didn't have to go to the bathroom, because that would have been a total drag in front of all those girls.

Before I could make it to court, I was needed for my mother's death. She had cancer (again) and this time it was terminal. I called the D.A. and explained my situation and he said that I just needed to stay in touch. I called him once a month for the next 5 months or so and never once got the impression that this problem would be a life-changer.

After the funeral, I called and arranged to come in and meet the D.A. at 8 am on a Monday morning. It was my (erroneous) understanding, at the time, that I would get a court date and pay some heinous fines. Instead what I got to do is go directly to jail - The Sedgwick County Jail, to be specific. This did not take me completely by surprise and I had the good sense to wear two pairs of undies. (My brother has a lifetime investment in incarceration for drug-related offenses and this was his one piece of sage advice the night before I went to Wichita.)

The holding tank detention only lasted about 13 hours this time, and there were only about 10 other women in there. One of them, though, was an older (like in her 60s or 80s maybe - the ravages of meth make it hard to tell how old anybody is) woman wearing only a house dress and a pair of unlaced, gigantic, high-dollar men's tennis shoes. At some point I accidentally stepped on one of her toes and in one swift and seamless motion she grabbed me by my hair at the nape of my neck and slammed my face into the cement wall. She went off like a rabid monkey and was really quite strong for what I thought to be a little old lady. The captors came and took her off to her own private holding cell and tossed me a roll of toilet paper with 3 squares on it to clean up the blood from my broken nose.

I was then taken through a series of places where they checked to be sure I wasn't smuggling in drugs or guns in all the obvious (and not so obvious) places. I got to take a shower with a female officer standing about 18" away, watching the whole process. I'm not real big on sharing my naked self, but I already felt so violated and resigned... and it was WAY not the worst thing that had happened to me while in their company, so I showered in record time and jumped into my new orange scrubs.

Two lovely and highly personable young male officers came and got me by either side and left bruises on my forearms where they had gently guided me into what would be my new home until my hearing. Through some unfortunate twist of fate, the powers-that-be had designated me as a Violent Offender, so I got to go to the Violent Offenders "Pod." (Apparently there are many layers of criminals in this facility, and the Violent Offenders were a group of mostly young women who had committed violent crimes against other people. One girl had killed her baby, another had killed her grandma.)

I stayed in my cell, without a room-mate for the first two meals and I refused to come out. It stands to reason that they had a vested interest in my eating, and they came and drug me out for dinner on my second day. Dinner looked exactly (and, I shit you not) like Alpo wet and smelly dog food. For real. I remember thinking over and over again how this could only happen on television, or maybe I was dreaming.

I sat down at the only available spot with a group of women and looked around for the first time. My minority-ness struck me then - and it was harsh. I was one of only 3 white girls in the company of about 75 women. I pushed my tray in front of me and said something to the effect of "I'll die before I eat this crap. You girls go for it." At which time, a wonderfully scary and insane riot broke out. The girls at all our surrounding tables had heard me say this, and it was literally elbows and assholes for a good 10 minutes. Several officers were able to restore order and I was taken back to my cell and locked up.

I was told that if I chose to not eat breakfast the next day, I would be sent to Solitary. Solitary in this case, is just another cell, but this one comes equipped with a camera and you don't get to have any clothes on. I'd seen the audience of officers gathered around the TV screen watching a woman wail and writhe the night before. They provided commentary and laughed, some of them went to her door and taunted her. That was about the last thing I wanted, I would have eaten baby kittens to avoid that.

The next morning we had something they called oatmeal. It wasn't like any oatmeal I'd ever seen, but I ate some of it anyway in order to avoid being mocked on TV by my captors. Through all of this, I never stopped crying. At some point they decided I needed to talk to a Holy Person. The first Holy Person was noncommittal, I don't know what flavor she was, but she was no consolation. I then requested a Catholic Holy Person, thinking that maybe because we had shared an island at some point in my past, she may be more reasonable.

She was kind and soft-spoken, I was hopeless and completely deflated. She asked me to atone for my sins and explain why I'd committed a violent act against another human. When I'd wailed for long and hard enough, explaining that I had just turned myself in for a first time DUI offense, she agreed to look into it. I was only in the Violent Offenders pod for another 12 hours before two more gentle and kind gentlemen officers came to help me get to my new cell.

The whole way down (they put the really bad guys up high in this building) in the elevators, and through the endless halls, I was sobbing, crying and explaining that I really wasn't "jail material." I told them about my 12 years in Catholic schools, and taking care of my dying parents, and my genius children and how all I ever really did was smoke pot... I was never even a hard-core drinker. They never looked at me or acknowledged that I was alive... or a human. It just kept getting more and more bizarre. I told them that NOT only was I NOT jail material, I didn't even KNOW anybody who had ever gone to jail or prison except my brother, and he had a crack problem, or maybe it was a meth problem. I just know it was a white powdery rocky thing and it was a problem and I'd been helping him get out of jail for the better part of a lifetime.

They open the doors to the pod that would now become my home and I couldn't see through the tears, but heard a whole chorus of "Hey! Moe's here!!! HEY MOE! HEY MOE!" I think my knees buckled from the weight of feeling like I'd just told the biggest lie ever in the history of time. I'd told them that I didn't know anybody... and yet, here was my own personal Welcome Wagon. Great.

Turns out that during one of his batches of freedom, I'd let my brother live with me. He had, in turn, let a whole bunch of young women who were also chasing the white powdery stuff into my home. They stole my clothes and used my toothbrush. They had stolen every piece of identity and every single thing of value that I'd ever had. And, here they all were. Awesome. Freaking awesome. It just kept getting better.

I didn't get to go into my new cell just yet, because there was a cleaning lady in there, polishing things up for my stay. A couple of the girls who had liberated my identity and stuff came over and told me that, just that morning, the girl who was in that cell had had a miscarriage and she was 7 months pregnant. They said that she'd told the captors for two days that she was in severe pain, but she was a meth-head and they didn't allow her the benefit of a doubt or any of her human rights to see a doctor. The girls told me that she had miscarried and had to stay in her cell with her dead infant for hours before anyone came to get her out and help her clean up. Truly stellar. Life just kept getting more surreal. And, this was going to be my new room.

It's already, like, day 3 or 4 of my stay and I hadn't slept one wink or eaten more than a handful of food since before I had arrived. The lights never go off in this jail and the TVs are turned up to full volume at all times. Usually there are two TVs on different channels, so the cacophony of noise is mind-numbing. I'm sure they aren't consciously trying to make people lose their minds, or find their religions - but that is the direct effect. It has since made me think about water-boarding.

I get inside my new suite and am pleased to find out that it's a single-person cell and I don't have to share with anyone. But, I was dismayed (to say the least) that I didn't get a mattress or a pillow or sheets. That kinda bummed me out, but I wasn't about to talk to anybody in here - captor or company - and surely I'd be released within hours. I spent my first night sitting on a cold steel frame built for a mattress. They probably had bedbugs in those mattresses, anyways. It's not like I would have laid down on it even if I could.

About the middle of the day on my second day, I took a stroll around my new surroundings and noticed that everybody else had mattresses and pillows and sheets, so I said something to one of my brother's girls and she threw a hissy fit and went storming up to The Desk and railed on the official watching soap operas. I got my mattress and nasty, icky, blackened sheets within the hour.

I found out a lot while I was there. My most favorite piece of knowledge was this: These girls, almost all of them, were there because they had severe drug problems. Almost all of them had bondsmen and attorneys who came to see them with some regularity. These visitors brought the girls meth and crack sometimes and little drug parties were held in cells without the captor's knowledge (or with, God only knows) and everybody had a job to do. The girls job was to keep the rotating door of the system alive with illegal and self-destructive activities, and the captors job was to turn a buck and make sure nobody died (mostly.)

I also found out that bologna can, indeed, be green and not kill you.

On my 21st day I was told that I would be seeing the judge in the morning and I would be released. And, true to their word, I did see a judge in the morning and he told me to get along little doggie (in so many words.) I placed the call for a ride out of Wichita and sat down to wait for my release.

Lunch came but they didn't bring me a tray because I'd already been released. My brother's girls shared their food with me. Dinner came, and again - no tray for me because clearly I'd already been released. Bedtime lock down happened and they secured me in my cell. At about 11:45 someone opened my door and told me to get my stuff because it was time to leave.

My ride had left hours ago. She sat patiently and waited for about 12 hours, but had to get back to her town (my town,) to her home - and didn't think I was really going to get out. So, at midnight on some hot day in June, I was released into the night of downtown Wichita, Kansas with nobody to pick me up. I walked about 5 miles east to a home where I knew someone who would let me sleep on their porch (at least) and maybe even help me find some food.

Sometimes I think about this slice of my life when I'm considering the events that shaped me. As awful as this one was, (it has impacted every single other thing that I've done or known since) - I don't suppose I would un-do it if I could. But, I am way more inclined to think in terms of "Revolution" and "Rising up" against the injustices that happen every day to millions of people in our country... on our island.

The problem here is not so large that it can't be addressed, but it's going to take some forward, and critical thinkers to resolve it. I really, honestly and whole-heartedly think it's time for a Revolution.

There is so much broken and so much apathy in this country. This is going to be harder than pushing an elephant in a shopping cart (with a broken wheel) up a flight of stairs in a lighthouse. Don't we have some obligation to the future and positive change if we even know about the wrongs now? How can people know about grievous injustice and not do anything to change it? You help me understand it, and I'll quit pushing for change.

copyright 2010 moemasters

No More Disposable People

2010-07-30T17:23:00.008-05:00

Larry Parker & Toni Lee

I have a buddy next door named Larry, and Larry likes to send forwarded emails. My dad did this to the point of insanity when he was still alive and I remember delivering endless lectures to him on the subject of wasting time. Mine, in particular. As much as it drove me to distraction, I miss it. Thank God I've got Larry at the helm of his trusty Dell desk top.

One of Larry's emails recently contained the following (which I did not write, but edited and tweaked a bit) and it's made me think a lot. Too much, maybe - about the disposable world we live in.

My mom: Jodie Connor

I grew up with practical parents. A mother, God love her, who washed aluminum foil after she cooked in it, then reused it. She was the original recycle queen (before they had a name for it and way before recycling was cool.) And, a father who was happier getting old shoes fixed than buying new ones. It was the time for fixing things - a curtain rod, the kitchen radio, the screen door, the oven door, the hem in a dress and lawn mowers, to name just a few off the top of my head.

It was a way of life, and sometimes it made me crazy - all that re-fixing, re-generating, renewing, I wanted, just once, to be wasteful. Waste meant affluence. Throwing things away meant you knew there would always be more.

But then my mother died, and I was struck with the pain of learning that sometimes there isn't any more. My dad died too, and two out of three of my best friends up and died all unexpectedly. Nobody was old enough to die and it has served as a permanent reminder for me, that none of this (good and bad) should be taken for granted.

Sometimes, what we care about most gets all used up and goes away, never to return. So, while we have it, it's best we love it and care for it and fix it when it's broken and heal it when it's sick.

This is true. for marriage and old cars and children with bad report cards and dogs with bad hips and aging parents and grandparents. We keep them because they are worth it, because we are worth it. Some things we keep. Like a best friend who moved away or a classmate we grew up with.

KMC Class of 1979 Girls

There are always going to be some people who make life important. They are the people we know who are special and make the journey to the finish line a lot more fun and meaningful. We live in a world where everything is disposable, and it turns out that people are no exception.

If you love someone, show it. If you have a life tied-up in hanging with people who say over and over that they love you, as they are keeping you locked in a room or beating you down in any of the myriad of ways possible, please, know that THAT is not love.

Life is too short to waste any moments with or on anyone who warps your sense of love, and the sooner you know it - the sooner you can start to love others more truly and deeply.

No more throwing people away, okay?

copyright 2010 moemasters

American Halloween with Dr. Fong

2010-07-12T23:19:00.003-05:00

Not long ago in a town not far away, I ran into an old friend in a comfortable and often-frequented night spot of mine from back in The Day. Going there is a little like going to Grandma's house. Only, they bring me different kinds of things than my grandmother brought me and it's got a killer jukebox.

Usually a friend will surface during my stay. This night it was Paul, and he was sitting at the bar playing around on a bangin' little laptop (Y'know... When I was a kid ... We didn't even HAVE wireless connectivity at Kirby's...)
Paul has asked for a story and I have this one....
I don't think I'd read this one to the grandbabies just yet.

Tonight's story is about an amazingly kind and brilliant Herbalist from China (yes, capitalized - he had literally spent his whole life in training to know herbs from the inside and out. He was an Herbal Genius and bonafide Doctor) named Dr. Wei Fong.

Wei had just come to America and left his beloved wife, Mao, on "another island" far away. And, that's exactly as he described it as he looked wistfully up and to the left with his head crooked and this ginormous smile that took up at least half his face. His teeth didn't bear any of the tell-tale signs of American dentistry and his smile was infectious. Strangers on the street could see him smile and they would have to smile. It was catchy in that way like yawns are catchy.

The back story on this is kinda cool on a whole bunch of levels. Wei came from a province in China like many others, where poverty was not so much a societal concern as it was a way of life. Everybody was poor, had always been poor and probably always would be poor. It's like they didn't know that they were poor.

There were many generations of families living in the same homes and the way he described it, they formed a tribe. His family, early on, somehow knew... or decided ... (or something) that Wei was going to be a doctor and they all made huge and generous sacrifices on his behalf, to fund his education. The fact that he had made it to America with sponsorship for a meaningful job made him a Rock Star. He sent most of his paychecks home. There were so many people counting on his success.

He was a diminutive man, perhaps 5' straight-up, with a perfect $7 haircut and he refused to wear shoes most of the time. Wearing shoes made him noticeably more structured and ordered, I liked him better when he was barefoot sitting cross-legged in a swivel office chair. It always looked like he'd taken his khaki's out of a jar and his shirt was never all the way tucked in.

He was mild mannered and quick to smile. He had that "Good Guy" vibe that not many people have. Time spent in his company was never wasted, Wei was engaged at all times. His English was broken but his desire to learn it was so sincere. He was as driven as any person I've ever met, and his intentions were pure.

Sometime during the first month of our working together, I volunteered to take Wei with us to a Halloween party. I offered it as a kind gesture and didn't really expect it to happen (American doctors didn't roll this way and fraternize with the receptionists, I just assumed that was universal.) I thought I'd made it clear, even way back then, that I was a hippie. A clean and highly presentable hippie, but a hippie none the less. And... well, since I thought that was sort-of implicit in all things "me related," I just figured we could all do the math: He was an Herbalist. A Doctor of Herbs, surely he was hip to the whole big old world of herbs. I was a musician and leaned into liberal thinking pretty hard. What's not to know?
Can you almost see how this turns out?

Attendance was spectacular at the party and Wei (with his broken English and electric smile) was an immediate crowd fave. Our feeble attempts to explain what "Halloween" was were pretty much lost on Wei and his amusement was palpable. He was flanked by seriously wild American women dressed like I Dream of Jeannie and not-yo-mama's nurses, and drinking the punch. OH God, the punch.

Sometimes everybody would step outside to partake. It was chilly and they huddled in the requisite, moderately-tight formation of people talking, freezing and smoking. Smoking materials were lit and starting rotation. Everybody in the circle took a turn at trying to explain this activity and substance to Wei, but in the end - it did not go well and he out-niced the rest of us. He was being as polite as he had been taught to be. (If it is offered to you, you take it out of deference to the givers' generosity.)

Right after taking a short pull on the passing joint, he immediately got out his Three Happiness cigarettes (straight-up for real, hard to find on this island) and starting handing individual smokes to everyone standing in the circle. He just kept saying "Thank you!" His smile took on a life of it's own, he was silly and happy and living life large in America where there is so much room. People don't live with their grandparents and siblings and in-laws here. Wei had hit the Mother Lode and was the star of his very own"Festival!" (That was what he kept calling it) where he was more popular than a fat girl with a pork chop at a Pit Bull party.

It probably didn't help things that we dressed as pirates, in retrospect. Those costumes always seemed to feed Halloween festivities thick with mischief. That was the sound of "Us" not bringing our A-game to that decision-making moment, for sure.

The hours passed, the making of merry continued and at some point it became clear that Wei was scant moments away from a complete full-frontal face plant. We were gathered and loaded in a heart-beat and hadn't backed out of the driveway before Wei was head back and snoring. We put all his cigarettes back in his jacket pocket and got him safely tucked in for the night.

The next day he was 2 hours late for work, he was never late. When he finally arrived, he and The Boss had a long talk in Chinese about something that sounded, for all the world, like something that wasn't all that good.

As it was explained to me, this is how it goes: In the place where Wei had spent his young and tender life, there was no Weed. There was no smoking of it and, if (by miracle, I'm guessing) caught using it, punishment was swift and severe. Like, life in prison severe. When he saw us all sharing a cigarette, he thought we were too poor to buy our own, so he offered his. His English needed much more time to seep in and he understood just about nothing. We were all trying to be gracious and use our powers for good, and in the end we just got Wei really really really messed up.

When all was said and done, we all apologized and walked away knowing that now we'd done that and we didn't need to do it again. I haven't volunteered to bring anybody to a party ever since. And, as far as I know: Dr. Wei Fong is a highly successful Chinese Herbalist for the stars in Hollywood.

G'night, Paul.

Literally, The First Day.

2010-06-28T12:49:00.004-05:00

So, yea - maybe I took a little trip on foot that rattled your cage pretty bad, and dude, seriously: I am so sorry I rattled your cage. That sucked for both of us. I'm not sure that there is a direct causal relationship, but - the most unpredictable of things have been happening ever since. There's nothing that walking 45 miles through southern Kansas on the hottest day of the year won't help roll into focus.

While I'm dispensing with apologies, I'd like to just provide a summary Mea Culpa to every single one of you. If you've come this far with me and you care enough to drop in here and see what's falling out of my brain today, I owe you an apology (a few much more than most) - I am certain. I've made some pretty awful calls that resulted in some pretty substantial blood-loss, and please don't think I don't know it. I've done just about killed myself trying to ensure that I was sufficiently punished and would never forget.

Conversely, if you've ever done me wrong - I'm over it and would choose to never look at that for a moment longer, ever ever again. Every time we stare into that hurt or wrong or whatever name you want to give it, we give it life. We run a great risk of letting that have more power than us. We choose to become the hurt and not the forgiveness. I have seen some forgiveness of the extreme variety demonstrated and I'm willing to spend the rest of my life out here on this limb trying it on for size. Sometimes wished it had come in a little sooner, but for here and now - this rocks out loud.

Now, I get to be done. As of this moment in time, I have one year to bust a hump, get some serious earth-moving done (doctors, lawyers, duct tape and bailing wire) and then I get to LIVE to be one of the most cool 50-year olds ever! EVER, I say!
At which time, we shall commence to a summer festival with a clever name to celebrate the fact. It may last two weeks and there will be Lemon Ice Box cakes and brats, loving prepared by a line of men at grills and smokers.

No more saying "Sure, I'd love to" when I mean "Oh GOD NO!!! Please just shoot me in the head." No more listening to you talk smack on the people I love and know and have entrusted with large parts of my seriously fractured heart... you will never damage their street-cred with me. It's not up for debate and I will die defending them... defending this. No more letting you have the last swig of milk or my entire paycheck. Yep. It's not going to be all that fun to be you, here on the front end, but I am done needing your approval. I really do believe it will work best for all of us if I do this right. And, now. Right now.

I'd absolutely love it if you continued to love me or like me or whatever, and I just get to try this deal where I take care of me like I tried to take care of you. There is a body of evidence to support the notion that I did pretty good work taking care of you. Pretty good.

I'm done letting the past have all the power and think it can still call any of my shots. I'm old. I'm smart. I'm done with this shit. We can't change any of that stuff that happened before - all those miles we put on our engines - Yay, us! We rock. It is seriously cool to be us. Right now. We are some very lucky humans.

I am sincere when I say, I very much hope you want to come along and see what is around this next bend and over the hill with me. I have reason to believe it is going to be a kind of coolness unlike any that has ever come before it.

We are not going to look backwards on this adventure - there is no need because we know where we've been. For real. Look at all that stuff you know, it's right there.

And (total bonus!) - we get to be a hundred times smarter for each one of those lessons we got to grab. BooYA!

Now, C'mon. Let's go. Daylight's burning.

This One Thing

2010-06-24T10:59:00.003-05:00

If it came to pass that I had to pick only one thing to pass along to the generations that will follow mine, it would be this:

Embrace your inner-agnostic. It's not like it's going to kill you to try, so learn that it is okay for us all to find our hope in different deities. Stop killing each other because you are fighting a war rooted in religion. And, just in case you didn’t know it yet: They are almost ALL rooted in religion and almost always have been.

Treat others the way you would want to be treated yourself, not because you believe in a higher power, who either will or will not hold you accountable, but because you know instinctively that it is the right thing to do.

Accept that there are going to be as many different ways to play nicely as there are people on this planet, and if we all just started being reasonable we could start the process of stopping this silliness.

Surely we’ve evolved enough by now to realize that there have to be better ways to share this space and quit sending our sons and daughters out to fight wars where nobody walks away a winner. We have to be nearing the time when we start to realize that these wars are extracting enormous costs and just yielding more wars. Seriously. We've walked on the moon, we can talk on telephones that aren't attached to a wall and we have toasters. How hard can it be?

There is little (like, zero...zip) evidence to support the notion that we are out-growing this need to eliminate each other in the name of “God” or “Allah” or “The Flying Spaghetti Monster” (or whomever) and we are frighteningly over-due for some critical thinkers to stare directly into the eyes of this one and suggest change, plot a course and motivate the masses to lean into it.

Play nice, no biting, no knife-play and quit trying to kill each other in the name of a deity who may or may not exist. Learn to share your stuff, your land, your water, your freedom and your ideals. Do not expect everyone to agree with you and see that for the thing of beauty that it is.

Embrace the differences, kids... play nice.

*Please note that this is IN NO WAY directed towards the people who are actually doing the bidding, suffering and dying for the people in power who call the shots. In my world, soldiers will occupy a place in heaven that will be much more comfy than the rest.*

How to best explain it....

2010-06-15T18:16:00.002-05:00

I am writing from a beautiful, octagonal screened-in porch just outside of Freeman, Missouri. I am sitting at a pretty dang big round table with a few plants and some of my favorite things. My chair has padding and that makes my ass so happy I could swear I hear it singing out here.

I am eating a medium rare piece of steak that George whipped up last night on a piece of real San Francisco Sourdough bread that he just got in San Fran a couple days ago. I'd never had anything like it. I also didn't even know that I liked steak - it makes a difference when you don't ask the cooks to cremate it. I've got a side of this seafood bisque (containing crabs that George wrangled up near Maine, I believe) and a moderately fresh Dr.Pepper.

I'm alternating between some old-school Nelly, Wilco and The Ink Spots on my most perfect Pandora station.

Clearly, yet again, it rocks to be me.

But, since I've fielded so many questions about where I'm at and what I'm doing, I've chosen to just toss this one teeny weeny blog entry to what does not (in my humble opinion) maintain the integrity of Blog-osity that I hope for.

So, when it's done and you're digesting: We'll all just go back to pretending like this never happened. Okay?

I have been in Freeman, MO for one entire week now. Some days it feels like I've been here about 20 minutes, and some others it feels as though I've had years to establish this level of comfort I'm getting familiar with.

It kind of rocks to not be sleeping in a corner of the office where I work or under a bridge or on a sofa in a dorm room or the porch of an abandoned house. I have a real bed with fantastic sheets and if I'm so inclined I can go inside and feel all the frosty cold air-conditioning any girl could ever ask for.

My job in Perry, KS at the lumber mill was ill-fated from the beginning and had finally run it's course while I was in North Carolina meeting my grand daughter. I know I did more good for that business than anyone other than the owner (and the family he loved, who had undoubtedly made tremendous sacrifices) had ever done. I stand by my belief that I did the best I could every day and good things happened. The details surrounding the end of that film do not bear sharing. There was no blood-shed and I didn't bury any bodies.

My friend Loree was kind enough to take me under her wing for the two months it took me to figure out that I needed to figure something out. During these two months I decided, consciously, to see if I could do the kind of good for me (and my abilities as a writer and artist) that I'd done for the people who signed my paychecks. I had whored my soul, body and mind out to these entities for the 40 years before this, so it stood to reason that this might work.

I have been writing like a mad woman (and, yes - that was not some accidental or Freudian slip, I know ~ and am fine with ~ you thinking I AM a mad woman anyways, so no harm no fowl. OR is that foul? I've always wondered and have always ridden the Short Bus to Cliche School.) I have now disciplined myself to spend about half the time and energy I had spent on my last job on ME. Just me.

This effort has not come without a whole lot of dragging, kicking and screaming. For reasons that I haven't been able to accurately define yet - I have always equated self-promotion with narcissism and arrogance. I have had to fight me the whole way on this one. Every single post that I share, or tweet that I complete that has anything to do with making you (the reader, and probably my aunt) like me has made me look for some Tums or Motrin. Just makes me a little sick.

God, that just looks pathetic in print. But, there's a recipe for this kind of thing and by virtue of the Internet, I found the map and have done every single thing that was advised. Well, okay - not EVERY single thing, but all the ones I could stomach. There are still things I "have" to do, or have been advised to do, but I'd rather drive red-hot pokers in my eyes than engage in that kind "LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!" tomfoolery.

None of this progress would not have been possible without my real and chosen families. My support system seems to be growing every day (from LA to Ohio and NC to Edinburgh and Beijing) and I cannot explain why and do not care to try. There are many people who have saved my lily-white backside from certain death by will. They've endured my tears, my lack of sense, my pain from events that shaped me and happened too many years ago and they have picked me up and provided pillows to soften the falls.

I have now landed in a place where I have been offered an amazingly comfortable place to call home - a place that feels like the first respite I've had in almost a decade. And, better yet: It does not feel like anybody is doing me any favors and I do not feel like I am taking advantage of generous kindness.

I have suddenly become surrounded by writers and artists and entrepreneurs (with actual morals, very unlike the entrepreneurs of my youth) and we feed on each other daily. You should check out my friend David's book: From Abba to Zoom or look for Toni Lee Gould's work: The Excellent Miss Keller (soon to be released) or my friend Stephanie Gallichia or my cousin Cheri's poetry. You should also see some of the art that my friend Lynne is producing in Howard, KS... and David Bonfiglio... so many, too many to mention.

They have become friends through a myriad of ways, and some I get to hug in person - some I have to wait a bit to hug. Some I have known forever and some I have never met. They have brains and they know how to use them. They don't speak ill of people, they don't talk about the sex lives of movie stars and they (and a few others, like Mr. Culp) have been more than giving of their time and critiques. They are honest and have no reason or motivation to blow smoke up my skirt if they think they are reading insipid trash.

I've maintained three different blogs for varying lengths of time. My stats (the numbers, the metrics) have remained pretty abysmal for quite some time, and I wasn't losing any real sleep over it (because I really do get that I am but one little tiny voice amidst the millions) and I had done nothing to promote them (except to the few cousins and aunts I have left, and because they are family, I knew it unlikely that they would even tell me if I sucked.)

Two weeks ago, my combined numbers for all three blogs were hovering at about 900 hits per week with an average length of stay at about 3 minutes. That certainly didn't make me the rock star that I hope to one day become, but it was way better than double digit numbers with 2 minute stays for the last year or so.

I pulled my numbers on Sunday and literally almost fell off my chair. Combined numbers for all three blogs showed that I had over 10,500 hits in one week and the average stay was between 4 and 7 minutes. I don't expect you to get this, but for somebody to park on your site for anything longer than 3 minutes is just short of a miracle. For my numbers to jump so dramatically is simply inexplicable. And, I may have a big family, but it's not THAT big.

I have started posting on the Daily Kos (a more politically oriented web site with crazy mad wicked numbers that you wouldn't believe) and have been a "Daily Recommendation" 2 of the 4 times I posted. Go check it out, see how many posts they have daily. For me to get their "Thumbs up" on half of what I have posted is, again, a miracle.

There are more stories like this, but some have not come to fruition yet, so I'm not going to tell you about them. The most important part of this whole story is this: I may have been born to be a writer. I have written, and I mean this literally, since I was a child. I started the very first newspaper at my grade school (Blessed Sacrament.)

Out of necessity, I became a proof-reader in 2nd grade (my dad was an information man just building his empire and breeding for help - not children, so much.) I have wanted a lot of other things for a lot of other people, but I have just now learned that it is more than okay to want some things for myself. I want to see me succeed. I want to see me be able to buy my loved ones thoughtful gifts. I want to take them on trips and to good restaurants.

I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you.

And, that 45 mile walk a couple weeks ago.

I am fine. I have a home and I eat meat and more vegetables than I knew were even possible to consume.

Sometimes I have a few beers (I'm ridiculously wasted at Number 4, so I do mean "a few.") I'd still smoke pot if it just walked right up to the front door and offered itself to me. But, I'm not going to burn any calories making it happen.

I have learned to love cooked brussel sprouts (Thanks, Cecilia!) and cooked spinach (Thanks, George!) and I relish the long and late meals filled to the brim with stimulating conversations and food that makes my mouth get all jiggy with it.

I am accountable to the people who have invested in me and their investment best not be wasted. I have a job to do. Many jobs. And, I'll always be right here.

I am no longer vilifying myself for my short-comings and I am not going to repeat the mistakes I got to watch my mother make. She was a saint, but she sure didn't need to take that kind of shit - not from anyone, least of all her husband and son.

I think this is what is meant by the term "evolution." And, the legacy I leave my grandchildren will not be found in the nice cars or expensive educations I provided for them, rather in the fact that I survived and got a little bit better than those who broke this ground before me.

Questions?

Good then. I think we've covered the subject matter, and thanks - I am fine fine fine.

Strangers, Soldiers and Stories

2010-06-11T09:33:00.004-05:00

A couple days ago I was blessed with a spot of travel. Granted, it was on a bus (which I had summarily written off three years ago when I was the only English speaking person who had showered recently on a completely packed bus) ~ but I am over it. I love to travel. I have become a person who embraces travel for a multitude of reasons. Not the least of which is this: I like to talk to strangers.

More accurately, I like to listen to strangers. I have been a person who attracts strangers with stories for the last 35 years. I used to waste time wondering why it is that so many people told me so many stories, but I have finally quit caring and begun to just enjoy.

I was sitting outside the bus station in Wichita, KS for a couple hours because my ride was running late. If you've never gotten to experience sitting outside a bus station (totally different from train stations and airports,) you ought to try it some time. It puts you in touch with your humility and vulnerability better than just about anyplace else on earth. And, you'll eventually stop noticing the aroma, it's not that bad.

There was a young man (younger than my children) who had gotten off one bus and had been standing so old ladies like me could have one of the very few seats available. He was holding a pillow with a perfectly white pillow case, carrying a small paper bag with what couldn't have been much in it, and had his plaid, short-sleeved, snap-down-the-front shirt swung over his forearm. He was wearing a black wife-beater which allowed for a stunning visual treat of his tattoos.

He had GOOD over his heart, near his left shoulder, and BAD just opposite that. They were both done in that popular gangster Latinish script and were huge. He had tribal bands on both arms and looked like he was working his way towards full sleeves on both sides. He had a gorgeous piece of Spencerian script on his neck (tell me THAT didn't hurt like a mofo) that said "Understanding."

He had the short coif that could have easily been seen as an Army Doo, but it was the heart of America so he could have just as easily been a farm hand. He had these eyes that had clearly seen way too much. It's not like they were sad or desperate or lonely. I just got the impression that he had seen too much for a boy so young.

At some point he borrowed my lighter and told me that he was headed to Iowa to see his family for the first time in 5 years. Without even thinking about it, I asked him how long he had served.

He looked surprised that I knew he had been on tour.

He had just completed his second and was given one month to go back to hug his mama and brothers and decide if he was going to return for a third tour of duty.

I asked him if he was okay and I thanked him. I congratulated him on his ability to keep his limbs and survive what I can only imagine to be a kind of hell that nobody but our soldiers know.

He told me all about his mom and his two brothers and their home in a town so small it wasn't even incorporated. He told me about riding horses through pastures when he was young. He told me about his cousin's new baby boy.

Our ride arrived and we boarded. We didn't sit by each other because the bus was only half full and we both wanted to lay down on those two seats and sleep our ways to other places.

When it came time to get off, I was standing and looking polite and patient (just like my mom taught me) and was not expecting anyone in the line to pause and let me out. It's the unspoken protocol of travel - you don't cut in front of people disembarking.

We made eye contact and smiled and he motioned for me to go ahead and get in front of him. I gave him a peace sign and nodded thanks. As we shuffled our way off the bus (which does actually take more than a minute) he leaned in behind me and said, "I have to go back. I know I am lucky to have lived and still be walking and using both my hands. I know this is going to make my mother cry, but I have to do it."

For the first time since our country has gone to war I understood. Immediately thereafter I experienced a level of gratitude that I had never felt before and I wanted to thank (and hug) his mom.

I really wished I'd gotten his name.

Wondering how Marlboro will do without me

2010-05-24T11:01:00.000-05:00

I am a biter today.

I wouldn't get too close.

Yesterday I decided to quit smoking. I gave it a good solid year of consideration (just to make sure that there really was no merciful God who would kill before I had to endure the pain of saying goodbye to my only 30-year constant companion) and it is time.

Nevermind that I couldn't hold notes for longer than 4 counts or that going up 3 flights of stairs made me wheezy. Never mind the teeth, the wrinkles and that hideous smell. Never mind the cost and inconvenience (try air and train travel as an addicted smoker sometime for the purest study in frustration.)

Nevermind all of that. The thing that finally got me was knowing that I am not this stupid. Seriously. I am way not this stupid and I know better. I've known better for about as long as I've smoked, but I'm freaking done with it.

I'm done with you, Marlboro. I threw all your stuff on the lawn and filed a restraining order. You'd best not show up around these parts again or my uncles and brothers will find you.

Thanks for nothing.

Git.

We have nothing to discuss.

I Promised that I'd tell you A Story.

2010-05-16T19:32:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time there was a young and overly-ambitious young man who wanted to be successful at something so badly he learned to lie like none other. His name was Jack. He had the charm, on which they based the saying "He could charm the birds down out of the trees." He was a snappy dresser and a Master of Personal Revisionist History.

For all intents and purposes, Jack’s moral governor was not properly aligned. He was smart as a whip and clever and resourceful and mostly, completely lacking in basic, fundamental integrity. This is not to say that he wasn’t capable of insane displays of generosity when given the opportunity. He could be totally crazy that way. This is not as much a character indictment as it is a statement of truth.

Somehow, through a mysterious and circuitous chain of events that involved global travel, cruise lines, aviation and photography, Jack found himself in a position of being of value to his country by virtue of the vast amount of information he had amassed in his head.

Truth be told, this ambitious information pioneer didn't exactly find himself there all by himself. His path to service was paved with something about something and lying to NASA and getting hired and then avoiding federal prosecution. It was ugly. His craftiness had landed him in a really tight spot.

(Only for the sake of some back story, what follows is the way that the NASA deal ended:

The wife in this story was named Maggie (Magdelene Rose O'Shaughnessey) and she was about as innocent as a Midwest girl in 1959 would be. She had just traded in her big old Irish-Catholic, family-rich life in the Strawberry Hill section of Kansas City for a man who swept her off her feet with the promise of his potential and the dream of the life they would build together. She thought he was handsome and he had a great head of hair. He was mysterious and used words she didn't yet know, what girl didn’t totally fall for that kind of intrigue?

He had established himself as a solid aviation photographer, historian and information man. He just reeked of promise. He had recently been hired by NASA and their future together was, clearly, so bright. They loaded everything they had in her father's old car and moved to Cape Caneveral, Florida. (Hired by NASA! This was the Top of the Cool Job Food Chain in 1960. It got no cooler than that.)

Not long into their stay in Florida, while still in the hotel that was their home before they found their house, this wife answered a knock on the door to find a military general - or something with stars - standing on her porch. He told her to get her jacket and her purse because she had to take a meeting.

She got to ride in a limousine for the first time in her life. They took her to a big meeting room, in an even bigger, anonymous building, where some apparently powerful and absolutely humorless men sat at a silly-huge table with nothing but an envelope sitting on it. This seemed like over-kill cubed and made her way uneasy.

Once settled around this inordinately huge table, the men in uniforms took turns telling the story of a man who was in deep trouble, for what could be a long time, because he’d lied about some pretty important things and tricked them. They weren't happy.

She said it smelled like a library that had just been scrubbed to within an inch of it's life with Pine Sol and at some point she looked down and realized that she was still wearing this ivory and lavender apron she got from Aunt Ellie at her wedding shower.

They used words like "Sociopathic, insidious" and "nefarious." These men said that he was not who she thought he was and that his ability to tell such convincing lies and keep such deep secrets made them fearful of any future she may forge with him. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this moment… for this kind of deception.

They handed her the envelope that had been sitting on the table and told her the limo driver would help her pack because they were flying her back home to her parents. They said that they would arrange for the annulment of her marriage.

She considered their generous offer for quite some time, but acquiesced to her family priest who reminded her that it's really impossible to obtain a divorce unless you can live without the love of your unforgiving God. God had a pretty strict "No Divorce" policy in the 60's and Maggie had not been comfortable with taking the Suits up on their generous offer - she wouldn’t go back to save face.

She had oversold Jack to her family because she was a muse and hopeful that way. She believed in the potential and payed little heed to reality. They had essentially been sponsored by her family from the start of their union, she ran damage control and kept her head down.

Almost a year later, Jack showed back up to reclaim his life and offered no good explanations as to where he had been or why. She had been counseled to offer no resistance and make no inquisitions, so she complied.)

He had a 10 year history of this appearing and disappearing routine, and during this time - somehow - amassed a small (really, like, teeny weeny) fortune. He was able to build a pretty big information empire with this little fortune, but he always seemed to answer to an unknown and unidentifiable Man.

The home they cultivated was never without someone from another country, The Slavians and French spoke broken English. They were Hungarians, Brits, Irish, Japanese, Scottish and Swiss, usually. They talked for hours, over long and rich meals ending in expensive liquors and Cuban cigars.

It was early in the Camelot Years and the country was confident and hopeful. The lines that separated patriotism and subversion weren’t so clearly defined. Our country needed inquiring minds in special studies – aviation was just one of them.

It’s not unreasonable to think that he may have not been lying.

Right before their first baby was born they had a ginormous fight about Cuban currency and cigars she found in a closet.

She always said that The Bay of Pigs is where it all began.

There's your story.
Now git.

Call Your Mom.

2010-05-07T14:47:00.004-05:00

Contrary to popular public opinion, Mother's Day is not a Hallmark Holiday cooked up by opportunists hoping to seize their share of your expendable income. It is not a capitalistically contrived holiday desinged to feed the already wicked-crazy floral, conflict diamond and greeting card industries.
Oh no, it is much more than that and actually has roots in history that predates our civilized nation.
Egyptians, Greeks & Europeans celebrated women and the birth of new life in spring for centuries. When the Roman Empire converted to Christianity, during the 16th century, they built a day called "Mothering Sunday" so their domestic servants could visit thier families. (I think this was mostly because some mothers got together, drank a little wine, got mad as hell and said they weren't going to take it anymore.)
It's spring, we're women... we can MAKE BABIES, for god-sake.
(Okay, we get help. But, we do all the heavy lifting.)
We want to see our kids and know that our time here was not for naught.
On May 9, 1914, Woodrow Wilson passed a law designating the second Sunday in May as Mother's Day and requested a proclamation making it so. American citizens were asked to fly a flag in honor of all mothers who had lost a son in war.
Our wars aren't so cut and dried anymore but I would still fly a flag anyways.
The things that mothers get to think about these days, the fires they get to help stomp out, were probably grandfathered into a clause when the day was decreed. The statue of limitations on motherhood never ends.

Happy Mother's Day.

No cards, flowers or diamonds are necessary, just give me a call.

Surrounding Hate & Forcing it's Surrender

2010-05-03T11:48:00.006-05:00

Today is the day Pete Seeger turns 91 years old. I think of him often, even when it's not his birthday, because he is one of the most high-impact humans I've ever gotten to spend an afternoon with.

I know he is not my grandpa but it sure feels like he's my grandpa.

The time I spent with him put a permanent whammy on the way I saw things and made me appreciate the impact that one little person can have on another. He personified what I imagine to be a life spent with no regrets and solid persistence.

The circumstances surrounding this meeting were full of best friends, road-trip adventures, moon shine, musical instruments and oppressively hot July days in Okemah, OK at the Woody Guthrie Folk Festival.

It had to have been 108 degrees with 100% humidity. We sat on the ground by the library, under some 60-year old trees in the park. Pete moved with ease and was the most authentic and comfortable guy I'd ever gotten to share time with. He had on a red plaid, snap-down-the-front, cowboy shirt, a white straw cowboy hat and a pair of Wranglers. He strolled with his banjo like somebody who had survived 80 years of life. It felt like he knew, more than any of the rest of us, the significance of our time spent together. It felt like he had an obligation to tell us stuff. He made us feel important, somehow.

He leaned up against the porch wall with his banjo and just started in. He talked a lot about Tom Paxton, Ramblin' Jack Elliott, Woody Guthrie, his wife, his kids and their kids. He talked about Rosa Parks, The Hudson Bay Restoration Project, the second Red Scare and Libraries.

He would pick up his banjo every so often to play a piece of a song to illustrate or punctuate his point, and then never miss a beat as he set it back down beside him.

He explained in extreme detail what a saint his wife is. He said that in the early years, he was gone more than he was home. He painted a picture of a squat in the Appalachians.

He recalled looking up at her, in front of their home and she had a baby in her arms, a baby in the oven and a toddler wrapped around her legs. He knew she'd have to haul water, but he knew he had to do this.
He was able to perfectly convey the desperation, passion and necessity of every painful departure. He is a gracious story-teller who left out few details. You could feel a version of what he felt.

You could see the hope in his eyes as he told the stories he's probably told a thousand times.

He is polite (always please and thank you) and methodical (no willy-nilly moves or words) And, he is so comfortable in his own skin that he makes others in his company more comfortable, as well.

Seeger has that little bit of Magic and a strength of conviction that the history books may speak of but nobody can really know if they haven't spent an afternoon with him. For those who have gotten to do this and understand the significance, there is an obligation to share it. It's about cultivating a garden of ideas and actions to make the world a better place.

Sew some seeds of hope and grow a little passion.

If you are not familiar with Pete Seeger and his lifetime of work - celebrate his birthday with me and go learn!

Sometimes It Helps to Be Lucky

2010-04-26T21:24:00.002-05:00

I used to go to the Bluegrass Festival in Winfield, KS for about 20 years. It offered the most comfortable and familiar collection of people and songs for me and met my annual vacation needs. I flitted about and didn't sleep and probably consumed and sang too much. It was sorta that place where everybody knew my name.

This one year I went I had this really big African-ish purse thing that I carried everywhere, I remember that I could fit a really small baby or medium sized dog in there. It was awesome.

I also had one green bic lighter.

(And, that is usually how I rolled into the Pecan Grove. If I'd done it all legally, I'd have thrown down a couple bones and had a tent and coolers and whatnot. But - I almost never had the money so I tended to just casually stroll into the event and trade stuff for sustenance.)

For the duration of my 10-day stay, I took that purse everywhere and left it sitting around a lot.

I remember lots of times somebody would say "Hey! I've got a green bic lighter! Who's IS this?"

The answer was always that it was mine, just throw it in my bag.

It seemed like this happened often, but when you don't sleep much - a lot gets lost in the translation.

When I finally picked the bag up to head home, it seemed like it weighed a ton, but a lot had happened so I didn't think much about it.

After I slept for a couple days, I dumped that bag to clean it out.

There were 37 green bic lighters in there.

Yep. 37.

For real.

Over-Stimulated Much?

2010-04-23T19:24:00.002-05:00

Some number of years ago I got to live through a series of things that solidified my belief in the Insanity by Over-stimulation theory. For the sake of today's argument, I learned that if a person is in ICU for too long, they get something called ICU Psychosis. As it was explained to me at the time - You just kinda lose your mind because you are completely over-stimulated and physically (therefore – spiritually, emotionally, financially) compromised.
The sounds and the lights never go away. Your brain is just unable to rest and regroup – it gets mushy. I've seen it's dirty-work and it is some wicked stuff. My dad thought I was Ronald Regan for months.
Now, it is some years later and there's a chance I can see the forest through the trees.
Today's theory is that we're not all the way jacked-up and crazy, we're just freaking over-stimulated. Too much to do, to see, to say and it all has to happen right.this.instant.
I haven’t met anyone over the age of 10 without their own cell phone, for about three years. This is crazy. I’m an adult and only barely need to have a cell phone. I know it’s a big old scary world out here, but why on earth would a 10 year old need a phone? Really?
I heard tale of a 14 year old girl who sent 60,000 texts in one month and her daddy could not have been any more proud. If you break that down, there’s 43,200 minutes in a 30-day period, so she’d have to be getting more than one text a minute for every minute of that month.
That’s just crazy talk.
How does she have time to study, sleep or touch her Real Life humans? Seriously. And, we’re supposed to be, like, commissioning grants to find out why we have “At-Risk” kids? These caricatures of American life are embarrassing the rest of us. We can’t really be this stupid, can we?
I’ve seen too many kids cutting their teeth on a steady diet of Grand Theft Auto and new episodes of “Cheaters” (Reality Trash TV.) I’m thinking we may have forgotten how to step up and turn devices off. Parents abdicate responsibility with cries of “Not enough time” and that is totally not cool.
That leaves 24/7/365 availability of constant stimulation and nobody able to step up and suggest alternatives (books, hills, creeks, conversations & meals) or take any action to make it better.
I think the immediacy of all these “tools” begets much of the trouble - there is nothing organic or natural about it. When phones ring and emails drop in, they sort-of implicitly require our immediate attention. It really does feel a little hysterical sometimes. Like, really, what will happen if you can’t be reached for maybe a day? What could possibly happen?
Have you ever tried to pry a mid-game Gameboy out of some kid’s hands? It’s ugly, believe me. These little people are urgent and pressured – they are hysterical. (And that, my friend, is what screaming tantrums on the floor at Walmart are built upon. Ugliness.)
It’s like we are becoming incapable of just being in the moment and seeking out a solid spontaneous belly-laugh. That sure doesn't feel very authentic to me.
Kinda makes me wanna take a shower.
We’re really not meant to be this crazy or this stupid. We just may need to start a revolution to prove it. I suspect there are steps we can take to prevent the further jello-fication of this generation.
Own your electronics and don’t let them own you. You really can control what you allow yourself to do and see. (I know this is just inching right up on some kind of personal responsibility and self-discipline screed, but I’m saving some of that for later.)
Just turn your stuff off - All of it and sit and have a conversation with someone.
Or, sit and don’t have a conversation, be alone and quiet.
Maybe it’s just that simple.
That would be sweet.
If it were that simple.

Hey! Lets go out back and play some Scrabble....
It could just be this simple.

A Nod to Self Reliance

2010-04-19T12:36:00.001-05:00

I have almost an entire lifetime spent in promotion. I remember promoting my first tree house and tire swing and building a solid case as to why they should happen. I also directed and tirelessly promoted many Rogue Neighborhood Theater productions around this same time.
Off, off, way off Broadway stuff - built around the props found in the garage. But stellar stand-alone productions, complete with refreshments, merchandising and ushers.
I remember talking Blessed Sacrament into letting me publish the very first BS Barons School Newsletter in the history of time. I remember the smell of the mimeograph machine just as clearly as the endless hours I spent laying out a 6 page newsletter by hand. Talk about old-school - I had rulers and rub-off letters and lay-out boards that I actually touched.
The next forty years or so were spent in promoting an endless succession of businesses, lovers, writers, children, artists, musicians and restaurants. I am genetically engineered to be a Cheerleader-For-Hire. I shared a bedroom with a Xerox machine the size of a Volkswagen until I was in the 5th grade. (My father was an information technology and aerospace journalism pioneer, so it's not like I bought it with my own money that I'd saved from baby-sitting.)
When you grow up the eldest child of a family-run business, you learn the trade.
For me that meant lots of hours with letters and numbers. I got to proof-read and produce copy. I touched and processed lots of paper. I did direct-mail campaigns when I was a girl-scout. I learned about aviation too, but that was secondary to just learning how to learn about what ever I wanted. I learned how to find stuff. It's a pretty useful skill here in the 8th inning.
It's not like I've tired of learning about new and cool things to promote. Seriously, that's what I do. I just have to try this one thing...
I've done my research and can safely say that I don't suck half as much as I could.
I have quantifiable results on my awesomeness.
Just so you know: From my initial post on facebook and 5 subsequent re-posts, I got 298 hits in 6 days. I know that doesn't mean I should be hiring help, but it's encouraging.
The average length of stay was 6 minutes.
That is an excellent ROI.
I'll be here watching my disdain for shameless self-promotion beat the shit out of my innate need for nutrition.
This should be good.
Grab a chair.
My money's going on nutrition.

Whatchoo Lookin' At?

2010-04-17T16:43:00.003-05:00

Through the beauty and power of facebook, I have become the girl who gets to explain where the last 10 years have gone.

Seriously. It was just easier to keep on moving and figure that the sweeping arm of the radar would never find me. It's not like I'd killed anybody or needed some kind of witness relocation work, I just needed to keep moving to push through.

People keep strolling into this life and tossin' their feet up onto my coffee table and asking how my kids are. I never thought I'd see 'em again. I'm bringing fresh drinks to some people who I've not met yet. I so didn't really expect the world to shrink down to the size of a postage stamp.

Then I try and summarize the last 10 years or so.

It's a kind-of captivatingly tragic story full of Machiavellian plots, bloodshed, loss of life and limb, polygamy, Swiss bank accounts, swat teams, the CIA, poor timing, unrequited love, six-fingered-father-killing bandits, babies, sex/drugs/rock'n'roll, eating with hobos by the river and cracking crab in 5-star restaurants. It's got all the twists and turns that we have come to expect in the course of a well-lived 2010 kinda life.

In the end I find myself trying to build the most consolidated version of what I've been up to that I've ever tried to build.

I dealt with an inordinate amount of death. I never saw that coming, I didn't think I had the patience. But, it's just how it worked out and I rose to the challenge every time. Plenty of people died on my clock and that is as it was supposed to be. I survived.

I cleaned out 17 garages in 8 states and held 13 garage sales. Apparently, I have a gift for helping people part with their stuff. I organize and alphabetize. I can speak enough Spanish to trade $600 for an air-conditioner and I understand the Dewey Decimal System on a fundamental level - this helps. I can also use a hand-held calculator to good effect. I have recycled enough stuff to fill a warehouse.

I wrote a whole bunch of words. I wrote on napkins and on the Internet. I sold some words and didn't sell a whole bunch more. I am a writer. I'm a whole lot of other stuff too, but I am a writer just like I'm a white girl born in middle-American in the 60's with blue eyes. I am a trained journalist and rebel.

I've traveled through almost every state in America. Yea... I hitch-hiked from Craigslist mostly. Yea... I know it sounds dangerous, but I always did my research and made sure I wasn't catching rides with serial killers. It was my Off-The-Grid research period.

Seriously.
It worked out great for almost 30,000 miles worth of rides. There was that one time when it went real poorly, just outside Salt Lake City. But, I had a fork and I won. That was one of my last rides.

Apply the law of averages: I was safer doing this than bungee jumping. And, I'm still alive - so it must have been all good. I met some amazingly different people. I saw most of the country. I had some great meals.

I busked. I did street music in lots of big cities and smaller college towns. I sang on street corners and made enough bank to sometimes sleep in a really nice hotel and drink import beer and sometimes save up to buy a train ticket to somewhere else. I learned the secret science of the street performer and it worked out great.
I sang "You Are My Sunshine" 4.25 million times. I'm not proud.

From this endeavor, I often met people who 1) Needed their garage cleaned out, 2) Had a small child who wanted to learn how to play guitar, or 3) They were hungry and wanted to break bread.

Usually, either No.1 or No. 2 would happen over a good meal. I met some amazing humans and stayed in some good and safe places.

I've watched so many families interact and survive and love and forgive and it's just been an invaluable trip. I've seen autism and dementia and MS and ALS, PMS, OCD, ADHD, (and every other currently popular acronym) and cancer. Lots and LOTS of cancer. And Methamphetamines, there is lots of Meth out here hiding in the most unexpected places.

I served as a cheerleader for the underdog. I sold-out to enterprises needing good words. I create spin. I've written and learned about a lot of things. Some of those things were agenda-driven. Some of them were not.

That is what I've been up to for the last ten years. I still haven't been able to break it down to a 3-minute-elevator rap, but there's still time.

(I would be remiss if I didn't admit to also being a hovering, satellite parent. Over the last ten years, a big part of my time has been devoted to being a parent. Albeit, an unconventional parent, I am here because I wanted to make sure they were eating right. The orbit I have in cyberspace was born of an innate need to know how my kids are. So, I've been here. Doing this.)

Pushing the Muse

2010-04-15T15:49:00.002-05:00

When you're consciously trying to make yourself do something, it's much harder than just letting it occur organically.

Remember your very first kiss? The one where you both knew that was the moment for your first kiss and you were all conscious of it and you didn't want to look a fool, and you weren't sure how to tilt your head? That moment?

The one where you were just thinking about it too much?
That one?

There have certainly (hopefully) been all those other moments and kisses where you had no idea that was going to happen and took you so by surprise. Nobody was at the steering wheel. You had drained the brake fluid and you were going 100 on an open highway with no headlights at midnight.
Those moments.

It's all about letting stuff happen organically, whispers and brushes and serendipity.

I abhor rules and deadlines and boundaries in pursuits of passion and have managed to meet a lifetime of creativity head-on by simply being moved by my Muse. She works (and produces) over-time.

I've never made a living at it, but I've had way more years rolling this way than not. I've created some pretty amazing people and stuff, I'm fine with the body of work and biology I would leave to the planet when I go. I have had deadlines and I've met them, I will probably just never like them all that much.

The Muse? Yea, don't even get me started on her.She won't return my calls.

My proclivity towards procrastination kicks into high gear when I know I've got something pressing on the front burner. I really don't like this inclination, but at least I know it's there. And, I do some stunning work in trying to make myself believe that I'm not procrastinating. So, there's that.

I almost always make deadline, but almost always tie up some days in revision too. I tweak stuff. I fluff and pick and re-arrange till it's just fine.

With each passing spin around the sun it becomes more clear that I'm not going to be an accountant or an astronaut. Highly unlikely that I'll marry into a higher station in life and more crazy-talk to think that I can conform enough to work a government job.

That's cool. Me and my Muse - we'll be right here. Dodging, spinning and bending with the occasional selling-out thrown in for good measure.

We're always available for hire, it's like Rent-a-Cheerleader, really.
It's best to let us get hungry though, because, you see, we work much better when we're a little scared and almost starving.

In spite of the Muse's obstinance, we can make stuff happen in a heartbeat. She might be a fickle bitch, but you don't wanna try and move her plate when she's hungry. She bites.

All the hours logged sitting on the back of a flat-bed Malathion-soaked Dodge half-ton truck at sunset and being lost and unable to see the horizon in downtown Chicago have yielded some fine, fine writing.

I'd call me.

What Would You Say, After 25 Years?

2010-02-28T18:43:00.002-06:00

March 2nd, 2010

Hey Tom,
Imagine my surprise at seeing you resurface after 25 years.
Sounds like you’ve had an interesting and full life. I’m glad you’re finding peace, comfort and basic necessities in Denver. I’m glad you’re warm and fed. I’m glad to hear that you’re working towards resolution.

I have started, erased and deleted, re-written and thought about this letter (almost exclusively) for the last 10 days. Sorry it’s taken me so long to respond – Apparently I had to work through just a whole shit ton of emotions that I thought I’d bedded down years ago. I find myself at the end of this day just being grateful that you have such great biology. We built some amazing humans. Our kids are Rock Stars.
The time we spent together shaped me in fundamental ways that guided my course for years. Maybe it still does, truth be told. If I think too much about it, even still, it makes me a little uneasy. I was just a kid. I’m glad you’ve come away with softened edges. Until I got your letter I hadn’t realized that my edges had softened. I’m thankful for so much.
I shit you not when I say: Justin and Chelsea are seriously and for real the most amazing humans I’ve ever met.
Both kids were always (and seriously. I mean ALWAYS) straight A kids in school. They were active in student government, they were in accelerated learning programs their whole lives, they had huge bodies of friends who all seemed to like our house best, they did theater things and sports things and lots of crazy things. They’re nuts.
They were a constant source of joy and support for me.
Chelsea was going to be a nun once for a minute. My dad made the kids go to Blessed Sacrament. It was a horribly disfiguring car-wreck for JT and Chelsea hung rosaries by all of our beds and built little grottos for the Blessed Virgin Mary. In the end, I sent them both to public schools and they excelled beyond belief.
We were in Papa Z’s pocket for so many (arguably, too many) years. He was a huge part of our lives. So was my mom, for that matter. So were your parents, for that matter. When you walked away you left a lot of smoking rubble in your wake. The upside is that the kids got lots of grandparent time.
They both went to every single dance that ever happened at their schools. JT was a player, as far as I can tell. He always had a body of cute girls dropping in. During his second semester of his freshman year he decided to wear expensive suits with ties, and carry a briefcase - just to mess with people. When the principal vetoed a long-honored tradition of a homecoming parade, he wrote a press release and was on all the TV news and above the fold on the B Section. He was a rogue street musician, pilot, international traveler and unbelievably clever prankster before he turned 15.
Chelsea is quite truly the most amazing, generous and chilled-out woman I’ve ever met. She’s brilliant, beautiful, strong and brave. She and Jonathan got together early in their sophomore year at East. So, he’s as much part of the family as anybody. He is an amazingly cool and chill (and gigantic) human. The first time he came to the door to take Chelsea on a date, I opened the door, slowly looked all the way up to his eyes and said, “Yea. Huh uh. You’re too big.” Chelsea was just a teeny-weeny cheerleader, he was some kinda football hero or something. Chelsea is our social pioneer. I think she could be president. In all probability though, I’m thinking she’ll do some kind of Ghandi-esque thing.
But, Seashell and Jon been together ever since. Their wedding was as big an ordeal as I’ve ever lived through in terms of Wedding Planning and Execution. It was so beautiful and perfect.
They are good and gracious people, Tom.
Neither Justin nor Chelsea has had to do without a whole lot, regardless of what they might tell you. JT still tells people that we were so poor I gave the kids cereal with water. WATER?!?! Seriously?!?! What’s up with that?!?!
We scrapped, we were homeless and we learned to dumpster dive. We lived in too many places for any of us to remember. We shot mice with bibi guns in the living room and we had a tipi in the backyard for a long time. But, I would never even try to make somebody eat cereal with water. It sure would have changed the course if you’d ever once paid child-support. That would have been something.
I thought I was so much bigger than this, but I have found myself thinking this: Seriously? You spend the better part of the past living in California raising pure-bred dogs and never once remembering that you’ve got obligations back in Kansas? How’d that work out for you?
But, now we are all clever, resourceful, respectful, thoughtful and empathetic humans. So I guess it’s all worked out well.
JT bought his first car online when he was 14 or 15 with money he saved from apprenticing as a glass blower one summer. That boy had some bank. He also waited tables and worked in a bike shop. Chelsea started working for my dad when she was still in grade school. I don’t know if you remember anything about my dad – but doing most anything with him required an abundant amount of patience. One time she was an Elf for Santa at the mall, and Santa was all creepy and making bizarre overtures towards her. She called and just said something like, “Um…yea. Somebody needs to come get me now from the mall, this job isn’t going to work out. Santa’s a perv.”
We went to the homeless shelters on the holidays to share food and music. They are well-rounded, well-traveled, well-read and socially conscious people. They are pretty amazing artists and unbelievably gifted writers (and researchers.)
They are my life’s’ work.
I was, by no measure a Poster Child for Amazing Mom-osity. I sucked out loud in ways that haven’t even been invented yet. I think that the fact we lived through it serves as testimony to my awesomeness though.
I went to college and sang to sold-out shows at the Coyote and played the Cotillion. I never missed a Bluegrass Festival in Winfield and my mom always kept the kids so I could have that one week every year with no responsibilities. I swore allegiance to people who didn’t have my best interest at heart and I’ve reaped unspeakably rich rewards from strangers. I got shot at and I slept in boxes in alleys. I’ve been a terrible disappointment and a well of joy. I’ve been betrayed by almost everyone to whom I am related by blood and I have always taken in every stray that shows up. Our colorful past helped pave the way for a reform of the stalking laws in Kansas.
I’ve nurtured, loved, grieved, nursed and entertained to the fullest extent of my abilities. Seven years ago my dad killed himself (after a 4 year global chase for his health) and then I found my best friend dead, and then my other best friend died unexpectedly of a staph infection in a hospital that was just supposed to give her a breathing treatment and THEN my mom’s lung cancer metastasized into brain cancer and she died. But, once I got a forever long standing ovation for singing three songs. And, I published stories above the fold and I laughed till I cried a lot more often than I just cried. So, maybe it all balances out.
Dude. I have no ill will. I would wish for you what I would wish for every other person who doesn’t currently piss me off: Good luck. Do it and do it like you mean it. Don’t leave any loose ends and clean up after yourself. Give back to those who have given to you and think happy thoughts. Life is really too short for anything else. Cowboy up. This matters. Make something of yourself and get on with it. Nobody at this table is getting any younger. I’ve buried way too many people and I know folks have a way of leaving unexpectedly. We have a job to do and I’m weary from carrying this load alone.
You procreated, Tom. We’re not done yet.
Peace out, homes.
Maureen

Is it Just Me?

2009-12-29T18:47:00.005-06:00

These pop-ups keep happening - and, besides being beyond annoying, I think they're some kinda subliminal plot to make us associate terrorists with Obama-rama or something.
Every single one of these has this same scary Al Qaeda looking guy with a caption that is something to the tune of "Obama Wants Mother's to Return to School!" or "Obama Unveils National Health Insurance Plan" but, they've got these uber-scary mug shots of some guys that I'm pretty sure were involved in 911 or something.
I'm just curious about the thinking behind these things, that's all.
Is it just me?

Death Before Dishonor

2009-12-27T20:31:00.007-06:00

Recently I had reason to engage in a conversation with my eldest child about family. We spoke like drunk Irishmen about the honor of a blood bond. We agreed that to leave any man behind was a treason worthy of gnashing teeth and grinding jaws.... Crushed bones to make some bread.
About the same time we were having this conversation I was in the process of finding the Sacred Family Christmas Recipes. I found my mom's handwriting for both the Danish Coffee Cake and the Crab Mold (horrible name, delightful dish) and my dad's handwriting for some salads and edits on mom's recipes. Just seeing their handwriting made me remember a whole bunch of different smells and colors of kitchens and aprons my mom wore and Old Spice cologne and a gigantic cat named Cinnamon.
It was the Camelot days of 1960s middle-class America and we were just coming into our Harvest Gold and Avocado Green period of selfish consumerism. We used Oleo that came in sticks and was kept in the icebox.
The family (on both sides) was huge then. The numbers were always higher in the Catholic German/Irish families, so when I say there were LOTS of people in the families, I mean, like. Tons. Whole trucks fulla them.
There were marriages, baptisms, First Communions, Confirmations, funerals, family reunions, gigs in nearby towns and a great ongoing list of reasons for us to meet up and eat and drink and smoke and spray paint the under side of highway bridges together.
We all grew up and the family grew larger, but the gatherings grew much less frequent. We all kept a thumb on each others' pulses by way of talking to our moms and siblings. It was the old days - before we had facebook. We had to walk uphill to school (both ways) with hot rocks in our pockets to keep warm and we paid by the minute for the Internet connection that downloaded slower than molasses in January. When we wanted to find somebody or tell somebody something, we actually had to find them or find a telephone (that was most likely connected to the wall by way of a coiled cord.)
It was a different time back then.
And.... CUE: Grandmother, stage right.
Yep. I've become my grandmother. I think about things that are not original thoughts. I bemoan the changes that have brought us here. I talk about the "Old Days" in ways that romanticize the hardships and fortitude required to have survived. Yep.
It's awesome.
That's all it is.
I AM your grandmother.
To that end: I sincerely hope you've cared enough about your penmanship to make it worth finding for your grandchild or their grandchild. It's kind of crazy the things that survive holocausts.
Apparently your handwriting may well be one of them.
Sweetness.

Expectations

2009-12-07T19:37:00.002-06:00

I accidentally grew a bunch of expectations recently and have been reminded why I spent so long ridding myself of them.
They truly are nothing but premeditated resentments.
I know better than to expect you to give your best with no agenda.
I know that there really is almost nobody left in the world who treats people how they'd want to be treated.
And, I am thankful that I remembered this in time to not be shattered into a million small pieces over it.
I can guarantee that it won't happen again.
And, thank you for helping me catch this before it became terminal.
Again.

Who Says I'm Hyper Sensitive?!?!

2009-11-29T10:42:00.005-06:00

Happy Sunday morning!
Hope you've got hot coffee, you've read the new Post Secret and are just bored enough to sit here for three minutes.
I've been thinking about all the blogs that I follow and the millions of words I process every week. I'm pretty sure we all spill out of each other from time to time. I am the by-product of every place I've ever been, every conversation I've ever had and every person I've ever loved.
I am many things, and part of you is a part of me. Good, bad or indifferent - if we've spent any time together you are here.
I spent all of my youth hearing my father scream "You are so g'damn hyper-sensitive!" at me. (And, when I say "youth" - I mean till I was about 40.) The whole concept of hyper-sensitivity occurred to me long before it became a catch-phrase in our contemporary vernacular.
And, truth be told, just hearing about it gave me a reprieve from the self-loathing that I'd nurtured for so long. I had never really seen it as an asset.
Being hyper-sensitive in the house I grew up in wasn't viewed as so much a good thing. In spite of this, or maybe because of it, I have refined my own personal hyper-sensitivity to a science worthy of mention.
I have many friends who have been diagnosed "Super Tasters." They are predominately artists, writers and musicians. This diagnosis (yes, I took liberty with it) is probably a marketable skill and still, somehow, not always a good thing.
If there is one teeny weeny fleck of Cilantro in a bite of my food, I have to spit it out. Cilantro takes me back to having my mouth washed out with soap (Dial soap) back in the early 70's. (My daughter did some kind of research into this and discovered that there are two distinct kinds of humans in the world: Those who love Cilantro and those who taste soap. It's psychology.)
Some of us are painfully aware of everything while others of us wouldn't notice if the other one of us burst into flames.
And, I am so good with this. Thank God you are here.
Creative types are going to be more inclined to notice stuff. To know things about stuff. To weep when they hear minor chords all back to back. To laugh at prat falls and pranks that are more pedestrian than high-brow. To smell and be able to separate the lilac from the honeysuckle.
I certainly wouldn't wish this on just anyone, I've always thought it would be a helluva lot easier to be ignorant.
I know I am doing the right things for the right reasons and I'm treating everyone how I'd want to be treated.
And, regardless of where we are at now, I'm glad we were there once and we can't undo that.

RED DEER or RED BEER?

2009-11-16T06:20:00.003-06:00

In the course of any given day I have a wide and vast array of things to do. One of them lately has been helping thin out this herd of Red Deer.
Most all of my hundreds of phone calls (I've posted in 4 states and countless cities) have come from men.
Most of these men are named Earl or Walter and they're sitting at (poorly lit) kitchen tables at their brother's house.
Most of them are drinking Budweiser. They alternate surfing porn with finding stuff they can kill or blow up.
They are Americans.
So far, one out every 57 buzzed guys I talk to turns into an actual conversion (harvesting the animals for food.)
The best citizen so far has been a woman who did most of the heavy lifting alone and had a solid hunting ethic.... blah blah blah, she was great. She kinda taught me the whole process so she gets big props for that. Seriously, BIG props.
When I saw that this query (below) came from a woman, I thought, "Well, right on. The last time went so well..." What follows is a transcript of the emails we've exchanged since 6 this morning:

Sent: Sun, Nov 15, 2009 9:42 am Subject: Re: RED DEER: UNUSUAL REQUEST: Re: LEGAL RED DEER FOR SIALE - $200 (PERRY, KS) SHE SAID: hello just want to know if your item is still available

THEN SHE SAID:
I have already gone through the details and i am interested in purchasing. I will be paying by Money Order and you should receive the payment within the coming week as per pick-up, I will make arrangement with the moving company to come for pick-up after payment has been received by you. l would appreciate if you take the posting off craigslist today and consider it sold to me. Idon't mind adding Extra $40 so you can keep it in my favor. Please provide your Name and address for payment along with your home phone number band cell phone number .My assistant will mail out the payment to your address Once payment is received we can proceed with the pickup. Thanks for your understanding and patience.Do have a nice time...waiting to read from you ASAP. Regards, Thank

On 11/15/09, Maureen (Moe) Masters wrote:

Ummm, Cindy - I'm not so sure we're on the same page here. These deer are alive and running around happily in a 10 acre lot.
Maybe you know something I don't, but I sort of doubt a moving company would either
a) herd this thing into a truck or trailer or
b) shoot him for you and field dress or transport to a locker.
We're in America. Kansas, to be specific.
Lots of deer here.
This is the most unusual request to date.
If we have to do any herding, we add $200 to the price. These guys are a pain to get into a truck. Let me know what you'd like to do. We've got plenty, no need to pay more or worry.
Thanks.
Moe

THEN SHE SAID: i know they are alive am interested in it and i will like to pay you your money and my picker will come over for the shipping would have love to call you but my phone is out of service so get i can't call you right now for the best response for me is to contact me via email.Please provide your Name and address for payment along with your home phone number band cell phone number .My assistant will mail out the payment to your address Once payment is received we can proceed with the pickup. Thanks for your understanding and patience.Do have a nice time...waiting to read from you ASAP.

On 11/15/09, Maureen (Moe) Masters wrote:
Y'know, Cindy - We've just crossed over into the land of "Too Bizarre."
What are you going to do with this deer?
Why do you want it?
Has your courier ever trailered a Red Deer?
Are you familiar with the Red Deer specie?
Where are you?
What size deer were you thinking of?
The prices now start at $400 ($200 extra to get it on the trailer) and go to $1200 (that big buck would be near impossible to load)
I need lots more information.
You don't have working phone service, but you want to buy a Red Deer? Seriously?
I'll be here.
THEN SHE SAID: my husband like the red beer and if you want to sale is for us stop asking us question okay we like your red beer that is why i sent you an email if you are ready to give it to us let me know oaky

Cindy,
I apologize, this has all been a misunderstanding.
I thought you were looking for Red DEER, not Red BEER.
I will not ask any more questions and wish you luck on your quest.
Take care.
Moe

It has taken me more than a minute or two to remember that there are scammers from other countries who stalk places like craigslist.
They're crazy and the their grasp of our language is tenuous at best.
I sent one last email that said I had forwarded all of our emails onto the better business bureau.
Which I may, or may not, have done.
This just cracked me up and I thought you might enjoy it.
If you know anybody looking for some Red Deer, hollah.
We'll talk.
later.

So. There's That.

2009-08-11T19:13:00.004-05:00

I've chosen to break one of my Cardinal Rules of Authorship this evening and do this after I've had three beers.
Blue Moon. Belgium Ales.
Add a totally over-ripe locally grown peach on the side.
OH.my.GOD.
It's something of a Litmus test. I just wanna see something. C'mon. Seriously. It can only suck so much. Seriously. Just hold my hand.
This day was a serious piece of 16 hour testing.
Testing my patience. Testing my resourcefulness.
Testing my loyalty. Testing my intelligence.
Testing my ability to be the Most Clever Girl in Jefferson County.
Booya.
Can a girl get a "Woot! Woot!??!"
I'm just sayin' Yesterday was an 18 hour day.
I've heard myself say (mostly under my breath) - "I'm too old for this shit" since 6am. I've heard most of my people say this, mostly under their breath for a very long time.
We really are too old for THIS shit.
Like, what? There's a whole nother variety of Shit we could choose from? Cool. Who'd a thunk it?
Yea. Probably not so much.
*sigh*
For.real?
Seriously?
That question about regrets ... or "What Would You Change If You Could Do It All Over?" ...
Seriously?
That's all I wanna ask.
For.real?
I've lived this freaking long and you think I'd change one little teeny weeny element?
Yea.
Okay. Not so much.
It's all about the "Almost."
I love Almost.
All yall are Almost right here, cuz I'm right in the middle.
I love that.
It's just the breath of Almost.

Word Up on Staying Married

2009-08-01T12:11:00.011-05:00

I went to my 30th year class reunion last weekend and just about drowned in a love fest that was so long overdue. I've given it a week to percolate because I know I can talk too much, for too long and say too much.
I've spent the better part of the last 30 years denying my association and knee-deep in the belief that everybody hated me and it was an awful horrible existence.
Yea. Not so much.

It certainly didn't rock out loud to be me those days, but there was more fun than I'd remembered.
Nobody hated me but me, really. And in going through the yearbooks and wading through everybody's memories, I've discovered that, with but a very small exception, most of us had pretty rugged formative years in high school.
Almost everybody I knew was so busy fighting their own demons, living through their own dysfunctional family lives and struggling to get from Point A to Point B they didn't have the time or inclination to burn calories hating me.
*Phew*
Thank God I figured that out.
The people I attended school with have grown into some amazing and beautiful humans. They lead meaningful lives. They recycle and vote responsibly. They have strong opinions and no longer care to engage in any kind of debate over who's right and who's not.
One of the things that has made my heart swell like the Grinch's heart on Christmas morning is the number of people I've become reacquainted with who are still married to the person they fell in love with 25 years ago (or more in some cases.) I can't say if there are more of them than not, but I now know a whole bunch of people who are in healthy, openly loving relationships. They're thoughtful and considerate. They hold hands and have inside jokes. They have survived the fallout of growing up together. They are cuter than buttons.
I swear. My daughter and Jonathan have been one of these couples for more than 10 years. I always thought they were an anomaly. But, reconnecting with the people who are my "Tribe" has made me think that the trends we are constantly bombarded with in this country don't necessarily represent the majority in every village. I know I keep saying it, but damn I'm lucky and blessed.

Music and Emotions

2009-07-05T01:19:00.002-05:00

I'm far too lazy to link back to anything tangible (annotations) tonight, but I am absolutely certain that there are no less than 100 zillion articles and studies that have profiled the organic and often completely emotional human response to music.
For as long as I can remember I have had an inclination towards music. There are periods of time that span years where I couldn't tell you what was happening in any detail but I can still tell you the order of my favorite Mix Tape from that era.
Today I heard every single patriotic song that has ever been sung and recorded. I even heard a couple live versions sung by 4 year old girls that hadn't yet gone digital. I thought I was galvanized, I didn't expect to get misty.
Over the last 20 years, I can't count how many times an Em and B flat played back-to-back have made me a bit weak about the heart. I think it's some kind of freaky nature within me, but that combination almost always makes me cry. And, it's never because I'm sad, it's just the combination touches something that I can't define OR control. Pretty cool stuff.
When Chelsea graduated from K-State I was sitting alone in the huge stadium place when this single, somber bagpiper dude came out and walked a slow and steady lap around the whole clam bake. I cried like a baby. Cartoon tears. For real. Squirting from my eyes in giant softball-sized drops.
Tonight I'm listening to Little Feat, Tom Petty and Sublime and have an overwhelming sensation to sleep outside and drink domestic beers.
Where ever it is that you are, I hope you've got a good Mix Tape to back you up.
Or Pandora. Seriously. Just go there.

Only Because I Know You're Not Here

2009-06-15T19:38:00.002-05:00

I'd just like to take this moment....
....to thank the Academy... and my parents... and God, and all the little people who helped me get here.
JUST kidding.
For real.
Now that I know there's only, like, nine people who drop by here in the course of a week, I just want to say thanks.
Thanks for not mistaking my kindness for love.
Thanks for knowing that I didn't want to sleep with you tonight and probably marry you tomorrow.
Thanks for not misinterpreting a dinner you bought me for a blow-job you're going to get after the cheesecake.
I know we're old, I know that life is short and I know that you're in a horrible, oppressive love-less marriage.
And, God I know how that sucks.
I know that you haven't been laid in, like, thirteen years.
But, I genuinely appreciate the fact that you're not going to prey upon me for simply being kind.
I will always be grateful that you didn't try to hide the fact that you're legally married.
I am breathing a huge sigh of relief.
I am so glad that we are here.
And, that life is long.
and short.
Depending upon how you slice it.
And... thanks. Just thanks. You've made my journey so much more illuminated and I owe you a debt of gratitude.
The proverbial Happy Ending is so over-rated.

Where You At?

2009-06-14T00:48:00.003-05:00

I really like to know where the people I love are.
I'm right here for about 15 hours every day.
It's a great place to be.
Last night I was in downtown Kansas City.
Life is good.

Ten Favorite Things This Week

2009-06-04T08:10:00.008-05:00

1. We found this little (teeny weeny) place in the Barrio of KC (down by the bottoms) called El Pollo Rey. Seriously OMG good roasted chicken. I think it seated 12 people and served Mexican soda and perfect avocados.

2. This little town outside of KC called Piper. I don't think we saw the town but I love the landscape about as much as any I've gotten to visit. AND, it smelled of wild sweet honeysuckle. Everywhere.

3. The weather has been beyond awesome. It rained like hell all day and night, like, Monday/Tuesday - and since then it's been perfectly cool with a nice breeze.
4. Kansas people: This guy up the road who walks his little pocket-dog on a leash from his motorized wheelchair in the middle of the road in front of the shop twice a day.

5. Home-made dinners. Mary made a little sumptin sumptin with beans, meat, tortillas and Velveeta cheese that kept me alive for two days.
6. Organic breakfast cereals from The Merc.http://communitymercantile.com/ - This week it's something with flax and pumpkin.

7. The way my boss whistles in the dark. My dad whistled a lot and I think it makes you about 18% happier than you would be had you not been whistling.

8. New media: Social networking sites that are being used in conjunction with traditional media for marketing businesses, bands and artists.
9. Hard work. I love to work hard and bustin' a sweat. We unloaded about 10,000 pounds of Cumaru yesterday by hand and it suited me just fine.
10. Blisters. Gnarley, sore and tore-up hands and a brain that has run out of words. Both evidence of a life well lived.
Y'know, IF you drop in here, you COULD leave me your favorite Top Ten list of the week. I'm just sayin'...

Ten Things I've Learned in May

2009-05-21T17:34:00.002-05:00

1. I am way more than reasonably capable of writing the "Dummies Guide to Homelessness"
2. When you ride a bike in a town with hills you really need to make sure it has brakes first.

3. The term "Family" has undergone a tremendous shift during the two generations that have passed since my grandparents had family.
4. Hydrate. Must.drink.water.
5. You can really count on nothing but yourself and your abilities.
6. The only way to avoid disappointment is to avoid expectations.
7. NEVER write or dial while drunk - it can be much more dangerous than driving drunk, just in a different way.
8. Yoga, meditation, Reiki and breathing can correct a lot of things.

9. Perfect fitting jeans are priceless. For real.
10. The kindness of the oppressed and impoverished can take your breath away.