Lots Going On!
4 hours ago
Is That A Burrito In Your Pocket?
I moan a dulcet sound of pleasure when her small, lithe fingers push that button that starts the rolling vibratory massager against my back. The warm swirling water and underwater jet sprays lightly tickle my toes. All is good and I'm about to celebrate by treating myself to a long needed pedicure. My mom is in the chair beside me, her own foot slave at the ready. I don't know if it's the surrender to pampering that is pleasurable or the knowledge that when they are done; those precious artisans and moulders of callous and bunion; that my least desired extremities will be the prettiest part of me when they finished. Within the too short span of 10 minutes, my mom and I are completely in their thrall, my skirt hiked up around my thighs, my moms pants rolled up past her knees, our bodies a mellow, jello under the rolling balls of the chairs we inhabit.
And then my phone rings.
The young Vietnamese girl has just painted the big toe and is about to start on all the other little piggies when a breathless raspy voice comes over the line.
"Girl... (breath), theft... (breath), fight... (breath), police... (breath)," I hear in my receiver. The young Vietnamese girl has started on the other toes.
"What?! Slow down," I say, "Breathe and start again." The pause is long, almost a full minute. One of the clerks at the store has gotten into a fight with a shoplifter. The police are coming. I'm needed to run video.
"Is everyone okay?" is my first question. The answer is in the affirmative.
"Who was it?" is my second. It's the caller herself. Her name is Dotti*. She's been with us several years. She's one of my very best. "Alright," I comfort, "I'm currently practically naked so I can be there in about ten to fifteen minutes. You sure you're okay?" I can hear her head nodding as she tells me she is.
"As soon as you're done, I have to go," I look down at the young lady at my feet. She's almost complete I find. All that's left is the top coat. I relay the information to my mom and she stares incredulous. She points out that Dotti is even older than me and has no business getting into fights at her age. I reassure her that Dotti doesn't go out looking for brawls to make herself feel young. More than likely, she confronted the shoplifter, they got violent, and Dotti just answered throw for throw.
Done at the salon, my mom and I traipse into the store with those super thin, highly-coloured flip flops with cotton still stuck between our toes. The store is busy. Well, that's a good sign. When Dotti comes into view I can still see the adrenalin coursing through her as her movements, agitated and abrupt tell tale. We ask again how she is and immediately she tells her story in short, quick bursts, arms flailing mimicking the motions. Sometimes she speaks through gritted teeth when she remembers how angry the girl made her.
So the story is:
A young girl and her younger sister come into the store with the intention of shoplifting. I say intention because we had caught them on tape the day before, after the fact, and had printed out their pictures for the clerks to keep an eye open. They had returned, high and confident off their success the day before. When Dotti finally saw them, the young girl with the purse was at the isotonic door and Dotti witnessed a beverage being slipped into the girls purse. Dotti asked her to remove the items. The girl said no. Dotti insisted, saying she saw her put the drink in her purse.
"I've got you dead to rights. Remove the items or I call the police."
"I'm grown. I'll do what I want," says the young girl and goes to push pass Dotti. Dotti blocks her pass and tells her again to remove the items from her purse. The young girl reaches in and pulls out a drink and throws it at Dotti. Quick as a cat, she catches it and sets it on the shelf.
"Everything else," Dotti says. The girl proceeds to pull out another bottle, two packages of cupcakes, a candy bar, and a burrito, all of which she throws at Dotti and then tries to slap Dotti with her open hand. Despite her hands being full, Dotti is able to block the blow but then the girl shoves her and then swings her purse at Dotti's head.
The next bit of video is a flurry of movement. I see a rainfall of punches to the girls abdomen from Dotti as she tries to get her to release her hair. (Why do women always immediately go for the hair?) Another clerk comes in to do the same but the girl is not letting go so Dotti grabs her hair as well and they are now locked in a hair holding pulling tug of war. The second clerk, is able to pry one hand off but the balance has faltered and all three fall to the hard tile floor with Dottie at the bottom. Both their hands are holding firm. Here, while prostrate, you can see Dotti relax just a little and then Dottie says to the girl in the most calmest of voices, "I can stay here all night till the police arrive."
The young girl begins to struggle again and the second clerk, Mina, sits on her. (We laugh at this point because poor Mina's plumber's crack is showing...Sorry, Mina). After a bit more struggling and Mina's ability to lock the girl's free hand behind her, they're somehow able to upright themselves and the flailing starts again.
Finally, it is the sister who is able to get the young girl to release her hold, almost punching her herself to get her to do so. The girl picks up her purse and they rapidly exit the store. The police must be very close. They are, in fact, so although the girls are able to exit the store and go into the apartments next door, the police have gotten them in no time at all.
It turns out the girl is a minor, just 15 years old, but because she assaulted a store clerk, her $12.32 shoplifting act becomes Burglary, which here in Nevada, is a felony. Poor girl. I feel bad for her. Not bad enough that I don't recommend to Dotti the possibility of filing a civil suit for assault against her. (Dotti has a small hairline fracture on her thumb from falling to the ground).
I don't understand why the girl just didn't leave after throwing everything out of her purse in the first place. Why did she have to lash out? When the police picked her up she still had another burrito in her purse. Was she protecting it, I wonder? (You don't really think I believe that do you?) She wasn't starving. Her parents didn't look destitute. Is it the thrill? Was she garnering experience; collecting stories? Do you think she's telling this tale on some blog somewhere from her cell?
COME PLAY WITH ME!
I moan a dulcet sound of pleasure when her small, lithe fingers push that button that starts the rolling vibratory massager against my back. The warm swirling water and underwater jet sprays lightly tickle my toes. All is good and I'm about to celebrate by treating myself to a long needed pedicure. My mom is in the chair beside me, her own foot slave at the ready. I don't know if it's the surrender to pampering that is pleasurable or the knowledge that when they are done; those precious artisans and moulders of callous and bunion; that my least desired extremities will be the prettiest part of me when they finished. Within the too short span of 10 minutes, my mom and I are completely in their thrall, my skirt hiked up around my thighs, my moms pants rolled up past her knees, our bodies a mellow, jello under the rolling balls of the chairs we inhabit.
And then my phone rings.
The young Vietnamese girl has just painted the big toe and is about to start on all the other little piggies when a breathless raspy voice comes over the line.
"Girl... (breath), theft... (breath), fight... (breath), police... (breath)," I hear in my receiver. The young Vietnamese girl has started on the other toes.
"What?! Slow down," I say, "Breathe and start again." The pause is long, almost a full minute. One of the clerks at the store has gotten into a fight with a shoplifter. The police are coming. I'm needed to run video.
"Is everyone okay?" is my first question. The answer is in the affirmative.
"Who was it?" is my second. It's the caller herself. Her name is Dotti*. She's been with us several years. She's one of my very best. "Alright," I comfort, "I'm currently practically naked so I can be there in about ten to fifteen minutes. You sure you're okay?" I can hear her head nodding as she tells me she is.
"As soon as you're done, I have to go," I look down at the young lady at my feet. She's almost complete I find. All that's left is the top coat. I relay the information to my mom and she stares incredulous. She points out that Dotti is even older than me and has no business getting into fights at her age. I reassure her that Dotti doesn't go out looking for brawls to make herself feel young. More than likely, she confronted the shoplifter, they got violent, and Dotti just answered throw for throw.
Done at the salon, my mom and I traipse into the store with those super thin, highly-coloured flip flops with cotton still stuck between our toes. The store is busy. Well, that's a good sign. When Dotti comes into view I can still see the adrenalin coursing through her as her movements, agitated and abrupt tell tale. We ask again how she is and immediately she tells her story in short, quick bursts, arms flailing mimicking the motions. Sometimes she speaks through gritted teeth when she remembers how angry the girl made her.
So the story is:
A young girl and her younger sister come into the store with the intention of shoplifting. I say intention because we had caught them on tape the day before, after the fact, and had printed out their pictures for the clerks to keep an eye open. They had returned, high and confident off their success the day before. When Dotti finally saw them, the young girl with the purse was at the isotonic door and Dotti witnessed a beverage being slipped into the girls purse. Dotti asked her to remove the items. The girl said no. Dotti insisted, saying she saw her put the drink in her purse.
"I've got you dead to rights. Remove the items or I call the police."
"I'm grown. I'll do what I want," says the young girl and goes to push pass Dotti. Dotti blocks her pass and tells her again to remove the items from her purse. The young girl reaches in and pulls out a drink and throws it at Dotti. Quick as a cat, she catches it and sets it on the shelf.
"Everything else," Dotti says. The girl proceeds to pull out another bottle, two packages of cupcakes, a candy bar, and a burrito, all of which she throws at Dotti and then tries to slap Dotti with her open hand. Despite her hands being full, Dotti is able to block the blow but then the girl shoves her and then swings her purse at Dotti's head.
The next bit of video is a flurry of movement. I see a rainfall of punches to the girls abdomen from Dotti as she tries to get her to release her hair. (Why do women always immediately go for the hair?) Another clerk comes in to do the same but the girl is not letting go so Dotti grabs her hair as well and they are now locked in a hair holding pulling tug of war. The second clerk, is able to pry one hand off but the balance has faltered and all three fall to the hard tile floor with Dottie at the bottom. Both their hands are holding firm. Here, while prostrate, you can see Dotti relax just a little and then Dottie says to the girl in the most calmest of voices, "I can stay here all night till the police arrive."
The young girl begins to struggle again and the second clerk, Mina, sits on her. (We laugh at this point because poor Mina's plumber's crack is showing...Sorry, Mina). After a bit more struggling and Mina's ability to lock the girl's free hand behind her, they're somehow able to upright themselves and the flailing starts again.
Finally, it is the sister who is able to get the young girl to release her hold, almost punching her herself to get her to do so. The girl picks up her purse and they rapidly exit the store. The police must be very close. They are, in fact, so although the girls are able to exit the store and go into the apartments next door, the police have gotten them in no time at all.
It turns out the girl is a minor, just 15 years old, but because she assaulted a store clerk, her $12.32 shoplifting act becomes Burglary, which here in Nevada, is a felony. Poor girl. I feel bad for her. Not bad enough that I don't recommend to Dotti the possibility of filing a civil suit for assault against her. (Dotti has a small hairline fracture on her thumb from falling to the ground).
I don't understand why the girl just didn't leave after throwing everything out of her purse in the first place. Why did she have to lash out? When the police picked her up she still had another burrito in her purse. Was she protecting it, I wonder? (You don't really think I believe that do you?) She wasn't starving. Her parents didn't look destitute. Is it the thrill? Was she garnering experience; collecting stories? Do you think she's telling this tale on some blog somewhere from her cell?
COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL
Doublemint Gum
originally posted January 8th, 2008
It's been a while since I had one of these. In somewhat of a tone as my NOPE Blog and its sister the YUP Blog this one will now be dubbed the TWICE Blog.
The Mentor's word of the day is illustrious, mine is TWICE.
Twice (/twa?s/) [twahys]
–adverb
1. two times, as in succession Write twice a week.
2. on two occasions; in two instances I phoned him twice.
3. in twofold quantity or degree; in double the amount or degree twice as much
[Origin: bef. 1150; ME twies, equiv. to twie twice (OE twige, c. OFris twîa, OS tuuîo)]
This is the year. The year of change. The Bush dynasty will be finally over and maybe we can start to repair what has been done. Maybe we'll be able to move forward into the future and stop resembling the tyranny of the past. How Bush was allowed to serve not just once, but TWICE, is dumbfounding.
Politics in general is so fascinating: whether it happens on a national scale or around the fabric measure table at the local Jo-Anne's craft store. There is always someone vying for top dog position and the machinations some people pull are incredible, especially when looking from the outside in. (Sometimes not so very cool being the bitch dog in heat.)
I am undecided as of yet. I want to vote for Hillary because she's a woman, and I'm a woman. I think every woman should feel this little twinge of solidarity. Whether you use the nip to cast your vote or not is up to you. I have an old friend that never registered to vote. He's 40, like me. Yet, he always complained about the state of affairs in this country. I told him it was his fault. By not voting, he 'voted' to live in a society he didn't like. He uses the tired "my vote doesn't count" excuse. But last year, I took him to register. He swore that if Hillary ran for president, he would register to vote. We went in August. Now I don't mind talking politics with him. He calls me every week. Sometimes TWICE. whether she can win is a big question; especially now. If we look to history, black men got the right to vote before women. What is that phrase? History is always repeaing itself...(ahem, another form of twice?)
I was surprised by the outcome of the Iowa caucus. I had heard so much rhetoric about Obama being inexperienced and young. Even the crap about the African-Americans refusing to vote for him because he really wasn't "black" made me think he might not stand a chance. I've been impressed by Barak Obama since his speech at the 2000 Democratic convention. He's pretty smart and not as inexperienced as you might think. "Fresh" is the word I'd use to describe him. Fresh like just peeled corn or like peaches hanging on a bough after a cool rain with the sun rising in the background fresh.
As I stated before, Mr. Barry Eisler's post about Brand, Market Adoption, and President Obama is an insightful piece on the marketing of the candidates and how we as "consumers" choose our particular purchases. "Change" is the word being bantered about after the upset Obama pulled. Everyone is on the "change" bandwagon. His experience or alleged 'lack thereof' is no longer an issue. Obama breathes change. His demeanor, his words, and his skin color pulse the word change at every venue. Please go read it. I am planning on reposting it here soon, but go read it now. Mr. Eisler posted his thoughts on Sunday.
On Monday morning as I was listening to KNPR and 'Talk of the Nation', guess what I heard panelist Ms. Anne Mack talking about? The marketing of the candidates. What's up with that? TWICE in two days. Wow.
She got raked over the coals by the callers (not so much) who were insulted by being infered to as "consumers" but isn't that just what we are? We are the ultimate consumer! All those 99 cent and Family Dollar stores filled with crap we dont need didn't just spring up out of thin air. Have you ever stood in line at one of those places? Your $8 purchase will take you two hours to get home.
I swear, NPR radio heads can be so snobby. They don't realize we are so few in number comparitively. We may be informed but the rest of the world get most of their news right before watching Jeopardy on the local news channel. (Exactly how many of you were affected by the almost psuedo-wrenching, tearful Hillary last night. (Shades of Ellen and the destruction of women as a force spun around the back of my head.) Unfortunately, some will be affected by it. (Hey, I just realized, the setback of women....twice... well, almost twice.)
Shades of the movie Idiocracy are taking place in Naples. All the dumps are full. Trash hasn't been picked up in two weeks. Scary. See what I mean about consumers? Maybe if we stop trying to conquer hair loss and prolonging erections we won't have to worry about that happening here. And then...and then I heard another story about a city in Italy (...uh, that was Naples, Italy by the way). It was about the drowning of Venice and how everyone owns two pairs of vivd colored rain boots and how no one lives on the first floor... of anything. That's TWICE my attention was pulled towards Italy. What's going on?
My precious Kolchak has somehow spawned a doppelganger. Everyday, when I get home from work, my pretty little kitty runs to greet me and follow me into the house. She scratches the tree and then rolls in the dirts and then makes me hold the door for her waiting until she comes in.
I came home the other day and she just started yowling at me. Kolchak is not a talker. She didn't roll in the dirt. She didn't scratch at the tree and she wouldn't follow me in. She just yowled at me some more. And then another long-haired, black, yellow-eyed cat emerged from the bushes, hissed at her twin, rolled in the dirt and then walked into the house. Too freaky. My roommate keeps feeding Doppelganger and it hangs around all the time so I'm confused on a daily basis now. Doesn't help that my cat loves her pet dog.
Lastly, on Sunday I was supposed to meet a computer friend in real life. Once a month I drive out to pahrump, NV. The owner of the property I'm buying lives out there so I make the tank-ful trek to go make my payment. I hang around for a couple of hours oohing and ahhing over the horses and feeding the chickens. I love the drive out. Great for contemplation and singing loudly. For about a month I've been e-mailing someone who lives out there and we had agreed a month prior to meet in real life. Plans had been made, agreed upon, and I even forfeited my phone number. No call. I'm getting ready to leave Pahrump and finally..."I'm sick. Don't think its a good idea." Nothing like waiting until the very last freakin' minute! Yeesh! Last Saturday, I was supposed to meet a friend for a movie. No call. I call. "I'm sick. Don't think it's a good idea." didn't happen just once...nope...that's right, TWICE!
That's it for me. Think I'll hide out for a couple of weeks. I'm just a little freaked out. Talk to you after the New Hampshire primaries.
Stay informed,
Erma.
COME PLAY WITH ME!
originally posted January 8th, 2008
It's been a while since I had one of these. In somewhat of a tone as my NOPE Blog and its sister the YUP Blog this one will now be dubbed the TWICE Blog.
The Mentor's word of the day is illustrious, mine is TWICE.
Twice (/twa?s/) [twahys]
–adverb
1. two times, as in succession Write twice a week.
2. on two occasions; in two instances I phoned him twice.
3. in twofold quantity or degree; in double the amount or degree twice as much
[Origin: bef. 1150; ME twies, equiv. to twie twice (OE twige, c. OFris twîa, OS tuuîo)]
This is the year. The year of change. The Bush dynasty will be finally over and maybe we can start to repair what has been done. Maybe we'll be able to move forward into the future and stop resembling the tyranny of the past. How Bush was allowed to serve not just once, but TWICE, is dumbfounding.
Politics in general is so fascinating: whether it happens on a national scale or around the fabric measure table at the local Jo-Anne's craft store. There is always someone vying for top dog position and the machinations some people pull are incredible, especially when looking from the outside in. (Sometimes not so very cool being the bitch dog in heat.)
I am undecided as of yet. I want to vote for Hillary because she's a woman, and I'm a woman. I think every woman should feel this little twinge of solidarity. Whether you use the nip to cast your vote or not is up to you. I have an old friend that never registered to vote. He's 40, like me. Yet, he always complained about the state of affairs in this country. I told him it was his fault. By not voting, he 'voted' to live in a society he didn't like. He uses the tired "my vote doesn't count" excuse. But last year, I took him to register. He swore that if Hillary ran for president, he would register to vote. We went in August. Now I don't mind talking politics with him. He calls me every week. Sometimes TWICE. whether she can win is a big question; especially now. If we look to history, black men got the right to vote before women. What is that phrase? History is always repeaing itself...(ahem, another form of twice?)
I was surprised by the outcome of the Iowa caucus. I had heard so much rhetoric about Obama being inexperienced and young. Even the crap about the African-Americans refusing to vote for him because he really wasn't "black" made me think he might not stand a chance. I've been impressed by Barak Obama since his speech at the 2000 Democratic convention. He's pretty smart and not as inexperienced as you might think. "Fresh" is the word I'd use to describe him. Fresh like just peeled corn or like peaches hanging on a bough after a cool rain with the sun rising in the background fresh.
As I stated before, Mr. Barry Eisler's post about Brand, Market Adoption, and President Obama is an insightful piece on the marketing of the candidates and how we as "consumers" choose our particular purchases. "Change" is the word being bantered about after the upset Obama pulled. Everyone is on the "change" bandwagon. His experience or alleged 'lack thereof' is no longer an issue. Obama breathes change. His demeanor, his words, and his skin color pulse the word change at every venue. Please go read it. I am planning on reposting it here soon, but go read it now. Mr. Eisler posted his thoughts on Sunday.
On Monday morning as I was listening to KNPR and 'Talk of the Nation', guess what I heard panelist Ms. Anne Mack talking about? The marketing of the candidates. What's up with that? TWICE in two days. Wow.
She got raked over the coals by the callers (not so much) who were insulted by being infered to as "consumers" but isn't that just what we are? We are the ultimate consumer! All those 99 cent and Family Dollar stores filled with crap we dont need didn't just spring up out of thin air. Have you ever stood in line at one of those places? Your $8 purchase will take you two hours to get home.
I swear, NPR radio heads can be so snobby. They don't realize we are so few in number comparitively. We may be informed but the rest of the world get most of their news right before watching Jeopardy on the local news channel. (Exactly how many of you were affected by the almost psuedo-wrenching, tearful Hillary last night. (Shades of Ellen and the destruction of women as a force spun around the back of my head.) Unfortunately, some will be affected by it. (Hey, I just realized, the setback of women....twice... well, almost twice.)
Shades of the movie Idiocracy are taking place in Naples. All the dumps are full. Trash hasn't been picked up in two weeks. Scary. See what I mean about consumers? Maybe if we stop trying to conquer hair loss and prolonging erections we won't have to worry about that happening here. And then...and then I heard another story about a city in Italy (...uh, that was Naples, Italy by the way). It was about the drowning of Venice and how everyone owns two pairs of vivd colored rain boots and how no one lives on the first floor... of anything. That's TWICE my attention was pulled towards Italy. What's going on?
My precious Kolchak has somehow spawned a doppelganger. Everyday, when I get home from work, my pretty little kitty runs to greet me and follow me into the house. She scratches the tree and then rolls in the dirts and then makes me hold the door for her waiting until she comes in.
I came home the other day and she just started yowling at me. Kolchak is not a talker. She didn't roll in the dirt. She didn't scratch at the tree and she wouldn't follow me in. She just yowled at me some more. And then another long-haired, black, yellow-eyed cat emerged from the bushes, hissed at her twin, rolled in the dirt and then walked into the house. Too freaky. My roommate keeps feeding Doppelganger and it hangs around all the time so I'm confused on a daily basis now. Doesn't help that my cat loves her pet dog.
Lastly, on Sunday I was supposed to meet a computer friend in real life. Once a month I drive out to pahrump, NV. The owner of the property I'm buying lives out there so I make the tank-ful trek to go make my payment. I hang around for a couple of hours oohing and ahhing over the horses and feeding the chickens. I love the drive out. Great for contemplation and singing loudly. For about a month I've been e-mailing someone who lives out there and we had agreed a month prior to meet in real life. Plans had been made, agreed upon, and I even forfeited my phone number. No call. I'm getting ready to leave Pahrump and finally..."I'm sick. Don't think its a good idea." Nothing like waiting until the very last freakin' minute! Yeesh! Last Saturday, I was supposed to meet a friend for a movie. No call. I call. "I'm sick. Don't think it's a good idea." didn't happen just once...nope...that's right, TWICE!
That's it for me. Think I'll hide out for a couple of weeks. I'm just a little freaked out. Talk to you after the New Hampshire primaries.
Stay informed,
Erma.
COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL
Rockin' With The Slaughter
originally posted December 31, 2007
It's currently 2105 (9:05 p.m.) as I start this essay. I heard Australia celebrating their New Year over the radio this afternoon. It's rough being on the ass end of time schedules. I was intending on writing a blog about "The Purpose of a Thing" but as I was working today, a faint smile rose upon my lips as I remembered a particular New Years Eve past I spent on the phone with a dear friend. I was fourteen and the year was 1981 ready to move into 1982.
Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve was on ABC and my reception was awfully fuzzy. During this stage in my life I was obsessed with tea. I'd brew a pot in my mom's coffee maker and then I'd spend all day just drinking lukewarm tea. Very cleansing if I remember correctly. Anyhow I'm not here to talk about such things.
My best-est friend at the time was a girl by the name of Amy Slaughter. (Isn't that the coolest name? Just another reason to like her.) She was a rotund black girl who was an Air Force brat like me. Amy's skin was very dark so when she smiled, and man, she had a big smile, she really did shine. She had a younger brother that pestered us all the time, like little brothers do, but all in all he was pretty sweet. Her father was very quiet and her mom was the quintessential American mom. Sweet. Amy and I went through the first real boyfriend stage together. We used each others houses to invite our boyfriends over without the peering eyes of our parents. Other parents were okay, I guess.
Amy and I once got caught shoplifting, um, no... that's not right. One of my first personal encounters with prejudice occurred when Amy and I were at a Thrifty store and we decided, collectively, that we wanted some of those new little decals for your nails. Amy walked ahead of me and I put them in her back pocket as we walked along the aisles. I remember us squirming about like all little 14 year old girls do as we contemplated, discussed, and then actually did the dastardly deed. As we were leaving, Amy was stopped by security. When I realized she was no longer behind me I turned and saw her being led off to the security office, I presumed. I started to come back into the store and Amy yelled at me to go home. As I walked back through the door, a store clerk stopped me and asked where I was going. I replied I wanted to stay with my friend and they said it would be better if I left. Amy motioned for me to go home. I started to argue, my voice got shrieker and I think I may have even said that I was the one who stole it, but I was threatened with the calling of my mom. I don't know if it was the threat of telling my mom, or Amy herself that mollified me, but I left and went home.
Amy called me later that night to let me know that all they did was take her to her parents at home. She was able to ride in a police car, which was exciting. She got two weeks of restriction. I told her to tell her mom that I had done it and she said no because restriction meant she couldn't go out, but I could still come over. She succinctly told me that this was the end of it. No more. I complied.
Amy and I hung out with a girl by the name of Dee-Dee once in a while. We used to think she was a stuck-up stoner white trash girl, but she too, was actually very nice. We didn't hang with her all the time, but we would walk home with her from school a lot if we missed the bus, or just wanted to walk. After a disappointing Valentine's Day dance at our Von Tobel Jr. High, me, Amy, and Dee-Dee were walking home. Dee-Dee would be the first to leave us since she lived closest to the school so we walked really slow so we had more time to spend together. Dee-Dee had long, blond, straight hair that was cut so the ends spiked just a little. A little rock and roll, we called it. Both me and Amy wished we had her hair. It's probably why we liked her.
We stopped for Slurpees at the 7-11 just North of the school and when I came out of the store I was suddenly verbally assaulted by three cholo Mexican girls. You know the kind, with the painted eyebrows that Cruella Deville would envy and the clear glossed lips outlined with what seemed like black eyeliner. They even wore the typical wife-beater t-shirts covered with the black and beige plaid. They started calling me names and getting in my face. I tried to back off. Let me interrupt a minute and say that I don't like to fight physically, but I can. I avoid it if at all possible. "Sticks and stones..." is my philosophy. Anyway, they are screaming at me all at once. So much so that I can't understand a word they are saying. Suddenly, one of them swings at me and then I am abruptly deluged with a mass of fists and feet all directed at me.
Time slowed, just like in the movies. A punch that turned my head moved it so I could see Amy on the phone frantically trying to call someone. Another burst of pain from somewhere below changed my view to see Dee-Dee hunkered up behind the other phone keeping herself far from the fray. Another punch had me on the ground and then it was over as fast as it had begun. I lay in the parking lot of the 7-11 holding myself and becoming numb from all the different pains I was feeling. My skin was so sensitive I could feel the blood traveling down and pooling at various part of my body before the droplets fell onto the asphalt. My ass got truly kicked that day. (Ahem, first and last, thank you very much.)
I don't remember for sure if it was Amy's mom that finally came for us or if it was someone else. I do know I was taken to the base hospital and all my lesions and bruises were attended to. I also remember being so angry. Not at the girls who did the ass-kicking, but at the two friends who were with me. Those visions of Amy on the phone and Dee-Dee hiding away are still burned into my memory today. Like I said, Amy was not a small girl, and Dee-Dee, well, aren't all stoner girls supposed to be tough and bad-ass? They're the ones that become biker babes in the end, right? Those are some rough and tough women. C'mon now. I never mentioned it again. Amy tried to apologize but I waved it off and said this was the end of it. No more. She complied.
I still have no idea why I was targeted like that. I had thought maybe I had inadvertently danced with a boy they claimed. Maybe I looked Mexican but didn't behave like one. I don't know, and probably never will.
Amy and I spent the New Years Eve of 1981 on the phone together watching Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve. I was sitting in the dark of my living room watching a fuzzy TV drinking lukewarm tea and Amy was on the other end of the line watching her TV and drinking kool-aid. We talked from around 9 to 1 a.m. commenting on the music and people. We counted down with Dick in unison. I remember we had caramel lollipops and we dipped them into our respective drinks. The lukewarm tea made the caramel soften nicely.
Amy died soon after that. She developed a condition where there was water in / on her brain. I went to see her in the hospital and she was tied down to the bed because the problem made her want to lash out. I cried as soon as I saw her. I cried that she was tied to the bed with leather buckled straps. I cried because I didn't want to be there. I cried because I saw her in one of her throes of pain? anguish? I cried because I wasn't stronger for her. And then I cried even harder when Amy told me not to cry, that she was okay, that everything would be OK. She was being wheeled out to emergency when she said that. Her dark arm reached out to me but we were too far away. That was the last time I saw Amy.
It's now 2240 (10:40 p.m.) and my tale is done. I hope each and everyone of you have a wonderful year filled with wonderful friends and experiences that makes a smile rise on your lips in the middle of the day. Have a great holiday, I hope you stayed safe and that maybe the memories we make together will be some to remember. Just remember to jump in if the odds are not in my favor, please. Thanks.
COME PLAY WITH ME!
originally posted December 31, 2007
It's currently 2105 (9:05 p.m.) as I start this essay. I heard Australia celebrating their New Year over the radio this afternoon. It's rough being on the ass end of time schedules. I was intending on writing a blog about "The Purpose of a Thing" but as I was working today, a faint smile rose upon my lips as I remembered a particular New Years Eve past I spent on the phone with a dear friend. I was fourteen and the year was 1981 ready to move into 1982.
Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve was on ABC and my reception was awfully fuzzy. During this stage in my life I was obsessed with tea. I'd brew a pot in my mom's coffee maker and then I'd spend all day just drinking lukewarm tea. Very cleansing if I remember correctly. Anyhow I'm not here to talk about such things.
My best-est friend at the time was a girl by the name of Amy Slaughter. (Isn't that the coolest name? Just another reason to like her.) She was a rotund black girl who was an Air Force brat like me. Amy's skin was very dark so when she smiled, and man, she had a big smile, she really did shine. She had a younger brother that pestered us all the time, like little brothers do, but all in all he was pretty sweet. Her father was very quiet and her mom was the quintessential American mom. Sweet. Amy and I went through the first real boyfriend stage together. We used each others houses to invite our boyfriends over without the peering eyes of our parents. Other parents were okay, I guess.
Amy and I once got caught shoplifting, um, no... that's not right. One of my first personal encounters with prejudice occurred when Amy and I were at a Thrifty store and we decided, collectively, that we wanted some of those new little decals for your nails. Amy walked ahead of me and I put them in her back pocket as we walked along the aisles. I remember us squirming about like all little 14 year old girls do as we contemplated, discussed, and then actually did the dastardly deed. As we were leaving, Amy was stopped by security. When I realized she was no longer behind me I turned and saw her being led off to the security office, I presumed. I started to come back into the store and Amy yelled at me to go home. As I walked back through the door, a store clerk stopped me and asked where I was going. I replied I wanted to stay with my friend and they said it would be better if I left. Amy motioned for me to go home. I started to argue, my voice got shrieker and I think I may have even said that I was the one who stole it, but I was threatened with the calling of my mom. I don't know if it was the threat of telling my mom, or Amy herself that mollified me, but I left and went home.
Amy called me later that night to let me know that all they did was take her to her parents at home. She was able to ride in a police car, which was exciting. She got two weeks of restriction. I told her to tell her mom that I had done it and she said no because restriction meant she couldn't go out, but I could still come over. She succinctly told me that this was the end of it. No more. I complied.
Amy and I hung out with a girl by the name of Dee-Dee once in a while. We used to think she was a stuck-up stoner white trash girl, but she too, was actually very nice. We didn't hang with her all the time, but we would walk home with her from school a lot if we missed the bus, or just wanted to walk. After a disappointing Valentine's Day dance at our Von Tobel Jr. High, me, Amy, and Dee-Dee were walking home. Dee-Dee would be the first to leave us since she lived closest to the school so we walked really slow so we had more time to spend together. Dee-Dee had long, blond, straight hair that was cut so the ends spiked just a little. A little rock and roll, we called it. Both me and Amy wished we had her hair. It's probably why we liked her.
We stopped for Slurpees at the 7-11 just North of the school and when I came out of the store I was suddenly verbally assaulted by three cholo Mexican girls. You know the kind, with the painted eyebrows that Cruella Deville would envy and the clear glossed lips outlined with what seemed like black eyeliner. They even wore the typical wife-beater t-shirts covered with the black and beige plaid. They started calling me names and getting in my face. I tried to back off. Let me interrupt a minute and say that I don't like to fight physically, but I can. I avoid it if at all possible. "Sticks and stones..." is my philosophy. Anyway, they are screaming at me all at once. So much so that I can't understand a word they are saying. Suddenly, one of them swings at me and then I am abruptly deluged with a mass of fists and feet all directed at me.
Time slowed, just like in the movies. A punch that turned my head moved it so I could see Amy on the phone frantically trying to call someone. Another burst of pain from somewhere below changed my view to see Dee-Dee hunkered up behind the other phone keeping herself far from the fray. Another punch had me on the ground and then it was over as fast as it had begun. I lay in the parking lot of the 7-11 holding myself and becoming numb from all the different pains I was feeling. My skin was so sensitive I could feel the blood traveling down and pooling at various part of my body before the droplets fell onto the asphalt. My ass got truly kicked that day. (Ahem, first and last, thank you very much.)
I don't remember for sure if it was Amy's mom that finally came for us or if it was someone else. I do know I was taken to the base hospital and all my lesions and bruises were attended to. I also remember being so angry. Not at the girls who did the ass-kicking, but at the two friends who were with me. Those visions of Amy on the phone and Dee-Dee hiding away are still burned into my memory today. Like I said, Amy was not a small girl, and Dee-Dee, well, aren't all stoner girls supposed to be tough and bad-ass? They're the ones that become biker babes in the end, right? Those are some rough and tough women. C'mon now. I never mentioned it again. Amy tried to apologize but I waved it off and said this was the end of it. No more. She complied.
I still have no idea why I was targeted like that. I had thought maybe I had inadvertently danced with a boy they claimed. Maybe I looked Mexican but didn't behave like one. I don't know, and probably never will.
Amy and I spent the New Years Eve of 1981 on the phone together watching Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve. I was sitting in the dark of my living room watching a fuzzy TV drinking lukewarm tea and Amy was on the other end of the line watching her TV and drinking kool-aid. We talked from around 9 to 1 a.m. commenting on the music and people. We counted down with Dick in unison. I remember we had caramel lollipops and we dipped them into our respective drinks. The lukewarm tea made the caramel soften nicely.
Amy died soon after that. She developed a condition where there was water in / on her brain. I went to see her in the hospital and she was tied down to the bed because the problem made her want to lash out. I cried as soon as I saw her. I cried that she was tied to the bed with leather buckled straps. I cried because I didn't want to be there. I cried because I saw her in one of her throes of pain? anguish? I cried because I wasn't stronger for her. And then I cried even harder when Amy told me not to cry, that she was okay, that everything would be OK. She was being wheeled out to emergency when she said that. Her dark arm reached out to me but we were too far away. That was the last time I saw Amy.
It's now 2240 (10:40 p.m.) and my tale is done. I hope each and everyone of you have a wonderful year filled with wonderful friends and experiences that makes a smile rise on your lips in the middle of the day. Have a great holiday, I hope you stayed safe and that maybe the memories we make together will be some to remember. Just remember to jump in if the odds are not in my favor, please. Thanks.
COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL
Deceleration...and it’s not getting rid of celery
originally posted December 19, 2007
I wonder if getting older just makes you slow everything down? Does lovemaking become slower too, more tender, more prolonged for the pleasure of it? I used to voraciously devour...books, and it seems it takes longer to finish them than it used to. Seemingly for me, it takes longer getting ready for work, maneuvering traffic, and even work itself. My choice of music has even seemed to have temper with my age.
No longer do I long for the pounding drums, unintelligible lyrical screams, and pulsing guitars of the heavy metal of my youth (although Linkin Park is somehow able to cross the barrier for me). I long for the throaty vocals of artists like Shawn Mullins, Norah Jones, and Tracy Chapman. Hard rock has been replaced by the soulful intelligence and political leanings of bands like U2, Live, and even the sarcasm of Green Day.
My Van Halen, Motley Crue, and Quiet Riot Cd's gather minute particles of dust in their protective sleeves only seeing daylight when I turn the pages wondering what I'm in the mood for. More often than not I just turn on Yahoo Radio's Adult Alternative station so I don't even have to break out the Cd album (currently playing is Sheryl Crow, she's great!) Even American Idol loser Daughtry makes my play-list today. The only holdover I can think of from my youth is Bon Jovi and he still rocks albeit not as hard as someone like Judas Priest or the Scorpions.
I only mention this because I have a new friend on my-space (who's an old friend in real life). He is producing his own music and sharing it with the world. His name is Terry and goes by Graveshock here. Honestly Terry, I never would have guessed this was the type of music you played...of course, I've only heard you perform acoustically under the pale moon light. (currently playing: Sarah McLachlan)
He posted a new song today called "This Is What You Get," which I actually liked despite it no longer being my first choice of music type to listen to. listening to his work actually propelled me back to the days when I was passing notes in high school and swooning over boys named Trevor or Bryce. (Ummm...those are made up names.) I want to be supportive. I will be supportive. How do you be supportive if you're no longer interested in that style? ...I guess this is my real question. Can one be objective when rating music if your soul no longer wishes to "bang it's head?" (currently playing:Avril Lavigne)
My theory on the deceleration of life has only a little to do with the actual aging of our bodies. I believe, because unlike our youthful selves, we're no longer satisfied with whatever results we get. Instead we want to have better control over those results; which means we are willing to take the time needed to make sure it comes out the right way the first time. When you're young and exhuberant to move on to the next project we're willing to put up with a few imperfections. Our age and experience have shown us that those minor imperfections can mean the work needs to be redone or reworked, something we're not willing to do anymore.
Traffic takes longer because we're more tolerant of the younger drivers who are always in a hurry to get everywhere. NPR's Driveway Moments are an almost everyday occurence in my life today. Getting ready for work takes longer because I want to enjoy that cup of coffee while I watch the news or check my e-mails and I want to make sure I don't have to wipe lipstick out of the corners of my mouth later because I put it on too heavy in the first place.
As for music, it's no longer about the beat driving you through the experience, it's about understanding the experience and appreciating the intricate nuances each of the instruments melded with the vocals establishing its deeper meaning (sort of like appreciation oif classical music.) Or maybe I'm just full of crap and have no idea what I'm talking about.
COME PLAY WITH ME!
originally posted December 19, 2007
I wonder if getting older just makes you slow everything down? Does lovemaking become slower too, more tender, more prolonged for the pleasure of it? I used to voraciously devour...books, and it seems it takes longer to finish them than it used to. Seemingly for me, it takes longer getting ready for work, maneuvering traffic, and even work itself. My choice of music has even seemed to have temper with my age.
No longer do I long for the pounding drums, unintelligible lyrical screams, and pulsing guitars of the heavy metal of my youth (although Linkin Park is somehow able to cross the barrier for me). I long for the throaty vocals of artists like Shawn Mullins, Norah Jones, and Tracy Chapman. Hard rock has been replaced by the soulful intelligence and political leanings of bands like U2, Live, and even the sarcasm of Green Day.
My Van Halen, Motley Crue, and Quiet Riot Cd's gather minute particles of dust in their protective sleeves only seeing daylight when I turn the pages wondering what I'm in the mood for. More often than not I just turn on Yahoo Radio's Adult Alternative station so I don't even have to break out the Cd album (currently playing is Sheryl Crow, she's great!) Even American Idol loser Daughtry makes my play-list today. The only holdover I can think of from my youth is Bon Jovi and he still rocks albeit not as hard as someone like Judas Priest or the Scorpions.
I only mention this because I have a new friend on my-space (who's an old friend in real life). He is producing his own music and sharing it with the world. His name is Terry and goes by Graveshock here. Honestly Terry, I never would have guessed this was the type of music you played...of course, I've only heard you perform acoustically under the pale moon light. (currently playing: Sarah McLachlan)
He posted a new song today called "This Is What You Get," which I actually liked despite it no longer being my first choice of music type to listen to. listening to his work actually propelled me back to the days when I was passing notes in high school and swooning over boys named Trevor or Bryce. (Ummm...those are made up names.) I want to be supportive. I will be supportive. How do you be supportive if you're no longer interested in that style? ...I guess this is my real question. Can one be objective when rating music if your soul no longer wishes to "bang it's head?" (currently playing:Avril Lavigne)
My theory on the deceleration of life has only a little to do with the actual aging of our bodies. I believe, because unlike our youthful selves, we're no longer satisfied with whatever results we get. Instead we want to have better control over those results; which means we are willing to take the time needed to make sure it comes out the right way the first time. When you're young and exhuberant to move on to the next project we're willing to put up with a few imperfections. Our age and experience have shown us that those minor imperfections can mean the work needs to be redone or reworked, something we're not willing to do anymore.
Traffic takes longer because we're more tolerant of the younger drivers who are always in a hurry to get everywhere. NPR's Driveway Moments are an almost everyday occurence in my life today. Getting ready for work takes longer because I want to enjoy that cup of coffee while I watch the news or check my e-mails and I want to make sure I don't have to wipe lipstick out of the corners of my mouth later because I put it on too heavy in the first place.
As for music, it's no longer about the beat driving you through the experience, it's about understanding the experience and appreciating the intricate nuances each of the instruments melded with the vocals establishing its deeper meaning (sort of like appreciation oif classical music.) Or maybe I'm just full of crap and have no idea what I'm talking about.
COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL
Getting Paid For Writing Pretty
originally posted December 9, 2007
Breathing free after a large dose of Dayquil, my lungs were able to be filled with the exhaust of several dozen vehicles fighting to get into the Venetian parking garage off the back entrance on Koval. Harried Monday morning employees of the Venetian and Harrah's and vendors and attendees to the featured convention at the Sands Expo filched a mile if an inch presented itself to get out from behind the stationary truck and trailer in the only right turn lane available for the garage. Finally, my behemoth and only three inches of clearance for this structure found a beautiful park spot right next to the elevator on the tenth floor. Sue had to go all the way up to the 14th floor. I waited for her on the third.
We had thought we arrived early enough but traffic had slowed us down and now we had to find out where to go. After an escalator ride and watching a gondolier push his way through a shopping mall we took another elevator and followed whomever we thought might be attending the convention as well. With as much patience I have you would think I would have been able to take the time to decipher the maps posted everywhere around the Venetian. I let Sue take charge and lead me by the nose. My mind wasn't in it.
After much struggling, we picked up badges and made our way onto the convention floor area. I was able to clear my mind long enough to read the map to find our booth and we finally arrived. The crappy little drafting tables did not lift my spirits. The flimsy, hard, barely adjustable chairs sank my spirits even further. What the hell was wrong with me? I live for this kind of work. Maybe I'm too spoiled. Sue and I settle in, the third calligrapher we were informed, was going to be late. They told us their game plan. Whatever. I readied my pens, made a liner, made a quick reference sheet for Sue and then we waited.
I played a little with some varying calligraphy styles and settled for a Gothicized Uncial uppercase and a super-fast Carolingian-like lowercase with an Uncial d for the tail, for aesthetics. I brought feathers for all of us so we could attach them to our pens...more aesthetics. Sue couldn't work with hers on. Mine kept poking me in the eye, but dozens loved it, even after discovering I really wasn't using it.
Finally, after about half an hour, we were put to work. They had divided the alphabet up. I was A-J, Sue was K-S, and Madelyn, our third, was T-Z. After a good start, we were able to stretch our legs for about five minutes and then were bombarded again for the rest of the time we had.
My ass hurt, but my spirits were definitely up. I smiled, joked, conversed and rarely lifted my head from the certificates. I was in a zone absently saying "thank you" with a smile and a nod as people picked up the ones completed. My ego growing by miles every time someone oohed or ahhed. On rare occasion I had to ask for clarification of a letter or title from attendants, I soon realized, didn't have one either. We finished up promptly at three clearing all the requests for the day. My knees cracked when I got up.
Sue and I had lunch after wards. It was pretty awesome and reasonable. We invited Madelyn but she declined. I went to work after. It was a good day, even if I started out crappy. Tuesday's traffic and parking experience went super smooth as did the trek across the casino. None of us spoke after our good mornings. We were completely slammed. I still smiled and joked and grinned when I was complimented but I don't think I actually heard or saw a soul. Sue left immediately after and Madelyn and I walked out together.
Wednesday's traffic was also smooth but I was late because of the immense crowd waiting to get in would not let me pass. So I waited. I think I was five minutes late. Breathing was easy. We walked around a bit and were able to visit. I made exemplars of my uppercase for Sue and Madelyn in case they wanted to try it. I met a teacher who had two students graduating. He adored my work and although his students had names beginning with letters in the latter part of the alphabet, he had me do them instead. He was a retired Air Force captain so we had a bit to talk about. He was really nice. He reminded me of one of my history teachers. A young girl took hers away from my table and gave it to Madelyn to do apologizing profusely for not wanting my style of calligraphy. I tried to console her, to let her know it was okay, but she still kept apologizing anyway. I guess us artisans can be a little sensitive but, yeesh.
COME PLAY WITH ME!
originally posted December 9, 2007
Breathing free after a large dose of Dayquil, my lungs were able to be filled with the exhaust of several dozen vehicles fighting to get into the Venetian parking garage off the back entrance on Koval. Harried Monday morning employees of the Venetian and Harrah's and vendors and attendees to the featured convention at the Sands Expo filched a mile if an inch presented itself to get out from behind the stationary truck and trailer in the only right turn lane available for the garage. Finally, my behemoth and only three inches of clearance for this structure found a beautiful park spot right next to the elevator on the tenth floor. Sue had to go all the way up to the 14th floor. I waited for her on the third.
We had thought we arrived early enough but traffic had slowed us down and now we had to find out where to go. After an escalator ride and watching a gondolier push his way through a shopping mall we took another elevator and followed whomever we thought might be attending the convention as well. With as much patience I have you would think I would have been able to take the time to decipher the maps posted everywhere around the Venetian. I let Sue take charge and lead me by the nose. My mind wasn't in it.
After much struggling, we picked up badges and made our way onto the convention floor area. I was able to clear my mind long enough to read the map to find our booth and we finally arrived. The crappy little drafting tables did not lift my spirits. The flimsy, hard, barely adjustable chairs sank my spirits even further. What the hell was wrong with me? I live for this kind of work. Maybe I'm too spoiled. Sue and I settle in, the third calligrapher we were informed, was going to be late. They told us their game plan. Whatever. I readied my pens, made a liner, made a quick reference sheet for Sue and then we waited.
I played a little with some varying calligraphy styles and settled for a Gothicized Uncial uppercase and a super-fast Carolingian-like lowercase with an Uncial d for the tail, for aesthetics. I brought feathers for all of us so we could attach them to our pens...more aesthetics. Sue couldn't work with hers on. Mine kept poking me in the eye, but dozens loved it, even after discovering I really wasn't using it.
Finally, after about half an hour, we were put to work. They had divided the alphabet up. I was A-J, Sue was K-S, and Madelyn, our third, was T-Z. After a good start, we were able to stretch our legs for about five minutes and then were bombarded again for the rest of the time we had.
My ass hurt, but my spirits were definitely up. I smiled, joked, conversed and rarely lifted my head from the certificates. I was in a zone absently saying "thank you" with a smile and a nod as people picked up the ones completed. My ego growing by miles every time someone oohed or ahhed. On rare occasion I had to ask for clarification of a letter or title from attendants, I soon realized, didn't have one either. We finished up promptly at three clearing all the requests for the day. My knees cracked when I got up.
Sue and I had lunch after wards. It was pretty awesome and reasonable. We invited Madelyn but she declined. I went to work after. It was a good day, even if I started out crappy. Tuesday's traffic and parking experience went super smooth as did the trek across the casino. None of us spoke after our good mornings. We were completely slammed. I still smiled and joked and grinned when I was complimented but I don't think I actually heard or saw a soul. Sue left immediately after and Madelyn and I walked out together.
Wednesday's traffic was also smooth but I was late because of the immense crowd waiting to get in would not let me pass. So I waited. I think I was five minutes late. Breathing was easy. We walked around a bit and were able to visit. I made exemplars of my uppercase for Sue and Madelyn in case they wanted to try it. I met a teacher who had two students graduating. He adored my work and although his students had names beginning with letters in the latter part of the alphabet, he had me do them instead. He was a retired Air Force captain so we had a bit to talk about. He was really nice. He reminded me of one of my history teachers. A young girl took hers away from my table and gave it to Madelyn to do apologizing profusely for not wanting my style of calligraphy. I tried to console her, to let her know it was okay, but she still kept apologizing anyway. I guess us artisans can be a little sensitive but, yeesh.
COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL
Prisoner Who?
originally posted November 30, 2007
The walls of the prison were a pristine off-white and the ebony bars of each cell looked stark and trendy against them. The floor was a brilliant, shiny, linoleum that allowed you to click as you walked making you sound all important and maybe even somewhat imposing. Small, metal cameras posted along the corridors whirred about as they followed the movements of the hall roamers. At the top of an impossibly long T-corridor was a single-cell barred doorway with a prisoner draped upon it. He was tall and lanky, with a mane of blond-gray hair that accentuated the chiseling of his jaw line and cheekbones.
I was standing on the freedom side of the cell door talking to him. I can't recall what we were speaking of, but the mood of it was pensive (especially on my part) and much was unspoken. He looked down at me with piercing blue-white eyes. Reluctantly, (?) I palmed him a skeleton key and then turned and clicked my way back down the support of the 'T.' As the camera spun to follow me I could hear the shuffle of his orange prison jumpsuit as he extricated himself from the cell. He headed down the right arm of the 'T.' I opened the industrial half-glass door where I could see the front desk guards in their black uniforms watching a football game. Their heads turned towards me as I pulled the door open. They smiled. I returned the greeting and then made small talk with the excuse of waiting for my friend to finish up. The bank of security monitors they were supposed to be watching was blank. The cameras seemed not to be working at the moment. I made no mention.
Soon enough the prisoner was standing next to me in civilian clothes and together, we entered the elevator. We said nothing. A cacophony of cafeteria sounds smacked us as the elevator opened at the ground floor. Cathedral high glass walls occupied the background for a hive of culinary activity. Business professionals sat at various French-curved tables as they talked on cell phones, played with their laptops or talked in animated conversations with co-workers. Along the South wall was a line of buffet style restaurants like you'd find at the food court of the mall also filled with expectant customers as they craned necks and arms to get at their meals. Parrot colored neon titles for each eatery was posted above their section. We exited into the melee and carefully made our way out to the North exit.
The dusk made everything glow with an eerie red color that reminded me of that movie where the Haley's comet pass had turned everyone to dust except for a cheerleader and her sister. I half expected zombies to come out of the rusty shadows. We arrived at my now pink truck and got in and I drove us around town stopping at various places where my companion would leave, and then return in a matter of less than 15 minutes. He usually carried a bag or box out with him and put them in the back of the truck. Our last stop was a storage unit shed where he emptied the collected contents. He said he was collecting the belongings he had spread out around the city.
I returned him to the prison where he took me to the various locales inside to get back into his prison uniform. His clothes were neatly folded and placed upon a shelf with his boots where his name was labeled underneath. I walked him back to his cell where he returned the key and then I just stood there. I was supposed to return tomorrow so we could visit a dozen more places. I didn't want to, but felt obligated somehow. I stood at the cell door in a daze, as if I wasn't in control of myself. I felt like a thrall of some master wamphyri. I felt as if I was looking at myself from outside and my insides screamed for release. Finally, I left.
Fucking dreams!
COME PLAY WITH ME!
originally posted November 30, 2007
The walls of the prison were a pristine off-white and the ebony bars of each cell looked stark and trendy against them. The floor was a brilliant, shiny, linoleum that allowed you to click as you walked making you sound all important and maybe even somewhat imposing. Small, metal cameras posted along the corridors whirred about as they followed the movements of the hall roamers. At the top of an impossibly long T-corridor was a single-cell barred doorway with a prisoner draped upon it. He was tall and lanky, with a mane of blond-gray hair that accentuated the chiseling of his jaw line and cheekbones.
I was standing on the freedom side of the cell door talking to him. I can't recall what we were speaking of, but the mood of it was pensive (especially on my part) and much was unspoken. He looked down at me with piercing blue-white eyes. Reluctantly, (?) I palmed him a skeleton key and then turned and clicked my way back down the support of the 'T.' As the camera spun to follow me I could hear the shuffle of his orange prison jumpsuit as he extricated himself from the cell. He headed down the right arm of the 'T.' I opened the industrial half-glass door where I could see the front desk guards in their black uniforms watching a football game. Their heads turned towards me as I pulled the door open. They smiled. I returned the greeting and then made small talk with the excuse of waiting for my friend to finish up. The bank of security monitors they were supposed to be watching was blank. The cameras seemed not to be working at the moment. I made no mention.
Soon enough the prisoner was standing next to me in civilian clothes and together, we entered the elevator. We said nothing. A cacophony of cafeteria sounds smacked us as the elevator opened at the ground floor. Cathedral high glass walls occupied the background for a hive of culinary activity. Business professionals sat at various French-curved tables as they talked on cell phones, played with their laptops or talked in animated conversations with co-workers. Along the South wall was a line of buffet style restaurants like you'd find at the food court of the mall also filled with expectant customers as they craned necks and arms to get at their meals. Parrot colored neon titles for each eatery was posted above their section. We exited into the melee and carefully made our way out to the North exit.
The dusk made everything glow with an eerie red color that reminded me of that movie where the Haley's comet pass had turned everyone to dust except for a cheerleader and her sister. I half expected zombies to come out of the rusty shadows. We arrived at my now pink truck and got in and I drove us around town stopping at various places where my companion would leave, and then return in a matter of less than 15 minutes. He usually carried a bag or box out with him and put them in the back of the truck. Our last stop was a storage unit shed where he emptied the collected contents. He said he was collecting the belongings he had spread out around the city.
I returned him to the prison where he took me to the various locales inside to get back into his prison uniform. His clothes were neatly folded and placed upon a shelf with his boots where his name was labeled underneath. I walked him back to his cell where he returned the key and then I just stood there. I was supposed to return tomorrow so we could visit a dozen more places. I didn't want to, but felt obligated somehow. I stood at the cell door in a daze, as if I wasn't in control of myself. I felt like a thrall of some master wamphyri. I felt as if I was looking at myself from outside and my insides screamed for release. Finally, I left.
Fucking dreams!
COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL
Smurf-eating Wizards, "Prime"val, Work, and a Dream
originally posted November 30th, 2007
Tonight in class the kids and I were discussing the myth of Gilgamesh and the god, Ea, who sent him the dream warning him of the flood. A student asked if a smurf was named after Gilgamesh. The entire class corrected her. That was Gargamel, the evil, smurf hunting wizard. I nearly snorted coffee out my nose.
I watched the Transformers the other day. What a great movie. When they make those pleasure robots for the house, mine will have the voice of Optimus Prime. I'd always been a Transformers snob because I grew up with "Mazinga ," which I never actually understood . (It was in Italian and I wasn't fluent. I just watched the pretty pictures go by for the half hour it was on.)
I had a couple of vivid dreams this last couple of weeks. Thought I'd share. They're short.
The Volcano and My Mother
I was standing on a bridge just staring at the column of smoke rising from the mountain. There were only about a dozen people there with me. The rest of the world had opted to ignore the warning sign and go about their business. I wondered if I should be evacuating instead of waiting for something, or nothing. Then the volcano had exploded, not as violently as we had expected, but a large chunk of it had flown off the top and showered down in a million pieces. Cries of "O my God!" and "Jesus Christ!" erupted from the group around me. Everyone left the bridge hurriedly except for a man in a dark blue business suit and a trench coat who just stood at the rail, eyes closed, shaking his head.
A rolling panic started through out the community. It took almost half the day before the streets completely emptied. As I made my way home through the empty cobblestone streets, I noticed an assembly of cheerful townsfolk entering and exiting one particular house. I passed a threesome of amiable patio conversationalists and made my way to the rear of the house. Here, where the sea touched the shore, was a small army of people, preparing to survive by floating on air mattresses. At least three-dozen mattresses were spread out in the backyard and several people lay upon them waiting for the water and lava to arrive. There was no panic here, just organized chatter.
Safety orange colored rubber sheets covered many as they waited patiently on their floats. Some seemed to be sleeping, others read paperbacks. It reminded me of a passenger terminal at an airport where everyone sits around impatiently waiting. Someone had the bright idea of filling the sea with mattresses to approximate the timing of the lava flow and surge of water. Three mattresses out someone yelled 'Three' above the din. 'Three' was bantered around so everyone could hear it. I never heard the count of two. All I heard was "Here it comes!"
I stepped off the back porch to get a better look. Tall hedges and overgrown trees only gave me a partial view of the sea out of the corner of the yard. The bright red and black lava seemed to float upon the sea like a life raft. The head of the flow was over a foot thick, maybe two. A surge of water hit the shore and a large dollop of salty lava flew towards the porch and landed where I had just been standing. Flames leapt up immediately. An air mattress and safety sheet exploded and caught fire but was quickly quenched by the surging water, but not before the poor soul had been melded to the plastic like a butterfly trapped for eternity in its cocoon. Small fires instantaneously appeared everywhere around the yard. The order deteriorated. Chaos was now the order of the day. People ran to and fro trying not to get hit by the particles of lava being flung by the force of each wave. A young man dissolved in front of me as he was caught by sea spray mixed with the red-hot pellets of molten rock. I ran for the door to get back on the street. A fire burst forth directly under my feet as I crossed the threshold of the door. I felt the singe of heat, but hoped I had made it over fast enough to do no damage. I realized I was barefoot.
The building would only serve as a very temporary barrier to the lava flow, I knew. As I ran out of the house with the warm, foamy water sloshing around my ankles, a man behind me was also headed for the front door carrying a kitchen's butcher knife. He wore a dirty, dark, gray sweatshirt jacket with the hood covering his head and half of his face. He muttered under his breath about the coming of the end and the worthy and the undeserved. His mind must have snapped from the pressure. I secretly hoped the lava would catch him quickly.
I ran up the street noting the coming dusk. The darkness of the hour made all the buildings look a single gray color. Next to the steps of the courthouse I turned and hit the buzzer on the door of a tall old building to get let in. A deep gruff Irish accent grunted at me as he came out that said, "There's nobody there."
I wasn't going to trust a stranger with the whereabouts of my mother so I dashed inside and sprang up the steps. Nearly choking from the inability to breathe, I clanged open the door for the 27th floor. The hallway was empty. It seemed the darkened day had made it inside as well. The same gray from outside muted every color. I ran towards our apartment. I yelled out, "Mom!" several times.
After nearly breaking my fingers trying to unlock the door, I burst into my apartment calling out again. She was looking out the window at the smoking volcano.
"Mom, we should get out of here," I said. "The building is sure to catch fire."
"Where will we go, " she said, her gaze not moving.
"It doesn't matter," I said, "as long as it's away from all of this."
Knowing she would want a destination before moving I said, "At least to the other side of the bay."
My mother was a small, petite, perfectly coiffed gray-haired lady that looked older than time. Stretched across her high cheekbones was porcelain paper-thin skin that wrinkled when she smiled or frowned. Deep furrows on her forehead and the etched crows feet around her eyes only served to make her more beautiful. I grabbed our emergency bags and gently took her arm and pulled her away from the window.
We were on a bridge across the bay watching the small town ever so slowly being engulfed by the volcano. The day was bright, blue, and clear. A long yellow ribbon trailed off my mother's hat in the ocean breeze as she stood at the rail, watching the scene. I was on one knee, latching the Velcro of my boots. I stood up next to her and put my arm around her and kissed her ridged forehead. She told me to come back safe. I picked up the fireproof jacket that matched the bulky pants I was wearing and headed for the truck. The trip to the docks was within walking distance but if I came back with injured I wanted a quick way to get them to a hospital.
I felt heroic the whole next day. I may have even did some heroic things.
COME PLAY WITH ME!
originally posted November 30th, 2007
Tonight in class the kids and I were discussing the myth of Gilgamesh and the god, Ea, who sent him the dream warning him of the flood. A student asked if a smurf was named after Gilgamesh. The entire class corrected her. That was Gargamel, the evil, smurf hunting wizard. I nearly snorted coffee out my nose.
I watched the Transformers the other day. What a great movie. When they make those pleasure robots for the house, mine will have the voice of Optimus Prime. I'd always been a Transformers snob because I grew up with "Mazinga ," which I never actually understood . (It was in Italian and I wasn't fluent. I just watched the pretty pictures go by for the half hour it was on.)
I had a couple of vivid dreams this last couple of weeks. Thought I'd share. They're short.
The Volcano and My Mother
I was standing on a bridge just staring at the column of smoke rising from the mountain. There were only about a dozen people there with me. The rest of the world had opted to ignore the warning sign and go about their business. I wondered if I should be evacuating instead of waiting for something, or nothing. Then the volcano had exploded, not as violently as we had expected, but a large chunk of it had flown off the top and showered down in a million pieces. Cries of "O my God!" and "Jesus Christ!" erupted from the group around me. Everyone left the bridge hurriedly except for a man in a dark blue business suit and a trench coat who just stood at the rail, eyes closed, shaking his head.
A rolling panic started through out the community. It took almost half the day before the streets completely emptied. As I made my way home through the empty cobblestone streets, I noticed an assembly of cheerful townsfolk entering and exiting one particular house. I passed a threesome of amiable patio conversationalists and made my way to the rear of the house. Here, where the sea touched the shore, was a small army of people, preparing to survive by floating on air mattresses. At least three-dozen mattresses were spread out in the backyard and several people lay upon them waiting for the water and lava to arrive. There was no panic here, just organized chatter.
Safety orange colored rubber sheets covered many as they waited patiently on their floats. Some seemed to be sleeping, others read paperbacks. It reminded me of a passenger terminal at an airport where everyone sits around impatiently waiting. Someone had the bright idea of filling the sea with mattresses to approximate the timing of the lava flow and surge of water. Three mattresses out someone yelled 'Three' above the din. 'Three' was bantered around so everyone could hear it. I never heard the count of two. All I heard was "Here it comes!"
I stepped off the back porch to get a better look. Tall hedges and overgrown trees only gave me a partial view of the sea out of the corner of the yard. The bright red and black lava seemed to float upon the sea like a life raft. The head of the flow was over a foot thick, maybe two. A surge of water hit the shore and a large dollop of salty lava flew towards the porch and landed where I had just been standing. Flames leapt up immediately. An air mattress and safety sheet exploded and caught fire but was quickly quenched by the surging water, but not before the poor soul had been melded to the plastic like a butterfly trapped for eternity in its cocoon. Small fires instantaneously appeared everywhere around the yard. The order deteriorated. Chaos was now the order of the day. People ran to and fro trying not to get hit by the particles of lava being flung by the force of each wave. A young man dissolved in front of me as he was caught by sea spray mixed with the red-hot pellets of molten rock. I ran for the door to get back on the street. A fire burst forth directly under my feet as I crossed the threshold of the door. I felt the singe of heat, but hoped I had made it over fast enough to do no damage. I realized I was barefoot.
The building would only serve as a very temporary barrier to the lava flow, I knew. As I ran out of the house with the warm, foamy water sloshing around my ankles, a man behind me was also headed for the front door carrying a kitchen's butcher knife. He wore a dirty, dark, gray sweatshirt jacket with the hood covering his head and half of his face. He muttered under his breath about the coming of the end and the worthy and the undeserved. His mind must have snapped from the pressure. I secretly hoped the lava would catch him quickly.
I ran up the street noting the coming dusk. The darkness of the hour made all the buildings look a single gray color. Next to the steps of the courthouse I turned and hit the buzzer on the door of a tall old building to get let in. A deep gruff Irish accent grunted at me as he came out that said, "There's nobody there."
I wasn't going to trust a stranger with the whereabouts of my mother so I dashed inside and sprang up the steps. Nearly choking from the inability to breathe, I clanged open the door for the 27th floor. The hallway was empty. It seemed the darkened day had made it inside as well. The same gray from outside muted every color. I ran towards our apartment. I yelled out, "Mom!" several times.
After nearly breaking my fingers trying to unlock the door, I burst into my apartment calling out again. She was looking out the window at the smoking volcano.
"Mom, we should get out of here," I said. "The building is sure to catch fire."
"Where will we go, " she said, her gaze not moving.
"It doesn't matter," I said, "as long as it's away from all of this."
Knowing she would want a destination before moving I said, "At least to the other side of the bay."
My mother was a small, petite, perfectly coiffed gray-haired lady that looked older than time. Stretched across her high cheekbones was porcelain paper-thin skin that wrinkled when she smiled or frowned. Deep furrows on her forehead and the etched crows feet around her eyes only served to make her more beautiful. I grabbed our emergency bags and gently took her arm and pulled her away from the window.
We were on a bridge across the bay watching the small town ever so slowly being engulfed by the volcano. The day was bright, blue, and clear. A long yellow ribbon trailed off my mother's hat in the ocean breeze as she stood at the rail, watching the scene. I was on one knee, latching the Velcro of my boots. I stood up next to her and put my arm around her and kissed her ridged forehead. She told me to come back safe. I picked up the fireproof jacket that matched the bulky pants I was wearing and headed for the truck. The trip to the docks was within walking distance but if I came back with injured I wanted a quick way to get them to a hospital.
I felt heroic the whole next day. I may have even did some heroic things.
COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL
MAJ. DONALD PRIMAS U.S. Air Force,
Retired Major Donald Eugene "Pop" Primas, USAF Retired, 76, of Las Vegas, passed away Feb. 6, 2009. He was born July 3, 1932, in Wood River, Ill., and was a 39-year resident of Nevada. Major Primas was an ROTC graduate of the Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, with a journalism degree. Upon graduation, he entered the U.S. Air Force as an officer, where he served 20 years as a navigator, bombardier and weapons systems officer; 14 years with the Strategic Air Command flying the B-47 and B-58; and six years with the Tactical Air Command at Nellis with the F-111A Program. He was a decorated officer and served during the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Vietnam War.
Pop was an avid baseball fan who served as district administrator for Las Vegas Area Little Leagues, as well as president of the Paradise Valley Little League. He was also a dedicated fund-raiser, coach and volunteer, supporting many local sports organizations and high schools. Since his retirement from the Air Force in 1976, he owned and operated a 7-11 franchise up until his death.
"His dedicated support of this Wing has been absolutely essential to the success of our mission." Primas 1 has been promoted.
Donald was preceded in death by his first wife and his sons' mother, Mary Jane "Janie" Primas; his second wife, Beverly Primas; and his father, Alvin Primas.
He is survived by his mother, Rose Primas of Duke, Mo.;
sons, Mark (Wynnie) Primas of Laguna Niguel, Calif., Craig (Anne) Primas, Kirk (Lisa) Primas and Brett (Leia) Primas, all of Las Vegas,
his brother and sister-in-law, Terry and Sue Primas of Duke, Mo.;
his grandchildren, Jason (Kristie) Primas of Las Vegas; SSGT Joe (SRA Danielle) Primas, USAF of Tucson, Ariz.; Carrie Primas of Cleveland; and Andy and Katie Primas, both of Las Vegas;
his great-granddaughter, Jocey of Tucson;
and his best friends in life, Pranee Zurita and Mike Parkinson, both of Las Vegas.
Per his wishes, there will be a retirement party for friends and family at 4 p.m. Saturday, Feb. 14, at his home in Las Vegas. For further information or to attend, please contact Craig at 528-8183. Burial services will be held privately. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to Paradise Valley Little League.
Retired Major Donald Eugene "Pop" Primas, USAF Retired, 76, of Las Vegas, passed away Feb. 6, 2009. He was born July 3, 1932, in Wood River, Ill., and was a 39-year resident of Nevada. Major Primas was an ROTC graduate of the Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, with a journalism degree. Upon graduation, he entered the U.S. Air Force as an officer, where he served 20 years as a navigator, bombardier and weapons systems officer; 14 years with the Strategic Air Command flying the B-47 and B-58; and six years with the Tactical Air Command at Nellis with the F-111A Program. He was a decorated officer and served during the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Vietnam War.
Pop was an avid baseball fan who served as district administrator for Las Vegas Area Little Leagues, as well as president of the Paradise Valley Little League. He was also a dedicated fund-raiser, coach and volunteer, supporting many local sports organizations and high schools. Since his retirement from the Air Force in 1976, he owned and operated a 7-11 franchise up until his death.
"His dedicated support of this Wing has been absolutely essential to the success of our mission." Primas 1 has been promoted.
Donald was preceded in death by his first wife and his sons' mother, Mary Jane "Janie" Primas; his second wife, Beverly Primas; and his father, Alvin Primas.
He is survived by his mother, Rose Primas of Duke, Mo.;
sons, Mark (Wynnie) Primas of Laguna Niguel, Calif., Craig (Anne) Primas, Kirk (Lisa) Primas and Brett (Leia) Primas, all of Las Vegas,
his brother and sister-in-law, Terry and Sue Primas of Duke, Mo.;
his grandchildren, Jason (Kristie) Primas of Las Vegas; SSGT Joe (SRA Danielle) Primas, USAF of Tucson, Ariz.; Carrie Primas of Cleveland; and Andy and Katie Primas, both of Las Vegas;
his great-granddaughter, Jocey of Tucson;
and his best friends in life, Pranee Zurita and Mike Parkinson, both of Las Vegas.
Per his wishes, there will be a retirement party for friends and family at 4 p.m. Saturday, Feb. 14, at his home in Las Vegas. For further information or to attend, please contact Craig at 528-8183. Burial services will be held privately. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to Paradise Valley Little League.
My mom is Thai. A country girl, in fact. She has regaled me with
wonderful stories of her home that I will treasure forever, hopeful
having the opportunity to record them for posterity. I made a good
start here: The Best and Funniest Mom in the Whole
World: Mine - Stories From My Mother's World.
I've been thinking about her a lot these past few days. We've been
pretty much inseparable since Wednesday. Our boss of 28 years, her
best friend, my sister and mines somewhat surrogate father, passed
away this Friday. He was battling numerous medical problems so I am
grateful that he is finally at peace.
Thursday before last we went to see him at the nursing home he was
staying. We were there to iron out filing taxes for the store and his
personal ones. He was feisty, gregarious, and sharply witty. We were
able to get much taken care of and then just visited for a while. It
was good to see him in high spirits.
My mom visited Don every single day. She reported back he was getting
progressively worse through the next week. That kind of thing doesn't
hit home until you see it yourself. I saw him the following Wednesday.
We didn't stay long. He was supremely tired and just wanted to sleep.
The difference was like night and day. Thursday night he was admitted
to hospital emergency.
We went early Friday morning and learned he had pneumonia and an
embolism in his lungs. His blood pressure had dropped dangerously low
and his heartbeat was racing. He was in a lot of pain, and there was
nothing, really, that we could do for him. I think that's the most
frustrating thing for family and friends; that feeling of helplessness.
My mom sat at his bedside and prayed. She prayed to God. She prayed to
Buddha. She even prayed to my Goddess. She sat and held his hand the
entire time we were there. His family had to vie for the other side of
the bed in between nurse and doctor visits. My mom was unmovable. She
made him drink water. She soothed him. She chided him. She talked of
mundane things. She talked of extraordinary things. She exuded her
love for him the best she could.
I held his other hand for a short time and surrendered the spot for
family. After my initial bout with self-pity off in the corner with
multitudes of tissues, I stood at her back and did my best to bolster
everything she wanted to try. I supported her in supporting him. We
walked out of the hospital arm in arm when we left; something we
hadn't done since I was a kid. We were going home to eat and rest,
only to return later that night.
We received a call from Don's son, spurring us to come sooner than we
had planned. We didn't make it in time. We received the call in the
truck on the way. My mom was driving. I wasn't going to tell her that
he just passed till we got there, but she knew and pressed me for the
news. I told her and her cry of anguish was heartbreaking. I had to
make her pull over so I could drive us the rest of the way.
His room was filled with family when we arrived and she dropped her
purse and flung herself over him. I expected wailing and sobs that
would wrench the hardest of hearts, but instead she cried quietly and
talked to him as though he were still there. She chided him for not
waiting. She soothed him. She spoke of mundane things and
extraordinary things. She exuded her love for him the best that she
could. Then she sat at his bedside and held his hand. She was unmovable.
We all marvelled at how peaceful he looked. The strain of being sick
had robbed him of colour and it seemed to have come back in his rest.
We chatted and cried, us and his family, consoling one another the
best we could. I think we emptied several boxes of Kleenex that night.
When we finally left, my mom was quiet; stoic even. We went home. She
pulled the Jack Daniels out of the cabinet and we poured a shot for
everyone. Jack Daniels was Don's favorite beverage, until he gave up
alcohol (although while at his house packing up clothes the week
before, we found an empty bottle in his dresser drawer.) We drank that
shot in honour of him and proceeded to talk about the day.
When my mom and I had arrived in the morning to see him, we weren't
sure where we were supposed to be, so had gone to a different section
of the hospital. Waiting for us in the branch of the tree where we had
parked was one of the largest, blackest crows I had ever seen. It
talked to us as we made our way to the hospital doors and then flew
off. When we returned to the truck to go to the area of the hospital
we needed to be at, our friend Crow was there, waiting, and again he
talked to us. We had talked about it a little when it had happened but
I think we were more concerned with finding Don to allow it to be what
it was.
She said she should have known that it was time. In her home, that was
the main purpose of the crow; to bring you news. Sometimes it was
benign, the news, but most of the time it had to do with death. My mom
has been trying to induce dreams of Don, even though the three days of
the soul learning that they are dead has not passed yet. I marked it
on the calender for her. It'll either be tonight (Monday night) or
tomorrow. I hope he puts her mind at ease when he comes. I know he
loved her as much, if not more, than she did him.
When we had arrived at Don's room after he had passed, his son told us
that Don didn't let go until the room was completely empty. Someone
had stayed with him the entire day, and when the one son that was
there had stepped into the hall to answer his phone, it was then that
Don decided to die. The comment was that he did like his solitude.
Yesterday, we attended a family gathering in honour of Don. We ate,
drank, and told stories. We extolled each others virtues that we knew
of from Don's lips. We ensconced ourselves in how Don saw the world,
how he lived, and what he thought of each and everyone of us. We drank
"Pop Shots." His family called him "Pop." It was cathartic for everyone.
Today we went to finish emptying out the room at the nursing home. As
we packed, my mom told me why Don had the things we were packing. "His
back hurt him a lot, that's the reason for the heating pad." or "He
liked to be clean and shaved, that's why there's so many different
razors and soaps." or "Don loved that cologne. I made sure he wore it
every day."
I heard my mom say that she blamed herself. I don't think
she meant that. I think she meant that there were things she wanted to
say, to do, to relay before he passed that she never got to. My sister
and I tried talking to her about it, but she didn't want to.
My mom hasn't cried in front of me since the night he died. I don't
expect her too again. She is an awesome being, my mom is, and I only
hope to come close to the measure of how wonderful she is. I grieve
for Don, yes, but I think I grieve for my mom more. She has lost a
purpose she had been committed to. She has lost her best friend and
confidante. My sister and I will do what we can to fill the hole Don
left behind.
Were not going to worry yet who will support who when it's our mothers
turn to wait until the room is empty. It will never happen and no
amount of crows could ever change our minds on that.
Thanks for reading.
Erma Zurita,
sent with my iPhone
COME PLAY WITH ME!
having the opportunity to record them for posterity. I made a good
start here: The Best and Funniest Mom in the Whole
World: Mine - Stories From My Mother's World.
I've been thinking about her a lot these past few days. We've been
pretty much inseparable since Wednesday. Our boss of 28 years, her
best friend, my sister and mines somewhat surrogate father, passed
away this Friday. He was battling numerous medical problems so I am
grateful that he is finally at peace.
Thursday before last we went to see him at the nursing home he was
staying. We were there to iron out filing taxes for the store and his
personal ones. He was feisty, gregarious, and sharply witty. We were
able to get much taken care of and then just visited for a while. It
was good to see him in high spirits.
My mom visited Don every single day. She reported back he was getting
progressively worse through the next week. That kind of thing doesn't
hit home until you see it yourself. I saw him the following Wednesday.
We didn't stay long. He was supremely tired and just wanted to sleep.
The difference was like night and day. Thursday night he was admitted
to hospital emergency.
We went early Friday morning and learned he had pneumonia and an
embolism in his lungs. His blood pressure had dropped dangerously low
and his heartbeat was racing. He was in a lot of pain, and there was
nothing, really, that we could do for him. I think that's the most
frustrating thing for family and friends; that feeling of helplessness.
My mom sat at his bedside and prayed. She prayed to God. She prayed to
Buddha. She even prayed to my Goddess. She sat and held his hand the
entire time we were there. His family had to vie for the other side of
the bed in between nurse and doctor visits. My mom was unmovable. She
made him drink water. She soothed him. She chided him. She talked of
mundane things. She talked of extraordinary things. She exuded her
love for him the best she could.
I held his other hand for a short time and surrendered the spot for
family. After my initial bout with self-pity off in the corner with
multitudes of tissues, I stood at her back and did my best to bolster
everything she wanted to try. I supported her in supporting him. We
walked out of the hospital arm in arm when we left; something we
hadn't done since I was a kid. We were going home to eat and rest,
only to return later that night.
We received a call from Don's son, spurring us to come sooner than we
had planned. We didn't make it in time. We received the call in the
truck on the way. My mom was driving. I wasn't going to tell her that
he just passed till we got there, but she knew and pressed me for the
news. I told her and her cry of anguish was heartbreaking. I had to
make her pull over so I could drive us the rest of the way.
His room was filled with family when we arrived and she dropped her
purse and flung herself over him. I expected wailing and sobs that
would wrench the hardest of hearts, but instead she cried quietly and
talked to him as though he were still there. She chided him for not
waiting. She soothed him. She spoke of mundane things and
extraordinary things. She exuded her love for him the best that she
could. Then she sat at his bedside and held his hand. She was unmovable.
We all marvelled at how peaceful he looked. The strain of being sick
had robbed him of colour and it seemed to have come back in his rest.
We chatted and cried, us and his family, consoling one another the
best we could. I think we emptied several boxes of Kleenex that night.
When we finally left, my mom was quiet; stoic even. We went home. She
pulled the Jack Daniels out of the cabinet and we poured a shot for
everyone. Jack Daniels was Don's favorite beverage, until he gave up
alcohol (although while at his house packing up clothes the week
before, we found an empty bottle in his dresser drawer.) We drank that
shot in honour of him and proceeded to talk about the day.
When my mom and I had arrived in the morning to see him, we weren't
sure where we were supposed to be, so had gone to a different section
of the hospital. Waiting for us in the branch of the tree where we had
parked was one of the largest, blackest crows I had ever seen. It
talked to us as we made our way to the hospital doors and then flew
off. When we returned to the truck to go to the area of the hospital
we needed to be at, our friend Crow was there, waiting, and again he
talked to us. We had talked about it a little when it had happened but
I think we were more concerned with finding Don to allow it to be what
it was.
She said she should have known that it was time. In her home, that was
the main purpose of the crow; to bring you news. Sometimes it was
benign, the news, but most of the time it had to do with death. My mom
has been trying to induce dreams of Don, even though the three days of
the soul learning that they are dead has not passed yet. I marked it
on the calender for her. It'll either be tonight (Monday night) or
tomorrow. I hope he puts her mind at ease when he comes. I know he
loved her as much, if not more, than she did him.
When we had arrived at Don's room after he had passed, his son told us
that Don didn't let go until the room was completely empty. Someone
had stayed with him the entire day, and when the one son that was
there had stepped into the hall to answer his phone, it was then that
Don decided to die. The comment was that he did like his solitude.
Yesterday, we attended a family gathering in honour of Don. We ate,
drank, and told stories. We extolled each others virtues that we knew
of from Don's lips. We ensconced ourselves in how Don saw the world,
how he lived, and what he thought of each and everyone of us. We drank
"Pop Shots." His family called him "Pop." It was cathartic for everyone.
Today we went to finish emptying out the room at the nursing home. As
we packed, my mom told me why Don had the things we were packing. "His
back hurt him a lot, that's the reason for the heating pad." or "He
liked to be clean and shaved, that's why there's so many different
razors and soaps." or "Don loved that cologne. I made sure he wore it
every day."
I heard my mom say that she blamed herself. I don't think
she meant that. I think she meant that there were things she wanted to
say, to do, to relay before he passed that she never got to. My sister
and I tried talking to her about it, but she didn't want to.
My mom hasn't cried in front of me since the night he died. I don't
expect her too again. She is an awesome being, my mom is, and I only
hope to come close to the measure of how wonderful she is. I grieve
for Don, yes, but I think I grieve for my mom more. She has lost a
purpose she had been committed to. She has lost her best friend and
confidante. My sister and I will do what we can to fill the hole Don
left behind.
Were not going to worry yet who will support who when it's our mothers
turn to wait until the room is empty. It will never happen and no
amount of crows could ever change our minds on that.
Thanks for reading.
Erma Zurita,
sent with my iPhone
COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL
Poetry, Swirling Lights, and Fraudulent Oracles
Category: Friends
originally posted November 20, 2007
I was gonna blog about how great Sue did Wednesday with her new poem, posted here, and how excited and proud I was of her - but instead I am gonna talk about how she mentioned there was a reason I was the element of Air at Samhain . I know it was all in love and I know she didn't mean any harm by it but it was the second time she said it which makes me believe she meant it so it hurt my feelings all the same .
I am not and airhead . Okay, so for the three years I was with my boyfriend I had to call him every time I needed to remember my favorite bands name... that does not make me an airhead. And so on occasion I lose my train of thought in the middle of a major, or even minor point ... that does not make me an airhead either and neither does my attention being momentarily taken away by a pretty, red, swirling lights .
What airhead do you know understands that red is an attention-grabbing color warning you of danger and that's why stop signs are in red as well as protecting animals from being eaten in the wild ? What airhead do you know is able to spell, define, and use in a sentence the words precariously, succinct, consummate, accoutrement, precipice, or nonchalantly? (Go ahead, you can check 'em. I used them all.) Tell me about an airhead that can easily lecture on the psychoanalytical theories of dreams by Freud, Jung, and Hall? ...and actually make it interesting? That's right, buddy, I did all that! Who's the airhead now?
Yeah, I thought so... or is that thaught so? (That's for you, Mentor! Ha!)
The element of Air is the element of the mind, of intelligence, of effective communication, which I'm proud to say, I am quite good at....so there !
Now that I've vented, I guess I could tell you just how well Sue did Wednesday night.
She killed! It was great! Her poem was called "About Me" and the key line in it is, "Do you know what it's like to be short, fat, and white?" She even demurely asked not to be beaten up after finishing . She was spectacular and the audience tittered throughout. Her delivery was perfect! Just about everyone congratulated her afterwords. Her scores were 9.5, 9.5, 9.5, and a 10. Huzzah!
A friend of mine, Jena, asked for a tarot reading on Thursday. I complied. It was quick, but not as painless as she would have liked, and today she came back to confirm what I had told her. I love the tarot! They do all the work. Well, maybe not all, but I don't think I've had a bad reading yet. Jen asked about the clarifying statement that all careful tarot readers begin a reading with, which I never do. (I always forget.) Okay, okay...guilty as charged. I can be an airhead.
"None of this is set in stone, right? I could change my fate if i realize what's coming when it's coming?"
"Technically, yes," I answered. "but I find most people don't change their fate. The tarot reads the most likely course you will take. Humans are creatures of habit that have a tendency to follow the same path time after time after time. That's why it takes getting hit upside the head 3 or 4 times before a woman learns what kind of man not to date, etc." The most likely course is exactly that."
She hates me right now, even though I reminded her that I was just the messenger. She'll get over it soon enough.
She said that her mother was very gullible when it came to such occult practices. She can't seem to make a decision without consulting some oracle, and that these scam artists knew a mark when they saw one. I had to correct her.
First, I asked if there was one reader in particular. She said no. I called her mom an occult whore. (I did it kindly.) Then I asked if any of them had claimed there was some curse put on her and for a thousand dollars, they could remove it. She said no, again. So I told her that her mother has never met a scam artist. She's actually met some very good readers that are right more often than wrong. So much so, that her mother just wanted more insight into her future (and got addicted to the knowing.)
Scam artists will try to get more money out of you after the reading. Some are genuinely trying to help by suggesting a particular candle spell or two. Others (the scam artists) almost always claim some outside force (because it's never your own fault ) - some outside force has stolen your luck, or cursed you, or is working against you somehow and then they ask for exorbitant amounts of money to be rid of such a foul, dread thing. I'm here to tell you that curses, large and small, can be gotten rid of with collected items if need be. Candle magic is usually the most effective and quickest kind of magic, but not even a candle is needed if you do it correctly. If you have any questions on this subject, please feel free to send me a note.
COME PLAY WITH ME!
Category: Friends
originally posted November 20, 2007
I was gonna blog about how great Sue did Wednesday with her new poem, posted here, and how excited and proud I was of her - but instead I am gonna talk about how she mentioned there was a reason I was the element of Air at Samhain . I know it was all in love and I know she didn't mean any harm by it but it was the second time she said it which makes me believe she meant it so it hurt my feelings all the same .
I am not and airhead . Okay, so for the three years I was with my boyfriend I had to call him every time I needed to remember my favorite bands name... that does not make me an airhead. And so on occasion I lose my train of thought in the middle of a major, or even minor point ... that does not make me an airhead either and neither does my attention being momentarily taken away by a pretty, red, swirling lights .
What airhead do you know understands that red is an attention-grabbing color warning you of danger and that's why stop signs are in red as well as protecting animals from being eaten in the wild ? What airhead do you know is able to spell, define, and use in a sentence the words precariously, succinct, consummate, accoutrement, precipice, or nonchalantly? (Go ahead, you can check 'em. I used them all.) Tell me about an airhead that can easily lecture on the psychoanalytical theories of dreams by Freud, Jung, and Hall? ...and actually make it interesting? That's right, buddy, I did all that! Who's the airhead now?
Yeah, I thought so... or is that thaught so? (That's for you, Mentor! Ha!)
The element of Air is the element of the mind, of intelligence, of effective communication, which I'm proud to say, I am quite good at....so there !
Now that I've vented, I guess I could tell you just how well Sue did Wednesday night.
She killed! It was great! Her poem was called "About Me" and the key line in it is, "Do you know what it's like to be short, fat, and white?" She even demurely asked not to be beaten up after finishing . She was spectacular and the audience tittered throughout. Her delivery was perfect! Just about everyone congratulated her afterwords. Her scores were 9.5, 9.5, 9.5, and a 10. Huzzah!
A friend of mine, Jena, asked for a tarot reading on Thursday. I complied. It was quick, but not as painless as she would have liked, and today she came back to confirm what I had told her. I love the tarot! They do all the work. Well, maybe not all, but I don't think I've had a bad reading yet. Jen asked about the clarifying statement that all careful tarot readers begin a reading with, which I never do. (I always forget.) Okay, okay...guilty as charged. I can be an airhead.
"None of this is set in stone, right? I could change my fate if i realize what's coming when it's coming?"
"Technically, yes," I answered. "but I find most people don't change their fate. The tarot reads the most likely course you will take. Humans are creatures of habit that have a tendency to follow the same path time after time after time. That's why it takes getting hit upside the head 3 or 4 times before a woman learns what kind of man not to date, etc." The most likely course is exactly that."
She hates me right now, even though I reminded her that I was just the messenger. She'll get over it soon enough.
She said that her mother was very gullible when it came to such occult practices. She can't seem to make a decision without consulting some oracle, and that these scam artists knew a mark when they saw one. I had to correct her.
First, I asked if there was one reader in particular. She said no. I called her mom an occult whore. (I did it kindly.) Then I asked if any of them had claimed there was some curse put on her and for a thousand dollars, they could remove it. She said no, again. So I told her that her mother has never met a scam artist. She's actually met some very good readers that are right more often than wrong. So much so, that her mother just wanted more insight into her future (and got addicted to the knowing.)
Scam artists will try to get more money out of you after the reading. Some are genuinely trying to help by suggesting a particular candle spell or two. Others (the scam artists) almost always claim some outside force (because it's never your own fault ) - some outside force has stolen your luck, or cursed you, or is working against you somehow and then they ask for exorbitant amounts of money to be rid of such a foul, dread thing. I'm here to tell you that curses, large and small, can be gotten rid of with collected items if need be. Candle magic is usually the most effective and quickest kind of magic, but not even a candle is needed if you do it correctly. If you have any questions on this subject, please feel free to send me a note.
COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL
About a Poets Bout
originally posted November 10, 2007A friend invited me
To a show so I could see
Girls and boys go head to head
And feed upon what had been said...
A spoken poets meet,
Where T. and E. compete
With lots of angst and hate
And hopes you don't reciprocate...
It was adventurous,
And Boy! can those girls cuss.
The men did real well, too,
And so did my friend Sue...
A virgin to the stage,
And she wasn't filled with rage,
But love and sex and lust...
To go again... we must.
...and yet, another original by E. Zurita
T = testosterone... E = Estrogen
Okay, I think the rhyming fairies (scat...shoo) have finally been satiated. Maybe, I can think normally now. Of them I think I underestimated ....damn it! S T O P I T already!!
So.... Wednesday night, a new myspace friend invited me to come join them at a club called "Poetry" located above Wolfgang Puck's Chinois Restaurant for...you guessed it, poetry. Well, I'm not a poet.... and I'm not very appreciative of good poetry even though I know I should be...(I personally think all poems should rhyme, but that's me.) Anyway, I only know (well, am speaking to) one poet, so I ask her if she wants to go. It's open mic, maybe she's willing to share.
She agrees. Great! It'll be an adventure. I've never been to an open mic poetry night, or day for that matter. On top of it all, it's an adventure for her, too. She's never been to one either, let alone read her poetry in front of a bunch of strangers. So, we meet at the BBC. She comes straight from work and she's wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Strike one, in my mind, but I correct myself... never, never, never judge a book by its cover, and I love Sue, so she looks great. Besides, it's all about the words tonight, right?
We decide to go in my truck,'cos I know where we're going. I love the Forum Shoppes at Caesar's Palace. Love them. It's so very, very pretty inside, and that's just the hallways. There are clouds painted upon the sky ceiling, exquisite marble floors, Greco-Roman architectural details adorn every shop face and the statuary looks as if it shipped direct from Rome itself. Love it. But first ...we have to park.
I take the back way in because I'm a local, and we all know the back way. But I forgot the garage was made for a vehicle only 6' 9" tall. My truck sits at 6' 5" - if we had hit a bump at high speed, I would've had a convertible. Both Sue and I are ducking as we pass, ever so gently and slowly, every overhead concrete brace....like it will help! and finally make it to level five where we deeply sigh with relief and give no thought to the ride back down. I know, I know, I know, I could have parked on level one, but I happen to like level five, thank you very much. (I also like floor 27, but that's a whole 'nuther blog. )
(Just a mere few inches of clearance)
My new myspace friend is named Knowledge. He wrote me because he likes Marvel comics, too, and probably because he searched "Vegas & poem" and found that little diddy I wrote when pissed. See here. "A Series of Undisposable Posts"
Guess who was on the elevator with us? Knowledge and his girlfriend (?) Tiana Marie. Cool! Knowledge is a slender, handsome black man with a goatee and a brown beret-like hat. Very friendly, we hugged soon after introduced. He has a slight hint of Britain in his speech that gets ever more accented as he gets excited. Tiana Marie is a large, voluptuous blond with smoky eyes that sparkle with her outfit. We meet, greet and discuss the upcoming events. I inform Knowledge that Sue is the poetess between the two of us and he asks if she'll be reciting her poem and is excited to know that she has them memorized.
Let me interject....myself.... both Sue and I have no idea what to expect. The closest I've ever come to seeing live poetry is "I Married An Axe Murderer," and it's nothing like what we actually experienced by nights end.
Sue is unfazed by the fact that she has to recite her poems from memory. We, of the Temple, are masters at memorization wouldn't ya know... well, we are now, anyway. She assures Knowledge that by shows start, she'll be ready. Of course her poem is only 15-20 lines long. Pshaw... no biggie!
Upon arrival at Chinois, the doorman has no idea about any "Poetry Reading" so we wait while he calls. Sue and I had arrived really early so we had to wait an hour before everything got started. People started filtering in very slowly and took various positions around the small venue. A black and white painting of a reclining nude adorns the front wall that is also filled with seats. A small, unopened bar sits just off its flank. Sue and I chose to sit in the second row on the the most stylish, yet uncomfortable of couches. A small copper colored metal coffee table holds our purses and the like.
As the room fills we hear a few in the corner practicing their poetry for one another and Sue turns to me and says, "I feel a little outclassed."
Again, I say "Pshaw! Once they hear your poem, you'll have nothing to worry about."She recites to me the other poem she has written. She asks if it might be too deep. I look around at the collected handful of patrons. I agree. Tiana Marie makes her first round with the poet's registration sheet and to collect the cover charge from non-poets (That be me!) and Sue and I are both surprised that if you are one of the mighty fine brave you don't have to pay. Huzzah! Sue's nervousness grows exponentially after writing her name. She's committed now.
They dim the lights and small spotlights swirl red rosettes around the room, too pretty, while Knowledge calls for all the poets to go sit under the big giant naked lady painted on the front wall. The name of the event is called "Testosterone vs. Estrogen" so Knowledge has the boys sitting on one side (7) and the girls sitting on the other (3). Of the ten sitting on stage, Sue is the only white girl and sticks out like a sore thumb. I can feel the nervousness exuding from her pores from across the room.
Knowledge warms up the crowd with a poem written for the flowering of spoken poet artists (too sweet) and then the night begins. The host is adorable, funny, and able to fill the dead time with his "Tetris on mushrooms" pants. Tiana Marie goes next, followed by a male virgin poet and so on. Scores are bellowed out from the judges after each performance and Knowledge gives an update of either the scores or the leaders.
The poetry being recited is angry, provocative, mellow, observational, questioning, and most important of all, long. Each poem is at least 10-30 stanzas long. I think Sue's is five. I start to worry. And then suddenly, its her turn. I clap loudly to try and make her feel better and she mumbles that this is her first time ever speaking her poetry out loud, let alone in front of anyone. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins. Her voice is sultry. Her eyes flutter from closed to half open. She punctuates and de-emphasizes and her head tilts sexily. And then she's done. I can feel the relief wash over her. Sue broke the 9 score mark for the night with a 9.1 from one of the judges. The remainder of the crowd seemed to be squeezing their legs together. Very sexy. Everyone claps hard. I hoot and howl, because that's what friends do. My shoulders un-tense for the night as well.
The remainder of the evening, Sue must sit at the front but she doesn't perform again. I can see the gears turning behind her eyes as the poets recite their art. She's preparing for a return performance. I finally realize that the bar outside the room is open so at a point not so conspicuous I get us a couple of Jacks. Sue downs hers quickly. As the night comes to a close, the four female poets win the night by a mere 1.7 points or somesuch. Knowledge comes around and gives Sue $15 for being on the winning girls team. Whoo hoo! I'm driving so I make Sue finish my drink.
As we leave, again, ever so slowly, Sue and I are excitedly talking about returning next Wednesday. Knowledge exclaims if she wants to come back they'll post her picture and profile on the myspace website. Sue called me Thursday with a new poem filled with her own angst. Maybe we'll see you there this time.
What an adventure!
*Update: Much has changed in a year. Sue no longer particpates with Knowledge at the poetry nightclub due to the differences they have in their views on homosexuality. Sue currently performs pretty regularly at Rejavanate, located at Pecos and Flamingo on Tuesday nights. Most nights I attend as well. This february 10, 2009, Sue will be featuring. Hope to see you there!
My new myspace friend is named Knowledge. He wrote me because he likes Marvel comics, too, and probably because he searched "Vegas & poem" and found that little diddy I wrote when pissed. See here. "A Series of Undisposable Posts"
Guess who was on the elevator with us? Knowledge and his girlfriend (?) Tiana Marie. Cool! Knowledge is a slender, handsome black man with a goatee and a brown beret-like hat. Very friendly, we hugged soon after introduced. He has a slight hint of Britain in his speech that gets ever more accented as he gets excited. Tiana Marie is a large, voluptuous blond with smoky eyes that sparkle with her outfit. We meet, greet and discuss the upcoming events. I inform Knowledge that Sue is the poetess between the two of us and he asks if she'll be reciting her poem and is excited to know that she has them memorized.
Let me interject....myself.... both Sue and I have no idea what to expect. The closest I've ever come to seeing live poetry is "I Married An Axe Murderer," and it's nothing like what we actually experienced by nights end.
Sue is unfazed by the fact that she has to recite her poems from memory. We, of the Temple, are masters at memorization wouldn't ya know... well, we are now, anyway. She assures Knowledge that by shows start, she'll be ready. Of course her poem is only 15-20 lines long. Pshaw... no biggie!
Upon arrival at Chinois, the doorman has no idea about any "Poetry Reading" so we wait while he calls. Sue and I had arrived really early so we had to wait an hour before everything got started. People started filtering in very slowly and took various positions around the small venue. A black and white painting of a reclining nude adorns the front wall that is also filled with seats. A small, unopened bar sits just off its flank. Sue and I chose to sit in the second row on the the most stylish, yet uncomfortable of couches. A small copper colored metal coffee table holds our purses and the like.
As the room fills we hear a few in the corner practicing their poetry for one another and Sue turns to me and says, "I feel a little outclassed."
Again, I say "Pshaw! Once they hear your poem, you'll have nothing to worry about."She recites to me the other poem she has written. She asks if it might be too deep. I look around at the collected handful of patrons. I agree. Tiana Marie makes her first round with the poet's registration sheet and to collect the cover charge from non-poets (That be me!) and Sue and I are both surprised that if you are one of the mighty fine brave you don't have to pay. Huzzah! Sue's nervousness grows exponentially after writing her name. She's committed now.
They dim the lights and small spotlights swirl red rosettes around the room, too pretty, while Knowledge calls for all the poets to go sit under the big giant naked lady painted on the front wall. The name of the event is called "Testosterone vs. Estrogen" so Knowledge has the boys sitting on one side (7) and the girls sitting on the other (3). Of the ten sitting on stage, Sue is the only white girl and sticks out like a sore thumb. I can feel the nervousness exuding from her pores from across the room.
Knowledge warms up the crowd with a poem written for the flowering of spoken poet artists (too sweet) and then the night begins. The host is adorable, funny, and able to fill the dead time with his "Tetris on mushrooms" pants. Tiana Marie goes next, followed by a male virgin poet and so on. Scores are bellowed out from the judges after each performance and Knowledge gives an update of either the scores or the leaders.
The poetry being recited is angry, provocative, mellow, observational, questioning, and most important of all, long. Each poem is at least 10-30 stanzas long. I think Sue's is five. I start to worry. And then suddenly, its her turn. I clap loudly to try and make her feel better and she mumbles that this is her first time ever speaking her poetry out loud, let alone in front of anyone. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins. Her voice is sultry. Her eyes flutter from closed to half open. She punctuates and de-emphasizes and her head tilts sexily. And then she's done. I can feel the relief wash over her. Sue broke the 9 score mark for the night with a 9.1 from one of the judges. The remainder of the crowd seemed to be squeezing their legs together. Very sexy. Everyone claps hard. I hoot and howl, because that's what friends do. My shoulders un-tense for the night as well.
The remainder of the evening, Sue must sit at the front but she doesn't perform again. I can see the gears turning behind her eyes as the poets recite their art. She's preparing for a return performance. I finally realize that the bar outside the room is open so at a point not so conspicuous I get us a couple of Jacks. Sue downs hers quickly. As the night comes to a close, the four female poets win the night by a mere 1.7 points or somesuch. Knowledge comes around and gives Sue $15 for being on the winning girls team. Whoo hoo! I'm driving so I make Sue finish my drink.
As we leave, again, ever so slowly, Sue and I are excitedly talking about returning next Wednesday. Knowledge exclaims if she wants to come back they'll post her picture and profile on the myspace website. Sue called me Thursday with a new poem filled with her own angst. Maybe we'll see you there this time.
What an adventure!
*Update: Much has changed in a year. Sue no longer particpates with Knowledge at the poetry nightclub due to the differences they have in their views on homosexuality. Sue currently performs pretty regularly at Rejavanate, located at Pecos and Flamingo on Tuesday nights. Most nights I attend as well. This february 10, 2009, Sue will be featuring. Hope to see you there!
COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL
Sunglasses Saga: Week IVJanuary 7, 2009: Wednesday
A customer asked me yesterday if I believed in "an eye for an eye." Emphatically I said "No!" If everyone agreed with this tenet, then the whole world would be blind (Gibran)... and if the whole world is blind, we'd have no need for sunglasses.
Huh, that Erma... such a wuss... Every blind man I no wears me n my frends. I say blind em all!! No sharing our vizun with the world. Mwah- ha-ha-ha!! Gotta go! Ciao bellas!!
January 8, 2009: Thursday
Did you know that sunglasses can be traced back as far as Emperor Nero (AD 60) who watched gladiatorial fights whilst holding up polished green gems to cut the sun's glare? The first actual recorded evidence of someone wearing sunglasses appears in a painting by Tommasso da Modena in 1352. Good morning!
January 9, 2009: Friday
The space between earth and heaven is filled with things that fly. Birds that swoop and glide and feather on the breeze; silver tubes leaving wakes upon the white-blue sky; kites with tails aflutter with bemused children attached and plastic bags and paper torn all dancing of their freedom with the wind. Be wary not to let the flying free debris knock your sunglasses off your face. Good afternoon.
January 10, 2009: Saturday
No prose today: spent the day with my boss!
January 11, 2009: Sunday
Snaking finger tendrils of copper-coloured desert crossed our path this morning. They clawed and undulated their way across the asphalt divide swirling the microcosmic dance of the web of life itself. I raised my glasses and found them to be the everyday colour of the pale dust so prevalent in our valley. I think my sunglasses show me a more spiritual world. Good morning!
January 12, 2009: Monday
I read somewhere once that living vicariously through others is not living at all. I would have to disagree. My sunglasses and I have seen and heard and experienced some amazing drama this week. We couldn't get more drama on a sunny nude beach in South America filled with jealous lovers. Living vicariously through others is like being a grandparent: you get all the joys of visiting with your grandkids but get to give them back before they pee in your bed. Good morning!
January 13, 2009: Tuesday
"The verity of statements firm
Grants passage to this place in turn."
His winged feet beguile my soul
On travel into darkness whole.
We pass into the underworld
For fleeting life has come unfurled.
Remove my frames so as to see
As we pass beneath the worldly tree.
Then fields ablaze, Helios bright-
Replace the shades to stay the light.
"The verity of statements firm,"
Says the keeper of the herm.
Relax, enjoy, no Cerberus pass
No Tartarus chains, no Hades wrath.
"The verity of statements firm
Show honor, virtue, ability to learn.
"Pompaios Hermes then did lie
With grin and sigh and smile wry
Upon the golden grass so sweet
With shades in place all nice and neat.
Erma Zurita,
sent with my iPhone
COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL
Sociable
