Erma's Stomping Grounds

In An Instant

2011-05-05T01:02:00.000-07:00

April 30, 2011

It’s been a busy week! New inputs for two of the websites I maintain…corrections to those inputs cos my ass insists on checking them when I’m half asleep…frenetic energy at work because of the move this week…the Man went to the doctors for a checkup which he was relieved to get the results of but the lead up to it was again, nerve wracking…my best friends mom went into the hospital with a blood clot and she’s worried as all hell even though she’s mad at her mom for other things happening in her life, which also occurred this week…other clients have just given us the info for their websites which now have to be tweaked and uploaded…the gale force winds here sheared a panel off the cooler and it was leaking…*whew*

But it hasn’t been so busy that the Man and I haven’t been able to take a little bit of time to appreciate one another…

The Man came home one night this week later than usual. I sat in the overstuffed chair watching “Tangled” as I worked on social media for a client. “How was your night, babe?” I said as he entered the door.

“Get up.” He says firmly and directly. (Every time I tell this story I am interrupted with, “ooh, forceful…” or “yum, I like a strong man”)

I get up, he takes me in his arms, and squeezes without release or even threat of release. He chokes out 6 words, “It can happen in an instant.” and squeezes even harder. We stand there wrapped around one another for another 5-10 minutes before he relents to telling me what happened.

While on his way home, traveling the I-15, somewhere near the Spring Mountain exit, he sees COMING AT HIM a large, black SUV towing a U-haul trailer SPINNING BACKWARDS towards him. With gritted teeth and a firm grip on the wheel he narrowly escapes the onslaught by skidding slightly one direction and then straightening the wheel enough to needle through the shrinking gap between the back end of the trailer and a small vehicle traveling in the lane to the right of him.

So, not that we don’t already, but we really appreciate the moments we have together now that we both are working pretty regularly. Every moment we can we steal a kiss, or a touch, or a look… I try to always close the computer or put down the iPad and we converse about everything… From the doctor to the blood clot, from the cooler to the clients. We cuddle very night before we sleep with a kiss before we move into our favorite positions and wake up to one another with a smile and a good morning.

We do this because very small thing we do to reaffirm and rejoice in what we have….

Can Happen In An Instant.

"Heinz*!"

2010-07-22T01:27:00.000-07:00

Thursday, July 22, 2010

"Heinz*!"

In March of 2009, I decided to start dating again. After a self-imposed sexual & relationship exile, I found myself caught up in a whirlwind time of exploration and adventure into the Internet dating realm. I learned quickly that dating via the internet was not my style and threatened to delete every profile I had. I was talked out of it.

"You never know when you'll meet the "One", they said.

"Mr. Right could just be a click away."

"They" are a couple of very close friends I shared my adventures with. "They" were on a quest. But it seemed, after several more months of tried and failed dates, I was not. I purchased another "silver bullet" after wearing out another after 3 years of single-hood and was content with no longer searching for "Mr. Right."

And then I resurrected my Facebook account. After having one for a while, I decided to give it a real try. It was there I reconnected with Michael.

After a friendship that had lasted a little over 25 years, hundreds of gaming sessions, millions of jokes, and late night pizza, we decided to get together for dinner. It was almost instantaneous. I knew the moment I saw him in all-Johnny-Cash-black, this time it would be different. Our late night sessions would no longer consist of chips and bean dip; of arguing over the proper amount of experience points to award; over whether Evil Dave's insult was responsible for the loss of yet another player...

And I was right. After a fourth get together... (because they weren't classified in my mind as dates... It was Mikey after all!) the all-nighters consisted of intimate conversation & laugh out loud reminiscing after mind blowing.... Well, you know. And that was all she wrote. The fat lady had sung her final aria and I was knee deep in.... Um... Let me rephrase that... I was enchanted, and ensconced, and enthralled, and every other appropriate en- word by Mikey! Mikey?! Who would've ever guessed it.

So... after several months (since Nov. 16th) and at the very least 247 hours, (an hour a day) Michael and I are still making "them" throw up a little in their mouths with our reigned in around them intimacy. "They" are still looking and all I can say is do it. There will come a moment when you'll relax and there it will be... in a place you never expected with someone you'd never imagine. Funny how the universe works.

Michael and I have officially begun to co-habitate. At the moment I am supposed to be unpacking boxes but the meditative repeat of putting books onto shelves got me to thinking... The comfort and de-stressing of my life had me contemplating... And all that urges me to write once again. I'm back, people! I know you've missed me. I've missed me, too.

Love,
The Dame.

*My new job is running the board for various radio programs, one of which is the 702 Empire Radio Show. Khary and the Nutty Bunch are fond of saying "Heinz!" instead of catsup, cos it's better. I, personally, am not a fan of Heinz 57, but "Heinz" sounds better and makes more sense than "Soy!" as a title for a post to catch you up...

Secret Treasure #1

2009-12-09T19:22:00.000-08:00

Every Face tells a story, It's hard to hide a lie...

Secret Treasure #1

I love stories! Mythological masterpieces, sweeping epics, or barroom exaggerations... love them all! It's one of the reasons I'm such a social creature... I love to hear people's stories, in their own voice. I tell a pretty good tale, too, learning from ritual practice or other master storytellers. Heck, the only jokes I know are ones where a story is involved. But these guys.... these guys are true masters; not just for performance... but for content as well.

Storytelling at it's finest!

CELESTIAL NAVIGATIONS

These guys are usually listed under the musicians tab but they are OH! So Much More! Their stories are inspirational, philosophical, and just plain fan-DAMN-tastic!

"There is only one way to explain "Celestial Navigations". It is an experience... combination of eloquent, unforgettable narrative accompanied by haunting, stirring music.

It is the result of a collaboration between accomplished stage and screen actor Geoffrey Lewis and electronic musicians Geoff Levin. It transcends all known categories. It has no limitations when it comes to age groups or backgrounds." (from their website)

Besides the list below, I have several favorites!

Ones I've performed at various sabbats or Temple storytelling nights:

The Janitor
Horses
The Ocean
The Valley
The Lunch Stop
The Soothsayer
The Winner
The Sniper
The Tree

All of which fit very nicely into the pagan genre (except for maybe the Janitor but I'm an all-inclusive kind of girl.)

I was BANNED from telling "Horses" after a Samhain.

Listen to "The Tree" on their MySpace http://www.myspace.com/celnavigations I'll bet you a dollar that you'll cry.

Albums or singular pieces available on iTunes or at their website:
http://www.celestialnavigations.com/index.html

If you like 'em... let me know please. Thanks and enjoy!

Erma

Las Vegas Pagan Pride 2009

2009-11-14T20:14:00.000-08:00

"Pagan Pride is about comradeship between all pagans and being proud of being a pagan!"

See the entire blog post here: http://ladyatheona.blogspot.com/

Dating Rules

2009-10-27T01:22:00.000-07:00

Artist: BySilent

I've added a new rule for when I am on a date.

"Never mention you have plans after your date."

No matter how innocent those plans may be; no matter if it's a good friend (Hoagus) who needs a shoulder... even though you deferred them for the date in the first place... even though you may want to invite the date to meet your good friend... even though - SAY NOTHING! Don't invite them. Don't try to impress them by saying you put off your friend for them. Don't bother trying to convince them that they're just a friend and no! you're not sleeping with them even if it isn't their business because this was the very first date. Just. Don't. Do. It.

Can you hear the venom? Yeah, I know. I'm better off without. Whatever! But... the thing is though, I really liked him (whine)... and I thought he really liked me (whine). We flirted endlessly and even touched as we did. We held hands during the movie. (I know! Sweet, right?) We talked for hours and then the next day... nothing. He even said the date was going "swimmingly."

*sigh*

Yeah, yeah... I know.

Why do we have to have these rules? Why can't we just be who we are, faults and everything? I guess we could just be who we are and let the chips fall where they may. Wasn't meant to be... isn't that what everyone says? And yet, we still have these "rules" that we cleave to. Make sure to look your very best. Don't mention the ex. Don't sleep with them on the first date.

And who came up with THAT rule in the first place? Even though it's a good one to adhere to... (H. even says he respects no girl who gives it up on a first date... and H. always tries to get it on the first date.) But then, we don't always follow our self-imposed list of rules, do we? And sometimes, when we do, it still doesn't help is in the pursuit of finding that mate. That One.

And who the Hel said there was supposed to be One? Why can't it be several Ones? I'm a firm believer that people come in and out of our lives for a reason... whether it's for comfort, or a lesson, or just to reflect to you who you really are... isn't that what the One is, too? Just like your sister, or your mom, or your dad is a One? It is with these beings of light in our lives that make us who we are, right? To test our limitations... to share with us all our hopes and dreams and emotions. Can't the One we seek be more than One? Maybe a lifetime of Ones? And if you think about it... aren't most of those Ones given? Or do you think that some of the Ones in our lives are meant to be sought after?

Either way, if you think about it... if you do want that One... you have to be yourself, faults and everything... because you're gonna be with that One for as long as the Universe lets you, which could end up being a really long time. So, yeah... we might have these rules for ourselves that for the most part, we follow, but when that One does show up... the One the Universe has ready for you... the One that is there to teach you something about yourself... all those rules will go right out the window.

Saving Our Ass!

2009-10-11T03:56:00.000-07:00

Saguaro Moon - Credit & Copyright: Stefan Seip

My morning started out great! Well, the whole day was actually great 'cos I had a date that night (which was also great!) But there was one thing that bothered me that day.

The day was October 9, 2009. I couldn't sleep so entered the world of Twitter. It was rocking! I can soooo understand the lure of early morning tweeting. Everyone's up and about (except me, usually)! Something crossed my stream that reminded me that today was the day!

RT @IndiscreetTweet - Hey, Barack, you just won the Nobel Peace Prize! How you going to celebrate? "I'm going to bomb the moon!"

RT @MsJBell - Dear Nasa, I'm really happy for you & I'ma let you finish, but Dr Evil had one of the best plans 2 blow up the moon of ALL TIME!

Holy Cow! Nobel Peace prize and the LCROSS mission... and later that day I heard that Marge Simpson (yes! the cartoon Marge) was gracing the cover of Playboy. Yowsa! What a day! I could already form in my mind the plethora of disparaging remarks I would hear from my right leaning friends about the President's Nobel but I never expected this:

RT @1prdpgn @LCROSS_NASA - you people are idiots! EXPLORE DON'T DESTROY!

RT @AliceTi Dear NASA, LEAVE ALONE MOON, YOU ASSHOLES !

RT @Thaedydal: And pagan discussion sites are in uproar over the moon's bombing, "your bombing our goddess"

RT @Frnkds1234 - leave the moon alone poor Artemis when is the last time the government shot rockets at your God, Goddess, Gods or G ... http://lnk.ms/36bWv

RT @Wiccan_Sky - So disappointed some Pagans think the moon bombing was acceptible. Shame on you for treating our Goddess that way. =[

RT @tobascodagama @elles - Dear Elles, NASA is RAPING the moon with its PENIS-PROBES because they can't handle the FEMININE POWER of the MOON GODDESS. Love, Me.

RT@greenlivingzone - Selene the moon goddess was not happy about the earth people friday morning. "Bomb your home if you want but leave my beloved moon alone."

RT @felintan - Dear NASA... I pray to The Moon Goddess and now you're going to bomb a hole on her???? You'll be damned. (- -")

RT @FaePersephone - Those pieces of shit at NASA are going to bomb the Moon tomorrow! NO good will come of this! Goddess is going to get serious revenge!

RT - Dear Moon, we are so, so, so sorry for the stupid folly of petty men w/ cruel dreams. (via @Laetificavi)

_________________________________________________

Seriously!? My fellow bretheren were acting this way? The loving, accepting, kind, and rational pagan community? So I sent out a couple of Twitters of my own...

@DameVegas - Roommate just asked why we f#&%ing bombed the moon... Um, we all know that it was to check for WATER in the soil, right? C'mon people...

@DameVegas - How can be people be pissed at what was done to the moon, yet be unaffected by what we do to the planet we live on? Really?

____________________________________________

This was my retort to the myriad of Twitter comments that condemned NASA and the LCROSS mission... especially those comments that came from my fellow pagans who personified the moon as the "Goddess" herself. (The moon is a symbol of the goddess but the Earth herself is still our "mother.")

Now, I don't disagree that there may be repercussions from the actions of eventually utilizing the moon as a place for our growing population's expansion, or storage depot, or trash repository; nor do I disagree that we may be betting on the acquisition of future resources while simultaneously depleting what minimal supplies we already have. I also agree that we should know where the funding for this project came from ($79 million)... But then we should know from where the funding exists for any national project....

But... (I have to vent a minute...)

Firstly, the moon is venerated by almost every single culture in the world. It is not exclusive to neo-pagans or even ancient pagans. And it is not only seen as a symbol of the feminine, but has also been heralded as masculine. The moon is a SYMBOL. While it does directly effect our Mother Earth and our very existence, the "bombing" or "exploding" or "attacking" that the LCROSS conducted did not and will not, by any means, incur the "wrath of the Goddess" or harm it in any way because...

The moon has been bombarded by meteors and space debris for billions of years! And by objects much, much bigger than the LCROSS rocket(s). The purpose of this mission was too determine if there is water as ice located in the soil at the deepest parts of the coldest craters. "Water on the moon could change NASA's troubled plans for space exploration. It would make revisiting and putting a base on the moon far cheaper because the moon's water could be used."

And secondly, if you truly believe this one action is the catalyst for the fatalistic scenarios I know many of you are dreaming of... You tell me then... What are we supposed to do?

It is only natural for mankind to look to the heavens for answers. Answers to questions like overpopulation and dwindling resources to care for that overpopulation.

Should we do nothing?

Mankind, has for eons, dreamed of "exploring strange new worlds and new civilizations." Multitudes of stories have divined future earth and the future of humanity. All of it conjecture because the future is unknown until WE decide to do something. And even if you believe the future is predetermined... I'd bet money that the scenario you have in mind is not that pleasing either (if it's based in reality, that is.)

As for the problems we need to address: What do we do, I ask again?

Should we impose a restriction on childbearing and live with those consequences? We already know what they are. Should we condone mass genocide and war as a means of controlling the population? Should we restrict the use of our limited fossil fuels and other resources? What are the consequences of that? None of the scenarios I have in mind are very comely. How about yours?

A successful moon base could lead to even further exploration of our solar system. There are vast untapped resources believed to be hiding in just the asteroid belt alone. Water on the moon is just the very first step in the realization of the science fictions we have been desiring. But truth be told... I believe it's one of the few science fictions we actually NEED!

Erma/Atheona
Improvise! Adapt! Overcome!

"You may never know what results come of your action, but if you do nothing there will be no result"
~ Mahatma Gandhi

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing"
~ Edmund Burke

"If you have tried to do something and failed, you are vastly better off than if you had tried to do nothing and succeeded."
~ Lloyd Jones

"The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing."
~ Albert Einstein

A Single Molecule

2009-09-13T03:10:00.000-07:00

A single molecule, one million times smaller than a grain of sand, pictured for first time
By Claire Bates
Last updated at 11:45 AM on 31st August 2009

It may look like a piece of honeycomb, but this lattice-shaped image is the first ever close-up view of a single molecule.

Scientists from IBM used an atomic force microscope (AFM) to reveal the chemical bonds within a molecule.

'This is the first time that all the atoms in a molecule have been imaged,' lead researcher Leo Gross said.

The delicate inner structure of a pentacene molecule has been imaged with an atomic force microscope

The researchers focused on a single molecule of pentacene, which is commonly used in solar cells. The rectangular-shaped organic molecule is made up of 22 carbon atoms and 14 hydrogen atoms.

In the image above the hexagonal shapes of the five carbon rings are clear and even the positions of the hydrogen atoms around the carbon rings can be seen.

To give some perspective, the space between the carbon rings is only 0.14 nanometers across, which is roughly one million times smaller than the diameter of a grain of sand.

Textbook model: A computer-generated image of how we're used to seeing a molecule represented with balls and sticks

'If you think about how a doctor uses an X-ray to image bones and organs inside the human body, we are using the atomic force microscope to image the atomic structures that are the backbones of individual molecules,' said IBM researcher Gerhard Meyer.

A 3D view showing how a single carbon monoxide molecule was used to create the image using a 'tuning fork' effect

The team from IBM Research Zurich said the results could have a huge impact of the field of nanotechnology, which seeks to understand and control some of the smallest objects known to mankind.

The AFM uses a sharp metal tip that acts like a tuning fork to measure the tiny forces between the tip and the molecule. This requires great precision as the tip moves within a nanometer of the sample.

'Above the skeleton of the molecular backbone (of the pentacene) you get a different detuning than above the surface the molecule is lying on,' Mr Gross said.

This detuning is then measured and converted into an image.

To stop the tip from absorbing the pentacene molecule, the researchers replaced the metal with a single molecule of carbon monoxide. This was found to be more stable and created weaker electrostatic attractions with the pentacene, creating a higher resolution image.

IBM researchers Nikolaj Moll, Reto Schlittler, Gerhard Meyer, Fabian Mohn and Leo Gross (l-r) stand behind an atomic force microscope Photo taken by Michael Lowry Image courtesy of IBM Research - Zurich

The experiment was also performed inside a high vacuum at the extremely cold temperature of -268C to avoid stray gas molecules or atomic vibrations from affecting the measurements.

'Eventually we want to investigate using molecules for molecular electronics,' Mr Gross said.

'We want to use molecules as wires or logic switches or elements.'

09/07/09

2009-09-07T19:08:00.001-07:00

In the cool we listen
To love songs & much sap
And play with our phone's buttons
To find the one we lack.

Staring from the table,
Sunglasses seem subdued:
The hard work's all outside
Where the sun's heat can be rude.

Improvise! Adapt! Overcome!

Vegas Skies 09/05/09

2009-09-05T18:12:00.000-07:00

I watched the sky go dark and stray
To God's face, Loki's laugh, to dragons at play.
Though silver lining did mostly fray
Rainbows played on edges gray.
Sunglasses riding on my head
Watching it's own skies of lead...
Hailstorms threaten; Rain will tread
On desert sands the radio said.

Why I Twitter!

2009-08-30T03:39:00.000-07:00

These were my Follow Friday recommendations for this last Friday. The first name with the @ symbol is the person who twittered it originally. On Twitter, I am Damevegas

http://twitter.com/damevegas

You should follow me!

@catconnor - Making blood... just go with it

@iamcomingundone - I don't know if I should throw a fork at him or tell him off. He's a total asshole.

@Rowyn75 - Ask, believe, receive...thank you Goddess...feeling much better

@aaronjhoward to @damevegas- However I follow you now just because your awesome. :)

@LisaPietsch to @amhartnett - SOCK MONKEY!

@poetrysue - Note to self it is still cool to excited about the d&d books

@MrsAaronHoward - OMG. I be married.

@LvRayn - My sparkle just set off the store alarm that can't be good ...danger close ;)

@jdholveck - There are just some songs that shouldn't be sung by drunk college kids. (drunk anybody!!!)

@poetrysue - I'm sweating in places you shouldn't sweat. Desert heat + humidity = ballsucky

@JennSicu to @TheDarlaShow - Sex. Oral is one of those things you have to do to shut your husband up.

@Timshol_lv - Today there will be a murder at desert lincoln...they got it coming........

@BJJBrotha to @SaraJayXXX - gotta love a girl who loves her meat (Shouldn't we all?)

@irisheyes - hmmm a good cup of coffee & staying in my PJs for a while....just me, and just a lazy Sunday.... =o)

@darthvader - Lost 15 followers to that last tweet. Didn't know that many Alaskans knew how to use Twitter.

@TheUserPool to @stephnienolen - I only judge a book by its cover; I don't actually read them.

@benmarvin - Something about women with lots of eye shadow that makes me think they give really good mouth hugs.

@ kejames - I hate this virus. Is 'hate' a strong word? Why yes. Yes it is.

@dutchrudder to @jennb8s - I sold 2 fingers,1 toe, a left tit & a right ball !!! :-)

@BrentSpiner -Look, Spot the cat was and actor. You're not allowed to keep the other actors.

@PiaVeleno - New Twit-rule: Whn U follow, intro yrslf or B blocked. U wldn't wlk in2 m'house &drink m'coffee w/o saying, "Hi Bitch".

@FunnyJoker - My mum and dad are always complaining about the sacrifices they make for me ….It’s not my fault they are druids

@WiccaCraftto @Fernwise: You're not a wiccan. You don't act like a wiccan. (Follow @Fernwise...and it's Wiccan!)

@EricMorelli - Nice and hot today. Only 106 today. Any cooler and I might need a wind breaker or something.

@Pagandrummer - i am a Druid.i am chubby,i am a drummer.i am a God,i am fond of ice cream

@elexiaz - O my... An officer... Hopefully not a gentleman. Calypso & I are destined for a great, fun-filled night.

@michaelmagical - Before you fall into twitter love, make sure you know what their breath smells like.

The best rec. EVER! - RT: @mmlinke1- MOTHERS: KEEP YOUR DAUGHTERS AWAY FROM @1prdpgn Check out his profile and BE WARNED! Follow @1prdpgn

2009-08-29T19:02:00.001-07:00

Silver-fingered palm fronds
Frantic in the wind,
Diamond stippled waters-
Golden as light dims.

Sunglasses on the table,
Watching as I float
In the warmth of waters
Of my famous moat.

Erma
Improvise! Adapt! Overcome!

Sex Clubs: Part II

2009-08-17T16:36:00.000-07:00

I met the girls and Poetrysue's friend and together we drove over to the club. The RR is not near the strip... which is what I would have expected. Instead it's off Boulder Highway, just past Tropicana. We turn on a small residential street where Dick's Tavern sits and weave our way through a couple of neighborhoods in the dark. It's a little scary. After a jaunt through some houses we can see the house swathed in red lights and head towards it. It's a beautiful home and despite the red, unobtrusive. There is parking on the side and in the back.

Cindy and I are still a little scared. Poetrysue is excited like a school girl. Cindy points out the large, white, windowless van.... LOL! We enter anyway.

As you walk into the foyer, there is a showcase of roosters, just like if you were staring at your Grandmother's curio cabinet. Entrance fee for couples is $30 and for single women $5. Single male prices fluctuate and are pretty high... take an adventurous woman with you for a better price. We went on a Monday, which got the couple a weeks pass for their fee... they were very happy!

We had brought a bottle of rum. The club provides all the mixers and only has tip jars out to collect monies. Bring your own booze and they'll serve you as long as it lasts. You can even take it home if you don't finish your bottle. The first room you enter has a bar and a collection of tables and chairs... like a country kitchen restaraunt. Go through an open doorway and to the right is a dance floor with small stage and to the left is another bar (closed) and a pool table. There is another collection of chairs and tables which I could see completely filled on the weekends when the place is said to be busy. In the right upper corner beyond the stage is a small lounge area where a large screen tv plays a porno. There are several dark, shadowy people sitting on the couches watching.

Straight ahead is a set of french doors that open onto an indoor pool. On the far side is a beautiful rocky waterfall. On the door side a round flat surface decorated with a rooster stencil serves as a sun bathers lounge and just off to its right is a hot tub. The pool is lit up green while the hot tubs lights cycle from red to green to purple. Around the edges of the pool area are chairs and tables for people to congregate. We choose some chairs near the entry. The pool looked inviting.

In the corner directly behind us was a small garden filled with plastic plants... but it still looked nice. In the corner across from us was another large corner garden with a large, concrete, horned animal sporting one of the largest penises you'll ever see. I thought it was a rabbit... which it might be. Gaudy, but nice... and fitting. The back, privacy overlaid window overlooks more parking and actually had a pretty nice view of Vegas lights. Unfortunately... your concentration won't be focused there.

We settled into our area and Poetrysue and her friend prepared for swimming. There is a couple already in the pool having a "great time". I hesitated joining so for two reasons... one... I bet there's a lot of sex going on in this pool and two... I have no suit. Just as I was having my doubts, a stark naked couple walked by and entered the main part of the house. I finish my smoke before I decide.

Poetrysue's friend has been here a few times, he tells us, and really likes the relaxed atmosphere. He pointed out the pool table again to me and Cindy, in case we don't want to hang out in the pool area and begins to tell us about the rest of the house but decides to show us instead. There are two sets of french doors besides the main doors we entered. To the left leads to a locker area (bring your own lock) and a bedroom... with a door that closes. A small hallway leads to two more bedrooms a bathroom and a shower.

Cindy and I explore the rest of the house on our own. Out the french doors on the right is the movie room as well as the orgy room. Holy crap! What a room! My first thought was King of the Mountain! The picture does not do it justice. There was a small show in the room later that Cindy was able to spy on from the pool area. Rules state you are allowed to just be a voyeur in the room if you like... just keep it quiet.

There are four other bedrooms and another restroom on the ground floor behind the stage area... one includes two beds. The upstairs is for couples (a man and woman) or single ladies only. We weren't allowed up. It was closed for the night.

Back at the pool, I decided to go swimming and since I didn't have a suit, I went nekkidd... Hey! When in Rome... The water was very nice and I was fascinated by the waterfall. I spent a lot of time under there thinking what it would be like with a certain someone. We were the only ones in the pool for a while. There was a lone man in the pool area as well as two other couples. Expect an age range of 35-50+ here... in fact, they ask that you be 25 and will ID you at the door.

One couple was a gentleman near the age of 50 with his 40 something year old partner who decided to plant himself on one of the tables to receive fellatio from her. It was very hard for nontwitterer Cindy to watch (or rather, not watch! LOL!) Another younger couple started to play as well and the single man at the pool area went and sat with them. We watched (or rather, not watched in utter fascination.)

I always have known I was a voyeur, just not at what level. These past two experiences have really opened my eyes to that. Watching acts of sex is pretty hot, in all its myriad of forms, but to admit to liking to watch has always been a bit embarrassing. It's nice knowing there are venues like this that serve the need if it ever arises. I'm not sure if I'll be a frequent visitor to any of these clubs when popping in a porno could probably suffice but there is a difference between filmed sex acts and live ones... so you never know.

Poetrysue stated that she really liked the fact the all the people we saw were so much older than her. It gives her great pleasure knowing that when she hits her golden years, she can and will be "getting action." It is a sweet sentiment. Cindy, on the other hand, was quite ruffled again... although not as much as when at the Power Exchange. The atmosphere at the RR is very laid back than at the PEx. Of course, again, it was Monday... I should probably go on a Friday or Saturday... maybe with a partner.

So back at the pool, after the older gentleman relieved himself to his partner and the couple plus one finished their jaunt in the chairs, the single man joined us on our end of the pool. Cindy was not in the water so he asked about her. We relayed it was her first time and she was very nervous. To be expected, he said. The man, "Bob", was a musician. Here from back East for a couple of days to play in a gig. Whenever he comes to town, he likes to come to the RR. His wife usually accompanies him. He enjoys watching her with other men, he said, especially big ones...

Sue and her friend then disappeared and all that was left were me and nontwitterer Cindy. Two single girls, alone, one of us nekkid. Cameron came and sat next to us and we learned a lot about him. We discussed why we were there and admitted to being voyeurs. He had been intermittently stroking himself and offered to "pop off" for us. Sure! and seated himself so we both had a good view. Again... so surreal. After, Cameron went off to clean himself up and we were alone again.

An older gentleman joined me in the pool. He had introduced himself earlier and I was being nice... gotta be careful doing that kind of thing in a place like this. He swam to our end of the pool and curtly asked if he could play with my breasts. I declined as gently as possible. I felt so bad... like I had led him on. I know I didn't, but I was naked and I did smile and say hi....

Poetrysue and her friend have returned to the RR and have thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Her friend was right... the atmosphere is very relaxed and serene. It's a place I could see myself actually hanging out in with a good friend who might be up for some adventure... and maybe even take it a step further... that will take a while though, I think.

Sex Clubs: Part I

2009-08-12T02:02:00.000-07:00

***Caution*** In order to get the full essence of my experiences I felt it necessary to mention things of a very sexual nature. If you are easily offended or are just a downright prude... please don't read any further. I hope I can convey the excitement of these adventures.

Several weeks ago, the girls and I (nontwitterer Cindy and PoetrySue) went on a rescue mission for another good friend; Rowyn. Rowyn and her friend were supposed to meet up at a club called the Power Exchange. The friend got lost and poor, little Rowyn was now at this (gasp) SEX club all on her lonesome... see the sarcasm... Rowyn, we find, did not need saving. It was a good excuse... hehehe...

We took with us a male friend of PoetrySue's who is always willing to try something new and fun. Thank goodness! Upon entrance, the first thing we saw was a gentleman in nothing, absolutely nothing... but a chainmail loincloth. Rowyn gave us the tour of the downstairs and we wandered in complete awe of the blatant sexuality... video screens with pornos playing endlessly bombarded our senses, couples clothed and otherwise passed us by perfectly content.... astounding! Then Rowyn took us upstairs...

There are themed rooms upstairs... there is a Roman room, a pirate room, a 50's room, a mad scientists room, a bondage room and more... and each of these rooms are doorless. It is a voyeur's paradise. People who decide to utilize these rooms are doing so at the expense of their privacy. All there is is a small white chain that can stretch across the doorway so no one else can enter the room.... but if the chain is not up.... help yourself, so they say.

As soon as we hit the top step, in the very first room, was a couple going at it... the man's hands were everywhere on his date... and I mean everywhere. A small party of observers clustered outside the chained door and nontwitterer Cindy's reaction was priceless. In fact, I don't think nontwitterer Cindy's bottom jaw ever left the floor the entire time we were there. As we made our way through the small landing area from which three of the rooms were adjoined we noticed that the cluster of people who were at the couples doorway were now following us girls around. Like flies to honey... we tightened our circle around PoetrySue's male friend... hoping they would think we were all with him.

After a brief respite on the patio for a smoke and the conversation of the next "show"... we re-entered the upstairs landing to find another room occupied with a man and woman... or so we thought. This room had no chain in the doorway so the fascinated (and brave) nontwitterer Cindy entered the room to find a gentleman on his knees in front of not a woman... but a man dressed as a woman. Nontwitterer Cindy's already large eyes became larger but her comment was that the gentleman was "working it like a champ!"

We sat upon a lounge seat and the men gathered closer. Somehow, whether subconsciously or just by chance, the four of us girls were seated arounded our male escort and the flies backed off, unceremoniously, I'm sure wondering at the swaggering prowess of our friend. He never even noticed.

An older gentleman approached nontwitterer Cindy, asked her if this was her first time here and told her she'd get more comfortable as time passed. He clapped her shoulder and turned his attention towards his female partner. When nontwitterer Cindy recognized him as the gentleman in the first room whose hands had been everywhere... she shuddered just a little... until we pointed out that it was a different hand. hehehe

We then saw this same busy, busy man across the room on his knees in front of his partner. She sat on one of those chairs shaped like a stiletto. He hiked up her already short skirt and started to work... without his hands this time. The haze of flies buzzing round us drifted towards the new pot of honey in the room. It seemed so surreal... like a scene from Invasion of the Bodysnatchers. I expected at any time these men to raise their arm, point, and let out a bloodcurdling scream. if they weren't busy jacking themselves off, that is.

We moved to the "show". A man was ready to whip a woman. He explained that this practice was not to denigrate the woman in any way. This is what she wants and this is what she earns. She is not allowed to cum unless given permission. This is their choice and we are welcome to stay and watch, but we must stay quiet so there are no accidents. Good enough.

She knelt upon a wooden horse with her bare ass facing the audience. Every part of her was exposed for everyone to see. There are buckles to hold her hands and feet in place but they remain unused. He starts light with a soft leather cat o'nine tails. The women in the audience wince along with the slave when he smacks her ass hard. Her body rises during some of the strikes and writhes at others. He changes devices several times... from paddles to even a palm frond, cut and laquered, spikes looking very menacing. She cries out in pain, moans with pleasure, and glares defiantly at her master. He moves to a riding crop and expertly strikes areas of her behind and exposed vagina. Some audience members leave...the stress in the shoulders (and privates) of everyone is high in the room. As he progresses we can feel for ourselves that the pain for the slave is more intense and sharper than a cat o'nine tails across the ass.

Then suddenly, and dramatically, the "master" has a dagger and begins to scrape it lightly across her skin. The room is hushed in a heavy silence. It's as if no one even wants to breathe. He plays the knife on her skin with expertise, never causing any lacerations and then in one swift and deft movement... the knife point is piercing her vagina area and everyone, men and women included, gasp loudly... leaving a vacuum. Her cry of pain (pleasure?) breaks the stillness and fills the void.

He continues with more slashes and stabbings and then uses the tip of the blade to stimulate her clitoris. The knife play culminates in her begging for permission to come. He allows her and the session is over. Nonchalantly, the "master" turns to the remainder of the audience and asks if anyone has any questions. Those that did stay move to the play area and pepper him. Every device is pulled off the wall for closer inspection. Afterwards it seemed like just another college class at the local communtity college....

So surreal.

Next up... Las Vegas' Oldest Swingers Club: The Red Rooster

Deeper In: Friends

2009-08-10T00:59:00.000-07:00

I had lunch with an good friend today. He was a little worried about my ramblings, I think. I hope I was able to allay any fears for my safety or mind he may have had. I was able to explain exactly what it was that caused the self confusion and, as always, he had wise words to relay. And was even able to poke a little fun, as all friends should...

I like having good friends. The ones I can talk to about anything. I have a few of which I can be honest with on so many different levels... the weird thing is that they are all different. I couldn't imagine discussing my sex life with one, for example, but with a couple of others... no qualms, whatsoever. With my friend today I'm able to discuss my other friends... with another, it's strictly business... politics, Wicca, the occult, world history past and present... Is that weird? To have so many different friends on which you discuss different subjects with?

What's great about these separate relationships is that a discussion with one can help to clarify the ideas you have about another. Today at lunch, I was able to solidify what it is that lends to my confusion... not an easy process when you're in the middle of the confusion. I was able to figure out the nuances as to why I'm so hung up on things like age differences and advocacy for the trodden upon. A discussion via twitter with another friend helped me clarify my whole religious belief system... I'm talking about how to better explain it in a concise and comprehensive idea that's easy to relay.... and with another friend, I am able to looker deeper within myself to find out what is it that is really bothering me....

It's helpful.... this myriad of friends I have.... as it should be for them to be called friends... but there is something wrong with it too, I think...

I've only had three friends I've ever fully invested in... you know... the one you share absolutely everything with... from your dirty, dark secrets... every opinion and judgment...every hope, dream, and desire.... one when I was very young... one in high school... and the last was an ex. I think that's why the walls are so thick and high... the last one did a number on me. Maybe its better to have the myriads instead of just one? Maybe the labyrinth is the way to go?

What would I prefer?

The ONE...

How about you?

Magic Siphon

2009-08-07T15:10:00.001-07:00

I had the pleasure of casting our ring tonite and the energy was high.
Not a misstep nor wasted movement... We moved like the finely crafted
gears of a precision timepiece.

The room was instantaneously disassembled, the ring was quickly
erected, the magic performed, the cakes and wine shared, and then it
was over after the closing and retrieval of the rope. Absolute
clockwork. Beautiful.

When complete, we set the room to rights and cooled off from the heat
generated by our round. I offered the saved cakes & wine to the Lord &
Lady while Sue cooked up a spaghetti storm.

Not more than an hour after our candle was lit and we were enjoying
the meal that Sue made did I get a query for calligraphy work. Magic
rocks!

After dinner, we three were still all giddy like schoolgirls. It was
asked before the ring about the possibility of being drained after. I
offered up my opinion on the matter.

Magic(k), as we utilize it, comes from everywhere around us: from the
earth below our feet and from the very molecules of the air we
breathe. In order to work your will upon those natural forces, you
must first become intuned to them... thus the purpose of ritual... And
once you are there, in tune, you yourself becomes the conduit of those
natural forces. So all those racing molecules, vibrating through you,
should have the effect of energizing you.... not draining you. If
you're being drained, imho, you're doing it wrong.

One of our observers, on the other hand, was completely drained by
rituals end. He gave himself fully to the work at hand, without guard,
sacrificing himself upon the pyre of good works. It only took a
minimal amount of time to bring him back up to rights. Must remember
to protect the observers on the outside before the next one.

All in a it was a good night. Working magic with close friends has a
tendency to open the mind and allows one to see old situations in a
new light. The energy expended on the periphery has a tendency to
energize and make happen other things you wouldn't imagine.

My fear of change had not subsided, but I move forward today with new
information and conviction. I move ahead a little more secure in the
steps I will be taking. Today I am the dawning rosy glow of optimism
and a smile is on my face. The good news is - is that there are no
fangs.

Erma
Improvise! Adapt! Overcome!

Voyeur

2009-08-06T03:50:00.000-07:00

Voyeur

One of the great things about being a devotee of Athena is that
shyness goes by the wayside. In fact, one of the great gray-eyed
goddess' epitaphs is that of the "Battle-Stirring" goddess. The Libra
in me lends to that as well. I am a great instigator of all things fun
and worthy. :-)

I was also once voted "best flirt." I am one of the best west of the
Mississippi. That, I'll agree with, too.

So you would think with these in combination... The lack of shyness,
the instigator of a good time, and with the ability to flirt... I
would never be lonely. You would think.

Tonight, while out with the girls... In a venue where the flirt is the
call for the night... You would think that I, of all people, would not
have any problems, whatsoever. Well... You're right. I had no problems.

I intimated, and flirted, and instigated. I bagged the goods, so to
speak, yet here I sit, at 0333 am, writing a blog, while in the very
next room is the actual thing I intimated.

*sigh*

I was able to watch, of course... not so dead that I still can't be a
voyeur... But is this what I have relegated myself too? The perpetual
non-participant? Sideline Sam?

I tried... (again... not so dead...) But I couldn't. Not this time.
There are other things gnawing at me now. Instead, I am content with
watching, and writing, and waiting.... The trenches have been built. I
fill the moat with water... Now.... where's that shark?

Erma
Improvise! Adapt! Overcome!

The Fear of Change

2009-08-05T02:22:00.000-07:00

Today I sat in a courtroom for over 4 hours for a friend who had to testify in a case of car theft. Her car had been stolen... by someone she was dating... along with a cell phone and cash exceeding $200. He has another court date in a couple of weeks. I'll be at her side again, but this time as a witness... since I was there when we saw him run from the police... in her car.

In the last month and a half I've done things and seen things so very different from who I am that I'm not sure of who I am anymore. I have agreed to a spur of the moment road trip. I have visited a sex club. I've chased down felons. I've dated those I never thought I would ever consider dating.

Change. It's not all its cracked up to be. This is the Cassandra warning I cried during the election season. This change we all want... or we think we want... can be hard and frightening. It breaks through any and all complacency you may have had. Change is exciting. Change can be dangerous.

It is in this change that I find myself wanting. I find myself aching in that wanting. It's been a very long time since I've felt that and it frightens me. More so because that which I want... is not something in my "normal" realm of want. But then again it is. Normal. It is the same as almost everyone wants.

I'm rambling now... close to the edge of revealing too much... too soon.

Suffice it to say that life is changing. As all life does. It shall circle around. As all life does. The season of complacency is done. I'm going back to meet myself once again but I know that who I find will be so very different than who I am now. I only hope the choices I make as I am now will be better than the choices I have made in the past. I only hope that when I decide to reveal the truth of who I really am that the change is not too much too bear. For me.

Again with the rambling.... it must be the fear. I am scared. It's a huge change. It's kind of nice. No, not really. Maybe I just need a change of scenery. A quick trip to the mountains. To another town. Away from people. Maybe I need to strengthen my walls. Bury it deep again. Mortar the chinks my Will has allowed to pass. They say that where there's a Will, there's a way... just don't know if I have the Will.

*sigh*

RT @beltain35 Hitler

2009-07-06T14:02:00.001-07:00

RT @beltain35 Hitler finds out Micha*l Jacks*n is dead: http://htxt.it/pV5R (via @MickPuck)

July 4, 1776

2009-07-04T12:48:00.000-07:00

Adopted by Congress on July 4, 1776)

The Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen United States of America

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security. --Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his assent to laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has forbidden his governors to pass laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of representation in the legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.

He has dissolved representative houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.

He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the legislative powers, incapable of annihilation, have returned to the people at large for their exercise; the state remaining in the meantime exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.

He has endeavored to prevent the population of these states; for that purpose obstructing the laws for naturalization of foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migration hither, and raising the conditions of new appropriations of lands.

He has obstructed the administration of justice, by refusing his assent to laws for establishing judiciary powers.

He has made judges dependent on his will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of new offices, and sent hither swarms of officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, standing armies without the consent of our legislature.

He has affected to render the military independent of and superior to civil power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his assent to their acts of pretended legislation:

For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by mock trial, from punishment for any murders which they should commit on the inhabitants of these states:

For cutting off our trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing taxes on us without our consent:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of trial by jury:

For transporting us beyond seas to be tried for pretended offenses:

For abolishing the free system of English laws in a neighboring province, establishing therein an arbitrary government, and enlarging its boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule in these colonies:

For taking away our charters, abolishing our most valuable laws, and altering fundamentally the forms of our governments:

For suspending our own legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.

He has abdicated government here, by declaring us out of his protection and waging war against us.

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burned our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.

He is at this time transporting large armies of foreign mercenaries to complete the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the head of a civilized nation.

He has constrained our fellow citizens taken captive on the high seas to bear arms against their country, to become the executioners of their friends and brethren, or to fall themselves by their hands.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian savages, whose known rule of warfare, is undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these oppressions we have petitioned for redress in the most humble terms: our repeated petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have we been wanting in attention to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends.

We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent states; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent states, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and things which independent states may of right do. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.

New Hampshire: Josiah Bartlett, William Whipple, Matthew Thornton

Massachusetts: John Hancock, Samual Adams, John Adams, Robert Treat Paine, Elbridge Gerry

Rhode Island: Stephen Hopkins, William Ellery

Connecticut: Roger Sherman, Samuel Huntington, William Williams, Oliver Wolcott

New York: William Floyd, Philip Livingston, Francis Lewis, Lewis Morris

New Jersey: Richard Stockton, John Witherspoon, Francis Hopkinson, John Hart, Abraham Clark

Pennsylvania: Robert Morris, Benjamin Rush, Benjamin Franklin, John Morton, George Clymer, James Smith, George Taylor, James Wilson, George Ross

Delaware: Caesar Rodney, George Read, Thomas McKean

Maryland: Samuel Chase, William Paca, Thomas Stone, Charles Carroll of Carrollton

Virginia: George Wythe, Richard Henry Lee, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Harrison, Thomas Nelson, Jr., Francis Lightfoot Lee, Carter Braxton

North Carolina: William Hooper, Joseph Hewes, John Penn

South Carolina: Edward Rutledge, Thomas Heyward, Jr., Thomas Lynch, Jr., Arthur Middleton

Georgia: Button Gwinnett, Lyman Hall, George Walton

Source: The Pennsylvania Packet, July 8, 1776

Redirect: Michael Has Left the Building by Ken Rasak & a preamble by me

2009-06-26T18:51:00.000-07:00

Redirect: Michael Has Left the Building by Ken Rasak & a preamble by me

Michael Jackson is dead. Twitter was awash with tears and love and jokes and hate yesterday. I tried to quell what vitriol I could but who am I? Jackson, on the other hand...and to me, whether self-proclaimed or not, was a pop and music icon who will leave a mark on the face of music and its accompanying dance much like that of Elvis or Lennon. While I am no fan of "alleged" pedophiles I'm an even worse fan of those who would scold others for being sad in the face of anyone's demise.

One of my very favorite bloggers penned this bit about the life and death of Michael Jackson. I couldn't say it any better. Please click on the link to his myspace blog to read it. Thanks.

Michael Has Left the Building
by Ken Rasak

Drag Me Away, Halston: Movie Review

2009-05-30T23:03:00.000-07:00

It must have been prom night. Dozens of children littered the front of the theatre area all awash in glitter and smiles....Crap! And the noise...OMG, a cacophony of twittering and tweening and giggling and gaggling... enough to drive a person crazy. And what the hell happened to prom fashion? When did it ever become legal to send your children off to a dance looking like Boulder Highway prostitutes? What are designers hawking as fashion these days?? And for fat girls?? Really??

The movie itself was entertaining... keep that word in mind. Drag Me To Hell is a funny and squirmy movie... not your standard hack and slash and with enough of the supernatural to freak you out a little. In all honesty, I'm a bit jaded when it comes to these kinds of films having been subject to them since the age of six so I wasn't scared at all. I did go with two grown women, though, who squealed and cringed and covered their eyes; and who sat in defensive positions most of the night. The entire theatre squealed with the appropriate scenes and you could feel the tension while waiting for something to happen. One group of kiddlings in the back had a young girl who liked to yell out her fear before anything happened which annoyed the entire audience. She was promptly told to "Shut the F**k up!"

This movie was made with audience participation in mind, I feel... after a scene where the young lady in the film asks what she's supposed to do, there was enough of a pause for someone from the audience to yell out..."Go to church!" and another, "Talk to Jesus!" That may have been as funny as any of the other comedic bits.

When you go, and you probably should, make sure you have an audience with you. Here was my twitter review in less that 140 characters:

"Theatre squealed lots: body fluids, orifice violations, Raimi humor. U WILL laugh, U WILL squirm, U WILL guess the end. Audience requ."

Go! Have fun!

Erma

Memorial Day

2009-05-24T12:22:00.000-07:00

"It is the Soldier, not the reporter,
Who has given us Freedom of the Press.
It is the Soldier, not the poet,
Who has given us Freedom of Speech.
It is the Soldier, not the campus organizer,
Who has given us the Freedom to demonstrate.
It is the Soldier, not the lawyer,
Who has given us the right to a fair trial;
And it is the Soldier--who salutes the flag,
Who serves the flag, and
Whose coffin is draped by the flag--
Who allows the protester to burn the flag."
Charles M. Province

HEADQUARTERS GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC
General Orders No.11, WASHINGTON, D.C., May 5, 1868

The 30th day of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet church-yard in the land. In this observance no form of ceremony is prescribed, but posts and comrades will in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit.

We are organized, comrades, as our regulations tell us, for the purpose among other things, "of preserving and strengthening those kind and fraternal feelings which have bound together the soldiers, sailors, and marines who united to suppress the late rebellion." What can aid more to assure this result than cherishing tenderly the memory of our heroic dead, who made their breasts a barricade between our country and its foes? Their soldier lives were the reveille of freedom to a race in chains, and their deaths the tattoo of rebellious tyranny in arms. We should guard their graves with sacred vigilance. All that the consecrated wealth and taste of the nation can add to their adornment and security is but a fitting tribute to the memory of her slain defenders. Let no wanton foot tread rudely on such hallowed grounds. Let pleasant paths invite the coming and going of reverent visitors and fond mourners. Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic.

If other eyes grow dull, other hands slack, and other hearts cold in the solemn trust, ours shall keep it well as long as the light and warmth of life remain to us.

Let us, then, at the time appointed gather around their sacred remains and garland the passionless mounds above them with the choicest flowers of spring-time; let us raise above them the dear old flag they saved from hishonor; let us in this solemn presence renew our pledges to aid and assist those whom they have left among us a sacred charge upon a nation's gratitude, the soldier's and sailor's widow and orphan.

It is the purpose of the Commander-in-Chief to inaugurate this observance with the hope that it will be kept up from year to year, while a survivor of the war remains to honor the memory of his departed comrades. He earnestly desires the public press to lend its friendly aid in bringing to the notice of comrades in all parts of the country in time for simultaneous compliance therewith.

Department commanders will use efforts to make this order effective.
By order of

JOHN A. LOGAN,
Commander-in-Chief

N.P. CHIPMAN,
Adjutant General

Official:
WM. T. COLLINS, A.A.G.

http://www.usmemorialday.org/order11.html

Whenever I See A Soldier Boy...
© 1942 by Sam Miller

Whenever I see a soldier boy
No matter where it be
I give him salutation
for he means so much to me

He's not the boy we used to know
In store, at desk or plow
He's a defender of our faith
He's in the service now

He keeps Old Glory flying
on land and air and sea
He lives to make our homes secure
He dies to keep us free.

HOW TO OBSERVE MEMORIAL DAY

The "Memorial" in Memorial Day has been ignored by too many of us who are beneficiaries of those who have given the ultimate sacrifice. Often we do not observe the day as it should be, a day where we actively remember our ancestors, our family members, our loved ones, our neighbors, and our friends who have given the ultimate sacrifice:

by visiting cemeteries and placing flags or flowers on the graves of our fallen heroes.

by visiting memorials.

by flying the U.S. Flag at half-staff until noon.

by flying the 'POW/MIA Flag' as well (Section 1082 of the 1998 Defense Authorization Act).

by participating in a "National Moment of Remembrance": at 3 p.m. to pause and think upon the true meaning of the day, and for Taps to be played.

by renewing a pledge to aid the widows, widowers, and orphans of our falled dead, and to aid the disabled veterans.

Also, please consider adding your voice in support of the efforts to restore the traditional day of observance of Memorial Day back to May 30th (instead of "the last Monday in May"). This would help greatly to return the solemn meaning back to the day, and to help return minds and hearts to think upon the ultimate sacrifices made by those in service to our country. Just one day out of the year to honor our loved ones, our ancestors, our friends who died in conflicts and wars -- not to honor war, but those that died in those conflicts and wars.

http://www.usmemorialday.org/observe.htm

These men left an altar of glory on their land,
shining in all weather,
When they were enveloped by
the black mists of death.
But though they died
They are not dead,
for their courage raises them
in glory
From the rooms of Hell.

On the Spartans Fallen at Plataea

Simonides of Creos
c. battle of Thermopylae

Enjoy your BBQ's with relish!
Erma

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes Part I

2009-05-19T08:00:00.000-07:00

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Change is not always a good thing. I reminded many of this during the political season when I heard so many blindly chanting for Obama that they wanted change. Yes, yes, I know I supported and voted for Obama. Doesn't mean a truth isn't a truth. Change is not always a good thing.

There are several changes heading my way; several changes I'm already ensconced in. There's work, home, health, love life, beliefs, and ideas.... all big changes, yet, not necessarily bad ones. The optimist in me tells me that it’s all for the good, or will be. The realist is a little frightened of some.

I was going to dedicate this post to all the changes, but instead I'm going to focus just on one.

Work.

This is at the request of my mom who is part of this change; a very large part. I'm not sure what she hopes to accomplish with me posting this. She'll never read it. She'll never ask me to read it to her. Maybe she just wants her story heard. It doesn't even matter how the tale is told as long as the sympathy gained from it goes to her. Maybe. She's sure to get that from me. Hopefully I'll, be able to convey it to you.

I've never been one to dwell on something for a long time. Once done is done, it's over and there is nothing that can change it so why kvetch, whimper, whine, or bitch? It's a completely different thing when it's someone who is close to you that is affected. There is no way to get away from the reaction of an event from those you love. Well, there is but that doesn't make you a very good loved one, does it?

Don't get me wrong... there are times when I want to grab my mother by her shoulders and tell her to get over it whilst I shake her violently; to yell at her so she understands that the bitterness that she holds will only eat her up. There are other times that I want to run far, far away so I don't have to hear her say the ugly, vile, unbelievable things that issues forth from her. And then there are the times I just want to hold her tight so the action of my body pressed against hers can wick away all the pain and disappointment and anger that lives in the blackness of her heart and soul.

I know that it is only a temporary blackness though; a dye pellet in the liquid sunshine of her. The only fear I have is that the dye will stain. I'm trying every cleanser. Here is this one:

Work has always been at 7-Eleven. For my mom 7-Eleven has been her work for 28 years. Through her, for me, it's been 24 years. We worked for one franchise owner and this year, on February 6, 2009, he passed away. Five years ago, Don gathered together his lawyers and 7-Eleven corporate people and made it so that if in the event of his passing, my mom would get the store. She was named designee for the franchise and placed onto the checking account of his incorporation. Her future was secure... or so we thought.

Before Don passed away, things with his health had become very rough, pulling on emotions and strengths of everyone, but mostly on my mom from my vantage point. I've already covered this in another post so I won't go into detail here. We took a break for a week or two before we dived into the business part of what needed to be taken care of. We put in queries to corporate as to what needed to be done on our end to help whatever paperwork changeovers go smoothly. The answer we got should have been the first sign. It was a question: Why is she the designee?

This must have bothered them immensely because the first meeting they scheduled with my mom included one of Don's sons representing the estate. It could have been for legal reasons, not that they told us one way or the other, but they did have a paper for the son to sign... releasing them from any claim? The meeting included Enid and Jim from corporate, my mom and me, and the son. Enid informed us that even though my mom was named as the designate for the store she still had to qualify to be a franchisee. The steps to do this seemed simple enough: a credit check, a police check, a couple of tests, and training. We asked if I could be there by her side for all of it. They said yes. I knew we'd have no problems then.

Thirty something years ago, my mom took a class that helped her study for her test for her citizenship. She passed with flying colors. Since then she's had her husband and her children to do for her, because that is what we do. My dad was the one who checked homework and ensured we knew our lessons. My mom made sure we stayed fed and clothed properly. When my parents divorced it became my job to help out with such things as making sure she understood what the insurance was covering, or whether or not we needed to send a letter or make a call to cancel some service or other or whether or not we paid the first dollar amount on the bill or the second that included a late fee.

This is the way of my mom’s culture. This is the way of many cultures: children taking care of the parents…. even though my mom is famous for bailing out all of her children, still, we do what we can for her and if it’s as simple as spelling the word f-o-r-t-y so she can write a check, that’s what we do.

The credit check went flawlessly; the police check was a breeze so all that was left was a couple of tests and then onto training. The first test was scheduled for 8 am. We were there at 730. We waited till 8:10 and then they escorted my mom to the room. I wasn’t allowed in. I wasn’t allowed to be at her side through all of it. The test was on a computer. It took my mom over an hour to answer their questions before they brought her back out. We waited another 45 minutes before Enid sat down with us. The results were worse than bad.

My mom is a sixty year old Asian woman doesn’t know computers except for entering numbers for ordering. Hell, my job security came from the fact that neither my mom nor the boss, Don, wanted to touch a computer. Any analysis, reports, or printouts needed were all ensured by me. My mom was able to look at numbers, order up to a certain amount, and send it off.

“Let us take the test again,” I said. “You can make sure we don’t cheat. Just let me read her the questions and explain any concepts she doesn’t grasp. It’ll be her store. She’ll have final decision. Just like this test.”

“That’s not how it works,” Enid said, but she did go through the rest of what the processes to qualify would entail in case this test could be looked over. She handed us a franchise contract. She highlighted pertinent information that we/my mom would be tested on. She explained the licensing procedures and time-lines for changeover. She gave us a list (1 page, double column) of what was required of a franchisee. I noticed at the bottom it said, “All qualifications are at the discretion of 7-Eleven.”

One week stretched into two and then almost into three. Another meeting scheduled this time with a member of the estate. Enid and Jim refused my mom the franchise. Enid asked if I could franchise the store. The $125,000 franchise fee was impossible. They asked the estate if they wanted to franchise: $125,000? Out of the question. Two choices left. Attempt to sell the store or walk away and lose the capitol.

“Wow!” I said, “In this economy you must have people lined up to purchase a franchise.”

“Yes. We do,” was the answer, deflating me. They have three just waiting for the right store.

“You’re requirement list is qualified stating that you can overlook any or all of those requirements. My mom has been running the store for years while Don’s been sick and it’s still making money. Why would you want to lose a commodity like her?”

“If we make an exception this time we’ll have to make on all the time.”

“Who’s going to know? She makes you guys’ money.”

It fell on deaf ears. Their minds were made up. The decision was made to sell the store. The estate would handle the sale and the temporary licensing. My mom and I drove in silence for about 5 minutes before the explosion of curse words and questions spilled from us. We discussed things the whole way home. Conspiracy theory after conspiracy theory entered our minds and was dismissed as soon as it was voiced. Everything from the corporation wanting the $125,000 franchise fee to the boys wanting the store for themselves crossed our minds. (The franchise fee is required of everyone except…. the designee.)

It’s been a couple of months now. The store has a buyer. Licensing needs a few months to go through and then the changeover can begin. Dates of the changeover keep changing from the end of May to the middle of June to the end of it. My mom is especially bitter and it bleeds over from conversations just having to do with work. The last month has been filled with statements about how she can’t wait to be done here. The employees and the customers and corporate are irritating her more and more to the point of where once we are finally done, it should be a relief… but I know better.

We’ve discussed what to do next. Open a store next to the 7-Eleven and drive it under was one idea. Revenge seems sweet now. Start our own chain is another. With our combined knowledge and experience it would be easy enough. Relax and collect unemployment for as long as we can is another. After a quarter of a century of working, we deserve a break. Find a job starting at the bottom is another. Never to take on the responsibility of hiring, firing, cajoling, or counseling employees: never waking up at 3 am to drag ourselves to the store after a robbery: never having to confront a pregnant woman with six children in tow trying to shoplift a beer.

I’m treating it as a blessing. I’ll have more time to dedicate to my calligraphy business. I’ll have more time for writing. I’ve been spending a lot more time with my mom, able to help take care of her instead of the other way around. I make sure I have dinner with her as many times during the week that I can. I endure and try to quell or explain what I can. We shall overcome, improvise, and adapt. We will survive and do well. There is fear, yes, but not enough to keep us from doing what needs to be done. Change is coming. Change is pretty much here. Change is not always good but I think we’ll be just fine.

On a final note:

My Wicca religion is not something I hide from my family. I’ve had to rein in my mom telling her not to tell everyone that I’m a witch and that I cast spells and read tarot and bones and such. But, even then, some of the members of corporate knew that I practiced witchcraft.

After my mom was refused the store, Enid, the refuser, and our 7-Eleven liaison we’re discussing the sale of the store. A former liaison came in and was surprised to hear that it was the store that I worked at and made mention that I was a witch. After he left, she, in turn, asked my current liaison to ensure that I knew it wasn’t her that refused my mom. That in fact it was Jim, it was his decision. According to my liaison, ever since she gave us the news, her back has been hurting her and I’m pretty sure she believes that I am the cause. Priceless.

Iron Man, Star Trek NextGen, Good Friends, Good Conversation, and Good Coffee

2009-04-21T04:16:00.000-07:00

Iron Man, Star Trek NextGen, Good Friends, Good Conversation, and Good Coffee
originally posted May 9, 2008

In order of occurrence:

Today at work the new uniforms debuted. I am in geek heaven. We all look like the crew from Star Trek NextGen. I'm so dweebing on this. Normally, I don't wear a uniform to work since I'm almost always holed away in the office. I do now. Lol! I keep threatening to go to Toys-R-Us to pick up communicator badges for name tags. So far, we have Captain (me), Number 1 (my mom), Worf, 7 of 9, and Uhura. I'm expecting a Chakotay, Tucker , and Kess to round out the crew.

Too. Funny.

Went and saw Iron Man today. Great movie. I have a new found respect for Downey. He was perfect for the part of Stark, although from what I remember of Tony Stark from the comics, he was just a little more reserved than portrayed in the movie. Downey carried the arrogance well with just enough humour to make it charming. Paltrow was beautiful as ever as 'Pepper' Potts and Bridges looked great as Obediah with his bald head. Effects were awesome. Whatever CGI there was you could hardly tell.

During the fight scene between Iron Man and Iron Monger I couldn't help but think of a comment I had heard a little earlier in the week about how Iron Man was always a secondary character as opposed to a Wolverine or a Spiderman. The person who mentioned this couldn't understand why there would be a movie about a secondary character. Watching the fight scene gave me the sense that Iron Man isn't you're typical one on one, personable type of hero. This is a man inside an exoskeleton that can destroy tank with a single pulse of energy from his hand. Iron Man's strength and abilities are far too large for neighborhood street crimes and petty disputes between mutants (although I bet Magneto would have a field day.) There isn't a lot of call for a hero to go in and decimate an entire military force. Common depictions of such feats would be meddling in world affairs where we probably don't belong. That being the case, he would no longer be Iron Man. He'd be Bush.

I was able to catch the trailer for the new Edward Norton's the Incredible Hulk. It looks pretty cool, too. The CGI was much more blatant but I like Norton and pretty much all of the comic book based movies so I'll definitely be checking that one out at the theatres, too. Speed Racer looks like it will be half cartoon and half live action. I was never a fan so I'll probably wait for that one on dvd if I bother to watch it at all. And of course I'll be in the audience for when Mamma Mia is on the silver screen. I love Abba music. And Pierce Brosnan. I was invited to attend the midnight premiere of Indiana Jones. I'll be at that one too. I love summer movies.

Scarllettfeva and her handsome French husband joined me at the movies this afternoon. It was wonderful to see them. Afterwards we talked about gypsies and exploring adventures. We discussed giving reviews of lobster joints without eating the lobster. We talked about Americn food not really being all that American. Is there a true dish that can be completely American. We were thinking corn, but doesn't that originate is South America? We talked about foreign films, politics, and Wicca. It was great conversation and great company over great coffee. What a good day.

Thank you my Scarllett love and your sexy husband.

Flowers in the Attic

2009-03-30T08:00:00.000-07:00

I have seven employees under me at my little convenience store here in the middle of the desert, each with their own unique story and definite quirks. It makes life interesting, to say the least, since they all have a tendency to bring their lives to work with them when they come. No matter how many admonitions from me to leave their problems at home and to treat the job like a vacation away from those problems it never seem to fall on receptive ears. That’s probably our fault. We do treat everyone like family. Sometimes you don’t like parts of your family, from what I understand.

So, after a long night out socializing with the regular crew of friends, I stop back in the store to check on things and to finish off some details so I don’t have to worry about them in the morning. Before I have even unlocked the office door, taken off my coat, or put down my things one of those clerks tells me that she has a problem. It seems pretty serious. I take a moment to get settled in and then ask her to pull up a chair.

She repeats herself. "I have a problem. I really used to like Melinda."

"What? Is she stealing or something? What’s going on?" I’m intrigued, I admit. It has to be pretty serious for Dotti to be annoyed, or so I thought.

"No, she’s not stealing. Melinda’s friend was up here yesterday telling us all kinds of stories about her and mentioned that Melinda’s boyfriend is actually her nephew."

Honestly, my first reaction was "What?" more so because it had actually nothing to do with work. She repeated the charge and then completely started to freak out about it. She told tale of how she couldn’t sleep; how she couldn’t eat; how the very thought of it made her skin crawl illustrating, of course, with the goose bumps on her arm.

"Have you asked her about it?" I said, thinking to myself that this was something that didn’t belong at work. "Truly, this is none of our business. They are two consenting adults. What they do on their own time is their business. But if it bothers you so much, you should talk to her about it. You don’t know the whole story. At least get the story from the horse’s mouth, yeah?"

"It’s her sister’s son," the clerk whines, shuddering that she had to think about it again. Perhaps it was the thinking about it that was the true problem. If she didn’t think about everybody else’s problems so much maybe it wouldn’t affect her so.

"Maybe not by blood…and even then if it is by blood, it’s not like they’re doing it blatantly in front of everyone with nephew and aunt tattooed on their foreheads or anything. This is none of our business, Dotti."

"It’s morally wrong!" She decried.

"Whose morals?" I countered. "Mine? Yours?"

After a moment I looked up at her and said, "Wait, Aren’t you gay?"

originally posted April 1st, 2008

UPDATE:

So, the employee that had a problem with the rumour that another employee was dating her nephew had the opportunity to ask that employee if it was true and the answer is:

YES! but its no one's business so they weren't going to talk about it.

The offended clerk clerk seems okay or rather is otherwise distracted by dealing with her own nest of problems.

*Sigh*

UPDATE:

Another Update of the Flowers in the Attic

CPS services are threatening to take away the children of my clerk because of the consensual relationship she is having with her adult nephew even though they were called to her home by disgruntled family members for other false reasons. It seems she had recently asked her sister and cousins to move out since they were not contributing moneys or help in keeping the home a home. They trashed the place when they left and called CPS telling them that the children were living in squalor. Offhandedly they mentioned the nature of the relationship. When CPS came out to investigate, they found a very clean home. Perhaps CPS is giving her a hard time because she refused them entry without a warrant but just until she got her children dressed. I'll keep you posted.

I must add that just like before, this is hearsay, not from the original source. As soon as I find out if it is true I will let you know. I can't recall any stories that I have read of CPS here unjustly taking kids away from their parents, but I have heard stories through the grapevine. All unsubstantiated. I don't want to be the one to accuse CPS of being a detriment to families. I would like to believe they provide proper services for kids.

Vindication, Baby!

2009-03-29T02:54:00.000-07:00

For years I have been explaining to students that the magic (or witchcraft) we, as Wiccans, practice is scientifically based. I pulled my proofs from chemistry and physics mostly (what little I knew) and tried to make my lessons easy to understand, palatable enough to where the practice of magic was still appealing, and based in reality enough so that new Wiccans on the path wouldn't think they were performing something so fantastically outrageously supernatural; that the magic we practiced was just normal, everyday, grounded on earth and in science... magic.

Today I heard a story on NPR's (local KNPR 88.9) All Things Considered about a new toy .

"With both Mattel's "Mind Flex" and Uncle Milton's "The Force Trainer," the goal is to focus your thoughts in order to levitate a ball. There are no blinking lights or 3-D graphics -– just a wireless headset, a lightweight ball and a fan.

Both toys use a modified form of electroencephalography — or EEG — technology to measure electrical signals emitted by the brain, says Jim Sullivan of NeuroSky, the company that created the technology that makes the toys work.

The signals are applied to algorithms that were developed by researchers after careful study of people in various states of attention, Sullivan says. With the right focus, the signals trigger a fan. The harder the player concentrates, the stronger the fan blows — and the higher the ball elevates."

Woot! Vindication, baby!!

Zombie Kisses

2009-03-26T22:33:00.000-07:00

Today was going to be a great day. I could feel it to the core. You know those mornings you wake up and feel like saying Grrrreat! Like Tony the Tiger. I know for a lot of people, it does not happen that often. I would guess that I was lucky that most mornings I feel that way, except for the fact that I'm just naturally optimistic and I take it to heart that everyday is the start of a brand new day.

My friend Sam had text-ed me earlier in the week and we made plans to go to the movies today but he also gave me a teaser for something really special that he needed to show me. Ooh! I was giddy like a schoolgirl. I rushed through my morning ritual and had a whole 20 minutes to wait before he would be by to pick me up. I poured another cup of the near espresso coffee my mother had brewed, added some sweetener, half and half, and turned on the news. I did not hear a word of it.

I grabbed my cat, keys, and purse and headed out the door to wait on the porch. Kolchak sat beside me and snuggled up so I would scratch her back. I complied and stroked her long, black fur making sure I scratched the little part of her back directly in front of her tail. She arched her back and pushed up indicating she wanted me to scratch harder. I did.

It was a beautiful day. The sun shone bright and I had to squint my eyes whenever the glare flashed off the passing cars. There were still dead leaves littering the yard and I thought maybe I should rake them up while I waited - but then Sam's little pickup pulled up in front of the house. Kolchak jumped off the bench and began her morning by rolling in the dirt of the wintered lawn.

We waved to one another and I got in on the passengers side. The door squeaked horribly as I pulled it shut. The interior of the truck was pristine except for a small pile of Kleenex set in the centre of the dash next to the windshield. It reminded me of the mashed potato mountain in the Close Encounters of the Third Kind. The music sounded in my head. It was interrupted by the radio playing the local pop station and strains of Christina Aguilera's tinny crackling voice filled the air, albeit quietly.

"Good morning!" I said, probably a little too exuberantly. It didn't seem to bother Sam. He replied the same and we headed off down the road.

"So, where are we going?"

"I was out driving through Summerlin one afternoon," he said "and ran across this house that sits on the edge of a park. It was so cool. I thought you'd enjoy it."

The trip was just a straight shot up Cheyenne from my side of town so after 15 minutes and a few turns later we pulled up to a three-way crossroad that opened up into one of the largest parks I had ever seen. It went on for miles. The green grass had lightly yellowed and grayed for the winter and the dark stretching limbs of humongous trees lined the sides. The boughs were covered in small pink and white clusters of flowers. I rolled down the window and the light scent of them was on breeze.

I was reminded of when I was a little girl living in Japan. The air base we lived on had a park just like this complete with cherry blossom trees lining the sides and a row down the centre. This one was missing the row down the centre, but still, it was so familiar. I remember my mom loved taking us kids and we would run slaloming through the trees until we couldn't breathe anymore. Then we'd fall into an exhausted pile of coats and scarves and mittens until we caught our breaths only to do it again and sometimes again. Later we would insist that mom push us on the merry-go-round and we'd hang our heads off of it so we could watch the trees pass by upside down.

Sam turned right and followed the road for a short distance. He pulled over and started to get out. I followed suit and met him at the front of the truck. Pulling on my gloves and tightening my scarf, I looked around at the houses. At first I saw nothing out of the ordinary so I just followed Sam as he crossed the street, carefully looking in both directions before he did so. As we neared the other side, it struck me. It struck me so hard it almost hurt. I don't know how I had missed it to begin with.

The house was painted a deep "Ugh" purple. It looked pretty normal for a two-story saltbox-style home, except for the colour. It had a white front door in the bottom centre with two windows on either side. The upstairs windows echoed the downstairs and a circular stained glass window adorned the space between above the door. As we stepped up onto the curb it began to change. Parts of the house, it seemed, were on hinges of a sort and the house began to pull apart and reset itself. As the central top section lifted up and spun, surely turning everything inside upside down, it settled with the other side facing us. The wall of the other side was a lavender tinted glass that showed the interior. A man in a high-backed antique chair sat reading a paper and smoking a pipe. He noticed us on the sidewalk and waved graciously. We waved back.

The left side of the house separated into two; upstairs and downstairs. They pulled themselves away from the centre part and then these too, began to spin to expose the back side. The back side was painted a turquoise blue. Then they exchanged places and reset themselves down. The sound of whirring mechanisms and the whoosh of pistons expanding and contracting mingled with the cooing of the pigeons that covered the front lawn feeding on bushes made of popcorn. I looked again. The bushes were bare of their leaves and someone had strung them with strings of popcorn and berries. The top right of the house disconnected and started to spin slowly like a carousel at a state fair. Intermittent flashes from its own glass wall passed by as it rotated. Inside was a woman dressed like Beaver's mom who was ironing. The top left side of the house lifted again and it too began to spin revealing that the front had changed into its own glass wall displaying two small children playing with large Lego blocks.

Wow! I wonder why I had never heard of this house. Surely it would have made the news. Then I remembered where I get my news. The local public radio station was phenomenal at keeping me up to date on national news and even world wide news but it sorely lacked in the local news department. I remember when the bomb was found in a soda cup on someones car in the Luxor parking lot. I didn't learn about it until I watched the local eleven o'clock news that night on television. I only caught it because my roommate watches the news before he goes off to work. I was so peeved that I even wrote a letter asking why the hell it wasn't covered on MY radio station. I never got an answer.

The house made a few more adjustments and then it was the ugly, little, purple saltbox again. I had a feeling it would do the same routine again in about an hour. For some reason, most displays in Vegas are always on the hour, whether it was a volcano erupting or a pirate show.

Wow! Sam and I made our way back to the truck and I noticed a lot more cars had parked since we pulled up. The house was a regular attraction. As we began to make our way out of the park spot, two cars, one from either direction, were vying to get the precious parking space we occupied. Sam indicated he wanted to turn around but the two cars were not willing to give, so Sam didn't move. He exaggerated the shift back into park so the oncoming car could see and crossed his arms across his chest. After the momentary standoff, the car pulled away, clearing the area for Sam to turn around. We hadn't even made the full turn before the car behind had swooped in.

I rolled my window back down as we drove past the park. I leaned partially out to take in the full beauty and memories of those blossoming trees. How utterly beautiful they were. When we were just clear, Sam asked me to roll up my window. Despite the sunny day, the air was still cold and nipped at the warm interior that our jackets provided. Sam came to a stop at a sign and whistled as he looked into his rear-view mirror. I turned to look. We had left the house just in time. Cars filled the street behind us and the revving of engines and foul curses filled the distance between us. Sam had turned to look as well. 'Objects are closer than they appear' in your rear-view and side mirrors, so seeing it for what it truly was must have been too tempting. A melee ensued between two families. One trying to cross the street and one trying to park. The family in the car piled out and arms waved in the air. What a spectacle.

While turning back to face forward again, we found ourselves in the awkward position of being nose to nose with my long dark hair tangled in his beard. We were both smiling, which I noticed made his eyes sparkle, despite a small crust of sleep still on the outside of his right eye. I also noticed that he smelled nice, wearing some type of light cologne mingled with the clean scent of Zest or Irish Spring and Bounce fabric softener. I consciously thought about the little things I was noticing, being in such close proximity. The coarseness of the hair in his beard, the several colours that ranged from silver to dark red, and the way his face wrinkled around the smile he wore. His eyebrows had the same variegated colouring as the rest of his facial hair. One stray hair hung down into the frame of his eye. It took everything out of me to not brush it back up. His shirt was a clean, blue, soft cotton flannel but a small fold was indented in his collar. I couldn't resist.

My hand reached out to brush the eyebrow hair that bothered me back up to where it belonged and then Sam leaned in to kiss me. Like Pavlov's dog, my eyes closed instantly so I could heighten the other senses. The smell of him was stronger and I could smell his light, clean perspiration. I could tell that he had washed his hair this morning and a faint scent of apples told tale of Paul Mitchell. The truck imperceptibly rumbled beneath us and I could hear the wind against the antenna. The clicking of his turn signal seemed to work as a metronome to the beating of the seconds of time we spent in this place. No tongues left their caverns so there was no taste - but the feeling... the feelings... well made up for it.

The roughness of his beard became like silk strands across my cheek. His hair brushed against my forehead as if dainty little fairies were clearing the fields with their wings. The pressure of the kiss was soft, easing, a wanting for more, a longing. The longing extended down into the cavern of my chest as if some invisible hand had gently moved the organs aside to leave that void, that longing that needed to be filled. The void continued into my gut and it began to tense with its own hunger.

I took in a deep breath sucking in the whole of him. In Thai culture*, a deep intake of breath anywhere near the head is akin to the touching of lips in a kiss: the co-mingling of auras, the sharing of space, the deep inhalation of the other's souls so you can become one. I grew up with these deep breath kisses with my mom and thought it made so much sense in this moment. I wondered if the French breathed in when they did their cheek to cheek greeting. Then we broke apart. The smiles remaining on our lips.

I turned back round and asked what movie we were going to see. He mumbled something with the word zombie in it and that was enough for me. I love zombie movies. We drove away from the stop sign and headed for the theatre.

Two weeks later (I know, I know) Two weeks later, I pulled my truck up into the gravel driveway of Sam's mother's house. The crunch of the small white stones was overwhelming, even drowning out the high banjo strings coming over the radio. I turned the radio off, stopped the truck and just sat there for a minute. I hadn't talked to Sam since the day of the kiss. The movie had been great and lunch afterwords was filled with great conversation, but we hadn't spoken about the kiss. Not a mention. Not a word.

That emptiness, that longing was still with me and I thought maybe today, the first chance I could get, I would at the very least ask him if he knew what it had been. Sam and I had been friends for quite a while, but had never exchanged more than a friendly hug. I had never thought of him that way, well, maybe I had a little, but I believed he had never of me. It was probably nothing. Just a momentary lapse of consciousness on both parts, but still - I couldn't let it go.

I had nearly worked myself up into a frenzy of knotted stress thinking about that brush between us, but the wives' tales are true. Time does heal all things. Two weeks ago when we had parted I could not stop thinking about anything but Sam and that damned kiss. The gnawing in my gut was strong, intense, and unrelenting for the two to three days after. It was like I had fallen in love all over again, but fourteen days later and the sensation was no longer so overwhelming. Instead it was like that small pain that pronounced itself loudly when directly thinking about it-but was tolerable, subsiding into the background, when you weren't. Another two weeks and I probably would have forgotten about it all together. But he had text-ed again, inviting me over for a bar-b-q at his mom's with his family. I was so nervous.

The front of the house was covered in redwood which set off the white of the stones making up the drive. Ferns flanked the front door. A wide, red, silk ribbon hung from the doorknob proclaiming something in Asian. It probably said "No Solicitors." I laughed at my own joke. A small sign on the door, printed in crayon on lined school paper said, "It's open. Come in." I opened the door and walked through the doorway. I was expecting a foyer. Instead I got a garden open to the bright, blue sky above. I stood on a patio of redwood. It traveled right and left cornered and traveled again, squared off again and met in the middle somewhere beyond all the foliage in the centre. This side of the rectangular patio was a short side and only one story. The two long sides on my right and left and the side across from me were two stories with another redwood walkway allowing access to rooms up there.

The centre was filled with a profusion of foliage. I recognized cedar and date palms. I visually picked out snapdragons and morning glories. There were ferns and flowers, trees and bushes all mixed in some mish-mash of growth, but it was beautiful. A couple of benches were sticking out from under a willow tree and a stone framed path meandered through the melee. I could hear the trickling of water and supposed a fountain of some sort was in there behind all the plumage of colours.

Suddenly, I was near overrun by a horde of children who looked like sheep escaping a wolf all wrapped warmly in their woolen sweaters. The sound of their boots and shoes hitting the redwood planks echoed throughout the compound. Following them was a gaggle of ladies, all Anglo-Saxon, walking slowly in their printed dresses as they chatted. They reminded me of nuns just released from a church service and were discussing the flair of the speaker who gave the service. As they rounded the corner, one younger lady broke away from the pack and hurried towards me. "You must be Erma," she said with a lilt of a southern drawl in her voice as she grabbed my hand. I replied affirmatively and she started chattering away about how delighted she was to meet me and started introducing me to all the ladies who had finally caught up. There was a Ruth, a Beth, a Diane, and a Jane. Sara and Shirley called out their names and a very old woman, the crone of the group, was named Ann. My liaison to the family was named Vanna, as in the game show, and she did a little vogue pose that made the ladies erupt into a twitter of laughter.

She explained that all the boys were out back trying to outdo each other with their knowledge of grilling, including Sam, who had done nothing but speak about me for the last two weeks. My eyebrows piqued at this, but I held myself in reserve as best I could and followed the ladies around the patio, just in case it was nothing. The kids were running around the upstairs patio and Vanna spoke louder to be heard above the din of clattering boards. As we rounded the next corner, there was Sam, with a huge grin on his face as he saw me. My stomach made a knot and blared its triumph over my trying to suppress it. His arms stretched out to his sides and he exclaimed, "You made it!" I returned his smile. Hmm, another good sign?

He exaggerated pushing himself along the side of the building so the ladies could pass and fell into step beside me. His arm went round my shoulders and he squeezed me gently to him. We exchanged pleasantries and he deliberately slowed our pace so the ladies could make some distance. When they finally rounded the corner he stopped and turned me to look at him. "I was so nervous about seeing you today, that I may have drank a little too much." In his hand he held a dark amber bottle and he hiccuped quietly. The smell about him of two weeks ago was suddenly replaced by the overpowering smell of beer and I had to agree whole-heartedly. I asked if it would be better if I left and we saw each other some other time but he insisted that he was okay.

He set the beer bottle down on the floorboard and took my hand to lead me down the steps into the garden below. There were only three steps. On the first one, he almost fell and it took near all my strength to hold him upright. On the second one he began to teeter again but righted himself. I let him go and stepped back. He held his arms out to his sides again but this time to balance himself. I asked if he was okay and he nodded, then burped loudly. He covered his mouth and waved as if in apology and then he doubled over viciously clamping his hand to his mouth and holding his belly. From between his fingers shot streams of vomit and foam, honey coloured, like beer. He dropped the hand from his mouth and then, as if he were Linda Blair playing the part of Regan possessed by the devil himself from the movie 'The Exorcist,' Sam vomited violently coating the entire statue of a cupid that stood in the garden.

Then I woke up. Isn't that the way? *Whew*.

*Thai culture- I did not grow up in Thailand, so I'm not sure if this is a truly prevalent custom throughout Thailand or not, but I do have a Thai mother who kissed us like this as we were growing up. I tried asking her about it; if all Thai people do it and if she knew why, but my mom is a very practical woman and said, "To smell people, Ohma." so the supposition of drinking in the soul for co-mingling with a loved one is mine alone until someone else backs me up.

originally posted Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Convenient Rockstar

2009-03-23T08:00:00.000-07:00

I have an employee...um, let me correct that. I had an employee that I had to let go. That is being nice. I fired her. Shame. She was a pretty good worker, too.

This one is no relation to the one with a clamor of children, nor is it Boom-boom Mancini. (Are you really surprised I kept her?)

Anyhow, I should probably start from the beginning. I'm going to call her Gilberta because I don't know anyone by that name, nor would I want to. (No offense to any real Gilberta's out there. I'm thinking of Gilbert Godfrey here.)

Gilberta was the model employee. She was always in uniform. She was always at least half an hour early for her shift. She came in on short notice if someone else had flaked and was always willing to help out with some small task even if she wasn't on the clock. I could count on her to keep her eyes open for shoplifters and employee thefts. She got along with everyone and she was normally very friendly. The only problems I had ever encountered with Gilberta was that on rare occasion she hadn't been able to wash her clothes before her shift and her personal hygiene began to slack off for a few days as she was transferring from her stable home into a weekly apartment.

I always took into account the moves and the marital woes she was suffering and so gently reminded her of what needed to be changed and she always complied. When she requested a schedule shift so she could get some sleep in a bed, I happily cooperated. (A weekly apartment is not a very suitable place for a family of four to be living so sleeping in chairs or on the floor is sometimes a necessity.) I helped her out, in terms of work, as much as possible. Anything we could afford to give her, we did, including raises, loans, and overtime. My mother, The Saint, went even further by buying gross amounts of food at Costco and winter wear for the kids. Gilberta was worth it.

The employees have the ability to purchase items during the week and it is automatically removed from their check. We call it "putting it on my tab." In order to protect the store from employees that are 'tabbing' more than their check will be we have limits on 'putting things on your tab.' I, being management and the ever sneaky Libran diplomat usually says that the limits are so that you will actually have a check when it comes payday. It's not a lie. It may not be very much of a paycheck but at least you'll have some cash in your pocket, right? Every week, Gilberta always asked if she could go over 'on her tab.' I invariably said yes.

Gilberta is pretty typical of the women I see in my line of work. She has two great kids and a husband that can't seem to provide for his family. From what I've seen of him, and admittedly, it's not much, there seems to be nothing physically wrong with him, yet he never seems to be trying or helping. Excuses abound for why he doesn't many of which may be valid or not. She's too proud to ask for assistance and so bears the brunt of supporting a family of four on her meager paycheck from a convenience store.

My posted time for the distribution of paychecks is 3 pm. On paydays, Gilberta and her husband usually arrive at noon, just in case they are ready early, and if they are not, they will sit the three hours and wait. I feel so bad that sometimes I rush to get the checks processed and so occasionally will forget to deduct any loans or to check them thoroughly for the correct tab purchase amounts, resulting in recalling everyone to let them know.

A few days ago in the morning, while sifting through receipts I found a tightly taped note from another employee that said, "Gilberta drank a Rockstar without paying for it around 9 pm. I think she drank more than one." A Rockstar is a very popular energy drink and costs like two bucks. I sigh deeply and put the note aside to check the video later. Eating and drinking items and not paying for them is what we call 'grazing.' It's pretty prevalent in our world. I guess it would be kind of like taking a box of staples home from your office job. I presume you can get tired of all the free fountain soda, slushees, and coffee you can drink and the allowable amount of grill items you can eat per shift that sometimes you just need a Rockstar. Whatever. Not a fire-able offense, right?

After finishing all the paperwork, refreshing my exquisitely delicious caramel machiatto with a spritz of sugar free vanilla and cinnamon and nutmeg sprinklings (I LOVE our coffee bar!), and stretching my legs, I settle in to watch some security videos. It's digital, so it's super easy to point, click, search, and save. Immediately, I find the video of what I need to see. *Gasp!* It's not just a Rockstar. It's a Rockstar 21. *Gasp* again! Rockstar 21 is an alcoholic beverage. She's not just grazing; she's grazing drunk.

On a hunch, I click back a few hours and let the video play. It's not just ONE Rockstar 21. It's seven. S-E-V-E-N!!! That's almost one per hour. Hunch still niggling has me clicking back on the day before. Four. I check the day before that. Five. Oh! My! God! I am Jack's dumbfounded mother. I call the other manager into the office (that would be my mom.) I show her the video. I layout the totals I have so far. She asks me what I want to do. "We have to let her go," I said. "She's drinking on shift, which means we can lose our liquor license, and who knows what else she's doing. She could get hurt, she could be giving back the wrong change in her drunken stupor, she could be robbing us blind." My mom agrees and we decide to do so the next day. Payday, the last day of the pay period.

I spend the rest of the day watching two weeks of video, snapshooting or saving the video bits I need, and getting fed and FICA numbers from payroll. It's a late day. The next morning I have an interview with a replacement set up by my mom. She looks good. I hire her. Gilberta is due in at noon. I have a few hours to get the paperwork done and get her paycheck ready to go.

Gilberta and husband arrive at 11am. Crap. I'm not ready. I haven't psyched myself up for this part of the job. I don't have my game face on yet. I am caught unawares. Crap! Crap! Crap! Thankfully, I get a customer who wants multiple servings off the grill. I can utilize bun-spreading time to prep. Whew. The dogs are sold and I think I'm ready, so I call my mom to cover the register and I head into the office. I ask Gilberta to pull up a chair.

My clerks all seem to know that if I ask them to pull up a chair we're heading for a counseling session of some sort. She says, "What did I do?" in a playful voice. I don't smile. I'm in the game.

She takes a seat and immediately I say, "Gilberta, we're going to have to let you go."

"I know why," she replies coolly, almost whispering. I nod silently.

"It's because of the box I took out of the cooler."

Box? What box? A whole box? I feign knowledge. "That too." I say calmly.

"And the Rockstar," she says.

Playing the hunch again, I say, "And that too." I look directly at her.

"I swear I never took more than $2.50 for the bus most days. I was going to pay it back."

And then the pleading begins. She says she is a good employee. I agree. That's why this was hard. She can't afford to lose her job; she has kids. Another reason this is hard but she should have thought of that before she did what she did. It will never happen again, she was just under a lot of stress. How can I trust that? Her problems at home and otherwise still exist. She can stop the drinking on the job; she had been quit for 21 years. It's not just that.

And then the elongated shrill of "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?" echoes through the back of the store. She physically gets on her knees at my feet. Tears are streaming from her eyes. Her breath is in short hiccupped bursts. "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease, Erma, Pleeeeeeease. I swear on the life of my child none of it will ever happen again."

Why do people do that? Why do people swear on the life of someone else? Whether living or dead? Giving an oath is not a casual thing. You can't say "I swear" and think there will be no repercussions for not living up to it. I have never understood how people can speak those words so casually.

I am so uncomfortable at this point. In all my years of hiring and firing, I've never experienced anyone on their knees before. I pull out my ace in the hole; or so I thought. "Look, this is not just my decision. This comes from my mom and from Don. There's nothing I can do for you." Again the pleading resounds through the entirely too small office. She begs to talk to my mom about it. "Is that really fair, Gilberta? You screwed up. There are consequences for that. You don't need to talk to my mom. (Feel the force.) You understand fully this is what needs to be. (My fingers imperceptibly wave from left to right under the desk.) Come on, let's go get your check."

The force was not with me that day. Crap. I got up to move past her and she grabs my arm. That shrill cry is again deafening to my ears. She asks to talk to my mom again. I give in. "Alright, alright, I'll ask her to come talk to you." I go out front and let my mom know what's going on. I warn her and suggest she not go too far back into the back area or she'll get trapped. I try to help in boosting her resolve. She disappears into the back and returns in just over a minute. She hands me the phone and tells me to dial Don's number. She plans on calling the big boss. This is good, I think. He's not here. He'll say "No!" over the phone and we'll be done. Good plan.

Bad plan. My mom hands the phone to Gilberta. Both of us are confident that Don will have our back. Gilberta hands the phone right back to my mom and then after a very brief conversation she hangs up. My mom says, "Don said its up to us." I just stare at her for a moment unbelieving.

"What do you want to do?" I look at her expectantly. She hurtles every ball to my side of the court with a single movement. She shrugs her shoulders. Crap. I fix my determination to end this now and lead Gilberta back to the office. The pleading starts up as soon as we cross the threshold. I have her sit while I stand. She gets down on her knees again. She cries that she has kids to feed. She cries that she can't depend on her husband and that he'll be mad at her. She cries that she'll never, ever, EVER do it again, any of it.

I give in. I'm such a shmuck. Pansy-assed shmuck.

She works the next day, Friday, but only to put away the groceries and then I schedule her off for two days. Don comes in the next morning and he's not happy. I counter with, "You would have done the same thing if she was crying at your feet. All you had to do to finish it was say no." Of course, all I had to do to finish it was say no. All my mom had to do to finish it was to say no. What a team we make, eh?

Now I have to figure out what to do with the new girl that I hired. She was supposed to be the replacement. Now I have no one to replace and payroll is already stretched to its limit. I put her in for three days of training, at the least. I'm sure I can figure something out.

Saturday morning is a good morning. I have plans for the day, church fundraiser in the evening and well, I just woke up in a really good mood. And then I got to work. While putting away the groceries Friday night, Gilberta purchased a bottle of bright blue Boonesfarm wine, the kind teenagers get drunk on at the parties they frequent with all their teenage friends. It was only an hour into her shift. I forward the video to see what she does with it. She's off camera. I switch to when she's leaving for the night to see if it is in her bag. The bag is empty as she packs it with food she has put on her tab. I am Jack's disappointed heart. I fired her for good yesterday.

I assume I'm the worst kind of boss to have. I'm the kind that wants to be understanding and helpful instead of tyrannical and uncompassionate. I ask questions like "What can I do as a boss to make the job smoother for you so you can execute better?" or "Is something going on at home that's affecting your performance at work? Do you need some time off?"

Perhaps I need to change that.

I'm one of those people that do well with instructions. Tell me what to do and I'll do it. If I have questions, I ask. At first I gathered everyone was like this. This is not so. Through the years I've tried many methods of being a boss. The understanding way seems to work so much better. But, I also know that some people need the hard road. I see that all the time, too. People hate their boss, but man, they sure can get their work done. Sometimes I think I should be that way. Maybe I wouldn't get walked all over as much. Maybe my compassion wouldn't be mistaken for softness.

I've been told that my attitude, at times, seems condescending. My belief is that one only sees it as condescending if you already have the expectation that no one, especially a boss, could be a nice person. This convenience business that I am in is really easy. The hardest part is dealing with the public. People come in for Gatorade to quench a hard days work. They come in for cigarettes so they can deal with visiting family members. They come in for candy to reward or quiet their kids. They come in for beer to escape their rough day. They come in for all reasons and in all moods and you have to adjust accordingly. The rest of the job is cake. You do a little cleaning. You do a little stocking. You take in money and count back change. The most real thinking you have to do for the job is figuring out if you're over or short for the day and that only involves the most basic of mathematics. We even provide the calculators. If you're on time, in uniform, and ready to work, you and I will get along great. Otherwise, I may have to ask you to take a chair, young padawan.

originally posted Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Fellow Man

2009-03-21T08:00:00.000-07:00

Thursday, March 19, 2009: 2030 hours

"Are you married?"

"No, I am not."

"Are you single?" I look at this young man who just bummed a cigarette from me. He stares at me from under a fall of dark hair, his eyes a piercing blue.

"Yes, I am," I reply, a smile on my lips.

"Do you have a place," he asks, taking a long drag illuminating his chiseled, young features in an orange glow. My anticipation of where this is leading is bordering on lunatic, but not because he is attractive and not because I am the slightest bit interested. On the contrary, I can see by the shininess of his hair that it hasn't been washed in a while. I can tell by the backpack he carries and the slouch in his shoulders that this is a young man defeated, probably homeless, hoping to score with some old fat lady for a free meal, a shower, some comfort and probably sleep. I reply in the affirmative. I do have a place.

"Am I hot?"

I bristle at his audacity. I stifle the guffawing I drastically want to release. I am struck dumb at his question. I look inside the coffee shop, desperate for Hoag or Sue to come save me. They're both busy. I look back at the poor soul 6 feet from me. He is "hot", for a boy. He must be barely over the age of 20. I am torn between wanting to save him from himself, from his predicament and from wanting to throw him to the wolves, to punish him for his improvidence and impertinence.

"Why yes, yes you are," I finally say, finding it difficult to hide my patronization, "for someone so young," His disappointment emanates in a perceivable ripple. I feel sad.

"Don't you like sex?" I look again for Hoag and Sue. Why I just don't walk away baffles me, but only for a moment. I'm here to collect the experience... I just don't want the whole experience of Mr. Blue Eyes, thank you very much.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Just not with you." My sadness was short lived so there was no suppression of my disdain this time. I go back into the cafe, sit down next to Hoag, and during the break in the conversation, I relay what just happened. Both Hoag and Sue ask me what I'm still doing here, with them. I shake my head at their dismissal of my principles.

I wondered today if I should have tried to do something to help him. Offered him a ride to a shelter, try to help him contact his family or friends, treat him to a meal and I felt a little bad that I didn't. On the other hand I feel justified in rebuffing him. His insolent manipulation is mortar for the walls I build. Damn, that wall's getting high.

Three Geologists, 15 Gallons, and a Dating Service

2009-03-19T10:06:00.000-07:00

At the tail end of our evening, or what we thought was the tail end, Sue invited three random gentlemen to come join us at our table. Their exciting St. Patrick's Day celebration was winding down it seems... including their cash, so Sue provided a pitcher of beer and company. I think I was discussing the benefits of human sterilization and they... the calculated gallons of human male ejaculation being issued in a single night; this night. They estimated it at around 15 gallons.

So that tells me.... or rather, THEY told me... that if I'm ever searching for a party (where idiotic crap is discussed with an air of science) then I should seek out the Geology department of any college. I love geeks! And so does Sue it seems. See her post about this here: Not a Weekend Update

Discourses then included American forefathers and the revolution (me and Hoag), faith vs. reason, sledgehammering cave walls, the northern California emerald triangle, Mogadishu prostitutes, peeps as military rations and rations in general (seems geologists partake aplenty), Twitter and blogging, Stargate and Battlestar Galactica, NAMBLA and their constitutional right to the pursuit of happiness, and a whole slew of other discussions I'm sure were interesting but missed cos Hoag was intent on schooling me about Thomas Paine, which I didn't really mind.

So here we are at the end of the night; me, Sue, Hoagus, Timshol, Sam, Pat, and Kevin heavy in conversation, trying to make Kevin finally puke so he won't feel bad the next day, and even though I am engrossed in discourse with the relentless Hoag, I hear, "He's gotta get home to his wife...." and I feel suddenly crestfallen. Not for me... they were all far too young for me... but for Sue.

Here we sit, the two of us girls, in a flurry of intelligent men, and one is married. Damn it! What's wrong with the rest of them? I feel bad for Sue, because she is truly wanting to find someone special... even though I have advised her against that pursuit time and time again. But then, after Sam, the largest of the three (and very handsome, I might add, which I made sure to tell him) takes the other two home... Sam returns and sits down next to Sue! Woot! Now I'm elated because dear Sam sits with us till 5 freaking thirty in the morning and even gives Sue his number. (I swear... the sacrifices I make for my friends.) I get home, get to bed, revel in the luxury of not having to get up so early and then the next day read Sue's post. Sam's out of the running. "Nothing serious." Sue is back on the trail.

Why? I ask. Why do we constantly keep seeking someone to make us whole? Are we so afraid of confronting the other half of ourselves that instead we want or need someone else to fill it? I'm sure there are all kinds of scientific studies out there that explain the human psychological condition and its need to be fulfilled. This is why we humanize our pets and shop a lot and put stock in our friends (mine is the latter). Why can't those scientists and psychologists come up with a way to fix it? Y'know... some kind of pill that makes us happy within ourselves, Prozac notwithstanding.

My philosophy when it comes to relationships is, "My cup floweth over." Only when your own cup is full to the brim and spilling on the ground should you be looking for a second cup to share. Until then, nurse your drink, because unless you know how to fill that cup yourself...you never know when there will be a fount to refill it. Y'know what's great about living by this philosophy? You can pick and choose. You can afford to wait, to take the time, to become friends first before betting all in. It's a nice position. There's no stress, and if you have friends like I do to remind you that you're in a good position... that's even better. They're doing for you, exactly what friends are meant for. Good job, guys!

I'm pretty sure we'll be hanging with at least Sam again... I mean he did come back after all. And if Pat and Kevin do as well that'll be nice too. Maybe Pat can bring his wife.

Party It Up, Kids

2009-03-17T09:59:00.000-07:00

Non-Partisan.

That's what I am. That's what I am. That's what I am. That's what I am. That's what I am.

Free floating. Free floating. Free floating. Free floating. Free floating. Free floating. Free floating.

No ties to anyone. No ties to anyone. No ties to anyone. No ties to anyone. No ties to anyone.

No sides to choose. No sides to choose. No sides to choose. No sides to choose. No sides to choose.

If I want to I can lean to the right. If I want to I can lean to the right. If I want to I can lean to the right.

I can lean to the left. I can lean to the left. I can lean to the left. I can lean to the left. I can lean to the left.

I can stay right here in the middle.

Unmoving.

Unchanging.

Stagnant.

Such freedom. Such freedom. Such freedom. Such freedom. Such freedom. Such freedom.

Some people don't know what to do with all this freedom. Some people don't know what to do with all this freedom.

Some can't handle it. Some can't handle it. Some can't handle it. Some can't handle it.

Are you one of those kind of people? Are you one of those kind of people?

Do you need to belong? Do you need to belong?Do you need to belong?Do you need to belong?

Here's a website to check out if you're interested in joining a party.

http://www.politics1.com/parties.htm

Fabulous! History, links, and even some commentary. You could join the members of the American Nazi Party (did you know there was such a thing?)

Want to denounce capitalism? Join the Revolutionary Communist Party USA based upon the teachings of the late Chinese Communist Party Chairman Mao Tse-tung.

Do your political views lean towards that of the late Spanish dictator Francisco Franco? Then join the Christian Falangist Party of America. Imagine the parties you could have with that party.

even better, you could become a member of the PPP, the Pansexual Peace Party. This party should appeal to someone I know. Heck, it was started by some of those flaky pagan people I mention everytime I tell the story of when I became a pagan. It seems to have been founded on Wicca. Check out the PPP platform plank on sexual issues, which carries the title: "Sex is Good! Sex is Great! Yea, Sex!" (ahem, I'm being facetious again. I catch any of my students joining and I'll dissown you.)

Absolutley fascinating. Go check it out. Browse a bit. Come back and post what you found.

originally posted February 8, 2008

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Last Bastion

2009-03-13T08:00:00.000-07:00

Names have been changed (or ommited) to protect the innocent (or guilty.)

The office is bright from the light streaming through the plate glass window, even though it is covered with a fine silver sheen of tinting. The view is of a child's playground, complete with the multicolored blocks that kids can crawl through. There are no kids crawling at the moment. The weather outside is cold as indicated by the skeletal branches of the mulberries reaching towards the overcast sky. A mini tornado whirls a pile of leaves through the double swing set so that the leaves litter the entire yard again, only to be swept later to the fence line from the continual gusts of bitter wind.

Inside it is warm. A fire crackles gently in the fireplace directly across from the large cherry wood desk in front of the window. A black metal screen hides the flames from view but at the right angles you can see the orange glow from within the belly of the house. Books make the walls of the study, except for the occasional break of a doorway or window.

Equidistant from the fireplace on both sides are two such doorways. The one on the right is an opening that peers down a long hallway to a red tapestry adorning the far wall. The view out the doorway on the left is obscured by a large heavy oak door with iron trimmings, that is partially open. Along the left wall is a respite for a window. In front of it sits a dark leather sofa worn by years of sleeping readers. An overly large coffee table made of cherry to match the desk sits before it. Two wing-backed chairs with draped velvet throws flank the coffee table. On the table sits a silver coffee service tray with antique white cups turned upside down to prevent dust from contaminating the inside. On the right wall is a ladder on a ceiling track so the books on the very top shelves can be reached by even the smallest of children.

The desk is organized and all the normal desk ornaments match. The in and out file, pen holder, letter opener, desk lamp, tape dispenser, and paperclip tray are made of the same colored cherry wood as the desk. On the left corner of the desk sits a large replica of a jet fighter with its nose tilted upwards in flight. "FJ-445 U.S. Air Force" is stamped along its body in black letters and under the cockpit window is written "Capt. Donald Freeman," the owner of the desk.

He sits behind the desk in a large, black, leather swivel chair. Just to his right is a black wheelchair with cherry wood handles that match the office decor. Don, as we call him, is my boss; damn near a surrogate father. I've been working for him for over 23 years. He is one of the best people you could ever know.

The last bastion of loyalty in loyal-free world, Don was like his office; neat, organized, disciplined and knowledgeable. His hair is silver white, trimmed high and tight as if still serving in the Air Force. His demeanor is polite and reserved although the occasional string of curse words escape his lips whenever he cannot manage a small detail with his hands. Don is afflicted with an unknown neural disease that robs him of his ability to walk without help or to button his shirts or to separate pieces of paper stuck together by invisible glue. The doctors thought it was Lou Gehrig's disease at first, but now it's a complete mystery. He has been undergoing experimental steroid treatments for a few months and there have been no improvement as of yet.

At work, I do not manage the incoming invoices or check them against corporate accounting for the store so that Don still has a reason to come into work everyday. His visits to the store to complete this part of the day is short, usually limited to about an hour or two. He used to spend six to eight hours a day there when I started working for him but through the years as I learned to manage the store, his visits were able to shorten to three to five hours. When his hands started to fail him, I took over all together. I suggested that he spend more time with his family, take more vacations, etc. I am glad to say that for the last three years he has had enough confidence in me to take the time off during baseball season to follow his grandson around the U.S. to watch him play college ball. Photos of his grandson in action clipped from newspapers pepper the wall in our office.

The last few months, unfortunately ... or maybe fortunately, if the treatments work, Don has not been able to come into the office daily as normal. Treatments are an all day process with a home nurse and dripping IVs. So, I take the work to him. During these monthly week-long sessions, I bundle up the reports and invoices and go to his home where we sit at his kitchen table, drink coffee, and do it together. Then I bundle up all the finished work and bring it back to the store. As of late I've been able to help him with his new computer as well.

Today, we are sitting in his office because he has moved in with my sister. This is my sister's house and with that realization, I can hear the giggle of a little four year old princess coming from the room where the oak door is cocked open. In my hands I hold a printout of the pay outs corporate accounting has charged us with. Don holds the yellow copy of the invoice log. I read off the abbreviated names of the companies whose invoices appear on my pay out sheet. He reads the amount from the yellow sheet and if they match, I cross them off on my paper. We are at this for a while until my nephew enters the room from the oak door and asks us if we want anything special for dinner. "My mom told me to come ask," he says as if to excuse the politeness of his being.

"As long as there are French fries, I'll be happy," Don says and my nephew's smile grows from ear to ear. French fries are his current favorite food. He skips back through the doorway careful to put the oak door back into its cocked position. When we finish Don helps me bundle up the paperwork and then begins the process of switching from his large leather chair to his wheelchair. Using his forearms, he raises himself onto his feet with the help of the desk. he slowly shuffles to the right, while simultaneously turning the wheelchair to align his backside with it and then using the desk again, he slowly lowers himself into his chair. He is not seated as properly as he would like so a whispered string of those curse words fill the air as he tries to adjust himself.

"Your forearms must be as big as Schwarzenegger's," I say, as I come around to push him to dinner. I ask if he wants some help and he barks at me. I can hear the frustration in his voice so I say nothing. I move to put the little footrests down but he beats me to it and waves me away so I just wait until he stops moving.

"Ready," I ask. Breathing heavily, he nods. I push him towards the ramp to take us up the single level that we are away from dinner.... with French fries.

After dinner, in response to the political protesters in front of the house, my sister calls the police and complains of a disturbance of the peace of the neighborhood. Sue and I stand outside to ensure no damage is done to the house while we wait for the authorities. My sister comes out to join us and we begin to discuss the addition of a playroom onto the house and where the window placements should be. As if our very presence is the catalyst, a trash can flies towards the front installed window of my sister's house. Fortunately, it falls short, but the crash landing of the aluminum can results in an explosion of garbage all over the front lawn. A flurry of insults aimed at the protesters eschew vehemently from my sister and it takes all the strength of Sue just to hold her back from attacking.

It was not the house they were protesting. They were just protesting, seemingly for the sake of protesting. Why they chose to protest in front of my sister's house is still a mystery. That and the fact that they were not unified in their protests. Some were protesting abortion, others were protesting the war and still others were protesting Barak Obama running for president. (Odd, I do not agree with any of them.)

The arrival of the police is enough to disperse the protesters as if they are just finishing a normal day of work, and it is time to go home. "Clock out" seems the right term to describe the sudden stoppage of screaming and yelling. Mystified, my sister, Sue and I return indoors and send my nephew out to clean up the yard. (See what I mean about kids being useful?)

I return to Don's office as my sister and Sue go elsewhere in the house. Don is playing on his computer trying to figure out how to underline the word "fart' in an e-mail to his mother and when I come in and he seems overly grateful that I have arrived. I position myself behind his left shoulder and explain the process, resisting the urge to take over the keyboard to do it for him.

A tall man comes out of a room in the hallway on the left without the door. Both Don and I recognize him immediately. It is my ex-boyfriend. He kneels down next to a backpack he has sitting on the floor at his feet. From it he extracts a long Kris blade knife with a copper handle that is in the shape of an eagle's head and outspread wings. I recognize it as a friends magical blade and wonder why he has it. Perhaps he is here to return it to me so I can give it to its rightful owner.

"Uh, should he have that," Don asks me as we watch him stand up holding the knife and dropping the bag. I am not in fear of any danger for myself so I reply that I think it will be okay. Then he changes his grasp on the weapon and from its menacing posture, I can tell danger is imminent.

"Crap," I mutter, and look frantically around the office for my own weapon if I need it. My eyes settled on the large cherry coffee table. It seems long enough to keep me out of the man's lanky reach. I sweep the coffee service off the table and move it between me and him. Unfortunately, I did not account for the length of the blade and he is able to make several cuts across my inner forearms and biceps. I discard the coffee table and move in close to get in under his range hoping it will be to my advantage. I am able to surprise him by the move but it only gives me seconds to decide what to do next.

Standing with my back in the crux of his shoulder as if we are about to cuddle ... except that I am holding the knife at bay, I intertwine my legs with his and lean back hoping that I will be able to throw off his balance. Luck, gravity, and my weight is enough to knock the air out of him as we hit the ground and he drops the weapon. It skitters across the floor just out of reach. My right leg is screaming in pain from riding the corner of the desk on our way down. I can feel my skirt begin to soak with blood.

My first instinct is to get up as quickly as possible and run, but I find that I cannot. There is no deer-in-the-headlights energy working here; instead it is a mother's protective instinct that kicks in. Running would leave Don alone with this maniac. Don, a man I've known and loved over half my life. Don who never would have abandoned me. Don, who never would have abandoned anyone, ever. Deserting Don is not an option. I look to find the knife that has fallen free. It is just beyond the other side of the desk. I roll off my ex and start a low crawl towards it.

The pain in my arms and leg from the injuries meld together and become one. The pain crescendos with every muscle flex as I move towards the knife. Small cries of anguish escape me with every worms distance. As my head reaches the other side of the desk I feel a hard clamp on the back of my shirt. A hoarse cry of true fear finally escapes me. I am able to resist the drag backwards but he is able to use me to propel himself forward. I reach for the knife and pray I am close enough. My fingertips barely touch the copper eagle's head. I allow my body to relax to get the mental running start to reach again. I cannot fail, I tell myself. My arm stretches out and the curvature of the eagle's head is enough to move the knife millimeters away as my fingers graze it again. I do not relax because I know it is all or nothing at this point. I try to move myself forward with my legs but the grasp on my shirt holds me in place and I have to stop. I feel the hot breath of the devil on my shoulder as the inevitable looms closer.

My forehead rests on the floor and I consider surrender. But still, I cannot. I roll onto my side so that I am face to face with him. I begin to flail wildly concentrating on the arm he extends to reach for the knife. I watch as his range is enough to clear the distance, and his fist clenches over the outspread wing. A guttural, almost imperceptible "Fuck," is uttered aloud. I thrash again, punching, kicking, and screaming as hard as I can. It is to no avail. The arm and knife raise themselves to strike. I close my eyes in resignation and stop moving.

The path to the other side is pictured in my unbelieving reeling mind as a long, desert, two-lane road at twilight. I find as I travel forward that what they say about the moments before death is true. Billboards with the animated smiling faces of all the people I have ever loved and known flash past me. The splendid silence of the desert is filled only with the slowing beat of my heart as it, too, resigns itself. Then the low rumbling begins. It is a feeling of sound more than a just a sound itself. The earth is about to quake, opening a maw to allow access to the deepest reaches of its center, allowing me to return home. I ride the road as it begins to undulate in waves. I can feel my soul separating from the physical in slow rollers, not unlike to unbuttoning of a simple shirt. The muscles of my hands and body tense to undo one button and then, there is a pause as a small bit of my soul is released from the physical, I search the next button. My body clenches once again and another button is undone and I relax as I search for the next button. As my body tenses once more to work on the next bit of release a loud crash of metal startles the meditative work. The rumbling and waves cease immediately. I recognize the sound instantly and my eyelids flash open.

The long metal knife has fallen to the ground and the beak of the eagle looms large in my peripheral vision. Wisps of my own hair, severed by the blade, float away with my breath. My ex is slumped before me with a large red stain spreading across the side of his head. I am two buttons away from fully comprehending everything but it all comes into full focus with the shift of the shadow over the fallen mans face. I look up and standing over me is Don. He has braced himself with one arm on the desk and in the hand of the other is a bloodied jet fighter with a broken tail. My eyes close again, I sigh deeply and then I frantically work to button back up.

Intermittent flashes of blue and red alternate on the walls surrounding me and Sue as she finishes the patching on the burgundy welling cuts on my arms. She gently washes the scarlet from me and smiles, thankful and grateful I am still standing. I feel the onrushing ripple of love pouring from her, and I bask in its warmth. I smile quietly back. Across the room, my savior sits in his wheelchair talking to a plainclothes police officer. The man bears a striking resemblance to Don, and I realize it is his own son. The man puts his hand on Don's shoulder and again, a wave of love washes over me from the small smile they give one another.

The black, plastic covered body of my assailant is placed into the back of an emergency vehicle and I watch with great sadness. I do not understand why I am sad on the surface of my thoughts, but I think I do deep within. I leave it at that.

originally posted February 28, 2008-This was a dream I had on January 28, 2008. Great, huh? Unfortunately, except for the name, everything about my boss was true. He passed away February 6, 2009.

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The Morning Constitutional, Cloverfield, the Motherlode, and Caucusing

2009-03-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

The Morning Constitutional, Cloverfield, the Motherlode, and Caucusing

originally posted January 20, 2008

I had made the plans to see a movie at 1:50. After going in early to deal with payroll, arguing with maintenance to find out just how long it would take to get them to come out and remove the numerous graffiti tags that covered the store when I arrived this morning and unplugging and plugging in wires to find out where I killed the mouse to my computer and ..... dealing with ungrateful and selfish store clerks, I finally made it onto the freeway at Lake Mead at 1:33 to make the trip across town to meet a friend to see the new movie, Cloverfield. I gave text updates along the way and made it with time to spare to the Rave theaters at Town Square. The theatre was crowded for an afternoon movie, seems the freeway wasn't.

Movie previews are some of my favorite things. Many turn out to be so much better than the movie itself. Both the Hell-boy and Ironman previews looks great. There was also a itty bitty teaser for a new Star Trek movie. Guess I'd better get to googling! Poor Rambo looks old... and no amount of money could get me to go see a movie about some smarmy white girl who finds herself and place after tribulations by learning how to "Step Up." Damn, I just advertised for it didn't I? Well, I'm sure someone will be interested.

The theatre was very nice and the chairs were very cozy; we had great seats. Cloverfield is a movie along the lines of "The Blair Witch Project" with it completely done in hand held video footage. You get to see the creature about 20 minutes in and you can't quite tell if its an alien or a Godzilla like thing with all the jumpiness and stuff. If camera jostling disturbs you you may want to skip it all together or at the very least, take a Dramamine before you go. It wasn't too bad. The actors did very well and the girls are pretty enough to look at. Not quite my style of film making.

I understand George A. Romero's new "Diary of the Dead" will be in the same type of format. I wonder if we're seeing a spawn of these types of films to be coming soon. Thank the gods Iron Man and Star Trek don't look as though they will jump on the bandwagon, too.

Better than the movie, the quick jaunt across town, and especially of my crappy morning -was the company. After a brief visit to my brother's store, "The Sports Shop," (subliminal message; Go shop there) we lunched afterwords at the Claim Jumper restaurant right there in Town Square. We talked politics, surgical strikes, aging, careers, insults, and a host of other subjects. It was great. I may not swoon over a pretty voice and long rock-n-roll hair anymore but teach me something I don't know and you'd better lay out mattresses*. We definitely didn't have enough time to catch up.

As for the Claim Jumper itself, I had the honey beer fish or some-such and they had the tri tip sandwich. According to them, the sandwich was excellent. I should have had something else. It seemed like just plain old fish and chips. Their tropical iced tea is pretty excellent though so I definitely would recommend that. Portions are pretty extreme. I had the half order and was full after. The pricing was divine for an 'up-scaled' chain joint. On the way in they have desserts on display. The "Motherlode" is an extremely decadent looking six-layer chocolate cake. Criminal. I think you can buy it at your local grocery store in the frozen section.

The waitress remarked at how impressed she was by a woman who was able to eat a whole piece all by herself. Maybe that's one reason why obesity is rampant. "Eat it all and it's free" and "being impressed" by such feats keep raising the bar for consumption higher and higher. Anyhow, our time ended with losing a vehicle after a short walk to the parking area. Too bad. Again, it was far too short.

The traffic back to my stomping grounds were bumper to bumper taking almost an hour. Since I wasn't able to go and observe the caucus, I got caught up by the radio during the trip. Seems some were clusterf*ks and others went really smooth. There was even a report of Clinton supporters stealing ballots and returning them pre-marked with Clinton voting. What the Hel is up with that?? Clinton won here in Nevada on the Democratic side by a mere 5% over Obama and Romney won for the Republicans. Romney?? Romney?? What the Hel is up with that??

According to Yahoo News, Romney won with 51%, Ron Paul with 14%, and McCain with 13% - In South Carolina, McCain wins with 33% but Huckabee only trials him by 3.

Coming up is South Carolina again for the Democratic vote and Florida where we'll find out if and when Giuliani will be stepping down from the race... or not... and then it's on to Super Tuesday on Feb 5th. Exciting stuff people!

Oh, let me add:

Go Chargers!!

Go Green Bay!!

Cheers,

Erma

Bruce Willis and the Ego Boost

2009-03-10T08:00:00.000-07:00

Bruce Willis and the Ego Boost

originally posted January 18, 2008

I am a fan of the politics of human interaction in general, whether it's the politics of candidates running for office, the politicking between employees at a retail store, or the politics of a group of friends hanging out at the bar after a long day at work. Another interesting genre of human interaction is love and romance, although usually not so much when you are participating on the inside of a particularly harried situation. You can usually reflect and be fascinated, but only after about six months or so, depending on your nature.

After class last night, I stopped at a grocery store to get some mushrooms and pick up a couple of movies. While browsing the Redbox selections (as per the suggestion of Pine Sap), a young man: Latino, Bruce Willis bald, with *huge* brown eyes began conversing with me. Through simple, pleasant conversation, he was able to convey that he was interested, single, affectionate, sensitive, and financially independent. (Nice.)

"Dude, I'm just here to get groceries and movies so I can go home and relax."

"This guy is actually hitting on me."

"Are you freakin' serious?"

"Do people really say that?"

"Well that was pretty smooth."

"Awww, how sweet is that?"

These were the progressive random thoughts that passed through my head as we chatted. Much of what he said was pretty cliché and the "Awww, how sweet is that." came when he guessed my age at 32.… awwww, how sweet was that? (Even though I know he was being conservative to make me feel better and make himself more appealing.)

Now mind you, I am not in the market for a new beau anytime soon, well, at least not for another year or so, but it was pretty cool to be looking at a social interaction from the outside while at the time being on the inside. And while I'm pretty arrogant about myself already, a boost to the ego from an outside source is always a welcome addition.

As for Bruce…um, Eric, the young man (age 30), I think I may need to purchase some spinach sometime here real soon.

Cheers,

Erma

P.S. Dream last night consisted of spurned lovers, winndow placements of house additions, sharp knives (Batmantis, it was yours), my boss, and deep, burgandy red bleeding cuts. My thanks to Sistterwolf for patching up my dream injuries. Hmmmm, maybe not a good sign.

By George

2009-03-06T01:42:00.000-08:00

by George, covering cleavage, altruism, hypocrisy, NPR, and civilization saving assholes

originally posted Wednesday, January 16, 2008

I have a friend by the name of George.

Some of you may know him from the "shooting Bambi" controversy here in Vegas a few years ago. He paraded around in the video clip with his paintball gun shooting at the half naked woman willing to get shot. He even got to massage her in all the places he liked. Pretty cool, huh? I got to see George yesterday. With all the political-ness in the air, you can bet your half naked bottom that George will always have his 2 cents to put in the pot. Be careful if you decide to stir it a little.

George is a Republican. He's probably one of those Republicans that any other Republican would never want to be associated with because of his crude remarks and demeanor, but George is pretty hard core. He bitches about his union constantly, the 'bastards' that are always 'out to get him,' and he vehemently shares with you his repugnance for liars and thieves... "those cheatin' bastards!" His language is always coarse and he sometimes just looks like a pervert with those large eyes (that are always looking at cleavage) and shit-eating grin. But, by George, I absolutely love my friend George.

This wasn't always so. I was once highly offended to have to share the same space with this vulgar man and even complained to many people. Over the years (it took about three.) I have come to realize how truly blessed I am to have someone like George in my life. I'll explain why here in a minute or two.

When I first met George it was at a Lupercalia celebration. For those of you who don't know, Lupercalia is an ancient Roman holiday to celebrate the fertility of the gods Faunus and Flora. Faunus is pretty much equivalent to Pan, the half goat god who roamed the forests making love to every nymph he could seduce. Lupercalia, therefore, is filled with sexual-based rites and lots and lots (and lots) of flowing wine to help tear down inhibitions. There's even striking the women with a scourge (similar to a cat-o-nine tails) to help the women become more fertile and the phallic shape is revered throughout the day. Imagine, I was okay with the celebration...but I wasn't okay with George wanting to make love to every woman in the room he could seduce....go figure.

The thing you finally realize about George is that through all his crassness, lewd comments, and irascible behavior.... George is exactly who George presents himself as. George is the most honest and true person I have ever met in my entire life. There are no hidden agendas, there are no masks, there is no second guessing with what George is gonna say or do. And because of that, I have the utmost respect for George and always will. So if you ever have the opportunity to hang out with me when my friend George is around, make sure your children stay at home and that your cleavage is covered (if you don't want it stared at.) If you want to talk politics, (or cars) you better be prepared for statements like 'rat-commie bastard' and 'worse piece of shit on the road ever' and other even more denigrating statements because I won't be asking George to leave or hold back.

George will also tell you upfront with what he hopes to gain by knowing you. He makes no bones about asking women if they want to box topless, (a business venture he's been trying to get off the ground for a few years now), although, now that I think about it, he's never asked me....hm, I think I might be insulted.... or telling you exactly what he thinks you might be able to do for him, always of course, in exchange for something he can do for you. George is always fair, never wanting to take advantage...unless, of course, the opportunity avails itself - he's no idiot so he will take advantage - but as he does, he will let you know he's doing it. He doesn't hide behind any facade.

Why the soliloquy to George? I have been considering changing professions lately... one with more of an altruistic nature to it. (altruism- a word Mentor just taught me... it means the principle or practice of unselfish concern for or devotion to the welfare of others, as opposed to egoism) Working retail at a convenience store doesn't quite cut it for making the world a better place. Calligraphy, while making the world a little prettier, doesn't either. (Although, I'll never give that up.)

I was thinking about going into teaching. I have the skill to make things easily understood (taught to me by my father). I thought I should put it to good use. I teach now, which I love to do, and one of my favorite things is seeing a student who finally gets it... you know, that proverbial light-bulb that clicks on when it all just falls right into place for them.

I was considering working for a charity...I don't know... maybe in the clerical area, or advertising arena for fundraisers... but I still need to live - and while some in the business make hordes of money, it seemed so hypocritical... to get paid for helping the world be a better place. "Pay me and I'll get other people to donate their money to help you out."

While listening to the radio this week, I've been overwhelmed with the incongruity of what I believed NPR listeners were made of. The first was when a gentleman made a blanket statement about how the American public act or react as a whole to certain news breaks and a person called in to complain about being insulted by what the man said... where even I, not as educated as most NPR listeners, knew the man was not referring to the majority of people who do listen to NPR and was in fact referring to those who normally get their news during the 2 minute break on their favorite music radio station or by the morning radio show clowns whose favorite bit is to make prank calls.

The second was during a show where they were talking about saving the planet (which should be changed to saving our civilization, really). A person called in to say she wanted to convert her home to solar power to help with the reduction in the emission of greenhouse gases to 'help save the planet' and then asked if the government offered tax subsidies for it. It just struck me as odd, that you would want to do your part in saving the world... but you wanna get paid for it too?? By the government?? The 'they' of the world you don't want stomping on you civil liberties and freedoms?? Are my Republican colours showing?

Anyhow, that's where George comes in. After all the debating, rhetoric, and shit-flinging that accompanies all the normal political campaign crap (which I normally love, but am so grateful elections are only every couple of years or so... because everyone needs a break), I was ever so glad to have a dose of true reality... in the name of George. Of course, he reminded me of most of the things that pissed me off this week, too, with all his truthfulness and all, but hey....

Cheers,

Erma

Is That A Burrito In Your Pocket?

2009-02-28T10:09:00.000-08:00

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?

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Doublemint Gum

2009-02-27T05:32:00.000-08:00

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.

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Rockin' With The Slaughter

2009-02-24T08:54:00.000-08:00

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.

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Deceleration...and it’s not getting rid of celery

2009-02-21T10:57:00.000-08:00

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.

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Getting Paid For Writing Pretty

2009-02-18T08:00:00.000-08:00

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.

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Prisoner Who?: A Dream

2009-02-17T08:00:00.000-08:00

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!

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Smurf-eating Wizards, "Prime"val, Work, and a Dream

2009-02-13T08:00:00.000-08:00

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.

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2009-02-12T01:28:00.000-08:00

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.

In Death There Is Peace... Or Is There?

2009-02-09T04:19:00.000-08:00

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

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Poetry, Swirling Lights, and Fraudulent Oracles

2009-02-06T09:42:00.000-08:00

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.

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About A Poets Bout

2009-02-04T09:52:00.000-08:00

About a Poets Bout

originally posted November 10, 2007

A 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!

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Sunglasses Saga: Week IV

2009-02-02T08:39:00.000-08:00

Sunglasses Saga: Week IV

January 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

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Instant messages, Five-children trouble, Movie review, Sabbat, and Yule cards

2009-01-31T11:12:00.000-08:00

Instant messages, Five-children trouble, Movie review, Sabbat, and Yule cards
Category: Life

I have never been a fan of instant messaging. It's true that my Yahoo IM program starts up instantly when I log on, but I'm set to 'hidden' or 'invisible' or whatever that setting is, just so I don't get those annoying pop up windows when I'm in the middle of some typing or research. And it's not that I don't like chatting with people, I love chatting; catching up with old friends, making plans for an outing, meeting new people; I am a social butterfly ... but the inane (or insane) drivel that eschews from SOME of these IM prowlers is incredulous. How someone gets off from letting go of their private parts to actually type in the exclamation, "Oh yeah, baby, right there, Oh God, that feels great, " completely eludes the hell out of me. Don't get me wrong, I am human, I get turned on by reading those stories they print in Penthouse, but c'mon!?!

A beloved friend wanted to chat here at MySpace, so for reasons unknown, I installed the damnable MySpace chat thingy and we had a wonderful half hour conversation. Mind you, she is in my phone's speed dial, and I probably in hers, yet we avoided listening to one another's whiny, irritating voices by chatting on-line instead??? Not more that 60 whole seconds after our conversation was over, I was inundated with requests to chat. Being that I actually am an amiable person, and I had just downloaded the whole chat thing, I chose one out of the flurry of little 'approve' boxes. Right up front I let the gentleman know I was not interested in sex "crap" (my very favorite technical term) while conversing. We actually chatted a while but he kept pressing the sex talk issue so I disengaged. I talked to another who actually gave me a phone number. The last one I talked to was very nice, although I do believe he was chatting with multiple girls because I had to repeat myself.

I retire for the night, wake up, check my e-mail, sign into Myspace and now my MySpace in-box is again flooded with those incoherent, babbling, ungrammatical, cretinous solicitations for "love" and my e-mail address (and anyone with half a brain could probably figure out the e-mail addresses for half the people here on myspace). I have since deleted the MySpace chat thingy from my hard drive, so if you want to be added to my Yahoo one so I can chat with you when I feel like chatting with you, figure it out... all of my friends have at least, the very least, half a brain.

I may have brewed trouble for myself at work this last week. Incident number one occurred when an employee discovered her new schedule. After several verbal warnings and subsequent write-ups, an employee with a habitual late problem found her hours had been cut to 35 hours instead of the usual 40. I had given her an extra hour to get to work everyday. She complained that she couldn't afford to get her hours cut. She had children. Five of them, to be exact. She should be given special consideration because of this. Was she serious? I retorted, which I probably should not have, "I should give you special treatment because you can't keep your legs closed and you don't believe in abortion?" Yeah, I said it out loud.

Incident number two occurred when another lady with five kids insisted on having her kids hang around the store while she gambled. I observed on the security camera the clerks trying to explain to this lady that she could not do that and the lady was becoming more and more hostile, so I intervened. She asked if I was the manager. I affirmed. She asked me what the problem was. Was she serious? I calmly explain to her that it is against the law for her kids to be hanging around the store while she gambled. She didn't understand why. I again try to explain to her that she needed to leave and take her children home. She still didn't understand. After three minutes of her telling me her eldest is 13 and has them under control and how she didn't see what the big deal was, and of her attempting to send her 13, 10, 6, 5, and 4 year old across the street to another store, I said, (yep! out loud), "Any decent mother would take her kids home so they could do some homework, or clean their room, or play on the playground."

"Are you calling me a bad mother?"

I literally bit my tongue. Then I said, "Yes I am, and for you to put the burden of caring for your young ones on the shoulders of your 13 year old is another great example of that," as blood dripped out of the corner of my mouth. She left with my name, the store's id number and the phone number for corporate. I'm expecting something. I really do love my job. Really.

Went and saw American Gangster today. It was a very.... even movie. Don't go expecting huge amounts of action and cup holder clutching drama, it's not that kind of movie. It's good. Very well written, acted, directed, (Can you go wrong with Ridley Scott?) I did have to constantly remind myself that Denzel Washington was playing a bad guy, but that could just be me.

Sabbat was great. The mountain air was crisply cold, but actually very pleasant. Of course, anytime you're drinking rum-laden wassail, the cold will be pleasant. My 3 peers and I dressed as the four elements with me being the element of air. we looked phenomenal! I'll post pictures as soon as I get them from Lady Sistterwolf.

It's getting to be around 50 days till Yule and I'll be sending out my holiday cards soon. If any of my fine people would like to receive a hand-calligraphied Yule card from me I'll be needing your mailing address promptly. I would love to send you one so please don't hesitate sending me your home addresses (or P.O. boxes, it's all good.) I will promise I won't share your information with anyone else, but I won't promise that I won't use it for stalking purposes.

originally posted November 7, 2007

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Irish Breasts and Irish Stew

2009-01-30T10:48:00.000-08:00

Irish breasts and Irish stew

Category: Life
originally posted October 29, 2007

Outside the front on Molly Malone's is a bronze of an Irish woman next to a cart: Molly Malone, I presume. She's very slender, yet the swell of her bronze breasts above the neckline of her shirt is pretty... um... amazing. Expect the boys to stare at the statue for a while. Inside the decor is pretty nice. It'll take a moment for the eyes to adjust if you go during the day, but I'll bet it's very pleasant in the evening. Sayings in Irish are written on the walls with its English translation below it. Very nice atmosphere, I must say.

I met a my-space friend there for a late lunch Friday. This was our first meeting in real life so I was pretty nervous. Have you ever done that? Made plans to meet someone in real life that you initially met on the computer? All kinds of different nervousness happens. It's just like meeting a date. "Do I look okay? Does my breath stink? What will we talk about? What if I'm too brash? What if I'm too demure? What if they hate my laugh? What if I don't laugh? Along with the worry of, "What if they delete me as a friend?" thrown in for good measure. if you're just meeting as a date then it's easy...if it doesn't work, it doesn't work...no big deal...but a friend...scarier than I ever imagined.

Well, I wasn't deleted Saturday, so I feel pretty good! We did laugh a lot and I had a great time and so did they, according to the e-mail I found on Saturday. Whew... next time it won't be so rough!

Back to Molly Malone's... I was on the St. Rose Parkway heading towards the I-15 and learned the hard way that if you want to pass the I-15 and get to South Highland on the other side you have to stay in the left lane or the construction cones won't let you go forward and you are forced onto the freeway. Then it's another 5-10 minute drive to the next exit at Silverado so you can turn around and come back. And then the off ramp with the pretty signs for the So. Highland exit is currently out of commission and you're expecting to have to drive to Jean before you can turn around again and come back until you see the tiny little sign that tells you about the temporary exit for So. Highland and the St. Rose Pkwy. I love Vegas construction.

It must have been something I had to do because the trek from the St. Rose exit to the Silverado exit afforded me the sighting of Molly Malone's off the freeway so there was no need for calling for directions.

We sat in the restaurant section and I asked the waiter for the specials. He said fish tacos. I asked if that was Irish. There is a tendency there to put an Irish name in front of any menu item to make it Irish. I don't think nachos are Irish either. I opted for the lamb stew in a bread bowl. It was GREAT! and alot...share it with others or it'll go to waste. My Jack on ice was also a very large drink. Wow! I didn't finish that either. My friend had the Guiness steak... mm mm... also very good!

Great lunch on a great day.

Molly Malone's Irish Pub
11930 Southern Highlands Pkwy
Las Vegas, NV 89141
Phone: (702) 837-0213

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Sacrifice: A Dream

2009-01-29T08:17:00.000-08:00

Sacrifice: A Dream
originally posted October 25, 2007

The air was thick with concrete dust from the falling buildings. The windshield of the car was covered in a dusty film. It got so heavy, we had to utilize the windshield wipers so we could see. I checked our rear. The tank was right behind us. Damn, it moved fast for such a large vehicle. It was almost unreal. The driver swerved viciously to avoid another falling building and I was thrown around the small compartment of the back seat. I quickly regained footing and watched as the tank plowed right through the debris, exploding another cloud of particles.

"Hurry," my mind screamed and then I voiced it aloud! "Hurry! He's catching us!"

We'd probably be better off on foot," the driver said and I watched the back of his head move as if searching for a good spot to ditch the car. Periodically, I was tossed about as he weaved his way through the forsaken city. It had all just changed. The world was a different place. No longer could nights be spent just watching a television or hanging out at the bar with friends. Now was a time for survival. Avoid getting caught. Avoid being enslaved. Avoid torture and internment. And this was from our own government.

I checked our rear. At sometime the back window had been blown out and the clarity of the scene behind me gave me shivers. Vegas was in complete ruins. Small orange fire glows everywhere silhouetted the damage against the fading sky. Smoke tendrils reached up into the dark purple space that replaced the once ever-present orange glow. Here and there you could see singular souls, covered in soot and rags diving for cover from the search vehicles. Ours seemed to be falling behind. Maybe it had found new quarry. I felt relieved, yet sorry all at once. I informed the driver and noticed we were slowing down. He pulled in under the half collapsed canopy of what used to be a small casino and we struggled with the doors to let ourselves out.

The other passenger in the front was a small east Indian boy with eyes like the ones you see on the covers of National Geographic. His face was drawn, as if in deep thought. Once released from the vehicle, all of our eyes swept the surrounding area. The distinct whirring of choppers getting closer made us move quickly. Next to the casino was an alley and we ducked into it. The driver was a man in his mid-thirties. He had dark hair, although the light coat of dust made it seem white. He was Italian, I think. He had that stereo-typical swarthy-ness of a lithe Italian soccer star or model. His lips were full and almost constantly pouting. He ran his long, dexterous fingers through his hair and it became black again. Sporting a white open collar shirt that was only half-buttoned up, he grabbed the young boys hand as we walked down the alley.

We came to the passageways end and a ragged cloth curtain blocked our progress. The Italian swept it aside and the sunlight pouring through the opening hurt my eyes for a moment. As my eyesight adjusted to the light, I could make out a marketplace teeming with people. Most were Indian, like the boy. It was near shoulder to shoulder walking through the melee. Suddenly the crowd parted and an Indian man in his forties was on his knees with his face up towards the heavens. His arms were outstretched to the side as he muttered in a language I did not understand. Finally his arms dropped and a couple of the bystanders went to help him up.

At my side was a young Indian girl, who smiled at me when I looked at her. Her eyes then traveled towards the Italian and she said in perfect English, "An offering must be made," and then turned to walk away. Sensing his confusion, I touched the girl on her shoulder ad asked what she meant. She pointed to a small cart from which fetishes and magazines dangled. "Purchase something from him and make it an offering in the temple." I asked if she would show us. I followed the braided girl and indicated for the Italian to follow.

There wasn't much of a selection. An offering of bubble gum or a deck of cards seemed a bit mediocre. A small Indian man before us bought a fetish of an elephant and walked off, presumably towards the temple. The Italian settled on a deck of colorful playing cards, almost Italian in design. He turned them over and over in his hand as the girl led us towards the temple. She started to explain.

Ever so often, God touches a soul here and announces that to save the lives of four hundred, the two hundred males around the touched must make a sacrifice of something. The sacrifice can be something as simple as a pack of gum or a deck of cards. I asked why and she did not know. It had begun long ago, but it happened very frequently. I asked if the announcement had never been complied with. She pointed to the line of forty or so men waiting to make their sacrifice.

The young Indian boy stood in line with the Italian, holding a small doll as the girl led me up the steps of the temple. We stood off to the side, but I could see the drop box protruding from the wall, the men pitched their offerings into. Some just walked up and tossed them in and moved on. Others said a small succinct prayer before doing so. The Italian reached the box and paused. He muttered no prayers. He lowered his eyes and leaned against the wall. I could tell he was contemplating the decision. The girls face wrinkled. She wasn't very happy. "Why does one pause to save the lives of four hundred? At such a low price?"

And then I woke up. Great dream!

Had To Share... A Work Story Repost

2009-01-26T12:00:00.000-08:00

Had to share...
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

Orignally Posted: Wednesday, October 10, 2007

So, every Tuesday for the last few weeks I go into work to help put away the bi-weekly grocery delivery on the overnight shift. It usually makes for great stories working the overnight shift because of the people that tend to stay up late are great stories within themselves. I've only been doing this the last few weeks for training purposes.

Since I became a manager many years ago, I haven't had many stories from this shift to relate, unless of course you count watching the night clerk...uh, former night clerk make a drug pass right in front of me or the night many, many years ago that a naked black man appeared in our doorway, flailed his arms and said that he hated his sister and then went running down the street with his little, tiny penis bouncing like a yo-yo...ah, what memories.

So while tonight's story isn't that grandiose, it was still pretty funny. It was one of those reality moments, y'know. A joke, a very old joke had come to life, right in front of my very eyes.

Here goes:A young lady came in to do some shopping and bought quite a few items. After her purchase was complete she grumbled that she had forgotten to get something. The clerk asked what it was and she said, "Oh, you don't wanna know."

"Well, yeah, I do, 'cause I need to ring it up," he replied.

She wandered away from the main part of the counter and whispered that she needed condoms. She indicated she wanted the purple box (Her Pleasure) when her boyfriend came up behind her and told her to get the extra-large ones.

She turned, looked him right in the eyes, and with a completely serious look on her face, she said,"You don't need those."

It took every ounce of strength in our muscles to not say a word and guffaw out loud. The clerk finished the sale and after they left we spewed. Too freakin' funny!

Sunglasses Saga: Week III

2009-01-26T08:00:00.000-08:00

December 31, 2008: Wednesday

Rhinestone-speckled, tortoise-framed shades,
Come to my aid, come to my aid!
Dim the chaos of the threatening near,
Calm the tumult of the passing year.
Sweep with delight away visions done past,
Bring in the new and make it doth last.
Send me to places filled with right dreams,
Let reality supplant till bursting at seams.
Rhine-stone speckled, tortoise-framed shades,
May we seek together good fortune in spades.
Happy New Year!

January 1, 2009: Thursday

I must admit that my reality is tinted -- not suffused tawny amber as my lenses -- blushed remarkable instead by souls familiar resplendent. Angelic mortals are all of you -- whether vile or splendid, contentious or amicable -- it is my honour to be enlightened by your countenance. Thank you! Have a great afternoon!

January 2, 2009: Friday

Ashen, dusky, walking clouds girdled in apricot luminosity reflect off the lenses reclining on the dash. I peer into the failing blue and watch as Mother Nature mimics the work of Michelangelo. Good evening!

January 3, 2009: Saturday

No message. Busy day.

January 4, 2009: Sunday

Hurky jerky was the night,
Wracked with cough and putrid plight,
Senses desperate, please relieve,
NYQUIL! NYQUIL! NYQUIL! *wheeze*

My first text I received this almost sick-free morning was from my friend Robert. His puppy, Klaus, killed his sunglasses this morning. I read this text through the lenses of mine. Gently, I polished the amber glass slowly, showing much care and appreciation. I ensured them that Klaus was very, very far away. I'm a thousand percent better this morning. Good morning!

January 5, 2009: Monday

The weatherman says it will be cloudy for days. My sunglasses, while jubilant for the short vacation, will miss the view from atop my head. It will not miss, however, the smudgy fingerprints I always seem to cover them with while there. Good afternoon!

January 6, 2009: Tuesday

I'm a little worries about Erma. She took me off vaycay! Sumthin' bout the wetherman being rong. Is it my fault the wethrmn was rong!? oops, someones comming. Ciao, baby!

I want to apologize for the last text you received. I don't know who could have sent it. I was looking for my phone and I found it under my sunglasses. you don't think.... nah... couldn't be... Good morning!

2009-01-20T22:17:00.001-08:00

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Sunglasses Saga: Week II

2009-01-19T08:00:00.000-08:00

December 24, 2008: Wednesday

Neutral gray clouds swathe and cradle the light of the newborn SUN. Sprightly clutches of white nuzzle every nook and cranny of the immutable, dark, breast-peaked mountains. A coalescing of love, stemmed from the small joy of finding the perfect gift, from humming along with muzak-ed Christmas carols, from the planning of great feasts, and to the twittering anticipation of spiked eggnog, embrace our colour washed valley. My sunglasses and I hope the holidays have brought you as much love as the Universe is exhibiting.

December 25, 2008: Thursday

Seemingly about to be crushed by another despondent, cold, wintry day... my partner in frames draw my eyes to the horizon. There, I see the metaphoric future filled with bright, hopeful, optimistic days. So bright, in fact, that I pull my compadre down from their perch on my head and we finish the drive into work together, as one. Good morning! Merry Christmas to you who celebrate. My day is filled with effin'.... fun, family, feasting, friends and film. Would you like to join us for the film?

December 26, 2008: Friday

Conversing with Caeious at the BBC, I see no reason to remove my sunglasses since the sun streams so very strongly here. He, the young sun, is brilliant today as the breath of the Goddess sweeps out the old year to make way for the new. It's beautiful how they work in tandem with one another to accomplish their goal, isn't it? Good afternoon!

December 27, 2008: Saturday

Yellowing mulberry leaves crunch underfoot. The air is medicinally crisp and soothes the breath and the lungs. The sun touches warm the bits of exposed flesh from under winter layers. My sunglasses are cool to the touch on my brow and temples. It's like we've travelled back into time and it's now the perfect autumn day. Good afternoon.

December 28, 2008: Sunday

I didn't pause to don my friends this morning, so my brow creased: my eyes sliver thin. I worry today. Finally, they call out... literally (probably all the attention they've had as of late) and I put them on allowing for the slow relaxation of all my eye and facial muscles. I finish my ride into work. I'm fine. I hope you are, too. Good morning.

December 29, 2008: Monday

This morning, on my way into work, my sunglasses and I witnessed a group of friends standing on a street corner engaged in raucous laughter. So cacophonous was their revelry that I heard it over the thrum of the engine, through the warm, glass-enclosed cab of the truck, and over the news whispering their stories in my ear. We saw a young cowboy-to-be riding a pale, chestnut horse with his father, a smile stretched from ear to ear. What a great way to start the week. Good afternoon.

December 30, 2008: Tuesday

Frosted windshields and tips of grass encapsulated in icy prisms reveal the gelid nature of the night. Contrails crisscross the glacial blue sky above. The warmth of my breath fog the lenses of my sunglasses as I put them on to face the rarely seen early morning sun. Today is poetry day with Sue at ReJavanate. You are more than welcome to join. Good morning.

Malignant Fantasy

2009-01-18T10:48:00.000-08:00

Malignant Fantasy
originally posted Thursday, September 13, 2007

Tonight I found this on the Link station and was riveted to my chair for the hour and a half it was on. I've read Sam Harris' books and have to say that afterwards I wanted to be an atheist...but decided I didn't want to give up the beauty of ritual and mythology the Craft affords. Shame, too, I would've made a good one.

It is his closing statement that propelled me to type it up and blog it for all of you to read. Let me know what you think. I personally loved it!

Truthdig Debate "Religion, Politics and the End of the World" on May 22, 2007.

Sam Harris' Closing Statement

"Let me give you a sense of what it's like to be me having this conversation. It seems to be we could have been having this conversation 500 years ago. Life was difficult 500 years ago, there was a lot of despair. There are crops [that] failed, disease spread, people suffered just instantaneous and catastrophic changes in their fortune and it well under the cause of all this, actually was well understood 500 years ago.

It was witchcraft.

And happily the church had produced some very energetic men who had the gumption to deal with this problem and so every year, some hundreds and sometimes thousands of women were burned alive for casting spells on their neighbors.

Now, imagine what it would be like to be among the 5 or 10 percent of people, at most, who recognized that the very belief in magic, the very belief in witchcraft, the very belief in good witches or bad witches was a malignant fantasy. That the white witches who were helping people with medicinal herbs and practicing midwifery were on no firmer ground than the black witches who were casting the evil eye. The whole belief system was at fault. Imagine the kind of criticism you're going to get.

"No, no, you're problem is with a kind of fundamentalist witchcraft. The reality is witchcraft is more far nuanced than that. There's no conflict between science and witchcraft. Science deals with physical law and physical causality and witchcraft deals with potent spells and the internal connections between things."

This idea that somehow we shouldn't call into question these patently bad ideas for fear of offending people, for fear of glossing over their despair, for fear of not criticizing other problems in the world - I would never argue that religion is the only problem in the world or the only source o f human conflict-but it IS a source and we are mightily attached to it, emotionally attached to it and we are loathe to criticize it even when it is declaring its ugliest intentions and its ugliest certainties. The problem with the bible is however you pick and choose; whether you're a literalist or a selective literalist, the problem is there's just a mountain of divisive nonsense in there and that's where people get ideas about homosexuality being an abomination and why our country in the 21st century debates gay marriage as though it were the great moral issue of our time. This is coming from religion and it seems to me it's time we had an honest conversation about that."

(1510 Woodcut Illustration)

Here are some more quotes I found to be great. There's a lot more but it's late and I'm tired so maybe more later.

"I'm extremely worried about the role religion is playing in our world. I happen to think that faith based religion is the most divisive and dangerous ideology we have ever concocted and it keeps me awake at night. As someone who has been doing this for awhile, ever since 9-11 when those 19 guys showed our pious nation just how socially beneficial religion certainty can be I have argued against the role that religion is playing in our societies. "

"Even if we knew that one of our religions was perfectly true; even if we knew that this was God's multiple choice exam:

"Is it A: Judaism B: Christianity C: Islam?"

Even if we knew one was perfect-given the bewildering profusion of doctrines on offer; given their mutual incompatibility; every believer should expect damnation purely as a matter of probability. It seems to me that this should give religious people pause when they espouse their certainties. It never does, but it should."

"Christianity is founded on the claim that the gospel account of the miracles of Jesus is true...Most Christians most of the time take some complement of these miracles as true and most important seems to be the resurrection. Now the problem with this is that the only thing that testifies to these miracles ever having occurred is the gospel. There's no extra biblical description of these events. Everyone agrees that the gospels were written decades after the events they report, the earliest gospels. The problem is is that even if the evidence were much better than that; even if we had hundreds of contemporaneous eyewitness accounts of these miracles-that would still be not-still not be good enough evidence to cash out the claims of Christianity.

Why not?

Well, the problem is that in the 21st century, reports of miracles are still quite common. I have met literally hundreds of Western educated men and women who think that their favorite Hindu or Buddhist guru has magic powers. The reports of miracles are quite current. There are Hindu yogis and mystics that reportedly walk on water and raise the dead and fly without the aid of technology and read minds and divine the future. Take someone like Sathya Sai Baba, the South Indian guru. All of these miracles are attributed to him. He even claims to have been born of a virgin, which incidentally is not a such a rare claim in the history of religion or in history generally. Genghis Khan was supposedly born of a virgin. Alexander the Great was born of a virgin. Parthenogenesis does not guarantee you're going to turn the other cheek apparently. So consider this, Sathya Sai Baba has these miracles attributed to him by literally thousands upon thousands of living eyewitnesses. He is not the David Koresh of Hinduism. His devotees threw a birthday party for him a few years ago and a million people showed up. There are millions of people who believe he is a living god.

Now, so consider as though for the first time the foundational claim of Christianity. The claim is that miracle stories of a sort that surround a person like Sathya Sai Baba today which are compelling to no one apart from his devotees suddenly become especially credible if you place them in the pre-scientific religious context of the first century Roman Empire decades after their supposed occurrence. Sathya Sai Baba's miracles don't even merit an hour on the Discovery Channel and yet place these miracles in an ancient text and half the people on this earth think it a legitimate project to organize their lives around them does anyone else see a problem with that? "

"When you hear someone arguing for the link between the morality and religion or the fact that it gives people meaning in their lives; this is an argument for the usefulness and this is not an argument for the plausibility of any specific religious doctrine. The other problem with the arguing for the usefulness of religion is that the dangers of religion are testified to now on a daily basis by bomb blasts.

How useful is it that million of Muslims in this world believe in the metaphysics of martyrdom? How useful is it that the Shiite and the Sunni in Iraq have such heartfelt religious differences? How useful is it that so many Jewish settlers think that the creator of the universe promised them a patch of desert on the Mediterranean?
How useful has Christianity's anxiety about sex been these last 70 generations?"

Visit Sam Harris' page here: http://www.samharris.org/ or go and watch the whole debate for yourself here:

http://www.truthdig.com/avbooth/item/20070617_religion_politics_and_the_end_of_the_world/

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Convenient Rockstar

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Fellow Man

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Three Geologists, 15 Gallons, and a Dating Service

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Party It Up, Kids

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Last Bastion

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Bruce Willis and the Ego Boost

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Is That A Burrito In Your Pocket?

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Doublemint Gum

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Rockin' With The Slaughter

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Deceleration...and it’s not getting rid of celery

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Getting Paid For Writing Pretty

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Prisoner Who?: A Dream

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Smurf-eating Wizards, "Prime"val, Work, and a Dream

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In Death There Is Peace... Or Is There?

COME PLAY WITH ME!FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

Poetry, Swirling Lights, and Fraudulent Oracles

COME PLAY WITH ME!FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

About A Poets Bout

COME PLAY WITH ME!FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

Sunglasses Saga: Week IV

COME PLAY WITH ME!FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

Instant messages, Five-children trouble, Movie review, Sabbat, and Yule cards

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Irish Breasts and Irish Stew

COME PLAY WITH ME!FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

Sacrifice: A Dream

Had To Share... A Work Story Repost

Sunglasses Saga: Week III

Sunglasses Saga: Week II

Malignant Fantasy

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL

COME PLAY WITH ME!
FACEBOOK - MYSPACE - TWITTER - AIM: VEGASERMA - YAHOO: MAIDENPLAY - EMAIL