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The Bass I’m Not All About

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At first the man seated behind me (@ Portland Center Stage’s auditorium) spoke in normal, muted, waiting-for-the-play-to-begin tones to the woman beside him. I caught the phrases, “attempted to,” “many months,” and then…gulp…”decided to self-publish.”

If only these were earplugs....

If only these were earplugs….

Aye yi yi.

Unfortunately, that was when he began to raise the decibel  level.

“…’Below the Surface’ – I came up with the title when I was watching sea turtles….” 

He’d figured out something so authentic, so, like, deep – as in, below the surface – he felt compelled to share it with the world:

…you know, it’s that what’s underneath a person, the part you don’t see, is your authentic self, and you must discover this before you can find your authentic self and purpose, and until you do, every part of your life cannot be authentic [1] and you are doomed to frustration and annoying strangers sitting in the theatre waiting for Dreamgirls to start….

Amazing, isn’t it, that he’s going to have to self-publish – amazing, that no established, reputable publisher jumped at the opportunity to print his shallow commentary disguised as insights cribbed from every other self-realization/actualization help book published in the last twenty years profoundly authentic revelations?

WORD

*   *   *

The Department of How Many Copies Has This Song Sold?

Yes, I know I’m late to this particular party.  But really, I hadn’t heard the song until recently.  After a late afternoon workout session, I ejected my exercise CD. The media box reverted to TV mode, and lo and behold, the host of a popular talk show was introducing a singer/songwriter. S/S proclaimed that after she’d watched a certain segment of that certain talk show, S/S had been inspired to write a song about “body image and acceptance.” [2]

I’m somewhat suspicious about any song that is marketed as any kind of anthem.  I am really suspicious when the performance of an alleged anthem about body image and acceptance – or, as per the singer/songwriter Meghan Trainor, “female body empowerment” –  is accessorized by provocatively clad and twerking dancers and backup singers.

Yeah, that seems right.

Yeah, that seems right.

Gotta admit, I thought the song’s melody was catchy.  Then I made the mistake of paying attention to the lyrics, which included the affirming, anthemic, progressive, we-shall-overcome lines:

“Yeah it’s pretty clear, I ain’t no size two
but I can shake it, shake it, like I’m supposed to do.”

‘Cause I got that boom boom that all the boys chase
 And all the right junk in all the right places 

 Yeah, my mama she told me don’t worry about your size
 She says, “Boys like a little more booty to hold tonight.”

 You know I won’t be no stick figure silicone Barbie doll
 So if that’s what you’re into then go ahead and move along

 I’m bringing booty back
 Go ahead and tell them skinny bitches that…”

So, uh huh. Acceptance involves dissing other women – excuse me, stick figure silicone Barbie dolls & skinny bitches – while an empowering body image means thinking that shaking your ample boom boom that all the boys chase is not only what you’re supposed to do, but is a good thing because that’s what boys like….

REALLY

My junk musta been in the wrong place – ya know, me and my fellow skinny ass bitches musta been AWOL – when Gloria SteinemFlorynce Kennedy,  Letty Cotton Pogrebin, Barbara Ehrenreich, Susan FaludiPhyllis Chesler and other great minds of 21st century feminist thought collaborated on this particular Female Empowerment memo.

*   *   *

☼   Captured by the KGB   ☼

Aka, Masterpiece Theatre Presents Great Performances in Child abuse Child Management
(Setting: A Medical Practice near Stanford Hospital, circa 1988)

She was, simply and profoundly, one pest of a kid.  The girl was around eight or nine, obnoxious as hell…although her temperament should not have mattered.  A child should not brought to her mother’s medical appointments and left to fend for herself.  Woman, you either take your daughter in the exam room with you, or get a sitter. [3]

But This Particular Woman never got a sitter for her daughter. Four years in a row, TPW brought her daughter to TPW’s annual exams, each time assuring me and the rest of the OB/GYN practice’s staff that “she (daughter) is really quite mature and no trouble at all,” and each time following that patently false statement with the balls-out (so to speak) request, “If you all don’t mind watching her while I’m in with Dr. ___….”

Four years in a row, the staff told her in so many different ways, As a matter of fact yes, we do mind, and even if we didn’t mind we are WORKING and that work does not include babysitting, and this is a medical practice and there are hazardous instruments and chemicals and….

Four years in a row, TPW ignored us.

TPW resided in a tony Bay Area suburb. Given her address – and the vacations she bragged about taking with her husband – it was reasonable to assume she could easily have afforded to hire a sitter (hell, a 24 hour nanny service) for her daughter. [4]   But, noooooooooo.

She’d tell her daughter that if she needed anything or got bored to ask the “nice office ladies” for some help.  And while TPW was in the exam room with Dr. ___, TPW’s daughter would run around the waiting room, annoying other patients waiting for their appointments, and barge through the door to the staff area and pester the staff. [5]

Year five; TPW’s annual exam. Lather; rinse; repeat.  TPW’s daughter ignored the children’s magazines our office manager had purchased especially for the occasion, as well as the receptionist’s directive to remain in the waiting room. While the receptionist was on the phone retrieving lab results and the office manager was making a return appointment for an OB patient and I was readying an exam room for the next patient, TPW’s demon spawn bad seed daughter pushed past the waiting room door, banged on the receptionist’s typewriter, then prowled the hallway that led to the exam rooms.

bad seed

I exited the second exam room, carrying an instrument tray which had been used for an IUD insertion, and bumped into the kid, who nearly ended up with a speculum on her head.

That was that.

“Come with me,” I directed the girl. She followed me as I walked to our small lab room, dumped the instruments in the sink by the autoclave and stripped off my gloves.

“You’ve got quite an imagination, I can tell. Would you like to play a game?”  The girl beamed affirmatively.  “I gotta warn you, it’s a very special game and takes a smart, strong person to play it.  Not every kid can handle…”

“Oh-oh, I can! I can do it! Let me play!’

“All right.”  The office manager had left for her lunch break, and I pushed her empty chair to the corner of the staff work area, next to the copy machine. I instructed the girl to take a seat.  “The name of the game is, ‘Captured by the KGB.’ “

KGB

“I am a KGB agent, and you are an American spy.  You have been blindfolded and tied to this chair, and are waiting for the head of the KGB to interrogate you.”  I showed the girl how to wrap her arms around the back of the chair, as if her wrists were tied together.

“All the other KGB agents” – I indicated myself and the receptionist, who gave me her Robyn, WTF?! look  [6] –   “are trying to get you to confess. But you are strong! You will not betray your country! And you do not say one word.”

The girl squinted shut her eyes and giggled as I pretended to fasten a blindfold around her head.  “That’s right!” she exclaimed, “I’m strong, and I…  “

“Uh uh uh – not one word, remember?”

I returned to my work.  The girl was a brave little spy for a few minutes, then began to softly whine.

This is boring.

I reminded her that she had been captured by the KGB, and that there is nothing boring about espionage.  That bought me another two minutes.

I don’t like this game anymore. She opened her eyes, but kept her hands behind her back.

“You have been captured by the KGB.  They don’t care what you like, and they’ll gag you if you do not stay silent.”

Another minute passed.

I d-d-don’t wanna play this anymore.  I – I don’t like this game.  There was a catch in the girl’s voice, and her eyes filled with tears.

The receptionist gaped at me, her eyes widening – in astonishment or admiration, I couldn’t tell – just as we heard the distinctive squeak of exam room three’s door.

“Mommy!” The girl ran to TPW and buried her face in TPW’s skirt.

“She missed you.” I said to TPW, and flashed the most disingenuous smile ever to grace Dr. ___’s hallway.

crocsmiles

*   *   *

Epilogue:
The girl apparently said nothing to TPW (at least, not while she was in the office) about being captured by the KGB.

Epi-epilogue:
TPW did not bring her daughter  to her subsequent appointments with Dr. ___.

Epi-epi-epilogue:
The statute of limitations has passed, so don’t even think about reporting me to CPS.

*   *   *

May you be all about everything but your bass, may your behavior stand up to KGB agent scrutiny, and may the above-the-surface hijinks ensue.

 

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] And did I mention he seemed concerned with authenticity?

[2] Shame on you, Ellen.

[3] Nope, I don’t know why she wasn’t in school. Almost no one was homeschooling back then, and certainly not the wealthy.

[4] Why is it always the ones who can afford it who try to get something for free?

[5] TPW’s and her daughter’s behaviors were noted in TPW’s chart, as a warning for future staff members. TPW was the only patient who, when she called to make her appointments, was reminded to procure child care. And yes, the practice’s staff spoke to the doctor about the situation (he was reluctant to handle “patient behavior issues.”  Read: he felt that was not his problem, it was ours.)

[6] I’d seen that look more than once.

The Frog I’m Not Kissing

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 “Pretty women out walking with gorillas down my street….”
Joe Jackson, “Is She Really Going Out with Him?”)

A long long, time ago in a galaxy far far away, I left a movie theater having just seen the latest rendition of one of the oldest fairy tale plot devices.  The movie was Roxanne, a modern re-telling of the Cyrano be Bergerac story. While I found the Steve Martin-Darryl Hannah vehicle to be somewhat charming, as I joined the après-movie queue [1] outside the women’s restroom I was also frustrated by the sameness of it all.

Why aren’t the roles ever reversed? I groused to myself – ah, timing – just as a Sweet Young Thing ® standing in line behind me began gushing to her companion about the movie’s “uplifting” message:

“It’s like, you know, how true beauty is what’s inside a person, and when people, like, look beyond the physical stuff and people are, like, transformed, and so people shouldn’t, like, judge a book by its cover, because the one with the lousy cover might have some really good stuff inside…”

SYT’s commentary went on for some time, increasing in both volume and vapidity, to the point that I finally reached my WTF point. We were standing in a piss line; I’d never see her again.  I turned around and addressed SYT.

BTW and yes, I am One Of Those People ® who will sometimes speak to a Stranger when we are both standing in the same line, particularly when a Stranger makes inane comments loud enough to intrude upon the brain waves of bystanders.  Dream scenario for this situation: the Marshall McLuhan scene in Annie Hall.

Ah, but I digress.

“Actually,” I smiled at SYT, “the point of that movie, and other stories like, is a bit more specific. The underlying message is not that beautiful people can learn to appreciate homely people. The message is that, if you are a man who is unattractive, even ugly or deformed, you can pursue the pretty princess; you the man-troll can make a beautiful woman look beyond your physical deficiencies to appreciate the goodness within you. Think about it: that storybook train runs only one way: ugly man to pretty woman.” [2]

She did not respond, unless you count her open mouthed, frog-like gaping.  Hmm.  If she’d been a guy frog, some hot babe could have kissed her and transformed her into….  Nah.

cyrano

Cyrano be Bergerac. The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Beauty and the Beast. The Princess and the Frog. Shrek. Ninety-nine percent of Woody Allen movies starring Woody Allen.

Art and literature teem with images and stories of unattractive schmucks who pursue and win (and are portrayed as ultimately deserving of) the hearts, minds (and bodies) of beautiful women.  The homely, rejected but deep-down-decent protagonists know what it’s like to be judged and ignored for their inadequate exteriors, even though they have so much “inner beauty” to offer. Why then do the stories not have these men seek out their homely but decent, kind and wise female counterparts – kindred spirits with whom they could find simpatico, and mutually beneficial relationships?

yeahright

When was the last (or first) time you had the opportunity to read your children the bedtime fable of the devastatingly handsome prince who finds happiness with the wall-eyed but kind-hearted, intelligent princess? [3]

What sparked this particular intellectual excursion, I cannot say.  Perhaps the OBFD (stay tuned for acronym explanation) has something to do with it.

*   *   *

Department of Awwwwww…..

Dateline: last week, after enjoying a sushi lunch with friend SCM and her seven year old daughter P, we three womenfolk got ourselves to the Streets of Tanasbourne, an outdoor mall, to attend to a serious errand.  SCM was in need of new lady undergarments, and while she shopped for them [4], P and I played at the mall’s fountain. That is, P and I attempted to play, as much as the fountain’s numerous warning signs would allow us to act in any way that might resemble frolicking.

“No wading in the fountain, no walking along the rim, no sitting on the edge…no furtive glances in the direction of the fountain, no no no no…”

The signs did not say NONONO re using the fountain as a wishing well, and P pointed out to me the plethora of pennies that previous well-wisher had left.  I doled out a handful of pennies, one by one, to P, who tossed them in the fountain one by one, and one by one [5] told me who and what she’d wished for.

fountain

For her mother, P wished for – surprise! – new underwear.  For her father, new trousers. For her various friends, a puppy, a pet, a puppy, a pet, another puppy. For my daughter Belle, a black kitten.

“This is for K,” P told me, as she tossed the last penny into the fountain.

I found it touching her last penny was used to make a wish for my son. “And what is your wish for K?” I asked her.

P paused for a moment.  “Someone to keep him company.”

*   *   *

Department of Ahhhhh…crap.

Readers of this blog may remember my post from last week, wherein I mentioned daughter Belle’s plan to take the train home for a visit – along with seven of her dorm friends who wanted an adventure/escape from college for a few days – this weekend.  The visit is still on…in a different scale.

Belle’s friend MGN has been given a final countdown in her long battle with renal failure.  Assuming MGN makes it to the weekend, Belle will be spending most of her time “home” in the hospital, visiting MGN.  Belle’s college friends, once they heard the news, kindly and graciously backed out of the trip (“I won’t be any fun to be around,” Belle warned them), and Belle will be coming home alone.

MH and I were in Astoria when Belle texted me with the news.  We drove up the steep, winding, road to the Astoria Column and climbed the 164 steps to the top of the column.  I launched a small balsawood glider [6] from the column’s observation deck, in honor of MGN. It was a windy, pre-rainstormy day, and the flimsy glider rode the drafts like a tiny raptor, circling downward until it came to rest in a grove of fir trees.

astoriatreeJPG

Best wishes for MGN…and for her grieving friends, like Belle. The mortality of your peers in your face is just not something we imagine our children facing at age eighteen.

Morgan

*   *   *

The Return of the Old Boyfriends Dream

Scene: A university lecture hall. Standing at the dais is a man who is much too young to be James Watson[7] yet that is who we lecture attendees are supposed to think he is.
Looking around the crowded venue, I spot another young man.  This one, I know. He is standing off to the side, leaning against the lecture room wall, exchanging glances and smirks with his younger sibling, both of them trying to look professorial….

Old [8] Boyfriend Dreams ® . They’re baaaaaaaaaaaaaack.

I’ve had them before, and have noticed a pattern.  An old BF’s appearances in my dreams – typically in supporting roles, sometimes in brief, “walk-on” parts – coincide with times in which I am facing a current or imminent, significant, change in life circumstances.

When I wake up in the morning (or middle of the night) and my first thought it, Yo, dude, why were you (former bf) running amok in my subconscious?, my second thought is, Oh, okay…it’s this, again.

The OBFDs first made their appearance during my pregnancy with K. Those OBFDs also coincided with a desire to listen to my old Led Zeppelin albums, go figure.

A brief donning of my amateur dream interpretation hat is all it takes for me to figure it out.

Not quite as powerful as the Hogwarts Sorting Hat.

Not as awesome as the Hogwarts Sorting Hat.

 

I understand that those dreams signify my concerns for What Is To Come vs. What Might Have Been.  The old BFs represent The Road(s) Not Taken; they symboloize how every opportunity, every fork in the road, every major decision to be made, involves choosing certain paths and thus (by default if not intention) rejecting others.

The reason now for such dreams to be happening now, as in, again, is no surprise.  It’s Transition time.

"Oh, no - not another learning experience!"

“Oh, no – not another learning experience!”

My husband’s workplace offers employees a period of leave every seven years. Employees may use the time for purposes at their discretion (Travel? Classes? Eight weeks of couch surfing?).  As of last Saturday, “We” are currently on MH’s sabbatical.  “We”as in, when MH takes his sabbatical I get one (or have to take one, depending on POV issues), too. [9]

As much as I am fortunate to be able to do this, sometimes the timing is…problematic.  The previous sabbatical came at a time where I was in the middle of what would become The Mighty Quinn, and I was not in the place to be able to put that and other writing projects aside. [10]

FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS ALERT – Of course, I felt guilty for even having such resentments, and was glad I did take the opportunity to make wonderful, life-long memories of travel adventures with MH, K and Belle (and even if Belle hasn’t forgiven me for the holding-my-hand-over-the-still-steaming-pile-of-bear-shit incident, she’s got a great story to tell).

The timing of this sabbatical is more fortuitous in many ways.  It comes at a time when I’ve already taken a philosophical and mental sabbatical of my own, from my work. It comes at a time when significant family concerns (including elderly parents’ health crises on both sides of the family, and K and Belle leaving our nest) are bracketing my slow-dawning realization that I have chosen to devote decades of my life to what seems to be, for me, the wrong profession.

Cliff Notes version:  WTF do I do now?

Not the most convenient realization to have at my age, when my chronological peers are anticipating and planning for their retirements. Sigh. I’ve always been a late/backwards/sideways bloomer.

It’s time for Act Three. There are bound to be more rumination on his subject…or maybe I’ll just spare y’all and extend that particular sabbatical.

forkroad

*   *   *

May your roads, taken and not, be navigable and scenic, and may you know joy that comes from hearing a seven year old’s earnest wishing well announcements, which will surely help the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] Four stalls, in an eight theatre multiplex?

[2] No, that’s not quite a verbatim transcript (Roxanne came out in 1987).

[3] Cinderella doesn’t count.  She is beautiful; her deficiencies are not physical but situational, in the form of poverty and an abusive step family.

[4] At a store, the name of which may or may not rhyme with Shick-gloria’s Meek-fret.

[5] I feel a theme coming on.

[6]  You can purchase the gliders for $1 at the gift shop. On previous visits to the column, I always thought it a cheesy thing to do…and it probably still is.

[7] One of the two scientists credited – mistakenly – as being the “discoverers” of  DNA.

[8] Old as in former, not old as in age seventy-three.

[9] His leave is paid.  Mine is not.

[10] Indeed, returning from the sabbatical, I felt as if I were starting from scratch.

The Pirate I’m Not Talking Like

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If you’re looking for an excuse to bellow, Avast, ye scurvy scum! [1] without having to suffer through a Comcast service call, this be your lucky day, matey.

You do know that September 19 is Talk Like a Pirate Day, aye?  Silly moiself to even ask – you probably plan your year around this event.

Are you sure it's talk like a pirate day?

You sure it’s talk like a pirate day?

For those of you unfamiliar with the holiday, I suggest visiting the TLAP site, for a thrilling historical overview of how two Oregonian buccaneer-wannabees came up with the idea, and how humorist Dave Barry had a hook hand in creating what, I see, now that I have checked the site, is now referred to as International Talk Like a Pirate Day.

It used to be just TLAP day.  I’m not sure what makes it International,[2] but that is neither here nor there tharrrrrrr. I have enjoyed the spirit behind this whimsical, happenstance-of-a-celebration for many years. I even have a pirate costume that has made more than one embarrass-your-offspring ®  appearance over the years.  (Hint: show up for the orthodontist appointment festively attired in your pirate gear – your child’s mouthful of pointy objects will quell their objections).

Even a brief search online will get you all kinds of TLAP silliness.  There are talk like a pirate apps, pirate name generators, suggestions for costumes, parties and other events, and talk-like-a-pirate translators. You can even change your Facebook language to Pirate. [3] You can find bad pirate jokes [4] and worse pirate jokes [5] and even existential pirate jokes, [6] and possibly the best pirate joke ever, if only because it doesn’t end with an Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr:

A pirate walks into bar and sits down. The bartender notices that he has a peg leg, a hook for a hand, and a patch over one eye. The pirate orders a beer, and while he’s pouring it the bartender asks “So what’s the story with the leg?”

“It were many a year ago,” says the pirate, “when I were on the deck a me ship and a rogue wave swept me overboard, and a shark swum up and bit me leg clean off! I swum ashore and were fitted fer a peg leg that very night.”

“That’s terrible,” says the bartender. “What about the hand?”

“Well it were the very next day,” says the pirate. “I were walkin on the deck a me ship and a rogue wave swept me overboard again, and a whale came up and bit me hand clean off! I swum ashore and were fitted fer a hook that very night.”

“Wow,” says the bartender. “So what about the eye?”

“Well it were the very next day,” says the pirate. “I were walkin on the deck a me ship, and I were lookin out fer rogue waves, and a seagull flew over and shit right in me eye!”

“Oh man,” says the bartender. “And that blinded you?”

“Well no,” says the pirate. “But it were me first day with the hook.”

Arrr

Or celebrate your ultimate geekiness with a shirt that acknowledges both and Pi day and Talk Like a Pirate Day.

pirate

 *   *   *

Department of Apropos of Nothing

If you ever happen to catch a glimpse of me when I’m doing my Nordic walking, [7] and you notice [8] that my stride suddenly changes – gets a bit more resolute and strutty, even badass, dare I say –you’ve caught me at that wonderful moment when whatever podcast I was listening to ended and I clicked to my music and The White Stripes’ Seven Nation Army began to play.

Of course, sometimes the next song in the queue is The Archies‘ one and only hit.  Livin’ on the edge, what can I say.

*   *   *

Thomas Wolfe was wrong:
You Can Go Home again
(as long as you bring your friends)

Belle telephoned on the 8th, to share some good news. She was quite proud that her Oregon Zoo connections still allowed her to get breaking animal news before the general public, and she knew a “secret” that wasn’t to be announced until the following day: one of the female lions, Kya, had given birth to four cubs.

"Mum's the word, Belle, or the hippo gets it."

“Mum’s the word, Belle, or the hippo gets it.”

Her call was also to share the news that next weekend she is coming home for a visit…long with seven college/dorm friends that apparently and collectively refer to themselves as The Family. Once I got over my kneejerk, Mafia-Charles Manson associations, [9] I was delighted to hear about the plans.

Belle and her college family are taking the train from Tacoma to Portland, then the light rail to our neck of the woods. They plan on staying at our house (“if it’s okay with you”) and returning to Tacoma Sunday morning.  Her “family” consists of roommate JS and six (yikes) other shiny happy young women and men, who, as I informed her, must

(1) not be allergic to cats, or afraid of snakes, and
(2) be comfortable sleeping on the floor
(3) there is no #3
(4) and cool about sharing 3 toilets and one functioning shower with 10 people

As per conditions (2) & (4), Belle snorted with duh-ness and said, “Mom, I live in a dorm.”

dormbath

*   *   *

Department of TMI

This week’s Golden Turd award goes to…well…me.

Thursday morning, while scooping the downstairs litter box,[10]  I noticed a deficiency of, shall I say, the usual volume of deposit. This made me fear that one of our cats, a certain one which is prone to do such things, had produced what MH and I – okay; mostly I – call “a runner; ” i.e., she had finished her job somewhere outside the box.  I made haste to the family room and began scanning the carpet (the usual runner place of asylum), with a look of determination that made MH to ask me what was up.

“Keep your eyes peeled for escapees,” I advised him.  “I just scooped the litter, and there was a disturbing lack of turd volume…. Oh, no.  No no no no.  Did you hear what I just said? Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d grow up to use terms like turd volume.”

turd trophy

*   *   *

Public Service Announcement, also Apropos of Nothing

But, still….

I am not a National Anthem kind of person, and can’t remember the last time I sang along to the USA’s whoop of praise.  There is no maniacal loathing involved; I’m just not keen on it.  I do loathe its mystifying and annoying (to me) use as an opener to sporting events, where it is mangled warbled by celebrities great and small. [11]

Unsolicited anthem singing advice: Yo, all of you Star Spangled vocalists who apparently feel the need to show off your chops by essentially ululating every other syllable – knock it off.  Or, to take a more charitable tack, I’ll grant that perhaps you’re fiddling with the arrangement as a way to compensate (I’ve heard many a Music Person say that it’s a difficult song to sing) for your inability to stay in tune and on key.

Whatever the reason, y’all know what I’m talking about:

Oh-wo-wo-wo say can you-U-uUUou SeEeEeE
Byyyyyyy the dawn’s early li-I-I-iii-i-iIte
What so prowwwwwwww-dly we hay-HAY-hay-Hay-elllll-d…

Please, I beg of you, just find the right note – one per syllable, it’s there in the sheet music – and hit it, okay?

Kids, don’t try this at home:

 *   *   *

Happy Talk Like A You-Know-What Day!  Have fun no matter if/how you celebrate, and if you’ve received any pirate party invitations, be sure to ARRRRRR. S. V. P.

…and the hijinks will ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] And who isn’t?

[2] Some dude in Canada says “Arrr” instead of “Eh?”

[3] In the account settings, go to language and select English (Pirate).

[4] What be a pirate’s favorite vegetable?  Arrrrtichokes.

[5] What is a pirate’s favorite fast food franchise?  Arrrrrrrrrrrby’s.

[6] How do pirates know they exist?  They think, therefore, they Arrrrrre.

[7] And if so, what are you, some kind of Nordic walking stalker?

[8] What else did you notice – that I tried to adjust my underwear without breaking step?  Keep it to yourself, ok?

[9] I’m from a different era; Belle had no idea what I was talking about, when I teased her about the references.

[10] Yes, there is also an upstairs litter box.  Two, in fact. Upstairs, Downstairs – we’re not talkin’ a Masterpiece Theatre arrangement: we have three indoor cats.

[11] I will stand when the announcement Please rise for the singing of our national anthem is made, as the request for standing means everyone is seated, and I take every opportunity to stand up when I’ve been sitting for more than five minutes.

The Questions I’m Not Answering

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҉     The Opening Rant   ҉    

I recently received the following correspondence, which caused me to invoke the smiting powers of the FSM before I got to the email’s second sentence.   Forthwith and in all due haste I forwarded the misbegotten missive to SCM, a fellow writer and kindred snarky misanthrope keen-eyed observer of the human condition, with whom often I commiserate about The State of Publishing.

darkstormynightjpg

Oh, yeah, the email:

 (name redacted)

Subject: author questions

 hi, my name is (name not capitalized), I recently became an author and found your name under a list of oregon  authors and i wanted to get in contact with someone to see if they could answer some questions of mine  I  completely understand if your  too busy, but if you could take a little time and possibly answer some questions that would be great.

 How  did you get published? Im  currently using createspace to publish my books.

 How  did you market your book? Did  you have a marketing team or did you self market and what did you do if you did?

 do    you have any tips you could give me for helping my book along.  currently  im  going to faires   and trying to sell them there, but im    open to pretty much anything to help my book along. its  already on amazon, and the createspace marketplace, but I  would love some help as to how to get it moving better into peoples  hands.

compshock

 

Oh, oh, oh, (name not capitalized). Where do I begin?

For one thing, take the time to learn the difference between your and you’re and plurals and possessive plurals – as well as what and when to capitalize (name not capitalized, you are no e e cummings) and how to spell and punctuate – before you plan on soliciting time and advice from a “fellow” author.

If such frank advice (which you solicited, remember) makes you confused or surprised or hurts your feelings in any way, not to worry.  After all, you have it together enough to have learned to use the apps from Amazon and createspace that allow you to claim, “I recently became an author.”

And yes, I am too busy to help you, although I do appreciate the email as a worthy addition to my Exhibit A collection illustrating why I do not want to mentor anyone who intends to self-publish….

*   *   *

Deep, cleansing breath, y’all. I did not say any of those things to (name not capitalized). I did not reply to the email. I could not do so and respect myself without being honest, and really, I’m not that cruel (read: helpful).

If for some reason (name not capitalized) stumbles across this blog posting, I will leave this one piece of advice: one of the most important things a person should to do to “become an author” [1] is to develop a thick yet permeable skin; that is, a hide that can stand up to and appreciate honest criticism and that is porous enough to let seep through a realistic assessment of your innate talents and willingness to learn a craft.

As devoted (or at least sober)  readers of this blog know, I have ooooooooooooooooooodels of complaints about the traditional publishing model and industry.  And yet.  Past and especially recent experience reinforces the need for gatekeepers.  Thanks to the rise of self-publishing services, not only are the barbarians at the gates, they are scaling the fences and crossing the moats, using copies of their young-adult-fantasy-steampunk-speculative-Fifty-Shades of Vampire-murder-mysteries as makeshift ladders and rafts.

Without gatekeepers the entire literary marketplace becomes one big slushpile, deluged by a monsoon of unaudited, unedited work .  Today, someone like (name not capitalized) can “become an author” and “publish” via a few strokes of a keyboard and an EFT to a publishing app vendor.

yourbookhere

 

I don’t care if I rarely showed up to practice, didn’t bother to learn the fundamentals of the game and sucked at defense – I was on the soccer team, my name is on the roster, and dadgummit, I’m going to get a trophy for participating.

When anyone who wants to do so can be a “published author,” where is the merit in being published?  If any (name redacted) can “publish” as long as (name redacted) has the funds to produce a paperback or e-book, having a book published isn’t any more noteworthy than downloading your story and illustrations to a thumb drive and having Office Depot’s Document Printing Services department  run off and bind some copies.

badauthor

*   *   *

҉   The Middle Section’s Short but Heartwarming Family Anecdote    ҉   

 The Upside of the Empty Chateau

What with K and Belle gone to college, MH and I get to feed Andy (ball python) and T’Pol (corn snake).  No grocery list is complete without a reminder to stop by the pet supplies store and stock up on small and medium-sized frozen feeder mice.

T'Pol relaxes at the day spa.

T’Pol relaxes at the day spa.

*   *   *

҉   The Brief Contemplation of a Contemporary Phenomenon    ҉   

 Both Sides Now [2]

sunnycloud

To be described as having your head in the clouds is, by and large, not a flattering assessment of one’s character. The phrase’s various idiomatic meanings include being out of touch, unrealistic, naive, impractical and inattentive. Thus, it strikes me as odd – and, okay, just a teense ominous – that we [3] have adopted The Cloud as an umbrella term to refer to Internet software and services, and that we increasingly entrust our documents and applications to this ethereal location.

Just thinkin.’

stormcloud

*   *   *

҉   The pun-not-intended Pet Peeve    ҉   

I use Nordic trekking poles during my morning walks, for a variety of reasons, and have discovered that, along with increasing the workout and simply giving your arms something to do, they have the unanticipated benefit of protection.  On more than one occasion I have used the poles to fend off an aggressively postured dog.

Yep, a 120 lb canine, ears laid close to head, eyes narrowed and challengingly fixed on mine, lips open and drawn back to expose teeth bared in a snarl, hackles raised and tail fluffed and extended straight out from body, approaches – and is off leash, of course – as its owner calls out to me, “It’s okay, he’s real friendly – DON’T MAKE ANY SUDDEN MOVES!”

You, of course, are not now and never will be this dog owner. [4]

*   *   *

      ҉   The Department of Apropos of Nothing    ҉   

Due to a precipitating incident I cannot now specifically recall, longtime friend JRC once gave me a year’s subscription to National Review .  This was during our sophomore or junior year in college, when JRC was attending UCLA and I, UC Davis.  During one of our periodic phone calls, wherein we chewed the fat about everything in general and nothing in particular and The Big Issues of Life, JRC, an intelligent, witty, creative guy [5]who held inexplicable/WTF [6] conservative political opinions, said he thought I needed to expand my news sources.  At the time I worked in UC Davis’ Periodicals room and regularly read a variety of news journals – certainly more than JRC, I taunted him – including the Wall Street Journal.  But that wasn’t enough for JRC, who said he thought I’d appreciate William F. Buckley’s wit and way with language. I retaliated repaid JRC’s generosity by gifting him with a subscription to Mother Jones Magazine.

As far as I know, JRC received a year’s worth of Mother Jones issues.  I read each National Review that came to me, and although it would have cost me nothing to continue to receive them, I cancelled the subscription after six or seven months.  I tried, I really tried….

It wasn’t the magazine’s conservative slant that bothered me – for crying out loud in a Ronald Reagan film festival, I was born and raised in Orange County – it was the overt, obnoxious, patronizing, dripping with disdain, East Coast chauvinism.  The magazine’s writers oozed a snide, barely disguised contempt when addressing anything having to do with the West Coast.  I felt complicit even reading it.

 

"I won't insult your intelligence by suggesting that you really believe that scientists have discovered culture west of Boston."

“I won’t insult your intelligence by suggesting that you really believe that scientists have discovered culture west of Boston.”

I am still in touch with JRC, who holds the dubious distinction being the person, other than my siblings, with whom I’ve had the longest peer-type association.  From grade two through high school we shared at least one class.  Imagine all the embarrassing things we might be able to recall about one another, were we not now so decrepit we can only remember the good stuff…right? [7]

*   *   *

      ҉   The Amusing Send-off    ҉  

Friend JWW presented me with a gift when she came to Sunday dinner. Mere words cannot descript my utter bewilderment joy when I beheld the…object; this, pictures will have to do.

JWW said that this gift was to help me with that pesky Empty Nest thing.  I thanked her for the addition to my Rubber Chicken crew. She said it wasn’t just another rubber chicken, and told me to squeeze it.  So, I did, and the chicken laid an egg…sort of.

Yes, I took a video of a rubber chicken’s hinterland. Before you judge me too harshly, remember that you just voluntarily watched a video of a rubber chicken’s hinterland.

*  *  *

On the subject of judging someone, harshly or otherwise, let us all remember the timeworn admonition, an aphorism that uses Shiny Happy treacle to mask a morsel of inadvertently wiseass advice:

Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes.

Go ahead, put on the shoes, and then pass judgment.  If the man gets pissed off, well, you’re a mile away and you’ve got his shoes.

angrybarefoot

*   *   *

 

May your footwear of choice give you comfort over the miles to come, and may the judgment-free hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] That is, assuming the magical snap of a finger “There, you’re an author!” is intended to last for more than one book fair weekend.

[2] Three cheers and a big yellow taxi ride for those who get the Joni Mitchell reference.

[3] “we’ as in They, and perhaps you, but not me.

[4] And if you were I’d slap you upside the head with my trekking poles.

[5] And awesome blues guitarist.

[6] IMHO, considering JRC’s family’s impoverished circumstances and resultant need for the much-decried-by-conservatives, social welfare services.

[7] BTW, JRC, I never told your mother that you lied to her about how you broke your leg after you fell while swinging from a tree (which she’d forbidden you to do), although I think you ‘fessed up to her yourself after she didn’t fall for your story about tripping over a bbq grill cover .

The Age I’m Not Guessing

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Toto, I Have a Feeling We’re Not Twenty-Six Anymore

Although I vary the routes for my morning walks, more often than not I include a few laps around the tree-lined paths of a local park.  I see other “regulars” there – mostly dog walkers – with whom I’ve developed the nodding, I recognize you, acquaintance.

One of the Regular Park Walkers ® is a woman with big (as in thick), almost waist-length, curly, fading-red hair. Big Red’s hands are always busy: one pushes a stroller occupied by a vivid-red haired baby boy, and the other clutches the leash of what looks to be a Bernese Mountain dog.

Wednesday morning I saw Big Red at the park.  She’d stopped on a path ~ 50 feet ahead of me to adjust the baby’s blanket; I slowed my pace as I approached.  We exchanged good morning’ s, and I made a comment about her son’s adorable smile.

Grand-son,” she corrected me.  Her tone, furrowed brow and gawking eyes – it was as if she’d reacted to a non sequitur I’d made about her triplet chicken sweaters.

chicken sweaters

I generally refrain from guessing people’s ages, for several reasons.  One reason involves me doing my bit to raise consciousness re the pernicious effects of ageism. As part of this noble cause, I generally try to deflect or “reroute” that rare [1] comment-meant-to-be-a-compliment “Oh, but you don’t look ____ (whatever age you in fact are)” when it’s been flung my way after someone has guessed young about my age and I’ve corrected them.  Another reason is simply because I’ve never been good at it.

A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, unless a person had drastic facial, verbal or postural indicators of either youthfulness or decrepitude, I thought everybody was more or less twenty-six.  When I myself was twenty-six, I was more or less correct about the ages of most of my peers, neighbors and co-workers.  It took many, many years, but someone [2] finally gave me the equivalent of a verbal face palm – How can you be so dense? He’s obviously twice/half as old as that! – and called me on my deficient age-estimating ability.

So. Yeah. Live and Learn. Nobody is twenty-six, anymore.  We’re all hovering around forty-four, aren’t we?

"We love being twenty-six!"

“We love being twenty-six!”

"So do we!"

“So do we!”

*   *   *

Department of They Meant Well

For the past few years hundreds of people [3] hoping for better economic and social opportunities make a dangerous crossing of Mediterranean, from spots along the North African coast, trying to enter Europe by boat.  Some of these boats capsize, and some of the migrants drown.

Last week I heard a BBC News radio story about one “side effect” of the sad situation.  The story concerned a wealthy couple who, while on a Mediterranean yacht cruise, became aware of the boat migrants’ situation and decided to get involved.  Their involvement has taken the form of spending over two million euros to purchase a yacht, outfit it with two dinghies and state of the art surveillance drones, and hire a crew which will patrol the seas near Malta (a common migrant destination), looking for boats in distress: 

When the ship comes across a migrant boat in international waters, the crew will contact the nearest authorities….. While they wait for instructions, they will use the dinghies to approach the boats, pass over food, water and lifejackets and offer medical assistance….. in case the boat is taking water or the number of the people [on board] is higher than should be, [the crew] will communicate that to the authorities and we will do what needs to be done. “If we need to take people on board we can, until Malta or Italy come to take them, and disembark them on land.”

This is one of those stories that make me feel good for a moment, until the wait a minute…. sets in.  Yep, I’ll be the curmudgeon who points out that short term acts of “heroism” often do nothing to alleviate long term misery and may even, unintentionally, contribute to the latter.

The Wealthy Yacht Philanthropists get the immediate satisfaction of assisting hungry and thirsty boat people – along with the irrational appreciation of alleged divine approval that only a misguided zealot would treasure feel-good-glow that comes from having a priest tell them they are on a “mission from God” [4] and present them with just what every boat rescue team needs,  “…a small bottle of holy water from Lourdes and a golden crucifix.”

"This should come in handy to anchor a child-sized lifejacket."

“This should come in handy to anchor a child-sized lifejacket.”

Meanwhile, the WYP inadvertently produce the possible (read: highly likely) side effect of encouraging more desperate people to make the hazardous journey (No worries, we hear someone with a big boat will rescue us and even drop us off where we want to go!).

How much better, IMHO, would WYP’s money, effort and influence be spent, were it to be invested in solutions to the economic, social and cultural problems that impel people to flee their homelands in their first place.  Pulling a few people out of the water and waiting for the next boatload to fall in – it’s like putting a finger cot on a wrist amputation.

*   *   *

Speaking of the dangers of the Mediterranean, here’s something you will never hear me say when I talk about my recipe for Mokh: [5]

“So now I do as Moroccan cooks do, and I think my brain salad dishes are better for it.”  [6]

Now Not Appearing in My Kitchen.

Now Not Appearing in My Kitchen.

*   *   *

Now Appearing in My Kitchen:

Cucumber avocado soup; quinoa, chevre, black bean, scallion and cilantro stuffed sweet red peppers.

YUM

Tasty distractions for getting used to having only two of us at the dinner table.

*   *   *

Empty Nest Chateau Report

My prudent admonition to my fledglings about dorm life – don’t expect or (even want) your dorm roommate to be a best friend; consider it gravy if you like your roommate or at least find him/her tolerable – is on the record.

Belle’s never been one for gravy.

K’s freshman dorm situation was benignly ideal: he and his roommate were considerate occupiers of the same space and socialized occasionally, but it went no further than that. They parted amicably at the end of the year; the roommate transferred to another college.

Belle adores her roommate, JFS.  Just loves her.  And (so far), so do we.  I know, it’s only been two weeks, but they are so cute together.

CUTEs

Really, almost this cute.

We met JFS’s family (parents and younger sister) on Friday of Orientation week.  I liked them immediately.  The UPS Orientation week organizers suggest that parents take their freshman offspring out to dinner on Saturday, and then, essentially, get lost go home and let the students dive into Orientation week activities.  Since Belle & JFS seemed to be getting on so well we asked Belle to pass along our suggestion that both families do the Saturday dinner together.

I felt comfortable enough around Belle’s roommate’s family to confess, during our mahhhhhhhvelous dinner at the Europa Bistro in the Proctor district of Tacoma, that I hoped Belle’s & JFS’s mutual admiration society wasn’t just part of the honeymoon stage and that soon they’d be fighting like siblings.  I shared that hope when JFS’s mother said that her daughter had been talking nonstop about how much she liked Belle.  I in turn told her that Belle had praised JFS to MH and I.

Belle and JFS stayed for a little over an hour at the bistro, then left to go back to some dorm social activity.  JFS’s parents, sister, MH and I stayed for almost another two hours, getting to know one another and sharing stories.

 

creme

The bistro was crowded with UPS families and service was a bit leisurely, [7] but we were having such a pleasant evening we really didn’t notice or mind.  We finished dinner, hadn’t ordered yet dessert, and out of the blue our waiter set two gorgeous ramekins of crème brûlée on our table.  He gave us the compliments of the chef and apologized for making “such nice people wait so long.”

JFS’s parents and sister exchanged mirthful looks and laughter.  JFS’s father explained to MH and I that crème brûlée is JFS’s favorite dessert, and oooh, just wait until she finds out what she missed by cutting out on the old folks!  Why wait? said moiself  At my urging, JFS’s father took a picture of the crème brûlées and texted the photo to her with a brief message about what she was missing.  He guffawed at his daughter’s one word reply, and hesitated only a moment before he showed the text to MH and me:

 

FUCK

 

This is a good match, I said to myself. Everything is going to be okay.

 

roommates

*   *   *

May your matches be picture perfect, your crème brûlées complimentary, and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] Well, rare for me.

[2] I cannot recall the name of the person who enlightened me, but whoever you are, I’m sure you look fabulous…for your age.

[3] An estimated 1600 people in 2013.

[4] A god who apparently can’t be bothered to help the migrants walk on water, or do whatever he might do to alleviate their situation.

[5] And this is because I am never going to make Mokh.

[6] Spiced Brain Salad with Preserved lemons. From Paula Wolfert’s The Food of Morocco.

[7] Or, as I like to say, European.

The Nest I’m Not Emptying

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It started early this summer. Subtle hints dropped, direct and dire predictions [1] flung (“Those were the best times of your life, when your kids were at home; oh, you’ll look back on those days and wish….”), and everything in between….

I’d tried not to give it an inordinate amount of brain wattage, but people kept bringing it up.

Yep, son K is back to college for his senior year, and daughter Belle begins her first.  On the drive back home to Hillsboro, after we’d taken Belle to her UPS freshman orientation, I said to MH, “It’s not like we just dropped her off for summer camp, is it?”

 Anyone know what this is?

Anyone know what this is?

The She Meant Well  [2] award re this situation goes to my maternal unit, as per our Tuesday phone conversation.  We talked about MH and I taking Belle up to college for freshman orientation last week, and how K would be returning to Tacoma this week.  My mother asked me if I was going to miss my offspring.  I said something like oh yeah, big time, already, even though K is still at home (he caught the train to Tacoma on Wednesday).

 “I find it interesting [3] that you think you’ll miss them” she said.

 “Uh…really? Why?” moiself responded. “I like them.”

 “Well, you always seem to have so much else going on in your mind…”

Oh.  Yeah, right. It’s not like I’ll even notice that, for the first time in over 21 years, my two groovy and much-loved children are not around.

What does she think I am, a honey badger?

Honey badger

 honey badger don’t care.

*   *   *

MH has a sabbatical coming up, and we will be doing some traveling. Good timing, I think (hope). What with Belle & K both in college, the Dueling Banjoes of our elderly parents’ health crises [4], and my professional mid-life crisis, I find myself…unable to even pin down what I’m feeling. Floating, for lack of a better word.

Wise compassionate counsel from wise, compassionate friend SCM:

One of my Oregon Attorney Assistance Program newsletters talked about transitions—good or bad, they will always leave you feeling uneasy, and to give yourself time to get used to them, and to be forgiving of yourself if you feel badly (even for good changes).  You’re transitioning with writing (or making some decisions about where to go next) and transitioning with parenting children to parenting adults. Those are both big life changes.

*   *   *

BFAST PLATES

These are the breakfast plates I purchased for K and Belle, a long long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.  One section for scrambled eggs and/or my special recipe whole wheat vanilla soymilk tofu (!)  [5] pancakes, the other for fruit (bananas, seasonal berries, kiwi… they both loved kiwi).

Don’t worry about me, I’m doing fine.  Just staring at empty plates. [6]

*   *   *

Something else on the plate.

C’mon out tomorrow to the Downtown Hillsboro Saturday Farmer’s Market.  Hillsboro’s seasonal open-air market is celebrating its 32nd year of operation, and features over 100 vendors and their fresh local produce food and garden products, flowers, baked goods, arts and crafts, live music, and more.

As for the more: wipe the fresh blackberry (mmm, yummers) stains off your fingers and stop by Jacobsen’s books for their summer author signing series, which is held during market hours.  This Saturday yours truly will be at Jacobsen’s, with The Mighty Quinn. I’ll be there from 9a – 1p, except for when I’m slipping out to one of the produce booths to sample some of the gorgeous fresh fruit, or drooling over the Pie Guy‘s wares.

The market is held on Main Street between 1st and 3rd.  Jacobsen’s Books is at 211 E. Main, on the north side of the street.

Be there, or …

SQUARE

*   *   *

 When I learn something new – and it happens every day – I feel a little more at home in this universe, a little more comfortable in the nest.
Bill Moyers

May you feel a little more comfortable in your nest – or fledge quickly and crap all over the nest next door, whatever floats your boat – and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

[1] Mostly from my mother, with the implication that it’s all downhill after this.

[2] “Thank god kids never mean well.” – Lily Tomlin.

[3] The dictionary definition of interesting – “engaging or exciting and holding the attention or curiosity” – is not how my mother typically employs that word.  When she uses it, it is more along the lines of the apocryphal Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.”

[4] my SoCal mom has a myriad of physical and mental health problems; MH’s Floridian father is battling the progressive physical and cognitive deterioration of Parkinson’s Disease .

[5] One of those stealth-health things…and they loved them.

[6] It’s time for a lighter footnote. Pretend you’ve just read an outrageously funny fart joke.

The Composer’s Ass I’m Not Kicking

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But First, The Sporadic Self-Promotion 

We’re one week away from the next Bards & Brews.  Bards & Brews is a last-Friday-of-the-month literary event, co-organized by Jacobsen’s Books and hosted by the downtown Hillsboro restaurant/wine bar/retail shop, Primrose & Tumbleweeds:

Join us for a celebration of the written word! Local authors of every flavor will gather for Bards & Brews to share their works in a series of talks and readings, while you enjoy a meal or a beverage from the world’s largest collection of Oregon wines and beers. 

“By every flavor” refers to fiction and nonfiction, literary and genre, young and old.  “Share their works in a series of talks and readings” means, at least as pertains to moiself, that I’ll do read a brief excerpt from my selected book and be available to talk afterward. [1]  Here’s the slate (author and book title) for this month’s event:

 *  Robyn Parnell (The Mighty Quinn)
*  Caitlin Claire Diehl (First Daughter)
*  Tammy Owen         (House of Goats)
*  Paula Stokes            (The Art of Lainy)
*  Paul Gerald (60 Hikes Within 60 Miles of Portland)

As I’ve mentioned before, I’d rather be home trimming my nostril hairs with a weed whacker than do author appearances, but since the nose hair situation is under control and my name is on the list – how did that happen? – I’ve no excuse but to show up.

If I can do this, so can you. I hope to see your friendly faces (perhaps made even friendlier by the beverages?) next Friday.

 Bards & Brews, Friday July 25, 7 – 9p
Primrose & Tumbleweeds
248 E Main St.
in old town Hillsboro, one block north of the Hillsboro Transit Center

Bards___Brews_Art_1_

*   *   *

And Now Without Further Interruption We Return to the Ass-Kicking Portion of Our Show 

Silent lacunar infarction (SLI) is one type of silent stroke which usually shows no identifiable outward symptoms, thus the term “silent”. Individuals who suffer a SLI are often completely unaware they have suffered a stroke….  While dubbed “silent” due to the immediate lack of classic stroke symptoms, SLIs can cause damage to the surrounding brain tissue (lesions) and can affect various aspects of a person’s mood, personality, and cognitive functioning. A SLI or any type of silent stroke places an individual at greater risk for future major stroke….

While Belle and I were on our Paris trip my mother took a much less enjoyable trip of her own: another [2] fall requiring hospitalization/observation. My sister NLM passed along the results of our mother’s head CT, which indicated that Mom has had several of the above-described “mini-strokes.”

One more loss; one more thing my mother is dealing with.  One more thing her grown children – we of the so-called Sandwich Generation – have to deal with.

sandwich

In the past hundred years or so we, as in We, The American Culture Personified  – have had this thing for coining generation labels.  There was the post-WWI Lost Generation, the (so-called) Greatest Generation, the Boomer Generation, Generation X, and the Millennials (aka Gen Y). Those currently being born, whom sociologists and demographers have yet to stereotype categorize, are broadly referred to as Generation Z.

As per both my date of birth and life circumstances, I suppose I’m a member of the Boomer Sandwich generation. On whole wheat, hold the mayo, extra mustard, please.

Once again, I digress.

Silent lacunar infarction.  One part of my brain reads that as silent lunar infraction – you know, what you’d call some Ruskie secretly landing on the moon and making off with Alan Shepard’s golf balls.

MOONGOLF

And there is that other part of my brain (FSM forbid it should ever be subject to a CT) that really, really wants to make Silent But Deadly jokes.  That might be a tacky thing for me to do, what with recently finding out that I’ve a SLF-inflicted mother. But y’all? Feel free to share your favorite SBD jokes [3] with moiself.

What with MH’s father’s health concerns [4]  and those of my mother and of my peers’ aging parents, I keep imagining this barely audible but increasingly creepy, “Circle of Life” chorus that is threatening to become the musak of my generation.  And it makes me want to KICK ELTON JOHN’S ASS from here to the nearest assisted living center.

Okay. As a writer I should know better than to (entirely) blame Elton John. EJ is the composer and Tim Rice the lyricist for that song.  Nevertheless, having seen EJ in concert I can safely guestimate that his ass would be the bigger target.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit A.

 *   *   *

Can We Agree to Stop This, Now?

I refer to the ongoing obsession with playing with photographing yourself. Yeah, I know there’s another word for it.

selfies

In the past few weeks I’ve noticed a growing number of self-described selfies posted on various social media and regular media sites, but instead of the usual mug shot variation, the pictures feature the smiling visages of more than one person.  There are two, three, four or more – even a crowd shot, and it is not always discernible as to who’s long arm is holding the cell phone or camera.

So, can we do away with that most narcissistic[5] of neologisms? Selfie, schmelfie.  It’s called taking a picture, folks.

*   *   *

*  When I paint a person, his enemies always find the portrait a good likeness.
(Edvard Munch)

*  A man’s manners are a mirror in which he shows his portrait.
(Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)

*  Sending your selfies to NASA doesn’t make you a star.
(Anonymous)

*  A photographic portrait is a picture of someone who knows he is being photographed, and what he does with this knowledge is as much a part of the photograph as what he’s wearing or how he looks.
Richard Avedon)

 *  I bet Medusa used to take selfies and send ‘em to people she disliked like:
“Surprise, you little b*tch!”
(Anonymous)

Do these snakes make my head look fat?

Do these snakes make my head look fat?

*   *   *

May your infractions be silent, your self-portraits slimming, and may the hijinks ensue.

 

 

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] Each author is limited to 10-15 minutes, during which they may read selections from their book and/or talk about their “writing process.” I can’t speak for the other authors, but I promise to engage in none of the latter unless requested.

[2] There have been at least five the past dozen or so years. At least no broken hips or vertebrae, this time.

[3] I already know the one about the elderly lady in the doctor’s office.

[4] He’s been battling Parkinson’s for years, and that most progressive disease is indeed progressing.

[5] Although admittedly highly descriptive of the LOOK AT ME mindset that produced such a term.

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