VENTRILOQUISM FOR THE COMPLETE DUMMY
A Mannequin’s Memoir
(NaN-08)
0NE
I saw them from under the car, and there was nothing I could do but wait them out, hoping they wouldn’t spot me, hoping they wouldn’t trap me, hoping…
But to no avail. Their pace continued unabated up the drive. They’d seen me, and were closing in. All I had to defend myself was an assortment of hand tools… and my wits.
Basically, I was unarmed.
There were two of them, one on each concrete ribbon that made the driveway. I could see the sun shining on one pair of the hard-soled shoes, and the frayed cuffs of the black trousers on the other one. They were as mismatched a pair as I’d seen, but I knew their type, and they were standing up and moving, while I was still on my back underneath the front end.
They came to the tailgate and, as I’d expected, they split up, keeping a bit of distance from the sides of the truck, making their way around to where my legs protruded towards the garage.
I had to act, and act fast.
Taking the initiative, thinking surprise would give me an edge, I quickly pulled myself from under the truck, jumped up to face them, and brandished my five-eighths socket wrench in their direction.
“Good afternoon, Sir,” the older of the two started out, but a quick nervous look at the chrome tool in my hand had him clutch his Bible just a bit closer to his side. His younger compatriot took a tentative step backwards, bumping up against the left rear-view mirror. “I was wondering if we might have a few minutes of your time that could have everlasting consequences for you and your immortal soul?”
“Ya want what?” I shouted back at him, taking a step forward, leading with the socket wrench. “You want to talk to ME about MY immortal soul? Let me ask YOU a thing ‘r two ‘bout yer OWN future salvation.”
The older man joined his partner in stepping away ever so slightly.
I closed my eyes, leaned my head heavenward, and let it rip.
“Do you know fer a fact that yer very soul’s been saved? Have you the proof from experiencin’ the very livin’ test of the Holy Spirit’s power in yer life? Have you handled the serpent an’ lived to tell the tale? Have you drunk of the poisonous fruit an’ had not a twinge? Are you prepared at this very instant to …”
I didn’t get any further. I’d opened my eyes at the sound of their feet beating down my driveway, but not before they’d dropped a pamphlet in the bed of the truck. Upon reaching the sidewalk, they made a beeline to the left, and while my view of the neighbors on that side was blocked by my house, I had the feeling they didn’t stop until they’d reached Edgewood Avenue a few blocks further along.
The chuckle from the neighbor on the right-hand side pulled me back from my self-congratulatory mood.
There, poking her head out her back door, sheepishly making sure the coast was clear, was my widowed neighbor, her eyes crinkled in stifled laughter.
“That was much better than what I did with the girls,” she said. “We just hid in the bathroom until we were sure they’d gone away.”
“Yeah, just like when the tornado came through last spring,” volunteered the middle of the three girls, “only it was not quite as scary.”
“Speak for yourself,” said her mother.
I found myself laughing at that one. “Just a little trick my brother and I used to play on the Mormon bike riders when we were kids. They didn’t react quite a quickly, though. Must’ve been something in their training.”
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I was flipping through tons of my pet pics and started to notice an amusing pattern. Scully, my golden retriever, and I look a lot alike! I noticed that my friend CJ and her sweet Briard, Allie also looked very similar. I put the pictures next to each other and lined them up neatly. I scrutinized the photos closely and the resemblance is uncanny! Does anyone else have some great pet photos they'd like to share? First click on the pictures so you can see them better, and on the left underneath is an option for 'view enlarged photo.'
These are Scully and I:
These are my friends CJ and Allie: 
Footprints
And there, I saw, the great secular salvation. One set of footprints, followed by a trough in the sand. I had been told the old story of Jesus carrying the burdened soul through difficulties, but these were my feet. The trough had been cut by the misconceptions I had drug throughout my life. It wasn’t by grace that I would be saved, but by letting go; letting go of Christian dogma, letting go of the expectations of a world my mind had created.
Here, I leave the penance of self-sacrifice. Here, I leave the denial of self and identity for the construct of the husband and father. Here, I abandon the stones I had used to wall myself within a faith I had created. Here, I stand, naked and bathed in sunlight with the dawning of self-realization. It is within my own being to persevere; to save myself.
Blinking my eyes, I stretched as my room came into focus. The orange light slanted through the long awning window, illuminating an errant sock on the graying spruce floor.
The phone had been chirping below me, sounding through the open floorboards; only calling my attention with the final alarm and click of the answering machine, “Halo” my own voice called out in a fake Spanish accent, “Eef you are a friend or relative, please leeve your message now. If not, please rot in Hell, as I will not be talking to jou.
“Please hold” another recorded voice replied to mine, “ a representative will be with you shortly.”
“Christ” I moaned as I rolled sideways to stare vacantly at the clock. My amusement listening to two machines exchange small talk was replaced by disbelief that a company already intent on shaking me down for money would have the audacity to put me on hold to wait for the next available collections agent. There was a fumbling on the other end of the line, then a click. For a second before the disconnect, I thought I heard a woman’s voice. Running my hand across my jaw line, I felt the day-old scruff and tried to picture her. She was young, I decided; about twenty-two. She had long blonde hair that she kept pulled back. She wore a crisp blouse with khaki pants; casual yet professional. Her face was kind, yet determined, with the beautiful glow of youth upon it. She didn’t like her job, I thought. Who would? But, she was fresh out of college and this was the best paying gig she could land at the call center somewhere… Atlanta, I decided. There she sat. In a room full of cubicles, with my number randomly routed to her phone. I decided if I ever met her, I would tell her I was sorry. Sorry for all the mean things my machine told hers. Sorry my life was a disaster. Sorry that I had to make it her problem as well.
Getting up from my mattress, I examined the coil of sheets and blankets I had discarded sometime in the night. It was nice, I thought, not to have to worry about making the bed. First of all, I could argue that there was no sense in making the “bed” since the actual bed was a days journey south of here. Making a mattress on the floor would be as deluding as buying throw pillows for a camping pad. I shuffled through the covers and made a little bounce the six inches down to the floor with a muffled thump. The boards were warm on my feet as I stepped into the sunlight allowing the warmth to creep up my legs. Through the window, Breezes lifted apple leaves and made gentle tracks through the tall grass.
How many times had I looked out that window? How many seasons have I plaintively watched pass across it’s pane? The feeling rose in me that the scenes as they played out cared nothing about the presence of my eye to record them. The hands that had laid the foundation to this structure some eighty years prior were, undoubtedly stilled; resting across a skeletal breast in the cemetery over the next rise. The indifference of nature below my feet was comforting; like standing before the ocean, vast, ancient, and powerful.
Kneeling down on the floor, I pried my fingers under the boards that made the hatch to the ladder below. Eventually, I thought, I would tire of using a ladder to reach the loft above, but now that I was alone the ladder was like a youthful friend. This was my fort, my tree house, my club of one. I would have placed a big hand-painted sign saying ’no girls allowed’ if it were not already painfully obvious that there weren’t any girls trying to get in to begin with. Still, it had become a man’s playhouse. There were shelves made from hand-hewn logs in the kitchen and dining rooms. One corner of the dinning room floor was littered with various woodworking tools, relegated to their new home mid-project. On a beam high above the computer desk, hung a shotgun, and, peering out at visitors to my primitive abode, was the head of the first and only deer I had successfully shot.
The ladder creaked as I stepped down to begin my descent to the living room. Beneath the ladder, Sheba looked up hopefully; swishing a bushy tail lazily and stirring up thousands of sparkles of dust in the slant of morning light. Stopping at the bottom tread, I carefully reached down with my foot and smoothed the fur on top of her head. Lowering her head, her eyes closed; two long black lines as she drifted into a doggy sleep.
Crossing the floor, I felt every ridge in the worn pine. It had come from a pallet of barn sheathing that I thought would do the job for a temporary home. It was funny, I thought, how the things we take for temporary often become permanent; and the converse, although not as funny, was just as true. Pulling two Benadryl from a box on the computer desk, I popped them into my mouth and went to the sink for a cupped handful of water to wash them down. One capsule cocked sideways, gave in to the water, and eased it’s way down my throat. My allergies had lessened a bit by now, but I still kept my system primed with antihistamines. Taking down a small cast iron pan from a nail in the small doorway, I examined it briefly before setting it back in place with a thunk. I wasn’t hungry enough for my last egg and three strips of bacon.
Turning to examine the log shelf that spanned the six foot galley, I set my eyes on the planned meal of the day. By making an abbreviated electricity payment, I was able to buy a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. The anniversary was approaching, and this was no time to skimp. I started the coffee and stepped into the shower
**********
The screen door creaked as Sheba slipped past me and around behind the house. The military surplus boots I had donned made a sound clunk on the porch. Standing there, finishing off my coffee, I examined the meadow. Starlings skated gracefully over the tops of the wheat-grass that strained toward the spring sky. Trees shook their fledgling leaves at the shifting air currents, while red squirrels raced through the rocking limbs. The morning air was clear and cool; not yet offering the promise of the oppressing heat a month’s time would bring. Below, a low drone alerted me to a wasp, drifting lazily by my boot. I watched him pass slowly by and towards the grass tops before gaining momentum and ascending in a quick arc, toward the woods.
Downing the last gulp of cooling coffee, I tromped heavily down the steps and into the meadow. I was quickly enveloped up to my knees in the fresh tide of grass. A crisp breeze playing off the apple branches touched my cheek before lifting a small aspen leaf, carried over from the harsh winter, to play with. The yellowed stubble of last year’s grass crunched beneath my boots. New life sprung from old. Soon my boots scuffed upon bits of charred wood, drawing my eyes to focus on a circle of scorched earth pierced throughout with new shoots of grass. I reached down and touched the blackened side of a log, remembering its specific placement the previous spring. This was the place.
**********
Garden rake in hand, I began my work in earnest; dredging up the thick under-matting of dead grass. Bundles were gathered and placed in the center of the scorched circle. With a sufficient haystack gathered, I leaned on my rake and stared out to the hillock where Sassafras lay buried. Green spruce boughs knelt before the spot as the horrific details flooded my mind. Bowing my head toward the grave, I entered the woods to gather the dead tree branches claimed by wind and snow. For the final step, I brought a double bit axe with me. As with all creatures, the winter brings death to the weak, so that the strong may go on. This winter had harvested about fifteen trees from the ranks of fir, cedar, and aspen. Of these, I sectioned and removed the closest to the pile. Once back at the pile, the logs were stacked teepee style with bits of broken pallets and scrap wood tucked between. Soaked with sweat, I inspected the pyre; some five feet tall and six feet at the base. The sun had already reached its apex and was beginning its long slant toward evening. Rivulets of sweat poured down my back and bathed my aching arms; washing, along the way, tracks of dirt and forest compost. Blackflies buzzed around my head, searching for a safe place to land and gorge themselves. The hay would be dry by tomorrow; proper tinder for the task at hand. It was a car-sized mass of potential energy; waiting, expectant. Perfect in form, it was a bomb, with a fuse, waiting for a spark to set into irrevocable motion, its complete destruction.
Standing beside the circle, I leaned my head back and filled my lungs from the passing breeze. The world around me penetrated my senses. The earthy smell of decay from the forest floor, still clinging to the back of the logs rested heavily upon my palate. The green shoots of the wheatgrass played lightly upon my nose before being washed clean by the warm smell of spruce all around me. There was a trickle down my arm, warmer than the sweat that covered me. I looked down to see a thin trail of blood running from my forearm, down along the curve of muscle and tendon, across my wrist, and down my little finger. I watched each slow drop swell, and fall to the grass below. Like the yellowed undergrowth I had raked earlier, each drop of expended life, fell to the earth to provide for nourishment.
The preparations had been made. There was nothing left to do but wait. The way I had waited then. But now, as in every year since, the outcome has already been written. Gone is the blissful ignorance I held that day. Gone, the hope; the belief in miracles, in rescue. There is only remembrance.
**********
I rose again to the slant of light. The call to work had already been made before my manager arrived. It was a call I had planned for a month now. I was as certain about having to feign illness as I was they would not have approved a day off. What excuse could I give them that would make sense to a civilized mind?
Making my way down the ladder, I paused at the bottom to examine a static sky through a single pane of glass. Randomly painted cirrus clouds clung to blue cellophane as a distant sun watched from above. The wheatgrass stood expectant in the field; unchanged by the prospect of a passing breeze. To the right hung the framed footprints. Touching them, as I had touched those very feet a decade ago, I remembered each detail of that day. A liturgy of despair: I was at work when I got an emergency call. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer. I arrived just as she was admitted. The contractions came. He was born, he died, I died too. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer. It was all her fault. Amen.
The words of condemnation toward her had still left me with no feeling of absolution. Closure was an illusion and payment would never be made for one soul thrown to the wind. This was a date that had passed each year without mention. The weight of the air bore testimony to the day that words would not do justice. Now, alone, I had resolved to bear the annual penance worthy of the crime committed. The day would no longer pass into obscurity without mention of the treason that had placed an infant in an unmarked grave; as if the body had to be destroyed and hidden to cover the shame.
“May God damn her to Hell,” I said aloud as I slowly pulled my hand back, allowing the words to hang in the air; to settle in the dust on the open rafters and be witnessed by the faces on the walls.
Drawing a match from the box on the pie safe, I struck it slowly, immersed in the moment when spark becomes flame. Sulfur curled around my nose as I lifted the flame to the wick of a candle beneath the framed footprints. The wick glowed orange before becoming a dancing flame, sending thin, black tendrils up to the beams above. Blowing out the match, I set the charred stick aside, and passed into the kitchen. Taking down the Jameson’s, I poured a full shot and returned to the pie safe to place it before the candle. For several minutes I stood there, my mind a flat lake, rapt in the vision of the flicking orange flame through the amber whiskey. I was an acolyte.
The next glass of whiskey was mine. I stepped out onto the porch, watching the sunlight play joylessly around the rim of the glass, casting sparks into the warm liquid below. Draining the glass, I retrieved a branch section from the previous day’s scavenging. Returning to the living room, I began tearing one of Shawn’s old shirts into strips and fastening them to one end of the branch. Layer upon layer. One from Shawn. One from Caitlin. One from Keagan; until the branch resembled a colorful novelty Q-tip. Dousing the end of the swab with lighter fluid, I carefully leaned it against the porch.
Once lit, the torch flared to life with surprising intensity; orange upon red, swirling around the top in ravenous layers. The torch held out to one side, I solemnly approached the wooded mound in the meadow. Thrusting deep, the flame broke off; quickly spreading through the tinder. Moving around the base, I ignited five fires along the perimeter before casting the torch to the top of the pile. From deep in the center, there was a rumble, then a gray cloud, out of which lashed fresh tongues of flame; eager for a taste of the larger kindling.
From below, flames grew; multiplied, and merged together to form a new life. The separate flames now became a fire, swallowing branches and enveloping logs. A log shifted, coughing a shower of sparks into the sky. Orange sprites danced and darted around me; filling my eyes with the glowing streaks of their courses and my nose with the spent life of the forest.
Alive now, it rose before me; it’s back hunched as it clawed and tore at the fallen timber; a beast of consumption, conjured before me at the end of a torch. I approached it’s heat; arms stretched, feeling each wave as my skin tightened against my face. I confronted the beast now, in it’s frenzy, eyes closed. I wondered. Would it feed indiscriminately? Would it accept all that was offered it? Would it devour my pain, my loneliness? Would it accept my guilt; my penance? How long could such a thing live off those parts, so invisible, yet so tangible they can paralyze?
I stood there, in the heat, every nerve in my skin now tingling with the searing energy before me. It was drawing me in. It was feeding.
**********
Evening fell with the darkness I had come to know so well in the meadow. Sitting on a section of log spared from the fire, I rested my feet in the charred circle and gazed into the mollified blaze. Putting the exhausted bottle of Jameson’s to my lips, I took a long draw, hardly noticing the warmth as it moved down into my gut. My body had become leaden. My feet were embedded in the ash, my backside pressed into the log, and my very soul felt poured out. Glancing at my hand, I could see a patchwork of soot in the flickering light. It followed up my arm and I presumed to be covered in it; a perverse ashen camouflage.
Lifting myself from the dying fire’s gaze, I made my way back to the porch. Closing the door behind me with an uneven thunk, dim light of the candle sent out a jumpy flicker of disapproval. Again, I paused before the footprints, watching now as pale yellow light crept at the heels. Lifting the whiskey I had set there, I bent, blew out the candle, “Happy birthday, Justin.”.
This is a word of caution to everyone who shows him or herself online. How we represent ourselves dramatically changes the way strangers perceive our personalities and how they treat us. I'll share this story so you are forewarned about careless profile info sharing.
I did a behavioral modification experimental thesis that involved gender relationships in an online community. I made the persona the exact opposite of myself. The only similarity between us is the fact that I do indeed have relatives in both Roma and Sardegnia Italy and his Nonno raised Calgary horses. For the purpose of this blog, I'll call him G. I easily made up a profile of an Italian young man who didn't know English very well. I used my married brother's pictures for the photo section after asking his permission. I made consistent mistakes in pluralizing words and the 'have, haves, has,' common error of ESL people. (I based this on my problems learning English at 6 to get into kindergarten.) The persona was friendly, slightly lazy, and so casually wealthy that speaking of money was of no consequence. I made up the worst possible poems because it's a poetry community. I wrote them in l'italiano first and then G's 2 best friends, who knew Italian, translated them for everyone. Ugh. It was a dreadful attempt at poetry and it astounded me that no one said he sucked when they didn't hesitate to call other's work puerile and pedantic at best!
At first, the men hated G. At first, the women loved him. G was self-centered and didn't bother with any particular goals or efforts at anything. G was a devout 'Catolico Roma.' Dozens of women offered to help him with his poetry, tell him how great he was, teach him how to get his working visa into America, asked for his phone #. They begged him to go on cam and talk on his mic. Shameless. Sheesh.
Very, very interesting insights as to the human psyche and the interaction of assigned gender roles! Ladies, men really aren't ALL nasty pigs. There are just as many good apples as there are bad ones. As for the Ladies--some took advantage of his stupidity and supposed affluence, and a married woman threw herself at the 'good looking foreigner,' (Secret vomit here. They were leering at pics of my brother. Ewwww.) A few women made comments along the lines of ‘nice eye candy but dumb as a brick.’ Gentlemen, women really aren’t ALL whiny, bitchy gold-diggers. There are just as many terrific, intelligent women as there are psycho drama queens.
An older woman of the group supported G and suggested changes rather than criticizing or objectifying him. She did in fact, scold him for ‘flirting with too many young ladies.’ Three men of the group decided to ‘coach’ him on poetry in return for other things. G’s 2 best friends wanted all the info they could get about Italy. The 3 rd man was older and shared the American culture and history in exchange for the same about G’s country. As an entire unit, the men and women showed great ideals, poetic talent and a deep commitment to writing. The male group’s dynamic centered strongly on the history and research of poetry. The female group’s dynamic centered on the presentation and inspiration of poetry.
Eventually the men thought, 'hey he gets all the girls--we should hang out with him and get to know his secrets.' The men dissected G's (stupid) brain as to what made the ladies like him so much. Simple. He wasn't American and the ladies liked it a lot. For 3 months, I was 'one of the guys.' I'd tell what we discussed, but I promised someone that since the experiment was just labeled Group F and Group M, I would divulge no names or personal identifying details.
The next step in the experiment involved introducing my own female persona into the group. Let's call her Female persona I. I gave them an Italian relative's name and talked with the girls first. Unfriendly, bitchy group of girls was my first impression. Then as I hung around more and more they were made up of 2 camps. The ones that openly chased and drooled over G and then the ones who claimed he was a ruthless heartbreaker and womanizer! Hmmm. I said, 'eww he's damn ugly!' They thought I was an alien! *Laughs*
The men were polite, gentle, and mildly condescending to me. The community agreed as an entirety, that G's poetry sucked but they never criticized it to his face. Both the men and women told my Female Persona I, that his poetry was dreadful. I had to smack my fingers a thousand times not to reveal the contradictory statements they made to me. Both Groups F and M, said the opposite things to G. hmmm.
The next stage was to reveal that (kind of, technically truth) I am G's sister. The women shunned me as a whole and said next to nothing except one sweet elder woman. The men said, could I have your phone #? See you on cam? Hear you on mic? Hmmm. The men's reaction to female persona I, was identical to the female group's reaction to G. Double Hmmm.
For the grand finale, I had to make a full disclosure so I could get permission slips of the blind, control experiment. I knew it would be rough because the whole thing had to be based on deception. Morally it still sometimes gives me sleepless nights, but it was proof positive of how we still follow gender assigned roles despite our self-proclaimed liberation.
The women naturally wanted to track me down and lynch me. I'm giving you the swearless version here on that last statement. The only exception was the kind older woman said that it wasn't nice to lie, but she forgave me and signed the permission slip.
The men's group laughed and laughed. All but a couple of them thought it was the best joke ever! I still wonder why outright deception and lies were so funny to them. The women eventually hounded both personas so much that I had to delete both G and I, then leave the poetry group. For years afterward, two of the men from that group call me to ask about the proper pronunciation of pollo or how great the trip to Firenza was. Bizarrely enough, the male bonding stays very strong even to this day. G’s friends became my friends. I gave them full disclosure just like the rest of the group. They still have no idea what I look like. They hold no animosity toward me at all. The sweet natured woman and I remained good friends up until the time she passed away a year ago.
In conclusion, men and women, please be careful about the personal things you put in your profile. This means pictures, likes and especially dislikes and references to where you live. There are stalkers out there. A friend of mine first warned me about a program called 'Google Earth' and it scared the crap outta me! He asked my address to mail a Xmas card to me, so I said ok. Then he sent me a (TERRIFYING) picture of my house! After I was done freaking out, he showed me how to download Google Earth. I tracked him down to his university dorm in Sweden! This system has the capability of tracking down any home, apartment, business, or residence ANYWHERE ON EARTH!
Now I'm not saying we should all be paranoid, but rather we should beware and be aware of people we talk to online. My hacker friend in TN showed me that each time you upload a photo directly from your computer onto a public access site, a hacker can trace your TCP/IP and hack their merry way through your hard drive!
I keep track of what sites I post personal info on and exactly who has access to what. I know that some of the people on a yearbook site have overlapping friends in common from at least 5 other similar sites, which will spread personal information exponentially!
Leaving the hospital from work this morning, as I reached my car I noted a constant beeping, much like the sound of
a dying smoke alarm. I gave this sound only passing thought until I was
in my car and the annoying beeping noise followed me. It seemed to be
coming straight from the vents in my air conditioner. At this point, I
had not started the car; the key was not even in the ignition.
Perplexed and with a tinge of aggravation toward these bells and
whistles coming from the dashboard of my car, the set of wheels I
purchased with the intention of taking me into my sunset years. Well I
am not ready for the sun to set on my independence and for goodness
sake, I have put only 58,000 miles on this gas-guzzling contraption!
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind Cher is singing “and the beat goes
on, drums keep bounding rhythm to the brain” I have just worked twelve
hours, am tired and feel like I am in need of a friend! I locate my
cell phone, and called a guy friend in Oklahoma. I am in California and
as there is a two-hour time difference, I hope he has had his morning
coffee and can be of help with my request for an-over-the-phone
diagnostic. “Is it a bird Judy?”
Pulling ideas out of thin air I replied, “No, it is a regular beep…It
does sound almost like a chirp but it is a rhythmic regular beep, maybe
a metronome is caught in the dash my car!” I replied “Does the radio
work?” “Yes, you can almost hear the radio”
Terry and I decide this is too much for us to solve so I call Phil. He
works on various cars and surely, he can put my mind at ease. Did not
happen “Judy, I would take your car in now and have it looked at as it
could be the serpentine belt. If this belt goes out so will most of the
functions of your car.” I feel ‘so much not better’ after our
conversation. Now I am sitting stop-and-go amongst a flood of morning
traffic on the busy I-15 trying to remember just where I passed a
Nissan Dealer. “And the beep goes on; la-de-da-de; la-de-da-de-da” Now,
my Oklahoma Insurance adjuster is ringing to visit about storm damage
to my roof. “Oh by the way Tommy, can you hear this beeping noise?” A
brief conversation with Tommy, a long time friend and now the third
person from Oklahoma to be privy to my current dilemma, was of no help
to shushing the indomitable beeping!
Negotiating the harried morning traffic on the I-15, I am too tired to
be lost in San Diego searching for Nissan service center. So elected
let one more guy into my circle of friends and called my son-in-love
Tom, “Tom, I have this problem with my car. A continuous beeping seems
to be coming right out of the dash. I am trying to remember where the
Nissan place is located. Is it on Balboa or Claremont Mesa Drive?” “I
don’t know for sure Jo, (he calls me Jo) but you better get it in to be
checked. Call me and let me know what they find” “Oh! I found the
Nissan place Tom, thanks, I will let you know”
I breath a sigh of relief mixed with apprehension, relieved to have
located the Nissan dealer (I am way tired by this time) and
apprehensive as to what this will cost to repair.
Now if you have ever one made a trip or two to an automotive service
center on the way to work, you will readily agree it rates as
unpleasant as shopping and negotiating a spot in a parking lot on
Christmas Eve. I am fortunate, as there is but one car in line when I
arrive. After about ten minutes of no motion, and silence, (except for
the chirping coming from the dash of my car) I walked into the office.
As I passed the Nissan Altima parked in front of my car (the same make
and model as my car), I turned for a closer look. “That car is beeping
too; I ask myself, what is it with these Japan automotive wonders?”
I catch the attention of a young man in the office who politely asked
if he could help me. I said, “There is a beeping noise coming from my
car and would he please come see whatsamatter?” He walked with me to
the car as I began to relax, finally there would be an answer to the
questions I just had peppered four knowledgeable men. I was not
embarrassed with a sudden silence as Cher kept belting out “and the
beep goes on”
With expert precision, he quickly determined it was the lights; I had
left the lights on. No, this was not the answer as when he switched the
lights off, Cher continued with her “drums keep pounding rhythm to the
brain!” (By now the beeping has settled nicely in my brain) He then
took a step back and said, “It is you! The beeping is coming from you!”
“It is coming from me?” I stutter, “Not a chance! Here is my cell phone
and it is quiet as a church mouse!”
The technician said, “the beeping was in the office, so it has to be
somewhere on you,” as he assumed this "let-me-frisk-you posture" I
quickly relieve him of his thoughts and searched the multitude of
pockets of my scrubs, and pulled out a small beeper!
We use these beepers at work to alert us of our assigned patient’s
cardiac arrhythmias. Fortunately, this little contraption (which i
inadvertently carried off from work) was signaling a need for a new
battery. I was beyond embarrassment. We said our goodbyes as the
technician chuckled saying I had made his day! I arrived home and as I
finally laid my head down on my pillow, drums kept pounding rhythm to
my brain.
If we have not the pleasure of meeting personally, I will share that I
am a blonde, a L’Oreal blonde, I might add to quote their
advertisements, “I am worth it”
Judy
Funny thing about growing up in an Irish neighborhood is that the rest of the world thinks you’re from Ireland. Very far from the truth for a lot of us, sure we had Irish blood and 7 out of ten of our parents were born and raised in Ireland, but the truth is that most of us at this age were born and raised in New York City. The dream of every Irish-American boy I knew was to actually go to Ireland and visit with families and explore your roots in old castles and to meet cousins and redheaded girls.
Sundays were the best in our Irish neighborhood, our dads played Hurley in the mornings, we played Irish football in the afternoons and we all drank at the pub till dinner near the field in our dirty muddy uniforms with most of us leaking blood. Great stories, great drinks and I’ll tell you right now, freaking great football. We had one of the better Irish football teams in the entire country. We won championship trophies year after year, and we were invited to play against the all-Ireland team in Ireland year after year. The one year that I played was another championship season; I remember meeting the coach at the beginning of the season to see if I could join the team. I knew little about the actual sport, but I went to the games every single Sunday to watch and drink afterwards.
There was no tryout, no let’s see how you handle the ball, not even a practice game. The coach asked me two very important questions, he said,” can ya run”? I said “Yeah I can run”. He said,”can ya fight?” I said, ”Yeah I can fight”. He said, “Alright then, you’re on the team.
So there it was, I was playing Irish Football in the early 1970’s and sure as I’m telling you this story, we went on to win that year and it was off to Ireland. There were 25 of us and 6 or 7 dads and coaches that went on the trip that year. I do not remember the town we were in, I only remember that we won and we won big, there were like 3 thousand spectators at the game even though the entire town itself only had like 300 people living in it. We went back to the hotel/inn that we were living in that week to party ourselves while the adults went to each of the 30 or so bars this tiny little town had. It must have been like 2 or 3 in the morning and we were still hooping and hollering, a few of the older guys scored us a couple of beer kegs. There were like twenty five 13 to 17 year old kids and we had 2 kegs of beer, let us do the math on this one shall we?
We got pretty drunk and being athletes and being drunk usually led to one thing, “DRUNK SPORTS”. It started harmless enough; we broke into a few separate teams kind of like the Olympics and had races down the hallways of the motel. We occupied almost all of the rooms in the hotel that night, so we opened all the room doors and raced from room to room. Then we did jumping from bed to bed, it was getting hot so some of us took our shirts off while others took off their shorts. And so it begins, lots and lots of drinking, lots of running and jumping, lots of sweating, lots of clothes coming off. It only took another half hour or so till we were all nude and doing sports, Irish guys love to get naked. I started running to the lobby and running back to test everyone, and then we ran down the hall, thru the lobby and out into the parking lot. Sure enough, that leads to a few of us running down the street which eventually leads to everyone of us drunken Irish American kids streaking thru town naked and screaming.
NOT GOOD, NOT GOOD AT ALL
This is a sleepy little town and 30 drunken naked boys running amuck was the same as if “The Devil Himself” was running thru town? Apparently 90% of the town was now trying to get sleep and the other 10% were still wandering the streets trying to find their drunken way home. We ran from one end of town to the other end and back again. One minute it was funnier than anything, and the next minute we found ourselves being chased by half the town, kind of like in the movies were the entire village is chasing the monster with pitchforks and torches, there were no pitchforks, but I swear I saw torches. We were able to get dressed again before they hauled us to the biggest building in town, the town hall or the town square or something like that.
They kept us in this auditorium, I guess this is where all things official happen in the town, we were there for a few hours while we sobered up and while the rest of the towns folk that we didn’t wake up came to this meeting. I remember sitting up front with my drinking/Olympic buddies; we took up the first 3 or 4 rows. Behind us was the entire freaking town, I mean every man woman and child, dog, cat, farm animal, every living thing in that part of the world was there to see the “Devil Children from America”. In front of us were the dozen or so town leaders, these were the same people who when we arrived met us at the train station, made speeches before the big game and they were the ones who congratulated us on a great victory. There was the Mayor/Police Chief/Fire Chief and something else. There was the town doctor/veterinarian, the owner of the grocery store and the owner of the bar, the bar maids, the gas station guy, and anyone else who ran a business or who had a say in the town affairs.
The room was buzzing with chatter while they spoke in hushed tones and hugged each other about how horrific it was that we ran naked thru the streets and of how we must have been doing the drugs and stuff. They cried when they recalled how both Mrs. McLearys teenage daughters saw one American boy’s penis while he ran past her window. They held each other tight and consoled one another while saying things like, “it will be alright”, and ” The devil himself is in them boys”. I was starting to think we had gotten ourselves into some freaking “children of the corn” horror movie. This went on for almost an hour while our chaperones/dads kept starting at us with steam coming from their heads. The town officials spoke first and declared that what had happened was most vile and undeniably most horrific for all. They said, “The American boys sitting before ye all, are guilty of many sexually deviant actions, they are the result of living in a sinful western world where this type of thing is tolerated. They use the “drugs” and they practice heinous religions and for that is why they must be possessed”
Finally, when they stopped talking and we were allowed to speak Mr. Hughes, my buddies dad stood up and asked if he could talk on behalf of our group. The town’s people up front said “okay”, and he walked up on the stage and faced the townsfolk and pointed to us and he started to speak.
He said, “ I know what these boys here did was wrong, I know what they did was offensive and disgusting, but I know these boys each and every one of them, twas no drugs or devils work that happened here. It was only one thing.
“TWAS THE DRINK THAT MADE THEM DO IT”
A few seconds passed where not a soul made a sound, I was waiting for the torches again. When suddenly like a wave swelling from the oceans bottom, like a huge massive volcano that was erupting, you could feel something coming. When all at once the entire town, all the officials on the stage, every single man, woman, child and farm animal all said the exact same thing at the exact same moment.
“Well if it was only the drink that made them do it, then that’s okay, that’s fine then”.
And just like that the meeting was over, the towns people disbanded, the animals went back to their farms, the cats and the dogs walked back outside into the street, the hall windows were closed and chairs folded and put away. There we sat in the first 3 or 4 rows, while the dads and chaperons yelled and screamed at us for the next half hour. We left the town and the country 48 hours later and I have never returned since. I hope someday to go back and see if anyone there remembers that horrible event. Hopefully I will go back and if that happens I will write the story of it for you to read.
I do not think this story has any lesson to be learned or shared or if it is just something that happened to me and for some reason I thought you would enjoy it.
-Peace
I am part of the 3SPA team, and we would like to invite you to check out our website, and advertise your stories or yourself. We are welcoming links to anything that relates to performing arts - including writing.
You will also get to know me better, and see the links to get to my stories.
It’s Election Time Again!
It is time for others those who feel left out, isolated, and unimportant to get involved. It is Election Time. Once again it is time to cut the pie because they really don’t want you around when the pie is being cut. The way you get to receive a piece of the pie is to vote. Everyone- mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers, and everyone eighteen and over- should use the voting booth as their voice to say, “I want my fair share of the pie.”
Walk through your neighborhood. You’ll hear the familiar sentiments: “Voting doesn’t accomplish anything.” “They are all crooks.” “No matter who wins, nothing will be done for minorities.” “I don’t vote because the candidates don’t truly represent me.”
Walk through that same neighborhood and notice the poorly kept buildings, the dirty streets, the drugs being sold on every corner, the liquor stores that seem to be everywhere. A friend once said to me “All a neighborhood needs to survive is a check cashing place, a liquor store and a smoke shop.” I found this to be a really sad statement, yet one that seemed to be true. His statement explains an all too common problem. Even though there are grass root leaders who are giving their all to provide positive services, the average community resident does not demand more than the basics—a place to cash a check, a place to buy liquor or drugs.
Now take another walk. This time to a dry neighborhood where the sentiments are “Voting is my power” and “I hold my public elected officials accountable.” You will see fully-staffed public schools, clean streets, clean buildings, plenty of supervised after-school activities such as the Boys and Girls Club, PAL, etc.
Too many on the lower rung of the ladder have been brainwashed to think that they cannot make a difference. If only they would look at history, at the individuals, the lone wolves, who changed the face of these United States. Natives and immigrants alike, draw from your history the courage to gain the resolve to stay within the process. Do not throw your hands up in disgust. Do not throw away your chance. Do not give up because that is their game. Those in power do not want change. They prefer to discourage you instead.
Consider the following analysis of the power structure. When anyone tries to bring about change, the first question those in the power structure ask is: Do you vote? IF YOU DON’T, THEY DON’T LISTEN.
if you do vote, their next question is: How does your community vote? IF YOUR COMMUNITY DOES NOT VOTE, YOU DON’T RECEIVE ACTION.
Those in the power structure next looks at your community-based activism. IF YOU ARE NOT INVOLVED IN ANY WAY, THEY WILL NOT GIVE STRENGTH TO YOUR VOICE.
After seeing that you do vote, that your community votes as well, and that you are a grassroots activist, then they ask: How large is your following? IF IT’S NOT LARGE THEY WILL THROW YOU A BONE.
We must ask ourselves what kind of life we want to live. Do we allow the fear of death to stop us from seeking what is just? Living without justice is like being dead.
You must keep hope alive. Don’t be afraid of being on the front lines. Remember, if you are not a part of the solution, you are part of the problem. It is your roll call. Are you going to demand justice? Or are you going to look for the nearest liquor store?
Amada Gonzalez
Copyright © 2008
The Anderson Sisters
The invitation had been delivered matter-of-factly enough “I was talking with my sisters, and we were wondering if maybe you would like to come over for our little monthly get together.” It was Kristi Anderson; one of three sisters from the church and perhaps the only regulars there about my age.
“Sure.” I replied to the voice. “Should I bring anything?”
“Nope. Just yourself. We have food and drinks all ready.” It sounded a little pre-rehearsed, but Kristi struck me as a shy person to begin with. Besides, being the oldest sister and the only one with a house of her own, she was no doubt nominated to be the one to extend the party invitation. Anyway, I was tired of my own company and Sasafrass hasn’t been herself lately; barely eating and laying around whining.
The first encounter I had with the Anderson Sisters was Easter a few years ago. After presiding over the Easter service Lois, their mother, had her youngest daughter, Alicia invite me to dinner, with the instructions not to take no for an answer. Alicia was about twenty two years old, and a student at the University in Presque Isle. Although a student there myself, I only really saw her at weekly choir practice at the church.
Come dinner time, the girls were all lectured about being on their best behavior for the arrival of the minister in training. There was only one flaw in that plan; the third sister, Erica. Erica was in her mid twenties; about five-ten, and built like a pro linebacker. Her untamed growth of red hair rested uneasily across her broad shoulders, accenting an already chiseled jaw line. She was big, boisterous, and commanded the full attention of any room. It were as if at an early age, when she had begun to realize that she could not easily blend into a room, she would do her best to become the centerpiece. In the setting of a stoic Swedish colony, it did not take much to stand out in the crowd.
Dinner was served with all the trappings of rural Americana. Lois constantly ran from dining room to kitchen, anticipating the needs of the extended Anderson clan. It would seem that the only Anderson who was on edge that day was Aunt Norma, who was inexplicably terrified of cats. Every so often, she would quickly shift in her seat and grow wide eyed before asking someone to go check to make sure that the family tabby was still locked up in the bathroom. Shortly after dinner, she was so certain that there was a cat loose in the house that she jumped up and retreated for the relative safety of the screen door. The one thing that made this scene all the more hilarious to me was that there were at least seven other people in the room who did not find it in the least bit humorous. Aunt Norma eventually lost her nerve and went home before dessert, which consisted of no less than five different pies to choose from.
Feeling ever so grateful, yet not without my sarcastic side titillated by the whole Aunt Norma episode, I surveyed the pies; guessing that Lois had not slept much last night for all of her preparations. When asked which one I would like to try, I let out a sigh and feigned disappointment noting my disappointment that Lois had not prepared a watermelon pie; my favorite. Ever so slightly, Lois deflated against the wall before I could hold it no longer. I smiled and the sisters chimed in; Erica letting out a hearty guffaw that even a lumberjack would be proud of before slapping the table and laughing some more. The illusion was broken. The minister had a sense of humor, and the sisters had found an accomplice.
Upon arriving at Kristi’s house, all the makings of a civil get together were underway. Erica was pouring Pepsi over some chicken in a pan while reassuring me of the flavorful outcome. Kristi was showing me where the beer was, as well as the other booze planned for later on. I cracked open a Killians while Kristi fiddled with her stereo; cuing up her collection of eighties classics and not-so-classics. The kitchen door opened and in walked Norma-Jo, who, by her appearance, I took to be a cousin to the Andersons. Introductions were made as Norma-Jo sipped at a beer. She had the same red hair as Erica and Kristi that was tied back from her face in a red kerchief, giving her face in a kind of Scandinavian peasant look. Soft spoken and unsure, she spent most of the evening sitting on the couch watching everyone else.
The next to arrive was another red headed cousin, Penny. Penny looked a lot like Norma-Jo with a pony tail and glasses. Looks, however, were where the similarities ended between the two. “Oh, it’s preacher boy!” She exclaimed from across the room, beer already in her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you!” She sang out, this time with a sly smile before knocking down most of her beer. I wandered out to the living room while taking a mental head count; five to one. The girls were laughing hysterically out in the kitchen with Erica leading the chorus when, much to my relief, another male appeared through the door. It was Gus, a friend of the Andersons and master of the fry-o-later at the Caribou Burger King. Gus was short and stocky with a sense of humor that hadn’t reached much beyond his high school education.
Before the chicken was ready, I had already been served two Long Island Iced Teas by Kristi; effectively eliminating any possibility that I could ever attest to the wonders of cooking with Pepsi. I was getting hammered way too fast, so I switched back to beer and settled down on the couch to watch a movie. Penny noticed me alone on the couch and dramatically flopped down across it, placing her stocking feet squarely in my crotch. “Having fun, preacher boy?” She asked in a sleepy, drunken tone.
“It’s nice to take it easy, for once.” I replied, never flinching at the now-searching heels of Penny in my lap.
“If it’s easy, take it twice!” Shouted Erica from the other room before laughing at her own attempt at cleverness.
Not satisfied with her efforts, Penny swung her legs to the side and sat up, slamming the side of her posterior as tightly against mine as possible before dropping her hands at her side so that her left hand came to a tactical rest in my lap. Now, for the first time since crazy Aunt Norma ran from a cat that wasn’t there, I was truly amused, and vowed to myself to make the most of this. Letting Penny’s hand just lay in my lap both encouraged Penny and left her perplexed with what her next move should be, considering I had not reacted in the least. Finally, little by little; almost imperceptibly, she started inching her face toward mine; never letting her hand either leave my lap, or letting her put too much pressure on that hand so as to nullify the “accidental” nature of its presence there. I was amazed by her balance and wondered when she would tip over, squashing my bits with her errant hand before finishing me off with a head-but. Watching the movie, I could hear laughter and banter from the kitchen. “I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings!” Another tidbit from the Pez dispenser of funny that is Erica. Finally, I could feel uneven breath on my cheek. She was within two inches of my mouth and holding. Letting this go on for another minute, I quickly leaned into her, almost touching her lips, and departed the couch for the booze in the kitchen. Mission accomplished.
“We’re out of mixer.” Kristi slurred at me, holding up a handle of Long Island Iced Tea mix. “This is all we have left. Wanna do shots?” Famous last words never to be acted upon once the clock has turned over to morning.
Two small juice glasses were placed on the table and filled, and refilled, and filled again. At some point, Penny rejoined the group in the kitchen; pressing her body against mine as I threw back another shot.
“You’re not going home tonight, are you?” She leaned into me as if to whisper, but the liquor had already affected her volume control, causing her to bark her request into my ear. “You need to stay here tonight.” She continued. “I’m sleeping here tonight… right over there.” Her head lolled back and she pointed toward a wall while attempting to reenact her sober sly smile.
The world slowed down and faces blurred. Gus suggested that we go for a walk to clear our heads a little. It seemed like miles to the first neighbors driveway and I fought the urge to curl up on the roadside and take a nap. Finally, that metallic taste invaded my mouth from under the back of my tongue. The blood rushed to my head and then fell back out of it and into my stomach, causing me to projectile vomit from a standing position across the width of the neighbor’s driveway. After three waves of alcohol exited my body, it was time to call it quits and walk the miles (thirty yards) back to Kristi’s. Once safely inside, Kristi stumbled toward the stereo as Erica and Penny called out in a form of chant for the “party song”. The nearest I could tell, the song was an old Nitty Gritty Dirt Band ditty about a boy and a girl fishing in the dark. The revised lyrics, however, complete with the Anderson sister dance moves, were more of an adult nature. Through the one eye that would focus, I could see all the girls across the living room country line-dance style, dancing and singing, “You and me go fuckin’ in the ditch. Drop your drawers, you skinny little bitch. And we’ll do it slow…”
“Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love You and worthily magnify Your Holy name, Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.” If I appeared to be extra penitential while giving the brief order for confession and forgiveness, it was mostly due to my pounding head and troubled stomach. Certain that I reeked of alcohol; I had stuffed three Altoids in my mouth prior to the bell ringing, so that the closest faithful in the fifth pew could not smell me. The service ended and I snuck out early in order to add to my three hours of sleep.
Rolling into the meadow, I felt every bump; rolling from side to side in the Cavalier’s interior. Exiting the vehicle, the sun glinted in my eyes; causing a kaleidoscope of silvery diamonds to encircle my vision; a halo I walked through to my front door.
Falling upon my mattress, I could not attain the euphoric pass-out effect I had envisioned on the drive home. It was difficult to put my finger on what was wrong; especially in my hung over state. I was feeling the sting of guilt. Was I feeling bad because I delivered the Mass half in the bag? Surprisingly, no; considering nobody even suspected that I wasn’t quite myself. They got what they came for; didn’t they? I said the prayers and the liturgy, gave a brief homily, and sent them all home to Sunday dinner. That’s all they ever wanted from a minister in the first place. Hell, if I did that every week, the ladies group would probably sign up to get me good and soused every Saturday night.
Where were my kids, I wondered? What were they doing this Sunday morning? Were they having fun? Were they thinking of me; even when I wasn’t thinking of them last night. Uneasiness crept over me as I entwined my feet in the unkempt covers. I felt cold and exposed in my empty little room. I was a terrible father. Why didn’t I think of them last night?
I had spent the entire night thinking only of myself and my own good time. I had managed to block out my kids while Penny groped me and the thought made me sick. It’s not that I hadn’t already sufficiently distanced myself from them in one way or another. I went from calling them every night, to every other night. Soon, just to keep my phone service connected, I had to call weekly. Sometimes the phone got shut off anyway. Sometimes I called less; taking every missed call as another personal failure. Years later, it would be easy to pat the old me on the back and say that I deserved my own life apart from the kids; that I deserved some adult fun. This was not years later, though, and failure compounded upon failure; even if perceived, was another reason to feel utterly defeated. But now I failed not only myself, but my children as well.
I rolled off the mattress and slumped down the ladder to tend the fire that had also been neglected by my night out. Sheba’s claws ticked out of the kitchen and a wet nose met the back of my calf as I descended into the living room. Ears back and tail swishing low, she offered her freckled muzzle to me as I reached the floor. I gave her furry cheek a scratch but would not look at the pictures on the wall; only the fading glow of coals in the center of an ashen pit in the stove.
My name is Lisa. I'm a 37 year old woman with many interests, among which the main one is writing. In a close tie, dogs are my other main interest. Reaching at a close third is reading, and then drawing. I have a degree in behavior modification and I'm a certified counselor. I enjoy studying behavior. I’m known by a few nicknames depending on what part of my personality appeals to you most. I'm 5 ft; 105 lbs. and I've been the same height since high school. Friends call me smurf or smurfy because I'm smurf sized. About 15 yrs ago, my fiancé bought me a Doberman Pinscher puppy and sealed my love for all things dog. I was and still am DobyCrazy! When I write, it unleashes the most tenacious part of my nature. Like a Doberman, I am unquestionably loyal to my friends and family. I bark out my opinions on matters with full conviction and faith in my knowledge. When I need to catch someone's attention, I will MOOF! with an authority that brooks no argument. They call me Dober. I get my playful moods when I try to make others smile. Then they affectionately term me Doby.
I can't remember when I haven't written . Diaries, journals, napkins and scattered papers were all my muses. Some early memories of me at 4 years old include sitting on Pepe's lap while I read the newspaper to him en français, and english. When I was 12, I won the New England Young Author's contest. I still smile at my little home made book of box cardboard covered in rose striped shelf paper.
There was a child and young adult section in my local newspaper that I was a big fan of. My god. (Passive sentences, fragments, atrocious grammar and ending sentences with prepositions! My English Professor would hang me!) Gets another cup of coffee and resumes her typing. I 'write' better when I actually physically write and then transpose it to typing. For me, straight out typing is always sloppy. Exactly like this intro. Laughs. Anyway, I regularly submitted articles and pieces to the newspaper each week for an entire summer.
Since those charming childhood days, I've written everything from poems, short stories, sci-fi novels, and sports articles that remained unsent. I've always written because it's my addiction. My habit. My outlet. I haven't sent anything to a publisher, agent or newspaper since I was 14.
(shameless plug, shameless plug)--Check out my shiny new blog:
http://dobersdogdaze.blogspo t.com/
She sips her coffee and looks at the white expanse that beckons to her to fill it with her mark. Her ebony eyes drift to the walnut paneling to look at the carving of a mare and foal that grace its stark simplicity. The cursor blinks at her, tapping it's foot impatiently, telling her to TYPE already! She cradles the white coffee mug in her hands and sips while looking at her typing. She sighs. My tense shifts are hideous. Honestly. An editor's nightmare. The woman debates re-typing the tiny amount she's already done and shakes her head no. It's my mood today so there's no fighting it. My Id, Ego and Superego will have to duke it out with each other and decide on today’s winner.
Is this hate mail sent from a community representative, or one person's armchair opinion? If it's the former, I'll leave and you can all feel better, if it's the latter, then please speak up.
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Date: |
Fri, 6 Jun 2008 15:18:09 -0500 |
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From: |
"Mike's Writers Network"
<noreply@kickapps.com> [if gte vml 1]> |
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To: |
smurfybench@yahoo.com |
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[if !supportEmptyParas] [endif] Subject: |
Dogmatic Dog Trainer from Mike's Writers Network |
Oworthyone from Mike's Writers Network sent you this message:
Oworthyone wrote:
Well, well. I didn't take part in your human experiment, so I have no personal stake in commenting on your cruelty. My own informal, armchair opinion of you is that you are judgemental, (*judgmental?*) controlling, arrogant and mean-sprited (*spirited?*) . Maybe you should ask yourself why you feel the need to set people up in such a private way only to ultimately humiliate them? Intent should be contemplated before taking action. If your intent is entertainment and to prove your own agenda through such convoluted means, you should be deeply ashamed.
My reply:
To : Oworthyone
Sent : 3 minutes ago
Subject : Re: Dogmatic Dog Trainer
Message :
To my armchair critic,
I laid all my cards on the table with complete honesty. I opened myself up to the judgment and opinions of others, my friendly neighborhood critic . It was 6 years ago and yes indeed I felt more than shame, I felt suicidal if that eases your sense of sanctimonious indignation. Oh! the things people do in the name of a college Thesis paper! Risking the hatred of this community, I bared my soul and used my ultimate shame as an example to others so that they should be careful online--that was my intent. Thank you for taking the time to assure me that my risk was meaningless and gave no more purpose than to be your personal, self-righteous dartboard and to be shunned from this community for my honesty. Is it rude to call an unknown woman demeaning names because you feel morally superior when she openly admits a fault? My own informal, armchair opinion of you is that you should take the plank out of your own eye before you point out the splinter in mine . Thank you for taking the time and effort to type out this hate mail to me. Although my efforts were wasted in showing others the importance of online safety, I will attempt (Mike being the moderator here) to share your hate mail that shows the community how you told off this 'judgmental, controlling, arrogant, mean-spirited' woman. Do you speak as a representative of the community majority or is this a self-imposed remonstration?
From the honest woman who was foolish enough to share her mistakes with others.
p.s. Have you ever heard the song, 'Missing Person,' by Michael W. Smith? I'm listening to it right now. Good Song.
Cheers and a big Thanks to Mike for starting this group and encouraging us to write! His altruism is an amazing inspiration to even the most reclusive of writers. Thanks for his unwavering support of all genres of writing!
Entirely too reticent to share much with Mike's yahoo group, I've spent most of my time observing, and so apprehensive that I couldn't even dip my toe into the writing waters. Mike makes writing fun. His multiple informative sources seem limitless. He's provided interviews, advice, videos, specialized forums, writing job sites, workshops and more. Mike recently earned Writer's Digest 101 Top Sites and has a big beautiful golden emblem on his site now! Way to go Mike. More people should be thanking him for all he's done to connect writers in a safe, profitable, creative and friendly environement.
I've broken through my shyness about sharing my writing with others! It took a while for me to get up the courage, but I did it. I went to Mike's Blog spot and proclaimed myself to the online public as Dober. I now write a daily blog called Dober's Dog Daze at: http://dobersdogdaze.blogspot.com
If you've read my previous blog about 'buttons' you'll already know why I'm at Mike's blog spot. I normallly write for about 6 hours and fill notebooks to overflowing. I used to write a yahoo blog for about 6 months, but I stopped. Mike's site has given me a renewed confidence in my writing. Starting today, my blogs will prolific and hopefully, enjoyable to my potential readers.
Thanks again Mike!
Now I'm jumping back into the public mainstream with my blogging. I called it Dober's Dog Daze, because that's usually my mental state 90% of the time. Here on Mike's site, do you see the light blue writing at the top, about blogs? Click on it and write write write!
In our first show on dialogue , we looked at the importance of character agenda. This time we’ll examine at a structural issue: interweaving dialogue with narrative.
Using examples from Ian Rankin's A Question of Blood and advice from Dialogue: Techniques and Exercises for Crafting Effective Dialogue by Gloria Kempton, we'll test the proposition "When the story is moving too slowly, add dialogue to speed it up."
Interviewee/host : Paula B.
Date : April 27, 2008
Running time: 19:47
File size: 10 megabytes
Rating : G
CJ and Allie this is dedicated to you two for informing me of this ongoing problem! This dog behavior is running rampant in society!
Just me being wierd for me so don't read any further! I can't write poetry as much as I love to read other's efforts.
Some will call it New Years
and others, Auld Lang Syne,
for me it's just a birthday,
and it's not a happy time.
They drink champagne and celebrate
tell resolutions to everyone
while they wait
for the ball to drop on this special date.
Another year gone,
what have I done?
Where have I been
while time moved on?
Here I am another year older,
Here I am another year bolder.
There's a new grey hair unseen yesterday,
one more laugh line or is it two?
My waist isn't quite so small they say,
my hands show plainly the work they've seen-
dog bites, paper cuts and too much horse hay.
I'll watch them get drunk
I'll watch them dance
I'll watch them toast
and fall to the carpet
passed out cold.
On New Year's Day,
then I'll hold sway.
They'll whine and moan,
and grasp their heads
mumbling "Leave me alone!"
No hangover for me cuz I stayed home,
sparkling cider for me and fiancé alone.
No nausea, no head ache,
no porcelain throne.
All my life I've had to wait
for New Year's Day
and here it is!
I'm 38.
*grumbles* I don't feel 38.
One of the most common questions writers ask is how to query agents and publishers. Here's one editor's take.
Jennifer Silva Redmond is Editor-in-Chief of Sunbelt Publications, an award-winning small press that celebrates the natural and cultural history of the Californias. She has written for publications as diverse as Science of Mind, Cruising World, and Dog Fancy; one of her stories is featured in Latinos in Lotusland: An Anthology of Contemporary Southern California Literature (Bilingual Review Press, March 2008). Co-founding editor of Sea of Cortez Review (1998-2001), Ms. Silva Redmond joined Sunbelt in 2000; she enjoys speaking to writers’ groups and guiding both well-known and first-time authors through the acquisition, editing, and production of their books.
Please join Jennifer Silva Redmond and Paula B. as they reveal what editors are really thinking, including:
Interviewee: Jennifer Silva Redmond
Host: Paula B.
Date: November 9, 2008
Running time: 01:06:12
File size: 32 megabytes
Rating: G
The Sunbelt Publications Web site: Sunbelt Books
In the land of authors where I live. I find it a different kind of place. A place where those who don't write don't understand the passion, the need, the obession those of us who do write have.
They don't see the characters who live in our head. They don't see the need of seeing our work in print. But, let me tell you they do love it when that new book is released.
They love it when I say guess what it is out. They can't wait to get their hands on it to see what newest characters I have brought to life.
I love living in the land of authors. I love bringing my characters to life. It is like watching a movie unfold with me as the director.
That being said, I want to let each of you know if you don't already- that two new books are coming out. One is really a prelude to the big one.
July the 8th Brilliant Insanity will be released by Triad Publishing Group. For those of you who have not yet read my work. I can only say you should.
Brilliant Insanity is a book that you keep asking yourself what is on the next page.
Rookie newspaper report Mandy McQuaid has just started her job at the Fort Pierce Sentinal. Of course she starts out in the obit section. But that is soon to change. Her life will never be the same after a summons to her editor's office.
He has a job for her. She is the only one who can do this job. The question is "Is she up to it?" Can she see it through?
The job - Mandy has been requested to go to Raiford Mazimum Security Prison in Gainesville, Florida to interview Louis Reinhart. Reinhart has five days left before his date with the death chamber. He has been given permission to tell his story to the local paper.
Mandy's editor wants this story. He has followed the killing career of Reinhart since the beginning and he wants the ending.
Reinhart wants the world to know that what he did was justified. He also wants to brag as serial killers are prone to do. But there is more. And it has to do with Mandy.
While 
is ficition it is a prelude to Silent Scream which is a true crime. The first silent screams began in 1966 and ended in 1972. They happened in Florida and the man responsible was shanked in Starke Prison in 1995. This book gives the victims a voice. A voice which has been silent for over thirty years. A voice which still effects the lives of the law enforcement officers who worked the case. A voice which now gives them peace.
Silent Scream will be released Sept 2,2008. Watch for more details.
Despite our physical differences, many humans and dogs have very similar behaviors and reactions in identical situations. It's very reassuring to know that the human and canine bond remains strong even today.
Postures, facial expression and gestures play a significant part in dog language. They're willing to overlook the fact that we have no tails or ears to give them 80 percent of clues to our moods and canine communication skills. Dogs instead rely on our tone of voice, hand gestures and body postures to interpret us. They give us the honor of treating us like fellow dogs. A high pitched, excited voice, clearly displays our joy to dogs and they respond in kind with tail wagging and probably a playful gesture on their part.
It really makes me think how alike we are. If we hear a sudden noise, what are our first reactions? Cringe a moment, mutter an exclamation of suprise and then find the source of the noise. What does the average dog do? Cringe a moment , utter a "MOOF?" of surprise, and then move on to find the source of the noise. Identical reactions!
When we're angry, we employ 2 scenarios depending on who we're mad at. The first situation is to stare down someone, square our shoulders, wave our hands in large, threatening gestures and speak in a much louder voice. The postures, hand gestures and stronger pitch indicates that we are not only trying to make ourselves look bigger, but also think highly of our opinion and are unafraid of the confrontation. Have you ever watched a police dog that's confronted with an angry, criminal that shouts at an officer? The dog puts up his/her ears and tail, raise the fur on their back and bounces their forepaws off the ground again and again, in an attempt to look bigger. They bark loudly and repeatedly, while keeping an eyelock on the antagonist. The physical and verbal similarities are obvious in this first scenario. Surprisingly, the second scenario shows similar human and canine results.
You're 16 and you just dented your mom and dad's car. They have you sitting on the couch and essentially cornered in the living room. With his arms crossed over his chest, dad paces back and forth with a deep and angry voice, growling furiously at you. The mom yells angrily how you're grounded for a month with no car, computer or tv time, all the while wagging her finger in your face for the length of the diatribe. What do you do? Well, you're cornered on the couch, both parents blocking any retreat. One is pacing and yelling with volatile energy and the other is lecturing in a high pitch voice while making gestures in your face. You hang your head in shame and hunch your shoulders unhappily. You don't really want to look at mom or dad right now, although it's kind of hard to ignore mom wagging that index finger in your face every 2 seconds. What can anyone do really? You might put your hands in your lap and go still, trying not to fidget or your mom will demand/ask if you're paying attention. You're certainly not going to make eye contact with either because the lecture could go on even longer. You sink further into the couch cushion and stare at your hands, your feet, the floor--anywhere but at them. You might put your head in your hands with your elbows resting on your knees. When they've finally finished, both are standing over you (your dad has at least a foot more in height and 50 lbs. over you) and they want a response. There's only 2 things you can say at that point to appease them. In a higher pitched, pleading voice, "I'm sorry!" and in a quiet voice you speak the old stand-by, "It'll never happen again." This is the average appeasement to your parents, effectively ending the session with both parties showing proper submissive and dominant behaviors.
You just caught your dog chewing some furniture to shreds. "NO! BADDOG!" you yell. Your husband comes in at the noise and gets angry as well. Both of you stand over and stare furiously at Fluffy. This means that you and your husband have several feet in height and about 200 lbs. in weight over your dog, so it's terrifyingly intimidating! Your dog cowers with his/her belly to the floor and puts both ears and tail down. You point your index finger at the couch and the dog, yelling loudly in a high pitched voice. Your husband's voice is deeper, sounding similar to a growl. Fluffy tucks in the chin on forepaws and avoids eye contact. His/her tail is tucked under the body and your Fluffy's back is hunched in a submissive, crouching posture. These postures might be accompanied by a high pitched, apologetic whine from your canine friend. By this time, both you and your husband have run out of yelling steam and the baddog lecture is over. The dog cautiously approaches you both. Fluffy's head and tail are kept very low to the ground and tries meets your eyes for a brief instant. Your dog might attempt to lick your hands or face to appease you.
Notice any similar behaviors? The long lasting relationship between us is a proud and long standing tradition. Trust, loyalty and intelligence are the key ingredients to a life long friendship.
