tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22640537332772756522024-02-19T20:29:20.415-05:00GiaToldMeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-49850309751228009352014-11-25T16:16:00.001-05:002014-11-25T16:45:13.427-05:00Maybe Ferguson Has My Thyroid Medication (RIP Michael Brown)<div style="text-align: center;">
<img src="webkit-fake-url://6c1b5169-6305-48f2-8f9d-894dd588cde3/imagejpeg" /><img src="webkit-fake-url://357d82b4-fb72-4482-9680-7ebe43644205/imagejpeg" /></div>
<br />
So during this time of scrambling to try to find my thyroid medication that is not a narcotic or controlled substance (Jeez, that's something I do not say often, hardy har har....) I've been ruminating on the killing of Michael Brown.<br />
<br />
Is it so implausible to believe that BOTH Mike Brown AND police officer Darren Wilson, MADE MISTAKES? Maybe the EXACT equal amount of mistakes?<br />
I'm talking human mistakes having zero to do with the amount of melanin contained in either of their chemical makeup?<br />
Talk about everything having to be black or white!<br />
Sometimes tragedy is just that. Pure, biting, searing hot, inexplicable, tragedy.<br />
<br />
But, then I start to really ponder..................<br />
And this is the thought that sickens me the most:<br />
Every single minute leading up to that day of the shooting, was shaping up for the following.<br />
If, and when, a potential, tragedy happens it would NEVER, EVER, EVER, be viewed as partially to blame by "either side".<br />
I think the whole system and community resources (ie politics) ramped the police force up, who enjoyed the power immensely, and then panicked when one officer, by himself, faced with his own real fear, made stupid and fatal mistakes that killed an unarmed young man, also incurring his own tangible fear, who made stupid mistakes as well.<br />
(Run on sentences are my thing sometimes.)<br />
<br />
Look, cops want waaaaaaay too much "stand at attention" respect and superhero reverie. Those things turn some of them into edgy, easily agitated, assholes.<br />
Some kids want to act like they are invincible douchebags, walking in the middle of the street with cars coming, because they can, cursing in front of people and babies that don't want to hear it, and feeling like nothing can EVER happen to them because stupid stuff always happens to other kids.<br />
<br />
Do I think if it was ME that shot an unarmed kid be him black or white on the street that I'd have a grand jury deciding if should be tried?<br />
No, no, nononononono!<br />
I might've been born in the morning folks, just not yesterday morning.<br />
My trial (or plea bargain) would arrive faster than my fucking thyroid medication!!<br />
<br />
Of course cops get special treatment. Always have, always will<br />
But, furfucksakes, things in that neighborhood (and a lot of others across the nation and world by the way) were, and are, stewing like a two day old can of piss warm beer, with cigarette butts floating in it, after a hotel party, with a buncha rockstars and their chick minions passed out around it.<br />
<br />
It's being going on like that way too long and it's still is, and no one does a real fucking thing to help clean it up.<br />
Dump the beer and recycle the fucking can.<br />
<br />
I'll tell you what it gonna take.<br />
It's simple.<br />
<br />
Mean Aliens.<br />
Or, Zombies.<br />
<br />
Those are the only two things that will facilitate scenarios that will make everyone forget about, all the ridiculous things that piss us off about one another. Things that cause such deeply saddening and emotionally draining chaos in every fucking community all over the freakin' planet.<br />
<br />
Those two things, Mean Aliens or Zombies,<br />
(Oh man, hopefully one or the other, not BOTH together!), will bring us together as the human race to fight for a common cause and force us not to care about each others sexual orientation, religion, skin color, job status, uniforms, push up bras, tattoos, etc..............<br />
<br />
I'm in all honesty, from the bottom of my heart, praying, really, really praying, for Mean Aliens OR Zombies.<br />
<br />
There's seriously a better chance that those things will show up sooner than my fucking non-narcotic THYROID MEDICATION!!!<br />
<br />
<h4>
RIP Michael Brown</h4>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-35453840385628626172014-09-23T03:46:00.000-04:002014-09-23T04:15:17.910-04:00FULL CIRCLE (The First in a Series of Jayson Essays)<div class="p1">
<b><u>Full Circle </u></b></div>
<div class="p1">
For Jayson</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Today hurts like fuck.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Crying out loud fuck.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Big tennis ball in my throat fuck.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Headache from trying to control it fuck.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I can’t explain when it’ll show up, what sets it off, why.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I can only say when it comes, its an overused, rehashed, description: An immense wave of crippling sadness.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">How did all the great writers come up with new and fresh descriptions of pain, wistful mourning and loneliness?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">It’s like when I hear people say that, “Every band sounds like THAT band.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">How in this time on the planet could anyone at all have an original thought? Melody? Idea? Burst of inspiration? Haven't they all been used, quoted, regurgitated already?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I remember the night our relationship changed, just like it was yesterday.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I can’t remember the color underpants I’m wearing right this second, as I type, but I remember that night. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Almost every minute.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">There was a small party planned at my friend’s house during winter break my freshman year of college.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">A bunch of us were headed over to a couple’s house that had been together for years.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“The Brenda and Eddie of Harborfields Class of ’84”.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Eddie” was my friend since my first day of kindergarten. One of my favorite dudes. Always an old soul.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Brenda” was his amazingly sweet and kind girl, who showed up late to the shindig that was high school, in the beginning of 10th grade I think.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">They met.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">They courted.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">They were together since.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Seriously. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">They “got an apartment with deep pile carpet” in Commack.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">It was the first of our coupled friends to get their own place outside of college dorm rooms.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">We were all so excited for them. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">So grown up.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I had my mom buy me a bottle of Korbel Brut “Champagne” as a housewarming gift to be hospitable.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I tied a bow around it. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Classy.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">It was a freezing cold night. Must have been middle of December. I remember there was snow on the ground that had frozen over. Little glistening crystals of ice coated everything and made it all so pretty and festive. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I scraped off my windshield and drove my white ’76 Chevy van to the party. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">It was a basement apartment around the back of a house.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">The stairs down were slippery from a broken gutter that caused patches of ice.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Eddie” was sprinkling salt-melt on them when I got there.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Heyyyyyyy! Alright!! Glad you’re here Gee!! Drinks are flowin’” He hugged me and I attempted to hand him the “champagne”.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Such sophistication Gee! Thanks. Give that to “Brenda”, I’m sure we’ll get to it later.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">When I walked in, I received a similar gregarious welcome.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Everyone yelling, “HI!!! Hey!! Yo Cerone!!!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">More hugs.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“What’s Up? How’s school? Let me put your coat on the bed. Wanna play quarters?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I scanned the room, there were people I had know as far back as grade school and as recent as 11th grade.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">All friendly faces.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">A bunch of them were sitting around a small kitchen table plastic cups in front of them filled with foamy beer.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Bumb clink.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh! Drink drink drink!!!!!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Quarters.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Beer pong hadn’t even been a gleam in our future embryos’ eyes yet.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Quarters was the game.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Cerone, Cerone, Cerone, sit, play quarters!!” someone yelled.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I squeezed my chair in.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Looked to my left.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Hey Griesing? How’s it going?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Jayson beamed with fuzzy joy. Big cheshire cat smile. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">We hugged warmly.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“How’s Stoneonta?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“How do you think it is? It’s Stoneonta for Chrissakes. It’s awesome! You’re still local, get Terc and come up and visit, open invitation Buddy. You know you’re always welcome, anytime.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Jayson in the classic, contagious high pitched chortle/exclamation, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“I KNOW!! I AM!! Right? Heeeeeeee!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">He set me off right there. Constant stream of laughter and yelling with my Buddy to the left.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I was on fire that night. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Some nights the quarters just landed where they were supposed to. A perfect little “plop” into the cup of cold beer. I was the Minnesota Fats of the classic drinking game that winter evening.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Hell, I was the LeBron of Quarters. Some nights you just had it. It could never be explained.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Cerone is my partner tonight!! Who’s up? We are unbeatable. Heeeeeee-yeah! Riiiiight?!!”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Hours passed. I literally began to experience what could only be described as “quarters elbow.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">No one could go on. Griesing and I had decimated everyone. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">My Buddy and me made them all look like hacks. Ha</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Slowly people started to drift into the bedroom to get their coats.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“We’re donzo!” they’d say.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“I gotta work for my dad tomorrow. Buy Christmas presents. Later guys.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Jayson smiled at me. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">We high-fived.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Pussies. We destroyed them!!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I’ll be honest. I was pretty buzzed. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Maybe more than pretty buzzed.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I remember just looking back straight at his face, right into his eyes. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Wait, wait, wait. When the fuck did Griesing develop such blue fucking eyes?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">What the fuck was <i>that</i> about?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">He was wearing a long sleeved and collared polo shirt with blue and white stripes. The azure blue on the shirt had nothing on those eyes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I was puzzled.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Total pussies Griesing!!” I stammered after I snapped to, a half a second away from it being uncomfortable.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Jayson looked down to reached to pick up an errant quarter. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I glanced around. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Later Tommy!” I yelled to break the up moment a little bit more. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Maybe to disengage the slight fluttery feeling in my stomach.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Since when did Griesing have such white straight teeth?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">That big “M” shaped upper lip, that overlapped his bottom lip ever so slightly? </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Looked like he guzzled a glass of cherry kool-aid and it stained his lips that color permanently. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Shining skin. Light he was lit from within.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">That hairline. Perfectly mussed locks grown a little longer than when he was in high school. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">His hair still with the natural highlights from the summer, no? Was that possible?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Tiny little white scar over his eyebrow, that made a tiny slash right into it, where the hair didn’t grow back.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">What the fuck kind of beer was I drinking?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Once a lot of friends split. “Brenda and Eddie” sprawled out on their love-seat for two.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Seemed like everyone that was left at the party was paired off one way or another.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Eddie” put on a movie. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Turned off the lights so the room glowed only from the TV.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">American Werewolf in London.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">It seemed as though all the make-out couples had monopolized the furniture.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Fuck it.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I sat on the floor with my back against the sofa. My knees pulled up against my chest.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Griesing sat next to me. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Just to be sociable. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">He had nowhere to sit either. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">One couple were already in the bedroom screwing around on the leftover coats.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Not a lot of options for the young and horny.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">The movie had just started, and he and I started wise cracking the flick.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Yeah, I’m sure I would ask anyone why there’s a pentagram painted in what might be blood on the wall of a pub, when its freezing outside, and there’s no where else to have a fucking beer. I’m just keeping my trap shut and going with it. That;s for damn sure!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Griesing exploding with that addictive high pitched laugh.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Riiiiiight? I knooooow? Who’s fucking up that chance for a beer on a cold night in the middle of nowhere England?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">The two of us cracking up. He punched my shoulder. I punched him back.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Sssssshhhhhhhh you two. This is the good part....”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Sorry!” I said stifling a giggle.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"> I grabbed Griesing’s beer and sipped.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Yeah, oh nooooooo, we don’t wanna ruin a movie everyone has seen 25 times. Riiiiiiiiight?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">We both laugh like idiots together.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“SHUSH Jay!!!!! Seriously!!” “Brenda” admonished from the love-seat.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">In that nicely buzzed, kind of dream like haze, it seemed as though everyone was getting into the movie. It quieted down. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">It was one of those films you could watch a thousand times and never get tired of it.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I shifted a bit and stretched my legs out straight under the coffee table.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Putting my palms on either side of me on the “deep pile carpet”.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I’m not sure exactly when. I mean I don’t have a timestamp for it or anything.....</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">(I think in real life no one is supposed to remember such mundane details. They’re good for books and movies, but real memories often weed out the seemingly unimportant stuff.)</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">But, around that time, I felt the side of Griesing’s right hand brush my left pinky.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get that weird swish of goose bumps and flippy stomach that makes your head light and you swallow really hard without warning.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Wanna beer?” he whispered.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Yes please.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Griesing got up to go to the kitchen. I ran my hand over the spot he had been sitting. It was still warm. I could feel the cold coming from under the doorway just a little. Every once in awhile a tiny hint of chilly, winter breeze. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I hadn’t felt it when he was sitting next to me.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">He opened the fridge. Light spilled into the room.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Hey! Jay, what’s the deal, it’s fucking bright. Close the fridge!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“We need a beeah moron. Any left?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“You see any Einstein?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“No. (Giggle) Maybe you’re hiding ‘em.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“If you don’t see any, then there’s none left. Gia brought a bottle of champagne, open that.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Griesing futzed around the fridge.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Bottle of bubbly with a bow!!! Niiiiiiiiice, heeeeeee-yeah!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">He popped the bottle and some fizzed up and over. He quickly put his mouth over the top.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Whoops. Good thing I was here to catch it! Could’ve been a catastrophe!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I smiled.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Griesing closed the fridge, came back he sat down next to me.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Wait. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Wait.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Did he, was he a lot closer?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Nah.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Stupid.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">He took a light swig of the “champagne” and held his mouth over the top. Then he smiled. Those lips. Those cherry kool-aid lips. What the fuck?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">He handed me the bottle.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Usually one must go to a bowling alley to meet a woman of your stature.” he recited in a bad aristocratic accent.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Yeah, well a real woman could stop you drinking.” I snapped back smiling.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">At once, in unison, we said, “She’d have to be a real BIG woman!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Both of us died laughing. Seriously like tears laughing.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“YOU GUYS ENOUGH. Shut the fuck up!!!</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">We both muffled our giggles and tried not to look at each other. With only the light of the TV, if we made eye contact we’d crack up. Both of us losing it.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Passing the bottle of champagne back and forth, we continued to watch the movie.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">There were some pretty racy parts that made me uncomfortable, for what ever reason.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Like watching a ballgame with my dad and a tampon commercial would come on.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">What was the big deal?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">One of life’s unexplained mysteries.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Life’s unexplained mystery, just like the moment Griesing slid his hand over and took mine lacing our fingers together. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">My heart stopped.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Long fingers, not particularly big hands for a ballplayer. good grip though.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Those are the things I thought.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Then, a thought so loud screaming in my head I was sure everyone in the room could hear it. Everyone in the world could hear it! </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING? IS IT? IS THIS A DREAM. IF IT IS I HOPE WE DON’T WAKE UP RIGHT NOW! I’M SERIOUS?!!!!!”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">We started to rub each others fingers and palms and a some point he switched hands and put his arm around me.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I leaned into him.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">With my free hand I picked up the bottle of bubbly and took a small swig. Then I’d hold it to his lips. He’d swig and smile at me.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING? IS IT? IS THIS A DREAM. IF IT IS I HOPE WE DON’T WAKE UP RIGHT NOW! I’M SERIOUS?!!!!!”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Griesing? Me? Just bizarre.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Whoever was making out with who on the sofa decided to shift positions and kneed me in the back of the head.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Ow, Shit! I hope it’s worth it.” I whispered.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I glanced behind and up a little to see if I could get a better vantage point.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">When I turned back, my nose brushed his.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">And just like that his mouth was on mine.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">The taste of sweet, fizzy alcohol and maybe tangy, yet ambrosial,watermelon candy?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING? IS IT? IS THIS A DREAM. IF IT IS I HOPE WE DON’T WAKE UP RIGHT NOW! I’M SERIOUS?!!!!!”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I noticed right away, we kissed exactly alike.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">That night almost 30 years ago was the first time we, well, we, you know......</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">He asked me to follow him home after we fell asleep and woke up groggily on the “deep pile carpet” both of us shaking off the haze.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I stayed over his house in the basement.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Slept next to him, cuddled together in his bed. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Slipped out in the morning when it was just getting blue outside, before he woke up.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I saw him a few more times at different parties over that winter break, trying to play it cool.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Hey, sorry I didn’t call you, it’s been.......”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“No big deal, it’s fine.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Walk away, go to the keg.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Act like you don’t care. Act like you don’t give a shit.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Two hours later making out in a closet.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">End up back sleeping in his basement.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">On and off (much more off, <i>totally</i> more off) for 30 years, with some form of that sexy routine. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><b>Never</b> cheating on respective others if we had them.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Just knowing if we weren’t with anyone for real, and we were alone.....<i>well</i>.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">And NEVER, I mean NEVER basing our relationship on anything but true-blue, you can tell me anything, I’ll be there if you need me anytime, friendship.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I can not believe we never fucked that up.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I can not believe it lasted all those years. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Longer than any other part of the whole thing. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">(Hahaha)</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">It’s amazing that the really serious conversation we once had actually stuck.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“No matter what, I don’t want this to get in the way of our friendship. It’s too important.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“I know. I could deal without the other stuff, I mean it’s a lot of fun, don’t get me wrong, but our friendship I couldn’t deal with losing.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Griesing and me. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Two fully grownup little children made that work!!!</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">How did we do that? How did we not screw that up?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">We both, combined, into one, had the maturity of a 12 year old (and that’s overshooting), yet, somehow we pulled that off.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Just a couple of years ago we were in a bar with our significant others having a blast all together. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Hanging out. Laughing. Shots!! Him talking baseball with My Old Man and his buddy Lombo. Me talking shit about some skank in corner with Griesing’s beautiful, funny, chick and Lombo’s wife (one of my favorite people) Joanna. We were laughing at the skank’s crispy hair.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I kept hugging him. Squeezing and laughing and smooching him all over his face like a Grandma does to her Grandkid. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Him laughing. Swirling me around. Dipping me. Squeezing me back.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“You know”, he said to me “You’re one of my favorite people ever. I love you.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Heeeeeeyyyyy, c’mon, you know A LOT of people, you’re the fucking mayor...... you are the Greenlawn Water District Stud”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“I KNOOOOW! Riiiiight? Heeeeeee! But seriously, no seriously, you really are. One of my favorite people of all time.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“That’s funny, ‘cause you’re one of <i>my</i> favorite people of all time!! Griesing, you know how much I love you you?!!!!”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“How much?”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Let’s put it this way, I wish I had a dime for every bit of love for you I have.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Heeeeeee! Really poor Arthur reference dummy!”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“You kidding? It’s 750 million dollars worth of love!”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“I think one of the horses just fainted. Heeeeeeeee!! See? No one will get that but you!! Know what’s weird? It’s so easy to say I love you now. I have no trouble with it. Oh God. Gee, does that mean I’m a grown up? Does that mean WE are grownups?”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I smiled at him and grabbed his ass, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“No dope, it just means we’re drunk and you had a brain tumor albeit one that’s better but..........”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“HAAAAAAAA HEEEEEEEEE-YEEEEAAAHHH! That’s the best. I’m serious when I say Thank <b><i>YOU</i></b> Mr. Acavano!!”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Then he whispered through a smile.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Fuck all that. I love you, you beautiful tool.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I smiled back, “I love you too Griesing.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">About a month and a half ago when he was sick again. Really sick. I mean sick enough that I had to keep reminding him who I was, until he made me write my name down on the inside cover of his suduko book, we sat together in his basement.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">He looked so tired. I rubbed his back and he closed his eyes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I knelt in front of him. Taking his face in my hands. Looking him straight into those ridiculous blue eyes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Why don’t you lay back on me and I’ll rub your arms like after you used to pitch? I’ll scoot over on the couch and get you comfy, okay?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">He squinted back at me.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Okay.” with a tiny smile.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I positioned myself behind him and he laid up against me.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">I caressed his head for awhile humming “Wild Horses”. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Still with that great hairline.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">His breathing calmed. I felt him sinking into a comfortable position. I was kissing the top of his head dripping tears on his scalp, trying not to shake. I didn’t want him to know I was losing it. Crying so hard I was almost retching.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“You okay Jayson? Are you comfortable.? You know I love you.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“Uh Mmmmm Yes. Thank you. I love you too......................Um, Gia”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Slowly, he reached up and took my hand in his. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">He kissed my palm.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Same exact hands. Not particularly big for a ballplayer. Good grip though.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Then, a thought so loud, wailing, repeatedly in my head.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Screaming, screaming, I hoped and prayed he couldn’t hear it. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">So piercing I thought everyone in the world could hear it.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">“IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING? IS IT? IS THIS A BAD DREAM?!! PLEASE, PLEASE LET IT JUST BE A NIGHTMARE SO WE CAN WAKE UP FROM IT RIGHT NOW. I’M SERIOUS!”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOUqO1_NBWvhkJ3u8OwoiVEBBqnn-2dJS8KBbjZWRFiA3u8XWx39W1Najy_lePiI3jLNyNG3PqaXAZNEBSSxqsUA2KfmDgTM8bi8hS80TOfnnfJaONliFcUGHNqR563VydNwpZTlkSm1Q8/s1600/Gia&Jayfunnyface.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOUqO1_NBWvhkJ3u8OwoiVEBBqnn-2dJS8KBbjZWRFiA3u8XWx39W1Najy_lePiI3jLNyNG3PqaXAZNEBSSxqsUA2KfmDgTM8bi8hS80TOfnnfJaONliFcUGHNqR563VydNwpZTlkSm1Q8/s1600/Gia&Jayfunnyface.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-90973658910426500902014-09-22T17:26:00.002-04:002014-09-23T04:34:14.785-04:00Meryl<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOrJy20qU0CPOuxBq10dM_y9gz4ZTa2943ag-5X0QH5QNkPfJhZqbjeKL9Pj_4ppfYnmeVMkpAKEOdoPuxK9hqqf7lm9f3phiGi-nUkmVJPDeio6k9QEnz_e36KnbdwFZ_8R2m7dtGlIBq/s1600/meryl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOrJy20qU0CPOuxBq10dM_y9gz4ZTa2943ag-5X0QH5QNkPfJhZqbjeKL9Pj_4ppfYnmeVMkpAKEOdoPuxK9hqqf7lm9f3phiGi-nUkmVJPDeio6k9QEnz_e36KnbdwFZ_8R2m7dtGlIBq/s1600/meryl.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I went to the mailbox today kind of in a doleful, hazy, dream.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Another rough one today for whatever reason.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Ha.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">A million reasons.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I opened the mailbox and saw a padded manilla envelope I assumed was for our wonderful upstairs neighbor.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Sorting through what was left in the mailbox, I glanced once more at the envelope.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">It was addressed to me.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I pulled it out and read the label.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">My address.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">GIA CERONE</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The return address.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">MERYL DOVZAK</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I stood outside in the warm wind holding the envelope I know contained beautiful little treasures she wanted me to have.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Tiny trinkets of affection attached to the hope that they would lift me up just a bit.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">But I didn't open it.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Instead, I sat on the curb like I did when I was a little girl on Forest Drive and turned the envelope over and over in my hands.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Rubbing my thumb against the front.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"Fragile" (must be Italian, I thought with a smirk) written in swirling artistic cursive on the front.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Beautiful 9/11 stamps lined up perfectly.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I even smelled the friggin thing.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I grasped that envelope and I wept today.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Stop being a pussy Gia.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Yeah? Well FUCK OFF.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I cried holding that envelop from my friend Meryl.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">It had been in her hands a few days earlier. She had written the addresses and "Fragile".</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">She had taken the time to seal it, buy stamps, and bring it to her post office over a thousand miles away from where I sat at that very moment.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I have this friend, I thought.This beautiful, funny, tough, savvy, true blue friend, who goes through her own shitload of personal, physical problems that she can't get a straight answer about.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Doctors are SUPPOSED to do that.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">That's ALL they're SUPPOSED to do.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">They tell you what's wrong and help fix it. Nope. Not yet anyway, not for awhile.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I have this friend who sent me this envelope.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"HANDLE WITH CARE", it says.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">That's what she's doing to and for me.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Handling with care.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">And me, I'm sitting out on the curb crying because this envelope shows me just how much she really, really does.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-60125482690074223142014-06-18T19:18:00.000-04:002014-06-18T19:18:48.476-04:00It's Kind Of Funny........ But That's My Story And I'm Sticking To It<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My dearest friend, (next to My Old Man and my Sissy) lives in Northampton England. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ad and I are actually related.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not in the normal, my Mom's, great aunt's, husband's, step kid, kinda way.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No, no, it's more straight forward than that.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Adam is my brother. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">However, there IS a story behind our kinship.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u><b>The Scientific Explanation Of Simptoss and Genimi DNA</b></u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eons upon eons ago, in a parallel universe, two similar forms of energy ("simptae") converged to create a "simptoss".</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This simptoss stayed static for awhile, kind of suspended, if you will, in said universe for quite a long time, (more eons.)</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually, the parallel universe imploded and merged with what we consider our present universe.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh my, you see it's all very scientific. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Really, too complicated for you, my dear reader to grasp.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Okay. stay with me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Basically the simple version is, the simptoss split apart when it came in contact with the edge of the earth's atmosphere, changing the original chemical makeup of when they first converged, ever so slightly, and were catapulted, sadly, their separate ways. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Science, my friends is not always happy.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anywhoooo. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The simptae immediately each found a safe place to stay viable, by permeating each of our (Adam's Mom and my Mom's) DNA; albeit without their knowledge.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our Mothers, while thousand of miles and continents apart, didn't know they had "Gemini" altered DNA in their systems.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, each of our Mom's eventually got knocked up, by similar looking and behaved men.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And while not born on the same birthday or year, the two little bundles of joy (Ad & Me) were indeed brother and sister. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While I know that doesn't sound very logical, it is in-fact absolutely true.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Science is not always logical either, friends. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So we, he and I are Brothah From Anothah Muthah or Sistah From Anothah Mistah if you prefer.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the present day, due to the incredible leaps in technology, Adam and I found each other through a mutual friend on Facebook.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You're laughing?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Facebook connection made you laugh ? </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not the simptoss explanation?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I will never understand you unsimptossic humans.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's my story and I'm sticking' to it.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, where was I? Oh yeah!! Now Ad and I speak like 407 times a day through our phones and computers and we trade information like two washerwomen.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've always been an Anglophile. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">England is a very fucking cool place.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Adam lives there. Northampton, England with his beautiful wife Jemma, his adorable daughter (my Goddaughter) Daisy and Squeak the cat.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Northampton is like an hour north of London, but it might as well be next-door.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We are in touch constantly and during this World Cup have managed to watch games together sorta, kinda.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's been really, really cool.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jemma and Ad's friendship (brotherhood), I realized, is something that had been missing from my life, and is now back where it belongs. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I guess that's the only way to express it.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When we're not watching soccer (football, what ever) we're comparing notes on our days.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We'll look at maps of where each of us have been, and ask questions about history, people, food. you know normal boring stuff to everyone else, except us.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For instance, he lived in Islip, England when he was younger.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Reeeeeeally?? </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of my paren't first apartment's,when i was a baby was in Islip, Long Island.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I spent summers in the Hamptons, so did Adam. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thousands of miles apart.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He's obsessed with American gangsters and serial killers.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He and Jem gobble up the likes of Boardwalk Empire and "The Iceman" like Cornish Pasties on a cold night........</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>NOTE</b>: You didn't think I could get through a whole rambling story without referencing <a href="http://giatoldme.blogspot.com/2014/06/the-shannon-and-killer-i-love-word.html">THE SHANNON</a> at some point, in some way, did you? Gotcha bitches.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">........Gimme a Rose and Fred West documentary any day, any time.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pinky Blinders on BBC? Sign my ass up!!</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fuck, I'm even into the sappy intrigue Downton Abbey brings me. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hell.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'd like to end Mary myself with my bare hands!</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What an annoying twat.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But Sybill dies giving birth?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ridiculous.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We also keep each other entertained, by constantly trying to one up each other.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One moment acting all patriotic about our perspective countries, the next dissing them for their obvious weaknesses.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But man oh man I'll tell you where England has us beat. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Easily, hands down they have the best town names.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cities, villages, shires and hamlets.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Old school names.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yeah, we copy a lot of them, and some of ours are uniquely stupid like my parent's hometown of "Hicksville".</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But the English, shit, they just rock the names of where ever they call home.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I learned this one night when Adam and I were talking about funny phrases we think each of our countries have called our own.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Linguistic peccadillos. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Silly sayings. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Charming little American language nuances, or them, there dumb things we think those English people say all the time, ya' know?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jemma has naturally embraced the the perfect way to poo poo something in American (New York-eeeze actually.)</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just use the word you wish to brush off and then add "shm" or "schm" before it.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Adam will ask her if she feels like Pizza or Kebob for dinner.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jemma immediately snaps back, "Pizza Schmizza lets have kebob." in her sweet, Mary Poppin'seque English accent.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">LIKE A FREAKIN' BOSS!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jemma rules.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One night before signing off and bidding Ad, goodnight, I jokingly fired off, "Tally ho old chap and all that!"</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Adam LOL'd (remember we message each other to save on phone bills.)</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He replied, "No one really says that Gee. I haven't heard that except in old movies on the telly. Oh, but you know we live pretty close to a little town called Titty Ho."</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Screech the record.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Whaaaat? Whaaaat? Huh, huh, erm,,,,,,</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, look I'm pretty sure if you know even the smallest smidgen about me, you know I'm a 12 year old boy in a big, old chick's body.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Titty Ho?!!</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TITTY HO?!!!</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I started to giggle.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I mean really giggle.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I started typing away like a maniac to get back to Adam about this delicious revelation.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Alright, look, instead of trying to explain everything I wrote, I'm simply going to cut and paste my actual response.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is what I wrote back:</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ad, </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is no fucking way you really have a town called Titty-Ho. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I mean it's a real town? </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you mailed a letter there, you address it Town: Titty-Ho?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What do the boys in middle school think when they finally get to the point they know what it means and that it is actually where they live? </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At that age just telling someone where they live would give them immediate and non stop boners! </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Poor kids.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course my sick brain goes right to the origins of the name..............</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>The Legend Of Titty Ho</u></b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was a famous whorehouse back in the day and they had a real salty, well worn whore named Elaine. Elaine had been whoring for like 50 years. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The longest a whore ever worked.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her secret? She would ONLY titty-fuck!</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You wanted a blow-job with Elaine? </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nope, sorry, just titty fucks.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A simple handy? </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nuh uh, titty fucks is Elaine's thing - only!</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Potential John: I want Elaine for a half & half, cowgirl style with a Flaming Amazon to wrap it up! I'll pay triple! I'll pay quadruple!!</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">House Madam: Absolutely not!! This is Elaine Sir. Elaine and her famous titty-fucks or nothing at all!!</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Years passed and finally, one day, a young whore went to wake Elaine up for her day shift of titty-fucks.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Much to the younger whore's dismay, Elaine had passed. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Died peacefully in her sleep.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The whorehouse was overcome with grief and sadness.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The whole VILLAGE was distraught! </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Elaine was so popular and famous for her titty-fucks-only policy.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a sad, sad day.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The morning of Elaine's funeral, the whole town showed up. Not a dry eye in the house.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The mayor stood up and gave a heartfelt and caring eulogy. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Everyone was deeply, deeply touched.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then in a surprise move to everyone, the mayor unveiled a proclamation:</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Here ye, here ye!!! From this day forward, our little quaint hamlet of Beigeville will be renamed and forever be referred to as the Village of <b>TITTY HO</b> in honor of the wonderful Elaine. She was the best at what she did, and only did IT. Welcome one and all to TITTY-HO!"</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The End</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's my story and I'm sticking to it.</span><br />
<div style="color: #323333; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #323333; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-3112173081856300052014-06-03T18:52:00.001-04:002014-06-03T19:01:52.879-04:00THE SHANNON and The Killer (I love the word GOBSMACKED)<br />Seeing the play The Killer a few Sundays ago, made me think, a lot (something I try to do rarely, or it just never stops!)<br /><br />Anyway, I've already commented on how amazing and mind bending the play itself was. <div>
But then my thoughts drifted to......Michael Jordan.</div>
<div>
(Can't wait to see where this is going, right?)<br /><br />Years ago, I scored tickets to a Knicks Bulls game at The Garden. Jordan was playing. </div>
<div>
Well, he wasn't playing, he was dominating! </div>
<div>
It was like he had a light from within that just radiated outward. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It struck me as I watched him, mesmerized, I am seeing, I am witnessing, the person that is the <b>BEST</b> at this, this, <i>THING</i> he does.He has reached the pinnacle. There is no one better at <i>THIS</i> than him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was gobsmacked.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What a weird, simple thought. But so profound all at once. Imagine being the <b>best</b>, I mean really the <b>best</b> at something, anything, in this universe! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I took that thought home with me, and it's crawled back into my conscience at other times in my life since, but never with the power it did when I saw MJ beat the Knicks at The Garden that night. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, that is, until I saw Michael Shannon a couple of Sundays ago in The Killer. </div>
<div>
There it was again.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Boom.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This guy is the BEST at this, <i>thing</i> HE does, and I get to see it. Live! I'm a lifelong New Yorker. I've seen plays, musicals, bands. You know the drill. But Shannon? In this play? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
C'mon.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He's the greatest actor of my generation. </div>
<div>
He's the <b>BEST</b> at what he does. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Gobsmacked again. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm pretty lucky I've been privileged enough to see these things I have. </div>
<div>
I can tell my cats and they can tell their cats and their cat's-cats........</div>
<div>
Alright, I don't have kids, but you get the point.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Go see this and watch a guy do a thing better than anyone else in this universe. </div>
<div>
It's so good. </div>
<div>
HE'S so good it hurts.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Michael Shannon must suck at every thing else he does. I mean he has to, no? No one can be that good at something and still be good at anything else, can they?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Shit, maybe.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-44219347653346601062014-04-08T07:35:00.000-04:002014-04-08T07:35:09.253-04:00SignThings haven't been so good in Gia-Ville. My heart hurts, my head is confused, my life feels empty and practically meaningless.<br />
I'm a fucking mess.<br />
<br />
Wowza!!! What an upbeat, feel good, start to a story. Bet you all are just dying to keep reading riiiiiiiiiight?<br />
Well, it might be worth it to read on.<br />
Writing it out makes me feel better for a little while, so humor me, do me a solid and keep reading.<br />
Please.<br />
<br />
My favorite person ever, my heroine, my whole heart was my Grandma. My Mom's Mom.<br />
She was also bi-polar, manic depressive and completely out of her fucking mind.<br />
I, however, never knew that. I was never privy to her destructive "ups".<br />
I seem to remember once when she stayed over my house, I must've been six, I asked her why she wasn't getting out of bed at all for like days. She said she wasn't feeling well and needed to rest.<br />
Made sense to me. When I was sick, I stayed home from school, in bed watching Mike Douglas and Match Game.<br />
The "downs" were less destructive and easier to conceal I guess.<br />
<br />
My Grandma loved me more than anything in her life.<br />
I know it because she told me.<br />
<br />
I don't want offend any of my family, but I remember it like it was five minutes ago. She and I were sitting in our basement on the couch and she took my face in her soft hands and turned it to hers.<br />
"Listen Gia, you need to know this. You are my favorite. My absolute favorite. Don't go around telling your cousins, or anyone else in the family fuhgodsakes. I love them very much, but you are my favorite. Can you keep that a secret between us?"<br />
<br />
I told you she was crazy.<br />
<br />
But, at six or seven years old, it went into the vault and I've never put it on paper until now.<br />
<br />
I knew it was monumental somehow.<br />
It made my heart leap and soar.<br />
It was everything.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I was eight when they found her dead, in her tiny apt. of a heart attack. She was always taking off, going crazy places at crazy times, so when my Mom and Aunt hadn't heard from her in a week, they didn't panic.<br />
The neighbors in the upstairs apartment found her.<br />
She was dead for three days.<br />
<br />
<br />
Her heart gave out most likely they said, because of the multiple shock treatments she received over many years.<br />
Those were the days of modern science when they just strapped her down, jammed a rubber ball into her mouth and hit her with all the voltage she could handle.<br />
Wide awake, no comfort, on a cold metal table.<br />
Sometimes she shit or piss herself.<br />
Sometimes she'd get a little piece of her lip caught between the ball and her teeth and chomp a piece off.<br />
Sometimes it's even fucking worked.<br />
I mean short term memory completely gone, but she wasn't heading home to guzzle bleach again for the 12th time.<br />
They tried every drug imaginable.<br />
Lithium was the newest go-to miracle.<br />
It didn't work for Grandma.<br />
My Grandfather tried doctors all around the world.<br />
Nothing worked for Grandma.<br />
<br />
My Father had the incredibly brave, yet morbid task of identifying the body of his beloved mother in law, whom he affectionately referred to as "Headsy" because her head was so fucked up.<br />
She would just laugh and punch his shoulder and say, "Bobby, you're so bad!"<br />
My Dad gives great nicknames.<br />
<br />
So yeah, Dad had to go identify my Grandma.<br />
To this day, he's never discussed that the details out loud.<br />
<br />
My Mother and Aunt, hell, the whole family was devastated.<br />
<br />
I was devastated.<br />
I was eight years old.<br />
<br />
It was exactly at that time, I immediately began to obsess about killing myself.<br />
<br />
I told no one.<br />
<br />
It became abundantly clear that the hurt I was experiencing was too much for me to bear.<br />
Plus, what kind of world was it going to be without my Grandma?<br />
I stealthy snuck a steak knife out of the kitchen and hid it in my top dresser drawer.<br />
Everyday I would take the knife out and press the tip to where I thought my heart was.<br />
I'd apply a little pressure and a little more, and think,<br />
"Just a little harder, you can do it."<br />
<br />
Then I'd chicken out and hide the knife back beneath my undies.<br />
I was eight and I felt I had nothing left to live for.<br />
That's a fact.<br />
<br />
Then, little by little my newish baby sister began to help me heal. I loved her so much, it slowly dawned on me if I ended it all, I wouldn't get to squeeze her and smooch my face against the arm chair with kisses until she screamed with laughter.<br />
I wouldn't be able to lay next to her sweet little three year old, baby powder scented body and point to the little owl painted on her wall.<br />
"Where's Mr. Owl Jill?"<br />
She would turn her huge brown eyes towards Mr. Owl, smile, and point her delicate little index finger right at him.<br />
"Daaaaaare."<br />
She was a genius.<br />
<br />
Time and Sissy began to take away the sting.<br />
<br />
But the deepest most damaging pain has never fully gone away.<br />
The ache, the throbbing. The fear of being alone, losing all your love bundled into one human being.<br />
<br />
I live with it everyday.<br />
<br />
I remember asking Grandma once if she would be able to come to my wedding if I married John Lennon in a few years.<br />
She counted on her fingers and said, "Oh absolutely, it shouldn't be longer than 12 or 15 years from now. I'll be young enough to be there."<br />
Yessssssssss! Groovy!<br />
I was so excited! I thought Grandma would be waaaaaaaaay too old to come to my wedding.<br />
<br />
After she died in her very early 50s, I never again thought about getting married.<br />
Never dreamed about the white dress, the cake, the husband.<br />
Never. <br />
<br />
<br />
Years later I married a man I loved, to get him a green card.<br />
Honestly, one of the best things I've ever done in my life.<br />
He deserved to be a citizen.<br />
He deserved not to live here in fear.<br />
I wore a black Nicole Miller dress I returned the next day.<br />
We got married on a Tuesday evening, in a judges office on Larkfield road.<br />
I'll always love him. He's my best friend.<br />
We didn't stay together because of stupid stuff. Mostly, he wanted to be in California, and I wouldn't and couldn't go.<br />
<br />
I eventually opened my heart to a new relationship.<br />
I've been with my beautiful, loving Old Man ever since.<br />
<br />
I'll never get married again.<br />
It has to do with Grandma.<br />
That one is a recent epiphany.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
One of the bonuses of having a kooky Grandma in hind site, is that she would bend rules regularly to appease me and satisfy my ever whim. She had no boundaries when it came to giving me what I wanted. Frankly, I wasn't a demanding kid when it came to things. I liked being at home with my family, and lived on a block with tons of friends, so I was pretty content most of the time.<br />
<br />
A deep love of all kinds of music was instilled in me as early as I can remember.<br />
The record player was always stacked with LPs ready to drop.<br />
The radio always on.<br />
In the summer of '70 I turned four and was already nuts for The Beatles. I would sit on the living room floor staring at those record covers for hours.<br />
My mom, being a fantastic artist, would draw little symbols on all my 45s so I'd know which song to put on my record player.<br />
For instance, she sketched a little wine glass on the 45 of "Spill the Wine (Dig that Girl)" by Eric Burdon and War or a little beach scene with an umbrella and waves on my Bobby Darin "Beyond the Sea" 45.<br />
I couldn't read yet, but I was able to ascertain what I felt like grooving to at any given time thanks to my Mommy's brilliance.<br />
<br />
In 1970 the planets were apparently aligned just so. The energy of the times just right.<br />
A four year old Gia became completely and utterly obsessed with her beloved Beatles kinda new release "Hey Jude."<br />
I'm talking playing it, listening to it, swaying to it, 15, 20 times in a row.<br />
<br />
My poor parents must have been going insane.<br />
Let's face it, I've always been a sound queen, so if it went up to 11, that's what I listened to it at.<br />
Plus, belting it out at the top of my little, but already powerful lungs repeatedly, had to add to my parent's Beatles induced headaches on the reg.<br />
<br />
Guess who was the one person that could listen to me march around my room, hairbrush in hand (as a mic) and performing "Hey Jude" till the cows came home?<br />
Yes. Crazy, manic depressive, bipolar, Grandma,<br />
She lived for that shit.<br />
<br />
Mommy would take Grandma and me on errands. Maybe she didn't trust us alone together for longer periods of time. It's not the most far out speculation.<br />
Consider how much trouble a manic depressive Grandma with the slightly hyper and certainly mischievous four year that adored kooky grandma could ultimately get into. Mommy made the right decision schlepping us with her.<br />
Except for one little hitch......<br />
I had to always have the car radio on, and "Hey Jude" was being played on NYS AM pop music stations A LOT!<br />
Give or take every 10 minutes or so if you switched back and forth between the stations to avoid commercials. Which for a kid like me who only wanted to hear music, was a must.<br />
<br />
"Mommmmmyyyyyyyyyyyy, press the button the man is talking now, peeeeeeeeeze!"<br />
<br />
Grandma, my biggest supporter.<br />
"Kathy, she wants to hear music, change the station."<br />
<br />
"Alright, alright the two of you, can you gimme one sec? I'm driving here."<br />
<br />
Click.<br />
...........don't make it bad, take a sad song and make it better.........<br />
<br />
First I'd squeal like a piglet being murdered, at the top of my lungs, then bounce around the back bench like a seat-belt less lunatic. (What the fuck were seat-belts?)<br />
Let it be Gia?<br />
No way. I was off to the races.<br />
<br />
"REMEMBAH TO LET EM INTA YOUAH HEART, THEN YOOOO CAN STAAAART TO MAKE IT BETTAH."<br />
<br />
"Hey Jude" is an over seven minute song. And back in the late 60s, early 70's those NY stations played every note.<br />
And me? I HAD to hear every single last one of them.<br />
Grandma would grin like the lunatic she was and clap her hands along with her favorite little moppet's song and subsequent performance.<br />
<br />
Mother, bless her soul. Would slightly smile and deal with it, breathing deeply through her nose, staring through the windshield proud and utterly frazzled all at once.<br />
<br />
Eventually the song would end and I would smile broadly, feeling energized beyond words.<br />
Yes, at 3 or 4 years old, and even earlier than that, music made me feel what I feel in my heart about music to this very day.<br />
<br />
So, another song would come on and Mom would talk to Grandma about what we needed at the supermarket. I'd be singing along in the back, (albeit not as loud as if it was Hey Jude.)<br />
And Grandma would turn towards me, her shining Irish face all smiles and say.<br />
"Sing loud and proud baby, thattaaaaah girl, sing for Grandma and Mommy."<br />
I would. Gladly.<br />
<br />
<br />
God I loved my Grandma.<br />
<br />
<br />
Mommy in the meantime navigated the already traffic snarled Long Island streets and avenues.<br />
This was before there was a Stop n Shop on every corner, so Mommy had to travel quite a ways from our hidden little hamlet of Centerport to get to the supermarket, or mall, or the beauty parlor for that matter.<br />
"Mommmmmyyyyyyyyy, press the button the man is talking again, peeeeeeeeeze!"<br />
<br />
"Gia Baby, we're almost at the store, relax."<br />
<br />
"Oh fuhgodsakes Kathy, press the button for her, we're not there yet!"<br />
<br />
Click<br />
........you were made to, go out and get her......<br />
<br />
Not making this up.<br />
<br />
Me: "THE MINUTE YOOOO LETTA UNDAH YOUR SKIN....."<br />
<br />
Mommy: "Oh great. We are literally pulling into a parking space right now Mom! I want to get this shopping done already. Gia, I need to turn off the car, now the radio is going off."<br />
<br />
Me: "NOOOOOOOOOOO! Peeeeeeeeeezzzzzeeeee Mommy it's Hey Jude!!"<br />
(Tears welling up. No shit)<br />
<br />
Grandma: "Of fuhgodsakes Kathleen Eileen. Jesus Mary and Holy Saint Joseph let this child listen to the song. Let her SING!"<br />
<br />
Grandma turned around, "Sing it loud and proud Gia Mary!!!!"<br />
<br />
And I would. Right up to the very last fading NAH NAH NAAAAAAAH.<br />
I had the "Judey, Judey, Judey, Judey wooooow-wooooow scream down pat.<br />
Volume at eleven, bouncing on the back bench of a car with no seat belts, no air conditioning and a slightly spiderweb cracked front windshield (that was caused by my noggin hitting said windshield when my Mom's strong arm across the chest didn't work in lieu of missing seat belts.)<br />
And once the last NAH, NAH, NAH NAH, faded, Grandma would clap, and click off the radio and pull me out of the back.<br />
"Now let's go shop, Whaddaya say girls?"<br />
The three of us would carry on with the errands and we always got them done.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
My faith in God has waned quite a bit over the years. I blame it all on Catholicism. Ironic I know. The very thing that turned me onto God, systematically broke down any faith I had. I've never felt so cheated by any institution as I have with the Catholic church. The greed. The judgement. The intolerance, elitism, double standards, hatred of gays, disrespect of women. Twisting the supposed words of a peaceful, hippyish, probably married man, who seemed to maybe have conversations with God. Not just twisting the words, but leaving out key passages that bothered the corrupt money grubbing leaders of the church, because the words took away their riches, their land holdings, their power.<br />
Then as time progressed, those church leaders preaching chasteness and celibacy, used their power, intimidation and mind games to rape the children who held them in such high esteem.<br />
And not one or two of them. Hell, not even hundreds of the . Thousands of them!<br />
And those evil, pompous, fuckers covered it up, made excuses and moved the priests around that committed those heinous crimes.<br />
All that respect for the priests I had growing up. Wanting to get on their good side. Assuming they were closer to God than me or anyone for that matter.<br />
All the respect.<br />
It was and is horseshit.<br />
And I'm pissed as hell at Catholicism, because way back when when I had deep loving faith in SOMETHING, it seemed prayer and faith calmed me. My thoughts didn't race as much. I had a unwavering belief that I was here for a reason. That I made a difference, because God was beside me. Maybe even Jesus was his son and he was near me. I didn't even fear death.<br />
Then because I saw what Catholicism had gotten away with all those years. The lies upon more lies. I stopped believing. I stopped praying. I stopped thinking I was here for a reason. How can I matter if God doesn't exists? Who the fuck am I praying to? What is prayer for that matter? Any peace I experienced from this shit called prayer, was me just talking to myself.<br />
<br />
Fuck.<br />
<br />
As I stated much earlier, I've hit a emotional wall going about 140 mph.<br />
I'm spent. Empty. Constantly on the edge of tears. That awful lump that never leaves my throat, goes on to give me stomach aches.<br />
It sucks. I don't know how else to explain it.<br />
I have an amazing support system.<br />
Help through modern pharmaceuticals.<br />
But nothing's helping. It's just going to have to run it's course. It's just going to take time. This too shall pass. I just wish it wasn't taking so long.<br />
<br />
Well, I'm not a very patient person. So I'm looking for something to help speed up the process. And let me tell you, I'm not ready to be strapped to a table like Grandma and get zapped, even though it's much more humane nowadays.<br />
Nuh uh. No thanks. Not quite there yet.<br />
<br />
So, I'm going back to basics and giving this prayer thing a shot.<br />
I don't always bless myself before and after like I use to almost compulsively when I was a kid.<br />
I also don't clasp my hands together in prayer position, like I did back then.<br />
(I believed with all my heart, the harder you squeezed your hands together, the better chance God or Jesus heard you.)<br />
<br />
Now, I just speak out loud, in the car asking for peace and healing. I pray for everyone I love, I pray for the whole world to get better.<br />
So it's almost like meditation, as it's extremely repetitive almost like a mantra.<br />
My thoughts don't calm, so that sucks. And there's an excellent chance I'm just talking into the air ducts of my car, but I'm trying and I'm not just asking "him(?)" for stuff for me.<br />
Not just Gia, Gia, Gia.<br />
So that's something.<br />
Maybe a step in the right direction.<br />
<br />
But see, I'm still Gia, and sometimes when I'm really, really sad? I pull the car over and get a little loud with the air ducts or "him(?)".<br />
I start yelling that I need a mother fucking sign that someone is listening to me.<br />
C'mon, throw me a bone!! Tell you what, God's too busy? What about you Grandma?<br />
I was bestowed these great, insane mental genetics from you.<br />
It's been a long time, and I still can't talk about you without tearing up.<br />
I can't think about you to this day without shaking a little.<br />
I'm still so fucked up because you left me when I was eight.<br />
I wanted to commit suicide at eight years old!! It doesn't get much darker than that.<br />
Writing this thing has me dry heaving at certain intervals.<br />
I just want a tiny glimmer of a speck of something that can tell me this whole thing has some kind of meaning.<br />
That I might feel better someday.<br />
<br />
Then I think, who the fuck am I to demand anything like that? Why do I deserve reassurance? I've done some pretty shitty things in my life.<br />
I haven't directly killed anyone or anything.<br />
But, I've done things that I knew would hurt people emotionally and did them anyway.<br />
Selfish shit. Uncaring unthinking shit. Stuff I wish I could go back and change. Change in a big way.<br />
So who the fuck am I to be given a sign that will make poor little me feel better?<br />
I am nobody.<br />
<br />
But I'm still asking.<br />
Pleading really.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
My best friend is a three year old living angel I spend most my days with. She is exquisitely beautiful. All pink pursed lips. Caramel and blond streaked curls. Light greenish eyes highlighted by eyelashes that curl up and touch her delicate eyebrows.<br />
She's a gorgeous little girl. No doubt. No argument. Just a fact.<br />
Lemme tell you a little something about my petite best friend. As GORGEOUS as she is? She has a heart and personality that eclipses her physical beauty.<br />
She is so intrinsically kind, giving and loving, it just melts your heart.<br />
She glows with love and purity. She is sight to behold. She's a young person who I guarantee is going to somehow make this world a better place someday. Directly through her presence. I'm putting this out there right now. You read it here first. She's going to change the world.<br />
<br />
I have the honor of taking and picking her up from school every M,W,F.<br />
I miss her when she's at school, but she practices her letters and numbers and creates beautiful artwork as well, so I know it's good for her that her Mama makes me share her with other kids and adult teachers.<br />
<br />
I marvel at the way she sits in her seat in the back of my Mini Cooper making small talk and astute observations.<br />
She babbles away about the world around her with no filter, pointing out the beauty that races by her as she gazes out the back window.<br />
<br />
"The sky is more bluer than yesterday Gia. It also has more puffy clouds. It makes me more happier that the clouds float in the bluer sky. Maybe that means the flowers will be coming soon. We need more flowers. Yellow and purple ones, but pink ones are my favorites. I can see the trees have seeds on them now, that means the leaves will come back soon and we can go swimming at the beach or in the pool. I'll bring my mermaid dolls and they will keep me safe, because their hair is long and they have fins instead of legs.........."<br />
<br />
I can listen to her all day. Everything she says makes perfect sense.<br />
It's all pure and lovely and coherent.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The little angel is also a big music lover.<br />
She was recently completely potty trained, but honestly? My poor little buddy takes poops the size and shape of meatballs. You can not believe what comes out if that cute little butt!<br />
It's to the point where it makes her uncomfortable and a little nervous to poop.<br />
She'll squeeze her little eyes together really tight, her face bright red.<br />
"Gia, I'm trying, but the poop feels so stuck!"<br />
I rub her tummy and back and tell her to relax and don't try so hard.<br />
I make her drink tons of water during the day to avoid the poop time blues.<br />
<br />
Then, one day the two of us had a brilliant idea! Let's sing the alphabet as many times as it takes until the poop comes!<br />
So, I sit on the floor in front of her in the bathroom and we croon the ABCs sometimes four times in a row.<br />
Well be on the fifth go around, usually around "h" and she'll exclaim,<br />
"Wait!!!!! Ssssshhhhhh no more ABCs, poops coming!"<br />
And damn if there isn't the sweetest sounding plop you've ever heard.<br />
"The water splashed my booty butt on that one Gia!"<br />
I stifle the biggest laugh, wipe her up and we flush the toilet, singing, in unison,<br />
"Bye, bye poop, AND DONT COME BACK!!"<br />
<br />
She sings "Let it Go" from Frozen at the top of her lungs, and goddamn if she doesn't sing right on key! It's pretty amazing.<br />
You haven't lived until you've heard a three year old sing, on key, the lyrics:<br />
"My power flurries through the air into the ground<br />
My soul is spiraling in frozen fractals all around<br />
And one thought crystallizes like an icy blast<br />
I'm never going back, the past is in the past!!!!!"<br />
<br />
It's a Goddamn trip.<br />
<br />
Usually, I'll put the Disney Sirius/xm radio channel on in the car to and from her school. They play a good mix of Disney movie tunes, and pop geared to younger kids (think One Direction and Selena Gomez.)<br />
<br />
A couple of days ago I had my iPod plugged into my stereo. The way I've been feeling, I've been trying to sing a lot and relish some of my old faves that I have queued up on the old iPod.<br />
<br />
It was finally time to pick up my buddy from school, so we walked back to the car and I strapped her in the back car seat and off we went.<br />
<br />
"Eh-hem Gia (yup, she says eh-hem), could you put on Disney music peeeeeeeeeeeeze?"<br />
No problem the peanut gets anything she wants from me.<br />
<br />
So I turn on the radio and instead of Radio Disney, I hear the first jaunty guitar chords of Rocky Raccoon..<br />
See, the radio was set to iPod, not satellite.<br />
<br />
I'm just about to unplug it, when from the backseat, the little precious sweetheart, exclaimed exuberantly,<br />
"Noooooooooo! What is dis song Gia? I yike it. Can you keep, it on?"<br />
<br />
<br />
I reach back (my eyes still on the road) and extend my balled up fist towards her.<br />
<br />
"Knuckle bump me Hotstuff! This song rocks." I say proudly.<br />
<br />
I feel her tiny fist context with mine.<br />
"Damn Skippy." she responds nonchalantly.<br />
(I've really got to start being more careful about using my verbal affirmations around her.)<br />
<br />
Rocky ends before we get halfway home.<br />
"AGAIN GIA AGAINAGAINAGAIN!"<br />
I quickly switch the iPod to song repeat.<br />
"Well somewhere out the black mountain hills of Dakota, there lived a young boy named Rocky Racoooooonah....."<br />
My angel is clapping and kicking her feet like a maniac.<br />
She starts to sing every last word of every line of the song.<br />
Guuuyyyyyyy<br />
Eyyyyyye.<br />
Boooy.<br />
Salooooooon.<br />
<br />
I'm singing right along with her.<br />
She's such a fast learner.<br />
<br />
We pull up to her house. I edge my way up the driveway.<br />
"Oh, ooooooh Gia." I hear, tearfully from the backseat.<br />
I slam on the brakes and spin around like a banshee.<br />
"What's the matter precious baby? Are you okay?"<br />
Her round, pink cheeks are shiny with tears, and she starts to do that crying and talking thing at the same time that sounds like a mixture of a demented case of the hiccups and a stutter.<br />
<br />
"It's, (hic) that I I I, (hic) love the Rocky song (hic, hic) so much I II wwwwwant to drive around summ-oah (hic) and sing it wif (hic) youuuuuuuuuu! Peeeeeeeeeez!"<br />
<br />
I'm dumbfounded and relieved all at once.<br />
<br />
"Baby girl, I answer in my most soothing voice, "we can drive around and listen to it as many times as you want, it's okay. Don't cry little one."<br />
<br />
The tears dry up immediately.<br />
<br />
"Like even 30 hundred tooooooiiiiiiiiiiimes?"<br />
<br />
"Yup like 30 hundred times."<br />
<br />
So, I pull out of the driveway and we cruise the streets of Syosset with Rocky Raccoon on replay over and over.<br />
"Sing it loud and proud peanut!" I yell toward the backseat. <br />
She responds by singing even louder, right on key.<br />
It's probably about a good 45 minutes later, Rocky on repeat the whole time, that I realize I don't hear my best friend singing along anymore.<br />
I glance into the rear view to see her little curls covering her eyes shut tight, her head tilted to the side, breathing deeply and in and out in and out.<br />
<br />
I turn down Rocky and pull the car over towards a sidewalk and park under a tree.<br />
<br />
<br />
And now it's me with the tears streaming down my cheeks.<br />
All the hurt I've been feeling front and center in my heart. All the regret, embarrassment. All the hopelessness.<br />
I watch my best friend sleep so,peacefully, me sobbing quietly as to not wake her.<br />
<br />
And just like that, I hear it in my head.<br />
So loud it's like Rocky Raccoon or Hey Jude turned to eleven.<br />
No voice I recognize in particular.<br />
Just the message.<br />
Loud and clear.<br />
<br />
"You wanted a fucking sign? Well you got it Honey. Now keep up with the praying, or meditating or talking to the air ducts, because I held up my end of the bargain, and if you hold up yours, I promise this too shall pass."<br />
<br />
And on a tree lined street, with the Beatle loving angel safely asleep behind me, I proclaim out loud, but not too loud to wake her.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Okay God. Okay Grandma......,,,,okay, okay."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-83457574040622338672014-01-25T08:23:00.001-05:002014-01-25T15:13:31.315-05:00Ode to Eydie or Sittin' With the PooPoo Girls<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Growing up with a great jazz drummer for an uncle is actually a blast. It's cool on so many levels.<br />First, he's a great man, just a really good guy. My Uncle Ronnie is one of the funniest guys you'll ever meet. The best joke teller.</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">You want to laugh? Maybe you're having a crappy day? Here's what you do. Find some working musicians. The more talented and seasoned the better, then just pose the simple question; "Anyone heard any good jokes lately?" Pause, and let the funny ensue.</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Pants-peeing funny. I Promise.</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">You want an open-</span><span class="s3">minded, liberal, arts loving childhood? Have a jazz legend as your uncle. You learn about tolerance, equality, and great, </span><span class="s3">and </span><span class="s3">I mean GREAT MUSIC!</span><span class="s3"></span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">So why the </span><span class="s3">sudden ode to my favorite uncle, </span><span class="s3">you may query?</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Simple.</span><span class="s3"> Eydie Gorme passed away last year.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Eydie from</span><span class="s3"> Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme (j</span><span class="s3">ust in case there's another Eydie Gorme driving a tractor or knitting a quilt in the Midwest somewhere.<br />I doubt</span><span class="s3"> it, but I like to cover myself</span><span class="s3">)</span><span class="s3">. </span><span class="s3"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">We were about 9 or 10 years old. </span><span class="s3">We, as in my cousin Laura and I</span><span class="s3">. Laura's </span><span class="s3">parents are Aunt Pat & Uncle Ronnie. Pat is my aunt on my mother’s side</span><span class="s3">.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Laura and I are about 5</span><span class="s3"> months apart. Put in the crib together since Day O</span><span class="s3">ne. Left</span><span class="s3"> kind of on our own</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">to laugh while our parents had a blast together. Doing whatever they did in those crazy</span><span class="s3"> 60's, 70's... </span><span class="s3">We </span><span class="s3">never</span><span class="s3"> ask</span><span class="s3">ed for</span><span class="s3"> specifics. Laura and I are both kind of afraid we might hear something that would make us throw up in our mouths just a little. Don't ask, don't tell.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">So it's, let's say 1976 to make it easy.<br /><br />Just to clarify, at any particular point during any particular summer, on</span><span class="s3">e of were always at the other’s</span><span class="s3">house.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Ours</span><span class="s3"> was</span><span class="s3"> in Centerport</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> Long Island, theirs</span><span class="s3"> was</span><span class="s3"> in Haworth</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> New Jersey.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We had the beaches, </span><span class="s3">and</span><span class="s3">they had the swim-club. We had bicycles with banana seats,</span><span class="s3"> and</span><span class="s3"> th</span><span class="s3">ey had mopeds. We had drive-ins, and </span><span class="s3">they had cool concert halls.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Pre</span><span class="s3">tty much either place was a kid’s</span><span class="s3"> paradise. Add to that fact that Laura and I were inseparable and cried when we had to leave each other, and our parents had no choice but to let us be together as much as they possibly could.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Our parents were really great taking turns driving the hour and a half (if there was light traffic on th</span><span class="s3">e Cross Bronx, which was rare) </span><span class="s3">back and forth after a week to do the switch.<br /><br />So I'm in Jersey one week in the early summer of 1976 and we are all sitting around the breakfast table slurping Cheerios and talking </span><span class="s3">nonstop</span><span class="s3">. Suddenly the subject of what Uncle Ronnie was doing that night was on topic. Was he going to Manhattan to play a jingle for Budweiser? Was he recording with Barry Manilow? </span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">Was he playing the Blue Note with Peggy Lee, who kissed all her musicians on THE LIPS </span><span class="s3">before taking the stage...</span><span class="s3">BLECHHHH?!! </span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">Was it was it was it was it?!! Was it?!!<br /><br />"No, no, no, girls. Uncle Ronnie is playing a date at the New Jersey auditorium with Steve & Eydie."<br />Laura and</span><span class="s3"> I eyed Aunt Pat like she had two</span><span class="s3"> h</span><span class="s3">eads (two very beautiful heads).</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Mom” Laura asked ,“</span><span class="s3">who are Steve & Evie?"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Eydie</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> babes</span><span class="s3">.</span><span class="s3"> Oh they're a very famous singing duo. They're married and been together for years. Like Sonny and Cher, kind of. They sing and dance and tell jokes. Like a nightclub act."</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">My cousin and I stared wide eyed </span><span class="s3">at each other across the table. </span><span class="s3">Sonny and Cher?! NIGHTCLUB? NIGHTCLUB? "Night" and "Club" in one word? Like the places with the names never spoken aloud around our pa</span><span class="s3">rents...</span><span class="s3">CBGBs or Studio 54? </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">What is this thing you speak of? We wondered with awe.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Daddy is playing drums in their orchestra tonight for their act."</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br />I tried to keep cool.</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />"Their um, nightclu</span><span class="s3">b act Aunt Pat?"</span><span class="s3"> I asked. </span><span class="s3">"Yes, sweetie. E</span><span class="s3">xcept on a larger stage, with a bigger audience."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Larger? Bigger? Nightclub?</span><span class="s3">!</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Dearest Lord of everythin</span><span class="s3">g holy, it's too much to fathom!</span><span class="s3"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Laura spoke first.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Mama, 5</span><span class="s3"> kids are a lot to babysit for </span><span class="s3">(Laura and my younger sisters and their </span><span class="s3">baby brother were also on hand). D</span><span class="s3">o you think Gia and I could go to the show? We'll be really</span><span class="s3">, </span><span class="s3">really</span><span class="s3">, </span><span class="s3">really good and promise not to talk and we will sit still and if we are bad you can send Gia home for the rest of the summer."</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />Whaaaaaaaaaaaa? Jeez! Laura was showing her hand. Going all in. Not pulling any punches.<br />I bit my bottom lip and swiveled my head towards my beloved Aunt & Uncle.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Uncle Ronnie had on a small smile. Aunt Pat furrowed her eyebrows.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Jeez girls</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> I mean jeez, Steve and Eydie aren't like the music you two like. They're not like Kiss or The Beatles, or even Barry Manilow.</span><span class="s3">”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /><br />I need to pause this story for full disclosure here. I'm a Fanilow. Have been since Uncle Ronnie played on some of his earliest albums. Laura and I wore out our 45 of "Could this be the Magic" and albums that included "Weekend in New England" and "Miracle" several times. To say nothing of "Copacabana"! Barry was upbeat, fun to sing and dance to, and most importantly was a great artist to play for. My Uncle still thinks the world of him.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /><br />So I continue.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"It doesn't matter Daddy! We want to see new music. We want to see Steve</span><span class="s3"> and Evie!"<br />"Eydie</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> honey. Eydie” my Aunt Pat corrected. </span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">“Hmm…w</span><span class="s3">hat do you think Ronnie?"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">My uncle shrugged his shoulders.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Let me call Dave the producer and see if he has an extra two seats no one is using. Can't hurt."</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Laura and I started jumping up and down like our names had been called on </span><span class="s3">“</span><span class="s3">The Price is Right</span><span class="s3">”</span><span class="s3"> to COME ON DOWN.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"S</span><span class="s3">teve and Edyie! Steve and Eydie, </span><span class="s3">yeaaaaaaa!!!"</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Our siblings stared at us, milk dribbling down their chins, with looks that can only be described as bright confusion.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">"So w</span><span class="s3">e can stay with Mae and watch TV</span><span class="s3"> and eat popcorn?" my cousin Kristin asked sheepishly?<br />"Yeah, Hun. You, Jill and RonJon will stay home with Mae." Aunt Pat replied.</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">The three "babies" all smiled at each other quite satisfied. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">"Ha! Mae always gives us extra ice cream and doesn't make us go to bed early," Kristin whispered to Laura and I.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">"Who cares nerd? You can eat your stupid ice-cream, we're seeing STEVE & EYDIE!"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Kristin, Jill and RonJon. They all shrugged, </span><span class="s3">put their bowls in the sink and ran upstairs to watch </span><span class="s3">“The Monkee</span><span class="s3">s</span><span class="s3">”</span><span class="s3">. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">We were free of them.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Uncle Ronnie was finishing up on a phone call.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"So you sure it's okay Dave? They're only 10, but they're good kids and are really well behaved (shooting us a, "you both heard me" glare). Great, great, they'll be thrilled. See you at the run through. Bye."</span><span class="s3"></span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Cue the continuation of the jumping and squealing!</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"We're going to the act! We're seeing Steve & Eydie! OH MY GAAAAWWWD!"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">My aunt laughed.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"We have just one little problem you two."<br />"Whaaaaaaat?!" we cried in unison.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Gia needs a nice dress. Something for this special occasion. Laura, you have that white one with the little red roses on the sleeves, you'll wear that, but Gia needs something new. We can stop on the way to the show and pick something up for Gia to wear. No big deal. We'll leave a little early. Both of you will take showers before you go. I'll let you know when. In the meantime, you both can go to the </span><span class="s3">swim club</span><span class="s3">, but you need to be back by 3:00 </span><span class="s3">at </span><span class="s3">the latest. 3:00 </span><span class="s3">at </span><span class="s3">the latest, or you can forget Steve and Eydie you got it?"</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">"Got it Mommy, promise." Laura said.</span><span class="s3"> We split the kitchen, to go change into our bathing suits.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Laura turned to me with a huge smile, but it faltered when she faced me.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Wassamatter Gee? Why do you look upset?"</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">"I have to wear A DRESS?! A dumb, stupid, girly, frilly dress? I hate dresses! What kind of an act <i>is </i>this? I never had to wear a dress to go to the circus, and that was at Madison Square Garden! We took a train to that, and I didn't have to wear a dress!!!!"</span><span class="s3"> I cried.</span> </span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"No, but you begged and begged for that stupid beanie cap with the propeller you HAD to have because you thought it could make you fly."</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"It CAN!! Sam and Iggy told me if the wind is just right, alls I have to do is run faster and I can get like 3 feet off the ground....3 feet!"</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"So, if you can wear that stupid beanie, you can wear a new dress just once to see Steve & Eydie! It's just one day! One day Gia. It won't kill you, and we can go see THE ACT!!!"</span><br />
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">I was at an personal impasse. I mean a dress? Dresses were for communions, christenings, funerals (yuck). Dresses itched. Dresses made me have to be careful the way I sat! You had to wear a dumb slip with a dress, which was really a way for grow ups to make you wear TWO dresses. So sneaky. Dresses just plain old stunk.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">But, this was a NIGHTCLUB ACT! This was Steve and Eydie. Like Sonny and Cher!</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"FINE! I'll wear the stupid dress, but I don't wanna wear a slip, if your Mom forgets about it, and it comes off as soon as we get home. Oh! And I DO NOT BRING IT BACK TO NEW YORK WITH ME!"</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Laura sighed. "Fine, it's just a dumb dress."<br /><br />As </span><span class="s3">amazing as it sounds, w</span><span class="s3">e got bac</span><span class="s3">k from the swim club at 2:50. Maybe because we</span><span class="s3"> checked the time every 10 minutes</span><span class="s3"> or so</span><span class="s3">. The excitement of seeing Steve & Edyie </span><span class="s3">was </span><span class="s3">bubbling up inside of us like </span><span class="s3">the ice cold coke and Lik-M-Aide</span><span class="s3"> in our mouths.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">"Each of you take a shower and wash your hair, both of you! No skimping! I'm checking" Aunt Pat told us. She was serious.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Once we were all clean and shiny, Aunt Pat took turns spraying "No More Tangles" in our hair, and brushing out the knots. Then she braided both our heads and tied brand new ribbons for each of us.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Laura put on her white dress with the roses, and spun around.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"See? Don't I look pretty? Like Truly Scrumptious from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang."</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />I had to agree, she did look nice.<br />"You wear dresses good."</span><span class="s3"> I told her. </span><span class="s3"><br />"Thanks Gee."</span><span class="s3"> Laura beamed. </span><span class="s3"><br /><br />After Mae arrived and Aunt Pat gave her the instructions for the little kids, we all three <i>big</i> girls got into Aunt Pat's Beetle.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Okay girls, just a quick stop at the store to get Gia her dress and then onto the show."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">I started to pout, but Laura shot me a look that put me right in my place.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">When we arrived at the store, Aunt Pat brought us straight to the girls dresses section. The dizzying array of colors, silk, satin and crinoline, made me immediately sweat and itch. Laura pulled a frilly cherry red number off a rack and let out a mesmerized, "Ooooooooooo! Mommy what about this one!"<br />I recoiled in terror.</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Aunt Pat laughed.</span><span class="s3"> "It’s</span><span class="s3"> very pretty honey, but it's a little too fancy, and I don't think it's Gia's style."<br />Whew. That was a relief.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Finally after a couple of minutes, Aunt Pat exclaimed, "Now this is exactly the kind of dress I was hoping to find."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Lets see Mom! Show us!"</span><span class="s3"> Laura exclaimed.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Aunt Pat held up a yellow daisy print thin strapped mini dress. As far as dresses went, it wasn't horrible. Daisies were my favorite flower, and it didn't have itchy looking sleeves.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Gia, look at this cool thing. See, it has matching panty shorts you wear over your underpants so it all matches and you don't need a slip. It's very pretty and comfy. Plus, you can wear the sandals you already have on! It's your size, you wanna try it on?"</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Daisies? No slip? Comfy short/panties? Sign me up!</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We made our way over to the fitting rooms and minutes lat</span><span class="s3">er I was in my brand new dress. </span><span class="s3">I looked in the mirror and was pleasantly surprised. I looked, dare I say...</span><span class="s3">…pretty.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />"Whaddaya think Laura?"</span><span class="s3"> My cousin smiled broadly,</span><span class="s3">"You look really, really great in that dress Gia. Perfect for Steve and Eydie."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">I was satisfied. As far as dresses went, this one was okay.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Aunt Pat got the sales lady to cut off the tags and put the clothes I wore into s hopping bag. She paid, and we were on our way.<br /><br />We arrived at the concert hall a little early so we could pick up our tickets and be shown to our seats.<br />The lady at the ticket booth handed my Aunt three tickets. "Are you two young ladies excited for the show?, she asked sweetly.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Oh yes, Laura said, we love Steve and Eydie's act. We're two big fans."<br />Ticket booth lady laughed. "Well, I'm so glad you could be here!"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Thank you!</span><span class="s3">" we answered in unison.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />"C'mon,</span><span class="s3"> girls, let's go to our seats, then I can say hi to Daddy."</span><span class="s3"> Aunt Pat moved us along.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">As we made our way into the concert hall, we were astonished by the venue.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">What now would seem garish, overblown and kitschy, was simply astonishing to my cousin and me.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Chandel</span><span class="s3">iers, red damask fabric, marble. L</span><span class="s3">ooking back, it had that Liberace vomited all over it look.</span><span class="s3"> But to two little girls, it</span><span class="s3"> was mesmerizing.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">"It's like a palace” my cousin whispered,</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">“</span><span class="s3">Like Baron Bomburst's in Vulgaria from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang."</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">I rolled my eyes internally.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">I was as big a Chitty Chitty Bang Bang fan as the next kid, </span><span class="s3">but </span><span class="s3">my Laura? She was obsessed. Truly Scrumptious was her favorite. She even sat still in the </span><span class="s3">theaters watching Chitty, wide-e</span><span class="s3">yed and enraptured </span><span class="s3">when Truly sang that slow grown-up </span><span class="s3">song about yucky love for Coraticus Potts.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">That was always my cue for a popcorn or peepee break. Not Laura. She loved everything about Truly and Chitty.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We continued to marvel the venue as the usher showed Aunt Pat and us our seats.Walking towards the stage. Walking towards the stage. WALKING TOWARDS THE STAGE........!</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">STOP!<br />SECOND ROW CENTER!</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">And if that wasn't enough, Aunt Pat had a separate seat two rows behind us!</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Whatwhatwhat?</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We were by ourselves. In a palace. In red cushy seats. So close to the stage, it felt like we could touch Steve & Eydie.</span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">We giggled and covered our mouths.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">"Now listen you two” </span><span class="s3">Aunt Pat leaned over us whispering, </span><span class="s3">“</span><span class="s3">this is a serious test for the both of you. There </span><span class="s3">are</span><span class="s3"> a lot of other people around you. Grow</span><span class="s3">n-</span><span class="s3">ups that </span><span class="s3">have </span><span class="s3">spent a lot of money to sit here. You two have to behave like ladies, or I promise, Aunt Kathy and I will not let you two spend </span><span class="s3">any time</span><span class="s3"> together for the rest of the summer. Dead serious here girls."</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">We nodded in unison.</span><span class="s3"> Both serious as heart attacks.</span><span class="s3">"We promise. We swear."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Alright, I'm two rows behind you, so if you need anything, ju</span><span class="s3">st motion to me quietly...</span><span class="s3">."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Aunt Pat trailed off as her eyes followed a slight commotion in the front row. Lots of quiet whispers and murmurs.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br /></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">"Oh for Goddsakes", she whispered, </span><span class="s3">“It's Sinatra. And the entourage!</span><span class="s3">"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Our eyes followed her's towards the commotion. There was an old guy with a bunch of blonde ladies with a lot of blue mascara and red rouge, and lots of big, but kinda fat men with super black hair brushed back. Everyone wore a lot of clunky gold jewelry.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />"I've heard of him. Dad and Mom play his records and tell us to go to bed." I said studying the mini ruckus.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />"Yeah</span><span class="s3">” </span><span class="s3">my cousin added, </span><span class="s3">“</span><span class="s3">Uncle Torrie has worked with him right Mommy?"<br />"Yes. That's him girls. He's considered one of the g</span><span class="s3">reatest singers in the world."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">L</span><span class="s3">aura and I were perplexed.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"We'll be fine Mom, you can go sit down. We're all set and promise to be super good."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Aunt Pat finally acquiesced.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">She kissed us both, and turned and head back to her seat.<br />Laura and I were alone at last.</span><span class="s3"></span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />We were tickled by all the commotion the singer caused.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Men yelled from other sides of the room.<br />"Hey! Frank! Hoboken in here tonight!"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Frankie, you're da best!"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Frank gave a polite wave. Smiled at everyone. He seemed used to all the attention.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />We both were really quiet for a minute.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Then I leaned over, cupped my hand around my beloved cousin's ear, and quietly whispered, "Everyone loves this Frank guy. But doesn't he look like Papa? (our perpetually tanned Gramps). I mean the hair, he's sooooooo tan. He is really old too. I mean if it was Peter Criss, I'd get it, but he really, really reminds me of Papa....."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Laura giggled quietly.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"I know!! He's definitely like Papa's age. And those ladies look like........I can't figure it out."</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />"PooPoo girls." I whispered.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Laura stared wide eyed at me stifling a full on laugh.<br />"PooPoo girls? Where did you hear that? It's so funny!"</span><span class="s3"> she said. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">"My Dad calls the ladies that walk around in short shorts near the music theaters in New York City PooPoo girls when we go see The Wiz,or something like that. They're like<i><b> fast </b></i>ladies"</span><span class="s3"> I explained. </span><span class="s3">"Uncle Bobby is so cool." Laura said proudly.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">It was </span><span class="s3">around </span><span class="s3">that </span><span class="s3">moment when</span><span class="s3"> one of the PooPoo girls turned around to talk to another PooPoo girl behind her and as she did, she notice my dolled up cousin and myself.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />"Oh Gaaaaaawd! Sherrie, look at </span><span class="s3">those two dahhhhhls oveh there.</span><span class="s3">"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Sherrie leaned down the isle to get a glimpse of what two dolls her friend was kvelling over.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Oh my Gawwwwwwwwd. Angela, they're so cuuuute!"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Sherrie waved to us.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">She had the longest, nails I'd ever seen, this side of a Disney villainess.<br />"Hiiiiii! Hi youz two girlies! Youz both look so pretty in ya dresses! You here to see Steve & Eydie?"</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />My cousin and I, while being utterly mesmerized by the attention of two of the PooPoo girls, still found it within our </span><span class="s3">well-mannered</span><span class="s3"> selves to thank them profusely and tell them we were indeed there to see one of our favorite acts, Steve & Eydie.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />Sherrie, seemed to get quite a tickle out if us, and proceeded to lean over and tap Frank the singer on the shoulder.</span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">"Fraaaaaankie, look at those two dahhhhlings! There little girls and they're here to see Steve and Eydie! Couldjah just die?"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Frank turned around and stared at Laura and I.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">A lot of the big men with black hair and sparkly pinky rings did as well.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We both smiled sweetly at the group.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">"Good evening Ladies. Aren't you two such nicely behaved, beautiful girls? You here to take in the show?" </span><span class="s3">asked Frank the singer.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />He had super white teeth and very, very blue eyes.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Laura gave me a nudge. </span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">I was the talker.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Yes. Her Dad (pointing at Laura) is my Uncle and he's their drummer, and we love Steve and Eydie. So he got us tickets."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Ole Blue Eyes let out a warm chuckle.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Well that's somethin' isn't it. You father and your uncle must be very talented. You two have a wonderful time. It was nice meeting you."</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Me</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> of course, "Thanks Frank. Enjoy the act."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Laura smiled and nodded.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />For some reason the whole lot of the big men, the PooPoo girls and Frank himself let out quite a boisterous laugh. </span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">We just kept smiling.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">After the group turned back towards the stage, Laura and I resumed our heads on a swivel. Taking in all the glitz and glamour that seemed to be dripping off everything and </span><span class="s3">everybody</span><span class="s3"> in the place.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We both were unbelievably excited, I find it a miracle we knew better than to not kick the seats in front of us in rapid succession, just to make the butterflies in our tummies dissipate.</span><span class="s3"> This was just all so...</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />The lights dimmed.</span><span class="s3"> <b>Oh my God!</b> </span><span class="s3">The lights dimmed and the stage lights came up.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />Everyone in the room started to quiet.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Then the swell of music rose from below the front of the stage.</span><span class="s3"> Our hearts were soaring! </span><span class="s3">The curtains parted.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We held hands so tightly we left nail marks in each other's palms.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Steve entered stage right, Eydie stage left.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Both singing their hearts out.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">The crowed went nuts! </span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">People stood up.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We stood up. Clapping along with the rest of the crowd like maniacs.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3"><b>What an act!!</b><br /><br />To say we were transfixed for the next hour and a half or so, would be like saying Kanye West seems just a tad, a pinch, if you will, <i>pretentious</i>.</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">We didn't know a lot of the songs, but we swayed back and forth.<br />Some, like "My Favorite Things" from Sound of Music we sang out loud together with Steve and Eydie.<br />They had this funny grown up joke thing going where it seemed like they were bugging each other. </span><span class="s3">K</span><span class="s3">inda making fun of each other, only to make up and sing and dance together again.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Eydie changed gowns too many times to count.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />Laura whispered, she thought Steve could see us, so we should make puppy love eyes at him.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">I thought that was a grand idea.</span><span class="s3"> He DEFINITELY saw</span><span class="s3"> us.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We figured it must have made him feel good.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Eydie was so </span><span class="s3">glamorous</span><span class="s3">.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Steve, looked like a guy that would host a game show. All teeth and kinda fluffy hair.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Two ten year old girls puppy loving eyeing him, yeah that would make him feel special.</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">They both even went out of their way to say hi to Frank and his friends in the front row,</span><span class="s3"> and the whole crowd went nuts! </span><span class="s3">It gave us a much needed scream and holler that blended in with the rest of the crowd.<br /><br />Finally, Steve & Eydie came out and did their last encore and bowed and we all got to stand again and scream and clap and blow kisses.</span><span class="s3"> It was glorious! </span><span class="s3">Finally the lights came up.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Frank and his bunch quickly left out a door by the side of the stage.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">I could've sworn he gave us a little nod as he left.</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">We</span><span class="s3"> turned around to see my Aunts b</span><span class="s3">eautiful beaming face. She was smiling ear to ear.<br />She leaned forward.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Stay in your seats. Do not get up until I come get you. You both were so terrific. Stay put until I come to get you."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We were fine with that.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />The crowd thinned out pretty quickly.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">The smell of cigars and heavy perfume beginning to dissipate.<br />My always incredibly creative and artfully talent cousin took a blank sheet of paper out of her tiny purse and made one of those origami "Pick a color, pick a number pick a car, pick a boy</span><span class="s3">" t</span><span class="s3">hings and that kept us busy for a good amount of time.</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Just when I had gotten a Trans A</span><span class="s3">m and Davy Jones from the Monkee</span><span class="s3">s for my car and boyfriend, Aunt Pat arrived.<br /><br />"Ready ladies?"</span><span class="s3"> she asked. </span><span class="s3">We both got up out of our red, velvety thro</span><span class="s3">nes and started to walk up the ai</span><span class="s3">sle.</span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">We realized quickly Aunt Pat was headed the other direction.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Towards the "Frank Door" on the side of the stage!</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />WHAT?</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Aunt Pat smiled.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"C'mon you two. You want to meet Steve and Eydie don't you?"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Laura and I looked wide eyed at each other.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Damn the torpedoes, we screamed and jumped up and down holding hands.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"REALLYREALLYREALLY?"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Aunt Pat giggled, "Yes, really now hold my hands and follow me."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We did what we were told. With pleasure.<br /><br />Aunt Pat steered us to the Frank door and gave it a knock.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">A handsome man in a nice suit gave us all a big smile.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"He</span><span class="s3">llo Ladies! Your Mom and Dad...</span><span class="s3">"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">I quietly interrupted. "Um</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> they're my cousin Laura's Mom n Dad. They're my aunt and uncle sir." </span><span class="s3">I explained. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">The man smiled. "Well, that's okay! No problem Honey. The adults here told us you ladies would like to meet Steve and Eydie. They are thrilled to meet such young, excited fans. Follow me to the dressing room."<br /></span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />Laura and I now held hands tightly as we walked down a long hallway.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Uncle Ronnie was standing outside a room.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Daddy!</span><span class="s3">” Laura shouted.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">“T</span><span class="s3">he act was great!"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Uncle Ronnie, it was do exciting. So much better than the circus!!" I exclaimed.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Uncle Ronnie smiled, kissed Aunt Pat and gave my cousin and I a hug.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"I'm glad you girls dug the show so much. Mom said you two were a hit in your own right, and very well behaved. </span><span class="s3">Both of you” he said. </span><span class="s3">"Thanks", we answered in unison.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">With a warm smile, my incredibly cool uncle lightly tapped on a white door that had a big gold star on it that said "Steve & Eydie" in silver letters.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">A woman's sweet voice called from the other side of the door. "C'mon in!!!!"<br /><br />To describe the overwhelming excitement we two 10 year olds experienced as we entered the white sparkling dressing room, well, words do not do it justice.</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">There Eydie sat in front of a huge mirror with round light bulbs surrounding it.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">There were white, sweet smelling flowers everywhere.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">A beautiful mahogany table with tons if fruit, cheese and grown up drinks in crystal bottles.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Eydie was in a beautiful frilly pink dressing gown, with feathers around the bodice.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Her black hair shined like polished onyx.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">She had a huge, beaming smile behind perfectly shaped rich red lips.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />"Hellooooooo!</span><span class="s3">” she exclaimed. “</span><span class="s3"> I'm Eydie. Look at you two beauties, I'm so glad to meet you! Which one </span><span class="s3">of</span><span class="s3"> you princesses is Ronnie's daughter?"</span><span class="s3"> Her mouth agape, Laura raised her hand. </span><span class="s3">"Hello honey, what's your name?"</span><span class="s3"> "Laura”</span><span class="s3"> my cousin barely whispered. </span><span class="s3">“</span><span class="s3">And this is my cousin, my mom</span><span class="s3">’</span><span class="s3">s sister's daughter and </span><span class="s3">my </span><span class="s3">best friend Gia."</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />"Oh c</span><span class="s3">'mere you two and gimme a hug!</span><span class="s3">"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We inched over to Eydie and she scooped the both of us into a warm, sweet smelling embrace. Laura and I squeezed back warmly.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Eydie held our hands and looked us both in our eyes.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Now, each of you give me a spin one of a time so I can see these dresses and how beautiful you both look!"</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />Laura went first. She was good at spinning in dresses just like Truly Scrumptious.</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">"Oh Laura, those roses and your hair! I'm plotzing you look so lovely!"</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">(Plotzing must have be</span><span class="s3">en really, really good, I noted.)</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Now it was my turn. I didn't spin nearly as adeptly as my gorgeous cousin, but dammit, I gave it my best shot.<br />"Oh Gia, that is such a pretty sun dress! I love the little flowers, oh they're Daisies!"<br /><br />And then, I pulled a typical Gia.</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Always too much information.</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">I hiked up my dress a bit.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />"See? It has matching underpants shorts so I don't have to wear a slip and be uncomfortable, cause I don't like dresses. Laura and Aunt Pat know that, so they picked it out just for me. I like it so much, I might even wear it again!"</span><span class="s3"> I babbled. </span><span class="s3">Eydie looked dumbstruck. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">This </span><span class="s3">is a woman who spent a lot o</span><span class="s3">f time with </span><span class="s3">Frank </span><span class="s3">Sinatra. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">The things she had seen. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">But I still "dumbstrucked" her.<br /><br />She</span><span class="s3"> clapped her hands and laughed! “W</span><span class="s3">ell I love it, and I'm so glad you two came back to meet me. You made my night."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Just then the door opened and Steve stuck his head in the door.</span><span class="s3"> “</span><span class="s3">How ya doing babe, we're going to meet everyone at t</span><span class="s3">he Copa. There's a car waiting” he said. Then he gave a puzzled glance down to Laura and I. </span><span class="s3">"Steve</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> honey</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> these are Ronnie's daughter and </span><span class="s3">niece and this is his wife Pat.</span><span class="s3">"</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Steve stepped into the dressing room and gave u</span><span class="s3">s </span><span class="s3">that big white game show host smile.</span><span class="s3"> "Ooooooh, </span><span class="s3">hello! I'm so sorry. So nice to meet you ladies.</span><span class="s3">”</span><span class="s3"> He leaned over and pecked Laura and I each on the cheek.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Then he extended a handshake to Aunt Pat, and leaned in for a quick kiss to her as well.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"Pat, Ronnie is something else. He is a pleasure to work with, just the best</span><span class="s3">. He really helps drive the show” he gushed. </span><span class="s3">"Oh, thanks Steve. I think we'll keep him."</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Polite laughter filled the fluffy, white cloud, dressing room.</span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />"Oooooooo” Eydie cooed</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">“</span><span class="s3">Steve, sign an autograph for each of the girls, and I'll meet you at the car in a few minutes okay Sweetie?"</span><span class="s3"> He beamed "Sure! I'd love to!” My ever-</span><span class="s3">prepared </span><span class="s3">cousin</span><span class="s3"> pulled two pieces of fresh</span><span class="s3"> paper and a pen from her purse, </span><span class="s3">the combination which earlier had me dating Davy Jones. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Very lucky pape</span><span class="s3">r and pen indeed. </span><span class="s3"><br /><br />Steve </span><span class="s3">asked us how to spell our names correctly and </span><span class="s3">signed each of our papers. He had a big, bold fancy signature.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Eydie reached out for our papers next.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">She took some time to write a personalized message to each of us. Even writing something about loving my dress!</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Then she grabbed both of us for another big bear hug and kisses goodbye.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We thanked her profusely with beaming smiles.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Eydie turned to Aunt Pat & Uncle Ronnie. She smooched both of them on the cheek.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"I'll see you tomorrow night Ronnie. Pat it was a pleasure. You and your family are doing a heck of a good job raising these girls. They are something else."</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Aunt Pat thanked her sweetly and we all left the heavenly dressing room together.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br />In the years to follow, I've been lucky or unlucky enough to meet quite a few "stars".</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Toots Theilman had dinner at Aunt Pat and Uncle Ronnie's before a gig and played the Sesame Street theme on his magic harmonica for my </span><span class="s3">three cousins, my sissy and I a</span><span class="s3">s we sat at his feet in a circle.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We got to see Uncle Torrie (Un</span><span class="s3">cle Ronnie's brilliant brother)</span><span class="s3"> play with Uncle Ronnie at holidays, just jamming together, completely in the moment. Later, a</span><span class="s3">s years went by, Uncle Torrie's </span><span class="s3">second wife</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> the great jazz singer Helen Merrill</span><span class="s3">, </span><span class="s3">joined to create a rapturous trio.<br /><br />One afternoon, many, many, years later, my Mom and I talked ourselves into at late lunch at the newly opened Nobu in NYC.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">We were only into our second Sake when we realized we were sitting next to the only other customers in the restaurant.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Madonna and her entourage. When her Nanny brought baby Lordes into the restaurant towards the end of the meal, Mom and I cooed at her, like we would any other adorable little girl.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Madonna, gave us a warm smile and a nod.<br /><br />I became friends with Clarence Clemons at the end of his life, through one of my dearest, oldest musician friends, John Allegue. John and Clarence jammed together almost every night in West Palm Beach, right before Clarence's untimely death. Clarence and I laughed together, drank margaritas and very seriously told me I should be proud of my pronounced posterior I kept making </span><span class="s3">self-deprecating</span><span class="s3"> fun of. He told me I was the kind of woman he'd hold onto literally and emotionally.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Yup, the Big</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Man made me feel like a million bucks.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">I miss him. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">John misses him even more.<br /><br />Sebastian Bach and I sat next to each other front row for Kiss at the Garden. We sang along together, and high fived each other until our hands hurt.<br /><br />And of all people, character actor Bob Balaban was a kinda, sorta, dicky, disappointment!</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">We were waiting for our cars at a garage uptown.</span><span class="s3"> My Old Man </span><span class="s3">turned to him, surprised to see such a familiar face, standing right next to us.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">"</span><span class="s3">Hey, Bob Balaban" h</span><span class="s3">e exclaimed sweetly.</span><span class="s3"> "Yes" h</span><span class="s3">e snootily responded and looked away.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">There was no one else but the El Salvidorian valet standing near us.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">He was in no danger of being mobbed.</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Douche.<br /><br /><br />I don't write these anecdotes to brag. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">There have been <i>many</i> other introductions, even, dare I say, dalliances with "famous" people since we saw Steve & Eydie's act so many moons ago.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">It's been a very long time since we were greeted so warmly by such a talent with a huge heart.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Many years since we hung around PooPoo girls and I told Sinatra to "enjoy the act." </span><span class="s3">Since we m</span><span class="s3">ade Puppy Love Eyes at Steve Lawrence.<br /><br />NOTHING. I mean NOTHING has touched the magic of that night, I got to sit second row center next to my best friend, and perfect cousin Laura. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Holding hands. Clapping. Singing. Wearing our dresses.</span><span class="s3">S</span><span class="s3">melling like Loves Baby Soft, and No More Tangles.</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Watching Steve and Eydie and their silly banter, and soaringly orchestrated songs. </span><span class="s3"></span><span class="s3">Giving Sinatra a reason to laugh out loud.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Meeting S</span><span class="s3">teve Lawrence back stage, with him</span><span class="s3"> being a perfect gentleman.</span><span class="s3">Though…m</span><span class="s3">ost importantly hanging out with Eydie Gorme, who went out of her way to make two little girls with huge dreams and even bigger imaginations feel so Goddamn important.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Making us believe magic existed and was so tangibly possible.</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Live music and dancing taking us to new levels.</span><span class="s3"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Even, maybe, someday, sometime, she made me believe I might, <i>just might </i>mind you, actually like to wear dresses.</span></span><br />
</div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br />NOTHING has ever touched it.</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br />NOTHING.</span></div>
<div class="s2">
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></li>
</ul>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">RIP Eydie.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-43354446488411783102013-07-20T01:11:00.001-04:002013-07-20T01:11:12.560-04:00"Ah Fuck" or "Black Shmack, I'm Hungry"<br />
<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Over the past couple of days I've been thinking a lot about hate. I think many of us have. It just feels surreal. Everyone has been urging me to write. Keep up on my blog because I’m out of work and it’s what I’m meant to do. I’m not sure about that. I just have stories that swirl around my brain. Swirl around A LOT. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Once again </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">I state for the record: </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> I SUCK AT GRAMMAR!! There’s a lot of weird asides, conversations and internal thoughts in this one, <b>so bear the fuck with me.</b> I need an editor. And 25 million dollars.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So, the story I’m about to tell, is a direct response to the hate that’s been infiltrating my thoughts and dreams the past couple of days. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This story is true. I mean <b><i>mostly</i></b> true. I don’t want to get into the whole James Frey/Oprah debacle. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">You see, I wasn’t there. This is my Dad’s story. It’s <i>his</i> story to tell, but he hates writing, can’t type, and would rather eat a big plate of good, hot food while watching sports on his rather large screen T.V. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I get the honor of relaying it. That makes me very happy indeed.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The story been told to me by my Dad, (like a thousand times I've asked him to tell me!!!) Dad is the most honest man I’ve ever known. Yeah, okay some artistic liberties are taken here and there, mostly because I think it still bothers Dad to really get into the meat of his feelings. You know men and those "meaty feelings.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But, I’m telling you seriously, this is how it went down........</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Black Shmack I’m Hungry” or "Ah Fuck"</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By: Gia Cerone</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The year was 1961. My Dad graduated Hicksville high school. Hicksville is the real name of the town and the High School. Couldn’t make that shit up. Billy Joel went there. He is now the most famous alum. Before him, it was my Dad.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I don’t say that because he’s my dad and all cuddly and awesome. I say that because he really was a small town hero. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Let me explain. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At the time, my Dad was one of the greatest athletes to come out of the Long Island area. Maybe all of New York. A local baseball legend. The New York Yankees had my Dad on their radar probably starting around his sophomore year. He started as a Varsity pitcher as a freshmen. One time he pitched a perfect game. Set the record in strikeouts. Hit for average and power to save and win his own starts. Yeah, he was <b><i>that</i></b> good. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">When Dad pitched, the stands were packed. They needed to set up extra bleachers to accommodate the locals that came streaming in. Kids and parents from other towns. Plainview, Bethpage, Jericho, even farther in some cases. There was no doubt Dad was the real thing. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But, there’s another thing. Dad was an amazing football player. Just like baseball, he started Varsity as a freshman. He was a running back but stayed on the field the whole time playing nose tackle. He loved the aggressiveness and the energy. See, Dad didn’t have the best home life. (That will be another story), but needless to say, he needed a way to release bad feelings and aggression. Football was <i>perfect</i> for that. In addition, he knew the game. Could read the field. Knew the plays. Great anticipation and insight. Insane strength. He literally would be dragging multiple guys down the field hanging on trying to stop him. So, he was that good.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">One way or the other Dad was either going to go to college on a full scholarship or be signed by the Yankees. The future looked bright.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In 1960 & 1961, Notre Dame and a plethora of other colleges came calling. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My grandfather, who I have no problem stating for the record, was a piece of shit. He didn’t give a damn about my Dad or his future, especially if it meant he would have to open his wallet, that by the way was padded pretty nicely on account of him being the best known plumber in Hicksville. Franktheplumber. He was rich as Rockafeller.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The principal of Hicksville High School was an amazingly good and kind hearted man who took a liking to my Dad. He met my grandfather a couple of times when Franktheplumber </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>HAD</b></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> to be there to speak to certain colleges that came to inquire about Dad. He immediately saw that Franktheplumber had zero interest in his own son. Not just monetarily. Just generally. It bothered Principal Mazey. Because, even, though Dad was a star jock, he was also a damn nice kid. Not perfect by any means, but kind, in a way. Not full of himself. Dad sort of lived by an inner code of “always do the right thing”. Mr. Mazey saw that. He had kids of his own, but looked at Dad as sort of an adopted Son. Dad needed him. It was a good thing.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So, because Dad didn’t have the greatest grades - (For the record, he didn't need to, many a time he was told to write his name on the top of the test and nothing else, <i>but</i> hand it straight back to mostly male teachers) - he really didn’t expect or pay much attention to the bigger schools that came asking for him. Looking back, he would have loved Notre Dame, but again, he had a feeling he would end up with The Yankees (he did), so the whole thing was kind of perfunctory. Just going through the motions. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But Mr. Mazey <b><i>insisted</i></b> he do it. Take it seriously, and have his head in the proceedings.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Education Robert, is extremely important. No matter what happens, you need to <i>at the very least</i> make an effort to continue your education. You are a blessed young man. I will not let you throw this opportunity away. You must respect this process. I will help you.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad agreed. He always agreed with Mr. Mazey. His respect for the man was unwavering.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It was a Friday afternoon and Mr. Mazey called Dad down to office. Another college was there to talk. Troy State Alabama. Dad sat at the desk with the two men from the college plus Mr. Mazey. They offered him a <b>full ride</b>, everything paid for. The indication of special treatment. And, hey, they didn’t care whether Franktheplumber was there or not, just get a signature! Sounded alright. Dad agreed. Troy State Alabama. They would pay for the bus ticket and everything! One of the guys even slipped Dad a fifty as they left. Alabama, well alright!</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Mr. Mazey was pleased. He smiled at dad and gave him a warm hug.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Robert, I’m very proud of you. Now please sit back down, I want to speak to you about something.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad didn’t like the sound of that. When Mr. Mazey said he wanted to speak to him about something, it usually meant Dad had committed some type of high school infringement of the rules. He racked his brain. He had been relatively good lately. He had called Kathy Graw "shorty with the forty", but Kathy was so cool, she laughed that stuff off. Couldn't be her.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Robert. This conversation is extremely delicate. I want you keep this talk between you and I only, do you understand?”</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Yes sir, what ever you say.” Dad responded.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Mr. Mazey rubbed his hands together and smiled a little bit sadly. “Robert, you are going to Alabama. Let me ask you, what or where is the farthest you have been away from New York?"</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad paused to think, “Washington DC on the senior trip Sir. Thank you again for paying for me to go, I promise I will pay you back one day.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Mr. Mazey Cut him off with a shake of his hand in the air.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Robert. Listen to me carefully. How to put this delicately, Alabama is not like here. It is a very different type of place. It’s a lovely state, but it’s a bit, how shall I word this, "culturally behind". Robert, you are going to see things and experience things that are going to be very eye opening. I need to you be aware of these things. Nothing frightening, or dangerous I guess, just very different and slightly ominous. Now that sounds awful. I, I, I, don't mean it to. You see, the fact that you are going there will be a form of education <i>in and of itself</i>. Please, Robert, take notice of <b>everything</b>. Absorb what is around you. Experience things, and most importantly, <b>always do what you know in your heart is right.</b> I know you know right from wrong. You are a very good young man. Follow your heart and you will do wonderfully. I have faith in you.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad was kind of getting the point. He wasn’t stupid. He watched the TV. He saw the way Negroes were starting to demand equal rights, hell why not? Yet, the south was making it particularly hard for Negroes to find equality. Dad didn’t understand the fuss. He had played sports with colored kids since he lived in Brooklyn. Dad didn’t spend time thinking about skin color. If someone could keep up on the field, Dad didn’t care if they were purple. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Quite frankly, Dad knew a ton of loudmouth assholes that gave him a hard time because he was so good an athlete, and not for nothing, he had been kind of a chubby kid. He had lost the baby fat and gained muscle. But, looking back, every douchebag that had started shit with him was white. Dad figured it didn’t matter what color you were, an asshole was an asshole. A good guy was a good guy. Granted, he didn't personally know a lot of Negroes. But Lord knows he worshipped Jackie Robinson, his favorite ball player ever, hands down, no one even close. He loved Nat King Cole, no one sang like him. Chuck Berry was the best rock & roller out there. Screw Elvis. Dad's Mom, (before she left he and his brother, when Dad just seven), would listen to Billie Holiday, swaying her hips, eyes shut tight as she sang along to Billie's pain. (I guess that crazy, Bitch Grandma of mine knew pain as well - personally, however I say fuck her! You don't </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b><i>ever</i></b></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> just leave your little kids - Sorry I'll continue)...Dad really didn’t give skin color much thought. He was going to college. In Alabama. Alabama! And pretty soon too.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The bus ride down was fine - at first. Then, it got progressively hotter and more cramped. Dad undid the top button of the only dress shirt he owned and loosened his stupid tie. His Nanny and Aunt Alice had bought them for him at Gimbals and made him wear them.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Jesus was it not getting really freakin hot?!! He had slept for a long time, fairly comfortable in the bus seat. He was a little motion sick. Not bad, just kind of a rumbly stomach. When the bus stopped outside of Virginia, Dad grabbed a hamburger and a cold Coke but only ate half the burger. Weird for him, no one ate like Dad. Besides sports, eating was his favorite. <i>Way above girls even!!!!</i></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i></i></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A good ten hours later, Dad’s stomach had acclimated and he was officially hotter than he had ever been and <i>starving</i>. It was a relief when the driver said they’d be stopping really soon right inside the Alabama state line. Dad determined this was an <b>excellent</b> sign. He would step foot on Alabama soil, take a leak, try to get cool, and stuff his face to boot.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">However, when Dad did step off the bus in Alabama, the first thing he noticed was the oppressive, intense, heat. Holy shit was it hot. Hot wasn’t the word. This was sweltering. And muggy. And bright. He couldn’t believe he could see heat coming off the beat up road. Like in the movies, the heat looked like liquid rising off the blacktop. It was mesmerizing. It had to be 110 degrees easy. He had a hard time breathing for Chrissake! On top of that, he was starving. Starving and thirsty. (Did I mention the man was hungry?). He squinted towards the little diner ahead of him. All the passengers were streaming in. It was around lunchtime anyway, so it seemed like anyone near the area was already in the diner. Dad made his way over to the entrance. Dad recognized some of his fellow travelers from the bus.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"How long until we can grab something to eat Sir?" my Dad asked glancing over a man's shoulder. Smelled pretty good in there.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Twenty minute wait kid.” One of them said.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad was dumbfounded. Twenty minutes would be too long. He had hitchhiked to the bus stop in Hicksville. Franktheplumber wasn’t around and all the rest of his relatives were working. So, needless to say, no one had packed him anything to snack on. This was bad. For Dad this was really bad.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">There was a coke machine outside the little diner. So he figured he could at least grab a cold soda, but a problem persisted. He had to piss like you read about. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">While on the bus a rather large man with a bowler tie had boarded just outside Delaware and proceeded to head straight to the can and destroy it! Everyone on the bus was looking around mortified. Women were smacking their kid's hands away from their noses, shushing them as they whined, "Ewww it stinks." </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">While it was humorous at the time, Dad was not the least bit happy about no food and now nowhere to relieve himself, as the line for the diner bathroom was equally as jammed as the booths and chairs.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Shit,” Dad thought, "gotta be something close, at least I can take a leak in the woods." So that's where he headed. As he made his way into a slightly cooler, yet more humid thick of lush green woods, he completely removed his tie and stuck it in his back pocket and undid the buttons on his scratchy shirt. His undershirt, completely wet from sweat cooled him a bit, so he decided to walk just a bit farther. After just a couple of minutes, Dad looked over his shoulder and could see only a small part of the bus stop diner's roof. He found a big old tree and did his business. It was glorious! </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As he was tucking and zipping, an amazing breeze blew across the woods. Branches swayed ever so slightly, and Dad was pleasantly transfixed by the movement of the types of trees he didn't get to see up north. What was the name of those trees? He had heard their name in a song once...,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And then, well, it happened. With the miraculous breeze tickling his face came an aroma that could only be described as <b>HEAVENLY</b>. My Dad, so eloquent in nature thought aloud, "What the hell is that smell? Holy crap that smells good! Get me to where that smell is coming from...NOW!"</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Just like that, something like out of a horror novel Dad was drawn deeper in the woods, transfixed, the smell beckoning. His "gitchy ya yas" (salivary glands as we call them at home) churning out saliva like some kind of rabid dog.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Then, like a mirage to a man stranded in the Gobi, Dad saw it.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Like a glistening, white beacon of culinary mastery. (Actually a clapboard old white shack) Above it a hand painted sign "True Bar-B-Q" and some other signs, “do dads” and “do hickies”, Dad paid no attention to at all as he literally sprinted towards what he considered to be one of the greatest bits of luck that had ever come his way. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">-Even luckier than the day Franktheplumber brought him, once again, up to the attic to find, "somethin' that should fit ya" from the old steam trunk, only to discover he had out grown all the men's clothes circa 1922, and Dad could finally be rewarded - albeit grudgingly - with one, brand new, pair of khakis!- Yes, luckier than that!-</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad, reaching the old screen door flung it open with zeal and immediately began to read the neatly, hand written, chalkboard menu, straight up, over the counter.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">#1 - Pulled pork Sammy with collards and back fat ¢75</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">#2- Full Rack with sticky sauce, cornbread, and mashed taters ¢95</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">#3- Half Rack - same as #2 - ¢75</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">#4- Fresh Fried Chicken with giblet gravy & black eyed peas ¢85</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dear Sweet Jesus, Dad thought, I still have plenty of money left over from the $50- the recruiter from Troy slipped me (plus a $20- Mr. Mazey had given him in a good luck card, <i>don't forget to write him back a thank you</i> ). He could order this whole menu! The food looked to be coming out quick, and shit, he could eat it on the bus if time was getting tight!!</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A man slowly made his way over and leaned in towards Dad on a worn wooden counter. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad started before the man could have time to ask, what'll it be?</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Hi Sir, I'll have a #1 but can I have mashed potatoes instead of collards I've never had them so I'll just go potatoes, and..."</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Son." The man said sternly, yet quietly. Shaking his head ever so slightly.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad shook his head. Getting out the cobwebs. Need food, must focus. "Sorry, no, no, you're right Sir, I need to try new stuff, new experiences. So yes indeed I'll have the collards, but I'll have a # 2 as well, this way I can try everything and...."</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"SON!" the man said forcefully.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad, startled looked up into the man’s eyes. He was a handsome Negro, maybe in his 40's. He wore a BBQ splattered apron and an incredulous look on his weary face.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"I'm sorry sir, I apologize, I'm just hungry and have to make a bus....."</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The Negro man leaned closer and gripped the counter so hard Dad noticed his nails digging into the wood. Now his expression wasn't incredulous, it was more like angry frustration.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Now listen Son, I don't know you, and I assume from your accent your ain't from 'round hear, but I'm not putting my wife and my two girls or my life on the line, for who seems like a nice northern boy with a <b>big</b> hunger. You ain't seen<i> ANY</i> of the signs here?!! Look around Son. We can only serve colored folk here! Colored. See I wrote them signs myself "Coloreds Only." I did not however, paint all them others around lying and perched outside saying "Food for Niggers Only" and "Whites Keep Out" and "Mixing Equals Lynching". Those were acquired, not willingly, from another group altogether, that would not take very kindly to a naive white boy, no matter how hungry he be, sittin' down and eatin' some sticky ribs for a spell with all these other folks in here!"</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad slowly turned around and realized every face in "True Bar-B-Q" was staring at him. Not a word was being spoken. He was the only white face in the place.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad gingerly turned back to the man. He cleared his throat and quietly said, "But, um Sir, um excuse me, but I don't mind eating with the people here, or being served by you or your employees. I'll eat it outside in the woods if ya' want. It, I mean, you, they, doesn't bother me at all......."</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The man behind the counter's face softened. A thin, line of a grin. "Thats mighty nice of you to say Son, but listen to me. This here is Alabama. What that girl from that Wizard of Oz movie say? You ain't in The North no more. 'Cept she say Kansas. I see you're a nice kid, good young man. Probably going to the college right?"</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad nodded slightly.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Well, the man continued, it gives me peace to know there are young men like you, don't see the color of skin, and not just ‘cause they hungry or thirsty, or need to take a piss - Excuse me Ms. Flora', - (the man said over Dad's shoulder to a tiny old lady sitting in the booth behind him) but ‘cause skin color don’t mean nothin’ to ‘em. But Son, down here ev'things different. And I'm in no position to start taking a stand today, or making a point, and I'm pretty sure you not up for them things neither, the way you're sweatin' like a whore in church, - Excuse my once again Ms. Flora - Here Son, take this cup of cold lemonade & <b>get</b>. There may come a day, I hope someday soon, you <i>will</i> get lucky enough to try my pulled pork, and prolly drop dead where you stand it's so good, but not today. So that’s my speech for the day on racial equality’, the man said laughing with just a hint of bitterness, and shaking his head, ‘but for right now? Son, you got a bus to catch."</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The man slid my Dad a paper cup of cold lemonade across the wood counter.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad, feeling numb, stupid and a little dizzy, reached into his pocket.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The man shook his head. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"On me son. Keep a good attitude. You play ball?"</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad nodded</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Which college?"</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Troy State Sir ." Dad answered quietly.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Well good luck to you. You're gonna need it." the man said with a hearty laugh. As he did, the rest of the diners began to chuckle along with him. It kind of broke the tension.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad wiped his hand on his khakis and reached to shake the man's hand. The man reached out. They shook. Strongly. Smiling at each other.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Troy can't be <i>that</i> bad, can they Sir?"</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The handshake grew warmer, more familiar, maybe.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Well Son, let's hope <i>you</i> make the difference. That's about as good and shiny as I can make it for ya'."</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My Dad smiled and looked the man in the eyes one last time.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Have a good day Sir."</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"You too Son, you too."</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My Father stepped outside back into the Alabama heat. He glanced back over his shoulder as he began to make his way back into the woods. Now, he noticed the obvious signs he had missed before. Glaring. Menacing. How had he missed them? How for Godsakes? </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Almost sleepwalking he made his way back to the bus. He drank what was the best lemonade that had ever touched his lips crumpled the cup and shoved it in his pocket.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The diner at the bus stop had cleared out a lot. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The heat, the shit eating heat. Did it get even hotter? </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad bought a cold coke and stared at the heat rising off the street again. He felt funny. Eighteen year old man, with barely anything to call a “home” feeling.......homesick? No. That wasn't it. Not homesick. Just sick.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"All aboard" the driver yelled.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad squinted through the sun and climbed the bus stairs taking his seat. Sipping his Coke, he tried to put his finger on what really bothered him about all this. He laughed to himself when he thought, "one finger isn't nearly big enough."</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In a few minutes the bus was moving down the road away from a world of confusion, disappointment and enlightenment.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">His thoughts travelled back to Mr. Mazey's talk. The things he had said. Things he tried to say but couldn't. </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I'm going to see things I don't like, or understand. Ominous things. Ominous.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad began to drift off as he leaned his head against the window watching those nice trees go by. What the hell were they called? His Mom used to sing a song about them.........right?</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Poppy? Nahhhhhh. That's what he had called his beloved, now deceased, Grandpa once upon a time. Not poppy. Wait. Somethin' like popular or poopy. He was dozing now, had to be because he never saw his Mom anymore, but she was there. Mom, pretty clearly swaying her hips, eyes closed and singing Billie Holiday in front of the chipped white sink..........</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He remembered!</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">POPLAR TREES! YEAH! POPLAR TREES! </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And then the song played in his head as he drifted deeper. Finally, hungry again but sooooooo tired. Like he had just went nine innings.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He heard it then, Billie's pain, his Mom humming along......</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Southern trees bear a strange fruit,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Strange fruit hanging from the Poplar trees.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Pastoral scene of the gallant south,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Here is a strange and bitter crop.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad awoke with a start.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Town of Troy all passengers disembark. Last stop!! Town of Troy Alabama!!!"</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My Dad glanced out the window. Heat still rising off the pavement. Staring at the nice Poplar Trees.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Just two simple words came to mind.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Ah Fuck.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-6946324678497767502013-04-29T14:54:00.001-04:002013-04-29T14:54:23.803-04:00Gloomy Monday. Horace.<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">So for no particular reason I've been in a really blue mood lately. There's no explanation, no piercing, glaring, specific thing. There is no tangible, "grab the bull by the horns" and make this better kind of solution. It just is what it is. I'm not posting this for sympathy, I'm posting this to share with all of you a weird epiphany that came to me on Thursday night. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">It was late. Late for a Thu</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">rsday. Like 11:00 pm. It was after Aunt Rita's Irish wake. M.O.M (my old man) and I were quite a few sheets to the wind, at a local bar, waiting for take-out to help put a base in our tummies so we could go home and continue drinking bourbon, with the hope that the food could offer us some anti-hangover solace in the morning (food and a handful of Gummy-Vites and two Excedrin).<br />So as we're waiting, I see (fuzzily) coming towards us, a friend I haven't seen in a long time. Too long. This friend, who I will call "Horace" (because there is no fucking way on earth I've ever interacted with ANYONE named Horace and it's keeps things anonymous) has his demons. He has always had them. I simply can not fathom what he has been through. It is glaringly obvious it all must have started when he was just a tiny boy, which just kills me. He drinks too much as well. But, see if you were around him and felt his sadness, and hopefulness all at once, you would understand immediately WHY he drinks too much. He just HAS to. HAS to. He is also, without a doubt, once of the kindest, loyal, sweet, beautiful humans you could ever be honored to call "friend". It just is what it is. It fucking IS WHAT IT IS!! You hug him and you are AFRAID to let go and just don't want to at the same time.<br />So we speak for awhile, he introduces me to his lovely girlfriend, who is strong and gentle all at once. I say a silent prayer immediately this will work for them. He kind of knows M.O.M. from just being local and fun. We all talk for a long time. He hugs me again for the 47th time (I'm hoping for like 76).<br />Then, he whispers in my ear, "Is he good to you? Does he make you happy?" I whisper back, "Completely. He is my savior." And he pulls away and squints at M.O.M. and says dead pan, without bravado, or pretense. "If you hurt her in ANY WAY, I WILL kill you. I will find you and KILL you, no doubt. I just NEED you to know that." M.O.M. smiles and grabs Horace and hugs him. "Never Horace. I would die myself first." I jump in and grab Horace by his face and smile as I stare into his eyes. "He loves me. There is not a strong enough word to describe that. And I am on board right back."<br />It was just a moment. And we all laughed and moved on with the conversation.<br />But that moment has stayed with me. It has monopolized my thoughts and invaded my every moment. I can think of it and I fill up with tears almost immediately. Not sure and not always conscience if they're happy tears or sad.<br />And I keep thinking. Thinking. Thinking. What IS THIS THING?<br />And finally, I realize, it's because that person. Horace, I mean not HIM per-sea, but what HE SAID, IS ALWAYS ME!!!<br />I am the one who has always says that. I can not remember the last time anyone ever said that to someone I was hanging with. (Of course, it drips with irony that M.O.M. is the BEST and needs the warning the LEAST.)<br />But, that conclusion has made me so sad. Why? I can not really say. I just feel really down lately and I'm trying to figure it out and I really wish someone, anyone in my past would've been as loyal to me as my friend I haven't seen in years, who is an addict and has so many of his OWN demons he has to fight to live EVERY FUCKING DAY!<br />Someone would KILL rather then see me hurt, kind of like I feel for so many everyday. That, hopefully, some of the things I've gone out of my way to do for others would make them cry good or bad tears.<br />I'll say it again. I don't want ANY of you guys to leave a comment praising me or patting my back. Do Not Do It!!<br />I just needed to put it out there so I could start to rid myself of these terrible, deep, deep, blues.<br />I wish I could get Horace to kill 'dem 'dare blues if they keep hurting me.<br />THAT would be somethin'.<br /><br />That was for Horace. He knows who he is.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-74591498630848521582013-04-04T19:04:00.001-04:002013-04-05T12:41:34.360-04:00The Great Beaning of '63 or The Beaning with Meaning<br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:DocumentProperties>
<o:Template>Normal</o:Template>
<o:Revision>0</o:Revision>
<o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime>
<o:Pages>1</o:Pages>
<o:Words>2038</o:Words>
<o:Characters>11620</o:Characters>
<o:Lines>96</o:Lines>
<o:Paragraphs>23</o:Paragraphs>
<o:CharactersWithSpaces>14270</o:CharactersWithSpaces>
<o:Version>11.1280</o:Version>
</o:DocumentProperties>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:DoNotShowRevisions/>
<w:DoNotPrintRevisions/>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">With all the recent death,
suffering, sadness, disloyalty and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>regret, I’ve been just a tad down in the dumps. Can’t imagine why. Well,
yes I can, I just wrote why. So to boost my spirits I decided to lay in bed
last night and think about funny things. Stories I’ve experienced or been told
that need to be put to paper, then typed on ’puter then posted onto Facebook
and my blog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I need to laugh, and in turn
make ya’ll laugh as well. Next to hearing applause after I sing, making people
laugh is my bestest , most favorite, most fulfilling, sound and feeling ever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">But, really? You know where a
shit load of “the funny” comes from? My Dad. My Dad has NO ego. Just look at
what he’ll walk out of the house wearing - Pink Floyd “Buttafuco” style, worn
thin pants, a “Charlie Brown Christmas”, BBQ sauce stained T-shirt, and the
brightest colored Nikes he could get his hands on……four years old - but bright
as the day they were purchased!! (Yeah, Dad has boxes of unworn sneaks, he
waits to wear when the older ones fall apart – childhood issues, we all have
‘em). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When I say <b>NO EGO</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. I mean it. He really doesn’t care what other people
think he looks like. Now, it helps he is still drop dead gorgeous and is
charming as hell. But most importantly, the man IS FUNNY. And, a KICK ASS
storyteller. And he’s lived an interesting life, to say the least. So once
again, I reiterate, when I really need a laugh I talk about, think about or
talk <i>to</i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> my Dad. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">(NOTE: Mommy is a shit-load
funny too, she just gets the bigger award for being able to deal with Dad’s
eccentricities all these years, but that is another story…..)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When we were kids, he was an
awful tease, which, it turns out, really helped to make Sissy and I able to
take a joke and make fun of ourselves with ease. He would threaten to “Rip out
our lungs and make us eat them.” If we didn’t do something we were told. If he
saw a bruise on our arms from any of the hundreds of sports we played, he would
push on it - hard and say, “Does that hurt? That doesn’t hurt does it?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">He would tickle us until we
peed. Really. UNTIL WE PEED. I absolutely love that. And I don’t give a fuck if
any of you think it’s weird. To laugh so hard you pee yourself? Well, if you
haven’t experienced it, let’s just say you haven’t fully lived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">So I am re-telling a story
Daddy tells me whenever I beg him to, which is usually at least once or twice a
month. You see, it includes some of my favorite and most treasured things in
the world:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">1- Friendship<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">2- Baseball<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">3- Loyalty<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">4- Comedic Regret<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">5- Young Hot Baseball Playing
Guys <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">6- Revenge<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">(I am prefacing this story by
telling you guys I’m not going to be using correct punctuation for the
conversation parts of this tale. I just suck at it. And, I find it slows me
down. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to keep up. Just keep reading.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>1963.</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Pioneer league <b>New York Yankees</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">, Idaho Falls. My Dad Bob is pitching a gem of a game.
He is on fire. Slider is sliding, Cutter is cutting. Fastball above 93<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and moving. Seriously. My Dad was
goooooood! The great Yankee left fielder Roy White once told me when I was just
a little girl:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>ROY WHITE</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: Gia, don’t you forget, your Daddy could throw a
baseball through a brick wall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I believed him. I had heard
about Daddy from a lot of different family members and others who had played
with him, and watched him play. Did I mention? He was gooooood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In 1963 (and probably even a
year or so before that) Daddy made two of his best friends he has ever had, and
by coincidence played pro ball side by side with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">(<b><u>NOTE</u></b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: My Mom will <b><i>always</i></b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> be Daddy’s <b>best </b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">friend. Close seconds: Uncle Jimmy Bender, Peter DeMeo, My Uncle Ronnie
Zito, and Bob DeMatteo, it’s just this is a baseball story and I wouldn’t want
anyone to feel badly.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">So I continue. Outfielder
Steve Whitaker and Catcher Frank Fernandez. Both made it to the majors. (Both
terrific ballplayers – look up Fernandez’s career, especially his hitting, <b><i>such</i></b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> a great read for all you baseball freaks/stat-heads
out there!!!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In the beginning, Daddy hit
it off with Whit right away. Whit was affable, quick to smile, charming and had
an all around likeable persona.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Fernandez on the other hand?
Not so much. Staten Island born. Hard as nails. Quick temper. Intense
ballplayer, intense guy. Why in the world would my Dad not like him? BECAUSE HE
WAS JUST LIKE HIM. Neither of them had it easy growing up. They were both from
New York. They both played like it was the last game they would ever play, and
they did not like fucking around. They were there to play, not talk or make
nice. (With the exception of fans that came out no matter what.) Kinda’ like
Kevin Youkilis and Jorge Posada, I suspect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">But, as time went on, they
realized how incredibly fucking <i>good</i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">
<i>they each were</i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. Whit was the
bridge that linked them all together, but the talent and intensity and most
importantly THE LOYALTY was what <b>KEPT</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">
them all together. So close, the three of them. They were three peas in a pod.
Dad, however, had the most playtime, and on field interaction with Fernanadez,
well, because he was Dad’s catcher. My Dad still talks about how no one caught
like Fernandez. No fear. The man had no fear. They had that perfect chemistry.
Fernandez put down the signs, Dad threw and they rocked it together. How
Fernandez kept Dad calm in those days if he had to visit him on the mound, I
will never, for the life of me, understand. Mommy and I laugh. Oh, do we laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Once my Dad gets<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(and I’m talking much more “back in the
day” -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he’s calmed down a lot
since them - ahhheeeemmm) frustrated, annoyed, perturbed. Well, needless to say
we had a lot of weird art hung on even weirder locations on our walls in
Centerport. Dad, however, would warn you……..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>DAD</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: Walk away now I’m gonna punch that Goddamn wall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>US</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: ‘Kay……<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(BOOM – Plaster sort of explodes)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>MOM</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: Happy Now? Feel better you maniac?!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>DAD</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: YES, as a matter of fact it did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">So we laugh, ‘cause Fernandez
had to calm Dad down. In a ballpark. In 110 degree heat. On the field. With
lots of people watching. And, <b>no wall to punch</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. Fernandez, well, he had a gift.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">On that day in ’63, Dad
is pitching his gem. A guy gets up against him (from now on called #77), in
like the second inning, and Dad strikes him out on three pitches. Dad thinks
nothing of it. He’s in the zone. He’s feeling good. He is doing his job,
Fernandez is doing his. All is right with the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Couple innings later #77
gets up again. Dad strikes him out for the second time! Not on three pitches,
but none-the-less, it happens. Dad does not give #77<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>another thought. See, it was only the 2<sup>nd</sup> out of
the inning, and there was a guy on first that had looped one into shallow
center. Dad was interested in getting the 3<sup>rd</sup> out. That was all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Okay. So couple innings after
that. #77<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>back up. Fernandez
throws a sign, slider, outside, Dad throws the pitch. The guys taps a little
roller down the first base line, Daddy jumps off the mound, scoops it and flips
it to the first baseman for the third out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And <b>THAT</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> is when Dad hears it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>#77:</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Fuckin’ <b>fat pig</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>DAD:</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> (In his head) Did that guy, that hack, that no talent
piece of shit just call me a fat pig? Because I got him out three times, with
no fan fare or showboating? Jesus Christ! No. Nonononono.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Let me digress for one moment
here. If you read any of the great baseball columns written about my Dad during
his career, he was most likely described as, well, “The Stocky Right Hander” ,
“The Hefty Righty With A Rocket Arm” “The Yankees Top Pitching Prospect A Bit
Chunky, But The Real Deal”. You noticing a pattern here? Yeah. My Dad was a big
guy. He had been a chubby kid, <i>but,</i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">
was always an <b>outstanding</b> athlete. He defended any awful names referring to his
slight girth, that mean kids could come up with, with either beating them in
whichever sport they were playing, or <i>knocking them the fuck out</i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. Because, even though Kid Daddy was a bit stocky, he
was strong as fuck. And, because he had such a tough childhood, thanks to his <b>FUCKING
INSANE FATHER</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">, he had some pent up
anger that he could unleash at any moment as needed. It also made him a tough
competitor. And, let’s be honest, <b>the man loved to eat</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. Still does. (While we’re speaking of this, thanks
for the lovely genetics Dad. Thunder thighs are all the rage.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I continue. Daddy walks
back to the dugout and he is <b>STEAMING!!!</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> He sits next to Fernandez, who had not heard the rather cruel and
unnecessary comment #77 had made. He glances at my Dad for a moment, his
eyebrows kind of furrowed, chewing like a maniac on bubble gum. But, Fernandez
says nothing. My Dad sits quietly but breathing pretty heavily, for<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>give or take a couple of minutes just
stewing, marinating, fermenting in some serious anger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Finally Dad spoke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>DAD:</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> You see #77?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Fernandez glances to the outfield, nods once). Next time he’s up. I’m
gonna’ hit him <b>right in the fucking head</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>FERNANDEZ</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: (Pauses, spits some bubblegum juice)…… O.K.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Not another word said. Not
one word.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Game continues and I bet you
can see where this is going. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Ninth inning one out. #77
gets up to the plate. Frank puts down no sign just kind of sits his glove a
little between his legs skimming the dirt. The rage in Dad has hit epic proportions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">(In Dad’s head…LOUD) He
called me a fat pig! I didn’t do nothing to him. <b>Mother fucker!!!!</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And Dad lets it fly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Daddy explains it like this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>DAD</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: I let it go and I swear, I wanted to hit him dead
center in the head. Now, I didn’t go full blown. I held back just a little, but
within the tiny little speck of time the ball left my hand, I knew it was going
to hit him straight in the fucking head. And just a like a millisecond after
that, I literally saw the ball rotating in slow motion right towards this
fuck’s noggin, (not unlike the way Ted Williams could see the seams, turning)
And I knew right then I should have <i>never</i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> done it, and would <i>never</i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">
do it again. ‘Cause honestly, I thought, I just killed that guy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Batting helmets were about as
sturdy as Saran wrap back then. And Goddamn if Dad didn’t bean that
fucker……..hard. So hard, the ball came back to the mound after it bounced off
#77’s helmet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">#77 slowly got up, and, he
was <i>pissed</i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. He shook his head
briskly, like clearing out the cobwebs, and started to charge the mound.
Except, Fernandez was right there to get in front of the guy, stop him, hold
him back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>FERNANDEZ</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: Don’t go out there you fucker. You walk down and
take your base.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Dad picks up the ball and
moves towards #77.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>DAD</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: Come closer muther fucker. I’ll hit you twice as
hard before you get half way to me. Count on it. Let’s go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Fernandez guides #77 down to
first. #77 is brooding, stunned, but #77 knows he made the right decision.
Because #77 looks, well, scared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The umpire almost does
something, almost, but changes his mind because there are only two more outs in
110 degree heat on the field, and, Dad gets them on a double play on the next
pitch anyway<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Fernandez walks out to the
mound to shake Daddy’s hand and they start to head toward the clubhouse
together. They pause to wait for Whit. He runs in from the outfield. Everyone
hits the showers. No one says anything, except along the lines of “Great game
Spanky”,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(<u>Dad’s nickname, did I
mention he was stocky</u>?) “Good game guys”, “You hit the shit outta’ that
ball!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ya’ know, regular baseball
chatter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Later on, the three of them
are sitting at a local bar. Drinking ice, cold mugs of beer. Fernandez is
flicking peanuts into his mouth. Dad, inside, is still feeling kind of shitty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">(<b>Inside Dads Head</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: I’ll never do that again. That was stupid, that was
dangerous. Can’t let my temper get that crazy. Fuck.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>DAD</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: (To Whit & Fernandez) Hey you guys. Know why I
fucking hit that guy in head?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>WHIT</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: No. I was going to ask, but I figured you had your
reasons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>FERNANDEZ</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: No. And I really don’t care. You musta’ really
wanted to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>DAD:</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> (Pausing) Well, as he ran down to first he called me
a <b><i>fat pig</i></b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>WHIT</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: (Bitterly Laughing) What? NO SHIT? That stupid
little prick!! He fucking said that to you? Muther fucker. Sunofabitch!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Fernandez wasn’t laughing. He
was kinda’ red in the face and squinting, breathing heavy, much like Daddy had
earlier in the dugout.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>FERNANDEZ</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Sputtering) That fucker called you that? He said “<b>Fat Pig</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">”? He said that to you? You should told me I woulda’
kicked him in the fucking dick after he went down. You didn’t tell me that? <b>Why?</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>DAD</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: You didn’t ask. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>FERNANDEZ</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: <i>I’M NOT SUPPOSE TO ASK.!!</i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> That’s the game! I’m <b>YOUR</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> catcher, your teammate. Fuck, I’m your <b>FRIEND!!</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> I don’t ever need to ask!! But if you <b>HAD</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> told me…..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>DAD</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: You know what’s weird? I feel bad about hitting him
in the head. I will <i>NEVER</i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> do that
again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>FERNANDEZ</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: Spank, I got news for you, If some muther fucker
ever says anything like that to you again, and, you <i><u>DO NOT</u></i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> hit ’em, I’ll fuckin’ knock him out where he stands.
I don’t give a fuck. I wish that fucker walked in here right now. He’d be done.
Over. No one talks that way….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>WHIT</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: Never say never Spank. He’s right, just throw right
at his balls. Cup doesn’t do shit. Or, even better, his fucking elbow. That
hurts like fuck! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>FERNANDEZ</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: Hmmmmm. Yeah, that could work. I accept that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>DAD</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: Okay. The fucking balls, or elbow. Just not in the
head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>WHIT</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: Well, let’s drink to the most precise pitch I’ve
ever seen a fucking guy throw! Spanky, you couldn’t do it again if you tried!!!
Actually if anyone <i>could</i></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">? It would
be you!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>DAD</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: (Laughing) Probably not guys. Probably not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>FERNANDEZ</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: (Chugging down his beer, wipes his mouth with the
back of his hand) Okay. But I’ll still knock a guy out if I ever hear anything
like it. I hear anything <b>CLOSE</b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> to
that! I swear to fuckin’ God I will.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And, that night they drank,
ate, laughed, talked the game and cruised girls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And, the next day, they
played another game together. And the day after that. And the day after that……<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It was the best time of their
lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">What’d I tell you? Doesn’t the
story have some of the best, most favorite, treasured things in it, like <b><i>EVER</i></b></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Friendship, Baseball,
Loyalty, Comedic Regret, Young Hot Baseball Playing Guys, and Revenge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">But mostly……Friendship.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-30941553015589353052013-04-02T13:49:00.001-04:002013-04-05T13:01:15.078-04:00This Ain't No "Game of Thrones", This is real. And very heavy. RIP UNCLE MICHAEL<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Okay. So this one is a tough one. It is filled with family intrigue, fighting among the clans, evil parents, mental illness, and loving relationships. It aint' no "Game of Thrones", folks. It's "The Cerone Family Chronicles". Strap yourselves in, it's gonna take a little while.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I want to start by explaining that the picture below is of my gorgeous, sweet, loving yet very damaged Uncle Michael on t</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">he left. And truly, this post is about him.<br />You see, he recently died. Recently, meaning, March 15th. Just found out this morning. (Hang in there, it will get clearer.) The guy in the cowboy hat is my Grandfather. My Beautiful Father's Dad (and I use the term "Dad" loosely, take away the "ad" and add"ick" and that's about what you get.)<br />I suppose this is a good time to write the disclaimer to this piece. THIS IS MY OPINION. It is shared by a couple others in my family, but I AM WRITING IT!!! Because any of you that know me, know this writing thing is a catharsis for me. Oh, and I clearly DO NOT give one sweaty fuck if if whoever reads this doesn't like it. It is MY truth. He was my Uncle too. And the old man was my Grandfather (wooooooo hoooooo hit the jackpot on that one!!)<br />I also want to state, for the record, that the Grandfather "Frank The Plumber" did 2 GREAT things in his life. Super Duper, off the chain GREAT things. He created my Dad and married my Grandmother (I hate to call her "STEP" because she was so much more than that).<br />He married my Mimi. (The mother of the gorgeous, one on the left, Uncle Michael in the stylin' tux.)<br />My Dad and my Mimi, together, create enough, swirling, loving, kind, forgiving, inspiring energy in this universe and beyond, to cure famine, end war, and get the Beatles back together.<br />Unfortunately, we lost Mimi quite a few years ago. But she's around me a lot any way. She was a better Mom to my Dad than his own fucked up Mother who split out on him when he was seven. As the years went by, my Dad loved Mimi more than most anyone. She was so fucking special. She was just.... I can't find words. I CAN NOT FIND WORDS! That is sayin' something.<br />I think she could've done better than Frank The Plumber. But, she loved him and he made her happy, I guess. So that is all that matters.<br />Uncle Michael is the youngest. My Dad's half brother. I say "is" because "was" just doesn't seem real yet.<br />I was a SUPER SHITTY niece. NOT when I was younger. I was GREAT then. I would say by age eighteen, I had checked out on Uncle Michael.<br />You see, he was very, very mentally ill.<br />Can I make light of how mentally ill he was? No. But I can make it clear through comedy. He was the "No, you do not understand I AM GOD!" kind of mentally ill. The "Smoking Angel Dust is soothing to me." kind of mentally ill. "When the word splits open, and the beings from the core come out to take over, I will lead them." kind of mentally ill.<br />Living in Pilgram State most of his life.<br />In and out of other institutions.<br />And, more importantly, he was utterly, and completely the most kind, sweet, loving man ever.<br />And, I became a SUPER SHITTY niece. I gave up on him, when it got too much to visit. I didn't want to be around all those nutsy people. I didn't want to drive all the way there. I had a Springsteen show I had to see.<br />And, when Mimi died, it got worse. I just lost all will to even TRY and make her proud. Although, she would've understood. She was like that.<br />Over the years, I thought about maybe writing him. But see, we didn't keep in touch with any of the other family members that knew anything about his specifics. The people closest to him broke my heart terribly. They hurt my Dad and Mom because of money and "valuable things" and I guess they felt they were in the right. I don't and will never understand why it happened. But, in a way, it made it all so easy for me to forget about my Uncle Michael, who as you can clearly see was FUCKING HOT!!! (Sorry, I mean c'mon just look.)<br />Uncle Michael was creative, he had artist's heart and mind. He was the sensitive one, in a family group of very rough and tumble men. (Although, I know now how sensitive my Dad is. How he needed to put on that act to survive.)<br />He had 3 other brothers that were superstar athletes. My Dad, was recruited by the New York Yankees for Chrissake!!! His three brothers all received sports scholarships!! (Daddy left Troy Alabama to play for the Yankees.)<br />Uncle Michael, it had been whispered, could have been the best athlete out of ALL the Cerones ! But he threw it away on drugs and music.<br />No one understood mental illness back then. I mean look at him. Women flocked to him. He had a psychedelic painted van!! He played guitar. His hair....oh God it was long and blonde and shiny and smelled like apricot. He broke all the rules and lived to the beat of his own drummer.<br />And finally, the beat got wayyyy too loud and maybe that's when the voices started to yell in his head as well. And well, that was when he was done living in this reality.<br />My Mimi tried everything. She would bring him home to Hicksville for parties with his friends from the hospital. Some shook uncontrollably from the meds. Some smoked pack after pack of Marlboro Reds. Some just rocked back and forth, their arms clutched across their chests. And Uncle Michael would introduce each one of them, by name, to Sissy and I. We were young and knew they were a little different. But they were Uncle Michael's friends. So we just sat with them and talked. It wasn't so bad.<br />Sissy, in particular, LOVED Uncle Michael. Since we were little, he would always be on the floor with us playing "Don't Break The Ice" or "Barrel of Monkeys". I just remember Sissy always hugging him. Sitting on his lap. Just talking to him like it was another 7 year old. She would braid his hair and make him sing songs to her while playing guitar.<br />IMPORTANT: NO this story does not go south into a weird PEDO way. Uncle Michael was wayyyyy too good of a man for that. You have to be a special kind of evil fuck up for that kind of crazy.<br />So days, months, years go by. I get less and less guilty about not seeing my beautiful Uncle. Mimi passes. I don't give two shits about Frank the Plumber for my own reasons. And family gets weird about, as I've written earlier "valuables" And, my Daddy basically feels that Mommy, Sissy, Me, Julian, Kenny, M.O.M. (My Old Man) and his cousins and Aunt and Uncle are his family. (And Dad will be the first one to admit, he isn't good at keeping up with his truly beloved cousins. And when Uncle Jim and Aunt Alice died, Daddy went to that quiet, sad, place he goes inside himself, because of all the hurt and abandonment he has experienced in the past.)<br />And now, I know Uncle Michael is gone. March 15th 2013. And yes, I feel douchey.<br />I swear on my nephew I thought about him so much in the past. I had a job interview down Broadway in Hicksville in December of 2012, about 2 blocks from The Cerone's old house in Hicksville (it was one of the "valuables" I spoke of earlier.) It didn't look all that valuable sitting there on the corner. No trucks or vans in the driveway. No Mimi smiling, waving.<br />I glanced across the street at Lee Avenue school where Uncle Michael would take Sissy and I to play on the monkey bars. I showed him how I could do a drop dismount, and spin like a pinwheel. Sissy chased him around screaming, "Uncle Mikey, you can't get me." And he would say, "My girls are so fast and and talented!!" And then we'd walk, all holding hands, back across the street and eat chicken soup and swim in the pool.<br />I wonder how he kept the demons away during those times. Because he was pure joy. The Big Kahuna, The COOLEST UNCLE EVER!!!!<br />And I gave up on that. And that is something I have to live with. Because Goddess as my judge I loved him. He was so beautiful, and sick, and could be a huge pain in the ass to Frank The Plumber (which I get a sick kinda' glee out of). But he drove Mimi crazy too, which she never deserved, but she hung in there. And my Dad literally had to pull him off Frank the Plumber during one of his more rambunctious episodes, I mean really. Dad almost knocked Uncle Michael out, almost HAD too!<br />(Personally, I would've let Uncle Michael at Frank, but I'm a pretty demented fuck, and lord knows THAT isn't healthy.)<br />So that is the tale of my beautiful displaced Uncle. Who struggled, and loved, and laughed, and cried, and lived the best he knew how, pretty much like the rest of us.<br />He just did it with all those voices in his head and feelings most of never have to experience (lucky us.)<br />I am sorry Uncle Michael. I should have tried harder. I was fucking scared out of my mind of what I might see had I gone to visit. That is no excuse.<br />In my mind, I still see the gorgeous, blonde, tan, vibrant, free spirit that was my Uncle and friend. I know that once again that makes me a selfish cunt. I can live with that. It won't be the last time I accuse myself of living up to that moniker.<br />You see, it makes this all much easier. Even if it is the truth only to me, in my mind, in my memories.<br />I love you Uncle Michael.<br />Rest In Peace. You deserve it.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbPwPStBhS44s-AIjRpU-4C1dM7y3QH8VtuRKl0820dU3lFpTdQ4JW3bQLNnyWMteDouDc6KYSg6sJ4FDQ6AHFQlVGTfn_Ugmi3UR_dqEqCJMJ9bAlEDIRAdSQ5twxe_wRNy2oab-g6cW_/s1600/michael.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbPwPStBhS44s-AIjRpU-4C1dM7y3QH8VtuRKl0820dU3lFpTdQ4JW3bQLNnyWMteDouDc6KYSg6sJ4FDQ6AHFQlVGTfn_Ugmi3UR_dqEqCJMJ9bAlEDIRAdSQ5twxe_wRNy2oab-g6cW_/s320/michael.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-36889556337386777742013-03-29T12:50:00.001-04:002013-03-29T12:50:29.538-04:00Good Friday? My Fat Ass.<br />
<div class="clearfix mbs pbs -cx-PRIVATE-fbTimelineUnitActor__root" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgb(229, 229, 229); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; margin-bottom: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; zoom: 1;"><div class="-cx-PRIVATE-uiImageBlockDeprecated__smallContent -cx-PRIVATE-uiImageBlockDeprecated__content" style="display: table-cell; vertical-align: top; width: 10000px;"><h5 class="-cx-PRIVATE-fbTimelineUnitActor__header" style="font-size: 11px; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px 51px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="fcg" style="color: grey;"><span class="fwb" style="font-weight: bold;"><a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1355963691" href="https://www.facebook.com/giacerone" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">Gia Cerone</a></span></span></h5><div class="-cx-PRIVATE-fbTimelineUnitActor__timestamp fsm fwn fcg" style="color: grey; line-height: 15px;"><a class="uiLinkSubtle" href="https://www.facebook.com/giacerone/posts/10200912662122907" style="color: grey; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">21 minutes ago</a><div class="uiSelector inlineBlock audienceSelector timelineAudienceSelector audienceSelectorNoTruncate dynamicIconSelector uiSelectorNormal uiSelectorDynamicTooltip" style="display: inline-block; margin-left: 1px; margin-top: -3px; max-width: 200px; vertical-align: top; zoom: 1;"><div class="wrap" style="position: relative;"><a ajaxify="/ajax/privacy/privacy_menu.php?iconsize=small&oid=10200912662122907" aria-expanded="false" aria-haspopup="1" aria-label="Public" class="uiSelectorButton uiButton uiButtonSuppressed uiButtonNoText" data-hover="tooltip" data-label="" data-length="30" data-oid="10200912662122907" data-tooltip-alignh="center" data-tooltip="Public" href="https://www.facebook.com/giacerone#" rel="toggle" role="button" style="-webkit-box-shadow: none; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-position: 100% -202px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: auto; border: 1px solid transparent; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; font-weight: bold; line-height: 13px; max-width: 169px; padding: 2px 20px 2px 8px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: top; white-space: nowrap;"><i class="mrs defaultIcon customimg img sp_33vokw sx_9aad92" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yx/r/U2RyW8sDutD.png); background-position: -13px -570px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 12px; margin-left: -2px; margin-right: 1px; margin-top: 2px; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top; width: 12px;"></i></a></div></div></div></div></div><div class="-cx-PRIVATE-fbTimelineStatusUnit__root" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; padding: 10px 0px 15px;"><div class="userContentWrapper"><div class="-cx-PRIVATE-fbTimelineText__featured" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_5155c5b5bd5131f95595884" style="display: inline;">I know this is the oldest shtick in the book, (I like using "shtick", because I am speaking of The King of all Jews").<br />
<br />
But why the fuck would the Catholics (Any other Christians too? Maybe? I suck at knowing who believes what - help a Sister out, if you know......),.......call this "GOOD FRIDAY"?<br />
<br />
This was Jesus' WORST DAY EVER. It was like, the worst blood clotty period cramps, getting kicked st<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">raight in the balls, a thousand paper cuts immersed in lemon juice, having to put your pet down and trying to un-see something like "2 Girls One Cup" all rolled in one.<br />
<br />
And, what about the poor people that really LOVED him?<br />
I'm pretty sure there were more than 12 guys (I include Judas in that, I mean, he did stick by him for a pretty long time), and 2 women (one of whom, he was most definitely making out with on a regular basis - AT THE VERY LEAST!!!), who had to watch all this awful shit go down and STILL have faith. (Although Peter faltered a bit, denying him three time before the cock crowed. THREE times Peter? Really?...........heeeee I wrote "cock.)<br />
<br />
So here is my point. Maybe, the people that wrote the moniker "Good Friday" made an honest mistake in their interpretation of the word "GOOD". I mean you had Farsi, Sanskrit, Hieroglyphs, Hebrew, good old Latin. (Maybe.- I'm going out on a limb here about which languages they communicated in, needless to say, there were shit loads.) So "GOOD" to one of these writers of the text that millions of people live their life by, might have meant "SUCKY" to another.<br />
<br />
Possible. Very possible. Sooooooooooo, maybe it actually is "Sucky Friday" for Jesus. Makes more sense to me, as I'm a big fan of what he seemed to be, a really, really, good, loving guy, with crazy great abs. and a will for everyone to lovelovelove each other.<br />
<br />
Heyyyyyyyyyy. Wait a second..... Maybe that means that "Men Shall Not Lie Down With Other Men" is badly translated too!!!!<br />
<br />
Oooooooooo! AND, "marriage is between a man and a woman ONLY" is also off by a little. (Hell, I'm pretty sure that isn't even WRITTEN in the ancient texts/bible.)<br />
<br />
And Priests can't marry. Gals can't be priests (again not even sure if that stuff is written IN the bible.)<br />
<br />
Maybe there are more screw ups in those ancient texts, due to the fact they didn't have great paper, and nice Bic pens, plus a ton of different languages to keep straight. Not to mention every time someone wrote what they think they saw, experienced or felt, there was some crazy fucking Savage Ruler (or a guy with a bit of power), ready to kill them for not writing what the BigWigs wanted to be put down on papyrus (if the local Staples even had it in stock)!!! And by "killing" I mean stretching them until they tore in half, hanging then on crosses even in bad weather, and chopping off their head, and playing soccer with said noggin soon after.<br />
<br />
So I am forever calling this day "SUCKY FRIDAY" because it's unfair to this beautiful, peaceful, man, Jesus, to minimize this awful, terrible, disgusting, day that happened a couple thousand years ago.<br />
<br />
I thinks it's terrible to minimize the torture and insults and degradation Jesus suffered at the hands of narrow minded people.<br />
<br />
Kind of like the way my Gay friends are insulted, degraded and basically made to feel like second class citizens EVERY FUCKING DAY.<br />
Kind of like the way, I suspect a lot of good Priests (not PEDO priests that's a whole 'nother story), would love to be married to, and have crazy, sweaty, mind blowing sex another woman or man, and still spread the good word of Jesus, but are told to rid themselves of such disgusting thoughts, you weak, dumb bastards.<br />
<br />
I also suspect there are a lot of Nuns who feel the same way! Maybe they don't even WANT to get married, they just want to SAY FREAKING MASS, or hear confession (why anyone would WANT to hear confession, is beyond me, but to each her own), for Godsakes!!<br />
But noooooooooooooooo.<br />
They are women and they are not up to snuff. Get that stupid, horrible idea out of your heads right now.<br />
<br />
So until all the aforementioned groups, are clearly afforded the same rights to love and be loved. Live their lives with no fear. And receive respect from ALL other members of the human race, "holy or regular" (unless they themselves are cruel douchebags, then they don't deserve respectH "Holy" "Regular" Gay or Straight), I'm calling everyday "Sucky Monday" or "Sucky Tuesday" or "Sucky Wednesday"..............<br />
<br />
That's my idea and I'm sticking to it. All for you Jesus. I really do believe your one hell of a guy. (Probably a mixed metaphor or something there.)</span></div></div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-11130790452351574042013-03-29T10:51:00.004-04:002013-03-29T10:51:43.376-04:00The Healing Powers of Laughter.....(Or) Yes. I Want to Screw Alan Alda<br />
I ustah' say I would've screwed Paul Newman on his deathbed - that no matter how old he got, that man woulda' made me all "melty" & squishy. Still holds true.<br />
<br />Now, I feel that way about Alan Alda. He is still young, and thank God/Goddess still healthy. But, I'll tell you, that man, he just never disappoints. You can tell by the scripts and parts he chooses to play. I want to go to dinner with him in NYC, preferably really good kinda old school Italian. Maybe share a plate of Bacala with him and listen to him talk, while I coyly play footsie with him under the table.<br />
<br />Why this sudden confession? Saw him in the great comedy Wanderlust (also starring my REAL boyfriend Paul Rudd - we have a very open relationship.) Yes, Wanderlust. Aniston & Rudd with all the guys from The State. If you didn't think it was funny, fuck you.<br />
<br />M.O.M. And I loved it. Long Island's own Ken Marino is in it, and he is just funny personified.<br />So, we've been going through this awfulness with Aunt Rita and needed to escape into a funnier place. Wanderlust did it.<br />
<br />Alda plays the old hippy that owns the commune, and he needs to find the deed to the place in order to keep the evil developers from coming in and destroying what he has built over 40 years ago. He, and about 6 or 7 other hippies pitched in back in the day. One of them was Janet Wu. (There's a reoccurring joke about him repeating all there names.....just see it.) Anyway, the scene goes a little something like this:<br />
<br />ANISTON: You mean you have NO idea where you could've put the deed? Can't remember at all?<br />
<br />ALDA: You know, it's amazing. I can remember everything about Janice Wu. Over 40 years ago! Every curve of her body, every crinkle on her face, her smile. Yet, I have no idea where I put that damn deed...........But in all fairness, I never fucked the deed.<br />
<br />I can and will watch that scene over and over the next few days. It'll get me through these tough times.<br />Well, the scene, and a little kinky fantasy involving Bacala, Alda, myself and my boyfriend, Paul Rudd. (Did I mention we have a very open relationship?)<br />
<br />This one was for Andrea Barnett- Rosen the trues, most beautiful authentic hippy I know!<br />
xAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-90731331161236995212013-03-28T12:43:00.001-04:002013-03-28T13:48:52.934-04:00Jesus, You're Lucky (Aunt Rita)<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">My partner, my old man, the coolest mutha effa evah, verdant dude, earl....whatever you want to call him, well, his Aunt is dying. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Aunt Rita. This whole thing stinks. I love my Old Man's family. They're a crazy Irish bunch, that party, enjoy really great food, drink like, well, they drink like a crazy Irish bunch, and they're wicked smart, each one of them. (Yeah, that sounded kinda Bostonish, bu</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">t I swear on my life it is unintentional.)<br />
The Old Man has 4 sisters and a brother plus they all have signif. others and boatloads of kids. They're seriously a clan. A really good kind of clan. My Old Man (going forward, it will be shortened to M.O.M), has a major regret that makes me cry whenever he says it. Ready? He says, "It breaks my heart to think Dad never got a chance to meet you. God, he would've LOVED you." I'm filling up just typing that. M.O.M. loved his Dad more than any other human that ever had the honor to be in my M.O.M.'s circle of energy. He died too young, just a few months before we met. M.O.M. is so much like his Dad. Everyone says so. It makes him proud. Which makes ME proud.<br />
So, now onto Aunt Rita. She is M.O.M.'s Mother's, Sister. (Maybe this M.O.M. moniker is going to get confusing. Oh well, deal with it. I'm in no mood to give a fuck.) I love M.O.M's Mother BTW. She is always put together, but not in an "Aryan from Darien" kinda way. She just is a great accessorizer, and wears Chicos & JJill like a boss. She also enjoys life. With her sisters. They're always going to wineries. Seeing shows. Just being together. I love Aunt Raney (I'm sorry if I'm spelling that wrong), Aunt Raney is kinda like my favorite. Which I know is awful to say, but I just feel the love for her in my bones. She is strong and brave. Blah, blah. This isn't about her. She just rocks, and it kills me she and Lucille (M.O.M.'s Mother) are hurting so much right now.<br />
So now REALLY onto Aunt Rita. Looks wise? Picture those Austrian stacking dolls. Really, good ones. Not made in China, by 6 year old starving kids. I'm talking antique, hand painted wooden gems that are a sight to behold. Aunt Rita looks like the number two stacking doll in that priceless set. The Mother figure. Round face, rosy pudgy cheeks, cutest kinda plump butt. That's Aunt Rita. Personality wise? A lot like a hardcore nun, that drinks great scotch, laughs easily and gives.....THE BEST HUGS EVER!! Her hugs can put you onto another plane of existence. You just want to melt away. Quaalude hugs. Really. Never, ever, ever, want to let go.<br />
I disagree with almost every religious, philosophical, and social belief she has ever held, and yet I just want to be in her arms right now. Her hugs just emit pure goodness and joy. So, even if she disagrees with me on all the stuff like Gay's Right To Marry, or the Right To Choose, or priests marrying, the warmth of her hugs send me a completely different message. Her hugs are non-denominational, hippy, loving, left wing, non-judgmental hugs. (NOTE: I don't want to hear from any of you slagging on my "left wing" comment, I'm hurting and don't need the aggravation.)<br />
It's like her hugs know better. Her hugs smile and wink behind her back. Her hugs whisper in my ear, "She talks that stuff, but c'mon, feel this. All there is is love and compassion here."<br />
The hugs are right. I wish she had met a man that swept her off her feet like her nephew (M.O.M.) did for me. I wish she had more orgasms.(Listen don't be a hating on me for that comment. Maybe she had a Hitachi Magic Wand that I know nothing about, but I bet my love of The Yankees she didn't. Sad.) I wish she explored the world more and didn't put soooooooo much of her time and energy into the church. You're thinking, "Well, THAT made her happy!" Um, yeaaaaaah, but I get the feeling she talked herself into that happiness on some level.<br />
I'm just pissed. She's only in her very early 70's and she had a massive stroke on her church steps in the middle of the night. There's a lot about that that pisses me off. I mean ON THE CHURCH STEPS? STILL SO YOUNG? RELATIVELY HEALTHY? NIGHTTIME? C'mon God/Jesus give this lady a break.<br />
So let me be honest here. I'm being a selfish cunt. I don't want to see this great family suffer and mourn. I don't want to see M.O.M. try to be "strong". I don't want to Lucille and Raney (and Uncle DJ) to experience stuff without their partner in crime.<br />
But mostly, I don't want to go on without those hugs anymore. I can't imagine not getting another one. Like I said, I'm a selfish cunt.<br />
I DO take solace in one great thought. I know Aunt Rita, when she goes, will head straight up. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 rosaries. She will get to stroll past Saint Peter, with her heaven "Easy Pass", giving him a little "Wassup Peter" salute with her two fingers. And she will FINALLY come face to face with the love of her life, God/Jesus. And then, she will give him one of her hugs. And he will hug back, because that's what God/Jesus is suppose to do into those situations. And she'll get to feel what I got to feel all those times. And God/Jesus will smile and wink over her shoulder at the hugs that now get to hang around heaven and spread themselves around even more!!!<br />
God/Jesus, Lucky Fucking Bastard.<br />
<br />
For: <a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1313473251&extragetparams=%7B%22group_id%22%3A0%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/ChristineCurleyMorales?group_id=0" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">Christine Curley-Morales</a> <a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1364638221&extragetparams=%7B%22group_id%22%3A0%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/barbara.c.modica?group_id=0" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">Barbara Cremin Modica</a> <a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1310517845&extragetparams=%7B%22group_id%22%3A0%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/mtm671?group_id=0" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">Michael Modica</a> <a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1002276212&extragetparams=%7B%22group_id%22%3A0%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/rami.baghdadi?group_id=0" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">Rami Baghdadi</a> (and the rest of the family Facebook member's yea or nay.)</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-51465029480318562782013-03-22T14:18:00.001-04:002013-03-22T14:18:25.073-04:00Spill the Wine......<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">My love affair started when I was 3 & 1/2 years old. But I really got sucked in at age 4. My mother encouraged it. My Dad laughed. My sister wasn't around yet to be by my side. 4:51 minutes each time. So young and so hooked. "Spill the Wine (Dig that Girl)" by Eric Burdon and War. I would jump up on any table available and swing my non existent hips with jubilant ferocity. Pony tale whipping in ci</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">rcles like a tilt-a-whirl about to come unhinged. Mom bought me a cool paisley print mini dress with matching panties, white flat GOGO boots (age appropriate) and strung Christmas lights around my own "GOGO Booth" like on Wonderama. "Play it again Mommy!!!" "Okay Baby, one more time then I have to make dinner." Finally Daddy bought me my own orange record playa' and a stack of 45's. Mom marked the labels with little symbols so I knew which side to set the heavy, plastic housed needle on. This one had a little wine glass in red crayon, neatly sketched next to the words I couldn't make out. My parents unknowingly set me on this path of zero self-conscienceness and adoration of heavy, throbbing rock n roll. Thank God for them.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-74402300640337490762012-03-17T22:43:00.005-04:002012-03-17T23:28:13.011-04:00The American President: A Dishwasher's IronyWhen my family and I owned our restaurant, we had a staff that became a beautiful extended family.<br />Lunchtime. Dad at the stove, me in "the front of the house" and Wilson at the sink.<br />I need to state emphatically........I love Central American people. Guatemalans in particular. They are a kind, peace loving, race. Hard working, honest, loyal and true. <br />Which is why I can't for the life of me understand why so many Guatemalan dishwasher's parents seemed to name the males after American presidents. OBSCURE American presidents.<br />We had Wilson, Nixon (not obscure, but really weird, no?), Harrison, and Cleveland. Sixteen years of business, and I learned more about American leaders, by the guys we had at the sink, than I ever did in school. Cleveland. REALLY? I thought he was a baseball player.<br />And mind you, these were mountain people. No televisions. No public libraries. Just tiny poor villages with healers that literally rubbed dirt on wounds when someone took a tumble. Wilson, by the way, was the hero of his "willage" because he killed the giant snake that ate two babies in the night. Seriously.<br />The guys from Guatemala City, who were better educated, actually worked the line with Mom, Dad and my Sissy. They read, they learned English, they tried new recipes. They were Sergio, Ceasar, Roberto, Jorge.<br />But the presidents? They washed dishes like lathered up tornadoes.<br />So I lay here asking myself. Is there some connection, some true, gleaming answer, in this vast sprawling universe, regarding the American President named Guatemalan mountain man, excellent, committed, dishwasher moniker, trend? I'm ready to accept any theories.<br /><br />See this is why I suck at this blogging shit. What in God's name does the above post add to the world as we know it. Fuck if I know.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-35489685680227837612011-01-27T15:09:00.003-05:002011-01-27T15:23:42.316-05:00Sick & Weepy J.D. StoryMy boyfriend in college and I got a black Lab puppy, and we grew older together. The dog and me, not the guy. He disappeared to Japan of all places. <br />I'm home, sick with pneumonia and I'm feeling sorry for myself, so if it bums anyone, I'm sorry in advance. <br /><br />He loved chocolate and beer even more! My kinda' guy. I haven't gotten another dog since. He died in my arms. It was so weird. For the last year of his life, his back legs didn't work at all. Degenerative Spinal Myopathy. So I carried him around or boosted him up holding his legs like a wheel barrel. Then, I depleted any savings I had, bought him one of those custom built canine carts. He was a dog on wheels! I use to decorate the thing for the holidays with ornaments. He wasn't embarrassed enough, you see. At first when I finally got the building, and measurement specifications right, I attached him......and he just STOOD there!! Swear, he would not move an inch. A full hour went by. I was freaking 'cause I just spent 1700.00 to get this thing built and shipped, and all I succeeded to create was a very furry statue. Wouldn't budge. Anywhoooo, I couldn't take it so I went to the kitchen and opened a beer, and lo and behold, I heard weird squeaking, like Norman Bates' Mom's wheel chair. Turn around, and there was my boy. Walked through 3 rooms for a sip o' the good stuff! He lived another year and a half after that. <br />Then one morning, I just knew. He put his head on my chest and gave a big sigh. And I KNEW! I called my Sis in a panic to get over my house. She had to leave work, so I knew it would be like half an hour before she got there. So I propped him up on my lap, and looked him in the eye and said, "it's okay Chowie (crazy nickname for him) you can go now, I'll be sad, but don't worry you have been the best son a girl could have, and me and Dad, and anyone that knew you loved you. For all I know, your Dad is dead and not in Japan too, and you can hang with him up there! (moment of levity, I apologize, but it's true).<br />My Sister arrived and came running up the stairs and I swear on my nephew, he raised his head, and let out a big sigh of relief, and looked me in the eye, and then he was gone. I literally felt him let go. He waited. He waited so I wouldn't be alone. And now i'm crying again like a big dope because it was so goddamn beautiful, and miraculous, and devastating all at once. <br />And I held him and smelled him, and my Dad rushed over, and picked him up to take him to the vet to be cremated. And I have a tin of his ashes. I sprinkled some into the water at the beach near my house, then took a road trip to Oneonta and sprinkled some at Gilbert lake. And I still have a little more. About a year layer I got the tattoo of his name with a paw print on my foot. I have others, I mean jeez, tattoos and private piercings are a staple of my existence.<br /> I was in bed for 3 weeks. And when some idiot says "over a dog?" I want to pop out their eyeballs and stomp on them, because what do they know? Yeah dude, have more kids and ruin the planet even more - to fulfill your ego or because you think it's the natural progression of marriage. Ewwwwwww yuck. <br />So that is the story, and I've probably ruined your day, but don't be too angry, because he was so loved until the end.<br />And his feet smelled like Fritos corn chips, and that makes me smile, even now.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-17852776004974337792011-01-10T21:06:00.003-05:002011-01-10T21:18:32.513-05:00Mike Dick, Oh, I mean VickI am LOVING the fact that Mike Vick didn't make it to the big show. Yes, he has the right to play, blahblahblahblah.<br /><br />I wanted him to suffer a painful and bloody Joe Theisman style compound fracture, and then as he was being carried off on a stretcher, the papoose like structure flips suddenly! Oh my! He just landed on his hard to look at compound fracture, that has to sting.<br /><br />I have my long deceased Black Lab's name tattooed on my foot. When he died in my arms, I wanted to go with him. <br /><br />Nuff said.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-22783541309479780972011-01-10T20:52:00.004-05:002011-01-10T21:04:28.511-05:00But I Digress.....This is a little something I added to my amazing brother-in-law's Facebook wall. He just posted how sad he felt, and attached that stupid fucking map Palin had on her website. Let me state right now, I don't give a fuck if you disagree with me. Don't start arguing and debating me. I am not in the mood. This whole thing has gotten me cranky. Okay, read on.<br /><br /> A fuckin'men. Kenny. And yes shit like that DOES incite people to commit violent crimes-crazy, demented people who just needed a little something more to get worked up about. Now, because some crazy bastard kills his parents after listening to Norwegian Black Metal, doesn't mean I want to ban Norwegian Black Metal (plus I like the scary voices, and double bass drum). But I digress.<br /><br />Enough with the crosshairs, bullets and caribou shooting on both sides. Our elected officials better get their acts together and work with each other to facilitate some infinitesimal point they can all agree on. Because everyday some sticking point seems to be separating these out of touch fucks even more. Grow some balls and ovaries politicians. Stop worrying about which company or lobbyist group you sold your souls to, and think about the people for one second.<br /><br /> And BTW try going one month without health insurance because you're busting your ass to live and you can't afford it. I guaren-fuckin-tee you'll end up needing to go to the hospital for some fucked up injury or sickness. Try paying THAT bill. What, can't keep up with the thousands of dollars in payments? Don't worry, it will go into collections faster than you can say Jack Robinson. Then down the line when you need a new car for work, or a loan for school or a house, your credit will be shot and oooooooppppppsssss there goes your American dream mother fucker. And isn't the "American Dream" all these stupid politicians keep talking about.<br /><br />Oh and one more thing, don't tell me what I can and can't do with my vagina and inside parts. I'm overwhelmingly certain if men, dudes, guys, boys, could get pregnant, there would be an abortion clinic on every corner. Drive thru abortion clinics. "I'll have a double, no onions with a large fry and a diet coke, oh an throw in a first trimester pregnancy termination with that." But I again digress.<br /><br />My thoughts and prayers go out to all those injured, and killed in yesterday's massacre. As well as all the other people suffering from famine and disease as I write this. Now since it's double coupon day I'm going to go hoard 50 boxes of cereal I won't eat for a year, 'cause who can pass up that deal?<br /><br />Welcome to America.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-87438177719289388052010-12-24T15:33:00.003-05:002010-12-24T15:38:52.947-05:002011I'm going to try & make this blog thing work for me. I gave up a long time ago, but Im willing to give it another shot. I have a lot on my mind & stuff races around my brain like those silly fuckers that trample each other getting into Walmart the day after Thanksgiving. Really a blast to watch, but not so good to live with, when it's your brain, and it won't stop. Get me?<div>So 2011 means a fresh start. A new beginning. A lot of new perspectives, and me writing about them. </div><div>I hope.......</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-57846274418678028312009-03-03T14:06:00.000-05:002009-03-03T14:10:53.434-05:00The Jules<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyx5_E67RPQPKSyjhlTmTxruV0eP4_rmD4Ksl2duiPS53F49qx7LEmAIunEQG3HFqlxA-e_FPSHLlj7RUzO2TZMHsUPvY7-TVERTdbdoJ-kLFCwaGpKNMQWyW22KOhH8xROGgU0wa287An/s1600-h/IMG_0051.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 195px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyx5_E67RPQPKSyjhlTmTxruV0eP4_rmD4Ksl2duiPS53F49qx7LEmAIunEQG3HFqlxA-e_FPSHLlj7RUzO2TZMHsUPvY7-TVERTdbdoJ-kLFCwaGpKNMQWyW22KOhH8xROGgU0wa287An/s320/IMG_0051.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309040830785167378" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-13339817397419531382009-03-03T13:46:00.005-05:002009-03-03T14:41:09.949-05:00JulianI love my nephew. I mean really, really love him. I know I just got done dissing kids, however, he isn't mine <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">AND</span> he's so fucking cute I want to die!! I don't have much patience for ugly kids. Ugly? I mean disrespectful, weird or boring kids, but ugly too. Julian is seven. He is so kind, sweet & funny. I love the fact he cares about how other people feel. I just worry about people hurting his feelings. I WILL beat up a child if he/she picks on Julian. I will board that yellow bus & ask which little fucker made my nephew cry! Then I'll pick the little bastard up by his/her neck and beat them senseless. I'll show you bully!! <div>Then I will go to jail & learn how to play harmonica & create a shiv in my cell. I truly will. </div><div>Once when Julian was four I was baby sitting him. I was at my Sissy's & they have a lot of remote controls. Julian wanted to watch a dvd, so I was having trouble figuring it out. I was a little impatient. I looked over at my beautiful Julian & said, "Sorry buddy, sometimes Yanti (his name for me) has trouble figuring this stuff out." He slid over and patted me on the leg, looked up at me with his wide khaki colored eyes & replied, "That's okay Yanti, sometimes I FRO UP."</div><div>He's so delicious he makes me want to FRO UP!!!</div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-80154336106024251722009-03-01T10:41:00.000-05:002009-03-01T11:07:29.151-05:00Screw Birth....& all that comes from itI'M, or should I say WE are not having kids. Initially, (and I'm talking way back, when I was a teen), I blamed it on the messiness & pain of the whole birth thing. I was amazed to discover the fact that sometimes the doc had to slit open your vagina with a razor blade in order for the baby to plop out easier. Oh my God, are you kidding me? But, .......wait for it..........<br />THAT WAS NOT THE WORST PART!!!! Huh? The real pain were those darn <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">contractions</span>. What the fuck? (I have a mouth like a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">truck stop</span> hooker-get used to it..)<br />What was I saying? Oh yeah, no kids for us.<br />It's not the pain thing anymore, it's the responsibility aspect. Plus I'm selfish.<br />Earl & I are so in love with each other & our Cats, it seems like a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">rugrat</span> would ruin it. Yeah, that' right I said it and I'll probably say it again!<br />Imagine if I actually squeezed one out, only to discover it was allergic to animals? I'd have to try sell (or give away) the thing on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Craigslist</span>. What a hassle. I hate strangers coming to my house to check shit out.<br />"It's a baby for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Chrissakes</span>, obviously, I told you it's sneezing because of the cats!! Are you taking it or what? Alright, I'll throw in the mobile over that cribby thing, do we have deal?"<br />I'm fucking serious.<br />BTW.... I'm trying to organize my thoughts regarding this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Octomom</span> bitch. Just give me some time.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2264053733277275652.post-16181670731408080082009-02-27T11:59:00.000-05:002009-02-27T12:00:06.717-05:00I was a freakin' English major & I never learned to type. I watch my man's fingers whip across the keyboard like Helen Keller reading War & Peace. Not to mention everything he writes is brilliant, cohesive & grammatically correct. I think too fast for this blog thing. All the illegal and (now) legal drugs that I took/take, make me hazy & it's hard to keep a straight thought.<br />What was I saying? Fuck. I hope this wasn't a mistake.<br />I love the NY Yankees, my Cats (yes I capitalized that shit) and reading about the Manson family.<br />I like memories more than presents, hence a three hour dinner is definately my cup of tea but buying me flowers sucks armadillo dick.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12037797252288661413noreply@blogger.com13