Table of Mal-Contents

I... uh... this speaks for itself. Ahhh, Showbiz Pizza, how do I love thee? Let me YouTube the ways...

Thanks to the lovely Ms. Truck for bringing this to my attention.

So I know, I know... I'm only averaging like once a month on this blog I swore I would be eternally faithful to. I also swore Mrs. Turrentine, my eighth grade English teacher that I would never ever ever end a sentence with a preposition. And... well.... you see how good I am at keeping promises.

Long story short... the story is looooooooooooong. 400+ pages long. But the good news is, the countdown has begun, the end is in sight, there's a light at the end of my tunnel, there's going to be icing on my cake, and I'm truly going to party like there's no novel-writing tomorrow.

In the meantime...

This is the funniest thing I've seen in ages! And I can promise it will be the same for you. If you, like myself, getting a really big kick out of talking about typefaces and... uh... fonts.

Seriously? Watch all the way to the end. As inexplicable as it is, it just keeps getting better.

... inflicting pain and suffering on your loved ones! That's right kiddies, the holidays are fast approaching, and you know what that means? Time for everyone to get really stressed out and pretend you actually want that fruitcake your great-aunt twice removed sent you last year for Christmas but, since she sent it book rate from Kalamazoo, only found its way to your doorstep yesterday and, when you called to inform her of its arrival, you were assured it would be "fine as peach fuzz" to crack it open for this year's holly jollies.

So Go on! Slam that door! Throw that piece of crockery! Inadvertently insult your in-laws! Or, for the more adventurous among you, why don't you pick out some nice dementia for them?

Yes, you read that right. Dementia.

Now Malice, you may say, I dislike all this seasonal gift-giving crap as much as the next bah-humbugger, but isn't that taking it a little too far?

And you know, I'd normally agree with you. In fact, I still do. But evidently some less-than-well-meaning so-and-so has decided that this is a hole in the gift-giving market that should and must be filled. While doing some medical research for the book today, I came across this ad:




Now, I'll draw your attention to the ad currently boxed in red:


That's right folks. It's new! It's unique! And now, there are more types to choose from than ever, with prices that are sure to not break the bank. That is assuming, of course, that you can remember where your bank is. Or where you put your wallet. Or... wait, what was I talking about?

I think my favorite thing is the little doo-daddy ornament in the picture next to the ad, but I wonder what the people over at Gifts.com do if anyone tries to order the dementia? Go on... click the link for the hilarity of it and then ask yourself, how much dementia do you need? Do you think it comes individually wrapped? Maybe there are discounts for bulk purchases? Depending on how large your family is, you may need a whole lot of dementia to get you through the season.

I know, it's a horrible thing to make fun of. It really is. But I was struck dumb by seeing this horrible placement, cuz you know how these links happen? Someone gets paid to search the internet for key words and attach links to them. You get daily assignments based on client priority for that day and then they send you off on your tagging little way. I contemplated doing this for about 3 seconds once, as you can supposedly make lots of money doing this. But what poor schmuck got his brand assignment for the day and decided that the key words he would search for and tag would be "types of"? Maybe he bought the dementia, too.

And of course, now that the idea's been planted...

Wait... what idea?

For the last six months or so, the block I live on has occasionally been overrun by over-pious production assistants with over-inflated senses of self-importance making overly egregious demands on my space, my time, and my patience.  But it hasn't really been as bad as all that because... well, it happens a lot on my block and my polite obeisance after being asked to wait ten minutes to get inside my house because they were shooting a scene was justly rewarded by my having to politely excuse myself as I stepped around Jason Schwartzman and Ted Danson who were "taking 5" on my stoop, at which point I got the barely perceptible head-nod that indicates someone a hell of a lot more famous than me vaguely recognizes my presence or, in this particular situation, their being in my way. 

Now, my partner - who is a self-professed boarder underneath a very large rock - wasn't nearly as moved by this because a) he does not work from home, and b) I had to explain to him that the silver-haired guy lounging casually on our front stoop was "that guy from Cheers," at which point we spent several minutes debating whether or not the idea that "everyone knows your name" was a privilege we were now certain to enjoy or if it was just more of the same -- namely, just us doing the age-old not-so-inconspicuous gawking at the famous person through our window sheers.  The result, as I'm sure you can guess, was the latter. 

At any rate, the product of all this annoyance and speculation debuted on HBO this past Sunday night in the form of the original series called "Bored to Death."  And while the series seems like it will shape up to be one of those charming but awkwardly awkward tales of the thirty-something Brooklynite struggling with artistically-bent life, unemployed liberty, and the pursuit of haplessness, it has one large, overly-redeeming factor:  it's made my window boxes famous.

Okay, so they're not going to be recognized on the street or ogled at by thousands of hormonally-driven pre-adolescent girls.  They don't suck blood, dance on the bar, shoot out the lights, sparkle inexplicably in the sunlight, or do much of anything else that gets the millions of readers of Gawker.com or Defamer nasty-ing up their knickers.  But in this day and age, you don't actually need any talent or much of anything else to recommend you in order for you to become famous. As it turns out, you don't even need to know how to do the things you are, in fact, hired to do.

Case in point:  Sarah Palin was in Hong Kong today, speaking to an investor forum organized by CLSA Asia-Pacific Markets, the regional brokerage unit of Paris-based Credit Agricole SA. You can read more about it here, but really, need I/you/we say more?

So, I've decided to milk my window boxes' two and a half seconds of fame for all it's worth.  They are now available for hire, and with their effervescent personalities and remarkable chlorophyillic abilities, they're sure to be perfect for all your flora casting needs.  In fact, I daresay that they'd even be the perfect mascots for pushing all your Green initiatives.  Just look how lovely their leaves are.  And they're oh so telephotogenic, don't you think?

C'mon.  Give 'em a job.  I promise, you won't regret it.  Here.  Here's their headshot... (No, not those guys.  The green leafy things in the box-like window thingies... Geez, Kermit was right.  It ain't easy being green.)

.... If you're a first-timer, like yours truly, you've got very conflicting things going on.  

First: You're a novice, and of this you remain painfully, dreadfully, agonizingly aware, both as you head into the large, looming process and as you trudge your way through the muck-caked trenches that pass as the creative pathways you've self-torturously decided to walk.   

Second:  You're so consumed with the idea that this is what you're doing, this is what you've pledged yourself to, and you need to prove to others that you are, in fact, writing a book, and not sitting at home in your bathrobe watching re-runs of Charmed while doodling illegibly in a moleskin notebook and calling it character development.  Notice the ambiguity... whose character development?  The characters?  Or mine?  

Third:  You've got no idea what you're doing. This, at the very least, is pretty self-explanatory.

So where am I going with all this drivel?  Really, it's one long, winding and self-indulgent road to an apology.  I haven't been writing here, because I've been very caught up in writing there and, in the process, I've ignored you.  Whoever you are. Where ever you might be.  Or not be.  I dunno....

But even that's not why I'm here, now.  I'm here now because I've been spending so much time there that I've had time to grow.  I have achieved that pinnacle of human being-ness and evolved. Mostly as a writer;  I hesitate to claim any great stride forward in my general person-dom. Had I reached that particular distinction, I would have perhaps found a way to write both there and here, and we'd all have been happily fulfilled.

At any rate it comes to pass that in this newly adapted state, I'm painfully cognizant of the fact that good ol' conflict #2 up there dictated that I send out one piece of a first draft to those very supportive and much loved people who are certain that, somewhere along the line, my Mensa qualification will manifest itself in something a little more spectacular than whiz-bang Scrabble matches and that my talents do, in fact, extend beyond my ability to tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue.  I love you all;  I hope to do you proud.

Which is why I will humbly and on the most bent knee my tennis-arthritic self can manage and, invoking conflict #3, simultaneously thank those of you who trudged through the ridiculousness of that first draft and apologize for having called upon the bonds of kinship and high school secrets kept hidden for these long years in the name of friendship as a means of getting you to read it.  I am sorry, and I do most humbly repent. 

She says 416 pages later... 

It really has gotten much better.  I really AM writing a book... and I haven't seen an episode of Charmed in, like, months.

 

I'm certain many of you already know this, but for those that don't, I have a confession to make.  I have the dietary predilections of a five year old.  I adore, and will stubbornly hold out for, yogurt, jello, pudding (especially Jell-O Pudding!) and a lot of other things that sit low on the totem pole of mandibular requirement.  In short, I like a lot of pap....

I'm okay with this.  At least, I was okay with this, until just earlier....

Just earlier, I was having a conversation with a dear friend that focused on his increasing concerns about being over the hill.  Now, said friend is hardly a geezer -- I would go so far as to still classify him among the strapping variety -- but it's a topic that looms large over everyone's head once they cross that thirty-something threshold, so I can sympathize.  I took a little umbrage with his liberal application of "over the hill," too, but it was a fight that I eventually lost; he continued to douse me with it. 

Finally, after some deep consideration, I told him to look on the bright side:  once you're over the hill, it becomes much easier for others to catch up with you.  He laughed, I smiled, yay, we verily made merry.

End of conversation, right?  Well, not really.  Because as we were having this conversation, I was slowly but surely making my way through a plastic container of sugar-free, wild cherry Jell-O.  And you know what occurred to me?  You know who else likes things that melt on your tongue and slide down your throat without the least consideration for your jaws or your teeth?  

Yup, old people.  Geezers.  Gramps and Grans. Those for whom the wheels of time need greasing.

Jumpin' Geriatrics, Batman!  Where did the time go?  Am I old yet?  Will I be old soon? Maybe I'm over the hill, too! Or maybe I'm still climbing.  Wait, what hill?  Where is it?

Oh, there it is.  Right underneath my feet.  Well.... huh.

At the very least, I am sitting prettily, perched precariously atop it.  So fear not, my dear friend.  At the very least, I'll be catching up with you very soon.  Now the only question that remains is:  chocolate, vanilla, or tapioca?

While on a recent jaunt down South, I was reminded yet once again of many things that -- growing up in the South --  I never thought twice about, but, with the (dis?)advantage of now being geographically and culturally removed from it, do not know whether to be amused or horrified when I am once again faced with it.

Case in point, this little nugget is directly quoted from a conversation overheard in a women's boutique over the July 4th weekend in Highlands, NC.

Lady 1:  Oh, this is cute, but wherever would I wear it?
Lady 2:  Oh, well that's just precious.  You could wear that to a cookout, or to the park.
Lady 3:  And this?
Lady 4:  Now that's comfortable lounge wear.  You know, you could sleep in that.  Or wear it to the grocery store....

Because I, in my corrupted yank-ification, had managed to forget that "Grocery Store" was a legitimately recognized clothing genre in the South.  And that women would actually purchase garments with this express purpose in mind. 

No, I'm the last one to tell anyone else how to live their life, spend their money, or arrange their wardrobe.  You do you, ma, long as it makes you happy and doesn't infringe on anyone else's right to be happy.  But I gotta admit.... I don't remember if I was ever faced with the particular conundrum of what was the correct attire to buy Coco Puffs in, but I'm glad this is no longer a particular consideration of mine.  I don't think my closet, my bank account, or my sense of all that is common could take it.

It has, however, given me a brilliant idea for new items of the functionally fashionable kind... something the combines the comfort of sweat pants with the carrying capacity of a hand-held shopping basket and the mobility of those wheelie sneakers.  And I'll give it a ridiculous name and sell it for $19.95 on HSN and late night BET informercials. Then we'll combine it with one of those schemes for singles to meet other singles while shopping in the aisles of their local supermarket.

Hey, it worked for the snuggie.

So, it's official.  The day that every Southern woman comes to dread. Perhaps women everywhere come to dread it, but I can't claim to speak for women in, say, Quahog or Abu Dhabi because, well.... I don't know any.  Where's Quahog anyways?  At any rate, I'm perfectly aware that this day is almost a rite of passage and, in its own way, is completely unavoidable.  Whether it comes early or it comes late, it does, eventually, inevitably, come. 

Today, I officially became my mother.

Now, unfortunately for me, the day didn't dawn with my having magically acquired her grace, her overwhelming generosity, and her seemingly endless capacity of good will.  I did not even wake up knowing how to royally embarrass others as a successful means of getting people to act right.  Nor, by some miracle of osmosis, had I mastered the complexly arched single eyebrow which, when raised, said one of two very important, albeit silent dictates:  1) We will talk about this when we get home; and 2) You better fix your face.

Alas, none of these gifts were bestowed upon me. 

Instead, I spent the (Saturday) afternoon polishing the family silver. 

Yup... that's right.  The family silver. Now maybe you'll see why I would have rather become my mother in any of the other ways mentioned above.

But, as I began this little missive by saying, it had to happen one day.  And none of us -- be we shrinking violets, feisty troublemakers, proudly independent go-getters with finely constructed characters of our own, or otherwise -- none of us are given reprieve from this very fateful day.

Now, it must be said:  This could have been a lot worse.  I know, it's difficult to see exactly how this may be the case, but allow me to elaborate. One of the reasons I was polishing the family silver is because these particular pieces have been recently acquired after digging through box upon box of family heirlooms, memorabilia, and other pack-ratted treasures.  Along with the silver I also got a lovely crystal decanter with six matching wine glasses, a boxful of personalized Christmas ornaments that track my progression through life as a cute, hand-painted wooden girl, and a boxful of books that I'm anxiously waiting to re-read after having gone so long without them.  

BUT... I did NOT walk away with any of the umpty-billion candy dishes that were to be had, nor did I bring home the ridiculous number of grocery store-bought figurines that told anyone and everyone that I had just turned 2, 3, 4, 5... in gold glittered numbers.  I also passed on a set of six gold goblets that were nothing short of ... embarassing.  I know, I know.  They sound like the sort of thing from which King Hank the 8th would sip on a feast day in his honor but, to put this into perspective, they were really more suitable to something tossed at a serving wench down at some god-forsaken tavern when she cut you off after your tenth cup of hot spiced meade.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I said meade. 

I must admit, it came as no small shock to me that my parents had such Renaissance Fair flair in their youth, but I was more than willing to chalk that up to a different time and a different day.  They just simply couldn't have known better.  Bless their hearts....

However, I did not come away completely unscathed.  Because nestled deep in the treasure trove of the family silver -- well, really, sticking out like the gangrenous sore thumb -- is a four-piece chafing dish.  In fact, it looks remarkably similar to this one. Woah, maybe it IS that one?  Wow, that's a price tag right there.  AND mine has the liner!  

Okay, so I was about to make a crack that if anyone felt the need host a buffet for all those attending the next Falcon Crest fan's convention, come see me.  But I think my excitement over that last find has effectively outed me.

I have officially become my mother. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, there are several tapers that need to be replaced in my ten silver candlesticks.

When I was six years old, I learned a very valuable lesson: embarrassment is a finely wrought punitive tool.  

I can see it -- indeed, I can feel it -- as if it were yesterday. A morning in early summer in South Carolina, before the air turned from hot to stinkin' hot and the most viable means of staying cool was to lie around with your feet in a tub of ice. (Yes, I have done this.  Yes, I am... not ashamed.)  At any rate, my mother and I were on an outing to Toys R Us, probably to find something for one of the umpty bazillion birthday parties that seem to dictate a child's social scene. I have no idea what it was I wanted, or why I felt it so very important that I have it, but evidently I found something I absolutely could not live without.  My mother, on the other hand, was just as adamant that my spoiled behind not only could, but would live quite nicely without its benefit.  Well, it stands to reason then that a tantrum ensued, and there -- in Aisle 8 of the Toys R Us on Haywood Rd. in Greenville, SC -- did my bare ass, which I was obviously showing to the world anyways, make its acquaintence with the wooden hairbrush my mother kept in her purse. 

Now... I am a child of the South and, what's more, I am the child of old school Southern parents. Which means I got spanked... not beaten or wailed upon or anything else that came remotely close to bordering on child abuse.  I was simply spanked:  my rear end was smacked with hands, wooden spoons, and any other flat surface that would leave a sting but not a mark.  And to be fair, it was probably a good thing I was spanked.  Because to be honest, I probably wouldn't have learned my lessons quite as quickly had I not been.  Because, to be even more painfully honest, my head really IS that hard.

So, I threw a tantrum in Toys R Us, and I got a spanking for it.  On my bare bottom.  With a wooden hairbrush.  It didn't really hurt, but... Y'all.... I have never ever EVER been so embarrassed in my entire life.  NEVER EVER EVER EVER!!!  With my flaming six year old face and my stinging butt and my severely bruised pride, I ran out of the store, away from the amused but knowning eyes of the check-out girl and the three other women with their own youngin's in tow, and hid behind our minivan until my mother came out to retrieve my mortified self and took me home.  Needless to say, I never once -- not even a smidge -- acted up in public again.  The lesson was masterfully taught... and I learned it well, too.

Why am I bringing this us now?  Why am I exposing my grown, thirty-something self to the remembered horror and inevitable ridicule I will receive from the handful of people I've convinced myself compose my adoring public? Because I think that several other people would greatly benefit from the lesson I learned that day... namely, if you will drag your name/body/others through the mud, you should be forced to walk around dirty.  And see how much you like it...

Of whom am I speaking?

Well, this guy... for one.

And these guys... for two through three hundred.

And why?  BECAUSE THEY'RE ACTING LIKE CHILDREN, Y'ALL!!!!  And seriously, I'm pretty sure embarrassment was not what our founding fathers had in mind when they talked about government being BY the people FOR the people.  I do not want to be embarrassed BY you, and I'd really really really don't like being embarrassed FOR you.

But I think I've got a solution.  I've decided, in my infinite wisdom, that what all these people need is a little good ol' fashioned public shaming.  A little dirt on the face is good for the soul; it breeds humility, and entertainment for the masses.  I say smack a scarlet letter to Mark Sanford's chest and let him walk around the capital like that for a good two or three months.  I say we roll the fools up in Albany around in the tar and feather them properly;  we'll see how willing they are to throw sandbox sand at one another when they look, feel, and smell like the stuff at the very bottom of the chicken coop.  Or, and perhaps this is best, we march every last one of them down to the Today show studios at Rockerfeller Center, make them line up and, one-by-one, pull their pants down and spank their rear ends on national television.  And not the kinky kind of spanking, either, but the you-better-be-glad-i-didn't-tell-your-mother-about-this kind of spanking.

I bet you they'll never act out in public again.
And then maybe they'll finally start acting like the adults they're supposed to be and do the jobs WE HIRED THEM TO DO in the first place.

AP, June 24, 2009 · Dr. Jerri Nielsen FitzGerald, who diagnosed and treated her own breast cancer before a dramatic rescue from the South Pole, has died. She was 57

Read more...

Two summers ago, I was living in Amsterdam and performing indentured servitude working from the European headquarters of the company at which I was employed. (Back when people still had those things called jobs.  Remember those?  I know, it's hard.) At the time, it seemed an ideal dream realized for a not-yet-30-something girl born in South Carolina:  i was working in the music industry and had been sent to live, expenses paid, in one of the world's most-loved cities. We'll ignore, for the time being, that I was averaging 16 hour days, handling the business of two offices on two different continents across one ocean and multiple time-zones, so that when my day was ending there at 6pm, it was full steam ahead for the folks on these US shores who were only just beginning to contemplate their many many MANY lunch options.  Yes, that we are ignoring.  For among the chaos and corporate carnage that was my career that summer, I did manage to get in some adventures and soak up what I could of the local and easily-traveled-to cultures surrounding me.  And yay, they have been memorialized here.  I'll expect full reports in the morning.  There will be a quiz.

Aside from the work, though, the one thing I could not get away from that summer was the rain.  It was the summer that most of Britain flooded and the River Nile overflowed its Sudanese banks, along with several other weather events that hadn't been seen in years, or ever. Snow in South Africa, anyone?  In Holland, it rained... and rained... and rained... and rained.  Did I mention that it rained?  Every day, all day.  And when it wasn't raining, it was threatening to.  And when it wasn't threatening to, it was too cold to come even reasonably close to calling it summer.  Had aliens landed in the middle of the Noordmarkt in the middle of July, expecting to spend the day strolling under the sun and sampling the cheeses, they would have been sorely disappointed.  They would have hopped right back in their flying contraption and reprogrammed the coordinates for somewhere... not raining.  

I had a chic apartment on the top floor of an adorable house in the middle of the Jordaan, one block away from the Prinzengracht, and the rent was being paid for by someone else.  I could also go to any show I wanted to see and write it off as an expense.  I got to see Harry Potter in the coolest movie theatre I've ever been into.  And I had a closetful of adorable summer clothes... none of which I could wear.  I spent the entire summer in the same three pairs of jeans and layered t-shirts, wishing my flimsy summer jacket would suddenly sport a wool lining I could zip back into it.  I also went through about four umbrellas, for various reasons that I won't go into here.

"But Malice... What does this have to do with anything?  Why should we care?  What's done is done; what's past is history.  Get over it already!"

Well... errr... yes.  I suppose you're right.  Except it's the middle of June in Brooklyn in 2009 and every day I look out my window to see the same damn thing. Rain... rain... and more rain.  I don't think it's gotten above 70 any day this week, or last.  I suppose the rain I could live with, but wearing sweatshirts in June is just so not on.  It's boring, it's depressing, it's morally reprehensible, it's.... cold. 

And I don't like it one bit.  

And I think I may be experiencing side effects of the weather.  I have photosynthetic tendencies... I need sunshine!

So if anyone's got any they could spare?  I'd certainly appreciate it.  I'll even pay the postage... Just box that sunny puppy up and send her/him/it my way. 

Please?

And in the meantime, anyone want to share my umbrella?

TRUE FAX:
Last week, I volunteered to work the front gate at a non-profit's annual fundraiser. I had the most serious responsibility of checking in everyone in the A-D category who'd already taken out a 3rd mortgage on their house paid the entrance fee. The theme for the event was psychedlica, and there were a lot of peace buttons and other paraphernalia to go along with the theme. Yes, a bright shiny face did I give to the world... assuming your last name put you at the front end of the alphabet, of course.

It was in this capacity that I happened to meet a prospective politician who is running for councilman of some borough district that is not the one in which I currently reside. He had the requisite helmet-esque haircut and the staid but not too conservative tie that says "I'm for your mom... and for you, too!", and he spent an inordinate amount of time deciding between the "Give peace a chance" button or the one that simply had John Lennon's mug depicted against a melded rainbow background. He also babbled... incessantly. About what? Well, about his platform, and how well it tied into the theme of the event. Because peace is important, and that which affects the peace of the nation affects the peace of the people he hopes to represent after he gains the council seat to which he hopes aforementioned people will elect him. It was a stretch to be sure and, to be even more certain, a poorly rehearsed reaching for it, as he flubbed his way through the three key talking points some young aide obviously gave him minutes before he walked in the door. I eventually encouraged him to take the John Lennon button and promptly turned to the next attendee behind him.

Now, to be fair, everyone's got to start out somewhere. And while this guy practically screamed NEWBIE and I would not have been surprised if he were quite literally wet behind the ears, I wish the guy well. He'll learn some finesse, perk up his public speaking skills, and probably be on his merry politico way. I must admit, I promptly forgot about him. Out of sight and not my district...

But ten minutes later, the poor sod was back, trying desperately to make very awkward and very small talk, during which the following conversation took place. (I shit you not.)

Guy: I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name.
Me: Malice *holding out hand for what would eventually be a relatively limp shake*
Guy: *blink, blink* Malice?
Me: Yup
Guy: So... you're for it?
Me: *blink, blink* For what exactly?
Guy: You know, peace?
Me: *long, awkward pause*
Guy: I mean, I just started in and I didn't even ask you your opinions on it.
Me: On peace, you mean?
Guy: Yeah. You like it?
Me: *blink, blink* (Sorry, something must have gotten in my eye)
Me: *blink, blink* (No seriously, guys. Anyone have any eyedrops?)
Guy: *looks expectant*
Me: Actually... *deep breath* ... me, I could do without it, you know? Chaos and carnage, that's more my thing. Anarchy, destruction, war... that kinda stuff. Peace is... *rolls eyes*... yeah.
Guy: Oh, ok. That's cool then. Here, take this ... *hands me campaign card*... you know, in case you change your mind. About peace, I mean. I could use your vote.
Me: *blink, blink*
Me: Uh, I don't live in your district. But...
Guy: *looks even more expectant*
Me: May the peace be with you.
Guy: *stumbles*
Guy: *turns to blonde woman standing next to him and holds out his hand*  Hi, I'm....

So, you know.  At least he got right back on that horse... I'll, uh, give him that.


LATER THAT SAME NIGHT:

I was so pumped up from my political encounters of the unkind (me, obviously, being the unkind one), that I decided to watch the NBC "Inside the White House" special that I'd recorded.  I fully admit to being just as enamored of the new residents at 1600 Penn Ave as most everyone else, but I have an ulterior motive.  Mainly, trying to discern what kind of beer to order (a light pale ale? a belgian trappist? something domestic to show my patriotism?) on the day that I eventually get to kick back and chillax with the people.  Cuz they're totally beer drinkers ... you know they are.

At any rate, towards the end of the interview, Brian Williams begins enumerating all the ways in which the current inhabitants differ from the old and, in some cases, from anything ever seen before.  Among these, the fact that BoBama is the first president to listen to Jay-Z in the White House.

Now, this is pure speculation on my part, but I somehow don't think that's true.  Maybe it's just me, but I have a particularly strong image in my head of Billy C. walking around the Oval office after dismissing everyone from some national security meeting.  He waits patiently as the door closes behind the last suited general and then reaches under the desk to press "play" on the small stereo panel that's hidden there.  As the opening strains play, he sticks his hands in his pockets, and starts to sort-of amble/strut/bop around the room, bobbing his head in that white man's impersonation of funk, and sings along with the song.  

"Jigga what?  Jigga who?" echoes roundly (ovally?) about the room.

But like I said.... maybe that's just me.

(Post Script:  I truly believe that good ol' Hill-arious sneaks in there at night now and does the same thing. You know, just to get the feel of it...)

I find I'm "that guy"... Or, to be anatomically correct, "that girl"... That girl that doesn't know what she knows until the time comes that I need to know it.  I realize that probably makes sense to no one else but me, but I think we can all agree that - at the very least - it sounds complicated, right?  Right. 

I have a better than average memory, but my brain has a distinctly lackadaisical attitude towards recall.  As a result, my knowledge is of the "shoot first, ask questions later" school of thought.  It inevitably needs a trigger before the intended target can benefit from it in any way.  Randomly culling my knowledge bank in the dark or as an exercise yields absolutely nada.The longer I have to put something together, the less likely it is to happen until about 2 seconds before it's needed. 

I don't shoot from the hip because I can; I do it because I don't have anywhere else to shoot from.  I work well under pressure, even better against tight deadlines, and was fantastic at standardized tests.  Particularly timed tests... like multiplication tables. Point to the spot on which you want to put me and tell me to find the fastest way to get myself there?  I'm on it.  Lickety split.  Long term group projects with lots of planning and bureaucratic finagling?  Not so much...

Which, as you can imagine, makes writing a book rather difficult.  I wrote my entire college senior thesis in one weekend. Albeit one long, sleepless, chemically-aided-and-abetted weekend, but one weekend nonetheless. That's not so much feasible with something that will eventually have 400+ pages. I don't smoke and I rarely drink at home anymore, so spending wee hours of the morning hunched over in vice-induced, adrenaline-addled productivity has lost a good deal of its neurotic appeal.

All of this to say that I'm nowhere near where I wanted to be by this stage of progress, but I am somewhere between half- and two-thirds of the way through the book. And for those of you who have agreed to be painfully honest with me and pummel my heart, my dreams, and my sense of creative self-worth to the ground in the name of our friendships, you'll be getting the first half delivered on Sunday. 


( For the rest of you, I'd like to introduce you to some of my friends... )

As I'm sure I've mentioned before, I've been relatively borough-bound since I no longer work in Manhattan.  I find very little occasion to hop over to the island, and as the small sum of money I'd shored up on my pre-tax Transit Check has been significantly taxed since January,  I find it monetarily advantageous to keep my unemployed behind in Brooklyn.

Yesterday, though, I ventured into midtown for lunch with a former colleague, now turned good buddy.  And I was once again struck by just how varied, interesting, entertaining and - let's face it - downright weird everyday life in New York can be.  When you spend the greater portion of your day lost among the sea of humanity that calls it home, it begins to lose its edge.  The weird and strange become commonplace and you develop a sort of societal immunity.  And the longer you interact with it at this level, the higher your tolerance.  It's like being addicted to prescription drugs... or so I've heard. 

At any rate, everything was wearing that cloak of "newness" yesterday, and so much that wouldn't have given me a moment's pause six months ago now finds my attention caught, me ears perked, and my eyes disbelieving.  Here is just a sampling of life from yesterday's outing:

1.  The Panhandler With a Clever, Attention-Getting Hook:
In New York, those begging for money, food, or other assistance employ various and sundry tactics to get your attention and tug at your heartstrings. Some go the sympathy route, with heartfelt stories of their children hungry and nights spent in shelters; some tell jokes, dance, or otherwise attempt to earn their handout; and then there are the blatantly honest, who prop up signs declaring they need two dollars for another drink and we shouldn't be so cheap about it.  (Seriously, I've seen any number of variations on this approach. Begging and snark are alive and well in the Big Apple.)  But yesterday, I passed by a young man - probably no older than twenty or so - who had decided upon a method that a) I had never seen before and b) I'm not exactly certain what the intended effect was supposed to be.  

For said young man was wearing a live rat on his head.  Yes, that's right:  it was alive, and it was on his head.  And this was no cute, fluffy laboratory mouse under pains of hyperbole.  I'm talking Penn Station-sized, Express-track-after-midnight cocky, tunnel-dwelling subway rat here. There was no sign; he didn't attempt to engage passers-by in conversation or assault them with please for money.  There was just the man, a tin cup, and the rat on his head.  It should be said, though, that said rat didn't appear to be there willingly, as he kept trying to scamper down the man's neck and into his shirt.

Make of that what you will.

2.  The Too-Absurd-To-Believe Pick-Up/Come-On/What-Have-You
It is not a sign of ego or other inflated self-importance to say that, as a woman in New York, you resign yourself to enduring lascivious remarks, lecherous catcalls, and other sorely misguided attempts to provide your phone number to, get in bed with, or provide the time of day for any variety of men running the gamut from oafish lout to handsome devil in disguise.  It is not dependent on weight, race, hair or eye color, or shade of lipstick;  there is truly someone for everyone in this great metropolis and nowhere else has the bell of equal opportunity rung so true as for the smut talkers of New York.  Pick-up quips and Come-on witticisms are practically an Olympic sport among the city's male denizens. (and some females, though they are fewer and farther between)

After a while, it can actually take on an endearing sort of charm, too.  There are still the attempts that send shivers of fear and dread down your spine, to be sure, but these also tend to be the exception and not the rule.  In fact, I'll know the day I have truly lost my mojo when I don't get randomly proposed to in passing.  "Will you marry me?" or the more willing "Girl, I'd marry you" being among the more oft-used lines used by drive-by suitors. And the younger they are... Well, let's just say, bless their too-short-to-box-with-God arms... just bless 'em.

Take yesterday, for example, when - strolling down 8th Avenue, mid-way between 37th and 36th streets - one such CIT (Cassanova-In-Training) stopped dead in his tracks and asked me, without batting an eye:  "My sugar mama says I need to broaden my horizons.  How do you feel about sharing?"

I think I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, or my laughter, or maybe it was just my jaw...

3.  The Reluctant Tourist:

Male Tourist:  Why can't you go in there by yourself?  It's not like we don't have a Gap at home.

Female Tourist:  Oh, come on, honey.  I'm sure there will be chairs for you to sit in.

Male Tourist:  But didn't you go to the Gap just like week?  What's so different about this one?

Female Tourist:  They offer different things.  And there's a sale.  And I hear the girls in New York don't stand in lines for the changing room.  They just do it right there by the racks.

Male Tourist (sighing and holding the door open):  Are there a lot of racks?

... I shouldn't have left you?
... Without a dope beat to step to?

Now be honest, how many of y'all are actually out there dancing right now?  Yeah, I didn't think so.  So I'll kindly bow out of taking that one for the team, aight?

(From the peanut gallery:  What the hell is she talking about?  What kind of crack is she smoking?)
(Reply from the author:  Oh, if only it were as simple as chemical alteration... *snicker, snort*)

No, but seriously .... I've been on a bit of a hiatus from this place, simply because I've been so consumed with other stuff I just haven't gotten around to sharing with anyone yet.  

But I was broken out of my reverie this morning when I came across the trailer for Guy Ritchie's upcoming Sherlock Holmes, starring the ever delightful Robert Downey, Jr. (and y'all know how I feel about RDJ) and Mr. If He Floats Your Boat himself, Jude Law.  (I can't really say he's ever done much for me personally, but then again, my boat's a quirky one, and you never know what makes it float.)

At any rate, I feel I should warn each and every one of you who, like myself, grew up reading the completely logical adventures of Mr. Holmes and his trusty sidekick Watson - this is NOT the canon's Sherlock Holmes.  

That said, I issue the following decree:  Thou shall not spurn the new to save the old.  Go forth and squeal with glee!!!!



Also, is it just me, or.... ???

  

Previously, in the Accidental Redneck Zone…

The Truck That Once Was careens wildly across the solid double-yellow line (which in this part of the world is more of a suggestion than an actual dividing line.)  One more bend in the road, and our heroine’s hapless father eases onto a very narrow and rocky pull-off.  They get out to assess the damage…

( But then Sheriff McDogood appears... )

... Time to get your picture pages, Time to get your crayons and your pencils...

Awww, I loved picture pages.  And I love the theme song even more ...




And while you stand precariously perched on the Hanging Cliff of Banjo Doom & Despair, I thought I'd share these photos from Reuters Weekly Round-Up with you.  I'll put the direct link to the slideshow after the photos, but I thought it'd be interesting to see if anyone can place what's happening in each, or can caption any of them in a side-splittingly amusing way.  

Go on, Kids!  Put on your thinking caps!

Photo #1:


REUTERS/Alexander Demianchuk


Photo #2:


REUTERS/Daniel LeClair


Photo #3:


REUTERS/Valentin Flauraud

Full Slideshow Here

"There is a fifth dimension beyond that acknowledged by quote-unquote civilized society. It is a dimension as vast as a doublewide and as timeless as illegally manufactured and brazenly distributed moonshine. It is the middle ground between the guitar and the gee-tawr, between strings and strai-ngs, between superstition and… mullets, and it lies festering in the dual pits of the sophisticated man's fears for his financial future and the mortgage on his yacht. This is the dimension for which Ford F1’s were made, where shotgun weddings are more than just an amusing euphemism. It is an area we call... The Accidental Redneck Zone." - Rod Serling's Malice Grant’s totally hijacked original introduction.

Imagine, If You Will...

( Imagine, If You Will... )

I'm sure you've read it:  21 horses fell ill and died within hours of each other this past Sunday at the International Polo Club in Palm Beach County, Florida.  The horses, all from the Lechuza Caracas polo team (Venezuela) were to compete in the US Open Polo championships that day.

Various accountings here:

Miami Herald:  Polo horses' death tied to mysterious poison
NY Daily News:  Vets ponder what killed 21 horses
CBS News:  Toxicology Reports Due Friday
More: 

Supposedly, they're leaning toward tainted feed and/or a bad mixture of pre-game substances and something else.  Now, not to make light of the situation, because this is indeed a horrific event that, quite frankly, breaks my heart, but the thought crossed my mind:  What if it's mutiny?  What if the horses were just fed up with it all?  I know they're historically not thought to be the brightest creatures in the world, but even a simple man knows when he's unhappy. 

So what if they all got together and planned it?

The entire team spends all day long acting as if nothing's amiss.  They go through their paces, like any other day. They avoid direct eye-contact with one another, but pass the word along one-by-one, furtively whinnied whispers that inform of date, time, and place. For weeks in advance, they hold late-night covert barn meetings after the stable hands go home, the newly-foaled pony in the last stall forced to stand guard and given careful directions:  "Remember Stringbean Grasshopper:  it's one neigh for the dogs, two neighs for wolves, and three neighs for the fat bastards that dare to tell us when to run and how fast!"  They huddle around hayfeed, discuss non-violent protests, then throw caution to the wind.  They are tired to death of being rode hard and put up wet and they ain't gonna take it no more!  They scheme late into the night, arguing over the way it should all go down.  They take vote after vote, wondering why they can't get a consensus until they realize that the homophonic cards are stacked against them, "neigh", "nay" and "aye" too similar for some of the horses to tell the difference.

Then the year's newest young stud, the one with the shiny mane and trouble in his eyes, rears up in equine defiance.  He is masterfully bred, difficult to mount, and more than just a bit troublesome to ride, hints of mustang in his distant bloodline means it's hard-coded in his DNA to chomp forever at the bit.  For all this, though, he has a poetic soul.... loves to feel the wind in his mane, the speed of the earth under his unshod hooves as he moves from a walk to a trot, a trot to a canter, and finally, to the true liberty that is galloping unsaddled across the open plains.  He remembers cowboys, the cavalry, the pony express...

And he hates it all.  "Here, we are not horses!" he whinnies.  "We are chattel, the beasts of burden and the means by which the puny two-leggers pretend to be something more than they are.  Here, we are not horses!  And if we cannot be horses... "  His gruff voice trails off for dramatic effect. "And if we cannot be horses, if we cannot fulfill our destinies, perhaps we should not be at all."

The other horses stand in stunned silence for a long moment, the horse-apple air fraught with horsey tension.  Tails swish, nostrils flare, hoofs stamp the ground... It starts slowly and builds... one horse, three horses, ten, fifteen, twenty horses, flinging their heads in wild abandoning agreement.  "So it shall be," says the oldest of old mares who, despite having already been put out to pasture, holds years of pent-up resentment at her lifetime of forced labor, bearing the burden of so many butts.  The brave little pony, who does not yet know what life may hold, runs away from his lookout position and, because he is old enough to know better but still too young to do anything about it, throws his lot in with the others.  And thus they are 21...

How did they do it in the end?  I'm sure we'll find out soon enough.  If the vets don't figure it out, Dick Francis is sure to be on the case.

Do horses drink kool-aid?

As a child, I never felt any particular way about the circus.  I was taken to see one occasionally and even once won a raffle of some sort that gifted me the opportunity to go before the show and ride the elephant around its fenced-in practice ring.  I was maybe five or six at the time, and the most prevalent memory I have of the experience is wondering if my dress was getting dirty.  It says something about the five or six year old I was that I wore a dress to ride an elephant.  Fashion and function was clearly not a dilemma that registered on my radar nor, evidently, was it a lesson I’d yet learned.

So for me, the big top never really held the kind of awe-inspiring mysticism and magic that makes the youngsters in books and movies wide and wild-eyed.  It was fun, to be sure, but there are other events, other special surprises that return to me with greater ease and fonder remembrance than those trips to the circus.

I’m uncertain when my attitude towards the circus began to change, but as I got older, the stoic indifference began to decay and crumble.  Sometime after college I found myself looking for poster boards and playbills announcing the arrival of a circus, and wondering if I could tear myself away from whatever job I was holding down, whatever class I’d paid out the rear for but would gladly skip anyways, whatever whatevers I could come up with, to go and see the circus.

In fact, it seems that my love affair with magic - the idea and possibility of it as a concept and the potential of it as a realized thing – has increased in direct proportion to my age.  The older I get, the much more willing I am to believe in the power of the magical, and the more willing I am to be lured by that power off my former stoic-ly indifferent high horse.  (Which, by the way, I more often than not, wear pants to ride.  Hey, I may come late to the knowledge party, but I do show up… eventually.  I’ll be the one wearing my party pants.)

I think Cirque du Soleil played a large role in this, as far as the circus goes, anyway.  As a younger and more countrified bumpkin, this addition to the greatest show on earth never visited the hamlet I called home, so my only opportunities to see it were on HBO.  I don’t even know if they toured extensively at the time, but whenever anything Cirque came on the television I was there, popcorn in hand, eyes wide and wild, fixed unwaveringly on the screen.  The differences in the show itself aren’t difficult to understand, nor is it any wonder that they appeal to me.  The show is sexier, the costumes more fantastic, the storylines consistent and carried through. 

And there’s music… live music, performed on stage and accompanying the events like an action hero sidekick with its own special power.  (We’ll call this new entry to the superhero milieu Song, and he/she will be an androgynous, tune-fork wielding, fierce thing with the ability to leap multiple octaves in a single bound, shatter glasses with a single note, and give “come hither” looks that defy gender and sexual orientation. So basically… Prince.)

As with all sexy things, there’s also the danger inherent in them, and this is at least equally if not predominantly, part of the allure.  And the thing about Cirque is they embrace it.  They own that shit, y’all, regally and with an arrogantly-postured “I don’t mind if I do” impunity that quite literally dares you to call their bluff.  They are, after all, high wire walking, death defied trapezing, and body contortioning freaks of talent.  They want you to think they can’t do it… and want to watch you leave the circus tent wearing your thirty-year-old drool stain in a conspicuous and suspicious spot on your pants.  That’s right, big boy, big top that!!!

In short, I love Cirque, and living in New York has afforded me the opportunity to see three Cirque shows – Wintuk, Saltimbanco, and – just this past Friday night – Kooza.  All three are wonderfully magical in their own unique way and while some of the tenants are unchanged, the way they are interpreted are never duplicated.  I sit in the audience, a wide and wild-eyed thirty something, relishing it with the pure, unadulterated joy of a child.  (One who would have worn a tutu to ride the elephant, because that’s what beautiful circus people wear to wow the audience.  Beautiful circus people are, after all, more completely aware of the fashion v. function concept, and where and when the two are one and the same, than all the rest of us combined.)

So run, do not walk, to your nearest big top.  Be awed by the chair balancer, be struck dumb by the contortionists, be pushed to the edge of your seat in nail-biting anxiety as guys dressed like demons and stalked by Day of the Dead skeletons ride the Wheels of Death (and make you almost lose your big butter topped popcorn every at every other turn of the wheel.You should watch it anyways.  Just put down anything you're eating at the moment.)

And call me.  I’ll go with you.  I’ll even wear my party pants.