Musicians with a free, snowy morning...

...on their hands. My significant other- Michael- on resonator guitar, our dear buddy John on the banjer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cj9dhIFjMoo

Seems like old times...

...but only for a second. Then I remember the mortgage, my smirky teenaged children [ who look so similar to the way I used to, somehow] and it all comes back into focus.

The day this was taken I was happy, wearing a new [ scratchy] shirt and it was as cool a fall day as ever happens in east Texas. My neighbour Steve's mother took this picture. Their family had just moved to Texas from Los Altos and were told that since nobody in Texas had long hair, their dad suggested they have it all cut off. Boy were they mad when they arrived and half our high school looked like Duane Allman.

Death by Gabardine

"Oh, Mom. I'm sorry...I just forgot with work and finals and..."

I sigh and crack one eye open. Such a fragmented, meekly uttered sentence usually means the rest of my day is toast and I'm never wrong.
The impending disaster this time involves a sadistic band director with a misguided sense of economy and possibly a vendetta against parents who need to be somewhere on a daily basis and don't have time to express their Oleg Cassini inner selves. The rest of the blame falls on my daughter, who really needs to write notes to herself. Last year, I was up making one of these nightmare band costumes while battling the flu. It looked as though vandals had broken into my home and completed the band uniform for me during the night.

Black gabardine, that most vile of fabrics, was once only used by victorian widows in mourning and Dominican nuns for their winter habits. It's cumbersome, slippery and shreds like crazy. But after hunting down the last pattern in the metroplex [ everybody else had theirs made two weeks ago, I'm thinking] I sat down and fought the good fight. Meanwhile, I broke my last heavy duty nachine needle, my significant other came in and added a few potatoes and more garlic to the deer stew [ a fine thing] but cranked up the heat to 'high' [ NOT a fine thing] He swears he had nothing to do with it.

My daughter's floor length, black gabardine skirt is finished now, and she looked lovely last night in her tuxedo shirt, jacket and skirt as she played in the Symphonic Winter Concert. I sat in the audience, everything blurry from trying to sew without my glasses [ vandals took them when they came in and turned up the stew] And I'm wondering: Is there any jail time attached to assaulting a school department head with an unattractive bolt of fabric? Or would that just be a hefty fine?

Monday's spiritual clearing house

On cold, wet mornings like this one, I find myself in traffic- praying under my breath, tapping the steering wheel, sometimes whistling between gritted teeth- sitting at stop lights. The endless dirty semi's roar past, the blonde women in those swingy -looking haircuts and driving huge SUV's, the school buses. Everything looks dark and slightly condensed from the cold.

I pray for lots of things, pray in spite of some stuff, pray twice as often over a few things. With each nail hammered, every joke told, every word typed we take another step along the journey. Though I worry about things in my own life [ kids and money, for the most part] It's somehow going to be okay, and the realisation of this sifts down into my heart even as I am watching traffic, either complaining to God or thanking God in what seems to me a slightly bi-polar manner. I am pleased, however, that God is familiar with the way I think and probably doesn't bat an eyelash, no matter what astounding thing I might communicate to Him. He's pretty much heard it all by now, and is politely waiting for me to finish so He can start arranging things the way He planned to in the first place. Notice I didn't say 'fix'. Maybe navigate on my behalf is a better choice. After all, this is a fallen dimension and stuff happens. Through our own choice as a species over thousands of years, we have made God into but an interested bystander -one who longs to help, but has been shut out like a dowdy brush salesman on the doorstep. His only recourse is to wait on the prayers of individuals, one by one, for random chances to help us through the chain of events on this planet. Yet He never seems to give up on wanting to offer assistance. This probably explains why He's God and I'm not.

The lady packed her ethereal trunks...

...and sometime on Wednesday morning drew her last troubled breath. She was a wide eyed girl at 83, always smiling and gracious, even when lucidity finally betrayed her and she couldn't remember why she was smiling. I got to take care of her for a while, greeting her almost casually at our first meeting. She was placid and friendly, and you'd never know how very sick she was. She talked about how the leaves would turn soon and wondered out loud what was for lunch. Who could've known our lives would become intertwined in a few short weeks?

The bright blue eyes and puckered Irish face are peaceful now. She attended her own wake down in New Orleans this Thursday. Then onto a memorial service in her adopted suburb of Belle Chasse. Finally, like the fallen Lincoln touring the country from the dignity of his Pullman car, Miss Charlene rolled into East Texas to her own ancestral resting place.

Renaissance Joe

US Lithograph Co 1903

S

He sits in front of me, or anybody else he talks to - earnest, attentive, gravely listening. He crosses one long leg across his knee and shifts his weight, getting settled in. A conversation with Joe is always gratifying, simply because one feels they have his entire focus, that he is completely present to the other person -whoever that might be. The mail carrier, the minister who stops by to see his elderly parents -they are all equally important to Joe, at least on the surface. Although glib in his own right under the correct circumstances, he is always careful to answer any question lobbed his way, giving it the consideration of somebody about to win a million dollars on a game show. This endearing quality also makes him seem a bit surreal, and often leads to questions about Joe which really have no easy answer.

He is one of three brothers whom I've known for many years. He is simple and appears to be straightforward, yet a closer check reveals him to be a most complicated human being. At 52, he's my contemporary and yet I always feel a lot younger than he is. Joe can rebuild an engine, play the stock market with quiet intuition, making money when others are losing it. Knead his own perfect bread or hail a cab with equal aplomb. He can play any stringed instrument with ease, and yet the playing isn't passionate. It's perfect, a solid performance, for he and his brothers have few musical equals. But there is a glossiness about the music which leaves the listener confused, maybe a little disappointed. This might be because whoever interacts with Joe encounters only a reflection of themselves. His brown eyes are mirrors of those he meets- no smoke to accompany the mirrors, for Joe is an honest man and what you see is basically what's there. But a little less,too. After losing three sons -two who were infants, dying just a few days old and expiring in his arms at the hospital. The third a teenage son in a senseless traffic accident. A wife who walked away after years of marriage-the burden of association too great, maybe.

And now , in many ways, he's a guy for whom everything is easy. Once you shut down the main artery to your heart and set the auto pilot, your worries are over. He laughs often, is unendingly gentle and is always busy. Lately, it's been figuring out how to launch a helium filled, LED blinking UFO over Springdale without being arrested. He would briefly note the ensuing chaos, then move on to something else . His brain is always alive, planning the next practical joke or building the next motorcycle in his mind.

Life is good, as long as one skims along the surface, chuckles gently and [ thankfully] doesn't have time to read things like internet blogs.

The road less taken

PDI image


October galloped up behind me again this year-it's been hectic and there have been times when I wondered about the wisdom of it all. My decisions, that is - not this being October. Like I could do anything about moving whole months around, although I've considered it.

Back in August I added the final touches on Getting Over Myself. This ego altering project included realizing that I'm not going to meet any more rich people who are desperate for murals in their overly mortgaged homes. Well, okay. I'm down with that. After all, I've done lots of things -and one of those things included taking care of elderly home bound patients for a year, when I was in my twenties.
They seemed to like me and I them. I'm a quiet person except for when I'm not and they seemed to feel comfortable around me. Couple this with my ability to talk Benny Goodman and and War Bonds -well. It all fell into place. A year later, however, I was offered a position with the local paper and found myself unable to resist the chance to write for a living -even if it was only the school page, the jail report and the occasional column. Lots of check passing pictures, local politicians shaking hands.

Fast forward to a few months ago. I decided to retake the health care course I muddled through so many years ago. This one was so hard- intense enough that I felt foolish for telling my instructor I had taken one twenty three years ago. So much had changed and there was so much more to learn it was as if I'd never darkened the door of a classroom. But I passed, and made a good grade for the course. Meantime I had accepted my first patient in decades -Miss Charlene B, who is in the fourth stage of lung cancer. I accepted the job, for our families had been friends for many years. I was clumsy at first, but I grew to love my patient. Our society was interrupted while I took the refresher course...but by that time, her six month prognosis had dwindled, seemingly.
Last Sunday was spent with her on the fourth floor at Washington Regional while her exhausted daughter slept. She is as blue eyed and pretty as one would want any 83 year old person to be. And no matter what her level of pain [ which has been considerable lately] she is always a lady. I'd like to be Miss Charlene when I grow up, but first, I've decided - I want to go on and become a hospice nurse. That's the end goal, though for a while I may have to be content with an attendant's certificate.

My classes for Certified Nursing Assistant [ CNA] begin in January, and I'm dreading them while looking forward at the same time. I'm doddering, rather middle aged and have little short term memory these days. But I have decided to do this thing, even if I have to test twice. This afternoon I walked into the hospice facility when they have moved my lovely patient, and knew right away that this or some place like it was where I was needed. I'm still somewhat in shock, because it's been some time since I've had a real epiphany of any description.

Well, now.
Thank you, Barrack Obama and George Bush and whoever else has sent our financial future hurtling through space . Because of your treachery and arrogance, one tiny, almost invisible yet fine thing has solidified in the life of an ordinary person. Otherwise I might have never realized. I wouldn't have been forced outside my comfort zone.
Painting is my first love, but I feel as though another part of my reason for being here is waiting to be discovered, too.

New Life Through Your Firestone Credit Card

I'm confused by this photo, though duly impressed. Does this mean there are 'hot boys' inside? Or is this chrome limo advising all 'hot boys' [ or even luke warm ones ] to climb in and take advantage of the air conditioning?

I can't even begin to know what this means, being so far out of the loop. The Extreme Money Bunny is not a frequent visitor here and as a result I am often ignorant of how to best spend my money. Are people demanding on a routine basis that their cars spell things out in chrome now? A brave new world with such people in it... what do such folks want their cars to say, anyway?
I am just happy to have my much humbler [ ancient] PT out of the shop, with a shiny new fan unit, guaranteed to actually cool the engine off - as God intended - by shutting itself on and off, thanks to a new thermostat. Last week the sound of frantic coolant trying to re-enter the reservoir sounded like hailstones pounding my hood in. I was a mere 55 miles from home and managed to take it all in stride, though it sounded a bit like the Four Horsemen rounding the corner, to me anyway.

My car is not glamorous. Bits of the blue are dinged by callous people in parking lots who slam their car doors into the nearest vehicle, cackling into their cell phone. Thanks to a gravel truck, it also has a cracked windshield.
Look at the showroom beauty pictured above and imagine some chewed -up bits of walnut hull, [ squirrels sit in the maple tree out front and spit at my car during appalling rodent contests, apparently.] a bit of brake dust on the passenger side hub and a dingy Union Jack sticker on the back rear window.

From the time I drove it off the Chrysler lot [ with 12 miles on the odometer] it has used more oil than a Sherman Tank. After all these years, I don't question. I just top it off on a regular basis. If I continue the synthetic oil, maybe [ I am told by helpful males close to the project] I can get another 100,000 miles. I've loved this car and will drive it until large hunks of it fall off in the driveway, but...next time...I loves me the Toyota pickup truck , in some festive, pearly, irridescent colour -sort of like looking into a puddle at the gas station.

Patrick Swayze was more than a fine dancer and handsome leading man. He was quiet, strong and knew who he was as a person. He wasn't showy and tended to stay out of the limelight.

I will miss this courageous fellow Texan for lot of reasons.

SO...you wanna be a Ho

That's right. Need to purchase a home to use for your new...ah... 'Performing Arts ' enterprise? Don't worry about those pesky taxes. We can get around that..you want to employ illegal immigrant 13 year olds as working girls?
In the words of this video taped ACORN acountant...."no problem".

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,548827,00.html

This amazing news is somewhat darkened by Joe Wilson's apology, which hit the president's desk before dawn. Nice try, Joe, but it would've been better to keep your mouth shut rather than grovel later.

At Rest In Glendale

I heard earlier this morning that the much refrigerated, overly gawked at remains of Michael Jackson will finally have a home in Forest Lawn this sundown.


It dawned on me that I had visited Forest Lawn Cemetery back in the 1980's. We went just to see the Pickfords and Flynns and remains of other famous folk...it's a serene and beautiful place , filled with my second favourite tree [poplar], gentle knolls and always a little breeze blowing in the open spaces. It also helps that the phenomenal Walt Disney is buried there, too.

I didn't know back then that the man who would someday be my closest confidant and political sparring partner has an older brother buried there - way back in 1955. James was 15 years old and the light of his parents' life. They went on to have other children, but on this little rise in the real estate in the middle of two busy freeways- yet silent and far way from them - James would always be brown eyed, good natured and a mystery to the brothers and sisters who came later. A family enigma, the absent tie breaker in every squabble, whom they still wonder about.
My significant other is pleased his unknown brother is buried near the endearing Jimmy Stewart. It seems right somehow. Mr. Smith Goes To Washington is not only one of Mic's favourite movies, but his bashful, wonderfully accurate James Stewart impression is possibly why I hooked up in the first place.
I never get tired of being called 'Virginia'.

Cruiser Crisis

Late breaking update runs something like this:
My Cruiser blew up two days ago and the mechanical jury is still out on whether merely cleaning the crank case will rescue what's left of the engine. And YES I do top off the oil and other fluids when I'm supposed to. I'm maybe not as diligent about hustling the thing off to get the oil changed. I have been duly scolded by various interested [ male] parties and now wait for the magical repairs to begin. I have an important job interview to attend in a few days and I hope to be up and running again before that.

I also hope that overcast sky in So Cal turns into some kind of precipitation...fat chance, I know, but there's a rumor that it tried to rain there this morning.

Jobville

Since I am approaching the start of a new job, one which, though unglamorous, will no doubt be by turns pleasant, boring and sometimes heartbreaking. Not everybody is cut out to work with senior citizens, but I've done it before, long ago. I was a smug, unthinking 26 years old and did alright with it. But now I am so much better equipped to anticipate their moods, listen to their war rationing stories and fetch the silver serving platter down off the top shelf in the kitchen for them.
In celebration of this new paycheck accompanied pass time, here are some disastrous jobs from the past.


Teenage Cave Guide - this involves going down into the hole everyday leading herds of tourists who are only taking your tour because there's nothing else to do. They are hot, it's lunchtime and the kids are still whingeing about "why couldn't we have gone to Disneyworld, like you promised?" This means your spiel about moonshiners, formation of sedimentary rock [ zzzzz] and average cave temps makes the normal urban 12 year old tourist extremely mean, with glazed over eyes like Charley Manson. It also helps very little that the tour guide is clad in a bright red jumpsuit, which -even at 120 pounds [ age19] makes one resemble Roseanne Barr with a police flashlight. That summer-due to electrical problems- the lights often flickered on and off while I was alone down there, repainting the dampish white lines on the cement. This dark wasn't just dark; it breathed and had fangs.

Girl Insurance Claims Adjuster-which came along after I was much older, and had developed a bit more savvy about how to deal with crusty people. No amount of company funded training however, could've really prepared me for going on cold calls in rural areas. The Ozark Mountains are known for their fiercely independent, no nonsense inhabitants. Even toward the end of the twentieth century, a young female in heels and nice clothes was an object of suspicion out there. One never, never just drives up in the actual driveway, next to the house. One stands at the edge of the yard and hollers politely [?]their name and the reason for the visit. If one hears the inimitable sound of a rifle bolt being drawn back -sigh. Time to go...wrong house. So sorry to have bothered you.
I decided early in the game that I was NOT going to end up on some milk carton, my youthful black and white photo tossed out on the daily garbage, or run over by a city bus in the rain. Needless to say, my insurance career ended right before Christmas, circa 1987.

Professional Statue Polisher- this is someone who is hired to do clerical work, initially then it's somehow found out that said person can paint signs, dress windows, create parade floats and generally make something out of thin air, at little more than a day's notice. Though I was officially a museum registrar, after the regular incoming manuscripts [ if one can relate to a handwritten 16th century prayer vellum as a 'regular book'] were carefully vacumned, catalogued and put away, I was off to, well ...polish statues with a toothbrush and a tube of Crest on 28 degree days. The compound was enormous, and housed several almost scale sized buildings, modeled after those in the Holy land.Located in a heavily wooded area, one walked out to the buildings -to repaint, to re-attach wooden trim.
During my time with this institution, I conversed with lizards who often stood looking out the windows of the smaller diorama buildings, tiny claws clutching the window sill, tongues flicking in and out, their beady eyes looking all around. A friend of mine considered making a tiny Pope hat for one of them, but then how to put it on? A tiny elastic band? A white ribbon?

I have been chased by more than one camel on the same premises. I know now that donkeys are sweet natured and costumes need to be shaken before being picked up off the shelf, due to timber rattlers' fondness for piles of heavy fabric when the weather turns cold. Back in the day, I sometimes found myself wearing a middle eastern street walker costume- regular cast member out sick. Same property, different job.
Off and on, in different capacities, I worked at this odd place. I didn't really hate it...all the time. I loved it on occasion. But nothing I've done before or since has ever taxed my resources on such a regular basis. But the one thing: Never did I feel more alive. I never knew if I needed a toothbrush or a hammer or a fresh coat of Egyptian eyeliner to go to work. Every day was newly minted, and sometimes I miss it.

The sad truth

I regret the suffering of any human being from a vicious, debilitating disease. And on some level, I admire anyone who battles such a foe with great tenacity.
This said, I must recall a sticker I saw many years ago on the Ford Fairlane sitting in front of me at a traffic light.

Trust Ted?
Ask Mary Jo.

Michelle meets Winston Smith

“We’re going to have to make sacrifices, we’re going to have to change our conversation, we’re going to have to change our traditions, our history and we’re going to have to move to a different place.”

Somewhere else Michelle Obama also states that her husband will require us to work, to move out of our comfort zone.

That HE will never LET US go back to being the way we were. Back during the campaign Obama introduced his "civilian army" project... which will be just as well equipped as the US military..." it bothered me back last summer, sure. But dear God. I really thought he was being poetic or rhetorical. Yeah, that was probably it.


And I am reminded, time after time - of George Orwell's haggard hero, Winston. A tired, starving cleric who lives in fear of being reported to the thought police by the neighbour's kids for thinking non- PC thoughts and not clapping loudly enough during the Two Minute Hate.

Winston's daily job is to search the newspaper archives day after day, correcting past articles which don't reflect Big Brother in a flattering light. Over the ever present telescreen [ I think he's in the lunch room] comes the glad news that chocolate rations have been increased. Winston perhaps is the only one in the cheering cafeteria who remembers that chocolate rations were cut in half a few weeks ago. This increase still only means they have less chocolate than a month ago. This is hardly real news, but a carefully manipulated press release - a crafty piece of damage control.
Not unlike the sort of drivel we hear daily from the Obama administration.
Lately they're having to scramble like mad to keep up. Every time Obama or one of his advisors open their mouths, every time new horrifying numbers are announced. As each shady, marxist, guy-out on parole advisor is introduced. It's always up to poor, blubbering Gibby to field the press and take the heat. Sometimes I actually feel sorry for him.


How long can this go on before something blows the lid off so high that the whole world finally understands what is happening?

I can hardly wait...

....to see what heinous, covert thing some world leader will try tomorrow. Today it was finding out that Tony Blair probably cut a dark deal with Libya for oil$$$ and as a result, the Lockerbie killer walked free, hopefully to expire soon and rid the world of another burden on the system. Not to mention the extra 'stray' two trillion dollars Obama tried to slip under the rug on Friday...dear God. What next? It gets more bizzare and their behaviour more brazen everyday.

And, even though the recession deepens, the printing presses crank out more Obampoly money daily , we are told [ seven months after the new admin. was supposed to have whipped everything into shape] ...it's the fault of Bush and Cheney. And always will be.

My favourite guy with dirty hands...

whose silliness has been a joy the last 30 years or so. Jon has been slinging clay and likening it's properties to spiritual life in front of college crowds for many years. I found this video and wanted to share it with the exactly 2 and three fourths folks who read this blog. Because of Jon Mourglia, I can throw a pretty good cylinder and prepare it for firing with out hurting myself.


Long may you glaze, Jon.

http://vids.eu.org/view-id-5233806.html

Pleasantly Out Of the Loop

No place like the south at night. On my own front porch I can smell during any given evening- spicebush...an aroma like toasted coconut which has intertwined with the honeysuckle that winds up over the wooden pillars. Humidity, too, and this brings out the sweet smell of Mimosa trees. Add my neighbour Robert's steaks hissing hickory sparks on the grill across the street and it's heaven. I wish we could bottle the stuff and peddle it to disgruntled, hollow -souled terrorists.

Shoot. You just can't stay mean when the very air smells like summer and forgiveness and home. You sit in the porch swing - your heart turning over with the sheer prettiness of a red sunset...God has pulled up along side you one more time and cut the engine. You wait for him to speak.

Boats and cheap cookies

I started out in Texas over 52 years ago, but somehow ended up in a mountain community known as Eureka Springs with a group of my 40 closest pals. Far too dependent on actual money needed to pay rent and buy frivolous items like gas, milk and bread, we could hardly be called a commune. We just weren't that hip. We were browsing, trying on 'hip' for size - looking for that perfect amount which would insure our cutting- edge posture in that tiny art community, but still allow us to drop in at the local Burger King without censure. During that time, I hand- lettered frilly victorian signs, waited tables, washed dishes and herded tourists through caves -all in the most polite possible fashion. After all - I was raised in Texas, where deference to one's elders was everything.

My friends and I weren't hard core about anything in those days, and in some ways that probably saved us from being insufferable. The real ' back to the land' crowd sort of turned their thin, pinched noses up at us. We still ate processed foods and smoked commercial cigarettes; this proved our unworthiness to sit in front of their late night campfires and get high.

We were, however, enthusiastic campers, hikers and canoe devotees in our own right. Weekends we paddled downstream in our home made tie dyed shirts, wolfing cookies and singing...the sound of which floated up and over the high banks of the Kings, to the astonishment of whatever cows were grazing near the river.
When we got tired of eating cheap cookies, we invented a game. If you could hit the next canoe with a Chips Ahoy -10 points. If you could actually wing somebody in the next canoe [ in swift water this was a fast moving target, remember] you got 25 points. Even more points for the one who could take a big cookie crumb and hit the mark, due to the decreased size of the missile. And of course, if you could make the intended target yell "OWW" this was good for bonus points.

But that was a lifetime ago.

I guess I'm still a paradox of myself - still not hard core enough one way or the other, according to who you ask. Now that I'm middle aged, I still love windchimes and the rich smell of linseed oil that creeps into the crannies of this house when a new painting sits curing in some corner. But I also keep my checkbook balanced and have at least a notion of which new bill is being discussed on the senate floor.
I credit my late husband with many things -the most important of which was providing me with a gentle, day by day education in seeing the Big Picture.
A fellow Texan, a chemistry/ math major plus a doctorate in art history, he'd come home from Viet Nam half blinded. After a horrendous recovery stint at Walter Reed, he spent the remaining months of his tour as a staffer at the Pentagon, interpreting daily field reports. Later the next year he entered painting conservation training at the Smithsonian, and finally ended up as a conservator at the National Portrait Gallery. By the time we met in 1979, he had opened up a clinic for refugees on the Nicaraguan border.
Bill was the first person I ever knew who was a bigger than life sort of man. A military spy, sculptor, scientist and missionary, I felt a little overwhelmed by his accomplishments at first, then later learned to embrace them. After all, they were at the core of who he was and who he would unwittingly teach me to be in the future. Without knowing it, he taught me that the strongest life force can be found in the small things one loves and involves themselves in every day. That the more people really know, the less consumed they are with setting other people straight. That it's really okay to be nobody in particular, even in your own head. Maybe even providing one with a certain edge, when things get down to the wire. There's no ego pruning to do, no mental underbrush to clear away when things get tough.

I stand back and look at myself every few years, though and feel amazed- a bit embarrassed, even. I'm not the same person I was twenty years ago, and finally have the sense to prepare for how different I'll be in five years. Different, but more the same than ever -just more rounded out in my ability to see the big picture- like swapping a macro-lens for a fish eye. My perception of things may be a bit too round, but at least all the details are there, ready for interpretation.

I learned so much from him, things I never knew I would need 'til now. These are uncertain times, and some days I feel I'm paddling alone. The wind is rising and as usual, an empty cookie bag is blowing around in the bottom of the boat .

Carpal Tunnel Cassarole

...is what one gets from constantly stirring huge pots of steaming this or that. I've been cooking for ten this week, due to my significant other and his family. M's mother is in the hospital and not doing well at all, I 'm afraid.
Seared pot roast with gravy and little pearl onions. Enchiladas with white basil sauce. Tonight it'll be chicken and rice, some parker house rolls and frozen green peas, probably.
I keep thinking that folks from southern California would prefer something a little jazzier...but I was wrong. Possibly at a time like this they need comfort food instead of Cobb salad and sushi.
So.
Those of us who can't change many of the hurtful things in this world tend to just...cook.

Well. Okay then...

...I've waited for several days to hear the whole truth from Sarah Palin. Instead I'm hearing ambiguous -sounding...well, almost platitudes, I guess you'd say. Just embroidering on whatever it was she never really came out and said in the first place. No announcement of grave illness, no ultimatum from a heart-scalded husband, concerned about the family. Just vague rhetoric about how she can make a difference in a better way, away from the governor's mansion.

I still like Sarah very much. I believe in largely the same things she does. I LOVE the fact that's she's not polished. I embrace the idea that she's 'average' - so to speak. But we are, as a nation headed into uncharted waters on so many fronts. Sure, we've been through endless wars and conflicts, depressions and scandals. But this time, our solvency can't be recovered in a year or four, by building tanks and warships. Our debt is so large as to be unpayable. Individual states teeter on the edge of bankruptcy every day. In the coming year or so, many experts predict inflation on goods and services the like of which we've never imagined. We won't even talk about the extreme taxes The Annointed One intends for us, across the board, in every tax bracket.
We don't - as a nation - know how to grow our own gardens and be satisfied wearing our clothes until they actually wear out, the way our folks did.
Now let's add the tiara.
There are people in Washington who are so corrupt, so hollow on the inside that they want to keep us as slaves. They mean to rule every aspect of our lives, if they can figure out how to get away with it. They want to dictate what kind of light bulbs we use, what politcal orientation our children have, what sort of car we drive. Other nations are quietly laughing at us for hurrying toward the very system of government they finally have escaped from. These next two elections -2010 and 2012 are perhaps just as important as any we've ever had. We simply must have somebody who will count the cost beforehand, understand the gravity of the office they pursue and their role in preserving the nation. Somebody in for the long haul, regardless of how messy and unscrupulous the opposition is - because what happens in next few years is so very, very important.

There's just no crying in baseball.

Sarah leaves the building...

...probably for several reasons, I'm thinking. I only grit my teeth over the possibilities. I hope it's for the upright reasons I think and not the single one I dread.

I've watched Letterman from his early days as an early morning talk show host in the '80s up to the dubious present. He was - back then - one of the funniest human beings ever to wear socks. His take on things was fresh original and off the wall. He didn't depend on making lewd sexual jokes about children for a laugh. His humour wasn't personal, but universal. Now he keeps a staff of elding, hardened creatures like himself to write monologues. At least one of those guys has a teenage daughter. These folks probably have their favourite cut- throat lawyer on speed dial, and how many seconds it would take them to bring charges on behalf of themselves in the same situation is anybody's guess. Easy to see why Jay Leno's ratings are generally better. Somehow, Leno has retained much of his early sense of decency, even in the hard driven world of corporate television.

Sarah Palin reacted in much the same way as any parent would, all politics aside. I honestly question the integrity of anybody who thinks it was fair game to say what Letterman did. Though no fan of the Obama administration, I would be sickened to hear about his two daughters verbally abused by some dried out old comic. That's not politics -that's just being human.
But I digress.

Palin had to have known how murky the political waters can get, and chose to drag her family into it. Apparently Todd Palin consented. The ensuing price was any sense of normalcy and her family's privacy. She's a bright enough woman to really understand this, and it surprises me that she'd buckle in mid stream, no matter how vile the opposition. I don't blame her -at least from the viewpoint of trying to salvage her family's remaining peace of mind. We don't know the whole story yet. Regardless -barring illness or some other bigger than life reason for quitting- she opted to play the big leagues and as Tom Hanks once so fetchingly shrieked "What...wait - are you crying?...there's no crying in baseball!"

This had better be good...

Naturally there's been a lot of speculation over Sarah Palin's announcement... not all of it good spirited. My own take -for what it's worth -runs something like this.
There should only be two reasons why Palin would step down. The first one is a grave health concern, either involving herself or the immediate family. The second might involve all the ruthless, below the belt comedy created at the expense of Palin and her family. Even months after the election, she's still a major target for stand up hacks long after McCain and Biden have been shuffled to the bottom of the deck, comedy-wise-though I think Biden is deliciously funny.
And of course, nobody except the annoying, amazing Helen Thomas would take on the Anointed One in public, without fear of maybe being audited, or something.
It could be that Todd Palin has finally had enough of media and the vicious left wing fringes and actually gave her an ultimatum- me or the Governor's mansion.
The only thing I DO know is this: if said resignation turned out to be a time to 'cram' for 2012 - a three year hiatus in order to gain the White House -she would have to do it without my vote. Even if she polishes her verbal delivery, can list and discuss every dictator, every state deficit from here to sunrise -it won't be enough. You don't toss people of Alaska's trust as though it were a discarded melon rind. She should stay the course and look her detractors in the eye -if indeed that should be the reason.

Et tu, Bono?

It's nice to think about the earth and all the adorable wildlife.
But if we have no jobs and no money, people will be huddled, warming themselves over the flames of burning trashcans and as Ted Turner suggested might happen by mid century - eating each other, probably sans decent silver ware. There will be no more special programs or forest rangers to take care of the nice animals if supposed conservatives keep voting to tax us all into oblivion and vaporise thousands of jobs. Of course, the other, more optimistic school of thought suggests that by then animals will be the only ones with food and a place to live. The air will be all clean and sparkling because industry and commerce will have ground to a halt. We vile humans would finally have what we deserve.
How would Sonny have voted? Would his ecological views have also clouded his love of free enterprise?
Not being from California, really I can only guess at these things...but the one thing I do understand. If one isn't really a conservative, or doesn't believe in libertarian values - one needs to go sit on the other side of the aisle, so that we all realise what we're up against.

Gone Awry

Like everybody else who isn't hiding in a cave with bin Laden, I now understand that Michael Jackson is gone. And, for about the fourth time this week, surprised myself by being saddened and angered at the same time on hearing some piece of news or the other.

When you watch somebody grow up as I did Michael Jackson, you feel your existence is at least a bit intertwined with theirs, no matter how far removed Bel Air is from where you may be living, or how different you might be as people. [ I promise you - Bel Air just isn't the neighbourhood where I hang my hat these days]
At 15 though, my first real commercial art gig was executing a giant Jackson Five poster for the local record shop in our Texas town. Not a big Jackson fan, I was still rewarded with the new album my handmade poster advertised and the amazing sum of $25.00. This was dead swanky money back in 1972 [ or so- I'd have to look it up] He was two years younger than me and I sort watched his progress from a distance over the years, the way you would some kid who sat behind you in math class. Feeling sort of kindred, a little bit connected - just because you were both young, both waiting for your lives to begin, hopefully about to turn some unknown corner which would propel you into exciting, sophisticated adulthood.
The aforementioned anger came about for one reason. I mourn the life he could've had, not the one he lived. Before he'd turned six he and his brothers were subjected to an incredibly demanding concert schedule, relentless rehearsals and nothing but rebukes from their outrageous father Joe. There was little childhood to speak of, and whatever latent weirdness may have languished in the Jackson genes -dormant under the rafters- was forced into bloom by the cruelty and selfishness of the elder Jackson. Michael and his siblings all reached adulthood somewhat odd, very uncertain of their real worth to the people around them. It's a tragic thing, alright, and I am very, very sorry about the Jackson family's loss tonight. Things could've been very different and I wonder if his siblings are talking quietly among themselves right now, in hushed tones about the same thing.
I watched as long as it took to emotionally process the sobering news, then started flipping through the channels. All Michael Jackson- all the time, as it will be for the next week, probably. Finally in exasperation, I turned to the BBC. Respectful but brief, they had put together a 6 minute obit from file tape, then moved on to other world news. Tomorrow, here in America, the House votes on a proposed energy tax bill which -if passed -will raise this country's energy and gasoline bills to an unprecedented, unpayable rate. The budgets of ordinary families will be destroyed, for all practical purposes.
Iran is still on fire, it's news organizations still blacked out, probably under threat of death... or worse. North Korea is busy building a missile launch pad, it's payload directed in the vicinity of Hawaii. Yes, other things are happening in the world. All bewildering, all leaving the observer feeling helpless and rather impotent.

Frank As Kate and So Forth

I rendered this drawing a long time ago. And, like Dorian Grey, I furtively pull it out from time to time and look it over. Who [unless I'm stupid enough to tell them] will realise this is the authentic inner me...an elding, ruddy skinned old farmer in overalls. The Inner Hillbilly, maybe - if I were writing for some trendy magazine. Sure, on the surface I'm middle aged and rather garden- variety in my female-ness, but wait. There's a Skillsaw under the bed. My still new cordless drill sits nicely in it's charger, humming. There's a new derringer with my name on it, waiting for the next trip to the shooting range out by the lake. Due to size and range I will have to politely ask any intruder to 'please stand a little closer so I can hurt you', but one has to start someplace. And then there's the gutted, former gas grill in my sideyard. I build my own fires from scratch and I don't use lighter fluid, because something which smells that vile can't be good for your insides. Nothing beats the taste of slow smoked Beast o fany kind - sans chemicals and other intrusive, frilly extras.
But just like Dickens, I'm wandering away, here. I really mean to talk about Frank...my mascot, my rustic alter ego. He's clenching that rose pretty tightly because sometimes that's all there is of my alleged girly side.
I remember Frank's slow creation, years ago, over a period of weeks, as I prepared to enter a contest. ...how I imagined he was a farmer, coming into town every Saturday night since the Armistice - right after he got home from France. The raw danger of war and dizzy night time amusements of Paris had unwittingly opened up a black hole in his humble emotions that till then, he didn't know existed. Instead of rising at four every morning to feed the hens and do the milking, he was wakened by a shrieking lieutenant, acrid smoke in his lungs and the boom of mortar fire. The occasional night in town was also smoke filled but with the sweet fumes of sandalwood cigarettes and opium pipes. Red lipped girls dancing onstage by gaslight- frantic, gay music. Nebraska hadn't been like this. Here,in this raw place where charming people spoke with pouts and frowns -you were forced to either really live or really die, on a daily, sometimes moment to moment basis.
And now these years later, after his senses had been pried open, his heart and mind made alive to possibility...the war long ago ended, the local menfolk had slapped him on the back and bought him beers...then ...nothing. Years and years of mending chicken coops, paying his tab at the local corner grocery...growing grey. A headful of wistfulness and half lived promises with no place to let them take shape. And yet he is wise enough to know that the fibres of his particular makeup are fragile, for all their solid, wearable strength. He is better off here, living in his head -cowardly and shortsighted though that might seem.
At least that's what he's always told me.
Behind him are all the women who have passed in and out of his life since around 1918. The one with pointed ears is a waitress...the fact that she and the woman in braids are in black and white indicates they are only figments of Frank's lively imagination - fairies, probably. The little red haired girl is Frank's first love...the woman with black eyes nearest the rose is his departed wife. Ever hopeful, Frank clenches a rose in his ragged teeth, determined to live until he dies.

Perhaps I am trying to make peace early with my dimming eyesight and occasional grey hair, so that when the real thing comes someday , I will already be settled in - possibly reading a good book as everybody else my age staggers in the door, struggling to make sense of it all - the sudden shock of growing older still visible in their eyes. The real truth is... I am Frank....in all his hopefulness, all his raw wonder at seeing the world, alternately wobbly and confident of his place in it, depending on the day . No matter how ill equipped and shabby we might appear on the outside, Frank and I are both still here, fighting for space in the same, rather unremarkable human frame.

The globally celebrated Jinksie Spub...

...has 'slipped the surly bonds of earth' this weekend. I didn't expect so much emotional, almost physical pain to emanate from the demise of one large boned, rather portly blue eyed cat...folks from Costa Rica to the British Isles have sent loving messages and this has chisled the sharp edges off the hurt considerably. Thank you all.
The Spub was a shambler, a living room skateboard champion and cold winter day companion. He was my biggest fan and daily confidant...always purring, always happy to see me -a commodity which is in short supply some days. He thought I was wonderful and always came bounding down the stairs at the turn of a key in the front door. And somehow, just staying alive myself this weekend has seemed a tough business.
But I'm almost through to Monday, now. The Spub lies in his new resting place under the Mimosa tree out back. No more pain, no more fleas. Just blue skies.