Post-Thanksgiving Thanks

1. No one died. Or even got sick! A huge blessing, because for the First! Time! Ever!, I cooked everything.

2. My sweet pink Crocs. Because I had to stand in the kitchen for hours and hours doing all the damn cooking, and my size 8 feet ain't used to such abuse.

3. My oldest two children, who are not exactly children, being 15 and 20. Steven volunteered to take the gang to the video store. Katie was such an ace cleaner-upper that it was comparable to folding it up and putting it in the fridge. No bribes, no guilt trips. Just genuine help.

4. The King of the Hill Thanksgiving marathon. Peggy Hill, YOU are my hero.

5. A day when I didn't have to load up the van and take somebody somewhere! I did leave the house, but only to take my frost-nipped plants out on the patio for a haircut. I hunted no car keys, I buckled no seat belts, I scraped no windshields

Life is like an opera

I’ve often thought life would be more interesting if, once in a while, we didn’t speak to each other but sang instead. An opera in real life. Imagine: Hey, you stinking bastard, you stole my parking space! Or One pound of smoked ham, sliced thin please and a chorus of deli workers reply sliced thin! how thin? how does this look to you? People might be more deliberate with their words if they had to sing them. There are far too many people running around the world trying to talk the rest of us to death. Let it at least be melodic.


So, please let us designate
A day to musically enunciate
The humdrum chatter
That doesn’t matter
Our deepest thoughts
About robots
Our jokes, our curses
‘cause it ends in hearses

Let’s have a day of song!


I think it might catch on.

So Says People magazine

Sexiest Man Alive Without Indoor Plumbing.

Sexiest Man Alive With Indoor Plumbing

Sweet Dreams

Don’t you wish you could pre-program your dreams? If I could, I’d have the one I had last night and another one (which I won’t describe on the grounds that I might embarrass myself) on all-night replay. It was impressive and I mean that in the literal sense – I’ve been thinking about it since I was so rudely awakened. Not that anything really happened in it, but, whatever.

It started outside at some kind of lawn party that was part Alice in Wonderland and part Gatsby. The light is that wonderful gray/yellow illumination just before a thunderstorm. I am holding a sweaty drink wrapped in a white napkin standing near a table and up walks Nick Lowe looking indescribably handsome in a black suit with white shirt open at the neck. He says something to me and I follow him, and we’re talking back and forth but he’s always ahead of me. The last thing I remember is looking down at him and there’s this white path that kind of disappears in the overgrowth of some incredibly dense and thick willow. I take a few steps and I can see more of the path. Then, dammit, I wake up.


So, I’ve been noodling around all morning (no, it’s work! real work, I swear!) on dream interpretation websites trying to discover the meaning of this dream, which sounds like a stupid thing to seek when I write it down – I guess I’m just interested in any hidden symbolism. Yeah, that’s the ticket. If I can only find that path…

Anyway, these are some of the things I found.

The sweaty drink: To dream that you are drinking alcohol, denotes that you are seeking either pleasure or escape. Hmmm. Pleasure AND escape for me, please.

The table: To see a table in your dream, represents social unity and the potential for a meeting or gathering. It refers to your social and family connections. Potential is good, unity is good, particularly in this social sector.

Black and White: Black symbolizes the unknown, unconscious, danger, mystery, darkness, death, mourning, hate or malice. White represents purity, perfection, peace, innocence, dignity, cleanliness, awareness, and new beginnings. You may be experiencing a reawakening or have a fresh outlook on life. Oh, my.

Nick’s Neck: To dream about any neck, denotes your present feelings of jealousy and resentment. It involves emotional problems involving a friend or relative. Oh, my redux. My feelings of jealousy and resentment are right now focused on a co-worker, but if I need to, I can work some up over Thanksgiving, taking the trash out EVERY SINGLE TIME it needs to be emptied and other household inequities.

The overgrown path: To see a blocked or windy path, denotes that you need to give serious attention to the direction you are heading in your personal and/or business life. You also need to take time out to consider and rethink the consequences before acting on your choices. Ok, I can go with that. I always do my thinking after the fact.



So, my little dream of delight is a lie! I am a disturbed and resentful bag of malice with homicidal intentions towards a family member, seeking escape but needing to consider the direction I am heading.

Some things are best left unstudied.

Nick, if you want me to follow, just ask!

My Prayer

May I Never Again Hear:

1. “My gyno.” I seem to only read it in Glamour or Cosmo, so I can’t really say I’ve ever heard someone say this offensive phrase. It evokes disturbing images of STDs and Panglossian denial. Is it prudish of me to NOT want to be on nickname acquaintance with the doctor who’ll be examining some of my most interior parts? This is not the ENT dude. This is not the mammogram ma’am. This is the doctor who will see if you’re a swamp-like miasma of excess and kink or an arid desert of denial. If ever there were a profession in need of some good euphemisms, this be it. And “My Gyno” ain’t one of ‘em.

2. Git R Done. Let me be clear: there is only one funny person on the whole Blue Collar Tour. Call him Tater Salad. Larry the Cable Guy – I just don’t get. At all. I live here in the South and I can say, with authority, that he doesn’t come from around here. He is absolutely alien to me. And when I’m at a soccer game, and some moronic boob calls out ‘Git R done!’ I get nauseous. If I worked at McDonald’s and some pinhead told me to Git R Done, I’d probably spit in his food.

3. “In all actuality.” I didn’t think “actuality” was an actual word, so I looked it up on the good ole M-W online. The state or quality of being ACTUAL! Why, you could almost say it was actually actual! A co-worker of mine is always using that phrase with what she thinks is an intelligent and thoughtful look on her face. Reality, actuality, causality, duality – it’s the new black. Or should I say the new Ism? Run; run quickly from the room when you hear those words!

4. “Going to hospital.” You can go crazy, nuts, insane. You can go to work, you can go to hell if you don’t change your ways, but everyone knows you can’t go home again. You can go to pieces, you can go to Wal-Mart, and you can go to school. You can go to Fort Sanders Sevier, but you can’t go TO HOSPITAL. At least not on this side of the Atlantic.

5. “Taking the dog a walk.” WTF? How do you take a walk to a dog? This sounds like one of those carny catchphrases to me. Don’t let ‘em get away, Sammy, I’m almost taking the dog a walk. Check your wallets, folks.

I Love the Smell of Sweaty 12-Year-Olds in the Morning!

Josephine’s final 2005 soccer game was last Thursday. We have been truly blessed by the Great Soccer Gods this fall – only one slightly drizzly game and this final one turned off cold as hell, but all in all, sun and fun at games and at practices. I’m strictly a vicarious athlete, but I’m an excellent Soccer Mom. I knew I was going to miss yelling ‘boot it!’ and ‘go, red!’ (or blue, depending).

Then, before I could completely thaw out from that colder-than-a-well-digger’s butt final game, there was Coach Mark on the phone wanting to organize an indoor team for the winter.

What I like best about indoor is that it starts on time every time, it takes one hour and we never have practices. It’s a minimum 3-hour time investment, being an hour away, but there are several large liquor stores on the way. If our first game was a barometer, it’s gonna be a long season. We did score. Once. On a PK, but it was my kid that kicked it in so big ups to the austinator. The scoreboard read 6-1 at the end, but the other fabulous thing about indoor is that the winning team can only be 5 points ahead. In the interests of sportsmanship and self-esteem and all that noble stuff they don’t teach in sports anymore. The actual score was probably 20-1, but I quit counting when it went into double digits. It’s a rebuilding year.

But the kids enjoyed it. Most of them are new to indoor, and it’s a major adjustment, going from large grass field to small enclosed astro-turfed oval. It’s like pinball-meets-basketball-but-with-no-hands. Very fast paced, lots of action and NO offsides rule to worry about. The perfect game for the average 12-year-old PS2 addict. And for the average Soccer Mom: cappuccino and warm cinnamon buns in the deli!

But does it have to start at 8 a.m. on Saturday morning?!?!?!

The Second Sign of the Apocalypse

Or, Shoeless in Sevierville

You know those days, the days where it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed. The days when even your dog doesn’t love you. The days when you walk thru a spider web in the dark and beat yourself silly trying to kill the brown recluse you just know is poised to bite. The days when the only possible reply to cheery good mornings is ‘eat shit and die.’ The days when there isn’t enough liquor, and automatic weapons are looking like the only solution to Sartre’s vision of hell. Have you had days like those? I have, and I had a really simple cure. Just kidding about the automatic weapons, btw. At least until the statute of limitations runs out.

My cure involved shopping. Shoe shopping, to be specific. There’s nothing like the little boost one gets from a new pair of saucy sandals or the pick-me-up provided by the smell of real leather. Sure, it’s bought love, but that’s the only kind of love I need on Those Days.

Yesterday, it didn’t work. No shoe in the store could do anything for me. For once, the Power of the Shoe failed. I went down every single aisle, tried on 45 different pairs and bought nada. Was it that I couldn’t find the right shade of brown? Were there no pumps to pump me up? (I am almost ashamed of that) Has Mootsies Tootsies run out of style? Or was it me? The boots failed to excite. The flats fell flat (I am ashamed of that one). There was nothing new under the fluorescent lights. I’m hoping it was just my mood, because damn I’d hate to lose my cure. I’ll try it again without children. It’s hard to focus holding a sticky hand.

Fall Grumblings

I hate autumn. Erase it from the calendar, please.

Oh, they try to sell it to me every year with visions of nubby tweeds and riding boots. Pictures of some LL Bean-created autumnal utopia of pumpkins and Indian corn, where rosy-cheeked children drink apple cider whilst diving into piles of beautiful leaves, where everything smells like apple pie (again with the goddam apples!) and all God’s people are off on a hayride!

But it’s all a lie.

Autumn is the last hurrah before winter and Mother Nature tries to put on a fabulous song and dance so we won’t realize we’re on our way to the slaughterhouse. She fools us into believing summer will last all year long, or at least until we’re in the mood for snow when Christmas rolls around, and damn, we wake up and it’s the ruins of January and the Most Miserable Time of the Year. I used to believe in harvest festivals and Halloween. Until I figured out it was it was the carrot on a stick before the jackass’s eyes.

You have been warned.

The Like, The Kings of Leon and the aftermath…..

I’m too old for some of this shit, I suppose. I probably should’ve sat on the balcony, but there I was on the fifth row. Can I be blamed for buying tickets the day they came out? The Like opened to a mostly empty house. I was predisposed to like them, considering their drummer is the daughter of EC’s drummer. Her name is Tennessee, and they were playing in Tennessee, so, according to their singer/guitarist, that made the show “special.” Special enough to do the same lame joke twice, even! Tennessee can bang the absolute hell out of her kit. I know nothing about drumming, but to watch her, with her head bowed and her hair all in her face like Cousin It, just rocking out, it was quite apparent she inherited way more than her fair share of talent. I liked the singer’s voice, kind of husky and dainty and ethereal but raspy all at the same time, and somehow reminding me of Tommy James & the Shondells doing Crimson and Clover. Meant to buy their cd on the way out, but they were mildly besieged signing stuff. Check them out here: http://www.ilikethelike.com/main.html

Cute bunny.



The Followill Brothers + Cousin, a/k/a The Kings of Leon, took their sweet time getting to the stage. Sure, The Like’s stuff had to be removed, and the guitars tuned (3 times a piece, by my count), but anything past 30 minutes is pushing my patience envelope and it’s not something I have a lot of. But when they finally appeared, they were firing on all cylinders from the first note. They only have 2 cds out, so not a bottomless Elvis well from which to draw. I think they played it all, but there was one new to me. Clocked in at just around an hour and a half. A two song encore. I did not chase their bus.

The bass player (Jared) is gorgeous AND good, so maybe I should have. I mean, they’ve all got the stuff: good looks and talent, but I have a thing for bass players. The drummer (Nathan) shaved the beard and took off his glasses, so he looks a lot more 21st century. The singer/rhythm guitar player (Caleb) grew out the goofy bangs and pumped some iron. To his stylist: dump the white pants or get the boy some flares to hide them bowlegs! Lead guitarist/cousin Matthew did a good Ramones impersonation with the black leather. He’s the one with the Normal Ears. I think the audience was about 60/40 male/female, and definitely skewed young. I felt ancient amongst all this vital youth but I tried my best to overcome it. Alcohol helped, but jeez louise - $5 a beer! They ain’t a chatty bunch, these Kings of Leon. They let the music do all the talking. Or shouting! My ears are still bleeding.

A lot of the kids were throwing those death metal signs at them and doing what I call the 8 Mile Dance: one arm up in the arm and doing a slight bow to the rhythm. It struck me as funny. I wore sensible shoes: the platform sandals with that wide and stable heel. The boots, even with a kitten heel, were just too wobbly (or was it me?). It was about 95 degrees (in October!), so too hot for the black leather (how does Elvis stand it?). I tried about seven different combinations of shirts and belts, which all made me look fat and frumpy, so I just went with the jeans, wife beater and over shirt I wore to work. I did add a little more muss to my hair, some eyeliner, silver earrings and my stained glass necklace. Felt like I was dressed to kill, probably looked like an idiot. Good thing I am blessed with a delusional nature.

They can play. And they haven’t succumbed to Rock Star Excess with the guitars and assorted stuff, although Caleb kept tuning his. During the songs even. A good evening out. I can look back when I’m 90 and know that most of my hearing damage came from that night.

If you’re interested -

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4781927

same show I saw/heard, right down to kicking over the mic stand. The sound at my show was better.

The BassOMatic Axiom

If you would watch a fish in a whirling blender, you deserve to get splattered with said fish.

My Musical Epiphany

Stop laughing. I mean it.

I’d heard of them, of course. More times than I care to remember. I figured they were mythical or sensationalized, like G-spots or 100mpg engines. I’m a slow learner sometimes. Like, I just recently listened, really listened to Iggy’s Lust for Life. Hey, man, where’d you get that lotion? Of course I’ve had it in the ear before. That was kind of an epiphany, I suppose, not that I really learned anything from it, but it’s kind of amusing to picture that Royal Caribbean cruise commercial where the Modern Guys (and girls) are on the climbing wall – yeah, you’ve had it in the ear before.

But, I digress, as is my wont. I take my dog for a walk most mornings. Most of the time my 11 year old son comes along as well. One particular Friday, I decided to carry along my Walkman as well. See, it was my birthday and I’d been promised decent radio tunage. Let’s set the stage: it’s dark, really fucking (that’s for the Girls Who Say Fuck, may they rule forever) dark, the few lone lights shining are just absorbed by the blackness; it’s cool enough to make me wonder how long I can keep doing this in shorts and a t-shirt and there’s nobody around except me, Austin and Pawli. Austin knows how to keep a companionable silence. And Pawli just likes to sniff. So, I slip on my headphones and try to find the radio station in the dark. Did I mention that it’s really fucking dark??? The Hand of Fate takes mine and I roll that dial right into WSEV. And there’s the Epiphany: (White Man) in Hammersmith Palais. On the headphones, in the dark, with the dog and the boy. Midnight to six, man! It was absolutely perfect. Perfect for the darkness, perfect for my mood, perfect for walking the dog at an almost aerobic clip (something I’m sure Strummer never imagined). It’s a Perfect Musical Moment. And it’s my birthday. And it’s got nothing to do with nostalgia and longing for the Good Ole Days and Lost Youth.

I have a love/hate relationship with the radio. Remember that old Carpenters song? When I was young I’d listen to the radio, waiting for my favorite song…? That was me, with my green ball transistor, sitting on my orange fuzzy bedspread in Van Buren Missouri, trying to tune in John “Records” Landecker from far away WLS. May I never hear Stairway to Heaven again. And there were the College Commuting years, with Phil Williams and Worm Watch ’84. Too bad he was ripping off John Boy and Billy – when I heard them, I couldn’t listen to you anymore, Phil. No one likes a thief. Not that kind of thief anyway. There were the Silent Years, when I really didn’t listen to anything except my kids and sometimes my husband. As the millennium waned, I started tuning in again. And I found that the awful country station, that I’d been held hostage to for school closing/snow day information, had been reprogrammed to something called Today’s Best Mixx – for some reason, I’m picturing Sir Mix-a-lot here (Baby Got Back!) – and for a while, everything was groovy. The occasional Elvis, the Frolicking Fridays – enough bones thrown to keep me listening.

But, like the mythical hoop snake that feeds on itself, it couldn’t last long. Nothing spoils like success, right? The ads reached critical mass, the edge went out of the music (not that there was a lot, but for a while all that 80’s crap was fresh again), and the banter became infomercialized.

Now, I’m not a total idiot. I did graduate from college, even if it was a state school, and I managed one of them there Phi Beta Kappa keys while I was at it. I realize radio is not there for listeners; it’s there for advertisers. Like funerals aren’t for the dead, but for the living. But it’s symptomatic (there’s a big word for ya!) of the Great Bell Curve of Modern Culture: a handful of the incredibly excellent, a smattering of the astoundingly awful, and a vast seemingly limitless supply of the mindlessly mediocre. I won’t name names. Taste is in the eye of the beholder, or something like that. Everybody finds the stuff that speaks to them and I don’t mean that in the Son of Sam sense. Or maybe I do. Maybe Satan is telling America to listen to crap. Or maybe a whole lot of folks don’t mind listening to crap. And yes, I’m a perfectly ridiculous person with a size XXL ego and a big mouth who does own one Billy Joel album (it was a gift! from my mother!) but refuses to drown in the Sea of Bourgeoisie.


Anyway, what I found out, in one Perfect Musical Moment, out in the dark, out of the dark was this: I’m not dead yet. There’s lots of perfect moments, musical and otherwise, still to be had. And those moments are enough to keep me passing the open windows.


That’s pretty damn epiphanic, ain’t it?

I Will Not Be Moved

It started with the Back To School shopping. I've got 3 kids, 3 different lists and that aisle at Wal-mart was a frenzy of glue-grabbing, pencil-plucking, notebook-nabbing and folder-flinging that resembled nothing so much as a Green Bay Packers scrimmage. I couldn't face that defensive line, so I did what I do best. I procrastinated. And that was where it all went wrong. The very next trip, with the first day of school three days out, the Back To School aisle was gone, and Halloween had taken its place. I like Halloween. It's one of my favorite holidays. Low stress/expectations, costumes, candy - what's not to love? But I don't start planning for it in August. I hold Martha Stewart personally responsible. Her and her napkin rings and origami centerpieces and everything's so simple and easy. The hell it is, Martha, the hell it is.

And yesterday, the 21st day of September, the city of Pigeon Forge started hanging snowflake and greenery light decorations from every telephone pole in the city limits. It's 95 degrees, the leaves haven't fallen or even given a small hint of color, for that matter, but in the true American entrepreneurial spirit, we're getting ready for Christmas. Oh, the official kick off won't be until November 1st, the day after Harvest Fest ends. Winterfest will last until the end of February, if you can stomach it, when Spring Fest will start the Tyranny of the Themed Event all over again. I can't look at Christmas decorations for four months! I know there's something in the Constitution about cruel and unusual punishment, so this can't be legal, but it does draw lots of folks and thus lots of their Almighty Dollars. If our city were one of Jesus' disciples, it would be Judas Iscariot.

So, the revolution starts now. I will not buy the Halloween necessities until October. I will not allow any Pilgrim decorations until November. And I will not put up a Christmas tree until December. I will take said tree down on New Year's Day and put away all our decorations. Those of you who know that my Christmas decorations are still sitting in the den awaiting transport to the attic can keep your mouths shut. And because my favorite season is summer, I'm wearing my sandals and shorts until the first frost. I will wear white long after Labor Day. I will not remove my toe ring. I will keep my tan in protest of snowflakes and cold temps and frost and all the sins committed in the Name of the Dollar.

Mai Tais all around!

I got a symbol in my driveway

Summer time, and the livin' is easy.

That's what I love about summer - easy. Casual. Laid back. Not so many deadlines. No school nights. No looking for lunch money in a late-for-school frenzy. When the temperature rises, the rules go out the window so the fan can go in. People relax their personal spaces, smile more and wave at strangers. It's possible this stems from the shorts-and-t shirt dress standard, but it's kind of a chicken and egg thing. All I know is that winter and scratchy clothing make me cranky as hell.

So, summer has ended, boo hoo. But under a Knoxville skyline that refused to show me any stars, I said a mellow and peaceful goodbye.
(cue strings)


Jack Johnson. Surfer. Film maker. Bard of the Beach. This Year's Model. All Around Nice Guy and Environmentalist. Drove his alternatively fueled buses into K-town September 2nd and brought Matt Costa AND the Animal Liberation Orchestra with him.

It was a hot and sunny late afternoon. Traffic was heavy, but moving. We were late, as usual, so we took the interstate. I debated exits, mulling over the parking situation. Since it was at the World's Fair Park, I finally chose the Park exit (duh), and a very nice policewoman directed us to a nearby parking garage. Hordes of people (ok, youth of America)were converging on the park. Spaghetti straps everywhere. Some tie dye. A few dreads. The spectrum that is the University of Tennessee. My date for the evening was my oldest daughter, Katie, and this was her first real concert experience. I was supposed to chaperone a herd of her friends as well, but they decided not to go, had other plans, etc. We bought ourselves some spiffy organic cotton T's, got our id checked (at least I did), and found a place to drop our Doughboy blanket. I stood in a mob, an utter mob!, to get my one allowed beer - yes, it was obviously a college crowd. I managed to get most of it back to our spot in time to listen to the last of the ALO. Matt Costa came on, but was accosted with cries of Jack! Jack! Jack!, so that probably didn't feed his ego much. I don't honestly remember much about his set. He apologized for scaring a pedestrian while skateboarding and mentioned the Smoky Mountains and trout fishing to a big wave of applause. We were scoping out the crowd and trying to find my oldest son and his sweet girlfriend. Using cell phone technology and the extended arm point of reference, we were able to join them standing in front of the stage just before Jack came on.

Which was just after sundown, under a pink sky. I know he mashed Rocky Top into the beginning of one of his songs and the crowd went wild. I'm thinking it was his opener - that would make sense. I really should write these things down! So, I stood in the crowd, sniffing the occasional whiff of ganja, laughing at this young man who got on his friend's shoulders and flashed Jack, finding myself doing that old lady bobbing dance. Jack added a verse of the Cars' song Just What I Needed to one of his own, and I'd swear I was the only person in the crowd who knew. He also did some of My Girl in another. Matt Costa joined him for a really nice version of the Beatles' Two of Us, which is probably my favorite Beatle song, even if it is a Paul one. It was just very pleasant. Peaceful. A good, friendly vibe. I left #1 daughter with #1 son and returned to my Doughboy blanket to people watch and listen, telling my son that I'd stop embarrassing him now. And that sweet boy replied, "Mom, if I was embarrassed, I wouldn't have answered my phone."

Jack and his band travel on buses that use old vegetable oil (I think that's what it is) for fuel - kind of Back to the Future-esque. When we parked, I thought something was wrong with our car - there was this stench, somewhere between burning brakes and overheated engine. It was everywhere in the garage, and his buses were parked on one side, so a logical conclusion would be that the stench came from them. What you gain in fossil fuel savings, you lose to stink. But, big ups to Jack for using alternative fuel and for being part of the 1% thing. And he gave a "chunk" of the show's revenue to help victims of Katrina, so yes, his mom can be proud.

Did I mention the gang of fabulously coiffed lesbians? All black tanks and jeans and motorcycle wallets. Stunning. A deadhead accused me of littering. I should've educated him on the relative nature of evil à la Alice's Restaurant, but I gave him a rather gruff no! instead. He was still apologizing when I left. (I really didn't mean it to come out so harsh, but, jeez louise, do I LOOK like a litter bug?)

Things I'm Going To Hell For, Or Why I'm Damned, Damned, Damned

1. I have Dan Quayle Disorder. If you spell it wrong, I'll be sure to tell you. Even if I can't spell it myself. Particularly if you get paid to spell things right. A local newspaper (and I'm using that word loosely as it is basically a written infomercial) inadvertently merged performance art and syntax when they accused a local dj of going to "collage." Another local paper (slightly more respectable) wrote movingly of our social morays. As in eels. I had no idea they were such bon vivants, but I try to avoid slime with teeth.

2. I have lusted in my heart watching teenage boys play soccer. And my son was playing, so it was all awkward and confusing, just like high school.

3. I don't mind stealing music one bit. But I despise plagiarism. Maybe I'd think different if somebody paid me to spell things correctly, but I'd rather be credited than paid. The artists most worried about illegal downloads seem to be the most concerned with their bank balance; at which point, imho, they stop being artists and start being CEOs. I understand art-as-commodity, but they need to understand that it's a privilege to make your living doing what you love. And I don't want to hear the poor-mouthing. If you were under the impression Britney might be a Mensa candidate, you thought wrong: http://www.musicunited.org/3_artists.html


4. I have no respect for the absolute sanctity of life. They may be living creatures, but if I find one of these in my tomato plants, we are not going to have a warm and fuzzy moment.












just icky, ain't he? and those are wasp larva/egg things on him; if I don't kill him myself, he's doomed to be eaten from the inside out. Decisions, decisions.

Hot Summer Nights

August 14. It was a hot and sunny Sunday, the kind of hot hot heat that's really...hot. The kind of heat that turns the sky white. The kind of heat that stews you in your own sweat. The kind of heat in which blinking is almost too much work. The kind of heat that - well, you get the picture. In spite of the heat, the Mr. and I put on our best blue jeans and ventured to Knoxville to see Lucinda Williams. And eat. And drink.

First stop was the Preservation Pub, which normally orders food in from the Tomato Head if you want to eat. On this night, there was a Christian concert out on Market Square and only one bartender, so no ordering in. We refreshed ourselves and sought out another restaurant. The only other one open was incredibly packed with fellow concertgoers. Does everybody have to copy me????? We waited forever, but with drinks! Finally, we ate. As quickly as possible, a dash to the bathroom and out the door to the Tennessee Theatre.

Late as usual. Ran downstairs for beer. Ran back upstairs for ID armband. Got beer, found seats while Rob Jungklas played some dirty white boy blues.

Then Lucinda. The Tennessee Theatre is recently renovated, and while I think it is absolutely beautiful, something about Lucinda's voice amped up the bordello chic. I'd never noticed how much RED there is in the decor. And gold.

Lucinda knows something about that angel/whore archetype. If she's not wanting to Get Right With God, she's begging for someone to 'shoot [their] love into my vein.' Her voice, like John Prine's or Bob Dylan's, you either love or hate; it's impossible to be indifferent to it. It's powerful caterwauling, the perfect complement to the raw emotion her music captures. She's fearless in her writing. Brutally honest, brutally frank, she strips herself down to the bone lyrically. That said, she's curiously detached onstage - the cowboy hat stayed over her eyes and while she was chatty with the audience, the so-called fourth wall was certainly in place. I suppose when you open yourself up that much in your writing, you need to step back to perform it. Otherwise, the first three rows get covered in blood and tears.

It was a good show. Fanboys stole the unclaimed fifth row seats in front of me. She had some new songs to try out. Jailhouse Tears is gonna be a great duet - personally, I hear George Jones there. Unsuffer Me was one of those songs that fill the silence - the silence after your lover walks out, the silence after a friend has died. Where Is My Love was haunting, kind of like Are You Down. I was hoping for Greenville (and god help me, I shouted it out more than once) or Jackson. I got Essence, Ventura, a vicious Joy, and Lonely Girls, amongst lots of others. She told a story about writing one of her songs in Knoxville on New Year's Day a while back - for the life of me, I can't remember which one, so if you know, tell! For two and a half hours, she whispered and wailed and rocked and moaned. Kept me up way past my bedtime, but it was worth every minute of lost sleep.

I Was A Middleaged Evacuee - A Vacation Story

of sorts. of the hurricane variety.

On the Thursday morning Walmart run, I noticed that the gas stations I passed were doing brisk business. My tank was on the bottom half of a quarter tank, so I gassed up. Of course, I had to have a non-verbal confrontation with the pump, which refused to surrender the secret to making it function until I had swiped my card 7 times (note to self: scrutinize statement). That was the best idea I have had to date. Gassing up, that is, not swiping my card 7 times, for the very next day, we had to evacuate.

My dad woke me up on Friday morning (really, really early for somebody on vacation) with a traffic forecast: hurricane coming, heavy traffic all the way to Birmingham. Best to get out before the Mass Exodus that would surely come on Saturday. We had a Jenkins Family meeting at which we concluded that indeed we did need to bug out. The question was when. The kids (and me) wanted a little more fun in the sun. Sun-poisoned Dad did not. Surprise! we won.

And that's the strangest damn thing about hurricanes. It was absolutely beautiful on the beach. Doom was not writ large upon the horizon; all green flags and gentle balmy breezes - like one of those Corona commercials. All us vacationing types were enjoying the absolute hell out of it. However, the folks that lived and worked there were in manic hyper-super-overdrive, hauling seadoos out of the water, boarding up windows, securing dumpsters and trashcans. I heard the NBC news guy describe a hurricane as 'a blizzard with shrapnel' - only warmer, I suppose. We splashed and played. Austin caught crabs. Hermit crabs. Josie tried to break her record for largest amount of water sucked up her nose. Katie went shopping. I folded things and deflated things and shook sand out of things. Jim sat in the shade, drinking beer and smiling because I'd promised to do the driving, a condition of the final beach trip.

So, we loaded up the minivan with seven tons of stuff and Began Our Evacuation.

We thought we were being smart. We thought we were avoiding the great migration north.
We thought we had an easy drive to Montgomery. Of course, we were wrong.

Things were going so well. Across the Three Mile Bridge, a short hop on the interstate and then up 29 to I-65. 29 was a Goddamn Parking Lot. At 3 p.m. on Friday afternoon. Every gas station we passed had 40 cars waiting to get to a pump. Those that didn't were completely sold out. Walmart had blocked off its main entrance. Can you imagine Walmart EVER trying to stop you from shopping??? I suppose Hell was freezing over. The 29 to I-65 section of this trip ordinarily takes a little over an hour. We spent two and a half hours creeping towards the interstate; for some unknown reason, the traffic unsnarled beside a giant stinking paper factory. I suppose the odor had something to do with it. Anyway, we finally made it to the interstate, hit cruise control (a modest 75, thank you very much) and congratulated ourselves on our patience and understanding and General Good Humor in Times of Stress. But wait! Has there been a wreck? Our average speed drops to 3 miles an hour. We cheer when we get to 7 and think, that's it, we're on our way. And it will clear for a while, but then it will shut back down again - some bizarre kind of Anti-Movement Forcefield had a powerful hold on Lower Alabama. After all this togetherness, a Rest Area break was needed and granted. I stood in line in the women's room listening to the idle conversation you make with people you don't know when you're fleeing a hurricane and you need to pee really bad: are you from Pensacola? I'm going to my sister's in Chattanooga, if I can get there; I was with my dad in Mobile but my mom wants me back in Oak Ridge; the shelter won't take animals, so we're going to Birmingham. Sometimes just a couple of words (after Ivan) and a shrug. At the next rest stop, maybe I was recognizing a few faces. A camaraderie built up amongst the evacuees, a shared purpose: to get the hell out of Dodge before sundown.


Most of the time when I'm driving on the interstate, I don't have a clue what's going on over there on the other side of the median. At 3 mph, one has lots of time to look. And it was freaking me out - every state trooper in the state of Alabama was headed south on I-65. I saw a herd of electrical company trucks, maybe 30 in all, heading south PRE-disaster; I saw a convoy of ambulances doing the same. If there is any fun in evacuating a hurricane, this is where it ended for me. A big ole slap of reality hit me: it's a blessing that we have the technology to get a fix on these storms, but it's chilling to see the actual disaster preparations. Everybody's seen the pictures post-Ivan. The recovery's been slow. The road into Gulf Islands National Seashore's Fort Pickens area was 4 days away from re-opening after Ivan completely destroyed it.

see here: http://www.nps.gov/guis/FLA/Hurricane%20Ivan/Hurricane.html

Tropical Storm Arlene, the first named storm of the season, washed it away again. This is a place that needs to be hurricane-free for a long time. But tell that to the ocean.

And thank god for cell phones! With a beer in one hand and a cell in the other, Jim managed to find a Holiday Inn in Montgomery that took kids AND dogs AND had a vacancy. We took the scenic route the next day, as all four lanes of I-65 were restricted to northbound traffic; Jim had no faith in my navigation skill, but I was RIGHT, wasn't I honey? There can be such a thing as too much togetherness.

Long and short of it is: Dennis deflated down to a 2, I think, actually, at landfall. More comparable to Opal than Ivan. The rebuilding goes on.

Hot Child In The City

Took the gang out to Sundown in the City last night. Mic Harrison, formerly of the V-Roys, opened, with some loud metal band helping him out. The headliner was an Australian named Xavier Rudd, who played guitar and aborigine instruments that I can't spell simultaneously - really made some amazing sounds that pleased the Aging Hippies in the crowd. I liked it the way I like Jack Johnson's music. It's pleasant listening, good for work, but it doesn't grab me by the earlobes the way Elvis or John Prine does - the words don't really seem to be that integral somehow. And I don't mean that as an insult. It taps into a different part of my head - it's restful somehow.

Anyhoo, incredible people watching! Goth kids, preppy kids, kids who climb on rocks, chic grandmas, the afore-mentioned aging hippies, young hippies, Yuppy scum, anorexics by the dozen, and me and mine sitting in the middle of it all. I really didn't mean to stare. And I don't think of myself as nosy, per se, more interested in my fellow creatures. The rather plump lady chugging beers in a too-too tight pair of denim shorts was talking loudly about how her husband shouldn't buy her anymore beer because she couldn't stand up anymore - when Xavier Rudd starting grooving, she did too. As God is my witness, I have never seen anyone attempt a lap-dance standing up. And I hope I never do again - but it was like a train wreck. I couldn't look away. She's grinding into her husband, frontways, backways, sideways, sometimes with a rose between her teeth, sometimes chugging beer. Now and then, she'd take a smoke break, and some twisted part of my mind wondered if she could do other tricks with her cigarettes. I guess she had a good time. I know she's got a massive hangover this morning. I'd bet $5 that she passed out before any actual sex happened and I'd bet $10 that her husband was glad.

Since all these folks I'm watching are strangers to me, I make up their stories. The skinny girl puking in a trash can was holding a bottle of water, while her pony-tailed boyfriend held her hair out of her face - they looked like New Hippies to me, so I figured they were doing 'shrooms and that made her sick. Or maybe a bad veggie burger. She made a quick recovery.

The anorexic girl curled up in a lawn chair, while three older men stood talking around her - she was a trophy wife gone repentant, hating the middle-aged paw that caressed her bony shoulder in ever more possessive fashion. The kids with the pink hair - well, that was the most interesting thing about them. The gray-haired punk in combat boots was most likely a stockbroker (albeit a very cool stockbroker) reliving his wild youth, but somehow, aren't we all? Man in Green T-shirt was headbanging so hard I thought he was going to hurt himself, or somebody else - he looked an awful lot like an ex-boyfriend of mine, had time stood still. That ex-boyfriend would've been dancing just like that. Deja vu all over again.

And that was Sundown in the City.

In Cars

Do you drive? Or do you pilot? You can drive a car, you can drive a truck, you can drive yourself crazy, but you pilot a van. Or at least I do - something about the way I'm placed at the front of this long cabin, surveying the sea of pavement ahead. Yes, it's a powerful feeling, a feeling of controlling destiny and passenger safety. In the driver's seat of my Plymouth Voyager, I feel just like Captain Kirk heading out to kick some Klingon ass. Phasers on stun. Engage the warp drive, Mr. Sulu.

I spend waaaaaaaay too much time in my van.

But the Green Bean blew up the other day. And I found myself driving a truck. Not an 18-wheeler, but an old pickup truck. An authentic truck, not some chrome-brilliant richboy's toy, but a real work truck. The kind of vehicle you can haul stuff in: 2X4s, shovels and rakes, lawn mowers, giant sacks of dog food, dogs, the annual deer carcass if you are of the hunter persuasion. And the view from the driver's seat changed.

In my van, I put on my sunglasses, crank up the stereo and recognize no one. I'm cruising. Sure, maybe I've got 4 kids screaming at each other and throwing food, but I'm cruising. In the truck, with the windows down (no a/c - this is a man's truck!), I'm right there in the middle of it all, smelling the tar on the pavement and hearing all these punkass fart mufflers. And my fellow truck drivers are recognizing me as one of their own. I get the Nod of Respect. I get the Wave of Brotherhood (nevermind that I'm a sister). They let me cut in front of them, because they know it's gonna be tough to hold that clutch on this grade in this traffic. I could get used to this. Courtesy, good ole boy style. In my van, I'm invisible, partly by choice but mostly because there are gazillions of vans in all the colors of the rainbow being piloted by my contemporaries, forty somethings (ouch) with kids and groceries. The truck made me visible, at least to other truck drivers, and ya know, everybody likes to be noticed now and then.

I'm thinking we van-o-moms need some of this camaraderie. Like motorcyclists do that low wave to each other in passing, we need a gesture of recognition.

Suggestions welcome!

I love....

Little baby ducks. Old pickup trucks. Slow movin' trains and rain. Thank you, Tom T. Hall.

Baby ducks are cute, aren't they? Especially when they're all fuzzy and yellow and peeping around the park. And then they grow up into the monsters from hell that hiss and chase me around the walking trail. I'm warning them all - well, all of them that can read - I've got pepper spray, and I'm not afraid to use it!

10 Simple Pleasures

1. rain on the roof when I'm sleeping. a cat purring at my feet makes this ultra-cozy. and waking up and realizing I don't have to get up anytime soon - icing on the cake.
2. cold vanilla ice cream on a hot cherry turnover
3. beer on the beach, under a strong summer sun
4. squishing barefoot through a summer rain -this is a lot more dangerous than it used to be, so watching those big fat summer drops implode on a puddle is almost as satisfying.
5. walking my youngest daughter to school, feeling the trust in her little hand which is growing bigger every day, so this is a fleeting treasure, as it was with her brothers and sister before her.
6. watching my silly old dog run. she does that just for the hell of it sometimes, and if dogs can smile, well, she's smiling when she does it.
7. making somebody else laugh out loud, especially my husband. the last time he did was when I told him he was allergic to the word "God" unless it was immediately followed by "damn." He's a very tough sell.
8. getting all the words AND the question on the Word Scramble puzzles in my local paper. I can either do them all immediately or not at all.
9. green lights all the way to work.
10. a freshly-washed vehicle.

A Modest Proposal

Today is June 1, 2005, which is commonly written as 06-01-05. I'm going to spend the next two weeks either writing 05-??-05 or 06-??-06. Do you have this problem making the monthly transition? I've got a solution.


Let's get rid of the months. Let's just have 1/2005, 2/2005...365/2005. See how simple? Only one real change per annum. With this hole in the ozone layer, climates have changed and seasons have slipped off the track. April showers bring May flowers? Fuhgeddaboudit. April blizzards bring May showers, mudslides, mosquitos and the occasional avalanche. We redivide the calendar to more accurately divide the year. The Naughts, those first hundred days, begin in the dead of what was formerly known as winter. The Hunnerts take us from the frosty first days of what used to be spring into the pleasant part of the season formerly known as summer. Next up, the Binerts (or 'berts), from day 201 to 300, encompass both the Dog Days and Halloween, which I think would make that whole Back to School thing a bit more believable. Who can look at wool in August? Rounding out the year, we have the Trinerts, which would be mercifully short, so that we can look forward to the coming of the Naughts again come 01/2006. And we'll toss that Spring Forward/Fall Back crap while we're at it.

Are ya with me? Write your congressman.