Memorable Quotes of 2007

Author's note: After reading this, I'm inclined to go home, diagram these sentences while chanting "Grammar and syntax are our friends," and then bang my head against my Oxford English Dictionary. Repeatedly.

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CORRECTED: "Don't Tase Me, Bro" tops '07 memorable quote list
Thu Dec 20, 2007 12:22 PM ET

(Corrects name of contest to Miss Teen USA from Miss Teen America in fourth paragraph)

By Arthur Spiegelman

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - "Don't Tase Me, Bro," a phrase that swept the nation after a college student used it seeking to stop campus police from throwing him out of a speech by Sen. John Kerry, was named on Wednesday as the most memorable quote of 2007.

Fred R. Shapiro, the editor of the Yale Book of Quotations, said the plea made by University of Florida student Andrew Meyer on September 17, accompanied by Meyer's screams as he was tased, beat out the racial slur that cost shock jock Don Imus his job and the Iranian president's declaration that his country does not have homosexuals.

Shapiro said Meyer's quote was a symbol of pop culture success. Within two days it was one of the most popular phrases on Google and one of the most viewed videos. It also showed up on ringtones and T-shirts.

Second on Shapiro's list was this tortuous answer by Lauren Upton, the South Carolina contestant in the Miss Teen USA contest in August:

"I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because some people out there in our nation don't have maps and I believe that our education like such as in South Africa and Iraq and everywhere like such as and I believe that they should our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S. or should help South Africa and should help Iraq and the Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future for us."

Upton had been asked why one-fifth of Americans are unable to locate the United States on a map and later apologized for her answer not making a lot of sense.

Third was Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's October comment at Columbia University in New York, "In Iran we don't have homosexuals like in your country."

Shock jock Don Imus comments about the Rutgers University women's basketball team: "That's some nappy-headed hos there," was fourth.

Imus created a national outcry and lost his job at CBS radio in April, but returned to the airwaves in December with Citadel Broadcasting.

Other phrases on the list:

5. "I don't recall." -- Former U.S. Attorney General Alberto Gonzales' repeated response to questioning at a congressional hearing about the firing of U.S. attorneys.

6. "There's only three things he (Republican presidential candidate and former New York City Mayor Rudy Giuliani) mentions in a sentence: a noun and a verb and 9/11." -- Sen. Joseph Biden, speaking at a Democratic presidential debate.

7. "I'm not going to get into a name-calling match with somebody (Vice President Dick Cheney) who has a 9 percent approval rating." -- Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, a Democrat.

8. "(I have) a wide stance when going to the bathroom." -- Idaho Republican Sen. Larry Craig's explanation of why his foot touched that of an undercover policeman in a men's room.

9. "I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy. I mean, that's a storybook, man." -- Biden describing rival Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama.

10. "I think as far as the adverse impact on the nation around the world, this administration has been the worst in history." -- Former President Jimmy Carter in an interview in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette newspaper.

(Editing by Jill Serjeant and Eric Beech)

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True North

I rouse slowly, reluctant to depart
In the dim of the lamplight, I gaze upon you
In adoration
Admiration

Sculpted by the most talented of graces,
I gently touch your face, goodbye
And the softest of frowns creases your brow
Beneath luxe layers of sleep

The streets are wrapped in glassine
Reflections of the lights above on the below
The sharp pull and muted hiss of puddles
Keep my attention focused on the road

My compass has shifted
. . .Nearly imperceptibly
. . . . .And while home is still home
. . . . .Home is there, also
. . .My heart begs its return to your side
My North no longer true

. . . . .My compass has shifted
. . .And the question is no longer
Will I let you love me?
The needle points instead to
. . .Will I let myself be loved?
. . . . .My North no longer true

In this strange, rainy hour
I travel in the company of late lovers,
An infinite number of Seasons Greetings,
And a sad, solitary ice cream truck

I remember pouring love like a sieve
Into a broken vessel of a man
That kept none, wasted all
And yet, I find you fill my heart to overflowing

With admiration
Adoration
I set my broken compass aside and retire
Let these words be your kiss, good morning

The Alpha & Omega

In a not-so-ancient blog, I discussed my predilection for intutive gift giving. This morning, I unexpectedly received just such a gift, and was so honored and moved by it that I would like to share it with you here, with heartfelt thanks to my friend and kindred spirit, Ian Ottaway.

As the following demonstrates, intuitive gifts don't have to be material in nature. Sometimes, words - kind words, right words - will serve.

For all these right words, Ian, Rich and I thank you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Alpha & Omega (for Southern Belle)"
Written by Ian Ottaway
December 18, 2007 - Tuesday


He tore the old heart off his shirt sleeve
and she dusted the ghost off her shelves and put on some new and beautiful clothing and jewelry
they dropped it all into a plot
planted a tree over it
buried it and moved forward
with smiles on their faces
and a new born joy in their hearts
a clean start
a fresh new life
they had both earned it
they had both been down the road of ruin and burn
and so they took up a new life
and the clouds
seemed fresher and whiter than ever before
they could actually see silver lining in them!

The grass was fresh and their hearts danced like they hadn't in so long
There was a sheen to their new found stride
Their smiles finally were true
they had waited for what seemed to be a life time
and this time they would not jeopardize a single thing
cutting no corners
over turning every leaf before they held hands
there was a whole world inside them to discover
and the slower the better
together they were clean
and their hearts lifted one another's heart
like two fat cushy pillows dreaming of fine chocolates
even cupid blushed and nearly shit his valentine diapers at such luck!

True love ebbs and stretches like a cat on it's back and upside down
true love like the aroma of herbs mingled with good cooking, floating into steam and mingling throughout the house as you sat by the fireplace.....

They finally had landed two sides of the right coin.
They finally found the light at the end of the exit
It was the road they had tried to walk before
but with the wrong vagabond by their side

You could see it in their eyes
4 rays of pure light and symphonique harmony

The kind of love that not even death can get in the way of
The kind of Love that's flame is made of water
The kind of love that never thirst
clean as organique mud
and engulfs space and time

When they met

it was Alpha & Omega

and there was nothing visible behind them
family beside them
walking slowly bright

into everywhere

A Very Special Invitation

This was too funny not to post.

Standard Equipment

Perhaps most commonly associated with automobiles, the term "standard equipment" usually identifies amenities that were once considered optional (e.g., luxuries), and which are now considered to be essential or expected components in a vehicle (i.e., factored into a value-added pricing structure, which is a nice way of saying "You're still paying for it, and it's no longer optional because it's included in the base price, so pffffft!").

Driving around recently, I contemplated what would qualify as standard equipment for my particular vehicle. Power steering. Air conditioning. Automatic transmission. Power locks and windows. Overdrive. Cruise Control. Anti-lock brakes. Owner's manual. CD player and radio. Airbags, concealed roll-bars, and crumple zones. (Heck, in the not-so-distant past, even safety belts were optional.)

But as I looked around the interior of my vehicle while waiting at a traffic light, I noticed a few things that were most assuredly not on the sticker when I bought the car, yet they have assumed a permanent place within it . . .

A box of Kleenex (should sneezies ensue)
An umbrella
Another umbrella (for passengers or pedestrians in need)
Cell phone charger
A scarf with matching hat and gloves (now that the weather has turned colder)
Another pair of gloves (for passengers with cold hands)
Sunglasses
A set of two-way radios
A first aid kit (replete with bee sting swabs)
A book of CD's (my radio is a wasted amenity)
A tire gauge
A half flat of bottled water
A small digital camera
A kite

Yes, a kite. The kite stays in the car for those rare days during which the planets align and I am faced with – simultaneously, miraculously – a few minutes of uncommitted time, a steady breeze, and a lonely green space in need of some personal attention. Temperature is not a factor when it comes to the kite. Simply put, if the first three conditions are met, I can't be deterred and everything else will need to wait. And frankly, every time I see the kite in the back seat, I succumb to a moment of hope that the planets will align that day.

I have other standard equipment in my life, in addition to what resides in my car. Things that I would sorely miss if they weren't around, but that again, probably weren't included on the original sticker:

Family
The Inner Circle
The three beasties
Books
Music
Art
Education

As with any value-added item, such relationships and material things require an investment on the front end – of time, money, love, and sometimes all three – as well as regular maintenance throughout our lives in order to keep things in good working order in the absence of a warranty.

When it's finally time to upgrade my vehicle, since I am confident that there isn't a car manufacturer in existence that can incorporate the latter list into its value-added pricing structure, I've decided to buy the first car on the market that includes a kite as standard equipment.

P. S. Put me on the waiting list, please.

The Back of the Bus

A big yellow school bus
Trundles down the highway
In cautious, bright defiance
Of gray, early winter skies
Hovering at the rear window
A tiny moon of a face appears
Disembodied through tinted glass
It seems to bob and weave

Its narrow eyes scan the traffic
In the lanes behind the bus
Frantic in their search
For the most perfect victim
A second little face appears
Looming ominously by the first
Bolstering the search effort
With a second pair of tiny eyes

I engage the turn signal
As I begin to position myself
To pass this lumbering obstacle
This gargantuan lemon on wheels
I move around the back left corner
Of the big yellow school bus
And I think I have escaped the notice
Of the sentinels at the rear

Suddenly, I see lips begin to move
The second points in my direction
And the tiny moon face of the first
Comes out of eclipse towards me
Her gaze locks intently on mine
And she breaks out in a huge smile
Then she raises her little right hand
And proceeds to wave gleefully at me

A bit shocked, and a bit touched
I smiled and waved in return
I felt oddly humbled and honored
To have been chosen for this gift
Still innocent yet of the ways
Of the older, more cruel kids
Who follow a different agenda
When they meet in the back of the bus

A Perfect Date

I arrived a little earlier than usual that Friday, collected my date, and immediately departed for the local Super Wally-Mart. With the hope of demonstrating my domestic prowess – Lists? We don't need no stinking lists – I'd memorized my shopping list:

Loaf of Nature's Own Honey Wheat Bread
Jif smooth peanut butter
Dole pineapple slices in syrup
Kraft Jet-Puffed marshmallow creme
Oscar Mayer beef bologna
Iceberg lettuce
Hellman's mayonnaise
Goulden's spicy mustard
Polander's All Fruit strawberry spread
Honey bear
Bananas

As we meandered with our cart up and down the aisles, in order and skipping none (yes, that's really how I shop), we people-watched and window shopped, talking about food likes and dislikes and an array of other culinary topics. Once all the items had been secured, we checked out and returned home with our provisions.

We'd had this date planned for some time. Funny, really, how it came about . . . he called while I was eating a sandwich for lunch one weekend, and when I described it to him, he became intrigued because the components were a little unusual. I then proposed that we have a "sammich date," one in which we each made for the other our favorite sandwiches from childhood. It would require more than one day, as no one in their right mind would try to eat four or five sandwiches at one sitting.

That first night for dinner, we each had a peanut butter and banana sammich. This sandwich is a classic and hard to mess up; however, it's nearly impossible to eat one without thinking of Elvis.

Saturday morning, we each had two pineapple sammiches. This sandwich was my Dad's favorite, and it's quite simple: a little mayonnaise on each slice of bread, and two opened rings of pineapple on each sandwich. By splitting the rings, and tucking one of the ends into each ring center, you can achieve maximum coverage. Tangy and sweet, it was a perfect choice to start the day.

For lunch, we each had one fluffernutter sammich, which was my favorite childhood sandwich. Fluffernutter (which, ironically, was mentioned in a friend's blog last spring as the name of a pet) is made of equal parts smooth peanut butter and marshmallow creme. Stir them up until fully blended and spread on one of the slices of bread, to be covered with another. Quite pleasant, filling, a little sticky, and impossible for me to eat without feeling like I'm five again.

For dinner on Saturday, I made my signature Perfect Bologna Sammich (capitalized because it has garnered marriage proposals in the past, along with my mashed potatoes), of which we each had two. This is a sandwich that I perfected in the early 90s. Construction: on one slice of bread, spread mayonnaise. On the second slice, spread spicy mustard. On each slice, place a slice of bologna, or two if you're feeling froggy. Now for the critical part – as the center layer of the sandwich, place several leaves of crisp, iceberg lettuce. Assemble the sandwich. The placement of the lettuce serves two purposes: first, it keeps the sandwich from sticking to the roof of your mouth, and second, it aerates the sandwich as you're eating it, allowing for maximum flavor. It will make your taste buds sing.

Sunday's breakfast consisted of a special peanut butter and honey sammich for each of us. They were special because they were prepared in advance, on lightly toasted bread, and placed in Ziplocs. They were then placed in the refrigerator for several hours; however, you can also leave them in overnight, if you prefer. The cold crystallizes the honey, and it makes an interesting, sweet and crunchy sandwich. I was happy to add this recipe to my sammich repertoire.

The PBH sammiches used the last of the loaf of bread, so we never made it to the classic PBJs. Fiscally speaking, we'd achieved five meals for what we might have spent on a single dinner out, so that made me happy. Romantically speaking, our sammich date afforded us the opportunity to spend quality time together, and learn even more about each others' tastes and histories. Admittedly, it was the simplest of dates, but undoubtedly, it was one of the most perfect I've ever had.

Long live the sammich.

Read To Me

I read to you from The Kama Sutra
I giggle, I blush, not at the words that fall gently
From my tongue, but at how many
Tasks of love we've mastered without guidance;
Still, I demonstrate the lotus box for you

You read to me from An Incomplete Education
We are pleasantly surprised at each other's knowledge -
Some lacking - in broad subjects and cultures;
Of tricky words, phrases, and history
And at how often misspelled is mispelled

Our bodies still glisten from the day as
Your cheek rests gently against my lower belly
Fingertips tracing my navel, tender and electric
You gaze longingly across that flat plain,
Communicating your wish that I should carry

I softly ask if that is what you're thinking, and
With a timid smile, you ask if I've read your mind.
Our passion, urgent now but often lazy,
Engulfs us again before I can reply,
"Perhaps it is that you've read mine."

Where Does Time Live?

This poem was written for my friend R's recent Poetry Challenge.


Where does time live? This abstract,
this phantom does not exist until we
become aware of it, either by accident
or because it is thrust upon us.

Does it live in an alarm clock?
A history book?
A crow's foot?
A family tree?
A pocket watch?

Does it live in an Autumn leaf?
A forgotten wall?
A mossy patina?
A missing stone?
A cherished memory?

We often stumble upon it, surprised,
because we've managed to lose track of it
somehow; yet, how does one misplace
a thing so big as time?

Still Life With A Grape

A shallow bowl sits off-center on the table
Its antique porcelain painstakingly hand painted
Filled full with fruit just breaching over ripeness
A sunbeam pierces the slit between the gauzy drapes
Briefly brightening a worn tablecloth
Nearly divested of its white and yellow squares
The sunbeam finds in its narrow path
A solitary grape that has fallen to the table
A sacrificial offering, but by whose hand?
The grape is conspicuous in his exile
Bravely facing the sunbeam's embrace
Behind faded flowers and vines
Soft shadows lurk within the wallpaper
Ready to feast when the fruit begins to spoil
The sunbeam rests upon the grape
As his shadow grows to twice, thrice his size
Waiting to devour him on a faded tablecloth
He valiantly fights this battle every evening
While the rest of his kin are wasted
Always to the same end until he tires
His skin, much darker than his blood,
Splits under the crushing embrace of the beam
On a battlefield of white and yellow squares.

Fingerprints

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Strange symbols placed upon a glass
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Once fogged by illicit, commingled breaths
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . These phantom fingerprints

. . Petite in their assault, they now speak loudly
Of a girl who didn't exist in her mind, or yours
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sad, long forgotten etchings

. . . . . . . . . . Their placement and fervor are no less telling
. . . . . . . . . . . Than a spent prophylactic or a rouged collar
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pitiable, fatuous love

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Leaving me with another unwanted souvenir
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . When the clime is right, your secrets do still
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Name you, and call you out

Another Day in Toadyland

As I crested the driveway coming home last evening, I saw Mrs. Toady sitting smack-dab in the middle of the top of the drive, blocking the way. She looked like a miniature sentry as she faced my car, daring me to engage in some bizarre game of chicken. I halted the car, hesitant to try to maneuver over her to my parking spot, and she held her ground beneath my headlights. Thinking the whole world had gone mad, I put the idling car in park, yanked up the emergency brake, and exited the vehicle to approach her. It occurred to me that I had not seen her or her husband since my last Toady posting, and I admitted to myself that I had really missed them.



Mrs. Toady was looking very regal, indeed. She allowed me to approach within a foot of her without complaint. I asked her if she'd move out of the way, gesturing to the side of the driveway, but she wouldn't budge. A little exasperated, I explained that I couldn't move my car until she relocated, and I certainly couldn't leave it parked at such an awkward grade on the drive overnight. She listened politely, but remained quite indifferent. It took several minutes to coax her off the drive into the grassy area by our front walk, and to my dismay, she didn't appear to be in any great rush. As I shadow-stepped the Mrs. towards the yard, what I originally perceived to be a leaf, inconspicuously deposited on the drive some few feet away, scooted off in the opposite direction and into the dark.

This unexpected movement startled me, so I investigated. Lo and behold, our earlier suspicions were confirmed . . .

Meet the Toady Tot!



Junior was around an inch and a half long, and clearly had the jumping thing down pat already. He also allowed me to get very close to him, but after a moment was seized with an instinctive "Oh, crap!" paralysis, turning him into a tiny, toady tot statue. Stifling my giggles, I was able to persuade him to follow his mother into the side yard. One toad tragedy successfully forfended, much to my relief.

As I got back into my car, it dawned on me that the parking area at the top of the drive had once again been commandeered by the Toady family for its own personal use . . .

. . . as a nursery.

Electric Blue

An afternoon storm
The air was warm
The rain was long past due
A lightning strike
The world went white
And all was lost to view

I blinked, I frowned
I stumbled 'round
Awaiting clarity
First white, then blue
Of perfect hue
Was all that I could see

Profound, pristine
So pure and clean
It burned into my brain
As wavelengths merged
And then diverged
I saw the colors twain

Blue warmth below
A cooler glow
The world did they imbue
Then two were one
Embracing, done
I'd seen Electric Blue

Should vision fail
As I grow frail
My memory will play
The rapture dealt
By a lightning bolt
One California day.

A Reluctant Ghost

Your lies are not as sweet to me as they once were
The lips that once contrived to keep me close
Tenderly dropping candied deceits upon my tongue
Now speak far worse untruths to keep me away

They blow through me like a searing desert wind
Turning me into a reluctant ghost, and so they pass
Whilst I sit still, watching them swirl like devils
Leaving behind only empty words, finer than dust

But a ghost might yearn to haunt the former heart
Drifting, seeking out home or garden, long ago lost
Unless it finds what it haunts is a ghost unto itself . . .
Once loved, be soothed; if never so, enraged

Dissembling claims of virtue are for naught, for
Nary time enough exists amongst your deeds
For you to be as good and pure as you believe or
To wash another fool's kisses from your mask

Your truth is now the sweetest lie against new lips
Yet sweetest only to the first-time taster, but just once
My truth tastes acrid, bitter; I revel in my distance, as
I watch a cyclone of empty words embrace you.

I’m nobody! Who are you?

I received a special invitation to attend a concert in Atlanta last Sunday night, when the Continuum Tour, featuring John Mayer and opening acts James Morrison and Ben Folds, hit the Phillips Arena downtown.

It was a fantastic show, and may well be the most memorable one I've attended in decades, albeit for an unexpected reason (which we'll get to in a moment). As I drove home from the concert, my giddy mind raced through all of the concerts I could remember attending, searching unsuccessfully for one that I recalled being as special as that night's. During my jaunt down memory lane and up the Connector, I discovered that my attitude towards concerts has really changed through the years, and not always for the better . . .

15-20

At this age, for some of us, concerts were the focal point of our existence, barring other teenage distractions (like hormones). Every available dollar was spent on tickets and merchandise. We camped out for hours, sometimes days, to be the first in line at the Turtle's record store so we could cast our lots for the coveted front row seats. We were early to the show, usually because someone else drove; sometimes that someone was a parent. We dressed fashionably, often in the same style as the musician or band. We were prone to lose things at concerts: a wallet, a bracelet, a boyfriend, a girlfriend. We could smoke at concerts then. And we didn't give a hoot about the comfort of the people around us as we became lost in the music and lights, paying homage to the musical demi-gods that we correctly believed would shape the rest of our lives. Their music spoke to us.

20-25

Music began to change when our demi-gods abandoned us. Ticket prices started to go up. Concerts became more about merchandising and pyrotechnics as the tour managers attempted to distract us from less substantive music and more expensive tickets. Our cigarette smoke started to be replaced by smoke from a machine. We no longer attended because we loved the music; it was all about being seen. The coveted front row seat was replaced by the elusive VIP backstage pass, which was just as well, because when TicketMaster was introduced, it drove the Turtle's record store out of business. We began driving to other states to catch what we thought might be worthwhile shows. Though not a groupie by any stretch of the imagination, I had my share of VIP passes, green rooms, and after parties.

25-30

As a young professional, I traded TicketMaster for ticket brokers. It was worth the money to let someone else track down the better seats at the shows I wanted to attend. Concert attire became a little more relaxed. We began to understand that we didn't have to buy a t-shirt for every concert we attended. We started showing up a little late to the show. VIP passes didn't mean so much anymore. Smoking was no longer permitted inside, and the use of smog machines was on the decline. I became hyper-critical of teenagers who thought nothing of ruining the show for me by standing and dancing around me, or bouncing the back of my chair. We felt we had paid so much for our tickets we had the right to enjoy the show in peace, and were quick to vocalize our displeasure with other audience members. When alcohol was thrown into the mix, hateful words and fisticuffs were not uncommon.

30-35

We didn't have time for concerts. Actually, we did, but few of us could justify paying the exorbitant ticket prices charged by the ancient demi-god groups from our youth and the up-and-coming musicians trying to secure their fortunes before the fickle audience abandoned them. We still really liked the music, but between concerts and the Napster debacle, we felt a bit exploited by the music industry. When we were able to attend, attire became even more casual, since we really didn't care who saw us; we were there once again for the music. We were not as willing to travel to see our favorite band. And while we still became really annoyed with the inconsideration demonstrated by other members of the audience, we weren't as vocal about it as we used to be, as we reluctantly remembered a time when we were young and silly.

35-40

Which brings us to last weekend.

I met my friends at their hotel downtown. K escorted me up to their room on the 25th floor, where C and I finished getting ready for the show. My attire was understated, at best: I wore a sleeveless black hoodie, jeans, my hair pulled loosely back, a few stretchy bracelets, and a pair of 4 ½ inch tall summer heels. C was über-cute with her long blonde hair, a strapless cream-colored top, jeans, and her own pair of really tall shoes. Side by side, we were blonde Amazon and brunette Amazon; I was Yin to her Yang, a cool moon to her warm sun. We were a formidable pair.

C and I left K at the hotel and took a quick cab ride to the Will Call window at Phillips, where we picked up our tickets and slapped our VIP stickers on our jeans. The bright orange sticker made me miss the old school lanyard-style passes, but once you got past people surreptitiously looking in the general area of your groin, it wasn't a big deal.

We made our way to our reserved seats on the floor of the Arena. It was dark, as James Morrison's session had just recently started. Fabulous talent that young man had, and I hope to hear more from him. Ben Folds was as engaging and animated as ever, and we enjoyed his session a great deal, as well.

During the two intermissions, C and I walked around the Arena to kill time and entertain ourselves. We ventured backstage to get our bearings for later in the evening. Once back in the Arena, people cleared a swath and allowed us to pass without crowding us. Many were fascinated by the strange orange stickers we were wearing, branding us as VIPs. Throughout the evening, a handful of people foolishly asked us how we obtained the passes; we were mum, but by the fourth or fifth one, it was all we could do not to say, "You know, we had to sleep with every member of all three bands to get these. We were naked for days. We're simply exhausted." Concert etiquette dictates that such a question is asked in extremely poor taste; there may actually be someone out there that did exactly that to earn their pass, but who would want to admit such a thing? Thank goodness we were actually expected backstage.

K met us at the stage and gave us a tour, introducing us to many members of the bands and staff. Everyone was so very nice, and I realized that I was seeing these entertainers in a new light – as professionals, doing their job and doing it very well. Their passion for their craft permeated the space around them, and it felt warm and colorful to me. I've always interacted well with celebrities, mostly because I don't gush and fawn. I don't objectify them. I just treat them as human beings. I recall C and I having a lovely conversation with one of Morrison's band members about how sad the state of tea (both the drink and the event) is in America versus England.

I settled in the stage right wing where I could observe Mayer, his band, and some of the audience members. I would occasionally glance up to the risers above us, only to make eye contact with a curious fan, and I would volley their smile. I observed that there were only a precious few of us backstage, and I fully appreciated the exclusivity of my magic sticker. We didn't clap with the audience, because, well, it's just not something one does while backstage. Visible in the ambient haze cast by the spotlights and stage lights, but still somewhat stealth in my darkened wing, I felt anonymous yet exotic. I was both somebody and nobody. I found myself, for the first time in a very long time, embracing the thought of being special, even if just for a few hours. And that was nice.

There was a playlist posted directly in front of us, and I informed C that the breaks in the list indicated the encore sequence. Already knowing that the bands had to be in Tampa, Florida the next day, we didn't anticipate there would be an after party; therefore, we elected to exit backstage halfway through the next to the last song. We unhurriedly said our goodbyes and departed the Arena amidst many wondering (and wandering) eyes. We easily found a cab and went back to the hotel, where we had a nightcap and a couple of hours' conversation of exceptionally high quality. A gentle bonding between the girlfriend and the best friend, still feeling Yin and Yang. And this is where you came in.

So, what made the night so memorable? Anyone who knows me well appreciates that I don't like attending large events any more. I don't enjoy noise disguised as music, and I don't enjoy throngs of inconsiderate and selfish people. I particularly don't enjoy said people invading my personal space, and worse, I despise mashers. I have an impossibly high standard of how I believe people should act in public places, and understandably, I'm always disappointed. I have very little patience for idiocy and silliness. It's just easier not to go.

But somehow, by some inexplicable and unexpected measure, I wasn't disappointed that night. I didn't get mad, or upset, or irritated, or even mildly annoyed. Not even once. This observation impacted me more than my budding friendship with C, the VIP pass and recalling the VIP days of my youth, and even my brief window of special-ness. Something's changing, but this change is good. I don't know when or how it happened (a la one of T's recent blogs) and I don't really care. All I know is that I had . . . dare I say it?

I had . . . fun.

K and C, I can't thank you enough for that.

Just Right

If I hold my hand
Just right
I can cast secrets
Into the void

If I tilt my head
Just right
They'll look like
Pennies in a fountain

If I squint my eyes
Just right
They'll seem like
Fiery, shooting stars

And if I open my heart
Just right
I'll change my secrets
Gently into wishes.

A New Bird on the Stones

A new bird on the stones
Weak and fading in the heat
Too young to know lost
Only just cognizant of alone

Strength enough to persevere
To make it to this hour
And yet unable to overcome
The elements of nature's plan

I consider moving it into shade
For a more comfortable death
But I concede all that will do
Is give a predator a cooler meal

Knowing it's too late to save it
I stanch a tear and turn away
Sometimes the hardest thing to do
Is nothing, and remain still.

Why I Don’t Live at the P. O.

During my visit to the local post office today, I was reminded of a fabulous short story by Eudora Welty entitled "Why I Live at the P. O." (which happens to be a great study in linguistics, as it's written in the dialect of wartime Mississippi).

As I filled out my documentation with the oh-so-stylish tethered pen, I heard out of the corner of my right ear a woman's voice joking with someone else in line, apparently in response to their advancement in the line and a subsequent fake-out by a clerk, "Well good, I was afraid she was going on break."

The clerk scenery at the P. O. never really changes, so I find it much more entertaining to watch the customers. I initially deemed us to be a rather unexciting group as I moved into the lead spot in the line. We were just a handful of unremarkable customers, but one did catch my eye; perhaps it was the summer plaid blazer she was wearing, or her shock of pearl grey bisque hair. She was a little over five feet tall, with a wide, tanned leather face and narrow eyes, and an equally-wide, casually upswept hairdo. By all appearances, she was a seemingly unassuming octogenarian who stood poised before the female clerk second from the right, from whom she was attempting to purchase a book of stamps.

She asked for stamps. The clerk brought out a sheet. Then the world stopped for a few minutes.

The woman examined the stamps and frowned, while some invisible hand turned her volume knob up two clicks.

"Why, these aren't regular stamps! I don't want these! Give me some regular stamps, wouldya!" She waved the stamps in the air for emphasis. The customer had a surprisingly good natured lilt to her drawl, on the verge of a laugh or a chuckle. I narrowed my eyes and tilted my head a bit, studying the customer's body language. No hostility detected.

But the pretty female clerk didn't know whether to laugh or press the hidden alarm button. She smiled a waxy, vacant smile at the customer, and stepped away to try to find a different sheet. The second the clerk turned her back, the customer's volume shot up three more clicks.

"Excuse me. Excuse me! I didn't know you were going on break."

Where I stood, I felt my mouth drop open and my eyes widen in surprise. And then an uncontrollable smile started its tic at the corners of my mouth. I was transfixed.

The clerk immediately presented another selection. The customer presented another display of waving the stamps in her left hand, showing them to her clerk and the one to her left.

"Don't y'all have just plain ol' stamps? You know, the kind with the flags on them? I want the ones with the flags on them."

And silly me, here I was thinking she was referring to the licky kind of stamps when she called them "regular." The female clerk fought a smile. The male clerk next to her popped his head up over the divider and asked her what the customer needed, while the customer continued talking about regular stamps, and waving the obviously irregular stamps around.

The male clerk smiled at his peer and told her he had some flag stamps, and the female clerk looked relieved. But the customer heard him, and before he could hand the stamps over the divider, told her clerk she was going over there, because he had regular stamps, the ones with flags, and she immediately left her position and resumed it one station to her left. On cue, I left the line and went to the abandoned station with the female clerk.

The octogenarian chatted at the male clerk incessantly as I made my transaction. The elderly woman's volume knob had been turned down to its original position, so I didn't really pay attention to what she was saying. My clerk still looked a little frazzled, though, so I leaned down over the counter and whispered to her that I thought she could use a break. She cracked a smile and nodded.

As the male clerk was completing his customer's transaction, for some reason I couldn't ascertain, he had to get something from another counter which prompted an immediate

"Excuse me. Excuse me! I didn't know you were going on break!"

And not just once. Twice this time, with two more upward clicks each. When she spoke, I detected the subtle laugh under her words, and she was waving her empty right hand rapidly back and forth in the air. Her steamer-trunk-sized patchwork leather purse with its silver horseshoe buckle rested on the counter, rendered immobile by her left hand. The clerk hurried back to her.

As I stood one station to her right, I found myself giggling quietly, feeling something akin to admiration at her sheer brazenness. I completed my purchase, tapped the counter, and told the female clerk in my normal voice, "Okay, you can go on break now." She gave me a wide grin and thanked me, giving me a wave.

Leaving the P. O., still giggling, I thought about the silver-haired tornado I had just experienced. And I liked her. A lot. She communicated well, she was effective, and she kept us all on our toes. She got what she wanted and didn't have to be nasty to do it. In some weird way, she helped others meet her expectations. And she was a snappy dresser, too. That's the kind of woman I can only hope to be at that age: five feet of dynamite, with dentures made of brimstone.

As inexplicably tickled as I was, though, I realized she had a very valid point. As we age, our time becomes much more valuable to us. I imagine that at her age, every minute we spend on this side of the dirt counts. I think that's why I get so exasperated with self-centered people who thrive on wasting other people's time, particularly mine.

It's funny, but this encounter made me remember the exact moment I entered into adulthood.

It happened the first time I put on a watch.

Perspective

I saw the most frightening beast today
The likes of which I've never seen
Outside of nightmares or horror films

Fascinated, I used a camera
To examine it without getting too close
Lest I be eviscerated

Its cruel claws and proboscis
Its wretched legs and indifferent eyes
A killing machine, to be sure

And then I changed perspectives
Only to learn that it wasn't real
It was simply the husk of something former

My trepidation turned to laughter
As I chided myself aloud
For being afeared of such a tiny ghost.

Mr. Toady Revisited

When I arrived home this evening, I was quite surprised to see Mr. Toady sitting in my parking place. He's never done that before, and I was thinking he must have some big brass toadyballs to commandeer such a dangerous spot in which to enjoy his bug buffet. As I mentioned previously, we have a good rapport, so I'm always on the lookout for his safety and I parked well away from him.

I greeted him as I always do, he gave me a solemn look of "hmph" in reply, and I began carrying my parcels into the garage. On the second trip, I glanced to my right, and did a double-take. Mr. Toady had apparently sprinted the width of the driveway while my back was turned, and now sat serenely on the other side of the parking area. I shrugged and walked around the front of the car.

And there sat Mr. Toady.

But if Mr. Toady is over here . . .



then over there must be . . . could it be? A Mrs. Toady!



Now knowing that there is a Toady family, I of course had to see which one I had photographed in the drainpipe. I grabbed my camera and shot blindly in the dark, unconcerned about the flash since I had learned from a friend that amphibian retinas aren't damaged by bright lights; consequently, they are used in flash-type test scenarios quite a bit.

I photographed Mr. Toady first because he was closer. He was particularly active, and frankly, got a little peeved with me and the camera flash. I don't know if you've ever seen a miffed toad, but he was kind of funny. His front feet were on tiptoe and his elbows (do toads have elbows?) were pushed outwards from his body – like a little Mr. Toady Universe – thrusting him into a nearly vertical position. He shoved his head back into his neck, like a turtle. I guess this was his way of making himself appear bigger. He was probably chuckling to himself at his effectiveness as I drifted across the driveway to see Mrs. Toady.

She was a lovely specimen. A little more plump than her husband, and most accommodating of my photographic efforts. She sat patiently as I tried to capture her image in the dark.

By the time I finished with Mrs. Toady, Mr. Toady had decided he was within his rights to explore the confines of our garage, and I returned to find him perched on the concrete directly beneath the open garage door. With visions of frogs in blenders and miniature guillotines, I attempted to herd Mr. Toady out of the path of the door and back into the driveway. My gentle pleas for him to move were wasted . . . he wasn't having it.

I touched his back right leg and he jumped six inches away from the garage. I touched him again, and he jumped another six. Then he turned halfway towards me and just glared. I was confused, because just a few weeks ago I had touched him to make him get out of the way, and he didn't budge. In fact, he rather seemed to enjoy being petted, so this aggressive behavior didn't make sense. And then I realized I had most likely petted Mrs. Toady before, not Mr. Toady.

Hopeful that I had taken at least one usable shot of both the Mr. and the Mrs., I double checked Mr. Toady's location and closed the garage door so they could finish their bug buffet in peace.

No, it's not the Apocalypse. And, no, I still won't kiss him . . . after all, he's a married fellow. Oh, and lest I forget, it was Mr. in the drainpipe. I could tell by the markings on his chest.

Gimme Real

I have a confession to make.

I'm not really a blogger.

I despised the fundamental concept of blogging when its popularity surged years ago. What a ghastly display of narcissism and selfishness I perceived it to be! That anyone could deem themselves to be so special that others would seek them out and flock en masse to their site, just to read what they had for breakfast, was appalling to me. Even more mortifying was the lack of responsibility and accountability demonstrated by many in the blogosphere. The very word blog conjured up images of something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of my shoe: Hold up a minute, I stepped in some blog.
That said, however, I appreciated the innovation behind those formative weblogs that dealt with locus, more than focus. But online diaries? I found them to be highly offensive to my sensibilities, perhaps because I intimately knew someone who manipulated and abused the trust of his readers.

I have always argued against the ideal of "virtual community". I believe that real community can be enhanced by, but never replaced with, interactions available in the virtual world. The veiled anonymity afforded us within virtual communities spawns stunted social skills and the abandonment of social conscience. Real people, and real relationships, require face to face interaction: body language, discourse, honesty, and accountability.

I think many folks, as they slowly lose their grip on the real world at the hands of technology, substitute virtual interaction in its place, and are inclined to give too much – or the wrong kind of – information in an effort to validate their "real-ness" to people they don't even know, and probably never will. I'm observing that many people have evolved beyond mere co-dependency; rather, they have become universally-dependent, requiring the validation of strangers in order to determine their self-worth.

As I began to tentatively wiggle my toes in the blogosphere, I made a promise to myself that I would not become universally-dependant. I know my worth, and I know that it is ultimately determined by me and my actions, not what some anonymous person thinks or says, or whether I achieve a quota of views in any given day.

I began to write for me. I wrote to understand, more than to be understood. And after a while, I found my voice and adopted a surprisingly affectionate and somewhat tolerant view towards blogging. At the very least, I try to construct meaningful social commentary, and deconstruct changes like the migration to virtual community. As I mentioned in an ancient blog, if anyone else likes what they read here, I consider it a bonus. And if they don't, that's okay, too; they are under no contractual obligation to read what I write.

The contemplative comments spurred by my last post reminded me of a question posed by another friend in response to answers on a survey I posted recently. He wondered why I would consider walking down a street nude, yet not consider posing nude for a magazine.

My unequivocal response? Permanence.

It is a fairly safe bet that if you compromise yourself in a virtual community or relationship, at least one other person has captured the act. As a result, the one-night-stand writing exercise cybersex that so many people indulge in because it's not really cheating (pfffft), or the borderline-pornographic photos that some people like to share with the world, or the slam against a co-worker is on at least one other hard drive somewhere. Folks, that's permanence. The act of preserving something virtual makes it real. Real is truth. Truth doesn't go away when you log off of your computer. My personal rule of thumb is I will not post anything that I wouldn't say to someone's face, or stand up and defend in a court of law.

Meaningful.

Permanence.

Anything else is just virtual graffiti, bytes scratched out in thoughtless haste, verbal or visual spoor forever staining the cache of the virtual world. A caricature of who we really are.

I think of some of the profiles and blogs I have read, posted by females who don't comprehend that they are setting women back for decades for the sake of a little anonymous attention, or posted by males who are incapable of grasping the concept that yeah, it really is cheating. People who believe anything they read or hear, sometimes at the expense of someone they'll never know.

Meaningful permanence . . . the difference between graffiti and art.

Something to Consider

From today's Wall Street Journal Online. Enjoy!
________________________________________________

"OMG -- My Boss Wants to 'Friend' Me On My Online Profile"
Cubicle Culture by Jared Sandberg
The Wall Street Journal
July 10, 2007; Page B1

Paul Dyer was always able to hold off his boss's invitations to party by employing that arms-length response: "We'll have to do that sometime," he'd say.

But when his boss, in his 30s, invited Mr. Dyer, 24 years old, to be friends on the social-networking sites MySpace and Facebook, dodging wasn't so easy. On the one hand, accepting a person's request to be friends online grants them access to the kind of intimacy never meant for office consumption, such as recent photos of keggers and jibes from friends. ("Still wearing that lampshade?")

But declining a "friend" request from a colleague or a boss is a slight. So, Mr. Dyer accepted the invitation, then removed any inappropriate or incriminating photos of himself -- "I'd rather speak vaguely about them," he says -- and accepted the boss's invitation.

Mr. Dyer, it turns out, wasn't the one who had to be embarrassed. His boss had photos of himself attempting to imbibe two drinks at once, ostensibly, Mr. Dyer ventures, to send the message: "I'm a crazy, young party guy." The boss also wore a denim suit ("I'd never seen anything like it," Mr. Dyer says) and posed in a photo flashing a hip-hop backhand peace sign.

It was painful to watch. "I hurt for him," says Mr. Dyer.

Like email and "buddy lists" before them, social networking sites such as Facebook and MySpace provide a definition of the word "friend" so expansive that it includes perfect strangers. Yet, strangers are the easy part. It can be a lot creepier to interact intimately with someone you sort of know than someone you don't know at all.

"Nothing changes when a stranger invites you to be a friend," says Nina Singh, a market-research consultant. But when one of her clients "friended" her, she saw a semierotic photo of him topless, posed and softly lit. "When you see your client's pubic bone, something has changed."

Victor Sanchez, 54, a senior development director, was once invited to join a site and was surprised to see a photograph of a younger colleague's seahorse tattoo. "Sometimes it's good to learn things about a colleague much later -- or never at all," he says.

These networking sites assist existing social relationships, letting people easily plan events, share pictures and keep up-to-date with far-flung friends. Once they penetrate the office, however, such sites can create awkward moments, particularly with colleagues who commit the social felony of attempted hipness. Dare I say, "Whatup, homey?"

When it comes to the boss, there is a real dilemma. You're caught between a career-limiting rejection of virtual friendship or a career-limiting access to photos of yourself glassy-eyed at a party. "All these social relationships -- apples and oranges -- are getting crammed into one category of friends," says Tom Boellstorff, associate professor of anthropology at the University of California, Irvine, who is writing a book on the virtual community Second Life.

After one senior marketing coordinator at a law firm was invited by one of the lawyers to be his friend, she felt compelled to accept the invitation, even though she had no intention of socializing with him outside the office. He remarked once after an office meeting that he noticed she had a boyfriend, as listed on her online profile.

"It was strange," she says. "I was like, 'Why are you on Facebook?'"

Once "friended" by a colleague, people feel compelled to employ privacy features -- which itself can be a snub -- or to sanitize their online profiles -- which is akin to hiding something under the bed. The same marketing coordinator removed college pictures of herself doing a keg stand -- a handstand on top of a beer keg for a direct mouth-to-tap connection.

Prospective employers also seem to have no compunction conducting searches on job applicants before they call them in for interviews. "We'll Google them and I know that we've done MySpace searches," says attorney Caroline Kert of prospective hires.

She's mostly looking for slams against a former employer or exposed proprietary information. She says she'd never hold against applicants something like, say, a photo of them wearing a fur bikini. Good thing. Ms. Kert, a regular at the Burning Man Festival, has pictures of herself sporting just that on MySpace.

J.D. Lloyd, a law student working at a firm, isn't taking any chances. At 6-foot-2 and 250 pounds, he removed a photo of himself in a Florida Marlins baseball jersey that was a mere "youth large." "It was tight," he says. "There may or may not have been midriff in some of those pictures."

It used to be that employees were told to keep their personal lives out of work. Now, some bosses beg for it. Data analyst Valerie Jewett, 23, accepted a boss as a friend even though she likes to keep her personal and professional lives separate.

He's a nice guy, she says, but his late-30s ungrooviness was evident when he wrote a message to her on the "wall" on her homepage. The message made her roll her eyes. "What a ko-wink-i-dink to find y'all on here! Yeehaw!!"

• Email me at Jared.Sandberg@wsj.com. For a discussion on today's column, go to WSJ.com/Forums. To see past columns, please go to CareerJournal.com.

Source: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB118401324654861242.html

Leading With My Left

"What would you like for [insert special occasion here]?"

"I don't want anything."
Translation: "Use your imagination. I'll treasure anything you give me, if it's from your heart."

As you may have already discerned, I'm not big on receiving material gifts, at least of the store-bought variety. Over the years, I have learned that too many people just don't have the knack for gift giving.

My family always gave me incredibly thoughtful gifts, things that they had observed I needed throughout the year but would not acquire for myself, or accouterments that I would consider luxuries in my somewhat voluntarily minimalist existence. My dearest friends sometimes enjoy making gifts, original little works of art imbued with love. I treasure each of them, these gifts from the heart.

This kind of gift giving is intuitive. Being raised in an intuitively giving environment, I've become quite adept at it, and I strive to seek out the unusual, hard to find, and thoughtful gift when the need arises, and sometimes just for the fun of it. Not everyone can give intuitively, granted, but some people are just too lazy to do it.

A fellow I once dated asked what I wanted for my birthday. "I don't want anything." So what did he get me? A pair of hiking boots. Romantically challenged, perhaps, but it's the thought that counts.

A man I was engaged to, in response to "I don't want anything," liked to give me two pieces of very expensive jewelry for each special occasion, and I could choose and keep the one I liked best. Invariably, even without knowing how much he had spent on either of them, I selected the one that was less costly, and this amazed him. I explained that it was incidental; I chose the ones I did because he either had a hand in the piece's design, or he went to great lengths to obtain it. Simply put, there was more of him in it.

I knew a family whose practice it was for their son to submit a monumental list of material things he wanted for Christmas. It was not unusual to receive a list with 30 or more items on it, a majority of them quite expensive. The son, in accordance with his family's practice, would pester me for a list every year. "I don't want anything." His family would always persist until I relinquished a list, thereby absolving them of any creative responsibility.

One year, just to shut him up, I came up with the most outlandish gift idea I could muster under pressure: I told him I wanted a punching bag. So he immediately went out and bought me a punching bag. (Did I really want it? No.)

For several years it sat in my mother's basement, unused, serving as the butt of a different joke for each of us – for him, my recalcitrant reluctance to exercise with it, and for me, well, just the fact that he bought it in the first place.

After my return to Georgia, I actually did start using it a bit as my strength and schedule allowed. Today's workout prompted this post, in fact. I've observed that while I could inflict some serious damage with a right punch or kick, I'm still a little weak on my left side. I think if I continue leading with my left for a while, I can achieve a better balance of strength.

I think left is underrated. I contemplate some of the relevant lefts in my life: left brain, left eye, and left hand; direction, intellect, spirituality, and politics. I recognize that each of these serves as half of a micro-balance, and those balances, along with countless others, contribute to the macro-balance of being.

Balance is good, but it requires a lot of work. It doesn't just happen on its own. So, I'll start small, with the punching bag.

Hello, left.

Bone Tired

Sometimes, you just can't sleep. Can't as in mustn't, not can't as in unable to. I think Lewis Grizzard would have referred to it as "cain't", as it connotes a certain sense of urgency (much like his definitions of naked and nekkid; naked means you aren't wearing any clothing, but nekkid means you're not wearing any clothing and you're up to something). Should necessity dictate that you juice every single minute of the day for every drop of time you can squeeze out of it, and though you'd love nothing more than to sit still or rest for a just a few minutes, you simply can't because you feel what you are tending to takes greater priority than your body's pitiful cries for mercy.

At the time of this writing (not posting, mind you, since I've yet to see an accurate timestamp on my blogs), I have been awake for almost seventy hours. Though I am still about a day away from my threshold for physical fatigue, it is starting to wear on me a bit. Second wind? Pffft. I'm probably on my twentieth or thirtieth by now.

I consider different things that might cause us to subject ourselves to such sleep deprivation. I think of new mothers with their new babies; new lovers as they explore, invade, and conquer each other; cross-country truckers eating Slim Jims and drinking scalding, black coffee (yes, it really does work; it has something to do with the meat arousing one's carnivorous instincts, combined with the hot coffee eroding the tender linings of your body); wrapping up a career maker or breaker project; holding vigil over a sick friend, loved one, or pet; journeying to a holy land, or even simply possessing a profound fear of the dark and its nether-realm monstrosities beneath one's bed.

I'm almost ashamed to say that I like this altered state. My brain expands, and with the extra room it seems, at least from this side, to be less cluttered. I think in simpler terms. I refocus myself. I'm balanced on an edge, somewhere between a complete physical shutdown and just barely containing a slightly-nervous energy within the confines of my skin. My hands don't tremble, but my fingertips are freezing. My eyes are clear, but they are so weary. My skin is flushed and slightly dehydrated, even though my ankles swell a bit. My mouth is dry, and sometimes my heart does loopty-loops until I pay attention to it. Otherwise, I'm feeling pretty good.

So why do I? My reason is much less glamorous than those I mentioned previously; it's simply a synapse misfire.

But I sure know the meaning of "bone tired". Bone tired occurs when you are so tired that everything hurts, all the way down to where your muscles are latched to your bones with creaky sinew, and then the hurt leaches into the bones themselves. For me, it's primarily my teeth. Just like I know it's really cold outside when it makes my teeth hurt, I know I'm really tired when they all growl in my jaw if I try to eat a candy bar.

I'll get all the sleep I need when I'm dead.

Interloper at the Cabaret

I found a field of black-eyed susans today. They danced in the wind, as if in a cabaret, their seedheads in various states of undress and their petals blushing crimson. As I stood above them, I felt the cloud of humid heat they radiated, almost oppressive in the midst of our drought. The fearless flyers paid me no mind as I explored the immodest susans with them, while they all danced for the sun.

On the Subject of Floral Modesty

The gardenias just bloomed, crisp and white like paper, with a gentle fragrance that wafts around on the breeze. I am learning that certain flowers simply seem more lustful than others, and that these seem quite demure when compared to the lilies of last week. I must remember that they aren't trying to be attractive to other flowers; rather, they seek out only those fearless flyers (and amateur photographers) that are enticed to molest them.

I ponder the subject of modesty among flowers. I, for one, am happy that they aren't.

Feeling a Bit Georgia O’Keeffeish

I indulged today in a few minutes of one of my favorite hobbies – looking up Nature's skirt. With friends posting about watermelon patches and persimmon trees, I am inspired to take better stock of the beauty around me. This afternoon, I found a patch of gorgeous lemon-yellow day lilies that were peaking. I took a few photos only to find that, well, I can't help but think they're rather naughty. Pretty, but most assuredly naughty.

Ms. O'Keeffe said, "Nobody sees a flower really; it is so small. We haven't time, and to see takes time - like to have a friend takes time." So here is a spot of lemon-yellow happy for my friends. Thank you for brightening my days.

Mr. Toady

Let me introduce you to an old friend of mine. He has lived at our house for at least three years, and every year he gets a little bigger. He never makes a sound, and this is the first time I've ever seen him outside of his usual hangout, which is next to our garage doors. I only see him at night, and I am always extra careful when I park so I don't smoosh him. I never go in without giving him a greeting when he's there.

I was getting something out of the car tonight, and his little nose gave away his location. I could not resist taking a picture. Hopefully, he can see again by now.

And no, I'm not going to kiss him.

Walt Twitman

This series cracked me up, and I had to share. Enjoy!

In Memoriam

The place has changed since my last visit. I must now travel through the main entrance because the surface streets that used to let out onto the main thoroughfare have been terminated. I wind my way through the maze, not entirely sure of the best route, but comfortable that I'm at least heading in the correct direction.

As I pull up to the lake, I see a few people and I slow my car down. To my right I observe a father in his mid-30s supervising his young daughter – I estimate her age at two years, and she has curls the color of powdered sugar – who is at the water's edge feeding bread to the geese and ducks. I stop to watch them for a moment, moved, and when the father turns to me and smiles, I roll down the car window and tell him I have something to share with him. He smiles and nods, encouraging me, and I clear my throat and say, "When I was a little girl, not much older than your daughter, my father would bring me to this lake to feed the geese. It was a very special time for us." His eyes widen in surprise, and he says, "Really? I guess I didn't know the lake had been here long." I laugh, overlooking his innocent comment, and say, "Yes, long before we put my father to rest here. I just wanted to say that I'm glad you are bringing your daughter here to do this. It touched me to see her there." He grins and tells me they love to come there, and when I wish them a good day, he waves and says, "Thank you for the story."

Wandering through the labyrinth, I marvel at how many new residents have settled in since my last visit. I notice many new trees dotting the landscape. I hope I can remember how to find him amidst the shifting landmarks.

I do find my way, and as I stop my car, I am greeted by a sea of small American flags, waving to and fro in the warm, soft breeze. I follow the signature line of birch trees to where they intersect with another line of trees, and this is where he rests. The trees are all so big now, which tells me it's been far too long since my last visit.

I sit on the ground, at his feet. This happens every time; I have so much to tell him, but when I'm with him, I forget, remembering only how to cry like a daughter. It amazes me that he can still touch my heart and soothe me, telling me my tears are wasted and that all is as it should be. I turn my face to the sun and let it dry my tears; a few escape the warmth and are carried away on the soft breeze, coming to rest on a blade or two of grass.

I close my eyes and I hear the whisper of the flags all around me, the chirping of a pinwheel on a nearby marker, the tender song of small windchimes that have been placed in the lower branches of the trees, the soft hiss of the fountain in the lake, and the birds singing in the surrounding woods. I do not hear the curse made by the ant as it bites me on my left index finger. I flick him away.

Sitting here instills a calm inside me. There is an ancient magnolia leaf near me at the foot of the grave, brown and fragile. I look around but there are no magnolia trees in sight. Where did it travel from? Most likely carried by the errant breeze, like a tear.

After a short, silent spell in the sunshine, I'm ready to exit the silk and plastic garden with all of its accouterments. I send kind thoughts to all of his neighbors, particularly those bearing the little flags. And I find myself making parting apologies to my father, something new for me:

I'm sorry I was not a better judge of character.
I'm sorry I let love blind me to the truth.
I'm sorry I let someone steal from our family.

Hush, he says. All is as it should be.

The tears are gone. Another ant bites me, this time on my left foot. This one I hear, however; he says, "Hurry up. You have a life to live."

The Power of the Smiley

I love it when my family gets together.

As I get older, I find that each family meeting (in this case, a visit from my grandparents) grounds us firmly in the present, while allowing us to reminisce on events from our collective past. Getting together also lets us share by reaching back into our respective pasts, and offering forth things previously unknown by our loved ones. At such gatherings, I hear about and observe little superstitions, inside jokes, and rituals that serve to strengthen the bond between family members, and that unite them in solidarity against the negative. Family superstitions are not uncommon, and can even be replicated – perhaps through the collective unconscious – by multiple families from different locales.

My parents adopted one such superstition, and it's one that I will carry with me throughout my life. During their marriage, if either of my parents had occasion to spend the night in a hospital, the other would take a magic marker (felt tip, usually black) and draw a smiley face on the bottom of one of the patient's big toes. It was a particular smiley – two small circles for eyes (not darkened in) and a big, loopy, elongated smile that was proportionate to the pad of the toe.

I remember the first time I observed this ritual performed, and fascinated, I asked why my father was drawing a smiley on my mother's big toe, while Mother giggled away in the hospital bed. He just smiled and told me it was so she wouldn't be alone in the hospital. I learned that the smiley's job was to watch over her while she slept, and while she underwent surgery. It was a symbol of luck for us. It was also an effective non-verbal communication to the medical staff and surgeons that despite the circumstances, my parents could maintain a sense of humor.

I grew up knowing that if one of my parents was admitted to the hospital, a smiley would immediately follow. (I've not had occasion yet to wear the prestigious smiley, but I can't say I'm disappointed.) Smileys on toes don't seem to be proprietary to my family; several images of smileys on toes can be found on Google, PhotoBucket, and other sites. I don't know if any other families share our hospital tradition, however.

In 1993, when my father was admitted to the hospital for the last time, Mother confidently held the pen and administered the smiley. The smiley accompanied him from one hospital to another, and it stayed with him for the duration of his battle. In my mind, an eleven-day old smiley was an ancient fellow, as previously they'd only had a life span of a few days. Mother had instructed the staff to not wash the smiley off when they bathed my father, and I remember seeing it intact, on his left big toe, the very last time I was in his room.

Dad and his smiley fought the good fight together. When the time came for my dad to be buried, Mother's only special request was that the funeral staff allow the smiley to remain on Dad's big toe and not be disturbed. And that's how my Dad came to be buried with a smiley on his left big toe. It's funny to me how this little inside joke helped my mother and me through the process of putting Dad to his final rest; it was our small way of showing ourselves, and the powers that be, that we could maintain our sense of humor. I don't think my father would have settled for anything less from us.

I know that a smiley's power is definitely limited. Having a smiley on his big toe didn't save my dad's life, but it ensured he'd never be alone on his journey.