Metro Drones

Look at this sorry lot.

Really look at them.

Look at them standing there
enduring each other, trying
to maintain some semblance
of life space.

This is progress? This is the
best we can do?


Let me introduce you to the brave workers of the planet. This is what they have to do
every day as part of the terms of their survival. Some people dig through garbage mounds,
these people ride the Metro.

They're gripping the rails and hanging on to their sanity with the help of ipods. How sad.

And, they pay for this convenience! They pay, while their elected officials speed around in
chauffeur driven cars with blue flashing lights on top! When's the last time any senator of
Rome rode the metro or a bus?

These people avoid looking in each others eyes in order to suspend their disbelief that they
are indeed packed in a sardine can speeding down the track to nowhere. However, if you
happen to catch someone's glance for a fleeting moment, all you'll get in return is an expression
of despair to match your own.

You know one thing you WON'T see in this crowd? Madonna, that's what! Or, Angelina Jolie!
Or George Clooney! Or Bono...especially Bono! Or any of those other celebrities who moan
and cry about the sad, poor, rejected people of the world. And, you know why you won't see
them in this crowded metro, or any other similar place? Because they travel by private jet
and limo and blackened-windowed SUV with body guards completely isolated from the
people they claim to care so much about. Do you think Madonna has to listen to noisy
neighbors in the upstairs apartment at 2:00 a.m.?! Do you think Angelina stands in line
with a hundred other pushy people to buy her daily bread? No way! These delicate flowers
wouldn't stand a chance in the real world! Without a red carpet on which to tread, they'd get
trampled to dust.

I was thinking about these outrageous hypocrisies while we made our way to outer Rome
the other day. The trip involved bus and metro rides - all crowded. The infrastructure
can't support the growing population anymore.

Whenever I'm in situations involving a crowd of humans unknown to me - humans that
could potentially be carrying the latest nanovirus or some resistant strain of T.B.; humans
that might not have bathed in recent memory, who scratch invisible itch-causing stimuli;
humans that should be under constant observation and prohibited from handling kitchen
appliances unattended - these people en masse cause me stress. I clench up. I shrink away
from them. Heaven forbid any one of them should touch me...How disgusting that would
be...I shouldn't have to put up with this!...I'm too good for this!!... a patrician in a world of
hideous plebs!!!...Get Me Out Of Here!!!!...Mamaaaaaa!

I was thinking along those lines while seated next to eighteen year old scruffy boy on
the Metro, a boy who sat there continuously gnawing on his fingers. I mean he was just
chewing and biting his nails! Was he hungry or what?! I don't know, but it was so gross
and I just sat there thinking, "oh my God, he's going to spit finger nail on my jacket any
minute!" but I still just sat there because I had a seat on this Godforsaken trolley car
and if you've got a seat and have lived in this town long enough you learn that you NEVER,
EVER give up your seat no matter how many pregnant women, old crippled people, the
blind or crying lost kids come by looking pleadingly at you...YOU NEVER GIVE UP A
SEAT!, so that's the only reason I kept sitting there while this kid ate himself up.

What have all the wise sages said throughout time? Love Your Fellow Man. Have
endless compassion. All You Need Is Love. Jesus, Buddha, The Dalai Lama, John Lennon...

But I doubt any of them ever rode the Metro!

'Course, knowing them, they would probably have a great time and get a big kick out of it.

Okay, so next time I'm going to pretend like all the smelly, crazy, nail-biting people are
really the above named prophets. They're all horsing around trying to see how far they
have to go to really freak 'ol Meri out!

Auguri!

Merry Christmas!

We're leaving in a few minutes to
attend a Christmas Eve Vigil at
our friends Paula and Sandro's
house. It'll be an all Italian night,
meaning I'm going to have to walk
the walk and (most incredibly) TALK
the talk.

(The Man is giving me a month's
worth of intensive Italian language
classes for Christmas. He's getting
a new digital keyboard with
computer interface. While I struggle
over my daily homework, he'll play
Jingle Bells.)


Anyway, this evening is an all-fish night. We'll be eating the traditional Christmas Eve dinner consisting
of really good, but mostly unidentifiable sea creatures. Then, we have to stay there until midnight when
they'll break out the Prosecco and toast the birth of Christ. It always feels a bit like New Year's to me,
but I go with the flow.

At the same moment, over at the Vatican, the Pope and all the midnight mass people
will walk outside to the bigger than life-sized creche scene out front in St. Peter's Square
and place the baby Jesus in his manger crib. Here you don't see baby Jesus' in the
mangers until after midnight on Christmas Eve. Makes sense when you think about it.

Now I have to go put my Christmas makeup on my face so that I look all sparkly
for the people!

Merry, Merry Christmas to you all!
Tante Auguri!!

Nero and Me

Yeah, yeah, it's raining here,
the Tevere is flooding and
here in the Center the bridges
are at flood stages.

But, look, LOOK at my hat!
Isn't it cute!

I feel a bit like Nero. Whilst Rome burns - or in this case drowns - I'm fiddling...
with my hat. I'm sure also that when Vesuvius erupted there was at least one
Pompeian running around moaning, "I'll never get the ash out of this toga!"
Speaking of which, I was at Pompeii once and it was very depressing.

But, getting back to my cute hat, I bought it in the Land of O and brought it here
or, rather, returned it here to Italy where it was made, coincidentally! It's so perfect
for the winter and all the walking around outside that I have to do. You can tell
that The Man really likes it, too. You can see the envy on his face. I think that's envy.
I always get envy and irritation mixed up.

Now to the rain...the rain. The Tevere is a swollen torrent, the likes of which no one
has seen in a hundred years or something like that. Rome is once again under siege!
We've been to the riverside several times and watched as a houseboat, broken loose
from its moorings, rammed into the pillars of the Ponte Sisto. And, there are several
boats piled up and jammed against the arches of the Ponte Sant'Angelo, seen in this
link in better days.

Small islands of detritus floated by, containing trees, refrigerators, wooden pallets,
tires, children's balls and even a naked baby doll which gave me a start when I first
saw it, and an upholstered, upright recliner that needed a passenger, I thought.

Yesterday morning it was sunny and bright and the waters had receded a bit, but
last night it started misting again and today it's very dark and stormy. The rain is
expected to continue for several more days. We'll see what happens.

For me, the worst part of all this is I refuse to go outside when it rains anymore.
The Man says I have a weird fear of umbrellas and I guess it's true because I've
said it before and I'll say it again: The Romans are DEADLY when armed with
an umbrella. I don't know how many times I've nearly had an eye skewered or
a shoulder pierced by the exposed tip of some nimrod's broken umbrella. I've seen
entire lines of people at a tram stop bopped in the head one after the other by an single,
passing, inconsiderate, oblivious numskull. I am absolutely convinced that one brigade
of umbrella-wielding Roman nitwits could end the war on terror. Send them all to
Afghanistan or Pakistan or wherever trouble brews, let them work their magic on
some other enemy, real or imagined, just get them out of here so I can carry on with
my life on rainy days.

I'm not allowed to use the word "hate." Therefore, I hayt dealing with this and I just
wish the rain would stop so I could go to the store and get things done outside all the
while wearing, what many believe to be, the cutest hat in Italy!

Ponte Sisto

Bridge: crosses the Tevere (Tiber) River.

Old: dates from 4th or 5th century, but was partially destroyed in 770.
You remember 770 don't you? Anyway, Pope Sixtus IV had it re-built in 1473
and everyone was so happy they named it after him, Sisto, which is the
Italian equivalent of the latin Sixtus, both meaning Sixth! Which means
that Pope Sixtus IV, technically, was Pope 6th the 4th. Which makes me think
of that bank in Ohio called First Third Bank, the name of which always gives
me a splitting headache.

Significance: takes us to visit Giacomo in Trastevere and to Isa's bar for
coffee. Maria also lives over there, as well as James and Alex and, well, we
use this bridge a lot and can never cross it without stopping midway to
admire the view.

Status: It's a footbridge, no cars or motorinos allowed anymore.
Heroin addicts and their wild dogs, street musicians and their instruments,
Africans selling black market designer handbags, okay.

Warning: You don't want to fall off this bridge. The waters are pushed along
on their way to the Mediterranean Sea by a heavy current. Also, the Tevere is
polluted. However, if you choose to fall in and are an eternal optimist, remember
that the river is full of eels, a delicacy enjoyed in ancient Roman times as well as
today. In fact, eel is a traditional item on the menu for Christmas Eve dinner.
So, pick up a few on your way out. You'll be the envy of all your friends this holiday!

Magical Places in Roma Score: 9.5

Private Dancer

This is what grasshoppers
do in the face of disaster.
They dance.

We ants watch and worry.
No disaster required.

The Better Bacon

Guanciale (gwon-cha-leh), the cheek of a pig, the pig's jowl - is not to be confused with pancetta or speck or any other bacon-like meat in Italy. This is distinctly Roman, a regional delicacy normally only available in Lazio (aka Latium) and boy am I lucky to be here because these people really know something about the nuturing and harvesting of bacon trees, let me tell you! (I hold fast to the belief that bacon is a fruit, not a meat, thereby eliminating any conflict with my vegetarian ideals.)

Last Sunday The Man and I went to get a coffee at our friend Isa's bar over in Trastevere. Then, our dearest friend Giacomo came in. The next thing I know, we were over at Giacomo's house having lunch with he and his wife, Virginia.

Giacomo had made the MOST INCREDIBLE pasta all'amatriciana that I'd ever tasted - and I've been to Amatrice twice and eaten that town's signature dish. But, this was better! I asked what gave the dish such distinctive flavor. Both Giacomo and Virginia answered in unison: "Guanciale." I've seen the name in butcher shops, but I never knew what it was used for. It's one of those defining foods that culturally identifies one Italian from another. These people are very serious and proud of their regional foods.

And, if that wasn't exciting enough, toward the end of the meal Virginia turned on the television to watch, I assumed, the 2:00 news report. But, then, there was her brother, Marco, right there on tv. He was at some big gala dinner wearing a tuxedo, standing up smiling. Then I saw Donatella, his wife, sitting beside him. And, there in the audience I recognized the actress Judy Dench. Virginia explained that it was footage from the European Film Awards, the equivalent of the Academy Awards held the night before in Copenhagen, and that Marco had won the Best Cinematographer Award. Not only that, but his son, Matteo Garrone, won Best Director for his film "Gomorrah." In all, the film swept the awards winning Best Picture, Best Director, Best Screenplay, Best Actor and Best Cinematography.

It was a big night for Italian cinema and Virginia's film-making family. Virginia herself is a director of documentaries for RAI, the state-owned television company. The Man knows the family well and I've met Marco several times at his wife's restaurant. Donatella has run the restaurant for many years and serves some of the best food in Rome. It's a private dining club, you pay a yearly membership and then can eat there, lunch or dinner, whenever you like. I don't think we've ever paid the membership, but we've eaten there a lot. Donatella's place is often full of film people and film wanna-be people. She also runs a casting agency from this location. It's a place that attracts a mix of talent, casual but chic in its exclusivity. I don't care about any of that, though. All I know is when we go there I'm going to stuff MY guanciale!

Anyway, I was so excited to see Donatella and Marco on television. I've never known anyone who had received such a prestigious award. "Gomorrah" is a potential nominee for Best Foreign Film at next year's Academy Awards and I sure hope they get the nomination.

Sizing Things Up

Our apartment appears to have shrunk. I can't believe it was always this small.
This morning in the bathroom, while drying off after a shower, I made the mistake
of bending over and got wedged between the sink and two walls.

While there, I started thinking about that LeBron James guy who's so famous.
Well, he might be something but if they had a shower-taking contest in our bathroom,
I'd whup him so bad!

So our apartment is small. Stefano the builder showed up today and he's going to
build us some shelves. Then we'll have more room to store our stuff. The shelves
will enable us to eliminate a cabinet and a small bookcase; hence, more floor space.

Our apartment was built in the 1500's for little Italian people. Nobody figured that
someday big giant white people from the extremely-new world were going to invade
the joint. This should be a lesson to us all. When you build, always figure guys bigger
than you are eventually going to show up!

This sheds a whole new light on the philosophy of "waiting for the big giant," I think.

Other than that, Rome still stands. Everything appears to be moving along in its
normal chaotic way. I am readjusting to the hazardous lifestyle of the big city
pedestrian, striving to avoid altercations with motorinos, cars, buses, trams, potholes,
other pedestrians - particularly those with open umbrellas.

My survival instincts are clicking back into gear...making that popping sound your knees
make when you stand up sometimes. I figure that by tomorrow morning I should be
back in the game. I'll put on my shoulder pads and snap on my helmet and trot out onto
the "field of flowers" (Campo Dei Fiori) to start play in this year's Rome Bowl.

Unless, of course, it's raining...in which case I may wait another day. I'm not kidding about
those umbrella-wielding Romans.

Time Travel

This was there, now it's here
and where I sat was here
but now it's there
all rolled together in a red balloon
of dispassionate duality

As for me, or me for as
I'm neither here nor there
but somewhere in between
waking in a warm tub of altered state
challenging reality

This in-between place
is fuzzy at best
taxing my mind's sensitivity
running time off it's back
with duck-like propensity

The Man is my guide
his hand keeps me steady
his eyes watch for cracks
with keenness, ability and
The Cat In The Hat's agility

"Rock and Refrigerolla"

I'm saved!

Within the dark recesses of a forgotten cupboard
I found three boxes of Annie Chun's instant soup!
Wow! Three mealtime conundrums resolved.

You see, to make my solitary existence interesting
and in an attempt to begin living a more sustainable
lifestyle, I've created what I call the "Rock and Refrigerolla"
Challenge.


Here's how it all started. You know how you go up to the refrigerator, open the door and look
in there, and there's all this stuff jammed inside, jars of mustard and mayonnaise and peanut
butter and nuts and raisins and celery and carrots and moldy cheese and you start wondering
if maybe some sneaky squirrel hasn't been secretly hoarding its winter food supply in there,
and finally with a sigh of resignation you close the door and say, "Geez! There's nothin' to eat!"

Well, that's what I was doing soon after The Man departed. I was too lazy to take those
random ingredients and prepare something... and this made me feel guilty. I mean, how
can I stare at my stocked refrigerator and say I have nothing to eat. Others should be
so lucky. I read a recent statistic indicating that about one half of the people on this planet
live on less than $2 a day. Then I got to thinking about sustainability and I made up my
Challenge.

I decided that I would not do any grocery shopping before leaving to rejoin The Man.
I will eat up what I have in the house. There are plenty of canned goods, the freezer is
full of unknown mysteries (including a lot of nuts, oddly - I'm thinking squirrel again),
and there's certainly no shortages in the refrigerator, so I should be able to creatively
prepare meals using existing ingredients.

I have purchased fat free milk and a jug of apple cider, but other than those two perishable
items and ordering Chinese take out one night that lasted for three meals, I've stuck to the
rules of The Challenge.

It was necessary to make some adjustments. For example, I ran out of olive oil about two
weeks ago. So, I'm using some fake spray butter I found in with the squirrel food. I'm also
out of fresh greens, like salad. But, I don't mind. I found a frozen bag of edamame beans
and got a big vitamin B and protein rush. Whoa!

Oh, and that jar of applesauce I discovered the other night was a godsend. I hadn't had
any fresh fruit for days and was afraid I was going to develop scurvy or something.
Although, now that I think about it, maybe I need citrus to avoid scurvy...or breadfruit,
whatever it was Captain Bligh and those mutineers aboard the Bounty were after initially.

My Thanksgiving feast consisted of stuffing with celery and carrots, onion and old
mushrooms made using an old bag of bread cubes I had in the cupboard; whole berry
cranberry sauce right out of the can; some potatoes; and some more of those edamame
beans. I enjoyed it immensely and it was all so simple with hardly any clean up.

I'm happy as a clam, full as a tick and emptying my cupboards all at the same time.
Who would've thought doing without could be so much fun. That less truly is more.
I guess it all depends on how you look at something.

The Man and I celebrated Thanksgiving
early this year. Several weeks ago, we
were driving out in the country through
the small farming town of Florence and
saw a sign that read “Turkey Supper –
4:30 to 7:00.” We made a note of it and
actually remembered to go on the
correct day, November 8^th.

We left home about 4:00. I was
yammering about how early it was
and nobody eats this early and why
do we always have to be the first
ones there, etc. But, The Man said
farming people eat early, so we
better get there. We only got slightly
lost on the way, and we pulled into the church parking lot at 4:40.

It was packed. Luckily, we’d driven the Geo and easily maneuvered into a tight parking place.

Inside we were immediately met by an elderly man and woman selling the tickets.
They told us they’d been partnered, selling the tickets for this dinner, for the past
40 years! Can you imagine that?! 40 years! Every year since 1968 they’ve been
selling these tickets.

Then, we had to put our names on a clipboard held by another man who was doing
something, but I didn’t know what. I noticed all these people sitting inside the
sanctuary and assumed they must be attending a Thanksgiving service or something.
We went on into another room asking directions to the dining room. We were told
we’d be called when there was a place available and that ALL those other people in
the sanctuary were ahead of us!

So, we settled in for the wait. Neither of us had the slightest inclination to go.
We figured if all these people were here it must be for a darn good reason and
we wanted to know what it was.

We sat and talked to some other people. Everyone was very, very friendly. We were
like guests at an amusement park where everyone is happy to be there because they
know they’re going to have a good time and they won’t have to do any clean up or
wash the dishes.

It was an older crowd, the average age being around 65, I’d say. There were a lot
of permed heads and polyester knit pants suits walking around, escorted by large,
experienced bellies. A lot of these folks knew each other and were there in groups
of eight and more. One old guy walked over to talk to the ticket-seller couple and
he pulled a piece of string out of his pocket and did the most fantastic magic trick
with it. He had to do the trick about three more times to other people sitting around
because everyone was so amazed by the trick. We all sat there mesmerized, trying
to figure out how he could knot the string around someone’s finger then place his
own finger tip against that person’s finger tip and then, miraculously pull the
string free. We were all dumbfounded because it appeared impossible to do without
breaking the connection between the joined fingers. It’s hard to explain. You had to
be there. But, it was great! As the old guy walked away The Man called out, “hey
how’d you do that?” but the old man was hard of hearing and simply disappeared
in the crowd. We all just sat there shaking our heads in unison knowing we'd
shared something unique .

Anyway, after about 40 minutes of waiting our name was called.

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. We’d been sitting there smelling the food for a long time
and we were ready!

We walked into this room full of people, smells, plates heaped with food being carried
from the kitchen to the tables, everyone laughing and talking and making merry.
We were directed first to the dessert table to make our choice. The table was laden
with big slices of about thirty different types of homemade pies and cakes to choose
from. As I started to walk away with my apple pie the woman there said, “you
want some whipping cream on that?” I looked at the huge bowl of homemade whipped
cream she was holding and I said “Absolutely!”

Then someone directed us to our seats, the last two at one of the tables set for twelve.
So, we said hello to our tablemates and they in turn started passing us plates of turkey,
stuffing, mashed potatoes with homemade gravy, a delicious cranberry sauce, rolls
and squash. Everything was served family-style and the plates were replenished as
necessary by the serving staff. It was really fun.

Everyone was eating away. I looked over at the man between bites and saw him
accepting more dressing and another roll and more turkey and I felt a little guilty
because I never prepare food like this anymore. He’s been so deprived!

Just the day before this event I had been reading my Dr. Dean Ornish heart book.
I like to refresh my memory every once in awhile and I’d read the chapter on
“Holiday Dining.” He gave tips like, “Only eat one or two small bites of your
dessert.” “Spend time talking to your fellow diners, make conversation between
bites.” “Fill up on vegetables.” “Eat slowly.” Well, those things actually occurred
to me as I sat there, but it was impossible! It was as if I were the victim in one of
those comedy routines where my arms are clasped behind my back and someone
else sticks their arms through mine and starts gesturing and moving the arms
like they’re mine. It was like that! My right arm was completely detached from
any signals coming from my brain. I’m a vegetarian, but this alien arm was
shoveling in huge forkfuls of turkey and gravy and pie and I sat there struggling
to consume it all. I think I actually started sweating I was eating so hard.

But, it was good. I mean, good. The Man's pecan pie was the best pecan pie I'd
ever, EVER tasted. Seriously, I wanted to put it on the floor and roll in it.

We did a head count at one point. There were approximately 170 total, diners
and servers. Every seat was filled and when a seat opened up, it was immediately
filled by more waiting customers. It was a steady stream that continued all the
time we were there. We weren’t rushed at all and spent a little while enjoying
our coffee and talking to some interesting people at our table. They were from
nearby Oberlin and, like us, had happened by days earlier and had seen the sign
out front. They were surprised too by the number of people and the excellence
of the fare. We'll probably see them there next year.

We were all so happy. It was a most enjoyable dinner. It was like having Thanksgiving
with family, except no one got drunk and there were no fights.

Thanksgiving is The Man’s favorite holiday. He said his dad, Chet, used to always
bring some homeless or family-less person home from the tavern he owned to
enjoy the family’s feast. This guest was always a last minute surprise for The Man’s
mother, but he said it always worked out okay.

In memory of Chet’s thankful spirit of sharing and giving,
I wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving.

If The Hat Fits...

You're not going to believe it,
but I did something stupid.
I know that this is a shocking
revelation and that many of you
will have a conniption fit,
fall out of your chairs and
bump your heads.
But it's true.
I did something stupid.

It is truly amazing since I'm
known for my brilliance.
It's an innate quality, I humbly admit.
It requires no effort on my part.
It's just like being right all the time,
I don't have to work at it.
I'm some kind of mental freak, if you will.
That's why it's just incredible that
I did something so stupid.

In fact, it's so out of character that I'm convinced
there's something terribly wrong with me.
And, this is the scary part.
You see, I've been to Mexico and I've eaten pork tacos.

I know I don't have to explain what I'm talking about here.
I'm sure you've read the horrifying account in the newspapers.
I don't have television but I'm sure this must be a top story on
all the networks and that Katie Couric is doing a special on it.

Well, anyway, I'm sure the worm in my brain is the reason I dyed my hair!
(Oh, note to The Man: You don't want to read this. It'll only upset you.)

As I mentioned, I don't watch television. However, I'm still (apparently)
affected by societal pressures to fight the natural progression of age by
buying up worthless, over-priced, snake oil elixers and concoctions that
countless men and women AND even intellectual giants such as myself
across this great nation are purchasing with their last dollars in a futile
attempt to remain youthful and attractive forever!

Okay. So, now I've got the worm and society working against me.

Anyway, I happened to catch a glimpse of myself recently and noticed
how grey my hair is and how old and decrepit and fat and...did I mention "old?"
I made this observation a number of times in the past week.
It turned into a minor obsession, one which if The Man had been here,
would've been thumped on the head and sent to bed without it's supper.

So, now I've got the worm, society and the absence of The Man.
A deadly combination of Grecian mythological proportions.

The next thing I know I'm possessed (the worm!) by this obsession (society!)
and I find my lonely self killing time at Walmart of all places (The Man!)
I'm standing there in the hair dye aisle and I select a color..."Hazelnut."
How perky sounding!

I'm not sure who gave it that name.
A color-blind, nincompoop would be my guess.
Or a demented, lying-dog, trained squirrel maybe.

A more appropriate name would have been:
Vampira, Mistress of the Blacker-Than-The-Hole-of-Calcutta Night,
because that's who I look like, only chubbier with dark circles
under my eyes because I don't use concealer. A goth horror.
All I need now is some black fingernail polish and I'm on my way to
see Release The Bats perform at the next Drop Dead Festival!

However, there is a slight silver lining around my cloud of humiliation.
1. It's winter and hats are necessary.
2. They'll have to shave my head when I have the worm removed.
3. The dye I used is semi-permanent. It'll fade in time.

Time, of course, is a relative thing. Waiting for Christmas morning
or that wisdom tooth extraction scheduled for next May - those are
things that time will bring and I can patiently await.

But, hair that makes me look like Severus Snape is beyond the pale!

Oh well, I suppose there are more important things to worry about.

I can't think of anything right now, but I'm sure there's something.

I've been having strange dreams.

This morning I was awakened at 6:40 a.m.
by what seemed to be the beam of a
flashlight scanning the room and the
sound of a raven's wings fluttering rapidly
just above my head on the bedstead.

Why can't I just wake up all dreamy
and snuggly like normal people?

I opened my eyes but the light and
bird were gone, thank goodness.

I thought perhaps someone was in
the house so I laid there and just
listened for awhile but I only heard
the heater.

Then I decided to get up and see
who had died because that’s what I
figured the raven's flapping sound meant.
Death.

Geesh! This solitary existence is
making me morbid!

Not that I'm known for my optimism
even in the best of times, but still!

Other people get away from their
spouses for a few weeks and have a
good time. Party on, Dude! Whoo-hoo!
Dancing with lampshades on their heads,
and all that.

But, Me? Oh, I'm having nightmares
and being visited by Edgar Allan Poe
symbols of death!

'Course on the other hand, maybe
it wasn't a raven. It was probably
a big, fat DO-DO BIRD!

Because I can tell you for sure that
The Man isn't having bad dreams.
He's just snoring away in dreamland,
happily skipping down the yellow brick
road with the Georgini twins, I betcha!

The Coo-Coo Clock Companion

Today I sat in the house and listened.

Silence has a sound and it's louder than
the train whistle
and the barking dog
and the buzzing in my head.

I took some time and gave it my attention.
There's some thing in silence.
A thing of power and depth.
A thing inside me and out.

I want more of it.

Listen to it. It's a big sound. You can't miss it.

I wonder what it would sound like if for one minute
all sound on the planet was ceased. If everyone could
just stop what they're doing and stand still and be quiet.
All cars, all machines, all telephones and televisions and radios,
everything.

It'd probably kill us.

___________________________________________________

The Man returned to the place where all roads lead.

The day before he left I made him stop talking and listen to the quiet.
I told him that that was what I had to look forward to in the weeks ahead.

He heard it, too.

Now the coo-coo clock is my companion.
It ticks away the seconds
and pops out to say hello
on the hour
and the half hour...
actually it says "coo-coo,"
but I pretend it is saying hello.

Other than that I'm raking the leaves,
the mountains of leaves,
the endless prairie of leaves,
the oceans of leaves,
all consuming,
never ending,
eternal,
leaves.

If we used leaves instead of dollars for currency
I could personally bail us out of the national financial crisis
and, in addition, give every citizen a five thousand leaf
tax incentive stimulus check to be used however they want.

I have helpers.
Henry VIII. He's a squirrel and likes peanuts.
Jester The Bluejay likes to come in and snatch away the peanuts
which really gets H the 8th's goat.

If they could talk I'd bring them in the house.
The four of us could just sit there and have a cup of tea
or maybe play cards.
Me and Henry VIII and Jester and Coo-Coo.

Major Mall Man

There's this weird guy out at the local shopping mall. I call him Major Mall Man. He's at least 65 years old, fat, with thick spectacles, and is at the mall every single day dressed in some type of military combat uniform, of which he has several. He's got an Army Desert Camouflage uniform complete with beige Army boots, some kind of loden green outfit that he wears with a beret, and there's a dress uniform with little medals on it. I'm never sure which military force he's representing because I don't know my uniforms, but he's ALWAYS in complete, crisp uniform...everything but the guns.

He patrols the mall, in and out of the shops. It's obvious that he's on duty, you can see it in his face that he's keeping the mall safe from...whatever, probably terrorists or maybe Imperial Storm Troopers. Who knows. Sometimes he stops and talks to some of the shop workers, but usually he just walks the store perimeter with his hands clasped behind his back, like he's reviewing his troops. I've often seen him nod and utter a perfunctory "hello" to shoppers.

I hate it when he talks to me. First of all, the guy is NUTS and I'm not a trained psychiatrist. Secondly, I don't know him, I don't want to know him, and I don't want him to be aware that I even exist. Thirdly, he speaks condescendingly, like you're some peon, enlisted man, like he expects you to salute him. It's creepy.

Call me paranoid, but I am convinced that one day he's gonna show up with an AK-47 and blow us all away. Perhaps I've read too many mall horror stories, but this guy is odd and his oddity is neon pink with blinking lights all over it. He scares me.

So, here's the deal. I'm leaving the mall the other day and decide to stop in at the security office. I'm going to ask them about the faux military man and see what they can tell me about him. I want to tell them my concerns about some guy pretending to be a combat soldier. Just as I'm about to go in the office, a security man comes out. He's tall and thin with a neatly clipped mustache and he's wearing a blue, polyester, forest ranger-type uniform with a big, shiny gold badge on it, topped off with a stiff "Campaign Hat," just like Smokey The Bear! I'm not kidding!

I just stood there and gaped at him, my mind racing. Then, I mumbled "oh, hi" and walked away. I mean what was I going to say, "Hey, there's some weird guy dressed up in a funny uniform out there?" To which he would have replied, "Yeah, so?" I mean, they're probably brothers, or something!

I drove home picturing the two of them after hours, playing war games in Victoria's Secret.

The Debatable Humor of Vegetables

Will Rogers said, “An onion can make people cry but there’s never been a vegetable
that can make people laugh.”

Sorry, Will. I beg to differ.

I want to pass on something I learned the hard way. It’s a little gross so if you’re
easily disgusted don’t read the following small print. But, I think this is important.
I’m in the mood to share with you.

Eating beets makes your poop turn red and it looks like blood.

That’s it. Except for the fact that I love beets and have never had this problem before,
but last Saturday I bought two bunches of them at a local farmer’s market, brought
them home and served them for dinner. They were goooood and I ate a lot of them.

24 hours later I noticed a strange phenomenon and I don’t think it’s necessary to
elaborate. Let’s just say, “I saw red.”

The eating of the beets occurred to me and I assured myself all would be well.
However, the next morning things were actually worse...looking, if you know what
I mean, so I got panicky, my heart was racing, and my stomach was jittery. I went
out to bid farewell to The Man and to begin selling my organs on Ebay because I
was, by the evidence I’d seen, A GONER!

The Man, engrossed in his work, looked up at me with that “Who is this woman and
why is she in my house” look that he seems to be doing a lot of lately. But, I waited
until his eyes focused and I could tell he was back on the planet Earth with me. Then
I told him about my pending death. He looked at me quizzically then said, “Google it.”

Now, this is the good part of the story. I typed in beets poop red and got all this information
from people who knew all about this phenomenon and thought it was har har amusing.
Well, it’s only amusing if you know about it.

And, while on this subject I might as well mention asparagus – another “joker” on
the dinner table. For years I thought I had some recurring disease. I kept waiting
for the axe to fall, but then put two and two together and googled the asparagus-fume
phenomenon.

Luckily, my absolute favorite food is joke-free, so far anyway.

Rapini, also called broccoletti, broccoli di rape, broccoli raab, plus various other things.
I don’t know why it has so many names, but I love it. It’s the only food I can think
of that actually makes me moan when I eat it. It’s like that “I’ll have what she’s having”
scene from When Harry Met Sally. I told The Man that when I eat rapini it’s as if some
latent, neanderthalic gene is awakened, something from my ancient ancestors comes
alive and makes me want to pound a drum and dance naked around a bonfire in ecstasy.
I would rather have a plate full of rapini than anything else in the world. More than
chocolate cake, even. If I were a cat, rapini would be my ‘nip. I want to roll in it.

I am a woman of simple pleasures.

My GOBAMA is Gone

I'm really miffed this morning because some loser (and I mean loser!) stole the
Obama sign that I had in the front yard. I'm not sure when it was stolen, sometime
within the last two days because it was definitely there on election day. I can't
remember seeing it yesterday, but I remember thinking about how I'd better
take the sign down now that everything is over, etc. except now IT'S TOO LATE
BECAUSE SOME STINKING THIEF STOLE IT AND I'M REALLY MAD!"

It was an original sign, too, in that I'd taken some white paint and added a "G"
before the "OBAMA," underlined the "GO" and put an explanation point at the
end so that it read "GOBAMA!" I had done such a nice job on the lettering. It
looked professional, I mean it.

I was proud of that sign. Proud to have the opportunity FOR THE FIRST TIME
IN MY LIFE to put up a sign in support of hopes and dreams and intelligence and
fortitude and calm assurance and love and family and dignity and pride and promise
for the future and all that other things that the man Obama exemplifies for me.

What's weird is that the stinking thief also stole the other sign I'd placed out there
for a local politician named Murray. I'd seen him speak at a "candidates night" at
the library and in spite of the fact that he's an attorney (aren't they all?), a profession
for which I don't have much liking, he was so amazingly brilliant, articulate and
focused I wanted to show my support for him as well; hence, the sign.

So, that was it: two signs. Two signs that represented my enthusiasm and desire
for smart people to be elected, which they were, thank goodness.

But, now I want my signs. I want to stick them in the closet and find them in about
twenty years and look at them and think, "Well, lookie here. I remember putting
these up in the yard back there in ol' Lime Plant City. Those were some bad times
we went through. But, thanks to these here smart guys and many others like 'em,
we were all saved and now the world is a better place for everyone. We're all safe
and live in peace. We all have food to eat and clean water to drink. We're tolerant
instead of extremist. We're compassionate instead of hate filled. We're calm instead
of anxiety ridden. We are proud of our largesse rather than the size of our military.
We are ever growing, ever changing, adaptable to changes that create greater
sustainability for all people, and petty isolationist views have been replaced with a
sense of the wholeness of the earth and its inhabitants.

That's what I want to think when I see those signs in my closet in twenty years...but,
of course, I won't see those signs because some stinking thief stole them.

HAPPY FEAT!!

YES, WE CAN!!

YES, WE DID!!

Beside, B-side

I'm beside myself
I keep bumping into me.

It's so annoying.
But that's beside the point.

The problem is that I've already voted
so I'm totally bored with that subject.

It's like listening to the B-side of
Elvis' hit 45 record "Return to Sender"
which was "Where Do You Come From," in case you didn't know.
A pretty song but not the "hit," if you know what I mean.

So, this is why I'm beside myself
and keep bumping into me.

I need to set a new course,
move in a new direction
in a straight line
no bumping.

Besides that -
I have leaves to rake.

My Halloween Resolutions

1. I will not eat more than one piece of candy per day...unless it is a special
occasion...like today, for example...but, even then I will not eat as much as
the four year old Spiderman next door.

2. I will cease all witchiness. I will not screech at, cackle in the face of, or
cast evil spells on The Man with the exception of magic potions which
I will continue to concoct.

3. I will be nice to ghoulies and ghosties and long leggety beasties and
other things that go bump in my local Walmart

4. I will not sit around on my big fat pumpkin. I will exercise like a banshee.

5. I will clean out the other half of our creepy, haunted cellar within the next 30
days. I will remove the giant-sized cobwebs, even the one that says "Save Wilbur,"
and all those other mysterious things lurking there, like the dried-up, petrified
osage oranges that The Man put around down there more than five years ago to
deter spiders...yeah, right! I will use my broom for something other than flying
EVEN THOUGH THIS PART OF THE BASEMENT IS FULL OF THE MAN'S STUFF
THAT HE HAS NEVER ORGANIZED AND NOW IT'S ALL A MESS AND THERE'S
OLD RUSTY, GREASY TOOLS AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT ALL.

6. I will devote more time each day to reading and studying in an attempt to learn
new tricks, like la lingua italiana, for one. E un incubo! Che fatiga!

7. I will work on being more open-minded, leaving all paths open for thought...
even those crossed by black cats.

8. I will keep my spirits up, glowing like a full moon in the face of perceived
horrors that come my way.

9. I will take time each day to sit in quiet solitude unfazed by the wailing and
moaning and thumping of The Man because he wants his lunch.

10. I will memorize something every other month, starting with the following
quote from Shakespeare's Macbeth which I will recite the next time I make
dinner for guests:

Round about the caldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.—
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights has thirty-one;
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot!

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf;
Witches' mummy; maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock digg'd i the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,—
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingrediants of our caldron.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

Okay, everybody! Let's eat!!

Food Fighter

Last night we went to see the Guru of Food, the
Grand Poobah of Poly Farming, the Oligarch of
Omnivores, the Champion of Chow, the Bruce
Springsteen of Sustainable Food Production.

I'm talking about Michael Pollen. Author of
The Botany of Desire, In Defense of Food:
An Eater’s Manifesto, The Omnivore's Dilemma:
A Natural History of Four Meals, named one of
the ten best books of 2006 by the New York
Times and the Washington Post. Most recently
the New York Times Magazine published his 8000
word letter to Mr. Next President entitled: Farmer
In Chief. It's long, but well worth the read.

This guy is no slacker.

He didn't speak here in Lime Plant City. No way! Are you kidding?! If he ever
came to LPC he'd choke and gag and pass out from all the lime dust and mono-
farming around here. No, we had to drive to see him. We drove many miles and
4 light years away to the town of Oberlin, home of Oberlin College; a bastion
of bicycle riding, progressively thinking, culturally diverse people coexisting
in a community of music, art, and funkally-dressed, dread-locked, really, really
smart kids who are our future and who, as you look at them, make you proud,
not because they like to eat locally grown food from sustainable farms and hang
out in coffee bars, but because they are so doggone earnest and energetic and,
well, smart.

So, off we went. Us! The Man and I! In the dark! At night! Wow!

I had been planning on this event since last June, so there was nothing that
was going to stop me...except for the probability of forgetting all about it,
which almost happened, but thanks to The Man didn't. We drove in the dark
through sleet and hail. I asked the blizzard expert riding next to me if we should
turn back, but he said no it wasn't snow it was only albino rain.

We got there and were immediately amazed by and then excited by all the people
on the streets, the people streaming into Finney Chapel, the evening's venue. It
was really crowded. We quickly parked and made our way inside. It was packed
and getting packedier every minute. People, young and old, were happily talking to
each other, everyone seemed excited to be there, the room buzzed with anticipation.

Promptly at 8:00 Mr. Pollen walked onto the stage and the auditorium erupted
in loud applause and cheers. The people were actually woohooing him. He was
treated to a rockstar's welcome by this room full of informed, excited, and alert
groupies. They listened. They reacted. They were with him every minute for the
next hour or so - and still with him for the question and answer period afterward.

Michael Pollen, aside from being a dynamic writer, is a very good lecturer. First
of all, he's extremely brilliant. Secondly, he has a commanding stage presence,
relaxed and confident and, thirdly, his material was well prepared and delivered
with a passion.

Dear Mr. Pollen:

I don't want to marry you. I just want to be your neighbor. I want to stand
and look over the fence and stare at you. I want to follow you around your
garden. I'd even carry your stuff. I'd be your minion.

You could come over and yell at me because I'm mowing my lawn when I
should be planting broccoli there instead.

And, you could come inside my house and be horrified by the bag of corn
chips on the counter and you could yell things at me like "do you know
how much petroleum is used to produce just one chip?!" And, I could say,
"Oh sure, lots. Want one?"

Nah, just kidding about that. Actually, I'd do everything you said. I'd be
a good and faithful follower...just like Lassie.

So, please forward your address and I'll see you soon. Oh, and can I bring
The Man, too? He doesn't know diddly about gardening or farming, but he
can act like he does. I think he even played a "farmer" once on t.v. But,
what he doesn't know he makes up for by just standing there looking good
and he is sort of an expert on frogs.

I look forward to hearing from you and, until then,
I remain

Your faithful servant,
Meridith Sender

P.S. Is bacon a bad thing?

Joe The Voter

This morning we voted.

I have a theory as to why people are voting early in record numbers.
They all have a sense that after they cast their ballot IT WILL ALL
BE OVER! It will FINALLY BE OVER!!! They won't have to endure
any more television advertisements and dinner-time tape-recorded
phone calls and they won't have to pull glossy candidate mailers out
of their mailboxes every single day.

Of course it's just a theory, but it illustrates how I felt this morning
after we went to the Bureau of Elections and did our civic duty.

When we arrived there was a good sized crowd of "early" voters
and it was a little scary and definitely depressing because, honestly,
a good percentage of them looked unqualified for the task. Twenty-five
per cent were, clinically, the walking dead. The majority of the rest
looked dazed and/or totally confused...which is pretty normal looking
for around here, actually.

We had to wait a little while before receiving our ballots and I ended
up next to a very elderly man who kept asking "How'd I get this pen
in my hand?" about fifty times and his adult grandson kept telling him,
"You filled out that form, remember?" I just sat there, but I wanted
to shout "Are you kidding? This guy doesn't even know what century
we're in! He's living on the planet LaLa! Hello!"

Seriously, he didn't even know where he was so how on earth was he
going to figure out what the heck the ballot was all about, let alone color
in the correct circles. Potentially, it was a case of voter fraud, if you
ask me, because someone was obviously going to have to fill in the
little circles for him.

They have a litmus test for political candidates. I think it's only fair
that the voters should be required to pass one as well.

The Emperor's New Clothes

Queen Elizabeth the First took a bath once a year...
whether she needed it or not!

It's the same sort of thing with The Man. Once a decade he goes clothes shopping...
whether he needs it or not!

If you could only see what I see. Oh, the horrors! Somewhere in there
he still has the beige western jeans that he wore on the day we got married
almost thirty years ago! And, don't even talk to me about "Ol' Greenie" the Shirt!

Yes, he names his clothes.

Anyway, today seemed like a good day to attack the shopping beast.
But, just to make sure everything went as smoothly as possible, I first suggested
we go get a bite to eat at Bob Evan's. We like to go there and sit at the counter
and watch all the dishes of food go by. We just sit there ooooing and ahhhing
and pointing at things and saying stuff like, "Oooo, what's that? I don't know,
but look at that! Chicken Pot Pie! Yeah, but look at those mashed potatoes
and gravy! Oh look, cherry blintzes! Mmmmm." We don't actually drool but
we do hyper-salivate. It's kind of disgusting. You'd think the waitresses would
mind but they don't, and they're more than willing to correct us when we guess
an item incorrectly. I have to say that Bob really knows how to put on a show
for the hungry and depressed plebeians of America.

After fueling up, The Man and I went shopping. No, let me rephrase that because
it's slightly misleading. I took The Man shopping to buy things for The Man. I didn't
get to shop at all. I had to stay completely focused throughout the entire ordeal
because The Man absolutely detests shopping of any kind. On an Enjoyment Scale,
he would put shopping somewhere between having a wisdom tooth extraction and
a prostate exam.

So, here's how it went down:

I drove him to the mall; walked him into the correct department store - I picked
J.C.Penney because I knew he would have latent memories of the Penney's smell
and he'd feel safe; I picked up and carried the items for him to try on (although
he did actually poke his finger on one shirt and said he would like that - but he
never actually held it in his hands - he just poked it); I made him locate the dressing
room all by himself; I fetched, folded and returned, fetched, folded and returned,
fetched, folded and returned pair after pair of blue jeans, narrowing it down slowly,
while The Man waited in the dressing room...he just sat in there and waited...he sat
there in his underwear waiting for me to return with the next pair of jeans for
Himself to try on, after which he would hurl the rejects out the door of the dressing
room for me to catch, fold and return to the racks.

Yeah, I know. It wasn't really shopping, it was more like a fitting for His Mightiness
The King. I, on the other hand, had turned into some harried, miserable scullery
maid scurrying around uttering things like, "Yes, m'Lord." "Oh, righty-o, Yer
Worshipfo'ness" and "Watch out fer them bloomin' straight pins, Yer Bleedin' 'ighness!

Do you have any idea how much I would PAY to have someone do this for ME?!
I mean, when I think of all the hours I have spent shopping ALONE, dragging
armload after armload of clothes into dressing rooms, stripping, trying on,
re-dressing and returning over and over ad nauseam until I'm faint and sweaty,
my hands are black with coat hanger dirt and my hair's sticking straight out from
the polyester electrical shock!

When I leave the store I look like I've been struck by lightening!

But, not The Man. No sirree! As I paid the cashier (Yes, I had to do that part, too),
I looked at him and he looked pretty good. He wasn't perky, but he looked fairly fresh.
He was even standing up straight. Usually, even before we walk through a department
store doorway, The Man assumes the "back slash" position, he starts leaning back
attempting to remain as far away as possible for as long as possible from the actual act
of shopping. I'm not joking. His feet usually end up a good 12 inches ahead of his face.
And, these little retractable nails extend out from the heels of his shoes and dig into
the floor making groove marks in the linoleum. It's embarrassing.

All in all it was a successful day.

I think The Man was very pleased. I would ask him but I don't want to interrupt.
He's upstairs introducing his new articles of clothing to Ol' Greenie. After that, he'll
hide away his old, worn-out, filthy, stained, ripped and moldy jeans, assuring them
that "I'll never let her find you. I'll never let her take you away from me. Don't you
worry Jeanies. You just rest right here, in the bottom drawer, way back in the dark.

The Volvo Mechanic From Outer Space

I'm just writing to inform everyone that aliens do exist. I've seen them.

It all started innocently enough. I simply got out of bed, stretched and said,
"It's a beautiful day. Let's get in the car and drive south to see the colors."

The Man gave me one of those who-is-this-woman-and-why-is-she-in-my-house
kind of looks. Then he said, "when I was growing up we never went anywhere to
'see the colors.' The leaves changed that's all. Only Californians go to see the colors."

Are you going with me, or not? I asked.

Before he could think of some excuse like the need for an emergency root canal
he agreed to go.

I had decided to go to a place we haven't seen for awhile, a store called Lehman's
in a little town called Kidron. It's in the heart of Amish country. Lehman's sells
all kinds of non-electric home goods, specifically for the Amish and Mennonite
communities. They have a huge selection of wood stoves, cast-iron cook stoves,
kerosene lamps, and all sorts of kitchen items for canning and preserving, like
apple corers and meat grinders, butter churners and milk pails, all things old
fashioned for simple living. All these goods are housed in a huge barn-like structure
with wooden floors and rafters. It was here several years ago that The Man got
the inspiration for the staircase he designed and had built in our house.

Anyway, I thought this would all be such fun. I never once had an iota of
hesitation, no intuition at all that I was about to single handedly score enough
points to win the BAD MOVE award for 2008.

So, we started out. I drove. The Man rode shotgun, silently, like one of the Sacketts.
And, let me just say that the Sackett brothers may have been great to have around
to rastle up some grub, or during some "gun play," or to shuck out'a town in a hurry,
but otherwise they're really boring guys who say little and think a lot...as in silent
company...as in dull...as in humming to yourself over and over the music to the song
"99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer..."

And, on top of that, the drive was rough going. Somehow I missed it, but apparently
the government had issued an edict proclaiming that on this day all people who
had miserably failed their driver's exam should get out on the road and cause as much
mayhem as possible. We were like the Grand Marshals in the Knucklehead Parade.

And, on top of that, the colors were virtually non-existent. For whatever reason, this
year the trees did not put on a spectacular show. In fact, the trees are much brighter
and prettier right here in Lime Plant City.

And, on top of that, when we finally got to the Lehman store I had to do a triple blink
to keep my eyeballs from falling out of my head because it was so crowded. The little
road was filled with SUV's and Amish buggies and big, round people wallowing around.
They had a flea market going on outside at a livestock auction ground that was full of
overpriced "junktiques." $33 for a two-pint blue canning jar?! What a joke. Did they
think we'd just fallen off the Pumpkin Truck, or what?

We made our way into the Lehman's store and were immediately engulfed in some
kind of sick conga line that weaved and strutted its way through the aisles. I kept
looking back for The Man yelping his name because I knew that if I lost him he'd
be gone for good.

It was bad. I mean, what is going on in the world. This is a town with only one
blinking street light, for crying out loud! This didn't look like Main Street, Kidron
but, rather, Main Street, Disneyland...on a Saturday in June...with free admission!

We left. I felt defeated and depressed. I was also tired and hungry. And irritable.
Scowly and mad. Pouty. I was so upset that for the first time I didn't even want to
be Amish anymore. Usually when we see the Amish people I think how great it would
be to be one of them, work the land, preserve the harvest, milk the cows, hang the
clothes on the clothesline, make quilts, wear plain dark dresses with matching capes
and cute little bonnets, serve cold drinks to the men folk when there's a barn raising,
meet up with Harrison Ford who is actually an undercover policeman and who will
save us from the bad guys and who will fall madly in love with me but be hardly able
to consummate the relationship because we're just so good...well, you get the picture.

So, we get in the car, drive about a mile out of town and our car breaks down. Not
good little Geoie, but our other car, The Van, rhymes with The Man. It wouldn't
shift into any higher gears and the odometer wasn't working.

Minor panic and major yelling ensued, but the car didn't blow up so we kept driving.
We could go, we just couldn't go fast. We finally made it to some god-forsaken
little town where a kid at some god-forsaken gas station told us to go up to the next
god-forsaken town to a place called "Volvos."

Now, we were driving about 25 miles per hour with the flashers on. We turned on
the flasher so that the other drivers (remember the governmental edict I mentioned
earlier?) would know that something was wrong and that they should just go around
us. Well, this whole set up seemed to confuse about 98 per cent of the flunkies on the
road. They just sat back there behind us looking totally perplexed. It was so irritating.

I finally pulled off the road, stopped the car, got out and walked around the car waving
my arms over my head saying, "That's it! I've had it! I can't take anymore!!" Interestingly,
as I was having my hissy fit I happened to look up and see the sign "Volvos." We were
there. We'd made it!

The place looked closed but The Man told me to go over and try the door. I marched
over and grabbed the door thinking it would be locked but it wasn't and it flew open. I
looked in and saw two "men" standing there in a dimly lit garage under the wheel
of a car up on a lift. The sudden opening of the door caused the two men to whirl in
my direction seeing only a huge siloutte against the backdrop of bright sunshine blaring
its way into their workspace. I was as surprised as they were by my intrusion. The door
I'd opened plainly said "Employees Only" so I apologized and then told them we had an
emergency situation, our car was doing this and that and blah, blah, blah. I was very
aware of my mouth making sounds, but I wasn't really in control of what I was saying.
The "men" were just staring at me and not saying anything or even grunting like they
understood me, like they didn't hear English very often. Finally, I ended with can you
check out our car please. The older of the two "men" said that he would have a look at it.

The Man drove the car over and opened the hood. Meanwhile the "men" just stood there
looking at the engine. They didn't move forward or touch anything, they didn't jangle any
wires, and most notably, they did NOT make ANY small talk. They just stood there. The
older "man," who we assumed was the owner of "Volvos" just stared and the younger man
was a full, outright Amish "man" about 25 years old. He was wearing the traditional Amish
outfit, complete with the long-beard-without-mustache combo that the Amish men favor.

I was suspicious of this because everyone knows that the Amish absolutely prohibit
the use of any electrical devices and automotive machinery of any kind. "So what,"
I wondered, "was he doing working here in a car repair shop?" And, was the older
"man" some kind of Amish reject? Had he gotten kicked out for some reason? Except
for his clothing and clean-shaven face, he could've been one of them.

Let me wrap this up by saying that the entire experience was VERY strange. I mean,
most auto garage experiences are a little bizarre, but this was extremely far out. There
was no dialogue. The older "man" did something with some kind of sensor device and
mumbled that we needed some kind of a part then he went back inside his garage and
firmly closed the door. We stood around and waited. Finally The Man went inside where
he was promptly told to please go around to the front of the garage (we didn't know there
was a front) to wait because he was in the employee area. I followed him in and then inside
this darkened garage I found him and said, "what are we doing?" The Man said, "he can't
get the part today." I looked over and the owner "man" and the Amish "man" were both
back under that car's wheel on the lift. I said again, "what are we doing?" The Man said
"I don't know." I said, "Well, then, let's get out of here before they eat us." He said, "Okay."

We left.

They were aliens. I'm so convinced of this. They have infiltrated the questionably-loyal
Amish people and are working on the rest. Think about it. How perfect. You take an
accepted, but very segregated and somewhat mysterious group of people, and you worm
your way in. Today the Amish, tomorrow the Walmart Shoppers.

We made a 25 mile per hour beeline out of there and we didn't look back.

It took us a long time to get home. I remember thinking it would be nice if I made it
home in time to celebrate my next birthday...in April. I don't know if anyone out
there has recently driven any distance at such a slow speed, but let me tell you it is
mind altering and you constantly have to stop yourself from going into an hallucinogenic
state. You should try it.

We only made one stop and that was at a McDonald's Drive Through where we scarfed
down some really bad food that made us both sick (is it possible for a french fry to be
poisonous?), then we continued on home where we finally arrived, fell out of the car,
kissed the driveway, crawled inside, got in bed and through the covers over our heads.

Another delightful day.
By Meridith Sender

I'm on a fast.
Let me say that slowly.
I'm fasting.

It's just gotten to that point.
I am out of control.
Especially in the chocolate department.

So, today I'm going to fast in order to rid my body of toxins.
No sugar.
No cookies.
No chawwwwclet.
No nothin'.

Which means, of course, I'm thinking about food every second.

The Delphic Oracle has been on my mind, too.
Ancient Greeks made pilgrimage to the Temple at Delphi.
They went to consult the "Pythia," a prophetess.
(I know this stuff because I was a Theatre Arts major.)
These people were looking for serious answers.
Usually they wanted to know if they should go to war,
should they kill the neighbor's barking dog or not,
should they traverse the oceans looking for plunder,
who they should elect for president, etc.

Today we only have Google.
Google is our oracle.
"Goracle."

Lately Goracle has been sending me prophesies about my health.
First I come upon some story about how weighing less is good for the brain.
Thin people, aside from getting to wear the cutest clothes, get less Alzheimer's.

This morning I see this story about how fasting is good for you.
That fasting promotes reduced incidence of coronary artery disease and diabetes.
Less chocolatey goodness probably helps, too.

Anyway, I'm convinced that the Goracle is targeting me.
In it's own way, it's knocking on my head saying "Hello! Anybody home?"
Hence: The Great Fast

The Great Man is oblivious to all.
He doesn't give homage to oracles the way I do.
He thinks an oracle is a chocolate cookie with a creamy white center.
I keep telling him, "Ora-CULL! Not Ore-O!"

Anyway, all I have to do now is get through the next holiday.
I'll be the Goracle Grinch who stole Halloween.
"Trick or Treat?!"
"Bah Humbug, little kid, Bah Humbug!"

Nobama vs. McCain't

Yesterday the phone rang and The Man answered:

The Man: "Hello."

Caller: "Hi, I'm calling for John McCain..."

The Man: "He's not here right now."

And, he hung up the phone. Click!

Last night an Obama supporter called for me, but I told him I was just sitting down to dinner, "Can you call me back?" I asked.

We get a lot of unsolicited phone calls these days. All these people want to talk to us. They want to find out who we're going to vote for. I wish they'd just send me an email because I really don't like talking on the phone. I don't like to hear it ringing and I don't like running to grab the thing and stubbing my toe on the hutch and being interrupted to talk about things I don't feel like talking about at that particular moment. I'm usually busy and sometimes I'm taking a nap, but whatever the situation, I don't like strangers calling and acting like we're old buddies and they're so concerned with my health and whether or not I'm having a nice day.

And another thing I wonder about is what are we all going to do after the election is over? I mean, I think we should get ready for a big, national let-down funk. It'll be like after the World Series or the Superbowl only worse because THIS event has been going on FOR TWO YEARS. We won't know what to do with ourselves. As if things aren't depressing enough what with the economic situation and all, now we'll be sitting there in our naugahyde recliners wondering, "Well, what'll I do now?" "Isn't there some boring debate to try and stay awake through?" "I sure do miss those political ads!"

I think the pharmaceutical companies should get busy and come up with some new drug you can "ask your doctor about." Some new wonder pill in partisan colors, Red (for Republicans) and Blue (for Democrats) that will take away your Post Election Blues Syndrome, or PEBSY.

Or better still, they could put the drug in a new soft drink and we could just sit in our recliners and sip our PEBSY's thinking back on the good ol' days when the election was months in the future and we all felt like we were actually worth something, that we had some value, that the uppity ups over there in Washington D.C. really cared about us and were interested to know what we thought about, what our concerns were.

Yeah, boy, I tell ya'. Those were some good ol' times, real sweet. We were riding high in the driver's seat calling the shots then, I mean it. We had those politicos hoppin' that's for sure. They couldn't turn somersaults fast enough for us back then. Yeah, those were some good days, yessiree. Hey, you gonna drink that? Yeah, pass me that PEBSY and I'll tell you some more stories about how good things used to be.

Ladybug on Board

Today I had to drive to the grocery store over in
a nearby town. I took the bypass - which is a name
I don't like since it makes me think of a bad heart.
I usually just refer to it as "the freeway," although
"freeways" don't exist here in The Land of O.

But, anyway, there we were, ol' Geo and I, positioned
in the slow lane just hitting our maximum speed of
60 mph. I had the radio on and was listening to some
violinist on the classical station. The fall colors were
casting an orange glow on the dashboard and the brilliant
blue sky was marred only by a few wisps of cloud.

I was enjoying my ride when, all of a sudden, I noticed something on my windshield.
Some kind of dot. I couldn't tell if it was inside the car or out because I can't see
diddly without my glasses anymore. I took off my sunglasses and fumbled around
for my eyeglasses to get a better look. It was a bug. A ladybug, to be exact.
Sitting there. Outside. On my windshield. Going 60 miles an hour.
Just sitting there.

I craned my neck forward and drove on, staring at it. I couldn't get over the fact
that it was there. I mean, what was holding it in place? It's little feelers were all
blown back on it's little head and I know it's little lips must have been all stretched
back from the G-force winds. Then, it occurred to me it might be dead. That it
must have died there and some bodily fluid leaked out and dried, effectively
gluing it to the window. I couldn't tell if it was breathing.

Meanwhile, the violinist is still playing like crazy. He's playing for all he's worth
and the music is getting more and more frenetic every minute. In fact, the music
is corresponding directly with my level of anxiety over the creature plastered to my
windshield. It was like watching some hideous nature documentary where you know
it's not going to end well for the animal because the music is so full of dissonants.

It's a good thing they don't have much traffic here in O because I was definitely
having a hard time paying attention. All the time I'm supposedly watching the
road I'm actually staring at this life or death drama playing out on my windshield
with wild musical accompaniment. I finally slowed down to 55, then 50 because
I didn't want the little bug to get swept away in what would amount to a
Category 10 hurricane in ladybug land.

I pulled off at my offramp, and not a moment too soon, if you ask me. I came
to a stop sign and then turned right. That's when the ladybug started moving.
SHE WAS ALIVE!!! Using her front legs she started cleaning her face. She
was grooming herself!! At this point I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd
turned to me and said, "God, I hate this commute. Is my hair okay?"

I parked my car and continued watching her. Very quickly she walked around
then flew away. I sat there thinking, "Did I just give a lift to a ladybug?" Based
on what I'd observed, the bug's behavior indicated that it knew exactly what it
was doing the whole time.

Then I had to bring myself back to the planet earth, figure out where I was and
what I was supposed to be doing there, etc. I tell you, it's a good thing I make
shopping lists because otherwise, what with all the adventure involved in getting
from here to there, I'd never remember what I went to the store for.

Atypical Conversation

Me: Why are you looking at me like that?

The Man: I wasn't looking at you. I was looking in your direction.
Kind of like when an actor looks toward the camera. He's not really looking at you.
I know you probably think he's really looking at you, but he's not.

Me: So that means when you're talking to me you're not really talking to me.
You're merely an actor saying his lines.

The Man: Well, yes, that's right.

Me: Hmmm. So, where's the OFF button.

The Man: What?

Me: The OFF button! If you're just an actor gazing in my direction and speaking
your lines, I want to turn this DVD O-F-F!...or at least change channels.


This is what I have to put up with ON A DAILY BASIS!

It's just like going to Duluth!

First thing this morning he says he's going to take a 25 hour bus ride.
Then, the next thing I know, I'm upstairs packing because I've decided
to drive him there to meet up with the Captain and The Isadora so that
maybe, if he makes up his addled mind, he will take the ship back to Spain,
then make his way to Rome. He could have caught the ship in Burns Harbor,
that's only a four hour drive from here, but NOoooo, he couldn't make up
his mind on that particular day, so he tells the Captain that he's NOT going
to make the trip. I figure the whole thing is a wash, but that was THREE
DAYS AGO and we're still MAKING UP HIS MIND!!

This movie needs a director!
And, who on earth wrote this script?!

The Stupidest Question EVER asked

Sirens are blaring out there.
I don't know why.
The Man just went out the back door grumbling "what's goin' on out there."
He called out "It sounds like Bugsy Malone just robbed The Third National Bank!"
which, visualizing that scene, made me laugh out loud.

Last Saturday we went to the Port of Cleveland to see our friend Captain Z
who had arrived aboard the Isadora, delivering steel from Ijmuiden Holland.
The ship is so familiar to us, the Bridge, the Captain's quarters, the stairways
and hallways looked and smelled the same. We had lunch in the dining room
and we sat in our regular seats with the Captain at the head of the table. Rafal,
the First Mate, was there, too. Of our three crossings, two were with Rafal.
We love him dearly. He's the hardest working, cheeriest man ever. Whenever
I felt afraid during bad weather, Rafal always gave me confidence and
reassured me that all was well.

During coffee in the Captain's suite, the Captain said that since it was the weekend
and no work was scheduled for Sunday, he could come to our house for the night.
This was wonderful news, but also a complete surprise to me and I began
hyperventilating about the state of our house, the dust, the disorder, Did I do
the dishes?, When's the last time I cleaned the bathroom?, What on earth
can I make for dinner?

I was unprepared, but all turned out well. We had a good time.

On Sunday afternoon we took the Captain to a shopping mall in downtown
Cleveland because he wanted to get some gifts. In particular, he wanted to buy
a Cleveland Cavaliers jersey for his son. We were looking around one sports shop
and I asked him, "who's your son's favorite player?" He said, "Lebron James."

I called out to the salesgirl "Is there some player on the Cavaliers named Lee Brown James?"

Two teenage boys were the only other customers in the store. You'd have thought
I'd lit off a firecracker by their reaction to my question. One jumped and shook
his head in disbelief and, I'll never forget the tinge of horror on his face. They both
were gasping and grabbing for each other. Then they hurriedly left the store, looking
back at me as if they were afraid I'd come after them.

I looked at the sales girl and asked, "What? Was that the stupidest question ever, or what?"
She grinned and sympathetically said, "Well, he is sort of famous."

I've mentioned this episode to friends and they all tell me the same things about this
basketball player, that he was drafted out of high school and that he played on the
Olympic team, etc., etc. They all end with, "He's the most famous player IN THE WORLD,"
with a silent "stupid!" at the end of the sentence.

I figure it's all okay. I can now add "stupid ol' white lady" to my curriculum vitae.

How To Build Community

Turn off your TV ~ Leave your house
Know your neighbors
Look up when you are walking
Greet People ~ Sit on your stoop
Plant flowers
Use your library ~ Play together
Buy from local merchants
Share what you have
Help a lost dog
Take children to the park
Garden together
Support neighborhood schools
Fix it even if you didn't break it
Have pot lucks ~ Honor elders
Pick up litter ~ Read stories aloud
Dance in the street
Talk to the mail carrier
Listen to the birds ~ Put up a swing
Help carry something heavy
Barter for your goods
Start a tradition ~ Ask a question
Hire young people for odd jobs
Organize a block party
Bake extra and share
Ask for help when you need it
Open your shades ~ Sing together
Share your skills
Take back the night
Turn down the music
Listen before your react to anger
Mediate a conflict
Seek to understand
Learn from new and
uncomfortable angles
Know that no one is silent
though many are not heard
work to change this


Poster #P470CW SCW1998. Text: Members of SCW Community. Karen Kerney, watercolor. Available laminated, also as a T-shirt, notecard, postcard, bookmark and in Spanish. TOOLS FOR CHANGE catalog from Syracuse Cultural Workers (SCW), box 6367, syracuse, NY 13217 USA 315.474.1132, www.syrculturalworkers.com. Also available: How to Build GLOBAL community. Printed by union labor on recycled paper containing postconsumer waste. 9/04