To bad this week's verb wasn't "surreal".

After chomping my way through the lunch special at the Turn Around Cafe in Spur last week, I drove down a road not yet taken and found the abandoned prison.  (Here are a couple of articles about how the prison came to be abandoned.  The first one gets really interesting towards the end.  The second one explains some of the reasons why the first one got so interesting.)  I expected to drive up to a fence, a hundred or so yards from the facility and stare at it briefly before turning around to leave.

Not so.

This week when I went back, I packed my camera.

The privately run prison, which closed in late 2010, sits atop a vague knoll, not really a hill, about two miles south of town, hiding behind a field of mesquite.  The low-profile sign, simple even by prison standards, announced the presence of the facility in plain block letters.  The prison itself lies at the end of a half-mile paved driveway.  There are no fences.  No barriers. Nothing but the sign by the side of the road.

Nothing had changed from last week as I entered the main parking lot at the end of the driveway.  I debated whether or not to park in the empty warden's spot, as if I owned the freakin' place and had every right to be there.  Sneakiness trumped brashness and I parked along the far side of the lot, hoping the electric blue Dodge Avenger I was driving would blend in with, well, the sky and not be quite so obvious should anyone venture down the driveway from the highway.

The seasonably cold air put a sharp edge on the wind.  I didn't have a jacket, but hoped that walking around the place might keep me warm.

Reaching over the back of the seat, I grabbed the camera from the back and got out of the car.    I looked around for No Trespassing signs.  There weren't any. The gravel crunching under my boots sounded unnaturally loud as I crossed the deserted parking lot.

The place was abandoned, but not forsaken, if that makes sense.  It's like some sort of Satanic rapture had occurred, maybe ten minutes earlier, taking only the bad guys.  Whoosh!  At first glance, everything appeared exactly the same as it must have at the close of business on the last day of operation, two years previously.  At second glance, I noticed the tumbleweeds.  At third - the unlocked gate.


One of the main gates to the prison yard was unlocked and open.  Just a foot or so.  Just wide enough for me to slide through sideways or to grasp the edge and pull it wide.  If I wanted too.  No one was around... No one would see...

Through a feat of super-human resistance that King David himself would have been jealous of, I bested the temptation and managed not to go through the gate to the interior spaces.

This prison - a privately run, for-profit, institution - was big into razor wire.  It's everywhere - roll upon roll of it.  The state prisons I've visited use the same concertina-type stuff, but sparingly.  This place looked cheap -like an over-sized dog run, home to really bad dogs.  Low tech security with all the soft, pleasing architecture of Auschwitz.

The main buildings up front are painted in a vague flag motif.  Blocks of blue with bits of red and white striping at the edges.  It lends a concentration camp carnival feel to the place.  The administration buildings at the front of the unit were bright and clean.  In the back a long row of barracks type buildings comprised the inmate housing.  They were  dingy, low slung cinder block buildings - chalky white with tiny windows.

An omnipresent, continual high pitched whine permeated the area. As I circled the property, I finally located the source - a large metal box, about the size on an industrial refrigerator.  Or two.  The hunk of metal was painted orange and black with no markings that would identify it to the uninitiated.  It sat on a concrete pad next to the electric meters.  And whined - a single toneless note, on and on and on to extremely creepy effect.  It reminded me of something...

(Anyone else watch The Avengers?  Anyone remember this episode?)

I continued my circuit around the property.  Past the electric meters,  I saw that the gas meters were gone.  But the sewage grinder remained.

More than once as I swept my camera lens past the guard towers, I thought I caught a glimpse of men inside.    Only a trick of the light and closer inspection revealed nothing, of course, but it remained disconcerting.  I seldom see men who aren't there.

Still I didn't see any "No Trespassing" signs.  No, not one.  I was surprised by this, but I supposed no one really wants to break INTO prison, so trespassing isn't really an issue.  There were, however, a couple of "STOP - Entering Restricted Area" signs.  As they were obviously left-overs from the facility's functioning days, and since they barely made any effort with them - small signs tacked to telephone poles on the sides of the path/road leading to the back of the location - I ignored them with impunity and no small amount of disdain.
   

I didn't spend much time in the back of the prison.  The wind blew harder there and my shirt, albeit long-sleeved, was woefully inadequate.

As I made my way back around to the front I stopped.  Dead.

The gates were still open.  But now they were open wide.  Beckoning.  Yawning.  Tempting.

It was dodgy for a bit.  I reeeeaallly wanted to go inside.  They were practically begging me to enter!  I texted the Judge's assistant and asked her what the district's policy is on posting bail for employees.  She didn't answer.  I decided not to chance it.  Besides, it was damn creepy.  The wind wasn't blowing hard enough to move those chain-link monstrosities. And it almost certainly wouldn't have moved the gates in opposite directions!

I made my way back to the car, glancing back over my shoulder a time or two.  The only sign, other than the empty parking lot, that this place wasn't ready and waiting for business, were the few small tumble weeds gathered at the main entrance.

That, and the open, viciously welcoming, prison gate.

As I drove back towards the highway, I was startled to see a FedEx van turn onto the short road and head out towards the prison parking lot.  I made a half-hearted attempt to stop him - to tell him his GPS was obviously misguided.  He didn't see me.  I was sort of glad.  I felt sure that if I did see him up close, he'd have no eyeballs.  Or maybe vampire fangs.  Or stink of death like a zombie.  Yep, pretty sure.

(Do you see 'em?  The guards that aren't there?)

Spur is one of numerous small towns in West Texas that attempted urban renewal via the prison-industrial complex, profit-driven or governmental.  For a few short years it seemed to be a real economic savior.  But we're all learning we can't sustain, economically or otherwise, a prison system that has a higher incarceration rate than China.  

This month it was reported that the Texas Association of Business, one of the most powerful lobbies in the state, is making reform of criminal justice funding a priority.  Why?  

Bill Hammond, president of the Texas Association of Business, said the group plans to push to expand successful rehabilitation and community-based corrections programs; to change Texas’ drug-sentencing laws to put more low-level offenders in local treatment programs and reduce penalties for small amounts of drugs; and to modify state licensing laws that keep some ex-convicts from ever becoming certified for various trades.

“We’re sending too many people to the slammer,” Hammond said. “The taxpayers and the business community are both being harmed.”

I think this is a good thing.  But then, I would, what with being all "community-based corrections program"-y and stuff.

All I really know is those damn gates didn't open by themselves.

I Should Be Working

...but no one else is.

So, in between filling of kleenexes, I am doing a bit of web surfing.  A few weeks ago I bought a stack of wooden cabinet doors at the Habitat for Humanity thrift store.  They are great for painting signs.  I've been checking out my woefully incomplete collection of quotes on Pinterest in hopes of finding one to paint this week.

I found the one I want, but it is super long for fitting on a cabinet door.  And the source is one that's never been a particular favorite.  And yet...

"I am old now: gray, wrinkled, tired, and bloated, and my joints ache, too.  But I am ready to come into my full destiny - as my childhood dreams predicted - as a Neo-Amazonian Pirate Queen of my own vessel:  firing cannonballs at the worldwide culture of patriarchy in the name of all that does not suck."  - Roseanne Barr

So.  I think I will have to practice and find a way to make it fit.  And I will brandish my paint brush in a sword-like fashion while proclaiming various nonsense loudly "in the name of all that does not suck".  

And thankfully, no one else will be around to hear me, thus preventing an unplanned side trip to the loony bin. 


Therefore, in honor of piloting my own Neo-Amazonian pirate vessel, I think I will leave early for lunch.  

We Have Good Fences

We have neighbors.

On the one side is an elderly couple who are much better gardeners than I.  They eat out only on Thursdays, after the Mrs. has her appointment at the beauty shop and on Sundays after church, both times at the Dairy Queen.  They have a little dog who is yappy and whose name may or may not be Max.  Either the dog or the man is named Max, but I'm at a loss to recall which.  They are only seen during the spring, summer and early fall.  There is no sign of their existence in the winter months.  And that's all I know about that.

Oh, and they have a cat whose name is definitely Molly.

On the other side we have Tom and Sue.  They are very nice, as well.  They are quiet - no wild parties or raucous family gatherings.  They are just nice.   Very nice.

And we drive them nuts.

That's not entirely accurate. Specifically, I drive Tom nuts.  He's got ideas.  About stuff.  I seldom greet his ideas with the reverence they are due.

We'd only lived here for about 2 hours when we pretty much had Tom figured out.  He came over just as soon as we finished unloading the big furniture and said he was sorry he'd not been over sooner to help out.  He commandeered Randy for a long "get to know you" discussion while Katie and I continued to haul boxes into the house.  Katie and I kept walking right past them and sometimes right between them while Tom commiserated about how sorry he about not getting there sooner to help out.  Finally, I hollered for help from inside the moving van claiming to have a box that was far too heavy for poor little me to lift on my own.  Tom excused himself and went back home so Randy could help me.

Thanks, Tom.

A few months later, Randy and I were outside doing some Saturday afternoon yard work.  Sue, who is a very sweet lady, came over to say hi.  We were chatting neighborly while Tom continued to wash his car on the other side of their yard.  He looked up, saw us, and began gesturing wildly and calling Sue's name.  She looked over at him, slightly exasperated, and asked what he wanted.

"Sue!  Did you forget?  You haven't done your hair or put on makeup today!"

Stunned silence.  Stunned.

Finally, I yelled back, "Well, hell, Tom!  Randy hasn't even taken a shower yet!  And he doesn't even have any hair!"

Tom grumbles a lot when I'm around.

To his credit, Tom really likes the holidays. He likes to decorate for them, anyway.  Every year he adds to his wintery white-bread wonderland.  More lights, more trees, more grazing reindeer.  And music.  This year the whole thing blinks in sync with music.

We put up a wreath.  This year, there are lights on it.

Last night, I was walking home from the track, across the school parking lot.  Tom was out in the front yard tweaking his trees.  He looked up.  I waved.

"Hey!" he said.  "You wanna borrow some decorations?"  He does sort of a benevolent glower so that you are sure not to miss the oh-so-subtle hints he drops.

I made a big show of removing my ear buds.  "It looks great!" I said, giving him a goofy grin and a big thumbs up, pretending to totally misunderstand his meaning.  "You're doing a great job!"  As if he lived for my approval.

Tom grumbled and went back into the garage.

Good ol' Tom.

BBQ. That's the title. Just BBQ.

Today has been a comedy of errors.  Bits and pieces of which include flat-ish tires, computer repairs that, after texting and calling two different techie types, were accomplished by merely unplugging the modem and plugging it back in, a schedule mix up that had me hauling ass across the country side, only to be brought up short eight miles from my destination by the news that the whole thing had been pushed back four hours, and, most recently, a soaked shirt and drenched pants because I removed the water bottle from my mouth without first disengaging my righteous squeeze grip thereby spraying water aallll over myself.

It's been a day.  

However, in the midst of all of that - and more - I received a really great text message.  It said: 

"In order to get back in your good graces, the judge, on behalf of this office, would like to extend a warm invitation to lunch at the beer store in Dickens."

It was good.  

Mixed Metaphors, Maybe.

I just got off the phone with my predecessor.He just casually mentioned that the office is closed on Fridays.  Just like that.

Closed.  Fridays. 

1.  Windows
2.  Jeans
3.  4 day work week

I am seriously unnerved.  There must be another shoe of Damocles hanging over my head, suspended by a single shoestring, waiting to drop.  It's enough to make me feel guilty about convincing them I needed three weeks vacation instead of just two.  Almost. 

 ~whispers: "closed Fridays"~ 

So, Saturday I took a little road trip and went to check out my new 'satellite office' in Dickens County.  Dickens is one of four counties that I'll be working for. 

Dickens County is a rustic, old-west type of a place, just off the Caprock.  In fact, all four of the counties in my new judicial district border the edge of the escarpment, which gives them a beauty sorely lacking from the counties that make up the land on top of the raised plains.  These are ranch lands, sparsley populated and thinly patroled. 

My parents lived in the town of Dickens when I was born.  It was my dad's first preaching gig and he was still finishing up college.  I've never spent much time there since becoming fully sentient, so I went for a drive to see what I could see.

Just after I came down off the Cap, I passed this:

You probably can't read the small print on that official looking Cattlemen's Association No Trespassing sign. Basically it says "We Will Shoot You For Being Out Past This Gate.  No One Will Ask Any Questions and The Coyotes Will Eat Your Remains".  More or less. 

 Don't trespass there.  They's serious.

A little further down the road, I looked off to the side and saw this:

I  moved in for a closer look:

  And finally:

It's a catfish.  In a chef's uniform.  Holding a rolling pin.  Pointing south-ish.  With American flags skewering its nostrils.

Any ideas?  Anyone? 

I asked one of the locals, but she wasn't talkin'.

She Might Be A Princess, But Why Make Her Disney'd?

So, you know I'm a fan of Wonder Woman.  And, like any self-respecting geek, I loves me some Wonder Woman stuff - t-shirts, mugs, jewelry, stationary, etc.  But I have a question. 

Why is it all WW merchandise uses the older versions of the Amazon?  You know, the one that looks like Betty Crocker in a swimsuit and tiara?

Why isn't there stuff with the more current version?  You know, the bad-ass warrior woman?

There really was an altar. And what else would you use it for?

Internet dating gets such a bad rap, but every time I've tried it, it's been fantastic!   I've met, like, eleventeen friends from teh internets and I've thoroughly enjoyed it each time. 

Granted, it wasn't THAT kind of a date.  Mine are exclusively the "you're a friend I've known for years, just haven't met you yet" variety.  It gets said a lot, but the people I've gotten to know, both personally and virtually, through this internet writin' bidness have made my life way more interesting. 

A couple of weeks ago I was in Galveston for a family vacation.  My profile pic was taken years ago at a cemetery there and I was dying to go back and retake it.  (You can see the new, improved shot on the right.)  annie lives somewhere in the not too distant vicinity and I was determined to meet up with her and a real life friend of her's that I'd connected with as well. annie and, uh, "Amy" met me at the cemetery and we had a great time exploring and taking photos. 

It took maybe 30 seconds to get past the intrinsic awkwardness that is to be expected when you put a pack of introverts into a social situation.  Almost immediately we fell into the same banter and commentary that we've traded for years online.  It was so much fun.  Even their voices seemed familiar, although we'd never spoken to each other before.  I'd give up introversion if I could connect that quickly and completely with everyone I meet.

We snarked about the mafia burials, the headless angels, the altar where the virgins were sacrificed, fence climbing, and mildly freaked out strangers who were reassured by our congenital cuddliness, among other things.  The only thing I'd do differently is to bring water next time!  However, had I passed out from heat stroke, I feel pretty sure annie and Amy would have dragged my senseless body into the shade of a gravestone to fester unmolested while they continued their photographic survey of the surrounding stones. 

We made some fun memories and I was thinking about it a few days after we returned home. While shopping and running errands, Jackson had to go finagle something with his cell phone account at the Verison store.  As we walked in the door, I was hit with the perfect thought to sum up the whole experience.  It was a sparkling piece of literary concision.

I found a bench in a corner and whipped out my Moleskine and commenced to feel horribly smug because I was actually writing, in an actual notebook, with an actual pen in the cell phone/computer store.  I started filling in some background drivel before recording my actual point.  And suddenly Jackson was done and ready to go.  What?  Who spends mere moments arguing with customer service before more or less getting their way?  And, of course, the gods of karma wiped that perfect thought completely out of my mind before I'd managed to record it.  I've spent a week trying to remember it.  No luck.

So.  Come up with something on your own. 

I had fun.  I think they did too.  It rocked.

Wordless Wednesday

The Ennis Menace

Pardon me for a moment while I indulge in a bit of wanton geekery.

Garth Ennis is writing the new Shadow comic! 

~does the dance of joy~ 

This is epicly thrilling. It is beyond cool.  Garth Ennis is the writer/creator of one of my favorite comic characters - The Preacher.  I sorta recommend him with trepadation.  If you are not into blood, guts, vampires, the ghost of John Wayne, fallen dieties, drunken clergy, congregations oblitereated by fireballs from the heavens, renegade angels, prolific profanity, in-bred cycloptic children, pistol-packin' hit-woman girlfriends and cats in toilets, don't read his stuff. 

I freakin' love it. 

And now he's writing The Shadow.  Damn, I loves me some Shadow.  From the pulp novels of Maxwell Grant to the radio program, to the movie versions and the various comic book incarnations, I can't get enough of it.  My senior ring when I was in high school?  I picked one that looked similar to the ring the shadow's agents wore.  (Next time I come across it in some forgotten drawer, I'm having the school insignia ground off of it so I can start wearing it again.  Because I, by God, know what evil lurks in the hearts of men.  More or less.)  I have sketched books full of that character.  I had Shadow action figures in my bathroom of my former house.  (I don't know why the bathroom - there was just a shelf there that needed something on it.) I think I need me a couple of nickle-plated .45s.  Just because.

Garth Ennis.  And The Shadow.  It's a match made in an incredibly entertaining level of hell that we like to visit as long as we don't have to live there.  ~more happy dancing and a possible squee~

Yep.  Garth Ennis. 

And tomorrow I'm going to Ennis, Texas to look at some bad-ass bluebonnets.   It's like the whole universe is doing some sort of karma-applause thing.  Oh, hell yeah.

Prattle and Prognistications

There is an emergency room doctor who comes across the street to the fitness center sometimes at o'dark-thirty when things are slow.  There are only about 2,000 people in the whole town, so early mornings at the emergency room are slow more often than not. 

This morning was the first time he'd come since my unfortunate 'booting', and he asked what was wrong with my foot.  I told him I have a stress fracture.  He shook his head, motioned towards the treadmills and excercise bikes and said "I'm not surprised." 

Which made me feel like a total bad-ass. 

However, given his slightly misogynistic leanings and somewhat caustic personality, he probably didn't mean it as a compliment.  He's one of those vaguely grouchy people that you can't help but like, whether they want you to or not. 

One morning he was attacking the exercise bike and riding like he was trying to outrun the devi.  We asked what he wanted us to do if he passed out or had a heart attack.  We volunteered to go get a gurney and wheel him across the street, cause we're helpful like that.  He just glared and said "Don't do anything.  Just call 911!"

We told him we'd call, but we're still threatening him with CPR. 

And speaking of misogyney...

I've often observed that the snidly racist remarks and dirty little racist jokes that used to be relegated to talk out behind the barn have made there way to the forefront even in so-called polite company since President Obama's election.  It's disheartening.  Especially when I'd always thought better than that of a lot of these people who are snickering and waggling their eyebrows, pretending it's all in good fun. 

Now the sexist attitudes and speech that I thought we had all agreed to at least not speak aloud are resurfacing as well.  You can hear it can hear it and it's getting louder. 

My prediction?  If our next election goes red, the handicapped are next on the chopping block.  Mark my words - unless the current War on The Majority of The Constituency doesn't result in a pretty hard slap in the face, you'll start to hear rumblings about the Americans With Disabilities Act and how it is not really helping the less fortunate among us, but is just another series of unfunded mandates engineered to increase the size and scope of our federal government. 

I'd bet money on it. 

Remember that Dietrich Bonhoeffer quote? 

“First they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Socialists and the Trade Unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew so I did not speak out. And when they came for me, there was no one left to speak out for me.”

First they came for the "abortionists" and the homosexuals...

I just flew in from Detroit...

One down, seven to go.  

Seven weeks of wearing a gargantuan medical walking boot because I have and teensy-eensy tiny li'l stress fracture on the top of my foot.  Prior to seeking medical help, my foot hurt only when I exercised.  And for a little while after I exercised.  Other than that, no problems. 

I'm trying to lower my cholesterol and live slightly healthier.  Towards that end, the only lifestyle change I've managed to embrace is exercise.  I actually like it.  Even looked forward to it, vaguely. (Actually, what I enjoy is listening to audio books while I'm walking.  Before the boot I was in the middle of the first Dexter novel.  Luckily I have a long drive coming up in April and I'll be able to finish it off.  So to speak.) 

Every morning for years I have worked out for at least half an hour.  Lately I added a three mile walk in the evenings.  That was all well and good until I added in a bit of jogging.  Quite honestly, Baptists should have foregone the anti-dance crusade and gone with an anti-jog crusade.  Jogging has to be a more devilish form of movement than dancing.  I, for one, feel certain that people are closer to hellfire and damnation when jogging than when dancing. Joggers are Satan's bobble-heads.

So, anyway, I wanted to keep exercising, so I figured I should get my injury treated. 

And now I'm stuck in this boot for two months.  The boot makes my foot hurt worse.  I've finally figured out the reasoning behind the treatment.  It's not that the boot is beneficial per se, it's that it is so cumbersome and uncomfortable that you'd just as soon sit as walk, so you stay off your foot and that gives it time to heal. 

I hope. 

As you can imagine, this has played hell with my cardio plan.  I still go to the "gym" in the mornings.  It's actually the physical therapy department at the surprisingly vibrant little local hospital.  Since I can't walk, run, flail about on the elliptical machine or wedgie myself with the stationary bike, I have been lifting weights - mostly dumbbells. 

This morning I graduated from the sissy weights (color coordinated, rubber coated rods which only went up to 9 pounds) to the bad-ass weights (grimy iron dumbbells on a steel rack that make your palms smell funny and have a minimum heft of 15 pounds).  I managed to do all the same exercises with the heavier free weights. 

And now I think I am going to die. 

However, despite the moans and groans, my morning workout compadres all agreed that they would not want to take me on in a fist fight.  They were also nice enough not to point out that all they'd have to do to win the fight is step out of arm's reach.  Regardless, that was the encouragement I needed to get me back there tomorrow.

Even if I can't lift my arms and have to just sit there and stare at the barbells.

Billy Idol Makes My Head Feel Funny

It's a gorgeous day, even though the sun is shining and there are no clouds.  One can't always have a day of dreary perfection, so I've learned to look for the beauty in even the sunny places and spaces.  The park was calling my name, so that's where I spent most of the lunch hour.  I sat in the car with the radio tuned to the 1st Wave station on Sirius.  I kept it quiet so I could hear the birds squawk. 

It rained some this week, so there was actual water in the faux creek with the ugly little bridge that was built by a strictly utilitarian crew of city workers.  The bridge is very uniform.  I like uniformity in design, but it doesn't work for me if the design is all squarish and straight.  Art Deco is my favorite design style and it is all about uniformity.  But it also flows and curves and sweeps and spreads out in gracefully controlled falls.  Lines are good when curved.  Curves are almost always more interesting. 

I love it here after a rain.  You can pretend that the water in the ditch is actually a charmingly natural little brook and that the scraggly, barely mower-high, dandelions are West Texas' answer to the bluebonnet fields. 

The ravens like it too.  They dance around on the edge of the tiny stream.  They aren't actually ravens, just common grackles, but they are still pretty cool.  And they do an awesome Hitchcock tribute on houses and yards all over town. 

I get a kick out of all the solitary people who come to park their trucks along the edges of the park and eat their lunch in the shade of the elm trees that manage to over-hang the pavement a bit.  The draw - an organically occurring ditch - that runs through here allows to the trees to get enough water to gain some decent height. 

The cemetery has some good trees too, and you can find some of these same people and more eating lunch out there every day.  Whichever place they choose, they stay in their car, keep the radios quiet and don't feel the need to engage in cell phone conversations.  I love it.  It's like we're all attending an introvert's convention together. 

Collected introverts, dancing blackbirds and faux-creeks. 

It's what's for lunch. 

I just like to say "Casper Weinberger".

Words are powerful.  Names are important. 

Remember the old Bloom County cartoon where Opus muses that he and Caspar Weinberger have had to work hard to overcome the hardship of their less than stellar nomenclature?

For the most part, I contend that courtesy titles are a form of self-perpetuating discrimination.  I ain't sayin' it's right, I'm just sayin' it is.  I like titles that tell what you've done (Doctor, President) as opposed to those that give your marital status.  I am 41 years old and I cannot remember a single incident in my entire life in which it was ever necessary to use the title Miss or Mrs. 

Words like chairwoman or policewoman discriminate because the very sound of the word tells you this person is somehow different from the norm.  Why not just be the chairman?  Or the officer?  Why do you need a different title to do the same job? 

Why do we need separate Oscar categories for male and female actors?  Why can't all actors compete against one another?  I do understand, given our currently regressing caveman culture, that this might result in a dearth of female recipients, but it just chaps that women compete only against women and vice-versa.  As if women need some sort of separate arena?  We don't. 

We do need separate bathrooms, but that's about it.

I worked with a court administrator once who preferred the term administratrix.  Thankfully, no one would actually call her that.  The called her some other things, though.  Administratrix - what century is that from?  It sounds like what you'd call the receptionist at a S&M club. 

And then there are the sports teams.  I realize that there probably ought to be some way of differentiating men's and women's sports teams.  And honestly, I've got no idea of how to do it, really.  I just know the current system sucks.  (Isn't this how these things normally go?  Someone gets all smart ass and bashes the situation without having thought through any sort of a way of improving things.)  I don't have the answer, I'm just complaining. 

Bulldogs are always a popular mascot around here.  And every school that uses it calls their girls teams the Lady Dogs.  Yet "Go Bitches!" is frowned upon when shouted from the cheap seats.

The little town just north of here uses the admirably unusual mascot of the Kangaroo.  The women's teams?  Lady Roos.  Lady Roo sounds like a ripoff of Lady Gaga. 

While writing this I am wearing a t-shirt that has "Lady Horn Softball" emblazoned across my chest.  Granted, the boys don't play softball, so they could have used Longhorn Softball.  But, no. 

The Lady Horn might well be an implement of male destruction hidden away from sight and perhaps the culprit behind all the anti-feminism pervading our legislative bodies these days. 

Lady Horn.  Watch for it.

It was all fun and games until someone put an eye out.  With the Lady Horn. 

You gotta say it like Peter Griffin says "Roadhouse":    Lady Horn.

Worse yet?  The reason I'm wearing the shirt is because my kid's team was playing the Sundown Roughnecks.  (A roughneck is a type of oil field worker/job.)  Of course they don't call their team the Lady Roughnecks.  Nah. 

The Roughettes!

Kid. you. not. 

The Roughettes.  Appearing nightly at the Emasculation Lounge with Lady Roo!  They'll be here all week. 

Comic Books–Tool of the Devil

Someone in my household started wearing reading glasses.  It wasn’t me. 

But one day when I was straining through an evidently tiny copy of The Watchmen, I saw them lying on the end table.  I picked them up.  No one was home, no one would see me…  I slipped them on and tried squinting.

It didn’t help.

The squinting, that is.  The reading glasses eliminated all need for it!  Amazing!  I finished the book in record time. 

Thanks to the Kindle and it’s easily adjusted text size, I contend that I shall never need reading glasses.  Provided I give up reading comic books. 

But I don’t want to do that.  In fact, I ordered a new one that came in the mail today.  It’s the first volume of The Preacher series.  I’ve read some later volumes and I just love it.  It’s about a minister from west Texas.  It is chock full of bloody, gory violence, explicit and sometimes extraneous sex, and more vulgarity than you can shake a collection plate at. 

I love it!

 

So, I ordered the first volume from some anonymous internet seller on Amazon.  It came in the mail today and I have either had a brush with fundamentalist sickos who had no idea what they had on their hands, or I have just met my new best friends.

For reals.

They sent along a free gift.  The free gift included a kitty-rap decal (I guess that’s what it is), a cross-shaped sucker (which is just horribly, horribly wrong in my twisted mind) and a choose-your-own-adventure book entitled “You Are The Messiah”.  I can’t wait to read it. (I wonder how it works if you’re female? Does that take you down some alternately subservient path?)  And then there is a post-card for “The House That Drips Blood on Alex” playing at Megaphone Comedy club. 

Isn’t that insane?!!  It’s like Christmas in the asylum, all over again!

 

Cemetery Blogging - Dead Trek, The Wrath of Gone

Cemetery Blogging–It’s been a while.

 

Our Lady of Perpetual Prosaicism is all “meh” about your recent demise. 

Horror-scope

Yesterday started out as a quiet day in the office.  More people were missing than present.  We've all worked here so damn long that about half the folks have trouble getting all their vacation time used before the end of the year.  There is a mad scramble to get in some extra days off before they get swept off the books.

Personally, I've never had that problem.  Which is why I was one of only two officers in the office. Mindy was the other.  It was her first day back after a freakin' 6 day Thanksgiving break.  As if there were that many leftovers that had to be dealt with!

When the clock struck eight, she was already down in the waiting room, herding people, one at a time, down the hall to her office.  The first guy sequestered with her was prepared to kill himself in a quietly self-effacing fashion in the rather immediate future.  The quiet ones are generally the ones you really have to worry about.  It didn't take long for Mindy to recognize how serious he was about achieving that particular goal. 

She called the mental health agency where the guy already had a caseworker.  They referred her to the crisis team and said the team would high tail it over to our office as soon as they could get out the door and navigate the seven blocks between there and here.  The State, she was informed, prefers that they handle crises, with expediency on site, rather than burdening the sufferer with making a trip to their office.  

Mindy called the crisis team, fully expecting the Mental Health Hero on duty to hit the big button that flashed the Nut Signal across the morning sky.  This would assemble the team for swift transport to our building, bringing with them assessment tools, passive restraint techniques and a plethora of pleasant voices. 

Instead she got Seth.  Seth yawned a couple of times, stretched in his desk chair and asked if the guy couldn't just walk on over to their office so they could deal with him there. 

Whatever.

In the middle of that crisis, the boss knocked on her door and asked her if she could get in touch with another of her people - Brian.  Interestingly enough, Brian happened to be sitting in the waiting room.  He does that every morning because he is unemployed.  If you are able-bodied and not completely addle-brained, yet insist on a life of leisure rather than more gainful pursuits, we make you come and visit us each morning - teeth brushed, hair combed and pajamas at least tucked underneath sweat clothes, if not removed altogether and replaced with more employment-appropriate clothing.  Then you set out for a day of job hunting. 

Brian was here to show Mindy his list of applications from the previous day, before being sent out to complete more.  Brian doesn't want to work. 

According to the boss, he'd received an anonymous call stating that 20-year-old Brian had perhaps misrepresented the truth regarding his current living arrangements.  When he told Mindy he lived at home with his parents, what he meant was he lived at his girlfriend's home, with his girlfriend's parents.   His fourteen-year-old girlfriend. 

Oops. 

Mindy hissed his name at the waiting room door and marched him back into her office.  His response to her questioning was "I don't know what you're so upset about.  Her mother doesn't mind."  That was not the smartest thing he'd ever said.  Especially since his neck was decorated with more than a few hickies. 

While we're on the subject, do you know about these? 

Immediately after booting Brian out the door with a laundry list of life changes he'd be making in the next 24 hours, Mindy called the cops.  She reported that her defendant was bedding a fourteen-year-old girl in her own home.  Nightly. 

The cops said, and I quote, "Eeew."

When Mindy told them the mother had condoned the situation, they said, "The mother may not have a problem with it, but the State of Texas sure does."  The said they were starting an investigation and were here within 15 minutes to take Mindy's statement. 

Child Protective Services also took a dim view of the state of affairs.  Since the police are more than happy to charge Brian with statutory rape, they will be investigating the mother on a possible charge of negligent parenting. 

All of this happened before 9:15 in the morning.

She took a break around 10:00 to catch her breath and snarf some popcorn.  After a few minutes, I heard a peal of somewhat maniacal laughter, then my instant messenger beeped.  It was Mindy.  She said:

"My horoscope today says 'your interest in your fellow humans is piqued today.'"

"Piqued with a baseball bat!" I replied.

----------

Still no news from the Lazy Seth the Crises Manager.  We're hoping that's good news. 

Six Places - Just Spaces, Few Faces

This week's prompt:  6 Places.  My six places are

all Dairy Queen.

1.  The Dairy Queen in Lockney.  It's the only restaurant open on Sundays.  If we plan on eating out after church on Sunday, we have to go home and collapse on the couch for a couple of hours first.  You can't wade through the blue-hairs to get a table until nearly 2:00 o'clock.  They have blizzards and WiFi.   They have the world's most polarific air conditioning system.  There are huge vents along the top of the wall.  The icy air they spew falls heavily on the chattering diners below.  Even when it's 134 thousand degrees outside, my knees knock the whole time I'm choking down my chicken strips and tator tots.  I don't yet know what happens in the winter.  Is the heater just as boisterously over-effective?  I'll soon find out. 

If it weren't for the frigidity, I'd hang out there, drinking cherry-limes and drawing pictures.

2.  The Dairy Queen in Post.  You are probably not aware of this, but this little fast-food joint in that wobbly little West Texas town is the epicenter of the six degrees which separate us all.  Everyone you've ever known will eventually have to stop there to use the bathroom.  It's one of those places - plunked down in the middle of nowhere on a back road that is the only way to get to some places from other places.  Everyone stops there.  Eventually.

If I were going to write the great American novel, I'd do it sitting in a booth in this Dairy Queen.  One great story after another walks in the door, heads for the ladies room then orders some tacos.  It's got this accidental, unintentional apocalyptic feel to it that makes you think you're missing something.  Something like the end of the world.  In Technicolor.  

3.  The Dairy Queen in Plainview.  This DQ was home to the Blizzard Boy.  Blizzard Boy was our secret nemesis long ago and far away when we were young and could eat a cup of ice cream blended with Butterfinger bars on a pretty much daily basis without the dire consequences to our waist lines and cholesterol levels.  He never got the order right or screwed up when trying to make change, or sometimes he just looked at us funny.

We toted the ice cream back to the office and sat around the conference table in the grand ballroom, dissing the Blizzard Boy and solving the county's problems.  It was like a drawly, cowboy-booted version of the Algonquin Round Table.  With soft serve instead of vodka. 

4.  The Dairy Queen in Brownfield.  Brownfield was the closest town to the country church where I lived in the early 1980's.  It was, to no one's surprise, dry and dusty and hot.  It was dead then and it's deader now.  At that church at the crossroads in the middle of Earth's armpit, the sand dunes piled high on the west side of the building and my brother and I tied towels around our necks for capes so we could jump off the roof of the sanctuary to practice flying.  And landing.  On our butts, mostly. 

It was at this crossroads church that I learned to appreciate open flame and weeping willows.  I learned to drive a tractor.  I developed what would become a lifelong distaste for lantanas and a morbid fascination with premillennialist baptistry paintings.  It was also a dark and destructive place that taught me to be spiteful towards family churches and suspicious of people who kept those religious malignancies alive.

My parents worked at that church because it was there.  We'd moved back to Texas from Montana so my dad could care for his ailing father after his mother died.  The church was a paycheck.  It seemed like a god-send at first. But in the end, it wasn't.

On Sunday nights after a day full of all that my parents could stomach, we would escape to the Dairy Queen in Brownfield.  A thirty-mile drive, one way, for nachos.  It was pretty much the only place open then.  It was a quiet place on Sunday nights.  And a little bit dark.

I still love nachos.

5.  The Ha-ta-ho in Roby.  Roby was too small to have a Dairy Queen.  I spent my high school years in Roby.  There were two restaurants in town - the Silver Spur Cafe and the Ha-ta-ho drive in.  They sat across from each other, separated by a rod-straight stretch of highway.  Local lore told that the burger joint was opened by a farmer who wanted to get out of the field.  He hated-to-hoe.

Yup.

If you were inclined, you could skip the Ha-ta-ho and come on down the road to the City Grocery and Deli where I worked.  I would make you a chicken fried steak sandwich or a bbq sandwich. (Your choice of chopped or sliced.  Take my advice - go with the chopped.)  It was good enough food, but we didn't have fries.  Or fountain drinks.  Or chairs. 

I can't remember if the Ha-ta-ho had nachos.  They did have really good cokes, though. 

6.  The Dairy Queen in ?  I don't know where I'm going from here, but I'm going somewhere.  I bet wherever it is, they have a Dairy Queen.  It might surprise you to know, but I don't even really like Dairy Queen.  I hate soft-serve and only tolerate blizzards if they have something crunchy in them.  The burgers are ok and The Dude is pretty good.  The fries suck. 

I do like the nachos, though.

Just for grins, because I don’t really know what this is.

 

Tonight I made the holy pilgrimage and left home

At twilight.

At sunset.

At the end of the day.

I walked down the street, through the bad part of town

At twilight.

At sunset.

At the end of the day.

A three-legged pit bull dog barked at me.  Only once.

At twilight.

At. sunset.

At the end of the day.

And I learned that those two lime green trailers really do glow

At twilight.

At sunset.

At the end of the day. 

7 wants

This week’s prompt?  Not getting any easier.  I really don’t know why these are so difficult.  Perhaps I really just need to sit down in a quiet place with pen and paper and work this out.  Hmm… That reminds me of something I want, so, without further ado: 

A.  I want to write.  With pen.  On paper.  I love the feel of a good pen flowing across the paper.  I love handwriting.  Drawing words is an almost Zen-like experience, as long as I’m writing something I want to write. I miss it.  Last week, while visiting Lois, I mentioned this.  She told me there have been studies done showing that handwriting uses a different part of your brain than keyboarding.  You write differently, on both a physiological level and otherwise, when you use pen and paper.  It’s a good change to make if you’re fighting writer’s block. 

I totally should have written this post on paper first.

B.  I want letters to make a comeback.  I know they won’t and I’ll be the first to admit that the convenience of email probably more than makes up for what we miss with written letters.  But still.  I love to write them.  Send me your address, if you want (Facebook message) and I’ll send you a letter!

C.  I want my nose to stop itching.  And they haven’t even started ginning cotton yet!  I used to live across the road from a corn field.  I’m terribly allergic to corn, especially when it puts on tassels right before harvest.  Not for that reason, we moved.  Now I live two blocks from a cotton gin, one of my other major allergies. 

Have I mentioned that I plan to retire to Seattle?

D.  I want Robert Downey Jr. to hurry the hell up with his next project.  Know what it is?  He is producing and staring in a Perry Mason movie.  I also am all geeked about seeing Johnny Depp do Dark Shadows.  And I want both of those franchises to use the theme music their TV versions used.  Perfect songs, both.  (I miss answering machines.  My answering machine message used to be accompanied by the Dark Shadows theme.  It was the best damn message ever – had a people call me just to listen sometimes.  Voice mail leaves a lot to be desired when it comes to creativity.)

E.  I want to get better at portrait photography.  I sort of enjoy it.  Sort of.  Most of the time, when I take pictures for fun, I don’t include people.  Not on purpose, but I’ve just always avoided people pictures.  But I think my taste might be changing…

F.  I want that sheriff’s deputy to quit staring at the stuff in my office.  I’m tired of trying to explain things to him. 

G.  I want to read a good comic book.  Read a good one and an incredible one last week.  The good one:  The Preacher #7.  It had all the elements of a good comic – expressive art, great colors, kick-ass story, tons of violence and more than a bit of gratuitous sex and gore.  (Yes, it really is about a preacher.  From west Texas.  Somewhat defrocked.)   The great one was Persepolis.  It was exquisite.  Lois had it and I sat down one night and read the whole thing (graphic novel) in about 2 hours.  I learned all kinds of things.  The art was simple on the surface, rich beneath.  The story was incredible – about a young girl in Iran during the fall of the Shaw.  She’d be about my age, I guess.  The writing was simple, but like the art, deceptively so.  Hell, the damn thing made me get all teary-eyed. 

Just go read it for your own damn self. 

8 Fears

 

I don’t fear the reaper, but I do fear that y’all will sing precious memories at my funeral.

Life is a highway, but I fear the lack of two-way traffic

I think we should come together, right now, but I fear that someone will bring pea salad.

There’s a bad moon rising, but I fear the scorching sun will make it all moot.

I love a rainy night, but I fear the swirling water.

Only women bleed, but I fear men are more often killed by falling pianos. 

I am Iron Man, but I fear that I will rust without some fresh oil.

I walk the line, but I fear tripping over the curved stones.

This Ain't Cat Food

This week’s prompt is Nine Loves.  This was much easier than last week’s Ten Secrets.  So, without further ado –

~ahem~

I LOVE:

1.  Drawing with ink.  It’s forgivably unforgivable.  It stretches my ability and makes me think.  I still love pencil and eraser and I do my best work in that medium, but drawing in ink has made me a better artist.  Ink forces me to incorporate my mistakes into the bigger picture.  With pencil I can just pretend the mistakes never happened. 

2.  Music without lyrics.   Especially while driving.  I do all my best writing while driving and listening sans words.  I could write the great American novel if I went out and got a job as a cross-country truck driver.

3.  Pork skins.  Especially the hot ones.  

4.  Scarves.  Well, love is a strong word, but I’m developing a definite like for them. 

5.  The fact that Britney Spear’s name is an anagram of Presbyterians. 

6.  My preacher’s kids.  As I sat in church one day and I observed one of my minister’s two teenage daughters do something very small and very nice for someone else.  She didn’t know anyone was watching.  It confirmed what I had suspected.  They are good, good kids.  I stalked them from two pews back and on Facebook as well as observing them from my couch as they stalked my house from the alley.  Then I did something – a tiny little experiment in being spooky, for lack of a better term.  They responded exactly as I would have when I was there age.  They are little Spookies in the making, I think!  I really, really, really like them. 

7.  Boots and peacock feathers.  Not necessarily together.  Not necessarily apart.  And that peacock green/blue color?  Love that too. 

8.  Fedoras.  I need some new ones.  I haven’t worn them in a long time, but I think I might start again.  I blame that Maria Bello ad for her new Prime Suspect show.  I might even take the one down from my office wall, dust it off and slap it up on my head. 

9.  Fiber.  I’m sucking down the nasty stuff twice a day, just like grandma used to do.  Donated blood last week and, according to the vampire’s testing, my cholesterol level has dropped to 195.  Fiber is slightly icky, but it beats the hell out of taking yet another liver-killing medicine.  (And yes, I know that being all excited over this makes me even older than the daily fiber-tang swilling ritual does.  Right now, I’m ok with that.)

The Truth Doesn't Always Set You Free

The Write. Eat, Post, Bathe group is starting a new series of weekly prompts. This is a good thing, because I still haven't snatched my writing mojo free from the gnarled talons of a vindictive and spiteful muse. I need all the prompting I can get. This week's topic is 10 Secrets.  

A writer should have this little voice inside of you saying 'tell the truth. Reveal a few secrets here.' - Quentin Tarantino

I thought this would be easy but, in reality, it sucks. I keep secrets. Always have, ever since I was a kid. When you live in a glass house, you need a deep basement. Secrets are not always a bad thing. But they get a bum rap in these days of hyper-connectedness. We'd be better off if we all had a few more secrets, I think. Take back some dignity, people!

That being said, here are 10 'secrets' for your perusal. They are not particularly earth shattering or revelatory. Maybe they are slightly entertaining. For starters, I'm stealing Cyn's number 10.

10. I love purses, bags, backpacks, etc. I have way more than I need. I also hate cleaning them out. Too time-consuming. So I have little bags of stuff that I can grab and put into the new bag. Presto chango.

9. I have a new mattress - one of those foamy things. I don't know that I sleep better, but I do know that I can't wait to lay down on it each night and I loathe, more than ever, leaving it in the mornings. Not sure that this is a selling point...

8. I am not entirely sure that babies are sentient.  Ever once in a while you see one with a spark of intelligence or personality in their eyes. I find that sort of fascinating. It makes me contemplate reincarnation. But most of the time - meh.

7. I am sucking it up and trying to learn how to photograph the aforementioned lumps of humanity. Babies and brides and their gawd-awful mothers. One of these days, when I retire at an obscenely young age, I am going into the photo business. If I'm going to make any money, I'm going to have to do babies and weddings. Them's the facts. I am, however holding fast with my prohibition against maternity photos. I'm seriously considering marketing myself as The Grouchy Photographer. The Grouchy Photographer doesn't like your mother and your baby is woefully average.

6. Women of America: pregnancy is not a disability. Neither is it some sort of noblesse oblige. It's just a fact. Of life. Get the hell over it. And stop showing me your belly. (Ok, this is more of a rant than a secret.  So sue me.)

5. Learned on Saturday that I can still make change. Thought I'd lost that skill. Good to know, in case I have to go with my fall-back position as Sonic car-hop.

4. Fog is sexy.

3. I have itchy scabs. (Won a fight with a rosebush and a chain link fence, although not decisively.)

2. Just bashed my hand on the side of the desk. Now my thumb is freakin' numb. (How many more do of these things do I have to come up with?)

1. Everyone had a Nellie Olsen when they were growing up. (Yeah, I read those books. Watched the TV show, too.) ((Wonder if there was ever a comic book incarnation?)) I recently came across the adult version of mine. Not the same person grown up, but someone just like her. And now, all these years later, I see the fear in her eyes. Maybe in another thirty years I'll learn to feel sorry for her because she can survive only by wounding the things/people she fears.


Well, that's it. Ten of the little buggers. Here's hoping that next week's prompt is easier.

Longshot Fiction

This week’s writing prompt: So, think of a character and decide what he or she needs/wants to buy and write it out.

The premise was that you can learn a lot about a character by sending them on a shopping trip. It’s a fun exercise to be sure, but a little hard because I don’t really write fiction very much. While I was thinking about this during the week, I realized one of the reasons I don’t write more fiction. I have a phobia of people thinking it’s autobiographical. I write about my life all the time, but it’s obvious that I’m writing from personal experience. Or so I hope. But the thought of someone taking a scene or a character from something I write and positing it as motivated by my own personal experience/beliefs just makes me cringe. I realize this is because I am probably a psychotic control freak. But it doesn’t change the fact that I fear the reader’s (mis)interpretation whenever I write fiction.

Is it just me?

Anyway….




Skywater Longshot looked longingly up at the climbing wall in the sporting goods store. It would be a ridiculously easy for her to scale it’s two story height, but still she longed to be doing that – or pretty much anything else – rather than shopping. Skywater Longshot was not a shopper.

Unfortunately she really, really needed a new pair of tights. Crime fighting was hard on the wardrobe. If only her superpowers included invisibility, she’d just do justice while naked and save herself all the time and trouble of buying replacement parts for her costume. On the other hand, naked superheroing might require some sort of skin cream to combat the chaffing that would no doubt ensue.

In reality, Skywater wore more clothing than your average female superhero. Today she was purchasing a new pair of full length black tights to replace the ones that had been sacrificed to a nasty case of road rash last week when she’d been run over by a speeding Hummer full of escaping baddies fleeing a botched bank robbery.

In addition to the ankle length tights, she also wore a long sleeved mock turtle-neck, black as well, under a black, knee length cape which did an admirable job of hiding a posterior not entirely ready for prime time. Skywater finished off her costume with a pair of bright yellow wrestler’s boots and a matching yellow mask. Yellow was supposed to induce happiness. In Skywater's case it induced a sort of tepid goodwill.

She pondered color-induced cheerfulness as she traipsed past a display of terry cloth sweat bands. There was a pair of wrist bands at the front that would just match her boots and mask. Picking up the cardboard backer they were attached to, Skywater ran her fingers under the edge of the band, pulling lightly, testing the strength of the elastic.

It tested badly. These were more for looks than function. Skywater replaced them and moved on. They’d given her an idea, though. She would look for some gloves. Yellow. Yellow gloves were exactly what she needed. And new tights, of course.
Her pace quickened and she headed for the baseball section. Batting gloves would work. A good pair of leather batting gloves in a feisty canary yellow would protect the skin of her hands and wrist much more effectively than a strip of elasticized terry cloth. And skin protection was important.

In the baseball area she found a small bit of wall with pairs of batting gloves pinned to it. The gloves appeared to be arranged at random – more by color than by size. At first there seemed to be nothing but black and white. Upon closer inspection she found a couple of red pair, four blue and finally, in the top corner, two pairs of yellow. Perfect.

Standing on tiptoe, she reached up as far as she could, fingers grazing the bottom of the gloves. Just as she reached her limit, teetering precariously on the ends of her toes, something popped out of the middle of the gloves, right at eye level and launched for her face. It snarled. Skywater yelped.

She jumped back, knocking over a rack of aluminum baseball bats that clanged violently against the concrete floor. The pimply-faced kid who was restocking socks doubled over laughing. The manager was unimpressed with them both and barked an order at the stock boy. Scrambling to her feet, Skywater glared at the rack of gloves, then turned in a slow circle, eyes scanning furiously.

“I know it’s you, you little rat,” she hissed. Her reply was an angry squeaking noise coming from beneath a stack of t-shirts. “All rodents are rats,” she said, picking up the shirts. “Especially those that act like you!”

A small white mouse wearing a tiny yellow cape was rolling around on the table under the shirts. It appeared to be laughing uncontrollably. Skywater eyed the bitty beast with undisguised disdain. Finally the mouse stopped laughing and jumped up onto her outstretched hand. Skywater lifted him up to stare him in the eye. The mouse grinned at her.

“You are, without doubt, the worst sidekick any superhero could ever possibly have.”
The mouse took hold of the edge of his cape and lifted it to his face. Standing on his hind legs he peeped over the edge of the cape, batting tiny eyelashes at the woman holding him. She sighed. “Whatever,” she said, opening her bag with her free hand. “Get in and stay out of trouble!”

The mouse hopped off her hand and into the bag, disappearing beneath her wallet with a flourish of his silky yellow cape. Skywater sighed and made a final grab for the yellow gloves, still attached to the top of the wall.

Gloves in hand, she made her way to the runner’s area and snatched up a pair of her favorite brand of tights. She didn’t bother to try them on. It certainly wasn’t the first pair she’d bought and it wouldn’t be the last. Such was the lot of an incompletely invulnerable crime-fighter.

Skywater Longshot’s superpowers included invulnerability and an ability to control pain. Unfortunately, the invulnerability did not extend all the way through her outer layer of skin. That layer was susceptible to cuts, scrapes, road rash, chaffing and mosquito bites. It wasn’t uncommon for Skywater to be a bloody mess following an especially intense battle, yet be completely unscathed other than superficial wounds. It wasn’t glamorous, but it worked.

Purchases in hand, Skywater turned back towards the front of the store, ready to check out. A series of squeaks sounded from the depths of her purse. Pulling it open, she looked into the bag. “You want what?”

More squeaks.

“What makes you think I’m buying you anything?” she asked. The mouse’s head popped up next to a wadded kleenex and he glared at her. Then he sucked in a deep breath, puffing out his chest and screwed his eyes closed.

“Don’t you DARE!:” Skywater yelped. She slammed the purse closed even as she hissed “Fine! Fine – I’ll get you the sunflower seeds.” Cracking the bag open, she caught a beady little eye in her own steely gaze. “But do not think you can blackmail me by threatening to blow up like that. Next time I’m leaving you at home.”

The mouse stuck his tongue out and then burrowed under the wallet once again. Skywalker grabbed a bag of bbq flavored sunflower seeds and tossed them on the counter with her other items. “Stupid Ghost Mouse,” she muttered to herself.
Ghost Mouse, the unimposing sidekick, possessing an ability to swell himself to the size of a hand grenade and then explode mightily when she tossed him at her targets. He would blow himself to bits, taking a few bad guys or getaway cars with him, then reasssemble quietly while Skywater completed the mission.

Skywater slid her debit card absently through the reader and collected her bags. She smiled a vague response to the clerk’s canned friendliness and made her way out into the sunshine. “Ghost Mouse, Ghost Mouse, Ghost Mouse…” she mumbled, as if trying it out on the tip of her tongue. How unfair was it that her sidekick had a superhero name and she didn’t?

She’d have to work on that. Later.

In Which the Writer Demonstrates How Crazy This Damn Drought is Making Her:

This week’s prompt: Creation, Si o No?

Well, it was more involved than that, but you get the idea.

Creation is kicking my butt at the moment. We’ve had 1.15 inches of rain since last October. We’ve busted the record for days in a year with temperatures in the triple digits by almost thirty days, and it’s barely the first of August. And today the air conditioner at my office is broken.

Creation is so not cooperating with me at the moment. Retirement to Seattle is looking pretty darn good right now.

Before I start planning my retirement, I’m planning a job change. I’ve decided to become Pharaoh. I think I’d be good at it. I’m all for covering the walls with quality graffiti. The smoky eye make-up is generally a good thing and Egyptian jewelry is always a favorite. Besides that, I’m ok with deified felines.

I’d be a hell of a good Pharaoh but I would change one itty bitty little thing, though.  If I were Pharaoh, it would be all over between us and Ra.

No more sun worship for me or my minions. No ma’am.  We would be major-league rain devotees. I’ve been a rain-worshipper all my life. Nothing makes me happier than a grey, overcast, drizzly day. I think I have a wonky, alternate universe version of seasonal affective disorder in which continual sunlight zaps my neurotransmitters and I crave the relief of a good thunderstorm or a long, soaking September shower.

And all we’ve gotten is one point one five inches all damn year.

Last week the head of the local Mental Health Center told us they are seeing a lot of people whose mental health problems are being exacerbated by the weather. Today one of my people told me he heard from a doctor that they are seeing drought related problems in their medical practice due to vitamin deficiencies which are causing a lot of depression and even more serious problems.

Drought makes you crazy.

Yesterday one of my people who’s worked on the same farm for 12 years was fired. He and the boss grew up together. Have been friends all their lives. But the drought, coupled with some other person problems have pushed the farmer over the edge. He fired everyone who was working with him. Now my 50 year old man has to find not only a new job (in an industry where no one is hiring) but a new place to live.

I’ve already volunteered to dance naked in the yard if that would help. No one thinks it would help.

So, am I frustrated with creation? Absolutely. Do I think this is God’s punishment on a wanton and wicked land? Absolutely not.

I believe whole-heartedly in evolution. I think evolution is an exceptional miracle. Any old conjurer can turn water into wine, but to start an entire universe with a single spark and mold, evolve and shape it into infinite worlds and infinite possibilities takes some real talent.

I think our actions are still working and shaping the evolution of creation. For instance, in the dust bowl era, which is now officially not as bad as the current drought, people couldn’t survive. Farms migrated. Who ecosystems were blown away. Now we’ve made strides in soil conservation that help hold the topsoil in place in the face of hot, dry, unrelenting wing. We’ve evolved. The next step is to evolve on our water conservation. And to maybe take a peek at doing something about global warming. Such as admitting that it exists for starters.

Hot enough for ya?

So we learn, we grow, we change. I think God watches over all of this, providing strength, guidance and more than a fair amount of grace. I think he’s disappointed in our failures and rejoices in our progress. I don’t think he does a lot of smiting.

I realize that I’m just sort of creating God in my own image, instead of vice versa, but I think of God as more of an observer, than an intimate participant. I don’t need God to be my daddy. I have one of those. I don’t need him to be my boyfriend. Have one of those, too. I need him to be God. Creator, Sustainer, The Omnipotent Author.

And I don’t think he minds if I worship the rain.

Delightful, for lack of a better word.

 

Last week I was supposed to write about feet.  I was too tired, too dead on the aforementioned, to do it.  This week’s prompt is to think about the things that irritate me.  Ponder them.  List them.  Know them.  Then write about what delights me. 

For starters, can I just say how much I hate Cyn for coming up with that prompt?  Far, far too apt this week.  Aptness is a finely edged weapon.  I have a stack of irritating things to ponder lately, most of them work related.  A tall, crooked, top-heavy stack of heaving irritations, just waiting for the most inopportune moment to crash down on my head. 

Think about it, she said.  Wallow in them.  Then see what you’re really made of and write about the things that delight you.

• I left the house a little after 6:30 yesterday morning.  A hawk followed alongside my car for the briefest of moments before taking up his morning roost on one of the telephone poles.  There are few things on this planet more majestic than a bird of prey.  Even the scraggly, underfed hawks that we have here are just glorious to see. 

This hawk was watching a heard of pigmy donkeys grazing on a field terrace along side the highway.  I’d never seen donkeys there before.  Kinda cool. 

• I finished up a teaching a class to drug offenders last night.  They were actually sort of engaging for once.  I enjoy stoners immensely one on one, but their group-think has been twanging my last nerve when I’ve taught this class recently.  This group was better.  Last night I taught about values, attitudes and behaviors.  Two of ‘em actually teared up.  Teared up!  Hell, if I’d had a plate I would have passed it and offered an invitation.  I couldda gotten at least one of ‘em to rededicate their life and the two guys in the back might’ve volunteered for foreign missions. 

Or, maybe not. 

• I made a decision last week to pursue something I’ve needed to for a long time.  I have a building I want to someday rent/lease/own and put in an art studio.  I’m going to do it.  I’m even thinking about hanging out my shingle and doing a few photography jobs.  I’ll specialize in weddings of orphans.  I refuse to do weddings for people with mothers.  Mothers of brides have no place on a list of things that delight me.

I decided on a few small steps to begin with.  I’m actually going to try to sell some of my art.  Next weekend I am undertaking a very, very small beginning step and setting up a booth (card table and maybe a couple of easels) at a tiny town summer festival.  Just gonna wait and see what happens.  I can’t imagine there is a single person in the tiny town that needs/wants photos of graves or abandoned places.  And certainly not childish paintings of comic book themes, but who knows?  It’s a delightfully small first step. 

• Jackson found me a new cemetery and Saturday we will take a little road trip and see how well it photographs.  That’s always delightful, even though he’s developed this new fascination with “Ghost Adventures” and now wanders the cemetery doing faux “EVP work”. 
• I’m delighted that I live with a teenager who makes me laugh much more often than she makes me want to whack her upside the head with a heavy blunt instrument.  I’m delighted that we recently had this argument:

Kate:  “But!  I prayed in the shower!  I always pray while I’m taking a shower!”

Me:    “I don’t care.  You can pray again, out loud, with us.  It’s good for you!”

Kate:  “Argh! I don’t WANT to!  I don’t LIKE praying out loud!”

Me:    “What the hell is wrong with praying out loud?  Just quit whining a say a damn prayer, already.”

First she laughed.  Then she prayed. 

It was a crappy prayer.  But, what the hell, you can’t win ‘em all.

 

That’s it for now.  I’m kicking that list of irritations.  Kicking it hard, just to watch it fall.  I’ve got a lot of other things – more important things – to enjoy.  Who needs ya? 

Write, Eat, Post, Bathe

 

Facebook destroyed my writing.  I quit thinking in blog posts and started thinking in status updates.  My blog died.  I’ve tried to resurrect it a few times, without success. This time, hopefully, will be different.  This time I’m using Facebook for blog-spiration. 

Saturday night, a few of us were sitting around playing on Facebook.  It is a sad and pathetic way to spend your weekend evenings, but it was what it was and we kept ourselves entertained.  We’d all blogged together previously and all felt guilty for abandoning our blogs.  (Why do we feel so guilty for not writing?)  We decided to form a new group: Write, Eat, Post, Bathe.  So named, because that’s pretty much how we were spending our Saturday night. 

We’ll attempt to make our Facebook addiction work for us, instead of against us, starting with a weekly writing prompt. This is the first weekly prompt:

So, write about writing this week--what you expect, how it makes you feel, why you fell out of practice or kept up with it, doing it professionally vs for fun, hiding from your real life--whatever. Any format, from poetry to prose to shopping list. Just write. And post your link so we can share. Totally optional means no stress. Write whatever or shamelessly stay silent this week. Have fun, for pete's sake.

I think this will be a fairly easy prompt to start with.  So, here goes:

I write because I am a comment whore. 

The End. 

What I Did Today

 

Not much.  That’s what. 

Jackson and I went on some minor adventuring this morning.  We returned with a Cigar Bush and Hackberry tree that he planted this afternoon.  That’s four trees we’ve added in the last three weeks.  Two more to go and I think we might be done.  We are working to fill up the vast prairie land that is our back yard. 

Give us a couple of years and there might be some actual shade back there.  Right now we have the biggest apricot tree that I have ever seen.  It provides some excellent shade, but it’s right at the back of the yard.  No help for the patio or the house. 

Spooky’s gardening advice of the day is to go out to the nursery and purchase as many Russian Olive trees as you can cart back to your casa.  These trees put off a fine, sticky mist of sap for about a month and a half in the early spring.  Don’t plant them anywhere near your car.  But after that, you get another month and a half of the most incredible fragrance.  It’s sweeter and smoother than the scent of a honeysuckle.  The two trees that we have scent our entire yard, front and back.  It’s incredible. 

Russian Olives are easily rooted from cuttings.  I have a few new ones trying to come up from roots that I’m fixing to whack off.  If you’re a local peep and you want the little branches, let me know. 

When I started this post I had great plans for it.  Well, not plans, actually, but I thought I would twist the idea of gardening into some sort of essay about the peacefulness of that pursuit and how a home should be a place of peace, both inside and out.  A sanctuary, a refuge, a retreat.  But that seemed like a lot of trouble.

So, instead, lets talk about comic books.  I’ve been reading The Saga of Solomon Kane.  He’s a “Puritan adventurer” wandering the 16th century world, doing the Lord’s work.  As long as that work involves rescuing naked women from vampires. 

Solomon Kane is a dour-faced pilgrim.  A religious man, his purpose is to eradicate evil where he finds it.  He likes to eradicate things with his sword.  In addition to evil, he finds naked women.  The poor man has to gird his loins extra tight to keep from being tempted by their feminine wiles. 

It is cracking me up. 

Solomon Kane is one of the creations of Robert E. Howard, who also created Conan the Barbarian.  He was from Cross Plains, Texas, which ain’t too far from here.  Kane was a pulp fiction character created in the late 1920’s and in the 1970’s the comic book version was created.  I love the art from the comic book.  Kane’s sour demeanor and pilgrim-y, pirate-y costume are a cool combination.  Plus it makes him look sort of hot so that the naked women he encounters are more than happy to provide the temptations that test his faith and purpose.

I think I know what sort of churches Robert Howard grew up in. 

Honesty Is The Best Policy

Jerry Martin is a red neck.

He’s a big ol’ corn-fed guy, with a deep, slow voice. He keeps his dirty blond hair shaved almost to the skin and his fair complexion is splotched with crimson. Today he wore his Sunday best for the court hearing – a three-button red polo shirt and a generally intact pair of jeans.

When he dropped his ponderous frame unceremoniously into the seat on the witness stand, the rinky-dink chair groaned in protest. He leaned back, draped a meaty arm over the side of the witness box and met the stare of the prosecutor with unblinking apathy. His right forearm sported a brand new anarchy tattoo, still slightly inflamed.

Jerry is direct. He’s blunt. He’s got no social graces. But he’s not stupid.
I testified about Jerry’s performance on probation. He’d had a decent attitude, marked by a propensity for answering direct questions honestly, but not volunteering any information. He did some community service and made some payments, but never did as much as he was supposed to.

And he smoked a lot of pot.

The prosecutor wanted to know what we did about that. I testified that at first we tried 12-step meetings. When that didn’t work, I sent him to a treatment center for an evaluation. They put him into in-patient treatment. It wasn’t working, so after a couple of weeks they put him into their “Intensive Inpatient” program. (Not unlike Dean Wormer’s Double-Secret Probation.) A week or so into that program I got an irate call from the drug counselor. Jerry was caught toking it up with one of the staff members.

That caused a bit of a kerfuffle.

Jerry came to see me that afternoon and admitted he needed some serious treatment. If he couldn’t kick the habit, he would end up in prison. That day Jerry and I worked out a plan to put him into a long term treatment program. The next day he was supposed report to me again to sign the papers that would give away his freedom for the next nine months.

Surprise, surprise – Jerry didn’t show up. So, after dodging a warrant for the past few months, Jerry appeared in court this afternoon to find out what the Judge would do with him.

Under questioning from his attorney, Jerry explained that he knew he’d screwed up. Marijuana was a major problem for him, as was alcohol. He was worried that he couldn’t make probation, but he wanted treatment and a chance to try again.
Then it was the prosecutor’s turn.

“When did you last smoke marijuana, Mr. Martin?” the lawyer asked, his Eagle Scout uprightness contrasting with Jerry’s bumpkinly sprawl.

“Yesterday,” Jerry confessed.

“Prior to that, when did you last smoke?”

“The day before.”

“I see. And do you smoke marijuana every day, Mr. Martin?”

“Pretty much.” Jerry slouched more deeply in the chair.

“And how many times a day do you smoke?”

“Oh, I smoke quite a bit,” Jerry drawled.

“And you don’t have a job,” the prosecutor said, leaning forward slightly in his seat. “How do you get your drugs?”

“My friends,” Jerry replied matter-of-factly.

“And what do you do for them in return?” the prosecutor asked, letting a hint of disbelief creep into his voice.

“Nuthin’.”

“And they’re still your friends?” More than a hint of disbelief. “When were you arrested on this warrant?” he continued.

“The day after the Superbowl.”

“In January?”

“February.”

“And you weren’t working then, either?”

“No.”

“So where did you get the money to bond out of jail?”

“From Crime Stoppers.”

“Excuse me?!” The prosecutor was openly incredulous.

“From Crime Stoppers.”

“So you turned someone in?” You could almost read the lawyer’s mind – maybe Jerry wasn’t selling drugs himself, but he knew people who were. He must have turned one of them in to the crime tips hotline.

“No, but my mom did.”

“Your mom? Whom did your mom turn in?”

“Me.”

No one made a sound for several seconds. I would have loved to have seen the Judge’s face, but I had my eyes locked firmly on the desktop, shuffling through papers, in a mostly successful attempt to keep a straight face.

“Let me see if I understand this.” The prosecutor’s voice rose significantly. “Your mother turned you in to the Crime Stoppers hotline, got the reward money and used that money to bail you out of jail?!”

“Yessir,” Jerry deadpanned, completely unperturbed.

The prosecutor collapsed against the back of the chair. “No further questions.”


I guess Jerry’s honesty paid off. The Judge sent him to treatment. But he maxed out the underlying sentence, so if Jerry screws up again, he’s going to serve the maximum amount of time possible. And the next time there is a warrant for Jerry, I bet Crime Stoppers receives a request from the District Attorney not to post any reward money for his capture.

Things I Think About on a Tuesday

I think that spring is here. I am going to dig. I need to plant the rosebushes that Jackson bought me for Valentine's Day. He always buys me flowering plants instead of cut flowers. Cool, huh?

Sometimes I think that Batman needs to just lighten the hell up. But mostly I think he's ok.

This year I think I am going to spend more time hiking. I'm only 36 miles from Caprock Canyon. Google maps thinks it would take me an hour and ten minutes to drive there. Silly Google.

I think we live way too close to the Dairy Queen. Blizzards are not our friends!

I think my nine o'clock appointment is not gonna show.

I don't know the person who bought the house catty-corner across from ours, but I think she might be my hero. Every time I've heard anyone mention it in town, they invariably say the same thing. "She's a single woman. I don't know what in the world she wants with a big house like that."

I think she might want that big ol' house so she'd have plenty of room for her solstice orgies and potion bottling operation. If I see her outside, painting pentagrams on the sidewalk, I'll probably stop and offer to help.

(I've never seen her, but I notice that she, too, is getting rid of the blue toilets in her house.)

I think the Japanese are resillient and innovative and it's going to be inspiring to see how they come through this crisis.

I am thinking about buying a bow and arrows. (Recurve. No wimpy compound bow for me!) Then I'll change my name to Rachel Hood. I look good in green.

I bought new work gloves during the lunch hour. They are pretty bad-ass. I think I'll probably be able to get the tiller started for the first time in a year with these bad boys on my hands. Yessirreebob.

I think I really need a pair of bib overalls and with a pouch of Levi Garrett chewin' tobacco in the front pocket. I'm channelling my inner Grandpa today...

I think this is a load of contradictory bullshit:

The husband and wife are of equal worth before God, since both are created in God's image. The marriage relationship models the way God relates to his people. A husband is to love his wife as Christ loved the church. He has the God-given responsibility to provide for, to protect, and to lead his family. A wife is to submit herself graciously to the servant leadership of her husband even as the church willingly submits to the headship of Christ. She, being in the image of God as is her husband and thus equal to him, has the God-given responsibility to respect her husband and to serve as his helper in managing the household and nurturing the next generation.

– Article XVIII. The Family. Baptist Faith and Message 2000

I don't actually spend time reading things like the Baptist Faith and Message. I just ran across a new (to me) term for an old idea and while looking it up, I found the excerpt from the Ye Olde Baptist Faith and Folklore. (New term: Complementarianism. Basically it means he and I are equal as long as he gets to be more equal tham me.)

I think I like being a Methodist, especially a marginal one. I'm sure they have their fair share of bullshit doctrines, but I'm not familiar enough with them to recognize any yet.

I think maybe familiarity really does breed contempt.