Know where I can pick up an imagination cheap?

According to W.P. Kinsella, "Writing is ability, imagination, passion, and stamina. Ability is being able to write complete sentences with clear, straightforward, standard English, which eliminates 70% of everyone who wants to write. Imagination is having a story to tell, which eliminates another 20%..." I made it into the top 30% -- woohoo. I am seriously screwed.

I attended my first fiction writing class last night which I enjoyed in a licking a 9-volt battery kind of way. My classmates are very smart, very articulate, and very talented (the bastards). We were given a sheet of paper printed with several first lines from short stories and told to pick two lines that appealed to us. The two I chose were: "Understand that your cat is a whore and cannot help you," and "Early in the morning on the first anniversary of the day her family survived, the mother woke." We were then told to write a paragraph using one of the sentences we chose as the first line and the other choice as the last line. Fuck me. Okay fine, I somehow managed to slap some bullshit between those two sentences in a somewhat coherent manner. I even had time to revise because other students were taking a lot of time with this. The professor finally called time and asked if anyone would like to read their paragraphs. You betcha! Those students that wrote for so long -- effing brilliant. Made what I wrote look like "Dick, Jane, and Sally had a wreck and hate their cat, Spot. The end."

We have until September 18th (3 weeks) to turn in our first story. Two students turned their's in last night, of course. I've begun four stories; does that count?

That's entertainment.

Yep, some days you're the dark crystal and some days you're the Podling. I swear to God, there are days I feel like my computer at work is sucking the essence right out of me.

I'm a movie whore. I admit it. I also love live theatre but don't get the opportunity to attend often enough. The best play I ever saw (outside of my daughter's) was "Dance of Death" starring Sir Ian McKellan and Frances De La Tour. I was fortunate enough to see it at the Lyric Theatre in London back in '03. I so admire English actors in that even though they may be successful in movies; they regularly return to the stage to hone their skills. American actors -- not so much. I saw poor Julianne Moore acting opposite Bill Nighy in "The Vertical Hour" last November on Broadway and Mr. Nighy mopped the floor with her.

My favorite movie at the moment is "Secret Life of Words" with Tim Robbins, Sarah Polley and the remarkable Julie Christie. It's a beautifully acted, quiet film that affected me deeply.

So, maybe your thinking that I'm an entertainment snob. Well, guess what. I also live and breathe a (Jesus, I can't believe I'm admitting this) soap opera. "Days of Our Lives" to be specific. But, I'm choosy about that too. I only watch episodes with Stephen Nichols and Mary Beth Evans aka Steve and Kayla. Thanks to the internet I know when they will be on. Hey, they're out there turning the crap that's been written for them into gold day after day after day with little time for rehearsal. It's the closest thing you'll see to live theatre on TV. I gotta hand it to them. And, at least the soaps are employing actors (that is when they aren't casting models) unlike all the reality show crap. Johnny Depp got his start on a soap as did Meg Ryan, Julianne Moore, George Clooney, Halle Barry, Jimmy Smits, Heath Ledger, Morgan Freeman, the list goes on and on.

Therefore, I amend my initial statement. I'm a movie, theatre, television whore. An equal opportunity slut, if you will.

Introspection ain't for sissies

I’m beginning to question my admittedly dark sense of humor. I really cannot set boundaries for myself where comedy is concerned. You know how some people say, “Years from now, we’ll look back on this and laugh.”? Well for me, “years from now” is usually about ten minutes. (30 seconds if it involves somebody falling down.)

I come by this trait honestly. My brothers and sister are the same way. We barely made it through the funeral arrangements for our father – that is how despicable we are. The priest was quite at a loss. Don’t get me wrong, we all love Daddy and miss him terribly, but there’s just something in our wiring that wrings the comedy out of just about any situation.

I had the pooey scared out of me about 3 weeks ago when my daughter in New York had a medical emergency. She passed out while substitute teaching a ballet class for inner city kids. She busted her chin open and had to go to the ER for stitches. They also ran a battery of tests to try to diagnose the cause of her fainting. She was upset, we were worried, boyfriend was distraught, etc. Turns out, there was no reason for the faint. They called it vasovagal syncope which sounds lethal so I looked it up online and the entry was: Vasovagal syncope (fainting). Apparently the danger posed by vasovagal syncope is hurting yourself when you hit the floor, or sidewalk, or stairs …

Okay, so last week. My daughter, being of my blood, made a crack about my appearance in a photo I posted in this blog. She remarked that my arm looked fake and jeeringly called me “Wax Arm Mom.” That’s all I needed. I immediately shot off a postcard to her that was a 50’s era black and white photo of three little angelic ballerinas and their equally angelic, young teacher. Above each little tutu’ed cherub I drew a thought balloon. The first one said, “Man, this new sub really blows.” The second one said “Well at least this one’s conscious,” while the third was used to symbolize the trauma inflicted on the poor little kids in my daughter’s class and said “Find a happy place. Find a happy place. Find a happy place…”

What kind of mother am I? To make fun of my own daughter’s unfortunate incapacitation. God … I suck! Self realization’s a bitch. Now that I’ve recognized this flaw in my character, I’ll change. Right? NOT BLOODY LIKELY!!! I direct your attention, dear reader, to my new slogan, located in the upper right corner of this page. I got it off a bumper sticker.

Musical reawakening

For years I had virtually no interest in popular music. I was content to listen to whatever my husband was playing -- usually Jimmy Buffet and James Taylor -- which was fine. My brother is a blues musician and I love his music also. My son plays guitar and writes songs that are, to me, visceral.
Then I was given an iPod by my daughter and I rediscovered the thrill of music that spoke to me or took me back to a time when life was waiting. I started by sampling what my kids were listening to and came across groups that just blew me away. Man Man comes to mind. I came home one day and my son was listening to something upstairs that stopped me in my tracks. I went upstairs to find him downloading Man Man and was blown away by the no rules blend of sounds. They use all sorts of instruments, from accordion to cutlery thrown into metal bowls. And the vocalist has this rough, almost gutteral voice backed up by high-pitched child-like singers. I hear something new everytime I listen.
I pick up on songs now that I would have ignored not so very long ago. My favorite at the moment is "Johnny Appleseed" by Joe Strummer and the Mescalaros. It is the opening song for "John from Cincinnati," an HBO series. HBO always has great music for their series'. "Johnny Appleseed" has a 60's retro sound with the political lyrics of disenchanted youth.
I also am amazed at the great music coming out of Arkansas. Who knew? There's Benjamin del Shreve, Latture, Evanescence, Lucero, Delarosa, Official Version, The Boswells and more that I can't think of now. Oh, and of course, there's my brother's band, N2Blues.

Tiggerbutt Returns

After being missing for over 24 hours, our cat, Tiggerbutt, came home. We were all very worried about him because he's an indoor cat. Our last cat, Ziggy, was an indoor/outdoor cat who came and went as she pleased. She lived to be 19 so I don't think it hurt her any. We've been afraid to let Tiggerbutt out because we figured he'd get his ass kicked by the monster tom that lives in the storm drain in our back yard.

We walked the neighborhood after work yesterday as it dawned on us that unless the cat was out in the open, or up on somebody's porch; we'd never see him. We went home all dejected thinking he was gone for good.

We left the garage door up last night in case he should wander by and recognize his old hangout. (The closed garage is the closest he comes to the outside world.) My husband got up around 1:00 a.m., went downstairs and looked out into the garage and, lo and behold, there was Tiggerbutt! I was sound asleep when I felt hubby plop down on my side of the bed. I didn't respond thinking, "Hey, I'm sleeping here!" He plopped down again. I remained still thinking maybe the old bear trick would work and he would lose interest. Then he said my name loudly. Shit. I opened my eyes and he was sitting there holding the cat. All was once again right with the world. The cat's all lovey now but spooks easily. I hope he relaxes soon 'cuz I don't want him to be a tweaky cat.

"But the cat came back the very next day,

The cat came back, we thought he was a goner

But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away."

-Harry S. Miller

Why is Northwest Airlines still in business?

I wanna go home! I am stuck in Memphis because my Northworst flight out of Savannah was an hour late. I missed my 2:45 connection and am now supposed to get out of here around 7:15. To borrow from Mario Cantone (and meaning no disrespect to the hearing impaired) FUCK NORTHWEST!!!!! SMELLY, SMELLY ASSHOLE, ASSHOLE, ASSHOLE, SMELLY, SMELLY ASSHOLE, ASSHOLE! (insert sign language).

Jebus Christ! If I get out of here tonight it will be a freakin’ miracle. My husband is monitoring my new flight online and just called to tell me that it is also delayed and my new departure time is 8:30.

I’m sitting in one of two smoking establishments in the Memphis Airport - The Blues Spot. I’m on my second glass of Cabernet. Can’t hear airport announcements in here, plenty of blues but no airport announcements. My husband will keep me apprised of flight developments.

The flight here from Savannah was horrendous. The cabin was so cold my nipples are still sore. When the jet jumped into the air my cell phone jumped out of my pocket and slid all the way to the back of the cabin to the wall underneath the last seats. The asshole pilot never turned off the seat belt light so I finally just got up when I saw the beverage cart starting down the aisle and retrieved my cell phone, constantly aware of the sidelong glances I was getting from the other passengers and flight attendant. I guess somebody crawling under the last seats of a plane would look a little suspicious. When I unwrapped from the cheap-ass NW blanket to get up, I discovered that my khaki capris were covered in navy blue fuzz.

I ordered coffee which was blessedly hot. Unfortunately, we hit a nasty pocket of turbulence right after the beverage service. I lucked out but most the other passengers didn’t. The poor guy across from me got a whole can of Pepsi in his lap. There was no heads up from the sorry ass flight crew. I’ve flown a lot and other crews would warn you of the slightest bit of turbulence. We continued to hit patches of turbulence and never heard from the flight crew. In fact, we never heard a word from those bastards. No ETA, nuthin. I guess they were too busy trying to figure a way to keep us on the tarmac long enough to miss our connections.

I finally took my life in my hands and went to the bathroom knowing I would need to haul ass to get to my gate if I had any chance to make my connection. Thankfully there was no turbulence while I was in there but I thought I would pass out from the smell. I’ve used vault toilets that smelled better. When I finally got off the plane, I had to run over to another concourse to my gate. The gate agent looked like somebody had just run over her dog - repeatedly. She said the flight was gone and that she saw my flight was at the gate but couldn’t hold the flight for me. Her expression said, “Kill me, please.” She gave me a $10 food voucher, and a boarding pass for the next flight and sent me on my way. And, here I am camped out in The Blues Note and praying I get home tonight. FUCK NORTHWEST!!!! SMELLY, SMELLY DOUCHEBAG, DOUCHEBAG, DOUCHEBAG, SMELLY, SMELLY DOUCHEBAG, DOUCHEBAG!
A new wave a passengers just showed up to satisfy their nicotine joneses. Oh shit, somebody just asked to borrow my matches and I’m sure saw my screen. Oh well, at least he was polite. I think my server has gone home.

I am now at my gate a mere 2 and a half hours early. This concourse is all Northwest and everybody in here, passengers and gate agents alike, wears the expression of the walking wounded. Nothing over the intercom but announcements of delayed flights and subsequent gate changes. Good Lord, you'd think this was January and we were in the middle of a blizzard. Is there a hurricane I don't know about? Did the Yellowstone Calderra finally erupt?

Joe warned me that Northwest wasn't reliable. But did I listen? Nooooo.

Update: I just learned from a fellow stranded traveler that the reason for the delays is that about 150 Northwest pilots walked out today. I guess that'll do it. Oh, and I hate kids with those sneakers that have roller skates in them. I'm just not sure if it's because they zip in front of me as I'm trudging my tired ass down the concourse or because I'm jealous.

Lazy day on St. Simons

It's raining here and everybody's asleep. My sister-in-law and the dog in one bedroom, brother-in-law in another and I'm here in the guest room catching up on computer stuff. I've been here since Thursday and the time has just flown by. They're the best hosts - even the dog.

I've had a relaxing time talking, eating out, shopping. We toured Jeckyll Island yesterday. The place has a fascinating history as a millionaire's club during the first half of the 20th century. Morgan, Rockefeller, all the titans of the early 1900's before there was income tax. Jeckyll Island was founded as a hunting club for an exclusive brotherhood of millionaires. They built "cottages" there of 5000-6000 square feet and and had a club house that was actually a resort hotel. Formal dinners every night, everybody brought 6 or 7 servants with them. The servants had their own dormitories. The place is dripping with southern charm as thick as the spanish moss dripping from the centuries old live oaks.

I leave tomorrow and will be sorry to go.