by

The Downside of Hamming It Up

You know that thing that I wrote about in my last post? About how much I love reading my work in public? How, basically, I encouraged everyone to run out the front door and just start hamming it up? Well, I’ve thought about it for a bit, and I believe I was somewhat irresponsible in my advice.

Being a ham runs in our family. The attractive gentleman pictured above was a cousin of mine. Back in the day, he was a bandleader for Jackie Gleason and Ed Sullivan. I’m pretty sure he never slept with Marilyn Monroe, but I’ll bet you he slept with that photo under his pillow until the day he died.

As a young woman, my grandmother did community theater in New York. I was once a singing telegram girl. My son’s a musician and my daughter is a karaoke addict. Amadeus has played in hundreds of bands over the years. It’s never been a problem for any of us, until recently.

Here’s a short documentary I just completed. I made it in hopes of educating the public about the dangers of applause addiction. I can only hope that someone, somewhere will benefit from it. Releasing one’s inner ham can be a beautiful, fulfilling experience. It can also be quite devastating. This is the story of one of our family members, who struggles daily with AOD (Attention Overdose Disorder). Please, don’t clap for her at the end. 

by

Release Your Inner Ham

I was invited to read one of my stories at an event I’ve grown very fond of. It’s held every couple of months in the lounge of a hotel in a neighboring town, and participants are given fifteen glorious minutes to perform. They invite you once; if you’re decent, they invite you back. “You’re family now,” the organizer told me after my first go-round, which made me feel happy, as though I’d successfully carried out a hit and had been invited to join the Gambino family.

It’s different every time. The other night, there were four poets, a magician, a comedian and popular local singer. I was the sole storyteller on the bill, the only woman performing (though the emcee was female), and one of the oldest human beings on the stage. I took the responsibility seriously. Holding people’s attention for fifteen minutes can be tricky, especially when alcohol’s involved.

The first poet read a piece that had to do with salvation and redemption. The emcee introduced the second  as a Christian slam poet. Easter and the Holy Trinity were discussed for a few minutes, and silently, I thanked the little inner voice that convinced me to switch stories at the last minute. Originally, I’d planned to read one about my father, for whom English was a second language and cursing, his native tongue. If people really do go to Hell for taking the Lord’s name in vain, I’m sure that Satan’s little helpers met Dad at the entrance and awarded him some sort of engraved plaque. Still, the story I’d decided on–one about my younger brother and our twisted childhood plots of vengeance-contained a few salty sailor words, and I wasn’t quite sure how it would be received.

The emcee introduced me and I stepped up to the platform, placed my papers on the music stand that Amadeus had brought for me and took a deep breath.

“My father used to endearingly refer to my mother as ‘bitch,’ ‘whore’ and ‘slut,’” I began, “When he was at a loss for more eloquent terms, he knocked her around. He was a load of fun.”

I heard some muttering, a few gasps and an “Oh my…” Uh oh. I plowed ahead.

“We kids were held to a higher standard of behavior. Not by Dad– we could have smoked crack in kindergarten and he wouldn’t have cared. But Mom was convinced that God was watching our every nose pick, and we knew that she was too.” Things got quieter. 

There’s something magical involved in the process of sharing our stories with others. It changes the air in the room. As I continued, I began to hear the most beautiful sounds. I was trying to be cool, but it’s just so damned rewarding when a gasp turns into a “mmmm hmmm,” an “amen” or an “ain’t that the truth.” To me, they’re the sounds of people relating to a familiar feeling or situation, the recognition of a shared experience. It’s the song of us bonding as human beings.

On Saturday night, for a quarter of an hour, I was wrapped in a blanket of laughter and goodwill. Looking out into the crowd, I saw lovely faces that seemed to register expressions of interest and happiness, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t alcohol-induced (not much, anyway). I looked over and saw Amadeus, grinning like crazy, which was loveliest of all. 

I sit in front of my laptop for hours a day, doing my thing, writing stories and essays and posts on this blog. Weeks can pass in which my only face to face adult interactions are with Amadeus and the cashier at Walgreen’s. Public readings and open mic nights break the cycle of solitude. Listening to the works of others pings my brain and makes me want to cheer. I’m enthralled when wordslingers read–I love hearing the intonations that were in their heads when they created their work. Words splash the air and flow into the audience; creativity fills every inch of the room. It’s sweet and warm, like being dipped in melted chocolate.

The opportunity to share my own work and interact with an audience thrills me. It’s not only a chance to meet new people, but an exchange of understanding, a connection of hearts and minds. It also allows me to release my inner ham. I can get pretty dramatic with all of this.

The other night, after I finished the story, the audience applauded (twice!), the emcee was an enthusiastic angel, and later, a few nice folks told me how much they’d enjoyed it. The Christian slam poet got downright gushy (despite my swear words) and a sweet old lady in white stretch pants held on to my hand and thanked me over and over. It delighted me, but I also felt a bit graceless and shy. I become a wreck when people ask where they can read more of my work, when they inquire about my blog and the things I’ve published. I haven’t yet figured out how to integrate my dual personalities– the one who loves to read aloud and the one who prefers to write under a pseudonym. I should probably be using these opportunities to network or gain exposure, but instead I stammer and stutter. I freeze like a sno-cone and fight the urge to do this:

 

But reading in public is good for me, and I urge those of you who are writers to give it a try. Releasing one’s inner ham is freeing. I was floating on a fluffy cloud of creativity the other night, and I’m still hovering today. It charges my batteries. It sparks my spirit. It reminds me that somehow, what I’m doing is worthwhile.

 

by

A Rant About Reggie

Abby the Spoon Lady and I chatted on Facebook a few weeks ago. She mentioned a news story about some train hoppers who’d been killed in an accident in Alabama. The rail riding community is a close-knit crew, and since Abby has logged her share of miles on trains, she was trying to find the names of those who’d died. Not their real names–train hoppers all use nicknames.

Hoping to help, I looked up the story online and found an interview with one of the survivors (you can click here to view it). Steve McCoy, whose train name is “Reggie,” ended up in the hospital with a crushed foot. He was fine, though somewhat traumatized. Understandable, considering he’d just witnessed three young friends get smashed to death by sliding steel beams as they slept inside a boxcar.

The reporter gave the details of the tragedy, sharing a little of Reggie’s sad background and briefly describing the lifestyle of those who ride the rails. He concluded with a warning about the dangers of train hopping. At the end of the interview, Reggie said he planned to return to the lifestyle he knew, traveling the country and making music, entertaining people on the streets in exchange for occasional tips. “I’ve got the opportunity to make the world better,” he said.

The story was sadly sweet, two point five minutes of information that not only recounted what happened, but humanized the riders. My heart went out to the kids who’d died, and to Reggie, who’d lived such a hard life, yet found comfort in the fact that he was giving something back to the world.

Then my eyes were drawn to the comments at the end of the article. There were only two. One said this:

 ”…Now the taxpayers and/or hospitals get stuck with an expensive bill and that is exactly why healthcare costs have sky-rocketed over the years…This Reggie cat ain’t nothing but another loser and drain on society…”

 The next one echoed the first person’s opinions:

“Well it looks like the taxpayers get to foot Reggie’s bill. Return to the lifestyle? CSX (the railroad) needs to press charges…”

My jaw dropped. Had we seen the same news story? Didn’t they just watch a video about three dead kids? Did they not just listen to a homeless guy pour his heart out about a devastating loss? Did they miss the fact that he was dealt a bad hand? That for some, life is so cruel that living on the streets and sleeping in boxcars is a preferable alternative to what they face at home? Is that what they came away with–that this guy was nothing more than a “loser and drain on society?”

It’s been weeks now, but I can’t get those commenters out of my head. If I thought they had the capacity for human compassion, I’d want to tell them this (I went back and deleted the cuss words).

The Reggies of this world must figure out how to survive. They have no loved ones to guide them, no safety net, no one who gives a shit. They’re often shuffled through the foster care system, and we’ve all read horror stories about that set up. Think about how horrendous a kid’s life must be to make living on the streets or hopping a train seem like a good idea.

There wasn’t a word of sorrow or empathy in your comments. Not a shred of compassion for three dead street kids or their friend.

When you look at another person’s suffering, and all you can think of is your own wallet, you’re in pretty miserable shape as a human being. Because sweetheart, it’s only the luck of the draw that got you where you are. Reggie’s way of life might not be your way, and it might not be mine. I can guarantee you that it isn’t the easy way. And in the grand scheme, he hasn’t asked you for much at all. 

When Abby tells the story of her marriage, and the reasons she hopped her first train, I doubt there are many who could listen to the tale and blame her for her decision (you can read about it here). If you search for her on the Internet, you’ll see comments from all over the country, written by people whose lives were made better by a rail rider who learned to clack two spoons together, a woman  who taught herself a skill because she didn’t want to ask for handouts without offering something in return (and boy, does she have a lot to offer).

That’s what Reggie’s doing. That’s what those kids did before they were killed. They traveled, they made music, they harmed no one.

The number of harsh, cruel online comments seems to be increasing every day. People rant about poor people. How they drain us. How they take advantage of the system. How ObamaCare is going to suck us dry and force employers to shut down. I believe it’s bull pucky. I believe we’re being played, big time.

We Little People are being pitted against each other. We’re forced to compete for jobs that pay too little in order to make it. We struggle to keep our children fed and roofs above their heads. A burst appendix or a carburetor gone bad could turn the shaky ground we stand on into a sinkhole. We’re stressed, we’re tired, we’re cranky. It feels complicated and hopeless to scream at those who reap the rewards of our labor. Besides, we depend on them, because they’re the ones doling out the paychecks. So we blame the people a rung below us on the socioeconomic ladder. We post hateful things about them on Facebook. 

I picture the millionaires and billionaires of this country sitting on thrones like Roman emperors, gleefully watching the working class and the poor duke it out and rip each other to shreds. They laugh as we fight and argue and lash out at each other in resentment. It’s so amusing when the Little People blame each other for their problems.

publicdomainphotos.net

Consider this for a minute. Say that Reggie, instead of hopping trains and peacefully going about his business, decided to work at McDonald’s instead. That he traded playing music and collecting tips for flipping burger patties over a hot, greasy grill. He’s a Working Man now, he’s legit. I’m terrible at math, but I tried to calculate how, financially, his life would change. Here’s what I came up with.

McDonald’s employees are paid, on average, $7.25 per hour. Let’s say Reggie is given 40 hours a week. This is very generous of McDonald’s. A lot of employers won’t give their workers over 35 hours, because they’d be required to pay benefits. But Reggie lucked out. He makes $290 a week.

23% of that is withheld for federal taxes, Social Security and Medicare. 23% of $290 is $66.70 (or 9.2 hours of his labor).

$290 – $66.70 = $223.30

Let’s fantasize that Reggie owns his own vehicle, that a magical fairy waved a wand and he has no car payments to deal with. Say it’s a mid-size, with a sixteen gallon tank and that he fills that tank once a week to get to work. Today, the national average for gas is $3.68 per gallon.

$3.68 x 16 = $58.88

He’s down to $164.42. Of course, he’s required to carry, at minimum, liability insurance, and the national average for that runs between $1000 and $1500 per year. We’ll go with the low end.

$1000 divided by 52 weeks in a year = $19.23 per week.

Reg has $145.19 sitting in the bank right now.

Because he lives in Fantasy Land, he’s found a dreamy little apartment and the best roommate ever!! The rent is only $400 per month, and he splits it down the middle. Wow! That’s about $50 a week.

$145.19 – $50 = $95.19

According to a recent Gallup poll, the average American spends $151 per week on food. But Reggie is not an average American. He is a frugal American living in Fantasy Land. Let’s say that he spends $7 a day–$1.50 for breakfast, $2.50 for lunch, and $3 for dinner, which comes to $49 a week.

$95.19 – $49.00 = $46.19

Good job, Reggie! $46.19 is nothing to sneeze at.

Okay, now we’re going to deduct his utilities and his phone, and on top of that he’s going to have to pay for medical insurance so that he doesn’t “drain” society. Let’s also figure in a little cushion, in case he runs over a nail or needs a haircut or a stick of deodorant, because you need tires and haircuts and deodorant to stay employed. Let’s say that he dares take in a movie or goes out for a beer once a month, to celebrate his good fortune.

Oh wait. He can’t do any of that, can he? We haven’t even figured in toilet paper. 

McDonald’s made $24 billion in revenue last year. Jim Skinner, their CEO, made $8.25 million, or $158,653 a week. $22,602 every day of the year.

In 2011, the top five oil companies (who pay about 17.6% in taxes, compared to Reggie’s 22%) cleared $130,000,000,000 in profits. That’s $130 billion. I just wrote the zeros out because I was impressed by how many of them there were. Anyway, that’s $375,000,000 per day that they make in take home pay (after operating expenses). According to thinkprogress.org, that’s $261,000 every minute of every day. I wonder how much of this obscene amount of money goes toward improving the lives of the people they gouge.

I hate sounding preachy and opinionated here, but I truly believe we need to change our mindsets and stop blaming the poor for all of our ills. We have to stop scapegoating each other. We’ve got to show some compassion and love. We need to stop sitting in front of our keyboards and dumping our frustrations on those less fortunate than we are. Yes, we’re all struggling, at least most of us are. Yes, poverty is a problem. There will always be dumbasses out there– messy people with messy lives who bring babies into this world without having the brains or means to support them. There will always be those who take advantage of others, whether they’re the CEOs of major corporations or welfare moms and dads who’ve learned to beat the system. But there are also millions of decent people who simply plug along, trying as best they can to survive, and right now, that system is all they’ve got. It doesn’t behoove us to blast every mom with a shopping cart and a food stamp card. We don’t know their stories.

Reggie McCoy isn’t part of the problem. In a way, he’s a success. He figured out how to escape his circumstances and make his own way in the world, and until this accident, he seems to have asked for little more than a train ride in return. Rail hoppers typically don’t stay in one spot long enough to collect welfare, food stamps or unemployment.

In a kinder society, he and his friends would never have needed to run away in the first place. No child in this country should ever be in want of food, clothing, shelter, safety or love. In a better world, the shamelessly greedy oil industry profiteers would use some of their billions to help the people we keep blaming, to repair the broken social systems that fail us all. You know, to thank those who work their asses off to fill their gas tanks and, in turn, line the pockets of the 1%.

Reggie’s words keep ringing in my ears. “I’ve got the opportunity to make the world better.” Can you imagine? This guy who has nothing? This guy who’s lost so much? May everyone be so kind in spirit. My husband and I are happy to know that a part of our taxes might go toward his hospital bill. We wish him well.

by

The Ripple Effect

By my standards, something incredible happened yesterday–something huge and wonderful and heartstring-yanking and a little mind-blowing. I’d planned to wait a while before writing about it, but it’s 2 a.m. and I can’t sleep, because it just keeps jumping around inside me. I’m going to try to at least begin telling you the story now. I’ll stop when my eyelids start closing and pick up again after sunrise.

This is a probably going to be a bit long and convoluted, but please try to stay with me on this. You may want to grab a beverage and a snack. Oh, and some Kleenex.

On August 30, 2007, I wrote a post entitled “I Love You, Miss Reed,” about my first-grade teacher and the profound way she changed my world. Betty Reed was a miracle in my life, and I wanted to express it. Since I hadn’t seen her since my elementary school days and the chances of ever being able to convey my gratitude in person were slim, I wrote about it instead. Still, I always longed to find her, to tell her myself.

Over the years, I searched for her on the Internet from time to time, when I was feeling particularly blessed in my life and lucky to be here on the planet. I never found a thing–no Facebook page or address, nothing that linked her to the school, which, to complicate matters more, had undergone a name change. The six-year-old me vaguely recalled that Miss Reed left our school at the end of that year to get married, but I was never quite sure if it was true or if I was confusing her with Miss Crabtree on “The Little Rascals.”

Despite the time and attention Miss Reed devoted to me, the rest of my academic career was an unfortunate waste of desk space. My Hebrew school training was a flop. The time I served there isn’t time that I enjoy reflecting upon. Overall, childhood sucked (and I think of my childhood as having lasted decades). But here I sit, happy and healthy and somewhat sane, and though I’m not a religious woman, I am a very grateful one. The one thing about having had a Tragic Upbringing is that you seldom take the good for granted. Every night, I thank the Great Whatever It Is for the people who’ve shown me kindness on my journey. I’ve surely forgotten many of them, but I’ll never forget Miss Reed, as that earlier blog post illustrates.

I’m kind of hemming and hawing here, trying to figure out the best way to go on. The thing is that yesterday, I did one of my once-in-a-blue-moon searches for Betty Reed, mostly to take my mind off of the fact that I was STBW (supposed to be writing). Like a safecracker working to get the locks to tumble, I Googled different combinations of words–her name, the city, the school. No results. Nada. I experimented, squeezing the name of the school and hers between quotation marks. Scrolling through pages and pages, I finally hit pay dirt–a small Google preview that contained both the name of my beloved teacher and the school’s original name. I clicked the link and discovered a newsletter, written by the current dean of my former school, who I must say looks a lot younger and hipper than any faculty member I recall from my days there.

I burrowed into a corner of the sofa and hunkered down to read, hoping to glean at least one little clue as to what became of Betty Reed. The article was on the front page, written a little over a month ago. As is policy on my blog, I’m changing most of the names here. I’ll call my elementary alma mater MFS (Moonbeam’s Former School).

What follows is what the dean wrote:

I intended to write this column about the National Jewish Day School Conference which I attended…earlier this week. I was going to focus on the keynote given by Harvard professor and highly acclaimed author Tony Wagner about where education is and where it is headed. But when 11th grader Adam Kalen walked into my office on Wednesday afternoon, I realized that the conference would have to wait. There was something more important I had to share. It wasn’t about the future of education but about its past. It wasn’t about imagining what the MFS can be, but about reminding ourselves of what it has always been. Adam told me he had been meaning to come by for a few weeks, and apologized that he hadn’t. He said that he had been standing outside our school building on a Shabbat (Sabbath) morning some time ago, when a man drove by in a pickup truck and asked him for the school office. When Adam explained that the office was closed on Saturday, the man handed him a sealed envelope and asked him to deliver it to the principal. I opened the envelope and found a letter inside. Here is what it said:

Back in the late fifties or early sixties, when I was a young child, MFS hired my mother as a first grade teacher. At the time, my mother was a single parent with four young children and this job was our family’s lifeline. And while this job was a true blessing for our family in and of itself, the people at the MFS also helped our family in many other ways. At the time, I remember my mother saying that the people at MFS treated us like part of their family.

In one particular situation someone at MFS found out that although I needed eyeglasses, we couldn’t afford them. Shortly after that, a very kind gentleman who was an eye doctor made it possible for me to get my first eyeglasses. His office was downtown-‐I think on Main Street. I’m sorry that I don’t remember his name–I was just a child–but I do remember his kindness and that when I was nervous during the eye exam he made me laugh when he instructed me to look directly at his beak–even then I knew he was poking fun at his prominent nose.

Having eyeglasses opened up the world to me, and after getting my glasses I developed a love for reading. And as I grew older, it was from my love of reading and self study that I was later able to teach myself a skill. And with that skill I have been able to provide for my family and to make it possible for my stepdaughter to attend college and I’m proud to say that she is now in graduate school. And with her new skills, she will one day be able to provide for her family.

Years ago, a kind individual’s generosity made it possible for a young boy to see the world more clearly, and I wanted the MFS family to know that the gift was never forgotten, and to say thanks ‐ not only for the kindness, but for everything that a single act of kindness made possible.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Daniel Reed, son of Betty Reed

Attached to the letter there was check. On the check was a post‐it note. It read: Maybe you could help someone else with this! ‐ Daniel Reed.

Daniel: I can and I will. But please know that your thoughtful gift won’t just help a child in need. It will inspire a community.

I read it three times. Big, gloopy tears rolled down my face and so many thoughts and emotions ran through me that I shook like an electrocuted squirrel. Now that I knew Miss Reed’s full name (and that she wasn’t a “miss” but a “missus”), I did another search, and this time a small snippet of an obituary popped up. Apparently, my dear, sweet teacher died nearly three years ago. Once again, I Googled, this time for the dean’s email address, and quickly sent him this:

Good afternoon, Rabbi P-,

I hope this e-mail reaches you, and that it finds you well. I just came across the beautiful story you wrote in the newsletter, about receiving the check from Daniel Reed, and I feel that I have to write you (as soon as I stop crying).

I attended MFS decades ago, from kindergarten through eighth grade. I was definitely not a typical MFS student–my family was very poor and we were not Orthodox. My parents were in an awful marriage and home was a very scary place. My siblings and I were traumatized and quite neglected. We also lived in a very rough part of town, and endured quite a bit of after-school anti-semitism. Needless to say, I kind of stood out from the crowd, for all the wrong reasons. I was an awful student, just awful, and while many of my teachers and classmates were very nice to me, unfortunately, quite a few were not. Still, I credit the school for allowing me to attend (I surely was given some sort of scholarship or aid), and for providing me with the only stability that I had at the time. It gave me firmer foundation, and a glimpse of civility that didn’t exist at home. I just don’t think that anyone knew what to make of the messy, troubled little girl who showed up for class each weekday. I’m sure I was pretty hard to tolerate.

But there was one teacher there who accepted me unconditionally, and that was Betty Reed. No matter how disheveled or exhausted I was, that lovely woman greeted me with a warm smile each weekday morning. Sometimes she even hugged me. Under her tutelage, I was reading at a sixth* grade level in first grade (though I barely passed my other classes). She instilled in me a love for literature and writing that I carry to this day. In fact, I became a writer.

I still have a lacy, rather yellowed thank you card that she wrote to me back in 1966. Here is what it said:

“…Thank you for the stationary. I love it because it’s so pretty, but most of all I love it because it came from my very special friend. I love you…– Betty Reed”

You cannot imagine what those words meant to me. Mrs. Reed made me feel valued when no one else did. There were other kind teachers who came along later, but in my nine years at MFA, she had the greatest impact on my life.

For years, I tried to find her, to thank her for all she’d done for me. So often people quietly change the lives of others for the better, never realizing the impact of what they’ve done. I wanted to tell her. It wasn’t until I came across the story in your newsletter that I realized that she too was struggling at that time. It reminded me that life works in mysterious and beautiful ways. For over forty years, I’ve carried the memory of this wonderful woman in my heart, feeling grateful for the goodness she had bestowed on me when I was six years old. I never imagined that at the same time, one of her own children was carrying the same feelings for those who had employed her. The world is a wonderful place.

I did an Internet search after reading your story, and I believe that Mrs. Reed has passed away. I don’t know if you have a way of contacting her son, but if you do, I hope that you’ll feel free to forward him this e-mail and/or my e-mail address. I’d like to tell him how remarkable his mother was, though I have a feeling he already knows.

Thank you for sharing your experience, Rabbi P-. You’ve made my whole week.

Sincerely,

A Former Student

In exactly nine minutes, I received an email back, which said:

Wow. The good keeps going: He made my week, I made yours, and now you’ve made mine again. Thank you.

I do have an address for her son and I will gladly send him a copy of your email. I was wondering whether you might be comfortable with my publishing it in my newsletter and perhaps on my blog as well? If you’d rather I didn’t because it reveals too many personal details, I’d certainly understand. If you are comfortable with it though, I think it might just be the gentle push someone else needs to become the next Betty Reed.

All the best,

G-

Holy shmoly, he signed it with his first name! My, how that school has changed. I told him that I’d need to check with the rest of my family before I could give him the green light on publishing it. The school had been small when I attended. It wouldn’t be hard for certain people to identify us. I needed some time to think.

When Amadeus got home from work, I told him everything. I read him the story in the newsletter, and cried all over again. “That’s beautiful, baby,” he said. My daughter came over a few hours later, read the whole thing, and got a little weepy.

“Wow, Mom. This is amazing.”

I forwarded the e-mails to my siblings (along with a link to the newsletter) and asked if they were okay with my letter being published. My sister texted: “Of course!” My brother wrote back: “What an amazing story…! If it helps others, be my guest.” He added some smooshy stuff about how blessed he was to have such swell sisters. It was a love fest, I tell you.

Later, I mulled the whole thing over. Basically, I’d be giving a stranger permission to share my less-than-spectacular opinion of my years at that school; most likely, several of my former classmates have children and grandchildren who are students there now. But that wasn’t the point. The point was Miss Reed. Mrs. Reed.The point was kindness, something I could have used a bit more of while I’d been there. Maybe the rabbi was right. Maybe it would give a gentle push.

A few hours ago, I wrote back and told him that he could publish my letter. He in turn gave me permission to reprint what he’d written. I have news for him though–there will never be another Betty Reed. But I think we’re both rather astounded by Daniel’s story, and hopeful that some of his mother’s fairy dust will settle onto at least a few people.

So much has been swimming through my mind. About the power of words. About the beauty of this world and the ripple effect of a good deed. About the multi-facetedness of life, and the invisible thread that sometimes seems to connect us. But I’m not going to try to explain it. I have a feeling you already know.

~~~~~

*A clarification: In my haste to write to the dean, I couldn’t remember if I’d read at a sixth or eighth grade level, so I erred on the side of caution. I called my mother and she confirmed that it was indeed eighth, which is what I’d written in the “I Love You, Miss Reed” post.

I’m sorry that this isn’t more readable. I was having major formatting issues, and finally gave up.

by

The Ballad of Sid and Mary

 
 
One evening Sid and Mary,

Had a dreadful, nasty fight;

He called her a drunk and a skank and asked how

She could sleep with his childhood friend, Dwight.
 
 
 
And Mary told Sid she had done no such thing,

Though who’d blame her one bit if she did?

She hadn’t been touched in four solid months

And the fault lay squarely with Sid.
 
 
 
Sid said well maybe if Mary

Stopped scarfing down donuts and chips,

Then possibly he’d feel a sudden urge,

To put his hands back on her hips.
 
 
 
Then Mary said, “Sid you’re a total ass,

You care less about me than crappie or bass,

or boats or trucks or drinking beer–

You’ve got mommy issues, it’s perfectly clear.

Your bad taste in music just proves you’re a hick.

You can’t hold a job and you’re dumb as a brick.”
 
 
 
And Sid said, “Oh yeah? Well you’re loud and bipolar,

You’re needy and mean and a terrible bowler.

You smile at your friends, but then later talk trash

You’re petty and jealous, you’ve got a mustache.”
 
 
 
I couldn’t stop reading–I was just too engrossed,

They were broadcasting live via Facebook post!

It was all quite insane, it was simply absurd,

that I was made privy to such savage words.

I’d only met them twice at best,

(Sid “friended” me after a music fest).

But in their rage they shed all decorum,

And posted their fight in a public forum.
 
 
 
Strangers, acquaintances, family and friends,

Silently witnessed their vindictive end.

I was hoping they’d somehow patch things up,

(though I know that may sound strange),

but they settled their fight that terrible night,

with a simple status change.
 
 
 
Facebook complicates my life,

(It spurred me to write this bad poem),

I think of Sid’s truck and of Mary’s top lip,

And I hate it because I don’t know ‘em.

by

“The Bible” Mini Series: A Quick Review of Episode Two

Amadeus and I watched the second installment of “The Bible” mini-series on the History Channel last night, mostly because we were too lazy to press the button on the remote control, which says a lot about us I’m afraid. It’s just that sometimes, the TV will be on, then we’ll get into other projects, and before you know it, time has passed and we look up and realize that someone’s been trying to sell us a “Miracle Bra” for the past two hours. That’s kind of what happened last night, only with Abraham and Moses instead of cleavage. Hearing God’s voice makes you look up from what you’re doing, even if God sounds a lot like a disc jockey on the smooth jazz station.

I’m warning you now, we’re both heathens, so if you’re easily offended, you may want to head over to a more reverent blog (which, come to think of it, is almost any blog). For two people who were raised in such religious households (albeit very different types of religions), at this point, we’re both pretty certain that we’re headed for Hell, and we’ve come to terms with that. Actually, we think we may have already been there.

Sadly, last night’s production wasn’t a very good one, but we cut the writers some slack because they’re trying to cram thousands of years into ten hours, and a third of those hours are commercials. We were hoping for some Super Bowl caliber sponsors, like Doritos and Budweiser, but instead, got mostly Wal-Mart and Christian Mingle. But despite the gazillions of ads, the sub-par script, the huge gaps in the narrative, and the weird casting (i.e., Moses looks like a bloated alcoholic), we were sucked into the show, because no matter how badly you screw it up, there are just no better stories than the ones in the Bible.

We watched it like we were watching college basketball, cheering and whooping and booing and talking to the TV as though the actors could hear us. “Don’t look back!” we yelled at Lot’s wife, but of course she didn’t listen, and became a giant salt lick.

We were very disappointed in the angels in the story, who were more like Ninja warriors than celestial beings. No wings, no halos, no flying, but they could sure kick ass. Still, we were longing for a little more CGI and maybe a harp or two.

At one point, Amadeus had to go to the store, and I brought him up to speed when he got back. “Okay, so Abraham and Sarah couldn’t have kids, so she suggested that Abraham go ahead and marry her handmaiden, Hagar, who I think is one of Sammy Hagar’s relatives. God gave them the go-ahead and Abraham got Hagar pregnant and out popped Ishmael. But even though Sarah was acting all cool with it, she really wasn’t. She and Hagar started fighting, and then Sarah got pregnant after all, and she had a son too, so Abraham just sent ol’ Hagar and their kid out into the desert to fend for themselves for the rest of their lives. I’ll bet you money that he didn’t pay her any child support, either.”

We turned back to the screen. At this point, God had sent Abraham up the mountain to murder Isaac, the child He blessed him with, his miracle kid. Sarah’s crying, Abraham’s crying, little Isaac’s crying, then Abraham goes to plunge the knife into his son’s heart and BAM! Invisible Angel Intervention. It was all a little sketchy on the show, and the segment ended rather abruptly, so I explained to Amadeus, “See? God was just testing Abraham’s faith. It was all kind of a trick–the angel moved the knife at the last minute. Abraham sacrificed a lamb instead of his son, and from that point on, all Jewish guys had their wee-wees circumcised, as a covenant to God.” Amadeus was trying to follow this logic, but I could see that it was all a little confusing, the way it’s been confusing thousands of people for thousands of years. For a moment we pondered how psychologically damaging all of this must have been to Abraham and his family, but by then they’d moved onto the story of Moses.

“Oh, boy!” I said, “I love this one!” My childhood was flashing before my eyes. I slept through most all of my religious school classes, but I could never get enough of the stories. Try as they might, the Brothers Grimm couldn’t come close to all of the magic and weirdness. “Didn’t you think this was the coolest stuff when you were a kid?” I squee-ed to my husband. “Princesses and Kings and giants and talking bushes and sticks that turned into snakes? It was amazing! Best stories ever!” He agreed.

We felt awfully bad for poor, puffy Moses, who thought he was Egyptian royalty, only to discover that he was a lowly Jew, rescued from a basket on a river. It’s akin to growing up believing you were a Kardashian, then finding out that you were, well, me. Moses started out rather buff, bald and handsome but as soon as he found out he was Jewish, blammo! He became all shleppy-looking and downtrodden. It was very sad.

Amadeus and I talked about what shite lives people had back then. Moses worked his ass off, leading his people out of slavery and into the desert to wander around in the sand and heat for forty years, only to die at the border of the Promised Land. We watched as he parted the Red Sea, and longed for Charlton Heston, because not only did he part seas much better, but looked about 5000 times handsomer doing it. Plus, there were no chariots in this production, which really bummed us out. There’s something so dramatic about watching soldiers and horses drown.

As Mo climbed Mount Sinai to fetch the Ten Commandments, as the wind blasted and lightning flashed, we wondered aloud why God couldn’t make things just a tiny bit easier for him. For some reason, in those days, one couldn’t just go for a pleasant day of mountain climbing and commandment getting– everything had to be a big, theatrical deal. At the same time, the writers omitted a lot of really fun details in this version of events, like the whole part about Moses’ hair turning white, and the fact that everyone was down at the foot of the mountain partying and worshipping a Golden Calf while he was suffering at the summit. They left out his big temper tantrum and the tablet smashing, probably because it was time for more commercials.

When “The Bible” returned, they showed previews for the upcoming episode. I’m pretty pumped, because it features Samson and Delilah, and Samson has these incredible dreadlocks. I’m sort of hoping that he sings some Bob Marley tunes, but you just never know. 

by

Freebies

crosshatched-heartI’m still feeling smooshy-hearted, mostly because of the things I mentioned in yesterday’s post. So I want to do something nice for you (at least, I hope it’s nice). For the next 24 hours, I’m giving away free e-books (woohoo)!

Simply head over to Smashwords and follow these instructions:

Click here to download “The Watch.” Enter coupon code QK74P.

Click here to download “Peculiar Rhymes and Intimate Observations.” Enter coupon code SH54F.

I suggest you read “The Watch” first, because it’s oh-so-sad. You can cheer yourself up with “Peculiar Rhymes,” because it’s very silly.

Thanks for the fantastic support you’ve given me while I muddle my way through what is (currently) for me, the complicated world of self-publishing. I think you’re awfully swell.