The Old South

My, but it's a beautiful night tonight. Nothing at all like the usual sticky Summer nights in Tennessee where you sweat just thinking about moving and according to the mosquitoes, you must have "buffet" written in huge neon letters over your head. The breeze is blowing the trees into a lovely rustle. The milky moon hangs high and shimmers the roof tops making them look like they have a thick coating of quicksilver . The streets are quiet here with only the occasional dog barking or the 10:40 train going down the line. The houses are mostly dark now.

I sat for a while on the steps of the big, wooden slatted front porch and watched the fire flies and listened to the wind bustling through the azaleas and the thick, waxy leaves of my neighbor's magnolia tree. Every now and then, the breeze shifted and the fragrant scent of the iridescent ivory blossoms wafted back across the porch. It was lovely. I inhaled deeply. I love the South.

Lately, my friend and I have been trying our best to recreate what we remember about Southern meals - the kind that always leave those who consume them afterwards gasping for air, unbuttoning buttons and kissing the cook on the cheek. Something just seemed to be missing from weekends and since we still watch cartoons and suck down sugar cereal on Saturday mornings and couple-skate to Steve Perry singing "Faithfully" at Skate Land on Saturday nights, I reasoned that it must be something in our Sundays. I made a list. Sleeping late to get Saturday night excesses out of our heads? Check. Meet the Press? Check. Dreading work or school on Monday mornings? Double check. That only left one thing. Big Sunday dinners!

Hey, there are worse places to start! Especially for my friend who is a Northerner and only knows about Southern food that "it's deep fried in butter, right?" This is the same guy who argued with me when I said that mashed potatoes have to be mashed - like with an actual potato masher - by hand and not with the electric mixer. My version of the perfect potatoes was further squelched when I told him that the taste of truly good mashed potatoes is directly proportionate to how much Duke's mayonnaise you put in them. I think he could feel his arteries closing up as I spoke. Though, tonight he made cornbread - with pats of yellow butter thick enough to choke a horse. There may be hope. A couple of spoons of chow-chow and I think we'll have a convert.

This time, I did a pretty good rendition of a banana pudding and green beans. I had the best time cooking and dancing around in my kitchen with the little transistor radio on as I cooked. I wore my hair tied back, a girly apron and my grandmother's house shoes for luck. I liked the shuffling sound my feet made on the linoleum floor. As a child, I used to lie in the guest room bed at my grandmother's house on sleepy Summer mornings under box-fan draft, listening to her house shoes shuffle from task to task, stove to refrigerator and then back again. It made me feel like she was there with me to wear her soft house shoes with worn rubber soles. She must have been because those green beans were sublime..... I would also like to thank my mom who tirelessly (and with a great deal of humor) fielded telephone calls from me along the way. She's a dear and thanks to her, I now own Crisco shortening - three cans of it.

Last week, she sent my brother and me an e-mail that said simply, "Can a dead possum in the back of the barn in 90 degree heat smell any worse after three days?"

( Okay, maybe that is one of the things that I don't miss about home. )

I'm sure my mom handled it in her true trooper-fashion. For those of you just joining us, my mom takes care of business.

Once, she was driving down the road and soon after passing a country store, saw a hawk swooping down on a baby rabbit. She swerved to the side of the road and jumped out to try and save the rabbit. It was too late for the little animal but she decided that she didn't want the hawk to get the rabbit after he so savagely killed it. My mom is nothing if not stubborn. So, what did she do? She covered up the rabbit with something, went home and got a shovel and came back to bury the rabbit. The Carolina clay ground was too hard. She tried and tried unsuccessfully to break ground but only shattered the surface. She thought for a second and went over to the flower bed of the country store, dug a hole with her bare hands and buried the rabbit, put the shovel in the trunk of her car and drove away. Done deal.

When I asked her, "Mom...you stopped and went to all of this trouble for some rabbit that you didn't even know?" she replied, "Well...you don't usually know rabbits, do you? "

So, here's to the South and strong Southern women like my mom who take minutes out to e-mail her children before burying decaying possums and will bend over backwards for helpless creatures. And to women like my grandmother who taught me Ethel Merman and Hank Williams songs while making thick, mysterious soups containing everything but the kitchen sink. And to my great-grandmother who lived by herself well up into her nineties, watched World Wide Wrestling at ear-drum bursting decibels every Saturday like clock-work and then sat in her Church Of God congregation on Sunday morning wearing a good deal more than the allowed number of jewelry items.

Lift your mint juleps high to them.

The Algonquin Round Table (the next generation)

In my father's day journal entry, I mentioned a quote from my dad about "big breasted strippers". I knew that the rest of that email exchange was somewhere in the recesses of my files. Here it is straight from April of 2003. Flashback, ya'll.

Dad: "I dreamed last night that I was riding around looking at freshly painted houses. All different colors with all colors of trim. I think my subconscious has a good decorating sense. I can't imagine why I was dreaming of such. I should be dreaming of kittens, horses, big breasted strippers and other nice things."

Chance: " 'Kittens, horsies, big breasted strippers and other nice things'. Aren't those lyrics from a Louis Armstrong song?"

Kelly: "Uh uh. The Sound of Music. It was right after door bells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles."

Andy: "I think you are thinking of the short-lived traveling stage version with Buddy Hackett as Von Trapp, Charo in the part of Julie Andrews and the children played by wards of the state who had been lost in high-stakes poker games. It was Hackett's lecherous take on 'Sixteen going on Seventeen' that invoked furious community wrath in the Deep South Bible Belt - but only because the locals thought it was sick and opportunistic to go after old maids like that.."

Chance: "Mmm...schnitzel..."

My Dad

I couldn't let the opportunity that is Father's Day pass me by without a little tribute to my dad. My dad rocks. He is a charming but curmudgeonly Southern gentleman who has taught me a lot of valuable lessons in life. I consider the most important one to be that if you can laugh through hard times and always try to keep a sense of humor, then you'll be okay. That and that you never, ever talk loudly when you are perched over a good fishin' hole.........

Anybody who knows both of us say that I am a lot like my dad. On most days, I take that as a happy compliment. It's been said (okay..by me) that my dad is an interesting mixture of G. Gordon Liddy and Andy Griffith with a teeny tiny tad of Paul Harvey thrown in. So, on this hallowed of all days, I am going to pay tribute to my dad with quotes from his very own mouth and keyboard. I keep a file on him. He never fails to delight and surprise me (and sometimes makes me e-mail my brother with, "He's your dad...do something about him... before I kill him..." )

Here goes:

"Any lady that spends time with me has to convert to Hermitism. I am devout at practicing Hermitism and I think it is essential to a full spiritual life. They can be Christians, Jewish, Catholic or Atheist but they have to be Hermitics first..."

"When Wal-Mart goes into the cloning business, I might just have myself cloned so that I could raise myself like I should have been raised. I'm sure I would be president or someone important by now. I would have changed the world. There would be no wars, no pain, and no feminists. Liberal Democrats would be a thing of the past and we would all live in harmony in a world according to David. Of course, I would have probably married someone like Hillary and you or Andy one would look like Chelsea..."

"I dreamed last night that I was riding around looking at freshly painted houses. All different colors with all colors of trim. I think my subconscious has a good decorating sense. I can't imagine why I was dreaming of such. I should be dreaming of kittens, horses, big breasted strippers and other nice things."

"Life travels a road that has many forks and turns in it. If you take some, you end up eating cheese burgers at McDonalds, but if you hold steadfast to what is good and true, you find yourself at Hardee's, the home of the new thick burger.."

"All of us do a lot of bitching and moaning, but really if you are healthy and have people around that love you, then you are doing all right in this world. I often remind myself of that old saying, ' I was sad because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet .'...We should all count our blessings and thank god for every day that we wake up in the morning. And that is my serious thought for the day. I have at least one serious thought every day. Then I forget about it and go back to bitching and moaning.."

"My only thought about geeks is that I wonder how a macho outdoorsman like myself raised two geeky younguns who would rather read and listen to unknown singers than they had shoot at little furry critters. The world is going to hell in a handbasket..."

"Snakes and nipples. Life on the lake sure is different from town living.."

"Winkie nipple woman is married. I never even look at married women. Well, I look as often as possible, but I would never think of flirting with one....."

" I wished I had a Wendy's out here. All we have is Hon's , Hon's #2 and Hon's #3. Hon's has videos for rent. Hon's #2 has a lake view and #3 has eggs for 89 cents a dozen. They all have chubby waitresses that call everybody 'Hon'..."

"I'm wondering if anyone ever has a vacation romance on those beach trips during the high school years or is it just an urban legend like attic fans that suck walls in on small children who don't eat their veggies. But that's another story.."

"She sounds like 'evil incarnate'....whatever that is..."

"Never talk to strangers. Just get in the car, eat the candy and sit quietly..."

"I always wonder about approaching someone. I think all single folks should wear flowers behind their ears to signify if they are available or not, like they do in some countries. I think they do that in Canada but I'm not sure....."

"I think a Jewish boy would be nice to have in the family. I could catch lots of fish for him to eat on Friday, oh wait....that's Catholics isn't it? He could sit out on the deck while we celebrate Christmas and we could sit out on there while he celebrated Hanooka or whatever..."

"So, you don't think I would look good with shoulder length hair? I think it might go well with my moustache and my 'devil may care' attitude..."

"Never play leap frog with a fat woman.."

"I'm always seeing women what I wonder what their status is. You know what I mean, are they really desperate, sitting home alone on long nights wishing they had a tall, lanky man to keep them company.."

" It's just a job. We have jobs too you know. Like if we cleaned Tom Waits' toilets, would we brag about it? By the way, who is Tom Waits?"

" I do have my finger on the pulse of the American single male. Now if only I could get my hands on some of those single American females, I would be doing just fine......"

" I thought she put up a fence. Did he have to stand on a box or something so he could see? It's not the same to have to stand on a box. That makes you feel a little perverted. It takes away from the 'hot Summer night' poetic thing if you have to stand on a box to see. Of course, I'm sure there is some demand for poetry written by people who stand on boxes to see breasts, but I'm not sure of the name of that magazine....."

"I agree that women are trouble. But so are boats, motorcycles, flashy cars and most things that men like to have around. If we got rid of everything that gives us trouble, we wouldn't have much now...would we, Missy?..."

"I just don't know about . He might be like okra. You like him in some ways but not in others. So do you want to be hooked up with okra for a long time?.."

"You better be careful dating him. I have to agree with Jerry on this one. Do you have a two foot by four foot crucifix that you can wear? If not, get on ebay and find one...."

"Yes...Rosemary did have bad hair. And she just happened to have a bunch of Yankee friends like you do. Them kind of people carry on some weird traditions. You be careful up there. When I said I wanted grandchildren, I didn't mean ones with scales and horns and such. I can hear it now, 'time to change little Beelzebub's diaper' .. ' I'm not going to do it, the last time he spit green oatmeal on me and gored me.'.."

"Sticks and stones only break bones, but neglect makes one insecure.."

"Them love triangles, hexagons, and octagons can get messy.."

"Hugh Hefner" - ( when asked which historical figure he admires most)

"I most dislike liver and mean people. Just ain't no good way to fix either.."

"Oh, I'm sure if the right geek comes along and wants to camp a little, you will go right along with him. Ya'll can sit around a camp fire and roast cocktail wieners, read poems that don't rhyme and sing Tom Waits songs...."

And finally, this one for father's day:

"But I think in the end, you and Andy turned out to be pretty good adults, so I guess we did all right. I don't think I have any regrets on my parenting. Except maybe shoving bran flakes down Andy's mouth one time. But I guess I just got tired of hearing Andy and his mother bickering so much, I just snapped. "

She considers how she might look in the fetal position/"how she came undone"

Oh god. I think I have become introspective again. With a little bit of bitterness. It has creeped up on me during the past few days. It hardly ever happens to me but when it does, it hits me like a Mack truck. And why, oh why must I put it into a journal entry when these suckers are usually perky and cheerfully ironic? I'm not sure....I think writing makes me feel better. I like to pretend like someone who cares has asked me, "So, what's new with you?" and then they cock their head to the side and listen......really listen.......I've been hungering for that lately. In a really bad way. I've been noticing that when people ask others how they are, nobody really stops to listen to the answer. That bothers me. A lot. So, the cat's out of the bag. I'm human.

First - the introspective part. I couldn't do it like a normal person. I had to let it come to a head at that God-forsaken Kroger on Del Rio. I was standing in line at the U-Scan and feeling for some reason terribly alone and sad and like I could drop dead right there in between the automated voice chirping "please scan your Kroger Plus Card" and "Do you have any coupons?" and nobody would notice.

I hope in this admission that I'm not the only one who has these moments. If I am, then by all means come along with me on my journey into madness.

I was looking at my purchases and thinking, "god....these items are so representative of my life lately ". I won't go into what the items were but I do remember looking at the lady beside me and thinking, "could be worse..." as I eyed her peach flavored Faygo drink and sausage as large as my forearm wrapped in tight red plastic. I offered her my discount card and then shuffled out to the parking lot. I realized that now the Orwellian Kroger people would now send me coupons for things like breakfast meats and sugar-laden sodas but I really didn't care. From now on, whenever I use the U-Scan, it will shoot out a ticker tape of coupons for Jimmy Dean sausages. It will be my lot in life.

On the way out, I heard a woman talking on a cell-phone. Her end of the conversation was a lot of nodding and then, " he's not worth spitting on if you saw him on the street..." I smiled weakly at her as if to say, " I don't know who he is but sister, you are probably right..." and wanted to interject, "Use this one for more impact - ' I wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire.' "

I came home and began the throwing away. When I get in a funk, I throw things away. Purge. It's not like I even have anything left to throw away after my move here but I did find a few things to make myself feel better. I stopped for a while and went through some boxes of photos. It was good to visit people and places that I hadn't seen in a while. Sometimes, they feel like a story to me. Like something that I have only read about.

I think I won't go into the bitterness here. I just wish I could sleep. Sleep would be good. Instead, It is 2:44 in the morning and I sit listening to the rain against the window and Edith Piaf crooning away making words sound as foreign as smiles and watching the clock tick closer and closer to my alarm clock disgruntled resurrection. Before I know it, I'll be back at work watching another clock tick away and wishing I were on a beach somewhere surrounded by grannies in skirted bathing suits and laughing children with gritty sand feet. But, I know there is no time or chance of that.

Tonight, was the wake for Jeff's dad.

I only met him once but he was so kind to me. I remember how he took me to the side and we looked out the window of his Chicago apartment towards the train tracks across the street. Steeley Dan played in the background. He told me which trains came in at different times and then we talked about all of the people and where they must be going. He was captivated by the trains and the schedules and the loads they carried. He said he'd never become tired of watching the trains go by. I could have listened to him talk about the trains for hours. I have a thing for trains too and am glad that I now live within ear-shot of the trains and their lonesome whistles. My soul stirs when I hear it. I knew just what he meant. So many places left to go yet. So little time, it seems.

When I met him, he was already sick with the cancer. He talked about it matter-of-factly. He made us all laugh by saying that his new cane was a "chick magnet". Jeff told me weeks later that his dad had a guy customize a cane for him with flames like a hotrod. It seemed to fit him. When we were there, he let us hold all of his vintage cameras and let us look at photos from his many years as a newspaper journalist. He seemed to have lived such a life and had so much still in him to live.

I have seen too many people taken away by cancer lately. There has got to be an answer. There just has to be. He was so, so young. And now he is gone and leaves a family behind and stories that he probably never got to tell. Experiences swept under the rug of sickness that nobody will ever know about.

Maybe, THAT is why I do this........this self-centered journal writing. It is self-centered, no doubt as it is assuming that there are people who want to read what you write. Actually, I put a counter on my site a while back but took it off the same day because I was afraid that I would learn that I was the only one reading my writing.

I would give up the rest of my years to stop this cancer thing. It took Lisa's mom. Lisa's mom was an angel. I remember her trying to make me feel comfortable in a Greenville hospital room when she was the one who was sick and hurting. She was such a beautiful person. Lisa says that she still has people come up to her with stories of her mom's kindness. Stories of things that she didn't even know about. I would have liked to have told her how many lives she touched without even knowing it. I'd like to have told her how loving her daughter is and how she looks out for others just like she did. I'd like to see her kind eyes and have the chance to get to know her better. I never took the time.

Cancer also took my grandfather who at his late age was still as bright and sharp as any thirty year old. Sometimes, I have to stop and convince myself that he is gone and not seven hours away sitting in that brown recliner cheering on the Atlanta Braves. Oh, how my soul aches to go back home and sit across from him just one more time. I want him to tell me his stories again. I am afraid that I am forgetting his stories. In between the gasps of the daily grind, could I be forgetting his stories? Oh, how I want to call him on the phone and ask him to tell me the stories about his youth again. About his paper route as a boy. About his Hartwell, Georgia back-road exploits. The day after he died, I took his shirt from a wire hanger on the back of his bedroom door. It smelled like him and I didn't mean to wash it but I did and now I can't remember what he smelled like. I wish I could remember what he smelled like.

Last month, cancer took my friend, Marguerite who always made everyone smile with her little jig dances and colorful outfits and stories. She and I used to go on bus trips together on our weekends off from the library. At the time, I admit that I would get a little annoyed hearing the same stories over and over again as the bus wound around and around on the interstates. I realize now that I wish I had listened closer. She didn't have children. Her stories are gone now. I wish that I could tell Marguerite how special she was. I wish that I hadn't lost track of her in the final year. I wish I still had some of those funny notes and cards she sent to me every so often. She always called me "Miss Nashville" and I called her "Miss Anderson". She had a tree in her yard that she named, "Kelly Sue". I was there when it was planted. That was before the cancer. She had just retired and planned on living the rest of her days traveling with friends and buzzing in and out of antique shops. I wish I could go back and see her standing there healthy and pink-cheeked in her floppy hat next to that little tree in the May sunshine.

I remember when I was a child, cancer also took my Great Aunt Avis. She died on my birthday. Every year on my birthday, my grandmother would say, "Avis died today."



I want to go home to see my family. I feel it in my bones......in the very marrow of my bones. Why is it that the business of everyday life - the jobs, the bills, the chores - take us away from what life really is about? I was told recently that I try to take care of other people too much. I have been told this before actually - like it is a bad thing. I refuse to think so. I refuse to think that it is a sign of weakness. Why care if you don't care deeply?

I'm going to get things in order. I miss life being a majority of laughter. I want to feel like I can help people again without saying in the back of my mind, "but...what about my problems?" I feel selfish and sad and a little too angry for my own comfort.

I wasn't there enough for Jeff when his dad was dying. I didn't even know that Marguerite was near the end and lying in the Hospice . I want to hug my grandfather again. I don't want anymore regrets. No more "it's too late".

I don't think I can rest until I assure myself of that. Until I don't have to say, " I wish" anymore.

Who's Your Daddy?

I just read a poll that asked, "If you could choose any TV dad to raise you instead of your own, who would you choose?"

Would you believe that Homer Simpson and Al Bundy got more votes than Ward Cleaver ?

Hear that ? That's the sound of civilization falling at your feet, my pretties.

Crumble. Crumble.



(and that was the shortest journal entry ever from the girl who wishes that women still wore crinolines and that men still performed chivalrous acts while saying, "Here, mother...let me get that for you....")

Spiders From Mars and detours to obvious oblivion

For the last 24 hours, the backdrop of my life has been a cross between a Fellini film and a 1980's era after school special *.

Last night, I went to a trendy cafe and sat in the corner watching the kids go by. Yes, I say kids because I know for a fact that my friend and I had to be the oldest people in there. I watched the different crowds go by - it was like a walk......if not a brisk trot......down memory lane.

There were the punk kids - all attitude and swagger - but with a little something new mixed in. I was so happy to see their mohawks and low-slung studded belts. It didn't even bother me when one of the girls gave me a mean look complete with sneer. I knew that she was just posing - or maybe she really did want to throw me down in the floor and stomp on me - either/or.... she kept walking.

It's a good thing too. I could have broken a hip trying to open up a vintage can of whoop-ass on her.

Then there were these guys dressed like Ziggy Stardust. Wow. That's all I can really say. They had it down. The long shagged hair framing their pale skin and heavily lined eyes. The painted lips and gaunt cheeks. Tight pants and platform shoes. They were cafe rock stars. Made me wish that I was 15 years younger so that I could fawn over them and they could ignore me.

Oh, and be still my heart.......the New Wave crowd. I loved them. I wanted to take them home with me and show them my old hair spiking secret ( spray underneath while hair is slightly wet , tip head over and shake and spike) and show them cool synth ** licks on my Casio key board. They mixed well with the super serious mod crowd. The emo *** group sat against the wall and sketched and bemoaned things. The frat boys came through in their usual flock of ball caps and khaki shorts, awash in machismo. The hip hop kids and the skaters and musicians mingled and darted in and out of the fray. The joint was jumpin' (boy, I'm showing my age with that saying...what am I ? Eighty years old? )

Beside us sat a guy who looked strangely - no, I'll go out on a limb weighed down with adjective fruit here and say "alarmingly" - like my brother, Andy. The only difference is that he must have had close to a hundred pounds on my brother. He was dressed just like my brother dresses with the same hair and everything. The only difference was that my brother's face was staring out from behind this other guy's body. I kept staring at the guy because it both creeped me out and fascinated me. We deemed him "the guy who ate my brother". He chatted about Medieval weapons with a small agitated yet whimsical fellow with a shaved head. The small fellow tried to rope me into one of his conversations but I only smiled and continued to eat my fries ****.

Afterwards, I went back to my friend's house to play Pac Man. Okay....just let me say that I was moderately good at this game back in the day. Now, I suck. I had all the dexterity of a stroke victim. It was embarrassing. I blamed it on the lighting. I blamed it on the joystick. I blamed it on the fact that my glasses were in my purse. It didn't matter. I still knew that I just didn't have it. I flailed around and yelled out so many profanities (in such odd combinations) that I would have put a Tourette's patient to shame. It still didn't help. I was consumed by ghost after ghost. On my friend's turn, he would clear screen after screen. High scoring here and earning extra Pac men there. Every now and then, he'd let me pity-play as he watched with a bemused look, not even bothering to stifle back laughter.

I briefly tried Dig Dug but then realized that if a girl can't clear a screen in Pac Man, then she needs to stay out of the Dig Dug realm. There are fire-breathing dragons in there and they aim to get ya. I've decided that I must regain some of my youthful dexterity and have set aside a fifteen minute block of time each day to dart in and out of heavy interstate traffic....barefoot and carrying an anvil on my head. I must regain my zeal.

I left his house around midnight and headed down the road to my house. I was about 15 minutes into the 30 minute trip, on that country side road when I was stopped by two men with orange vests and flags. They stood in front of jeeps with blinking lights on top. I couldn't figure it out. They were waving me from going down the road ahead. I tried to go around them but the one guy - the one who didn't seem to have any teeth on the left side of his mouth - stepped in front of my car and yelled, "Detour!" So, all I could do was detour.

The road he sent me up had no sign as far as I could tell. It was boogie dark (we say that in the South....boogie dark) and nothing but trees and curves. I wound up and down the curvy roads for a while, wondering where I was and feeling quite freaked out. I had no clue where I was. My mind raced with scenarios....had these men really been legitimate? Had they sent me up this road to later trap and abduct me?? Anything is possible after midnight on a country back road after sitting in a cafe surrounded by faux white knights and guys who ate my brother. I came to the conclusion that this wasn't a detour in any shape or form. I pulled over to the side and slowly did a U-turn encompassing both shoulders while hoping that there were no ditches to fall in. Those of you have been unlucky enough to ride in a car with me as a driver are probably now thinking, "oh...she really should not be out after dark. This isn't going to end well...."

But I made it out of the U-turn and headed back down the dark roads until I found the stop sign. I then noticed that things looked even weirder. The stop sign ended at a house! There was a house where the main road used to be.

Now kids...I thought that someone at the cafe had slipped me a goofball. There was no way that a house could be here.

I then realized that these guys were moving a house slowly down the road in the dead of night. I noticed the guy who had barked "Detour!" at me before as he clung like a monkey to the banister of one of the side porches. He gave me a creepy, slow-mo wave like a psychotic parade princess***** as he went by and leered at me as I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes and wished for my drug of choice - a six pack of miniature chocolate doughnuts. I double-checked the door locks and waited.

I was trying to convince myself that there was no one out there in the woods who was trying to abduct me. I mean, it would be going to a lot of trouble to go out and put a house in the middle of the road just to abduct someone. Especially a two story house. I mean, it wasn't like I was a rich heiress or Patty Hearst or Lindberg's baby. I pretended to tinker with the radio as the weirdo and his wood-sided, late night float creeped by. It was around 1:00 in the morning and there was nobody out here on this deserted stretch of road besides me and these guys and a house that moved as slow as Christmas. When it finally passed by, I made a hasty retreat home and tucked myself in tightly trying to forget that toothless barker in the night and the front door of the house that slammed open and shut like a menacing mouth saying, "what you doin' out so late, girly?"

Today, I read that Morrissey said that he wished that George Bush Jr. had died instead of Reagan. People are making such a huge fuss out of the whole thing. For pete's sake....it's Morrissey. It's not like he's the Dixie Chicks or something.

I also read that Peter Garrett from Midnight Oil is running for Parliament in Australia ******. His opposition is riding him pretty hard because they found out that he hasn't voted in the past few elections. I say leave him alone too. It's not like he's Morrissey.

Ray Charles died and I have been listening to his music all evening. I can listen to his smooth piano solos but can't seem to listen to the songs where he sings. It just seems too sad. Boy, Ray was cool. He's even cooler when static needle meets crackling vinyl. Something to think about, kids. Save those albums now.

I've had the TV on in the living room and as I pass through I can see Reagan's flag-draped casket with people circling it like flies - tourists in shorts and tennis shoes walking in a perfect circles around and around his casket. These people waited in line for hours and hours to do this when really, the best shots could have been viewed from home - the camera operators seem to get bored from time to time and do either a cool overhead shot of the rotunda or a close-up on a group of mourners or the stoic servicemen standing guard like fence posts. I keep wondering how long the pomp and circumstance can go on. Hasn't he been dead for days now? Lord, ya'll...when I pass, please just scatter my ashes over the Salvation Army and go out for a barbecue buffet.

On the way home today, I was stopped at a red light downtown and I looked over at the Ben and Jerry's ice cream shop. They were filming a commercial or the like out front and a lovely woman with cascading blonde curls slowly licked a dripping ice cream cone over and over. She wore a trench coat tightly cinched around her waist. It was 85 degrees outside and she was wearing a trench coat and licking an ice cream cone like a porn star - right in the middle of my downtown. I laughed all the way home.

And that, my friends........has been my last 24 hours.

Footnotes - AKA "these asterisks are getting on my nerves. what are these asterisks for? :

* "After school Specials" - they showed these back when I was a teenager. They were absolutely spellbinding and usually involved someone spilling paint on someone else's shirt to get them to take it off (uh oh...I smell teen sex that later ends up in teen pregnancy or itching, burning rashes coming on) or someone smoking the reefer or popping some pills and hopping out of a plate-glass window (Helen Hunt's first major on-screen role was doing just that. She was sliced and diced all because she wanted to be in the cool crowd.)

** "Synth" - the life blood of anything danceable. I have a theory that if there were more synth pop around today, we would have a lot less wars, plagues and pestilence. Or is that good government? Hmm...I forget. Anyway, I grew up on it. Sadly, the kids today are suckled on meat hormones instead. Who's better off? You be the judge. Okay...after you can look past how pretty and perfect they all are. Our greasy skin, gawky bodies and "Tainted Love" sing-alongs made us what we are today.

*** "Emo" - short for "emotive". The "emo" kids are very moody and brooding. Bookish and sharp-witted. They picked up where our Cobainish grunge-angst left off. They also pay pretty pennies for those Izod shirts that our moms donated to Goodwill after we moved out.

**** "The small fellow tried to rope me in to one of his conversations but I only smiled and continued to eat my fries.."

- I ain't got no dog in that fight. Sorry. I've just always wanted to use that saying. Hmm...let me just add that he looked "crazier than a rat in a coffee can"...got that one from Mason....that one slays me!

***** "Psychotic Parade Princesses" - Soon to be the name of my all girl band. Tour dates pending. We're still looking for a tambourine player.

****** "Australia" - oh, Australia is a country. Just wanted to interject a fact here that I learned today. Did you know that in Australia, voting is mandatory? They hunt you down and fine you if you don't vote. So there. Rock the vote. Why? Because we don't have to.

Good God, ya'll

I recently moved in next door to a small Southern Methodist church. To keep in the spirit of things, I decided to do a religious themed bathroom. My tiny bathroom resembles a confessional anyway with just barely enough room for the needed fixtures, a bottle of shampoo and one mid-sized adult.

On Sunday mornings, I can hear the church members singing hymns as I brush my teeth. Somehow it makes me feel a part of things to have the painting of Jesus watching me as I move from shower to sink as old time gospel hymns seep through the cracks around my window sill. He really does watch me too - his big, sympathetic eyes framed by locks of honey waved hair follow me everywhere that I go. I must admit that it sometimes makes me wrap the towel around me just a bit tighter. On the back of the toilet, prayer candles steam up with each shower. Mother Mary stares down from above in gilded frame with hot-glued and glitter embellishments. On the wall, I have a framed pamphlet on how to win a sinner over to the Lord.

My favorite part: " Here's how to press for the decision...Lay your hand firmly on the subject's arm or shoulder and with a commanding tone of voice say, "BOW YOUR HEAD WITH ME". Do not look at him when you say this, but bow your own head first. Out of the corner of your eye you will see him hesitate at first, and then as his resistance weakens, his head will come down. Bowing your head first causes deep psychological pressure."

Ahh...nothing says the path to goodness and light like "deep psychological pressure".

I've talked to lots of my friends about religion lately. I've found a common thread of disenchantment and disappointment in the people my age. They all seem to believe in living good lives and treating others as they would want to be treated. But when it comes to religion, or an "organized religion", most of them have severe reservations. I've found that these reservations are often backed up by stories of childhoods spent in churches. Funny stories and sad stories. Stories of confusion and sometimes even humiliation and fear. Stories of being left out or seeing other people left out because of their skin color, sex or lifestyle choices.

My first memory of church is of me in Vacation Bible School with sweaty palms, standing in front of the pastor as I tried to recite learned bible verses for shiny colored ribbons and trinket prizes. I remember moments before - the taste of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on tongue as I read the little torn slip of paper that the teacher had given me to memorize...over and over...repeating, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you....Do unto others as you would have them do unto you..." My little kid heart beat so fast as I worried that I wouldn't remember the verse or what chapter or book it was taken from. To this very day, I can't eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches without thinking about those Vacation Bible School days and how nervous I was each day before my recitation. I feared embarrassment and scorn. Those bible verses are still burned into my brain. Someone says, "John 3:16" and I get chills.

I remember being baptized in a white sateen robe along with my brother and our friend, Jeff. I also remember a few weeks before that when I went up to the altar call with them because I didn't want to stand by myself in the church. I got caught up in the wave of Salvation and couldn't get out of it. Before I knew it, I was baptized I remember how cold and deep the water was and being afraid that I might drown as my ears filled up with liquid and I pinched my nose tightly and prepared for the dunk below then surfaced with a gasp for air. I remember wondering if I was really saved since I didn't really receive a message from the lord to go up to altar call that day. Was this version just as good?

Then there was the era when our church was sent a new pastor and most of our activities were outlawed. Aerobics classes were banned because the leotards were too sensual. Roller skating was forbidden because.....okay....I still can't figure out why roller skating would be forbidden but it was. Records were burned to protest rock music. When I was a cheerleader for our church basketball team, all of our cheers had to be approved. Once a cheer that had the words "toilet paper" in it was changed to "tissue paper" as not to offend. It seemed that everything was suspect. As kids, we were taught to look for the sin in common things. All we wanted to do was couple skate and wear leg warmers and read Judy Blume books.

My brother likes to tell of the time that the "Sunshine Group", a group of retarded children and teens were moved to the back of the church from their usual front row because their joy and enthusiasm for the services made the deacons nervous. Banned to the back for being too happy to be in church.

My most vivid religious related memory is of when I was about 9 or 10 years old. I was at a flea market in my home town and read on a bathroom wall, "Forget Jesus. Elvis is King." That one made my little Southern Baptist heart skip a beat as I couldn't get it out of my head for the rest of the day. I wondered if God would strike me down somewhere amidst a booth of Archie comics or carnival glass just for thinking about it. I tried and tried to get it out of my head but it was stuck. I was convinced that the devil had come into my heart and was trying to get me to accept Elvis as lord. Soon after that, my mom and I were approached in the local mall by someone from a church who wanted us to pray with him. As he prayed, I burst out crying because I thought that I was finally going to be saved from going to hell for the "Elvis is King" incident. I had been delivered from damnation right there in front of the Orange Julius and the Sears and Roebucks. I remember being so thankful for deliverance from my Elvis possession. For a brief while - with this fresh heart and cleansed soul, I thought that I might become a nun and go forth and soothe aching souls, feed the hungry and rescue stranded kittens from trees. I pictured myself wearing a black habit and a headpiece like Sally Field, the flying nun.

I guess I later on realized that it takes more than something like reading bathroom graffiti to send me to eternal damnation - like maybe reading my grandfather's stash of vintage, yellowed Playboy magazines under the mattress (pre-silicone!) or sipping the moonshine hidden behind the good china or pretending to inhale Marlboro cigarettes while my grandmother slept. It seems like a good portion of my childhood was spent asking for forgiveness for things or doing things with this taste of fear in the back of my mouth. Then things shifted.

One Sunday, I went with my grandmother to her little Methodist church. It was so different there! At my regular church, there were hundreds and hundreds of people dressed in their finest clothes and on their best behavior. Here things were different. These were a bunch of country people. Some of the ladies wore their house shoes with their Sunday dresses. Men fell asleep and snored during church and nobody got angry but only nudged each other, pointed and chuckled. Children not only squirmed in the pews but sometimes played up under them or slept on their mother's laps peacefully.

The holy communion that was reserved for only the baptized at my old church was offered up to anyone who wanted to partake of it. Little squares of white sunbeam bread stood in for "the body of Christ" and Welch's grape juice was a fine choice for "his blood which was shed for me". One time when it was my grandmother's turn to clean up after the communion, she let me eat all of the leftover bread and juice. Boy howdy! I felt that I had just guaranteed myself a free ride from sin for the rest of my life as I ate little bites of soft white bread and threw back grape juice from little tiny shot glasses taken from a brass tray adorned with crosses.

The hymns were no longer sung along with a huge, bellowing organ. At my grandmother's church, they had an old upright piano that very well could have been taken straight from a saloon. We followed each clanging note with songs about blessed assurances and peace in the valley. The sermons changed too. There were no sermons about how we were all going to go to hell for watching MTV or having impure thoughts. The pastor was an older gentile man who gave us lessons in parables often comparing us to diamonds in the rough or crops about to be harvested. My heart felt relief. He told us how we were all born sinners. ALL of us. He told us how all that we could do was the best that we could do. Jesus would fix the rest. It was good enough for me.

For varying reasons that I won't go into here, I later left the church....like so many of my friends. But it makes me happy to know that we all share this common bond of wanting to hold onto the common thread that runs through all religions - even those that fight and shed blood over their differences. That common thread is love and kindness. In having these conversations with people, I have found myself exceedingly proud that we can laugh at the awful stories that we have from our church days but at the same time, say that we think that everyone should just look out for each other and love our fellow man. We seem relieved to have made it out of the training grounds of the churches and their watchful eye. We seem peacefully reliant on our consciences to get us by.

I hope that we can raise our children with perhaps a little less fear and a good heaping more of humanity and tolerance. I'll end this with a story I heard today. A friend of mine was telling me about a miniature golf course that he used to go to here in Nashville. It was one with a religious theme and holes decorated with rather tacky biblical toned decorations.At one hole, the ball went through a small building which had a window that you could look through and see little symbols of scary things like Jason's hockey mask, a picture of the devil, etc. all bathed in a black light glow.

He took his young daughter there and she peeked inside the window and said, "Hey dad, check this out. It's coooool." The proprietor of the course walked by and upon overhearing her got angry and yelled, "It ain't supposed to be cool! It's supposed to be HELL!!!" He then stormed off in a self-righteous huff.

The daughter looked up at her dad, shrugged her shoulders and said, "It's still cool."