Anyhow.... TO BE CONTINUED....
Friday, February 11, 2011
"JAILBAIT" - Installment # 4
Anyhow.... TO BE CONTINUED....
BEHOLD: THE BUDDING PLAYWRIGHT~!!!
Okay, it's been awhile since my last BLOG entry, but I am about to make up for it big time because boy, oh, BOY - have I got a treat for you nice people today. (At least I hope so...)
As many of you are already aware, I’ve been working on my first novel for a couple of years already. Lately I’ve been pouring any and all of my spare energy into the final editing process, which is really becoming quite the ordeal. It almost (but not quite) feels like I’ve started the whole damn book from scratch. I mean, it’s cool and it’s all good and everything, but DAMN…it never ends.
So the BLOG has been suffering as a result, and I’ve really been missing it, too. I have notes upon notes jotted in my beautiful Moleskine Notebook, just chock-full of new blog-entry ideas waiting to be given full written form. But for now they must wait. Only so many hours in a day, or brain-cells in my head.
Anyhow, awhile back my mom was digging around in her old porch desk and she came across some of my old poems and short stories from grammar school and junior high. Yes, I have always been a writing fool. And fool is right, because I really can’t believe the gem that she uncovered. It’s actually a full-length PLAY that I wrote when I was 14. I have very little actual memory of writing it. More than anything, I recall painstakingly re-typing and re-typing it until I felt it looked perfect.
OKAY, here's the "treat" part! After some prodding from my beloved husband to do so, I have decided to post this play here on the blog, scene by scene, in the hopes that you sweethearts will be entertained by the musings of my 14-year-old self. The buxom little girl who WANTED TO BE A WRITER.
It seems this PLAY has no official title so I will take the opportunity to formally christen it, HERE AND NOW.
Finally, 30-something years later, I ingratiatingly (and somewhat cringingly) present to you the first installment of:
JAILBAIT: A PORTRAIT OF YOUNG LUST and RAMPANT PUBESCENT REBELLION
(Parental Discretion is Advised)
TO BE CONTINUED....
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Impromptu Love Poem on a Wintry Day
* * *
Yer gun-metal grey
An' shiny, too
Ye’ve saved me so often
From havin’ the blues…
Ya fixes chairs
An’ ya fixes lamps…
Ya fixes mic stands…
An’ fixes amps…
Ya fixes things attached ta cars
Ya fixes rocket ships ta Mars…
Ye’ll fix eye-glasses in a pinch,
So’s that me peepers needn’t squinch…
So’s they’ll stay on me face fer the long drive home
Yer savin’ LIVES – sure as I’m born!
So let them scoff and let them sneer
And let me tell ya somethin’, here…
Oh, fine sticky stuff that I hold so dear…
In case I haven’t made myself clear…
Fer you, I ROCKS
An’ fer you, I ROLLS –
Duct Tape, baby…
Yer OUTTA CONTROL!!!
* * * *
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
TAKE OFF YOUR COFFIN SHOES AND PARTY LIKE A ROCK STAR
So, after having relieved myself AND getting the grand tour of FATHER’S CHAMBERS, I grab me a seat just as the bridal procession kicks in and begins marchin up to the altar. Yup, there goes my hubster in his new shoes looking very sharp indeed, right down to those pesky suspenders. Praise the Lord.
I sit by myself in the next-to-last pew all the way at the back of the church. It’s a very long service, all the bells and whistles for this one. Utter fatigue comes at me in a brutal wave. I spend the duration of the ceremony with my hands clasped and head bowed. People must think I’m terribly religious, but what I’m doing is sending psychic messages to Ellie and Herman. I’m so sorry, my Bubbies, but this could not be avoided. Mommy is on her way to save you soon. Please be strong. I love you. I love you. I love you.
My tears fall in hot, wet splashes onto the polished wooden bench in front of me.
* * * * * * * * *
Reception. It’s all such a haze now. Outdoor cocktail hour: Sauna-esque. Storm clouds are stealthily gathering. Chris is off with the wedding party posing for pictures. I sit alone indoors where it’s slightly cooler, nursing my seriously swollen ankle and a glass of red wine. By the time I finish this one glass of wine, I feel like I am tripping on acid.
The Wedding-Band amps are feeding back. Speeches are made. Applause. More speeches and applause. And feedback. The sky outside turns black and storm clouds eventually break. Thunder, lightening, violent downpour. As people serve themselves buffet-style, I stare out the nearest window chewing painfully on my lower lip.
Ellie hates storms. Ever the pro, she snoozes thru them, snoring luxuriously beneath our bed among her blanket and toys. But Herman is just so heart-breakingly petrified of thunderstorms. At the slightest rumble, he always makes a beeline for ME. He buries his bony, horsy face in my armpit, whimpering as I stroke his silky ears.
{{{ I’m coming. }}}
* * * * * * * * * *
One thing I can say that works out pretty good – the reception place is just down the road from MARY’S kennel. It’s about two miles away, tops, and this thought keeps me going. I mean, Ellie and Herm just gotta be feeling my supportive vibes throughout this rumbling, storm-fueled afternoon.
Several hours later, I shock myself by how excited and energetic I become as we bid farewell and bon chance` to all the gay nuptial revelry. Nearing sunset, it’s cooler out now. But it’s still uncomfortable – the copious downpour has not done much to improve the general conditions. The car A/C is still not working. Who the hell cares – floor it.
We are still a good city-block away and I can hear Ellie’s bark. It’s definitely her. I know, because she barely ever barks but when she does – THAT’S ELLIE. It’s cloying. It’s harsh. It’s shrill. When Ellie sees fit to bark, it’s because she's being a nag and a shrew. Or scolding me.
Sure enough, as we pull up in the driveway at the kennel, we are greeted by the sight of MARY standing at a side gate and at her feet is Ellie. Leaping. Barking. Extremely hoarse. Eyes flashing at me with panic, indignation and – yes – joy.
Mary shakes her head, calls out to me: “Oboy. She was something else.”
I approach the gate: “Ellie…Ellie…” She won’t stop barking and is trying to literally walk thru the fence to get to me.
It’s then that I hear Herman piping in for the first time, his voluminous bellow coming from around back somewhere:
“Roww… Rroowwwr….. ROOOWWW- RAUUUUUUWWWWWWWRrrrr…..”
Mary: “That’s Herman.”
Me: “Yeah, I hear ‘im!”
Mary: “He’s such a nice fella. Hardly made a sound. Just stood around lookin’ kinda worried all day…” she gestures to Ellie: “But HER…”
I cannot help but crack up because Ellie is being so mental. That poor kid.
Handy-Dude emerges leading a whining, sweetly eager Herman along. Ellie is directly behind, totally dragging MARY (and MARY ain’t no little kid).
I think I had envisioned some kind of big, emotional reunion with these two. Like – in slow motion - I’d kneel down and stretch my arms out, and they’d hurl themselves at me and knock me down backwards and lick my face and we’d laugh and bark and laugh and bark and laugh…
But that didn’t happen. Instead, both dogs charge the front door – yanking right past me and Chris where we stand at the doggy-reception desk. I’m still squaring things away money-wise, so Chris takes both leashes and Ellie and Herm yank him DIRECTLY OUTSIDE TO THE CAR where they PILE IN so fucking fast it could make your head spin. Together they sit, panting like lunatics - side by side in the back seat, where it’s totally over-crowded with too much crap that we haven’t been able to organize properly yet for the big drive home. They are staring straight ahead like zombies and they are not getting out of this car. Never. Not ever again. NO. DAMN. WAY.
So I say good-bye to MARY and Handy-Dude. I tip them handsomely, at which they seem taken aback and reluctant to accept.
Me: “No, no. Thank you for everything. And Mary, I hope your doggy heals up fast.”
Mary: “Me, too. Thank you. Oh, and before I forget…Herman and Ellie…they both seem to be experiencing stomach distress. You may need to watch their diets a little bit.”
I stare at her for a moment, contemplate saying: ““Well, actually, MARY…their diets are quite exceptional if I do say so myself. But I do believe that what they MIGHT be experiencing is actually something called: “It-seems-that-we-have-been-ABANDONED-to-some-sort-of-DOGGY-ASYLUM-and-we-are-so-FREAKED-OUT-about-it-that-it’s-all-we-can-DO-to-SHIT-OUR-BRAINS-OUT-SYNDROME.”
But of course I don’t say that. I just say:
“Okay, thanks MARY! And if anyone I know ever needs a kennel in ALBANY, I will TOTALLY recommend you guys!”
Then I go pile in, too.
And then me, Chris, Ellie and Herman…
We’re all GONE.
* * * * * * * *
One day, once a little more time has passed, I’m gonna get a T-shirt made that sez:
“We Survived Albany.”
* * * * * * *
Sunday, January 23, 2011
…And Get Me To The CAN On Time… Pt. 7
COFFIN SHOES. That’s what Rita (my dear friend and co-worker) calls those troublesome monstrosities that nearly gave my husband a stroke on the morning of his brother’s wedding.
To get a little ahead of myself here: Days after this whole Albany fiasco, I’m telling her the whole story.
She sits back and states simply: “Coffin Shoes.”
Me: “What?” But even before she explains, it sounds right to me.
Rita: “Coffin shoes. They bury people in ‘em. Well, they USED to bury them in ‘em, anyhow. In the old days. Nowadays I guess most people go with the half-closed casket...”
Me: “Really! COFFIN SHOES!”
Rita: “Yeah. They’re not meant to be WALKED IN of course, so the soles aren’t real. They’re just for show. You know. Before they slam the lid...”
We’ll never know for certain what the deal was with those ungodly shoes. But again, Coffin Shoes sounds about right.
* * * * * * * * *
Anyhow - YES - true to my deepest womanly intuition, there is indeed a PAYLESS Shoe Emporium back near the thruway. After a gut-wrenching drive, the first thing I see as we approach a big shopping center is the familiar yellow and orange PAYLESS sign glimmering in the sunlight’s glare. Surreal, it practically shimmers, made wavy from the heat rising off the asphalt.
Chris is in and out of that PAYLESS like a whippet. It’s undoubtedly the speediest shoe purchase on record in the entire history of the human race. He gallops triumphantly back to the car already wearing his new shoes which are slightly loafer-ish but BLACK and perfectly adequate under these dire circumstances.
According to our calculations, we have less than one minute to get to the church. While we know there’s no chance in hell we’d ever make it, this does not stop Chris from trying. The resulting ride is the most harrowing yet, with the added charm of the fact that my bladder is now bursting. And why not? I’ve sucked down about 15 gallons of water over the past several hours. Every stop, bump and turn is a dagger piercing my groin.
Now, I’m a Forest Park Gal. I ran with a hardcore partying crowd from way back. Shorthand for this: I can pee just about anyplace and do so quite skillfully and undetected. But alas! Apparently, I cannot flaunt this particular talent while in Albany. I had thought that once we got to the mall parking lot, bingo - piece o’ cake. Million possibilities. Hell, whiz right outside the car door if need be…
No, nope and nuh-uh. This parking lot is CRAWLING. Not one instant passes when there aren’t 9 or 10 jackasses leisurely strolling by from every possible direction. I can’t believe it, but I never get my opportunity. Then Chris returns like lightening wearing his new, normal shoes and we’re back on the road.
* * * * *
This church is pretty gigantic, and there are no parking spots anywhere in sight. Chris literally flings himself out of the car while it’s still moving, leaving me to my own private hell. Which strangely enough is a small relief. Let the wedding party have a go at him now. My work with him is - for the moment - done. Now my only priority is finding a way to relieve myself without soaking the entire lower portion of my ensemble.
I circle and circle the church in search of both a parking spot AND a pissing spot – I’ll take either, preferably the latter. But no – I find a parking spot first – one opens up directly across the street from the church. There are about fifty gazillion people milling around, so there’s no way I can even think about attempting a car-side whiz.
I think: There’s GOT to be a restroom inside the church itself. You can make it. Just a little longer, you can make it…
I park the car, grab my walking stick (because my bad ankle is now ON FIRE), and lurch up the church stairs, into the lobby. The organist is noodling. Pews are full and steadily filling, much like my bladder. I don’t see Chris, but then it’s not really him I’m looking for.
A pious-looking woman strides near me and I quickly ask her: “Excuse me. Where can I find a ladies room?”
She raises an eyebrow slightly then says: “You’d have to go to the basement. Thru FATHER’S CHAMBERS.” She points. My eyes follow her pointing finger. FATHER’S CHAMBERS appears to be thru a doorway, just next to the altar at the front of the church. About sixty million miles away.
My own voice sounds far away, muttering sickly: “Okay. Thank you.”
I lurch on along the far left-hand side of the church, my eyes glued to the wall and the pictures of THE STATIONS OF THE CROSS. I feel just like Jesus Christ. At this moment, I AM Jesus Christ. I can feel many eyes on me as I make my way: Where does that woman think she is going? Goodness. WHO is she and WHY is she invading FATHER’S CHAMBERS…”
I make it up to that altar pretty quick, amazing myself. Let’s hear it for “Feats of Needs-to-Urinate-Strength”! I burst thru a linen, curtainy-thing right into FATHER’S CHAMBERS. Father is not in right now, but the groom’s teenage son is.
Me: “Hey, _ _ _ _! Don’t you look nice!”
Sonny (Smiling): “Lynn! What’re you doing in here?”
Me: “Uhhh. You cannot believe what I have just been thru. I need the bathroom.”
Sonny (Looks concerned): “It’s all the way down these stairs…” he motions with his chin to the corner of the room where I can see the beginning of a spiral staircase, “Please be careful, Lynn.”
I walk over to the staircase and look down at what appears to be 2 full flights of nonstop, rickety, narrow Hades. For one brief, dizzying moment, I consider dropping trough and pissing right on the floor – yes – right here in FATHER’S CHAMBERS. Now wouldn’t THAT be something!
But no. I resolutely begin my descent. It is endless. At the bottom of the staircase, I glance quickly around. One phrase resonates in my mind: CHURCH DUNGEON. Ultimately, I am victorious with nary a leak nor a drip to betray me. I can hear the intro music kicking in upstairs. Up, up, UP…I go.
Back in FATHER’S CHAMBERS and it’s gotten a little busier in here! Not only is my nephew still in attendance, but FATHER is here, along with the groom. Just me and THE BOYS!
Chris was right – this priest IS scary! He is frowning at me in such a state of consternation that I can’t even begin to think of what in hell there is to say right now. So I just say: “Hiya! You guys all look great!”
The Groom (Big grin): “Hi, Lynn! How are ya?”
Me: “I’m good!” We stand there facing each other, both smiling vapidly, “Ok, well you’re all busy here…so…GOOD LUCK out there WITH THE BIG SHOW!”
YES – I ACTUALLY SAY THESE WORDS, with FATHER looking on. VER BATIM: GOOD LUCK OUT THERE WITH THE BIG SHOW.
As I flee FATHER’S CHAMBER’S, I hear my nephew burst out laughing.
ON WITH THE SHOW!
TO BE CONTINUED...
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