1-25-08 11:23 p.m.

Hey, Brother -

I’m sorry it takes me so long to get back to you… with my many glamorous social commitments and a busy media schedule, you know…

I have suddenly, and for no good reason, picked up on an old hobby: Painting pictures. I have chosen really “simple projects” such as Indian flamethrowers, snake-charmers and eerie close-ups of famous Indian chiefs. Ha-ha. My ambition just eludes me. Old habits are hard to break. Ass-whippins’, they are.. Probably speaks something of my mental state of mind at this point in my life.

I just finished painting (what was supposed to be) a stunning depiction of an Ogallala Chief. His impressive, sun-dried, beef-jerky face tells of many battles and proud massacres. I haven’t been able to get his hue just right. (he looks mummified) And in my overzealous attempt at the wrinkles, I have given him a cleft pallet. I was aiming for a native-bronzed, sun burnt kind of hue; he simply looks like he is eaten up with melanoma.

We call him “Skin Disease Chief.” I will attach a photo of my rendering of him for you. May it bring you luck, prosperity -- and a keen hankering for sun block when you go out for extended periods of time.

Another stunner -- and which hangs larger than life in our living room -- is a Navajo warrior. (picture attached) Do you notice something peculiarly familiar about him?? Mere' pointed it out right away -- in all of her infinite, artistic, smart-assed wisdom -- ”Mom, your fierce Navajo Indian warrior looks like George Bush.”
Whuu!!? I was so proud of that warrior -- but now everyone is laughing at the George Bush warrior, hanging in our living room. I have threatened to take the damn thing down, but the family just won’t allow it. It has become our newest conversation piece.

What do you think about The Flamethrower? I found an amazing photo in “Time” magazine about five or six years ago. I clipped it out of the magazine and have held onto it ever since. It was my intention to commission a seriously talented, but starving, young artist to paint it for me -- for pennies on the dollar… but just never quite warmed to the idea. So, of course, when the painting bug bit recently, I just thought that I would attempt it myself. I’m pretty pleased with the results. It took me three days. I‘ve made my peace with it.

Pass the beer nuts…

Upon completion of that “masterpiece,” I was feeling kind of punchy, so I thought how incredibly cool it would be to do a companion piece to The Flamethrower: A Snake Charmer! You know, one of those Hodji-fluting-at-the-cobra-dudes? By the way, they’re all over the sidewalks in India: Those huge, spitting cobras, the tip jars, and their very competent Hodji masters… Sh*t!

So I start Googling around for interesting cobra/Hodji combinations. So I type in “snake charmer.” Got some very interesting hits…(yeah, baby!!!) which resulted in the little gal and her boa (constrictor) heh-heh. I could not resist painting that one. It is hung up next to The Flamethrower, as sort of an inside joke.

And the conversation pieces just keep piling up around here…

Later the same evening…
James and I just got home from Babin’s bar. Remember… the NOLA bar of infamous musical misinformation?

Los Lobos is playing on the juke box. I half expect Josh (the bartender/math wiz) to come over just to tell us Los Lobos were actually the first dudes to release Oye Coma Va… and that Tito Puente was accompanying them on the harmonica…or something really profound like that. Instead, we all find ourselves mesmerized by the large plasma-screened TV, tuned to FOX. Without a doubt, one must look like total hell in order to be taken seriously by the executives at Fox. Have you seen their anchors? I’m not one to, well, judge, but… daaaammmmm. You just have to take a serious-as-hell pucker face, well, seriously, ya know?

In spite of all of the “visible exhale”, if we do not have children in tow, James and I are drawn to certain bars. Unfortunately of course we’re mostly surrounded by The Smokers. A convivial, interesting bunch, eager to share their cigarettes and promote (with impunity) their own brand of sage wisdom with anyone in schlepping distance.

Last night the conversation centered mostly around recently-deceased actor, 28-yr-old Heath Ledger. Very sad, I admit. I admired his work and grit.

Heathcliff Andrew Ledger (April 4, 1979 – January 22, 2008) was an Academy Award-nominated Australian actor. After appearing in television roles during the 1990s, Ledger developed a Hollywood career. He starred in both critical and financial successes, including Ten Things I Hate About You, The Patriot, Monster's Ball, A Knight's Tale and Brokeback Mountain, and completed the role of the Joker in the forthcoming movie The Dark Knight shortly before his death.


Amid their “Great Clouds of Accurate Information,“ came comments like…”He musta gone crazy after doing that gay-cowboy-thing”… (puff-puff) or “It was that Joker role on the new Batman that done it.” (puff-puff)

Josh The Bartender is shaking his head sadly, and then he turns to James and I. He tells us that his brother is gay. Not a fag either, but manly-gay…savvy? James and I began nodding thoughtfully. Just something Josh was needing to get off of his mind at that point, I guess -- and another thing for me to add to “The Big List of Things I Need to Care About.”

I learned how to use the “history” function on my computer this week… so I now consider myself a minor sleuth of sorts. Very empowering. You know, in case I need to covertly track internet activity of certain family members. So I decided to try out my new prowess. Not that I needed to, because it was only Chandler, my angel, who was simply checking his email. He is such a sweet boy. So directly after Chandler walks away from my computer, I bring up the internet history (and I‘m feeling a bit guilty about this until)…. “naked cheerleaders” and “lesebean sex”. This made my lower jaw retract…

As you know, Chandler is 13 now, and barely tolerates his association with me, but he was shockingly interested in what I had to say about my newfound computer skill.
I casually mention to Chandler that I occasionally will be checking the history of websites visited. It is my computer, after all, and I do not need to deal with any viruses. (virtual STD) He looks away. I know I’m a touch more neurotic than the average person but…daaaammm! I need to get a handle on a few things around here, most especially my naiveté.

The questionable spelling of “lesbian” immediately eliminated my husband from the list of likely surfing suspects, I‘m glad to say, but this did get me to thinking about certain things that men do just to get female attention (or some semblance of lucky) and it’s adding up to an absolute stockpile of events around here lately. (sigh) I suppose that’s natural.

The really tough part about being 13 is, If you’re not 100 percent certain you’re “hot stuff, “ how do you push past that and persevere? Chandler’s paradigm is a really tough place to be right now. Do you remember any of this? If so, do you have any advice to offer, brother? Not only does he have to compete in the vicious real world but also in this whole underbelly of MySpace, texting and email, which has convoluted what could be a practical tool with the ridiculous and downright alarming.

This morning I opened my email, hoping to get updates from friends, family. I was also expecting an update from Chandler‘s math teacher. Maybe a recipe from Dad. Instead the only new (unsolicited) emails were about topics such as “increase blood flow to the penis” which I suppose would be okay…if I had one. Now see, these emails manage to make us think about things/needs we would not otherwise ponder.

(A wordy explanation on how our kids are exposed to way much more than we were, without a doubt.)

I read this somewhere: Computers allow us make more mistakes faster than any other human invention, with the possible exception of handguns and tequila.
( …a direct quote from the Bible, I‘m sure.)

And while we’re on the subject of tequila… James and I both have noticed some questionable activity in the liquor cabinet…and it is quickly becoming “a situation.” Gentle parental questioning has lead to ….generally getting a death stare from one or both… and blatant denials…of course… leading to more rigorous and heated exchanges.

My gentle questions quickly turn into inane, incredulous statements, becoming stoopid-er and stoppid-er by the minute: “You two guys!! I’m not stoop-idd!! Because I figure after 25 years, dammit, your Mom remembers enough of it-- because it’s not like it was 20 years ago, when Mom was 18 -- like one of you is now!! -- when I was a frikkin’ gawd-dam genius, gawd-dammitt!!-- and now that I’ve been doing this for 25 years, and I’m 38, I know!!! I am not an idiot!!!…

Um… see what I mean? And now I’m having tormenting visions of the children drifting off at night into drunken seizures, drowning in pools of vomit -- just before whisper-hollering downstairs to me!!…(“Mom, you were right!! Help!!!”)
…meanwhile, I’m zombied-out downstairs, watching the Turner Classic Movie Channel with three hounds and a seriously snoring husband…

Dammmit, I need a few helper monkeys around here. Life can be hard sometimes.

Now, regarding the very cool new rock star association I have, (Toehold in reality time!!!) Your sister possesses the psychotic conviction that she is 100 percent hot sh*t, evidently….

Dilana Robichaux is a singer, songwriter, and performer who lives in Los Angeles, California. She is best known as the runner-up contestant on the CBS reality television show Rock Star: Supernova
Biography
Dilana Jansen VanVüren was born in Johannesburg, South Africa on August 10, 1972. Her surname changed to Smith when she was about two years old, when her mother married her stepfather, and he adopted her. Dilana used singing as an escape from an unpleasant home scene, participating in school choir competitions and festivals, as well as church choir.
When the opportunity presented itself, Dilana dropped everything and started performing full time, from a traveling duo, to a mixture of bands in South Africa and The Netherlands. Moving to the Netherlands, she formed her own band, focusing more on original works and becoming one of the country’s highest paid live performers.
Recording her first album Wonderfool in 2000 led to four music videos, five singles and well over 200 gigs. She also sang the title tracks for two major motion pictures and performed in a festival in Belgium supporting Joe Cocker, K's Choice and Heather Nova to a crowd of more than 100,000 people. Dilana also performed at the 2000 Sydney Olympics, with other Dutch performers.
Supernova
Dilana was one of the finalists on the CBS reality television show of season two of Rock Star, where she finished runner-up to Lukas Rossi. The show is a competition in which the band chooses a lead singer from a group of contestants. Although Dilana received the most consistent praise for her performances of all the contestants, she came under fire from fans, her competition, and from Supernova because of comments she made during a staged press conference, in which she was forthcoming with her opinion of her competitors. Although she apologized repeatedly for her remarks afterwards, it appears that her first "bottom three" appearance was a result of this controversy. The controversy seemed to die down by the end of the program; on the final night of voting, she was said to have received the highest number of votes at least at one point during the evening, and ended up with the second highest number overall. On November 17, 2006, Gilby Clarke revealed that Lukas Rossi defeated Dilana because "he made [their] music sound more like a band, whereas Dilana sounded like a singer, with Supernova backing her."
Gigs and Tours
Following her participation on Rock Star, Dilana performed various venues with fellow Rock Star: Supernova finalist Magni; with Magni, she won an FM957 People's Choice Award (Icelandic Grammy) for "Gig of the Year" in January of 2007. From November to December of 2006, Dilana headlined her first independent tour in the United States, sponsored by Urok clothing, which also distributes and sells her new clothing line. From January to February of 2007, she opened for the Rock Star Supernova tour, playing an acoustic set with Magni on guitar. While critics generally panned Rock Star Supernova, Dilana's performances were met with positive reception.[1][2] Following the Rock Star Supernova tour, Dilana will perform at various locations before embarking on another solo tour following the release of her album. This includes opening for the band Aerosmith on April 28, 2007 at the Manadalay Bay in Las Vegas.
In The Studio
Dilana has stated that her upcoming album is slated for a 2008 release date. It will be recorded with the help of Gilby Clarke, No Doubt drummer Adrian Young, Mötley Crüe guitarist Mick Mars, Satellite Party basist Carl Restivo, fellow Rock Star: Supernova finalist Magni, former Acceptance members and the Rock Star houseband and released through her newly created record label "Rusty Harp." She has also mentioned that this album will feature her original work, opposed to covers; however, she has released covers of Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" and The Police classic "Roxanne". It is unclear whether they will be included on the final tracklisting. Through YouTube on her personal account "DilanaVids", she released the music video for Holiday, which she created using footage from her life after rising to fame in the United States. Dilana was also featured on a re-recording of "Black", a track on Gilby Clarke's best-of album released January 30, 2007.[3] In June of 2007, Dilana signed a long-term, international co-publishing agreement with major company Cherry Lane Publishing joining a roster including John Legend, Wolfmother, The Black Eyed Peas and Mick Mars. [4]

…One day a couple months ago I found a hand-written note scotch-taped to my front door: “Please Come to a Party at Your New Neighbor’s House. BYOB.“
Simply excellent. I refuse to acknowledge that sort of riff-raff invitation from a new neighbor. So instead, I decide to walk my dog. One the way home, I hear some extremely cool music coming from the back yard of the new neighbor. Our cul-de-sac is just jam-packed with about 15 brand-spanking-new corvettes.

So…I decide to slick back my extremely cool platinum hairdo, slip into an extremely cool anti-mother ensemble, and go investigate.
… and meet perhaps two of the greatest friends I will ever have: Dilana and Dickey. Extremely cool people. Dilana digs my poetry and made the comment, do you have any idea what you have written? We are from the same tribe, girl! You could be rich! I could use some of your lyrics…!!

Um…well, that fired me up, as much as I allow myself to become fired up about anything anymore…and so I have been writing songs (based upon my dark poetry) ever since.

Perhaps I’m the next undiscovered songwriting genius? Or maybe not. Honestly, I’m just a self-indulgent, extremely happy idiot savant. Nice. What more could an aging hipster mommy want?!?

Nothing, that’s what -- Not a damn-thing more.

Life has been interesting around here, to say the least. As a result of my latest brush with karma, I have made a study of famous songwriters, you know, to see what that scene is all about. Interestingly, I happened upon one of the most famous songwriters of this decade. She has her own star on the Hollywood Walk. Her name is Diane Warren. I faxed her over a letter, introducing myself, and our possible family connection; that I myself am an esteemed writer…(!!!) and have not heard back…heh-heh.

Not sure I will, as I am such a big-ass threat to her, you know. So… like…when you get sprung, make sure to bring over your friends and fancy-ass recording equipment. I’ll let you sing. (I’m the songwriter remember) Maybe you’ll become the next Meatloaf….(seriously)…

But for now… my new whacked-out stylings are just sitting there on my new, private, lyrics website, you know, glowing like radiation.

I must sound like a total fool to you, Shane. But it is all the truth. You know me… “Daughter-of-Roland” kind of business… but I will tell you something strange. About six weeks before I met Dilana, I had a dream that I had started writing songs for U2. Jeez…are your ears starting to bleed yet? I woke up with such strong conviction that I started researching it…and quickly wrote-off the notion. After all, autographing books and assorted body parts has never really been my goal in life. I just simply enjoy the “craft.”

Possibly by the time you are released, I will be quarantined to some little room with my psychotic little convictions, clutching reams and reams of “my work“; rocking and stroking it, calling it “the precious.”

…And if you have not seen “Lord of the Rings”…you have absolutely no tag to my bizarre reference…and are probably praying for me.

As you know, my only aspiration is to just get though another day with my teenagers without having my pants fall down around my ankles…that’s always a triumph, ya know?
I’m feeling a little punchy. I’ve had a pot of coffee already, it’s 10:30 a.m., and I just can’t believe that it’s not 3 p.m…. somebody please hold me.

And now I REALLY need to hook a toe into reality, sign off and “get some stuff done.” Chandler and I are headed to The Woodlands Mall. I have told him “Do not ask for one, single thing! And I absolutely mean it…this time…young man!” The house is now filled with the overpowering scent of young man cologne and I am about to gag on the fumes.

And you’d probably rather be reading an informative packet on people with Down’ Syndrome anyway… so I will sign off for now.

Hurry up.
K

December 20, 2007...

I think of you ever day. I promse our mother everyey week that I will be sencding off the nesh fresh installment and yet…

Have been in a dar place. I am better. In retrospect…now tha tI am better, I just ffl selfish. We are gearing up around her for Christmas. For a change, am not overtaxed, stressed out of my gourd. I put oup the tree, pu up a garlan over hta eamntle, iI wrpped the Itllian cypress trees in te fron yar with lights, pu u[p wereaths on the front windows. And callee it good Kevin has been tyring to win the business of Amaretta_hess (Arn & Hammner) and it llokds positive. Plese pray. If he winds this acound, he will be te firs. He I the most dedicated, hard-working man I have ever known’; and ans a result, Ia m the most hardest, dedicated, har-working woman I have ever known. We just get by.. Belive me. I find myself reading “Rule your retirement” articles in popular retiriement subscriptions; I am drunk.

January 7, 2008

Hoooly shat. That little pile of crap up there was a letter I started you one night after having too much to drink. I was missing you. I opened up that file yesterday and almost cried. My finger was poised over the “delete” key, but then I stopped and read it again, decided to keep it.

I have done a lot of searching my heart lately about myself, what I hope to accomplish, the habits that I need to get rid of, and decided that I will come back to this infamous letter to my brother on December 20th, 2007, just to see how f’d up being drunk is.
Forgive me for even attaching it in this letter to you, but that sorry-ass little paragraph just about sums up what I have been doing with myself every evening for the past -- I don’t know -- too long. I even have these astonishing, heart-rending excuses for “drinking too much” but so what?

Powerful words, words to make a person give up or wake up -- “so what?”

Moving on, congratulations on surviving another new year. I considered the typical “happy new year’s” wish, but figured you might laugh at that. But in retrospect, I know you will look at this time in your life and count your blessings.
I know that I do.

I’m very proud of your hard-fought fire fighting education, plus the electricity training you have. Electricity and fire scare the living crapola out of me, so I am duly, duly impressed, brother.

I’m so sorry for my lack of communication. Damn, just read my mind, okay, because you are on it too much of the time. You are such an abominable distraction, my dear.

I pray for you… and pray for you… and pray for you. Know that.
As you can probably discern, especially from the last letter, I have been really searching my soul about my religion. Not one moment have I doubted my Creator and his love for me, but something in my mind is trying to stretch me. I’m wanting to know more and more about “why”.

I know this is normal for humans at some point in their life. I have never had the need to do that, but now that I do, it has just been spiritual torture. I have been writing poetry for the last six months or so. Kevin seems astounded and wants to know where it comes from. I have met a real, live rock star, And we’ve become great friends. She wants to use my poetry in some songs. I will tell you more about that in the next letter, it is unbelievable.

I have to be honest, I don’t know how to answer to anybody, other than it comes from a part of me that I haven’t met yet. A part of me that I would like to get to know. I use the analogy of talking in tongues. I have never considered that phenomenon, though I believe it.

One of the many times Kevin asked me, “where does this come from?” the strangest, but most true answer just came out. “Kevin, I self-hypnotize, and then my mind speaks to me in tongues.”

My response and my poetry have puzzled me. I have done enough research on the Internet and have been taken to so many unbelievable, ironic sites that I know that God is leading me somewhere, and I am trying to be patient. If you read my poetry, then go to Rosicrucian sites, or those that speak heavily of Kaballah, some of my poetry is almost direct quote -- and this scares me, because I’m not sure that those places are where I need to be. Both claim to be non-religious, but a platform upon which to strengthen your religion and personal growth. Ideals, strategies thousands of years old, ancient secrets of growth and learning. A place where people that have been enlightened eventually are lead. (???)

And that is all I’m willing to say about that right now, because I do not want to influence you toward a path that I’m unsure of and am mostly doubtful about myself. I am just trying to come to terms with God and where I need to be. The last thing I’m looking for is some cult, sect or secret brotherhood, ya know?

It is raining outside today. I can’t imagine anything that thrills me more than a rainy day. I’m not sure if it is my gutters or some of the pipes on my roof, but it almost sounds like I have a metal roof when it rains. You remember the large deck with all of the slate, plus the pool. I think the rain drops hitting all of that just sound amazing. I can still remember what the rain sounded like when it hit the porch in our old house in Queen City -- really loud and cool -- big plops falling out of that big tree and rolling off the roof onto the little patio, because we didn’t have gutters, I don’t think.

I'm finally recovering from the ass-whippin' known as the common cold.
Several times this week I found myself complaining about the misery that accompanies the cold -- but then I reminded myself what my friend is going through -- lung cancer. Very rough stuff.

Regarding Mere' and the Navy... I just don't know. She backed down right before taking the oath. I certainly didn't pressure her. However... she has gotten herself into a deep rut. She dropped out of college. She is plenty intelligent enough, just doesn't have the maturity yet to set her ducks in a row. The notion of studying outside of the classroom, to her, is just unthinkable.
This just breaks my heart.

We've been patient. We've had pep rallies. We've given deadlines. She honestly, honestly, honestly believes that it is her choice and right to set her own schedule and run her own life. She can't calculate yet what it takes in self-sacrifice in order to keep up the sort of habits she is so fond of, such as... sleeping in until 2 p.m. every day, staying up all night, cavorting around in Fairyland, a/k/a MySpace.

Things have gone from the point of ridiculous to just plain unbelievable with her. As you know, we have made her leave our home on a couple of occasions (I know that sounds extreme). In my mind, this should have been a "wakeup strategy." She ends up in the homes of friends whose parents just don't give a damn about what the young people are doing. We have always taken her back after understandings and agreements, which eventually fall off within a couple months.
She is irritated because I will not pay for her education at the tattoo institute. Yes, there is such an institute, and it is over in the College Station area. She claims they offer financial aid. ( I'm scratching my head on this one) She insists I should respect "her choice", which I tell her that I do, I just simply choose not to pay for it, "my choice." Take advantage of the "financial aid."
Really, I need to draw the line somewhere. I think paying for an education at the tattoo institute will be about as satisfying to me as taking my hard-earned bills from our bank account and burning them, one-by-one, with a cheap, plastic cigarette lighter.

Knowing her, she'll be the most famous tattoo artist in the world, will have her own TV tattoo series. She can then go on live TV and announce, "See, Mom, I told you so!"
Go ahead, darling, knock yourself out. I will be your biggest fan.

Jeez, I never ordered a child like her, haha. I do have faith (somewhere deep, deep, deep inside of me) that she's going to make it just fine. When she does make it, I will be very proud, as long as it is something she was willing to fight for.

I was touched by an interview I saw on the news a couple months ago, and it just spoke to me -- Mere'! I'm not sure if you had opportunity to read about or see (you get TV time?) an interview of the forensic artist that made the rendering of "Baby Grace", Riley Anne Sawyers. Riley was the tiny 2-yr-old child that was found here several months ago in a container in a Galveston bay. Horrible, sad tragedy. The interview was highlighting the artist, Lois Gibson, who is world-renown for her gift.

Mere' is such an intricate, bizarre artist. If you could see her portfolio, you would probably have the same "ah-ha moment," that I had. I think Mere' would make a terrific forensic artist.
I am pasting on a bit of the story that profiles this forensic artist. It is a CNN article and has a link that shows one of the artist’s actual interviews. I have seen other interviews of her that are much better, but this video link is good...

CNN) -- A man in the medical examiner's office pushed back the cheeks on Baby Grace's corpse to put a smile on her tiny, decaying face. That's how forensic artist Lois Gibson captured the open-mouthed grin with spangled risotto-sized teeth. It was one of the girl's few features that had survived six weeks in a shed during a Texas summer and nearly two months in Galveston Bay.
But it was the way the blond toddler looked outside of the black body bag that made Gibson draw large, lid-filling eyes on the picture of the girl that led to identifying Riley Ann Sawyers.
"She was so very, very small. She looked like the size of a child that you would change the diaper on, just laying there on a metal gurney like a giant stainless steel cookie sheet," Gibson says just above a sad, disbelieving whisper before her voice shifts and she's strong and scientific. "If you are very, very small, then the iris, that colored part of your eye, takes up almost the entire eye opening."
The corpse's decay helped Gibson perfect the gentle downward slope of Riley's eyes. "The decomposition was such that I could see that bone on her face," she said. "And her eyebrows were going to follow her little ridge."
Gibson said she felt her blood pressure rising during her morgue visit. It passed quickly, she said, and "I turned into the artist. I was going to make the best picture possible and get every piece of anatomy right and find her name and get justice for her." In spite of what lay on the gurney, Gibson said, "I knew that she was beautiful, and the picture would reach out to people who knew her and loved her." Watch what the sketch artist has to say about the case »
And it did. Five days after the release of Gibson's precise post-mortem sketch, Riley's grandmother in Ohio recognized the sweet face and contacted police.
It's the kind of result police hope for when they summon one of the handful of forensic artists across the nation who can re-create the faces of maimed, burned and decaying bodies. Gibson spent what she described as just "three intense minutes" with Riley's body that day. It was all she needed. It was all she could take.

There’s more, okay, but enough on that subject. Oh, wait. A bit more on Mere'. She moved out of the house this week, for about the fifth time. We had a confrontation. I called her downstairs because I needed to speak with her about a few normal, misc. things. She was busy on the computer, probably MySpace, and chose to ignore me. About the sixth call up to her I was furious.

When she finally did come downstairs, she told me that the candle that I had burning smelled like "ass". She isn't necessarily trying to be rude, this is just her very, very strange sense of humor. I have learned to live with it.

I ask her how various things were coming along. She replied that she had been taking care of those things. I asked her to sit down in the sunroom with me, spend some time, and we would go over some of those things. She hit the roof.

Chandler, now 13, had come down for a snack. He butts in, starts defending her defensiveness. I stayed calm, because I have learned to do this -- believe me it is not easy --
Soon she will not be insurable on our health policy, and she needs that. Her time is running out to make some important decisions…. and that if she continued to disrespect me in my own home....

She responds, well, fine, if you're kicking me out, (I wasn’t) there's nothing I can do about it, and proceeds to go upstairs to pack. Chandler starts howling, accusing me of "giving up" on his sister.
Just an example of another normal conversation that got completely out of hand. A mother that asks too many nosey questions...

Okay, I'm just going to reel it all in here, because it will sound ridiculous to you if I keep going. It sounds ridiculous to me.

A person can slice it any way they want to …
that’s what you get for indulging your kids -- that’s what you get for not indulging your kids enough -- that’s what you get for letting them talk to you that way -- That’s what you get for not talking to them enough -- that’s what you get for allowing them to watch the wrong TV, look at the wrong books, the wrong art, allowing them to use MySpace, for not taking them to church enough, for taking them to church too much --

Brother, I know one thing -- when my friends have these issues with their kids -- and they do, and worse, believe me -- I am full of all kinds of smart advice and sage wisdom. But when the rubber hits the road over here on my street, it’s a totally different state of mind…believe me.

Damn this is hard. It is hurtful and astonishing how children that are raised in a nurturing, loving, generous, intelligent environment can bite down so hard upon the hand that feeds them.

I had an interesting conversation with a young couple we met in Jefferson last month. We were at a restaurant together and struck up a conversation about kids -- something that is easy to do when you have them. The young man said that his brother, Jud, had always struggled through school and college, which was rough on their parents. They couldn’t understand why Jud couldn’t or wouldn’t just buckle down. It wasn’t because he wasn’t intelligent, but it just wasn’t his thing; he couldn’t make himself do it. So Jud struck out to Hollywood to be an actor, eventually landed in New York, doing theater work -- and now everything Jud does seems to be touched by the hands of the Lord, because he is now acting, writing and producing Broadway productions. Jud is happily married and has children. I commented to this man, wow, I can listen to this objectively and say, more power to Jud! Jud is my Hero! -- But if that had been my child on that same path, I would have torn my hair out. Now that may sound hypocritical, but it is just not the same when it is your child, does it? The young man said, “Yeah, exactly.”

Shoes fit differently on other feet, don’t they? Well, yes, they do.

My Mere' is that special case, like Jud. The child that has to try everything once and make all of her own wrong mistakes. Either she's not smart enough or just too proud to listen and learn from the mistakes and successes of other people. Or maybe she’s like Jud.
It's time for her to go. I know that doesn't sound so great, coming from her mother. Obviously I’m not doing her any favors, but just allowing things to grow in the wrong direction -- hell, what I am saying, I’m not allowing, I’m doing everything I can -- but I know that God expects us to let go and let nature take its course. That is so hard, but the harder we try, the more boogered up things become, it seems.

We have tapped into every energy source that we have to help and encourage her. I believe that now she needs to enlist. It has worked wonders for Kris.

Do you know what the last admonishment I gave him I dropped him off at the airport? "Do not make friends with those people, do not trust them, because that is not your job." (sigh)
Well, here we go. I have a whole new set of worries regarding Kris, and I will fill you in on that soon.

I'm working on a blog site now, in collaboration with Kris, that will show what he's up to -- and it's pretty fascinating. I won't even give you a hint right now, because I just want the words the speak.

Chandler, his father and I had a conversation last night about grades. A very sore subject with Chan. His privileges have been severely curtailed because of his steadily declining report card grades, and he's not having any of it. He's decided he needs to be angry and rebel. Remember, he's 13. He's right about everything. Daily we have conversations that go something like this...

"You don't ever take my side."

"You think taking my stuff away from me is going to work -- well, it's not!"

(he’s actually right -- but what in the hell does work??)

"This is the last time I'm ever going to get to see Lindsey, because she's moving to Colorado, so you should at least let me go to the movies with her tonight." -- it goes without saying that Jake wants me to pay for all or part of the deal.

"That teacher is making stuff up about me."

"That teacher is stupid!"

* insert everything he requests " * -- should be my choice!"

"My stupid classes are too far apart, so those tardies aren't my fault."

(sigh) I could go on...really. And then the other 10% of the time he's sweet and smiling. He's smart enough, somehow, to know that he has to put in some good time, and that good time gets him lots of mileage.

Things that put Chan in a really great mood:

Instead of asking what he has for homework, mom has a discussion with him about the latest motocross heros, such as Travis PIstrano or Jimmy Stewart.

Mom is too tired to cook and decides to order pizza.

Mom picked up the right kind of chips and snacks. There is plenty of Dr. Pepper under the counter, you know.

We allow one of his friends come over to spend the night and believe him as he swears that they will not trash out the whole upstairs.

Mom tells him that she needs to go to the mall, but that he had better not ask for anything -- yeah, right.

This child also gets a lot of mileage from his sheer beauty, and I'm not kidding. He has an interesting look about him. Not a traditional quarterback look but a Johnny Depp beauty that just makes the ladies go gaga. Even his teachers will admit to this.

Most of his problems at school stem from the fact that school just eats into his social time. Since kindergarten, I have had this type comment from most all of his teachers, "Chandler is the center of attention, loves to visit with his neighbors. Chandler should be a teacher one day, because he has an uncanny ability to draw the attention of...well...just about every kid in the class.

Chan's been sent to the principal quite a few times for his socializing. Interestingly, our principals are mostly female here and are very charmed by this boy. How many times have I gotten calls from a very sweet, fluttering voice that I mistake for the secretary, but is, in fact, the principal. She and Chan have just had an understanding. Chan has convinced her that she has changed his life; that she is the one that has encouraged him to buckle down and make his lessons a priority. She believes this.

I sit on the other side of these conversations, just shaking my head, trying not to smile.
What am I going to do? Jeez.

When I get Kris's blog put together, I will send you the link. I won't comment about it until I get your opinion, which I value a great deal. Interestingly, when I read Kris’ s letters Kevin, he looked kind of thoughtful for a moment and then commented, “you know, it almost sounds like you’re talking to your brother there.”

Kris came home with some pretty harrowing videos of being pepper-sprayed and inserting IVs all willy-nilly. Imagine watching the loony tunes version of how to insert an IV, with all the spurting and half-assing around.

While Kris was here, he spent an entire paycheck on a gun at Gander Mountain, something called an m3, I think. Looks like a machine gun to me. He promptly took it to East Texas and went deer hunting with it.

Jack died in November. As hard as it was to watch him keep on, it was unbelievable when we got that phone call late one night. We immediately started beating ourselves up for not visiting enough, not doing enough, you know, and rehashing all of the sad, bittersweet feelings that came along with watching his body essentially wither away while he was still alive. Rough stuff for a family to go through.

I hope a cure for Parkinson’s is forthcoming, very soon. But sadly it was not soon enough for Jack. We had him cremated, for obvious reasons -- he just didn’t look human.

The cremation process was pretty bizarre. I was told by the man at the crematorium that I must keep Jack’s ashes in the refrigerator, because they were still biological. I freaked, yelling at Kevin -- you’d better ice your dad down in a cooler in the garage, because he’s not going in my refrigerator!

I was serious at the time, but now we can almost smile about that memory.

When weekend all of those bad ice storms hit, Kevin suddenly needed to have closure, (dangerous traveling conditions be damned) so here we go.

From the hotel to the church is probably an hour’s drive, but in the icy conditions, multiply the drive time by 2.5. We get halfway there, then Kevin smacks his forehead and says, oh, no! I left dad in the hotel!

Well, I almost started crying, then he starts laughing. (???) After the memorial service, after everyone stood up and shared funny-cute memories about Jack, and we were all getting ready to go to the graveside service, Kevin held out the urn and asked the girls which of the two wanted to take grandpa home for a visit first? They didn’t much care for that question.

Cremation humor, you know…

I got a sweet Christmas card from Roland. He mentioned a call from you and how much he enjoyed hearing from you. He really made over the fact that he is so proud of his sweet, smart, pretty children and grandchildren -- mentioning all of us by name.

He is really proud of a new puppy, seven weeks old. I don’t blame him, I know what it is like to have a puppy that young -- even dingos, hyenas, orangutans and scorpions are cute at that age. He is especially proud of the fact that it is part lab, part wolf (whu???)

Well, good for Dad and his little wolfkin. He also notes that Trixie loves the pup and has taken it as her son. Sounds like life in Dad’s world is good…and I’m ever grateful. And the beat goes on.

October 27, 2007 -
Hey, Sweet Brother.
I can’t tell you how much I loved getting your letter. What an unexpected and wonderful surprise. The following three pages is the last letter I wrote to you -- in a rush. I was packing, getting ready for my 20-yr reunion. I have started this letter with that, and then I will pick back up with more current letters that I started, finally wrapping up with the present.

(written sometime in early August…I think…hell, I’m not sure)
….Good morning, my dear. This will be short, as I'm packing to go out of town (Hughes Springs) -- and, if recollection serves me, everything is sitting in a laundry basket… dirty.
I'm back onto black coffee now (sigh) It was healthy green tea for a while, but I could only take so much of that. And I betcha I have a little too much blood in my caffeine system right now, so as we “speak”, I am having another cup of Joe.
The kids are doing fine. Kris and his friend Scott have been home for a
couple of weeks, visiting before they head back to the real world. They brought their motorcycles. We all took a long ride the second day they were here, around the hill country area, and we had a blast. They took the bikes to Austin yesterday, to see some friends.
Ironically Baylen had been planning a trip to Austin for two months, to see a concert. The Black Keys. She saved her money for a month to make that trip. Word has it, from her brother, that she was kicked out within the first five minutes: one, for being underaged, two, for drinking anyway. I haven’t heard from her, and that was last night. She is going to be home the rest of the weekend and I certainly don’t look forward to being around her. Fortunately we will probably leave before she gets here. What a bummer. She will be like living with Wolverina for a couple of days. Talk about bad luck.

About the book, Regarding Uncertain…ah, how you say...is in hiatus? On hiatus?
It has always been my painful, daffy style to take the most challenging, intriguing, dear-to-my heart material and just stamp all over it (with the best of intentions, of course.) I regret doing this with (Uncertain). As it sits, it is trite and embarrassing. A first, miserable attempt at something way over my head. I eventually hit rock bottom with my first attempt at a sex scene -- oh, pray. I will never forget it. I was sitting on my couch with my laptop, feeling like a total pervert. I yanked up all of the cushions around me, in case the kids or Kevin walked into the room. The scene ended up sounding something like a flying circus, or something like that.
According to “most writers,” first attempts are beastly; just magnificent works of junk. Those admissions bring me comfort. ( and now I need a big, dumb-ass hug to go with my coffee) One day I will hoist myself up by my bra straps and resume “Uncertain.” You know, when the time is right. Do you think I could find a ghost writer for my sex scenes? Haha.
Good news is, I have been working on a few fresh ideas and actually have started on two of them.
For the most part, the extent of my literary endeavors are currently letters addressed to Inmate #12798, Federal Correctional Institute, P.O. Box 1500, El Reno, Oklahoma 73036... Hmmm, Maybe we can figure something out with that??
Lately, for recreation, I have been writing dark poetry (who the hell knew?) I'm thinking…am I on the cusp of a midlife crisis? What else could it possibly be? I mean, read this stuff! I will send you a copy and you can analyze. Please tear it up when you’re done. I do not want someone else to make a fortune from my dysfunction. Sometimes I wonder where my stuff comes from. I am now starting to scare the shit out of myself -- can that be good? I just don’t know.
Hey, hey, tonight is my 20-year class reunion. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I'm nervous. My damn chin has broken out, like a 16-year-old's would do the day before the big dance.(sigh)
I’m not sure if I told you this or not but the last reunion, 10-year, was a very pretentious affair. Everyone feigning success, boasting about their bush league management jobs, new babies. We thought we were real preps. I was trying out my new, professional personality. I was a hit -- hilarious. Yeee-frikkin-haah.
As a result I acquired a stalker. Some guy that moved away in 5th grade -- but was invited to the 10-yr anyway (???) had began calling me, anonymously, whispering hilarious crap like, "What would you do with 9 inches…?" Dear Gawd. It horrified me at the time, but now it makes me laugh my head off. He got busted when his older sister called me and point-blank asked, “Who are you??” Her brother had been ringing up some serious long distance charges on her line. She saw my number, she calls. She then starts to rant.
Well, something jolted me back to my home town. Mostly it was her lisp. Oh, my God, the cheerleader -- Tammy -- with the lisp! Oh…my…God. It was her brother -- K****** D*******.! I know you know who I’m talking about.
He was always very quiet in elementary school -- he and I tossed the football together at recess after lunch. Now, isn’t that sweet?
K******… you dirty little ratbastard.
Hopefully the dirty little cowboy will ask me tonight me what I want to do with his nine inches; I’ll tell him that I will be happy to tie his nine inches around his scrawny little neck.
Hopefully my husband will take care of it if “it” becomes “a situation.”
Hopefully, I'm going to get a chance to humiliate the hell out of the rat if he even looks at me funny.
Hopefully, he will not actually be there tonight.
Well, this one is short. C'est la vie. Somehow I am going to pack, perform a minor surgery on these zits -- oh, and drag out a year book and try to remember everyone’s names. (sigh)
I love you, brother. Hurry up!
October 12, 2007.
All right. Here we go. Last weekend Aunt Donna and Uncle Ken came “down” for a visit. They are the most authentic, awesome people I know. They wanted me to send my love to you.
As you know, Aunt Donna is a very intellectual, well-read, well-versed, well-opinionated Cajun. That being said, well, I really embarrassed myself in front of them. It went down like this:
Aunt Don, Uncle Ken and I were sitting around the table, discussing "stuff." You may not know, but Kenner is working in Cleveland (near Conroe) He might as well be on the moon, because I don’t get to see him. He works 12-hour days, always has.
You may remember Grandmother talking about this… but one of her youngest brothers, our great uncle, was "sawed in half" in a mill accident -- AFTER he returned from the war! Uncle Ken claims that he is buried "somewhere in Montgomery County.” That is Conroe area. Kenner is interested in visiting the grave but doesn't know quite how to get started looking for him, so I confidently pull my laptop over between Aunt Don and myself and start Googling -- like a big shot -- confident that I will have the answer shortly.
"God-damn, girl! You misspelled cemetery!" Aunt Don was looking at me as if I had just farted during mass or something. "Girl, you know there are three god-damn E's in cemetery?!!"
Well...yes, I do (don't I??) but one just doesn't bother making any excuses to Don. In my eagerness to show off my computing skills and helpfulness, ya know, I wasn't really thinking too hard about things like grammar and spelling. I'm still stinging over that slip.
When I was in second grade, Ms. Russo, my teacher, put a big, red circle around the word "verry" in one of my little essays. I was so proud of that essay, because it was about "gohsts." That nasty bitch made me write "very" 200 times! Why she chose to ignore "gohsts" is just beyond me. To this very day, I still sometimes have to back up and erase that extra "r" in very. I guess the same holds true for "cemetary" and "gohsts". (sigh) I am definitely a creature of habit.
Today Aunt Don has an appointment with a very long-time friend. Perhaps you have heard of him. Dr. Red Duke. Red, U Ken, A Don are birds of a feather, hilarious people. Long-time family friends.
Yesterday, en route to Kohl's (in search of "a good bra") a framed photo comes hurtling off of the dash and into my lap. It is a beautiful wood frame with turquoise and silver embellishments, framing a lovely photo of...Rudy and Dudley, hip-deep in the snow. It is a breathtaking photo. Glossy red and white coats, startlingly blue eyes. Rudy and Dudley are the working dogs of the Pea Patch.
"Red wants a picture of those god-damn cow dogs! He'll get it tomorrow, after he's done looking at my boobs!"
No comment. Red has "cussed and discussed" her mammograms forever. She and I were supposed to have buddy mammograms this time, but I would just about die of embarrassment if Red and I were to start "cussing and discussing" my rack!
Okay. Enough. Kevin and I had quite a big time at HIS 30-yr reunion. Regarding the forms you sent (thank you!!) they wouldn’t have been useful that weekend, and I will explain. I have a funny story about OKC.
The reunion was actually in Wichita's Old Town, not OKC. I totally confused myself about that. We flew in to OKC, drove two hours to his mom's in Wichita, KS, spent the night there, then the next day we were about to head out to "Old Town." I gear up with Stephen King's "The Stand", a couple of water bottles and a sack of mixed nuts. Kevin looks at me kind of funny, then 15 minutes later he announces, "we're here." Wha??
I crack myself up. Really, I do.
The reunion was a hoot. Everyone that showed up was just awesome. I ended up at a table, talking to "reunion crashers." Hell, I didn't know. They were a blast. Had flown in from Melbourne, Australia on business. They had come down to have a drink at the bar and ended up mingling, ya know? They were sitting with two women (one was an actual classmate) I assumed they were all together as couples. Well, wrong.
I ended up getting chatty with one of the gals, who was a total, awesome doll. Since I tend to say very outlandish things when I drink Chardonnay, I announce to her, and to whoever else is within earshot, that she is the cutest little thing and that if I were a lesbian, I would make her my woman... (um hickup)
Lil' cutie cracks up and plants a mushy kiss on my lips. Well, whatever.
Well, the other gal about turns the table over because she can't push her chair back fast enough. And THEN I immediately understand "the situation." I'm mentally gearing up to get my skinny little ass kicked by a lesbian at my husband's 30-year-class reunion. Well, thank god she goes storming off somewhere. Her partner decides to go after her, so I'm alone with the business guys.
The business guys get all worked up and start having fun with the situation and start asking all kinds of, um, inappropriate questions. I look for my husband and spot him across the room. He has someone's wife in his lap. Wait a damn minute! She is straddling his leg, actually. He is smiling pretty big and smoking a cigar.
At this point, there is a big blank...
Then suddenly we are all (about 20 classmates) headed down the street to a novelty bar -- as if we had not had enough half-assing around back at the hotel. By this point, I am sloshed. I vaguely remember these professional, successful people passing a joint around on the walk between the hotel and bar. I have never smoked weed so I thought, what the hell, they're doing it… I'm so f'g ambitious after a few glasses of wine, you know.
(Another chunk in my memory goes missing here...)
And then here we are, sitting at a big, round table in the bar. I feel suddenly compelled to reveal a strange talent, something that that I am very good at. Across the table I see my husband cringe. He is giving me the "shut up" signal. I feel an encouraging hand on my back, urging me to continue. Whaddayaknow.... my little cutie pie lesbian buddy has suddenly shown up again.
I think the whole damn bar got quiet. I even think the rowdy B-52ish band probably stopped playing. I announce that...
I am a rutter! That I f'g love to rut! (I need to interject with something here. At that point, I thought the word “rut” simply meant to butt heads, clash antlers, you know.) I lean across the table and smash my forehead into one of the male classmates (a lawyer). You should have heard our heads crack. Well, he loved it, so we start mashing our heads together. He was losing to me big-time.
The cutie pie lesbian starts saying, oooh, me too, me tooo!!! By this time, Kevin has made it around the table with the intention of pulling me off of the poor lawyer dude, but he stalls, completely mesmerized by me and cutie pie, who are now rutting.
There's something about two women doing something together like that; no man has the will to break it up, ya know? (Let me make sure you understand, we are only butting heads!)
(a huge freakin' chunk of memory falls away)
...the bar, and we are walking back up the street, to someone's "hospitality suite". Her name was Barbara. Well, guess who shows up? The two business devils!! (My husband didn't know anything about them at that point) "Hey, beautiful! We've been looking everywhere for you!"
Well, I have to make my pickled brain work fast, I mean FAST. So I introduce them to the crowd as "domestic partners." Well gawdam, it was another pin-dropping moment. I observe as the businessmen exchange bewildered glances, one mutters, okay, sure, and then we are all good. Whew! One of Kevin's buddies eventually grumbles..."I hate fukkin queers." The he looks over at little cutie and squeezes her shoulder..."they guy kind, I mean."
...The business partners scatter very quickly.
Back to Barb's hospitality suite. … I vaguely remember going into the bathroom to tinkle while at least 5 people (mixed company) are in there filling pipes, (wtf?) drinking beer, laughing about the old Speedo pictures that everyone was passing around. I say cute little things to them like, "oh, don't look at me!!" Yeah, right.
A few minutes later I end up joined at the hip, literally, with the lawyer. We are sitting at the foot of the bed, laughing about the huge, purple welts on our foreheads. My brain is now lime-pickled and I'm talking kinda Cajun, because...well, because I can. I'm very good at it. He loves it, of course. He keeps looking back at Kevin, asking "oh, my god, where did you find her???"
I cannot for the life of me remember the very intense conversation I was having with this lawyer, in my Cajun brogue, but the next morning in the lobby, he kept staring at me like a total pervert.
Well, now I have just lost the energy to continue with this sad tale. There has to be a funny story in here somewhere, hehe.
Jake is the horror that is full-fledged adolescent now. I figure I have at least another good 5-7 years of dark circles under my eyes left to go with him. About every third day I get a call on my cell phone. It usually goes something like this…
“Mom, I need you to come pick me up. I missed the bus.”
“Why?”
“I had a hard time getting stuff out of my locker.”
“I see.”
“Mom, can you give my girlfriend a ride home too?”
(sigh)
(October 27...later sometime in the day…)
I’m back. I woke up so ugly this morning that I had to sneak up on my mirror. It has nothing to do with my lack of makeup or getting old. Let me explain. Buckle your seatbelt. It is related to your lack of letters from me …
(An example of the “hamster on the wheel” a/k/a my brain lately…)
Do I really believe in God? Indecision…outrage…exhaustion. Indecision…outrage…exhaustion. Indecision…outrage…exhaustion.
Jack, please die… Lynn, please live…
Jack, of course, is my very terminally ill father-in-law; Lynn is my mentor, one of my “mommas” and a very dear friend who has been diagnosed with cancer.
If you have ever placed yourself in the elevated position of, well, willing someone to die, and then willing someone else to live, you might be overstepping your boundaries just a bit. You don’t get any audible response from The Creator, so maybe he has forgotten about a few people? Or even worse, he is not really there? And then you realize the rubber has hit the road. You have to make a decision about what you believe in.
To actually will someone to die slowly turns you into a monster. That wish slowly leeches into your own life, causing you to doubt everything, compromise what you have built your foundation upon. It makes you angry, resentful, sloppy and lazy -- (if you allow that to happen.)
Internally you feel so mired down by guilt, and then the guilt manifests itself as “I must be bad”. You start gnawing away at things in your own life that “are bad.” Eventually you go from bad or worse OR you realize that there is a Something Spiritual to hand these burdens to, because you are just not equipped to handle such things. Now the tables have turned back again. You are at a new crux in your belief system. Things have gotten serious. You’re up against some true heart-wrenching dramas in life. It hurts, it sucks, it’s too much for the mind to take. Life doesn’t always turn out like a Nicholas Sparks novel.
I catch myself making outlandish, self-righteous statements like, “I would never put my family through this! I will get into my car, shut the garage doors, start the damn engine before I would put my family through this!! Well, we’ll see about that, little lady.
It is hard watching people that we love get old, sick and crazy. It makes you doubt a lot of things -- if you let it. Maybe that is why you had the dream of me, where I kept popping up. Please pray for me, for us.
I am beating myself up because I found Jack’s expired “flu shot election form” mixed in with my own huge stack of mail and bills. Not to mention Jack’s huge stack of mail and bills…and Kris’ huge stack of mail and bills. Earlier this year I also forgot to send in the “hurricane evacuation options for your loved one” form to the nursing home.
When you miss delicate deadlines like that, you have to jump through even more hoops in order to get that flu shot. You certainly don’t want him to die of that, of course. Can you think of a comfortable way for a severely afflicted Parkinson’s sufferer to die, by the way?
It must be more cruel to fear death than to actually die, I think. But here I go again, writing my own bible. And now I will wipe up this vomit (sorry) and try to work my way out of this subject.
I need to get strong again. I have been jogging four times a week and lifting weights. I look great but I still feel unhinged in my head. I really do believe in God; that he is trying to reach me. I also believe it is time for me to give up my little girl notions about him. I’m learning I can’t rely on just making my body strong or relying on executive-style management to get my life in order.
I miss the days when I felt settled, when I just relied on Him. I didn’t question Him. I didn’t try to be super-analytical about any of it. I just woke up, said my goofy little drunk prayers… oh, thank you! I love you! I love you! -- and of course that was before all of this real-life shit hit the fan, giving me a reason to unhinge.
I know this much: I know that I have changed. I know that HE hasn’t. I need to reacquaint with Him. Strangely, I feel a little stubborn resentment in saying this. But why??
(And now I need a break)

I’m back. This week I have been watching these silly morning programs. Those that teach me how to be a hot mom at around age 40, also how to make holiday pumpkin tarts and maple cookies, cute and clever wreaths to decorate my front door with. You know, things that fire people up for the oncoming cool weather season… and look extremely sexy while doing it...

These are things that I always get really excited about, and I’m just not feeling much.
Ken and I had a conversation about drinking too much, and I made the decision that that crap has to stop. I hope he does too. Maybe we will help each other with that. I pray that you do not come back to us with a sweet tooth for alcohol. It sucks.
It would be just as easy to have a big glass of ice tea as opposed to one beer that leads to six, or one glass of wine that leads to a bottle. Ideally, we would train ourselves to stop after one, but not many people can do that, unfortunately.
Before I really work my ass into a rumpus on this subject… and get into a debate with myself… something I’ve been doing a lot of lately… I’m just going for another subject change here. Pass the beer nuts…
But wait! Good Lord, I have just realized that Tiki Barber is an actual fixture of “Today”. I suppose I thought he was a favorite guest??? The realization dawned on me after I kept noticing him on there quite a bit lately. Wait, he’s on every day! I am thinking to myself. Damn, this man is fine!… and then the old prejudices of our grandparents grab hold and I catch myself looking over my shoulder to see who heard me say that. But then I see clearly “that generation” has evidently lightened up a bit. Or at least they do when they are vacationing in New York. Hordes of 70-year-old women are staring up at this man adoringly, you know. I hear one say, “Tiki, I love you!” I think the camera cut away right before Helen tossed her Playtex Cross-Your-Heart... Jeez.
Then we go to a commercial…Daryl Johnson, The Moose, is standing with a uniformed man. When-the-hell did Daryl’s hair go completely gray??? Daryl is giving us a spiel on professional air duct cleaning, and how that has changed his life.
Then another celebrity is trying to sell something. I vaguely recognize him as somebody from NASCAR. He’s wearing a retina-searing jumpsuit and cap ensemble, featuring about 20-or-so sponsors. Then I know for damn-shure he’s NASAR, once he starts schlepping a product for “far aint in-fes-tay-shun.”
It all ads up to mesmerizing television…air duct cleansing and fire ants… and I sit there trapped, becoming indoctrinated to it all, because I am sitting on my launch pad, awaiting the countdown from KPRC master control.
And the beat goes on…
And now I’m just about done expending my “imagination wattage” on the subject of mesmerizing morning television.
Funny story…well, it didn’t start funny but certainly ended funny. Kevin and I met a young man at Babin’s Seafood. He is the bartender there. Sometimes we elect to eat at their stylish bar. It is dark, shiny and mahogany, mirrored, old-brick-pillared, large gas lamps are suspended down from the ceiling. Very classy Bourbon Street motif.
The young man and woman tending bar are college students, intellectual types. He is a math fella, she is working on her anthropology major.
A very cool reggae song comes on. I tell Kevin that this is Bob Marley’s son, Ziggy. Kevin is impressed; he didn‘t know this. The young mathematician bartender overhears and comes over to make conversation. He starts out with…“Yeah, when Eric Clapton’s son died, he almost went crazy, so he went to the Caribbean and met Bob Marley. Bob Marley kept him from falling to pieces, and together they wrote, “I Shot The Sheriff.”
Um… Kevin and I looked at each other with a whuu? expression and just sorta grinned. The young man felt very sure about this. I considered correcting him, but too many young people around us heard his version on the birth of “I Shot the Sheriff” and were impressed.
The moral of this story: There is no use arguing with a young man who can multiply anything by the square root of minus one.
This segues into the next head-scratching conundrum. There is a sticker on Baylen’s jeep. It is displayed on her back window. It is a black-and-white of a ruggedly handsome Latino man. He is wearing a jaunty beret, has a disheveled beard. More than anything, his eyes just speak volumes…
“Isn’t he hot, Mom?”
“Well…”
“That’s how all the guys in Austin look now.”
“Well, Baylen, he certainly has a presence about him.”
In my mind I’m thinking… Think! Think! You know who this man is. But I can’t, for the life of me, come up with the answer. It is starting to bother me.
“No, Baylen, really, who is he?”
“Um, I think he has this really cool band in Austin.”
“Why do you have the sticker on your vehicle if you are not clear about who this man is?”
“Um, because he’s hot.”
Well… as it turns out, I was on the internet the next day or so, checking my mail, reading Yahoo! news headlines. I see an article: Rich Houstonian buys “lock of revolutionist hair. This man spent like $120k, or some shit like that, for this lock of hair. Well, headlines like that just draw me in like flypaper, so I click on the story. Turns out, this lock belongs to Che Guevara.






Texas Collector Buys Lock of Che Guevara's Hair

Weekend Edition Saturday, October 27, 2007 · Bill Butler, who owns a Texas bookstore and collects memorabilia from the 1960s, bought one of the ultimate mementos of that age: about a hundred strands of hair from Che Guevara.
Gustavo Villoldo, a Cuban-born CIA operative who helped Bolivian troops capture Che Guevara in 1967, snipped the strands before Che was executed.
Butler says he admires Che, and told reporters that he was "one of the great revolutionaries of the 20th century."
Rene Barrientos, who teaches math at Miami-Dade College and is the son of Gen. Rene Barrientos who was the head of Bolivia at the time, told The New York Times he is puzzled by the adulation and says, "There is no basis to admire him. He destroyed a lot of lives."
Earlier this year, three strands of former President Abraham Lincoln's hair sold for a little more than $11,000. A whole lock of Lincoln's hair sold for $21,000.
Butler paid $119,000, but that price includes a set of Che Guevara's fingerprints, pictures of him in death, and maps the Bolivian military used to find him.
Quote from Wikipedia…
Ernesto Guevara de la Serna (June 14,[1] 1928 – October 9, 1967), commonly known as Che Guevara, El Che or just Che was an Argentine-born Marxist revolutionary, political figure, and leader of Cuban and internationalist guerrillas.
As a young man studying medicine, Guevara travelled throughout South America, bringing him into direct contact with the impoverished conditions in which many people lived. His experiences and observations during these trips led him to the conclusion that the region's socio-economic inequalities could only be remedied by socialism through revolution, prompting him to intensify his study of Marxism and travel to Guatemala to learn about the reforms being implemented there by President Jacobo Arbenz Guzmán.
While in Mexico in 1956, Guevara joined Fidel Castro's revolutionary 26th of July Movement, which seized power from the regime of the dictator[2][citation needed] General Fulgencio Batista in Cuba in 1959. In the months after the success of the revolution, Guevara was assigned the role of "supreme prosecutor",[citation needed] overseeing the trials and executions of hundreds of suspected war criminals from the previous regime.[3] After serving in various important posts in the new government and writing a number of articles and books on the theory and practice of guerrilla warfare, Guevara left Cuba in 1965 with the intention of fomenting revolutions first in Congo-Kinshasa, and then in Bolivia, where he was captured in a military operation supported by the CIA and the U.S. Army Special Forces.[4] Guevara was summarily executed by the Bolivian Army in the town of La Higuera near Vallegrande on October 9, 1967.[5]
After his death, Guevara became an icon of socialist revolutionary movements and a cultural icon worldwide. An Alberto Korda photo of him (shown) has received wide distribution and modification, appearing on t-shirts, protest banners, and in many other formats. The Maryland Institute College of Art called this picture "the most famous photograph in the world and a symbol of the 20th century."[6]
Here we go…
Even more ironically, weeks earlier, before my discussion with Baylen, I got sucked into a radio piece in the car (I am an NPR geek) and they were discussing Che. Interestingly, his relations with Fidel Castro, and their eventual fallout.
As I dip into my huge vat of parakeet knowledge on the subject of Mr. Che Guevara… a ball finally falls into a slot -- Eureka! “Motorcycle Diaries!!” A movie that I happened to enjoy a great deal.
Where I am going with all of this…?
I’m sure that you have guessed by now… that sticker on the back of my daughter’s jeep is Che Gurevara.
She has no clue…
Isn’t it interesting how the young clans immortalize rebellious, malcontent figures, turn them into icons, but, in a lot of cases, have no idea what they represent? Che was fighting for human rights of a disenfranchised group of people. Baylen is fighting for her human rights of uninterrupted bitchiness, unlimited text messages, Menthol Camels, no curfew and her God-given right to sleep in until 3:00 p.m. every…damn…fukkin’…. day… and then get up and do it all over again.
Please slap me. It’s not like we haven’t taken her car keys, cell phone and internet… she just moves out of the house.
Sometimes I think the only way to raise functional, avid, responsible children is to let them grow up working the farm, with absolutely no access to anything… and then ice their little cakes with a horrifying Southern Baptist upbringing.
Man, your sis is really cooking on the front burner today, huh?
Jake has informed me that he NEEDS black hair dye, black eyeliner, some sort of arm bands with spikes and Halloween scar trickery. Something to do with a dead skateboarder. And the ONLY place to get this necessary crap is across town in some abandoned grocery store building/turned Halloween super center. It’s in the back of one of those ghetto-fabulous shopping centers that you can get into pretty easily but not out of. And he needs it TODAY.
(sigh) I really need to figure out a way to ratchet up some motivation for this project. If I have not acquired a keen hankering for Virginia Slims by the time you get out…it will be by the Grace of God.
We’re gearing up for Thanksgiving here. I don’t mean to sound un-thankful or anything, but I intend to have a stress-free holiday this year. The most taxing project I will be taking on is to remove that puzzling sack of grossness from the turkey’s ass, then handing that bird off to Kevin -- to deep fry on the pool deck. I will let mom take care of the vegetables, Jake and I will bake the pumpkin pie, Baylen will pace around in her cage (room-to-room) . She’ll be on her cell phone, giving us those trademark kiss-my-bitter-ass looks. She will undoubtedly be searching out other families to celebrate her Thanksgiving with, as her family is just the pinnacle of sucktitude. You know…
My house is filthy. Do you think Sears is making a vacuum cleaner yet that a woman can ride on? I think I’ll just wait around for that model.

Hurry up.
K