The Gala - A Fancy-Pants Tale of Why

Friday saw me in clothes that I owned, but were alien to me. The ones waaaaaaay in the back of the closet with the permanent cloth hanger crease in them.

Some sort of high starch, obligatorily cornflower blue, button up job with a crispy collar and nary a sign of Life. Slick, loose Khaki pants that, upon the slightest hint of movement, would build up a static charge that could power the Greater metropolitan area of a large city. There was also the sport coat that I didn't mind, because of it being a Coat by definition and thereby, Functional. It was going to be cold and I planned on being outside the event. A lot.

I had done serious Calculation before this event and came to the conclusion that if an Escape was required - and, Brothers and Sisters, an Escape at an event like this is not very fucking far out of question - then sensible shoes would be required. So at the very Bottom of my Space Suit sat a very worn, very comfortable pair of blue and white checkered Vans. I know. You're out there Swooning. Hands off, ladies. I'm a married man.

And speaking of married. She was stunning. A work of art- art by some long dead Master - in black and pearls and for a minute I feel like a terrific under dressed Douche until she smiles and says, "You look very handsome," and means it. My turn to swoon.

The bidding starts and food is served and cattle graze at grass I will never taste. No worries. That type of "food" fucks up my digestive track anyhow. The drone of the Auctioneers voice sends the ice-pick deep into my brain and the Dueling Piano Brothers, complete with flaming candelabras, drive said ice-pick home with a 9 pound hammer. There are many furs, real or a clever Charlatan ruse, I'll never know but wonder why(?) anyway. Some that I ask say that it's fun for folks to "pretend" on occasion. I get that. I pretend all the time. Pretend I'm not a deadbeat. That I'll find some way to be a supportive and financially capable unit of Home, Inc. I pretend that there is a Door with my name on it somewhere. I pretend that my writing will blossom into something worth anything. I get it. I pretend all the time.

Drinks flow and me Ms. is socially lubricated and loosening up and talking to folks in that high-pitched voice and when a "hello" is required she squeals, "oh, Haaaaaaiiiiii!!", and I laugh as my head does that thing like when a dog catches a glimpse of the ceiling fan. We talk and mingle and check our respective timepieces and talk some more. I have sworn off the hooch this evening because of a tactical miscalculation a few weeks back involving Scotch and Jager Bombs. Yea. I know.

But, as I reach into the pocket of my functional yet alien sport coat, I feel something not so unfamiliar. Like someone has packed me a sandwich and left it in my pocket for me to find later. That unmistakable flimsy, plastic feel. And I go supernova. After the Cheshire Cat smile has faded, I grab a couple of like-minded folk and we head for the cover of that tall-ass Blue Spruce tree that stands out front and just to the side of everything.

Everything is much, much clearer now and it doesn't matter that just an hour or so before there was some Uncomfortable business with a group of Senior Citizens. And it doesn't matter that when I ask one of the Dueling Piano Brothers to play Ben Fold's "Rock This Bitch", he laughs like I'm not serious. I up the ante and tell him I'll sing if he plays. He laughs again and I resist the urge to punch him in his genitals and play Chariots of Fire or Hot Cross Buns on his pretty black Baby Grand and I'm thinking that all my latent hostility is somehow related to the missing Chocolate Fountain this year and although the sting of loosing streaming, cascading chocolate is lessened by the Smores Bread Pudding offering, I will not be bought. But I eat my weight in the gooey, chocolate-y richness anyway.

And there is to be no dancing this year. And no music to even begin to facilitate an uprising. A full-on Footloose type repression. Our group is unruly and getting socially aggressive, and I'm thinking, "why not." Why not burn this motherfucker down?

Because.

Because this isn't for us. To get your head around that requires introspection. This evening, this fancy-pants Gala's target demographic is - druuuuuuuuuum-roll - Money. And it would be easy to go off on a tangent about the evils of Money and how no good can come of it and blah, blah, blah, blah. But this evening is not about us as bad as We want it to be. This evening is for our Children and our grandchildren. This evening is business as usual. Get the Fat Cats in the door. Get them bidding on shit they didn't know they wanted, or needed. Get those checks and cash flowing like the Salmon of Capistrano. Let loose those shiny credit and debit cards, motherfuckers.

We have a new school to build.

We can dance later. I'll dance with that beauty, that masterpiece on my arm in pearls and Black, and music will wash over us and drive us into a frenzy and I'll do my best ReRun and no one will put Baby in a corner. But not this evening. This evening is for the ones that aren't even invited. The ones at home. At home and by now in perfect sleep. Sleep where I long to be but can't because I've a responsibility. I'm taking One for my team. My future.

I'll dance with them as well. A lot.

Later.

-word.

Violence and Candy

In his periphery and through the embryo of swelling, he could just make out that rainbow effect that motor oil makes in water. Just on the surface. In all it's beautiful fragility. If he were to move a muscle, just a twitch or a sneeze or a daydream - a popcorn fart- that would be enough to ripple that rainbow into nonexistence. Not that he could move anyway. No, they were seeing to his immobility, as per usual.

The puddle smelled of spring rain. And dirt. And piss. Cat piss. It was a pretty miserable place to be, even with the Faberge motor oil rainbow. Even with the candy slowly composting in his cheek. The cinnamon kind that he liked so, very much. The one with the picture of the Cartoon Man with steam coming out of his ears.

He remembered his uncle giving him a box of those candies when he was 9 years old as they drove down 17 north - a one lane hells branch of a road to nowhere. And everywhere. Uncle Stu knew a bootlegger who lived almost at the end of 17 north. Nobody knew the folks at the very end. Nobody that had any sense went that far Down. Yea, good 'ol uncle Stu, french kissing a bottle of Mellow Kentucky handed over that Cartoon Man box and it was love.

But the slowly dissolving candy in his cheek was fading. That slow tingle, that slap and tickle burn was almost gone and then, well then he'd have to face this all by himself. This humiliation. This violence. This betrayal. Fuck! The kick to his ribcage and then another fast rabbit jackboot to his crotch shattered the Faberge beauty.

Now, this was really starting to suck the gay out of Liberace's anus. That's what uncle Stu used to say. Every time Dad and I would pick him up at county, after a night in the Tank, Dad would ask, with a big shit-eating grin, "Well, how was it?" And uncle Stu would say, "Brother, that right there sucked the gay out of Liberace's anus." "Don't I know it," Dad would retort. They would both laugh as Dad put the old Ford in gear- three on the Tree - and navigate to the liquor store. Seems like, as much as they talked with displeasure about it, neither one of those Old men could get enough of Liberace's anus.

It'd be over soon. They would undoubtedly get board, like they always do, then he could get up, pick up his books and his sketch pad, all of his broken pencils - did they really think that broken pencils would cease to produce?- and limp to 17 north.

17 north was where uncle Stu would be waiting for him - shaking his head and asking, "Why don't you just let me shoot those assholes?" Then he'd fellate that bottle of Mellow Kentucky. Good 'ol uncle Stu.

No. There would be time for punishment. There would be time for candy.

Violence and Candy.

This all started with a drawing. Just a drawing. Graphite lead on a page of Bienfang 50 lb.

It was all so harmless. Not unlike the sting of his favorite cinnamon candy. The one with the Cartoon Man on the box. Yea. That one.

-word.

Failed Exercise

*Yawn* It's early. Not, Early-early. Not paper-route early.

It's early. Early enough that the glow from the Cherry of my unfiltered Camel gives the waning starlight a run for their money. This was to be an exercise, of sorts. Just sit down and write. Write anything.

I didn't get up quite early enough to say anything Earth shaking. Or funny. One was already awake. Shuffling through these Plastered, pencil and crayon doodled halls of Home, Inc. Coffee in hand, bleary eyed but freshly showered. She smells like the roses in the Greenhouse where my Grandfather used to work.

Now, there is a second one awake. Feet dragging but never tripping. She is the sure-footed sleepwalker with a waiting plate of Yesterday's doughnuts and a cool glass of milk. Her hair looks like mine. Plastered to one side of her head. The other side doing it's best Don King. She smells of stolen sleep.

In the time that it took to Hack this out, the Sun has won it's game of Red Rover with the Eastern horizon. Always superior. One consistent thing.

In the time it took to vomit these words, they are gone. Off to Their respective days and me, to mine. And her's. We're a Duo, the smallish one and I.

Nothing of substance here. Just didn't get up early enough. Maybe tomorrow.

I can hear the Smallish one in her crib. It'll be Go-Time soon.

Just didn't get up early enough to write.

Woke just early enough to reinforce the Fact that these three Distractions are the Best part of me. My very favorite To-Do list. My habit.

-word.

Cure JM - A Happy Birthday

Kevin of Always Home and Uncool has asked me to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife's birthday.

*

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

The Story of the Traveler

In no place special sits an Ancient pear tree. It's trunk, thick and mangled, gouged by time and black as gunpowder. It's roots deep. Bare of leaves, it's branches are warped and twisted and brambled. But they hold the Words.

On an especially Large branch an Old Man, withered and worn, sits on his heels. Bare chested; his waist covered by homespun fabric. He has a steely gaze that wire frame spectacles magnify. x3. He holds in his left hand and old gnarly cane that once was belong to the Tree. He is still. Barley breathing.

It is early in the morning when a Traveler passes. The Old Man does not stir. The traveler bids the Old Man 'good morning' as he tips the brim of his slouch-hat, and the Old Man is silent. It is at that point that the Traveler spies the Words that hang in the mess of branches.

"What are those?" He asks, rhetorically.

The gaze of the Old Man catches the Traveler off guard and gives his spine a firm, icy shake and his skin turns cold and wet.

"Those are the fruits of the Tree. Those are the Words." Says the Old Man.

"I see nothing special about that Tree. Or the words. We all have words. They are as common as grass." The Traveler crows up at the Old Man.

The Old Man starts to laugh a mighty, polished glass laugh as he picks two Words from the Tree and tosses them down to the Traveler. Grass and Tree fall from the dog-legged fingers of the Old Man and tumble through the morning twilight. The Traveler fumbled the Words briefly.

"What are these?" He asked.

"Are they not as Common as Grass?" Asked the Old Man. "Tell me - what those Words mean, and you shall drink from the golden chalice of Mankind."

The Traveler is struck dumb and babbles an almost incoherent definition of the two Words.

The Old Man begins to laugh again and a tear rolls down his cheek.

"These Words have No meaning or definition by sight. To truly understand the Words, one must look Behind them. Then, and only then, it's meaning will be clear. Only then can you unlock the Mathematics of Words."

"Are you the Master of the words?" Asks the Traveler

"Dear boy," replies the Old Man, "Words can have no Master or Keeper. It is an Impossibility. An abstract thought. A Fool's logic. Such is the Folly of mankind."

There is a soft whisper in the morning wind as the first rays of dawn display themselves.

"Then, you are the Student of the Tree. And, It your Shepherd."

The Old Man extends his cane.

The Traveler receives the old, twisted cane and climbs into the nest of branches.

"Welcome home," Says the Old Man, "I've been waiting a lifetime for your arrival."

-word.

Dead Limbs

The canopy belonging to the Oak is become threadbare. Dapples of sunlight. More than usual. Time marches on. And on. For every Season and all that.

There is a suspicious dead limb, as big as my thigh, and twice as long. It hangs just above the fascia on the western gable side. Threatening.

When?

When will you fall? What foul storm will shake you from whence you hold? What will the repair entail? A scaffold and new lumber and paint? A few yards of tar paper? A handful of Cap Nails and a few-odd shingles?

This branch echos my thoughts of Late. Late at night, when the Moon is high, covered by the airbrushed midnight clouds, and the Words are a boiling stew that no one will eat even with the threat to withhold Dessert. These thoughts creep.

Can I repair Their fallen limbs? The damage and the hurt. What will be Their fallen limbs?

I choose to dismiss these dismal thoughts for they bring the Reality of what will surely come to pass. How do you prepare? Proactive is a Latin word for "watch your Ass". They are so secure as I write these words for they know not of the dead limb that hangs over their head. It hangs over us all. They know only of safety and Popsicles. As it should be. It is my lot to worry about the Dead limbs. Not theirs. Theirs is a young life. Free of swaying, soon-to-be Debris. As it should be.

This begs the question regarding pruning. How much is too much? How much is harmful instead of helpful. For if we never feel the CRASH(!) of the limb, do we ever learn the techniques for Repair? I don't claim to know. Some nights, when sleep evades and I give Kerosene soaked middle fingers to the Sandman, I think of Them. The heartache and the hard times they must face in this Cruel and Beautiful life. How much should I sculpt before they, as priceless, unique Art, become a mass-produced shell of their Person.

Our scars, our broken bones and spirits help Make us what we are. Life is twisted. It is Vile, extravagant, Glorious, painful, and perfectly Imperfect. They have to know this. They have to suffer to Love. Feel pain to feel Joy. Starve to know hunger and Famine. Indulge and feast to respect when enough is really Enough. Need vs. Want. I weep for the lessons they must learn and a Fire burns inside my chest. The lessons that I cannot interfere with.

But, I will always be at the ready with rope, chainsaws and pruners. And a Ladder.

Multitasking

Here's a short list of things you can do while you write for MamaPop.

1. Start writing. Immediately be requested for Yogurt Parfait. Make yogurt parfait.

2. Continue writing. Change DVD. Blue's Clues is apparently a played out Sucka MC.

3. Continue writ.....whoops. Winne the Pooh is also a Punk Busta.

4. Carry on with your thoughts. And, hey(!) where'd you find that Vaseline and My Goodness(!) aren't you Shiny. And slippery.

5. Cuddle on the Couch. Read Salt Hands. Four times.

6. Finish writing.

7. Get the title of the Book that you are reviewing Wrong.

8. Thank the Shepard that fixes your Blunder.

-word.