Falling asleep last night these words popped into my head:
I’ve lost Faith
Can’t find Hope
But I’ve still got Jane
If that doesn’t sound like lyrics to a country song, I don’t know what does.
I have a cousin, Effron White, who makes his living as a singer/song writer in Nashville. He’s quite talented. Maybe he’ll use my lyrics in a future song. Hey Effron, let’s negotiate!
Peace, People.
Playing with words:
A rudderless horse
A riderless ship
A butterbug and a ladyfly
Two conepines and a pinlinch
A bump that goes “thing” in the night
Beaver eagers and fly soxes.
As for Jomeo and Ruliette
A nose by any other name would still smell.
Imagine, if you will, the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain. Suddenly, a storm of epic proportions descends on the cobble stone streets. Encased within, the makings of a mighty funnel cloud barreling along and scooping up everything in its path. Angry bulls, frightened runners, petrified spectators, toreadors, picadors, and matadors enveloped in a…Gorenado!
Several days later and thousands of miles away, in Great Bend, Kansas, a group of students enjoy their after lunch recess on the playground of a small elementary school. On duty staff notice a shift in the winds and begin calling the students to wrap up their play. Darkness rapidly descends and rain drops the size of mushrooms speed the children on their way to safety.
A lone librarian rushes to assist a kindergartener who has fallen in the rush when from the sky drops a raging bull, head lowered, ready to charge. The librarian places the child behind her and they begin backing away from the bovine. The bull snorts and paws the earth. There is no way for the librarian to get the child to safety in time. Death seems imminent. Until a mighty matador descends from the cloud, waving his cape and diverting attention from the woman and her charge.
With the bull’s focus on the brave matador, the librarian scoops the frightened child into a protective embrace and runs for safety. The students and staff have gathered at the cafeteria windows to watch wide-eyed as the matador sweeps the bull under his cape of crimson. The librarian especially cannot take her eyes from the skilled Spaniard. When the bull is calmed and subdued through a variety of humanitarian maneuvers, the matador secures the now docile animal to a basketball goal.
The librarian rushes out to thank her savior, her emerald green eyes glistening with unshed tears of gratitude.
“Thank you, sir. You surely saved my life and the life of the child.”
“Que?”
Realizing the handsome matador knew no English, the librarian said the only thing she could, “Gracias! Gracias, señor!”
He bowed and took her small, white hand into his large tan one, planting a gentle kiss on her dainty knuckles. In the background, the bull snorted contentedly.
Would love follow for our librarian and her matador? Would more bulls drop onto the Kansas plains wreaking havoc and spurring desire? Would gorenados supplant sharknados as the new scourge of the earth? Questions that can be answered only in “Gorenado 2; It Only Hurts When I Sneeze.”
Peace, People!
Good evening and welcome to Inside the Director’s Studio. I am your host, James Lipton Onion Soup Mix. (Polite applause)
My guest this evening is the esteemed director, Alfred Finchcock. (Applause)
James: Mr. Finchcock, welcome to our program. We are honored by your presence.
Alfred: As you should be. (Laughter)
J: Tonight we want to focus on one of your most controversial films to date, specifically, “The Words.”
For those who have not yet had the opportunity to attend a screening of this groundbreaking work would you provide a brief summary of the plot?
A: I would be happy to oblige; although, I find it most difficult to believe that any within the range of my voice have not yet viewed this masterpiece. (Polite laughter)
In this story we find a worldly woman…
J: Played by the lovely Tipsy Headroom.
A: …who purchases a pair of weighty tomes, specifically Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary and Roget’s Thesaurus, as gifts for the sister of a handsome man she encounters in a San Francisco book store.
J: You cast Prod Trailer in the role of Mitch. Interesting choice.
A: Quite. I considered his dark good looks the perfect counterpoint to Miss Headroom’s blonde Melanie. Dark, light. Male/female. Tall/less tall.
J: So far, we have an endearing story about a pretty woman buying a nice gift for a little girl. Your genius is in turning the innocent into infamy.
A: When Melanie, an unmarried woman of a certain age delivers the books to Mitch’s island home the tension begins to build.
J: The special effects are so subtle, so subliminal in the beginning. For example, the word, “exacerbate” slips by in the water as Melanie rows herself and the books to Mitch’s home.
A: I am singularly surprised that you caught that. But, you are correct. It was my intention to slowly build word upon word until the audience was gasping at each verbal assault.
J: Please continue.
A: Melanie’s gift is well-received by Mitch’s sister, a budding young author entranced by words. And Melanie is urged to stay over for the weekend.
J: Perhaps this is what triggers the chaos?
A: I was not overly concerned by causation; however, the audience might very well construe the surge of suppressed hormonal urges as the basis for the initial attacks.
J: And, attacks are forthcoming.
A: Indeed. The evening of Melanie’s arrival a loud bump is heard outside the home. Upon investigation the word, “melancholia” is found lying broken in a puddle beside the porch.
In each successive scene the number and intensity of the attacks increase until there are too many to be discounted.
J: Mr. Finchcock, critics have said that your subject was too broad. That perhaps you should have focused on verbs or nouns or adjectives.
A: James, if one observed carefully one would note that I arranged each attack around a specific part of speech.
J: Please elaborate.
A: In the phone booth, Melanie was attacked by a host of nouns: “Umbrage!” “Castration!” “Misogyny!”
When the children in the schoolyard came under siege it was by adjectives: “Allegorical!” “Voluptuous!” “Incendiary!”
J: Oh, and the attack on the birthday! Those could all be verbs! “Manipulate, castigate, endeavor!”
My God! You pulled it all together!
A: Quite so. The climactic scene is one in which our heroine is rendered catatonic by battling a frenetic flock of adverbs. “Forcefully!” “Fanatically!” “Morbidly!” “Moribundly!”
But the denouement…
J: Leaves us with verbiage of all kinds, waiting in silence for…
A: Who knows? The trigger could be an exhalation or an obfuscation.
J: And that, sir, is why we worship your art.
A: As you should.
J: One more question before we must let you go. Tipsy Headroom, is she just another famous Finchcock blonde? Why couldn’t a brunette have played this role?
A: I do have a predilection for blondes, but in “The Words,” I intentionally wanted to dispel the stereotype of the dumb blonde. In order to have survived at all my leading lady had to have linguistic skills of the highest caliber.
J: Again, I tip my fictional fedora to you. Here’s to much success with “The Words.” Thank you again for allowing us to come Inside the Director’s Studio.
A: My pleasure. (Applause)
As the movie trailers for Fifty Shades of Grey began appearing on Facebook this week I stopped to reflect on my own interaction with the novel.
I tried reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Honestly. The hype was bubbling around the book like fizzy soda, and avid reader that I am, I inhaled those bubbles and dove right in. For all of maybe 50 pages of 50 shades. Then, I called a friend.
“Hey, you’re reading Fifty Shades of Grey, right?
“Ummm, yes,” she moaned.
“Does it get better?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, yes!” she cried.
I hung up.
I read another hundred pages. I still didn’t get it. Who was this inner goddess, and why didn’t I have one? Did the inner goddess perhaps serve as a replacement for a personality? Was there supposed to be sexual tension between Mr. Grey and Miss Steele? Did I need to reassess my definition of sexual tension?
I called another friend.
Hey, I’m reading that book you recommended, Fifty Shades of Gray.
All I heard was buzzing in the background.
“Hey!” I said, a little more forcefully. “Does the couple in the book ever actually do anything?”
Our connection must have been bad; the buzzing continued, only more loudly.
I hung up.
“Perhaps I should skip to a sex scene,” I thought.
It was a little difficult to determine exactly where in the book that sex scene took place, though. There were so many rules, regulations, and tools involved. It read more like an orientation for shop class than a sex romp.
I called my husband.
“Hey, Studly,” I said. “Do you think we need a contract for sex?”
“Huh?”
“You know, a contract so you can’t be found legally responsible if I get hurt during intimate relations.”
He guffawed. “Intimate relations! That’s a good one!”
I hung up. What a sadist.
Peace, People.
I’ve given a great deal of thought to my “yet to appear” super powers. Just what would they be? How strong? Will they be worthwhile powers, or useless ones like the ability to consume massive quantities of prunes with no adverse effects?
Any day now I feel sure these dormant abilities will emerge in full strength to make up for all the years they’ve been suppressed. I was fairly confident that my 50th birthday would be the trigger point, alas, here I am at 57.75 and still nothing. I just hope they show up in time for me to fully utilize them before I’m too old to reap the benefits. It’d be a shame to learn I have the gift of super flexibility once I’m confined to a wheelchair.
In no particular order, here are the three standard super powers I’d most like to have:
1) The ability to fly. Okay, I lied, this is by far the most important of the super powers, so I listed it first. I do have some stipulations, though. If I can fly I also want the super power of having hair and skin impervious to sun and windburn. What good is having the gift of flight if one is wrinkled and unkempt? I’d also need an incredibly strong set of neck muscles if I’m going to fly long distances. Maybe that’s just a standard set of accoutrement when gifted with the power of flight.
2) Invisibility. Obviously I’d only use this power for good. Wink, wink.
3) Super strength. This is one that could be especially useful as I age. No more accosting strong young men to open tight lids and doors for me. Wait, I might want to think this one through.
In addition to these, I’d also like to have some not-so-standard powers. For starters, how about the ability to nap at will? Anytime, anyplace. I’ve actually seen this power in action, but have yet to be able to master it.
Also I’d like the power to eat any thing I want without ever gaining a pound of fat. I’d like that one as soon as possible as I’ve been eating like it’s already a given. On second thought, could it be made retroactive?
One more, because I’m feeling greedy snapping up all the good powers. I’d like the power to magically transport my grand kids to my house at any time, and then transport them home when they’ve been thoroughly spoiled. Really, this is the only one that matters.
If the whole super power thing doesn’t work out, I still have hopes that my letter from Hogwarts got lost in the mail. Accio correspondence!
Peace, People.
Every now and then some random song, sight, sound, or even smell triggers my imagination and soon I’m off on a tangent. This morning as I was cleaning out my closet and dancing around to The Beatles number one hits album, one such tangent attacked and my mind was off on its own, rambling down a path best left undiscovered. But that’s not going to stop me from sharing it with you.
The rain began all at once, pelting angrily at the skylights. I hadn’t even noticed the room growing ever darker, so intent was I on my even darker thoughts.
Just two weeks prior, my husband of 38 years had calmly announced that he was leaving to pursue other avenues and I wasn’t welcome to come along. Adam wasn’t sure if he wanted a divorce; he just needed to find himself. I was devastated. He was my high school sweetheart, the love of my life. Why did he need to leave me in order to find himself?
A slash of lightning closely followed by a seismic clap of thunder woke me from my reverie. This storm had no patience with my maudlin thoughts.
I turned back to the overnight bag on my bed. A friend had offered me the use of her beach house for the week, assuring me that salt air and sunshine would help clear my head. Quickly I stuffed books, swimsuits, cover ups, underwear, towels, and toiletries into the bag. I could stop for groceries on the way.
I pulled my car out of the garage and into the storm. The weather report indicated clearer skies at St. George Island, where Aimee’s house was situated. Even ten miles south of Tallahassee the rain began tapering off. My mood lightened with each mile I placed between myself and the home I’d shared with Adam. Maybe Aimee was right. Maybe this trip would help me put things in perspective.
When I reached the town of Caravelle I stopped at a mom and pop grocery to buy yogurt, fruit, bread, meat, cheese, and a bottle of wine. I hadn’t felt much like eating since Adam dropped his bombshell, but I knew that at some point I’d need nourishment.
The clerk was a young man with sun drenched blonde hair. As I handed him my debit card he smiled and whispered, “Don’t look now, but I think that guy over there is checking you out.”
I laughed out loud. “No one checks me out–not even at the library.”
“No, really,” he said. “Ssshh! Here he comes.”
As I turned to see who the clerk was describing I felt a jolt of recognition. Could it possibly be…Sir Paul McCartney?
“Hullo,” he said. “My name is Paul. What’s yours?”
Unfortunately, my phone in the real world rang right then. I’m sure that Paul, who in my dreams is always single and forever young, was so overwhelmingly attracted to me that we spent an entire week on the beach talking and cuddling and ignoring the world. I can only imagine.
Peace, People!
Photo by Michael
Praying for Eyebrowz 