Cuss Words

Though I don't make it a public practice, I'm really quite good at cursing. The reason I hold back is because I've learned that there are some skills you shouldn't show off. No one is impressed. And if you come across an individual who finds the talent intriguing, it's the sort of interest you might get when admitting to having a tongue ring. Their main point of concern is thinking about where your mouth has been.

Why do I mention the absence of cusses? Because I've been reflecting on my writing voice and notice that I still can't use a good swear word. I can't bring myself to do it because I've watched in horror as my mom strangled herself on a few of them. And like hers did, my public vulgarities tend to get stuck on the roof of my mouth. If they make it onto a page at all, it's a drooling, sticky mess. But you can still give me plenty of credit for enthusiasm, even if the actual delivery falls flat. Believe me, the skill is there.

Add to that ability, a fact: My father was a sailor.

I was born to curse.

But I've been put off by my mother's choked attempts. When given both opportunity and motive to deliver a verbal branding, she'd chill the heated and reckless words. At her angriest, I imagine a sailor's vocabulary did a hot dash up her throat only to a cram on the tip of her tongue. There, she'd strip the Adults Only rating, then free the sanitized version to rush from her lips like a too-big bite of watermelon<

Though mom's vocabulary during these fits was suitable for a saint, her body language suggested a fury on the level of a Cat 5 hurricane. Even in the chilly Northeast, I seemed to repeatedly provide the right atmospheric conditions for those storms to develop.

Conducting chemistry experiments was how I liked to spend my time after school. I'd lock myself in the bathroom and pull out every tube and bottle under the sink, choosing a liquid of each texture and color. I'd mix them one by one and intensely study the bubbles, fizzes, and pops. If my work took too long to complete, mom, suspicious and concerned, broke head first into my laboratory. The sight of the sink's oozing mess seemed to directly result in a lowering of barometric pressure and the light drizzle of profanity.

"Dog_gone It!"

I once got too enthused about the curve in a pair of cuticle scissors and how it neatly fit onto the line of my brow. In response to my trimming, my mother was able to gather herself into a pretty decent sized squall.

"Give me those scissors! Look what you've done, you GOSH [stop] DARN kid!" That was a pretty good bluster considering her earlier attempts resulted in nothing more threatening than, "OH!" (pause for the weather report) "go fly a kite!"

There was a time I made her so mad that she wound herself up like a Kansas wind storm. This happened when I found unexpected success in striking a damp and stubborn match, then tossed the incriminating evidence in the trash. As my mother heaved pots of water into the basket, her expression tornadoed into an unrecognizable rearrangement of features. Roiling clouds of emotion expanded and crackled in the space between us. Moisture gathered around my eyes and I wondered how hard she'd swing when adrenaline finished its pump through her popping veins. I stood frozen while she searched for speech, and when it was located, her tone suffocated me more than the pantry's whirling smoke. The woman had wrung herself into what I thought was a hopelessly tangled knot. I stood balled in tight fear and waited for the whipping sound of fast unraveling, or maybe even a thunderclap release of fury, but she suddenly stopped billowing and gave up. Instead of reaching out and wringing my neck, she opted for a higher road and pulled herself into a posture more proper. I still wasn't sure I should trust her hands, but after flying up high in a LordHaveMercy maneuver, they landed safely, one on each slim hip.

"I cannot bloody be-lieve you've done this!"

What you would have said to yourself, were you standing there with us in the middle of a storming ghetto kitchen, is that she was quite properly and royally pissed. That was the first time I considered the effects of trying on a more White and British voice.

Snake Charmer

A summer party is where I, wrapped in standard issue Clubbing Uniform (breast-ratcheting halter, fat-arresting jeans), pose for the inevitable "aren't we fun? aren't we hawt?!" photographs meant to capture time itself, a singular moment never to be repeated. At least not until next weekend.

A party is also an event I attend while wearing a personalized version of the prescribed uniform only to find that each one of my friends has made a very similar personal choice. The revelation always comes when I see the Windows Vista version of my XP halter, and a copy in each color currently offered by The Limited. Some kind fashionista wearing the amped version will always try to make me feel better about the State of My Chic. I pay no mind to the word emphasis or verb tense.

"Oh, I remember that top in yellow. It looked so cute in that color."

Parties are where I drink just enough to blur the leading edges of an upcoming Monday, and where I dance the precise number of moves to preclude a breakout of frizzy hair. I'm a fairly decent hip jiggler. My riders are always slung low and at the ready, but at last Saturday's festivities I found myself hitching up the waistband. (better to make a run from the dance floor). I was on the lamb to avert a snake-charming professional.

I'll be the first to admit that I really do enjoy making the figure eight movements of a lithe bellydancer, but it's more often the gentle and flowing hand twirls that capture my imagination. I think there's a lot to be said for the smaller, unrehearsed gestures. Last Saturday's hostess was not of the same opinion. She'd invited a professional to treat us to whole body lessons.

As soon as I heard the finger cymbals, I hid behind my sister. Unfortunately, I was spotted. It's not my fault she's small.

A call to the dance floor is one I eagerly answer, but this time the sound of my name was like hearing drive-by Eminem over your Eagles cd, a disruption you try your best to filter. I made a real effort to appear otherwise engaged and suddenly began a one-sided conversation about the proper mojito muddling technique, but the testing of my previous drink trials had made it impossible for me to appear anything less than loose and ready to party. I finally looked up at the chanting group lined on the dance floor and made a dismissive wave. "No.thank.you." I mouthed in silent capitals and with extremely round vowels, then turned back to the topic of lime-to-mint ratios. But the rappers were persistent. By the third request I noticed the group's movement toward me (stage-left!) and made a sudden break for it. I moved toward the kitchen, but was followed by the Poobah. The Grand Mistress. The Empress. The Bellydance Instructor Herself.

Herself found me behind the club soda. She told me she'd heard that I love the snaking movements and was very good at it. She been told (rat faces) that I would love the lessons. I could see the pinched little snarking going on behind her. The act of snarking took a lot of gall coming from girls with scarves around heads and bells around hips.

I don't do well when cornered, and so I lied. I couldn't help it. It just flew right out of my mouth like a trained messenger bird.

"I'm sorry, I can't" I punctuated my apology with a grave look, a semicolon for the benefit of onlookers.

" ; "

"Not since I had that horrible bellydancing accident."

To my (veiled, of course) delight, the confession was met with real horror. I heard a couple of screeches from people with active imaginations (stilettos, rug, snag) or maybe (snakearm, bracelet, bra strap). I can't say. People began to seek verification of the rapidly spreading rumor.

"I heard you had a horrible bellydancing accident." Apparently the idea of such an abomination bears verbatim repeating. I did not falter, just hung my head in an expression of disbelief that was mistaken for shame. What did I care? The trick was working. I was working the trick.

"Yes." I lied in a tone so low that they seemed to hear it in a high volume. And then I grew bold and indignant. "Well it certainly wasn't on purpose." I turned away, snaking hip first.

"Accident" has, as of 11pm Saturday, become my default reason to explain away or avoid anything embarrassing. I've since decided that what really happened to the roof of my car this past February, the day I pulled the roof up to find tears in the seam, was actually a converting accident. The fact I recently had to rip up the carpet in my closet was not due to flooding, it was caused by an air-conditioning accident, and while I'm at it, I'll tell you that if this entry contains any errors in grammar or spelling, it is due to an awful writing mishap.

tung ring

(previously written)

I might have stepped off the edges of my uneventful day-to-day sometime between 8:00 and 8:30pm last night. What I believe happened is that I lost the groove, skipped a beat, hit a scratch in the record. At any rate, I'm kind of worried about this day. And I really need some sleep.

When I discovered I'd swallowed my tongue ring in the middle of eating a gorgeous yellow pepper with all-natural peanut sauce, I panicked just a little. It wasn't just the little pearl at the end that went missing, but the whole barbell. But I've known a few people who have done the same, so I figure I'll survive. David, who was none too pleased with the piercing in the first place, just shook his head, and a search on the internet for "swallowed my tongue ring" produced messages from high schoolers in full-fledged panic.

"OMG I swallowed my tung ring"

The responses did not make me feel better.

"What?! How could u do that? U R an idiot."


Within the next few minutes, my cat fell off the ottoman. What's unusual about that is not that he fell, but that he took a dive off of such a wide surface. It turns out he had a seizure, and then two more. By that time I'd called the vet, but he advised me that the cost would be tremendous if I didn't wait until morning, that I should monitor him and call back if he worsened. He got no worse, I got no sleep. He's at the vet now, and they're running tests. I'm not really feeling optimistic about this.

On the way to work, I did what I usually do when I have a crisis and called my mom. In the middle of telling her about my Troubles So High, my cellphone stopped transmitting my voice. I could hear her just fine, but I was caught in a black hole. Cut off. The new phone up and died.


My vacation starts Tuesday. I'm torn. I'm sorely in need of it. We are going home to visit family, and made plans for the trip because we fully realize that there are a few members we may not see again. But I wonder whether I will be able to leave our cat, even with people checking in on him. Aside from that, we've no idea what the veterinary costs will be and that's a big pill to swallow 5 days before a trip. Especially for a warm-hearted and generous handyman who takes care of elderly customers, and his idiot wife who likes to swallow stainless steel.

Please send good juju. I'm tired and need to get my groove back.

photo shoot

Right after walking out, I told myself that the tipping point began when she mentioned a detail I didn't think worth recalling. And I did it right after Dale posed us in our fifth consecutive group photo, sandwiching shades of blond and red hair between our sloppy brunette waterfalls. Even in the dimness, I noticed that her teeth remained bared well past the shutter's clench, past the break in the photo huddle. Talking through what instantly became a grimace, she leaned into me with a conspiratorial whisper,

"I just remembered that I wore this shirt before. As a matter of fact it was a year ago, in this very bar. Shit."

"Shit." I instantly echoed her sentiment. She understood it as sympathetic. And in truth she was right. Our expletives held the same root, which, were we not in a bar modeling fluffed hair and ratcheted boobs, might have sounded like, "I feel utterly resigned to what the heavy hand of fate has dealt." There we stood, she, accepting the embarrassment of being photographed in same shirt twice, and me, accepting the fact that our gatherings have become routine enough to bemoan that as a horrible turn of events. "Shit", as expletives do, stripped sentiment to such simple form that its universal function was acrobatic. Besides, who am I kidding? "Shit" says it best.

The amateur photo shoots, the horrible shirt or belly dance incidents, and the expletives grow old, but we can't seem to let go of the rituals or begin new ones. We won't let ourselves admit that we're passing time, constructing fun in the easiest (laziest) way we know how. Worse, I can see the same worn expressions on each friend's face when striking the tinny notes in our birthday songs, but we've lost interest in changing the record. Instead, just after everyone hoisted shot glasses in yet another toast, right after Bob offered me a sickly sweet potion with, "You in?" then skipped right past me at the first hint of a "no" headshake, I walked out. The crowd lumbered right, I spun left and kept walking. I made myself push through double doors and ignored the hitch in my step as I reached a Florida summer's perpetually wet pavement. My exit seemed abrupt, but I'd left hints. Like hugging my purse through at least a half hour of telling the stiff and helmet-headed waitress, "No Thanks. I've had enough."

As soon as I'd cleared the parking lot, I phoned David.

"I'm coming home."

The next thing I did was to text message everyone in the group. It was a shitty way out (translate that to: It was a cowardly attempt to save face after a rude exit).

"Drive Safe!" I wrote no "ly" at the end, but included a heartfelt exclamation mark.

Pumpkin

We want pumpkin muffins because we remember living in the place of crispy macintoshes and ribbed globes of deep orange, and because we miss the teasing bite of sweet spice. Mostly, it's because commercialized seasonal offerings make up all of the Autumn we now know.

---

This is the second time our Starbucked paths have crossed today, so I take notice. He's taking his muffin outdoors, letting it carefully balance on a perch of ceramic plate decorated with paper lace. Creamy ivory clangs once as he sets his dish on a table, followed by the distinct rattle of a bouncing fork. His other hand wraps around a throw-away plastic cup that's much better suited for outdoors. Later I'll realize that in positioning the plate, he has precisely calculated the length of his arm's reach. I will understand why his feet are so stiffly planted in front of him to create a perfectly shaped lap.

He's making last minute seating adjustments with a small bit of ceremony, and he begins to try out his snack.

I'm engaged in conversation but remain aware of the images on the periphery. It's windy, and rather than lift the entire muffin to trap a bite in his mouth, he insists on delicately partitioning it with his fork. I take note of this because he's dropping bites that bounce from his lap whenever a strong gust pushes through and the accidental bounty is attracting what look like finches. He tries to catch but misses two forkfuls, then fills the stainless steel with a third and new portion.

Stubborn.

Because I move to a different table to escape some of the strongest breezes, my new seat allows a view of the still pink and deep damage that draws a wide scar around his jawbone. I take in the artificial aid tucked halfway behind his ear and then begin to actually see him even as I'm trying not to look. He takes another forkful and lifts it to a mouth and jaw that can't open wide enough. There's a small and dignified struggle, and a new bite of the pumpkin muffin he has spent his good time waiting for threatens to follow earlier bits and tumble with the next gust.

But he's insisting that he most certainly will harvest this bite of pumpkin and I'm happy to watch as he does just that.

Falcon

When I move, you move.

This town has a facade of sleepy, or quaint. It's called a Village in the "hip" sense of the word. And so it was that Friday night had me stepping through the glass and arched front door of a home built in 1925. It's now a bar where every wall is painted the color of rich and warm red velvet, and black and white photographs don't hang, they're set into the wall and are lit from ethereal light behind.

The 80 year old hardwood floors vibrate under the influence of a state of the art sound system. Vibrations transfer to the barstools, and to me, perched on the edge. Up through the bar, vibrations pump my Amstel. If a place can have a vibe, this one's got it.

I'm looking forward to going back.

Chinese Curse

The other day I got one of those fortunes in a cookie. You know the type.

"You will inherit land or money."

This upsets me. Tricky little fortune cookie, isn't it? It's not a fortune. It's a curse. The damned cookie tried to curse me. It's much like wishing me an interesting life. On one hand, if my life were of interest, lots of folks would flock to this little space to see what's transpired. The problem is that it comes at a price.

And so does an inheritance.

Damned cookie. I don't want it.

2 minute warning

The thought has occurred to me that I will mark my 45th year on the planet Earth come Christmastide.

Sh*t.

Pardon the expletive, but wouldn't you be upset? There's no more room for cute in my world, folks. The low rise jeans I bought at Hollister are about to go all comic on me. I've been able to pull them off with some grace, but soon it's all going to start looking like I'm reaching and stretching just a hair too thin.

Warn me when it starts to happen.

Until then, carry on.

Homage

"There truly is a Method to His Madness, you know."

"Yes, yes, I'm aware of that. It's that his motto is Always Write, and Bomit, half the time his posts have the courage and soul of good street Graffiti. Graffiti writen by some Chairborne Stranger or maybe even a Defective Yeti."

"I'm not sure, but it can be disturbing. I'm hoping Dr. Jayne 2 B lends an academic point of view. "

"True. She does seem to hold a good sense of balance driven, in part, by the "Everything's Relative" philosopy."

"Nice observation. Come on, sit down. Have a Cuppa with this Industry Whore."

"Listen Id love a stiff drink but, I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino, you know what I mean?"

"True, but after our last outing last Friday night, you had no trouble with the Kiss & Blog. You wrote about your escapades so vividly. Have you been visiting Language Log?"

"No, not at all. I've just been thinking... you know... reflecting. That's how it is for a girl with a Life in Forsyth. The kind of life that never truly wears it off, but just smears your Lip Schtick. By the way, is it smeared right now?"

"No Pasa Nada, my friend. You look good. Everything's in place. Right as Rain, because you comply and follow THE motto, don't you? Obey."

"Yeah, I know that social virus. What do you say we hit the Pie-N-Monkey for martini's and dessert? And you know what they say, Whatever Happens at Pie-N-Monkey, stays at Pie-N-Monkey."

"Either that or you end up sending a card to PostSecret, complete with a photo of your Sinister Bedfellows which may or may not include that hot hipster you know and love."

"Who? The Assimilated Negro?"

"Duh. Yeah, isn't that just The Blinding Glare of the Obvious?"

"Oh, Shit... Here goes The Daily Rant..."

"No rant. I'm going to chill with The Daly Blog and get a dose of some Visual Narcotics."

"ummm... yeah. Yummy."

When Kunta Met Kinte

I've recently discovered that I'm apparently Black.

Shuttup! I've seen my profile picture.

Don't be alarmed. It's not that I was struck blind before realizing my race or anything so simple as that. It's that my birth certificate has changed. It used to say that I was Cape Verdean, and when I last ordered a copy, my friendly local government office had changed it to Black.

This discovery has been further complicated by the fact that my mother of 44 years has recently also informed me that I am Black. I've always suspected, but there she was, just the other day, confirming it and making things so clear. The conversation in which I stumbled upon this discovery went like this:

"HAHAHAHA... Remember when I asked your brother if there were any other Black kids in his new school and he said he didn't know? How could he not know!" I did not remember this, and wondered when she'd changed races, but I digress...

"Um, Mom... You never told us we were Black. Have you recently decided?"

"What?! What do you mean? You kids didn't know?!"

"No. Why would we? You and dad never discussed it. Our neighbors were interacial couples, or hispanic, or Asian. Blacks in our neighborhood had afros and dark skin. We didn't fit any of those molds."

"Oh yeah.... I guess you kids wouldn't have known." I could hear the bright rays of dawn cracking over her pretty gray head.

I've really got to congratulate my parents on that one, intentional or otherwise. They just plain forgot to put us into a convenient little category and box.

Grace, Charm, and... er... Poise.

Shortly after moving to Daytona Beach, Florida, a woman approached me in a local restaurant and asked if I was Cape Verdean. Since there wasn't a Creole in sight, I figured she was either clairvoyant or knew me from somewhere back in New England. Turns out it was neither.

"I can tell by the way you walk.” she said. "You've got that Cape Verdean walk."

Hmpf. That got me thinking. What she'd said is true. Lots of Cape Verdean women have a slow stride and walk with shoulders back and chin up. It's a proud walk, and maybe sometimes it's a bit too proud. It was my mom who taught me the stride, and without realizing it, I'd apparently taken her lessons to heart.

"Walk on your toes. Don't stomp!" That was the first lesson. "Pick up your feet!" Second lesson.

"Pull your stomach in." came at around the same time as "Point your toes slightly inward and place one foot slightly in front of the other. Slow down a little. Don't clop around in a hurry."

"Are you kidding me, Mom?!" That was usually my whiney protest, but I did as I was told, partly to make her nagging stop and partly because I thought my graceful and slim mother held the power to transform a chubby and awkward me into a glamorous young swan. I became a Suck In The Stomach expert.

But then came the Book. At the time she pulled out a book with the intent of showing me how to balance it on my head, I was around 15 or 16 years old, still sporting 25 extra pounds, and yet very interested in lessons on how to walk like a fashion model. My mom and her sisters had lots of old photos of themselves playing around in my grandfather's yard, modeling the latest fashions and striking poses out of a March, 1959 Glamour magazine. It looked like fun, and so I studied hard.

The lessons on how to properly sit while wearing a dress came at around the same time. I mastered the art of sitting up straight, knees together and tilted to the left, while ankles were pressed together and slightly out to the right. She had me practice this pose on the countless Sunday visits to relatives where we'd sit in a mausoleum of a room called a Parlor and sip coffee, or in my case, Coke. Between sips I sat still, shoulders back, palms resting in my lap.

"Smile." That was the next instruction. "Don't scowl. It looks awful. Trashy." It also highlighted my pudgy cheeks. I couldn't remember all of the instructions all of the time, and slipped a bit. She'd notice and wouldn't hesitate to remind me. Most of the time, I hated the constant nagging. It's not that I didn't like the idea of walking like a model or sitting as if I were posing for a portrait. I just didn't like having to be constantly aware of sucking in my gut and placing a soft smile on my lips. What if I wasn't in the mood to smile in public?

"Smile anyway." She said it with a smile, of course.

My friends, especially the younger ones, don't remember getting these lessons and never knew the chubby and awkward girl, but they inevitably comment on my posture. Lots of little old ladies comment, too. There have been several occasions when I've been walking down the street absorbed in some fluffy and girly thought, obviously relishing in the glory of all that is female, only to have someone's grandmother stop me in my perfectly placed, ball-of-the-foot, never-heel-first footfall.

"You have such great posture!"

That's when the smile my mom trained me to wear is genuine, and the chubby little girl in me gives her a call just to say hello.

Here I am

"See? Told you you'd give this blogging thing up."

"Sit down, Alter Ego. Have a muffin."

I'm having thoughts. Oh yeah, a few of them, too.

It's about the trees here in South Florida. First, let me tell you about the brave little six-footer that hung on for dear life through hours of last year's Wilma lashing only to be snapped in half during the very last 30 minutes of that beeatch's fury. While 30 and 40 footers passed out all around him/it, this young one tried its best. Or maybe it was just stubborn.

So a few months later when an orange band was found wrapped around the trunk, I was pissed. The tree was marked for removal even though it had sprouted new branches and was making a lopsided comeback. He'd been deemed unworthy of adorning the Homeowner Association's common area. A pockmark on the face of a manicured lawn.

Me? A Tree-hugger you say? Mebbe.

And yesterday, while driving my usual route to work, I noticed a line of stumps and timber along the edge of a corporate park where very large, shady, and beautiful trees had been.

Is this how South Florida prepares for hurricane season?

The oddest thing I've seen is a news report in the hours before an oncoming hurricane in which the reporter carried on about the very large trees which could down powerlines. As he spoke, a 40 footer swayed in the increasing breeze, then dropped onto the ground in what seemed like a dead faint. Poor tree had apparently been overcome while listening to the report.

And That's All.

Speechless

It's rare that I'm struck dumb. Wordless. But lately, I just can't help watching the news. I'm waiting and wondering as is a good part of the world. We're just wondering what news will come from the middle east.

This game's been played for years, but this time it seems more real. Maybe it's a post-9/11 kind of thing, or maybe it's just Time.

Tinsel

Last night's fireworks were gorgeous, exploding like tinsel over the Atlantic ocean.

And I couldn't help but wonder what war sounds like. What happens when those sounds continue for weeks and don't signal a celebration?

Rescue

As I parked the car and headed to my downtown Starbucks today for my Sunday morning coffee and tourist-watching, I saw police cars and fire apparatus parked on both sides of the street. Lights were flashing.

I noticed they were right in front of Starbucks. Lord, it looked like there might have been a Latte overdose.

As I got closer I could see boots sticking up out of a storm drain and lots of emergency personnel shouting things down into the hole. There were questions.

"GOT IT?!!"

Voices came up from down the hole.

"YEAH, I THINK I SEE IT."

Holy shit, I was about to witness a rescued kitten. Someone call the local news because this is a heartwarming story right here in the middle of our cute little tourist town.

The firefighter pulled himself up out of the muck of the hole and held his hand up high. The bulldozer operator who'd removed the grate stood by looking hopeful, and so did the man who looked like he had a vested interest. We all looked at the hand, held out for everyone to see and caught sight of shiny metal.

Yup. They'd rescued the Ferrari-driver's keys.

What a piece of work. I hope the city sends him a bill.

Been Missing Me

I've missed my time here, but life itself has been happening and I should consider that both a blessing and curse. It would seem that when things get boring in the world of Everyday, I come here to write about observations, but when life takes a toll, I can't quite find the words or tone to inject anything of meaning.

Who cares about my little dramas? Two things occur to me. One is that nothing I write about is of consequence, but the second thought is that everything in my life is this... and therefore of little consequence. This kind of thinking can lead to a bout of whiny depression if I let it, but seriously, my ego's not that big.

Besides, this blog was started for me. I've got three others, but none have this voice. This is my rant and sarcasm space, but I do have to learn to fill it during times when I'm humbled and don't have much piss and vinegar.

Blog Angels Write Among Us

As I stared at this blog, wondering what in Sam Hill I'd write about next, I decided to click on "comments". Lo, and yes Behold, I'd been tagged. Blog Angels are among us, folks.

I SAID: It would happen and it did. Makes me believe in voodoo.

I WANT: My husband to be with me for a long, long time.

I WISH: My parents had given me the gift of confidence.

I HATE: Seeing a man kicked when he's down. My heart's with the underdog. Always.

I MISS: Opportunites for everyday happiness.

I HEAR: You, Dad. "Eleven", you said.

I WONDER: What my children would have looked like.

I REGRET: Not learning how to lose.

I AM NOT: Going to give up.

I DANCE: With abandon.

I SING: Only in my car.

I CRY: Streaks of black mascara.

I AM NOT ALWAYS: An attentive lover.

I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: Dough. Love.

I WRITE: To purge and to understand. Sometimes just to record.

I CONFUSE: Myself and therefore those around me.

I NEED: To believe in our future.

I SHOULD: Give more hugs. Birthday cards. Thank you's.

I START: Hard and fast, then fade out.

I FINISH: Things that hurt.

I TAG: I suddenly feel too new to tag. You do it. I saw you reading.

Da Vinci, Round 3

I've read The DaVinci Code years ago and did so because I'd already read most of the "research" it's based on. Specifically, I've read nearly every book written by the authors of Holy Blood, Holy Grail. There are quite a few books.

So when "The Code" came along, I knew exactly when Dan Brown's idea had come from and thought that he'd pretty much ripped everything from HBHG and spun it into something the mainstream will swallow. Good for him. Holy Blood, Holy Grail is some fascinating stuff. Theoretical, but with just enough "evidence" to give pause. It had been a controversial and popular book in its own right when published in the 1980's.

We're up on Round 3 of the mainstream wave, and the release of the DVD will probably become the last and final Round. Anyone who's averse to reading will flock to the movie over the coming weeks and "discover" that there's an alternate version of Jesus' life that is titillating and for some, scandalous. I initially expected to see more protests from Christians as the movie's premier approaches, but in considering the notion of Jesus having a bloodline and lineage, I've realized that it probably gives a lot of folks more hope than insult.

How many people, after reading the books HBHG or DVC, wondered if Jesus blood runs through their own veins?

Palm Beach

The funny thing about living with coconut palms and turquoise oceans is that you feel a lot of pressure to be happy. I mean, if you can't find happiness here, then I'm guessing that you're pretty much screwed.

People pay plenty of money to sit by this ocean and under these palms, so who am I to complain about the heat, or even the trying events of plain daily living. Other people have to put up with the same drudgery I do, except they've got bad weather to contend with.

Beach for lunch?

The fact is that no matter where you live, everything becomes part of the routine. Eventually you have to remind yourself to Be Happy, to take a good look at the scenery, or the cultural richness, or whatever it is that's drawn you to a place. When things start to look good on the other side of the fence, it's just boredom settling in. Boredom lives everywhere and isn't partial. Its what robs most people of a good time, and if you give it some leeway, it'll eventually steal happiness from your whole life, one minute at a time.

Bye and Bye

It's Wednesday and Friday is my last day here at work. On Monday I start a new and similar gig, and hope it's got a better work atmosphere. We'll see.

I've got people coming over to pout at me and cry "noooooo." I had no idea, and it makes me feel good, but also a little bad at the same time. Wish I'd known.