yelhsacrow's love spec tackler

My New Website

2008-08-13T14:07:00.000-07:00

" ," she wheezed agedly

2007-10-10T14:30:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I turn 40, and I think it might be time to put this poor mere shell of a blog to rest. I've got a novel coming out in a few months, so maybe I ought to have a proper website or something. I shall ponder...

My Teen Angel

2007-10-02T10:51:00.000-07:00

Today is my eldest daughter's 16th birthday.

In the past three years, little V. has aged three years, whereas I have grown decrepit exponentially and am now 144 years old.

For the first couple of teenage years, when she told me I was to blame for everything, I believed her. Now I don't, and I feel much better. Someone told me this time is designed to enable parents to let go of their children when the time comes, because the kids are so darned obnoxious.

She was an adorable baby, a delightful toddler, a wonderful child. Now she's beautiful, intelligent, and tortured as hell. I'm sooo ready for the next phase.

If Disco Fever Is Wrong, I Don't Wanna Be Right

2007-09-25T12:50:00.000-07:00

I have been unemployed for seven weeks now, and yet somehow I just don't care. I went through the agony of losing a job I loved (unexpected "restructuring" is the absolute best), the depression of wondering whether my career is over thanks to this sudden brick wall, and the identity crisis inherent in not being "editor for the Blah Blah Institute at Blah University" anymore. But I'm over it. Now I'm just waiting to see how my life's gonna turn out.

I grow weary of this provincial lifestyle, anyways. I told my husband I wish I could be a New York socialite, go to parties all the time and just dance, dance, dance.

He said, "Yeah, and in a few years you'd be sick, get fat, and die."

And I thought to myself, "Hmph! I would not get fat!" Besides, who cares. I want to dance.

it's good to be priestess

2007-09-23T16:12:00.000-07:00

I officiated at my sister's wedding yesterday. It was awesome! There is a representative video of the fun that ensued on youtube--look for "white boy flagrante." I am not featured, thankfully, but please note the wonderful tai chi expert (he really is).

It has been a whirlwind four days of parties and people and people and parties. I have had the best time and met so many fantastic friends. Now that the hoopla has hooped its last "la" and those crazy kids are off to the Seychelles, I grow weary and reflective. So here's a little navel-gazing ode to white wine, love, and shaking your moneymaker.

Velveteen Rabbit

There is no finer motion—
no softer tick,
no gentler turn,
yet I can feel it.

What formless hope the
subtle click of thought to thought
has taken in its arms,
grasped with eager fingers,
and in the silence
made real

Human Geography

I am awed by the vast landscape
of your being.

I want to visit your deepest valleys,
sit in the shade of your wildest tree.

I want to dream a dream of night’s black cliffs,
swim the waves that take you under—

I want to scale your mountainous heart
and touch your sky’s bright soul.

Was the Bike Wreck Divine Retribution?

2007-07-09T11:08:00.000-07:00

There's really no need to write about my own thoughts or happenings, since my daughter's MySpace bulletins are just so darned precious. This one is about a "charismatic" Christian revival held in Nashville over the weekend. She and my husband were disappointed in the crowd's apparent normalcy.

my dad and i went on a bike ride
and decided to go to the colleseum to see that weird god thing thats going on
and there were like A LOT of scene kids.
like a lot a lot.

anyways
we were about to leave
then like these people in matching outfits got on the stage
and these guys in black hoods came
and like i think the black hood people killed the matching people
but like then this lady in a white robe came and was lipsincing
and dancing
and was like "wake upp wake uppp alalalla"
and then this guy with a sash on came on to stage
and he started preaching or something
but after that all the people in black hoods went away
and all the matching people got up and did a dance routine

so later when my dad and i were riding away from that
he asked me if i had made sence of any of it
so i said
"i've learned, that when 'judgment day' comes,
we're all going to dance."

but i actually think they were saying that 7.7.07 is the rapture or something crazy like that

oh yeah
later i had a bike wreck
it wasnt too bad
i just have a bloody elbow and a cut on my left hand
woohoo! great day. ahahah

Drowning, Not New Waving

2007-07-06T10:19:00.000-07:00

My freshly 13-year-old daughter posted the following bulletin on MySpace recently about the Buggles' "Video Killed the Radio Star." Oh, these children of the new millennium!

so last night
i stumbled upon this video
and i was amazed.
i showed it to my mother,
and of course she'd seen it a million times
(it was the first video on mtv, after all)
and told me
"you think thats amazing, but theres a whole DECADE of that."

i found that kinda funny,
considering how true it was.
so for the next month or two
i'm going to be constantly posting 80s music videos.
i wish i had been alive during th 80s..

Pretty Womanly

2007-06-18T12:53:00.000-07:00

I'm the same age as Julia Roberts, who just gave birth to her third child. She also has two-year-old twins.

I've been thinking (and blathering on) about this a lot lately, since my 34-year-old sister is getting married and planning to have a baby in the near future, and my 65-year-old boss and his 38-year-0ld wife are also expecting.

Meanwhile, my 15- and 13-year-olds will both be out of the house (presuming they graduate high school, and then go to college in another town) when I am 44. I used to think that was old, but now it seems pretty darned young.

The advantage, it seems to me, of having had my girls in my early-to-mid 20s is that I had lots of energy and was myself somewhat infantile. The disadvantage is that I was much less patient than I am now, and bereft of significant adult life experience that might have led me to make better decisions about how to parent. Of course it's a hands-on learning process, and by the time you get good at it there's no one left to benefit from your expertise!

That might be why I want to be a teacher when I grow up.

The Man Who Couldn't Blogida

2007-06-01T07:04:00.001-07:00

It is difficult to communicate with someone blogwise when they do not allow comments on their blog. Like, I would say, Hey, that's great, welcome back, cool about your band. I will play your song on my show.

In other news, we're going to Florida for a few days. It's been a couple of years since our last beach trip. The weird thing about the ocean is, you could go your whole life without seeing it, but when I'm there it seems like something people need to live.

I'm a Minister!

2007-05-10T09:31:00.000-07:00

Dearly Beloved,

We are gathered here today to celebrate this thing called life.

I wish I could fly to Vegas and see Prince perform at his very own theater.

Anyways, guess what?! I am officially a minister of the Universal Life Church. My sister's getting married and asked me to officiate. I immediately felt more spiritual and pious the moment I pressed the "ok" button on the online form.

Blessed be.

You Know You're Busy When

2007-03-16T09:00:00.000-07:00

MARCH

the name of a month becomes a call to action

Wulf and Eadwacer

2007-03-14T11:41:00.000-07:00

I am doing this freelance project right now that has led me to an interest in Old English poetry, except I don't read Old English, so I should say it has led me to an interest in translations of Old English poetry. Anyways, I am currently FASCINATED with this one. I haven't found any interpretations that completely satisfy me though, and the difference in translations makes it obvious I need to hunker down and kick it old school with the Old English...maybe someday.

There are a bunch of differing translations. Here's one from http://faculty.uca.edu/~jona/texts/wulfead.htm

To my people it is as if one offered them battle [ 1 ]:
they will receive him, if he with threat [ 2 ] comes. [ 3 ]
Unlike is it to us.
Wulf is on one island, I on another.
Fast is that island, by fen surrounded;5
fierce are the men on that island:
they will receive him, if he with threat [ 4 ] comes.
Unlike is it to us.
My Wulf's wide-wanderings, expected, I endure.
When it was rainy weather, and I sat tearful,10
then that battle-bold [ 5 ] clasped me in arms:
delight to me, that, yet pain as well.
Wulf, my Wulf, my hopes of thee
sickened me, thy seldom-coming,
a mourning mind, not lack of food.15
Hearest thou, Eadwacer? Our [ 6 ] sorry whelp
A Wulf bears to woods.
One easily slits what never was joined:
our song together.

Happy Birthday, W.H. Auden

2007-02-19T12:55:00.000-08:00

The More Loving One

by W. H. Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.



Admirer as I think I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.



Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total dark sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.

The Murderer Is Dead, Long Live the Murderer

2006-12-30T08:47:00.000-08:00

I do not usually find politics a satisfactory subject for poetry, but sometimes there's just no other way...

For God So Loved the World
a bedtime poem

You show me blood,
say how to feel--there're
monsters out there--
which one is real?

A tale we tell children,
One Life to spill--Oh,
deliver us from Evil
(Who Lives here still)

A Mine Field of Inspiration

2006-12-23T17:17:00.000-08:00

I am so pleased with myself for writing a poem with Kenny Rogers in it. I think I should start a series. I will do Bread or possibly Glen Campbell next. This is so exciting!

Wizard of the County
by yelhsacrow

I put on the Kenny Rogers,
kindle the ancient magic

But no hopeful spell, or revolution,
will make this fire burn--

Honey, can't you
tell by the ashes that I
need the tide to turn? Oh

Abracadabra, my precious.
Don't take your love to town.

2006-12-12T12:05:00.000-08:00

TO KISS YOUR LIPS
BESIDE THE FENCE RAILS

Put on your beautiful clothes;
the day of happiness has arrived;
comb the tangles from your hair;
put on your most attractive clothes
and your splendid leather;
hang great pendants in the lobes of
your ears; put on
a good belt; string garlands
around your shapely throat;
put shining coils
on your plump upper arms.
Glorious you will be seen,
for none is more beautiful here
in this town, the seat of Dzitbalché.

I love you, Beautiful Lady.
I want you to be seen; in
truth you are very alluring,
I compare you to the smoking star
because they desire you up to the moon
and in the flowers of the fields.
Pure and white are your clothes, maiden.
Go give happiness with your laugh,
put goodness in your heart, because today
is the moment of happiness; all people
put their goodness in you.

(Ancient Maya poem/song)

Jesus has such a good attitude

2006-09-19T14:29:00.000-07:00

Goodtime Jesus

Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been
dreaming so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was
it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes
rolled back, skin falling off. But he wasn't afraid of that. It
was a beautiful day. How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind
if I do. Take a little ride on my donkey, I love that donkey.
Hell, I love everybody.

—James Tate

2006-09-06T11:14:00.000-07:00

In California During the Gulf War
by Denise Levertov

Among the blight-killed eucalypts, among

trees and bushes rusted by Christmas frosts,

the yards and hillsides exhausted by five years of drought,

certain airy white blossoms punctually

reappeared, and dense clusters of pale pink, dark pink--

a delicate abundance. They seemed

like guests arriving joyfully on the accustomed

festival day, unaware of the year's events, not perceiving

the sackcloth others were wearing.

To some of us, the dejected landscape consorted well

with our shame and bitterness. Skies ever-blue,

daily sunshine, disgusted us like smile-buttons.

Yet the blossoms, clinging to thin branches

more lightly than birds alert for flight,

lifted the sunken heart

even against its will.

But not

as symbols of hope: they were flimsy

as our resistance to the crimes committed

--again, again--in our name; and yes, they return,

year after year, and yes, they briefly shone with serene joy

over against the dark glare

of evil days. They are, and their presence

is quietness ineffable--and the bombings are, were,

no doubt will be; that quiet, that huge cacophany

simultaneous. No promise was being accorded, the blossoms

were not doves, there was no rainbow. And when it was claimed

the war had ended, it had not ended.

2006-08-24T12:50:00.000-07:00

So Long, Pluto

Let us
hail the dark and lonely god
who is no more—erase
a lifetime of lessons—unlearn
the once-proud furthest brother,
icon of my distant dreams.

(Shepherd of
my orbit.)

Verily,
modern ancients
revision space
as space.

We (r)evolve.

You spin away.

2006-08-17T07:41:00.000-07:00

All this Jon Benet Ramsey coverage makes me so sad. It’s horrible to think about.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light

From “Darkness” by George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)

vampire outlaw of the milky way

2006-07-29T06:58:00.000-07:00

I couldn't get the spacing right on this one; read the correct version at http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16178.

I Am a Cowboy in the Boat of Ra
by Ishmael Reed

'The devil must be forced to reveal any such physical evil
(potions, charms, fetishes, etc.) still outside the body
and these must be burned.' (Rituale Romanum, published
1947, endorsed by the coat-of-arms and introductory
letter from Francis cardinal Spellman)

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra,
sidewinders in the saloons of fools
bit my forehead like O
the untrustworthiness of Egyptologists
who do not know their trips. Who was that
dog-faced man? they asked, the day I rode
from town.

School marms with halitosis cannot see
the Nefertiti fake chipped on the run by slick
germans, the hawk behind Sonny Rollins' head or
the ritual beard of his axe; a longhorn winding
its bells thru the Field of Reeds.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. I bedded
down with Isis, Lady of the Boogaloo, dove
deep down in her horny, stuck up her Wells-Far-ago
in daring midday getaway. 'Start grabbing the
blue,' I said from top of my double crown.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Ezzard Charles
of the Chisholm Trail. Took up the bass but they
blew off my thumb. Alchemist in ringmanship but a
sucker for the right cross.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Vamoosed from
the temple i bide my time. The price on the wanted
poster was a-going down, outlaw alias copped my stance
and moody greenhorns were making me dance;
while my mouth's
shooting iron got its chambers jammed.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Boning-up in
the ol' West i bide my time. You should see
me pick off these tin cans whippersnappers. I
write the motown long plays for the comeback of
Osiris. Make them up when stars stare at sleeping
steer out here near the campfire. Women arrive
on the backs of goats and throw themselves on
my Bowie.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Lord of the lash,
the Loup Garou Kid. Half breed son of Pisces and
Aquarius. I hold the souls of men in my pot. I do
the dirty boogie with scorpions. I make the bulls
keep still and was the first swinger to grape the taste.

I am a cowboy in his boat. Pope Joan of the
Ptah Ra. C/mere a minute willya doll?
Be a good girl and
bring me my Buffalo horn of black powder
bring me my headdress of black feathers
bring me my bones of Ju-Ju snake
go get my eyelids of red paint.
Hand me my shadow

I'm going into town after Set

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra

look out Set here i come Set
to get Set to sunset Set
to unseat Set to Set down Set

usurper of the Royal couch
imposter RAdio of Moses' bush
party pooper O hater of dance
vampire outlaw of the milky way

Ishmael Reed publishes an online magazine: Konch

romantic multicultural poetry

2006-07-19T12:11:00.000-07:00

It’s the middle of the night
in India

and I’m just trying to add
a phone to my account

2006-07-09T07:06:00.000-07:00

You should read this beautiful poem by my friend K.

Goodwill toward all

2006-07-08T07:46:00.000-07:00

I truly enjoy shopping for books at thrift stores. Last night for $4 I acquired four fantastic paperbacks:

The New Pocket Anthology of American Verse (Pocket Books, 1973)
I love these old collections; it's interesting to see what was popular then that isn't so anthological these days. The cover's pretty groovy, too. I bought it for the W.H. Auden. I really need to get to know him better.

Bullfinch's Mythology: The Age of Chivalry and the Legends of Charlemagne (Mentor, 1962)
I don't know why I didn't have this already. On both a related and unrelated note, I wish I could read Old English. That would be cool.

A Guide to Field Identification: Birds of North America (Golden, 1966)
My dad has this book and uses it all the time to identify the birds that hang out around his bird feeder. I couldn't believe I found it for 99 cents. The paintings are amazing. I've seen an indigo bunting twice this summer. It's one of the few "true blue" birds. If you think about it, there aren't that many living things that are blue.

Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut (Delta/Dell, 1963)
This was always my favorite Kurt Vonnegut book, but I haven't read much of his stuff since I went through the phase about 20 years ago. My edition had a blue cover, but this 1963 version (it says it's in its 12th printing, does that mean in 1963 or would it have been later? I don't know how that works) has a "cover design by M. Tinkelman" that I'd never seen before, and a photo of a young Kurt Vonnegut on the back (as opposed to the older Kurt Vonnegut photo you always see). I'm reading it right now and so far it's pretty good. Some of the writing is so amusing. Take this passage for instance, from Chapter 10, "Secret Agent X-9":

"The whore, who said her name was Sandra, offered me delights unobtainable outside of Place Pigalle and Port Said. I said I wasn't interested, and she was bright enough to say that she wasn't really interested either. As things turned out, we had both overestimated our apathies, but not by much."

For some reason that cracks me up.

2006-07-06T07:54:00.000-07:00

The Burden of Gorgeous Hair

I can never live up to it.

Anything I say, or do,
is a disappointment

once you’ve laid eyes
on these lustrous locks.

I’m tangled in it, trapped.

If I keep it, there’s no escape.

If I cut it, I lose my identity.

Oh, damn these clustering curls!

(she said, tossing her head
attractively, as is possible only
when cursed with gorgeous hair)

Tell It, Brother!

2006-07-05T10:55:00.001-07:00

Thanks to Walt for sending this to me. If you'd like to share a poem or thought or anything whatsoever, email me at alphabetrock@yahoo.com, or post a comment.

The Trouble with Poetry
By Billy Collins

The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night--
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky--

the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.

And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,

and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks.

Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.

But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.

And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.

And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti--
to be perfectly honest for a moment--

the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.

Credit: Corbis Images

Billy Collins, the U.S. poet laureate from 2001 to 2003, is the author of seven collections of poetry and is a distinguished professor of English at Lehman College of the City University of New York. He serves as the poet laureate of New York state.

This article is also published in Edutopia magazine's June 2006 issue.

Feelin' the Love, Feelin' the Spec, Feelin' the Tackler

2006-07-04T10:09:00.000-07:00

It has been quite the hiatus for the love spec tackler...but I think I'm ready to begin again...

Reckless Driving

Your heart in your eyes,
My hands on the wheel--
I've been down this road
before.

Let's choose the path less travelled,
honey,
for once let's not go down--let's not
go down--for once--let's not--
We always/go down...

Turn on the radio, I
want to hear/a song that will
lift me up, take me--
higher, take me--
higher, lift me up--

so I can see

your heart in your eyes,
my hands on the wheel--
ah, the travelin' life's
the one for me

I Heart Hearts

2006-02-14T17:36:00.000-08:00

In honor of Valentine's Day, let's look more deeply at the lyrics to that classic song of love, "Do You Believe in Magic?" by the Lovin' Spoonful.

Do you believe in magic in a young girl's heart?
How the music can free her whenever it starts?
And it's magic if the music is groovy--
It makes you feel happy like an old-time movie.
I'll tell you about the magic that'll free your soul,
but it's like trying to tell a stranger 'bout rock 'n' roll.

"Do you believe in magic in a young girl's heart?" Do you believe in spirit, do you believe in love?
"How the music can free her whenever it starts?" Music is the conduit through which that spirit, that love, is released and expressed.
"And it's magic if the music is groovy--" There's a certain quality to a particular kind of music that connects with each person in a singular way.
"It makes you feel happy like an old-time movie." Movies are another means by which this spirit is accessed and expressed.
"I'll tell you about the magic that'll free your soul, but it's like trying to tell a stranger 'bout rock 'n' roll." Just like the Sufis and Transcendentalists say, there ain't no substitute for direct experience.

This, my friends, is the Curse of the English Major. And why I have a radio show.

February 1996

2006-02-12T16:43:00.000-08:00

Tortured in a beautiful way
They sit outside in the parking lot
Passing the blackberry schnapps
Amusing themselves with tales
of great profundity

I have heard the Bohemians honking;
I do not think that they will honk for me.

I found this amusing little snippet in an old journal I kept 10 years ago, when I was 28, a mother of two, and just about to finally graduate from college. At first I thought it an observation of some of my younger, hipper classmates, but then I seem to have some vague memory of drinking blackberry schnapps outside a bar so as to save money...must be a combination of the two.

a poem

2006-02-11T12:35:00.000-08:00

Skeleton

I don't know anything
about my bones.

I thought I did, I
thought I could
feel them growing solid
like a scaffold
for my skin

But everything is wrong
now, everything is
something that it's
not

and the frame
I thought solid
falters,
stumbles,
rots

Photoshopped Out!

2006-02-09T17:50:00.000-08:00

I've just finished a two-day-long Photoshop course in which we skimmed a semester's worth of material in approximately 14 hours. There were only two of us in the class. The instructor and my fellow student were both retired school teachers, and highly deserving of having Saturday Night Live characters modelled after them.

I learned a lot I didn't know about Photoshop, however, and what I don't know includes pretty much everything there is to know about Photoshop with the exception of minimal adjusting and resizing of photos. Gosh, I hope I get better...

Tag I'm It

2006-02-03T18:27:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Jen for assigning me this timely distraction...

The Rule of Four

Four jobs I've had:

1. a.m. prep gal at the Whataburger
2. managing editor for our local parenting magazine
3. U.S. Army interrogator linguist
4. The worst Mexican restaurant waitress in Denver, Colorado

Four movies I can watch over and over:

1. Velvet Goldmine
2. Napoleon Dynamite
3. A Hard Day's Night
4. The Magnificent Seven

Four places I have lived:

1. Ozark, Alabama
2. Ft. Huachuca, Arizona
3. Ft. Walton Beach, Florida
4. Torrance, California

Four TV shows I love to watch:

1. Firefly
2. Star Trek (everything but Deep Space Nine)
3. Medium
4. Green Acres

Four places I have been on vacation:

1. Leadville, Colorado
2. Madrid, Spain
3. Kennywood, the best damn amusement park in the whole of Pennsylvania
4. The Grand Canyon, Arizona

Four of my favorite dishes:

1. The vegetable tempura bento box lunch special at that Japanese place next to the pizza place
2. Pita and hummus
3. The fish salad at Don Chile's
4. Cheese sandwich and tomato soup

Websites I visit daily:

I don't make daily visits these days, unless Yahoo mail counts!

Four places I would rather be right now:

1. The woods
2. The beach
3. The restaurant at the end of the universe
4. With my grandma, eating a cheese sandwich and tomato soup and watching Green Acres

And now, four people to pass this chain tag thing on to:

1. Alan
2. Apple of My Eye
3. rb
4. A.C.

Well, that was fun!

Don't Let the Sound of Your Own Wheels Make You Crazy

2006-02-02T19:50:00.000-08:00

Lately it seems like I've had myself in a death grip. My expectations for how I should be and what I should do would work fine if I were, say, for instance, perfect. Unfortunately, the experiment doesn't work with flawed data. Or rather, fortunately, I've realized that it's the experiment I didn't realize I was running that's flawed. Gotta shake it off, turn over a new leaf, sing a new song...

We Can't Build Our Dreams on Suspicious Minds

2006-02-01T18:02:00.000-08:00

Today I ordered a beverage that I never, ever, ever, EVER thought I'd be "the kind of person" to order: an iced chai soy latte. But I was thirsty, and hot from walking around, and my 14-year-old recently introduced me to chai, and I've stopped drinking regular milk 'cause of the poor mistreated cows.

I just read a Yahoo headline that said, "Police apologize to Sheehan, drop charges." Oh, we're caught in a trap. I can't walk out.

I haven't felt well for weeks. Mind, body, it's all the same. Sometimes, when you haven't felt well for a long time, you start to wonder if you'll ever feel good again. I'm beginning to have my doubts...

Civilization in Ruins

2006-01-28T20:56:00.000-08:00

Tonight 11-year-old M. compared the social dynamics of the fall of the "queen" of the popular kids in her grade to the death of Augustus Caesar and the subsequent murderous turmoil of the Roman Empire. When I was in school I perceived them simply as "mean girls in pink sweaters who don't like me."

There's a lot not to talk about, so let's get to it.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes divided by 12 or so

2006-01-25T06:22:00.000-08:00

After what seems like a lifetime, but was in fact a mere 28 days, the love spec tackler is ready to get back in the game...sort of...

I saw this poem on The Dust Congress. The fact that I had never heard of James Tate before made me realize that I need to study more modern poetry and let the Middle Ages take care of themselves for a while...

Goodtime Jesus
by James Tate

Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been
dreaming so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was
it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes
rolled back, skin falling off. But he wasn't afraid of that. It
was a beautiful day. How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind
if I do. Take a little ride on my donkey, I love that donkey.
Hell, I love everybody.

You'll Shoot Your Eye Out, Kid

2005-12-28T07:31:00.000-08:00

Well, another Christmas has passed, leaving in its wake a vaguely sick feeling and a load of new, wildly variant items to be reckoned with. Did I really need a ceramic napkin holder with sunflowers on it? What am I going to do with new holiday placemats? Will I ever eat or do anything at all with the fruitcake provided by a neighbor? (At least it wasn't sausage)...On the up side, I'm on page 186 of my new copy of The Beatles: The Biography by Bob Spitz, and I'm enjoying my new music: Let It Be...Naked, Best of the Beta Band, and a Radiohead CD Single import with a couple of songs on it I never heard before, as well as a copy of Uncut magazine which Santa left in my stocking.

The girls are walking around in socks with toes in them for some reason.

Spending so much time with my "family of origin" this holiday season brought up discussion of a world-famous recording of me when I was about 7 or 8 (thankfully, misplaced for the moment but still sharp in everyone's mind) saying, in a deep, deep, super deep Southern accent, "I got me a new gun for Christmas, and I'm gonna shoot you dead!" The debate is over whether my whiny redneck voice was an imitation of a cowboy or the actual voice I used all the time. I was pretty much the only one going for the former theory.

The winter holiday from school has cemented 14-year-old V.'s relationship with the computer and AIM. I had to hire a lawyer just to be able to make this post. M., who's 11, is immersed in Star Wars, having received two books, a model, and the Revenge of the Sith movie. Such a sad movie. We watched the second half of it last night along with an excellent Gamora (you know, the giant turtle monster) film. It's important that children be familiar with the significant icons of our culture.

V. has a Jewish friend who got stuff from Victoria's Secret for Hanukkah.

And now the New Year looms. What resolutions that I forget by February should I make this year? We'll probably do the usual: Take down the tree, watch The Wizard of Oz (though probably not in conjunction with Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, as M. keeps suggesting), and try to set our trees on fire with fireworks.

"For my part, I am so vexed, that I wish the black pudding fast to the tip of your nose."

2005-12-23T19:42:00.000-08:00

Today our next-door neighbors gave us a pound of freshly ground sausage for Christmas. It was very thoughtful. I think I must have a sign over my head that says, "My vegetarianism goes against the laws of nature. Please convert me back."

Isn't there an old folk tale about a guy whose nose grows sausages 'cause he's a bad guy or something? Hold that thought, let me consult Iona & Peter Opie's The Classic Fairy Tales--one of those books that makes you seem smart but which you actually had to buy for a class one time...hmmm...oh yes, it was a "black pudding" in this version. A man and his wife come upon three wishes via a fairy and waste them squabbling. There's a life lesson for you.

2005-12-22T19:44:00.000-08:00

Jumping in Puddles

Who would
throw herself
into the water?

Who would reach
swollen fingers,
sunburned arms
over the edge of her
pathetic life
boat

and cut the rope
that tethers her heart
to the anchor?

I’d do it.

I’d do it
for the sea.

Feed Me

2005-12-22T14:09:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I had a toasted peanut butter and peach preserves sandwich for lunch. At dinnertime, my family enjoyed the bacon. The sausage's days are also numbered, though I had argued for setting it free to roam the suburbs like other sausages do.

I've eaten 5,000,000,000 pieces of candy, cookies, or other sweets today.

We eat and eat and eat and are still empty, much like No Face in Miyazaki's Spirited Away.

I sounded sophisticated for a minute there.

Only two more shopping days till "Holiday," as they called it last week on Saturday Night Live. Oh, that reminds me, visit my radio show blog, alphabetrock.blogspot.com for some truly singular holiday music and related items.

The Buddha Died From Eating Bad Meat

2005-12-21T06:13:00.000-08:00

I had toast with peach preserves for breakfast this morning.

We must be the change we seek in the world.

But no way in hell am I eating the pig. Guess I'm just not enlightened enough.

When I was a kid I had a dog named Peaches. I remember the Christmas we got her, when we woke up and ran out and there she was, a wiggly, adorable, peach-colored ball of fur.

Right now my dogs Buster and Olga are sleeping next to me while I type. I love my dogs. Here's a photo, about a year ago when Buster was still a baby:

This message brought to you by Peachy Keen! PR, a subsidiary of the U.S. Peach Growers Association of America the Beautiful, God shed his grace on thee.

P.S.--Is it wrong to watch Tony Blair on BBC World News and think longingly, "Why couldn't we have one like that, with verbal and thinking skills?" You know, a person whose intelligence shows in his face, as opposed to a person whose face shows in his face.

Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart

2005-12-19T17:28:00.000-08:00

Okay, so what's the best possible gift you could give a daughter who has spent the last quarter of a year devoting herself to your care after life-threatening heart surgery? What physically manifested token of your appreciation for her time, her sacrifice, her thousand little kindnesses and several large ones, could you offer this holiday season? What would be the perfect gift for your beloved progeny, the one who's a vegetarian and once got so sick on peach cobbler that she hasn't had peach-flavored anything for nearly 25 years?

How about a gift pack from a famous local restaurant of a pound of bacon, two pounds of sausage, and a quart of peach preserves.

Those who know me the absolute best, when describing my most egregious flaws, might say I'm self-centered and occasionally oblivious to the wants and needs of others.

But hey. It's genetics. What's a girl to do? Guess it's time for a BLT.

This message brought to you by the United Meat Slaughterers Council of America.

(I still love my dad though.)

Just Tooling Around

2005-12-17T17:49:00.000-08:00

I just now used a pair of vise grips to open a bottle of amaretto. There was a desperate quality to the twisting that can only be attributed to Jesus's birth.

Work's been crazy lately. Life's been crazy. Even my normal wackiness has taken on an extra sheen o' nut. But things will calm down once our lord is born.

Except then there's Hanukkah and Kwanzaa and the baby new year and whatnot.

I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

The bon vivant of the world have energy for the important things, like opening bottles of amaretto. I bet they don't need vise grips...vice grips...oh well, bottoms up! Now where are those pliers, I need a smoke...

The Doctor Is Real In

2005-12-09T17:57:00.000-08:00

My Five Favorite Parts of "A Charlie Brown Christmas"

1. When Lucy decribes "pantophobia" as the fear of everything and Charlie Brown exclaims "That's it!"
2. When everybody dances. (During commercials we do as many different dances as possible before it comes back on.)
3. When Snoopy imitates Lucy and then licks her and she freaks out and Snoopy goes "Blehhhh."
4. When everybody stands around the newly commercialized little tree and their mouths form perfect o's as they sing "ooooh."
5. That groovy Christmas tree lot! I wish I had a pink aluminum tree! Those sure were the good old days, when people understood the true meaning of Christmas.

A Walk Down Memory Lane

2005-12-08T19:27:00.000-08:00

Imagine you're 13 years old. You're really into pop music. And all your life, as far back as you can remember, you've had just one favorite band. The greatest band, the greatest music in the world. The only albums you own are albums by your favorite band. At this point in your life, it's pretty much the only music you listen to besides the radio. And you have a favorite member in the band, too. He creates and sings the best music in the world. The fact that the band broke up when you were a preschooler doesn't really matter. The music has momentum. It lives in the here and now.

Today you are alternating fooling around with your hand-me-down stereo equipment and sitting on your bed listening to the radio. At the moment you are in between the two activities, standing in the middle of your room. The DJ on the radio says something you don't understand at first, then the nonsensical words take form in your head. Your favorite singer, from your favorite band, was murdered last night. You just can't believe it. It doesn't make sense. You are dumbfounded. Thirteen years of living, breathing, and loving a music whose creator is suddenly gone...You sit down on your bed and cry.

You are me, it's 25 years ago, and John Lennon is dead.

Will Life Ever Be the Same Again?

2005-12-07T17:32:00.000-08:00

Okay, so here's what happened...a coworker told me that during a casual conversation about something else, the director of technology and director of web services where I work referred to me by my previous blog name. That immediately alerted me to the fact that 1) I blog too much at work; 2) tech people know that I blog too much at work; and 3) the tech people at my place of employment have been reading my blog. Now, this really puts a damper on things. I mean, I don't mind not blogging at work, but I do mind my nearly innermost random thoughts, poetry, and the like becoming fodder for geekier-than-thou talk breaks at the water cooler between spyware meetings. So here we are, at yelhsacrow's love spec k tackler. Same mission, same friendly service since April 2005.

And just in case you forgot: