A Proud but Forgotten People

A vision came upon a Paiute prophet:
Immerse all the Nations in a Ghost Dance.
To do so will bring back the ancestor’s cachet;
And amid the sacred hills the buffalo will again prance.

Dreams harbored by deluded and tired old men,
For haven’t you heard a fortnight ago they murdered Sitting Bull?
Snuffing out the Creator’s best time and time again;
More than mere flesh and blood those bastards stole.
                                                
Discard your dreams and dances of old
For the blue devils avenge old yellow hair’s demise.
They use the same shovels to bury the slaughtered as to dig for gold,
Never a moment’s respite from their malignant greed and vile lies.

In a bleak and forlorn corner of South Dakota
A monument stands at Wounded Knee site in commemoration.
The once proud and mighty Nation of Lakotah
Have been pushed into an abyss called Pine Ridge Reservation.

1973 Takeover and standoff (71 days) of Wounded Knee

Genocidal Results of the Failed American Indian Policies of the United States Government

MORTALITY:

• Lakotah men have a life expectancy of less than 44 years, lowest of any country in the World (excluding AIDS) including Haiti.
• Lakotah death rate is the highest in the United States.
• The Lakotah infant mortality rate is 300% more than the U.S. Average.
• One out of every four Lakotah children born are fostered or adopted out to non-Indian homes.
• Diseases such as tuberculosis, polio, etc. are present. Cancer is now at epidemic proportions!
• Teenage suicide rate is 150% higher than the U.S national average for this group.

DISEASE:

• The Tuberculosis rate on Lakotah reservations is approx. 800% higher than the U.S national average.
• Cervical cancer is 500% higher than the U.S national average.
• The rate of diabetes is 800% higher than the U.S national average.
• Federal Commodity Food Program provides high sugar foods that kill Native people through diabetes and heart disease.

POVERTY:

• Median income is approximately $2,600 to $3,500 per year.
• 97% of our Lakotah people live below the poverty line.
• Many families cannot afford heating oil, wood or propane and many residents use ovens to heat their homes.

UNEMPLOYMENT:

• Unemployment rates on our reservations are 80% or higher.
• Government funding for job creation is lost through cronyism and corruption.

HOUSING:

• Elderly die each winter from hypothermia (freezing).
• 1/3 of the homes lack basic clean water and sewage while 40% lack electricity.
• 60% of Reservation families have no telephone.
• 60% of housing is infected with potentially fatal black molds.
• There is an estimated average of 17 people living in each family home (many only have two to three rooms). Some homes, built for 6 to 8 people, have up to 30 people living in them.

DRUGS AND ALCOHOL:

• More than half the Reservation’s adults battle addiction and disease.
• Alcoholism affects 9 in 10 families.
• Two known meth-amphetamine labs allowed to continue operation. Why?

INCARCERATION:

• Indian children incarceration rate 40% higher than whites.
• In South Dakota, 21 percent of state prisoners are American Indians, yet they only make up 2% of the population.
• Indians have the second largest state prison incarceration rate in the nation.
• Most Indians live on federal reservations. Less than 2% of Indians live where the state has jurisdiction!

THREATENED CULTURE:

• Only 14% of the Lakotah population can speak the Lakotah language.
• The language is not being shared inter-generationally. Today, the average age of a fluent Lakotah speaker is 65 years.
• Our Lakotah language is an Endangered Language, on the verge of extinction.
• Our Lakotah language is not allowed to be taught in the U.S. Government schools. http://www.republicoflakotah.com/genocide/
 

Please take a moment and visit the website http://friendsofpineridgereservation.org

A Frame of Mind

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, ev’rywhere you go…” I hear old Bing croon in my head more and more as the big day approaches. A few years ago someone asked me how was my Christmas. Rather than promptly retorting with the expected great or wonderful, I paused and thought for a moment and then shrugged, “Okay, I guess. I find as I grow older memories of Christmases past give me more pleasure.” Being an old soul he nodded and I could see he understood.

As a child I believed in the two most sacred tenets of the holiday: Baby Jesus and Santa Claus. Both icons personified goodness, kindness, and generosity, along with possessing the superpowers to fulfill every child’s wish. Possibly within the whimsical meanderings of a youngster’s developing psyche they are somehow one and the same. Understandable, for many homes displayed the hallowed crèche underneath a Christmas tree adorned with ornaments decorated with the more commercial symbols of the season.

After my children had grown I could no longer vicariously anticipate Santa’s late night visit and the following morning’s site of an astonishing array of gifts wondrously displayed under the tree. Like many parents I possess a myriad of photographs of moments frozen in time of the expressions of awe and delight on the faces of my children as they excitedly unwrapped gift after gift. To think of all that exhausting preparation and toil spent in a few frenzied moments.

Now I find myself enjoying the simpler aspects of the season. Christmas trees and festive lights top my list of seasonal trappings. Simple and tasteful, mind you, not the carnival trappings some choose to bombard their homes with. A little evergreen embellished with a few twinkling lights can kindle a little Christmas cheer. Even Christmas cookies painstakingly decorated are a source of pleasure both to look at and to eat. Viewing old Christmas movies can also bring back that old holiday spirit. And until I have the pleasure of my own grandchildren (?) the excitement and anticipation within the eyes of other’s children does bring back some of that old holiday zeal. As for the real meaning of Christmas, well, I certainly can’t say, but a quote from my dad’s favorite holiday movie, Miracle on 34^th Street (1947 version), does make me ponder: “Oh, Christmas just isn’t a day, it’s a frame of mind.”

Keith Richards for President

Keith Richards was awarded the prestigious Norman Mailer Prize for Distinguished Biography 2011, for his autobiography, Life. This honor puts him in the same club as such esteemed Nobel laureates as Dr. Elie Wiesel, 1986 Nobel Peace Prize; Toni Morrison, 1993 Nobel Prize in Literature; and Orhan Pamuk, 2006 Nobel Prize in Literature, all awarded likewise with a Mailer prize. I don’t think Sir Mick will be able to top this one.

I have fervently followed the Stones for decades. While the erotic aerobics of Mick Jagger kept many mesmerized, I was always held spellbound by Keith Richards. I mean, c’mon, Keith Richards comprises the heart of the band (Brian Jones was its soul), pumping out dynamic riffs that have energized audiences past and present. Keith Richards embodies rock n roll like no other ever has or ever will.  

Maturity, or perhaps the awareness of the odds he has beaten to still be among the living, has mellowed his once infamous lifestyle. Watching interviews given over the last few years one can appreciate the intelligence that flashes, usually though humor, which he possesses. What makes him more intriguing as he ages is his appearance; if one saw him on the street and did not recognize him they might mistake him for a homeless schizophrenic, mumbling senseless prattle. But to those of us who know of him his eccentricities colorfully manifest his creative genius. 

He did not actually write his autobiography, he fully acknowledges that and gives well deserved credit to author James Fox. However he provided the material, the stories, and the insight which reveal the life and times of one of the founders of the greatest rock and roll band on earth. Long live Keith Richards, or as my daughter’s tee shirt proclaims, “Keith Richards for President", or in my book, king, pope, emperor, or anything else he chooses to be.

                                                                                  

While My Guitar Gently Weeps

I'm So Tired,  I'm Only Sleeping,  It Won't Be Long,  Good Night.

Imagine,  Across the Universe,  There's a Place:  Strawberry Fields Forever.

Here There and Everywhere,  Free as a Bird.  Do You Want To Know A Secret?

All You Need is Love

Jo's Diamonds

The newest addition to the complex,
 The Diamond Jo National River Ctr

I spent Sunday afternoon with a fellow history buff roaming through the National Mississippi River Museum and Aquarium. After all was said and done it cost a mere fifty four million to transform the modest original museum into a sprawling urbane complex located in the Port of Dubuque. The museum boasts aquariums (both fresh and salt water) replete with sea life from both north and south waters along with various live critters that inhabit the area. Part of the new edition consists of a state of the art 3D/4D theatre, concession stand included, which vends popcorn and overpriced jujus. I do understand that the times, they are a changin’, but I miss the old setup.

The Woodward Riverboat Museum
(before National River Museum)

Housed in the old Iowa Iron Works (later renamed Dubuque Boat and Boiler Works) the Woodward Riverboat Museum, in my mind, comprises the heart of the museum. But alas, this has undergone changes over the last decade. Gone is the collection of diverse artifacts that were painstakingly compiled over many years by Richard Herrmann, who initially displayed his treasure trove in the Museum of Natural History which was housed in his private residence on Central (Clay) Avenue. At one time the eccentric gentleman scholar displayed the remains of both Julian Dubuque and the Mesquakie chief, Peosta in his home. In 1897 he was the driving force behind the funding and construction of a permanent resting place for both city fathers.

The crude lead mine that was constructed to instruct and to allow the pseudo exploration of a genuine mine of Spain has been transformed into Huck Finn’s Cave. I guess the powers that be are going to use the Mark Twain angle to their full advantage. The stunning painting entitled Early Settlers by Bertrand Adams, a Webster City, Iowa native and artist commissioned by the WPA, still presides over the premises, however the collection of paintings done by local artists has been relocated elsewhere. The old building has retained the River of Dreams Theatre which features a 15 minute film spanning the impact of the River on the area narrated by Garrison Keillor which along with the log roll enhanced by mirrors entertained my children years ago. The authentic native garb and artifacts have been relocated to the museums newest acquisition, the old Diamond Jo Casino portside, now renamed the Diamond Jo National River Center.

The Woodward Riverboat Museum houses a fantastic display of historical artifacts, displays, and information regarding boat building and their uses. Joseph “Diamond Jo” Reynolds, entrepreneur and steamboat owner, relocated his offices from Fulton, Illinois to Dubuque in 1874. Mr. Reynolds portrait can be viewed in the museum’s National River’s Hall of Fame. The Sprague, aka Big Mama of the Mississippi, was built on the premises in 1901. This vessel set a world record for towing 60 barges of coal, a world-wide record that still stands today. A scaled down replica of the vessel is on display as well as various smaller authentic (and not so authentic) river crafts of various periods.

Before the National River Museum came to be, you entered the building via humble wooden plank stairs. Now it is connected to the new building and you just glide right in from inside. The first thing my eyes instinctively search for is the counter my dad use to sit behind. The counter of course is no longer there. After his retirement from the paint business my dad found a home down at the museum, greeting visitors, spewing information on local history, and guiding elementary school kids through the exhibits, regaling them with his fun grandpaesque antics. Back then when I would take my kids to the museum they were going to “Grandpa’s Museum.” My dad, now 87, still works there, regaling and informing countless visitors from all over the planet. That man belongs in the National River’s Hall of Fame.

After our sojourn to the museum we walked across the parking lot to the Diamond Jo Casino for a beer. For shame, Dubuque, don’t you have better things to build and tout down at the historic port? Yes, I know, important revenue, but at what cost and where does all the money really go? But that’s another blog.

1302

Whenever I drive past Allison Henderson Park I glance down the street to catch a glimpse of my childhood home.  The rambling structure, painted a pale yellow, beckons me at times to pay homage. So I turn right and enter the Twilight Zone.

The houses on the block stand in silent sentry, the street devoid of the motley crew of my era.  No matter what season or time of day I have yet to spot anyone. Is this a ghost neighborhood perhaps; existing only in the muddled recesses of my mind? If I park my car in the driveway and walk along the winding narrow walk, past the white lilac bush to the left and the bridal’s wreath to the right, around to the front yard and enter the porch will everything come to life? Perhaps someone will pop out from under the front porch, a dark snug place with blankets spread over the hard dirt floor, and scare the living daylights out of me.

My father lived in this house as a child; family lore has it that he was born in the front bedroom (the very room my sister and I shared). However that could not be for the house was built in 1925, a year after my father’s birth. My parents acquired the home from my dad’s mother, my beloved Nana, in 1960 and settled their thriving brood within its familial walls. Sitting regally on a corner lot the property served as the hub for the neighborhood kids. And keep in mind this was back in the day when families bore more than today’s statistical 2.5; needless to say, for half a century 1302 with its spacious back yard played host to many a hyped up on kool-aid, Wonder bread and graham crackers kid.

Besides the cramped quarters under the front porch we kids held the greenroom as our domain. The room, aptly named for the color of it roughhewn stone walls, was situated under the upper and lower back porches which were added to the house after WWII. Entry into this secluded chamber consisted of an outside door which could be padlocked from the inside. I recall countless initiations into secret clubs that transpired in this hallowed room (and according to unnamed sibs who know who they are, sexual initiations too). As we grew older the musty room hosted adolescent beer parties, pot soirées, and a few hallucinogenic trips. Yes, I know who you are.

Fortunately my father owned a paint and wallpaper business fore this allowed him to inexpensively restore the magnificent oak wood floors and sundry woodwork. After this extensive task was completed he went to work rewallpapering the kitchen, dining, and living rooms on the first floor and then onto the four bedrooms and one bathroom (yes, one bathroom for seven people in those days). When I moved in at the tender age of four my sister and I were awarded the master front bedroom which was papered in a flowery pattern accented with lace curtains, reminiscent of the forties. By the times the 60’s came to an end the walls had been papered with a bold red, white and blue psychedelic flower pattern and the beautiful oak floor covered with a red shag carpet. A few years later (after my sister left for college) my dad let me pick out an exquisite red and white toile wallpaper depicting scenes of gentile French aristocrats lolling about. Pretty impressive taste for a young girl I must say.

As my father labored to enhance the inside my mother’s artistic expression decorated the outside. Two rock bordered gardens enhanced with colorful explosions of petunias, pansies, marigolds, impatiens and zinnias lined the front walk. Various floras nestled against the front of the house along with a thriving wild rose bush (which was taken out late one night after Mr. Donovan up the street neglected to properly brake the laundry truck he used after hours). The shady side of the house was edged with fragrant lily of the valley. Continue on down the steps past the notorious greenroom and you were greeted by a vibrant display of tiger lilies (whose leaves Pammy Wiederhold ate for salad during a session of playing house, consequently spending the night violently throwing up). And last but not least were the regal lilac bushes which bordered the backyard, providing a buffer from the bustle of the alley. They were a lavender hue except for the aforementioned white lilac, the queen of the yard, which stood in the center of the lawn. And with this queen there lived a king, one mighty gigantic cotton wood tree which snowed cotton throughout the neighborhood every summer, causing angst among neighboring householders. But any complaints regarding the gifts of his majesty fell on deaf ears for this tree was too noble to be cut down, end of discussion.

On the south corner of the property grew a strange looking tree, twisting limbs and strange flowers whose sweet liquor was sucked out by youngsters and humming birds alike. The tree’s anatomy presented the perfect perch for a tree house. Up the trunk boards were nailed to gain access to the wood floor constructed by the boys (pre-women’s lib). To the right and across the driveway grew a mulberry tree, mecca to the birds and a few children who never bothered to wash the bird droppings off the tart berries; wiping them off on one’s clothing proved good enough to the chagrin of many a harried mother. And last but certainly not least, nestled close to this food source, stood an ancient fir tree, fun to climb if one overlooked the fine splinters that shed off its bark. I swear this tree was brilliantly lit up at Christmas time when my grandmother still lived there; a memory or a dream, I’m not sure.

In 1978 my parents decided to sell and move to a smaller abode fore they were getting older, the kids were gone, and the house and its environs were understandably just too much work. Gone forever were the backyard parties, the festive holiday gatherings, and the commotion of many excitable kids. It was sold to another family, not related, and forever lost to the clan. They resided there briefly; maybe too much area to keep up. They sold it to a childless couple who, heaven forbid, gutted much of the inside and recreated it into something entirely different. One wonderful detail they added, however was bestowing upon the dwelling 2.5 bathrooms, a little tidbit of information I discovered online.

Mulberry tree in forefront, fir tree no longer there. Cotton wood trunk in back

Author's Note:  I did check with my dad regarding the house; he was indeed born in the front bedroom in 1924 for the house was built in 1922.  End of discussion.                

Winter Wonderland or Nightmare?

I was brusquely awakened out of a deep sleep Wednesday morning by a rapid shelling sound at my windows. My neighbors aren’t my favorite people and they know it, but certainly they would not resort to a barrage of gunfire….or would they?  It took a few moments to fully awaken and realize that the onslaught was caused by a blitz of icy snow pellets pelting against my window panes.

Living in Iowa has instilled in me a childlike awe for the season’s first snowfall. I bolted out of bed in a fury of excitement and pulled the curtain aside to gaze in breathtaking wonder at the splendid shower of snow and ice tumbling from the sky. Never mind that the gush was more sleet than snow, rather it was the crystals of memories that were evoked that mattered most. Sleigh bells were not part of my childhood but I could almost hear the jingle of chains wrapped around tires which mimicked the rhythm of bell adorned horses. I find myself ruminating over the sound of shovels scrapping against pavement rather than today’s annoying drone of snow blowers. And I can never forget the fever of excitement that would spread among the neighborhood children as we hurriedly clad ourselves in our winter gear, racing to be the first ones to soar down Allison Henderson hill.

Fearful sight outside my window

But alas, I am not a child anymore. As I gaze out at the accumulating snow I find myself scrutinizing the street from my window and bemoaning that I do not see any evidence of salt trucks. The street in front of my house looks slick and that dispels all perception of a child’s first snow day. Anxiety abruptly replaces excitement as I ponder the snow spewing from the sky. Visions of fear filled trips across town dance in my head. You see, I will be leaving for work in a few short hours and as all us two wheel drivers know, snow can be hell. And to add injury to insult I live amidst hills and bluffs, making any trip more terrifying than any amusement park ride on earth. Likewise the thought of digging my car out of a plow produced snow drift and intensely scraping ice off my windshield while my extremities  are numbed to the point of frostbite certainly does not prompt thoughts of living in a winter wonderland either. I wish I could afford the luxary of crawling back into bed; only to emerge when the lilacs are in full bloom.

My Mississippi Choctaw Man: A Villanelle Poem

I see my love within the land,
Red earth splayed amidst a dusty prairie storm,
In a place where native ghosts stage an eternal stand.
 
Mountains and forests meet dunes of sand,
Imbued with colors the Creator has chosen to form.
I see my love within the land.

Empty fortresses with bastions unmanned
Stand broken and abandoned, nary a drill to perform,
In a place where native ghosts stage an eternal stand.

The moon and the stars, so close at hand,
Beckon the landscape to profoundly transform.
I see my love within the land.
 
Iridescent blue skies where eagles meet and band
Above emerald forests where deer and elk swarm,
In a place where native ghosts stage an eternal stand.

My Mississippi Oklahoma Choctaw man
Although uprooted will never conform.
I see my love within the land,
In a place where native ghosts stage an eternal stand.

Fencing Foo Fighter Style

Now how special was that, Westboro Baptist Church. Take a few moments out of your busy schedule of hate mongering to reflect upon the fact that many diehard fans will shell out their hard earned cash to boogie to the band; whereas you, peddlers of madness, were presented with an exclusive performance by the band. They graciously took the trouble to come to you via a flatbed truck. Lordy, lordy, that’s front row seats and a backstage pass all rolled into one.  I bet y’all thought you died and went to heaven.

On a more serious note the Westboro Baptist Church boasts 46,536 pickets to date. The congregation founded in 1955 fallaciously believes God sanctions their gospel of hate. I refuse to type the name of the group’s website or even mention their “sister sites” for fear I will taint my precious laptop with their callous brand of evil. Suffice to say their creed smacks more of Adolph Hitler than Jesus of Nazareth.

Undoubtedly they revel in the profuse attention from the press which their hijinks have mustered; their fifteen minutes in an otherwise pathetic existence. What I find most disturbing are photos of small children standing alongside their parents as they parade whatever crackpot cause of their day (where are social services when you need them?). Not surprisingly this flock of fools is comprised mainly of the pastor’s large family (do I detect inbreeding here)? It all might be a tad bit amusing if it wasn’t for the fact that these idiots will park their carcasses in front of churches to protest during funerals. I will say no more (I am struggling to keep this blog obscenity free in case my dad reads it).

In my opinion-- if there is a God in her heaven--created the Foo Fighters who in turn came up with such an entertaining counter ploy;  touché.  May they sell many many more cd’s.

Cookies and A Moment in Time

Although technically not yet autumn I cannot help but be seduced by the early signs creeping in as summer throws us a last blast. I get all happy pants envisioning leaves swirling madly in the streets whilst mini super heroes, along with a few ghosts and goblins, go door to door scoring sugar laden treats. Although I am no longer a trickster but rather a treater I am nonetheless able to partake of the festivities in a grownup sort of way.

Cookies are a fundamental accessory of any celebration, be it traditional or personal (today is Monday, derived from Moonday; I am a Moonchild therefore I will make cookies in honor of this -- so my reasoning goes). Cookies come in endless varieties, shapes, sizes, and flavors so it’s not difficult to find one to custom fit any occasion (can you believe Funeral Cookies?).  I choose to forego any kind that requires chilling, rolling, cutting, or God forbid, spritzing, and opt for drop - the quicker the end product reaches my maw, the better. And if it’s dropped, well most likely it will bake out at a round sort of shape.  For size, I choose mouth size; as in my mouth size. That leaves me with flavor-- a no brainer for me: chocolate, chocolate chip, or chocolate fudge. But I choose to be creative with my chocolate today, for accompanying my chocolate will be cranberries, oats and cinnamon.

Ghostly-licious
(I know it looks like a snowman and
snow but its not)

Standing at my kitchen counter, scooping the hot fragrant delectable morsels off the cookie sheet, I momentarily cease, for I see my mom (in my mind’s eye) standing at her kitchen counter enacting the same ritual. I am momentarily struck with both warm nostalgia and crushing heartache. Memories flood back. My mother had a love –hate relationship with cooking/baking. Most likely she hated to cook when expected to but conversely loved the task when she could labor leisurely and creatively.  Countless hours she chose to bake cookies, sweet breads, and mountains of muffins. She maintained her own repertoire of classics recipes; however she wasn’t averse to striking out on a culinary limb. Imbued with her love of creating through cookery I carry on the tradition. And as I sample the finished product I know somewhere, somehow, she is proud of me.

Rockin' Pneumonia and Boogey Woogey Flu

Soft early autumn breezes waft through my open windows caressing my fevered brow while the sound of skateboards striking the pavement amidst shouts of merriment pierces my achy ear canals. The high content of pollen in the air ignites spasms of sneezing accompanied by a great migration of mucous running down my nasal passages while a piece of sandpaper persistently scrapes the delicate tissues of my throat. All to the rhythm of the bass drum pounding nonstop in my head.  I am sick and the happy-go-lucky world taunts me.

My daughter Samantha is accompanying me on this tortuous journey for she too is “under the weather.” We are strong women and will withstand this assault on our persons with dignity – if dignity can be equated with viewing FRED, a YouTube spin-off on Nickelodeon TV. When Charles Babbage envisioned the wondrous role computers would play in the future; well, I don’t think this is quite what he had in mind. What would he have thought if he could have plugged into the spectacle of Tosh.0?  Oh well, Samantha’s bladder won’t permit  her to sit still forever; eventually  she will be forced to remove herself and when she does I will seize the moment and grab the remote control, enabling me to become the supreme ruler of channel surfing. For a while anyway.

Fifteen Saints for Girls

Back in the day Dubuque could boast of a predominantly Catholic population, apropos for a region whose first glimpse was through the eyes of a two missionaries, one a Franciscan and the other a Jesuit, meandering down the Mississippi in 1673. I wonder if they had any idea of the havoc their religion would wreak on the lives of many a young child.

Fast forward to 1964. The Catholic Church has yet to emerge from the Second Vatican Council. A good thing if you were a student at Nativity School because the longer it took, the more candy bars involved.  You see, every time Bishop Biscuit (actually Biskup but I was just a kid ) arrived back from his important business in Rome he would treat the entire school to Salted Nut Rolls. I kid you not.

Around this time I was delegated the most sacred of tasks--figuring out my Confirmation handle. In 1964 this meant using venerable saints names only. Now, mind you, you can use derivatives of names, or better yet, a non-Christian name if it has significant meaning for a candidate. Maybe its a good thing this wasn't allowed back then; I can imagine Sister Mary Teresita's reaction to  "Ringo".  I don't think that one would have gone over too good.

Saint Rose of Lima
Virgin   

Fortunately for me my sister Dawn maintained an astonishing array of Catholic paraphernalia. Rosaries, holy cards, statues; you name it she either owned it or had connections to procure it. What better source than "Fifteen Saints for Girls" to find a suitable saint to back me up in my hour of need. The saint's  name I chose to add to my given and baptismal names: Saint Rose of Lima (Lima as in Peru, not lima as in bean). Never mind that her given name was Isabel (aka Rose after a servant claimed to have seen her face morph into a rose). Her claim to celestial fame: extreme fasting and self-mutilating behaviors. She purportedly disfigured herself with lye due to her highly regarded beauty; also other acts which I will not go into for reasons you may surmise. Were we actually taught to look to these saints of yore as, God forbid, role models?  What the hell were they thinking? What the hell was anyone thinking?

I left behind the trappings of Catholicism long, long ago. But every now and then I get a flash from the past or a jeer from the here (whenever I go down Central Avenue past Planned Parenthood) My kids have been brought up differently and have fared well even though they missed out on all that pope-inspired hocus- pocus mumbo-jumbo of my childhood. Amen

I Adore Being a . . . Boy

"There are no ugly women, only lazy ones"  
   Helena Rubinstein  

I wonder how much I have personally contributed to Ms. Rubinstein and other sundry cosmetic empires. Times that by as many females who have ever donned lipstick; that amount alone would be enough to knock your stockings off. And then there's the hair, the clothes, waxing, dental work, nails, Jenny Craig bill, and on and on and on. But its about so much more than just the money, honey. Factor in peer pressure, competition (cause us girls are always competing), cramps, airbrushing, ridiculously thin Asian models, and aging; well, all I can say is Christ it ain't easy. So I've come up with a solution to give us girls a break. It's high time the males of the species take on the rag of being female. That's right, guys, stand up straight and suck that beer gut in cause we're havin' some fun now.

Number one on the list: hair. Remember boys, "hair is the richest ornament of . . . men!" For now on your slogan will be "Rogaine rocks." Just think of all the quality time you can spend with your guys at the corner hair salon having weaves and, better yet, extensions applied. And even though your do may look like a work of art when you leave the shop, get ready to rise and shine extra early every morning to wash, blow dry, straighten, and saturate it with expensive products, ad infinitum.  And don't worry about those chewed to the cuticle nicotine stained nails because we have a solution for that too. Sculptured, acrylic, and gel, along with cuticle care and nail fungus are all new terms you can add to your growing vocabularies. Which brings us to waxing. This will surely separate the men from the boys. Since you guys will be having this done in droves research has been conducted and it seems it's  as painful for men as it is for women. But don't worry, now that it's almost exclusively a man thing most likely anesthetics will be involved (and perhaps a short leave of absence from the workplace). Hell, lets go all out and have it covered by major medical.

Oh the years of trial and error you'll go through as you make your way through the maze of cosmetics. Just think of the fun you'll have spending countless hours in the bathroom. If you choose you can purchase your very own little vanity, a piece of furniture resembling a desk that comes with a mirror attached along with a cute little cushioned seat. If you are really serious regarding this endeavor you can have a mirror bordered with lights just like the lovely ladies of the theatre. The striking dramatic poses you can practice along with your very own make-up techniques will serve you well as you go through life. 

Shopping for clothes, or in terms of the fashion conscious, haute courture, will become a major endeavor in your life. Trust me, you will spend countless hours within the confines of a miniscule dressing room frantically trying on garment after garment. Don't despair when you hear rumors regarding those with weaker staminas who have been pushed into clinical depression due to mistaken expectations. Just remember, we all can't be a size two. I know this is a difficult fact to accept, but oh my gosh guys, on this you'll just have to take one for the Gipper.

Remember the days of old when all of your shoes felt good on your feet? Well guys, that's definitely a thing of the past. You may hold on to your well worn slippers, your comfortable sandals, and your over priced sneakers, but boys when it comes to dressing up that means HEELS. And unfortunately, in this era, that means five inch stilettos. Remember, fellas, no pain, no gain.

And now I need to touch on something rather personal. Tinea cruris, the serious term for jock itch (also referred to as crotch itch, crotch rot, and ringworm of the groin) will no longer be spoken of only in gyms and doctor's offices. Now you will be able to view embarrassing TV commercials during primetime regarding masculine hygiene products as you sit in the privacy of your living room with members of the opposite sex. These moments will allow for you to practice your skills at being demure. Whatever you do, never show any signs that you consider these particular commercials condescending and as nothing more than joke material for the immature rather than as important information for you to digest.

Whew, that was a tough one! Now I will come to the most important lesson in modern masculinity -- your weight. I know before this switch of gender traits occurred, boys and men were allowed to consume an amazing amount of calories per meal/snack. That my friend, is herstory. Say a tearful goodbye to triple Whoppers, pizza gorging, and mom's apple pie. But don't despair, there are plenty of yummy low-cal snacks on the market for you to ingest. Rice cakes do come in diverse flavors and the aftertaste of low-cal shakes can easily be dispersed by a tic tac which contains only 2 calories and 0 grams of fat per serving size. I know how difficult and painful taming the powerful appetite can be, but always keep in mind what the Duchess of Windsor said concerning the fairer sex; one can never be too thin . . . 

Holidays as you know them are now gone; kaput. No longer will you be the customer but instead the waitstaff. You will start your Christmas shopping the day after the holiday. Let me tell you, there's nothing more gratifying than snatching up a bargain amidst a crowd of likewise exhausted and frenzied shoppers. The juggling acts you will perform on the day of these familial get togethers will absolutely put the pros to shame. Turkey, ham, glistening marshmallow sweet potato casserole, tons of stuffing, great heaps of mashed potatoes, pots of gravy, three different kinds of vegetables, your grandmother's cranberry sauce, and a variety of homemade pies will all be ready to be dished out piping hot at the designated time. And after these cherished repasts you will spend the next two days cleaning up (three days if your scheduled to work the day after the holiday). Oh joy to the world.

Well I could continue on regarding this discourse on the joys of manhood. However, since gender traits and roles have been switched I find (alas, I am single) I need to run to the store for beer (the real stuff, not that lite crap). But no problem, even though I have major bedhead and my teeshirt is wrinkled (another son of a bitchin' problem due to no man in my life) I don't care!

 

                                                                      

Note: While nearing the completion of this blog my daughter and her friend came in and showed me their most recent purchase: a bottle of glitter pink nail polish. I oohed and awed over it and came to realize that, well, I guess at times I do enjoy being a . . . girl

Forgive Me, Mr. Clemens

View from the Fourth Street Elevator
Dubuque, IA

Every now and then the thought that I live on the Mississippi River jolts me. Its hard to believe that I can simply forget this fact. I would think data such as this would warrant first place status within my consciousness. I go weeks without a glimpse of the river. Never mind that I live on one of the highest points in the city; I can see the bluffs on the Illinois side from my living room windows, but due to the terrain and houses in the way I am prevented from glimpsing the river. Fortune smiles on me for whenever I choose I can indulge myself by walking a few blocks to the pinnacle of the Fourth Street Elevator and drink in the view.

Looking over at Wisconsin, Eagle Point Park

When I really want to treat myself I drive the few miles across town to Eagle Point Park. This parcel of Nirvana, nestled atop the northern bluffs of the city, offers panoramic views of the river as it snakes its way between Iowa, Wisconsin, and Illinois. Not only am I awed by this buena vista but I can ogle visitors, some who have obviously  travelled thousand of miles, reflect on the mighty Mississippi. For us walkers the park can be accessed any time of year offering us the grandeur of all seasons

For now I will content myself with views via cyberspace. Shame on me.

                                                   

Let Them Eat Chocolate Cake

 

I broke the silence of the house yesterday by simply stating that I intended to make a chocolate cake. "No, no, no, you can't do that," my daughter Samantha bellowed, a look of sheer terror on her face. "If you do that I'll just eat it!" Damn, you would think a more appropriate response to this proposition would be more along the lines of, "Yah, yah, happy day, my mom's gonna make me some yummy chocolate cake." Oh, well, most of my waking life is spent in a fantasy world.

Mind you, this was not going to be your ordinary chocolate cake, but Black Magic chocolate cake. Those of us who pour over recipe books are familiar with the imaginative names bestowed on even the most basic culinary creations. Plain old Devil's Food Cake has been replaced with such evocative titles as Death By Chocolate Cake, Sinful Chocolate Cake, Chocolate Decadence Cake, and even Mafioso Chocolate Cake. On the other hand I found recipes entitled Chocolate Rapture Cake, Paradise Chocolate Cake, and Yum Yum Chocolate Cake. And if you want to really go all out,  coat the cake with caramel and fudge sauce and dump candy bits over it before frosting, and call it Better Than Sex Chocolate Cake (I would personally call this one Better Than Life Cake Cause You Will Surely Die If You Eat Too Much Chocolate Cake).  Needless to say, all these are chocolate cakes, give or take a few ingredients. 
As usual I ignored my daughter's outburst and went to work. The cake was completed and taste tested by the baker. . . . . again, and then again. As for my daughter and her friends, Alex and Amanda, well, lets just say that after their first few bites the cake was more friend than foe.  



Tribute to SRV



Stevie Ray Vaughan
1954 - 1990

Voodoo chile standing next to a mountain
Searing rifts flowing through his blood
A tempest brewing in Dallas
Portent of a Texas flood

Honing his craft in Austin
Cold hard steel covered in chrome
One helluva Texas bluesman
Good Lord it's time to get ready for the storm

The house is a rockin'
Whiskey gin and wine
Cocaine and Double Trouble
Caught in the crossfire for a brief time

Newly sober and in step
Onstage with big brother Jimmy Vaughan
Soul to soul with Buddy, Robert , Eric, and God
One more song and then he's gone

             
 

 

Mad about Madmen

Betty Draper Queen of the Kitchen

For those of you who live in a cave or live lives that don't revolve around television, Madmen is a series on the AMC channel entering it's fifth season. The plot revolves around the lives of the movers and shakers of Sterling Cooper, a fictitious ad agency located in Manhattan during the early sixties. Hence the title; advertising execsutives on Madison Avenue during this period referred to themselves thus so.Don Draper, starting as the creative director for the agency and later made a junior partner, encompasses all facets essential to succeed in this dazzling world. He is dashing, sexy, and strong-willed. However brewing just beneath his polished surface lies a web of secrets which are revealed to the viewer via flashbacks. His wife,(and later ex wife) Betty, resembles a young Grace Kelly. She met Don while working as a model in stylish 50's New York, abandoning her career in favor of a woman's true career of that period: wife and mother. Don provides the good life for her; a lovely home in the suburbs, a "girl" to help with the house and kids, a fabulous wardrobe, elegant nights out on the town with clients, and all the cigarettes she can smoke. Despite all this Betty suffers from a vague feeling of unfulfillment, a syndrome prevalent to housewives at that time, soon to be expressed by Betty Friedan in The Feminine Mystique.        

Don Draper King of Madison Avenue

What I enjoy most when watching this mesmerizing saga unfold are the bits and pieces that jolt my memories as a child growing up in the late 50's and early 60's. The fashions, hairdos, and manner of the characters are right on target if memory serves me right. I also get a kick out of the incessant smoking (I wonder if the actors all smoked prior to being hired for the series or if it was something they were required to pick up). It is downright ludicrous watching Betty's neighbor smoking and drinking while very obviously in her third trimester of pregnancy. Then there are the characters driving while well over the legal limit for alcohol and when involved in an accident given a mere slap on the wrist. And most disturbing (though strangely entertaining) are the the scenes of sexism that cleverly thread through every episodes. Common place are scenes involving secretaries that if occurring in today's workplace would scream sexual harassment; women as mere ornaments with nothing interesting or worthwhile on their minds; and women being anything other than secretaries or switchboard operators in an office, doing time until they can reel in a man. Also subtly brought to our attention are the nondescript roles of blacks in society a mere 50 years ago. For example, the young black man who runs the elevator at Sterling Cooper. When confined in this little box packed in like sardines, the high and mighty ad execs talk as if he is invisible. The few times he speaks to any of the characters, aside from saying, "Good morning sir," or "good evening sir," he is blatantly disregarded as a man to be taken seriously. Also we see the Draper's maid, Carla's (whom Betty continuously refers to as "the girl") opinions dismissed as if she were a  child speaking out of turn. Never in a million years would Betty recognize her as a grown woman with wisdom, worthwhile opinions, and a rich life of her own.

Check out out amctv.com (no, I do not work for them). Not only can you check out listings of previous episodes but you can explore the world of the Madmen and perhaps understand why I am mad about Madmen.

 

Neighbors

Neighbors, neighbors, neighbors
Have I got neighbors?
Have I got neighbors?
All day and all night.
Rolling Stones, Neighbors, Tattoo You

Neighborhoods of yesteryear embodied the heart of industrialized societies. People considered their neighbors more or less as extended family. Movies portrayed groups gathered after dinner, leisurely sitting on rocking chairs and porch swings, gossiping and viewing the parade of passersby. Heck, if you lived in Mayberry you were truly blessed; you could relax in the presence of Andy strumming on his guitar while Aunt Bea served homemade lemonade along with aromatic, just out of the oven cookies. 

Let’s fast forward to the twenty-first century. After a meal consisting of nuked gourmet cuisine or perhaps something resembling food grabbed via a fast food drive-thru window, Dad parks his butt in his lounge chair channel surfing the night away while mom works hard at her second job as a homemaker. Junior sits in his room playing his favorite video game while Sis does her interacting on Facebook. The front door stays securely locked, along with a state of the art security system. If someone unexpected knocks on the door you look through the peep hole before opening the door, or if technically savvy and willing to shell out the bucks you might keep a camera pointed at the door allowing you to inspect your visitor. This may all seem a bit cliché, but you get the picture.

With that verbiage of background behind me I will now get to the point of my communiqué – my freaking neighbors! For the sake of their anonymity I will refer to them as the Douches.  Don’t misunderstand me; for the most part they are hardworking, friendly, seemingly goodhearted people, however, they are annoying as hell. The foremost cause of my ill feelings toward them is due to our way too close proximity. Viewing my photos you can understand how I am unwillingly thrust into their mostly inane and at times embarrassingly private conversations. The first photo shows my cherished porch. This is where I spend a great amount of time relaxing and unwinding. Unfortunately the closeness of the Douches interupts many peaceful moments (note the railing of the stoop in the foreground). The second photo shows the view outside my bedroom window (taken from my bed.). On this stoop they sit, smoke, drink, and hash out every iota of their seemingly unimaginative lives to the nth degree.

Oh, and did I mention that they love their beer? So far they have not indulged in raucous parties on their premises but rather keep their brew to themselves.

At around 2:30 this morning, shortly after the karaoke debacle up te street began to die down, the inebriated Douches decided to grace their stoop and engage in some barely intelligible banter. Lucky me. I not only can hear them but I catch whiffs of their smokes and sour alcohol reek. Since I had retired for the night it was tantamount to having them in bed with me.

Trust me; their discussion was of no importance. What draws my attention and assaults my sensibilities rather are the actual sounds that their vocal cords emanate. Mrs. Douche delivers her repertoire of words like blasts of a machine gun, very staccato, violence to my ears, while Mr. Douche retorts like a bullfrog - single syllables being the only bits of sound bites he is able to deliver amidst her rapid nonstop delivery. After  what must have been more than one cigarette apiece they noisily entered their apartment, slamming their heavy wooden door as usual. Shortly after that particular “assault” I fell asleep.

Around six a.m.I am awakened by the pitter patter of rainfall punctuated by the rumbling of distant thunder. I luxuriate in this; being able to lie in my bed and be gently lulled back to sleep. This peaceful mood however quickly comes to an abrupt end by the revolting sound of Mr. Douche sitting on his stoop hacking up a luggie. 
 

Whispers

In my corner of the world the scorching days of July have been refined into golden August. Cicadas sing out nonstop all day; more noisily as the dusk falls earlier with each passing day. Their cousins, the fireflies are gone for the year, no longer enchanting us with their dusky glow.  Children wiggle their feet into stiff new shoes and strap on backpacks as they return to school, rendering my neighborhood silent. Stranger’s gardens tempt me with their red ripe tomatoes tumbling off vines and cucumbers unseen that have grown to startling lengths.

I eagerly await the hallmark of the season when the leaves of the mighty oaks, elms, and other deciduous varieties transform into spectacular displays of colors against sapphire skies. My eyes will delight in the medley of colors while my ears will be closed to the wind’s whispered warnings that these days will be gone in the blink of an eye and replaced with winter by Iowa.