I went to one of RZ's B-team football games this afternoon to watch her cheer. It was the fourth game of the season, yet the first time I've actually seen her all suited up as a Leader of Cheer.
Granted, I still have issues with my kid being a Leader of Cheer. Leader of Cheer is not a path I would have chosen for her, but I'm proud for her. If she starts talking about aspirations of being the Leader of The Leaders of Cheer--the team captain so to speak, I will have no alternative but to send her off to Military Art School!
But anyway, back to today's game...
Southerners love thier football. Be it Midget league, B-Team, Varsity, College or Pro, southern folk get into the game.
Now what they don't tend to love is the opposing team.
All of that "Golden Rule" shit goes out the door when the buzzer sounds and the game clock starts ticking down. "Love Thy Neighbor. Unless thy neighbor is a Florida Gators fan! If Thy Neighbor harbors goodwill to a Gator, then he is of the devil and deserves death by stone or at least a good smoting. Cast Ye the first stone, Ye of BullDawg Faith!"
You think I'm kidding. Seriously, southern hospitality gets checked at the gate.
Never has this been more evident than today.
I show up at the game around five o'clock. It's an away game, RZ's team are the Visitors.
I pay my couple of bucks and go into this nice stadium like field. "Swanky" I think to myself as I stroll by the fans cranked back in their Lazy-Boy Barco-Bleachers. I'm careful not to bump into the waitress delivering a Mai-Tai and a Cohiba Cigar to the lady up on row five. "Nice." I think, as I almost trip over the guy bent giving complimentary shoe shines. It was a party, and they were celebrating all things "Us".
Then I happened to glance across the field.
The Other Side.
Over There.
"Them".
"That's where I'll be spending the next 90 minutes." I say to myself, resigned to that fact.
The Other Side was a pit. A westward facing, sun glaring, 111 degree pit.
The mere task of getting over to The Other Side was daunting in itself. The hometeam made you remove your shoes and socks and take off your shirt and walk the broken glass filled "Path of Shame" while fifth and sixth grade hometeamers beat you about the face, neck and back with sticks of iron rebar.
Ugh what I go through for my kid.
Once I'm there at The Other Side things aren't any better. The Other Side bleachers are set in what is apparently the solid waste treatment facility for the school, hell for the county. There's this grayish muck everywhere and the area has a pukely sweet smell of fecal coliform bacteria. I said bleachers, but that is a bit of a misnomer. What they tried to pass off as bleachers, would make for a great cactus garden. I had a splinter pierce my shoe that would've rendered me a wheelchair-bound cripple had it not gone between my index toe and my bird toe. Oh and speaking of birds, there was a one-eyed buzzard perched on the fence that kept skeeving me out. It was almost as if he was winking at me with a "your next" mouthed across his beek. Too creepy!
And then there were the bugs. I got chewed for an hour and a half. Bugs biting my arms. Bugs biting my legs. Bugs biting my face. Bugs biting inside my nose of all places. It makes me wonder if the hometeam didn't secretly hire a bug trainer to make the damned things extra nasty, and extra hungry.
Don't EVEN get me started on the godless, multi-limbed vermin I saw scrambling around, just in the shadows under the devices of torture bleachers.
So I'm in the stands. Not entirely alone, but wishing I were. I'm longingly looking around for that beautiful flower, MulletFury to no avail. When along comes this short, but big shouldered lady in NASCAR glasses and sits down less than a foot away from me. I'm thinking to myself "this bitch is all up in my comfort-zone, if she sits any closer she'll be wanting me to respect her in the morning, and call later in the day." So I scoot a little over, and in doing so I wind up ramming a nine-penny nail sized splinter into my Levis and subsequently into my ass.
On the opposite side of "Miss NASCAR Shoulders" was CoachDad. CoachDad was a bit on the type-a, extreme side. He had a red face from what looked to be 210 systolic by 140 diastolic, he also had an artery on his forehead that seemed to throb mercilessly with every play. He was stressed. For his own sake he didn't need to be at the game, but of course he wasn't there for his sake.
He was there for the coach.
Seems the coach "didn't know shit" and "was a pussy" as CoachDad put it. Thankfully for the coach, CoachDad was at the game. CoachDad called every play, both offensive and defensive. If we had the ball, CoachDad would scream "PASS! PASS YOU SUMBITCH!" everytime. If the hometeam had the ball CoachDad would alert our coach to "WATCHOUT FOR THE PASS, WATCH FOR THE PASS YOU STUPID SUMBITCH!" EVERYTIME. Sadly for our team, the coach didn't quite hear CoachDad's playcalls because we lost by a score of 238 to nothing.
Of course I didn't give a crap who won or who lost. The real reason I was at the game played out around halftime.
Seems RZ didn't notice me in the stands until then. I saw her looking around for me during first and second quarter. I even waved a few times to try and get her attention and let her know I was there. At halftime she saw me, and I swear the most beautiful smile came over her, a full body smile. Then she quietly, shyly waved and I waved back.
And that was so cool.
If on my next post, I find myself in the hospital clinging to life due to a mosquito-borne virus that I picked up while at The Other Side know this... That moment rocked.
On another note, tomorrow night is Homecoming... and we've got the Homefield Advantage! Pray for the other team, I'm sure there will be an ample bit of smoting going on.
I had this idea for a story I wanted to share. I've been rolling it around all day, mulling it, pre-editing it in my head. Now as I sit here and try to get it out I get a bunch jumbled thoughts.
In case you're just keying-in, my site has been down all day.
Seems there was a fire under the Greater Baltimore area that pulled the proverbial plug at the company that hosts this site (as well as most all of my customer's websites).
Seems the "back-up generator" that said hosting company mentioned in their marketing brochure failed to kick-in.
Seems said "generator" that said hosting company "has" was a line of crap in said brochure.
Seems I'm going to have to face a bunch of angry customers tomorrow because they may have lost a full day's worth of email.
Seems like a different career trajectory might be in order.
I'm laying there relaxed in the high-tech, comfy, circa 1989, post-modern, form-fitting, dentalchair. Mouth splayed wide. Vunerable. Drill whirring. TV remote in hand.
My dentist has television sets built into the ceiling so while he's elbow deep in your mouth you can relax and catch up on more midday tv than your brain could ever digest.
Normally I'll switch to "CNN", or try and find "Law and Order" on some channel,"Law and Order" is on somewhere at any moment of the day.
I wasn't in a mood for presidential spam news. I wasn't in a L&O/Jerry Orbach mood either. So I flicked around until I heard those first few notes of the opening song of my most favorite tv show of all time. Ever. The first three notes of that show's theme song would have me running at the tv set, full speed, only to powerslide on my knees and wind up mere inches from the screen.
DunDunDun. Snap. Snap. DunDunDun. Snap. Snap. DunDunDun.DunDunDun.DunDunDun. They're creepy and they're kooky, Mysterious and spooky, They're all together ooky, The Addams Family.
And with that I'm back in 1973 watching Superstation 17.
While the theme was playing the hygienist and the dentist were unconsciously tapping thier feet to the cadence of the "Snap. Snaps."
As a kid I loved that show. Now, while laying in that chair, I had an opportunity to really see the value in it. I watched it back, to back, to back. Each time the theme would play the hygienist and the dentist would tap at the Snap. That was powerful.
Things I noticed as I watched were: The character development all the way down to "Thing" and "Cleopatra", was phenomenal. The writing, while macabre, spanned many different generational levels and appealed to each. The acting was beatifully consistent throughout every scene. The aesthetic of their gothic home, the furnishings, the textures, every tiny detail undoubtedly fussed over. Even the set lighting was exemplary, it set the mood for the show, consistently. Not to mention it was all shot extremely well, in black and white.
Granted the show was pure schtick, but it was done so incredibly well. Looking back on it, the series was a true work of art!
Cara Mia!
Oh, by the way, did I mention large doses of novacaine does really weird shit with my head?
------------------------
On another note, the pending hurricane has my wife completely nuttin' up.
Don't get me wrong, I'm concerned enough about the pending disaster to change the batteries in the flashlight, but Leslie is clinging to the rafters from her claws.
For Leslie's sake, send prayer. If you don't pray, send Thorazine... and a dart.
If you were in my neighborhood on Saturday you would've heard this.
I was running cable to the television out on the backporch and had to go under the house in order to connect everything. While I was under there, flashlight in hand, I noticed something. At the very instant I noticed that a piece of paper (or something) brushed up against my ankle and I freaked.
I sounded alot like Mariah Carey.
After I got the courage up (and my nads descended back into place) I went back under the house and this is what I found...
It was just the skins. But from those skins came a couple of the biggest snakes ever to live on God's Green Earth. Not that I actually saw them or anything.
On second thought, I might need to warn my neighbor. They may consider his Volkswagon their next meal.
Why was I in the women's restroom in Denver in 1989? By accident of course.
It was December 31st, 1989.
Leslie and I had just gotten married the night before in Kankakee Illinois, and had spent our wedding night in Chicago. That day we had taken an early flight from Chicago to Denver.
It's was New Year's Eve day. Stress was high and we were frenzied.
As we were about to land, I developed a "sense of urgency". I had to pee. Since I was sitting mid-row, mid-plane, I figured I would hold it until we got off of the plane.
That of course, was a mistake.
By the time I got off the plane, up the ramp, and into the terminal I was ready to pee in a planter.
On the jog to relief I wasn't thinking and took a left instead of a right at that gender nuetral restroom foyer area and wound up in the ladies restroom. It's happened a time or two since then.
Only this time when I took that left, I bumped into a very small, teeny-tiny, lady with big, gray/auburn hair, dressed very ranch-ish chic.
Our eyebrows carried on the conversation from that point.
My Eyebrows:Both pointed up to center forehead in horror, "Pardon. I didn't mean to bump into you, but I've really got to pee!"
Her Eyebrows:One flat, the other raised and rounded wisely, "Uh-uuuhhh. Not in here. This is the lady's john."
My Eyebrows:Both raised and crinkled in fear, "Oh shit you're right!" then uncrinkling and relaxing into a eureka arc, "Heeeyyy, aren't you... You're Bonnie Raitt."
Her Eyebrows:Both quickly bounce, coyish, then relax, "Yep. Just Little Ol' Me."
My Eyebrows:Left on raises, the right one gets all Batman-ish and pointed, "Daaammmnnn woman, you look like you've been hit by a hangover bus! Love to talk but I GOTTA PEE!"
That's when I did a quick u-turn and headed to the nearest urinal. The whole interchange happened in less than a second.
So there you go. My brush with a real rockstar thanks to my uncommon sense of urgency. (I can hear Les now as she reads this sentence, "uncommon... YEAH RIGHT.")
By the way, why did you think I was in the women's restroom in Denver, in 1989?
In between high school and college I briefly worked for a local stereo/piano/organ retailer. During that summer I got to work with Steve.
Steve and I could converse. Share a laugh or two. But never really buddied up so to speak. Besides his father owned the store, and at the time, his father (my boss) was satan. That's satan with a small "s".
His dad was rough on his employees. And from the outside looking in, he was also rough on his family. Besides, I knew better than to pal up with satanic spawn, being raised Baptist and all.
Sorry, I'm getting off point.
Steve was one of those persons that I consider "filler". I knew him well enough to know I didn't know him at all. That's not to say he wasn't a nice guy, if I had to guess I'd say he probably turned out just fine. I just didn't know him, he didn't know me, and neither of us made any attempt to bridge the gap.
Fast-Foward>>
So I'm in Barnes and Noble the other day, perusing the art/photography section when I noticed a small, yellow book.
I picked up the book and start flipping the pages.
Nothing to the degree that Florida got I'm sure, but we lost power around midnight, trees down, the interstates are impassable north of here, schools are closed, and flood warnings are out statewide.
When the power went out my fan died. My CPAP died. RZ piled in the bed. The dogs were running around like rats on acid, and Les was pacing the house. Sleepless.
Leslie, being the juniorclosetwannabe meterologist that she is, has been watching this storm as soon as it left the Cape Verde Islands off the coast of Africa. She's been giving me regular Tropical Updates on Frances now for weeks. She predicted the path of this "mean muthah" long before any of those computer models had a clue. She woke me up one night last week just to tell me that she couldn't sleep because of all of the devastation that hurricane was going to cause (and to ask me to fix her a fried egg sandwich).
Now she tells me that "IVAN IS ON THE HORIZON!" with the same emphasis and drama that Jim Cantore would.
There aren't many people that can use the term "occluded front" in a conversation and actually know what the hell that means. She really missed her calling.
If your site is not there and you feel it should be let me know! If your site is there but some of the information is wrong, let me know that too. If your site is there and you feel it shouldn't be, well, be nice about it.
"...yeah she died a couple of weeks ago" my mom said matter of factly.
"God she must've been a hundred and fifty years old. Sad." I said to close that little bit of conversation on family history. It was a hollow acknowledgement at best.
I can't say I knew her that well. The last time I saw her was at a funeral back in '92. I hugged her and made small talk--as best I could given we had a couple of generations and a dying hearing-aid between us.
Leslie thought she was "awesome".
This is what I remember about her: 1.) Rosie was my great aunt. My mom's mom's sister. 2.) She smelled like roses. Chokingly so. 3.) She was one of the four Markham sisters from Mississippi. 4.) She lived in D.C. 5.) She was stylish, smart, contemporary, and well liked. 6.) Single, white, female. 7.) She had no lips. 8.) She had big hair, and no eyebrows. 9.) Smirked, didn't smile.
This is what I found out about her after she died: 1.) Her name was Mayde. Mayde Rose Miller. Since she went from a Markham to a Miller, she must've married at some point in her life. 2.) She had a strong sense of family.
I write this post as a thank you to her, albeit way, WAY late. You see after Rosie died, someone found a paper sack tucked away in one of her old trunks. Inside the sack was a stack of Treasury Bonds that were purchased back in the 60's and 70's. The bonds were made out in the name of each of her nieces and nephews and also grand nieces and grand nephews.
Pretty cool, huh?
Finding out that she thought about us, and cared enough about us to do something like that is pretty cool too!
