"Very superstitious, Writing's on the wall, Very superstitious, Ladders bout' to fall"

The point isn't whether they're true or not, the point is to cover your ass just in case.

Never Leave your Hat on the Bed: I've heard this before and have never been sure where it came from so I'm going to make something up (artistic license). The guy who coined this phrase was caught having an affair with his bosses wife. In turn, the boss fired him, and blacklisted him so no one would hire him, not even Speedway. Unfortunately, a a parting gift, his mistress gave him a sexually transmitted disease which he generously shared with his long suffering wife. On her first outbreak, the wife realized it could only have come from a cheating husband. So she bought a gun and shot him dead. All this because the dumb ass left his hat on the bed. Now that's some bad luck.

Wishing on a Falling Star: This is my favorite. Can't speak on whether it's true or not. The dome of gloom covering Cincinnati smothers them. Regardless, always know your wish ahead of time just in case.

Knocking on Wood: This is to ward off the voodoo-whammy-mojo you just placed on yourself for speaking of the future. In case there is no wood to knock on, here is a tip from my "Yiddish" dictionary. Look over your right shoulder and say "poo-poo-poo". It's the very same effect.

Wishing on the First Star you See Tonight: There is far too much opportunity here, so it can't possibly work. Having said that, I do it every night just in case. Sometimes, I think I wish on airplanes and radio towers...I'm never quite sure.

Letting a Bird Get in Your House: Have you ever seen what happens when a wild bird gets in your house? Everybody, including the bird, completely freaks out, all of you running into walls and screaming like a bunch of zombies. Bad luck for all parties involved. Even worse, are raven and crows. If a bird that big and that black stalks you, you're fucked no matter what you do. Don't invite them in to your house no matter what they tell you.

Step on a Crack; Break your Mothers Back: The thought of taking care of my mother while she's in traction has always been too much for me. While I step over anything that can even be construed as a crack in the sidewalk, I have a good friend that steps on every crack possible. Someday we'll both walk down the street together and start a new dance fad.

Find a Penny, Pick it Up: There are issue's with this one. Is it only good luck if it's laying heads up? Or down? My solution; always leave the penny where you found it for someone who needs the penny, and the luck, more then you do.

Dead Human Bodies Floating in the River: If you see a human body floating with the current, you should immediately remove an article of your clothing and throw it in the river. Wow, tough town. I'm not sure which culture this comes from, but I'm betting it's not the middle east. Not many riverside's to walk along in the desert.

Never Open an Umbrella Indoors: First of all, you're opening something that's meant for rain when it's not raining. That means you're just opening it to be belligerent, and if there's one thing the universe hates, it's belligerence. Do you want to be like Schlep-rock from the Flintstones for the rest of your life and have a gray cloud follow you everywhere you go? Secondly, umbrella's are so big and unruly, you're bound to break something. Probably a mirror, and that's even worse luck.

Touching the Car Ceiling when Passing Under a Train Trestle: In high school, while riding around with my fresh- off -the- temps 16 year old driving friends, I learned that this gesture would ensure that everyone in the car would always be friends. Too bad I can't remember who the hell they were.

Crossing Shadows: If someones shadow crosses yours, and you don't make sure your shadow crosses theirs back, it's bad luck. Must be hell on the playground. Way too exhausting for me, I'll take the bad luck.

Repeatedly Making Sure the Front Door is Locked: Any re-checking over five times means you're obsessive compulsive. Anything under five is only superstition. My benchmark? I only check three times.

Seeing "Little People" on the Day of the Show: Some superstitions come from experience as does this one. If you see any "little people" before your performance, it will ruin your show. Hey, before you judge, you try having a heckling dwarf stalk your band all the way through Texas. You'd be superstitious too.

Three on a Match: This one comes straight from the war zone. When in combat, never leave a match lit long enough to light three cigarettes because one of you, if not all of you, will be visible to the sniper that is going to shoot you. In peace time, it's still bad luck, because your ass is too poor to buy a disposable lighter. Although, if you can keep a match lit long enough to light three cigarette's, you are a certified smoking master.

Eating Black-Eyed Pea's and Hog Jowls on New Years Eve: While I've been aware of this superstition for many years, I've never actually ate it. That may explain the last twenty years. As long as I don't have to pick the meat off the hog's actual face, I think I'm desperate enough.

Driving the Same Route to a Sports Venue when on a Winning Streak: This is a sportsters superstition. Since I've never been on, rooted for or voted for a winning team in my life, I've only heard tell of it. Should I ever be on a winning streak, I will not only drive the same route, I will not shave or change my shirt. Nothing different there.

A Broken Mirror Means Seven Years of Bad Luck: The worst, most long-lasting of all. No words can describe how much you never want to do this. If it does happen....never mind, just don't do it. That is all I'm going to say about this except for "poo-poo-poo" over my right shoulder.

If One Person Bumps into a Pole while Walking in a Group: It is bad luck when this happens, especially to those whom walked around the pole instead of into it. The only remedy is for everyone, and it has to be everyone, to take a step back, and bump into the pole.

Never Walk Under a Ladder: Walking under ladders is so dangerous, they had to turn it into an evil superstition thing to make people stop doing it. Walking up or down a ladder ain't so safe either, but someone has to do it.

Going Through a Yellow Light: "Kiss my hand and touch the roof = 2 hours of good luck." Somewhat like touching the roof when the car goes under a train trestle, only with kisses and good luck. Only two hours of good luck stresses me out a little bit, so I plan ahead for this one.

Throwing Spilt Salt: I always throw spilt salt over my right shoulder. For some reason, it always seems to annoy the people seated behind me. Surely they've spilt salt before?

Black Cats Crossing your Path: Totally a myth made up by some racist-cat-hating mother fucker. All cats are good luck at all times.

The Who Concert, December 3, 1979; A View from the Front

One of the things that defined the 1970's for both my peers and myself, was the Who concert tragedy.

Before the concert started, several people died, and many were almost killed, having been trampled to death by their friends and neighbor's, while waiting for the doors to open.

On the 31st anniversary of the Who concert at Riverfront Coliseum in Cincinnati, Ohio, I asked my Facebook friends what they remembered about that day.

Some were there, some were not, but every one of them remembered exactly where they were and what they were doing the evening of the concert.

Every person who was at the concert remembered the shoes, the "Who Shoes".

If you are interested in sharing your story, (Patrick) please leave it on the comments and I'll add it to this record.

Thank you to everyone that took the time to contribute. It's a part of Cincinnati history that needs to be recorded. I am reprinting your stories as you wrote them, in your own voice.

Randy Cheek: yeah...no longer like a crowd (it seemed like a living thing, not individual people at all,but a big whirlpool of flesh)-will always blame the stupid mother-fuckers in the back chanting '' fuck iran!" as the mashing started...plenty i could say but fuck after all this time...yeah i keep exits and doors in mind at all times.
Janis Hastings: I was 2. And I wasn't there, but I'm sure my parents were pissed off that night since they couldn't go bc they had to take care of me & my bro. I wouldn't call myself a hero, but I guess you could say I saved their lives. All in a day's work.. ;)
Tami Skurow Stephens: ok..went with val and his gf anita.... we were about 10 feet from the 1 door that opened and u could hear music inside....people behind us going across the walk bridge to old riverfront started pushing forward thinking the concert started....thats when it got real bad.... val grabbed my arm and pulled me with him and we got thru a door then he popped a few open..... after the concert we saw all the ems but hey it was the who...someone od'd or somethin...remember seein jimmy afterwards in passing...we drove home in anitas new car with no radio - we stopped for food, takin our time up reading rd into roselawn not knowing a thing until we walked in and marilyn n hy were awake watching the news freaked out.... i immediately called momma walters and let her know i saw jimmy and he was fine...the end!!

Shari Lauter: I was there, still remember it vividly---the cloud of steam rising from the compressed cold even though it was only 30 degrees out; to this day I don't like to be closed in inside a crowd, I'll email more
Kelly Hale: I was .. and my good friend and Band-mate( at the time) was interviewed and made the front page of the Cinci Enquier .. I remember it well...

David Neal Lewis: When news of the Who Concert drifted in like a bird on a wire I was working at Subway Records on Vine St. Greg Fernandez and I tuned into Alan Browning's "Rapline" show in hopes of some news, but he was running some creaky topic about the Shah of Iran. I called in and asked on air if they could devote some more coverage to the Who Concert and what was going on. He got really mad, insulted me and hung up my call. Afterward he was so deluged with calls asking for the same thing that he stormed off the set.

Later at a WAIF show I was covering I played Throbbing Gristle's "Blood on the Floor." What I remember mainly from the Who Concert were huge heaps of shoes; tried to find photographic evidence of this years later but couldn't find any pictures like that. The Who Concert deeply impressed me and ingrained my hatred of arena rock, which has relaxed over the years. But not so relaxed is my deep disappointment that no one was ever held responsible for what happened that deadly night.

Libby Carter Ostrow: I was living in Houston and watching TV and there was Lonnie Ostrow on The Tom Snyder show describing the horrible event. Still have the tape.
David Cover: I was living in South Bend Indiana. My wife and I were watching T.V. when a news flash can on about what had happened. We both got scared cause my sister in law was going to the concert. Found out she was almost killed and that one of the people who died was with her party that night. He died trying to help others get out. The only thing that saved here was the guy she dated at that time was able to pull her up time after time when she would get knocked down. Finally he yelled "this woman is sick and will puke on you " The crowed picked her up and passed her back to the end and dumped her on the ground at the back of the crowed.
Paige Graham: I had tickets and was supposed to go. The day of the concert, a Monday, my girlfriends pierced my upper ear in my bedroom. My ear of course got infected and when my Mom found out I double pierced my ear I wasn't allowed to go. My friends did go and I still have the t-shirt they bought me back. My friend Brian Wagner from Ft Thomas was one of the first to die that night when they opened the doors Brian, who was in front was trampled.......RIP Brian.....
Sage Walker: My sister's boyfriend was there. When my mom saw it on the news she started FREAKING out sure that he'd been one of them. He wasn't. Paula Rosenberg: ‎@sage...yes, i know. i was with you...to make our short story shorter.

Ray Kennedy: Since you asked, here's my story of that night. I was working at the Palace Theater up in Downtown, there was a Harry Chapin concert there the same night. The manager caught wind of the events at the coliseum, and had two comp tickets, and wanted someone to see what was up. I went down there in a taxi with his girlfriend, probably an hour or so into the concert, and news trucks and news crews were everywhere, along with a big police presence and probably still some medics. The casualties were all gone by then, but there were shoes scattered where they had come off feet, and a few reporters were looking for interviews, asking us if we had seen anything, which we of course hadn't. We went inside and the concert was happening as if nothing had occurred. It was quite strange, we already knew people had died, but there were thousands inside who had no clue and were mostly just enjoying the show. I seem to remember the authorities didn't tell the band until after the show. The thing that was really striking was the shoes. I guess people were in some cases just pulled out of them by the force of the crowd. I will always remember the shoes.

Andrew Cloud: I waited to buy a Ticket and then it was sold out. I went trippin in Frenck park. I still remember the sunset and the scene from up on the hill that night.

Cheryl Beardslee: My brother went, we all waited up to see whether or not he would come home when the concert was over. When he walked in the door, we all jumped on him with "Jeff, thank God you're alive!!" He looks at us and says "Yea right, I know what time it is and I am not late. I'm not even close to my curfew! Whatever head game you're trying to play, it's not working." We told him what happpened and he didn't believe us. Then the news came on the TV again...
Jeff Demaree: I was born in Cincy in 1971 and can remember listening to Baba O'Reily at the bus stop when I was 5 years old. The Who are still my all-time favourite band and I still live in the Queen City. I knew none of this about the tragedy! If these first hand anecdotes aren't recorded the real story of that night will be lost forever! Excellent job Paula in collating these stories and thanks to everyone for contributing- it's vital.

Lisa Rosenberg: I was front and center at the who concert and was right below the awning that some people fell from.... We just thought people were passed out only to find out later that they were deceased. You know me... the ultimate rocker, always in the very front of the lines at any concert.

Robert E Beatty: I wasn't there but I remember previous incidents that led up to it. I had bee lifted off of my feet trying to get into UC Fieldhouse, and remember people being pushed through the plate glass at Cinti Gardens.

Elise Waxler: I was living on my own for the 1st time and putting up my first Xmas tree when I heard the newscast. I immediately called my father to see if my brother had gone. I didn't go simply because my dad had asked me not to. My brother didn't go either but my cousin had. My cousin had left his identication at home so my Uncle went down to the morgue. My cousin wasn't one the bodies. We just had to sit back and wait until he called us. We didn't hear from him until late after the concert was over. He was busy looking for his boots. During the pushing, he got seperated from his girlfriend and lifted out of his boots so he was trying to locate them. Her did find his girlfriend but never did find his shoes. The waiting was horrible and the incident should never have happened.

Hanukah Pop: A very short list indeed.

I wasn't aware there were even enough Jews left to form a flash mob.


"Gonna tell you a tale, 'bout livin' in Israel"....


Thank you Corbett S. for this video. While you may not be a Jewish boy, you have the curly hair anyone of us would be proud of.

Seems like Jews like to rap. Hmmmmm......

Mr. B of the PS22 Chorus wrote one for us. I'm thinking he's a brother.

Jonah Had an Amazing Dream-reposted from 2009

This is one of my favorite pieces from "paula interrupted".

December, 2009

If you really want insight into what's up in your children's psyche, ask them about their dreams. When we wake up, sometimes at dawn, sometimes at noon, we ask each other "Did you dream last night?" Sometimes we do, and sometimes we don't.

This morning, (really afternoon, but I didn't want you to know what slobs we are), when Jonah woke up, he climbed up in the big bed, and asked me just that. I told him that I had a lot of dreams the night before, (mostly involving my standard garden variety losing my car in a parking garage and having to walk uphill to get home) and he said so did he.

While I tried to remember some more of what went on in my dreams, Jonah told me about his. It was one of the best ones ever and I need to write it down before it disappears, like tears in the rain. (I lifted the 'tears in the rain' from "Blade Runner" so don't be too impressed.)

Anyplagiarized, he said that in the dream, it was years from now, when I was really old, "like in my sixties or something". I laughed when he said that. We were sitting together in the living room, watching TV and came across a movie that was about my life.

"My life?" I asked. "Yes, your life. It was like that Jersey Shore show on MTV"
"Like a reality show?" I asked, feeling horrified. "Exactly" he said.

My immediate response was "Oh shit". Did my Aunt Evie really get me on "The Biggest Loser"? Or, even worse, I finally won Intervention, or, good Lord, "HOARDERS"!!! This was the insight into the true feelings of my children I had been dreading all my life.

Reluctantly, I asked him if it involved an intervention or camera's barging into our house in general, and did it freak him out? Jonah started laughing that good belly laugh he gives me when I crack him up.

"No, it was about your life and all of the things you've been through."

"We were sitting together watching TV and we stumbled across the movie. We didn't know who made it, and were surprised to find it. It started when you were little and went through all the years and the things that happened to you. There was a lot about how you always tried to help people, no matter what. In one part, you got angry at someone because they were doing something that made you not be able to help them.

In the last scene of the movie, I'm in a car driving through the desert looking for you". Let me mention that we had been in Las Vegas last week for the holidays with our family.

"Am I lost?, Were you afraid?" I ask.

"No, I knew exactly where you were and just needed to drive there. There's a girl in the car, and she's annoyed with me for taking so long. We stop at a truck stop and she runs off with a trucker but I don't really care. I'm kinda glad because she was annoying. So I just get back in the car, and drive some more through the desert, looking for you. And then I woke up."

The Amazing Ruthie

The following is the eulogy that was written for Grandma Ruth, who is the paternal grandmother of my children. It was brilliantly written and delivered by her grandson, Jeff. I want to make sure that my children will always have this, plus the writing is so good, so point on, that it is completely blog worthy.

Eulogy for Ruth
St. Dominic Catholic Church
Ohio, USA
Monday, November 29th 2010

Ruth Ellen played many roles in her 82 years- daughter, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, aunt, niece, friend, neighbor, colleague, parishioner, camper and dozens of others. Our attendance here this morning is testament to the skill and love that she poured into each of our relationships with her.

But there is one role in which Ruth excelled beyond all others; a relationship that defined almost her entire life. Ruth was the leading lady in what I have always called The Greatest Love Story Ever Told. Her love affair with Albert spanned 8 decades, 13 US presidents, almost a dozen dogs and several continents. If you have met Ruth at any point since she was a third grader at St. Bonaventure, your individual story with Ruth is inextricably linked with her relationship with Albert.

Like all great stories Ruth’s story has moments of heartbreak and pain, triumph and despair. She was born in the summer of 1928, the third child of Alfred and Sophia. The Breuwer’s lived in The Bottoms area of Cincinnati until they were forced out by the Great Flood of 1937 and washed up on Esmonde Street, sharing a backyard fence with the Harnists.

Ruth and Al’s mothers quickly became best friends. As the children grew during America’s Great Depression, their love grew into that special spark of first love.

One innocent afternoon Al Senior made a decision that would affect the lives of everyone in our story: he allowed Al Junior to convince him to replace the derelict outhouse in their backyard with a nice fence and swinging gate so that Helen and Sophia could more easily chat. But the squeaky gate also allowed Bud and Ruthie to occasionally steal a kiss; a behavior that would continue for seventy years.

Bud insisted that I point this out- She did date other people for a while. And as you would expect from an adolescent Ruth, she was not shy in expressing her opinion. This is another behavior that wouldn’t change in seventy years. When a suitor discussed a future life of farming, she voted with her feet and after extracting a solemn promise from Albert that he would never become a farmer, the pair were inseparable.

Alfred Bruewer passed when Ruth was a junior at Woodward Commercial High School. She sacrificed her own ambitions by dropping out of school to work and provide for her family. This willingness to self-sacrifice for family would prove to be another of her defining traits.

At 21 years of age, Ruth and Al were married on the 17th of September 1949, one of the last times that Ruth would not be pregnant for a while. My mother, Ellen was born while they lived at 650 Neave Street, on a third floor with a shared toilet and very Germanic matron. Debbie and Greg were born while the young family lived at 1553 Knox Street. Doug, Kenny and Jenny followed at Plumridge Drive, their home for over 50 years. Ruth’s 13 grandchildren will remember that home as where they celebrated Christmas. Her 6 great-grandchildren are being nourished on the love and warmth that emanated from that house. A majority of our great love story, Ruth’s story, took place in and around the home that she created and nurtured.

And the outward expression of Ruth’s love was laughter fuelled by music, beer and the constant presence of children of all ages. Fittingly, when RUTH chose to work, it was in our schools.

Ruth was an exemplary Catholic from birth until her last breath. When the German theologian Albert Schweizer said that “One doesn’t have to be an angel to be a saint” he could have been thinking of her. Several times the last few days our own Albert has said that Ruth is a saint for tolerating his antics over the decades. Perhaps they’re both right. If there is a heaven, then we are assured that Ruth is there now, most likely with her sister Mary and friend Rita, drinking beer and playing cards, looking forward to bowling again on Thursday.

The current chapter of Ruth’s amazing story centers on her heroic battle with Alzheimer’s Disease. The untiring and devoted care of her loving husband, her family, and finally, the professional staff at Bayley Place, ensured that Ruth fought this battle both valiantly and with dignity. The generous memorial donations you have made to the Alzheimer’s Association will work to ensure that future generations are spared from the disease altogether.

But the final chapter of the Greatest Love Story Ever Told is yet to be written, and those of us here today will be the authors. For the epic love that Ruth brought into the world is not extinguished, it continues to live on in us, a final gift.

Thanksgiving Edition 2010

This Thanksgiving, it rained all day and all night. Not just drizzle, but big fat torrential rain. A mere two days earlier, it had been in the mid-sixties and I was schvitzing (sweating) in a light hoodie. Then, when the rain started, the temperature began to drop so quickly that fog lurked everywhere.

For the first time in 30ish years, I cooked absolutely nothing, and even more shocking, took nothing to the two dinner parties we went to. Who knew diarriha could be so liberating? People want nothing to do with anything you touch, and really, neither do I. And, dammit, I made that diarriha work for me, which is the least it could do having tortured me relentlessly for days on end now.

Also, for the first time in 20ish years, the Volvo wouldn't start. So shocking was this, I had to sit for a minute before I called RWC, who had just left me an hour before, and to tell him of my peril. Ofcourse, because he is, afterall, the sweetest man on earth, he drove back the 45 minutes it takes to get me.

Our first stop that evening was at the home of RWC's parents. We had smoked turkey, this really great artichoke/tomato mix, mashed and sweet potatos and lucious warm bread. Unfortunately, I couldn't enjoy much of it. It was like hell on earth, my favorite things so near yet still beyond my reach.

N

Michael

I've always believed in angels. When I think of all the "bullets" I've dodged throughout my life, I am convinced that much of it was divine intervention. Sometimes, they come to me in dreams, but other times, I have to be still and listen. Of all the angels, Michael, the protector, has always been my favorite.

When the receptionist at therapist #1's office stopped me from leaving, it was to talk about "a payment I could afford". Therapist #1 insisted on talking to me about it. Finally, I asked him if he could beat my fifteen dollar co-payment and he had to admit he couldn't. Must be tough times for therapists.

I mentioned that Big Daddy (Dr. X) had actually recommended two therapists. Therapist #1 asked me what therapist #2's name was, and I, of course, didn't remember. So I go digging in my purse for the other card, which is brown and looks like a pack of "Raw Sugar", until I finally find it. His name is Dr. So-and-So.

It turns out that Dr. So-and-So has his office in the very same building, and Therapist #1 is excited to introduce me. I'm still like "Yeah, whoop-dee-doodie, but does he take my insurance?" After calling Dr. So-and-So on my behalf, two things are determined.

1. Yes, he does accept my insurance.
2. Yes, he would love to meet me. He'll meet us in the lobby.

Once again, I am thinking "Must be hard times in the therapy business."

Off Therapist #1 and I go to the first floor lobby. The offices are housed in a huge Victorian house that has been converted. There is a long, grand staircase that runs from the second floor to the first floor where I am standing. Next to me is the front door, which has a huge beveled glass window that is very ornate.

As I look up the steps, here comes Dr. So-and-So trotting quickly down the steps, with what can only be called "flair". When he gets to the bottom of the steps, he asks me if we've met before.

Thinking I'm hilarious, I say "I don't know, do you feel like we've met before?"

Simultaneously, the next things happen: He reaches out his hand to shake mine, as I reach out to shake his. I notice he doesn't take my hand, but waits for me to take his. I'm thinking this is another thing like the stare down I had with Big Daddy the week before.

Right at that very moment, he says "Hi, my name is Michael" just as the sun suddenly hits the beveled glass window throwing rainbows all over his face. As I marvel at his name and the rainbows dancing on his face, I realize that Michael is completely blind.

Then my inner dialogue started. I wished someone had mentioned it to me. I thought about how my body language is half my message. I thought about how, while I didn't need to look my best, I better smell my best. Then I wondered if there were deaf therapists anywhere and was relieved that mine was blind. This whole thought process lasted about five seconds.

At the six second mark, I had an epiphany. Who better to get insight from than a blind man named Michael? I knew he was my destiny.

Whomever Speaks First, Loses

Two weeks after my initial visit with Dr. X, I return for my second appointment.

The first thing he asks me is "Did you make an appointment with the therapist?" No "How are you?" or "How's your focus?".

"Well, here's the thing." I say, and then go into my well rehearsed speech about how I've been going on too many doctor's appointments in the last fifteen years, between having babies, and cancer, and two broken feet, and I just can't keep leaving work.

After I finish my story, Dr. X doesn't say a word. He just stares at me. So I just stare right back. I've seen this scene before on TV, and I know whomever speaks first loses. Finally, he wears me out and I realize he's better at this than I am. Dr. X obviously isn't playing about the stupid therapist.

"Fine, I'll go see the stupid therapist." I say like I'm his child. It occurs to me how different male doctors are than female doctors, and that's why all my other doctors are women.

With that, Dr. X hands me a card and says "see you in three weeks" and abruptly dismisses me. A female doctor would never do this.

Originally, I had called to make an appointment with a woman doctor, but she wasn't taking new patients, so I was referred to her partner. That's how I ended up with Dr. X. The only reason I stay is because he is the only one I can find besides her that specializes in adult attention deficit. Dr. X knows he has the power.

Later that week, like a dutiful daughter, I make yet another doctors appointment. This one is with the therapist that Dr. X referred me too. When I call, they assure me that they take my insurance.

On the appointed day, I arrive, begrudgingly, at the huge Victorian house (this, at least, makes me happy) that is the office of Therapist #1. I go to the receptionists window, sign in, and she hands me a mountain of paperwork. I've been filling out paperwork like this for years, and it tends to make me very, very cranky.

She asks for my insurance card, looks at it with disdain, and says "I'm sorry, but Therapist #1 doesn't accept this insurance."

Surely, this is an omen. As I almost make my getaway, thank you and good bye, the receptionist stops me. She has an idea.

"Paula! Stop Daydreaming and Pay Attention!"

One of my earliest childhood memories is of being five years old, and hearing the phrase "Paula! Stop daydreaming and pay attention!" for the very first time. It was the word "daydreaming" that impressed me most, which smacked of fairies, magic, and romance. Unfortunately, the tone of voice my teacher used did not match my vision.

It is a phrase I have heard on a daily basis, sometimes several times a day, ever since. Back then, I was referred to as a daydreamer, and I invented my own tools to work around it. While somewhat effective, this has always taken a huge amount of energy to do what most people do naturally. It's exhausting!

A couple of years ago, my friend Wayne, who has been trying to get me to pay attention for over 15 years, tells me he saw a list online of symptoms for Attention Deficit Disorder.

"Guess what?" he says more than asks, "You totally qualify". It turns out, after all these years of dillusion, that I'm not a beautiful daydreamer after all. What I really am, figuratively speaking, is the poster child for ADD.

As I've gotten older, my attention span has continue to shrink. Soon, it will be more of an attention moment than an actual span.

One of the reasons I've been reluctant to go see someone about it is because I suspect that I do my most brilliant work when my mind is in ADD overdrive. I really hate to lose that part of myself.

On the other hand, I've started my own business and realize I'll never be able to perform on the level I need to if I don't deal with my ADD.

After much ado, which I will not bore you with, I've decided to see what modern medicine can do for me. So far, my journey has been very informative, especially when I'm paying attention.

Turns out, it's not my general practitioner who can treat me for this. It's a specialty, a psychiatrist affair. I am not at all happy to hear this, but my ADD is so off the chain these days, I have no choice but to take the plunge.

My doctors, including my dentist, are all women. Women make wonderful doctors, they always spend more time with you than their male counterparts. Sometimes, you can even make them cry with you. Guy doctors NEVER do that.

It's difficult to find anyone, including psychiatrists, that specialize in treating adults with ADD. In the end, the only one I could find was a man. I can't tell you his real name, so let's just call him Dr. X for now.

My dynamic with Dr. X is entirely different than it would be with a woman. His communication skills are alien to my matriarchal background. Dr. X is just fucking scary. Full of authority and testosterone, I'm not sure what to make of this bundle of "big-daddy-ness".

It was all so very strange and compelling, I actually agreed to return for a second appointment. It was on that second visit that the honey moon ended and the "Therapist Ultimatum" was issued.

A Short Birthday Note

This year, this month, this week, I turned 49 years old. It seems like I used to fret over my age, but then when I was sick, I pretty much let go of that fixation. Still, I'm vain, so my whole thing is that I don't mind being 49, I just don't want to look like I'm 49.

My 48th year actually came with lots of epiphanies. I plan on spending the next year trying to better myself.

Trisha says, for years now "Paula, you can't just get over the baggage you've carried through you life. And, furthermore, you can't get around it either. The only way to really move on is to go right through it." Unfortunately, the gate keeper is a therapist.

So, I've decided to give therapy a shot, and test this theory. I'm not looking forward to it for several reasons.

1. My immediate family, with the exception of myself, has been in therapy for thirty years. Quite frankly, I don't see where it's helped. If anything, it's made them even more narcissistic then they were in the first place.

2. I have spent a whole lot of years suppressing all of my angst, trauma, and skeletons and it's been a helluva lot of work. Why ever would I want to drag all of it out now?

3. Psycho-therapy has always seemed so self indulgent. It's like psycho masturbation. Everyone has a lot to talk about, but therapy is generally for the well insured. The rest of us have to work it out on our own, and that's makes you tough.

Having said all that, my first session will be in two weeks. This is going to be the start of a new series called "That's Not What My Therapist Said!" I take solace in knowing that, if nothing else, it'll give me something to write about.

Dolly and Donnie Go to the Pokie

"Hey, Paula, I have a great story to tell you." Dolly says to me.

"My friend Dave that lives in Kentucky called me and asked if I wanted to go see Buddy Guy."

"Did you go?" I ask.

"Boy, did we ever. Dave had four tickets, but the catch was that we had to take his sister Bev with us. I had to think twice about that, Bev is, you know, not quite right. So I called Donnie and ask him if he wants to go and he says sure and then we invite our friend Jerry."

So, we head down south, a couple of hours into Kentucky, pick up Bev, and head to the concert. We were drinking before we got to the club, and all I really remember was Bev walking around with two rolled up napkins, one stuck in each ear. Next thing we know, she's up on stage, with the napkins coming out of her ears, dancing with Buddy Guy. I have no idea how she got up there."

"On our way to drop Bev off after the concert, we decided to pull over in this cornfield and have a cocktail. We're absolutely in the middle of nowhere, with the trunk open and stereo blasting. Out of nowhere, because we're in the middle of it so I know, this cop pulls up behind us. I'll never forget watching this cop stroll up to the car through the side view mirror, all slinky like. You just knew it wasn't gonna be good."

"The cop walks around to Donnie's side and asks through the window if we've been drinking. We were gonna say no, but unfortunately, we all had a cocktail in our hand. Except for Donnie, he just had a bag of weed in his pocket.

Since Donnie is in the driver's seat, he's the one that has to take the sobriety test. Donnie refuses to take it, and is immediately arrested on the spot and put in the back seat of the cruiser."

"Next, the cop looks at me and Jerry, and declares us both publicly intoxicated and arrests us and cuffs us too. By now, the only person not under arrest, and therefore, legally allowed to drive the car from the cornfield to the station, is Bev. Bev is having none of this. The more we try to pressure into driving, the more she freaks out. Finally, all four of us pile into the police cruiser, with Bev in the front seat now carrying on a full blown conversation with herself, including maniacal bouts of laughter and tears."

"Before I get in the cruiser, I ask the officer if I can please talk to my husband for just a moment. He says I can, but just for one minute. I go over to the cruiser, lean into the back seat and start to ask Donnie if he's OK, as he leans over at the same time and stuffs the bag of weed down my shirt. I spend the next 20 minutes dancing around on the side of the road trying to shake it out of there without my hands because they're cuffed behind my back."

"Once we got to the police station, Donnie, Jerry and I were all placed in cells with what seemed to be a whole lot of people for the middle of nowhere. None of us are sure what happened to Bev. For what seems like the next five million hours, we wait to be processed. I had used my one phone call to my brother, and by now, he had arrived to bail us out."

"Still, we waited to be processed. At some point, Donnie agreed to the sobriety test and his alcohol level is 0, as in hadn't drank all night. Too late, they already arrested him, he's still under arrest. What the fuck? When I ask him why he didn't just take the test in the first place, he says he doesn't know why, just kinda froze up."

"I ask the dispatcher how much longer it would be and she says, in a cigarette voice "well, it wouldn't be so damn busy if that dumb ass would stop arresting everybody". Turns out he's a rookie, all of one week on the job."

"We finally get out of jail the next day, having agreed to be back in two weeks to meet the judge. The very first thing we have to do is find Bev. It turns out that the she was so beserk that the police dropped her off at the psych ward. Unfortunately, no one at the station could tell us which hospital. We spend the rest of the day going to three different hospitals till we find her. We were so relieved because we didn't have the nerve to tell her brother, who gave us the Buddy Guy tickets, that we lost his mentally impaired sister. I mean, we didn't want him to think we were irresponsible or anything."

"With the exception of the court appearance, I don't think we'll ever go back to that part of Kentucky again. And neither should you, they're nuts out there."

"Well, Dolly" I say, "At least you got all that crazy stuff out of your system a long time ago, when you were young."

"Yeah" Dolly says, "If you consider last year a long time ago."

Hey Man, It's September Eleventh...

We woke up that morning as usual, with just enough time to get dressed, grab breakfast, and get out the door to meet the school bus promptly at 7:45 am. J1 was in the second grade, while J2 had just started kindergarten, both at the same school.

As the time drew closer to get on the bus, a sense of undeniable dread began to fill me. It got worse and worse as we went along. The school bus arrived and as I went to kiss the two J's goodbye, a sense of doom struck me so hard I told the driver to go on without them.

By now, it was 8:00 am, and the three of us went home, I called in sick to work, and then we all went to bed. We never even turned the TV on. This all was very strange behavior for us, for two reasons.

First, it was still very early in the school year, and it was way too soon to keep the J's home for any reason. J2 was just getting comfortable being a big boy and I knew keeping his routine was crucial. J1 had finally gotten used to going to bed early after a summer of no sleep boundaries. It was just so very odd that I would do this, and I even knew it at the time.

Second, we almost always turned on the TV when we get home, like it was lighting our home fire. For the J's to miss an opportunity to watch cartoon's was unheard of. They just followed me upstairs, got in my bed, and we all fell into a deep,deep sleep.

Somewhere around noonish, we were still sleeping. The phone had started ringing a few hours before, and I begrudgingly answered it, finally. It was Gail.

"Do you have your TV on?" she asked.

"Nope, we stayed home and are just now waking up"

"You should turn on the TV, the World Trade Center just blew up" she said.

On September 11, 2001, I was safe and sound with my babies, up in the bed. So there you have it.

Why Can't You Ever Remember the Good Times?

The things that my mother and I discuss are all about what's new in entertainment, political scandal, and whatever is the popular culture of the day. We both adore magazines, especially The National Enquirer, which we refer to as the "rag magazine". We like to chill and order pizza. We like almost all the same stuff.

Straying from these topics is never good. Occasionally, one of us will make the mistake of bringing up some personal topic that is actually based in reality, or as we like to call it, "the past". Never-ever a good idea, but it does happen. When this happens, the conversations become surreal and yet to us, perfectly reasonable.

Last week, I received the following voice mail:

"Paula? This is your mother. How are you feeling? I know you've been angry with me, and I'm sorry. Why can't we remember the good things. Like when you were in the hospital and you wanted me to come be with you, and I brought Hershey bars and magazines and stayed with you all night. Those were wonderful times we had together."

She filtered out the part where I wanted her there in case I died. Only my mother would remember that night as a slumber party. Well, compared to the Holocaust, ("well, at least we're not in a concentration camp!"), I guess those were some great family times.

Dreaming, Drinking, and Driving

One night, when I was fifteen, I had the most vivid dream about riding in a car. Most of my friends started driving before I did, so it wasn't unusual for me to dream about riding in their cars.

The odd thing about this particular dream was that instead of sitting in the front passengers seat, I was sitting in the back set behind the driver. Trisha was driving, and I could see she was going to hit a telephone pole. So I put my knee's against the back of the front seat, wedged my back against the back seat, and covered my face with my hands.

From that night on, I couldn't get this stupid dream off my mind. For months after, I became absolutely phobic about riding in cars. Whenever I was forced to ride in a car, I would torture myself with flashes of violet car crashes.

One night, I went with three girl friends to the drive-in movie. Trisha was not one of them. Mary, the driver, was drinking Bacardi and Coke that night.

Club Robinson and Why Rich People Aren't Very Funny

As I steadily approach the lower middle class, it is the simple quirkiness of being dirt poor that I remember most fondly. Being poor is not necessarily a bad thing, it just makes you richer in other ways, kinda like how blind people have a stronger sense of smell.

For instance, poor people are way funnier than rich people. Rich people don't have to be funny, they get their high from being rich and never develop their sense's of humor. Rich people are mostly not funny because you have to suffer to be really funny. Who would you rather listen to, Richard Pryor or Chevy Chase? I rest my case.

When I lived at 34 East McMillan, in my third floor walk up, across the hall from a very young Cindy Robinson, I paid 175 dollars a month for rent. Once that was paid, the money would run out and we became very clever at amusing ourselves.

One particularly humid and disgusting summer, we decided we would create our own country (city) club on the roof of the house. There was a hatch on Cindy's kitchen ceiling that opened out to it. We would set up our ladder, hike up a plastic baby pool, a radio blaster, glasses of ice tea, lawn chairs and then, finally, hand up buckets of water to fill the baby pool.

Unfortunately, that was the summer of the 17 year cicada, and they were everywhere. They were like Japanese suicide bombers. They were some belligerent mother fuckers in their crunchy hard armor. Looking back on it, I'm impressed by how unfazed we were by them, it was just another thing to accept. You know, acceptance is the key to life.

As we sat in our lawn chairs, on that sweltering blacktop roof, listening to loud music that was considered the "oldies" even back then, dodging cicadas the size of mice in every direction, smoking, and drinking sweet ice tea, we named our oasis "Club Robinson".

We thought we were the luckiest people on the planet. That was one of the most amazing summers of my life, up there on Club Robinson, laying out, trying to turn ourselves into leather hand bags.

We loved our house, we loved our private club, we loved our lives, and we all loved each other. All that with no money, go figure. Often I think of those times, and wish I could go back. So simple and satisfying, so easy.

Dolly and Circular Breathing

I had a chance to chat with Dolly this week.

"Hey Paula, I went to a club the other night and saw the most amazing thing. The saxophone player did circular breathing."

"What the hell is circular breathing?" I ask.

"It's when the guy never comes up for air, he just keeps circulating the same air over and over again."

"Sounds painful" I say.

"Wait, here's the best part." she says,

"I go up to the band at the end of the show. They're these really cool, jazzy, hipster, black guys, so I figure there's no shocking them.

So I say to the saxophone player,

"Wow, you were circular breathing, that was incredible. Can you do that when you're going down on a woman?"

Now Dolly has my complete attention. That circular breathing concept has a whole new application.

"So, what did he say? Can he do it?" I ask.

"I think they were too shocked to answer. I'd probably have to date him to find out."

Dolly and me, we both laughed that good belly laugh. Damn, I love that sister.

34 East McMillan, Cincinnati, OH 45219

The house at 34 East McMillan was actually built on a traffic island strip that separates East McMillan, which is one way east, from Calhoun Street, which is one way west. What obviously had been a grand old house, with fireplaces in almost every room, had been broken down into five small apartments.

My apartment, which I always think of as my "Mary Richards" apartment (you remember Mary, Lou, and the gang from Minneapolis), consisted of one large room, an eat in kitchen, and two bathrooms. In on bathroom was an old claw foot tub and marble sink, in the other bathroom, located right next store, was the toilet. The rent was 175 dollars a month, heat included, and was on the third floor.

Across the hall from me lived Cindy Robinson, with her husband Jr, and along the way, baby Molly. Cindy and Jr were all of seventeen or eighteen years old at the time. Cindy was wise beyond her years, rough and tumble, raised by herself, for herself. This little vagabond girl gave me my first lesson about what a family really is, and the notion that "there's always room for one more." Long before Hillary ever said "it takes a village", Cindy gave me my first taste of what it meant to be part of a "village".

Beneath me, on the second floor, lived Loretta and Jim. Loretta, rest her soul, was Jr's grandmother and Jim was her common law husband. Both were in their seventies at the time, and Jim was a bit of a raging alcoholic. Some of my favorite evenings were spent listening to their drama playing loudly out.

For the first few years, nobody lived on the first floor, which was a "Dutch split", until eventually, the Robinson's moved down. The apartment consisted of a large kitchen and living room on the left side of the common hall, and a big bedroom on the right side of the hall. In the kitchen, in the back of the pantry, they found a secret staircase that led to the second floor apartment, which had been vacant the entire time we lived there. Once the Robinson's moved to the first floor split, Patrick moved in across the hall from me.

The house was owned by Charles Baum, who had inherited it from his father. Charles was not especially good at fixing or maintaining, so the house took care of itself for the most part, decaying a little more each year. Several years ago, perhaps a decade or two, one loses count, Charles sold the house to developers, who promptly tore her down, and replaced her with new commerce. I barely recognize the block today, except for that everything across the street from us remains the same.

A Song

When I met you Tuesday,

You asked me could I wait

Then you came back Thursday

and you were Norman Bates

It really makes me wonder,

How you feel about your mother,

It really makes me nauseous

Like phlemn dripping in the gutter.

When I saw you Saturday

You looked at me and stared

Then you came by Sunday

When things got really weird

You told me that you wondered,

How I felt about the thunder

That the sunshine was blocking

Those clouds he had been stalking

Well, Hello Dolly!

Yesterday, I was talking with my life-long friend Dolly and she said,

"Hey Paula, you should have seen me last night. I wore a cheetah print jacket and felt like a cougar, until I fell off the bar stool and realized I was Lindsey Lohan."

And with that, I realized it was time to write about Dolly.

One of the things you have to understand in order to understand the magnificence of Dolly is that from the time she was a child, she was obnoxiously beautiful. Long wavy blond hair, green eyes like a cat, porcelain skin that never got pimples, and the body of a runway model. She's always reminded me of a character from "The Great Gatsby".

Sometimes, I get the feeling that Dolly found her beauty more of a hindrance than a blessing. Because here's the thing, Dolly is also smart and funny and she's always made me laugh.

Hanging out with Dolly is fun to this day. She is timeless and has always made me feel like I was funny and brilliant. She loves music, and has been to hundreds of live concerts. She is still a party girl, and always open to an adventure, of which, through the years, Dolly has had many. That's why I wanted to introduce you to her, she's got the great stories.

Once, when we were teens, Dolly looks at me and says,

"Hey Paula, let's go camping".

To which I replied "awww, hell noooo....".

See, I've always hated camping. So there, I said it. One of the biggest mistakes I ever made was faking that I like camping when I was first dating my ex-husband. That fib haunted me for seventeen years of outdoor living hell.

Back in the day, going down to the Red River Gorge and camping in the primitive was what all my friends were doing. Not me, buddy. You could fall off a cliff, and nature is scary, plus it feels like being poor, which I know because I am poor. To this day, I've never been to Red River Gorge.

I could tell, that on some level, Dolly was going to make me go camping no matter what. She thought she could "convert" me. For her, I thought, what the hell, the party always follows Dolly anyway, and dammit, I love a party.

It's about five pm by the time Dolly has me talked into going camping. We've compromised on starting small, by going to Big Bone Lick, which is closer. Honestly, the name just cracked me up.

Dolly assured me that all we needed was a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and two sleeping bags. She was trying to discredit my "camping is way to much work" defense.

So, off we went, in Dolly's car, heading south at sunset to Big Big Bone Lick. Now, I love a ride in the car, especially because none of my friends drove yet. That was the funnest part. By the time we finally got to the camp ground, it was dark, and everybody else had tents and campers.

There was Dolly and me, and our loaf of white bread and peanut butter, ready to lay out our naked sleeping bags for the night.

I looked at Dolly and said "Oh hell no!"

Dolly looked around, at all the tents and campers, and our two little sleeping bags, shook her head and said "We're out of here. I know a better place."

So we packed up our stuff, you know, loaf of bread, etc. yadda yadda, and got back into the car. Dolly did a u-turn, squealing tires and all, and off we went to the "better place".

Dolly was good, I have to give her that. We ended up at a Holiday Inn, and camped out over night in a hotel room. It was the greatest camping experience of my life.

Lost

Every morning, at 3, give or take, those damn ghosties tickle me awake, and I wander through my psyche, dragging my dreams, and my plans, and my mental blue prints
tucked under my arm like a life jacket that I know will save me.

My psyche is a beautiful old house, with tons of doors, and windows, and stairs. So full of brightly colored choices and opportunities, it bubbles over,
and suddenly I know my focus has left the building, perhaps forever.

Visions are always colored in magic marker, because they are bright and permanent.
Idea's are always colored in pastel, so I can change them and blur their edges.
When the magic marker bleeds through the pastels to the idea, it becomes a vision.

I suspect that no one I've ever met really knew shit
mostly because they didn't know enough to know how little they knew
but that didn't deter most, because then they just lowered the curve.

Therefore; I'll not look to others as a benchmark for what direction is mine.
I'll no longer bend to fit their curve and help defend their broken hearts
I'll follow my own corridors, peeking inside each door, until I find my own way home.

This Was Just a Nightmare. Any resemblance to persons dead or living is strickly a coincidence

Earlier this afternoon, I was sitting at my desk up on the hill, eating some chicken noodle soup. Just as I was taking that last coveted bite, my cell phone rang. The ring statled me and I spilled the soup straight down my clevage. While the warmth of the liqued wasn't so bad, I knew it wouldn't last.

It was Joy on the phone, and she had a question.

"Paula, did you feel an imbalance in the force today?"

Feeling the warmth of the soup turning cold, and congeeling in my bra (by the way, a good bra can hold some soup with leaking)Smelling the congeeling chicken soup puddled in my bra, I immediately said "yes" because while I had no idea what Joy was talking about, I knew that some shit somehwhere was out of whack. Then I asked "Why?"

"Paula", Joy said, "Dark Stain was on campus today!"

"Oh, for the love of God, NO, not Dark Stain!" I screamed in shock "Will he never go away?!"

Let me tell you about Mr. Stain. He is an outside contractor that the technical college hired to manage their Information Technology Services department. He arrived through a Blackhole, which was a consulting firm that techno-phobic companies paid through the nose for to have Blackhole staff and manage their ITS area's.

Dark Stain is actually a very handsome man, with good hair, and a beautiful smile. He likes to think of himself as a renaissance man, an intelligent man, a fair man. Unfortunately, due to the pressure's of hanging on to that multi million dollar contract Blackhole has with the technical college, poor Dark Stain is rotting on the inside, which leads to the worst halitosis I've ever smelled.

Now, it could actually be worse. The technical college could not let Blackhole outsource any of the non-managerial technical staff because the techical staff was smart and organized and were protected by the Union. That caused Dark Stain and Blackhole to loose millions of dollars on the contract, and someone was going to pay.

Needless to say, Dark Stain and all his little middle minions despised the Union, and began to spread the horrid rumors about the character and integrity of those who dwelled in the Union. Dark Stain roamed the halls up on the hill, silky and efeminate, whispering poison into the ear of any Governer that would listen.

Soon, Dark Stain had convinced many that the leader of the Union was lazy, dishonest, greedy and evil. And I'm here to tell you, it's really played well in Peoria. At the height of Dark's reign, my office had been moved to a small closet (no, seriously, it was a real closet) with no desk and 45 watt bulbs. Dark said there were not extra desks to be had, and that I should bring in a floor lamp from home.

Finally, after seven or eight years of living under the well manicured but iron hand of Dark Stain, he finally went away. He plagerized "The Last Lecture" filling in the blanks with what he felt really mattered and didn't matter, and that Unions divided us all. He then went on tour, giving his "Last Lecture" to the Board of Trustee's, the President's cabinet, and at an all department ITS staff meeting.

It was the most nauseating, hypocritical document I've ever been forced to listen to. Then, right at the part where Dark was telling us that it was "our families" that really mattered, the unthinkable happened.

MY CELL PHONE RANG!

When I saw it was one of the J's calling, and after hearing Dark Strain drone on about my screwed up priorities, I decided to finally change my ways, and dammit, I got up and left that meeting and took my child's phone call.

After Darks "Last Lecture" finally ended, the new CIO from Blackwell, Spanky Faker, came straight up to me. I felt really excited, because I thought he cared enough to ask if my kids were ok. So I smiled at him and went to shake his hand, and that's when he said,

"You have no class what-so-ever"

In shock, I replied "Is that suit going to help you be a good CIO?"

Oy vay, not a good start, but hey, Dark Stain was finally gone and the people on the hill had rejoiced. Dark Stain had felt sure that he was revered and loved by all, but the sad truth was that he was a joke with no punchline.

So, today, Dark Stain returned. Please, universe, I beg you, for the love of our technical college, make Blackhole and Dark Stain go away. Now that the Queen of Blackwell Ohio is finally off the board of trustee's of the technical college, we could mange our own stuff. Especially because no one has ever been better at technology than we are, and outsourcing your technical management isn't just wildly expensive, it's bad self-esteem.

Trust Me On This...It Could Always Be Worse

One of the reasons I love current events is because it is a never ending source of ammunition for my "things could always be worse" arsenal. And that's a very valuable survival tool, especially if fate has dealt you the hard knock life.

No matter how bad or how stupid any situation gets, I need to be able to think of the counter balance. The thing that, in comparison, pales my travails.

Depending on the size of my discomfort, I can fill in the blank with the appropriately horrible event from any time in history. It gives me a lot to work with, and I find that being morbid doesn't bother me at all.

For instance:

"Damn, traffic sucks, and I'm gonna be late for work and get the stink eye from my manager." (I used to refer to him as my "boss" until I realized that ain't nobody the boss of me.)

It could be worse: "We could be in the wreck that caused the traffic, be dead, and not make it to work at all."

Sometimes, I'm quite virtuous in my rationalizations:

"Oh shit, I left my purse on top of the car and it didn't fall off until I hit 65 on the highway. Too bad I took that 300 dollars out of the ATM in case the electric grid died at the stroke of the new millennium."

It could be worse: "I could be one of the homeless people living under the bridge that will find that cash, and it will be like magic at their darkest moment and change their lives forever."

Other times, I have to reach really, really deep, which generally leads to some really, really ugly stuff.:

"Oh hell no, I did not just break both my feet while on vacation!!"

It could be worse: "I could be living in Cambodia, farming a rice paddie, too poor to even dream of a vacation, step on a land mine, get both my feet blown off, and have no access to prosthetics."

Which reminds me, I love me some foreign country, third world, kind of comparisons:

"WTF, who turned the lights out? Is it getting colder in here? Hey, I thought they didn't cut that shit off in the middle of February anymore."

It could be worse: "If we lived in Siberia, we'd always be cold, and have icicles running down our moustaches like in that movie Dr. Zhivago, and have nothing to eat but nasty shit like left over rotten produce we found in the garbage."

" No, the bank did not just charge me a big fat service charge for the favor of bouncing my mortgage payment because I was 79 cents short?"

It could be worse: "Well, I guess we could be starving to death in Ethiopia."

I find the middle east especially helpful when it comes to women's issue's:

"I'm just as smart as any man I've ever met. So why does he earn so much more money for doing the same job?"

It could be worse: "If I lived in the middle east, they would stone me to death in the courtyard."

My mothers personal favorite is Germany, because it covers so much ground:

You can fill in the blank on this one, no matter the how small or large the hardship.

It could be worse: "We could be living in Nazi Germany, poo-poo-poo."

"Mom, does he have to do the entire service in Hebrew, and hasn't he been talking for like 12,000 hours now? I can't feel my legs anymore."

It could be worse: "Be quiet, you could be in a concentration camp."

In closing, I'd like to share with you my current favorite, which is just plain stupid:

"Oh crap, I'm the same age as Susan Boyle!"

It could be worse: "Well, at least I'm not a virgin."

Go ahead, try me. Tell me anything and I'll tell you how it could be worse. So there you have it.

Does Anybody Remember when Alex Chilton Played The Dugout?

My friend Joe posted this story on his Facebook page today. It's about singer/songwriter Alex Chilton, who died earlier this week.

To learn more about Alex, go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CNVSjBRaJss

It's a great story, so I invited Joe to be my first guest blogger ever. Being a gentleman and a scholar, he agreed. He asked me to mention that the story took place 20 years ago.

Does anybody remember when Alex Chilton played The Dugout?

I was the soundman that night and I'd heard nothing but horror stories about how he loved to dress down sound guys from the stage. I was a little nervous as I was still kind of new to Atlanta and we had a more or less thrown together a PA, elements borrowed from here and there.

I did a little research and found out that Alex liked to smoke a little weed. He walked in the club, which was mostly still a sports bar in spite of the new stage and modest lighting rig, with a bit of a skeptical look on his face.

They showed him downstairs, to what would function as his dressing room, and (I'm guessing) offered him some food. I went down and introduced myself,

"Hi, I'm Joe. I'll be your soundman tonight. I have this for you." and handed him a big old hog leg of a doobie.

"I've heard you can be pretty particular about how you like your monitors to sound. I hope we can get them the way you like 'em."

Alex looked at that big fat joint and simply said, "Me, too." ...

About an hour and a half later, Alex and the band got on stage and we had (I'm told) one of the smoothest and quickest sound checks anyone had ever seen Alex have followed by a really terrific set. He even shook my hand afterward.

A few years later I mixed him at the Point. We had a similar pre-show meeting,

"Hey, Mr. Chilton, remember me? I gave you one of these last time."

"Oh, yeah! Good to see you again!" and another smooth show. I just wish I could find the recording I made that night. Oh, well.

You Now Have My Completely Divided Attention for the Next Three Seconds...Use it Wisely

Perhaps it's my incredibly short attention span, but I've always considered billboards to be great reading. There is no wording more succinct than the stuff you see on billboards. Sometimes, they're informative, sometimes artistic, and often times, just plain baffling. I love the variety of driving up and down I75 and consider myself a connoisseur of flash media.

Once, when the boys were babies, we went the wrong way to LasVegas from LA and almost ended up in Tijuana. It was the billboards that told me I was in trouble, atleast an hour before I got the nerve to tell my ex-husband. What should have been a three hour drive turned into eight hours, with babies screaming in the back seat about sitting too long. Somewhere around San Diego, I told my ex about my little navigation error. Having quit smoking several weeks before, all he said was "I'm buying cigarettes" and started searching for the next exit.

The all time best billboard was in downtown Chicago, near the Greyhound Bus station. It was for Camel cigarettes and it pictured a man from the shoulders up, smoking a huge cigarette. In my memory, the man was blowing smoke rings through a whole inserted in his mouth. In reality, he was probably just blowing smoke, which on it own was pretty damn clever for the late 1970's.

My current favorite is a billboard for Red Gold Tomato's that was erected a few months ago. It had a bright green, papermache vine built all the way from the ground up and around the billboard. For a few days, it was a huge mystery what it was for, and then one day it bloomed shiny delicious tomatoes the size of cars in beautiful 3D. It's gone now, but that's the nature of billboards, they come and they go.

There is one billboard that is baffling and I wish it would go away already. For whatever reason, it brings out the worst in me. I see it everyday on my way to work, and resent it for catching my already limited attention.

It has a huge picture of a child on it, but only from the nose up and forehead down. The oblong snap shot is all big blue eyes and white blond hair, and even though I can't see anymore of it, she strikes me as a girl. The only words are "Consider Foster Care".

This is how I sound as I slowly process the billboards message.

The first day I think "What's that? A billboard for Swedish nannies?".

The second day, I think, in a bad middle eastern accent "Hey lady! How much for the little girl?" in homage to the Blues Brothers.

On the third day, I think "Isn't 25 too old to be a foster child?"

On the fourth day, I think "Is this supposed to reassure white supremacists that they can be foster parents too?"

On the fifth day, I think "Why am I still making fun of this very serious, socially relevant billboard? Hey, cheese coney's are on sale!"

On the sixth day, I think "This could be a billboard for pedophile services."

On the seventh day, I'm thinking "Hey, Ayrian kids need love too."

Yes, I'm ashamed. Yes, I feel bad about it. Yes, I know I will be punished by the universe for having such terrible thoughts. But mostly, I blame really bad advertising. So there you have it.

I Hate Feb-r-uary

Of all the twelve months, the one I scorn is February. It started with that silent "r", you know, the one after the "b" that makes no sound. You just can't trust a month that hides an extra letter.

Equally as bad, if not worse, is the day Wednesday, with that whole "dnes" mess in the middle. The only reason I don't hate Wednesday is because it isn't Monday or Tuesday.

Sure, February does have Valentine's Day, and I want to cut it some slack for that. Really I do. So here's a great gift idea. Valium for Valentine's Day. You could print little love messages on them like candy hearts.

Anyway, even if February is the shortest month, for me, it's still always the longest month. I mean this shit lasts forever. I think that's why they made it the shortest month to begin with. Well, it's not working.

I Almost Killed My Baby!

Once, I almost forgot to drop off my baby on my way to work. As I started to pull into the driveway of where I work, I suddenly remembered that J2 was with me. He had been so quiet that morning, and I was so busy thinking about everything I needed to accomplish that day, that I completely and utterly forgot he was there.

I could have left him to freeze to death in the car for eight hours! He could have died! Thank God I remembered he was there.

So I pulled a u-turn and thanked God out loud over and over again. That's when J2 looked at me from the passenger seat and said "Mom, I'm pretty sure I could have let myself out". In a lame effort to regain my authority, I replied "Well, thank God it happened now instead of ten years ago!". Then he reminded me that he needed lunch money.

So there you have it.

Captain Kirk and the Starship Imperialism

Last week, J1 participated in his first high school debate. Well, his first official debate I should say, because that child came out of the womb debating with me.

The question at hand was "Is it wrong for one country to force change upon another?", or more directly "Is Imperialism Evil?".

When he told me the topic, my liberal-leaning-knee-jerk reaction was "Hell YEAH it's wrong", and then J1 informed me that he had been assigned the "Hell YEAH it's right" stance. Well, shit, that made me have to think.

So I had to stage a full debate on the topic, in my head, representing both sides, which is the kind of thing I do for a hobby. Here's what I came up with: Star Trek.

Yes, that's right, it can all be summed up through your choice of any Star Trek episode. Once again, everything I know, I learned on TV.

The number one rule "The Federation" always had, that all Starship explorers must abide, is that "YOU CAN NOT CHANGE THE COURSE OF HISTORY of ANY CIVILIZATION YOU VISIT!!".

Well, like anybody on Star Trek could ever follow that rule. In the end, Captain Kirk could never help himself. All the time beaming in and out, laser stunning any threatening inhabitants, saving planets from exploding, and hitting on women. Some intervention for good, some intervention for not so good. It's a fine line.

So I call my BFF RWC, who is always willing to join the current debate inside my head. He knows enough about Star Trek to have an opinion, but not enough to have the "Space, a final frontier" speech memorized in full, thus avoiding the official Trekkie input. Those Trekkie's get too emotional to discuss imperialism.

The first point RWC makes is "Well, it wouldn't be very good television if all they did was sit around observing."

True that.

Then RWC says "It's impossible to go anywhere and not somehow force change, even when you don't mean to. If I wear a pair of pants with pockets, and the indigenous people have never seen pockets, then I could very well force change."

And, of course, he's right. The change of adding pockets to clothing isn't just a fashion statement. The real impact is on how they think ergonomically and it spreads to other applications.

Here's my conclusion: If you don't want to force change, you better not ever leave home. If you go to the rain forest, that plane you arrive on will force the culture to have an airport. If you save dying children, you force change in the cultures destiny. The Allies certainly forced change on Nazi Germany, a point that J1 so brilliantly made.

Still, forcing religious change is a horrible thing. That's a whole different level. Once again, so many shades of grey.

So there you have it, I'm even closer to the middle of the road than ever. Imperialism is such an ugly word, can't we just say "humanitarianism".

Patrick and the Truth About that Weed his Mother Found

Once, about five million years ago, Patrick was playing at Shipley's with his old band, The Thangs. Shipley's was a Clifton bar, once on McMillan, and then on short Vine.

On this occasion, Patricks mother showed up with his Aunt Mary and was sitting at a table in the back with all the Cousins, Aunts and Uncles. Everyone is talking at once and having a great time.

Suddenly, to everyone's surprise, his mother produces a bag of weed and slams it down in the middle of the table. Everything goes completely silent.

"I found this in the boys jeans" she announces.

"That's mine" Patrick declares, because it really was.

"Then why did I find it in your brothers jeans" she asks.

"Because I was wearing his jeans" he says, because he really did.

"No, it's not yours." she insists, "It's you brothers and I'm keeping it" and with that, she put it in her purse.

For whatever reason, she absolutely refused to believe that the weed could ever belong to Patrick.

Thus began a conversation that would be repeated though out the next 25 years.

A few days after his mothers discovery, Patrick was still trying to convince her that the weed was his.

"Why are you trying to cover for your brother?" she asked

"Because it's mine, I paid for it and I want it back."

She still wouldn't believe that it was his.

For years and years, Patrick never forgot about this weed. The fact that his mother wouldn't believe it was his bothered him on some level.

So he asks her on a regular basis what she did with it. Did she smoke it? Did she throw it away? How did it make her feel?

The answer has always been the same "I smoked it with your Aunt Mary."

Patrick always follows this with "How did it make you feel?"

His mother always laughs and says "just great".

Last week, Patrick asked his mother for the hundredth time,

"What did you REALLY do with that weed?"

She knows exactly what he's talking about, and says "you mean your brothers?"

"No", Patrick is still insisting, "Mine".

Maybe the years had softened her, or, perhaps, she finally got sick of having that damn conversation. But what ever the reason, for the first time in all these many years, her story changed.

"Well, we didn't actually smoke it, but we did burn it. In an ashtray. At the Corner Pub."

So Patrick asks "How did it smell?"

She says "It smelt OK"

Patrick is smiling now and asks "Did the smell make you hungry?"

She says "I don't know, why are you still asking me about this."

Finally, after all this time, Patrick said what he had been waiting all these years to say.

"Because I replaced it with oregano when I stole it back from you!"

And so they came full circle, by way of the scenic route around the block.

I Think It May Be Safe to Tell You this Story, with a Side Order of "Hurry Quick, Knock on Wood!"

This year, 2010, is my five year anniversary for being cancer free. That's a huge milestone in the world of cancer. I've never really wanted to talk about it before because I was afraid of the "voo-doo-whammie-curse", and didn't want to draw the universe's attention to myself.

Almost exactly two decades ago, Trisha was giving me a head massage, which wasn't nearly as erotic as it sounds. She had just opened her first salon/spa , called the "Grand Jete" which is French for the "Grand Leap", and I was always more than happy to take that leap with her. 

It was an Aveda salon and there was so many lotions and potions to try.  I always liked that Aveda stuff, even the lipstick was great..  Anyfrufru, it was out west, in a land called Rancho Cucamonga, which is a suburb of Los Angeles, which is the land of fruits and nuts. 

While she was massaging the delicious mint with lavendar scented oil into my scalp, she found two marble sized lumps on the back of my head, on the right side near the top. 

Soon after, I went to see Dr. Moirera, who was a very tiny woman with very short, very dark hair.  Mostly I remember the big square cute diamond earrings she always wore.  She told me not to do anything with the tumors unless it absolutely had to be done. 

She said the tumors were in a difficult spot because you only have so much scalp to work with because it doesn't stretch.  That meant that every surgery would use precious skin, and before long, skin graphs would be involved.  Skin graphs are a whole nother bowl of tamales.

Taking her advice, which allowed me to continue in a state of complete denial, was the best thing I could have ever done.  Quite frankly, it probably saved my life.  I can cook with some denial.  Thus began the cold war, and I was armed with a thick coat of denial.  Dayum, that denial is some great shit.  I should have named this post "In Praise of Aveda and Denial".

Don't get me wrong, I'm not stupid.  If you have a tumor that keeps growing back, only bigger and faster everytime?  Yeah, that's cancer.  The thing was, of all the many doctors I've seen, none ever suggested chemo therapy or radiation because no doctor ever fessed up to me that it was cancer. 

It was like they instinctively knew that I didn't want to know.  So every six months or so, I would have another surgery to relieve the pressure the tumors, which by now had grown into one big purple tumor, was creating and just carry on as if nothing happened.  This went on for ten or so years.  At this point, I couldn't even tell you how many surgeries I had, I lost count at some point.

See, I was busy with other stuff.  There were relationships that needed to be had, and babies that needed to be born. During the same time, the technological revolution happened and swept me along with it, and for the first time in my life I knew what I wanted to be. 

It was those baby boys that propelled me forward. The growth hormone made the tumors grown even faster.  After having J1, I was discouraged from getting pregnant again.  I shrugged that off and got pregnant again anyway, because my baby had to have a sibling.  It was all just so meant to be, like it was a master plan.

It's not the cancer that kills you in the end, it's all the crap they do to your body to get rid of it, and by then, I was on my last leg.  I couldn't imagine surviving another surgery. To make a long story shorter, in 2005, through sheer denial and stubbourness, I lived to see my cure. 

Right at that darkest moment, a friend of mine talked me into going to her doctor.  It turned out that this doctor knew another doctor, the brilliant Dr. Weltman, who was one of three doctors in the state of Ohio using a new procedure called the "MOHS" procedure.  He saved my life and didn't nobody expect that to happen, except for me. 

The MOHS procedure allowed Dr. Weltman to operate on the tumor in one room and run across the hall to the lab for an instant biopsy.  He never closed me up until he finally got a clean biopsy.  I was on the table for eight hours where he removed three tumors, one of which was new, meaning that the cancer had started to spread.

The next day, I spent eight hours in surgery at University Hospital (I really am living proof) having reconstructive surgery.  At this point, 50 percent of my scalp was skin graphs taken from my legs.  If this didn't work, it was the end of the fight because I was just so deeply down in my soul exhausted.

For the first year after the surgery, I had to have catscans every four months.  After the first year of clear scans, they started a series of reconstructive surgury on my head.  They wanted to put a water balloon in my head to stretch the skin, and have me come to the office once a week to have more water put in it.  I said I didn't think so. 

I opted for a slice of skin graph being removed at at time every four months.  Just ask me anytime, I'll show you my scars.  The silver lining is the face lift it gave me.  So there you have it.

Gov'na Ventura and the Truth

Generally, I avoid conspiracy theories because I appreciate the government lying to me.  Ignorance really is bliss and I have more than enough information to keep me awake at night as it is. 

Lately, though, RWC has had the nerve to drag me kicking and screaming from my self-crafted cradle of bliss.  That's the thing with these brainy guys, they're all the time making you think.  He obviously didn't understand that I was trying to seduce him into my cradle.  I need to work on that.

Anylibido, my biggest area of interest, or as RWC would say, "my specialty", is chem-trails.  I never knew anything about no chem-trails until we went to a UFO/Conspiracy convention. I always agree to attend these things with him because RWC is so sexy, smart, and funny, that I'd probably attend a care cremation ceremony at Bohemian Grove just to be close enough to smell him.

At the UFO convention, there was this speaker that talked about clouds.  He said that the long, flat clouds that seem to be made by sky writers aren't really clouds afterall.  They're the government seeding the skies with something and nobody knows with what or why.  I've been obsessed with them ever since, because suddenly those damn sky writer clouds are everywhere, and sometimes the skies over Cincinnati look downright plaid, and you know that just ain't right.

The other day, RWC mentioned that he saw a conspiracy show that is hosted by Jesse Ventura. This caught my attention, because Jesse "the body" Ventura went from being a famous pro-wrestler to a one term Gov'na of Minnesota (those Minnesotians must really love their pro-wrestling), to a conspiracy specialist. There's a career path you don't hear of very often.

The show is very confrontational and in your face.  Everyone calls Jesse "gov'na" and in return, Jesse promises to never stop confronting "the man" till he finally gets to the "truth". This all seems very comforting, since Jesse, afterall, is "a navy seal, gov'na, and fighter" which he reminds us of repeatedly. 

Having sat through the first sixty seconds of  "Conspiracy with Jesse Ventura", I came to the hard realization that this man has no credibility what-so-ever.  Why?  Because Jesse Ventura is a fucking bald man with a long ponytail made up of his last five hairs.  That's why.  My breaking point came when he looked straight into the camera and said something to the effect of "people not being able to handle the truth".

I'm sorry, but after that, I find it hard to get with the rest.  If you are in denial about being bald, what else do you deny? After that, there was nothing "the body" Ventura could tell me about the truth that I would ever believe.  I'm sure he swears he never used steroids either. 

Maybe Gov'na Ventura should just stick to radio, I hear there's more credibilty there.  So there you have it.