CaveWOMAN: "Find masto-- hey, what are those flowers called? They'd look nice on-- is Zug allergic? Find masto-- Fug doesn't like mastodon. Mammoth, then? Find mammoth, kill-- wait. Mammoth goes straight to my hips. *sigh* Did I pick up the furs? Dammit, cramps! Okay, find mastodon... ______
a 55 for everybody's favorite primitive, the G Man!
Do you feel different, out of step, last to be picked for badminton? Take heart, Oddness is a thoroughly American thing.
Consider the presidents! Millard Fillmore once suffered a minor fall down some back steps at the White House while secreting one of the domestics away from Abigail's jealous eyes.
The injury healed, but at the wound site, a large, prehensile tail began to grow. Fillmore could sometimes be found hanging upside down from an Oval Office chandelier while his hands remained free to sort and sign important documents. Once, while playing cards with Secretary of State Daniel Webster, he set down a straight flush with his tail, enraging Webster and resulting in some unfortunate gun-play with small caliber arms. All of this was quickly hushed up, but it is fact.
James K. Polk had a small pair of antlers protruding from his forehead. Contemporary portraitists left the antlers out, but Polk, far from feeling abashed, was actually quite vain about his antlers, standing at the mirror in the presidential bedroom for hours, polishing them. With the opening of the Smithsonian Institution, Polk arranged for his antlers to be placed on permanent display after his death, but when Polk eventually passed away from cholera, postmaster Cave Johnson made a disheartening discovery.
When Mr. Johnson tried to affix his newly created postage stamps to the antlers, in order to ship them the slightly more than a mile to the Smithsonian, he was aghast to find that the stamps refused to adhere to the presidential rack. Hurriedly slinging them under his arm to carry them by foot, he accidentally stabbed himself, and the antlers were tried and convicted of assault upon a government official. They were sent under military and police guard to federal prison, where they were immediately misplaced and never found again. This explains the lack of information generally available about James K. Polk's celebrated horns.
Finally, Chester A. Arthur showed great loyalty and courage when, even though his health was compromised by the presence of a not fully formed Siamese twin growing out of his right side, he sent a parade of cut-happy surgeons away, and named the twin Roscoe Conkling, eventually forming the "Stalwart" faction of the Republican Party with the blighted parasite. In time, Arthur offered his twin a place on the bench of the United States Supreme Court, a position which the twin accepted and was approved for by Congress. However, Conkling's physical inability to be any place where Chester Arthur wasn't, prevented him from ever serving. It is said that, at dinner parties, Chester Arthur would unbutton his vest and allow Conkling to come out and amuse the guests with the one about the whore and the Legal Tender Act. Because of his prominence and position, this was tolerated, but when Arthur tried to dance with Governor Hamilton Fish's wife Julia, and the twin tried to take her hand, even the Chief Executive realized he had gone too far, and withdrew. The twin later distinguished itself by winning a boxing match against Rutherford B. Hayes. Hayes is said to have acquitted himself well, but a punch from Conkling drove Hayes's cigar down his throat and set his stomach on fire, ending the fight. Conkling, a non-smoker, declared this a victory for "clean living". Chester Arthur was tremendously proud of his parasitic twin, and wanted to see him remembered as a great statesman. Whether this can be said today is debatable, but the silent comedian Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle did derive his Christian name from Chester A. Arthur's little stowaway Roscoe Conkling.
I hope that this painstakingly researched article has made you feel better, Weirdo. And remember, nobody likes badminton anyway.
The Succubus sits at her favorite booth in the corner, smoking and reading her horoscope.
"Hey. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm." It's Chloe, the serial killer and resident sweetheart of Danny's Coffee Shop. "What's it say? 'Do your fucking roots already'?"
Behind Chloe, there are tally marks on the wall. 15 cheerleaders, 27 golfers, 11 assorted shitheads. 1 pop star. 1 criminal court judge. 2 morning people.
The Succubus reads her horoscope aloud. "Follow your dreams." Chloe snorts. Everyone knows that the Succubus follows other people's dreams and enters them. That she has incredible sex with them. That she steals their souls. Yadda yadda.
"I was in HER dream last night."
"HER?"
"You know. HER."
"Well Jesus H. Christ in a strapless gown," says Chloe. "Did you steal her soul???"
The Succubus looks over her dark glasses at Chloe as if the girl were simple-minded. "Uh, noOOOooo. Think about it."
Chloe has white dust from a sugar donut on her lips. She stops chewing. "Oh. Right. So, what was she dreaming about?"
"She dreamed she was on a bus, but it was more like a train. She had on boots and an expensive coat and a big hat, but no top, and the coat was open."
Chloe laughs. "That chick is coo coo. What else?"
"Well, she wanted to get off the bus at the National Shrine of the Little Flower, but the driver said the bus was a Limited and she couldn't."
God the waitress looks over. She's been eavesdropping. It isn't easy, staying omniscient. "Good for her. I hope she kicked him in the shins."
Two heads swivel over to stare at God. "Or somewhere!" chirps Chloe.
Just then, the Queen of the Vampires comes strutting in, in black panther form, with the Speaker of the House dangling from her jaws.
"Ohmugaw, " says the Succubus. She looks at Chloe and adds, "Do you remember when our little kitty started out with birds and mice? All grown up now. " The Succubus sighs. "What's a demoness from the underworld to do?"
The Queen of the Vampires leaps up into a booth, dropping John Boehner so that she can rip the bejabbers out of the seat with her fearsome claws, to make herself comfy. "What are you two simps discussing? Oh, wait a minute. WHO are you discussing?"
(*cricket cricket*)
The QOTV is just about to sink her fangs into the Representative from Ohio, when she looks up. "Spill!"
"Um, we were discussing you, darling, but...not."
"Huh?"
The Succubus goes back to her Life section. "One day all of these mysteries will make sense to you. For now, child, eat your snack."
Chloe snorts again. "She's so cute when she's confused."
"Girls." It is the warning voice of God.
"We're just fucking with her," complains Chloe. Instantly, she is surrounded by a hundred perky cheerleaders, waving pom poms. "Okay! I'll stop!" The cheerleaders vanish as quickly as they came. God smirks and goes back to working on her chalk menu board.
"One day you'll know your destiny, padewan," says the Succubus. "Your true identity." Then, lowering her voice as deep as she can, she adds, "Kitty...I am your faaaatherrrr." When she laughs it is surprisingly light and girlish. For a demoness.
Just then, the little bell above the door jingles, and someone walks in. She's wearing jeans and boots and is complaining under her breath about having to drive a clown car. She is met with a loud chorus of whoops and wolf whistles from the Danny's girls. She pretends not to notice. Walking up to the to-go counter, she asks, "Who does a girl have to fuck around here to get some coffee?"
* * *
Her eyes open, and she groans. Morning. For some reason, she wants coffee even more than usual. She has a weird urge to go to the National Shrine of the Little Flower today. She wonders what the bus schedule is like. Then, for no reason she can name, she puts her hand to her chest and feels the usual tee shirt. "Weird," she mumbles, getting out of bed. Let's see...coffee, chocolate chip oatmeal.....let Bosco out...then write something for the blog. Maybe a Danny's Coffee Shop thing. Or maybe some soppy love poem. "O Dark-Haired Chick," she begins, in her head. Um...what rhymes? schtick, trick, dick...no, that's not working out. Go with Dannys. Okay, um....
The Succubus sits at her favorite booth in the corner, smoking and reading her horoscope....
I really did have the dream described above, about the bus, and Shrine, and my distinctive and stylish mode of costume, last night. I'm ready for my close-up now, Mr. DeMille.
Learn about the fascinating history of the Shrine of the Little Flower, HERE.
For the longest time, the tin and phosphorous stars seemed to hold pose in the sky-- the jasmine night blooms dismissed notions of mourning, and yellow-white candles embraced their wicks as if flame were dreams, and their bright sleep knew the gods' blessing to continue, endless.
For a charmed while, the moon shrugged off her chill, orange-warmed by breezed leaves-- the nightjar hid herself along a wet-black branch above us, and though she seemed to be only rhyme and rumor tucked between pointed wings, she carried her children in her mouth to move them, secretly.
For just those moments, however sustained or brief they really were, everything around us bent kindly our way-- all green things, and all feathered, brought us our own names and the desired other's to build ourselves, our keenest hunger, and our softest satiety from.
We were there, for the longest time, for that charmed while, for just those moments,
and then? Then we weren't, and the way back had burned behind us as inevitable and harshly bright as sunrise. _______
I am saddened this morning to hear of the death--apparently by heroin overdose--of the great actor Philip Seymour Hoffman. I loved him in "Flawless", "Doubt","Capote" and "Magnolia". Not so much in "Love, Liza", though it was the script, which had him huffing gasoline throughout, and not his acting that I didn't care for. As a recovering person, I'm shattered that such a talented person has died by that familiar demon. I'm grateful to have escaped, one day at a time. I'm sick that this incredible actor didn't.
It's amazing to me how personally connected one can feel to an actor or actress, because something they brought to life resonated in one's heart and soul. Actors and writers do the same thing, don't they; they make tangible those intangible feelings we all have, and give them form we can look at and nod our heads and say, "Yes, that's it." And we feel that we come away with a little piece of truth. A little more humanity.
Having read and been fascinated by my father's copy of "Holocaust!" by Paul Benzaquin (1959), I was familiar with the subject of the famous Cocoanut Grove nightclub fire of 1942, and looked forward to reading this book. It was okay, but I liked Benzaquin's book much better.
"Fire In The Grove: The Cocoanut Grove Tragedy And Its Aftermath" concentrates largely on the behind-the-scenes chicanery that set the stage for this disastrous fire in which almost five hundred people lost their lives. Public officials who accepted bland assurances that "everything is according to Hoyle" without actually conducting inspections, shady nightclub management that placed profits over safety--many of the exits were locked or blocked, to prevent anyone skipping out on their check--and accounts of the trial of those accused of involuntary manslaughter, dominate this book.
I had hoped for more personal stories of ordinary people caught up in an extraordinary disaster. A thousand people went out to the Grove that night expecting nothing more dramatic than a good time; half of them died, and many more were injured and traumatized. From the newlyweds whose life together lasted only three hours, to the illegally hired underage busboy whose match may have started the blaze, to the Coast Guardsman who escaped unharmed, only to rush back in to save his date, there is plenty to be told, but Esposito doesn't spend a lot of time on these stories. The Coast Guardsman returned into the burning nightclub four times, managing to rescue several patrons, but never finding his date, who he had met only that afternoon. The last time he emerged, he was engulfed in flames. No one so badly burned had ever survived up to that time, but he did survive, lived another fourteen years, and married one of his nurses. In an incredibly cruel twist of fate, he died in 1956 when his vehicle ran off the road in heavy fog and he burned to death. Esposito tells his story, but almost only in passing.
What this book goes into depth about, are the tangled web of Boston politics, the shady practices of the owners of a prohibition era speakeasy turned nightclub, the scrambling, after the fire, to shift blame, and the legal maneuverings of the subsequent trial. Esposito has done his homework as to the many locked or blocked exits, the flammable nature of the Grove's "exotic" decor, and such stuff as the dummy corporation that owned the Grove, and the public officials who enjoyed being on the club's "free list", having their drinks and dinners comped, and then failing to perform their duties to insure public safety.
It's not a bad book, but I would say to be aware of its focus before reading it.
“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage.”
―
Anaïs Nin
I know you loved me, and that you had used sonar to detect me standing next to you, taking vows.
A fake ID is fine when one is sixteen. Fun is fun, until one starts marrying people and moving in. A common language must be agreed upon. Semaphore is a strange way to say "I love you", especially if one doesn't, particularly. You were kind ointment on the burn and there were no other medics, that's all.
I looked in the mirror and saw only glass. I looked at the page and saw only an innocent white blankness, but innocence is unbecoming past a certain age. One is expected to have learned something, to desire something enough to wrap one's self around it no matter the requirement in blood, and one really ought to, eventually, have grown some guts.
Thank you for loving me, or, the idea of me. Thank you for then becoming false and foreign, and for going mad. Thank you for removing all comfort so that I could know it wasn't comfort I wanted. Thank you for teaching me that I am strong enough to survive such sustained insanity.
With nothing to stop me, I became myself. At first, all I wanted was to be a pretty girl. Is there any coin as common as being a pretty girl? Look around. Has it stopped being a general cultural goal? Do I look fat in this? In the mirror I saw that I was not conventionally pretty, but I was me standing there in front of myself at last.
Passion, that's what I wanted. Pick a place you've never been and go there. I picked. I went. I went as myself. I went down in flames and then picked again, went again. I can fly, and not just in dreams. Here's the thing I wished for. Fasten those seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy ride.
I looked at a page and it was white as a bandage. I loved, I bled, I spoke my new name and went through a thousand dressings. There were nurses, a lot of them, all pretty, but I was the only one turning gauze into garlands.
I am a little bird, a butterfly, nothing much, but there are lions strewn dead in my path, behind me. Look again, they are gone. Look a third time-- the butterfly has lioness eyes, and the little bird? Why, the little bird sings a song that can be heard across the night and across miles, saying I am here. I am here. I am here.
A bird who thinks she speaks for lions, houses souls of lions. I am. Hear. _____
