No stories today, as I have to go out to the beautiful land of Mountain Home to visit my grandmother who is such a delight.
I just wanted to let everyone know that has been reading, I started my blog a month ago today in an attempt to force myself to write more. I have tried for everyday, and that hasn't always been possible, but it is getting easier. Part of what is making it easier has been knowing that people are reading it and enjoying it (though the inner critic tells me it can't be possible). As of this post I have 1765 hits--not bad for a month, and not possible without readers like you (this is starting to sound like a damned Public Television PSA).
Also, as you may have noticed, I put a donation button off to the side, not because I want to be gross (because it makes me feel a little gross), but because some friends of mine encouraged me to do so as it has become a "norm" in the blogging world. I know that everyone reading is as broke as me, but if you win the lottery, think of me. Or if you know someone that knows someone that wants to pay me to write, do some networking for me, will ya?
Thanks again!
*A special thanks to Michael for always fixing my jacked up images and template. Because without his help, this thing would be ugly because I am incompetent.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Shop-Along III
Today when I walked into Winco, the cart bay didn't have many carts in it, so I had to walk all the way back to grab one. Along the wall, there were these carts that were made of red, hard plastic called the Shop-Along III. The cart looked almost like a flatbed cart--one you would see in a big box store like Costco--but with lips on the edges to prevent your stuff from sliding off, and the top, near the handle, was sort of rounded, presumably for a child, or your purse--it's hard to say.
What was most interesting was the label:
It's designed to carry up to two children, which I understand. I've seen kids in the cart bay nearly clawing each other's eyes out to ride in the cart. The Shop-Along III provides more room than a regular grocery cart so both kids can enjoy shopping. And, I can understand the safety part of it, too. While carts aren't designed to sit on the bottom, near the wheels, like in days of old, riding in the actual cart can be dangerous for little kids--fingers stuck in the wiring, pudding cups burst on pants, and scraped up knuckles from riding beside mommy's 6 pack of beer bottles.
The part that baffles me is or one adult. Come on Grandma! Hop in! Taking your elderly parents to the store? Who needs an electric cart? The only joy I see in this is driving around your friend at the store shopping for Pizza Rolls after a long night of too many margaritas. But I see fights happening. I don't want to steer, you steer!
So as I inspected the Shop-Along III, a man came into the cart bay and said, "Wow. Not many carts in here, huh?" And I said, "No. But I found this." And he walked over and looked at the Shop-Along III with me. I think the notion struck him as a little odd, but it only really sunk in and made him uncomfortable after I offered to push him around.
What was most interesting was the label:
It's designed to carry up to two children, which I understand. I've seen kids in the cart bay nearly clawing each other's eyes out to ride in the cart. The Shop-Along III provides more room than a regular grocery cart so both kids can enjoy shopping. And, I can understand the safety part of it, too. While carts aren't designed to sit on the bottom, near the wheels, like in days of old, riding in the actual cart can be dangerous for little kids--fingers stuck in the wiring, pudding cups burst on pants, and scraped up knuckles from riding beside mommy's 6 pack of beer bottles.
The part that baffles me is or one adult. Come on Grandma! Hop in! Taking your elderly parents to the store? Who needs an electric cart? The only joy I see in this is driving around your friend at the store shopping for Pizza Rolls after a long night of too many margaritas. But I see fights happening. I don't want to steer, you steer!
So as I inspected the Shop-Along III, a man came into the cart bay and said, "Wow. Not many carts in here, huh?" And I said, "No. But I found this." And he walked over and looked at the Shop-Along III with me. I think the notion struck him as a little odd, but it only really sunk in and made him uncomfortable after I offered to push him around.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
9X2=F.U., Mrs. Jayo
When I was in the third grade, the school I went to had three portables (outside trailer-type buildings), one for each of the third-grade classrooms. All of the students had a homeroom teacher, but in an unprecedented experimental program, during the afternoons, each student went to a teacher that specialized in a different difficulty level of a certain subject--math, reading, and social studies.
This program was initially designed to put the accelerated students with like-minded students and the dumb kids with the dumb kids. This was the same year that someone at school sent a letter home to my mother, who was normally a single-parent but was cohabitating with the Clover Club chip guy, Scott Clairborne. The letter indicated school officials wanted to test my IQ for special classes. My mother agreed, and I remember the day I was tested, walking from my classroom, the cubicle on the far left, to the south, across the blacktop, to an identical cream colored building with a brown roof, and a gray sand-paper textured ramp leading up to it. Of the questions I was asked that day, I remember these: How many days are in a year?; How many weeks are in a year?; and How many feet are in a yard? As I remember, I passed with flying colors, and the woman testing me (the school counselor?) seemed impressed while I indignantly answered the questions, as they seemed like such silly ones.
In the three afternoon classes, reading, math, and social studies, I was in the advanced group for both reading and social studies. The reading teacher Mrs. Ware was a rolly-polly woman with a bad perm, and I remember the books we read were part of a series of anthologies called the Junior Reader series--my books, the smart kid books, were yellow with blue writing and borders. Within the pages were greats like Roald Dahl. I remember getting so excited about the reading that in private I squeezed the books between my fingers, feeling their thickness, and I would release a little pent up squeal of delight.
I don't remember the social studies teacher's name, but I think her first name was Susan. She had a short hair cut, was in her fifties, had big glasses, and big teeth that shined from being covered in too much saliva. She had a mouth full of dental work--partials and bridges or maybe it was a set of adult braces. I remember watching the fall of the Berlin Wall in class in 1989 on the old TV atop the metal rolling TV cart while in social studies. While at the time I understood the significance of the event as all major historical events were aired on the TV (I watched the Challenger explosion at the age of four what seems to me like 700 times), I was too young to understand the importance or implications of what was going on in the world. I just thought there were a bunch of angry people wandering around with sledgehammers and pickaxes taking out their frustrations on a wall--which in a sense is exactly what was happening.
When it came to math, however, I was a dumb kid. And in some ways, I am still the dumb kid when it comes to math. Mrs. Jayo was the math teacher; she was also my homeroom teacher. She was by far the youngest and most attractive of the three teachers. She was petite with chin-length curly blond hair. Her face escapes me now, although in my mind's eye, her features are taking on the facial features of Amy Sedaris, though I know this wasn't what she really looked like.
Mrs. Jayo didn't seem to have the patience for me, and while I don't know if I would recognize her if I saw her again, I would like to tell her that she may be the root of all my math ills.
I remember the day as a dreary one, cold, dark, cloudy, and maybe damp. As a reward for memorizing our times tables, at lunch time, there was an ice cream social. The problem being, I didn't memorize mine. So, Mrs. Jayo made me go outside alone, while the others celebrated with their ice cream and toppings. Even Sary Anderson, the strange girl who owned rats and kept them in a bathtub, who I later became friends with, and in adult life ended up on Judge Judy in an embroiled battle of defamation with her punk rock boyfriend when he put her picture on a flyer with the word slut next to it, got to go to the ice cream social. This has always seemed a great injustice to me--something in my brain made me smarter than the rest of the kids, so much so that I was deemed gifted; yet, that same brain couldn't figure out numbers. That day was the first day in my life when I felt weird and left out, the only kid on the playground, ostricized. Maybe Mrs. Jayo thought I was already too pudgy, I didn't need any more ice cream, my little chubby cheeks and miniature fat roll indicating I had had enough ice cream already.
I learned my times tables though--no thanks to Mrs. Jayo or the experimental system that segregated the dumb kids from the smart ones, putting them in incestuous little pissing-contest boxes. I learned my times tables at a different school, one that's torn down now. I learned them from Mrs. Sutherland, the butterfly lady of Idaho. I don't know how she helped me or how I learned, but I remember piles and piles of worksheets, and going over the numbers again and again. Maybe Mrs. Sutherland was more patient or she saw a part of herself in me, a woman so eccentric that she devoted her life to insects. I do know that when I finally conquered the times tables, I was up at the chalkboard participating in a competition against other students in front of the class--the prize, hard candy--and when I beat everyone by completing them first and correctly I was elated and shocked. But there was another feeling, too. One that would best be described as "Fuck you, Mrs. Jayo."
This program was initially designed to put the accelerated students with like-minded students and the dumb kids with the dumb kids. This was the same year that someone at school sent a letter home to my mother, who was normally a single-parent but was cohabitating with the Clover Club chip guy, Scott Clairborne. The letter indicated school officials wanted to test my IQ for special classes. My mother agreed, and I remember the day I was tested, walking from my classroom, the cubicle on the far left, to the south, across the blacktop, to an identical cream colored building with a brown roof, and a gray sand-paper textured ramp leading up to it. Of the questions I was asked that day, I remember these: How many days are in a year?; How many weeks are in a year?; and How many feet are in a yard? As I remember, I passed with flying colors, and the woman testing me (the school counselor?) seemed impressed while I indignantly answered the questions, as they seemed like such silly ones.
In the three afternoon classes, reading, math, and social studies, I was in the advanced group for both reading and social studies. The reading teacher Mrs. Ware was a rolly-polly woman with a bad perm, and I remember the books we read were part of a series of anthologies called the Junior Reader series--my books, the smart kid books, were yellow with blue writing and borders. Within the pages were greats like Roald Dahl. I remember getting so excited about the reading that in private I squeezed the books between my fingers, feeling their thickness, and I would release a little pent up squeal of delight.
I don't remember the social studies teacher's name, but I think her first name was Susan. She had a short hair cut, was in her fifties, had big glasses, and big teeth that shined from being covered in too much saliva. She had a mouth full of dental work--partials and bridges or maybe it was a set of adult braces. I remember watching the fall of the Berlin Wall in class in 1989 on the old TV atop the metal rolling TV cart while in social studies. While at the time I understood the significance of the event as all major historical events were aired on the TV (I watched the Challenger explosion at the age of four what seems to me like 700 times), I was too young to understand the importance or implications of what was going on in the world. I just thought there were a bunch of angry people wandering around with sledgehammers and pickaxes taking out their frustrations on a wall--which in a sense is exactly what was happening.
When it came to math, however, I was a dumb kid. And in some ways, I am still the dumb kid when it comes to math. Mrs. Jayo was the math teacher; she was also my homeroom teacher. She was by far the youngest and most attractive of the three teachers. She was petite with chin-length curly blond hair. Her face escapes me now, although in my mind's eye, her features are taking on the facial features of Amy Sedaris, though I know this wasn't what she really looked like.
Mrs. Jayo didn't seem to have the patience for me, and while I don't know if I would recognize her if I saw her again, I would like to tell her that she may be the root of all my math ills.
I remember the day as a dreary one, cold, dark, cloudy, and maybe damp. As a reward for memorizing our times tables, at lunch time, there was an ice cream social. The problem being, I didn't memorize mine. So, Mrs. Jayo made me go outside alone, while the others celebrated with their ice cream and toppings. Even Sary Anderson, the strange girl who owned rats and kept them in a bathtub, who I later became friends with, and in adult life ended up on Judge Judy in an embroiled battle of defamation with her punk rock boyfriend when he put her picture on a flyer with the word slut next to it, got to go to the ice cream social. This has always seemed a great injustice to me--something in my brain made me smarter than the rest of the kids, so much so that I was deemed gifted; yet, that same brain couldn't figure out numbers. That day was the first day in my life when I felt weird and left out, the only kid on the playground, ostricized. Maybe Mrs. Jayo thought I was already too pudgy, I didn't need any more ice cream, my little chubby cheeks and miniature fat roll indicating I had had enough ice cream already.
I learned my times tables though--no thanks to Mrs. Jayo or the experimental system that segregated the dumb kids from the smart ones, putting them in incestuous little pissing-contest boxes. I learned my times tables at a different school, one that's torn down now. I learned them from Mrs. Sutherland, the butterfly lady of Idaho. I don't know how she helped me or how I learned, but I remember piles and piles of worksheets, and going over the numbers again and again. Maybe Mrs. Sutherland was more patient or she saw a part of herself in me, a woman so eccentric that she devoted her life to insects. I do know that when I finally conquered the times tables, I was up at the chalkboard participating in a competition against other students in front of the class--the prize, hard candy--and when I beat everyone by completing them first and correctly I was elated and shocked. But there was another feeling, too. One that would best be described as "Fuck you, Mrs. Jayo."
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Touchdown Jesus
I don't think it's a sign that Touchdown Jesus was struck by lightning and burned to the ground. I do think it is sad--not because I am religious--but because having anything burned to the ground (whether it cost an unspeakable $250,000 to build or not) that you believed in has to suck. I am a fan of religious art because usually it is so eerie and spooky that it seems impossible that the faithful would worship it. Also, the depictions of Jesus differ so greatly, that it seems no one has it right.
These gigantic roadside religious statues (attractions) are a huge part of pop culture, and that to me is what makes them so interesting. When they are built, their builders have a different message in mind, I think. Meaning, come worship, not come check out the freakily huge Jesus! And for some, I think that message rings true, but for others, like me, it's the hard work and dedication that goes into building a huge likeness of someone or something that strikes me. Also, they are sort of awe-inspiring, much like seeing Mt. Rushmore for the first time.
The burning down of Touchdown Jesus (unfortunate, yet hilarious name) reminds me of the Cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ Ministries that was featured on an episode of This American Life. The cross is 19 stories tall and the COOLJCM claim that 10 million people stop to see it each year, as it is constructed right on Interstate 40 in Groom, TX. I almost believe that that many people stop.
It reminds me of a time when I took a road trip to Georgia to visit my sister. I had my best friend in tow, and as we passed the border from Wyoming into Nebraska, I saw a similar gigantic Jesus statue. As I remember, the statue wasn't right on the highway, but a ways off, and while I have researched it, the only thing it seems like it could be is a statue somewhere in Colorado on the border.
When I saw it, I remember slowing down, making my best friend take out the video camera to get a shot, which she missed. I was disappointed until she said, "You can't see the Holy Spirit on video camera. You can only see him in your heart."
It was hilarious, but I think she may have been right.
These gigantic roadside religious statues (attractions) are a huge part of pop culture, and that to me is what makes them so interesting. When they are built, their builders have a different message in mind, I think. Meaning, come worship, not come check out the freakily huge Jesus! And for some, I think that message rings true, but for others, like me, it's the hard work and dedication that goes into building a huge likeness of someone or something that strikes me. Also, they are sort of awe-inspiring, much like seeing Mt. Rushmore for the first time.
The burning down of Touchdown Jesus (unfortunate, yet hilarious name) reminds me of the Cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ Ministries that was featured on an episode of This American Life. The cross is 19 stories tall and the COOLJCM claim that 10 million people stop to see it each year, as it is constructed right on Interstate 40 in Groom, TX. I almost believe that that many people stop.
It reminds me of a time when I took a road trip to Georgia to visit my sister. I had my best friend in tow, and as we passed the border from Wyoming into Nebraska, I saw a similar gigantic Jesus statue. As I remember, the statue wasn't right on the highway, but a ways off, and while I have researched it, the only thing it seems like it could be is a statue somewhere in Colorado on the border.
When I saw it, I remember slowing down, making my best friend take out the video camera to get a shot, which she missed. I was disappointed until she said, "You can't see the Holy Spirit on video camera. You can only see him in your heart."
It was hilarious, but I think she may have been right.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The Old Lady With the Condiments
Sometimes, I hate reading library books. I like reading books, but often, when I get books home from the library, they usually have crusted stuff in the pages, pages in the middle are stuck together, and sometimes, the plastic covering over the dust jacket feels as if someone was propping their book up in a bucket of KFC.
I don't know what the crusty stuff is--usually it looks like boogers or lollipop--and while the liquid that's holding page 67 to 68 (the best part of the book) seems as though it's just water, it could be milk or juice or soda or coffee or semen.
What? You don't believe me about the semen? Check out Noam Baumbach's The Squid and the Whale:
So, I saw this story in the news today:
74-year-old Boise woman arrested on suspicion of damaging library books with mayonnaise, liquids | News Updates | Idaho Statesman
And I have to say I am disturbed. Obviously, something needs to be addressed with this woman regarding her mental health or maybe it doesn't. Maybe she's pissed off that every time she tries to get a book, 98 other people have it on hold. Maybe she's angry about her fines or about the lack of parking at the Boise Public Library. Or maybe she mistakes the return boxes for condiment trash cans. Whatever it is, it's made her so angry that she's been doing it for a little over a year. But I can guarantee you, it won't stop with condiments, and that is what bothers me the most.
I don't know what the crusty stuff is--usually it looks like boogers or lollipop--and while the liquid that's holding page 67 to 68 (the best part of the book) seems as though it's just water, it could be milk or juice or soda or coffee or semen.
What? You don't believe me about the semen? Check out Noam Baumbach's The Squid and the Whale:
So, I saw this story in the news today:
74-year-old Boise woman arrested on suspicion of damaging library books with mayonnaise, liquids | News Updates | Idaho Statesman
And I have to say I am disturbed. Obviously, something needs to be addressed with this woman regarding her mental health or maybe it doesn't. Maybe she's pissed off that every time she tries to get a book, 98 other people have it on hold. Maybe she's angry about her fines or about the lack of parking at the Boise Public Library. Or maybe she mistakes the return boxes for condiment trash cans. Whatever it is, it's made her so angry that she's been doing it for a little over a year. But I can guarantee you, it won't stop with condiments, and that is what bothers me the most.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Ice Cream Man
So, it was about 80 degrees in our neighborhood today, and that means the ice cream man is back.
What I don't understand is why can't we have a cool ice cream man/truck? I remember being in the northend in Boise and hearing the Jamaican ice cream truck coming down the street blaring his reggae. While it didn't make a lot of sense, it was better than what the ice cream man in my neighborhood plays: Christmas music.
Today I heard Deck the Halls as the ice cream man came down the street, and on his return trip, I heard Silent Night. I don't know if he is trying to evoke the feeling in people of what it feels like to be cool on a hot summer day, what with the images of winter and Christmas and JESUS and all, but what part of the song Silent Night says ice cream? Is it the tune? No. The lyrics? "Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child, Holy Infant so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace." Um, no.
I guess it could be worse. I could live in this guy's neighborhood:
Or, Capt. Scrummy (Michael Stipe) could be the ice cream man in my neighborhood after the regular ice cream man disappears:
What I don't understand is why can't we have a cool ice cream man/truck? I remember being in the northend in Boise and hearing the Jamaican ice cream truck coming down the street blaring his reggae. While it didn't make a lot of sense, it was better than what the ice cream man in my neighborhood plays: Christmas music.
Today I heard Deck the Halls as the ice cream man came down the street, and on his return trip, I heard Silent Night. I don't know if he is trying to evoke the feeling in people of what it feels like to be cool on a hot summer day, what with the images of winter and Christmas and JESUS and all, but what part of the song Silent Night says ice cream? Is it the tune? No. The lyrics? "Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child, Holy Infant so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace." Um, no.
I guess it could be worse. I could live in this guy's neighborhood:
Or, Capt. Scrummy (Michael Stipe) could be the ice cream man in my neighborhood after the regular ice cream man disappears:
Friday, June 11, 2010
End of the World As They Know It
On my way to Mountain Home on Wednesday morning to see my grandmother, I passed a semi with this message almost completely covering the back-end of his trailer in huge vinyl letters:
THE END OF THE WORLD IS ALMOST HERE!
HOLY GOD WILL BRING JUDGMENT DAY ON
MAY 21, 2011
www.familyradio.org
As I passed the truck on the left to get around him and to see who was inside--I thought maybe it was going to be Jesus (you never know)-- I noticed the cab had the same message in proportionately large letters covering the doors.
All I could think was, if the truck driver really believes that, what the hell is he doing driving a truck across the country? If I knew the world was going to end in less than a year, I wouldn't spend the rest of my earthly time working.
Oh, and I visited the website when I got home: it's not my thing.
THE END OF THE WORLD IS ALMOST HERE!
HOLY GOD WILL BRING JUDGMENT DAY ON
MAY 21, 2011
www.familyradio.org
As I passed the truck on the left to get around him and to see who was inside--I thought maybe it was going to be Jesus (you never know)-- I noticed the cab had the same message in proportionately large letters covering the doors.
All I could think was, if the truck driver really believes that, what the hell is he doing driving a truck across the country? If I knew the world was going to end in less than a year, I wouldn't spend the rest of my earthly time working.
Oh, and I visited the website when I got home: it's not my thing.
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