CULTURAL FALLOUT: updated!!

(not to be confused with Cultural Snow, which does not glow and has no detectable aroma)

Well, I done did something with my collection. Parts of it, anyway. I can't help but think of all the fun I could have with these images and a really rooty-zooty graphics program. Images from the 50's and 60's in particular practically beg to be pilloried like this.

Yes, click for bigness. Don't ask too much of these; just getting them to this place almost made my computer burst into flames. Not to mention my brain.








AND LAST BUT CERTAINLY NOT LEAST.......



...Any of you younger ladies who have any doubts as to the way things used to be for women...? Lose them now.
Feminism exists for a VERY GOOD REASON.
I have a hundred ads just as twisted as this one...and all of them came from magazines your mother or grandmother thought nothing of leaving out on the coffee table. I remember these days. THIS is the kind of shit that used to saturate popular culture. And remember; popular culture is conservative by it's very definition. Extrapolate from that what went on in everyday life, my darlings.
Rant over.
_____________________________________

CONFIDENTIAL FOR TIM FOOTMAN:

pop detrius

I collect paper ephemera...old trash magazines, mainly...but I own a wide variety of things. Old cookbooks, newspapers, tickets, menus, programmes...anything that had a real dynamic look to it, anything that made me smile, I've been grabbing up for years.
Note: the pictures that follow are worth a click to enlarge. They're legible and the detail is pretty good. I just may be getting better at this stuff.


I particularly like to come upon things in less than ideal condition, because then I can savage them up for collages and 'found poetry' (which I maintain I invented years ago but never got credit for.)

Here's the problem: I've organized. I like to organize, and I like to see what kinds of categories my brain has been cooking up while I wasn't aware of it. So fine; I have tons of images from the 20's on up to the early 70's all laid flat in manilla envelopes, separated into categories and labelled.

...But for why?

I look through them every few months and I enjoy them. Then I put them all away again.



This is making me nuts! I am not the sort of person that keeps things around if they aren't useful. This stuff is just accumulating. Pointlessly.

I've framed some and display them...well and good for the few I want to look at for awhile. Others simply appeal to me as whole objects...the age of the paper, the style of the art, the content, the signs of use, the smell.

Archival stabilization is out of the question unless I can do it myself, for cheap. Nothing here is commercially valuable.

Maybe this bothers me more than it should because I grew up with a person who had OCD- the hoarding variation...and I'm really leery of assigning emotional value to objects and owning. I'm in no danger of this stuff taking over, though. The whole collection lives in three suitcases.



Owning these things does make me feel rather 'wealthy'... at least, they seem very 'important' to me. I just really, really like old graphic art, and I really, really like old lowbrow publications. But I don't want to be like Scrooge McDuck in his money vault, fingering my old copies of Movie Mirror and chuckling alone in a room.
gaaaaaah!

Ideas? thoughts, suggestions, me toos...all welcome, y'all.

Here's one bit of trivia I've learned while poling my pirogue through the sloughs of American culture......

1. What popular household product was also marketed as douche?

a. Orange Glo
b. Scope Mouthwash
c. Ipana Toothpaste
d. Neatsfoot Oil
e. Pledge Paste Wax
f. Mop and Glo Floor Wax
g. Pine-Sol
e. Spic-And-Span
f. Mumm

....The answer my friends, is blowin' in the wind. Do you know? I do.
And I have proof. So tune in next time and find out!

A Trip to England which is in europe ( kind of on the side of it)

Maybe if you were going on vacation you might like to go to England. This is about England so that you can read it and know what it's going to be like and not have to be embarrassed because you don't know anything.

PEOPLE
Everyone in England has a title only it's not Mr. or Mrs like here. You have to say either 'Sir' something or other or 'Lady' something or other when you talk to them. They have other ranks too, like duke, earl or lieutenant. You have to bow when you meet somebody.

Everything is fancy. All the clothes are really cool. The men wear wigs, and their clothes look like what like pirates wear, only better and not torn up. The ladies have long dresses made out of silk that cost a million dollars! They have big poofy sleeves and sometimes even real jewels on their clothes for decoration, not fake ones. They can do that if they feel like it. Their houses are full of big paintings, and velvet, and really nice wallpaper, and gold on everything. The people use real silver to eat with. That's why they call it 'silverware'. Ours over here isn't made of silver. It's like chrome or something.

All the people who aren't like a lord or something are peasants. Not like the bird. No, these are like servants and farmers and maids in waiting. They do all the work and everyone else is rich and says 'Oh Jeeves, pour me a cup of tea my good man' and then they just sit and the peasant does it. And the peasants have to clean the house and everything.

Sometimes the rich people are really mean to them but most of them are pretty nice. If they aren't the peasants will have a war and stab pitchforks through them because that's what they have and nobody would suspect them, like, 'Oh, there's a peasant walking down the street with a pitchfork, ho hum'. But they'll stick it right through you. So they have to be nice.

When the kids are little they have to go to these schools where they make everyone wear neckties and the teachers are really mean. They have to live there and not see their parents except for like around Christmas for a really short couple of days. Even if they're not bad. Plus they don't let the boys and the girls even go to the same school. The boys have to be boyfriends with each other until they're old enough to get married, then they get married to one of the girls from the girls schools and then go live in a castle and have children. The maids have to change all the diapers.

Everyone lives in a castle. Except the peasants. They live in cottages. A cottage is a small house and theres hay on the roof because they can't afford shingles.

DANGER IN ENGLAND
Vikings are dangerous. They come from Dutch Holland, which floods all the time. They want to have a new land so they keep invading England a lot. But they still can't live there. Will they win? Nobody knows this question.

Pirates know that England is full of rich people so there are pirates everywhere in these huge ships with sails on them. You have to be really careful. You could be watching one direction, but the pirates can just sail their ships around to the other side of the island and sneak up on your town. Sometimes the pirates have swords but mainly they use cannons that fire grenades and your whole town gets on fire, and all the people run away and then the pirates go in and steal all the stuff that isn't burned up. And then they sail away until they need more stuff.

Way back in olden days there might have been dragons but they all got killed by the knights. I think they were a type of dinosaurs that could breathe fire, but nobody has discovered them yet.

Plus robbers and other crime people.

Varlets are bad. The only steal very small things.

Knaves are dangerous. They steal pie.

WARS
Hitler was really bad and tried to take over England. Then the English guys bombed him and let all the prisoners free and then the war was over!

GOVERNMENT
England has a queen, which is so, so cool. She is the boss of the whole land. Other countries have to have a president. We have a president. The president is boring.

He doesn't go to wars. He has to sit in an office and he can't even look out the window because a whole bunch of reporters would try and take pictures of the inside of his place and then maybe spies could get ahold of them and make plans to sneak in. But he can have a pet, like a dog or a cat.

England has a Queen, which is a lady king, and she rules everyone in the whole country and all the people and makes all the rules for everything.

Everyone has to do what she tells them. And if someone goes against the law, she says 'Off with their heads!' and then they get their heads cut off on this big slicer thing that comes down and whack! and then your heads lying there in like this bowl and blood is shooting out of your neck and it's really sick. But sometimes she could cut off your head too with a sword.
She can. She's the queen.

When there's a war she orders the whole war. All the knights come and fight, and the air force goes over and bombs the other guys until they give up, and the queen says 'OK, this fight is done, we are the winners!'. And the ones that lose have to pay her 1 billions of dollars because they started it. And then they're poor, and the queens says' You have to come be part of my land now!" and they have to.

The queen is top. Next are the prince and the princess, who are the queens little boy and little girl. When she dies one takes over. Then the other one is still a prince or a princess, but they don't get to run anything... just go around and be rich and have carriages and wear diamonds and rubies and gold and emeralds. And they get to wear a crown too. But littler than the queen one.

When someone does something really nice or famous, the queen makes them a knight. She dubs them on the head with her sword (it doesn't even really hurt) They might think she's going to cut their head off but they hae to just be very careful. But she says 'Rise, sir so and so!' (She just makes up a name.) And then they can get away! And they're not dead! And now they have to show up and be a knight if theres a war, but they get to wear armour and have a horse and be rich plus be in parades!

TRANSPORTATION
Only the rich people have cars. Some of the peasants can have trucks. They have doctors, though. Everyone rides horses.

You can take an airplane to get to England, or a big ship, or a submarine. You can't get to it on land.

GROCERIES
Everyone lives on farms. They raise sheep and cows. Probably some vegetables. They have to make their own clothes. You can go to jewelery stores there. They have Inns, which is like a McDonalds only older fashioned . You can have things like soup or stew, and beer, and water.
They know how to make all their own stuff. Even scissors! They can knit and do all sewing. They invented american cheese. They invented pies. Only they put weird stuff like birds and potatoes in them, not the right stuff like apples because they don't know how to do them good. They have olden ways still.

HISTORY OF PILGRIMS
That's why we say 'they live in the old country'. Because we live in the new America country, and so we're the new people, but they stayed behind because there wasn't any more room left on the Mayflower so the pilgrims said they had to stay in the old country and do everything the old way. We get to have electricity and television. But we have a boring president who I don't think even does anything, except be on television. That is the suck part because a queen would be way cooler. She has way cooler clothes and wears a long cape like Superman. Everyone would be proud of her.

So go visit England and be very nice to all the people. It is a nice place; there is a lot of old castles and ruins to see and you can meet royal people too. Have fun!

____________________
(when i was very little my grandmother would tell me stories about the 'olden days'. when she'd get tired of that she'd ask me to tell her a story instead, and give me a subject. between the two of us, cracking up laughing and drawing pictures for illustrations, we came up with some doozies! like this one!)

kentucky fried crow, extra crispy

....Dang. That was a goodie, but unfortunately not an accurate-ie.

Juicy as the story was, it was not true. I got the name Don and Tim mixed up.

Still:
E is still a twat
Tim Imus is a twat too, but a local twat; not a nationally notorious twat like DON IMUS.

E tripped over her tits publically when she hooked up with Tim Imus, which makes me laugh, because 1. I hate her, and 2. it cost her money, which I know frosted the fuck out of her.

thanks to Claire for pointing this out for me!

...and yes, I know, nobody knows what I'm talking about. Fortunately you don't need to feel alone in this, do you. *shuffles off, head hanging*

NEW AND IMPROVED UPDATE OF THE UPDATE: An open letter to Canada

Dear entire nation of Canada:


I would like to apologize for the Minuteman Militia idiots in their pickup trucks parked on our side of Boundary Road with their binoculars and spotting scopes pointed towards your country. 99.99976% of us do not support this movement. We know it is lame. We know they are lame. We are embarrassed.

NOT ALL AMERICANS ARE RIGHT-WING MORONS.
I promise you.

These vigilante antics gives them the illusion of having a set while actually signifying nothing. Come the fall of night they run home to their economy-sized jars of Vaseline and whack off to the Star Spangled Banner, leaving this highly strategic stretch of our international boundary vulnerable to invasion by undercover Al Quaida operatives masquerading as deer, elk and Hereford cattle.

So please, ignore the wingnuts. Everyone else does. Come visit America. It's nice. Lots of the people are nice. Most of the scenery is nice, except for some of the Oregon parts, and the landfills. And Los Angeles.

And hey, if you want to stay, that's all right by me too. The way I see it, you're ALL trespassing illegally on my land as it is, but it's no use my getting all in a bunch about it at this late date.

Love, FirstNations
(genuinely sorry about Colonel Ebey.)

UPDATED UPDATE:
An hour ago we had a pair of paragliders drop into the playing field directly behind our house. Where did they come from? Why, they were dropped from a plane that left Abbotsford Field.
IN CANADA.
And guess who wasn't here to meet them????
Hell, the police didn't even bother to stop. Heard nothing from the Border Patrol. Or the Homeland Security personnel on duty.
NOTHING.
OH MY GOD! That could have been Osama Motherfucking BinLaden! ( and his even more evil twin brother Bananarama VonDamme BinLaden)
I could have spent the rest of my life in a fricken' chador!
I MEAN COME ON NOW IF YOU CAN'T TRUST THE LOCAL REDNECK MILITIA WHO CAN YOU TRUST?????
_____________________________

HERE IT IS....MRS. DANATORS' KILLER GUACAMOLE RECIPE DONE DID!



folks, its FANTASTIC. so much better than the recipe i was using. as i suspected, USING LIME JUICE IS THE KEY. dugong is optional.


my lunch...chips and guac seen here with the all-important seasonings to taste...freshly ground black pepper and Diamond Crystal Kosher Salt. use the best. it's worth it.

You know what? I'm not even going to ask for permission...this recipe needs to be shared with the world. This really is the best guacamole I've ever made.

Mrs. Nator's Killer Guac!

2 ripe avocados (nice and black)
1 lime, juiced
1 jalapeno pepper
1 small onion
½ clove garlic (or whole, depending on your taste)
1 tomato, seeded
Olive oil and salt to taste

maybe a unicorn, maybe a rose, or maybe a satanic infant crawling out of my asscrack.

It is spring, and that means I am looking kinda ofay with my winter moontan, saying to myself 'Self, this shit needs more ink .'

I already have two small blackwork pieces. I eventually want a full left sleeve, all blackwork.
Anyone at this point who is thinking 'Oh my God you're going to ruin yourself' needs to know that I'm 46, OK? 'As Nature becomes less kind Art will take her place'.
Scene 1-
Little Timmy: Mommy, why are that old ladys' nasty boobs hanging out the bottom of her pantlegs?
Mommy: ShhHHH! Don't look! Have one of mommy's Elavil.
Scene 2-
Little Timmy: Mommy, what do the letters 'I S U C K CO C K' on that old ladys' neck spell?" Mommy: "It's another word for love, Timmy. A special kind of love."

...and really, wouldn't we all choose scene 2?
_______________________________________

If I were thinking about getting my first tattoo, I'd be tuning in to the show 'Miami Ink'. You can learn a lot from watching Miami Ink; it's pretty accurate. Ignore the fake staged conflicts and the 'surprise' guest celebs. Watch the work. Watch the shop.

Yes, Ami James (is hotter than a 2$ pistol; I'd like to catch him in the shower one sultry Miami evening after everyone has left the shop and slide to my knees, taking his ) has a dog. No, he shouldn't be letting the damn dog run around in the tattoo shop. Still, as long as it doesn't actually lick the equipment it's probably OK. Ever visit a charming little restaurant that let a charming little cat wander around? Thought nothing of it, did you. Still, I have a problem with that, even though other people don't.

Obviously a tattoo artist needs to be someone who can render a recognizable likeness and who maintains a cleanly workspace. That's elementary. But if there's one thing I've noticed it's that you need to choose whose work you're going to be wearing for the rest of your life by their technique, how they handle the gun, not just the surface quality of their artwork.
God! Nobody talks about this either and yet its so important!

Don't just look at the examples on the walls...look through the artists' portfolios. YOU MUST.
The best portfolio pictures are the ones taken with as much detailed close-up as possible, right after the tattoo has been finished, where you can actually see the needle perforations in the skin. These should be beautiful and even, like the lithography on a dollar bill. It shouldn't look scribbly, or have a lot of places where the skin is torn up like the surface of a fresh abrasion (there will be a few if there's large areas of solid color. It's unavoidable-but you go back and they touch it up for free if they're reputable.) All those torn up areas will translate into places where the ink washes out and leaves a pale spot, or goes in too deep and leaves a blob that will get bigger as time goes by. Look very carefully.

Here's what you do. Pick your design. Then pick an artist. Then ask if anyone in the shop has had any work done by him, and may I see it?

Now, the shop expects this. Tattoos are meant to be seen. Tattooed people want to be looked at, and tattoo artists want their work looked at. This is not going to be a problem for anyone. In fact, you may end up viewing a lot more exposed flesh than you probably expected to see when you got up that morning. We went to a shop in Anacortes where the artists and patrons started just casually hauling out various parts right in front of the main window to show off their work, without worrying that it was next to the busy ferry ramp...it was where the light was best. And for the most part that's how it is. It's art. The fact that it might happen to be decorating a region of the body seldom seen in public, or not very damned attractive to begin with comes secondly to mind. Interesting, huh?

But.

If someone does have a problem, pulls the 'Well, if you're scared...' thing, or takes an attitude, run. Really.
If someone starts making a lot of apologies and excuses for their work, run. Period.

You never want to hear " Oh, I was so totally fucked up when I did that". We have. We left.

Likewise "I did that one before I knew what I was doing." Awwww! I wanted to hold him and pat him! With a sashweight! Poor brave soldier! You just went right ahead making permanent marks on peoples' flesh anyway didn't you? Excellent! So I can expect that very same level of professional consideration now? Great!

Now the only possible exception would be "You don't wanna see that, it's old." That might just be vanity talking, so don't despair. But DO take a look anyway. Old work is EXACTLY what you want to see! I cannot stress that highly enough! You WANT to see how their work ages! Their skill at rendering may well have improved over time, but I'll bet you any money they still handle a gun the same way they did when they started out. Think about it...you use a pencil. Has the way you held it changed much since 4th grade? Probably not, huh. And paper doesn't scream or throw up usually.

An old tattoo will be blurry, and one on a part of the body that is exposed to sunlight might look really blurry. That can't be helped. However, it should still be recognizable, and it should be evenly blurry. There shouldn't be any big blooms. If the detail has closed up, it should all be closed up to the same degree. Black work should be even, and will probably be deep indigo instead of black. Any other color will be faded and weird looking, though, and that's just the way that goes. They say there's new inks out that stay true over time, but I'll believe it when I see it.

Barring that, watch the artist you've chosen work on another client.

If you hear 'Oh, I don't allow people in my workspace, it makes me nervous'
RUN!
That's bullshit.
You allow your clients, your co-workers, and all the buttflakes stuck to your co-workers that fell off their clients to drift on through without a problem in the world. Which is totally OK, too - bacteria aren't real athletic. The difference is that bacteria don't have eyeballs, do they? But the client you spend five hours with your face an inch away from does...and they're watching you. But that's fine, huh? Hmm. Sounds a little...sadistic? Guilty? Pissy? You ain't touching this little muk.

A tattoo artist should not be applying a lot of downward pressure, chopping and grunting and flubbing the skin like they're digging a ditch. Neither should they be scratching and flicking and swiping away with dramatic gestures as though they were Mad Jacques the Artiste either. Grinders give you tattoos that spread and bleed into grotesque blurry blobs. That's because the ink has been pushed through all the skin layers into the meat, where the capillaries and blood spread the colored particles around as time goes by.
Mad Jacques the Artiste will leave you bleeding like you ran nekkid through the briar patch. Your tattoo will have bare patches where the ink was washed away, knots of overly-intense color in strange places, and be covered in long, thin white scars when it heals.

I have seen a whole lot of tattoos, and watched a whole lot of tattoos being done. It's only been within the last 15 years that I've begun to see as many good ones as there are bad ones....ones that still look like something you can recognize after 15 years instead of, say, really bad vitiligo. I attribute this to the fact that there are more tattoos being done by more people who are too young to have profound substance abuse issues, instead of a lot of tattoos being done by a few very dirty, very old drunks with gonorrhea.
Just because it's a stereotype does not make it untrue.

________________________________

Yay! Everything checks out and you decide to get your ink.
After all that, it hurts!
___________________________________________________

...fine. I will boldly go there.
True or False:
Tattoos are an S&M thing, and people who get tattoos do it for the pain.

...? I have no idea.

I think that a lot of people in my generation did get tattoos for that reason. It had that association, and that didn't come from nowhere.

I'm not real familiar with this kind of sexuality or the motivating factors. If anybody out there is, and feels like answering some clueless dumbass questions about it, would they give me a dingle at redace1960@yahoo.com please? I'm serious.

All of the tattoo shops I've ever been in were about as sexy as a hair salon. Or a barbershop. That's a good description of a tattoo parlors' ambiance, in fact; a barber shop, but with a lot of really interesting pictures on the wall. I've never been in a shop where anything I recognized as sexual was going on. (Now I'm wondering if I should be feeling left out. )

I've experienced endurance euphoria, and I've had endorphin rushes-with all the accompanying phenomena - sitting in the chair, so I can imagine what might happen if you were into it and knew what you wanted. And I do know that if the experience didn't hurt, I wouldn't bother. Make of that what you will.

Most of the people I know, including myself, got tattoos for two combined reasons: because they wanted something that would give them a little sinister, and they wanted a permanent, visible 'I am tough' badge. Whether they admit it or not.

Now that's not the politically correct answer, but it's the true one. At least for my generation. The ones that got their tattoos before they knew they could be removed.

how to tell a damn raven from a crow

I am a birdwatcher. Not a rabid one, but enough so that I have two pairs of binocs-one for the car-and have laminated the cover on my Pedersons' Guide.

Living in a rural- suburban setting I don't see a terribly wide variety of birds on a daily basis, but I do see more than your average bear because I know what to look for. Most of the time, though, since I have a life, I am perfectly content to watch the usual suspects...robins, sparrows, seagulls, starlings and crows. And here where I live, ravens.

Every time you mention the word 'raven' you get a kind of a half-second reaction from people like 'Geeze, read Elfquest much?' because people think that 'raven' and 'crow' are synonymous; 'raven' being the more 'Goth' of the two, which means that you are making a lame attempt to try and sound all cool.

'RAVEN' AND 'CROW' ARE TWO DIFFERENT NAMES FOR TWO DIFFERENT BIRDS.

Don't even get me started on 'blackbird.'

Yes, they are black. Yes, they are corvids. Yes, they inhabit overlapping ecological areas and play similar roles therein. Yes, they make 'caw, caw' sounds. Yes, they are right around the same size, within a certain range, and yes, that overlaps too.
So no, it's not something that you can nail at a glance. At least, not in the Pacific Northwest.



But because I love you, here is the secret to telling a crow from a raven:
NOTE THE HONKER ON THAT BIRDIE.
(This is a fantastic picture, by the way.) You see the size and shape of that beak? THAT is the surest way to tell. A raven has a distinct 'Roman nose'...what's known as a 'cornute' beak. It is longer and bigger than a crows'. In contrast to the size of the beak, the dome of the ravens' skull looks disproportionately small.

The second diagnostic point is the shape of the tail in flight.
But see, that wouldn't work with the raven in the picture above there. That photo was taken late in the season. The end of his tailfeathers are all raggedy and worn away by using them as props against rough stones and bark.*
In fresh plumage, his tail will look like this, in flight:
Note- his head is facing towards your right, viewer.
That distinctive tail shape is ABSOLUTELY SPECIFIC to the raven. Notice that the tail is not cut straight across at the end of the fan but meets up at a point in the middle, a point which sticks out further than the sides.

Unless you see the bird in flight, though, it's difficult to make that observation. In rest he holds his tail folded up, so unless you're very close, or he decides to fan his tail and have a scratch, you're out of luck.

And now, in contrast, the common American Crow:

See the beak? More conical, and shorter...more in proportion to the size of the skull dome.
See the end of the tail fan? Straight across in a smooth semicircle. No peak in the middle at all.
THIS IS A CROW.




There are other things that differentiate ravens from crows, but only around 75% of the time... and only on adult birds.

An adult raven runs slightly bigger than a crow, but only just. It is also stockier. If the crow were a track and field man, the raven would be a weightlifter.

A raven does not appear as sleek as a crow. Crows at rest hold their feathers close to their bodies, and they shine like polished obsidian. At rest the raven looks kind of scroungy; uncombed and rough, as though it's just had a good shake and hasn't bothered to rearrange it's feathers nicely. The raven picture above illustrates this quite nicely.

When a raven has somewhere to go across an open space he will flap slowly and steadily in a straight line to get there. Otherwise he spends a lot of time gliding. In a glide the ravens' wing primaries spread wide like fingers, and flip up a little at the ends. The tertiaries come down in a fat semicircle to the body. This is a characteristic of forest canopy birds who make lots of short gliding flights between limbs....more surface plane. Like the shape of a jaybird (forest) wing, as compared to a seagull(soaring, open sea) wing. Crows tend to flap more than glide, and the wing feathers stay closer together. A crow will also play in flight, doing flips and dives and loops and making side trips. Ravens are generally more businesslike.

The feathers on the neck and around the crop area of the raven are raggedy looking, kind of like the bird used gel on them.

Environment:
Anywhere you will see a crow, you can see a raven. But the further up a mountain you go, the more ravens you will see.
Not much help, huh.

Behavior:
A raven is sneaky, and comically so. They cannot resist spying on people in the woods, and you do feel distinctly spied upon, too. They lurk around bent over like Groucho Marks, peering around corners and over limbs. They will gradually become bolder, but not so friendly that they'll strut back and forth unconcernedly for you out in the open like a crow will...if you get too close a raven will crouch and hop away, fluttering off a few paces, and then giving you a kind of reproachful look.

Unless you are dead, a newly born animal, a placenta or a dying salmon, a raven is not aggressive in the least (unless they have a nest nearby but that's like any bird.)

They will methodically go through your shit as soon as your back is turned, or they think it is. And I really mean the 'methodically' part, too. No fear or looking around now...their attention is entirely devoted to the task at hand. If you leave your backpack unattended, they will eventually figure out how to undo the zipper and dump it out. Anything pretty-sparkly that's portable enough for the raven to tug away or fly off with is gone, then. But weirdly enough, they'll fly back later and leave you a rock, or a stick, or a chicken leg or a pine cone or some other thing they've picked up, like a trade. I got a kid's hair barrette once in exchange for the foil from my pack of cigarettes.

They're smart, too. They can open simple latches. I watched one open the door and go right into the back of a camper and have a look around. They can unscrew the shiny button on your cars' door locks if they're on loosely. I've heard stories of them turning on faucets, and flicking the flame on old Ronson-style lever lighters too.

They'll go into your vehicle if the window is down. Right into your tent, too. They'll stick their heads inside your gloves and shoes, check out your sleeping bag and play with the zipper. If you ride a motorcycle and have a spirit bell on it, they love to ding those. Anything shiny and chrome on your vehicle attracts them. They will gaze into the shine, nuzzling and picking gently at the trim or what have you with their beaks and feet.

Now they don't do any of this in a pesty intrusive way; it's not alike a bunch of Gypsy kids selling flowers or monkeys mugging a tourist in Wild Kingdom park. It's more like they're conducting research. They're very serious about the whole thing. It's comical as hell.
All the while, the raven is commenting on everything in an undertone. "Mraw? Pop," he'll say as he picks your cigarettes out of the pack one by one, in a conversational way. If you've ever had a 'talking' cat or dog you know the kind of speaking-type noises I mean. They also vocalize soft clacks and rattles and clatters too, with a hollow sound like tapping on the bottom of a pop cup makes.
Which is not to say that they don't also emit all the usual loud and obnoxious corvid sounds, because they do, but only once they're out of throwing distance and at a much greater volume.

You can hear a raven flying overhead if it's flapping it's wings. This is the coolest thing. It makes a very distinctive, loud WHISH! WHISH! WHISH! sound. Often the bird will be flying quite low, to get a look at you as it makes its leisurely way past, and will comment softly as he goes over. The pair I had nesting next door last year always used to give me a howdy in the evening like this. Of course they left me a strip of dried possum hide on the roof of my pickup truck too, but I think it was just them being neighborly.





*That is a clue to his preferred habitat, too, which is northern and boreal pine forests, riverbanks, gravel bars and mountainous regions. Unless you live in the Pacific Northwest, where they forget all that simple forest shit and hang around downtown, robbing dumpsters, picking up sailors and eating bums.

the 60 mg. of prozac i take might as well get flushed down the crapper

I was just standing here putting together a dish of enchiladas when I was suddenly struck by the thought of just how good the lyrics to theme song of 'The Beverley Hillbillies' would sound if they were set to the tune of "Earache My Eye" by Cheech and Chong:

Come an' lissen to th' story uv a man called Jed..
DAH DU-DUH! DAH DU-DUH! DUNT-DUNT DUHHH!

...Jes a simple country turd, barely kep' his fambly fed!
DAH DU-DUH! DAH DU-DUH! DUNT-DUNT DUHHH!

"...He wuz up one day jest a shootin' at sum food-
DAH DU-DUH! DAH DU-DUH! DUNT-DUNT DUHHH!

...When up from the ground come a bubblin' crude!
DAH DU-DUH! DAH DU-DUH! DUNT-DUNT DUHHH!"


God help me, I do not know why I think of these things.

I cannot have been the first person to have throught of this, right? This has to come from, like, a radio goof tune, or a comedy routine or something, right?

________________________________________


Failing the Blood Test: a play in one act

Scene: 8:00 a.m. Tuesday morning
A lab in Lynden, predictably decorated with dried floral swags and pictures of Jesus. The waiting area is filled with woozy, hungry diabetics reading magazines. Nations is among the group.

Nations is called in and sits down in the phlebotomists' chair.

Nations: I'm a little nervous...the last nurse that tried to take my blood had a lot of difficulty finding a vein.
Nurse: Just relax.
*In pavlovian response to which Nations tightens up like a nuns butthole*
Nurse: *Dabbing at pit of nations elbow with her finger, a puzzled expression on her face* Yes, we've had a lot of complaints about her...huh. Make a fist and relax it a few times for me, would you?
*Nations feebly closes hand several times as puzzled dab-dabbing continues*
Nurse: Ok...um....
*Nations rigidifies into vibrating heap of terror*
Needle: poke
Nations: OW *Jerks, looks away*Nurse: .......whoops...uh-oh. Well, we missed it.
*Nations spasms involuntarily, kind of like PeeWee Herman being assfucked by Mike Tyson might spasm involuntarily*
Nurse: Oh, but look at those nice veins in your hand! Let's use tho-
Nations: OH NO NO NO NO, FUCK GODDAMMIT NO, NOT THE HAND. NO NO NO OH FUCK NO NOT THE HAND.
Murse: Ok, Ok. calm down. Ok.
Nations: *Hyperventilating* Wow. Listen, I'm sorry. I think I'm...
Nurse: Put your head down and breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Relax. You gotta relax.
*Nations draped over arm of chair feels the world becoming all whooshy and sparkly*
Nurse: ...And then once you feel better you can give me your hand. See those veins sticking up there on your hand? Those are great! Let me-
Nations: NO. *Snatches hand away, experiences horrific, incapacitating episode of pure terror and simultaneously experiences warm, wet moment of stress incontinence*
Nurse: *To receptionist* Um, get her husband. I think she's gonna...
Nations: I think I'm gonna pass out.
Biker: Hey.
Nations: I think I'm gonna- *Dry heaves*
*Nurse, receptionist and Biker dive for wastebasket*
Nations: Hyuurk! Hyuurk! Wow, nothing. Hyuurk! Buraaaaaap!
Biker: Yeah...you fasted. That's why they call it a fasting blood test.
Nations: Hyurk! Huuack! Hyuurk! Buraaap!
Nurse: Do you feel like you're going to faint?
Nations: Probably after I get done puking here.
Biker: .....I think you're done.
Nations: ....Yeah, I think you're right.
*Nations begins to ooze out of chair*
Biker: *Propping her sideways over arm of chair* Don't faint.
Nations: *hearing this at a great distance* I'll try not to.
Nurse: Are you gonna faint?
Nations: Yes.
Nurse: Don't faint.
Nations: Hmmm.
Biker: I'll be out in the waiting area.
Nurse: Just sit here until you think you can walk. Take all the time you need, hon. It's ok. We see this.
Nations: Wow. Um, I think I peed myself a little. Sorry-
Nurse: Can you walk?
Nations: I can't feel my legs so probably no.
Nurse:......Oh. Do you think you can walk yet?
Nations: Not until I can feel my legs.
Nurse: ....Oh. Well let me know when you can walk.
Nations: I think I'm ok now. *slowly rises from chair*
Receptionist: Have a nice day!
________________________________________________________

CONFIDENTIAL FOR AWAITING:

He knows you're single again.

He's already on a plane.

Here he comes, baby.


...Comin' ta GITCHA.

quaint vignettes from my charming rural idyll

Oh, you know what? forget about that. I'm here.

My new furniture is here and it looks GOOD!
Behold the goodness of my new furniture:
this small living room comprises the original cabin-sized house, which was added on to over the years.

my squat...i always think of that old Marantz speaker ad when I sit here


The gladdest moment of my career as a housewife was saying sayo fucking nara to the old stuff. Is this pathetic? I do not care. I genuinely enjoyed watching those disgusting floral atrocities sail off the back of the truck. My only regret? The recycle center frowns on patrons setting things on fire once they are in the crusher.
Oh yes indeed. I am officially a grown woman. My furniture MATCHES!!!!!!!!!!!!
__________________________________________________


I recently pulled the washer and dryer out of my utility room (not nearly as well apointed as Ms. Betty's, I feel certain) and set to work spring cleaning. One job rapidly turned into about seven. Right off the bat the flexible dryer vent just fell apart into a pile of flakes and wires. No problem...I ran in to Lynden and bought a christian one from the hardware store.
Then I dusted and swept and washed down the walls and floor. Noticing I had some wear spots in the paint, I leaped happily like a big happy leaping thing to where I stash the interior paint, under the kitchen sink (I like to touch up the walls every so often. Yes I'm a little obsessed.)Yay! paint! I love paint! I love to paint! I have an excuse to paint!

It had frozen over the winter. Nothing but a gallon-sized chunk of white guck with a bunch of clear crap all floating around on the top of it.
Same story out in the garage. ALL the house paint had frozen over the winter.
I now have five damn gallons of what a few months back was perfectly good paint out waiting to go to the recycle. PLUS I had to trip on back into Lynden and buy a christian gallon from the Do-It center.
Fuckin' buzzkill.
_______________________________________________________

At the end of March the eagles are all laying eggs and hatching young destined to carry on the fine eagle tradition of standing around. Mr. and Ms. Mallard duck have vacated the back yard, and the seasonal lakefront we enjoy here at ranchoFirstNations has gradually receded, allowing the septic drainfield to function more or less normally again. The herons are no longer seen fishing behind the garage...and the swans have gone on to wherever swans go to when they aren't here. Now what we have in droves are starlings, house sparrows and robins.

Unlike their cute little British counterparts, the American robin is a thrush. They leave in the fall so fat and round and full of blueberries that they're just barely aerodynamic. They arrive in February slim from migration and ready to kick ass. The males pick a likely nesting range and suddenly whammo- they're stupid with testosterone.
If only a fraction of this aggression was spent in finding a mate or learning to read we'd be tit deep in robins with magazine subscriptions. But instead the male robin devotes his first week and a half back home to kicking other male robin ass. Any male robin. Including themselves.
It's true. They'll attack their own reflection in a glass window, not once or twice but until they flutter to the the ground and lie on their sides, panting with fatigue. If the neibors cats don't get them at that point, once rested they regain their origional determination to drive away the evil, evil reflection robin and start all over again. We have had them attacking the side mirrors on the truck, chrome car bumpers, and the shiny interior of a coffee can my husband had placed on it's side in the grass.

In comparison the male house sparrow is a mellow little guy. He'll chase another male rival off, but mainly he just perches on shit and chirps.
This sweet song consists of one note emitted with the aid of a battery powered police loud hailer:

CHIRP

about a hundred and fifty six times in succession.
Apparently the female house sparrow finds this impossible to resist. Once she has selected a mate the two of them will spend the rest of the season and on into the early part of the fall raising successive nests full of young, picking at invisible things, and rolling in a frenzied, feathered ball of orgiastic sparrow coitus on my front lawn.

Nature is beautiful.
__________________________________________
...this one's gross.
Last week a former workmate of the Bikers' showed up at the door , pale as a ghost. The police had just released him.
He had gone down to the plant to pick up something he'd left there by accident.
And found his boss-my husband's former boss-lying on the floor in a pool of blood and fluids feebly trying to pull a screwnail out of the top of his head.

Oh yes.

Suicide with a nailgun is a less than optimum method by which to effect ones' own demise, turns out. Particularly if at the last moment you lose the courage of your convictions and your hand wavers.
And particular if the loads are meant to drive a much smaller projectile.

This particular nailgun was loaded with framing gauge nails. Since it was used to assemble pallets out of dunnage, in order to avoid blowing the nails straight on through the wood the percussion strip was the one you're supposed to use with smaller fasteners.
His skull stopped the head from penetrating.
He was awake when they found him. With his hair full of brain matter. Obviously regretting his decision.

Now why this man, in a country that allows private gun ownership, chose to do himself in with a fucking nail gun is a mystery. Also a mystery is why he chose to do himself on the mill floor. That he was trying to do himself is beyond question. The nailgun was still in his other hand, still pointed up underneath his jaw.

On the other hand, the guy who found him is now the plant manager.
You have never seen a guy less enthused about getting a raise.

Opie

My tater was put to sleep two days ago, and I may not be ready to write this, but whatever.
His kidneys shut down.
He fell asleep in my arms, wrapped in his blanket, and the last thing he remembered was my arms around him and my breath.
I miss him so much.
If you have an animal that's in their final extremity and you're dreading the final vet visit, I cannot emphasize enough that it is not bad at all, not horrible in any way. They gave Opie a hefty shot of painkillers first, and it was a blessing to feel him relax and to know he didn't hurt for the first time in a long time. He simply drifted off to sleep in my arms with me kissing his face and telling him he was loved. And once he was asleep the doctor injected him with the euthanasia drug. He never felt it. He simply slowed down and stopped. It was so quiet and gentle. I was with him all the way out.
It didn't take any longer than it might take to read this.
We're putting him in the yard, out front, and putting a dogwood tree over him.
I am going to take a week off.

Well, that was peculiar!

Every time I opened the previous post (the one I just deleted) yet another picture dissappeared until nearly all of them were gone!
Perhaps blogger has new 'ware in effect that prohibits you from skagging pix from other websites??

Fuck'em if they can't take a joke. Whatddya have to do around this place to post up some damn porn?
Really; did something change? Do tell me if you know!

Red Ferret Negates Demon Hundred:Instigate Rumbling!

My daughter finally chose her wedding gown.

frankie says relax...take a deep breath and have a burrito

FIRSTNATIONS COVETED BURRITO RECIPE!!!!!!!!!!!!
remember...read the whole thing first, then start. I have provided links to two helpful and easy- to-use conversion tools for those of you from doofus parts of the world that don't use teaspoons and Fahrenheit like normal people.

part un...the beans
This is the lazy way, with canned ingredients.

3 15 oz cans pinto beans
1 can red kidney beans
1 can small red beans, or flor de mayo beans, or black turtle beans
1 large white onion, minced fine or grated
1 tbl epizote
1/4 tsp ground oregano
1/4 tsp cumin (comino molida)
1 4oz can fire roasted green chiles, chopped (don't cry; this is completely without heat.)
optional, to taste:
1 tsp hot ground chile (lal mirch)
or
1 tsp mild red chile
or
1 tsp ground pasilla (this is what I use. yummers!)
***************************
Don't drain anything. Just dump everything in a pot, stir to mix and simmer at least 1 hour, stirring and mashing the beans frequently. Taste for salt and let cool. You want a thick grey porridge with chunks of bean in it. It looks really ugly, but looks are deceiving, kids.

Now you have vegetarian refried beans! Lucky you! * Refrigerate for an hour to make them easier to handle.

________________________________________________
part deaux: assembling freezer burritos:

-1 package of 12 flour tortillas (also works with gordos, thin pita breads, chapati or gyros. just any thin, round, flexible ethnic flour and water flatbread.)
NOTE: DO NOT use whole wheat tortillas...it tastes like shit. A little white flour won't kill you.

-refries, cooled

-add as desired to refries, or not; I don't care. This is how I do it, though.
....grated cheese (like cheddar or monterey jack)
more grated onion


************************
part tres: assembly

-quickly heat the tortillas in a frypan on med-high, turning once, just enough to make them a little brown on each side, and stack them on a plate. This makes them nice and soft and blooms the flavor.

(optional step-smear the inside of each tortilla with death dealing radioactive hot sauce with all harbeneros and chipotles and jalapenos with death hotness of heat before loading with filling. mm-mm good!)

-Drop a heap of refries onto a tortilla and roll up like a sleeping bag. You can tuck the ends if you want. Congratulations! This is a burrito! You may eat it now, or...

-Lay them on a plate and slide them into the freezer until they're solid

-Stack the frozen burritos into a large container that you can seal tightly, like a tupperware or a ziploc bag. Repeat until desired number of delicious burritos are stored away against the coming darkness.
____________________________________________________

-Whenever you want something delish, take one out, pop it into the nuke and there you go!

-Or fill a square baking dish with them and let thaw...then cover with commercial enchilada sauce, bottled red or green taco sauce or more grated cheese and bake at 350Fahrenheit (176 Celsius) for 30 minutes. You have enchiladas! Yay!


+++++++++++++

QUESTION: FirstNations, could I just wimp out like a little bitch and used canned vegetarian refries?
ANSWER: Ask your mommy.

QUESTION: FirstNations dahlink, I am a stud horse. May I use 2 parts dried pinto beans to 1 part each flor de mayo and soya beans, rehydrated using one can of lager in place of part of the soaking water? And may I put the grated onion in with it, and the spices, and let it all soak up nice? And may I use fresh minced Anaheim chiles?
ANSWER: Yes you may, but only if you enjoy delicious, superior, ass-kicking flavor.
++++++++++++++

*In fact you will have some left over after filling the burritos. Extra lucky, you! Spoon it up or dunk chips in it! (That's crisps, brits.)

++++++++++++++++++++++++

here is a nifty Fahrenheit to Celsius conversion dealie...just enter a number and click!
http://www.wbuf.noaa.gov/tempfc.htm

and here is a conversion chart for all kinds of shit, including cooking nomenclature. scroll down to choose the conversion category you want:
http://www.convert-me.com/en/convert/cooking

+++++++++++++++

UPDATED: last and WORST chapter

UPDATED UPDATE! COMMENTS ARE BACK! GO COMMENT! REMEMBER - IF YOU SUPRESS IT,IT WILL ONLY CAUSE PROBLEMS LATER, YOU KNOW.

UPDATE: BEAST, DANATOR, HENDRIX...blogger printed your comments at the end of the previous post. I just changed the settings again and apparently this was too much for the poor thing. but they're there.
now you have to read this aaaaaaaaaall over again.

AERIAL VIEW OF ODDIE'S HOUSE AND PROPERTY, HARRISON HILL:

as god saw it.......


I cut Eldest Brother off the regular stuff around August, and I dropped pretty much all pretense of working on the house regularly in order to find an apartment and a job. Of course, this meant returning every evening to Meadows having a conniption fit but fuck him and the horse he rode in on. I still worked on the place; I just did it when it was convenient for me.

Meadows, the self-designated 'brains of the operation', was used to getting his way in all things without question and took this badly. In August he embarked on a campaign of 'running a tighter ship' . His version of running a tight ship meant showing up at random times for about an hour to micromanage everything without the vaguest clue as to what was going on. It was like having Homer Simpson around, only not handsome or smart like Homer Simpson. We ignored him.
Except when he set things on fire.

Now, Eldest Brother was a marvel-the guy could do anything...automotive, electrical, carpentry, plumbing; you name it - and do it right the first time too.
This was not a hereditary trait.
From the moment Meadows walked through the door he burnt out power tools, fell out windows, put on doors backwards, broke mouldings, dumped paint cans, set wiring on fire, fell partway through the ceiling, poured joint compound down the sink, spilled thinner, collapsed wooden ladders...and then he'd have a cow when you offered to help.

His finest moment came when he plugged an industrial air compressor he'd rented into the household current and set the fusebox in the basement on fire.

Now that's bad enough...but you see, even though the place got upgraded wiring, it was only run upstairs, where the inspectors would see it, or so the sneaky 'brains of the operation' reasoned. Down in the basement he cheaped out. The fusebox was vintage 1945, meaning it still ran on glass fuses.
Except Meadows was also too cheap to buy fuses. So all the contacts were made with pennies.

It was a great fire, too; I mean, he did THAT right. Full on, flames shooting up, cloth wrapped wiring burning along the walls like dynamite fuses, sparks, black smoke boiling up out of the basement stairwell, floating strands of melted crud drifting around. The fire department showed up. Meadows ran up and down the stairs screaming 'Don't use the hose! Don't use the hose! You'll burn the place down!'
They ignored him.

They also slapped a 'stop work' order on the door.

I went full steam ahead on project 'Get The Fuck Out Of Dodge'.
__________________________________________

I'd moved all my everyday things up to the remodel as soon as there were utilities. Right after the stop work order was issued I started finding money missing out of my wallet. Or my wallet missing altogether. My clothes moved. My shoes hidden.

Meadows took me aside one day..."You know, if you leave those boys wont' work on that house at all. I know you've been around...you understand what I mean. We're adults. You're the only reason they go up there . So don't leave until we're done, OK? Is there anything you need? Can I, uh, buy you anything to sweeten the deal? Can I take you out to a nice dinner sometime? Or, har har, drinks maybe?"

Yeah, my little heart was going pitty pat. My pyloric was spasming, too.
Boy 'S'????
You utter fucking ass cabbage. Despite what your diseased imaginings might have suggested...or your diseased son Kelvin for that matter...there was MOST EMPHATICALLY no 'S' going on. Unlike you, dickcheese, I draw the line at sex acts outside my own species.

And how about him throwing his disgusting, married, misogynistic self into the bargain like a cherry on top, huh?

'Lissen-we both know you're a whore, so I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your snatch up here in the abandoned house long enough for the place to get finished, OK? And how bout I buy you a hamburger at the Eagles Lodge? Maybe I'll let ya blow me in the parking lot too! Whaddya say??'

That was August.
_____________________________________________

The first weekend of September was my last one in Milwaukie.
Oh, what a weekend that was, my darlings.

Hang on to something.
____________________________________________

The remodel was nearly finished , and the place was actually looking pretty good, considering Meadows had gone hind tit on all the materials. There was even an actual toilet! It looked so out of place!
There was a lingering ghost of dog that rose whenever it rained, but we figured that a coat of paint and a new floor would take care of that.
Paint? Check. But Fido remained.
Now the only task that remained inside the place was to refinish the floors.

Mr. Meadows handed me a scrub brush, a bucket and a box of Spic and Span.
" You want me to wax the linoleum after it dries or is it coming up?" I asked.
" All the linoleum's gone. You and Eldest already did the kitchen, remember?" he said.
I shrugged and set off.
All throughout the house the floors were a uniform sheet of mottled black and grey with kind of a burnished shine, except where foot traffic had worn a lighter trail. I thought it was an odd choice of linoleum for a house but I'd seen worse and gave it no thought. God knew it was filthy, though, and I was all for getting to work on that.
I set the bucket down and started . The dirt turned into curds under the scrub brush. I worked on that one spot for ages and was beginning to worry that the linoleum itself had deteriorated and I was scrubbing right through it. Better tell Meadows.
I picked up the bucket to go dump it out.
It stuck.
I gave it a yank. It came away with something sticking to the bottom. I went to flick it off and happened to look down at the floor.

Quartersawn oak.
What. The. Fuck.

I washed the bucket off in the sink. The crud on bottom slowly melted away under the blasting hot water. The smell that rose was enough to choke a buzzard. The drain clogged, and the sink filled with hair and rehydrated fragments.
It was dogshit, kids.

_________________________________________

I left the house, walked down to Sonnyboy's place, sat on his couch and cried.
My defences just split from top to bottom. They just collapsed. I'd reached my limit.
I'd been living in that.
And grateful.
__________________________________________

THE ABANDONED HOUSE/THE REMODEL/ODDIE'S HOUSE
NOTE: It's only a floor plan. Please don't cry.



I was sap enough to continue to do household chores and help out, though. That was why I was in the kitchen of the homestead doing dishes that evening when Sunflower came pattering out of the shower in a bathrobe. "Look! It's a miniskirt!' she chirped, twirling around. OK, nutjob, good for you. I kept washing dishes. The boys were still sitting at the table.
She came up behind me and bumped me with her ass.
I kind of chuckled and kept washing dishes.
So she threw me a hipcheck and I dropped a glass, which broke in the dishwater.
As I tried to pick the broken pieces out, she continued to bump me. She bumped me around the kitchen until she bumped me into a corner.
Then she started rubbing her ass on me.
I sidestepped out of the kitchen while she laughed. "Oh Sunflower," said Meadows fondly.

A few minutes later I went to make a slice of toast. I passed her in the dinette, still in her robe, sitting up on the back of a kitchen chair yakking on the phone. She twinkled her fingers at me and grinned. Yeah, hi you fucking basket case. I waved back and looked for the bread.
The next time I turned around she was giggling. I was looking right at her.

And she spread her legs.


Yes she did.
Yes, she did.

__________________________________________

I spent that night at Sonnyboy's. If his mother had come to the door I'd have slapped her across the face. AND spit on her neck.
This was Saturday.
_________________________________________


Why was I at the remodel Sunday morning? Because I'd said I would be.
Because I was a sap. A sap with a bucket of hot ammonia and a paint scraper.

For some reason the whole Meadows gang decided to make an inspection tour that day. In they trooped, still dressed in their church clothes (yes, I know. I know.) Sunflower sashayed through the place peering at things and opening cabinets like she had a clue. Fields and the boys trailed after. They all ended up in my back bedroom, standing around the bed and chatting.
When suddenly Sunflower leaned over, yanked all the covers off the bed and threw them into a corner.
As she was bending down to sniff the bottom sheet I walked out.

Hand this to Eldest, he came after me.
____________________________________________

That evening.
Sonnyboy and I show up to grab Eldest Brother and go party.
As we were leaving, out of nowhere Sunflower suddenly chirps " When are you buying her a ring, Eldest honey?"

WHAAAAAAAT?

" Well,' she continued as I stared at her in horror "You're getting married, aren't' you?"
" NO!" I blurted.
" Oh yes you aaaaaare" she sang.
"I can't afford a ring right now, mom" added Eldest Brother.

WHAT?

WHAT??
____________________________________________________


I was gone by Monday noon.

___________________________________________________




I did end up in a shithole and I did end up living on brown rice. In fact the shithole was so shitty they didn't ask for a cleaning deposit and weren't really insistent about first and last months rent either; which was good because I didn't have it. Nor did I find a job right away. By the time I did I was down to returning bottles for change like a wino.
And that was fine.

Recently I tried Googling them, but not a trace exists. The wife had an odd enough name that you'd think it would pop up, but it didn't.
And that's fine too.
I really hope they all went back to their home dimension.
Except for Sunflower, whom I hope is headfirst in a pile of shit in Hell.

Redd Foxx sez: 'You GOTTA Wash Yo Ass!" and here's why!

There's only one more episode after this, and this one's a funny one.
Suck it up.
______________________

Driving professionally takes a certain toll on one's hine, and Mr. Meadows was kind of gimpy after twenty some-odd years behind the wheel of a milk truck. At his best he walked like a sailor in a full diaper. When he got up from a chair, though, it would take him a couple of minutes to straighten out while he hitched around the room, bent over at the waist, knocking over potted plants and endtables with his giant ass.
We were watching this show one evening when Kelvin laughed and said to his brother "Hey, aren't you glad you don't have to squeeze his butt anymore?"

WHAT?
___________________________

I thank God that this happened before I knew these people.

Seems ol' dad had been bothering a zit on his ass for awhile and made it nice and infected. The time he spent loading and unloading his truck each night further aggravated this condition, as did hustling back and forth making deliveries. The additional hours spent behind the wheel seated on vinyl might as well have been spent scooting his bare backside across a patch of shag carpeting for the effect it had on his carbuncle. It grew into a distinct, golfball-sized entity one could detect through the heavy twill of his white uniform pants.

Yes, well. The spreading pinkish stain was also a giveaway that all was not well in assville.

But he carried on, brave soldier. And sure enough, his Spartan regimen of shitty diet, hairy crack, poor hygeine and neglect paid off; the thing subsided and went away. See? Nothing to worry about.
And all was well.

Until he hopped up into the seat of his truck one night and a quart of green pus shot out of his asshole, down his leg and filled his shoe. He screamed, he jumped, his forehead hit the windshield and he passed out.
Dad had given himself an anal fistula.

(Now at this point in our story Mr. Meadows himself jumped in, all smiles, and helped tell the tale. By the end even Sunflower had joined the fun and was giving us unneccessarily detailed descriptions of the laundry involved.)

Dad woke up in the hospital on his stomach with a freshly shaved fundament.
The original carbuncle had moved into the meat of the muscle and migrated downward toward a vestigial gland, which it ruptured and emptied into. Because this gland had an open channel to the rectal passage, all the old pus, infected lymph and necrotic guck met up with some brand new bacterial buddies floating around in the fluid that was already there. The whole stew turned into a horrifically toxic ticking bomb. When he jumped up into the truck, it all burst out through the pore-sized exit of the gland, enlarging it to the size of a dime.
All this had happened right at the ingress to his egress.
Yes.
He'd literally been torn a new asshole.

Now that dime, and the tennis ball sized cavity behind it, were cleaned out and filled with cotton packing. They sent him home and told him he could remove it himself in a couple of days.
Oh by the way. Don't leave rejoicing just yet, Mr. Milkman. If you don't keep your ass clean, the thing will FILL BACK UP.

Skip ahead one week.
It filled back up.
With the packing in place.

The only course of action now was to nut up, remove the packing, express the gland and keep it filled with Neosporin.
Sunflower flat out refused. Of course.

So the task fell to Eldest Brother.

There were several YARDS of surgical gauze up there.
Luckily, once the part that had hardened into a solid, cork-sized plug of green matter had been worked out, the rest of it came slithering out pretty easily.

Don't imagine that this was accomplished without lots of commotion on the part of Satan's Milkman. Eldest finally had to tie him to the bed.
With belts.

So every night for a couple of months thereafter, it was Eldest Brothers' job to tie his father to the bed, pinch his asshole between his thumbs and express the gland into a washcloth until it was empty. No matter how many washcloths it took.
Then he had to poke a tube of goo up there and squeeze until the goop started to squit back out.
Then he'd fold a towel into a square and tuck it between his cheeks, and wrap that in place with an ace bandage.
All done!


I never took a shower in that house again.

White Falcon Great : Eleven Time Mob Crimes!

NOTE: SSA, DON'T READ THE FOOTNOTES.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Update.....
this is part of a series that began last friday. if you have no idea what's going on, that might explain it. so might wearing a drycleaners' bag over your head at night. wearing a drycleaners bag over your head at night is bad for you.
_________________________________________


I needed to move out of Milwaukie fast.
It was also pretty obvious from the 'help wanted' section of the paper that I'd have to move back in to Portland if I wanted to work.

Here's the breakdown:
I'd turned 19 in May. I left the Dishrag and moved back to Milwaukie by the 31st. Two weeks into June I was fired, had been been ousted from Sonnyboy's place, and started living in the house on Harrison. Now finally in July my unemployment had come through.
Now I got about 260$ per month in unemployment back then. Half of every check went into the bank along with everything else I could scrape together (and that wasn't much, with 130.00 and change to hold me for the rest of the month.) I still had a long way to go. In order to move out I'd have to save first, last, cleaning and another couple of hundred dollars over, just in case I didn't find anything right away. And that merely to be able to move in to a shithole and live on brown rice.
The longer I stayed in Milwaukie, though, the better that looked.

No, the Meadows' sideshow didn't get any less weird as time went on. Oh my no. In fact I came to realize that they'd been holding back.

I did my best to spend as much time as I could away from the Meadows' home. I put a permanent bend in the fence between their place and Sonnyboy's house, sneaking over in the middle of the night like a goddamn sixteen-year-old.* (Mommy dearest kept a weather eye on his front door. She'd even gone so far as to ask the Meadows to call her if I showed up at Sonnyboy's. I was getting the distinct impression she didn't like me.) I partied with people I knew around town, I visited Portland regularly looking for work, I even started eating meals out, even though this cut into my bankroll. (Well, that and the cigarettes. Fine; and the Two Fingers tequila. Hey; why drink piss? I may have been living in an abandoned house but I was a good hostess. )

The problem with that was that the weird ramped up exponentially. Each time I tried to sneak back to pick up a jacket or nab a sandwich there was another scene waiting for me. And Kelvin was always there. Maybe asleep. Maybe not.

I was having a sneaky sandwich one afternoon when Eldest Brother blew in, bent down and said 'be quiet and come look at this."
I should have known better at this point.
The door of Kelvin's room was in the utility room entry (see floor plan last post.) Of course, in a high-traffic area such as that, it was hanging wiiiiide open.
In the middle of his bed was a heap of sheets and blankets. It was hitching and bucking like one of those horsie rides at the supermarket.
Eldest brother whispered "Guess what."
"OH MY GOD KELVIN! CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOR!" I shouted in horror.
Kelvin poked his head out of the sheets and grinned. "My God, can't a guy jerk off in peace?"
_______________________________________

For some reason Kelvin seemed to take this for a 'bonding moment', and decided to make me his confidant. Whether I liked it or not. And I did not. So he stalked me.
Now Kelvin had the unfortunate and vastly dysfunctional family role as his mother AND his fathers' confidant; two people with no appropriate boundaries whatsoever. When he in turn confided something in me it was like being smeared with shit. It wasn't only the content of the revelations or the people involved, but also the fact that they dumped this insane, depraved bullshit on their youngest son. And he was so fucked up he lapped up the attention like a dog.

One of the stories he told me actually concerned him, though.

Kelvin had a once-in-awhile girlfriend who was Asian. Her parents were desperate for them to get married, but Kelvin was only after the 'tang. "Yeah," he bragged, " I used to have to tell her, 'Get the hell up and wipe your ass! You're disgusting!' before I'd fuck her. But eventually she learned what I liked."

What a silver tongued devil. And picky too!

He'd made the mistake of bringing her home.
Once.
Momma'd run into her room and slammed the door. Dad had made creepy remarks in front of her, asking Kelvin if it were true that Asian women had sideways gints, and wasn't he afraid of getting the Korean crud?

I mean honest to God. Poor girlfriend. Poor Kelvin, too.
________________________________________

Kelvin was a pervert above all things (I would not be surprised in the least if he was sat up in Rocky Butte right now for criminal trespass-window peeping or B and E rape.) He was also a toady, a sneak, a tattletale and one of the most pliant people I have ever met. If you insisted, he would bend.
That gave me an idea. I'd get him out of my face for good. After the first couple of whine-fests, every time he started in with the bullshit I came back with the 'apartments for rent-Milwaukie' section of the newspaper. After all, the guy had a full-time city job, benefits, savings and a car, right? Everything he owned would fit in the back seat. If I could keep the fire lit under his ass he could be gone before momma had a clue.

Obviously, this was doomed to fail. And it did.

I did the legwork. I fished his fricken paystubs out of the trash and drew him up a fricken budget, on paper, in his face for the love of Pete. I even found an apartment for him to look at. I got him as far as an inspection, too.
He panicked so badly that he practically ran out of the place. All the way home he kept repeating "No, my mother needs me. She just needs me, she just does. I can't do that. I can't DO that, Nations, I just CAN'T." By the time we got back to the house he was babbling. He ran into his room crying and slammed the door.
And only about half of it was faked.
_______________________________________________________

Eldest brother lived in a shed in the back yard. But this was no ordinary shed, make no mistake; he'd built it himself. He had a woodstove, skylights, and a loft in there, a rug on the floor, windows, insulation, cedar shake roof...it was tight. It even had a front porch and some steps, all covered with the most amazing array of potted cacti I have ever seen. Some of these things were HUGE...ten years old and older.
Outdoors. In Oregon.
And unlike every other person in Oregon at the time Eldest Brother was NOT growing dope. Much too pedestrian.
Eldest Brother was growing PEYOTE.
Yes I know this is supposed to be impossible. In blithe disregard of which fact he was doing it, without any special equipment, in plastic bowls. He had the plants in various stages of growth, and he had the field identification books to prove it. And I checked because I didn't believe him.
Fucker was also making what he called 'organic Mescaline'- dried peyolotl cut with lactose.
Good stuff, Maynard.
Really, really, REALLY good stuff.

The guy could have made thousands and thousands of dollars out of that shed just off the Native American religious community, let alone the freaks. He could have moved to Humboldt County and bought a house, and settled into a whole community of fellow wackjobs and mad scientists.
Instead he stuffed it all into his head and ran around claiming that he controlled traffic lights with his mind.
_____________________________________





* Sonnyboy and I had this down to a science. He scooted his bed underneath the window and kept the screen barely resting in the frame. Come the darkness I'd come down the street from the opposite direction, slide through the Meadow's side yard, across the back , over the fence and through the window like the Flying Wallendas. Heeeeey-UP!
Tell you what, by the time I left Milwaukie we'd damn near shoved that house off the back foundation.
Why all the cloak and dagger? Why didn't he just go up to the remodel?
1. Sonnyboy worked days. Like he was going to be able to walk back home? Wigga please.
2. Location, location, location. The remodel sat just off the sidewalk on a main street and it had no windows. The one time like maniacs with no religion and tiny motorcycles,scarlet maccaws, frightened elk thundering down a steel chute on the sash weight fell down into the wall. Nuns burst into flame. The neibors all turned on their lights all the way off the box spring with a mild concussion and a large hole in the plaster by naval battles, with explosions, and pterodactyls booked ass out the back window when we saw blue lights flashing on the walls drove up.
3. Eldest brother ( Luxury-fitted Hispano-Suiza to Sonnyboy's Sopwith Stunt biplane) was liable to pop in . If there was going to be a double feature I wanted to keep things in separate auditoriums.

What? I was 19.

Master of Design Fuschia Monkey: Retreat!

Because YOU ASKED FOR IT!
Actually nobody did but here it is anyway; the floorplan of the Meadows' lair:

_________________________________________

As the summer wore on the Meadows started showing up at the abandoned house for work parties more often. This just harshed the fuck out of my mellow. Gone were the hours when it was just me, a broom and a garbage bag, or me, the lawnmower, and Aunt Audrey's charred bone fragments.

By July I had to show up every single morning down at the house for the daily unrealistic remodelling goal/harangue and then off to the hardware store, Eldest Brother driving, Kelvin asleep in the cargo bed.

Kelvin and his father worked nights. This is why they greeted the dawn with a nutritious glass of orange juice and vodka; early morning was their evening.
Nonetheless, Kelvin was expected to spend his days working on the remodel while daddy slept. That he usually didn't wasn't something I held against him; shit, I didn't want him around. And besides, the creepy little pervert genuinely needed his sleep. Between his night terrors and daddy rousting him out of bed every morning at 6am he wasn't getting much. Sleep deprivation was certainly not making him any more normal, that was for sure.

Eldest Brother didn't have a straight job. I have no idea what he usually did with the greater part of his day. Probably worked on his Interociter. But he'd usually roll in to help about late afternoon. We'd get a couple hours worth of the heavier work done together; some linoleum removed or some old tile chipped off.
Then we'd retire to the back room and put some repetitive strain on the floor joists. Wotta demon!

Mom worked days in a clothing store, but she left for her job before anyone else showed up in the mornings and was home late enough in the evening that I seldom saw her. That she actually held a job just amazes me to this day.
She, of course, never did anything except embody Satan and all his dark legions, and eat other peoples' ramen noodles.
And I mean that literally, y'all. She did not cook. Nor did she clean. No laundry; not even her own. She did not shop. She did not garden. She had no hobbies. She watched no television. She did three things: went to work, came home, and acted disgusting.*
___________________________________________________________

There is one member of this sideshow that I have not mentioned previously, and that's because she was an expert at not being noticed.
We'll call her Mysterion.
Remember in The Munsters TV series, how Marylin was the only normal member of an otherwise bizarre family? How she sort of drifted through the cobwebs and dragon crap completely untouched, not a hair of her neat little flip-do out of place, as though her home context was nothing more than a bluescreen image? That describes Mysterion exactly.
I saw her a total of five times and spoke to her maybe three out of the five.

I do know that her room was at the back of the house. And I knew that the door to her room had 1. a handset lock, 2. a key lock, 3. a keyed turning deadbolt and 4. a security chain. And that Kelvin made it a habit of TRYING THE KNOB EVERY TIME HE WENT DOWN THE HALLWAY.
I shit thee not. I saw it.

But one morning Kelvin came down the hallway from the bathroom grinning.
"Hey, Mysterion left her door open! Nations, you want to see something sickening? Come look!"
Before the words were out of his mouth Dad and Eldest Brother were out of their chairs and headed down the hallway. Oh hell yes, I followed. I figured it had to be pretty good if they thought it was worth seeing.

Mysterion's room was light, feminine, with gauze curtains, lavender walls, a frilly white bedspread. Fluffy white rug on the floor. Ruffled shade on the dancing lady bedside lamp.
I stood in the doorway gazing around at an absolutely typical teenaged girls' room.
Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.

Menawhile her brothers and father were busily opening the dresser drawers, looking in the closet, checking under the bed and fingering things like monkeys. Here is a map:


"Come look at this, said Kelvin, indicating the closet. "It's just disgusting. Just disgusting."

Inside were.....clothes.

"Look at all the good stuff she gets", he hissed. "We have to dress in crap! Just crap! She gets everything!"

I thought, "Wait a minute. Your ass works and you're 22, Kelvin. Ever thought about buying your own clothes?"

To be fair, what I didn't know at the time is that his mother bought all his clothes. The one time Kelvin had shown up in things he'd bought for himself she'd thrown a screaming, crying, hysterical fit, made herself sick and made everyone's life a living hell UNTIL HE RETURNED THEM TO THE STORE.**

I noticed some boxes on the top shelf. Boxes for shoes? Boxes for dresses?

No.

Bisquick, Instant Quaker Oats, and Jiffy mixes.
The whole top shelf of her closet was filled with boxed food.

"Oh, that's nothing!" Eldest flipped up the duvet and indicated the space beneath the bed.
The entire space was cutdown flats full of canned food. Campbells soups, Dinty Moore stew, Chef Boy Ar Dee, Armour Devilled Ham, tuna fish.

Mr. Meadows decided it was time to leave. He set about tidying up.
Eldest left with a can of chicken noodle soup in each hand.
Kelvin snagged a box of Hamburger Helper.
"Go ahead, grab something", said eldest.
I declined.
____________________________________________________

I came into the house one afternoon to hit the bathroom, and as I entered the back door I was met with the most extraordinary sound.
Oh no.
Was it the refrigerator motor malfunctioning? No...
Was there something caught in the agitator of the washing machine sloshing around? No.....
After the hibbity bibbity incident I was pretty leery of repetitive moist noises in the Meadow's house, so I advanced cautiously.
Peeked around the corner.
From where I was I could see the crown of Mr. Meadows uniform hat just peeping above the edge of the couch. the noise continued, but now I could hear him too.
He was grunting. Huh Huh Huh Huh. Kind of....under his breath.
I heard a faint jingle.
Aw SHIT.
I had to go past him to use the bathroom, so what the fuck; away I went. What I saw when I got halfway through the living room just stopped me, stopped me absolutely dead in my tracks. Just thinking about it now makes my stomach feel wierd.
They had a Sheltie dog. Named Darla.
Darla was down at the end of the couch.

Licking Mr. Meadows bare feet.
Lap. Lap. Lap. Lap. Lap. Lap. Lap. Lap. Lap. Lap.
He laid there with his eyes closed, grunting in time with each stroke.






Have a nice day.

________________________________________

I'm sorry to say that yes, it does continue. The question is:
IS IT SAFE YET?
....actually no. There's a couple footnotes.

*Here's your first REAL EXAMPLE of what I mean when I describe Mrs. Meadows as a tapeworm segment stuck to Satans ass.
This woman took the nastiest, bowl-filling Doberman dumps it has ever been my misfortune to be in the same state with.
And didn't flush.
On purpose.
Let me repeat that. She was fully aware of what she was, or in this case WAS NOT doing.
On purpose.
To her, this kind of thing represented lighthearted family hijinks. Ha ha! Whoops, I guess I forgot to flush!
But it didn't stop there.

...Shall I continue?

Whoops! I harked up a big ol' yellow wad of snot into the sink and all over the vanity and the mirror! Gosh darn me!

Whoops! Guess I'm having my period!

And....?

Whoops! There must have been a REALLY BIG SNAIL using the toilet last night!

Yes.

FOOTNOTE 2...........
**And here's your second example of the evil which was Sunflower Meadows.
I witnessed this.
It was my fault, too. I was the one who'd convinced Kelvin go shopping for new clothes.
His mother took one look at the bag in his arms, snatched it away, upended it on the sofa and promptly began hyperventilating and freaking. "Is this yours? Are these for you? Don't you love me? I don't understand! I don't understaaaaaaaaaaaaand!" And off she went. Crying, screaming, throwing herself against the walls, into her husbands arms, stomping off to the bedroom, screaming in there, coming back out, crying, stomping off the the bathroom, slamming the door, pretending to throw up, coming back out, pretending to throw up in the kitchen sink... Poor Kelvin kept following her all over the house frantically trying to reassure her that it was all going back to the store but she'd shove him away and scream some more.
Finally Mr. Meadows looked at me with genuine embarrassment in his face, and said " I know you were just trying to be nice. I think you better leave now."

Good plan.