BOX

Going into a Best Buy store, for me, is like instantly being covered in a depressing, heavy, sour, itchy wool blanket that cuts off all fresh air and light, with a musty smell of hopelessness that fills the nose.

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TEENAGERS 3

Today, as I do every year, I went to my teen son’s small school to watch the 8th Grade graduation ceremony. It is a thoughtful, enjoyable hour or so, where teachers write a little speech about each graduating child and present them with a individually-chosen book according to their interests and personalities. The teachers put good effort into writing their pieces, as much for the parents’ benefit as each child, I think. Some teachers are natural writers and presenters, some not as much, but they all seem to enjoy doing it.

The children’s reactions to being onstage and being feted are another thing. The boys. All looked sheepish and like they wished a massive windstorm would come and whip the podium and all the people right down the street to Burgermaster. I would’ve liked that as well, because it would’ve been absurd. Anyway, some of the boys turned bright red, some fidgeted in their collared shirts and new dress pants, some smiled nervously the whole time, a couple seemed to enjoy the attention. The girls. Some tottering on 4” heels that slipped on their feet, some wearing pants and skate shoes, some crying quietly in their seats after their moment. Braces. Zits. Unformed, but forming fast.

Oh, to be 14. I remember it as the year of the Big See. Life was becoming not so simple, I could no longer breeze my way through everything. Adults were all total idiots, boys were hopeless, I was not a Superstar nor going to be one, and was nowhere, nowhere near as pretty and brilliant as my mother told me I was. I was disappointed in everything and everybody, including myself, with no idea what to do about it other than grow up and hope it got better. So I see these children, some hardly looking much different than my 10-year-old, some looking like they could go off to college, and I know that they too have big thoughts, and big changes going on inside them. It is the process of becoming that is fascinating to me, when you can see it right in front of you. However, I look at them and remember that being in the process of becoming is sometimes terribly difficult, especially when you know that no matter what you do, time and experience are sometimes the only things that will help.

The greatest thing about 8th grade graduation is to spend a little time hearing about what is unique about each child, how they have made an impact so far, in this forum anyway. From the little dude with the bangs way over his eyes, to the serious-faced activist girl, to the girl who has absolutely no idea what a stunningly lovely young woman she already is, to the clown who has a heart of gold, I am glad to know a little more about who is coming up in this world.

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DUDE 4

As you waited for the bus with your ratty long brown hair in your black leather trenchcoat that nearly touched the ground, the menace you hoped to give off really failed pretty completely.

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DUDE 3

Your hair, an explosion of undifferentiated orb-like frizz, well-complimented your extra-large-beach-ball-sized stomach as you walked your bike across the street.

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DUDE 2

Oh, sir. My teen son nearly blasted my ears out with his guffaws when he saw you on the sidewalk today, all 98-pasty-myopic-painfully-thin pounds of you, wearing a white t-shirt, a black wrestling singlet, black Converse high-tops with black socks, eating a bag of chips and apparently talking to yourself or worse, on a Bluetooth.

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HORSE 2

Of course, that horse came in dead last next time. It's because I wrote about him, I am quite sure.

Partly because of "Mr. Ed" and the fact that I was a young female, there was nothing more I wanted as a child than my very own pony. PONY!!!!! We lived right next to a farm, and were very friendly with the kind old folks that owned it, and there really would've been no problem to board a pony there. I brought this logic to my father right before my 4th birthday. He was reading the paper. He folded it down, looked at me and with an almost-but-not-quite-imperceptible hint of patronization, said "You may have a pony on your 9th birthday." Oh, Dad. Dad Dad Dad. You didn't know much about kids, and you sure didn't know your own baby daughter too well yet.

Let's fast forward five years. OF COURSE, I didn't forget his promise. I as much counted off the days. That spring, as I was getting closer to nine, my excitement built. I dropped all kinds of pony-related hints, drew pictures of lovely tan ponies with blond braided manes, read "Black Beauty" and "Misty of Chillicothe" again, and spent hours imagining riding and brushing and hugging my very own pony. But, I knew. I did. I knew our family was struggling for money at the time, kids always know these things. My dad became more sheepish and quiet when I blathered on about ponies and saddles. I knew.

My birthday came, a blustery bright-white cloudy day with a little touch of the summer warmth ahead. Part of my heart thought that maybe the pony was already over at the farm, with a red bow tied to her tail, but it was a pretty small hope. My dad asked me to sit down in the car with him for a minute. It was as honest and plain and humble as he had ever been with me, and maybe ever was again. He was a gruff kind of guy, so this was quite a moment for me as he told me he was sorry. He told me he thought I would never in a million years remember his promise, and he regretted saying it to me. He went on to say we just could not afford to buy and board a pony now, that he wished I could have one, but we couldn't do it. I think he expected me to cry and complain, but I didn't. I told him it was OK, and I smiled as best I could. Something told me that this was a whole lot worse for him than it was for me, and I just wanted to let him off the hook. He seemed so relieved.

I stepped out of the car, my thin yellow windbreaker flapping in the wind. The little crack in my heart started to mend.

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CAR

When I was a tyke, we had this obscure Italian car called a Facel Vega. My dad was one of those guys who liked to have everything different and unique, that no other man in town, the the state, in the COUNTRY would have. So we got this car, dubbed "The Batmobile" immediately by the neighborhood kids which chagrined my dad to no end. It was shiny shiny black, had a lovely soft leather and burled wood interior, and smelled fancy.

It also had "suicide doors," which if you don't know the term, were doors that were rear-hinged with no center pillar. This ironically-named feature had an interesting quirk in our car: once it got up to around 50 - 55 mph. the doors would sometimes suddenly FLY OPEN. Of course, I found this fantastic. I can remember my mother screeching for us all to scoot to the middle of the seat (I don't remember if it had seat belts, but we were never asked to wear them ever) while she slowed and pulled over. We would laugh like idiots. I think she tried to tie the doors shut with some twine or something. Ralph Nader would've lost his shit over this car, eh?

So, clearly the ol' Facel Vega was just not going to be able to stick around as a FAMILY CAR. Despite the incredibly obvious problem of a child falling out of the vehicle like a spicy meatball down the highway, my dad still pouted when he had to sell it. I have no idea who he pawned it off too. I'm not sure of the market in Wisconsin then for Batmobiles with exploding doors.

The day he pulled up at home with the coppery brown Ford station wagon that was the Facel Vega's replacement, he was not smiling. My mother was, though.

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HA 3

Once on an 18-hour Greyhound bus ride from Chicago to Philadelphia, I laughed for nearly an hour straight when the giant orange I was about to peel and eat fell from my hands and rolled up and down the aisle, back and forth, back and forth.

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GAS

Four dollars and fifty cents a gallon. FOUR DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS A GALLON. I have no idea why people aren't rioting, burning, looting, pillaging, and most importantly, stealing gasoline. My dad the car enthusiast would be rolling in his grave, if he had a grave. Instead, I imagine his ashes are rolling at the bottom of the Wisconsin River. He would've been pissed.

I remember the first time gas went over a buck. People were HOWLING with indignation, couldn't even believe it, wanted to kill a guy or something. Now? Oh, sure, everyone is whining, prices of everything are screaming upwards and it is only gonna get MUCH WORSE, but what is anyone DOING ABOUT IT?

I don't know what to do either. This little problem with the dependence on foreign oil has become such a NUISANCE, EH? OK, well maybe this is good. Let's hit rock bottom so we can finally figure out ways to not be such energy pigs, and the creative and brave and scientific can finally get to do their things. People can generally figure out stuff, if given the time, opportunity, finances, and access. I'll sacrifice, I'll change, but I want to see this coming from the top. OH MY, REAL LEADERSHIP! What a concept.

Gallon of gas or a Starbucks coffee, what to choose? How the hell did this happen?

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WIN

I was such a weird little kid. I had a thing about playing games at birthday parties. I wouldn’t partake, even at my own parties, even if everyone won something. How odd. I’m sure it had something to do with perfectionism, not being able to bear even the idea of not being #1, even in something at stupid as a carry-an-egg-on-a-spoon relay. So I just wouldn’t play. Mindful of others perceptions of me, I didn’t want anyone to think I was a poor sport or anything, so I would just claim to be tired or “just wanted to watch for awhile.” How does that turn up in the mind by kindergarten? Jeez.

I can remember putting up a giant pout once, though. I was maybe 8 or 9, at a sleepover party with a gaggle of girls. The birthday girl was an only child of some means, so there were really good prizes for the games. I had my laser-like focus on a case to hold 45 RPM records – it was covered in a shaggy hot pink fake fur and had a funny face with big pom-pom eyes. Surely, it was me who had to own this! I was the music fan! I had to win, for the winner had first choice of the prizes. I forget what the game was, something random, though, no skill, just luck. My luck played out that the birthday girl herself won top choice, and picked the case. Oh, holy hell. I could feel black billowing clouds emanate from the top of my head, and bolts of deadly lightening shoot from my eyes. I think I may have started dropping silent fat tears as well. No doubt folded arms, big lip, and major frownage were happening as well. The birthday girl’s mother, who knew me well, too well, realized that I would sit in steely, shitty determination all night long and probably ruin the party. She intervened and after some tense negotiations, the birthday girl turned the case over to me. I can remember that complex feeling of YES! WIN! I WIN! and some amount of shame about how I achieved it. I would’ve really hated me if I were that mom. Heh.

I still have the case, though. I really did like it a whole lot. It's very groovy.

Later on, there were no party games of course. The wins were: 1. a place to have an unsupervised teen function, preferably dark with loud music; 2. substances to abuse, and most importantly; 3. attendance by my latest guy crush. These parties were often great dramas, with many stories told and retold the next week at school, and sometimes for years later. Someone always threw up and/or passed out cold, someone got into a fight, something always got broken, and someone’s heart always got broken as well, while someone’s else’s was soaring. I would always start the evening with such hope, and usually just end up tired, messed up, and with some amount of male attention but hardly ever the guy I pined for. The keg would be tapped out, tires would squeal out of the driveway, but there was always next weekend, right?

Grown-up parties just aren’t as compelling. There aren’t any games, and everyone has generally paired off. The social component centers around food, work talk, maybe a game on the TV. My face gets tired from smiling, I never ever get drunk, and I definitely never win anything other than maybe getting to eat some good cheese and crackers.

These days, I try to be more reasonable. Winning is really important to me still in many ways, but not everything is a win situation. I am more comfortable with failing, particularly if I can figure something from it, which makes an odd sort of a win. I am still learning how to play nice, or even play at all, but I am getting there.

I am up for a three-legged race. Let’s go.

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CRANK

Today’s the day.

If you say one more rude, crappy, inappropriate, and/or grossly self-centered comment anywhere in my vicinity – ANYWHERE – I’m gonna tell you to f right the f off.

You are so horrible. You may be one of the most awful human beings I have ever had the misfortune to come across. For years, you have made a reputation for being an embarrassment to yourself, your family, and anything you are associated with. All you do is complain and force attention towards YOUR PERSONAL NEEDS. WAKE UP! YOU ARE DESPISED!!

You thrive on intimidating everyone, and count on the fact that most people are far too polite to tell you to shut up. You self-righteous lump of doughy narcissism. You think you are standing up for yourself, asking the tough questions, telling the truth, keeping it REAL? Here’s the real real: YOU SUCK. You can’t see that the questions you ask are off-topic, time-wasting, and dull-minded. You can’t see that your intrusive personal jabs, given to all and sundry, reveal your ugly character. You can’t see that people cringe when you are near, and avoid you like the plague. You can’t see that your OWN FAMILY looks deeply uncomfortable and ashamed around you. I pity them all, ‘cause you are a boil on the ass of life.

So, Crank, bring it today. You don’t scare me. I’ll get a standing ovation from every molecule that makes up every living thing on earth, and hopefully you’ll f right the f off.

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PLAID

I was shopping around online a few days ago and I saw this fabulous pink plaid miniskirt, which I fell in love with immediately. I looked to see if they had it in my size, which they did, and I went to click “Add to Shopping Cart,” then thought again. I gave it another hard look. Aw, crap. I can’t wear that anymore. I would look silly. I tried to think of a way to old it up, and just could not. Huge sigh. It was so cute.

I like plaid things, although not all plaid things. Plaid golf pants are not appealing, nor are plaid bedsheets. I like bold plaids. I had two special red plaid things when I was little: tennis shoes and a bookbag. The tennies had the big white rubber bumper toes, and big white rubber soles, and I think I got them at the Buster Brown shoe store. No one else seemed to have them, and I wore them until they had holes and I couldn’t cram my little toes in them any more. They were different, and I really dug feeling different, even then.

The red plaid bookbag came from England, which made it beyond special and groovy. If you do not know what bookbags are, these were the precursors to backpacks, worn like a current-day laptop bag/purse style. They were generally very cheap and thin. Oh, how I loved this bag, even though I really had nothing but the Weekly Reader to put in it, in the days before any homework of consequence for young children. It was trimmed out in black leather, with a thin strap and two big buckles to close it shut. The inside was this orange rubberized material which seemed related to a basketball. It got dry and cracked apart as the years went by, and fell apart like the tennis shoes. Perhaps plaid is unreliable, or maybe I loved them to death.

I’ll tell you a bad plaid: The Bay City Rollers. Oh mah gawd, what was THAT? Trying to pass off a bunch of pasty, zitty Scottish boys with buckteeth and CROPPED PLAID PANTS as teen idols? Well maybe for the equally-pasty ginger-haired befreckled pudgy lasses over there but THIS IS THE USA, DAMMIT! S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y! NO WAY! They were a POX on my PLAID!

Maybe I will get the hot pink plaid skirt and wear it around the house when no one is here. Win.

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TAILGATE

It was certainly wrong, illegal, dangerous, and neglectful for my dad to allow me to ride down the road on the open tailgate of our '67 Ford station wagon at about 30 mph, but it sure was fun.

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NIGHT

My favorite time in the 24 hour cycle is when the sky is deep matte blue, but still light enough to see dim cloud patterns, and the trees look like flat black silhouettes against it. Bonus points for a crystal-clear full moon beaming out a silver glow, and an array of assorted planets, stars, satellites, planes, and unknowns.

I am a night girl. It is so much more interesting than the daytime. Daytime represents all the dull tasks that must be done; nighttime has so many more possibilities of surprise and strangeness. The world, too plain and open and obvious during the sunlight hours, becomes dramatic at night. Even the gas station looks beautiful and shiny at night. Even the gas station attendant looks better.

You can get away with more stuff at night. Night is a good buddy, a confidant, always provides refuge and a knowing smile and a cloak. People really do look better at night, too. If you don’t look ravishing at an outdoor restaurant, lit only by candlelight, the moon, or maybe a little neon, you must be butt ugly.

It is my natural inclination to stay up all night, every night, and has been so forever or around that. But my alarm clock, aka CHILDREN, thwarts my body clock. They get up around 6AM whether or not they want to, have to, or need to. They are un-quiet. I may lie there in a stupor, but I am awake. Maybe I should just stay up all night and sleep all day! I am a rock star, with my ways. When the kids are all out of the house, or at least able to BE QUIET DAMMIT, then maybe I can let my inner Keith Richards out again. Sans all those pesky substance abuse issues, of course.

Night is cooooool. I do love the sun sun sun, but the moon is My Man. Shine on.

Long slender shadows pulsating in windows
While feathery curtains hide fountains of eyes from the light
A different disease in another translation
Though you don't understand a familiar sensation
But who needs to talk when you're caught in the flavour of night

And you, yeah you, with your ice cream hands
You, yeah you, are my friend

All that you want could be happening for you
Just like the road that unrolls there before you tonight
Eyes you don't trust the fingers have beckoned
How long you got left--well, how long do you reckon
But who goes to waste when they're tasting the flavour of night

--Robyn Hitchcock, “Flavour of Night”

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RIDE

There are many lines dividing youth from maturity. One of them is the day you can no longer go on carnival rides without becoming ill. It is a sad day, one that rips you from the effortless joy of giddy, spinning childhood into the sorry realization that you are no longer so balance-flexible nor stomach-hardy, and the adult world looms.

That day came for me at the ripe old age of 15. A group of us headed off to Dandelion Park, a minuscule theme park (theme was weeds? idk) where I was primarily excited about the idea of sharing a close and romantic haunted house ride with a boy I had long pined for. The pack of us, newly off of school for the summer, grabbed some cheap food, ran into the park and decided that the first ride was to be this sort-of ferris wheel, except you rode in enclosed cages while going around. You could also hold down a bar as you went around, stabilizing the cage and making you go upside-down. It was a good ride, lots of fun.

JOY!!!! The guy I liked, all tan-skinned with his lovely longish black wavy hair and huge perfect smile, got in line next to me, and we coupled up for the ride. I noticed the sky getting a bit dark, clouds quickly forming. NO! I was going to have this ride! No thunderstorm was going to kick me out of this moment! We clambered into the red metal cage, put the bar down, and the reprobate carnie clanged the pin shut on the cage door. Up we went, laying flat on out backs as we went further up and...ooooover. He looked at me and I looked at him and we laughed and held on. I got butterflies in my stomach, which I attributed to nerves and teen love. We went around and around, pulling the bar hard at just the right moment to hit the upside-down sweet spot. My necklace clanked against my glasses, and I worried they would fly off and I would be blurry-sighted and embarrassed. The sky was getting darker and darker. I moved closer to my guy; he moved closer to me, our thighs touching. Faster around we went, and my stomach started flipping and flopping in a decidedly-unromantic way.

I was starting to think that maybe I wasn't feeling so good and/or we were about to get electrocuted, when I felt a...liquid...splash on my head and arms. Plop, plap. At first I thought it was the inevitable ruining rain, but it was much much worse. I looked at my guy, who was looking at his shirt and pants, and I noticed the rain plops had chunks in them, on us. Then I heard, over the roaring ride engine, a retch, and felt more wet on me. SHIT!!!!! We were being PUKED ON! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! I started to smell the acrid stomach acid of the kid's vomit from the cage above us and my own stomach distress turned from worrisome to acute.

We yelled at the top of our lungs for Carnie Man to stop the ride, but he was on it already. We lurched to a halt, completely horrified and disgusted that we were covered in some little bastard's heave, and staggered out onto the grass. My head was spinning, my guts ached. I lunged over to a huge garbage can shaped like a smiling daisy and bowed over it. A blast of hot dogs, Coke, and cotton candy came flying out of my mouth in one great propulsive spew. Dizzy, reeking, and utterly mortified, I walked a few steps to some grass under a tree and fell on my back, spent. I didn't even want to look for my crush; I was hoping he had ran the other direction and did not witness my red-faced sweaty vomit performance. Just my luck, he came over by me with the rest of the gang, giggling and swearing and concerned all at once. He looked at me with a sad, smiling shake of the head, and said, "You look awful." I glanced up at him, and rolled my eyes. A crack of thunder pierced the pitiful moment, and one of my girlfriends said we had better get out of here, and helped me to my shaky feet. The rain burst through the clouds in great sheets as we ran to the arcade.

The end of the story was that I washed up in the park bathroom as best I could, my girlfriend went to her car and got me her t-shirt and swimsuit bottoms to wear, as well as a towel to tie around said bikini bottoms, and the day was pretty much over. About six months later, I finally got to make out with my guy at a party, and he was such a bad kisser that I completely lost interest in him on the spot.

From then on, if I attempted to go on rides, I just felt nauseated and woozy, so I stopped. Sober adulthood arrived via a blackening sky, a failed romance, a dodgy ride, and puke rain.

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