Like a lot of Los Angeles transplants, I come from a very conservative small town that bled for America. Like a lot of Los Angeles transplants, I had a lot of liberal ideas that didn't fit in with the conservative small town mind, like maybe we shouldn't murder people because they were gay. But for the past five years, I've had one belief so unfathomable to both the liberals and the conservatives that it has gotten me into quite a few screaming matches and has cost me a few acquaintances.
I believe that it is just as American to not vote as it is to vote.
The thought of somebody not voting - especially in an election year - is the liberal equivalent to the conservative outrage of someone being gay, having an abortion, and saying that you support Clinton - either one - all at the same time. Real quotes said to me in regards to this belief are:
"This is a real sore point with me, I am a little upset that you feel it's not important to vote."
"...by refusing for whatever reason to stand up and be counted, I believe we become complicit in whatever happens next, good or bad."
"Work up the energy to care about the country you're living in and the other people in it."
Nobody stopped frothing until I said that I vote.
I've seen a lot of PSA's and been to many school and after school functions where peer pressure has been a major point of discussion. We went over how to say no to drugs, alcohol, breaking the law, and sex. And the only time I've felt the ridiculous scripts we were given to act out were when I engage in the "Right to Vote" conversation with someone:
Voting Bully: Hey, are you going to vote on November 4th?
Victim: No, I don't really believe that either candidate would be an effective leader for this country.
Voting Bully: Oh, come on - it's just one little vote! All our friends are going to do it!
Victim: I wouldn't feel right. Plus, some of the props are written so that someone loses and someone stands to gain too much.
Voting Bully: If you don't vote, I'll tell everyone and then everyone will make fun of you for not being part of the democratic system!
Victim: I don't care! If standing up for what I believe in costs me some friends, then I guess you weren't really my friends to begin with!
Voting Bully: You'll be sorry when we're all voting to elect history and changing the world!
Victim: No, you'll be sorry in four years when you're back to saying that this is the most important election ever!
Voting Bully: Only losers don't vote!
Victim: Only a loser would give in to peer pressure!
Just sayin', folks.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
I will be puking hearts and lace by the time this weekend is over.
This weekend, one of my best friends is getting married to a right decent guy. This is for them until I can pay that diamond encrusted gravy boat they registered for. Congratulations, Elisa and Ryan - and I'll never forgive you for making me wear a dress. --Neva
“Love songs for loving lovers loving - Radio Romance – K106!”
You’re listening to Radio Romance with me, Roxanne. It’s seventy-two degrees, ten past the hour here on the Love Station…of…Love. I’d like to start this hour with a listener request. Elisa, I hope that you and Ryan are listening because this is to you from his heart.
Ryan writes…“Roxanne – a few years ago, I met the love of my life and her name was Elisa. Our motto is, “Love is only as strong as those who believe in it.” I met Elisa while I was dating her sister so we started out as just friends. When I told Elisa that the relationship had ended, she was hesitant at first, but soon we fell into each others arms. When Elisa’s sister told her that the relationship hadn’t ended…our love wasn’t so strong. But it wasn’t long before we were both believing again.
The course of love didn’t run smoothly – there was a time that Elisa didn’t trust in our love, didn’t trust in me and thought that I might be cheating on her. I told her that she was the only one in my heart, but after the tears, the pain and a trip to Planned Parenthood later, she left me for her anti-biotics medication.
But…the love we shared was stronger than the Chlamydia that she and I, her sister, her mother and – as I found out later – her Nana shared. She eventually forgave them and – to my relief – me.
We each decided to restart our relationship and each started a business. Elisa made jewelry to sell by the beach and I began to sell heroin. I never told Elisa – and soon, I became too ashamed to even live with her anymore. One of my greatest regrets was leaving Elisa that night, not telling her where I was going.
Another one of my greatest regrets was that the night I left was the night my customers figured out that the heroin was just refined packets of Sweet & Low and had come to our building in a mob to claim me. I wasn’t there for Elisa as they tortured her for information about where I was.
The third regret was that after the mob had their way with her and left her barely alive, I did not come back to her right away. As Elisa slowly got better in a rehab facility, I decided to wait until she was more healed before coming back to her. I spent that time living off of my fake heroin earnings in Indonesia. I numbed the pain of not being able to be man enough to be with her with alcohol, para-sailing, her Nana, and our miracle love child we named – of course – Elisa.
We finally did reunite, thanks to fate. We were both in Turkey for different reasons – Nana and Little Elisa and I were traveling through to reach the isles of Greece. Elisa had been sold into white slavery by an orderly at the hospital where she was being cared for. It only took a day and a half before Nana and I agreed to buy her freedom. I do hope that one day, she and her Nana will be reunited, but given how old she is now and how rough the Turks are, it is unlikely. I still hold out hope for a reunion with Little Elisa, though.
Today – Elisa is mostly healed from the physical and mental scars of the past and our time away. Though my love can no longer be on her feet for more than three minutes or effectively grasp items in her left hand, and is prone to having a seizure while opening the refrigerator - she is just as beautiful to me as the day we met – on the field of her junior varsity field hockey practice.
With my song request, I would also like to ask Elisa…would you do me the honor of giving me your hand in marriage?
With a love as strong as I believe,
Ryan”
Well, Elisa – I hope you and Ryan have the happy ending you two deserve. It's fifteen past the hour and seventy-two degrees and here is Ryan's request here on...Radio...Romance.
“Love songs for loving lovers loving - Radio Romance – K106!”
You’re listening to Radio Romance with me, Roxanne. It’s seventy-two degrees, ten past the hour here on the Love Station…of…Love. I’d like to start this hour with a listener request. Elisa, I hope that you and Ryan are listening because this is to you from his heart.
Ryan writes…“Roxanne – a few years ago, I met the love of my life and her name was Elisa. Our motto is, “Love is only as strong as those who believe in it.” I met Elisa while I was dating her sister so we started out as just friends. When I told Elisa that the relationship had ended, she was hesitant at first, but soon we fell into each others arms. When Elisa’s sister told her that the relationship hadn’t ended…our love wasn’t so strong. But it wasn’t long before we were both believing again.
The course of love didn’t run smoothly – there was a time that Elisa didn’t trust in our love, didn’t trust in me and thought that I might be cheating on her. I told her that she was the only one in my heart, but after the tears, the pain and a trip to Planned Parenthood later, she left me for her anti-biotics medication.
But…the love we shared was stronger than the Chlamydia that she and I, her sister, her mother and – as I found out later – her Nana shared. She eventually forgave them and – to my relief – me.
We each decided to restart our relationship and each started a business. Elisa made jewelry to sell by the beach and I began to sell heroin. I never told Elisa – and soon, I became too ashamed to even live with her anymore. One of my greatest regrets was leaving Elisa that night, not telling her where I was going.
Another one of my greatest regrets was that the night I left was the night my customers figured out that the heroin was just refined packets of Sweet & Low and had come to our building in a mob to claim me. I wasn’t there for Elisa as they tortured her for information about where I was.
The third regret was that after the mob had their way with her and left her barely alive, I did not come back to her right away. As Elisa slowly got better in a rehab facility, I decided to wait until she was more healed before coming back to her. I spent that time living off of my fake heroin earnings in Indonesia. I numbed the pain of not being able to be man enough to be with her with alcohol, para-sailing, her Nana, and our miracle love child we named – of course – Elisa.
We finally did reunite, thanks to fate. We were both in Turkey for different reasons – Nana and Little Elisa and I were traveling through to reach the isles of Greece. Elisa had been sold into white slavery by an orderly at the hospital where she was being cared for. It only took a day and a half before Nana and I agreed to buy her freedom. I do hope that one day, she and her Nana will be reunited, but given how old she is now and how rough the Turks are, it is unlikely. I still hold out hope for a reunion with Little Elisa, though.
Today – Elisa is mostly healed from the physical and mental scars of the past and our time away. Though my love can no longer be on her feet for more than three minutes or effectively grasp items in her left hand, and is prone to having a seizure while opening the refrigerator - she is just as beautiful to me as the day we met – on the field of her junior varsity field hockey practice.
With my song request, I would also like to ask Elisa…would you do me the honor of giving me your hand in marriage?
With a love as strong as I believe,
Ryan”
Well, Elisa – I hope you and Ryan have the happy ending you two deserve. It's fifteen past the hour and seventy-two degrees and here is Ryan's request here on...Radio...Romance.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Shows! And Politcs
Driving home today, I saw a bumper sticker that had the Obama logo on it that said, "Latinos for Obama". I liked that. And for some reason, I wanted nothing more than to get one for McCain-Palin. Something like this:
Monday, September 1, 2008
Klassic Cinema: Troop Beverly HIlls
I had a joke when I did stand up that went, "I have seen Xanadu. I have never seen Schindler's List. I think this says something about me."
Dove tailing on that, this weekend, I once again did not watch Schindler's List. I did watch Troop Beverly Hills. Klassy with a K.
I was the target demographic for this movie when it came out in 1989 - the girls were about 10-11, I was nine. They were Wilderness Girls, I was a Camp Fire Girl. They lived in one of the weathliest areas in Southern California, I lived in a trailer court in Southern Idaho. See? Perfectly paralell!
Watching this movie as a twenty-eight year old woman, it was a much different experience. Especially since this movie is laden with odd cameos, before they were somebodies and twilights of being somebodies. Most popular in the 'before" category is Rilo Kiley's Jenny Lewis. Also in the movie, a young Kellie Martin and Carla Gugino. And Willie Garson from Sex in the City fame. One that may not be so obvious comes in the form of the opening credits - that animated sequence? Done by John Kricfalusi, creator of Ren & Stimpy.
Twilights (and I am fighting not to put Shelley Long here because I saw Hello Again! in the theatre and though I was only seven in 1987, I knew that my mother should get her money back) include Heather Hopper. Poor Heather Hopper! Denied the chance to be on Saved By the Bell and having to only settle on the laurels Good Morning Miss Bliss only sort of provided. Also, Ami Foster - better known to the likes of me and any Punky Foster fan as Margeaux Kramer. And - because one natural red headed Jenny Lewis wasn't enough, Small Wonder's Harriet Bindle, aka Emily Schulman is in there.
But this movie wins in the cameo department. We are to believe that Shelley Long's character - the wife of a lawyer/entrepreneuer/muffler man - knows such lumanaries such as Pia Zadora, Dr. Joyce Brothers, Cheech Marin and Robin Leech!
Okay, that's totally believable. This movie is like the Love Boat. It even has Ace from the Love Boat. You know. Ted McGinley. THE Ted McGinley.
THE Ted McGinley!
But. The best cameo goes to NOT Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello (as hard as that is to type) but Edd Byrnes.
Oh, yes. This one requires some thinking. In fact, my curiousity was picqued because I thought that it was Jon Voight at first. Upon some checking up, I flew into a fit of delight. Edd Byrnes...is Kookie.
KOOKIE. He is the ginchiest!
This movie isn't all pop culture, though. There are themes in this movie - serious themes - that run parallel to some of the sharpest and most clever films of today. Like The Prestige. Can you not deny the obvious dichotomy of Mary Gross's infiltration on Betty Thomas's insinstence to Shelly Long's organization, only to fall in love with her? That's right. Mary Gross is Scarlett Johansson to Betty Thomas's Hugh Jackman and Shelly Long's Christian Bale. Which makes Ted McGinley David Bowie, obviously.
Dove tailing on that, this weekend, I once again did not watch Schindler's List. I did watch Troop Beverly Hills. Klassy with a K.
I was the target demographic for this movie when it came out in 1989 - the girls were about 10-11, I was nine. They were Wilderness Girls, I was a Camp Fire Girl. They lived in one of the weathliest areas in Southern California, I lived in a trailer court in Southern Idaho. See? Perfectly paralell!
Watching this movie as a twenty-eight year old woman, it was a much different experience. Especially since this movie is laden with odd cameos, before they were somebodies and twilights of being somebodies. Most popular in the 'before" category is Rilo Kiley's Jenny Lewis. Also in the movie, a young Kellie Martin and Carla Gugino. And Willie Garson from Sex in the City fame. One that may not be so obvious comes in the form of the opening credits - that animated sequence? Done by John Kricfalusi, creator of Ren & Stimpy.
Twilights (and I am fighting not to put Shelley Long here because I saw Hello Again! in the theatre and though I was only seven in 1987, I knew that my mother should get her money back) include Heather Hopper. Poor Heather Hopper! Denied the chance to be on Saved By the Bell and having to only settle on the laurels Good Morning Miss Bliss only sort of provided. Also, Ami Foster - better known to the likes of me and any Punky Foster fan as Margeaux Kramer. And - because one natural red headed Jenny Lewis wasn't enough, Small Wonder's Harriet Bindle, aka Emily Schulman is in there.
But this movie wins in the cameo department. We are to believe that Shelley Long's character - the wife of a lawyer/entrepreneuer/muffler man - knows such lumanaries such as Pia Zadora, Dr. Joyce Brothers, Cheech Marin and Robin Leech!
Okay, that's totally believable. This movie is like the Love Boat. It even has Ace from the Love Boat. You know. Ted McGinley. THE Ted McGinley.
THE Ted McGinley!
But. The best cameo goes to NOT Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello (as hard as that is to type) but Edd Byrnes.
Oh, yes. This one requires some thinking. In fact, my curiousity was picqued because I thought that it was Jon Voight at first. Upon some checking up, I flew into a fit of delight. Edd Byrnes...is Kookie.
KOOKIE. He is the ginchiest!
This movie isn't all pop culture, though. There are themes in this movie - serious themes - that run parallel to some of the sharpest and most clever films of today. Like The Prestige. Can you not deny the obvious dichotomy of Mary Gross's infiltration on Betty Thomas's insinstence to Shelly Long's organization, only to fall in love with her? That's right. Mary Gross is Scarlett Johansson to Betty Thomas's Hugh Jackman and Shelly Long's Christian Bale. Which makes Ted McGinley David Bowie, obviously.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Shut Up, Neva
"Shut up, Neva."
I swear that those three words comprise my first, middle, and last names. Since I began to talk, I don't think a day has gone by where this phrase hasn't made an appearance. My incessant questions, my desire to expose the truth, and my inability to accept that fact that not everybody gets the well placed Maude reference in everyday conversation.
The first time I've had this said to be by an entire classroom was in the second grade.
"Fact!" my oatmeal packet read. I was in the kitchen making myself breakfast on a gray day in February 1988, waiting for my mother to wake up and take me to school. "Christopher Columbus did not discover America, but the West Indies. He never made it to America."
My seven year-old world was rocked. Hard. I let the kettle whistle blow for a while as I steadied my dizzy head. I had just learned a few months ago that Columbus discovered the world was round and that he discovered America - could this oatmeal be telling the truth?
As class began that day, my second grade teacher, Mrs. Cahill, asked us if we had learned anything knew recently.
My hand must have made a sonic boom as it shot up. I prepared the class for the most earth shaking news they had ever heard. I did my best to set up that what I was about to say was going to change the way they looked at life.
"Columbus...did not discover America."
"Shut up, Neva." One classmate.
I tried to verify my statement. "It's true!"
"Shut up, Neva." Another classmate.
I tried to reach them with print. "I read it on my oatmeal packet! IT'S TRUE!"
"SHUT UP, NEVA!" Everybody.
What is odd is that I remember this chorus of "shut up" so clearly, I remember it happening in Mrs. Cahill's class, I remember getting my name on the board with a check mark telling someone else to shut up, and I do not remember anybody getting in trouble for saying this. Mrs. Cahill herself would have gotten a few as she muttered it under her breath as she shook her head in her hands, probably wondering why she had let me speak in class. Again.
What is crazy is that this became a grudge. In the sixth grade, when the truth about Columbus finally spilled out - when our social studies teacher, Mrs. Boatman, finally said out loud those words I had once said four years ago, I waited for the class to tell her to shut up. No one did and nobody even spoke a word...
..except me.
"You know, I found out about this in the second grade and nobody believed me!"
"Shut up, Neva."
I had to verify my statement. "It's true!"
"Shut up, Neva."
I had to reach them with print. "I read it on an oatmeal packet!"
"SHUT UP, NEVA!"
What is downright bonkers is that I am getting red faced just remembering this story. I just went to my class reunion this past June and recounted many specific stories about minor events that nobody remembered but me. And no one told me to shut up. They looked at me funny for a few moments, laughed, and went on. Wait. No. They looked at me funny, took a sip of their beer, laughed, and went on.
I think that means that sipping beer is the new "Shut up, Neva." Which is fine because I too had a beer. And I would sip it after they left. And I think that's the new "I read it on an oatmeal packet!"
I swear that those three words comprise my first, middle, and last names. Since I began to talk, I don't think a day has gone by where this phrase hasn't made an appearance. My incessant questions, my desire to expose the truth, and my inability to accept that fact that not everybody gets the well placed Maude reference in everyday conversation.
The first time I've had this said to be by an entire classroom was in the second grade.
"Fact!" my oatmeal packet read. I was in the kitchen making myself breakfast on a gray day in February 1988, waiting for my mother to wake up and take me to school. "Christopher Columbus did not discover America, but the West Indies. He never made it to America."
My seven year-old world was rocked. Hard. I let the kettle whistle blow for a while as I steadied my dizzy head. I had just learned a few months ago that Columbus discovered the world was round and that he discovered America - could this oatmeal be telling the truth?
As class began that day, my second grade teacher, Mrs. Cahill, asked us if we had learned anything knew recently.
My hand must have made a sonic boom as it shot up. I prepared the class for the most earth shaking news they had ever heard. I did my best to set up that what I was about to say was going to change the way they looked at life.
"Columbus...did not discover America."
"Shut up, Neva." One classmate.
I tried to verify my statement. "It's true!"
"Shut up, Neva." Another classmate.
I tried to reach them with print. "I read it on my oatmeal packet! IT'S TRUE!"
"SHUT UP, NEVA!" Everybody.
What is odd is that I remember this chorus of "shut up" so clearly, I remember it happening in Mrs. Cahill's class, I remember getting my name on the board with a check mark telling someone else to shut up, and I do not remember anybody getting in trouble for saying this. Mrs. Cahill herself would have gotten a few as she muttered it under her breath as she shook her head in her hands, probably wondering why she had let me speak in class. Again.
What is crazy is that this became a grudge. In the sixth grade, when the truth about Columbus finally spilled out - when our social studies teacher, Mrs. Boatman, finally said out loud those words I had once said four years ago, I waited for the class to tell her to shut up. No one did and nobody even spoke a word...
..except me.
"You know, I found out about this in the second grade and nobody believed me!"
"Shut up, Neva."
I had to verify my statement. "It's true!"
"Shut up, Neva."
I had to reach them with print. "I read it on an oatmeal packet!"
"SHUT UP, NEVA!"
What is downright bonkers is that I am getting red faced just remembering this story. I just went to my class reunion this past June and recounted many specific stories about minor events that nobody remembered but me. And no one told me to shut up. They looked at me funny for a few moments, laughed, and went on. Wait. No. They looked at me funny, took a sip of their beer, laughed, and went on.
I think that means that sipping beer is the new "Shut up, Neva." Which is fine because I too had a beer. And I would sip it after they left. And I think that's the new "I read it on an oatmeal packet!"
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Discomfort is on the Menu
I found this menu online a while back and I can't decide if it's charming, vintage, kitsch, or just uncomfortable to look at...
Courtesy of the Union Pacific Train.
Courtesy of the Union Pacific Train.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Secret Word is "Pancakes"
Dooce did a whole post about the secret word - pancakes. (Pancakes and her daughter. But there's only one of those things that is legal to cover in syrup and eat.)
Good Things and Bad Things While My Honda Gently Seeps
Good thing that happened today: I didn't go to work!
Bad thing that happened today: I didn't go to work because my car became engulfed in steam and fluid while on the 10 East and it fully didn't dawn on me just how bad that was until the car next to me honked - not to tell me to get over - but to panic and point at my car. If you ever need to get over four lanes of traffice lickity split, have steam pour from your car. No one even tries to cut you off.
Good thing: I found gas for $3.97!
Bad thing: I could not drive my car to get said gas because it was previously ENGULFED IN STEAM and to drive it any more would have resulted in DEATH...or more steam.
Good thing: Katie, Rolland, Rob, Justine and I will be performing in the Westside Eclectic's Monthly Mix-In show with other persons of the talented persuasion! Thursday, August 14th at 9:30 p.m.
Bad thing: I'm usually not home in the middle of the day and it's hot and I can't figure out the air conditioning in my apartment!
Good thing: Last Tuesday, I saw Dynamite Kablammo and wrote up a review of said show for The Coming. If the Marx Brothers hosted the Twilight Zone, it would be this show.
Bad thing: Microsoft Works - a program or a statement of optimism?
Bad thing that happened today: I didn't go to work because my car became engulfed in steam and fluid while on the 10 East and it fully didn't dawn on me just how bad that was until the car next to me honked - not to tell me to get over - but to panic and point at my car. If you ever need to get over four lanes of traffice lickity split, have steam pour from your car. No one even tries to cut you off.
Good thing: I found gas for $3.97!
Bad thing: I could not drive my car to get said gas because it was previously ENGULFED IN STEAM and to drive it any more would have resulted in DEATH...or more steam.
Good thing: Katie, Rolland, Rob, Justine and I will be performing in the Westside Eclectic's Monthly Mix-In show with other persons of the talented persuasion! Thursday, August 14th at 9:30 p.m.
Bad thing: I'm usually not home in the middle of the day and it's hot and I can't figure out the air conditioning in my apartment!
Good thing: Last Tuesday, I saw Dynamite Kablammo and wrote up a review of said show for The Coming. If the Marx Brothers hosted the Twilight Zone, it would be this show.
Bad thing: Microsoft Works - a program or a statement of optimism?
Monday, August 11, 2008
OBJECTS
Sometimes there is moisture in the bag left over from the water bottle.
Sometimes the landline phone doesn't charge correctly and it dies quickly.
Sometimes the envelopes are sealed with tape, and if not, then obviously with spit... so to open it one needs to touch residual spit.
Sometimes the pen stops working even though there is still ink in the little window where one looks to see if it's empty.
Sometimes a little piece of toast will catch on fire.
Sometimes there is a motorcycle that sets off all the car alarms.
Sometimes the floss will shred.
Sometimes the light bulb will have a little rattling thing inside when it's shaken after it burns out.
Sometimes the socks are bunched up, requiring the shoe to be taken off to allow for adjustment.
Sometimes the penny has rust.
Sometimes the glass if half full.
Sometimes there are extra chips at the bottom of the bag, a fun surprise.
Sometimes the toilet does not require extra cleaning.
Sometimes the foil can act as cool wrapping paper.
Sometimes the fly swatter does its job.
Sometimes the sharpie does not smell too bad.
Sometimes the grips on the bottom of the slippers prevent a catastrophic fall.
Sometimes the landline phone doesn't charge correctly and it dies quickly.
Sometimes the envelopes are sealed with tape, and if not, then obviously with spit... so to open it one needs to touch residual spit.
Sometimes the pen stops working even though there is still ink in the little window where one looks to see if it's empty.
Sometimes a little piece of toast will catch on fire.
Sometimes there is a motorcycle that sets off all the car alarms.
Sometimes the floss will shred.
Sometimes the light bulb will have a little rattling thing inside when it's shaken after it burns out.
Sometimes the socks are bunched up, requiring the shoe to be taken off to allow for adjustment.
Sometimes the penny has rust.
Sometimes the glass if half full.
Sometimes there are extra chips at the bottom of the bag, a fun surprise.
Sometimes the toilet does not require extra cleaning.
Sometimes the foil can act as cool wrapping paper.
Sometimes the fly swatter does its job.
Sometimes the sharpie does not smell too bad.
Sometimes the grips on the bottom of the slippers prevent a catastrophic fall.
Super-Pancake Breakfast
Superdickery is the place to go when you feel like saying, "Man, Superman really is a dick!" It's also the place to find gems such as this...
(Original article here.)
(Original article here.)
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Shows, Pancake Breakfasts Around The World! and Articles
Quick News:
1) Pancake Breakfast has two new shows coming up - August 7th & 21st!
2) Stephen found this flier in Mammoth.
(Bonus "Don't feed the bears" sign!)
3) Katie and Neva will be writing reviews for The Coming.
4) Thunderstorms are awesome:
1) Pancake Breakfast has two new shows coming up - August 7th & 21st!
2) Stephen found this flier in Mammoth.
(Bonus "Don't feed the bears" sign!)
3) Katie and Neva will be writing reviews for The Coming.
4) Thunderstorms are awesome:
Saturday, July 12, 2008
That Awful Callie Freeman's Birthday
Callie Freeman was an awful little girl who lived two doors down from my grandmother. Her hobbies included being nice to me long enough so I felt secure and then land me a sharp, mean blow to the self esteem. Her hair was blond and her face was a hard thirty-five. We were both in Mrs. Cahill's second grade class where she asked us to grade each other's papers occasionally. One time, Callie Freeman got a hold of my English paper. She gave me an F-, despite that I had every answer right.
I did not like Callie Freeman, and Callie Freeman did not like me.
Mrs. Cahill had a tradition for student birthdays - we would all receive a page to color - a birthday cake with eight candles on it saying "Happy Birthday, _______" and a space to fill out our own message. Students also brought cupcakes to share with the class. The best were chocolate on chocolate.
Callie Freeman brought chocolate on chocolate on her birthday. With sprinkles.
I stared at the page I was supposed to color for her and wish her a happy birthday. I could color it, but my seven year-old integrity told me that I could not wish her a happy birthday. That's something friends do. That's something casual acquaintances do. That's something people who pass each other on the street who have no other connection do. It's not something Callie Freeman and I would do.
I scratched out the "Happy" and included the message, "Even though I don't like you." I handed it in to Mrs. Cahill and left for recess with a clear conscience. Callie Freeman stayed behind to read her cards.
When I returned from recess, Mrs. Cahill took me aside with a crying Callie Freeman at her side. Apparently, my stab at integrity wasn't polite. I tried to explain to Mrs. Cahill that Callie Freeman was mean to me and in no way liked me and that I wished her a birthday, despite the fact that I didn't like her. That was pretty big of me, I kept explaining.
I got punished for that card. And I got into trouble a lot in Mrs. Cahill's class because I would do things like talk and use a swear that was not appropriate - "shut up" (which I had to say a lot to, of course, that awful Callie Freeman). My usual punishment was my name on the board with a checkmark, ten minutes detention.
There was no checkmark. There was not even a name on the blackboard.
There was also no chocolate on chocolate cupcake for me. With sprinkles.
I didn't so much learn my lesson as I heard it smacking on the lips of my classmates. My classmates thanked Callie Freeman for the absolute heaven they just experienced. I may be remembering it wrong, but they thanked her in triplicate and possibly even mistakenly thanked me in their blissful state.
After school, I caught up with Callie Freeman and apologized. I told her that I wish she had a happy birthday. Callie Freeman then revealed the extra cupcake she had to me. She took it out, began to hand it to me...and then threw it in the dirt and stepped on it, making sure the earth and chocolate on chocolate were one.
I never got any justice out of my relationship with Callie Freeman - she moved away after that school year and if she ever resurfaced in town, I never knew. I can only hope that karmically, something happened to that awful Callie Freeman. With sprinkles.
I did not like Callie Freeman, and Callie Freeman did not like me.
Mrs. Cahill had a tradition for student birthdays - we would all receive a page to color - a birthday cake with eight candles on it saying "Happy Birthday, _______" and a space to fill out our own message. Students also brought cupcakes to share with the class. The best were chocolate on chocolate.
Callie Freeman brought chocolate on chocolate on her birthday. With sprinkles.
I stared at the page I was supposed to color for her and wish her a happy birthday. I could color it, but my seven year-old integrity told me that I could not wish her a happy birthday. That's something friends do. That's something casual acquaintances do. That's something people who pass each other on the street who have no other connection do. It's not something Callie Freeman and I would do.
I scratched out the "Happy" and included the message, "Even though I don't like you." I handed it in to Mrs. Cahill and left for recess with a clear conscience. Callie Freeman stayed behind to read her cards.
When I returned from recess, Mrs. Cahill took me aside with a crying Callie Freeman at her side. Apparently, my stab at integrity wasn't polite. I tried to explain to Mrs. Cahill that Callie Freeman was mean to me and in no way liked me and that I wished her a birthday, despite the fact that I didn't like her. That was pretty big of me, I kept explaining.
I got punished for that card. And I got into trouble a lot in Mrs. Cahill's class because I would do things like talk and use a swear that was not appropriate - "shut up" (which I had to say a lot to, of course, that awful Callie Freeman). My usual punishment was my name on the board with a checkmark, ten minutes detention.
There was no checkmark. There was not even a name on the blackboard.
There was also no chocolate on chocolate cupcake for me. With sprinkles.
I didn't so much learn my lesson as I heard it smacking on the lips of my classmates. My classmates thanked Callie Freeman for the absolute heaven they just experienced. I may be remembering it wrong, but they thanked her in triplicate and possibly even mistakenly thanked me in their blissful state.
After school, I caught up with Callie Freeman and apologized. I told her that I wish she had a happy birthday. Callie Freeman then revealed the extra cupcake she had to me. She took it out, began to hand it to me...and then threw it in the dirt and stepped on it, making sure the earth and chocolate on chocolate were one.
I never got any justice out of my relationship with Callie Freeman - she moved away after that school year and if she ever resurfaced in town, I never knew. I can only hope that karmically, something happened to that awful Callie Freeman. With sprinkles.
Pancake Throat
Written in Spring 2001 when all Pancake Breakfast meant to me was Dachau. --Neva
I really hate pancakes.
What did pancakes ever do to me? Is there a tale of pancake sodomy occurring at some point in my delicate childhood?
Close. I went to summer camp for ten summers. I participated in the ritual
cleansing of over seventy-two pancake encrusted plates, seventy-two forks slippery from the cheap margarine that the camp bought, and seventy-two knives that were sticky from maple goo.
I really hate maple goo. Probably even more than pancakes. This will eliminate the Canadian portion from my dating pool, but when you combine that smell with half-heartedly melted margarine, Tang, pre-pubescent hormones, and the stagnant July air that has no hint of humidity but an overabundance of sage and dirt…it becomes a Three’s Company in my body starring nausea, eye twitching, dry mouth and Mr. Furly. Going out to breakfast with my mother when she ordered pancakes left me green faced, me constantly winking, going through pitchers of water and wearing ridiculous kerchiefs around my neck.
I hate pancakes and maple goo the way most men hate Richard Gere.
The way Captain does it to Tennielle more than one time.
The way Siegfried named his dick The Royrider.
All encompassing, nastily, and just plain wrong.
Then came the morning where my friend, the Greek, offered to make me pancakes. It had been nine years since I had ingested the popular breakfast food. I swore it off, vowing never to eat another one for as long as I lived. So, how did the Greek convince me to eat my sworn enemy ?
Well…there was an attractive nearly naked man offering to cook me food, which has been a longtime fantasy of mine. He could have offered to amputate my nipples and fashion them into petite KiKi berets and I would have said okay. In the early morning, I’m up for anything, especially when there’s attractive nearly naked men involved.
The Greek made me a perfect short stack. He lectured me on the finer points of buttering and flipping as I had to keep reminding myself that I’ll be okay with the pancakes. As long as the goo was nowhere in the picture.
The Greek placed the short stack on a plate in front of me. He decided that with my motor skills at that point in the morning that I wouldn’t be able to butter them properly, so he took my knife and put a nice pat of butter under each and every cake. At this point, I was ready to eat.
Enter the GOO.
"And now, it's time for the maple syrup."
My dream of waking up to an attractive nearly naked man wanting to cook for me had turned into a nightmare of gigantic proportions. I tried to convince myself that the Greek was smart enough to notice that every time we went out for breakfast, I hardly ever once ordered breakfast food and when I did, no maple syrup got within ten feet of my food. However, these were pancakes - his pancakes. He created them and therefore, he was their God. And what was I but ungrateful if I did not want there to be maple goo on them? Who am I to tell God what his pancakes should or should not have on them?
I sat quietly as the Greek God went on.
"You have to drizzle it all over, making sure you get every inch."
I held my breath as the smell began to seep into the air.
"So when you cut into them -- like so --"
I turned my head away to avoid the senseless tragedy happening to my breakfast.
"--every layer, every bite you take will have it's own thick coating of maple syrup."
Do you know the real reason that Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth are smiling on the package? They know all maple syrup is sticky, slightly less better smelling, swill of shit.
"Enjoy."
I really hate maple syrup. But I really adore nearly naked men cooking for me.
A dilemma. A conundrum. Another thing that means either dilemma or conundrum.
I decided to think about it while eating the maple covered communion. I was surprised to find that I didn’t choke. If anything, I was Linda Lovelace starring in the poorly conceived fetish film, Pancake Throat.
I don’t hate pancakes anymore. I do hate maple goo to this day. This doesn’t stop me from eating the pancakes with the maple goo. It has since transformed from a morning mass to a breakfast rum & Coke. I like Coke. The rum is a bit hard to swallow at first, but the star of Pancake Throat can handle it like a pro.
I really hate pancakes.
What did pancakes ever do to me? Is there a tale of pancake sodomy occurring at some point in my delicate childhood?
Close. I went to summer camp for ten summers. I participated in the ritual
cleansing of over seventy-two pancake encrusted plates, seventy-two forks slippery from the cheap margarine that the camp bought, and seventy-two knives that were sticky from maple goo.
I really hate maple goo. Probably even more than pancakes. This will eliminate the Canadian portion from my dating pool, but when you combine that smell with half-heartedly melted margarine, Tang, pre-pubescent hormones, and the stagnant July air that has no hint of humidity but an overabundance of sage and dirt…it becomes a Three’s Company in my body starring nausea, eye twitching, dry mouth and Mr. Furly. Going out to breakfast with my mother when she ordered pancakes left me green faced, me constantly winking, going through pitchers of water and wearing ridiculous kerchiefs around my neck.
I hate pancakes and maple goo the way most men hate Richard Gere.
The way Captain does it to Tennielle more than one time.
The way Siegfried named his dick The Royrider.
All encompassing, nastily, and just plain wrong.
Then came the morning where my friend, the Greek, offered to make me pancakes. It had been nine years since I had ingested the popular breakfast food. I swore it off, vowing never to eat another one for as long as I lived. So, how did the Greek convince me to eat my sworn enemy ?
Well…there was an attractive nearly naked man offering to cook me food, which has been a longtime fantasy of mine. He could have offered to amputate my nipples and fashion them into petite KiKi berets and I would have said okay. In the early morning, I’m up for anything, especially when there’s attractive nearly naked men involved.
The Greek made me a perfect short stack. He lectured me on the finer points of buttering and flipping as I had to keep reminding myself that I’ll be okay with the pancakes. As long as the goo was nowhere in the picture.
The Greek placed the short stack on a plate in front of me. He decided that with my motor skills at that point in the morning that I wouldn’t be able to butter them properly, so he took my knife and put a nice pat of butter under each and every cake. At this point, I was ready to eat.
Enter the GOO.
"And now, it's time for the maple syrup."
My dream of waking up to an attractive nearly naked man wanting to cook for me had turned into a nightmare of gigantic proportions. I tried to convince myself that the Greek was smart enough to notice that every time we went out for breakfast, I hardly ever once ordered breakfast food and when I did, no maple syrup got within ten feet of my food. However, these were pancakes - his pancakes. He created them and therefore, he was their God. And what was I but ungrateful if I did not want there to be maple goo on them? Who am I to tell God what his pancakes should or should not have on them?
I sat quietly as the Greek God went on.
"You have to drizzle it all over, making sure you get every inch."
I held my breath as the smell began to seep into the air.
"So when you cut into them -- like so --"
I turned my head away to avoid the senseless tragedy happening to my breakfast.
"--every layer, every bite you take will have it's own thick coating of maple syrup."
Do you know the real reason that Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth are smiling on the package? They know all maple syrup is sticky, slightly less better smelling, swill of shit.
"Enjoy."
I really hate maple syrup. But I really adore nearly naked men cooking for me.
A dilemma. A conundrum. Another thing that means either dilemma or conundrum.
I decided to think about it while eating the maple covered communion. I was surprised to find that I didn’t choke. If anything, I was Linda Lovelace starring in the poorly conceived fetish film, Pancake Throat.
I don’t hate pancakes anymore. I do hate maple goo to this day. This doesn’t stop me from eating the pancakes with the maple goo. It has since transformed from a morning mass to a breakfast rum & Coke. I like Coke. The rum is a bit hard to swallow at first, but the star of Pancake Throat can handle it like a pro.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
This is my sketch group...
www.thesevenyearplan.com
Let me know if any of you guys have ideas for stage or video.
Let me know if any of you guys have ideas for stage or video.
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