Let’s All Go to the Fair (‘Kay…) as If I Had Faith in Humanity to Begin With

July 30, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I think that might be a skunk on her right thigh.

One does encounter the frightening side of humanity at the Ohio State Fair- or any other public festival-type gathering. It wasn’t as alarming as I have observed in years past, or perhaps I’m getting a bit jaded to the freak show. The Marion Popcorn Festival is coming up, which makes the Fair look positively tame. I’ve also found that it’s a lot easier to take pics with the Note 3 than with a traditional camera because people just think you’re texting or something when you are really taking pics. Maybe that’s mean of me, but I run even worse than I fight.

Toasty tobacco flavor!

I wonder if Red here is disabled or if she just figured it was worth $10 to ride around in a Mart Cart all day. I think she weighs less than 300#, so they probably don’t let her ride the cart in Walmart. She is setting a lovely example for her (grand?) son though. Even while she is lecturing another offspring (?) spousal unit (?) on the dangers of wearing just socks without shoes in public.

Told ya ta wear some shoes, dumbass!

The dog had Barbie dolls with better hair than poor Red. I say “the dog” because Suzie, the deranged Dachshund my parents had when I was little, appropriated certain of my sisters’ toys for her own personal use- when she was done eating their socks and underwear, that is. Suzie didn’t like very many people, but she adored me. Go figure. I never had a problem with her, but my sisters couldn’t touch her, or get their toys back once Suzie decided she liked them.

I figured, with Suzie, possession was 9/10. If Suzie wanted it who was I to stand in her way? Although I could do anything with Suzie, including getting toys back from her, I wasn’t about to do that for either of my sisters. I liked Suzie better than either of them.

Shorts and cowboy boots?

I saw a number of people at the Fair wearing cowboy boots with shorts. I don’t know why this particular fashion choice bugs me, but it does. At least she’s not wearing Daisy Dukes. And she was nice enough to cover up her back fat, unlike this unfortunate girl:

Girl, you need a rear view mirror.

Perhaps I am being a bit harsh on fashion choices- after all I dress for comfort most of the time, and especially so if I am going to be traipsing along outside in the heat. It wasn’t as hot as it normally is which may have cut down on the freak factor this year.

The talking Smokey the Bear is freaky though.

When I was a little kid I always wondered about Smokey’s preoccupation with forest fires. I knew too many kids who were only too happy to fry ants with magnifying glasses (yes, I did do that) or set stuff on fire with Zippos (Steve-o,,,) I always wondered why Smokey talked about not playing with matches, but never mentioned Bics or Zippos or magnifying glasses.

Not a flashlight substitute, either.

Then again, central Ohio is a swamp and it’s usually raining, or there’s some form of precipitation at least every other day or so, so wildfires generally don’t happen, and when they do, they generally don’t spread much. However, the perpetual dampness never stopped the slumlords from burning down non-profitable rental properties to the point that in certain locales it is expensive and well-near impossible to get home owner’s or business insurance. There’s always accelerants, you know, if you really want something to burn. Too bad the ass-pilots that use them usually have very little understanding of forensic science. They can tell you doused the place with gasoline before you torched it.

Smokey seems a little quaint and outdated for these times. Nobody wants to intentionally burn down forests, because you can’t get insurance on a random forest. Maybe Smokey should be talking about arson? “Hey, kids, only you can decide not to burn down your non-profitable rental properties, ” or, better yet: “Hey, kids, don’t drop your crack pipe and burn down your crack house!” Especially if you just spilled gasoline on the floor.

Mi underwear – Su underwear?

Somehow, some things just aren’t meant to be shared.

I haven’t thought about poor Suzie in a long time. She was always in fragile health and died at the relatively young age of 7 years. I believe her early demise was largely due to being willing to eat vast quantities of anything, including socks, underwear, marbles, Army men, and things my mother served that were sort of supposed to be food. Mom’s cooking was rather disastrous a good deal of the time, so there was a lot of food left over to go with Suzie’s Chuck Wagon.

On second thought, maybe we should have just eaten the Chuck Wagon.

mmmm…Meaty! in a meat by-product-y sort of way…

Moonbat Nation, Tasteful vs. Tacky, and the Things We Do Because?

July 23, 2014Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

This is an interesting concept.

I can see it now. This could be the cover of a beefcake (as in nude dudes) calendar with a fishing and hunting motif. The sign is from a local construction site where they are building a Field and Stream store as well as a Dick’s Sporting Goods. (Yes, for the sports non-enthusiast, Dick’s Sporting Goods is a real chain of stores.) This sign just struck me funny in a puerile, sophomoric way. It’s bad that I still enjoy toilet humor at my age, but some things are just funny, and it doesn’t matter if you’re 8 or 80.

Today’s trendy habit of photographing every bloody thing under the sun (and I am oh, so guilty of doing it too) provides vast quantities of comedic fodder. The horrible pics of moonbats in Walmart are proof of that.

It just seems incongruent that in these times where everyone has a camera (usually part of the phone) and can take pictures anywhere, that people go out in public looking like something left over from an 80’s slasher flick or an unfortunate survivor of an explosion in a thrift store. Just because you can go out wearing a halter top, SpongeBob boxers for pants, and you can dye your hair Ronald McDonald red, doesn’t mean you should.

Back in the 1940’s, for example (one of my favorite fashion eras) photography was expensive, and taking pics of people wasn’t a particularly easy endeavor. It was unlikely that someone would take a random pic of you, and even more unlikely that your pic would appear on screen or in print, ever. Even so, people dressed a bit more appropriately out in public. There are no pictures from the 40’s of anyone out in public with underwear showing above belts or pant waists in the middle (or the bottom) of the butt crack.

Women didn’t go running around outside with their back boobs showing either. It’s no crime to be large, but if you are, dress appropriately. No one wants to see that.

(Not sure if this is a woman, but you get my drift.)

We have become a nation of freaky moonbats. It started in the 1960’s when people started doing acid and other hallucinogens, and it’s getting progressively worse. Maybe I’m noticing this because my parents pretty much opted out of the whole ’60’s counter culture scene except for the thing for Volkswagens. I know more about old air-cooled Volkswagens than anyone probably should, but as far as I know, my parents are tee-totalers who only take drugs they have scripts for.

Saturday we’re going to the Ohio State Fair, which among other things, is a Walmart-caliber freak show. I’m going to try to sneak off some pictures as long as I can do it discretely. Last year didn’t disappoint. The Popcorn Festival in Marion is the world-wide showplace of Very Bad Tats (this is coming up in September) and I will have to try to sneak some pics of those too. The Festival is not an easy place to get pics, as it’s crowded, but the Bad Tat Bazaar (or should I say Bizarre) will be interesting.

I shouldn’t say anything about tats (I do have a small but tasteful rendition of Théophile Steinlen’s Chat Noir on my right calf) but there’s tasteful, artistic tats:

And then there’s tacky, drunk-and-stupid ones:

I did- or I should say Steve-o, aka Mr. Borderline OCD did- some research before we did the whole tat thing. He was diligent in finding a facility whose standards exceed the county health department’s for cleanliness and sanitation, and whose artists are truly artists. Getting the Chat Noir applied was a surprisingly pleasant experience over all, and going to a reputable facility was much preferred over getting drunk and giving some recently-released-from-prison bubba with a modified Walkman motor full of hepatitis A, B and C a $20 to scribble permanent scribblings into my skin. My best friend in high school did that, and she probably still has that particular ex-boyfriend’s name in three inch block letters on her back. I don’t know if she got hepatitis or not from that jailhouse tat, but it wouldn’t surprise me.

People Are Frustrating and Vexing, but Solitude Brings a Strange Kind of Fun

July 22, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I am not the poster child for things touchy-feely. I loathe strange people touching me (even getting my hair cut is an adventure, though I endure it because I can’t cut my own hair with any degree of accuracy) and generally I’m not too thrilled about being groped by those I do know. Unless they’re dogs, and that’s OK. Why, I don’t know, but dogs are safe, at least for me. Even when I was a little kid and was terrified of the world, from my sadistic oldest sister to unauthorized insect life, I had no problem climbing the fence and snuggling up to a 120# Rottweiler.

It’s not usually the big dogs you have to worry about. Unless you’re up to mischief, that is.

The only dog I can remember having any kind of problem with was Andy the Chihuahua, but he was likely the product of many generations of inbreeding, and from the moment he was whelped he was certifiably messed up in the head. He was my cousins’ dog, and even they couldn’t touch him. It’s a good thing that pathetic little Andy, with his high-pitched, constant and annoying yappy voice, severe underbite and thick cataracts, (I think the wretched thing was born blind) didn’t live past the age of five. I’m surprised he lived as long as he did. I think the only thing that saved him was that he was too evil for the cats to eat him. He reminded me of a wind-up toy with an over-wound spring. Such a toy will go like blue blazes- for a little while- then it just dies suddenly. I think it was reported that poor Andy bit the big one mid-yap. I don’t think he was very much missed.

Andy the psycho Chihuahua is the exception, not the rule in the canine world. Humanity is the exact opposite.

There is a sad irony that I feel safer with animals that technically are the same species as wolves (canis lupus familiaris is not far removed from canis lupus lupus after all) than I do with fellow humans. But I do.

I’ve gathered from my own observations that “normal” people (begging the question, “Who defines ‘normal’?,” though I know I am most certainly anything but “normal”) generally have an easy time relating to other “normal” people. While I’m usually looking for excuses to avoid excessive social interaction, as too much of playing that game wears me out, the “normals” blithely seek out more opportunities to be in each others’ faces. I have to work at the communication game. Really. Hard. I have to consciously know which façade to pull out, and what (figurative) costume to wear for which occasion.

I have to pay attention to things that come instinctually to most, such as eye contact and body language and tone of voice. Otherwise, if I’m not paying attention, I just stare straight ahead and bellow out everything in a loud monotone. I have acquired social skills- and over the years I’ve trained myself to practice them well- but that whole hoo-hah wears me down, just as the social dance energizes most people.

Sometimes I’d like to tell the whole world to bite me sideways and say screw it all, (and I would if I had the scratch to live as a recluse) but necessity dictates that I have to put up with other people and their shit. Maybe it’s wrong or arrogant or selfish of me to see things that way, but that’s just the way it is. That’s my reality-constant vigilance and constant anxiety, because I have to pay close attention to every word and every movement, at least when I am under others’ scrutiny.

Maybe that was where Shakespeare got the notion that all the world’s a stage. Performing is hard work, and sometimes I just don’t wanna.

I don’t have to play the game with dogs- or even cats for that matter. With them I can just be.

There are times I do enjoy the relational hoo-hah and find it a strange kind of fun, but it’s fun that I really only need in small doses, and even when I do enjoy it, it wears me out. Right now I’m exhausted, and in a way I wish I could beg off human contact for a few months or so.

What I really need is a nice, long solitary road trip.

I could use one of those trips where I leave, go somewhere randomly, do whatever, and then come back. The last time I really did that was back in 1987, and I caught hell for it. Of course, going 500 miles out with $150, in a car that had no air conditioning, leaked oil horribly, had 4 balding (different sizes and treads) tires and a top speed of 45 MPH wasn’t a good idea and I wouldn’t dream of trying it today, especially without a phone, but those were different times. Cell phones were expensive toys hard mounted in expensive cars back in 1987. I was a young punk and wanted to do what I wanted to do, even if I didn’t have much scratch and my car was a very distressed, high mileage ’79 Subaru DL. Today I would be afraid of being raped and robbed (well, in my case, probably just robbed and shot) if I would happen to get stranded. Today I have plastic (though I am quite loath to use it) a modern car, a phone, GPS, roadside assistance and a (always loaded) .357 Magnum.

I’m not nearly as trusting as I used to be.

Jerry would have nine kinds of fits if I did something like that. He would accuse me of being out trysting with some smoking hot young stud even though he (especially) should know I have the sex appeal of stale saltines and wet socks. In reality he would miss subjecting me to his tirades, and would miss me fetching his food and beer.

Yes, a solitary road trip would be most delicious. Even a day trip would be good.

Endless Chasing After Wind, and Don’t Eat the Burrito from Speedway

July 22, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Get your gasoline, beer and Marlboros here, but NOT your burritos.

Perhaps it is too obvious to be a cautionary tale, but it wasn’t a good decision to eat the $2 spicy beef and bean burrito from Speedway. I paid for that all of Saturday night and a good part of Sunday. Who needs those expensive colon cleanse kits, or even White Castles for that matter?

I don’t eat prepackaged food very often. Most of the time if I want burritos I make them at home with refried beans, whole wheat tortillas, ground spicy turkey, sour cream, cheddar cheese, onions, salsa, etc. I know what’s in them that way.

Tonight will probably be a salad night. It’s hot. Either that or Spam sandwiches. Nothing wrong with Spam, at least not the meat product. Grill it with a slice of American cheese, some onion and tomato on wheat bread with mustard and it’s not half bad.

Grandpa used to love this stuff. And chicken necks. He lived to be 91, so it couldn’t have been that bad.

I can think of a lot of different things that probably would offend my colon less than that burrito. Like Dran-o.

As far as the condition of my mind and heart at the moment, it’s not as bad as it could be. It’s not as good as it could be either, but the pragmatist in me finds such a condition oddly acceptable.

A little bit of melancholy and pensiveness is good for the soul.

I have to watch spending too much time there, though, because for me melancholy can become full blown depression very quickly and easily. I have a twisted sense of humor for a reason, and most of the time that reason is because if I don’t laugh about the idiocy and injustice and pain and fear in this world I would have to cry. If I really start in crying, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.

Death, Life Beyond Miz Izz, and Something Else to Say

July 12, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

So I haven’t been around for awhile. There’s a few reasons for that. Let’s start off by saying I hope no one else in my sphere dies anytime soon. Death sucks. Especially when it’s Miz Izz.

I acquired Miz Izz- Isabel- as a four-week old (it’s really easy to estimate young kittens’ age) that had been abandoned in a grocery store parking lot. What amazed me is that a typical feral cat, even one that tiny, would have at least tried to run or fight, but not Isabel. She let me scoop her up and take her home. As if she belonged. And she did.

This is Jezebel at 9 weeks- she and Isabel were virtually identical as far as looks and build.

Had Isabel lived another month she would have been 16 years old. But her poor little body just couldn’t take any more. She had always been petite and somewhat frail, and she had become even more so when she developed a condition called “pillow foot” or more correctly, plasma cell pododermatitis. Suffice to say this is a nasty condition, and Isabel had it rather severely. At times her paws would swell up so much they would bleed and I would have to take her to get shots- which helped for awhile, but then she became too fragile for the meds (prednisone and doxycycline.)

Maybe I shouldn’t miss an old, fragile black cat with set ways and a loud voice. But I do.

Death can be a mercy, especially when someone is suffering and there isn’t any real fix for it, when there’s no longer any good life to be had. My last good memory of Isabel was of her greedily snapping up pieces of top sirloin as we shared a steak. The dogs were outside of course, and the only two cats that were ever bold enough to ever approach my Steak Experience were Isabel and Jezebel. Jezebel is a bit more restrained, but Isabel never had a problem getting right up close to get her little bits of gristle and fat. That was the last time I can say I knew Isabel was still enjoying being a cat. I buried her a week later.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls…

I admit that I fight with the idea that humane euthanasia is OK when a cat or a dog is suffering and they have gotten beyond what I would call “good life to be had,” but the same concept doesn’t apply to humans. I understand, at least from a spiritual and theological view, that God is the Author of life. Since humans are made in His image, we generally don’t have the authority to take human life away. (Capital punishment is an exception to the general prohibition against taking human life, and so is just war, but those are topics worthy of their own separate and detailed discussions. Suffice to say that I believe in the merits of both, in the proper circumstances.)

It is morally right to put a cat or a dog to sleep when he or she is suffering and he or she stops enjoying being a cat or a dog. Euthanasia for humans is not acceptable even when it would seem to be a mercy.

As far as the higher purpose of human suffering, I’ll be the first to say I don’t get it.

Not that I would put a human life into the same (noble but still lower) category as the life of Miz Izz, but my mother-in-law had been suffering and confined to a wheelchair for most of the time that Miz Izz walked the earth. My mother-in-law died last Saturday after being confined to a wheelchair for 15 years, suffering with rheumatoid arthritis, congestive heart failure and a laundry list of other maladies. Her last two weeks were particularly brutal.

I don’t believe in euthanasia for humans- not ever- but sometimes I’ve got to ask God why. Isabel pretty much enjoyed her cat life up until the last week of it. Granted happiness for cats is fairly easy- somewhere to sleep, food to eat and somewhere to drop a load. Human life is a lot more complicated, but still, why did Jerry’s Mom have to suffer for so freaking long?

Hospice is a great help for those who are actively dying, but it can only mitigate the process.

Worse than her dying was the funeral. I understand Southern Baptist soteriology (understanding of the mechanism of salvation) pretty well. “Turn or Burn” is pretty standard fare at SB funerals, but to the uninitiated, it is about as anti-PC as one can get. You don’t get a funeral message too often that includes, “Do you know where you’ll be if you get hit by a truck on the way out of here?”

Jerry’s sisters were a bit taken aback. I had tried to give Steve-o a heads up on SB soteriology before the funeral so he wouldn’t freak out. His religious understanding has pretty much been shaped by growing up in a Lutheran church, so the really fundamental interpretations of SB soteriology would sound a bit bat-shit crazy to him. Mom has confused him enough by trying to throw in the Catholic earn – your -points system.

I grew up around Regular Baptists (even more of the “Turn or Burn” mentality than the SBs) so I know all too well there could possibly be an altar call. There wasn’t. He did do the Sinners’ Prayer though. I have to hand it to the preacher for preaching the gospel instead of offering pallid platitudes on how much life sucks and then you die, ya – da ya-da. At least Steve-o had a heads up.

Lutherans don’t do altar calls. Our pastors do occasionally mention hell, but not usually at funerals.

It just seems strange to me. Life and death and all of that.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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Month: July 2014

Let’s All Go to the Fair (‘Kay…) as If I Had Faith in Humanity to Begin With

Moonbat Nation, Tasteful vs. Tacky, and the Things We Do Because?

Endless Chasing After Wind, and Don’t Eat the Burrito from Speedway

Death, Life Beyond Miz Izz, and Something Else to Say