Suicide: I Sort of Understand- But- The Dirt Nap Awaits Us All

November 25, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

“And I usually drink my dinner!”

I really enjoyed Burgess Meredith’s performances in the “Grumpy Old Men” movies. I especially enjoyed the death reference from the movie “Grumpier Old Men”:

Grandpa:   What the… what the hell is this?
John:   That’s lite beer.
Grandpa:   Gee, I weigh ninety goddamn pounds, and you bring me this sloppin’ foam?
John:   Ariel’s got me on a diet because the doc said my cholesterol’s a little too high.
Grandpa:   Well let me tell you something now, Johnny. Last Thursday, I turned 95 years old. And I never exercised a day in my life. Every morning, I wake up, and I smoke a cigarette. And then I eat five strips of bacon. And for lunch, I eat a bacon sandwich. And for a midday snack?
John:   Bacon.
Grandpa:   Bacon! A whole damn plate! And I usually drink my dinner. Now according to all of them flat-belly experts, I should’ve took a dirt nap like thirty years ago. But each year comes and goes, and I’m still here. Ha! And they keep dyin’. You know? Sometimes I wonder if God forgot about me. Just goes to show you, huh?

Suicide isn’t a joke, even though I sort of understand the mentality behind wanting to just plain blot out. There have been times in my life when I’ve thought about it, and then the old Catholic teaching that suicide is a mortal sin sticks in my head. In old school Catholic thought, killing yourself is more or less similar to drawing the “go to jail” card in Monopoly, but with a twist:

I don’t know why, but this was always my visual for “Mortal Sin.”

The older I get, the more I realize that what seems like the end of the world really isn’t the end of the world. It might hurt like hell. It might be physical pain, or even chronic pain that never really goes away. It might be that nameless void in which there are no words or even tears, but only a sharp and consuming bolt of terror and sadness and longing that knocks your breath away. Even that is not the end of the world.

The older I get, the more tenaciously I cling to life- if only because experience has taught me that there is life (and good life to be had) even beyond the unspeakable, nameless void of grief, beyond the burning pain of rejection, beyond the uncertainty of worldly trappings, and even in the endurance of chronic physical pain.

Hell? Or is it just Detroit?

I know it’s hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel, especially when you’re a fifteen year old kid and all you’ve ever known is deprivation and loss and a sad sense of being unworthy of sucking up valuable oxygen. I’ve been there.

I don’t know exactly what kind of despair was behind the recent teen suicides here in central Ohio. I know I wouldn’t want to be a high school kid today, but things sucked back in my world too. We faced an uncertain future. There were people like me with thick glasses and bad clothes and geeky habits who were just about as popular as stepping in dog shit on a hot day, but we survived. Some of us went on to thrive, although in my case I wouldn’t claim any kind of stellar, charmed life- but it’s life. I’ll take what I can get and give what I can give and at the end of the day, that’s all.

I don’t have the answers. I’m not God, which is a good thing, because if I controlled the world it would be pretty much unrecognizable. There would be a lot of buff dudes in Spandex, and no such thing as rap music. That much I could guarantee, but then again I am not the one in control.

There is a certain amount of peace in accepting that there are some questions that will never be answered and some concepts that I was never designed to understand. I don’t have much comfort or solace for those who survive after a loved one commits suicide except to say that there is life beyond the breathless void, and that some day there will be good life beyond that void. I will also say that God is big enough to take whatever anger and frustration and pain that you are willing to surrender to Him.

Our time is short. That doesn’t necessarily disturb me too much. I’ve been close to death, and I’m not afraid to die. I don’t like the prospect of suffering and pain and I understand that there are times when death would be a relief and a comfort. As far as I can tell, as of right now, I’m not there yet.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls…

An Argument for Psycho Control- and Workouts for Kids

November 22, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

One (very rare, may I add) positive to come out of the Obama administration was that his ineptitude and usurpation of Americans’ rights made me very much more aware of my both my first and second amendment rights. I never dreamed five years ago that I would ever want to own a gun, let alone apply for concealed carry.

Times have changed.

I don’t feel safe going anywhere after dark. That’s not necessarily Obama’s fault, because the neighborhood where I work has been going downhill for years, so I will give him the benefit of the doubt on that one. I don’t feel safe going out after dark because there are crazy people out there. If the crazy people have guns, then why do I want to be unarmed? Doesn’t it make more sense not only for me to be armed, but also for me to know how to use a firearm correctly?

This morning there was a shootout just down the road– in the WalMart I’m afraid to set foot in, no less. The shooter shot a little kid, a woman while she was sitting in the dentist’s chair, (?) and a cop. Shooting the cop got him killed- and saved the taxpayers some money- at any rate. I don’t like to see people get killed, but shooting a cop is just plain asking for it.

I don’t blame the firearm, or even the fact that this guy had access to one. I blame him and him alone. Triggers don’t pull themselves.

Gun control is holding on with both hands. Psycho control is what we need in this world, and unfortunately in the trees of civilization, there are more than a few fruits and nuts.

Really? Where’s your mother? In the rhino cage? That explains it!

When I was growing up (in a rural, poor area…) there were no fat kids, except one. That was Scottie-Scottie Two By Four. You know the rest of the rhyme- “couldn’t get through the bathroom door/so he did it on the floor/licked it up and did some more/Fatty-Fatty two-by-four” In middle school he was well over 200#. This poor kid was harassed so relentlessly that the summer between seventh and eighth grade he went to football camp, as well as he went on a crash diet and lost well near 7o#. By the beginning of eighth grade he was still big, but it wasn’t fat any more. The coaches had ran it all off of him. His parents were lard asses, which probably explains how he got so large- Daddy was about 400# and Mommy wasn’t far behind. Yes, the kids made some serious jokes about Scottie’s Mom and Dad having to do the wild thing on a steel reinforced mattress. There was also much speculation that they had to go out in the garage to do it because the floors in their house couldn’t take it. I don’t know if that was true or not. Some things are just not worth finding out.

The apple usually doesn’t fall far from the tree.

But most of us kids were thin according to today’s standards. Even though I was never allowed to play organized sports after I had rheumatic fever, (and nobody wanted me to before, because I sucked,) I still got lots of exercise. Self preservation is a good workout motivator.

My Mom liked to lock us outside and turn up the TV when she’d had enough, or just when she was spaz, which was a good deal of the time. Although I was never a fast runner, I was good at hiding. I had to work to avoid getting my ass kicked.

One of my favorite hiding places was with the Rottweiler down the street. I wasn’t afraid of him, even though he wasn’t always terribly clean, and his fleas had no problem biting me too. The other kids were terrified of him. Ass kicking or flea bites? Most of the time I took my chances with the unauthorized insect life. Mom really didn’t like it when I came home eaten to death with flea bites, and smelling like dog shit, but at least it wasn’t blood and broken bones. I did manage to get through childhood without breaking anything. I did get blood poisoning from scrapes, cuts, splinters and so forth, a few times though.

You put it together with whatever pieces you could scrounge.

Your bike was your transportation. Mom didn’t get a driver’s license until I was 12 years old, and even though the state of Ohio thinks she’s cool to drive, I’ll beg to differ. Riding a bike was safer on many levels than riding with Mom, even though there is a good deal of comic relief to be gleaned from her chronic road rage.

It’s sad but true- my son learned how to fly the one finger salute (age 5) by watching my mother road rage.

Thanks, Mom!

Now people don’t let kids ride their bikes unless they have so much protective gear on that they look like the freaking Transformers. And then they can only ride their bikes on the designated bike path, never on makeshift BMX trails in the woods or back along where the railroad tracks used to be.

Welcome to the Thunderdome! Oh, I was just riding my bike down to the carry out? Really?

I think part of the reason why kids of my generation got plenty of exercise is that we were pretty much left outside to fend for ourselves most of the time. Most of our families were poor. Most of our families had two or more kids, so if one went missing, it’s one less mouth to feed. Oh, well. Now people treat their kids in much the same way as some of the poor dogs I see in the vet’s office. They mollycoddle, indulge and literally “love” them to death.

It is cruel to let a dog get this fat.

Science is on my side here: obesity kills dogs. It’s a proven fact, and since a dog lives about 15 years give or take, it’s easy to see what happens when dogs are allowed to be hugely fat. But there are people out there who just can’t see the correlation, that overfeeding and under-exercising their dogs takes years off their dogs’ lives. Every time I take one of my girls to the vet’s office, I see obese dogs suffering from preventable health problems. The vet sees it too and it has to really bother her.

Perhaps people are viewing their kids not as liabilities or money pits, but as pampered pets. I don’t know which mindset is worse- leaving kids to their own devices and out to the wolves, or mollycoddling and indulging them.

Kids have to get out and get dirty. Kids have to have limits. One Klondike bar once a week is fine. Three after dinner is way too much.

Maybe if we could worry less about the psychos in our midst, we could let kids go out and play and be kids and not feel as if we have to indulge their every whim.

A Road Trip for Miz Izz, The Gene Pool Needs Chlorine, and Entropy Can Be Entertaining

November 19, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

15 is ancient, if you’re a cat.

I had to take poor Miz Izz to the vet on Saturday. I did so with a bit of trepidation, because when a cat’s 15, anything can be the prelude to the dirt nap. She has a funky condition on the pads of her front paws called plasma cell pododermatitis or what is commonly called “pillow foot.” The paw pads swell up and sometimes even crack and bleed (this was the reason I took her to the vet.) Weirdly enough, it’s not a particularly dangerous condition, but given Miz Izz’s age, it can’t be surgically corrected. The risk of surgery on a 5#, elderly cat is not worth the potential benefit, because it’s neither painful nor life threatening according to the vet. It can be managed with occasional steroid/antibiotic injections and scuttlebutt has it that essential oils and Vitamin E can be helpful as well. So she’s back on the fish oil and Vitamin E supplement which I probably should not have stopped giving her. It does make her coat nice and shiny, and she doesn’t object to the taste, so if anything I don’t see where it would do any harm.

Most cats go ballistic in the car and have meltdowns in the vet’s office. Not Miz Izz. She will sit on the exam table quietly and let the vet do her thing. Isabel was cooperative even when she was very young. I can just zip her up in my hoodie and carry her around with no problem. Jezebel also lets me just put her in my hoodie, and is just as laid back about the vet and riding in the car as Isabel is. Fanny freaks out. She is well near impossible to transport and has to be in a carrier. I’ve not had to attempt transport with F.B. F.B. is usually quite sanguine, but she does put up a wicked struggle over getting her flea treatment.

Some people are very easily entertained.

The photo above is further evidence of the devolution of mankind. Fifty years ago these people’s grandparents would have been engaging in the fine pastime of ballroom dancing:

All I can think of is how bad those skirts have got to ITCH!

Every time I go to WalMart, I am reminded of how badly the gene pool needs chlorine. Either that, or it might help to provide more full-length mirrors in public places so people can see how bloody ridiculous they look. When your ass is the size of a Toyota Corolla, Spandex pants and a halter top are not sensible wardrobe choices.

It also doesn’t help to try to put camo pants over rhinoceros size butt cheeks. The camo effect is lost when you’re working with that much surface area.

I ended up having to go home this afternoon with a nasty sore throat. Yes, I went and had a strep test because it came on rather suddenly (the preliminary test was negative) so I am in bed swilling tea and wishing Jerry would shut up about not being able to find anything in the kitchen. I’m not fetching anything for him. I’m trying to get this shit to go away because I really don’t want to call off work tomorrow. I have the vacation time, and the thought of a whole day of drinking tea and watching History Channel could be interesting, but I really hate taking days off (especially unplanned) because I end up having to fix nine kinds of disasters when I get back.

I have, but dammit, I’m sick!

Mollycoddled, They’re YOUR Kids, and a Culinary Milestone

November 15, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

I blew coffee out my nose this morning while perusing my coupon circulars!

This reminded me of Benny Hill’s “Therapist” skit. Yes, it is worth it to click on the link to the You Tube video. Especially if you appreciate Benny Hill’s sort of humor as much as I do.

Art may be anal (I know plenty of artistic types who are) but when the word “anal” is found anywhere near the words “breakfast sandwich,” that’s where my culinary curiosity ends.

I get that the creator of this hilariously named morning comestible was meaning to use the word “artisan” without realizing how funny the addition of “al” would make the word appear. I have to wonder why the grocery store’s advertising editor didn’t spy that and substitute a phrase free of such enjoyable double entendre, such as, “Artisan Inspired Breakfast Sandwich” or, “An Artisan’s Breakfast Sandwich.”

Then again most “artisans” are probably smoking a bowl, then scarfing down an organic granola bar and a 20 ounce diet Mountain Dew for breakfast. The artificial food coloring, various other impurities, and caffeine in the diet Mountain Dew are cancelled out by the organic wholesomeness of the granola bar. Or so some people like to think. Just like the two liter of diet Dr. Pepper cancels out the calories in the large stuffed crust supreme pizza you had for dinner. Right.

Large stuffed crust supreme pizza. That sounds good, but I will behave and enjoy my planned evening repast of grilled tilapia, steamed broccoli and penne pasta- with sugarless iced tea.

I would like to know why most parents assume that the state (i.e. government in any form) is responsible for the education of their offspring. The last time I checked, the bare minimum goals of parenting should consist of being sure that one’s offspring becomes potty-trained, literate and gainfully employed, preferably on or before the age of 21.

Perhaps my sentiments verge on violating child labor laws, but it’s no wonder Jimmy is uneducated, unemployed and staying up at all hours playing “World of Warcraft” and “Call of Duty” while still camping out in Mommy’s basement – at age 35. Apparently it’s verboten these days to give one’s freeloading spawn a rousing size 7 enema when he or she richly deserves it. (For those who are wondering what a size 7 enema is, it’s a polite way of referring to me putting my size 7 boot up someone’s ass.)

Kids should have to work. My Dad made me, and I turned out – ah, never mind.

I had many, many grievous failings as a mother. I’m not claiming to be the perfect parent, or even a moderately good one. If I would have been, I would have home-schooled and gotten access to whatever resources I could to make my son some sort of prodigy in something. The only problem with that is I had to (and still have to) work. I didn’t have the luxury of the time and resources to home-school, which is entirely a failure ON ME.

But in spite of him having to endure public school, (I really, really regret that, except for the last 2 years where he actually learned something- in vocational school) somehow my kid ended up being capable of critical thought, fiercely independent, able to support himself and his daughter, and to a degree, his tastes for high faluting German cars. He even ended up with a strong work ethic. Imagine that. Whether that was luck of the draw, or my insistence that he become as independent as possible as early as possible, I’m not sure. It could also be that he inherited my penchant for skepticism, (and a healthy dose of the cynical eye) because he questioned “the system” from day one.

Oh, yes it is. Daily. Right now, constantly.

Kids who are taught critical thinking skills (hint: NOT taught intentionally in public schools, at least not any more) are going to be harder to deal with. They will be disruptive. They will do weird things. They will piss you off. They will be impudent, disrespectful and just plain a thorn in the side. I wanted to disown my son between the ages of 13 and 16 for all his creative behavioral exploits, believe that. They will need swift and sometimes harsh correction. BUT- in the long run- children taught to think critically will mature into confident and capable adults, rather than overgrown, obese children, who become both endless money pits for their parental units to support, and mushy, whiny depositories for whatever drivel they’re spoon fed.

It’s a parent’s responsibility to see that their children not only get an education, but also that they get the critical thinking skills necessary to navigate the world for themselves. The government is NOT responsible for the education of your children, (and they are doing a predictably abysmal job of it,) and as each day passes I trust the public educational system even less than I did when my son was involved in it. Public education is no longer about equipping young people for life and imparting meaningful information and vital skills. Now it’s all about making sure the kiddies know that Heather’s two mommies are just lovely, that gay is OK, and that religious freedom is something everyone has a right to, except of course, Christians.

But a teacher- even a good one who isn’t a union thrall- can’t do squat if Mom and Dad don’t care.

A Healthy Dose of Irony, Harmony In the Dissonance, and Dennis Rodman

November 6, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

Hell, Dick Nixon was a freaking paragon of virtue compared to the current squatter in the Oval Office!

I should have gotten a pic of it, but to my delight, I saw one of these old stickers firmly planted on a Toyota Venza in the Costco parking lot today. I immediately saw the irony and found it hilarious- the way I took it is that Dick Nixon and company would be a damned sight better than the train wreck of a presidential administration that’s currently defiling the White House.

I know we’re in real trouble when I start seeing these on cars:

I bet Jimmy Carter has already sent Obama a heartfelt thank-you card. If he hasn’t, he should. I have a suggestion:

History will have to be kinder to Jimmy Carter after Obama – as well as Clinton, Nixon, LBJ, Harding, and even Woodrow Wilson- after Obama gets done defiling the office.

I love those sappy old Victorian cards.

Just what I always wanted- disembodied hearts- in the mail!

I know I don’t see things the way the rest of the world does most of the time. In the past my alternate perception caused me quite a bit of cognitive dissonance, though as I grow older and ostensibly, wiser, I’m discovering three disturbing truths: I’m OK, the rest of the world is screwed up, and I can’t change that.

It really doesn’t help to know when you’re right if everyone else is hell bent on being wrong. I might try to explain to the lemmings why following everyone else over the cliff is a bad idea, but they’ll dive right over it anyway.

That’s not to say that I’m always right or that I’m infallible. I’m certainly fallible, and I make a fair share of mistakes. The bad part of that is I usually screw up when I go against my better judgment and follow the crowd anyway.

Ultimately history is written not by who was right, but by the winners. Popular opinion may win out today, but in the long run? Hindsight is 20/20.

I find it interesting that one of the big “kid arguments” is, “But Mom, everyone else is doing it!” Just because everyone else is doing it doesn’t make it right or good. Sometimes what the rest of the crowd is doing is funny, though.

When he was 7 or 8 or so, Steve-o begged me and begged me for a Dennis Rodman ~~doll~~ action figure (if it’s for a boy you can never call it a doll, it’s always an action figure, even though a girl would refer to it as a doll) and I got it for him, interchangeable heads and all, against my better judgment. I think that was the sickest toy I was ever conned into buying, even including having his ear pierced and getting him the entire series of DOOM games. Steve-o didn’t stay interested in it for long, (mostly because his friends mocked him for playing with a doll.) I think eventually poor Dennis and both of his heads fell victim to either Clara or Lilo’s early adult/final puppy stage compulsion to chew up things.

It was probably Lilo. She still destroys her toys, and she’s 10 years old. Clara isn’t nearly as enamored of destroying stuff- unless it’s a bone with peanut butter in it.

Why Dennis Rodman reminds me of Obama, I’ll never know, but I sort of like the concept of popping off and changing out his action figure’s head, for what it’s worth. Maybe somewhere there’s a sane head that can replace Obama’s goofy one? Just pop off the goofy one and pop on the rational one?

Picking On the Emotionally Impaired, and I Wanna Be Sedated

November 4, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

But how do you keep them out? They’re like zombies- and they’re multiplying.

Every once in awhile I like the Ramones, even though their songs are to music as junk food is to real food- trite, and full of empty calories, but oddly satisfying while they are being consumed. I don’t think I could sit through hours and hours of “Blitzkrieg Bop” and “I Wanna Be Sedated,” but I like to just zone out and not have to think too much every now and then. The Ramones are good for that.

My penchant for rock, metal and the occasional grunge or punk fix would make my voice teachers cringe, but the line between classical music and orchestral metal is a very fine one. Even though I’ve not played bass or fronted a metal band in 20 years, I still find the musician in me analyzing what I’m listening to. I still have an appreciation for what is technically good and what is more or less musical junk food, for whatever that’s worth. I hate to say it, but that’s probably why most of my MP3 collection dates back to 1985 and earlier.

There is some good new music out there today, but it’s not mainstream. You have to know where to look. The unholy crud that is currently polluting the airwaves and the TV screens generally does suck. It sucks like sucking has never sucked before. We have fantastic, amazing, digital technology but we’re recording and distributing total crap on it. We traded Steve Perry for Katy Perry (really sucky trade there) and I don’t understand why. I mean in 1981 we had Steve Perry as the greatest singer ever and Ronald Reagan as president. Today we have Katy Perry and Obama. Go figure. The evidence for devolution is right before our eyes (and ears.) Blecch.

I’m just thankful that through the gift of technology I can bring the past up to date in some ways. I can get good music on MP3s and save good songs to my SD card so I can spare myself from the pollution of the airwaves.

When Jerry and I went on the train ride last week it was cold. The train was delayed because they had oversold and had to add cars to the train. A fat old lady took Jerry’s seat while he decided to go out and smoke because we had to wait, even when I told him that it was crowded, therefore, the “move your feet lose your seat” rule would come into play, so we had to find different seats to sit together. Even so, it was a good time and very interesting. The train car we rode in until the first stop was built in 1927, the second car we rode on for the rest of the trip was built in the mid 1950s and had two levels. We sat up top in the second car for a better view.

On the first car we sat behind a Japanese family. Mom and Dad were facing Jerry and I, while their teenage son and preteen daughter were sitting across from their parents. I could see over the boy’s shoulder that he was more interested in his i-phone and his animé cartoons that would be porn if they weren’t cartoons. My question is, since animé is just cartoons, is it really porn or is it just a porn substitute? His mother probably still would have been mortified if she had seen what I was getting an eyeful of, but either she didn’t know or didn’t care about what Junior was watching.

I remember Steve-o’s brief infatuation with animé “sort-of-porn” at the same age. I knew full well what he was gawking at online, but I figured if I made a big scene over it like my mother did over anything even remotely risqué that it would become an obsession for him. She was more wigged out about finding rubbers in his personal effects than about finding cigarettes, which struck me odd. Sex can potentially kill you, but wearing a rubber can help prevent STDs, so he’s mitigating that risk. Cigarettes are in no way safe. I was more upset about the smokes. But Mom’s Catholic, and as far as I know for Catholics, smoking is not considered a sin- you can be a priest and smoke- but sex (unless one is married and having sex for procreational reasons only) is a mortal sin. Doesn’t that suck?

I’m no paragon of moral virtue, so I have absolutely no room to talk.

One Dog Down the Cat Hole, and One Against the Thugocracy

October 15, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

It’s easy for me to forget that Lucy is substantially smaller than the other two dogs. I thought that since Lucy has a rather large head for her size, that she was too large for the cat hole. I have since realized that Fanny can get through a smaller hole than previously thought possible, and Lucy can get through a much smaller hole than I’d ever imagined.

Let me explain the logic behind the cat hole.

The New Improved Cat Hole: Just big enough for 17# Fanny to fit through…and nothing bigger- I hope!

Dogs absolutely lust over cat food, and most dogs are inexplicably enamored of snacking on cat shit as well. Neither cat food (too high in fat and protein for a dog’s metabolism) nor cat shit (well, it’s shit, ’nuff said) is healthy for dogs to consume in any kind of quantity. It’s sort of like humans living on bacon and candy- it might taste good at the moment, but it’s just plain unhealthy, and such a diet can lead to serious disease. Dogs are not the best arbiters of healthy eating, and they really shouldn’t be left to free-forage. As George Carlin once wisely pointed out regarding “gourmet” cat food, “How many gourmets lick their ass?”

Since we have four cats and three dogs, the cats need a safe place to hide when the dogs get on their nerves, as well as a safe place to eat and crap. The dogs need to be kept out of cat food and kept out of cat shit. In our house, the dog-free zone is the basement. There’s a roughly cat-sized hole cut in the basement door that (in theory) keeps dogs out while letting cats move freely in and out.

Big Fat Fanny- that’s what I get for naming the cat while listening to Queen. The dreadful 70’s linoleum- not really my choice.

The original oversize cat hole worked just fine for Clara and Lilo, who have long since realized that they aren’t going to get to go downstairs to munch. Clara is slender but even so, she’s still 65#. Lilo is about 55#, and not terribly motivated to pursue anything that doesn’t afford her easy access. Lucy, at a comparatively tiny 45#, however, decided to use her thick skull to worm her way through the cat hole.

The cat hole was a bit oversize because Fanny is a bit oversize. Our cats range in size from 4 1/2# Jezebel to 17# Fanny. Isabel is just slightly bigger than Jezebel at right around 5#, and F.B. is about 8#. I have four cats and only one is “normal” sized. Go figure, and I have no idea why the two black ones are so tiny. Jezebel eats more than any of the other cats, but she’s still the smallest. Her (Jezebel’s) feral relatives that live on the body shop lot are all petite cats as well. Perhaps city cats have some sort of advantage in smaller size vs. farm cats who tend to be large like Fanny. Isabel and Jezebel were both city ferals at one time. Fanny was from out in farm country, and I have no idea where F.B. came from before we took her in when her first owner died.

As long as Fanny fits, and Lucy keeps from ramming it, the reduced size cat hole should keep cats and dogs in their proper places.

If Obama gets his way, the rest of the country will be just like Detroit.

I’ve tried to keep my mouth somewhat shut about the political rancor and just plain stupidity going on in Washington right now, but I can’t understand why there are still dimwits out there who don’t get it about Obama. Including Jerry’s Dad, the former Klan member.

“Take a shower!” or was that “White powder?” Ass pilot.

I can’t say I condone the Klan, but frankly I’m tired of any racial or ethnic group demanding preferential treatment. The white supremacists are just as stupid as the Al Sharptons and Jesse Jacksons and Muslim extremist crazies of the world, believe that. But Jerry’s Dad seems to have done a 180° to think Obama’s the best thing ever, and I really don’t understand why or how he would. Maybe he’s gone senile and he’s feeling guilty for 70+ years of unabashed racism? Or maybe he’s just batshit crazy. I tend to believe suggestion #2.

This guy is a nut, too.

The thing is, I can feel bad over injustices committed against black people – or any other oppressed group-in the past without feeling a need to offer a free pass to Obama’s present ineptitude, incompetence and malice. Equal opportunity includes the obligation to own up to your own epic failures. If you can’t run with the big dogs, I don’t care what color, gender, ethnicity or whatever you are. Stay the flying flip on the porch.

Instead of working together with others in government toward responsible leadership, Obama has established a thugocracy- a culture in which there is one central premise: that big government knows what’s good for you, and we’ll take what you have by force, ostensibly in the name of “the common good.” In reality it is about big government feeding itself at the cost of those who work, produce and create. Communism / socialism didn’t work in the (former) Soviet Union and it doesn’t work now.

I don’t know who came up with this summary but it’s pretty good:

Socialism: Moochers electing looters to steal from producers.

Joy and rapture. Welfare day at Walmart. I think I’ll wait until the second week of the month to do my shopping.

I’m just hoping Lucy doesn’t get downstairs to dine on the magical dog candy again.

Old Stories Revisited, and Some Things Never Die (But Should)

October 10, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

When I was in high school I had a taste for bodice-ripper novels. By the end of my freshman year I had an entire locker filled with discount cover-less $1.35 novels from the cigar store that were so graphic I had to get rid of them when school was out. Mom would have found them in her regular treasure hunts through my stuff, and “smut” like that would have given my mother a coronary. (I wonder if Beth’s mother ever found them, but then Beth’s Mom wasn’t nearly as snoopy as mine, which is why I gave them to Beth in the first place.) I always knew Mom snooped, so I made sure Mom never found anything good such as cigarettes, “smut” books, birth control pills, short skirts, fishnets, etc. in any of my stuff. I had a few friends once I got a car, and with them, divers places to stash incriminating stuff.

I like the concept of stashing one’s guns under the stairs. I like stashing the gun next to the bed even better.

I wasn’t into ordinary flowery *clean* “romance” stories (think Hallmark Channel snooze fare, or the Harlequin romances Grandma liked to read.) I liked the more juicy ones that usually didn’t have much for a plot, but didn’t leave out the graphic details. Cut to the chase, already. I also had a taste for mystery and who-dunnits for a time, along with my usual historical and scientific non-fiction fare, but when I was in high school I would pretty much read anything and everything I could get my hands on. Today, because I have to do other things (like it or not) I have to be a bit more judicious in my literary choices. Let’s face it, the myriad ways of performing the conjugal act get a bit overhyped at times, and I need a bodice-ripper like a hole in the head these days. My imagination does not need any assistance in that realm. Besides, If I’m going to spend time in fiction I want a good story. Something with an actual plot that’s deeper than, “spying his turgid member, she unzipped his pants…” I want something epic, something meaty, or why bother?

Whether you like fiction or fantasy (normally I am not into either) or not, Tolkien is awesome. I’ve read these more times than I can count.

I never read a lot of fiction (other than the aforementioned bodice-rippers, and I’m really not compelled to go for bodice-rippers any more) but I did and still do like Stephen King. I may not agree with his politics (I don’t) but he is a hell of a writer. One of my favorites authored by King is the book IT, (not to be confused as a horror novel about IT, which is good given that many in the IT profession are quite scary enough,) so I simply had to get it on Kindle.

Maybe I shouldn’t put it like this, but Kindle is a hyperlexic’s high holy fantasy. There are millions of books available for momentary download for a modest fee (and some are even free.) Since my particular Kindle has 3G and Wi-Fi I can pretty much download anytime and anywhere, meaning I have to be careful in the Kindle Store. I have limited myself to one book a week, and only if I have finished the previous one. There is something just plain magical about having so much reading material at one’s fingertips.

My favorite Stephen King book, except for maybe The Stand. It might be a tie.

I read IT back in 1987 shortly after its release in paperback. I couldn’t afford hard back books at that time. $4.95 was pricey enough back in those days, but worthwhile. I couldn’t put it down- and read it the first time in about two days. This time I am taking my time and only reading a few chapters at a time, for no other reason than I don’t have entire days to lock myself away to just read anymore. I really miss being able to do that from time to time. I am one of those incorrigible nerd types who can get lost in a book and forget just about everything else.

IT, I am finding, is a more personal story for me now than it was in 1987. When I read IT the first time, there wasn’t much distance between me as the 10 year old and me as the 18 year old. It was a great story, but I didn’t really identify with the characters back then. Today I can understand their perspective much better. There is a lifetime of distance and several changes of spheres between me as the 10 year old, and me as the forty-something. There are those long-forgotten incidents and pictures from the back of the brain box that I don’t always acknowledge are there until some external event triggers the memory. There are plenty of incidents I’d rather forget, and many pictures that are best left buried deep and not disturbed from their sleep.

Such as: every day.

Even more unnerving, just as Derry, Maine had its scandals and secrets and monsters in the closets (and the drainage system,) I come from a small town with a history that is mired in intrigue, scandal, untimely death and *evil?* just as the fictional Derry was. Some of that history is fascinating and some of it tragic, but none of it rests well. My own personal history rests uneasily too.

Wandering Through the Graveyard, Yeah, the Bell Tolls for Me

September 24, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

They say, “Ask not for whom the bell tolls.” I used to be able to hear various church bell cotillions growing up, but today the only things I hear from my surroundings are the various airport noises, police and fire sirens, and the tornado siren that goes off every Wednesday at noon. Perhaps the church bell cotillions have gone out of style, in much the same way as we try to distance ourselves from the natural rhythm of death and dying. In Victorian times, death was up close and personal and in your face. There were no nursing homes to warehouse the elderly, and for the most part, when one got seriously ill or injured, death came quickly, usually either on the spot or at home. There were no fire squads or life-flights or trauma units to tend to the catastrophically injured. People didn’t linger on in cancer wards or on machines in intensive care units, sequestered off to die, far away from prying eyes. You just bit the big one wherever you happened to be.

Maybe some Metallica, cranked up, would help. I doubt it.

Infants and children died at an alarming rate as well, which begs the question, how emotionally invested were parents in their children? I could see the temptation in those days to keep loved ones at arm’s length rather than to dare to get too close, but I’m emotionally distant to begin with. I don’t like getting too close to anyone even if I am somewhat confident of their continued longevity.

I do think that this mother was very close to her departed six-year old Wallie. This headstone is both unique, and to me, rather sad.

Maybe wandering through a graveyard is macabre, and certain graveyards have a sort of a creepy vibe to them, but others are pleasant to wander through. I’ve always found the Marion Cemetery to be a fascinating and aesthetically pleasant place to wander about, at least in the daytime. I’d like to go back again with an empty memory card and several hours to simply take pics and read the headstones and try to visualize the people whose lives were behind them.

There are graveyards closer to my house, but there’s something intriguing knowing that I have relatives buried in the ones up in Marion County. Some of my relatives’ graves are marked, but some aren’t, and most, I’d have fun finding. I have yet to find the numerous relatives of mine that are buried in Marion Cemetery, but I also have to remember that place is massive- it covers hundreds of acres and goes back to before the Civil War. When I took this batch of pics I was mostly wandering through the Civil War era sections of the cemetery. It was cold that day and after about two hours I’d pretty much gone through my memory card (I have a bigger memory card now) and my joints’ tolerance for cold and damp. I’ve not done much traipsing about in other parts of it. Yet.

Amos Kling was Florence Harding’s father. His obelisk is rather impressive, but I didn’t step back and get a pic of the whole thing.

I’m still amazed at how much money people had to have spent on some of these monuments. Either Marion County was a far more opulent place back in the 19th and early 20th centuries (I’m guessing this one) or people spent a lot more scratch on the dead than they do now. Maybe it was both.

I do know there are a good number of unmarked graves even in the Marion Cemetery which is the largest (and highest dollar real estate) cemetery in Marion County. Whether poverty is the main reason behind that. or indifference, I don’t know. I know some people die and nobody really cares too much about remembering them, but in the end how many people really are remembered for long, and how long do those stone monuments last? Many of them from the 1880’s and earlier are almost beyond deciphering.

This one always intrigued me- is it an idealized image of the deceased or a heavenly specter, or both?

I think they were referring to the building being built. Still funny though.

Middle Age, The World’s End, and a Farewell to the Courtesy

September 3, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I love British humor, especially when it’s from the same minds that brought us Shaun of the Dead. The World’s End was a bit different than what I expected in that it sort of hit close to home. It was funny in that way peculiar to the Brits, but it also made me think. Here you have a guy (Gary King) wanting to re-live his one top-of-the-world halcyon moment- and you almost have to hand it to someone who has been able to keep that joie de vivre of youth alive past age 40. I think the whole joie de vivre concept went down the drain for me pretty much by 21, and it was gone for good after my divorce.

In the movie you discover that Gary King’s friends are a lot like me: washed out, sold out, burned out and resigned to the fact that the best of life is far behind them. Gary hadn’t changed, but his friends had. The world around them had changed too, thanks to the blue-blooded alien robots. Orderliness, conformity, blah, blah, blah. The difficult thing is that the older we get, the more we buy the neat and tidy, bland, unexciting life, even when it goes to extremes.

There is something to be said for responsibility and routine and stability. Those things are boring, but at least they’re somewhat predictable and safe. 44 is a long, long way from 17. I know better than to dream lofty dreams or to expect anything better than the status quo. The saying that, “A young person wants a the world and a new BMW, but I’d be happy with just a good BM,” is pretty much true for me.

I’m pretty sure the 1986 me would have drooled over this.

2013 me is a lot more realistic.

I think for me the aggravating thing is that as far as I know, I’ve never had that top-of-the-world halcyon moment, and I’d probably not know it when or if I ever did- or ever will.

The sad part is I can identify with the blue-blooded robots- going through the motions, blending into a bland world of blasé days, one indistinguishable from the next, keeping things orderly and tidy and boring until one day you sort of drop dead. Sometimes I think I dropped dead years ago, but just forgot to fall over.

On another tangent, the city of Marion lost an historical landmark, if you can call a motel turned cathouse an historical landmark.

In 1960-whatever it was a nice little roadside motel with a pool and everything.

In 2006 it was a pay-by-the-hour cathouse.

It was a little bit sad to see what was left of the Courtesy bulldozed over, although I think the only purpose it had served for the last couple of years was as a crack house. The only thing is that half of the town or more would have to be bulldozed if they wanted to eliminate all the crack houses.

The main take-home I got from The World’s End is that you can’t really go home again, and you can’t really ever re-live your glory days, and I never really had any to begin with. Perhaps my mistake is that I have to go back home again from time to time and what I see depresses me even though I don’t live in that sphere anymore.

I think that’s why my sisters avoid going to Mom and Dad’s like the plague. That feeling of being misplaced and out of time is disconcerting enough, but add opening up the old wounds and bad memories and rivalries and so forth, and it can be downright abysmal. Sometimes I don’t understand why I go back as often as I do, but then I remember that my son and my granddaughter still live there. I can’t demand that my family meet me where I am, even if they could.

I leave with the philosophical observation of the day.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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