How to survive a Honkey Tonk.

If you live below the Mason-Dixon but still have all your teeth, chances are: you've been to a honkey tonk and felt Slightly out of place.  I had such an experience just the other evening.  I was headed two towns over to meet up with some girlfriends. I was looking forward to traipsing around the downtown and West End districts-popping in and out of posh little night spots, cozy bars, playing darts, chatting up fun professional adults, sipping imported beer, and shooting expensive tequila. Instead...somehow a vote was taken, and I wound up in Honkey Tonk hell at a place called the Blind Horse Saloon somewhere west of Nowhere. 

I approached the bar with caution. It is located near the quaint local airstrip because apparently all the big trucks that park there need the lights from the tarmac in order to pull their Insanely huge tanks into a general chaotic formation that more or less passes for a parking system of sorts. Now I am arriving at about 10:ish and the locals have been on the scene for a while-hence I park in east BFE and curse everyone inside this place as I begin to trip over the copenhagen-spittled-broken-beer-bottle infested gravel lots about a mile from said honkey tonk destination. And did I mention it is dark? And next to a near deserted airstrip. And very dark.  My terror somewhat abated when three rather large decent looking fellows got out of an Explorer that parked close to me. I shadowed them the whole way in-so as not to get grabbed before I'd even had a chance to see who was falling off the mechanical bull.

[Now just a side note here: I am already prejudiced against this place. Seven years prior to this night's potential debacle, I was set up on a blind date. Not by a friend-I assure you. A mutual acquaintance with obviously NO experience in the dating realm-not the one on this planet anyway...But this acquaintance figured out he had a "cute friend" (that'd be me) and a "pretty good lookin' buddy" (ladies-if 'pretty', 'good', and 'lookin'' are combined with 'buddy' RUN. you can thank me later). In short I found myself on a blind date with a redneck jock. He took me to the afore mentioned honkey tonk where he proceeded to spend an hour moaning off key to bad country music with two bud light bottles, spitting in one, drinking out of both, and hitting on me in a most unsavory manner. After he left me sitting at a table with three other "redneck wonders" for a half hour while he went and hit on something blonde with big hair and too much eyeliner over in the mechanical bull line, I had reached maximum redneck tolerance levels, and found my mace trigger finger gettin' itchy.  Needless to say: first opportunity that arose-I took his keys, calmly walked myself out to the M1126 Stryker he called "m'truck", drove myself home, threw his keys in the fountain in front of the apartment complex, opened a champagne split, and took a long hot shower so the night wasn't a total waste.  He called the next day, complaining about his back hair, bragging about the amount of canned tuna he'd eaten already that day (and it was only Noon!) AND...wanting to know if we could go out the next weekend. Like I said ladies RUN. RUN FAST and don't look back.--so after this story (if the general atmosphere of the bar in and of itself did not strike fear into the soles of your Pradas) you can understand why I was not looking forward to slinking back through the swinging saloon doors of this place.]

So with that in mind-My black silk BCBG's struggled to keep pace behind my 3 hulking self- appointed escorts into redneckville.  I daintily skirted the two police cruisers parked at the entrance, heaved myself through the massive wooden doors, and peered through the smoke gently set on fire by the haze of neon lights.  How in the hell would I find my friend before being snatched up by Bubba and the gang? Seriously-my friend is a precious and gorgeous 5'2". This was going to be hard. I ducked in the side hall and dialed her-"Jess...where the hell are you?" "Just come straight up to the first bar dear-you can't miss me...I'm the one with class." 

And so the evening began.  I squared my shoulders, took the lame neon green wristband from the tattoo covered, trucker hat wearin', belt buckle totin', midget cowboy bouncer and pushed into the sea of belt buckles, teased hair, big hats, and bigger 'necks.  I managed to find Jess by the Atm on the way to the first bar.  The bar was slammed and we agreed on a frontal assault and to resort to cleavage only if 5 minutes passed and alcohol was still not in site.  Deep breath-here we go.

We managed to come away clean with an assortment of two drinks and three shots. The bartender made them stiff-but hey-drunk girls make better bar top dancers. That came later-something about the song "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and the movie Coyote Ugly-if you've seen it you know what I'm talking about. We retreated to a small corner of the balcony in front of the bar.  There I met the four other girls that were forming that evening's entourage.  We had prime seats for people watchin' and oh...oh was it fun.  There were dresses that should have been shirts, shorts that should have been panties, and girls that should've just stayed home.  There were jeans that looked like he had to jump off the roof of his garage-or at least his tailgate-to get in, mullets (that's right-I said mullet...and not sexy British pop mullets either...just Muuuullets) and belt buckles bigger than my ass--Everywhere.  On the dance floor little couples spun and shimmied while the rhinestones on their black denim flashed in the lights from the band on the stage.  Over in the mechanical bull line it was pretty much just as I remembered it...some girls looked like the bull would eat them, some looked like they'd already eaten the bull.  Just a friendly word of advice girls: just because it has spandex, rhinestones, and they make it in your size-does Not mean it will be a good costume for mechanical bull riding.

So we began to scan the crowd. Now, my ex gave me good advice earlier in the evening when I called him to let him know where to find my body should the south rise again-he said "Sweetie, just remember to find the biggest guy in there. Go stand next to him and strike up one of those conversations you're always abusing people with-even if you leave the bar as just friends-no one will mess with you the whole night-but remember-he's got to be the biggest Single dude...i'm not sure you can take a honkey tonk girl--even with your mace."

So let the scanning commence.  Hmm...nope nope nope nope...Ugh...god was that a human....nope nope...Ah ha! Turns out...one of my self-appointed guardian escorts in from the parking lot from hell was definitely the tallest guy in the room.  I gauged him to be in the neighborhood of six-five from where I was standing.  We watched him for awhile.  One of his friends was busy chatting it up with a couple of girls that had bangs bigger than his head so he was a lost cause outright. But the tall guy and his shorter side kick just chilled by themselves to the side of the dance floor with cold brews watching the disco ball shoot out random patterns on multi-faceted cellulite canvases.  

Wait a minute...they were laughing at no-no bad rhinestone/spandex girl struggling to maintain her hold on both the mechanical bull and her dignity. Hmm...well they appeared to be at least sane.  So far not a single platinum blonde-teased haired-eyeliner drenched honey had swaggered up to them... then the short side kick wandered off somewhere leaving tall guy alone. Like an island in a storm of faux suede and bad country music.  He actually looked scared. I turned to the entourage and announced (much braver than I felt) "I am going to talk to the tall one".  Because I am all that is woman....or something like that. Took a big swig of the crown and sprite-squared the shoulders-licked the lips-got the butt approval from the gang-and stepped off the balcony. 

He didn't see me coming, but didn't look surprised when I appeared at his elbow moments later....in fact he almost looked relieved.  He smiled and leaned down to introduce himself.  He shook my hand and said he was glad I had wandered over. I assured him it was in the interest of personal safety and that I did not find him attractive at all.  I am a bad liar. He smiled again. And I began to abuse him with conversation.

The rest-well, I won't bore you with the details-but as it turned out-he had been drug there against his will due to another mythical and highly unethical vote. And would have much rather been stumbling around the quaintly cobble-stoned alleys of the West End that night.

But by the evening's close was glad he'd been talked into the honkey tonk.

So ladies: it's not a fool proof plan but it does make good sense-If you find yourself in a bar where mace might only make it worse-find the biggest guy. Go stand next to him, offer up some chatter, if it turns out he has a soul and seems decent around the edges-let him buy the next round. Can't hurt. And no body messed with yours truly the entire night.  I was escorted back out to my car at one by my now consciously eager guardians. (All three turned out to be precious gentlemen.)  And I have a date Wednesday night with the tall one. Don't think we'll be going to the honkey tonk though. 

This is me reminding you that sometimes the best defense is aligning yourself with the dude that can exert the best offense in your honor. Keep it real and keep it out of the honkey tonk.

Heidegger's Cup is Orange...apparently

Ever have a twilight zone discussion? They are fabulous and I highly recommend them from time to time-especially if you are working on losing your mind. Heidegger is an excellent place to start. I suggest his essay on the essence of truth.  "The essence of truth is freedom".  Truth in a sense is a relative term...it is true if it is not false. It is true if it is the opposite of un-true. This cup is orange. (now all of us are thinking of 15+ shades of orange and about a gazillion different types of cups) But we are assuming that the cup is a cup and that the color of said cup is orange. Then what is orange? and what is this cup of which you speak?

But truth is also freedom. But not freedom in the conventional "it is my right-see how i have freedom to smack you in the head" sense. But the abstract freedom-the freedom that lets us breathe without having to remind ourselves. The freedom that lets us smile when we laugh, love when we can, and cry when we cannot. This freedom is beyond right. It is a beautiful thing-if you can even begin to explain it. See Heidegger reminds us all to question the obvious truths we accept everyday. This is a good thing. Trust me.

Heidegger can get quite dark-confusing-but read for the silver linings. They exist. But only if you want to find them.

  

This is me-reminding you to see if your sole has soul. Keep it real. 

Kid Wrangler.

Kid wrangler.

That is my official title. It's not babysitter...or even nanny.

There are seven of them-all under the age of 11...all from the same family

...I am The Kid Wrangler.

Peter is 11

Caroline is 7

Charlotte is 5 and 1/2 [that is a very important 1/2]

the trips-Lucy, Ethan, Philip are 4

and the baby: Beth-is 2.

And they are beautiful, lovely, wonderful children of two very nice, busy, practical physicians.

And they make my life colorful. ....yes colorful is the adjective we will use.

Here are just a few of the things I have learned that now "color" my advice to others seeking employment among the ranks of childcare providers.

1) If you spray hair spray on dust bunnies and run over them with roller blades, they can ignite.

2) If you hook a dog leash over a ceiling fan, the motor is not strong enough to rotate a 42 pound boy wearing Batman underwear and a Superman cape.

3) You should not throw baseballs up when the ceiling fan is on. A ceiling fan can hit a baseball a long way.

4) The glass in a window (even double-pane) does not stop a baseball hit by a ceiling fan.

5) When you hear the toilet flush and the words "uh oh", it is already too late.

6) Brake fluid mixed with clorox makes smoke and Lots of it.

7) A 4 year old boy can start a fire with a flint rock even when a 42 year old man says they can only do it in the movies.

8) An 11 year old boy should not be allowed to watch Man vs Wild or Myth Busters and take notes. Ever.

9) Certain Legos will pass through the digestive tract of a 4 year old boy, and a Shih Tzu named Roxy without relative difficulty, but the x-rays still look really cool.

10) Play dough and microwave should not be used in the same sentence.

11) Super glue is forever.

12) And ever.

13) No matter how much Jell-0 you put in a swimming pool you still cannot walk on water.

14) Pool filters do not like Jell-o.

15) VCRs do not eject pancakes even though some tv shows say they do.

16) Garbage bags do not make good parachutes.

17) Marbles in gas tanks make lots of noise when driving.

18) You probably DO NOT want to know what that odor is.

19) It takes 5 minutes for a pound of bacon to catch on fire at medium heat on the stove.

20) It only takes 3 minutes if your back is turned.

21) Always look in the oven before you turn it on; plastic toys do not like ovens.

22) The fire department in our town has a 5 minute response time. I am on a first name basis with at least two of the shifts.

23) The spin cycle of the washing machine does not make earthworms dizzy.

24) Spinning on tire swings does make cats dizzy.

25) Cats throw up twice their body weight when dizzy.

26) Pancake batter will kill an African Spotted Gecko.

27) Snakes notice when their cage door is not shut. Immediately.

28) A Reticulated Python can make it downstairs and into the warm laundry basket in less than five minutes.

29) "No, I will not help you count your bullets" and "Put the machete down for the last time" are perfectly acceptable phrases to hear before 9:30am.

30) PVC pipes burst under a surprisingly small amount of force.

31) A broken sprinkler system can flood a backyard in under two hours.

32) Nerf darts sting when shot in the face at point blank range.

33) It takes a stomach virus less than 30 minutes to spread to seven people under the right conditions.

34) One hug is just never enough when nap time is trying to be avoided.

35) Red Kool-aid and ANYTHING else that isn't red is a bad combination.

36) Ginger bread houses stay together better when hot glued.

37) Hot glue causes constipation and mild indigestion.

38) If you put six sparklers, two bottle rockets, and a cherry bomb in a ginger bread house it will explode.

39) If you put six sparklers, two bottle rockets, and three cherry bombs in a ginger bread house you will not be able to find the neighbor's cat.

40) A glider slammed into a 4 year olds chest at the right angle can fracture a rib.

41) It is not a good idea to snipe squirrels off power lines with a shotgun.

42) Squirrel meat looks deceptively like pork barbeque.

43) Squirrel meat does not taste like pork barbeque. Even with lots of sauce.

44) It is very hard to tell the differences between Gerbil feces and chocolate covered sunflower seeds. Very hard.

45) A gallon of hand sanitizer will last about a week with seven kids-supervised.

46) Twin 4 year old boys can go through a gallon of hand sanitizer in about an hour-unsupervised.

47) 3 dozen eggs making a "really cool smacking sound" when slammed against the ground is a legitimate reason to throw them on the garage floor to four year old boys.

48) A four year old girl can punch harder than a four year old boy.

49) A two year old can bite harder than both.

50) Feelings get hurt when your siblings try to feed you to a pet.

51) 80% of the men who read this will try mixing Clorox and brake fluid.

I love the children, I love the job, and I love the stories.

Oh the stories.

olfactory assailant with a severe anosmic condition wounds two

As soon as I sent the text message I knew my friend would think poorly of me...he did. The message went something like this "it is beyond me why some people on this planet boycott showers and soap-i just had to move desks"...his reaction "hmm...thats not like her to be that rude and judgmental"

But this was not a case of overly harsh shallow judgement. This was self preservation.

And so he found out.

My dear friend had the good fortune to sit next to the human nasal ninja for an entire hour and a half in a small cinder block room with his sweater pulled up to his eyeballs suffering in silence as moving (unlike in my situation) would make a bad situation somehow obvious.  

I was forgiven for the text, as he now had come to understand: it was not a judgement, it was a warning.

And I struggle with this situation...

Indeed how is it possible that in this day and age of hypersensitive physical awareness [in regards to appearance-the physical and the material], heaped on by hollywood starlets and the mega media, can one Not be aware of the cultural aversion to lewd stank?

--So I sought an answer to my question--and was very surprised to find that: 

Due to the Enlightenment and its brainy participants smell became one of the "lesser valued" senses in Western culture.  More emphasis was placed on eyesight and hearing in the 18th and 19th centuries because those senses seemed more adept in assisting the pursuit of the new gods, Logic and Reason.  The sense of smell was "deemed to be of a considerably lower order-a primitive, brutish ability associated with savagery and even madness".  Smell was connected with raw emotion-something the Enlightened thinkers tried to step away from.  They sought to maintain logical detachment- and something as "earthy" and emotional as smell would certainly cloud any rational reasoning. [thanks guys]... Thus an actual Decline on the emphasis of sense of smell in Western culture occurred. Nice. This unfortunate sentence has sealed the fate of scent and follows us even today, for, aside from certain specialty areas (think wine tasting) a keen sense of smell isn't likely to be a selling point on a personal ad. (when's the last time you saw SM w/huge nose seeks SF to stop and smell the roses) 

Now...the offensive nasal ninja in question appears to be American (or at least to belong to the ranks of Western culture) however, I have not ventured close enough to confirm...so on a whim-I researched the sense of smell and the importance of scent in other cultures to obtain a more globally informed opinion on the crisis of cologne. [or lack thereof]

This is where it gets Interesting. 

In many non-Western cultures, smell has long been established as the emperor of the senses. [leave it to the Enlightenment to screw that up] In some cultures personal odor is heavily linked with personal identity, and the mixing of these odors is highly regulated.  In fact, "many of these olfactory regulations serve important social functions, such as preventing sexual intercourse between close relatives". [good call- someone may want to relay that to certain areas of this country...might cut down on the inbreeding-if it smells like your uncle-don't sleep with it]

Quick facts:

For the Ongee of the Andaman Islands, the universe and everything in it is defined by smell. Their traditional greeting is "Konyune onorange-tanka?" [meaning "how is your nose?"]. 

The response can go one of two ways: if the person replies they feel "heavy with odor" then the greeter must inhale some of the surplus...if the person feels a bit short of odor energy-the greeter then blows some of their "odor energy" onto the person. [let's hope they didn't have the garlic pesto pasta for lunch]

In India, the traditional affectionate greeting [think hugging aunt sally] is to smell the person's head.  An ancient India text declares "I will smell thee on the head, that is the greatest sign of tender love".

The Temiar, of the Malay Peninsula, believe each person has an "odor-soul", located in the lower back [we can see where this is going]. If you pass too closely behind a person, the odor-soul is disturbed and can cause disease. This can be prevented by forewarning the odor-soul and calling out "odor odor" when approaching an individual from behind. [i find myself saying that when certain members of my family unit eat broccoli-pretty sure it has nothing to do with their soul]

The cattle-raising Dassanetch of Ethiopia revolve their personal scent around the cow. The men wash their hands in cattle urine and smear their bodies with manure. [honey-i'm home...i know dear-smelled you when you were two streets over]

The Dogon of Mali rub fried onions all over their bodies.

The African Bushmen think the loveliest fragrance of all is that of rain.

In short my brief foray into nasal logistics has led me to realize that the complexities of personal odor, of which the average Westerner is largely unaware [or in nasal ninja's case-completely ignorant of] are the subject of sophisticated classification systems in many other cultures. 

And yet...I do not reside in Mali, Africa, India, or the Amazon River Basin...I am here...and I find I am still at a loss on how to approach things with my dear nasal ninja. 

And I don't think offering him a stick of gum is going to do it.

For more interesting news in the world of the nose

check it out at

www.sirc.org/publik/smell_culture.html

Really?!?!

So we've all seen the SNL skit by now...but just in case you haven't-here's the link:

Saturday Night Live-Phelps Skit

Hiiiiiigh-larious. 

But seriously: I admit-I was disappointed when I found out that Michael Phelps had smoked weed.  Smoking pot is illegal. Plain and simple.  Besides-Phelps carries part of the American image.  He is a representative of our country, a role model for children, and a ....

Then I thought about it some more and decided that I was just disappointed that Michael Phelps got Caught smoking weed. And here is why:  [first-the illegal factor is something that is difficult to get around-but for the purposes of this justification-we'll be ignoring that]

but I digress--Michael Phelps is 23-will be 24 as of June 30, 2009...he has already won 12 gold medals. TWELVE.  He qualified for the US Olympic swim team at AGE 15.  The kid has been a robo athlete since he was 10. 

Phelps has also been diagnosed with ADHD. Weed as we should all be aware of-Slows you down.  

This is not some performance enhancing drug here folks.  When they have the munchie olympics then we can bring out the firing squad [no pun intended].

So I think this huge outcry against him is a bit much.  Really the only point worth contesting is the fact that he engaged in an illegal activity. Which brings me to stupid rule land. But that is another post. [look for it next week under the post heading: Endroit des Regles Stupides]

Instead let us focus on something that I find highly criminal...

Recognizing athletic accomplishments is something this country takes above and beyond realms of normal and sane comprehension. 

For example [and these figures are straight-up-no lie-check them out @USATODAY.com]:

First your "average joe".....

Jason Witten [tight end for the Dallas Cowboys]

2008 Salary Information:

$1,905,000 base

$6,000,000 sign bonus

$5,760 "other bonus"

$4,100,760 cap value

Total Salary: $1,910,760

now...a not so average joe....

Ben Roethlisberger [quarter back for the Pittsburgh Steelers]

2008 Salary Information:

$2,500,000 base

$25,200,000 sign bonus [seriously?]

$1,920 "other bonus"

$7,971,920 cap value

Total Salary: $27,701,920  [ps. he is 27 years old]

Really?!?!

That was a mini comparison. 

SI.com lists "The Fortunate 50" which a listing of the highest paid athletes of 2008-it includes money made from endorsements...

"No one can touch Tiger Woods, the runaway No. 1 for the fifth year in a row. Tiger's near $128 million haul is more than double his closest pursuer, Phil Mickelson at $62.4 million.  As usual, hoops dominates the 50: More than half this year's list is made up of NBA players. There are 10 baseball players, seven football players, three NASCAR drivers, three golfers and one boxer --"

Really?!?!

So the criminal aspect here? 

The average salary of a high school teacher in South Carolina is about $46,000.  Not even administrators break $100,000.  

Really?!?!

Just look at this big picture with me for a minute...

Fact: our economy is in la toilette.

Fact: people are losing jobs left and right.

Fact: people that don't have an income cannot contribute economically.

Fact: teachers make less than $50,000 a year.

Fact: professional athletes [even mediocre ones] pull in WAAAY more than that.

Fact: the children are our future.

Solution to problem: Eliminate math/science/english/history/language/etc...teachers. Hire a bunch of coaches and churn out robo athletes. 

Boom. 

Economic turn around. 

Someone place a call.

Really?!?!

what becomes of the broken artist?

what becomes of the broken artist? 

While having a chat with a respected friend (quite possibly one of the smartest people I know) he happened to share a particularly horrifying "fact". 

"If the stimulus package gives any money to the arts-the entire country will go in the crapper. Art won't stimulate the economy...Art isn't going to create jobs...Art won't save us...dumping money into the Arts will break us"

And my dear friend, I beg to differ. Art will save us long before the Science does. Look at the word: humanities. Notice anything? That's right HUMANities.  The Arts provide the connection to all the things that will keep us from completely dying.  They remind us what is real and what can be. They surpass instinct, cold logic, and the artificial.  The Arts give us the difference between touching and feeling, hearing and listening, knowledge and understanding.  

The Arts give freedom. 

The thing that I see every day that hurts to no end is the complete lack of the human connection, respect, obligation, and sacrifice in regards to the world (natural and social, economical and political) around them.  We have elevated ourselves into a crystal bubble-surrounded by a sense of entitlement, devoid of a sense of responsibility, and too consumed by consumption to see the fraudulence of excess. I am guilty of it myself. I have let my phone swallow up time with those I love. I used to let things like television shows be a convenient way to "spend time" with others. I pursued excess in my brilliant bubble. 

Until I realized that I was running out of air. Certain people, traditions, connections...all began to fade from lack of that all-connecting oxygen. Break the bubble. 

The Arts reinforce the human connection. The connection that has the power to break us out of the bubbles, set us down side by side, and direct us towards common goals.

So--Call your mother. Write a poem. Have tea with a friend. Paint with your fingers.  Listen to music and dance even though you can't. Visit an art museum.

See if you don't feel a little more connected, a little more like a real person...

see if turning off the television, putting down the phone, the blackberry, the pager, the ipod, the itouch, even the computer (yes even that)...see if reaching into your creative self, exploring freedom through artistic expression...see if that will convince you that art is not broken. And neither are you. 

This is me-reminding you to check and see if your sole has soul.

Mine does.

Ciao. 

Testing...Testing...one two three...Testing

Occasionally I come across lyrics that are actually useful...sometimes in unusual places-like trendy teen pop music. I bumped into a meaningful bit (or at least I liked the catchy way she communicated the logic) in an Avril Lavigne song..."why'd you have to go and make things so complicated? I see the way you're acting like you're somebody else gets me frustrated. Life's like this: you fall and you crawl and you break and you take what you get and you turn it into honesty..."

This I find is one of those lovely little saying applicable to so many situations: political, relationships, hell-even cooking...(that was directed at my Martha Stewart cookbook-why Do you have to make things so complicated Martha?)

If more people would realize-life is like this. You fall (we all make mistakes) you crawl (deal with consequences of actions) you break (be a human being...it is what you are) you take what you get and you turn it into honesty (make the genuine effort to be a responsible individual)...

use reason, judgement, sound logic....life is not fair-ask why, then make it better, if you can't-offer comfort to those that need it.

This life we have right now is not a test run.  Life is not fair...it just Is. And what it Is needs to become more of a conscious group effort.  So come alive! Look at your neighbor-realize its not just one person...or one small group of people on this planet. We're asses to elbows folks.