Hey - I'm Game !

I love board games.  

    Always have.  As a kid, I really loved them.  It seems like I spent a significant amount of time campaigning to get grown-ups to play games with me.  Whether adorable or irritating (kind of like me now) - I could often be seen carrying dice, a deck of cards, or one of various Milton-Bradley creations.  We never had the flashy games that I coveted.  TV commercials for MouseTrap, Tip-It, Mystery Date (don't get me started.  I always thought the Dream Date was kinda gay (even before I knew what kinda gay was) - and thought the "Dud" was hella fine) always left me with an indescribable longing for these more complex and exotic boxed pastimes.

     Oh, to build the wacky MouseTrap and make it fall on the unsuspecting colorful rodent and his tricky wedge of plastic Swiss.  Surely a heaven only enjoyed by the Only Child.  Youngest of 6 (a busy 15 years for The Breeders), I'm lucky they didn't tie a pork chop around my neck to get the dog to play with me... I was used to having what we needed, not necessarily what we wanted.  Spoiled ?  Sometimes.  Spoiled enough for MouseTrap ?  Dream on.

      Of all of my game-buddy hunting expeditions - a few stand out.  One was at an annual family heat-on when I was 7 or 8 years old.  We all used to gather on July 4th to ostensibly celebrate a grown-up's birthday.  Even at 8, with age-appropriate lack of understanding and vocabulary - I knew this was the day that everyone got shit-faced drunk.  Just one of many events that I interpreted as being rather ho-hum. (ed. note - this goes on for quite a number of years.  Go ahead - try and shock this kid.  Then, comes a day that you compare yourself to "other" families and are forced to redefine "normal".  Shit.)  

     One of my shining moments at this party was the almost...preternatural way I knew to duck down under the table as the fucked-up birthday asshole decided to "shoot the candles off of this motherfucking cake !".  I thought I had the best seat in the house : directly behind the cake - guaranteed to get to lick the frosting off the candles.  I was golden.  Except maybe for the gun pointed at me.  No thought, no real sense of alarm on my part. I saw the gun, the drunk waving it at me/the cake, and I very coolly slipped down under the table.  Plop.  Never even gave it a second thought.  What a goddamned ninja I was.  Frosting notwithstanding.

    People shouting, setting fires in the grass, vomiting, jumping off the roof and hoping to land in the swimming pool, using a handgun to hammer in a loose nail on the patio furniture, birds being shot at, old straight men drunkenly making out for keepsake photographs.  Add some BBQ and suntan lotion and you have what was The Fourth of July for me.  For decades.

   So, I remember that I looked so adorable that day - a smart red shorts set and a jaunty, like, Peter Pan-type hat adorned with a feather.   I was clearly steppin' out. (Don't shoot - I'm cute !).  Who could resist a request for a quick card game from such an adorable 

urchin ?    Nobody with a heart, surely.

      I went out to the patio that evening, drawn to the sound of toxically-inebriated relatives.  My blood line - whatta buncha guys.  Surely my mark could be found in this group of revelers.  I was good to go - they were ripe for the picking.  Wait until they saw how well I was learning to shuffle cards !   They would stand in awe.  No doubt.

     I wiggled my way through the seated adults and asked the closest guy how he felt about a quick game of War, Fish - I knew all the good card games.  Amused looks made a quick rotation around the table.  Maybe MORE people wanted to play !    "Well hey there, little lady !" my partner-to-be said.  (In retrospect, said in that smarmy, condescending way that some adults talk to kids - as if they aren't yet fully-formed and aren't worth serious consideration.  Dickhead.)  "Well, sure, honey - you just go find yourself a deck of cards and bring them to me."

     We were all in luck !  Unbeknownst to the adults, I had the foresight to have tucked a tiny deck of cards in my shirt pocket.  All the planets were surely aligned : we gon' play some cards !   Without missing a beat (comic timing : either you're born with it or you ain't - I come from a long line of cut-ups) - I magically produced the cards   No flies on me - not a one.  At that moment, there was no one as clever or prepared as I.  Sweet.

    There being a snag in every plan - my little cards weren't the only thing in my pocket that night.  What self-respecting kid doesn't have candy on their person at all times ?  Obviously rushed, I only carried a pocketful of loose Jujube nuggets.  As I, almost as if on cue, whipped out the mini-deck  - the candy stuck to them and flew everywhere.  I was mortified !  My moment ...ruined by a secret candy stash.  They'd never take me seriously now !  Shit !  Hilarity ensued...all the grown-ups were laughing at me !

   I turned beet red - as I figured them to be laughing at the Candy Flying/Card Incident.   Any street cred I might have had was shot to hell.  I remember looking around, crushed, feeling so embarrassed - like the joke was on me, somehow.  Not fair.  I was a kid.  Goddamned adults.  Drunken bastards.
      Time and distance being such...filters - I now know that they weren't laughing at my flying candy.  They were laughing at my precocious preparedness : my potential partner thought he could give me a virtual head-pat and send me on my way - searching for a deck of cards I'd never find.   Not so fast, buddy boy.  I came prepared, bitch : I'll shuffle , you cut.

     If memory serves, no cards were played that night.  After some fake fawning and cooing, I was dismissed.  Feather in my hat and all.  Cards back in my pocket, mouth full of sticky candies.

      My kingdom for a game of Go Fish.

Good Fiction - 3/1/09

I read such a funny story some time back,
   I hate that newspapers and such are going belly up, because you know how I cherish the printed word, and love my books.  Christopher Moore has a new one out entitled "Fool".   But, if you haven't read his entire ouevre yet, then what : am I talking to the fucking wall here ?
   A lot of society's favorite books, movies and TV shows contain characters we can readily relate to : either by gender, circumstance, or predicament.  It is comforting, and allows us to laugh at "ourselves" whilst saving face .  Seinfeld, Friends, The Big Chill - and all of those well-done "one zany night in the life of a relatively cool, yet centered teenager ".   Good "art" is relatable, in some fashion (I know, I know - "I don't know art, but I know what I like ".)
      Well, it seems that there were these 2 old married couples - ranging in age from 37 to 53.  They joke with the youngest one, stuff like "I could have changed your diapers before I left for my senior prom."  A lot of witty repartee ensues - these couples are good friends. The town they lived in was both beachy and foresty, and it was a cool, but brilliant day.  That is the extent to which the physical surroundings were described in the story.
     Most of the action in this short story occurred in a car : an old thing that was bought, used , almost 20 years prior : a trusty steed of a car, apparently  The people are on their way to a surprise party at a bar, and decide to detour on the way, through some area that contained ocean shoreline, acres of old foresty growth, a few out-buildings, and some historical landmarks.  They are on a curvy road, and one  of the old guys suggests that they smoke some doobage.  What ?  These are old straight-arrows, or so it seemed...  So, they somehow have everything they need for this, and start clumsily toking away.  Old people - kinda pathetic.  As they drive on windy (curving, not breezy) roads, they (inexplicably) see what seems to be law enforcement a little bit ahead, circling in their Crown Victoria.  A little panic, some channelling of now-dead hippies, some coolly evasive driving, and all is well.. Jeez, whew -  what were they thinking !?
       Then, as most stories do, it gets funnier.  The people cross a road of some kind, so that they are, like, almost driving along the shoreline itself.  They, I guess not rattled enough by the sighting of The Man, proceed again with the doobage.  Any story reader can see the foreshadowing here.  It's like the horror movie where the person in the haunted house goes down the basement alone - the observer wants so badly to stop him !  As they tool along, it almost looks as if a cop car pulls in front of them.  Then, in the blink of an eye, there are cop cars in front and back of them, and the driver is saying, in a mantra that the oldsters are remembering form their crazy teen years : "We're being pulled over, oh, fuck, we're being pulled over - everybody be cool."  The back seat advises no sudden moves, as cops always watch to see what ensues immediately following the lights and sirens.
       The one old lady absolutely freezes - almost has a flashback.  It is described so well : the pounding of the heart, the absolute dead-weight stone thrumming in the pit of her stomach, "oh God, I'm high and there are cops everywhere.  I'm an old lady - I never do this, and look at us now - how will I ever explain this ?!"   The guy in the back seat, somehow, starts spraying air freshener, ( ? ) someone is saying  " nobody move - they're watching us from both sides." These poor innocent people cannot believe this turn of events.  Oh, they'll surely rue this day.
       Even as a youth, I always remember that, any conversation starting with "is there a problem, officer ?"  bodes ill, no matter how sweetly one is smiling while asking.   Somehow, breath mints have made it into the mouths of the characters, and the guy (the young one) in the back seat has dropped the paraphernalia into his coffee cup.  Bricks are still being shit - no one likes this kind of a confrontation, it seems.
      Then, the story goes on, and another bone-chilling statement is issued by the potential arresting officer : "Do you want to know why I pulled you over ?"    Well, for fuck's sake, of course not !  The characters would rather know anything besides why they were pulled over : they know, and they are fucked.  The cop says : "Your registration tags are expired."  The one woman character who absolutely froze a few pages back now takes the lead in a chatty, ridiculous way as she addresses the authorities through what can only be described as a miasma of sweet smoke.  The other characters are likely horrified : oh my God, what is she doing babbling and giggling ?  Somebody stop her !!   A urine-soaked jail cell (or at least a citation - we're not sure what state the story takes place in) surely awaits them, and this woman is not helping matters any.
   Something along the lines of : "Oh my God, this is totally all my fault !!  It's my job at home to renew registrations and stuff, and I swear I found the thing buried on the table, and I just mailed it in 2 days ago, honest, you can check !"  The driver, her husband, glares at her menacingly at this point.  Not daunted, she continues in a cute, 'aren't I just an airhead' fashion : "Gah, I totally can't believe this - I'm NEVER late with the important things !  You get a stack of bills and stuff and you think you paid it all...I'm so lame !  Man, I guess I'm gonna get it when we get home, don't be mad, honey."
    The cop apparently can't even get a word in edgewise as the woman prattles on, and there is a deathly silence from the back seat.  Joe Cop fills out a "fix it" ticket, and gives instructions.     The loud-mouthed little law breaker leans forward (such balls) and whines : "Cant we just take it to our local police station - do we really have to go downtown to clear the ticket ?"  The cop replies that it's not up to him, and she says "Well, it certainly should be !"
   Another day, another savvy short story that, once again, proves that art can imitate life, or a reasonable facsimilie thereof.

   I love to read.

               

A Christmas Carol (aka Street Meat)

So,    We haven't had a working doorbell in years, and have not only adjusted to it, but almost prefer it.  You want in ?  Toss a wee pebble at the window or pick up the phone.  Or have a key.  It only gets dicey around Christmas, what with e-tail and all.   Also, let's face it, I really love the anonymity.       The Electrician offered to "throw in the doorbell" during his last light-giving visit.  Sure, go ahead.   Little did I know.  Bad idea.        Especially on days like today.  I have had more...odd interactions through my front gate in one day than I have had in my whole life.  So far.  (Wait - that has to be a lie.  I got a million of 'em.)       My first visitor : I looked out and saw a young man in a Giants hat.  I thought it might be our neighbor.  In fact, It was someone selling.....meat.  Mostly beef.  A door-to-door carnivore situation.  I thought it was a joke.  Seriously.       He's all earnest and friendly and then I have to stop him and say : "..dude - you are offering to sell me meat at my front door - don't you find that a little weird ?"  He's all, "..no, no - I do this for a living, we're like Omaha Steaks only we deliver, blah blah blah."  I keep repeating to him that door-to-door meat sales (never mind that this is something whose day has obviously come !) is just too bizarre a concept for us to not even comment on.  I then make it very clear to him that I am not buying meat at the door.   Is he high ?     But his partner is across the street chatting meat with the neighbors and my guy , the earnest Giants fan, has actually begun throwing packages of raw meat at my feet, all the while extolling their value and flavor.  Again : "Dude !  You're throwing meat at my feet !  Stop !  "  He asks permission to enter.  Not knowing why (then and still) I said : "Would you let a random traveling meat salesman past your gate ?   Me neither.  Seriously."  He shows me their price list.  I tell him the cheapest thing he has is shrimp and traveling shrimp sales is 10 times worse that traveling beef sales.  I liken the entire interaction to what I'm sure is the exact start of a slew of teen-aged horror flicks.  It's that weird to me.  Uncanny.  Meat.    The meat cost him $500, he'll give it to me for $199.   Then, I actually DO accuse him of being high - I said  $200, $2 million - it you don't have it, isn't not there.  Dude.   $200 worth of traveler's beef, my husband will, in fact, kill me before sunrise.   Fact.     We bat back and forth at each other for some reason, like bored and cranky siblings on a long car ride.  We discuss the Giants latest roster : nervous about Tejada, concede that Uribe is both a bitch/shoulda gotten a few mil more  At one point, I am hanging off of my gate, yelling for his partner to come over.   Plenty of neighbors are milling about.  I keep telling him to pack up his fucking meat (yep - I'm swearin' at the guy) - and I end up saying : "Look, now you're acting irritated with me - that makes me uncomfortable.  Unacceptable."  He's so apologetic and (again) earnest and looks like a nice person.   After a long, odd battle - he says " ...any package $40."  Shit.  I bat my eyes (through the gate, still) at a 8 pack of NY Steaks, curse him aloud - we cut a deal.   $30 and no discussion.  I insist he trust me and give me the meat first.  He complains, I stand firm.  He says all right, you seem cool.  I assure him that I am in no way "cool".    No dice, Chicago.         I run upstairs with the Meatbox, grab his damned blood - money.  And he then gives me his personal phone number.  Wrote it on the actual Meatbox.  Am I supposed to call him now ?  And ask how his girlfriend is and is he still upset that she doesn't treat him nicer.  When he told me this (again - why) - it took everything I had not to blurt out something about meat.   (Go ahead - try not to.)            Is it me ?  Why is this my day ?  Do people sense me through closed doors ?  Am I awake ?        2 hours later, ding dong !  Second visitor :  Friends of The Urban Goddamned Forest say that I am eligible to plant a tree and blah blah blah.  I say only if it's free, if Heather can take a blood-sister oath that the roots will never interfere with my plumbing, I'm not the owner, etc.  She tries to argue these (solid, I think) points.  I wonder if she works on commission, she wants me to plant this darn tree !   I tell her "I will not be choked out of my own house by tree roots !"  Only thing better would have been if I had then said : "Good day, madam !"        If I have a 3rd visitor today, is this actually me living through my own version of "A Christmas Carol ?"  Think about it.         In terms of the almost life-long weird people popping into my life.. especially lately.....why did I almost instantly trust Maurice.  Probably shouldn't have.  This afternoon's Meat-Pushing Elan (I know - right ?  Elan... ) looked and acted like someone I have known for years and would see a game with...he was not only soundly denied access but yelled at repeatedly about his meat.       Good question.     I wonder if Maurice ever purchased street meat.

"Close Your Eyes"

Is what an old man said to me at Safeway today,      And I'm not quite sure what to make of it.  Has me a bit flummoxed.  I run the risk of over-interpreting it.  Like I'm all "what if God was one of us..."       It's not unusual that a stranger said something random to me : that is actually something I am...famous for.  It literally happens everywhere I go.  I can only surmise it is a vibe or a pheromone or a dog whistle type of a situation.  I am a certified freak magnet : ask anyone.  I have the oddest interactions out in the world : a security guard at The Embarcadero showing me pictures of his kids, an addled lady in Target, upset that someone put the Hickory Farms cheese in the wrong spot, comes to me for help, during a total blackout in a casino (and don't think the generators didn't kick in thisfast) someone approaches me and asks if I have rolling papers, the man who came up behind me once in Sausalito, put his arms around me, and kissed me (wetly and drunkenly, if memory serves...clearly, I used to look awesome from the rear.  I think I was all of 18 at the time.  Shoot me now.)    (ed. note.  The Sausalito Incident remains one of the absolute highlights of my life.  After The Kiss was slathered all over my neck and the neanderthal arms encircled me from behind -  everything went silent.  Except for some whooshing in my head.  Instinct kicked in - no thought.  I spun around, cocked my arm back, and backhanded the shit out of him.  The look on his face was/is priceless : shock, amusement, incredulity, respect...  He put his hand up on the affected area, and said : "You just hit me !"   Cocky bitch, even at an early age : "Damn right I did,and I'll do it again."  Me and my sister, Aunt, went on our merry way(s), and I swear, I was like a cat on a hot tin roof : I was actually looking for him so I could do it again.  Such is/was my madness.     But surely I digest : the fact being that I ...attract things.  And people.       So, the old man in Safeway and his cryptic comment was not weird at all.  The thing that struck me is that, it didn't make sense in a whole different way.  See, the minute I stepped into Safeway I was overwhelmed by a massive and fuzzy torpor.  I yawned, rubbed my eyes like a tired baby, sighed, leaned on things.  Anyone who saw me would have said "open your eyes", not close them.  Plus, I could have interpreted the shit out of a sage elder telling me to open my eyes.         But "close your eyes" ?  Close my eyes and it will be over real quick ?  Close my eyes while you dig an Uzi out of your coat and this becomes the First Grocery Store Massacre of 2011 ?  Close my eyes, this won't hurt a bit ?  Close your eyes, you won't want to see this ?  Close your eyes and count to ten ?  What the hell ?        What does it all mean ?  Is it Opposite Day, and I am supposed to wake up and smell the coffee or else ?   What if God was one of us ?   Why me ?       Maybe he was just a senile old man.