Kooba

For the past few weeks Darla was in a play called Havana that was performed outside, at night, in a church courtyard, with a live Cuban band. It was not typical children's theater: Winnie the Poo or Snow White; it was a play about Communism, Fox News, love triangles, street orphans, and American celebutantes that the kids wrote along with their director. Dar played a CIA agent posing as an Apple executive at a cultural exchange conference. She used a cane that doubled as an assault rifle. Kids smoked real cigars*, drank mojitos**, and slapped each other full in the face. During the show, the Cuban police walked through the audience, and if you've ever been interrogated at the Sudanese border, then you got off easy. The way the one kid/cop stared me down I think he could tell every lie I've ever told. (Crime rates in Cuba are lower than almost anywhere because these guys do not mess around).  When I stuttered to answer one of his questions he laughed and spit at my feet. Then he asked if I was single!***


Oh and this guy, Bobby Matos, played in the band.




*not really
**come on
***he was 12

Boys On Bikes

I needed to see this today.
You're welcome.

Repost: It Gets Better

Unless I am trying to make them feel bad, I do not cry in front of my kids. And even then, it doesn't really work, it doesn't make them feel ashamed and sorry, it makes them feel frightened and distressed, the way you might feel if the pilot of the airplane you were on just walked out of the cockpit weeping with his head in his hands. So when I need to cry, I usually go sit in my car. (I'm saying this like it's a weird thing I do a few times a week, but really it's only happened two or three times). If I had a driveway, this would be fine, but my car is parked on the street where it's hard to have a proper, full out, unselfconscious breakdown. I can usually get a few minutes in before someone walks by, usually someone walking a dog who needs to stop and sniff and investigate the muffled whimpering sounds before peeing on my tire.

Yesterday I had a full five minutes of un-interrupted sadness before the guy I've had a crush on since last year came around the corner with his two dogs and a girl. They were holding hands. And she was wearing high heels and a dress from the night befooooooooooooooore. I shrunk down in my seat and pretended to be asleep, but then worried that they might think I was dead or worse, insane, so I pretended instead to look for something under the glove compartment. Once they were past I started all over again, this time with actual moaning sound effects. It didn't make me feel any better, but it seemed to get out of my system more quickly. You can only listen to yourself making alien sounds for so long.

I sat forward to start the car and the key just clicked. The battery was dead. Dead. If I was writing a scene where the sad sack main character had just cried in the car, I wouldn't even write such a thing. It's too much. Too stupid. Overkill. But there it was. I tried it a few times to make sure that, in my grief, I wasn't hallucinating, but...nothing. I thought about crying some more but called AAA instead. I was relieved for the distraction; this was a problem with a quick solution.

The Future Is Happening

 Susan Orlean was on the radio yesterday talking about an article she wrote about treadmill desks. I didn't catch the whole thing because I was in the car, but I heard her say it was beneficial to have co-workers walking and talking side by side because it's great exercise, and they're more likely to listen than when they're having a conversation face to face. When I got home I checked out what one of these things looks like and found the above photo, which already looks outdated. How much longer before each of us is running alone in mid- air, wearing a monochrome space suit and a helmet that allows us to go to a meeting, have sex and eat lunch with a friend all in 10 minutes. I can't wait, maybe then I'll finally get some writing done.

The best bongos and horns in any cartoon.

You Can Do It

This woman had a dream that she put on a cat suit, set up some wine bottles, and danced across them on a sunny day. Don't say you can't make your dreams come true!

Arguments Are Never About What You Think They're About #467: (Tired Of Shovels)

"Who the hell bought this?" Frank is holding a six foot snow shovel up in the air.

"Why are you yelling?" Mary walks out of the kitchen drying her hands on a towel.

What IS this?

That's from Sandy Durkin.

We live in fucking Arizona, Mary.

Maybe it was a joke, Frank, I don't know.

"Jesus Christ". Frank opens his mouth to say something but then closes it and squints his eyes aggressively.

Calm down Frankie, your head's about to explode.

This is what I'm talking about!

Snow shovels?

No I'm not talking about...Jesus...CLUTTER. Clutter. I can't live like this Mary.

Mary looked around the entry way of their home. She looked at the desk against the wall, the circular mirror hanging opposite; the row of shoes and boots lined up by the door in order of size. She straightened the papers on top of the desk so that they were all lined up in parallel lines. "What's wrong Frank?"

I'm tired of this. I'm tired of the waste. I'm tired of living in a house with people I have to be polite to. I'm tired of having to explain myself. I'm tired of jerking off in the shower every morning. I'm tired of my job. I'm tired of my angry boss who wears a toupee and talks about everyone behind their back.  I'm tired of Sally Durkin--

Sandy Durkin.

What?

Sandy. It's Sandy. You said Sally.

Are you fucking kidding me?

They look at each other, possibly for the first time ever.

I'm tired of your friends. I'm tired of your black hairs in the sink. I'm tired of eating tacos on Tuesday nights. I'm tired of driving. I'm tired of having to clip my nose hairs. I'm tired of having to button my pants. I'm tired of the birds. I'm tired of the neighbor's barking dog. And I am, without a doubt, seriously, completely, wholeheartedly tired of shovels.

The Unknown Soldier

 This is from an old post I wrote three years ago:

After Bub (my step-dad) died, we had a memorial for him at Quaker Meeting. There was an old man there, close to 90 I’d say, who stood up and spoke about him. He said that although he had been a medic in World War II, he never saw any action, unlike Bub who was a sergeant who fought on the front lines for five years. When he spoke of this, his chin started to tremble and he had to look down and clear his throat. He spoke about the “boys” who served and how much he respected them. He talked about how years later he met Bub, who worked with his wife. How he picked her up and dropped her off, every morning and night, in his truck. He said she had referred to him as her work-husband. She had marveled at how Bub had a knack for organizing people and getting them to do things, always with a sense of humor. When he was done talking, he stood up straight and saluted.

What was so amazing about listening to the man speak wasn’t how recent his memories seemed, or even that he was so emotional, but that until that day I had never before met him or even heard of him.