That's Right It Starts With an Earthquake

It was late. So late that the skies were at its darkest while waiting for the sun to snake it's spidering fingers over the horizon allowing the twilight of dawn to appear, and while some people would call twelve midnight the official hour, this hour of pure pitch black was in deed, dead time. Gripped tightly within the hands of fear, I could not even slide out of bed to go potty. Fear, yes, big fear...fear greater than being faced by an emerging hibernated bear (Okay, not really, but you get the picture.

While I've never been a fan of gore, grizzly slayings of innocents by some fiendish monster, I have been known to become enthralled between the pages of a book that keeps me glued between the covers of my bed. My clutching fingers, and ears, eyes, nose, and mouth were the only parts exposed to the evils that lurked inside the pages of my book.

Terrified. Completely and totally terrified, sitting there at 4am impatiently trying to finish a book that had me paralyzed from the neck down with a massive dose of fear. The one book that really kept me nailed to the bed was "Moonsong" by Charles De Lint. It wasn't your typical horror, it was dosed with a Fantasy element crossing over into modern day society. We called it Sci-Fantasy back then (still do =P). And it wasn't people being torn to pieces, ripped to shreds that had me frozen in terror. The macabre never much appealed to me. It was this spirit thing that was trying to force his way into a protected house that lay on the borders of "our" world and an alternate universe. "shudder" You KNOW what would have happened if that thing would have gotten inside.

Now, Ms. Kelly at "Housewife Savant" has my mind tossing and turning again. She's picked the post apocalyptic theme for her summer reading this year, and had asked for recommends. And of course, I recommended the one book I recommend to anyone that drops off from the romance reading genre (Okay, but Sookie Stackhouse has totally got to go....ENOUGH already). The book I recommend is called "Swan Song." It's amazing. It's pure art. It's really good. And it brings the question of, "Why?"

Why would I read something that gave me nightmares for a good many night after reading it. Why would I read something that is a prelude to the destruction of man kind?

The appeal is simply this. In this crazy, messed up world...running amok in all it's technology, expansion, and new restaurants (yeah, but no TGIF yet), our inner selves desire a return to simplicity. Where we can feel safe once again. Where the world is truly...truly yours.

I read "The Stand" when I was in my early teens, and can remember putting the book aside and daydreaming of what it would be like to walk into a supermarket and just pick anything off of the shelf. To drive off in a brand new car of my choosing. To just go and be (of course while dodging killer zombies and gross putrid bodies lying all over the road). As I grew older, the appeal changed to that of gaining solidarity with mankind (corny, I know), learning to depend on each other again, introducing yourself to the land, your new caregiver), because the super market doesn't exist anymore. Finally being clean, even though you haven't bathed in quite a while!

Of course the books both go off into the typical "good vs. evil" mode, has its scare points (like I said, "Swan Song" left me waking up in the middle of the night not screaming, that's too embarrassing for quite a while). Read it read it read it.

You'll like it.

Especially Swan.

She's so cute.

Craaaaaawfish

Now that my friend is single, people from all over (the Who Dat Nation, woot, woot) are trying to set her up. So, of course, I tried my hand at it as well. My husband knew a single (divorced) guy. Really good guy. Nice guy. Working guy. Has a job guy. Owns his home guy. Kids are grown guy.

Read: Old guy.

Okay, so he's not that old. Honestly, he's only ten years older than she is. Good looking. Drives a truck. Did I say he has a job? Well, he has a job.

She agrees, but only if we double.

I'm so excited! We get to out...I mean...she's going out with this guy! How cool is that?

She cancels. She's in a bad mood (understandable) and doesn't want to make a bad mood impression on the guy (totally understandable) or have her mood affect her impression of him (UNDERSTOOD!!!). I get that.

I, on the other hand, am crestfallen. What? No eating crawfish night for me?

Someone left my cake out in the rain fer sure.

But I forgot to tell you, my husband, he's so beast (that's middle school talk for he's really cool). He's savage (that's the word that will replace beast soon).

We went out anyway.

It was great. It was wonderful. The waitress can bite my ever living expanding ass, too.

Yes, I know I am blowing it out of proportion, but I MUST tell my tale. We went to the local popular seafood joint. I've been dying to pinch tails and suck heads for the longest time now, and tonight was the night! Beast ordered a catfish po-boy, and I...I ordered two pounds of delectable boiled crawfish. So yummy, so yummy. Since we are on a budget, and those little critters are expensive this time of the year, I kept it down to two (we ALL know that any decent Cajun woman can down at least 5 to 10 pounds of those suckers). My darling beast of a man told me to get another pound if I wanted, but I said, "Let me wait til I have these done, and we will see."

In the meantime, our lovely Rita, I mean the waitress has yet to stop by our table to check on our feasting status (I will add that she has visited several tables before to refresh drinks, check on happiness level, and the usual good Samaritan working for the tip behavior). Finally, by holding up an empty glass full of melting ice, my husband halted our waitress long enough to get a fresh coke. And then she was gone, in two seconds flat. Well, perhaps three, I don't do math. Did not pass our way for quite some time afterwards. And by the time she returned, and before I could open my mouth to ask for a third pound of the now elusive crawfish, she plopped our check on the table. I imagine our faces were showing a bit of puzzlement when she asked, "Oh, did you want some dessert?"

Er...no.

My question(s):

Did we look like bad tippers?

Did we look poor?

Were we so ugly that she couldn't stand the sight of us long enough to ask about our well being?

Did my husband leave her a tip?

Yes, he's beast like that.

Will we be back?

Yes. We will, the crawfish is good.

Am I as pissed as I was last night?

Nah. I'm over it. We went to a video poker place, drank beer, and smoked.

It was great.

When I was just a young girl

My youngest brother, who is older than I am by thirteen years, was sentenced to twenty years at Angola Pennitentary for his involvement in an armed robbery of a convenient store. He was sitting in the car in drug induced euphoria while his friends held up the store with a hand gun.

He was eighteen, and served nearly fifteen years before being paroled.

The things I remember most before, and during that period in his life was his romance with an "older" woman. He was quite young and she wasn't quite so young. Betty Anne was her name. He had a son with his childhood sweetheart. Since we were "poor white trash," her parents refused to acknowledge him, and he grew up not knowing my brother.

I remember his motor cycle. It was big, black, and loud. His best friend was killed while riding it. I remember that quite clearly, although I was really young at the time, because he was decapitated...and my brother threw the motor bike in the ship channel.

I remember his music, halloween parties, and everyone calling him "Chicano." He was half mexican. We had different dads.

He was wild. Liked to party. Liked to smoke, drink and fool around.

My brother came out of prison in the early ninties.

As it is with most boys becoming men while living in prison, living in the "world" was a trial. He found work as an offshore cook, and then moved his way up...way up to a very skilled crane operator, met a woman, had a son, left the woman, lost his son, and lived his life deep in alcohol and whatever else he could find to fill the emptiness.

He loved his son.

Truly loved his son, and grieved the forced seperation that his son's mother imposed. But at the same time, the disease of alcoholism and drug addiction had such a hold that not even for his son could he give it up. He tried. And at times succeeded. He fought for his son, and time and time again, lost. I think it broke his heart, and from that breaking, he could not become fixed. The alcohol and drugs became so deeply embedded. It was the only thing in his life that remained faithful to him. How could he not be the same in return.

He was a good person, aside from the addiction he battled daily. And would not hesitate to offer help when the need was there. I remember the endless days I spent in the hospital battling cancer, and the endless days he spent being there, sleeping on a couch that made his butt look big.

Demon's aside, his heart was good.

My brother is dying. He was diagnosed years ago with Hep. B. Fearing for the loss of his job, he decided to forego treatment. And now, years of abuse combined with this disease is taking his mind and his life.

I do not know how long he has. I do not know how many bouts of sanity vs. insanity we will see.

And my heart hurts for the man who lost the boy that he was.

So...so you think you can tell...

Yes, I've had a bit to drink tonight.

Just about a whole bottle of wine. White Zinfeldel (I'm not even going to try the correct spelling), minus a glass.

It's been a day.

A day and a half so to speak, and while I'm not one to drink stress away, I thought I deserved a bit of spirits today.

My children were safe.

Someone sober was on the scene at all times.

I even cooked dinner!

And I deserved it!

It's been a day and a half.

Seriously.

Cheers!

Help!

I'm trying to figure out what I want to cook for dinner. Any suggestions? Recipes? Alms for the poor?

Dear Miami

(When this letter first gained noriety, many assumed it was done anonomously, however, it was written by Times Picayune writer, Mark Lorando. It describes the sentiment of many a Miami Bound Saints fan. Just thought you'd all enjoy on this momentous Super Bowl day! Who Dat!)


Dear Miami,

The Saints are coming. And so are we, their loyal, long-suffering and slightly discombobulated Super Bowl-bound fans.
While there's still time to prepare -- although a few hard-core Who Dats will begin trickling in Monday, most of us won't arrive until Thursday or Friday -- we thought we'd give you a heads-up about what you should expect.
First things first: You need more beer.
Yeah, we know. You ordered extra. You think you have more than any group of humans could possibly consume in one week. Trust us. You don't.
New Orleans was a drinking town long before the Saints drove us to drink. But it turns out beer tastes better when you're winning. (Who knew?) So let's just say we're thirsty for more than a championship; adjust your stockpiles accordingly..
And look. When we ask you for a go-cup, be nice to us. We don't even know what "open container law" means. Is that anything like "last call"?
It's Carnival season in New Orleans (that's Mardi Gras to you), and we'll be taking the celebration on the road. So don't be startled if you walk past us and we throw stuff at you; that's just our way of saying hello.
Oh, and sorry in advance about those beads we leave dangling from your palm trees. We just can't help ourselves.
February is also crawfish season, and you can be sure that more than one enterprising tailgater will figure out a way to transport a couple sacks of live mudbugs and a boiling pot to Miami.
When the dude in the 'Who Dat' T-shirt asks if you want to suck da head and pinch da tail, resist the urge to punch him. He's not propositioning you. He's inviting you to dinner.
And if you see a big Cajun guy who looks exactly like an old Saints quarterback walking around town in a dress ... don't ask. It's a long story.
We know that crowd control is a major concern for any Super Bowl host city. Our advice? Put away the riot gear.
Reason No. 1: Indianapolis is going to lose, and their fans are way too dull to start a riot.
Reason No. 2: New Orleans showed the world on Sunday that we know how to throw a victory party. We don't burn cars. We dance on them.
Reason No. 3: Even if we did lose, which we won't, leaving the stadium would be like leaving a funeral, and our typical response to that is to have a parade.
Speaking of which: If you happen to see a brass band roll by, followed by a line of folks waving their handkerchiefs, you're not supposed to just stand there and watch. As our own Irma Thomas would say, get your backfield in motion.
And hey, Mister DJ! Yes, we know you've already played that stupid Ying Yang Twins song 10 times tonight, but indulge us just one more time.
To us, "Halftime (Stand Up and Get Crunk)" isn't just a song; it's 576 points of good memories. It's the sound of a Drew Brees touchdown pass to Devery Henderson, a Pierre Thomas dive for first down on 4th-and-1, a Garrett Hartley field goal sailing through the uprights in overtime.
It's what a championship sounds like. You may get sick of hearing it. We won't. Encore, dammit.
Inside Sun Life Stadium, you may find your ears ringing more than usual. We're louder than other fans. Seven thousand of ours sound like 70,000 of theirs.
Don't believe us? Ask the 12th man in the Vikings huddle.
Some people think it's just the Dome that heightens our volume. But you're about to discover a little secret: We can scream loud enough to make your head explode, indoors or out.
It's not the roof. It's the heart.
Well, OK, and the beer.
Don't be surprised if there are more Saints fans outside the stadium than inside. A lot of us are coming just to say we were part of history, even if we can't witness it up close. The Saints are family to us, and you know how it is with family: We want to be there for them, whether they really need us or not. Because we know our presence will mean something to them, whether they can see us or not.
Come to think of it, seeing as how you're taking us in for the week, we pretty much regard you as family, too. So we're warning you now: If you're within hugging distance, you're fair game.
Hugging strangers is a proud Who Dat tradition, right up there with crying when we win.
Most sports fans cry when their teams lose. Not us. We've been losing gracefully and with good humor for 43 years. Tragedy and disappointment don't faze us. It's success that makes us go to pieces.
Hurricane Katrina? We got that under control. The Saints in the Super Bowl? SOMEBODY CALL A PARAMEDIC!!!
So anyway, don't let the tears of joy freak you out. We're just ... disoriented.
OK. Let's review:
Order more beer. Throw me something, mister. Suck da heads. Wear da dress. Stand up. Get crunk. Hug it out. Protect your eardrums. Pass the Kleenex. Hoist the trophy.
See you at the victory party.


Faithfully yours,
The Who Dat Nation

Listen to the Band

Starting with the addition of money to my wallet, music has been a central part of my house (is a very, very, very fine house) and home.

Actually, thinking back, it was way before that. I am the eldest of my mom's second marriage, and have 4 older half brothers and sister. Needless to say, much of their music seeped into my bones well before I even knew how to walk. Along with my parent's affinity for honky tonk greats like Merle Haggard and George Jones, my brothers and sisters added "The Beatles," "The Stones," "Pink Floyd," and a huge arrangement of both pop and (pot) head classics. I grew up with a virtual melting pot of music at the tip of my 8 track vinyl fingers.

Yes, I knew the lyrics to "Bridge of Sighs" (okay, so they're aren't that many of them).
Yes, I listened to Jimmy Hendricks after he was cool, when he wasn't as cool, and when he became cool again.
I knew who Bob Marley was when he first shot the sheriff.

I do listen to most everything listenable (however, I stop at rap...aside from the Beasty Boys, of course...No Sleep Til Brooklyn!).

But even more than the pride I have in my music diversity, I am happy to say that this listening trend has arced off of me, and has become deeply rooted into my beautiful teenage girls. They grew up listening to my passion of the week... be it "The Doors" or "Sarah Brightman." "Kate Rusby" or "Stained." When my iPod playlist tends to become stagnate, I know that it can be refreshed by uploading a few of theirs.


Many a jewel I have found from their playlist including "This is My Suitcase" "Mika" hits from the musical "Spring Awakening" and my latest obsession, "Matt and Kim" (oh, I love their tune, Daylight).

My girls rock.

I hope to gain much more from them.

Long may they rock n roll.