My father had a heart catheterization and stent insertion this morning. I was the designated family member for all possible things - driver to the hospital, caller to the relatives, sitter in the waiting room, bringer of sugar-free liquids, et cetera. He seems to be fine, and tomorrow I'll do the same things, but in reverse.
The sweetest part of late afternoon was sitting together watching TV Land, which had back-to-back episodes of Bonanza and Gunsmoke. He no longer seemed seventy five and ill.It was a serious flashback to the sixties I well remember, when I was a little girl with a cap gun and cowgirl hat, watching westerns with Daddy. I hadn't seen Matt Dillon and Festus and Miss Kitty in decades, but everything was familiar like it was yesterday.
Sweet dreams, Daddy. I'll see you in the morning.
NTD
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
I picked up this week's copy of my local newspaper on Saturday. I like to get a print copy of my political column for the archive -aka the bottom shelf of my bookcase. And there it was: the ugliest stereotype of a cartoon hippie, which has apparently become my avatar for the newspaper column. Sunglasses, a headband - the very caricature of a late sixties radical as filtered by some artist raised on Family Circus. I have never, ever worn a headband, and I was nine years old when Woodstock was held. I rarely wear sunglasses, although the optometrist encourages me to do so. This dreadful image seems designed to reduce my opinion pieces to a viewpoint written by some burned-out flakey monster-woman.
I spoke to the editor this morning. He was surprised, of course, by my rant. The worst part is when he informed me that this was not his design; he was simply using the same artwork that another paper runs on my page in every issue up in Macon.
Good Lord. Apparently I need to drive through Macon more often and watch what the folks are doing with my column elsewhere.
On today's to-do list: a) finish this week's column; and b) give up, take a photo of myself, and replace that awful hippie cartoon.
NTD
I spoke to the editor this morning. He was surprised, of course, by my rant. The worst part is when he informed me that this was not his design; he was simply using the same artwork that another paper runs on my page in every issue up in Macon.
Good Lord. Apparently I need to drive through Macon more often and watch what the folks are doing with my column elsewhere.
On today's to-do list: a) finish this week's column; and b) give up, take a photo of myself, and replace that awful hippie cartoon.
NTD
Friday, September 14, 2007
I'm having a restful morning, reviewing 9/11 conspiracy theories on the Web. This is what happens when I:
-hear George Bush's unsettling voice via NPR before 7 a.m.
-drink too much coffee
-get agitated
-start surfing online and find that a Bush brother was on the board of directors for the security agency which guarded, among other things, the World Trade Center
I try to ignore the filthy, rotten system called the federal government as much as possible. I write my bi-weekly political column, of course, but this is not so much because I love politics, but rather that I disdain it. 9/11 theories are depressing, and make me feel more helpless. But Caffeine + George is still the drug which can induce a bad trip into... reality???
NTD
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
R.I.P. Steve Harris
Steve Harris was one of my first customers. He dared to harangue me for being a capitalist even as he bought used books and Steal Your Face stickers from my teeny shop, which was barely making a profit. I generally shot back with a defense: Yeah, but at least I'm a NICE capitalist! This was 1987, and I had opened The Emporium with only a cloudy idea of what I wanted to do with the place. Twenty years later with a different shop name in a different town, I'm still not sure what I'm doing, but the proceeds of this entrepreneurial endeavor keeps the family fed. And so it goes on.
Statesboro, Georgia is the home of Georgia Southern University, which means that our culture rotates around cheap beer, football, and Jesus - generally in that order. The town didn't get liquor by the drink until 1995, so back in the glorious eighties we all drank Budweiser and Michelob Light at house parties which drew dozens and - at the infamous annual Hat Party - hundreds of revelers. There were usually roaring fires, frosty kegs, college radio blaring Violent Femmes and classic Pylon, drunken students mating behind azalea bushes, mushrooms fresh from a midnight harvest in nearby cow pastures, swimming in muddy ponds, hooting and hollering, a stray professor leaning over cute co-eds, and guys like Steve who would ride up from Brunswick in order to visit old friends from his alma mater. He might take in a football game or watch the Chickasaw Mud Puppies stomp and sing at the Rockin' Eagle. He would invariably stop in first thing at The Emporium and catch up on local gossip with me. Later on I might see him and the rest of the league of post-grad bachelors out at Dave's or Eric's. Dave might be holding a raise-the-rent party with a couple of bands on a makeshift stage. Eric would fish from his porch, sitting on a mildewing outdoor sofa and holding court with students, bikers from other counties, and his best friend Steve Harris.
Eric called me today and told me that Steve died last night from leukemia. He was 49.
I can still remember Steve at a mid-nineties Grateful Dead concert at the Atlanta Omni. We had abandoned the tents at Stone Mountain and I had a hundred dollar hotel room that night. Steve and Don had paid us twenty bucks to hang out afterward until they felt sober enough to drive. And as I tried to sleep, I kept hearing Steve laugh and laugh while he sat in a chair, high as a kite. There was no television on, no conversation. Just the cosmic giggle which had grabbed ahold of Steve and wouldn't let go. I finally fell asleep to the sound of him laughing.
I hope that Steve is having a great cosmic belly laugh today, wherever he is.
R.I.P. Steve Harris
NTD
Statesboro, Georgia is the home of Georgia Southern University, which means that our culture rotates around cheap beer, football, and Jesus - generally in that order. The town didn't get liquor by the drink until 1995, so back in the glorious eighties we all drank Budweiser and Michelob Light at house parties which drew dozens and - at the infamous annual Hat Party - hundreds of revelers. There were usually roaring fires, frosty kegs, college radio blaring Violent Femmes and classic Pylon, drunken students mating behind azalea bushes, mushrooms fresh from a midnight harvest in nearby cow pastures, swimming in muddy ponds, hooting and hollering, a stray professor leaning over cute co-eds, and guys like Steve who would ride up from Brunswick in order to visit old friends from his alma mater. He might take in a football game or watch the Chickasaw Mud Puppies stomp and sing at the Rockin' Eagle. He would invariably stop in first thing at The Emporium and catch up on local gossip with me. Later on I might see him and the rest of the league of post-grad bachelors out at Dave's or Eric's. Dave might be holding a raise-the-rent party with a couple of bands on a makeshift stage. Eric would fish from his porch, sitting on a mildewing outdoor sofa and holding court with students, bikers from other counties, and his best friend Steve Harris.
Eric called me today and told me that Steve died last night from leukemia. He was 49.
I can still remember Steve at a mid-nineties Grateful Dead concert at the Atlanta Omni. We had abandoned the tents at Stone Mountain and I had a hundred dollar hotel room that night. Steve and Don had paid us twenty bucks to hang out afterward until they felt sober enough to drive. And as I tried to sleep, I kept hearing Steve laugh and laugh while he sat in a chair, high as a kite. There was no television on, no conversation. Just the cosmic giggle which had grabbed ahold of Steve and wouldn't let go. I finally fell asleep to the sound of him laughing.
I hope that Steve is having a great cosmic belly laugh today, wherever he is.
R.I.P. Steve Harris
NTD
Highlights of my life since I last posted:
- Stewart and Susan singing "Total Eclipse of the Heart" while I banged away on piano
- Playing with a pair of sixties Mr. Potato Heads, purchased at an elderly couple's basement sale
- Selling a rare Bob Gibson Sings Shel Silverstein CD on Amazon for $32.00
- Spending a couple of hours with my old friend Jill who was a bridesmaid in my first wedding back in the late seventies
- Encouraging Goth-y employee Jessica to put on a tie-dye and sarong while at work, which she finally did
- Singing/hollering "That's Life" along with Frank Sinatra on the radio
- Picking (even more) tomatoes from the garden
It's been crazy busy at the shop - hence the lack of blogging - but it's the small things that make for memories. When a customer who has been in AA for decades mentioned his gratitude list the other day, I thought that was a good idea to change the prevailing mental activity from hardship/pain/sucky stuff to Moments That Made Me Happy.
NTD
- Stewart and Susan singing "Total Eclipse of the Heart" while I banged away on piano
- Playing with a pair of sixties Mr. Potato Heads, purchased at an elderly couple's basement sale
- Selling a rare Bob Gibson Sings Shel Silverstein CD on Amazon for $32.00
- Spending a couple of hours with my old friend Jill who was a bridesmaid in my first wedding back in the late seventies
- Encouraging Goth-y employee Jessica to put on a tie-dye and sarong while at work, which she finally did
- Singing/hollering "That's Life" along with Frank Sinatra on the radio
- Picking (even more) tomatoes from the garden
It's been crazy busy at the shop - hence the lack of blogging - but it's the small things that make for memories. When a customer who has been in AA for decades mentioned his gratitude list the other day, I thought that was a good idea to change the prevailing mental activity from hardship/pain/sucky stuff to Moments That Made Me Happy.
NTD
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