Steel Belted Radials

One of the ways that parents have been known to torture their children is to drag them along on blatantly non-child-friendly errands.

Unless you’ve managed to successfully repress such memories, I’d venture that if you dig deep, you’ll recall at least one really terrible experience as an unassuming, angelic child cherub standing in some patently adult venue waiting for time to stop its stand-still so you can get on with your child life.

If you had a particularly cruel parent or two, you may have even been subject to such trauma in an habitually or tag team fashion. Some parents just can’t seem to help themselves.

One friend of mine said it was the fabric store.
Long, torturous, brutal sessions of textile HELL.


I can see the face of this child as the mother debates this red fabric’s qualities against the characteristics and virtues of this other red fabric which, by the way, looks EXACTLY like the first bolt of RED fabric.

Now this may be a gender thing, but I, personally, didn’t mind the fabric store, at all.

My mother or grandmother, would shop and select cloth for really practical and mundane purposes (like making me a homemade dress, which is a completely different form of child abuse if you were raised in the sixties/seventies, pre-Martha Stewart era and obviously homemade clothing was the curse of social death at your grade school). I would take their dreary intent to purchase fabric and turn it into Barbie Fantasyland.

The gold satin fabric draped across the top of my head became my luxurious long pretend princess hair.

The glittery, opalescence of pink velvet became my pretend cape/gown.

The heavy deep burgundy fabric was my pretend royal bedspread and pretend matching drapes for the pretend master suite of my pretend country castle. (Not to be confused with my pretend city castle.)

Pearly, silver white tulle was my royal, pretend princess bridal veil.

You get the picture.



Yes, in fact, in many ways I was a predictable girly-girl. Shut up. I was six, give me a break.


No, for me it was not the fabric store.

It was the . . . . . . . tire store.

My dad was a tire obsessive. Probably still is, I wouldn't know. I ran away long ago.

Why I was required to go to the tire store with my Dad, I'll never know. I do know that it was torturous each and every time, but there was this one particular day that probably violated some or all of the Geneva Convention.

I was sick: cough, cold, earache, scratchy sore throat. I felt terrible. Now I believe I let him know how bad I was feeling, (as any responsible, considerate six year old would) and his response was "It'll just be a few more minutes." He was already there and was all-in with this tire sales man and wouldn't dream of leaving now.

It was terrible.

How long did I have to endure this tire store agony?
The number FOUR comes to mind.

Now it may not have been that I had to wait there, with my completely non-interactive father, for four full hours.

It may have been the stack of four tires I sat on, while I had to wait.

It may be that it took four days to get the new rubber smell out of my hair and jacket afterward.

FOUR? It may be the number of times the sales person wanted to shoot my father for being such a jerk customer.

It may have been how many meals I missed in the time I was there.

It may be the number of years I lost from the other end of my life after inhaling those toxic tire fumes. (Four, count them. Four good years!)

It was probably the number of criminal codes my father violated by making me go with him that day.

Hard feelings? More than four, I can tell you that much.



This week I was driving up to Edmonds with my daughter, when I noticed my car was feeling funny. Now my car is like fifteen years old so it has a few noisy, rattly parts and it takes a discriminating driver to notice such nuance.

I pulled over for a quick visual inspection and besides a large screw sticking out of the tread, there was a bulge in the side of my tire.

Now the screw actually looked pretty cool. Like an automotive fashion statement. A piercing.

But the bulge? This was a bit worrisome.



The trip to Edmonds was off. My daughter and I spent a good part of the morning tire shopping. (Will the cycle of abuse never end?)

I kept telling her how sorry I was. To my parenting credit, my daughter is a high school senior and it was the very first time I had ever subjected her to the tire store trip, so she looked at me with confusion. I wore this proudly.



And I continued to wear it proudly as I, immediately after leaving the tire store:

• took her to lunch at Red Robin, onion rings, pomegranate lemonade
• took her shopping at her favorite clothing store, two Ts and a pair of jeans,
• and bought her a new car on the way home, to make up for the tire store exposure.

I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to her. Well, all except the last four years.

The Phantom Restaurant

Who hasn't thought about how great it would be to be a restaurant critic? Oh, to be paid to eat out and then to be paid to give opinion.

With the wave of blogging, now I too can be a restaurant critic. But there must be thousands, millions of people (read and unread) who are busy eating, than blogging about it. So how am I to set myself apart? Hmmmm, let's see.

How about "Name that Restaurant!"

Here are your hints. This is an independent, one of a kind establishment. It's in Pierce county, not far from I-5. It's in an inconspicuous store front location where a Mexican restaurant used to be. The 'genre' is diner, greasy-spoon-esque in nature. They are closed Sundays & Mondays. And they are only open for breakfast and lunch.

The atmosphere was a bit plain. I couldn't help thinking that it was almost cool. I could imagine a few small decor changes that would help tip it over into the world of cool.

I ordered the biscuits and gravy with both kinds of potato: hash browns and home fries. Letting the server know that I was researching the local potato situation. She was a good server: friendly but not bothersome with a good sense of humor and not so pretty that I had to hate her. Whew! I never ran dry of water or coffee. And she asked which potato version I decided was my favorite.

The gravy was about as good as sausage gravy gets. But even so I always wish it were more sausage-flavored. (Alas, kind of like always wishing the chowder part of clam chowder had more clam flavor.)

The potatoes were unspecial but not terrible. They both needed salt and I am not a big salt user. So all in all the food quality was okay. Nothing bad, nothing great.

I breakfasted alone and read my book (The Red Tent) through out my meal. But the seating arrangement of the restaurant made it hard to concentrate on reading and lent itself, instead, to people-watching. No terribly interesting ones to watch, but even so.

As I was finishing up the 'way too much food' that I ordered, I noticed standing between the salt & pepper shakers, the room temperature ketchup and the paper menus on my table was a thin junior paperback. Something by Cynthia Rylant. I thought this was a nice, unusual touch. Just in case someone needed some light reading.

I looked around and noticed there was one paperback or another on each table. I liked this. Sweetness. Then I noticed on one of these other tables a small spiral style notebook standing next to the paperback. This struck me as odd. Did a customer leave this behind one day? My curiosity is piqued.

Then I notice there is a small, inconspicuous notebook on my own table. With a pen sticking out of the spiral binding. Wow, this smells of coolness.

I picked up the notebook and flipped through. There was notes of thanks to the restaurant and the servers. There were illustrations drawn by small fingers. There were notes to other customers. Notes sent out into the universe. There are notes of people marketing their various local retail establishments and such.

I didn't choose to write anything on this visit but realized that my initial impression of the place only verging on coolness was probably a pre-judgment. It's coolness may not have been instantly obvious but here it was waiting for me to notice. I knew it was a good place when I kept thinking of who I wanted to bring back with me next time. This is a pretty good sign, I've decided.

Can you guess what restaurant this is?



Happy Friday June Thirteenth!

This year, my idea of a good Mother’s Day consists of quiet time. Working on some self-care.

I give my bedroom, my sanctuary, a brief but relaxing straightening. I light incense, sip a cup of something warm, paint my nails and settle in to do a bit of writing. Fiction. Just some fun, relaxing storytelling. Weaving and spinning. No pricey invest of soul here, just some literary dessert, if you will.

I set out to write a love-story-type vignette. Maybe even attempt a bit of erotica. (Some of you might be groaning, "Oh no, again?")

I’ve made this a temporary, transitory goal a couple of times, in the past. Kind of challenging my comfort here, testing my default. Besides love scenes, I also am not proficient at nor partial to writing violence. Just not in the natural flow of my writing.

So, typically, as far as my writing is concerned, no sex and no violence, and you may now be asking yourself,

“What else is there?”

And my well-rehearsed answer to that is,

“There’s human drama, I tell you! The stuff of the heart, don’t you know.”

Melodrama, dialogue, humor and smart-assery. This is where my natural 'talents' lie. But occasionally, I do like to challenge this about myself and reach into the dark abyss for the erotic and the intense, the physical.

“How’s that working for ya, so far?” you might be wondering.
Well, I’m here to tell you, “Not so much.”

What historically ends up happening is that I’ll start some shadowy, romantical, steamy scene but by the third or fourth sentence, instead of telling how his hands are moving across her flesh, or what sensuous sounds are can be heard coming from the ruby lips of whomever, I’m busy describing the texture of the dog collar on the neck of the terrier that belongs to the kid who lives three houses down from our main character. You know, the blue house with the white fence around it.

Sex and violence are ideally action-oriented. But I’m known to get caught up in the story telling, the history of my location, the color of the apples on the table, the maiden name of the babysitter’s grandmother on her stepfather’s side.

As you might have guessed, self care via fiction writing didn't last too long. I moved on to other things. Like brownies without nuts. A scoop of vanilla on the side.


And I flipped on the *telly, to see what was on this Mother’s Day of perfect weather. (*This appliance seems somehow less worthless and less heinous if I use the British slang instead.) How's that for questionable Mother's Day self-care.

Let’s see, we have here:

Air Force One,

NBA playoffs (times two),

Rawhide,

Mighty Morphin Power Rangers,

baseball (for what that's worth, lately),

NASCAR,

Stephen King’s Carrie,

Deadliest Catch,

one of the twelve Alien sequels,

bowling,

American Idol reruns (not for this mother),

PGA,

fishing,

Alien v. Predator (not included in the aforementioned sequels)

and Saving Private Ryan.

Not that I don’t enjoy a good Deadliest Catch once in a while, but seriously do television execs not have mothers?

Did they not get that memo about Mother’s Day that all the retailers, restaurants, florists and spas sent out?

I guess I shouldn't complain. At some point, the old school Willie Wonka movie was on (my preference) and then Mary Poppins. (Impossible to get to much 'Spoon Full of Sugar' in my book.)

I guess I'll have to be brave and dig back into the love scene that I started writing earlier.

Or maybe just one more brownie. No nuts.

Fairy Dust & Ruby Slippers

I believe in magic. I do.

There, I said it. Whew, load off.

I believe in the unexplainable, in the mystical, in the mythical.

I believe in wonder, in marvel.

I believe.

I don’t know if I believe magic can inhabit us bodily, as much as I believe it floats around us.

It swirls and sparkles and shines all around.

Like glittery feathers on currents of wind. Fireflies and pixies.

Or maybe just like the wind itself.

Because you can’t actually ‘see’ the wind, but the effects of it are clear, if we are watching for it.

Maybe we can’t actually ‘see’ magic, but the results are all around. IF we take the time, slow down and pay attention.

I believe. I do.

This being true, that I believe, you might think my life would be filled with wonder and whimsy and reflections of light. But alas. No. The reason this ‘no’ is so, is because I am SO. Mostly, we are all SO. (To say this ‘SO’ properly, you have to say it as you let out all the air in your lungs. Try this.)

We are heavy with SO. We are SO busy living, thinking, planning, scheming, meaning to get to this and to that. We are SO busy reflecting and analyzing and remembering and prophesying and whining and the magic is missed.

Even knowing this, even with this (pardon me for saying so, but. . . . .) amazing insight, I still miss it, most of the time. I seem to, mostly, be SO busy looking ahead and SO busy looking behind. Foolish. Particularly foolish, because I’m aware of a better way and still fall short.

My inexcusably lame excuse is ‘habit.’ I’ve always done it this way. It’s hard (and maybe a bit scary) to even think about doing life a different way. I am in the habit of missing the magic.

For me the magic is in the calm. It’s in the peace and breathing. For me, magic is in the smallest, least planned moments of my life. I love to look for magic in the coincidence, in the serendipity, in the space between other things. I want to share a little list of examples here, but somehow, feel doing so, would trivialize the magic.

I’m also thinking, that some people are more likely to beget magic than others. There are some people in my life with whom magic is simply more likely to happen. In fact, now that I think about it, I seem to have a disproportionately high amount of people in my life who are not exactly the magic-spawning types.

Boy, wouldn’t that make a great title: Spawn of the Magic Lagoon

Maybe it’s a chemistry thing. My daughter and I, together, seem to walk in a multitude of magical moments. Like her idea of magic, matches up very well with my idea of magic.

We have great magic chemistry.

Or it may also be a proximity thing, because my two sons no longer live at home and so, we have much less opportunity to experience shared magic. It definitely happens, but is less frequent.

Funny but the more I go on here about magic, the less magic seems to be floating around me.

So, off I go.

I may have a long way to go until I am regularly breathing in magic, but I think I’m one-step closer because . . . . .

I believe.

I BELIEVE!

Violets are not blue

Apparently April is National Poetry Month.

I confess I wouldn't have any idea what National Month we are in, except that I work in a library and finding out such things seems to be an occupational hazard. Oh well, you take the bad with the good.

I am not a poet. And am, in point of fact, quite easily annoyed by poetry.

Poetry bothers me in the same way that fine art bothers me.
I do not know enough about what's good,
what's bad,
what's classic,
what's contemporary,
what's edgy and whatever.
So my participating in an intelligent discussion is astronomically unlikely. I find this annoying.

The cliche, "I know what I like" is true of me in fine art and in poetry. And mostly what I like is Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein. As you can tell, I'm quite the connoisseur.

Now if you're a poet, plug your ears during this next part.

Poets themselves, tend to annoy me. Sometimes I think they TRY to be obscure and confusing in their work. I think they might actually enjoy that blank stare they get from most people after hearing their poetry. If they read one of their poems and the listener instantly 'get's the meaning, actually understands the point, then they've failed and it must be bad poetry. Because if it were a superior poem, no one would have the first clue what the hell it's about. It's this smug, arrogant sniff that turns me off.

This is not to say that I do not appreciate other people's love of poetry.
Just like I appreciate other people's love of dogs, just keep them off my property, off my leg and make sure they keep their fleas to themselves. No offense.

Okay, so I believe I've clearly established that I am no poet and I have very little appreciation for poetry. So I really have no reason to be celebrating National Poetry Month.... Or so I thought......

Because when I think about it more closely, I realize that my dislike for poems does not equal my love of lyrics. I love reading lyrics, quoting lyrics, posting lyrics here and there. And I think we'd all agree that a good majority of lyrics are poetry put to music.

So is it the musical part that softens my poetry hating spirit? Maybe.

Or maybe instead, when I hear verse set to music, as opposed to standing alone, I can feel the heart's cry in the lyrics. Cries of joy, jealously, grief, elation, longing. When put to music, the same exact words seems to speaks to me instead of aggravating me. It doesn't feel conceited, condescending and grating on my nerves with music attached. Is my soul savage and needing to be soothed by song? Yes, I think there is something to this. There is surely some deep, profound, difficult to understand philosophical reason why I love lyrics but do not like poems.

Maybe.

Or maybe .....

I just like lyrics better because they usually rhyme. Like Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein.

Anyway, in honor of National Poetry Month, or NPM as some of us call it, I am including here bits and pieces of some of my favorite lyrical poems:

Helplessly hoping her harlequin hovers nearby
Awaiting a word
Gasping at glimpses of gentle true spirit
He runs
Wishing he could fly
Only to trip at the sound of good-bye

Wordlessly watching he waits by the window
And wonders
At the empty place inside

Heartlessly helping himself to her bad dreams
He worries
Did he hear a good-bye
or even Hello

They are one person
They are too alone
They are three together
They are for each other

Helplessly Hoping:
Written and performed by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
___________________________________________

Once divided...nothing left to subtract...
Some words when spoken...can't be taken back...
Walks on his own...with thoughts he can't help thinking...
Future's above...but in the past he's slow and sinking...
Caught a bolt 'a lightnin'...cursed the day he let it go...
Nothingman... nothingman... isn't it something?
Nothingman...

She once believed...in every story he had to tell...
One day she stiffened...took the other side...
Empty stares...from each corner of a shared prison cell...
One just escapes...one's left inside the well...
And he who forgets...will be destined to remember...

Nothingman by Pearl Jam
___________________________________

Your day breaks, your mind aches
There will be time when all the things she said will fill your head
You won't forget her
And in her eyes you see nothing
No sign of love behind the tears
Cried for no one
A love that should have lasted years

For No One
from the Revolver album by The Beatles
___________________________________

She calls me just to talk
She's my lover, she's a friend of mine
She says Hey mister you wanna take a walk
In the wild west end sometime?

And I get trouble with my breathing
She says Boys don't know anything
But I know what I want
I want everything

Expresso Love (on Dire Straits' Alchemy album):
written by Mark Knopfler (and no, it's not about some guy with a crush on a nasty bikini barista.)

There are many many more.
Blackbird by the Beatles.
All Apologies by Nirvana.
Promises by Eric Clapton.

Happy NPM! Or is it Merry? Anyway....

Send me your favorite poem if you want to,

as long as it rhymes.....

and it's not about a dog. . . . .

( AND as long as it doesn't start with 'There once was a girl from.....')

Can't Not

Lately, there seems to be a social 'movement' to be more positive.

To send more optimistic, happy thoughts and energy out into the universe. Focus on what's good and light and hopeful. And I am not opposed to this.

Wait, let me rephrase that, "I am in support of this."
(Although some of my posts might suggest otherwise.)

In fact, in a few areas of my life, I live this positive philosophy. Or at least, try to.


Entertainment is the first thing that comes to mind.
I have done a relatively good job of not filling my precious free time with violence, terror, murder, rape, mayhem and horror, then lying to myself by calling it 'entertainment.' I'll let you know what I actually call it another, more negative, day. Because I know that you are dying to find out.
(Humor me, here.)


Another area I work on, with some success, is what and how I eat.
I give myself full permission to eat junk, when the urge dictates. But for the most part, I'm pretty good about satisfying my hunger with healthy food. And even more importantly, I try to honor each meal with my focus and attention. I try to keep from eating in a hurry, on the run. I try to slow down and appreciate my meals, to savor them. It helps me to be more grateful for what sustains me, physically. I also feel that my body uses the food more efficiently and healthfully, to my benefit, when I can eat happily and appreciatively.


Not surprisingly, considering the world in which we live, there are still many areas of my life, (the majority, at times), where my perspective is slightly, or overtly, negative. I'll not list them, for now. And don't you start listing them yourself.




One, I will mention here. I am guilty of phrasing things in the negative.

Often, speaking in terms of . . . .

what I can't do,

what I'm not feeling,

what I'm not getting and so forth.



This is, admittedly, something to work on and I'll keep you informed.



In the meantime . . . . . .



There is one, specific 'negative' that I have decided to, without apology, include and embrace in my life.



The phrase, "I can't not . . . . ."



Before now, I was sometimes 'reminded,' by those with good intentions, to rephrase this into the positive. In terms of what "I can . . . " instead. I tried to comply, but it felt wrong. Even so, instead of listening to my heart, I would beat myself up with 'shoulds.'

"I should be more positive."

"I should speak in the affirmative."

"I should say things with more optimism."

So, even in my attempts to conform to the positive, I continued to look at the negative side.


Then, a few days ago, I was having a too brief, and all too rare conversation with a friend, to whom I was trying to explain how it is that I write.
And the only thing I could utter was: "I can't not."



It's the truth. I can't not write. It simply isn't possible.

This is not to say that days, and weeks do not sometimes pass without my writing down a single creative word. But, don't be fooled, it will be written. The 'material' in my head, the thoughts, the rants, the stories, the characters, the plots, the bullshit, the truth would send me running for the nearest cliff, if it couldn't be released. Even if, at irregular intervals.

It isn't my claim that it will necessarily be interesting thoughts, rants, stories and such, but it will not stay inside me. The pressure would be too much. I could equate it to a volcano, or a pressure cooker, or even a shaken bottle of champagne but it would still not suffice. I would be headed straight for madness, if for some reason I couldn't vent in one written form or another.

My sanity, for what it's worth, would be in grave peril.



My partner in conversation hadn't understood this in regards to writing, until I used the phrase "I can't not" and then he seemed to instantly understand. He could relate, because he had a 'can't not' in his life, as well. Lucky man.

I am thinking we all should have at least one "can't not."


"I can't not meditate."

"I can't not dance in the rain."

"I can't not sing what's in my heart."

"I can't not splash in puddles."

"I can't not paint the sky."

"I can't not read Barbie's blog."

"I can't not fly kites."

Valid "can't nots," all

(Disclaimer: "I can't not play WoW" is not what I'm talking about here, today. And there are probably support groups in your area for such things.)



The positive version, of the above statements, simply does not adequately express the truth, the actual sentiment behind the words.

"I can write music" or "I will write music" just does not say the same thing as "I can't not write music." Even if it's amped up to "I must write music," this can be misinterpreted. It could sound like a chore one needs to do, but doesn't want to do.

I've come to the following personal conclusion.

I will no longer be debating this issue in my head,
I will no longer be hard on myself for using these words,
I will proudly and loudly say exactly what "I can't not. . . ."

Stay tuned. . . . . .

Tube socks, Tighty-whiteys and Typical

Men ‘bitch’ about their wives. Their girlfriends. It’s customary and it’s expected.

It's a social dynamic men engage in, I believe, in attempt to prove they are MEN!

This common behavior spans a wide range. From the overt manner of “my wife, the nag . . ." to the almost undetectable and subtle“Gotta give ‘the’ wife a call.” Some men pass it off as harmless joking.

The implication being that if it weren’t for the woman in his life, he’d be free to do as he pleases. He'd have a better life. The good life.


You've heard it, you've seen it. In commercials, sitcoms, movies, lunch conversation, on the commute to work, over a pool table. This is the socially acceptable ‘speak’ for men. It’s culturally correct.


"Poor me, my wife wants to spend the day together. But I was really looking forward to eight hours in the recliner, drinking cheap beer and then later, getting to know myself better over a five year old magazine. Why me?"

You may be a man. And you may be reading this, thinking, ‘Not me! I don’t speak badly of my wife.’ But can you say ‘Never?’ You have never, ever, once verbally disrespected the woman in your life? To a friend, a co-worker, to anyone? To yourself? To her face? You've never dismissed her as trivial and insignificant in the grand scheme of your egocentric, self-important life?

And simply because it’s the way men are expected to speak of women?

Think about it. If a guy were to regularly gush and rave about how wonderful his wife/girlfriend (of more than two months) is, how happy he is, how lucky he feels to have such an amazing woman in his life, he’d be forced to revoke his testicles.

He’d be ‘whipped.’

Men, who would be completely devastated and without redemption if their woman left them, strut around to one extent or another and verbally violate the affection he genuinely, sincerely holds for his wife or girl, just to prove himself manly, to the rest of the world.

"I'm tough, I'm macho. I wouldn't be caught dead revealing my gratitude for my wife. My affection for her, my love. What would the guys think?" It’s character revealing, don’t you think?

Like a teenager complaining about his parents. You would be an adolescent disgrace, if you were heard uttering complimentary or remotely flattering words about your parents. If caught, you’d be required to turn in your ‘emergency’ condom that expired four years ago.

And if the exercise of verbal ‘rejection’ weren’t enough, this bad behavior, like any ‘vice’ can lead to harder stuff. It seems to frequently drive a man to irrational, detrimental, relationship-destroying behavior.



My daughter and I watch a show called Gilmore Girls.
Seven seasons. (Three too many, but that’s another discussion.)

In this show, there is a peripheral character named Kirk. He’s a bit goofy, awkward, self-conscious. He's is in his late twenties/early thirties and probably lets him mom, whom he still lives with, pick out his 'outfit' each day. A 'late bloomer.'

Two or three seasons into the series, against most odds, Kirk gets himself a girlfriend. Lulu.


He did well. Lulu is cute, soft-soft spoken and a bit timid. Kirk's technique is rough at first. He’s a bit perplexed at his good fortune, but Lulu is patient (girl's usually have to be, don't they?) and he eventually gets the hang of being an attentive, appreciative, enthusiastic boyfriend.


A few seasons later, however, he’s becomes predictably arrogant, brash, overconfident in his relationship prowess.

SCENE:

He and Lulu are finishing breakfast in the local diner. Lulu says goodbye and gives Kirk a kiss on the cheek on her way to work for the day.


Kirk: (after Lulu has just walked out of the diner) Could somebody crack a window? Because I’m suffocating.

LUKE: What? (Luke is the diner’s, typically crabby, bachelor owner/cook/waiter.)

KIRK: Tell me you didn’t see that.

LUKE: See what, Kirk?

KIRK: Lulu! She’s smothering me!

LUKE: Smothering you?

KIRK: Everywhere I go, there she is. I’m sitting at the movies, who’s sitting next to me? Lulu. I go out to dinner. Who’s sitting across from me? Lulu. I’m hanging out on the couch, watching TV. Who’s right there next to me?

LUKE: Your mother?

KIRK: And Lulu! And at least Mother respects my personal space. Sometimes, when you’re watching Antiques Roadshow, you just don’t want somebody tickling your arm.
(Luke becomes distracted by and joins a nearby conversation. Scene ends.)


(Kirk returns to the diner, alone. It’s late afternoon, same day.)
Kirk: Hey, Luke, you want to grab a cold one tonight, bird-dog some chicas?

Luke: What?

Kirk: As of 0700 this evening, I’m going to be a free man.

Luke: You are?

Kirk: I am. Giving Lulu the old heave-ho, hitting the eject button.

Luke: Kirk?

Kirk: And I owe it all to you, buddy.

Luke: Me?

Kirk: You inspired me. I look at you, and I think “This guy’s doing it right.” Slave to no master. You come home at 3:00 in the morning, no one cares. You want to eat dessert for dinner, no one cares. You walk around in your tube socks and tighty-whiteys (ew!), no one cares. No one cares what you do or where you go. So, what do you say, Luke? You want to be my wingman, Goose to my Maverick? (Singing into a large spoon.) “You never close your eyes, anymore, when I kiss your lips. And there’s no tenderness…”

(Luke grabs Kirk by the scruff of the neck, mid-lyric.)
Luke: Listen, you pinhead, you should be kissing the ground that Lulu walks on. Why that sweet girl lets you within 100 miles of her is beyond me, but she does. You are the luckiest man on the planet to have a girl like that looking out for you and caring about you. And if you say so much as one unkind word to her, I will personally break every bone in your body. You got me?



I love this scene. Luke is by no means a warm and fuzzy type of guy. And he can, usually, hardly stand Kirk’s oddities and eccentricities. This diner owner is easily annoyed and a social introvert. For him to care enough to speak up here, is quite the unusual and heart-felt display. Not to mention, completely socially unacceptable. Hope no one was looking.

I’ve felt, for a long time now, that if men in general, had any idea how amazing women are, and treated them like they were amazing, instead of as a bother to their schedule or a nuisance to contend with, then life as we know it, (and we know it as stressful, hostile, harsh, unpleasant, unfortunate, obnoxious, foul, loathsome, intolerable and more,) would end. What a wonderful world it would be.

Big statement. I stand by it.

It may be occurring to you, right about now, that some women, some you've known, have proven themselves quite capable of some pretty heinous and callous behavior themselves. Granted. If provoked. I contend that this is not their default strategy in life, but has, over the span of their life, become necessary, simply to survive. Self-defense, in a most unfortunate sense.

You show me a bitter, hard, unfeeling woman and I’ll show you a woman who was treated poorly by a man to whom she trusted her heart: her father, her brothers, an early boyfriend, an oblivious husband.

If, and apparently this is simply too much to ask, her humble beginnings had been under the care of men who were overwhelmingly grateful for her, appreciative of her, amazed by her special spirit of generosity and nurturing, well then, she would be a completely different woman.

Could have been, would have been. Should have been.

You can ignore and dismiss the ‘special’ within a woman, but you lose a treasure most valuable. It’s a steep price to pay. Yet, it’s a common and popular transaction. If your relationship goal is for ordinary, uninspired, banal and cliché, this is a sure method. If you want to prove yourself unoriginal and trite, it’s a well trod but easy to navigate path.

It’s effortless, it requires no investment, no personal integrity on your part . . . . . and it’s definitely one way of doing it.

Just one girl’s opinion. Mine. Take it for what it’s worth.