Yucky Salad with Bones

October 27 '07

Scene: A dimly lit bus station somewhere in England. It's dark and getting darker quickly. Rain falls. People are scurrying about, getting on and off of passing trains. REM's "Everybody Hurts" plays in the backround, lending itself to the uncomfortable, lonely setting.

We move in on the men's restroom.

Inside the camera sees a pair of expensive men's dress shoes under the door of a toilet stall. A pair of brightly shined wing-tips that are downright senatorial. In the next stall over we see a bizarre pair of pointy, glammy, wizardly slippers. Around the slippers we see the vestiges of what appears to be very fancy robes.

As one slipper begins to slide along the floor to the left, we see the right-footed wing-tip making it's way to the right, towards the slipper.

Michael Stipe's lilting croon is suddenly replaced with the throaty groan of Apollonia's "Sex Shooter". As the two feet are about to collide we pull out to our full screen title:

"HARRY'S POTTY AND THE SENATOR'S STONES"

So J.K. Rowling announced that her wizard, Dumbledore was gay. And the world has shrugged. Some people have said some ignorant things, a few magazine essays have been written, but all in all nobody really cares. One of the overall themes of the Potter books is tolerance, so why not? Nobody cared that a gay man played Gandolf, so why should anyone care if Dumbledore was gay? They were the same guy/wizard weren't they? There was nothing in the Harry Potter books that was even close to being as homoerotic as Frodo and Sam's 94 minute goodbye in the last Rings movie. Hell, I don't think there was anything in Brokeback Mountain that was as overtly gay as that scene. My sister Mary would argue that Frodo and Sam's relationship was more like Gale Sayers and Brian Piccolo's kind of love. To which I would simply reply, "Yeah, I don't think any hobbits ever played in the NFL." (Doug Flutie is a decent counter-argument, but he is, in fact, human.)

So you didn't know Dumbledore was gay, right? Here are some other things that might soon be outed:

Math. Totally gay. Especially long division, square roots and pi. Pi? It's a number with a cutesy little nickname!
Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. C'mon, you knew that, right? All the misfits are forced to go live on their own island that's run by a huge lion named "King Moonraiser"? Please.

At this point in the post Morgan Freeman's voice should come in and give a long, sappy speech about how if we'd all just open our eyes a little wider, the whole world be a more tolerant and loving place. We'd all stop what we were doing and listen, because it's Morgan Freeman's voice! So weathered, authoritative and full of wisdom.

Now shut your eyes and imagine that Morgan Freeman's gay.

Five Songs to Download:

1. Mr. New Year's Day-- Josh Joplin
2. CC and Callas-- Buffalo Tom
3. Pictures Of You-- The Last Goodnight
4. Sticks and Stones-- Tim Mahoney
5. 27 Jennifers-- Mike Doughty

And go buy Vince Flynn's new book, "Protect And Defend" it came out October 30.

27 '07

"I love the bad press. The bottom line is, I'm making people react and ultimately not think about that we are in a war in Iraq."

-Spencer Pratt, erstwhile villain of MTV's The Hills

Wow. Thanks, Spenc. How ironic that in some parts of the world, "prat" means "douchebag".

So how goes it? I just got home from Football/Soccer-a-thon; tourney weekend. It's relatively early in the day however, so I may get some leaves raked yet before the kidlets are deposited at a Halloween party.

I've dropped the ball with Halloween this year; I've put up nary a decoration and bought zero candy. The kids did tape up some festive drawings so we aren't totally awash in dullness around here, but none of them has a costume. The weird thing is, they don't seem to care, which is very different from years past when whining about the inadequete supply of costumes and things out of which a suitable costume could be fashioned would normally begin the day after school started.

OK, kids, I'm hanging up my blogging shoes for the month of November. I have a project to work on that will take my attention away for at least that long; but Billy will still be here, hopefully contributing once or twice a week.

Til we meet again, let us keep in our hearts the wise and selfless words of that tool I quoted at the top of this page.

ta,

October 21 '07

So I’m scrolling through the Minnesota High School Football playoff schedule on line (we’re talking Rosie O’Donnell’s 40-time slow at work) and I came across a game that caught my attention immediately. Okay, stop thinking about Rosie O’Donnell running the 40! Her time is infinity—there is zero chance she could sprint for 40 yards—none. With the promises that the Dems would run DC for the rest of time, Lizzie Hasselbeck would be jailed for her opinion, and Rosie, Ellen, Melissa and three Elton John looking women could live happily ever after in a big, giant ball of lesbianism, she still couldn’t make it past 20 yards. Throw in a plate of fudge and she could maybe make it 30, but 40? Not happening.

Okay, I’ve veered slightly off-track here. Yes, I said a big, giant ball of lesbianism. And I know, I like Ellen too, but whatever.

ANYWAY, (thanks Chuck K), I saw one scheduled High School Football playoff game and I did a double-take. Class 4A, Section 3: Sixth seeded Richfield vs third seeded Minneapolis Washburn. Doodly-doo, doodly-doo, doodly-doo—that’s my mind kaleidoscoping back through the years to late October, 1977.

I’m twelve years old and in a car with my best friend and his older sister, who’s a sports nut like us. It’s about 6:30pm and we’re driving down to Parade Stadium to watch a semi-final game in the state football playoffs. Powerhouse Richfield vs Minneapolis Conference champion Washburn. One of my friend’s other sisters was dating Richfield’s star player, JK Walker, son of Richfield’s legendary coach (JK and my friend’s sister would eventually marry and their son would go on to win an NCAA hockey title at BC)—so I’m in the minority in the car by rooting for Washburn. Sorry guys, I’m a city kid. Washburn may be Southwest’s biggest rival, but they’re still City.

We park the car as close as we can get and walk up to the stadium. The atmosphere is absolutely electric. The weather is perfect for football, definitely chilly, but not so cold that the players wouldn’t be able to do their thing. (As a player I always hated it when linemen or ridiculous fans would say about rainy, awful, muddy conditions “now THIS is football”. NO it isn’t. I hated those conditions. If the skill players can’t do their thing, it’s not football, it’s wrestling on a bigger mat.) Kids are playing catch all over the place, high-school kids are absolutely stoked and filing into the stadium en-masse. Cheerleaders and dance-lines for both schools are seemingly everywhere, singing praise to their respective teams. The Richfield band is blaring away, the cherry-on-top to the festivities. Parents and older-type fans are jockeying for good seats with their blankets and mugs of cocoa.

I was in 7th grade and I loved football more than anything. My grade school, St. Thomas Apostle, was a football power and my teams growing up never had more than one loss. Here’s all you need to know about our program: when I was in 6th grade, our coach used headsets at Benilde St. Margaret’s to talk to us. The booth up in the bleachers was about 25 feet away, but he coached from up there and would talk to us on headsets on the sidelines. It was ridiculous, but we loved it because it made us feel big time. Our coach in the fall of ‘77 was Jay Pivec, (who went on to not only become my brother-in-law, but a highly successful college hoops coach—in fact he’ll get his 500th career win this season). I was a good tailback, but I didn’t start because it was a 7th and 8th grade team and you didn’t start on offense as a 7th grader—you played defense. Plus the 8th grade tailback ahead of me in the lineup was our best player and would go on to write “Runaway Train”, sing at a Presidential inauguration and date Winona Ryder, so who was I to complain?

So yeah, I was a football crazy 12-year old, and with the standing room only crowd at Parade Stadium combined with the bands blaring and perfectly groomed field and enthusiastic PA guy, this might as well have been the Super Bowl as far as I was concerned. And I’ll tell you what, it’s still one of the greatest games I’ve ever seen in my life.

My older brother JP had graduated from Southwest the year before and was at the game, but he doesn’t recollect a whole lot because he claims he spent the whole game trying to make out with Sue Daubenton. Not me, man I was riveted. I was making out with football. Both teams drove up and down the field and the lead changed hands several times throughout the night. God it was exciting. I fell in love early with Washburn’s do-it-all flanker, Dave Hart. He could catch and he had moves. Richfield seemed a little bit bigger to me and they definitely began to wear down Washburn in the 4th quarter. They were up 5 points late in the game when Washburn got the ball back with time for one last drive. Hart made a spectacular catch on 4th down to keep hope alive. Down the field they drove, but time was getting scarce. The crowd was shrieking on every play, everyone in the stadium had been standing for the last five minutes. The clock was down to 4 seconds and Washburn had the ball at the Richfield 17 yard line. Time for one more play—but the odds weren’t great—they had to score a touchdown. The qb dropped back to pass and it was as loud as a Beatles concert must have been. Everyone knew he was looking for Hart and he hit him right on the numbers at the five yard-line as Hart cut into the middle of the field. Hart pulled it in and turned towards the goal line as no less than five desperate Richfield Spartans converged on him at once. Contact was made on the 4 yard line as several Richfield players smashed into Hart. But there is only room for one hero on most October nights and on this night in 1977 the hero was Dave Hart. The group of five guys all fell together eventually, but make no mistake, they had all crossed the goal line. The roar from the Washburn side sent goosebumps shooting down my spine. I stared transfixed, I couldn’t believe what I had just seen. I watched the Washburn team pile on to the field and swarm their hero as the Miller fans around me hugged and screamed and rejoiced. It was really something else. I don’t think I felt my feet hit the ground on the entire walk back to the car.

A last-play-of-the-game touchdown to put your team into the State Championship game. I wonder how many times Hart has thought of that play since that night? My friend and his sister and I stopped at Burger King on Hennepin Avenue on the way home for a late night snack—a perfect end to what had been a perfect night for me. A week later Washburn won the last State Football Championship ever won by a city school—a 12-0 win over Stillwater. As a Southwest kid, I think it was the last time I ever rooted for Washburn.

So for all of you heading out to see high school football playoff games over the next couple of weeks—enjoy them—but know this: you won’t be enjoying them as much as the twelve year olds you see with footballs tucked under their arms and stars in their eyes.

Five Songs To Download:

1. Shim Sham-- Imperial Teen (although it would be way better if Susannah Hoffs were singing)

2. Is There A Ghost-- Band Of Horses

3. Everything's Magic-- Angels & Airwaves

4. Livin' In The Future-- Bruce Springsteen

5. Flanigan's Ball-- Dropkick Murphys

October 19 '07

I can't believe I forgot to tell you about Mumsie's birthday party.

Now, by "Mumsie" I mean Liz; I know sometimes I use that nickname on my own mother as well, but that's because she's my mom. I call Liz Mumsie on occassion because that's what she calls me, and the reason she does that is a layered, winding tale fraught with paranoia, suspicion and political intrigue.

Back in the day, when I was painting needlepoint in an effort to make a buck while still indulging my artistic side, I had a client who was your typically brass-balled, 3-pack-a-day voiced-older-lady who was full of crazy stories and didn't take sheet nor shinola from anyone. Straight outta central casting, you know? Anyway, she'd call me once or twice a year for some special order she'd need. She'd never identify herself on the phone and had no patience for the niceties the rest of us take for granted.

The phone would ring, I'd pick it up and her blunt, smokey voice would crackle over the line: "Katie? Mumsie. I need more of those coasters."

After her funeral a few years ago, at her request her husband hosted an open-bar party at their country club and guests were encouraged to stay til the booze ran out. OK, there wasn't any political intrigue or paranoia in that story, but admit it, that provactive intro had you hooked.

Anyway, Liz got such a kick out of my Mumsie stories she started calling me that.

Back to her birthday, her big 4-0. Saturday night was her surprise party, and it was my job to get her safely to the agreed upon venue without blowing the surprise.

You'd think I would not be given this most important of jobs since if anyone could blow it in spectacular fashion, it'd be me. But got it I did. So the plan was, I was to bring the wine and a big pan of jerk chicken over to Terri's house by 5:30. From there I was to go directly to Liz's, pick her up under the ruse of bringing her to a restaurant, where just a smattering of her friends would meet her for a drink provided they weren't busy and they couldn't think of anything less boring to do; I mean for goodness sake, the last thing we wanted was for Liz to think any of us cared about her, right? That's the irony of surprise parties: we throw them because we care, but when it comes right down to it, what really matters is our ability to pull it off, not the feelings of the honoree. Oh well.

Five o'clock found me in my bathroom, staring dejectedly in the mirror at my uncooperative hair that had decided to go on strike and not curl. Realizing it would take me at least 40 minutes to get to Terri's, I abandoned any hope of being mistaken for Jessica Alba and hauled ass westward, where I got promptly lost. No offense to any western cornfield dwellers amongst the readership, but every @#$%^&* road out there looks the same and how the hell am I supposed to know that just because 101 is 101 in one direction it isn't 101 in the other? It's senseless, senseless I tell you. I even stopped a guy on a riding mower and a lady power walker to ask "Where the f*** is 4k", and they both looked at me like they wanted to play deliverence and I would be playing Ned Beatty, if you know what I mean.

I did not have Terri's number, so I called.... Liz. Who thought I was on my way to pick her up.

"Hey Mums, uh...where is, mm...Where does Terri live?"

"What? Why do you need to know where Terri lives?"

"I told her I'd pick her up first," I said, congratulating myself for thinking up such a colorful lie on the fly like that.

Directions procured, I did a U-y down the dirt road I was stuck on only to see half the jerk chicken come splatting out of the pan all over the passenger seat of my car.

Got to Terri's at 6:30, only an hour later than I was supposed to. Dumped off my bounty, sped off and picked up the birthday girl and Melanie, who is in from Vegas and staying at her house.

"Where's Terri?" Liz asked immediately.

"Oh, she uh, had to pick up (her son) from soccer." I could feel my face turning red.

"She said she's meet us at the restaurant."

Luckily for me, Liz was busy picking a blueberry (from the blueberry cosmo she was enjoying) out of her teeth to notice the holes in my story. Melanie was trying hard not to look at me and shaking her head at what a lamebrain I am.

The three of us get in my car, which of course reaks like jerk chicken.

"Omigod, why does your car stink like feet?" Liz groans. Now, Liz is used to my cars stinking of something unsavory, but this car happens to only be about a week old.

"Finny left a subway wrapper in here." not only am I getting good at this lying thing, I'm starting to enjoy it. And thank God the girl of the hour has pleasant little buzz going.

"Katie, the restaurant is that way," Liz says as I take off down 55 the other direction.

"No, I know, we have to pick up Terri," I mumble.

"You said she was meeting us there."

"No I didn't."

No I didn't.

That was the best I could come up with. But you know, it really isn't that bad when you think about it, I mean unless there's documented proof that I did say that, what's she going to do?

Melanie distracts Liz from pursuing this line of questioning by telling us about when she saw the stage version of Hairspray in Vegas and how much the lead guy reminded her of an old friend.

We pull up to Terri's and I tell Liz to go up to the door and get her.

"She'll see us," she says.

"No, go get her. Just go get her."

The words are no sooner out of my mouth when I see Terri's head pop up in the front window and pop out of sight again.

"There she is," I blurt. WTF???

"What? You saw her? So she saw us?"

"Just go get her," I hissed. I really wasn't planning on turning what was to be a loving surprise into something that was quickly becoming hostile, but damnit; no birthday girl was going to ruin my surprise.

She was surprised, all was well and the evening was a rousing success, despite its inauspicious beginning. I slept over at Liz's that night and she, Melanie and I enjoyed post party Big Macs the next morning. Why is it the only food worth eating after a late night is a Big Mac? I normally hate them, but dang it was good on Sunday. The problem of course, is that I haven't, um, I mean that is to say, the plumbing has been a bit tied up ever since.

October 12 '07

It's nighttime, so I'm totally gonna count this post as two. That may not make any sense to you, but I speak fluent nonsensical so don't you worry your pretty little head about it.

Check these finishes out. Amazing.

So the fab Susan Loken got herself another masters win at the TC marathon; way to go Susan! I myself did not win any races or prize money on this oh-so-uncomfortably hot marathon weekend, but we did get our car smashed on the way there, so at least that's something. Mike was driving it down to the race Sunday morning and some over-eager caffeine addict ran a red light and creamed him. He is fine, but the truck is going to need extensive body work and probably years of therapy, truth be told.

In the meantime, I am driving an absolute abombination of a rental vehicle, a glowing white truck that is roughly the length of three football fields and taller than my house. I have dubbed it The Beast.

I think I hit seven people on the way home from Byerly's today; I literally can barely see over the steering wheel, and forget trying to park between the lines. It's just silly, and in it I am officially contemptible. I say that realizing full well I've been unofficially contemptible for years, I mean no one's ever given me a plaque or anything, but a blonde mom behind the wheel of waaaaay too much car...ooof.

The kids love it of course; not only is it bigger than Valley Fair, it has a dvd player, which our sad little pedestrian truck does not. I know...can you stand it? I actually force my kids to endure a car with no dvd player.

Pamela Anderson got married for the third time. I wonder why it took her so long to walk down the aisle again? What's it been, like six months since she married Kid Rock? I wonder who she'll marry next. Oh, I'm sorry...This one's gonna stick.

Happy Birthday to Kenny the wonder reader! A loyal saladist to the core; we appreciate.

October 10 '07

M'boyfriend's back at the Fine Line tonight; be there or at least have the decency to lie and tell me you were on Thursday.

October 6 '07

School marathon this morning; it's a far cry from the Bataan Death March of my youth.

Why Katie, comparing a non-public school fundraising marathon to the Bataan Death March is unconcionable! You should be lynched forthwith.

Seriously, when are you going to quit with the Camelot-speak? Anyway, sorry. Can I tell my story now?

Back in the day, every Catholic school in the archdiocese met at the river on a Saturday morning in the fall, and we had the option of walking or biking twelve miles. Twelve miles. We risked Malaria, starvation and getting pummelled by the St. Paul kids. It took us all day long and left us but exhausted shells of children, but we earned those ten-cent-a-mile pledges, people, we earned them. Oh, that's another thing; we took pledges per mile, we weren't just handed large checks with no promise of giving anything in return.

Things are different now...now, the kids call gramma and grampa or perhaps dad brings the pledge envelope to the office. That way Precious and Shnookums don't have to do any door to door soliciting, risking abduction or worse, the possibility of hurt feelings and rejection, which as everyone knows lead to drug abuse and premature sexual experimentation. Do you know how many doors I got slammed in my face by irate old people rudley barking that no, they wouldn't pledge me, because they supported (insert name of a different parish here)? It built character.

Anyway, the kids now bring in fat checks they had to do zero work to get and in return they receive a fun little trinket, a bandana or some such thing, because God forbid they not be given a prize for waking up in the morning. Then on marathon day they stand around eating doughnuts and listening to a DJ.

I told my kids in no uncertain terms that I expected, at the very least, three miles of sweat out of each of them. We get to school, and within seconds they have all splintered off to eat doughuts and dance. I literally chased them all back onto the track and loudly threatened them that all monies received would be returned if I felt they had not done the proper amount of suffering, that hey, guess what, mom and dad don't really like dragging their keisters out of bed every morning and going to work so they can afford to send you to this school, we could be using that money for some premo cable channels instead so quit yer caterwaulin' and get moving.

Sometimes a public shaming is called for.

Hot. It's hot outside, like weird hot, like July hot. Projected high of 85 tomorrow, TC marathon day. Brutal.

October 4 '07

"Monday nights are hard for me," she said sadly, leaning against the kitchen counter, her chin resting in one hand.

Aww, I thought; they're newlyweds, two young lovers trying to make it in the big bad adult world, trying to scratch a path to the future via ungodly hours, modest pay and a dog that was clearly retarded...was it all getting to the kid already, after just 8 weeks? And as her big sister, how could I help?

"Do you want to talk about it?" I inquired gently.

"There are three shows on I like and they're all an hour long," she explained.

"Plus, I have to watch Sunday's Californication. Thank God for my DVR or I'd be up all night."

Huh.

Just got back from Meg's soccer game. There was an area of the field that was partitioned off; the grass was fragile or the sod was new or something, I'm not sure exactly, but there were several large stakes with flag-peppered ropes strung between them, the universal sign for "keep off", right? So the game ends (we won, yay) and I'm looking around for Molly, who, like most 6 year olds dragged off to an older sibling's sporting event, has spent the entire game flitting around the field trying to get strangers to buy her candy.

I'm not really seeing her, and just as I'm about to get up off my duff and actually look, I see a little kid streaking toward the paritioned-off grass...hey, there's a kid running like a bottle-rocket towards the forbidden grass, someone should stop that kid...blond curls, pink top...she's gaining speed...no...noooooooooooooooo.....

she busts through the string and across the forbidden grass, arms up like she's auditioning for Chariots of Fire 2.

Why is it always my kid?