They were replaying, in conversation, a blow-by-blow of what they’d done earlier that morning: sledding. It doesn’t snow here the way it does “up north.” The threat of a half-inch closes down most businesses and schools.  We’d gotten several inches, actually.

And they had gone sledding.

And they were talking about it.

One guy said, “Yeah, I hit you pretty hard.”

Another guy said, “Yeah, you did.”

They laughed at that. Then, said the exact same thing again, using different words, and laughed again.

From where I sat, they seemed to be having a really good time talking about nothing. Or rather, the same thing.

It prompted me to say to Thomas, who was with me, that I wondered exactly what it is we talk about. Do I ever say anything worth talking about? Not just between me and Thomas, but between me and you, me and the world, me and everything.

I really couldn’t answer.

And Thomas, being a good friend, wasn’t going to a) encourage me in the irony of talking about whether or not I have anything worth talking about, and/or b) tell me the truth.

But, he understood.

Maybe there’s not even really a problem, here. Maybe it isn’t about what you say when you’re with your friends as much as it’s about being with your friends.  Still, it takes a few brave people to hang out, and then say nothing the whole time, wouldn’t you say?

On the other hand, everything you say can’t be a pearl of wisdom.

The issue, then, is striking a balance.

I’ve noticed in myself—because this hypersensitivity to blabbering didn’t just raise its head yesterday—that I do talk about myself a lot. I do. In almost every conversation I enter into I find that I try at almost every moment to correlate whatever it is we may be talking about to myself.

I do this for several reasons: equal disclosure, familiarizing myself with subject matter, using myself as a safe example. That’s what I tell myself, at least.

I’m sure the people on the other end of the conversation don’t see it that way, per se.

And yes, OK, OK, sometimes I bring the subject back to myself to maintain a modicum of interest in conversations, especially those I find boring.

But, then, don’t we all do this? Who can pay attention forever? Not me.

Perhaps, we should take a moment and dissect a conversation, though.  

A conversation is two or more people engaged in a point of interest with either corresponding  or opposing views. (I threw that “opposing” in there, although technically that’s called an argument). In general, one person offers a statement; the others then add to it or redirect by offering a separate statement, right?

Am I close on this?

In Speech, I used to teach the old formula that Communication (which is, in its most basic form, a simple conversation) = a Speaker  (Information) + a Medium + a Receiver– as little Noise/Interference as possible.

In that formula, I’m afraid I’m the Noise/Interference, much more often than I’m the Receiver. Because people in general bring a lot of “noise” with them: cell phones, distractions, menus, time constraints, make-up, it’s an endless list dependent only on the environment in which the conversation is being held.

I, at least, recognize that I’m responsible for a lot of my own “noise.”

First, it’s hard for me to concentrate, even with big ears. I say I listen too hard, but maybe that’s a plain, good, old-fashioned lie.  I do listen for too many things. And so, sometimes, I pick up the wrong indicators, and respond to a minor point, or no point at all, in a conversation.

I often miss cues.

The other day I was at the theatre, helping build the set for our upcoming production of The 25^th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee; I play Panch, who doesn’t sing because I don’t sing during the cold months if I can help it; the temperature is too hard, too thick on my vocal cords.

We cycled through several topic-strings, one in particular involved my recent trip to Orlando and the E.T. ride at Universal, which led to technological advancements in amusement park attractions, which then jumped to The Goonies and Martha Plimpton and Stand By Me and the fate of those boys in the movie both literal and cinematic and then here’s what happened:

Paul, the director, was in heaven stabilizing a platform for the pianist; heaven is what we call the upstairs part of our stage. He said, “I wonder what the significance of the M&M’s is.”

I had the perfect, made-up response, and said, “It’s all marketing. E.T. had Reese’s Pieces, so The Goonies took on M&M’s.”

I was wrong on a lot of accounts. I knew for instance The Goonies had successfully secured a coup with the Baby Ruth, and assumed I’d just forgotten the scene with the M&M’s. (I hadn’t. There are no M&M’s in the movie); I also incorrectly thought that the movies had come out in the same year. (Again, no. E.T. – 1982; The Goonies – 1985). I also thought we were still talking about E.T. and The Goonies. (But, we were not).

Paul was referencing a scene in the musical.

They were gracious enough to not call me out on it, but I think it’s because I’m already considered a wild card in conversations, as in, God only knows what Kris will say, just keep talking. He’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but he’ll laugh at anything, so roll with it.

So, I rebounded by laughing, naturally, as if I’d made a joke so funny and of such wit and internalized reference that to explain it would render us all fools for not having caught it in the first place. (That rarely works, by the way; instead, I just come across as weird and eccentric, but not the cool, fun kind).

Yet, when I think through the many conversations that I’ve had, I’m not sure I’d change anything, really. Maybe I didn’t always understand everything being talking about; maybe I faked it; maybe I meant it; maybe I gave good advice, or talked about myself the whole time. Maybe I’m just a conversational hazard.

I don’t know. I can’t remember every conversation.

But, what I do recall is that I was there, with you or him or her or us or y’all. I listened, you listened, we listened. We shared; we disagreed; we agreed.  We gossiped; we stood up for ourselves; we sympathized; we misheard, whatever.

When the dust settles in the years to come, all we’ll really remember is that we went sledding, we went to lunch that one time, we worked on the set, we talked about movies, etcetera.

We’ll just remember that we were together.

Period. 

And really, that’s all that’s worth talking about…

Related Posts:

• No Related Posts

Well, I should say, House.  Because this House was alive, a real, bona-fide living House.

In addition to that, this House lived in an envelope.

That’s right.  An envelope.

(It is a buyer’s market, right?)

At any rate, I’d been out of work for some time, and as a favor, the House had hired me to paint a new coat for its exterior.

Except, instead of paint, the House had asked specifically for poetry.

So, I was writing, in very large and tall letters of what appeared to be a scratchy, knockoff version of Edward Gorey’s Gashlycrumb Tinies script the following stanza:

Find a snake in the grass,

cut him back with the lawn.

Though, he’d make a good pet

if you cut him back young.

Lovely, isn’t it, just lovely.

For whatever reason, that little stanza of near nonsense has haunted me, today, until I was finally forced to write out a full poem. If that’s indeed what I’ve written.

I mean, it has nagged, nagged, nagged me.

I finally gave in.  About an hour, ago. 

I hope you somewhat like it.  At the moment, in case you’re wondering, it remains untitled. 

Find a snake in the grass

cut him back with the lawn.

Though he’d make a good pet

if you cut him back young.

He’d feed on your whispers

at the end of each day.

If he can’t have the yard,

he’ll take the shed and the rake.

He won’t need a lot;

he’s accustomed to lack.

Just make sure he sees You

much more than your back.

And dear God, never touch him,

don’t let him curl up your arm,

don’t let him smile at your smile,

don’t let him warm

up to you or your family.

That’s an old trick of his.

Trust your eyes, first, then yourself.

And remember that this

is above all, a snake, in the grass

on your lawn,

and even if you did

cut him back while he’s young,

the whole point of a pet

is to know who is The Master.

Give a pet love with distance

or else it’s disaster.

And if, by this point, a pet

snake seems a bit much.

Do me a favor, then,

and keep your yard cut.

 I, of course, didn’t get this far in the dream. I woke up (rather, was awakened by Max, who was a rude dog this morning, if I do say so myself). I only managed to get that first stanza “painted.”

So, I, sadly, do not know if the House even liked what I was doing. I’m not even sure if I liked what I was doing.

Amanda, at least, was kind enough to say it was, and I quote, “[quite] Shel Silverstein of [me].”  I will wear that as a small token of genuine appreciation for what I know to be a true artist’s spirit, of which I possess, and in spades.

 Rhyme and meter…well, they don’t belong in the game of spades. Or hearts, or Gin Rummy, or Old Maid.

 Now, deal.

Related Posts:

• How on earth do you wash a Fedora? [and other random thoughts]…
• So, you know…I really like a potato log.
• Sometimes, it’s a lonely thing. And sometimes, it’s like being Jesus.
• $3 Makers
• "Pickled sausage isn't on my Wake-Me-Up Stuff list."

I don’t like admitting it, but fortunately, by the time you realize it’s true, there’s no point in admitting it because, theoretically, you’re experiencing it, you’re the guy at the other end of it, getting my evil.

I’m not sure but somehow that last bit sounded gross, didn’t it.

Anyway.

I’m human, and being human means coming with an evil side.  And it’s a lot easier, every now and again, to revel in that than to pretend otherwise.

I don’t try to understand it anymore than I try understanding why people spell words out in front of children or own rabbits as pets. Case in point, I tried spelling out something the other day in front of A.K., whose five, and smart boy that he is, was spelling along with me, unbeknownst to me. There’s just no clear line drawn as to when one should stop spelling in front of kids. So, why bother. Say it right on out loud, teach them early, get it over with.

Yes, please make it disappear.

I ended up having to get him a milkshake, as it was.

As for rabbits…well, I’m clueless. Why would anyone want a rabbit as a pet. I don’t know. It makes no sense to me.  They’re completely unemotional. They appear cuddly, but they don’t require cuddling. They don’t care; they have to be one of the most apathetic animals on the planet.

I’m not entirely sure they were even brought on the ark.

Could this stiff opinion of mine stem from being bitten by a rabbit as a child, one that had been given to me as an Easter present from an aunt that we often referred to as horse-faced? Maybe.

Or maybe I just don’t like rabbits, and never did.

It’s a question for the ages.

But, what I do know is that it’s time to give into my evil side, for a few minutes, and reveal the Top 15 Most Insulting, Meanest Things You Could Say To Another Person, On Purpose, Or Even Worse, Accidentally. I’ve been sitting on these for a couple of weeks now, tallying up the entries, suggestions, comments, and pulling all the answers into a list that I consider to be quite solid: there are some pretty mean (and evil) things said, here.

Some I’m pretty sure I’ve accidentally said myself; a few I’ve said on purpose, but only to the mirror in the privacy of my bathroom, pretending I had the guts to say them in real life. Do you ever do that? I still do. The bathroom has been a great refuge for me, over the years. A great stress relief.

But, more on that later…for now, it’s on to the list. I received a lot of great insults, I have to say.  Some were broad and some were very, very specific. I cringed a little at those; I hate to think any of you were ever on the receiving end of some of these zingers. In the end, I went with what I thought constituted a blanket-style of insult, and that meant culling it back from 25 to 15. But, hey, they were all good, and 15 is, I’d say, a lot easier to “keep in your back pocket.” Unless, we were talking about cash. Besides, if you’re going to hit somebody where it hurts, I figured, you might as well hit as many as you can in one fell swoop.

So, without further adieu, or ado, here is the Swoop, as it were.

1. I’m praying for you. – Donna B.
2. You are so unnecessary. – Nicole B.
3. When are you due?—Jennifer C.
4.  I hope you shit yourself, one day. – Nina A.
5. Oh, look! Better people. – Christian Z.
6. Damn, not you again. – Abigail V.
7. Why does your face look like that? – Marisol R.
8. Your father should have rolled over and shot you on the wall. – Anon.
9. You make me want to punch you. – Danielle B.
10.  When I look at you, I feel bad for your mother. – Anon.
11. I can’t think of anything I like less than you. –Ray M.
12. I definitely upgraded. –Simone C.
13. I’d throw acid on your face to knock you down a peg or two, but it looks like somebody beat me to it. – Jack S.
14. Anybody who told you to be yourself simply couldn’t have given you worse advice. – Abigail V.
15. Oh, wow. You look tired. – Lynn N.

These insults will knock you flat on your back.

Thanks for all who submitted. This was a lot more fun than I thought it would be. I’ll have to come up with another fun list, and soon.

Until then, though, feel free to use these, whenever and wherever you want. Just, you know, use them at your own risk. I assume no responsibilities for any fist fights or libel suits that result from their usage, especially number 8. Ouch. I mean, that one really hurts.

More than anything else, have fun with them.

Oh, and Happy Holidays, while I’m thinking about it.

Related Posts:

• I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
• "The magic stops here," She said.
• This is a sappy blog, and it was well overdue.
• Nothing but the blood: GamVa.
• So, you know…I really like a potato log.

I rarely get anything back from them, so that’s hardly the reason why – there’s no monetary motivation behind it – it’s just that, deep down, I really like filling in things, forms, blanks. I like putting things where they go, seeing them meld into the template of the 1040EZ, or the W-2, or the New York Times Crossword.

I like it because when things fit, I’m pleased.

I like it because, when it’s all said and done, it looks neat.

And I like it because it looks intimidating:  To think that all the hard work you’ve done throughout the year can be reduced to nothing more than a small collection of rows and shaded squares, all neatly labeled and cross-referenced by the IRS and national bank chains.

There’s a part of me, a part I do admit mostly trying to deny, though, that craves organization.

It’s true. 

One of my favorite games to play growing up was Beleaguered Librarian, for crying out loud.

I think 26 Down is "Loser."

And before you ask, here’s how it’s played: Melinda, a favorite childhood friend, and I would spend hours in her house, going room-to-room collecting all the books we could find; they’d been mis-shelved, obviously. We’d have to settle down at the kitchen table (the office), and take out all the postcard-sized bits of paper we’d previously put inside them (carrying the title of each book and Return Date, clearly legible), complain (quietly) how time-consuming doing this was and gossip about how rude it was that “most of the people who come in here don’t even bother to look at the return date, anyway,” which meant we would have to charge them overdue fees.

Groan.

This, of course, required more paperwork: more pieces of paper cut checkbook-size, which would then have to been written out with the amount of the fee expected. This would have to wait until we’d re-shelved the books, obviously, because “so few people who come in here put the books back, they just leave them lying anywhere.”

No one ever came to our library.

And yet, there was always a ridiculous load of work to be done. Before you knew it, a whole Sunday afternoon had passed.

I’m not even sure there’s room in the definition of Nerd to describe this game, but play it we did. And we loved it. And I don’t think we’re one bit ashamed about loving it either.

It satisfied a deep need I had for order, as a child. Yet, I rebel against this same sense of order today, for reasons I cannot explain fully—though in part, I have more than an ample girth of opinion.

I'm still Kris with a "K."

I think it has something to do with a fear of conformity, with the surrendering of our uniqueness to the One-Size-Fill-in-the-Blank Philosophy of capitalism.

They force us to become One by not letting us be one, you know?

Our entire careers, taxes, insurance claims, retirements, bank accounts, you name it, are all sitting, in duplicate, stuffed in large, collective boxes, stored in back rooms, looking exactly the same to the naked eye, from the shelf…when the naked eye cares to look.

You have no Name with these constructs, just a Number. And the back room itself is a last-resort, at that. The glory-holder of anonymity these days is without doubt, the computer.

Heck, it’s like that at my school, and we’re in the middle of somewhere even Verizon can’t find.

Half the people I teach, when it’s time to record grades, are faceless, student ID numbers scrolling across my computer screen. There’s very little humanity in it…but it certainly is neat, contained, and orderly, which is something of an improvement over, ahem, humanity.

And in attempt at appeasing Big Brother: I kinda like it, I have to say.

No, now, I’m not saying I don’t want to know or care about my students, I certainly do, but even more than that, I like ease and convenience. I like knowing that I can pull these obligations out of my own mind and dump them in some software whose sole purpose is not to care; a problem of mine, personally, is caring a little too much.

That’s got to stop, to some degree. Especially as I get ready to do two things: teach online and bravely face this mammoth of a Program Review Report, due by Friday (I’ve just been told).

Online teaching has its own challenges: The severity of setting a deadline is hard to manage in the physical classroom. When it’s online, however, either you do it by 3:00 PM on Thursday, or you don’t do it at all, e.g. I’m OK with that, as a professor, even if I’m more than a little bothered by it, as a human, but then, I’m not paid to be a human.

Touché, huh.

It will take some adjustment, I know.  Doing your taxes still requires intimacy. Teaching students whom you’ll never meet doesn’t.  That’s the part that I will struggle with, even against the alleged ease of online education.

Because starting next semester, my words are going to count for a hell of a lot more than they do right now.

This mammoth Program Review is a different devil. I’ve only been here for four months; this report doesn’t care, though. I’m now, among other things, responsible for figuring out who spent what monies badly over the last three years…and Why.  I’ve been staring at this thick, multipage document all morning; I may or may not have had a stroke around 11:38. I have little to no intimacy for it. Scratch that: I hate the damn thing.

But, considering that, a couple of things come to mind: either I can be afraid of it, of losing myself to and behind a computer screen (who respects a computer screen?), or I can take pride in filling out these forms, tooting my horn whatever note comes out, and creating lessons and assignments and syllabi that are creative and challenging – on my own terms.

I’ve chosen to re-institute my sense of pride in the latter; it’s less unknown.

Try to reach $1.00 without going over.

I’m intent on making my words matter. On the shelf in that back room, I might look like any other overindulgent Rolodex entry; on the bank’s computer or the hospital’s, I might be nothing more than a statistic or a blood count, but when you pull my name out of the piles to read about my medical history or educational philosophy, I better make sure what I’ve written down can stand alone…and speak for itself.

(People do still read, right)?  

No, rather than be upset by the New World Order, I plan on going down (at least on paper) in a blaze of glory. I’m determined to be a “good read,” if I’m nothing else from now ‘til kingdom come.

Which, according to some popular opinion, is December 20, 2012.

…and I can last another two years, easy.

Related Posts:

• “I’m the freaking boss of TV, just so you know.”
• He was called Bear because he looked like a bear.
• Mercy Blog, Part 3: A Nearly Christian Apology for Eighth Grade
• "I'm not so sure that shrimps is correct."
• There’s no “I” in Verizon. Oh, wait, Yes there is.

Because I, personally, like a hobby that’s a challenge. And both of these are. It is not so easy to lie, as you might think. The closer you are to someone the craftier you have to be. But, I like that. I’ve always been good at crafts, thanks to Vacation Bible School.

Ask U.L.

He’s kept every single thing I ever made at VBS, with the exception of that frightening plastic Jesus-on-the-cross-shaking-hands-with-PawPaw objet d’art I made, when I was six. I don’t blame him for that, though; it’s difficult to know how long these things should bake in the oven before they’re ready. Also, why on earth six-year-olds would be given anything, plastic or otherwise, that required an oven is nothing I can fully explain.  Anymore than I can tell you why I received an Easy Bake for my seventh birthday.

Hide your secrets. He's back.

But, U.L., like it or not, would lie to me and say, “I love it.” And, sweet man that he is, kept everything like it was a treasure…some in public, but most of them in the cedar chest, “for safekeeping.”

I don’t want to flat out say I learned how to lie from him, but I can’t deny that it was a routine part of my upbringing, under the wily auspice of “sparing someone’s feelings.”

Because that’s not lying; that’s “good manners.” When you spare someone’s feelings.

Eavesdropping is another thing, altogether.

And no, it’s not the same as gossip. Technically speaking, you’re not actively participating in the gossip itself; you’re merely hearing it. It’s more like being a human garbage can for jealous, backbiting, enviable biddies and their wayward tongues.

And, who’s going to say a garbage can is a bad idea?  People don’t want trash in their lives. That’s how I think of gossip; it’s trash you can’t wait to get rid of. That’s why I eavesdrop; I’m the trash can. If your trash includes a commentary on the “pitiful woman who forgets to put a bra on when she cuts the yard, and doesn’t cut the yard until You Know Who gets off work because they’re having an affair ,” then I’m more than happy to eat your garbage.

That kind of trash is 100% pure treasure.

But it doesn’t always come easy. That’s why I have to lie, sometimes, to be honest.

A well-placed lie encourages confidence, and once confidence is attained, you can leech right onto their tongue and pull out all number of stories, rumors, beliefs, hopes, fears…

Maybe I’m just an evil person, like my Aunt Estelle says.

But, I don’t think I am; I don’t think I’m doing anything different than anybody else does, aside from admitting it.

I lie and eavesdrop because a) it makes me feel like a spy which is something I always wanted to be, and b) Why not. Nothing quelches a bad day like a good lie and a strong arm-shelf (which I imagine one would use with which to lean on, straining to overhear what shouldn’t be overheard). Oh, and FYI: “quelch” is a word in the same category as “ginormous.”

I heard she was made of ham.

I don’t do anything damaging, per se, with the information I make-up or overhear other than use it a base for a character, or a story line, or cocktail conversations because they’re not real.

And, hey, it’s not like I haven’t been lied to or gossiped about. Heck, I’m basically an urban legend…rumors about me are so old they’re just south of being a fine cheese.

I remember two, specifically:

1)  After my Oral Interp class one afternoon I had a strange, young man (whom I’d only met briefly, and by briefly I mean that he was coming into the party as I was leaving) approach me outside of McComas Hall and tell me he was praying for me.

I was touched if a bit put-off, but I said, “Thank you. May I ask why?”

“I heard,” he mumbled, “And we think you’re brave.”

A pause.

“I’m just, I’m very sorry for your illness,” he finished.

“Oh, OK. Well, thank you.”

I mean why tell him otherwise; attention is attention, and surely to God, by now he knows…or thinks I’m a survivor. He held the door open for me, patted me on the back. Suggested I eat peanuts, which I’m assuming was a clue as to what I was suffering from…or, perhaps he was hoping I was anaphylactic and this make for an “easy out.”

The second time was a bit harsher.

I was just nineteen, as thin as three seconds and a breath of air, and completely hairless (this was at the height of my sexual identity issues and eating disorder – more on that when I’m intoxicated), and for whatever reason, I was cast against type as Captain Brackett in South Pacific. This news made its rounds throughout the campus, like a fire-sale.

Even my Spanish Instructor had something to say about it, in front of the class, which resulted in a healthy bout of laughter.

I felt horribly miscast and overwhelmed, for the second time in less than a year, but I reminded myself that even amid the horrible anticipation of my role as Big Daddy, earlier that semester, I had managed somehow to get them on their feet for an exhaustingly, well- deserved ovation…and I do say so myself.

I’d just have to do it again.

After opening night, I was hesitant to attend the reception. I treaded to the dressing room, rinsed the make-up off, pulled on my civilian attire, which had just begun to include a hat, and put my glasses back on – I would just slip away, like that, nothing to it.

I tried to tiptoe through the side lobby, but a few other actors — some of the chorus of Seabees — were also exiting through that way, and we all got stopped by this achingly sweet elderly couple, holding punch and a shared paper plate of melons and strawberries.

You can always blame a strawberry. Always.

“OH! Here they are!  Trying to sneak off! Hey! Y’all did great!  Just great…such great voices!!”

(You should note: Captain Brackett doesn’t sing).

But they thought I was part of the Chorus…so, maybe I could slip on away…

“Thank you, thank you,” we murmured.

I took a step toward the doors, when I heard: “Even that Captain did a good job, but we’re confused about it, though.”

I couldn’t resist. This was eavesdropping at its best: they didn’t know who I was, at all!

“What about?”

“Well, as many people as are on this campus, I don’t understand why they let a girl play it. But, she was very good, all the same.”

I paused, swallowed, a bit excited and angry and proud and hurt.

I took off my cap, so they could get a good, full look at my face.

“I am that girl,” I said.

The woman reached her hand out, took mine in hers, and said, “And you do a real good job, honey.”

…

Liar.

Related Posts:

• Real love requires 2" heels, at least.
• Pointing, by the way, is not polite.
• Suffice it to say, I was spanked, a second time, OR The 100th Blog.
• He was called Bear because he looked like a bear.
• But, wait, let me back up and come at this like a drill.

Because I love desperate people, people who are in dire need of belonging to Something: a group, a party, a conversation. They’re simply fascinating to watch in public because they have no radar for ridicule.

My money's on the guy in the yellow shirt.

Enter: Me. The Radar.

I’m not always “in your face” about things, but it takes all kinds, I know, and I respect those who are. For me, I’m much more like a Dorothy Zbornak; I like to fight with my wit, when I have any.

Like that girl, last night, whom I’m supposing I met thought I don’t recall an introduction. She was one of the beautiful and desperate people I’m referring to. They always make such good stories. And she, you see, had Something To Say.  And she was going to tell whoever was listening, or, as it were, not listening.

But, let me set the scene.

I’d decided to treat myself, yesterday. And I fully intend on doing much, much more of that in the future, as a means to “get through the day.” It’s a nice goal to focus toward, as in, God I hate this job but I’m getting a fried green tomato sandwich and peach mango martini when I’m through and that’s going to be just fine, you know that sort of thing.

Next on my list is a massage.

I get to the restaurant before the rush. It’s practically empty. I love this. I love having a huge restaurant entirely to myself. It makes me feel gauche and worth it.

I sit at the bar and place my order. The bartender looks awful. He’s aware of this and begins to tell me this horrible, god-pitiful story about botulism, that he acquired at an Olive Garden in Florida two weeks ago…he assumed I was going to ask, I guess.

Not your usual entry point into a conversation, I know, but as it just so happened, I, too, had a botulism story to share, and it also involved the Olive Garden, but this one was in Tuscaloosa. I’ve been hedging my bets on going back to the Olive Garden, convinced it was more than likely an isolated event. I do not feel this way anymore.

I will never eat in an Olive Garden, again, ever.

He, the bartender, had been hospitalized, then confined to bed rest, and now, though he was able to be mobile, he was unable to eat. He couldn’t keep anything down, not even crackers.

Not even crackers.

I knew too well that feeling. He’d lost almost twenty pounds, already, he said. (I felt that was just rubbing it in my face, but whatever).

It was at this juncture in our exchange that a body appeared and plopped down right next to me. She was, in fact, too next to me.

“God, dude, you look like sh*t.”

Clearly, she could have sat elsewhere.

Whatever happened to hello? Then, I realized she wasn’t even talking to me. She was talking to the bartender. She was merely sitting almost in my lap for funsies, I guess. To be fair, there were only twelve other empty bar stools available. I should cut her some slack. Though it would also have been fine if I could have just cut her, period.

She launches into such a casual tirade of swear words that I’m fairly certain I blushed. I used to blush all the time when my Grandfather Lee would curse, out of embarrassment for all tri-state listeners. Yet, it was like an art form, how effortlessly he interwove harsh language with typical parentheticals and everyday How Do You Dos. Just like this Wandering Dandy of a Thick-Calfed Girl.

I’m not sure if I blushed out of respect or fear, with her, though.

Still, on she went, stating the very obvious in the most colorful of terms. I excused myself and went to the bathroom; I felt the need to wash my hands.

When I returned, she hadn’t left.

I was determined to enjoy my treat, though, and I wasn’t about to shovel this delectable sandwich down my throat…so, I did what we all do down South. I grinned and bore it, all the while telling myself that I would just blog about it later.

After several PBRs (at least they were in the bottle), she seemed to mellow. Thankfully.

Now, in my own experiences, I’ve discovered that people who “cuss” excessively are either socially awkward geniuses or functionally retarded. Not mentally, and I’m not trying to belabor an ill-conceived joke, I mean they have been slowed down in the state of being able to function, independent of coarse conversational skills, in an effort to hide this truth: they’re mainly idiots. Well-intentioned, perhaps, but nevertheless.

I was eager to discover which category she fell into.

The TV above the bar was, as you can guess, turned to sports, which I’m strangely growing fond of watching (this is more than confusing to me, but I’m open to it, I’m open to it). During a commercial break, a trailer for the newly released (and artistically brilliant, it seems) movie Where The Wild Things Are popped across the screen.

We'll try another time, my dear.

She said, “I can’t f*****g wait to that g*d**n movie.”

I swallowed, “Yes, it looks like a good one.”

“Yeah,” she continued, “I just bought the book. I want to read it first, you know, then go see the movie…but I’m only halfway through it.”

And then, I knew. I’d made my discovery.

I said, “Yeah, page 10 is a real killer.”

She nodded, “But the pictures are nice,” and ordered another PBR, oblivious.

I excused myself, again, to go laugh in the bathroom.

I almost didn’t come back out.

Related Posts:

• I was able to order my fish sandwich without incident.
• I'm addicted to crack (machines).
• “I’m the freaking boss of TV, just so you know.”
• Five foods that made me who I am.
• So, you know…I really like a potato log.

It's Kris with a "K," unless this is about taxes.

I figured something out yesterday: 

The closer I get to someone, the more of my name I lose.

It’s not the first time, I admit, that I’ve had this thought. I’ve often been concerned with the apparent fluid boundaries of what constitutes Identity, especially where names are involved. I got it naturally; after all, I’m no average Chris…I’m Kris…with a K.

I even wrote a song about it once.

It was always a delicious fantasy for me, though, in grade school, to change the spelling of my name on my homework assignments. I mean, Chris (with the “Ch”) was as foreign a person to my mind as a glass of water feels the morning after a heavy night of drinking.

I didn’t know who “Chris” was, at all. No clue. I had no attachment to that sequence of letters. I only knew “Kris,” and I liked him very much…but it was fun to “pretend” to be Chris.

Growing up in Mississippi, you can imagine, I’m sure, how much we get renamed. It seems everyone I know has a nickname that has become so prevalent that they’ve probably forgotten their actual birth names. In my church alone, on any given Sunday, we’d have a Bear, a Rabbit, a Moon, a Boozie, and a Tappy. Until I was in fifth grade, I never knew they had other names at all.

I just assumed they had either simple-minded or unfortunately colorful parents.

I, myself, was no stranger to the onslaught of nicknames. I’ve had several in my life, none of which have really stuck, except to personal friends and family, like Boo, Roose, and Scooter. But they resonate enough times throughout the year, my nicknames, that I’m reminded of this truth: naming things, naming people, naming period is a very powerful, obligating construct.

My ear has been carefully attuned to the euphonic/cacophonous rhythms of what names people call me by today because of this.

The further out from my inner circle they are, the fuller my name gets. People who call me by my whole name, or with prefixes, are people I do not know well. When I hear someone call me Kris Lee, or Mr. Lee, my mind immediately responds to this by forcing me to assume a more political, diplomatic, or professional demeanor. 

It happens instantly; I’m barely aware than I’m doing it.

If people call me simply Kris, I am then mentally cast in a more informal light. I assume I have shared, or disclosed, some Conversational Point, in the past, with this person. I’m not entirely put off guard, or at ease, but I’m not stressed about presentation, as it were. I’m a little more relaxed.

But, then, if you were to hear me on the phone with my family (and by the way, I hate talking on the phone), or if you were with me visiting my family during dinner, etc., you would soon begin to realize that we rarely, unless angry or fervently disagreeing, ever call each other by our names, at all.

Not even in terms of endearment. It simply becomes second-person: Would you get me some salt?, Do you mind checking on the rolls?, Are you liking your job any better?, Goodbye – I love you…etc.

Which raises an interesting question: Why why why why does this even remotely matter?

Wish I had an answer.

OK, wait, maybe I do, sort of.

I think it matters because two opposite things occur. The more of the name you lose, the freer your Identity becomes (i.e., I’m not Kris to everyone, but who is Boo?). And that question leads to the opposite: Do I get to create Boo, or am I subjected to your idea of who Boo is? And if so, then who is Boo?

This picture is included for every reason you're thinking.

This is getting ridiculous, I know. But, do you feel less or more You when someone gives you a nickname, or erases your name altogether in lieu of calling you something generic like Baby, Sweetheart, Son, Dear, Honey, Sugar, and so forth?

It puts a whole new light on the “term” part of the phrase terms of endearment.

And, as Fate and Irony would have it, this whole struggle with Identity and names made the news this morning.

Here’s an excerpt from the article:

TAOS, N.M. – Larry Whitten marched into this northern New Mexico town in late July on a mission: resurrect a failing hotel. The tough-talking former Marine immediately laid down some new rules. Among them, he forbade the Hispanic workers at the run-down, Southwestern adobe-style hotel from speaking Spanish in his presence (he thought they’d be talking about him), and ordered some to Anglicize their names. No more Martin (Mahr-TEEN). It was plain-old Martin. No more Marcos. Now it would be Mark.

Actually, the whole thing is worth a good read: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/us_trouble_in_taos

I mean, what was that man thinking? Names aren’t carelessly given; not to the newborn, and certainly not when you consider yourself using all your wit to rename someone else.

Now, I don’t think the people I know are trying to dictate my personality by giving me nicknames. It’s actually quite flattering. But, as with most flattery, it’s also quite confining because nicknames, renaming, whatever you want to call it, is really how people pigeonhole or categorize a person.

Your name is your definition, whether it’s your real name or not.

I asked U.L. to make sure I wasn’t off the mark. He knows everything, you’ll recall.

Why do we call Bear, Bear?

He looked like a bear, U.L. said.

What about Boozie?

Used to be a heavy drinker.

Moon?

Ironically, it's also known as a Jews harp.

You should know this, U.L. said…and I did. Moon was my uncle. He used to listen to a radio program in which a character named Moon played a mouth harp. As did Uncle Moon. So, you see, then, how the nickname stuck.

Nicknames are often identifiers. My father was called Roose (as was I, as a child, by his father) because we had long legs and strutted, like a rooster, when we ran.

Hey, I didn’t say nicknames were without cleverness.

To be honest, at the end of the day, there are a few that stick for good reason. Either they’re entirely true in their depictions, or they’re just so damn witty that you can’t help but love them.

Once, and only once to my knowledge, has a nickname been both true and witty. After a very long rehearsal, for a very difficult show I was in, we went out for a much-needed drink. We were gossiping about the show, etc., you know how it goes, and I said something painfully funny and ironic, though I don’t remember what it was.

Mike, another guy in the cast, turned to me and said, “You know what Kris Lee…you’re my favorite adverb.”

That one, of course has stuck. 

And though it only really works in the context of the whole story, it’s still sweet.

Related Posts:

• Excuse me, did you just call me a fad?
• “That’s not lying,” he said, “That’s good manners.”
• The very idea of texting your mother…
• Faith for five dollars…and Tennessee Williams.
• But, wait, let me back up and come at this like a drill.

God help us all if we get arthritis.

You tell me if you get this: a student gets up to leave at the end of this morning’s class, and casually turns back to me and says, “Well teetle, I guess! Have a good weekend!”

Teetle?

Do you know what that means?

I didn’t either.

I asked her to repeat it.

“I said ‘teetle.’”

“Do you mean like toodle-loo? Is that what you’re trying to say? As in, See you later, toodle-loo?”

“I would never say that. That sounds dumb.”

There was a lull as we tried to figure out how to communicate what, at first glance, appeared to be nothing but a simple, closing remark as she headed out the door.

“So what are you actually saying to me then?”

“’Teetle’ like you know, T-T-Y-L? Teetle.”

Let’s stop right there for a moment, shall we? I’ve never known anyone to say this in actuality, ever. I’ve never even known anyone to use it in a fashion other than via texting.  I have in a joking conversation heard it used before, but they spelled it out, as in “Well, t-t-y-l, I guess. Have a good weekend,” where they pronounced each letter carefully so as not to shroud the humor implicit in using texting code in passing conversation.

But, to use it as a complete word, and so nonchalantly, as she did…both frightens and fascinates me.

We’re redefining the way we communicate in this culture at an alarming rate.  Case in point, I think I’ve told you this already, but I’m experimenting with some of these new-fangled definitions of communication in my composition classes. I got so frustrated with them constantly texting during my lectures, etc. that I decided to embrace it, instead.

I certainly couldn’t get them to stop without jeopardizing the “learning environment,” per se, so I challenged them to write their first narrative assignment entirely in SMS text code. Far from daunted, they leaped at the opportunity. I’ve never seen a class so focused on a task before. I’ve also never had a class turn in an assignment so quickly and on time before either. I collected their papers and perused them a moment.

Rarely seen in its natural habitat, the A+ paper is an herbivore.

It might as well have been Klingon.

I had not one clue what they’d written. I was, however, impressed at how condensed a three-page narrative paper becomes when all we use is text; it reminded me of Nana’s shorthand notebooks from when she was the Church Social Secretary. Somehow, in those strange conglomerations of letters, and very few vowels, they’d, almost hieroglyphically, told me their life stories.

I thought, Think fast, Kris, what do you do now? And was instantly given this idea: pass the papers back out, but randomly, and then have them re-write the paper in Standard English. I mean, we all use texting, pretty much, but we don’t all use the same “codes,” it seems, little of it actually SMS.

That proved to be the real challenge. And one they faced with proper grumbling. They whined and moaned and griped that they couldn’t “understand most of this.”

I pressed further, saying, “OK, then write down what you think they’re saying, or what you think they’re trying to say. We’ll ask afterwards.”

It was a remarkable day, I must admit. They had to actually think through the assignment because one student complained that she didn’t “say it like that” when she texted. Another student said she used several versions of a couple of codes depending on whom she was texting (i.e., her friend a.k.a “BESTY,” or her mother).

The very idea of texting your mother.

No, what it really challenges is language we’re comfortable with. Language that we’ve been taught; this is a generational issue, any way you look at it. Even though I text, myself; I already feel as old as my parents. I imagine it wasn’t much easier when Gutenberg’s and Shakespeare’s “thees” and “thous” were thrown out in favor of the more colloquial “yous” and “yours,” but at least they were still using whole words.

Or, you could pick up an Austen novel. Or Shelley’s Frankenstein. We don’t talk like that, anymore, either.

I also understand the resistance. The uneducatedness of utilizing text in formal writing. If I have to circle one more “ur” and mark it for not being “your,” or “you’re,” which still, as far as I know, represents two different sets of semantics, it’ll be too soon. But, it seems we’re standing on the precipice of a major paradigm in communication, all forms, but especially written communication.

Back in the day, writing a letter took effort, and time. It had to travel, so we prepared each letter with a certain timelessness considering the art of handwriting. These days, there’s no such consideration given. Or, so it seems, though I’d be willing to bet that personalizing an entire system of texting the way “you do it,” as compared to someone outside your circle, is nothing short of a craft in and of itself.

Even if it looks tacky.

Really, texting is just glorified telegramming. And it’s here to stay.

Looks like a size 6, to me.

Of course, this could all be a long phenomenon. And nothing else. I suppose when all else fails we still have the ability to actually talk to each other. And to listen…though that’s challenging enough for some. Somehow, today, in my catch-all Opening that begins each of my lessons, I managed to address several broad topics: cell-phone usage while driving and Maria Shriver, the horror film Paranormal Activity, Halloween costumes, and carbon footprints.

I’m not sure if he was joking or not, but it was still funny – I’d just mentioned the term carbon footprint. And a young man asked me to explain what it meant. I said, “I thought surely you would have discussed this in your Chem Lab. I’m no scientist, but surely you know what a carbon footprint is?”

He said, “Well, I don’t know about you, but mine’s a size 12.”

I looked at him a second and then allowed the wash to come over my brain. What other choice did I have?

I looked him straight in the face and said, “LOL.”

Related Posts:

• The Art of the Dirty Word.
• And, for the record, I really like my shower curtain.
• That time I was in a Sartre play: part of a memoir, sort of.
• When I grow up, I want to be a box of crayons.
• He was called Bear because he looked like a bear.

It won't work without the right chalk.

It never fails to generate conversation, though.

Especially at the Freshmen and Sophomore levels. They love thinking about being a kid again…but that’s not so hard a leap to make since most of them are still acting like they are kids.

Yesterday, when I asked this question I got mainly typical responses: Hide and Seek, Cops and Robbers, Red Light, Sharks and Minnows, Freeze Tag.  These quickly escalated into junior-high types of games, such as Dodgeball and Steal the Bacon. And one rather adult game that I’d never heard of before, called Traffic Light. (I’ll have to discuss that later. Over drinks, I’m afraid).

One poor thing, near the middle window, said Tetherball, and I immediately felt sorry for her.

After mulling over their responses, though, I realized something upsetting: The main point of half the games mentioned was to outwit, outrun, outdo an opponent. Or, beat them senseless with a large rubber ball, either free-hand or tied to a string. All the games they mentioned were, in effect, games that taught skill at the price of humiliating defeat.

I was hoping someone would have more innocent games to discuss, like There Are No Ghosts in the Graveyard, but when I mentioned how I used to play that all the time as a kid, they gave me a ridiculous stare and said things like that sounds stupid, or why did you play that, were you retarded, you know things like that.

Obviously it’s not a game most are familiar with.

One guy said he loved playing Deers and Dogs when he was little. That was too new for me, and I was about to dismiss it entirely (not the least of which was due to his errant use of the plural form of deer), but he was very eager to describe the game in detail.

It took about half a breath: someone is the hunter; someone is the deer; someone is the dog. The deer hides; the dog finds him; the hunter pummels him with pine cones and kills the deer.  I asked if they ever skinned the deer, hung him up from a tree to let the blood drain out, but he said No, they never did that.

The slow girl, who sits in the corner, offered this as her favorite childhood game: Slumber Party.

I asked, “That doesn’t sound like a game. How do you play it?”

She straightened up (like she does when I mention Pizza Hut), and replied, “Well, you invite a bunch of your friends over, and then you stay up as late as you can. But, it’s OK if you fall asleep, too.”

I'm afraid my pillow is in the shop.

I replied with, “I’m afraid that’s not a game. It’s an actual slumber party. No one wins.”

No one wins.

That was the trigger: it’s always Win or Lose with this culture. Isn’t it?

After this idea seized me, I got off-track in class, big surprise, and we ended up spending a great majority of the class trying to come up with some childhood game that didn’t require a Win Or Lose showdown.

I couldn’t think of anything.

Tag, board games, Marco Polo, Hide and Seek, you name it, and there is some element of “losing” involved. Sure, you say, There’s not such an element in Freeze Tag, but there is. If you’re not “It,” you’re in the line of fire. What about Hide and Seek, you posit? Well, what’s the point of hiding if you don’t know how to not get caught. This game is invaluable to the troublemaking adolescent; trust me, there’s a lot at stake for the clever hider. Many a fight with my cousins came over the I’m Pretending To Close My Eyes and Count but Not Really Because Last Time You Hid in the Laundry Chute and We Said No One Can Hide in the Laundry Chute Again facade.

I never said I didn’t cheat. And if you can cheat, then someone can lose.

The girl who mentioned Tetherball spoke up again, and said she often would just play by herself on the playground, hitting the stringed ball around and around the pole, and watching it unravel itself. So, she never really lost any game, she said, because she was playing by herself.

I had two responses for her. And I was in serious debate with myself over which one to give.

Do I say, “Well then technically you never won, either,” and leave it as a philosophical breath of fresh air, OR Do I state the obvious and remark, “You are a sad, uncomfortable, little girl, and you have my pity. I’m also sorry you feel the need to TiVo Reba.”

There was an awkward silence in the room. The rest of the class knew what I was thinking; maybe she did, too. It was a pitiful commentary on this girl’s childhood: I mean, who on earth plays tetherball alone? I think you know the answer to that. All of a sudden, the tension thickened, and I realized that we’re never not playing a game of some sort.

It's the color of a Smiley Face, which just makes it sadder.

Every game doesn’t require a yard, a field, a diamond, a board.  Some of the hardest and toughest games we ever play happen right out in the open, don’t they?, in a quiet battle of wills, in a difficult conversation, in a struggle for power and attention from your peers, or a class…and whether I liked it or not, I was stuck in the middle of just such a battle with this young woman, as I stood in front of all my students.

What could I say? What would I say?

Nothing, really.

Instead I gave her my widest You Try Hard and I Recognize Your Effort Smile. It shows a lot of teeth, and teeth are my biggest weapon. She looked hard at me; I felt she was searching out a sign of weakness, of fabrication, for a hole in my armor. She found nothing. So, she accepted my smile, and smiled back, and then, lowered her gaze.

Which means, of course, that I won.

Related Posts:

• God had given him one-half of His Own Right Eye.
• “I’m the freaking boss of TV, just so you know.”
• Suffice it to say, I was spanked, a second time, OR The 100th Blog.
• Am I merely a heathen, now? Is that what this heartburn is indicating?
• I don't believe I cared much for sixth grade.

“Egads, Helen! Don’t do that with your teeth! The zipper’s fine.”

Or…

“Eureka! Eureka! I’ve unlocked the secret code. Now, the children may eat.”

I'll be mad if all he's got is corn.

I hated that type of diction. It was always difficult for me to comprehend who in the world would ever actually say these things. Even harder still when one of the words had a repeat. I had no idea how to even say these words.

That is…until today.

Today I caught myself in the hall precariously torn between the constant hum of the Men’s bathroom vent and the lure of the weather just on the other side of the double-doors. I was heading to the theatre, to unlock it when it happened: my Ah Ha moment – the expression, not the band – and it had little to do with my predicament. It was a random thought that, I guess, had been running around in the back of my mind all morning with a pair of pinking shears. (Like all thoughts do).

I suppose it tripped and poked through.

I said, a tad out loud, “Eureka! I know now why I’m so grateful to have a job.”

Consequently, I discovered how an actor goes about learning the best way to deliver such Bathtub Gin-era dialogue. You have to stumble upon it. You have to “happen into” it. Then, you lead it back into the nether regions of your mind, and leave it there…with a new pair of pinking shears, of course.

Anyway, my Ah Ha moment: I’m grateful to have  a job because now I can retire.

I love knowing this. I’ve been sitting on a thimble of anticipation all afternoon planning my Life After Work, what I’ll do with all my that free time, that Me time. I’ve been more absorbed in my job today than ever because I know that this will all be over soon.

I mean, these next thirty or so years are just going to fly right by me.

It’s nothing against my job, no, no. It’s more about the fact that my job’s so time-consuming. Work really cuts into my social life. It prevents me from having one, mostly.  Well, I should say, work tries very hard to prevent me from having one.

But, I’m made of sterner stuff than common sense, I’ll have you know. 

Oh, Work, thou art a Meanie.

If he's not in bed by 7:00, I'm suing.

First, I’m forced to go to bed each week night at a certain hour that I thought was created only for teething babies. So, I’m restricted from activities that I’d much, much rather be doing. Then, I’m practically driven by guilt to and from a stupid office (but it’s a nice, big one – though I can’t see out of the windows). Then, I, like, have stuff to do that involves my signature and monies that I never actually see, so I’m not sure the budget even exists…you get the picture.

It’s dull and boring and there are a thousand-million other things I could be doing, like, for instance, Nothing.

So, I think it’s quasi-judicially clear, that this ability of Work to prevent me from doing What I Want, is in effect, a crime. Work forces me, by luring me in with the promise of a paycheck, to do…you know, work. Work that I would not have done had I been left alone, to my own devices. To add insult to potential injury, if I don’t do the work, guess what?, they’ll ask me to leave.

Consider the language here: luring, forces, punished. Read between the lines, people. This is a generic definition of entrapment.

And entrapment is illegal.

Everybody knows this, and if they don’t…well, here, you do now. This is what it says in Webster’s about entrapment; of course, this is the second offered definition, but that doesn’t matter. Numbering isn’t important in the dictionary:

2 : the action of luring an individual into committing a crime in order to prosecute the person for it

Hello! Thank you! Please! It’s so obvious, right?

I’ve obviously made my case. And it would, more than likely, hold up in a court of law. Actually, change that: I don’t think I’d really need a judge or a court of law. The declaration I’ve made on this blog should be sufficient. And, next on my agenda is a new law to be made that states “what a blog says, goes.”

Today might grant a brief reprieve, because I do truly count my blessings for today’s revelation: I’m like every other working man on the planet that lives in a country built on the concept of free enterprise and who’s not a) a political prisoner denied amnesty, b) living in abject poverty in a Third World country, or c) a White Male Republican Southern Baptist minister. 

Excuse me. I’m probably wrong about b). I’m sure they work as hard as the rest of us…they just have nothing to show for it.

Life is hard, and then you vacuum.

And, today, in essence, I can join their ranks. Not in the working hard department, but rather in the ranks of those who come each day to their 9 to 5, or their 12-hour shift, or the drive-thru lane for that unfortunate FT’er: we salute proudly the very tangible fact that come one day, we will retire.

Not quit, not get fired…retire.

Which means, if we’re smart or very lucky, we’ll have money to spend, receive some sort of a pension check in lieu of social security, perhaps, and have days and days full of nothing to do but Nothing.

I mean, come on…there’s no other word that works, so just say it already: Eureka!

Heckfire, it makes me want to French my vacuum.

Related Posts:

• That time I was in a Sartre play: part of a memoir, sort of.
• The Art of the Dirty Word.
• Last night, my ankle had an out-of-body experience.
• If you don't want to bleed for it, don't put it in your blood.
• Because hands can do everything but lie.