Wendi/Writings/Shorts
From ThinkPrank
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What’s an anti-censorcist to do?
Got Jordan Rain a portable CD player for his birthday (early) so stopped at Jobie’s to let him & his brother pick out a CD.
Last time we were at Amoeba Records on Haight Street they chose the Rugrats in Paris soundtrack. When they’re feeling hilarious they blast it to bug me. So anything but Rugrats.
Jordan Rain chooses Ludacris “Word of Mouf” cuz he wants rap. They guy says, we don’t have the clean version in. I say, how bad is it? And he says, the F word and more. I say to Jordan Rain, just don’t repeat it to your teacher or your grandmother, and don’t call no woman a b***h and there’s a wiggly loose tooth grin under that hood. The guy says, how old is he and I say six, which sounds too young, but then his brother pipes up, he’s almost seven, which is significantly older.
As for the brother, he chooses Sheryl Crow “C’mon, c’mon,” which is so much worse.
At home Jordan Rain exclaims, Mom! It says M-O-T-H-E-R-F-U-C-K-E-R!
Now, that kid can spell! Unh, unh, unh.
Covenant Fornication
Strenghtening 'I Want' with a More Binding Legal Tie
Due to the mounting popularity of "Covenant Marriages," impromptu ceremonies are popping up in parking lots, brothels, and hotel lobbies for "Covenant Fornications" and "Covenant Adulteries."
Covenant Marriages, a neo-con invention to strengthen the "traditional" institution, are being performed in Arkansas, Arizona, and Louisiana. Covenant marriages have been upgraded with a more legally binding tie, including a counseling requirement before separation. Grounds for divorce are limited to a handful of causes including adultery and abuse.
Other Convenant Marriage restrictions and perks include 1) Prohibition of blow jobs;
2) No social contact with members of the opposite sex unless with spouse; 3) "Death do us part" hotline number to Dr. Death (Oregon residents only); 4) Free Valium supply.
Sluts across the southern states are signing up for a more "traditional" approach to sleeping around. In Covenant Fornication ceremonies, one-night-standers make a vow to 1) really, really promise to be free of STDs; 2) learn the first name of their sexual partner; 3) commit to a safe word.
And cheating hearts from coast to coast are commiting to Covenant Adultery. Contract requirements include 1) leaving a casserole in the oven while fucking in a nearby motel; 2) a promise to feel guilt and obsess about confessing; 3) death threats from lover's spouse as grounds for breaking up.
Tramps, drunks, floozies -- legitimize your lifestyle. Add security and commitment to your sneaking and fooling around! Uphold these fine traditions that have made our country great.
Boo....Hoo....
As Hellowe’en fires rage and ravage in Southern California, snow falls from white skies upon the Sierras, obliterating autumn with a thick cold blanket. Days ago I was lying on the beach in the sun, but this morning I lie in bed staring out the window at the middle of January.
I put finishing touches on face makeup (one Orc, one Grim Reaper) then head outside in my eskimo hat to brush fluffy powder off the windshield and lock the wheels in 4WD. This winter finds me in a new place, higher in the mountains, with more dumpage and steeper streets. I don’t have the studded tires on yet (nobody does), so I edge my truck slowly down the slippery slope in first gear and wait for the school bus. The Grim Reaper demands to be let out to throw snowballs, the Orc growls protest as he is climbed over. A plow roars by like a bison.
Back home for a shower. Snow is falling more heavily. I brace myself for a drive around the lake for the first meeting w/my family law attorney. At the bottom of Snowcrest I try to stop but spin. Turn to the bank? No, into the spin! Sit in the middle of the road and breathe. Continue down and notice red flares. Flashing lights. Police car. Tow truck. A schoolbus. My children’s schoolbus??! I pull over by the flag guy and walk over. A pickup is smashed into the side of the bus. I climb into the bus and talk with my Orc, my Grim Reaper, a princess, and Edward Scissorhands. Everybody is smiley-fine, the schoolday is delayed. I kiss red and black cheeks. Outside I pull out my camera and take shots with the guy from the paper.
I head into Tahoe City and think, wait! I should have taken the children to school with me. Guess I was too shaken to think of it. They seemed to be grooving on the excitement anyway. I look for a place to turn around, but there isn’t one. Anyway, I don’t want to be late for my 10:00. We creep, creep as conditions worsen.
Just past town, where the roads become curvier, everyone is losing their grip. Two lanes become three lanes, traffic slides, stops dead. It’s 9:30 and I’m only ten minutes into my hour-plus drive. I pull out and turn back into a whiteout. “They” were all saying snow for Halloween, but how did they know? How can there be so much? Yesterday was all aglow with yellow and orange Aspens. Quaking in the wind. It was the Wind.
Back at the scene of the accident. The pickup is being towed away, the bus driver is putting on chains. He’s leaving in five. I slide into a seat in the back w/the Grim Reaper. How long since I’ve sat on a schoolbus? The kids are getting restless. It’s almost time for their school parade, to be held in the gymnasium, the default for inclement weather. Ride with us! Ride with us! the Grim Reaper pleads as the engine roars and I pull his fingers from my hand. He’s mad because his scythe got bent.
Up Alpine Meadows Road to Snowcrest to Mineral Springs Trail. Trees and mountains are transformed into things of beauty. Flakes come down heavy and thick. I call the attorney’s office and have a 10:00 phone conference instead. The road ahead will be messy and expensive. At 11:00 I hang up the phone and turn on REM. Resist the urge to cry. Stare at the snow, falling, falling. Ingite a pile of pinecones in the woodstove. Start dancing.
DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY MEMORANDUM
SUBJECT: Operation Jeepers Peepers
FILE NO.: 101403/1000EST/BOS LOG/ATA
“It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel safer!”
Under uneasy blue skies, the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) has beefed up its presence today as thousands of “Peepers” sweep through the doors of Logan Airport like so many leaves being blown from sugar maples. Lugging suspicious digital devices, the Peepers shuffle in hours-long lines snaking along the nether halls leading to enhanced security checkpoints. In a tactic reminiscent of EST weekends in the late ‘70s, voices announce that inside the gate there will be no food and no bathrooms. And no one breaks rank for fuel or relief. There are nervous sighs and the checking of watches. A line dance rhythm emerges: pick up yo bags, shuffle, drop ‘em, stomp. Repeat.
Outside on the tarmac, airport personnel wear bright yellow and orange vests. With DHS around, it’s always hunting season!
I, DHS Secret Agent Scully, have been assigned to watch out for Flight #155, destination San Francisco, for its unnaturally high ratio of peacenik passengers. Here they are, all standing around on a Tuesday morning. Don’t they have jobs? I notice a young woman in yoga pants, with hiking boot weapons tied defiantly to her carry-on, because of her inappropriately blissful expression in these circumstances. “How do you FEEL about the crowds and the lines?” I ask her. With a smile interrupted every few second by a barely perceptible grimace, she says, “Long lines are an excellent opportunity for Kegel exercises!”
After more than an hour of standing, squatting, lifting, and holding it in, the passengers seem grateful to remove their shoes and segregate their possessions into plastic bins. Before reaching the inner circle, however, each boarding pass and picture ID is carefully scrutinized. But wait! During a moment’s distraction the woman in yoga pants slips past the gate without presenting her papers. “Why did you do it?” I catch up to her and ask. “Little subversive acts make me feel hot,” she says.
Aside from a few confiscated reading materials, the flight from Boston goes without a hitch. But we are grounded in gray, rainy Chicago for too long. I scan the scene. So many black boots. What can it mean? When we finally reach cruising altitude, the pilot announces unusually strong headwinds and orders flight attendants to their jump seats. Luckily I am on board and attuned to the potential danger. I do a quick poll of passengers. The finding: these headwinds may be coming from Iraq! I spill hot tea on my leg and add it to the list of banned on-flight substances. A cup of hot fluid to the face could be an overpowering weapon!
As passengers plug in their ear phones and tune in to “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” I notice that the woman in yoga pants instead has a fleecy hat pulled over her ears and is ignoring the monitors. Her eyes are closed softly, head swaying. She seems to be mouthing the words, “la, la, la, la, laa-aa, la, la, la-la, la, la, laa-aa…” and “again again again & again & again…” It sounds suspiciously like love.
[END]
Estatica-Desperotica
After months of grief I am free at last, free as a bird, free to sing out in joy to the world! I am young and beautiful and talented and strong! I will have many loves, and many adventures, or one great love, or write the great American novel! I will travel to the great sites, Angel Falls, Victoria Falls, Mt. Kilimanjaro, ancient temples in the Andes. I will dive from cliffs and parachute from planes and hallucinate a new reality in New Mexico. Back in Tahoe my children will run into my arms, weep with love, and smile with dimples and teeth growing in straight with no cavities. They will beg me to bring them to South America or France, where they will speak fluent Spanish or French with a cultured accent. In our countryside villa they will play stings and horns and sing and dance and pick fruit from the trees. I will read them stories in the orchard and they will make sensitive insightful comments about the nature of the human condition. Back in Tahoe I am living in a million dollar cabin with a million dollar view of golden aspen glittering against the bright blue sky and the grey mountainside. The creek gurgles, the stars twinkle. I ride my bike on a dirt trail with my dog, thinking about the play I will produce, the new single friends I will meet, the bands and poetry I will go hear. The autumn air is crisp and all is bliss!
The air is crisp because winter is coming. Soon I will be snowed in and all alone because no sane person would live at such high altitude. The cabin key doesn’t work, the fire won’t start, I can see my breath in the kitchen. My dog submerged herself in algae muck, ate dry grass, and barfed on the carpet. I don’t have an answering machine, my email isn’t working, tech support put me on hold, I haven’t heard from a friend in days. I got my period and a pimple on my cheek, I forgot to buy toilet paper, and my check didn’t come in the mail. The boys are rolling under the coffee table kicking each other. I wake up in the middle of the night wondering about my future. When I go to pick up my belongings the locks have been changed, my stuff is thrown outside, and my old next-door-neighbor serves me with divorce papers. My ex, who seemed reasonable and affable yesterday, laughs with steel eyes and says, Happy Birthday, as I read that I have deserted, have a restraining order against me, have only visitation rights. I ask for the china and he hands me an armful of closet hangers. My 10-year-old stands on the porch pointing his finger at me in an eerie parody of his father and says, you lied to me, I can’t trust you. Back in Alpine Meadows, which isn’t my home, not really, my 6-year-old refuses to brush his teeth and I yell at him. He will tell his father, who will tell the courts, and I will lose everything and become a bag lady, screaming at pigeons as I pace up and down Market Street in the rain.
The Big Bad Luck
My sister gave me a witch’s date book and a crystal crescent moon. I’m not religious or superstitious, but I am curious. I named the crystal my lucky housewarming gift, and because I wasn’t moved in yet, hung it from my rearview mirror, from whence it scattered flecks of rainbow.
The kids and I drove to the organic market to buy red party fruit. Jordan chose a $5 mini-basket of strawberries. When we got in the car I noticed a piece of fishing line on my seat. The crystal moon was gone! I searched the floor, but it was dark. When we got home there were just two strawberries left, and Jordan had a red goatee.
The next morning the kids announced that it was Friday the 13th! I was born on the 13th, I said, it’s a lucky number for me. Don’t look at the cat! said Lukas. It’s okay, she’s black AND white, said Jordan. I want to stay home, said Lukas. If you drive us to the bus stop, the car will crash. Don’t drive over any cracks, they warned, and I said, you sillies.
I wore a pale pink cashmere sweater and hiking boots and held a rose-patterned china platter. The other mothers wore red turtlenecks and smart shoes and had made sandwiches in the shape of hearts. It was a second grade Valentine’s tea party, and the seven-year-olds knew to hold up their pinkies.
After the tea party, back at the school bus stop, I sat cross-legged on the hood of my truck waiting for a tow, reading Oscar Wilde. What luck. After the kids had boarded the bus, my truck wouldn’t start. And yet I felt freer and happier than I had in days. As I mused about the poetry in just letting life happen, fairy dust swirled around my head. It took a moment to register that snow was beginning to fall.
The perfect ending to this story would be the tow truck arriving, me checking the interior of the truck for stuff, and happening upon the crystal moon, in plain sight next to the driver’s seat. Which is what happened. But a better ending is at the tea party, telling Jordan that the truck was going to the shop. Popping the last strawberry into his smeary red mouth he proclaimed with glee, I told you! I told you! I told you!
