TRUTH, JUSTICE, AND THE AMERICAN WAY

Maddie's Daddy at 5

Yesterday was my great niece Maddie’s 5th birthday. She went with a Batman theme for her party, since she’s going to be Cat Woman for Halloween, so I guess she’s outgrowing the little kid characters and moving on to the more sophisticated preferences of a 5-year-old. I think I blogged earlier this year that she had given up Dora the Explorer for Strawberry Short Cake, but that relationship apparently didn’t stick.

I don’t recall having any cartoon or comic book idol get-ups when I was as a kid. About all I can remember is, after baths, running down the hallway, bare naked except for the towel around my neck, yelling “Superman!” Fortunately, there are no pictures to account for those occasions.

Maddie’s daddy, however, was very much into morphing into anyone who wore a cape when he was five, as these pictures show. Mama Bore made him the Dracula cape, which also doubled as the Darth Vader cape. My big sister says she saved that vital costume accessory and her grandchildren now wear it, 30+ years later. I’m glad that kids nowadays haven’t gotten so jaded by computerized gizmos that they have ditched dressing up like their idols and using their imaginations to have fun. They grow up too soon, as it is. ---

---Maddie always has her wonderful October birthday party at a big park, and she and her cousins unload their energy on the jungle gym and ride the miniature train, roller coaster, and airplanes. She opens a few gifts, then runs off to play. Opens a few more gifts, eats some cake, then runs off to play again. On the drive home from the 5th festivity yesterday, Mama Bore and I wondered aloud how many more birthdays there will be before Maddie outgrows the park…and her family. Alas, no super hero in a cape will be able to keep that from happening. :(

DOOR PRIZE

Last night Big Bore and I did what we often do when he gets home from work…stimulate our brains by watching Game Show Network. Who Wants to Be as Millionaire had a revolving door of dumbos. Even the audience was stupid. The majority thought a serape was clothing from India. That’s a bunch of New Yorkers for you. We kept yelling at the contestant, “Mexico, you idiot!” He didn’t listen to us.

Next up were two episodes of Family Feud. BB and I are certified geniuses at this game. What I don’t get, he usually does and vice versa. If we ever go on this show, we’d just be a family of two and we’d wipe out the competition. The only problem is, sometimes our brains don’t quite make a complete connection.

For example, one of the categories last night was to name rock bands of the 1960s. We had The Beatles, Rolling Stones, The Who, Grateful Dead, and Led Zeppelin out of our mouths in no time. But then I got stuck on the name of a group I just knew would be on the list.

“The ‘Light My Fire’ band,” I said. “Jim Morrison was the lead singer.” I started singing, “Come on baby, light my fire.”

“Try to set the night on FIRE!!!!!” Big Bore screamed.

Well, of course, that didn’t count, and the real contestants said, “The Doors,” before we could get it off the tips of our tongues. Bummer.

What followed, though, was the inspiration to sing a litany of Doors songs that we sort of knew, at first, but then the words ended up badly botched.

“Riders in the skyyyyyyyyy. Riders in the skyyyyyyyy. You know it is a lie. You’re eatin’ apple pie….”

“Come on, come on, come on, touch me babe. Don’t you know that I am not afraid. You’ve got me lyin’ in the shade; you’ve got me flyin’ in the shade….”

“Hello, I love you. Won’t you tell me your name? Hello, I love you. And I sure am ashamed….”

Well, you get the idea here. Family Feud was all but forgotten. If there is ever a TV game show developed that is all about creating the wrong, pathetic song lyrics, we’re sure winners.

NUMBER, PLEASE

Airhead

Before I left for New Mexico, alone, last week, Big Bore and Mama Bore made me promise to buy a cell phone. The round trip would be over 1,300 miles, and they didn’t want to have to worry for 1,299 of those. So, to make them happy, I went out to ALCO, bought a TracFone and 60 minutes worth of calling on it. That was the easy part. Getting it set up was another story.

The misery began with a call to Ishmael, whose job it was to assign me all sorts of number sets. After 40 minutes on the phone trying to understand him and see various numbers on the phone, we parted--with the idea that I was to plug in the phone and it would be ready to go in about four hours.

The next day, one day before trip departure, I decided to try out my new purchase. The first message on its screen was that I could make collect or credit card calls only. Well, this wasn’t right. So, it was back on the regular phone for TracFone assistance…this time from a female version of Ishmael, who eventually determined that somewhere along the line Ishmael and I got a number messed up. She would have to give me a whole new set of numbers to enter into the cell phone. Midway through the numbers marathon, however, I dropped the regular phone while trying to press numbers on the cell phone. Disconnected!!!

I was so pissed off at this point, I just decided to hell with it. I was taking the cell phone back to ALCO and would hope for the best on the trip to New Mexico…just like I’ve done without a hitch for the past 35 years on the road. Big Bore didn’t even protest my decision. He just sat in his easy chair, mute. He knows not to argue with me when there’s steam coming out of my ears. Plus, he truly does hate cell phones, too.

Well, the good gals at ALCO asked me if I’d keep the phone if they could get it working, since it’s hard to work refunds on them. Fine. Three clerks, one manager, and about 15 minutes later, all systems were go.

As it turned out, I used the cell phone on the trip, just for the heck of it, to see if it would work. I called my hostess once, but she was gone and her message machine was full so that was a zero. I tried calling Big Bore when in New Mexico, but there was apparently no range to connect to him. On the way home, when making a pit stop in Greensburg, I tried calling him again, with no luck. It didn’t dawn on me until I got into the next county, though, that I punched in the cell phone number and not our home number! Duh!!!

I managed to reach Big Bore at the next stop, Pratt, to tell him where I was. Probably a 30-second conversation, if that, but, at last, I was an official cell phone user…with 55 minutes left to use. Ugh!!!

Two days later I drove to Pittsburg to see a friend, 240 miles round trip. The $#@! cell phone stayed home.

TO DYE FOR

I’ve known for quite some time that my pal Mary likes to make over houses--“flips” as they are called in the construction business--but I didn’t know she was also into personal makeovers until I went to Santa Fe last week. After we’d helped Rat pick out some fashionable new jewelry and shirts for his wardrobe, Mary decided our hair needed a pick-me-up and she was just the person to elevate us to a better look.

Rat only needed a little gel and hair scrunching, but The Flaming Bore was a bigger challenge. My hair hasn’t been colored for 17 months, and it looks it. The bottom half is lighter and has no gray in it. The top half is a darker brown with mucho gray stragglers. Since my health insurance rates have risen over the past year, though, I’ve just decided that 90 bucks a whack for a beauty shop dye job is more than I care to spend, especially since the roots with the real color pop back out so quickly anyway.

But Mary, bless her, has the answer. Buy a box of any old brand and color of hair dye for about $3.00, then just use a little dab here and a little streak there with a toothbrush, wait for 40+ minutes, wash, and voila. The gray is maybe, sorta, kinda gone and there is still plenty of dye left for future jobs. It’s a subtle change. So subtle that Big Bore has yet to notice it, even though I told him Mary played with my hair during the trip.

She also told me to get about two inches cut off and have my bangs layered somewhat, to give them more volume. Both good ideas, though, which will be passed along to a real, licensed hairstylist.

While she was dying to dye me, Mary told me a funny little story from the grade school days:

“You had such long, beautiful hair and I just couldn’t keep my hands out of it. I was always wanting to touch it and brush it. (Her own hair at the time was cropped short.) You finally got fed up with me and told me that your mother had given orders that no one was to mess with your hair!” she laughed.

Although I don’t remember this, I don’t doubt it at all. Blaming Mama Bore would have been typical modus operandi for me since I wouldn’t have wanted to lose a friend, especially over such a silly issue as hair.

I’m going to follow Mary’s advice and keep playing with the hair dye. I have an aging box of auburn Clairol something-or-other stuffed somewhere in the bathroom. Maybe if I use enough of it, Big Bore will take notice. If not, I guess it’s no big, fat, gray, hairy deal.

PAINT ME RED

"Is that so?"

In continuing our quest for great art in Santa Fe last week, my pals Rat, Mary, and I meandered through the downtown Plaza area where there are more galleries. Mary took us to a photographer’s studio that had impressed her during an earlier visit. The photos were brilliantly colored shots of peasants from South America…or maybe India or China…I can’t remember. Anyway, they were big, blazing photos--nothing you’d want hanging from the walls of your home, probably, but they’d look good in a museum.

The Gallery Greeter Gal was effusive with her praise for the photographer, explaining what a wonderful connection she had with these peasants, who included a little boy with six toes on each foot, the haunting painted face of a disabled man in repose, and various smiling old women. Since the hostess repeatedly spoke of the impoverished living conditions they endured, I had to open my big mouth and make an even bigger gaffe. You see, since these photos commanded prices ranging from $5,000 to $15,000, without the matting and frames, which were up to $3,000 extra, well, I had what I thought was a legitimate question:

“Does the photographer pay them to pose for her camera?” I was hoping that they were at least getting a little cut of the action here to help relieve their poor lifestyles.

“Well, no,” answered Gallery Gal.

“You mean to tell me that she (the photographer) is raking in up to $15,000 a picture and not sharing a little of it?”

“Oh, they don’t want the money,” Gallery Gal responded.

I’m sure a skeptical look washed over my face at that point. I can make a really good skeptical look--where my mouth twists up, my nose scrunches, and an eye squints, as if I’m saying, “Are you sure about that?”

“You’re telling me they would refuse money if she offered it?”

“Well, she’s calling world-wide attention to their situation with these photos, plus she has lots of travel expenses, …and I’m sure she’s helped them out,” Gallery Gal muttered.

I could sense her defensiveness building, as well as perhaps a touch of anger. Rather than risk turning the art gallery into a mouth-shooting gallery or getting into a down and dirty bitch-slapping with her, I immediately dropped the subject, said I needed to take some medication, hustled up my companions, and we left. Probably not a minute too soon. One of the many triggers of my spazzy ear muscle is when I get riled about something.

You know, if I was making major money from taking pretty pictures of poor people and didn‘t spread the wealth around just a little, I think I’d be a pretty poor excuse for a person. But that’s just my opinion.

ART APPRECIATION

There’s an interesting area in Santa Fe called Canyon Road. On both sides of a narrow street, sit adobe buildings that serve as art galleries. Now, Pat is an accomplished weaver, but Rat, Mary, and I barely survived junior high art classes. Our talent pretty much peaked when we made seed and pasta plaques at Harriet Hesslegrave’s summer art program in Fredonia; we were probably eight or nine.

One of our early stops was to check out some modern art etched into mahogany. The colors were brilliant and the price tags sky high. The dapper Gallery Greeter Guy was a young, tall chap with a fake French accent (Rat’s expert opinion; after all, he took Intro to French at Fredonia Junior Hgh School when he was 14.) He explained the artist’s skill, speaking so quickly and Frenchy that I had no clue what he was saying. I liked the paintings, but Mary and Rat were more interested in critiquing Greeter Guy’s necktie, a red and yellow sunflower print that they determined was not apropos for the job of mumbling about fine art.

Next up, was a cool vintage western shop. The friendly Gallery Greeter Gal was loaded down with more turquoise jewelry than I’d ever seen on one body--clunky, chunky, gaudy turquoise and silver draped around her neck, clamped up and down both arms, and hanging about six inches from her ears--and she had a braid running down past her butt. A walking masterpiece if I’d ever seen one. Mary and I liked the painted cowgirl boots and fringed, beaded cowgirl jackets for sale, but since we haven’t entered any rodeos recently, we passed on making any purchases. Rat bought a couple of vintage black and white postcards for about a dollar apiece. At last, there was a serious buyer among us!

Another place we liked had mostly acrylics, shown by a woman from Iran, who was gracious but suspect of the Kansas amateurs as she followed us from room to room. There were some fine paintings of aspen, horses, and odd-looking men and women who had the slicked back hair of 1920’s gamblers and their molls. One large, bizarre painting begged for analysis. It was filled haphazardly with bright, miscellaneous images: a rainbow, fish, birds, a naked man and woman in the bushes, an American flag, a long-haired man, among them. Who better but the Flaming Bore to explain this work of modern art.

“Okay, I believe this is a religious piece,” I expertly speculated. “We have Adam and Eve, of course, and the rainbow and birds and fish symbolize Noah’s survival of the flood. That long-haired guy lying below the flag means that Jesus loves Americans.”

“That’s not Jesus,” Mary said. “That’s a hippie.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“He’s wearing a brown leather belt,” she correctly pointed out.

“Well, maybe this means Jesus was a flag-waving hippie.”

The Gallery Greeter forced a smile. (“Crazy Americans.”)

I lost track of how many great galleries we hit up that afternoon. We also saw sculptures (including the stoned lady in repose, above), weaving, pottery, fountains, antique furniture--just about every type of fine art imaginable. Well, I take that back. There WAS one medium missing. Perhaps Rat and Mary and I need to test out the market and see if Santa Fe is ready for seed and pasta plaques.

SURVIVOR HIKE

There’s a hiking area not too far from my friend Pat’s Santa Fe home. It’s both flat and hilly, sandy and rocky, and has typical desert vegetation. Quite frankly, it didn’t look like much of a challenge, and I soon became restless as I was walking in the area with Mary and Rat last week. Heck, we could still hear and see vehicles traveling on the highway parallel to where we were. This called for action!

“Let’s get off of the trail and head on up,” I suggested.

Rat expressed a little concern about snakes, but he was still game, as was Mary, so we got off the beaten path.

“This reminds me of Survivor Man,” Mary said, as we zigzagged our way up a rocky hill.

“Who’s that?” Rat asked.

“Oh, this goofball guy named Bear who has a TV show about surviving in the outdoors. He’s a hoot,” I said.

“Yeah, he takes off his pants, blows 'em up, and uses them to float across a lake instead of just walking around it,” Mary added.

We kept our pants on, continuing to weave through dry creek beds, stickery bushes, and the like. At one point, Rat got on his cell phone to call a friend back east, telling her that we were surely lost in the wilds of New Mexico. Eventually, we got high enough to see where the car was parked.

“Civilization, at last! And not a minute too soon,” Survivor Man would say, exhausted.

We picked our way back and finally found the trail from which we started. Before getting to the car, though, we found an escarpment that we’d somehow missed earlier in the day.

“I wonder what made those holes in the dirt?” one of my companions asked.

“The perfect hand and foot holds,” I said and took off to climb the little wall.

It was a cinch to scale, but I pretended it was tougher than it actually was. Mary turned camera person and photographed the stunt, while Rat just laughed at me grunting and groaning, a la Survivor Man. I pulled my way to the top and collapsed in victory.

“Who’s next?” I asked.

They did what any smart survivor would do: walked around it.