NewscomaGot A Two-Pack Habit And A Motel Tan

Last night I saw Dirk Diggler and his strapping son, Dirk Diggler Jr. (DDJ) who were throwing an Anheuser product back anticipating hump day, I guess.

Dirk told me that someone purposefully killed DDJ’s husky, whose name was Ice. Not only did they kill this dog, but they killed three of the neighbors dogs, a lab, a boxer and a boxer mix, with poison.Whatever poison it was killed these four large dogs quickly and in just a matter of minutes. Dirk lives outside of Hoots

Dirk ended up going to retrieve the animal at 3:30 in the morning after he got a call from his neighbor, the one who lost three dogs in one night. Ice was gone. The authorities took what Dirk said was an empty tupperware bowl and some of the pets’ blood for analysis to see what exactly they had been give to eat.

These pets were murdered.

I am more pissed off than words can say about this.

Whoever did this, I hope your man or woman bits fall off painfully. You are a waste of air.

Rant over.

I walked into the used bookstore in what I will now call Hoots City, which is not Hoots Proper or Hoots Commons. It has a tire plant, a Christian coffee shop and some rather exquisite juke joints. I walked in, my friends, with a heavy mind.

I love a used bookstore. There is a smell and a feel that you can only get with an arm load of books that you spend less than a tenner on.

I miss reading. I do. Without Wifi (how many times must I tell you that living in rural Tennessee is horribly expensive. Without broadband access, which is terrible enough and, no, don’t stereotype it or I will cut you, because you honestly just don’t understand. How could you? 60 bucks for 5 gigs transferable and then a dollar a minute. Imagine kids who need the Innertubes who just can’t afford it. Hell, I can’t afford it. Sheesh. Lecture over.)

I decided I needed a book. Something amusing and entertaining that I wouldn’t have to think about. A diversion where the boy gets the girl, where there are alligators and monsters or something especially special, like aliens.

The books smelled as all older paperbooks do. Earthy and almost a bit like musk and sawdust, many of the spines were broken but I looked through them with determination. I will not pretend that I looked for Jane Austin or Charles Dickens. I found books I like from Carl Hiassen and a new horror author to me named Nate Kenyon who wrote a book called Bloodstone, which has imagery of a small town in New England that will make your gums bleed it is so powerfully detailed.

We forget things, you know. We are so busy, all of us, being pundits these days on line, that we forget what enamored us to the word on a page.

A woman, in what my mother would have called putter pants in a shade of dusty pink with expensive shoes to match, looked diligently in the romance section of the small shop. Her hands where full with Harlequin Romances, the kind that used to cost about $2.95 when I was a kid.

I don’t judge, man. I love a good story where two people find each other. It’s escapism. I have nothing more to say about that. Occasionally we all need a little bit of romance in our lives.

Actually, as I was looking for true monster books, I was a bit jealous.

Her hair had been completely coiffed in a beauty shop and stood sweetly on her head in a strawberry blonde that had obviously been created just for her. It was quite attractive and you could tell that this was a moment for her each week that gave her some extra oomph. I can only imagine that she chatted with casual friends who gave her a moment of feeling a bit … special.

I walked around, looking for a find. I picked up one book and the pages were so old and fragile that there was a slight dust that came off of the dry pieces of bound paper. I am sorry, Richard Matheson, yet I had read the book before so I put it back, fragments of aging, yellow and brittle paper stock on my fingers. I can only imagine that it had set in an attic or a basement for a time and had been sent to the place called budget books.

I found an old copy of Danse Macabre by Stephen King, which I absolutely love. I put it in my pile, but it was in no better shape than the Matheson book.

I bought it anyway. Some people are comforted by romance novels where the true love reins supreme. I, on the other hand, feel a special bond with monsters.

Strawberry Blonde peeked in and was staring at me as I set in a small chair in the “H” section. I knew she was chatty the minute I saw her, yet I was having a day of feeling a bit invisible. It wasn’t warranted, mind you, it just was.

SB (Strawberry Blonde) : “Do you like books?

Me: (Feeling invisible and somewhat surprised that someone could see me): I do. (I smiled because that is what you do in Hoots.)

SB: I come here every week. (She grinned. It was the grin of a lonely woman. You have to understand, on this day, I was a bit lonesome too.)

Me: It’s a good place to come. (Could she see me? I wondered. No one has seen me for months. I mean, yeah, I get talked at but not always talked to, and I was surprised. I am not crazy, but in the last few months, I have felt like I was just an invisible person living in this world. I really thought I was transparent at least. A living ghost.)

SB: (Smiling) What is your favorite book?

Me: (As a ghost, which would have been me, I was gathering my books. I had three. I hoped she didn’t notice.) I guess ‘To Kill A Mockingbird”. What is yours?

SB: I like every book. I do love the romances though. My husband laughs at me.

Me: Well, I like them too. No worries, really, it’s a good thing.

SB: (She looked at me pitying me. I didn’t expect that.) Oh, I’m not apologizing. They make me happy. After my husband died, I lost myself in them. It was our joke, you know.

Me: (No words. Feeling like a major heel. Still feeling invisible although at this time, a very small tiny person. Her look was so … beautiful as she said it was a joke between them. What is wrong with me, was my first thought. These books were her connection to her love that was died.)

SB: Oh, don’t you fret, honey. Life hits you sometimes. It’s best to find things that get you through it.

Me: Of course. (I was the size of Tinkerbell at this point.)

SB: (smiling a broad smile at me.) Enjoy your books, honey.

And then she was gone.

I got in Squirrel Queen’s truck after I paid and I didn’t move for a very long time.

As I write this, I hear a storm brewing in the distance. I wonder if she is reading her books.

I hope she is, as am I.

I went home and read about monsters in small towns.

It had been a week where all I really remember was the haze. The truck stalled on the Interstate as I headed to Nashville for business. The heat index hit 120 as I sat waiting as patiently as I could for the truck to cool. Brian Mays was on Terry Gross on physics and music and I sweated.

It could have been worse, but I admit the heat is a brutal and vicious mistress. Especially when you don’t have air conditioning in your vehicle. I reminded myself that at least I don’t work eight hours a day in a factory that doesn’t have air conditioning. I realize I have little to complain about.

The week was pretty much a blur. I worked on things and, in some ways, they worked on me. Finally I headed back to Hoots where I ran into Mr. Jimmy of Cat Head Biscuit fame. He has also had some not so kind words regarding guns in bars in the past. I have not seen Mr. Jimmy for awhile and being that he is America’s most exquisite cusser, he was a welcome face after a very long week. The night before, I had received some news and although it wouldn’t have mattered to anyone else, it hit me in the gut.

Mr. Jimmy was exactly what I needed. And on another note, what I needed was the comfort of Hoots because the two combined are sometimes life’s best therapy.

Mr. Jimmy: I need a damned yard sign. (Of course I am editing for a PG crowd on this blog when it comes to Mr. Jimmy.)

Me: I’ll get you one. We have some and I’ll get you one right away.

Mr. Jimmy: You can stick the #^$Q@(**# thing in my yard. Only about 12 damned people in this county voted on Thursday. It’s a damned shame. Only thing that is a level playing field and no sumbitches got out there and voted. I see the town just going downhill.

He sighed and there was a wistful look on his face. He believed what he said.

Mr. Jimmy: Ain’t no jobs. Ain’t like it used to be.

Me: I know.

There were friends around and I had been told that he had donated his body to the The Body Farm in Knoxville. A mutual friend said he needed pictures. I asked him about it.

Mr. Jimmy: I got the damned paperwork signed and my body is going to Knoxville. When you’re dead, you are dead as a possum that got hit by a Ford on the damned side of the road. I need some pictures because after they do those studies on me, they will want to do facial reconstruction. They need some pictures. I’ll be dead so it don’t make a damned bit of difference to me. Do you know about The Body Farm?

Me: Yessir. I do.

Mr. Jimmy: Want to see how bugs are going to eat on a dead person.

Me: That sort of breaks it down.

Mr. Jimmy: I don’t go to funerals and I don’t want a funeral. I do walk up to the funeral home. I sign the guest registry and then I get the hell out of there. I don’t want to see my friends dead. I don’t want to sit around talking about how natural everybody looks. Hell, they look dead. And, there ain’t gonna be a funeral for me. I don’t need a damned funeral.

Me: How are you feeling, Mr. Jimmy?

Mr. Jimmy: I don’t feel worth a shit. (And he looked tired. As he walks everywhere with his library books and his cane, you could tell the heat had taken it’s toll.) I can’t even drink beer like I used to.

Another one of his friends came up and his attention was diverted. I had thought I was melting, but I can’t imagine how this heat has impacted people like Mr. Jimmy who must walk where they need to be. He doesn’t have a choice, although his neighbors and friends take care of him when he will let you.

The next day, I put a sign in his yard. The ground was dry and relentlessly stubborn. It took three tries for me to get the packed dirt to break up enough so I could stick the wire in the ground. He walked out in a bathrobe without his signature fedora. I think that’s the first time I’ve even seen him without a hat.

Me: I brought your sign, Mr. Jimmy.

Mr. Jimmy: That’s good. That’s damned good. (He gave me the thumbs up and promptly turned around going back into his small duplex.)

A thumbs up from Mr. Jimmy guys is not a bad thing in the least.

I spent much of the weekend working on my novel, dusting it off and actually doing a hard edit on it. It’s going to be one novel and a sequel I will have to finish and being that I wrote it, and abandoned it, about five years ago, I decided to dust it off. (Lost ye olde confidence, I guess and got bogged down.) What I found was a lot of dialogue that needed to go (although there is some I like I just had a tendency to repeat myself) but I think the characters are pretty strong and reflect real small towns. It ain’t Dickens, campers, but I also think it’s pretty good. Envision demons coming to Hoots … no, seriously. And there is a plucky editor. AND, there are a bunch of demons and incubuses which means … you figure it out. Thanks to Aunt B and FaintGrayLines for being an encouragement on this thing. I mean that. I’ve always wanted to write horror novels and by golly I did.

The other template, that I actually adored, wouldn’t allow comments so, well, dammit. I’ll find one I like but playing in code has been fun. Got several emails that people couldn’t comment so … we will go to this one until I find one I like better.  Remember you whippersnappers, I’m older than you so this stuff doesn’t come natural.

The Rick Wilson room at Caddies will be unveiled later this month. I’m really excited for the family and from what I’ve seen, it’s going to be absolutely incredible.

Thanks to everyone who has voted for Mabel for governor. She appreciates it, she really does but her main goal now is to be Secretary of Steak. For me, it’s to make sure I’m employed as the Christmas season approaches us.

Last and final notes: Would it be wrong to throw a telethon here at Newscoma to get me a wireless card for the farm where Internet is just not around? For Hootsvillians, they are about a million dollars. (Cue Dr. Evil.)

My goal today was to go watch sports in a bar. But, of course, I live in Hoots which means no sports bar unless it is Nascar. I don’t really understand Nascar but I like to cheer when it’s on so patrons look at me like I need a Xanax and I wait patiently for the wrecks where I take a deep inhaled breath and say “Maaaan” alot. I’m learning, quietly and assuredly, I am learning. Not about Nascar, but about when to time my faux outrage.

Well, Feel Good Friday is groovy and I haven’t done it in awhile.

Changing things around today and practicing some stuff I need to learn for work on my very own blog. Excuse the mess.

And I went back to where I started in the inverted. I like it better.

When I am in a weird or tired frame of mind, I go talk to strangers. I am personable enough and can pretty much talk to a book of stamps so it isn’t hard for me to strike up a conversation. The reason why that I go roaming is that I usually learn something kind of cool and on the other hand, there are no expectations.

I have said before I have huge commitment issues so I guess you can say I am a love and leave ‘em kind of girl, especially when discussing things in a coffee shop or in a bar. I’m comfortable in these places. I’ve had some pretty unique conversations recently and the newscoma of old would have put on her trusty cape and ran to the computer to document all the inanities and serious coolness that I had witnessed. I’ve been going through this thing that I miss blogging for fun and I should do it more often because when you do things for dough-re-mi, they are no longer as much fun. I love talking about politics, but when it’s all you do, you sort of just want to talk about books, catfood, do zombies remember smoking cigarettes or that your dog’s breath having a high stink factor.

Well, these things entertain me.

And so I will take you to the meeting of a stranger who helped me want to write again.

There was the guy I met who was a gravedigger. He had the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen and, quite frankly, was built like you could imagine a man that works in the dirt would. Tight and sinewy, he was listening to a conversation I was having about reality television (No POLITICS or people bitching at me about politics when they don’t know me because I honestly need a break from it thus seeking out a new ear and voice) and I mentioned that I loved Deadliest Catch. I also said that staged dating reality shows make me want to stab a Hummer.

He said, “I do too. It’s a show that makes me cry and it’s real. They should win an Emmy this year.”

We went on to discuss how it was hard not to bawl when Capt. Phil died and how the finale was just as devastating as Edgar told Sig he was ready to take a break.

My gravedigger said, “Sig felt like he had done something wrong. Men do that. We hide behind anger because we can’t deal with stronger emotions because they are bruising to our very souls. We take it out on those people we care about entirely too often. We shouldn’t but we do.”

A poet … I found a man that puts coffins in the ground who was wrapping words around as if they were light feathers caught in the sun.

We continued to talk, with other folks I might add, about genders and what is expected and what is reality.

He knew Squirrel Queen’s father and mentioned that he had been in charge of burying her grandmother last year. He said he had gotten him out of a jam awhile back but he didn’t tell me why or what J.D. had actually done for him. I didn’t press it and no one else did either.

“Are there ghosts at the cemeteries you work at?” I said, because sometimes I have the social skills of a cabbage.

He smiled, “I think so. I feel the air stir sometimes when I am alone. I know someone is there and I always try to say hello, to let them know I’m taking care of them the best I can.”

The conversation went on a bit but it was time for me to leave.  We talked of many things, of how the heat destroyed the fresh flowers on the graves, on how he sometimes saw people crying desperate tears for their losses and how he would wait for them leaving them with their grief. He talked of his first child and how she still spoke to spirits in their older house and how she would smile at things he could not see and how he could feel them though when he was alone with the day-to-day tasks with his job.

“What is your name?” he asked as I stood up to go.

“I am just nobody really, but my friends call me Trace,” I smiled.

“You having a bad day? You definitely aren’t nobody,” he laughed and reached for my hand, shaking it within his. “I am Thomas.”

I said it was nice to meet him and that I was having a day of having the self-confidence of roadkill, a summer actually but I didn’t tell him that although I believe I could have and it would have been more than okay.He nodded knowingly saying he had been there, done that.

“You are going to remember me as Thomas the Gravedigger. And when you do, that’s alright with me,” he said. “You aren’t telling me everything and that’s okay too. Did you just need a day to be free?”

I nodded.

“Well, were you?” Thomas asked.

“Yes,” I said. “And thank you more than you will ever know.”

A gravedigger taught me some lessons in life and humility.

Thank you Thomas, I needed that. I needed it like water. I needed to not be anyone or anything other than Trace for a little while who likes a show about crab fishing and likes to talk about ghosts.

Thank you, sweet gravedigger.

Quick observations from Hoots:

• I met a second guy who talked to me about wrestling a bear. Now let me say, wrestling a bear is more popular than I once thought. He was also in his 70s and I guess they really don’t do that much anymore. Animal laws must have stopped it although I have no proof of that. However, there is something quite charming talking to an older man who made money wrestling bears. During his day, he fancied himself as an Elvis of sorts. While I talked to him in a bar and grill, Pat Robertson played on the TV. I found that to be odder than the beer wrestling.
  

  Mabel

• I walked into a local juke joint and heard the saying “Thank God you are hear. Dudes are being stupid and sexist and I told them you would take care of it.” Yeah. I gulped. But I took care of it.
• I heard an elected democrat actually act like a democrat. (Praise be!!)
• I heard a kid say that he didn’t understand why the news loved Lindsey Lohan so much because he thought she was old and sorta sad. (Said kid was 11.)
• I saw Dr. Richard Chesteen and his wonderful wife Gloria, and they are awesome. If you don’t know Dr. Chesteen, you should.
• Went to get a wireless card for my computer and realized Hoots is getting hosed. (Staying at a place that doesn’t have access to broadband or wireless.) I might has well of bought a new car. Needless to say, I didn’t get the wireless card.
• Heard a woman talking about getting botox.
• Investigated things I’m not going to talk about.
• Had an allergic reaction to a woman who apparently decided to wear two bottles of some fruity smelling perfume. I was sitting in a coffee shop and I have to tell you, that wasn’t fun. Death by Eau Du Smelly. She was a really cute girl, she didn’t need that. I will apologize for hacking and coughing here in a delightfully passive aggressive way. I was sick for three hours.
• Got mad.
• Got over it.
• Read another Carl Hiassen book.
• Worked on my novel so I can send it to some folks. Man, I must be a horndog or something because apparently I like writing the sexy.

Not much, but I am writing over at Speak to Power as well. Today’s version is about democrats losing confidence.

This may make you laugh all day.

Given to us by a local farmer

The air conditioner went out on the day after Memorial Day. The car and some other things died too. It is what it is. We are not waitresses or bartenders … bloggers write because we love it and tip jars don’t usually work for writers. We do it because we feel compelled to do it. Yet, there is not always time to write for pleasure these days.

Life gets in the way.

I try though, I do. Recently, I revisted a novel I wrote about five years ago before I started blogging. I have dusted it off, updated the technology terms in it and am trying to break it into two parts. It’s given me a lot of joy in those moments that I have felt isolated at Squirrel Farm. I sent it to some people I trust and they reacted positively. I needed that. I’ll just be honest, I don’t know what to do with it and there just isn’t any possibility at this point to self-publish.

You may be wondering about the A/C, but it won’t be fixed unless there is a $5,000 dollar tab included and that isn’t going to happen .The car went out about the same time although it should be back today and the smart phone … well, you have to make choices …

However, I have learned wonderful things, things that people that are online might not know about my life right now as I’ve been on the farm.

I saw the skunk family more than once. The mother leads her babies out late at night. Mabel will bark and we do not let her out. Steph calls them The McStinkersons. We are not the Partridge Family with their tomato juice. and we know that is the skunks are nocturnal so we leave them be much to Mabel’s dismay (and occasional desire to pee which has be put on hold while they frolic around the yard.) We see the baby foxes wrestling. There are three of them and we believe that the mother is gone but someone is taking care of them. They play and they wrestle and there are at peace with the farm.

There is no broadband. There is not dial -up. Oh, there is at schools and libraries but when children and their parents are working on the farm, there is nothing. There isn’t even access to either option so when you hear candidates talking about access, listen to them. I’m living it now. The thing is that some folks don’t know what they are missing because they’ve never had it. They will have to soon as so much is going online. Education is changing and broadband will be needed for all citizens in the state sooner rather than later.

They are busy people on the farms now. The corn is dry. Soybeans look pretty good. Milo surrounds the farm. Now, it looks like tiny corn but that will change, I’m told.

I advocate for rural America but it falls on deaf ears. Maybe that’s just how I feel sometimes.

This has been a very hard summer. I get up and head to town with dawn pressing impressively at my back.. We now have NPR again which is so wonderful that I can’t even explain it and I listen to it, avoiding the deer who feed to the dismay of the farmers on the burnt corn.

Yet, the bossman filmed several of his commercials in Hoots on Thursday. I showed it off. Hootsvillians answered questions and watched as a very hot and tired production crew filmed the town which came off looking quite lovely, the courthouse standing tall and proud. The response was good. They didn’t know what they were getting into and yet they found that stereotypes are just that, false images of rural America perpetuated. It went well for both those who live here and for those who don’t.

Sales tax was brought in, snippets of small town America were embraced for a few hours and, alas, I left sunburned but relatively happy that I got to show Hoots off.

It’s a start and it was of the good.

.

We are a nation of people that for over 200 years has set impossible goals and reached them. A president said we would land on the moon within a decade, and we did. Another president was so immersed in his convictions and idealism that he had to deal with the secession of the South and a brutal war that often had family members fighting against each other.

Idealism? Political strategy and pragmatism? In the end it’s what the history books tell us but I do believe without idealism that the other stuff really doesn’t matter.

In recent years, political idealism still exists but is put into constraints by political strategy. Maybe it’s always been that way. Outrage is not new to our generation.  When Bill Clinton left office, we forgot the surplus and focused on a damaged dress but history has been much kinder to the elder statesman than his opponents would have thought ten years ago.  It reminds me that now in a world of instant communication that we are so busy being irritated at our leaders that we aren’t seeing everything that they are saying. We can overreach and it’s not easy but it can be done.

A press release recently drew some state reaction this week from the TNDP. It reminded me that we take a few steps forward and go a couple of steps back. The thing is that I remember JFK saying we could make it to the moon and that he overreached. It worked. It are those that overreach that make history. It’s the political structure that sits on the sidelines safely, thinking more of reelection than setting a bold agenda that forgets the lessons of time and that there is a great responsibility to change a mindset or a social/financial more that oppresses.

We always live in a world of the possible and those who still want the status quo will fight for what they think is theirs and not on a world that really is everyone’s.

The Declaration of Independence was where our forefathers overreached, thinking long-term for a nation that escaped religious tyranny and oppression to create a republic that would focus on the equality of man. Of course the definition changed and it continues to change. We have fought wars, seen technology bring a world together where the world is more attached, shone arrogance and humility and we look to what is next.

What will my generation’s legacy be?

I believe it’s time we decide to overreach again. I see the Declaration of Independence as a guide to possibilities, a map to being the very best we can be.We should remember everyday, not just a day of picnics and watermelon and beer. There were no corporations then calling the shots, I remind you.

From the episode 100,000 Airplanes from The West Wing, Sam Seabourn tells a reporter about FDR’s State of the Union address where the country faced a new war with a vicious enemy. The fictional account has Pres. Jed Bartlet wanting to include that he wishes to eradicate cancer within a decade after he spoke to some oncologists who said it was possible but we lived in a world where we just didn’t know. Bartlet’s staff knew that politically it wouldn’t fly as their leader was facing censure and that the American people didn’t want to hear “I don’t know” but wanted concrete answers which aren’t always a given anyway.

It was a perfect case between idealism and political realities. He said:

“In 1940 our armed forces weren’t among the 12 most formidable in the world, but obviously we were going to fight a big war. And Roosevelt said the U.S. would produce 50,000 planes in the next four years. Everyone thought it was a joke. And it was. ‘Cause it turned out we produced 100,000 planes. Gave the Air Force an armada that could block out the sun.”

Overreaching is good. It’s important and it is in the spine of our nation. I hope that we can find that overreaching on social issues are important as well, that those who think larger and higher than their counterparts who play it safe, never make history.

Happy 4th and God Bless, my friends.

An exchange between Donna and Josh from the West Wing from the episode Take Out The Trash Day.

Donna: What’s take out the trash day?
Josh: Friday.
Donna: I mean, what is it?
Josh: Any stories we have to give the press that we’re not wild about, we give all in a lump on Friday.
Donna: Why do you do it in a lump?
Josh: Instead of one at a time?
Donna: I’d think you’d want to spread them out.
Josh: They’ve got X column inches to fill, right? They’re going to fill them no matter what.
Donna: Yes.
Josh: So if we give them one story, that story’s X column inches.
Donna: And if we give them five stories …
Josh: They’re a fifth the size.
Donna: Why do you do it on Friday?
Josh: Because no one reads the paper on Saturday.
Donna: You guys are real populists, aren’t you?

You’re welcome.