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Pain Don't Hurt

Thanks to Holy Week and the publication of this, I'm continuing to reflect on pain, the first emotion we are aware that another human being experiences (bong hit). I'm settling with the notion that as a writer, I sell my pain--wrap it up in adjectives and put it up for auction on the Internet.

Maybe this is why I could never bend myself to a normal, adult job. The same obsessive-compulsive disorder has mercifully not descended upon Julie The Nephews Mama-- it found no quarter in the sharp right angles of her accountant's mind. Josh The Pilot and I just signed our first joint tax return (I'm assuming that there is some gift shop in America which sells just the right greeting card for the occasion.) She prepared it for us. I paged through the neatly organized stacks of paper, the lines filled in precisely so, the directions highlighted. It reminded me of the evening my grandfather and Country The Brother-In-Law's grandfather once spent, seated on my parents' condo balcony and incredulously watching the lights of jet after jet descend into the Cincinnati airport. "Boy, they really know where they're going, don't they?" my grandfather said. "Right to it, every time!"

This was no big deal to the pilots and the controllers, of course. But for a person born only six years after the Wright Brothers' flight, it was something which awed and humbled him; it was logically understood and yet personally unattainable. It was exactly what I felt as I stared at the evenly arranged paper clips: How'd she do that? And where did she find the ability and the fortitude to spend day after day of her life doing it?

I suppose this is where my endless parade of day jobs comes in. The tributaries of pain and experience form a river of material-- it is rocky, dangerous, and wild, but it is deep. Shakespeare himself once drew from it. As a young man, he helped his father make gloves of flexible hide, hour after hour; later, in Twelfth Night, he compared truth to the highly stretchable kid leather. It's a deft metaphor which would have never appeared... had he not a day job.

my way or the highway at:  mbe@drinktothelasses.com


Jam Out Amongst The People

For those of you who may have been having login issues over at JamsBio... the drama has ended. Go forth, log in, and jam. Many apologies for the beta-ness of it all. If there are still problems, screech to media@drinktothelasses.com. And the door's still wide open on the invites, so if you're all in, wave at us from the same address.


Welcome FreelanceSwitch Readers

Fear not Monday.

rose girl no more at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com


Eat and Grow

copy-of-100_2089.jpgWhen Will The Baby Nephew was an even younger nephew, maybe a month old, I'd lay down on a couch, settle him back-up on my chest and pull a blanket over us both. He'd put up with this. He had no choice. He was in Lump Stage, and not in a position to give me any lip.

There are still naps, which I covet, but now he will tolerate maybe one story and two minutes in a rocking chair before requesting that everyone leave his royal presence. I lamented this until Josh The Pilot pointed out, "He's one. That's his job right now. Eat and grow." My job is most certainly not to grow. If anything, I need to de-grow.

The child has discovered how to throw tantrums now, shrieking and beating his tiny little fists on the glass door separating him from his parents' computer if they dare to do anything with it but play McQueen's Desert Dash, for why else have a monitor and an Internet connection?

Most fittingly-- since he no doubt apparently learned this behavior from me--I was present for Will's very first fit: His parents were putting up the Christmas tree, and my job was to run Nephew Interference. We moved some DVD's out of the way to make room, at which point Will began wandering after the adults, whimpering piteously. I put the movies out of his reach. He wanted no part of Aunt Beth then and began tailing after his mother, who was darting around the kitchen, and if you have never seen one-year-old try to fully mirror the quick pivotations of a mother of two, I highly recommend it. He wound up making orbit after tearful, wobbly orbit in his mother's wake, a sad little space station.

We consulted worriedly with one another: Was he traumatized that we were upsetting the balance of his home? Was he hungry? Was he tired? Was he sick? Julie the NephewsMama put a concerned hand to his forehead. Finally I herded both boys away from the action with the promise of watching a movie on Aunt Beth's computer. Jim looked dubious, as though fearing some sort of trick (tm Tom Wolfe). Will wanted nothing to do with anything--until he saw me crack open a DVD case. Then? All smiles. "Hee!" he said, his vocal pronouncement of approval.

Mommy was two parts relieved, one part exasperated, one part incredulous. She called for children's father. "He's fine now," she said, pointing to the baby. "That was all about wanting to watch a movie. His first tantrum." Country The Brother-In-Law noted this as the probably the first of many, many, and many. "You," she said, making a face at her second child, imitating devil's horns at the back of her head. Will, oblivious, continued to squat on the floor, applauding Mickey Mouse.

copy-of-100_2102.jpgHis brother, meanwhile, is exploring his career options. We've already ruled out jockeydom; we may now add another to the list.

Last month, Uncle Josh helped him with a toddler computer game in which Jim was expected to move a little electronic bar at the bottom of the screen to catch a little electronic ball. It was single-player Pong for the new millennium, and therefore highly awesome. But instead of actually moving the bar, Jim instead preferred to watch the ball inch closer and closer, clutching his hair and wailing, "Oh no, oh no! What's gonna happen?!"

"You would make a terrible air traffic controller," his uncle said finally.

However, Jim may yet have a future on Project Runway. He was recently permitted to pick out his own clothes on the very day a blizzard moved across the Tri-State area. This is what he selected:



Sweatpants and a sweater vest. He ran around the house looking like Alex P. Keaton on the skids, wondering why his arms were cold.

But, having lived through the eighties, I've seen--and participated in--much, much worse. I purposefully arrayed myself in neon, people. I think we'll see this on Wall Street in a decade or so.

banana clip at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com


Endless, Pre-Shrunk JAMMING!

Today I ran a mile and a half and my legs hurt, which of course affects typing.black_plain_menus_300x300.jpg

Fortunately for us all, I have another mega! exciting! JamsBio update. New account holders are welcome to start writing there as well, which means that if you'd like to read what I've written so far, you can now do so and have a fun music memory page of your own. And if you complete ten posts, you will receive-- are you ready? Are you ready? Are you ready for this?--a tee shirt. Oh! Yes, it's true! One whole TEE SHIRT! Plus a shot at concert tickets and other swag, I'm told. But, you guys! TEE SHIRT!

A few The Readers have already begun their epic climb to teedom. Join them on the Mighty Rock Wall of... of...rock. Once you're in, go ahead on to my URL. The jammin' we shall do! In our tee shirts! (I don't get a tee shirt. I get paid. But you-- it's all 100% cotton goodness for you, my friend.)

You'll still need an invite. If you're invitable, please do leave a comment or email media@drinktothelasses.com with "JamsBio" in the subject line.

largess at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com