Bat Man Death Ride

This is the little green pot we cook oatmeal in. (photo by L. Rios)

My cousin Lesley has just informed me that two days ago, a kid was killed by the Bat Man ride at Six Flags Over Georgia. He and a friend had sneaked into a restricted area of the park for reasons unknown, when the Bat Man ride swooped down and took his head off. 911 was flooded with phone calls by eyewitnesses. (Apparently there were scads.) The poor kid was from a tiny little coastal town fifty miles East of Augusta. He was part of a church outing.

My cousin Lesley tried to get me to believe that this really happened. But I told her “No way, man. That sounds like an urban legend.” She wanted to believe that it wasn’t true. But she protested, then dutifully went online to get the facts. Turns out it really did happen.

So now we both know it’s true and we’re both depressed, here in the living room, because all we can think about it how sad it would be to be decapitated by the Bat Man ride, or see someone decapitated by the Bat Man ride, or have a kid decapitated by the Bat Man ride on a church outing, or even be from the same tiny town as the guy who got decapitated by the g.d. effing Bat Man ride at Six Flags. It’s all just so horrible.

Anyway, we’re depressed and that’s all there is to it. We’re going to have dinner now and try to act like some kid didn’t get decapitated last weekend while we were out riding our bikes and goofing around and watching The Perfect Storm on dvd, which is an awesome but dumb movie about how, if you battle the sea, the sea will eventually win (Duh.).

Harold & Maude

This is me writing. In our hallway closet. Which is something I've gotten quite used to these past few weeks. I've found that I actually flourish in cramped quarters, surrounded by cardboard boxes. When I need to, I wear ear goggles to block out household noise. Or sometimes I write with the light off. Sensory deprivation. Often I feel like I'm several miles below the earth's crust...

Yesterday we all went for a long bike ride around poor, flood-torn Iowa City. We saw stranded brambles, washes of silt, broken windows, and ruined buildings. We also careened down huge hills on rickety bikes, with powerful tailwinds that acted like high octane rocket fuel for our speed racers. On the way home, we stopped by the co-op for dinner supplies.

At the co-op, Eleanor started acting sleepy and cranky. We were in the produce section, selecting avocadoes, where she whined. Then over by the butcher, where she cried. Then, by the beer cooler, a loud, impressive protest leapt out of her mouth. It sounded like an ambulance siren from the 1950’s! A white-bearded man with soft eyes turned and looked at us warmly. His wife was by his side. They didn’t say anything, but their expressions said it all…

You think the world is one way, only to find out that it’s another. Having Eleanor around, I see now that there is a lot more tenderness and kindness in this world that I could have ever imagined. Raising a child is a HUGE ordeal. And here’s this man and woman – total strangers - who’ve clearly been through it. They see our hodgepodge assembly and wailing baby in the supermarket and what do they do? They smile. Because they remember back when their kids were that little, crying in some old supermarket clear on the other side of the United States. And because they’d just about give anything to have a few minutes of the sweetest portions of their old life back. Because none of us realize how good we have it until it’s gone. And a crying baby in a supermarket is pretty much the razor’s edge of the alive, dynamic, terribly beautiful human experience. You think it’s a drag. Then you realize it’s nirvana. That’s what their expressions said to me: This is the good stuff, brother. Stay awake for it. And I said, “Okay, I’ll try.”

So you’re probably wondering what kind of beer we bought, so I’ll tell you. We bought this 12-bottle sampler of brews from the Amana colonies, which is one of many Amish enclaves outside the city limits. But with all the other groceries, I didn’t have room for the brews in the bike basket, so I had to balance them on my thigh as we all pedaled the mile or so back home. Navigating traffic and flood detritus, I felt a little bit like Jackson Pollack piloting some kind of Calcutta rickshaw, all wobbly and destined for Chaos City or Wreck-Your-Bike-Ville, U.S.A. But chaos never happened. Not in the form of a bike wreck anyway. Just in that “rainbow of chaos” way that Paul Cezanne spoke on, wherein big hamburgers were consumed, and cold beer. And then after dinner Janelle & I went for a walk. Afterwards we all fell asleep watching Harold & Maude.

Extremely High Winds

Today is a supremely windy day. High gusts sweeping across the prairie, tearing through the town like townie streakers overturning newspaper boxes and kicking up panic and trouble while the wind-cops chase after them with their billy clubs and megaphones. This is our fire escape. I had plans to put a bunch of potted plants out there today, but that was before I realized how windy it was going to get. Now I don’t know. Too much wind can kill an herb garden. Maybe I’ll build a windmill and put it out there instead.

Last week at (Unitarian) church, a physicist explained that, over time, wind power competes very well (price-wise) with coal-power. It’s just that in the short run, coal is way cheaper. That’s the thing: The system is set up to accommodate fossil fuel, which means that the system opposes clean, renewable, economical wind power. Why? ‘Cause, with wind, the right people don’t get rich. (Can we please hurry up and find a way to make these oilmongering people rich off of wind, solar, and other sources of power? As soon as we do, that’s when we’ll start to see some real change down here in the poor part of town.) Craziness.

Today we bought two bicycles. They were old, but in great condition. One of them has a big, broad bicycle seat on it that makes you feel like you're sitting in an old Ford Fairlane or something, instead of on a powder blue Schwinn. I bet if I tried to go for a bike ride right now, I wouldn't even be able to pedal against the wind. That's how bad it is out there right now. Totally beautiful, cloudless day. Extremely high winds.

Geddes

Behold the tiles on our bathroom floor! (photo by Lesley Rios)

Yesterday, while Janelle was working at the clinic, Lesley, Eleanor & I headed over to Dey House, at last, to introduce ourselves and confer with the program coordinator. She – the coordinator – was on the phone when we walked in, and was elaborating on her belief that McCain suffered from antisocial personality disorder & was on valium now, supplied, I guess, by the GOP. I dunno. She also said Laura Bush had a facelift and was also on valium. After a minute or so, she hung up the phone and said in this excited, scandalous way, “Sorry. A writer who did this program has written a brilliant roman a clef about the Bush family, and that was the publisher,” or something like that.

I gave her the glad hand and we exchanged pleasantries while Eleanor crawled around on the hardwood floor, wooing the secretaries, then the program director, then this really tall Dominican guy who walked in and said, “That baby’s the prettiest baby I’ve ever seen.” Which, of course, is how things usually go when you travel with a baby. I’m pretty sure I could walk into the IRS headquarters with Eleanor and emerge fifteen minutes later with a handwritten letter from the leader of the Empire guaranteeing me that I’ll never have to pay taxes again – so long as I periodically send photos of the babe. Anne Geddes knows about this Achilles heel shared by anyone who has a heart. Of course, Anne Geddes is also Satanic. But these days, who isn’t?

Spewage

So, a few minutes ago, while I was eating lunch & writing, the people who live upstairs sent something heinous down the drain of their kitchen sink, which got stuck in the pipes and, since everything’s connected, caused our kitchen sink to fill up with a foreign, fecal backwash of some kind that absolutely reeked. It filled up the sink and spilled onto the floor, so I hustled to get a bucket under there and ended up dumping buckets for twenty minutes or more. And soon as I could, I called the superintendent, who sent a plumber over, and who is, at present, jackhammering away at the pipes with an automatic plunger, an auger, and a few other tools I don’t really understand at all. The guy’s funny as hell. He just looked at our sink and said, “This scene is pretty awesome. In fact, I think it’s totally hot. Scenes like this make me really enjoy my chosen vocation.” He spoke a little like he’d just read a primer on sarcasm. But I was down. When I asked about his rubber gloves, he said, “The same company that makes these also makes latex condoms. This type of rubber is supposed to be totally impermeable. Of course, there’s no way to be sure about that, which is why I have two kids.” I laughed like he was my instant homeslice.

About the time the plumber showed up, though, the lawn maintenance dude arrived outside on his platform mower, cutting ordered zigzags into the clover while the sun bounced off his Oakley Razorblades. All our windows were open and Eleanor was napping, but, naturally, the incessant, deafening roar of the gas engine woke her up. So she stumbled, bleary eyed, into the hallway looking for her Ma while I was conferring with the plumber and also still trying to eat lunch and get some writing done. Chaos. About the same time, I happened to glance out the window and caught sight of my next door neighbor, a fiftysomething White guy who lives in a house that looks like a giant wedge of cheesecake, clad head-to-toe in a beekeeping suit. “Ill be damned, Ella,” I said, scooping her up into my arms, “that guy’s a bee keeper!” With his smoke can piping away, he ambled on over to his bee boxes at the shaded edge of the yard, and soon enough the bees were swarming all over his paws and legs in writhing black clumps. The smoke poured out of the can’s spout until he looked like a fallen cloud with human legs.

Decisions

Yesterday my cousin Lesley & I surprised Janelle by cooking supper and having a little celebration for her brand new private practice. Yup. She pretty much knocked the ball out of the park in an interview with a group of progressive but grounded counselors, shrinks, and assorted therapists here in the I.C. So they invited her to join their loose affiliation, rent an office space, and start counseling. Word up. So last week was Janelle’s first week on the job. She’s doing well at it, too.

But anyway, Lesley, who is sixteen years old and living with us for the month of June and part of July, and myself - we fried up some chicken for Janelle. As a way of saying Congratulations. We also framed her grad school diploma. And made her a card. And poured her a glass of the world’s cheapest wine. And got a bunch of people to call and leave voicemail messages wishing her well, which I then edited with Garage Band to make an inspirational, personalized little sound clip that she can listen to whenever the wolves start closing in. Wolves of minutiae. Wolves of self-doubt. You know…the goddamn wolves.

But now it’s 8 a.m. and I’ve been up since 6 with my daughter who really just wants to scream Yes! At life nonstop, and runs, plays, bites the world, leaps, falls, cries, dances, and refuses to be demurely cuddled or condescended to in any of the usual adult world “oh ain’t she cute” ways, because she’s too large for it, and then when you least expect it, she puts her head on your shoulder and kisses your ear and you say something to the ol’ Unmoved Mover, like I don’t know, maybe something like Thank You Old Timer. But she’s worn herself thin and is now back to sleep with her Ma (who sleeps in when she can, since she’s the hardest working therapist in the therapy biz), while I’m wide awake, which is our usual routine these days. So I’m going to write now and see if I can get Doc Holiday (the geometrical center of my short story/novella) to do or say anything interesting this morning. And now I look up and see that Janelle is awake too, so I have a difficult choice to make: write or have coffee with my good gal. Decisions, decisions…

La Cabeza de Zorro

Last night I rode our newly-acquired (found rusting and unclaimed in the basement of this apartment) tapioca-yellow bicycle down to the celebrated Foxhead tavern and drank with the fiction writers. These people literally take over the bar every Tuesday night. They even chased off the two drunkards who were holding court at the bar for what appeared to have been a very long time. I met a lot a people, laughed at some of the funniest stories I've heard in a while, and played a few songs on the jukebox before I wobbled back through the night to my sleeping wife and babe. I had wild, PBR-soaked dreams last night. I don't get those very often anymore, so when I do they're real roller coasters. It's important to note that suspended above the bar, there is an actual fox's head, stuffed and mounted inside a glass cube.