Wednesday, April 29, 2009

In Retrospect 1.30.06

I've got these stacks of old emails I used to write to my friends. Piles of them. And since none of my friends see my blog (really! & no one in my family even knows I have a blog, except my husband, who peers over my shoulder occasionally)

this old stuff is new again. ?. But I thought maybe a couple times a month I'd throw one in.

Here's Monday, January 30, 2006 for you.


"Horsie!" she said, pointing out the window. It's a concrete stretch of 41, right where the interstate meets the highway. I look over and there it stands. It's the giant Budweiser horse, sitting in front of a gas station. Or shall I say standing. Really, it wasn't standing; I mean technically it was, but to be honest, somebody just pulled it off a rig somewhere and put it in place, a clump of metal or clay or whatever. Large and statuesque, it's the Trojan horse of our generation hiding some sort of message deep into its underbelly. My child loves it, and if I could, I would steal it for her and set it up in the backyard. She could ride it all day and we wouldn't have to feed it or wipe its steaming turds of off the soles of our shoes.
I'm sure the store would sell as much beer without it. I don't really know what the horse has to do with beer anyhow. What is the message they are trying to convey?
This is the only horse big enough to haul your fat drunk ass home.
Yikes, I'm terrible. So what else is new? I read the Essay that beat out mine in a contest I entered, titled "What Would You Do If Someone Gave You An Old Saloon?"
"This one just sucks," I tell Steven. He tells me they were probably related to the judge. He's biased and I am too. I try to tell myself that God probably thought they needed the money more than I did. Maybe they were on the verge of getting evicted or something? I mean, how else could something along the lines of, "...And everyone who passed through the archway would start off with a clean slate," beat out my organ grinding monkey in a red feather boa and the Asian spa girls setting up hogs in the beds of the passed out drunk patrons?
Maybe I'm a victim of reading too many Bukowski novels, and all those Divine movies I watched in high school I'm sure didn't help. I'd go to some sort of tent revival if I thought it would help, but all that talk about hell makes my stomach ache.
I don't personally believe in hell, but it's funny the way you hear some talk about it. I think some folks truly think that Jesus is going to announce his coming on some sort of universal speaker, take all of His people, then leave monsters to eat the rest. (You know, the rest that don't fall into the molten lava when the Earth cracks to bits). For those people, I secretly hope that when they meet Saint Peter, he turns out to be Sikh or maybe even a hasidic Jew. Even funnier, you get there and Jerry Garcia is standing at the gate in all his tie dyed glory.
"Where's Saint Peter?" you ask.
"Oh, he's brushing up on his golf game. I'm filling in today."
I'd better change the subject before lightning strikes.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"What you just did. I hate it when you do that." My spouse has a pet peeve because I used the hot sauce, then licked the top of the bottle before I closed it.
"What are you talking about?"
"When you lick the bottle. That's disgusting."
"No it's not. You and I are the only ones who use it."
"It doesn't matter. It's unsanitary."
"No, really it's not. If I just leave the hot sauce like that, then it dries up and crusts at the cap. That's unsanitary."
"Just don't do it. I hate it when you lick the bottles."
"I don't lick any other bottles...You don't see me licking the ketchup, do you?"
"Not the ketchup, but you lick all the other ones."
"Name one."
"Well I can't think of one just yet, but you do."
"That's what I thought!" but then yesterday I caught myself licking the cocktail sauce bottle. Luckily, he wasn't looking. Geez!) I can tell you this because you are my friends and I know you would never judge me. Mmmm! Nothing like the sweet taste of friendship! It's easy to be honest through email.
I hope everyone of you are doing marvelously. May you have the greatest Groundhogs Day of your lives! I'll blow out my Groundhogs Day birthday candle s and wish that you were all with me. Maybe one day you will be!
Shall I include the monkey essay? Ah, why not...
What if Someone Gave you an Old Saloon?
Once, when I was ten, we flew to California. My aunt lived there and she took us to all the places that tourists like to visit. One of those places was called Fisherman's Wharf. Fisherman's Wharf was full of interesting things I'd never seen before, pelicans, sea lions, and well, the ocean, of course. But there is one thing about the Wharf that sticks with me to this day.
At one point we came across the loveliest thing, a tiny monkey donned in a little vest and hat, dancing along side an organ grinder. I had never seen anything so sweet.
"What's his name?"
"Tito," the organ grinder told me.
I reached my hand out and tried to give little Tito a quarter, and things quickly turned ugly. With a screech and a lunge, that sweet wee monkey was on attack mode, and had I not moved back, I'd have been bit.
"Tito don't take change," replied the organ grinder, and they grinded away.
Well, you may think I'm a little off course, but here's when I'm headed. If I was given the great opportunity of having a saloon given to me, I feel fully that every saloon needs a Mae West. Since I couldn't pull off a feather boa or satin dress, I would search the world over and find Tito and his organ grinder. Tito would fit the bill perfectly. I already know he looks good in red. Also, I'd be able to pay him in singles and peanuts, which would save on entertainment.
At the bar, I'd place an old mare, back facing customers. When someone leaned on the bar, a prerecorded voice would ask "What'll it be?" I know it would be pretty difficult to have a horse mix margaritas, so I'd serve only brew and whiskey to keep it simple. In a hidden room on the side, I'd hire a rugged old rodeo star, or hell, a rodeo clown would do, and he'd pass the beverages through to a conveyor belt. I'd give him cable and a cot, and pay him in singles and peanuts too.
I'd rent the upstairs rooms out to drunk patrons, and allow an Asian spa company to take over. rather than charging the massage therapists to use the facilities, the only condition would be that once the men were passed out, they would have to help drag tranquilized hogs into the beds with them, laying one drunken arm lovingly across the pink beasts.
In the mornings, after hearing girlish squeals from upstairs, we would all have a good laugh with some really fresh bacon or ham sandwiches.
I know this sounds more like a petting zoo than your typical old saloon, but who doesn't love a petting zoo? Just don't get too close to the monkey, he's a live one.
Okay, so I can see now why I didn't win. But the memories this brings of poor tiny Tito!
I don't eat Pork.
Unless it's Bacon.
Then I'll have seconds.
hope you enjoyed my 'Retrospective'...

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