Age for the Not-so-Aged: XLVI

XLVI

This does not stand for X-tra Large Very Important. Rather, it's our friendly Roman Numeral indication for a number not widely used in crossword puzzles, número cuarenta-seis.

Mid-40s. I hit the upper edge of the Mid-40s yesterday, September 30. Not a remarkable age, the 46. The number itself is twice a prime number, and other than 2 and 23, it's out there with no other factors, besides 1 and itself.
Kind of isolating, the number 46 - makes me wonder about all those other funky numbers and ages, like next years solid prime, La 47. Live for the now and don't contemplate that far ahead. I'm not much of a planner anyway, so 364 days off is just a ludicrous notion.

Changes so far? Things to contemplate? Given that Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah just passed, it only seems appropriate to settle in and take some sort of inventory of my life this past year: accomplishments, sins, failures, desires, and chocolate. The latter, I'm certain is worthy of its own self-reflective category, since it is a fave. Including Jujubes and Jujyfruits seems right, seeing as I spend oodles of time trying to nudge these from the recesses of my natural dental work in lieu of listening to a dear friend's divorce calamity, financial woes, or health scares. When my tongue is working that hard to chisel these syrupy nuggets from my teeth and gums, how could one expect me to donate 95% attention to another's tribulations. It's not much different than trying to maintain a conversation with someone who's "busy" surfing the internet for something, anything, anywhere more intriguing than this discussion.

Reflections on the year or what's new & different in the sub-semi-century age:
>Still searching for a job. Ugh.
>Writing more now that I have a p/t job. Discovering how much I enjoy this action when I've whittled away my free time.
>In combat with one, yes one, particular gray hair that resembles a RR crossing arm, including the shiny reflective paint, moreso than a blended-in brown hair. This one defies gravity and tends to point the way for lost tourists to head east or north, depending upon which direction I face; it's perpendicular to my spine.
>The gold nuggets I discovered in the Stanislaus River, making me an imaginary millionaire, have turned out to be a medley of pyrite & mica. Still pretty, shiny, and goldy, just not worth much. Fool.
>John F. Kennedy was assassinated at age 46, just one month & 22 days after I was born. Now that's freaky.
>I'm in a double-prime year. 45 was a good number, with lots of factors: 3,5, 9, 15. Seemed powerful: the year WW2 ended. 45th parallel is the 'halfway' point between the Equator and the N. Pole. My home state of Oregon lies on the 45th parallel, a state of which I'm quite proud and fond. 45 rpms were the standard record that we played on our little record player, when Capitol records' label was a meld of orange-yellow swoops, kind of like Yin-Yang, or interlocking Nike swooshes, only better. 45th wedding anniversary is the sapphire wedding (25: silver, 50: gold). Sapphire happens to be my birthstone too.

To make amends with this new age of 46, I'd like to point out that that solo crossing guard hair makes me just that much more unique. It's truly a glistening, follicled lightsaber by which my friends can locate me on a moonless night.

46 is the sum of the number of human chromosomes (23 pairs, in case you were a little foggy during that Biology class chapter on genetics). I'm the proud owner of all 46, no less, no more, despite what my siblings might occasionally say.

And, to mark the day on a positive note, I chewed a piece of slurpy Juicy Fruit gum, the very same (yellow pack) gum that my maternal grandmother honored each of the five of us with every time she visited, or on my birthday. Hers fell on September 5, so we oft shared a 9th month celebration. We grew old together: the wise chain smoker carved from tenacity, "Old Kentucky Blood," and 5pm High Balls and me the youthful, tomboy, baseball-loving, pyro-sprite.

Juicy Fruit still has that burn-the-back-of-your-throat spicy sugary sensation, not unlike Beeman's, or Clove, or BlackJack, without the red or black tongue after effect. It's just enough to make the silver fillings in my teeth erode just a smidge, yet antagonizes my salivary glands to the point my jowls are flooded and I slaver over my lips like a broken levee. It's a stick gum with a jagged, Charlie Brown embossed print on each end. It's still wrapped in that serrated edge metallic wrapper, such that a tiny speck of said paper (invisibly glued to the stick) still has the capacity to fire off an electrical jolt through my brain when my fillings make contact. There's no way to get that particle out of the dental canal without a mirror, a good toothbrush, and a rinse. Or, when such amenities aren't available, withdraw that syrupy wad of ABC Juicy Fruit and utilize it's under-desk sticky factor to suction it away.

Toss that wad, btw. It's an electrical hazard now. Fold another piece across those central incisors and start fresh, like a new age, or a brighter outlook.

Despite it all, it's a happy gum, written in joyful black print with a slim, vaguely present red outline that borders each letter. With an oral and aromatic wave of secret-spiced gummy lusciousness Who wouldn't want to etch away their tooth enamel?

Given the Juicy Fruit, the birthday brunch and dinner with my family and pals, and the crisp, clean, gently-warm air and azure sky that marks the skin-tingling Autumnal kickoff, I admit this celebration of my birth day has been darned good. So long ole 45! Forty-six?! Here I come!

XLVI:

Xenogenesis, Lucky, Verve, and Iridescence

It's Not Nice to Toy with Mother Nature

There's something to be said for Respecting Nature. I do. Always have. Don't turn your back on the ocean. Wear bear-bells in bear country. Wasps and hornets prefer not to be swatted (and missed), as it only pisses them off. Wool warms, cotton kills.

We humans, for the most part, are predictable animals. We eat in certain places, tend to nap in soft zones, we lash out at others who annoy us, including the errant ear-hovering mosquito who circles the earlobe at 3am.

Animals, however, are not as predictable with their behavior. For example, the deer that feed along the shrub-and-grass lot behind my house simply stand and stare at Gracie and Basco as they bark madly at them. These same hooved animals react similarly when they're just outside my front door as the dogs and I head out for nighttime pees. Stand, blink, immobile. They wait for these barking irritants, these long-lineage offspring of ancestral predators to quiet themselves with a silly assumption that Basco, who's blind, and Gracie, who's not would not chase after and nibble on their heels given the unleashed opportunity.

Birds do in fact, fly off when a stranger approaches. However, their unpredictability lies in that strange moment with the overly optimistic and confident middle-of-the-road bird, who's made the choice that his toothpick legs are much faster at running across the road in order to avoid an on-coming vehicle than to quickly gain flight in a simple up-down flap of its eight-inch airbound wings. Go figure.

Today, on the southside trail of Round Top Mtn in the Sibley Volc. Preserve in the E.Bay Reg. Parks, not far from the sign that states "Do Not Enter, Rehabitation Area", beneath the leafy shade of the Eucalyptus grove, an angry, coiled, fang-bearing rattlesnake decided to become Sergeant-at-Arms (as decided by whom, its forest brethren?) of the trail. Anyhoo, it laid there in partial sun and shade, not under or on top of a warm rock or near a bunny warren where most textbooks state we can find them. From my heart-thumping, 10 yard distance, I spied his coiled his body -- approx two-inch diameter -- while he hissed his poisonous tongue and rattled his 4" shaker posted just centimeters from his slit-eye head. Gracie cocked her head to the side and stood motionless. Fortunately, she did not step forward to within 5' from this reptile, but stood in awe, cranking her head towards the other shoulder.

Frightened does no justice as an emotional description here. Jarred. Jolted. Cautiously freaked.

It was all I could do to summon her back with a "Gracie! Come! Here! Gracie! Come!! Basco! Stay!" Mind you, Basco, the good little guy was already standing at my shins and simply sat down, not knowing why I was yelling at him. Good boy.

She returned to me, with her head craned backwards at the sputtering rattler, its jaw wide open, fangs dripping with venom that glistened in the sun's rays and ready to plunge into soft, pliable skin. I re-leashed both of them -- Basco's so good, I don't really know why I bothered, since he'd simply follow me wherever I walked. But, in the event Gracie thought of Mr. Venomous Ready Bite as a crinkly rattly toy and needed some outdoor play time, I hedged my bet on cautiousness. She has a thing for disemboweling all her toys, often ripping their heads off first then chewing apart the area that crinkles, squeaks, or, of course, rattles. I could only imagine that this "live" toy appeared the same to ther, minus the chenille fabric, fluffy stuffing, and kidney bean-plastic containered rattle.

I felt bad for the puppies since we'd just walked up hill in the sun for about 30 minutes, and I chose this particular path and route as a means to cool them down. That's what we usually do. But there was no choice but to backtrack up the mountain trail, into the searing sun, and back along the ridge. At least I brought two water bottles for the little guys.

In those brief rattling moments on the trail my mind raced: What should I do, thrown rocks at Mr. VRB in hopes that he'd uncoil and slither down the hill towards the feral cats and hopping rabbits? Make myself big as suggested for mountain lions and coyotes? I don't think so. This sputtering reptile was not going to budge. For all I know, today was eat-anything day. Even the birds weren't flying around that part of the trail, opting to leave the seeds, worms, and insects for another time.

Mother Nature's Animals are not as predictable as we'd sometimes like them to be. Sure, raccoons and bears will take the easy route and head straight for the untethered trash cans and tents filled with yummy food rather than hunt and forage. Who wouldn't? I mean, even we humans do that, don't we? That's why we open the refrigerator and stare at whatever's inside imagining a meal, a la George Jetson-style to materialize rather than put something together. Hence, the success of that well-known business, the restaurant.

The rattlesnake is no different. If a meal will cross its path, well, then so be it, it's like a drive-thru, hot-n-ready treat for him. If I tossed rocks County Fair style at his head in hopes of ensuring passage on this trail, I'm sure PETA would be all over me, I'd piss him off and he'd probably S-curve and slither-sprint his way towards my calf in retaliation. But, I have to remember, that this path, these woods, these trails, rocks, ravines, and arroyos are actually his turf, not mine. I'd like to think otherwise, but, you know, Nature is where these types live and exist. If he opted to enter my house, well, we know that's another matter. In his house, though? Just like the elk, moose, and bears I encountered when I hiked around Montana: let them be.

When I was little, my mom invited an old college friend of hers to our house. She brought her two children, a boy & girl, both of my elder sister, Elizabeth's and brother Tommy's ages. The girl dumped perfume -- part of a perfume-making kit -- all over Lizzy's bed. She broke my Baby Magic doll and somehow tossed the wand into the fire. The boy stepped on Tommy's Hot Wheels Sizzler car and snapped the track into pieces. They did not finish their Dixie-Riddle Cups of Kool-Aid that mom made for them, a drink we never were allowed, but even moreso, if we were (Birthday parties), a drop was never lost or wasted. They did not apologize. They did not display shame for their rancid, destructive behavior.

These were not children we liked. They were not welcome in our home. They did not make an attempt to replace or wash or repair any of the destroyed items. We reminded our mother every time she mentioned her college pal's name that her children were animals. Unpredictable. Feral. They should have backed away from our house before even stepping across the threshold. Urchins.

This is not a grudge but merely a point: some people are lower in the animal kingdom organizational pyramid. They diverged at the Class level (Mammal), jutting off towards something of a lower-thinking level. Hardly made the resemblance to the Primates (Order), who actually have some rational thinking processes. These two were not unlike the Sloth, which is of a subclass of the mammal; they don't even make it to Primate order. Seems about right. Subclass. Yep.

Back to the snake. Obviously, I won't enter the 'house' of Mr. Venomous Ready Bite for quite a while now, at least until I'm certain that the ranger has removed all those Rattlesnake In Area signs. Maybe some curious coyote and Mr. VRB will exchange moonlit words and, hopefully, the coyote will win. Until then, I'll just have to respect Mother Nature's Sibley Volcanic Round Top Mtn trail and let Nature take its course. I discovered a video that showed a red tail hawk & rattler dueling. Spoiler Alert!:::: The Hawk wins. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CeskXKz765g)

There are lots of hawks in the area and this viper was in plain view to any hungry bird of prey that circled the area. I'm counting on one Red Tail or Cooper's hawk having a craving for some fresh rattlesnake meat. Perhaps it needs a new belt or boots for its taloned claws. Mr. VRB would make a nice meal for a hungry hawk, coyote, or (recently spotted!) fox in the area.

Rattlesnakes are scarier than bears, mountain lions, and coyotes, and don't care if you make yourself noisy, big, or 'dead'. While the mammals will avoid us given most opportunites (with the exception of the two undomesticated, brackish gremlins who came w/my mom's friend),those diamondbacks will still coil, rattle, lunge, and bite and attack, even if the trail they're (and we're) on is well-traveled and habited by many.

Exercise caution when you're out on those trails. Or, carry some antivenom, or, wield a big stick, or, perhaps best of all, have somebody else walk ahead of you (and your dogs) so he can be the discoverer and distractor of the pit viper. You'll thank me later.

2009 SF Dyke March

Tons and tons, no, hoards and hoards, no, gaggles, groups, pods, packs, and a plethora of dykes, lezzies, newby-dykes, tranny-dykes, mod-lez', old, wide, squat, tiny, lean, butch, femme, andro, sporty, mulleted, buzzed, wavy'd, permed, dyed, bespectacled, wheelchaired, caned, walkered, and of course, motorcycled dykes hovered, sat, strolled, gazed, walked, sauntered, scammed, pawed, scoured, moshed, humped, and ambled the grounds in and around San Francisco's Dolores Park.

The 39th Annual Dyke March kicked off with a rally sporting notions of dyke equality, funky music, and, among other notables, the scratchy-voiced, kick-ass keynote speaker Sharon Gless (famed for her role as Christine Cagney in Cagney & Lacey, bit parts in Nip/Tuck, and of course as Debbie Novotny, the smart-mouthed mom in Queer as Folk). She's in a new low-budget film, Hannah Free which closed out the film fest. Yea for her doing a lez part and being proud of it to boot!.

I missed 98% of that rally, opting to arrive later and wander the grounds, absorbing all the estrogen and lezzie aura in the air. Man, it was AWESOME. I realized, near the end of the Dyke March -- which started (typically) late, wound its way down 18th Street to Valencia, Valencia to 16th, then west on 16th to Castro towards the magnificent party and gargantuan disco ball -- that I could have easily made myself into one of those iconic rock stars and had the burly, bare-chested chix who were whooping nearby hoist me up over their shoulders and let the crowd of female fingers just pass me along over the heads of the 40,000 hot & hollering lez-positive women that filled 16th. It was that kind of night. Absolutely remarkable.

So awesome it was, that I actually Missed the dyke drama just a mere first-down measure from my feet. I happened to be in line for a scummy port-a-potty, and, beyond my vision, perhaps a few steps farther down the line, a pair of prickly dykes got into fisticuffs with each other. Haven't been witness to a good 'you slept w/my girlfriend' fight in soooo long. Lunging for each other, fists flying, long hair snarling and getting yanked, kicking, cussing, all while each person's little posse attempted to unsuccessfully pry these angry pheromone-laden women apart. Like angry magnets they were, just when the iron ore seemed to be far enough from its attractant, the raging, jealous energy sucked them back together in a fiery, female, snarling fight. But for the lack of folding chairs and monstrous & bald security personnel that are oft found on stage, Jerry Springer would have been proud. The two feral females ultimately stomped off in opposite directions with their cadres, both tomato faced and tearful. One of them, fists still clenched, was screaming at her good pals, "Goddammit, I just fucking love her so much I could kill her!" Aaah, now that's good dyke drama love. Nearly a sonnet.

Alas, it was all-chik energy from curb to curb, corner to corner with boys, women, tourists, heteros & homos on the sides, cheering from their windows, dancing on the rooftops, applauding from fire escapes, and beeping their horns while stuck in their cars because of our traffic stopping busts and shouts. Of course, there were quite a few men in the crowd of marchers too, which makes me wonder why since it's a lezzie thing and dudes can hang on the edges to support. Still, the air was sizzling, with melodious, lavender-laden, alto soprano tones and ear-thumping decibel levels from the revving D.o.B. motorcycles, political statement megaphones, Sistah Boom's percussive poundings, and the feet stomping, hip-grinding pulsating rhythms of Madonna, Pink, and Sister Sledge blaring from upper floor apartments.

Because of the sunshiney, 80 degree day, skin shone throughout. Bare arms dangled and pulsed to the beats, draped around wifely shoulders, or clenched the muscles as the wrists cocked the throttle on their Harleys. Breasts of all shapes, sizes, and adornments flopped to and fro for Dyke Freedom. Some women were so bold to actually place Human Rights campaign stickers on their nipples. I suppose because of the higher temperature and sweat-bead factor, peeling them off wouldn't hurt as much as they normally would, but still. I can think of less painful ways to be slightly modest, and even make a tiny political message. Nonetheless, bare butts, breasts, and a smattering of all-nude women (and quite a few nude men in the Castro) staked their claim to the message: we're dykes, we're sexy, fun, shapely, and ready to take on the world - one march at a time!

What impressed me this year moreso than most other years was the number of younger women present at the march. By younger, I mean 18+ year olds who are aware, participating in and celebrating their lives, their sexual explorations and identities. Some were a bit shy, hiding behind or clinging to their female pals while nursing drinks and gazing at passing cuties. Others hung onto their gal pals, making out or dancing to the music that filled the air. Still, others blew whistles, pounded bongos, and hoisted pink cardboard/black markered Dyke Equality signs overhead to establish their political perspectives on the ridiculous inequalities that surround them, or us. The youth are here and boy oh boy do they share a strong voice to be heard.

When it comes down to it, though, the crowd consisted of women from all parts of the U.S. and abroad. Women from Fresno, Salt Lake City, Tampa, NYC, Buffalo, Austin, Calgary, Toronto, Paris, Sydney, Tokyo, and even my hometown of Portland, Oregon danced, drank, and celebrated their lezzie-dom one way or another. We were senior citizens, midlifers, teenagers, 20-and 30-somethings, and the somewhere-in-betweeners. We sported shoulder length, Prince Valiant, shaves, mullets, short-sporty (that'd be "my" hairstyle), and spiked hair of all natural and unnatural colors.

Most of all, though, we were there in sync, laughing, dancing, cheering, and having some of that fab female camraderie that is oft found at this event (besides the dyke drama brawl mentioned earlier).
Of course we, the multi-thousand group of us, the Wake, Caravan, Herd, Intrigue, Colony, Drove, Peck, Kettle, Bevy, Cohorts, Fold, Farrow, Memory, Wisdom, Tower, Pandemonium, and Pride (peacocks, how appropos!) poured our fab energy into the Pink Saturday festivities in the Castro afterward.

Honestly, considering how well we put on a party, it's quite obvious it's great to be gay (or GLBTQ, if you will). It's even better to have a strong community of friends, comrades, colleagues, and acquaintances (both gay & straight) who accept & support us. Gay (GLBTQ) Pride week is our pre-holiday week warming up to the big shebang celebration on the weekend. The difference being that unlike the standard end-of-year holiday season, I didn't spend a ton of cash but I did have a fucking great time scanning the crowd for chiks, whooping, dancing, oogling, flirting, and celebrating with my peops.

Check it out! A tiny taste (not as much skin as I'd like: my battery was dying) of the 2009 SF Dyke March (by yours truly):
http://www.mydeo.com/videorequest.asp?XID=28518&CID=272721

Perspectives on a Communication Gap

I realized that I needed to spell out a few 'generic' perspectives on a relationship that's become a bit jagged, distorted, pained, and is now fraying along its once taut fringe.

We censor. We mince. We bite our tongues. We hold back. We share, then sweat, then wait for the onslaught.

It's the risk of communication, it's the chance of acceptance, it's the open road of clarity, it's the shred of what remains between we imperfect humans -- friends, relatives, others -- that allows honesty and a turned-back. The question of what lies 'on our minds' or 'in our hearts' is what we lay out on the table before these Homo sapiens. And then we stall, kill time, hold our breath in that dead air of wonder, 'will I be shunned, shot down, accepted with reluctance, or enveloped with a verbal embrace?'

Dialoguing, among many other definitions includes the frank discussion "of areas of disagreement...in order to resolve them."
Avoidance is a natural way to undertake disagreement: just sidestep the issue or simply ignore its presence. Is she leaving? Are they gay? She quit and walked out? Did he really say that? Mmm, let's simply not talk about it, it's a bit touchy you know.
Confrontation is the scary way to look these uncomfortable situations in the face. Make the call. Look the other in the eye. Open the conversation with the tell-tale, "So, I hear that ...." Write a letter and establish one's own concerns or feelings.

Tip-toe in and out of the issue is an alternative manner to deal with an imbroglio. The age-old toe-dip into the pool idea is essentially the same notion. As a side note, this literal process is quite impressive to me, as it takes quite a bit of leg strength to flex down, maintain balance, and dip the alternate toe into the water simply to determine if the agua is suitable for plunging. I suppose that it defrays from committing to the process. Rather, taking a bit of inner -- perhaps muscular -- strength to contract the leg a few degrees and test the situation.
This is not unlike the visual gauge-measurement of monitoring body language of the friend (in the dialogue) when a simple blanket statement or question, 'Do you want to talk about it?' is blurted. This tippie-toe/toe-dip is gently risky, but truly not a dive into the unmarked pool; it's non-committal, not unlike asking, "You don't want to talk about it, do you?" Umm, no, I don't think so any more.

Somewhere in the middle of this Obtuse Dialogue is the process of Questioning. This lies between tip-toe, confrontation, and avoidance. For example, 'What is it I said that made you...', or 'Do you even hear what I'm saying?', or 'Why can't you...?', 'Do I look like an idiot (Often this is followed by the statement, 'I'm not blind, you know')?' Occasionally, 'Is there anything I can do to help/clarify/show/be a better _____?'
I've found that this Interrogative technique is aggravating to the other, even if it's less obtrusive. It shows support or desire to be involved, but in the same vein, it's oft perceived by the interoggatee as pinpointing or, perhaps pin-pricking in its inquiry. That is, the question(s) really tap dance on what's raw and ruptured between or around the parties involved. As much as the questioner's furrowed brow might display concern, she is doomed, will be shot down, and reminded to 'just back off', 'stop prying,' that 'you just don't get it, do you?'

Mind you, there is the occasional glimmer of the appreciative questionee who responds, 'gosh, thanks for asking. I've been wanting to talk about this for a while and I've not known how to broach the subject.' This response is always nice.

Rough, painful, difficult, or unsavory communication between friends & lovers is often -- not always -- the easiest. Friends, true friends, or true lovers are usually willing to forgive even if one of the bipeds is an ass. Time may be involved, you know, to let that Pig Pen dust settle, but that clock or sundial generally lends itself to the perspective, to the breath of clarity, to the realization that malice was not intended.
I'm not saying that there aren't tears, crumpled letters, and slammed phone receivers. Oh, quite the contrary. However, there's often a span to reflect and realize that the words stated, the body language displayed, the unstated words, the silence, and the long exercise routines were manners in which the other needed to exemplify the depth of position, the obviousness of message, the simplicity of emotion and desire. Ideally, this day-night-day-night (repeat as needed) period brings peops together moreso than apart. I think maturity (desire & hope, too) weighs heavily in this process.

The same type of communication between relatives, that is, the "biological" (not chosen) family can sometimes lead to resentment, anger, and back-stabbing.
Mind you, I've discovered the same results between friends, which is sad, since we choose our friends because of the character they've shared with us. Our relatives are who they are, and we find that when animosity spins like a sword-wielding whirling dervish, mean spiteful words spit out daggers and shards at us. We duck, cover, we hide, we face it and are slashed.
Yet, we remain, suffer a bit, attempt to pluck the blades from our skin and souls, forgive, and sometimes bury the hatchets. Scarred, we step away and kind of move on, but that darned vexing, [non] communicative baggage keeps tagging along. So, we spin around and re-examine what's still knicking our heels.

Hope and Avoidance then comes into play once again. An oppressive silence surrounds the topic of difficulty as the best means of clearing the air.

So, is this a Confrontational Proposition? Not in the least. Merely an observation of a crevasse that's developed between a few sensitive mortals. These are creatures who mean well, have loved truly and deeply, yet are unable to bridge the gap of misunderstanding, jealousy, and new love.

Can't say that I know how those Canadian guys got the rope from one side of the Capilano chasm to the other, but I do know that it ultimately occurred from undertaking the struggle rather than simply eschewing the endeavor. Eventually, they had a wood-slat rope bridge. Unsteady, yes, but a true connection between two sides just the same.

Life's too short to let a good friend fall to the wayside and be lost. Let's be frank here: resolve the disagreement, the misunderstanding, the whatever which wedges deeper and broader between. Bridge the abyss and allow the energy & life flow.

Found. Art.

"One man's trash is another man's treasure."

Found Art.


The homeless people who haul around single go-go boots, plastic hangers, computer monitors, 8-track tapes, and random pieces of lumber are cutting-edge artists. At least that's what I've discovered by way of my MFA from an esteemed San Francisco art & architecture school. I always thought it was trash, those plastic milk & juice drink rings, expired bus passes, shoe laces, and combs. My bad. They were figures or unclaimed pieces for a "collage" or "sculpture" or "weaving".





There's actually a published, glossy-paged book (or books?) on Found Art. Who knew? Found. Not lost, not dropped, discarded, or tossed, but found.


The other day, along side the retaining wall against my abode, I swept up a bunch of wind blown leaves that expanded into its own bottomless pond of autumnal detritus. Somehow they never found their way into the nearby storm drain or city-owned shrubbery that lined the road. No big deal, I like doing my civic duty. Besides, dead leaves and twigs always smell so autumny.


Among the yellows, browns, greens, and glossy black beetles, a glint of something shiny caught my eye. There are many raccoons that roam the streets on the Eve of Trash Day, so I assumed it was a lost scrap of foil hoarded from a nearby knocked-over trash can. Instead, it was a mangled set of dentures or a bridge with little clusters of teeth and faux pink gums clinging to the metal arc.

Eeeuuuw! Someone's teeth!

Immediately, I stepped back, thinking that a serpent, monster, or some such horror film icon would jump on me. I don't know why I stepped back, but the sight of these fake chompers shivered me timbers. My parents both sport the same style: little white nubs molded into pink blobs welded into the curved monorail so I was vaguely familiar with the sight.

I vaguely scanned the roadside in case other body parts snagged on the spiny blackberry shrubs or under the guardrail --by then I thought that these ivories were part of a Mafia 'cleaning.' The street was vacant of toes or clumps of hair. I swept the fangs into the dust pan and let them slide onto the top of the wall. They sat there like some family heirloom.

My thought process was simple: if these fake tusks were not lying here as the result of foul play, then perhaps somebody lost them and I happened to find them, you know, like a key or a pacifier or a bus schedule.

It's been a few days and they're still there.

It's funny, but from a distance or even close-up, they remind me of a morphed scorpion. The thin metal track curved and divoted from passing cars or the nearby family of raccoons who, much like I did with a paper clip in 3rd grade, probably passed it around and put it in their mouths like a Halloween vampire prop before realizing they had to get on with their nightly trash-dumping schedule. The wire pokes upward and out towards the imaginary pallet, ready to jab and sting. The gaps between the clumps of pink and white stones are articulated body parts held together by an evil, metallic wasp-waisted petiole.

Given the gap of time and my association with my recent Alma Mater, I'm now wondering how I can attach this imperfect body part to a canvas to follow in suit with the Found Art phenom. Ideally, I'd use dental floss and lasso it up, just to keep it aligned with the oral theme. However, I've discovered a few "natural" cigarette pack wrappers, a flexi-straw, a beer bottle cap, and a fast food restaurant's cold drink lid (size medium) clumped into a cyclone fence's corner at a local produce store I visit. Obviously, these are art pieces in the waiting.

+*+*+*+

I know some people use Found Objects in their own artwork. Often this is called Recycled Art or some such title.

I understand this is quite a profitable venture, especially if the art of welding is involved. I've seen old truck cogs, hubs, and axels melted together into quirky figurines and images. People find old metal signs and keenly place them in their backyards where magenta sweet peas and bright sunflowers soften the rusty edges. Others create tinkling chimes from mangled cafeteria silverware and fishing lines found along sandy beaches.

At NYC's MOMA, I viewed a small art exhibit of 7 flourescent light tubes leaning against each other in a corner. I wanted to believe that these were waiting for overhead replacement by the museums the maintenance people, but I was wrong. I cannot imagine how much someone would pay for this.

The most difficult Found Recycled Art for me to accept and appreciate is the toilet garden. Yes, it's a perfect bowl, but when it comes down to it, I have no interest in approaching this display, let alone sniffing the fragrant buds that bob their multi-hued heads, knowing that their stems and roots reach out along the edge of the porcelain and stretch down the oft-plunged hole which once housed, well you know. Too much prior knowledge on that planter's usage, thank you very much.

So go ahead, make your Recycled Art. But please explain to me how gum wrappers, a dirty yellow shower curtain ring, coffee cup handle, deflated mylar balloon (purple and red ribbons still knotted onto the nipple), a bread loaf's wrapper and its twistie, and a library book's crinkly cover all glued onto a canvas, or "woven together" with the other above-noted items are Found "Art." It just seems like garbage to me, not some cool sculpture, drawing, or figurine found at a garage sale or in the back of somebody's dusty, forgotten attic.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my multi-textured mouthy collage, begin gluing a chewed-tip pen cap, a boot's tongue, a single jigsaw puzzle piece, and a Reese's PB wrapper onto a cheap canvas. It shall be titled, "Oral Life" and I will offer it for sale at the artistic price of $500.

Found. Art. Canvassed trash for sale. Yet, I must say, the streets are a little cleaner for it.

HP Customer Service-Finale: Simple is too Simple

A computer, to the best of my knowledge runs on some sort of electrical power.
This power can be stored, as in solar power, transferred as in wind or hydro-electric power (harnassing the strength of the underground aquifer), generated by way of movement, you know, Gilligan style on a bamboo bicycle, or, the common method, the power cord. My sister reminded me that it's referred to in the techy world as a Cable. Thus, electricity shooting out of the wall socket or power strip into the 3-prongs along the insulated black cord, er, cable and into the computer by way of the recessed 3-prong innie.

HP Customer Service center folks struggled with some aspect of this new-fangled transference of energy when calls were made to their remote, secret centers.
Twice I received $xx credit for the mishandling and "inconvenience" that was suffered. Haven't seen the credit card bill yet, so I cannot verify this purported credit as of this posting. However, the true suffering wasn't as much a 'pain & suffering' as is often rewarded in civil court, but an insufferable lack of comprehension by the HP Customer Service phone staff.
Nonetheless, to close this post such that we can finally exhale with the knowledge that a wire hanger and a pair of jimmied forks are no longer serving as conductors of Hot electricity from wall to computer, a "North American cable" (again, tech-speak clarification from my schwester) arrived, sans paperwork, sans apology, in an unmarked FedEx padded envelope three days after my last phone conversation. The return address: Tennessee.
Strange that it took three days. I know for a fact that TN is, indeed a FedEx hub, and has been since its inception. Still, it arrived: the correct cable, the true embodiment of an electrically charged, 3-outie, 3-innie, shiny, black, snake.
At last, the sooped-up HP Pavilion is now ready for action. Now, if I can just shut off the Main switch to the house, I can finally detach the tinfoil-coat hanger-fork from the socket and we're ready to roll.

HP Customer Service: Simple is too Simple Part II

Sleek, glistening computer and monitor sit quietly. The beginnings of dust particulate matter forms on the edges of the keyboard's space bar and the jutting lip beneath the cd-rom insert. The four-day old computer with its extra Power Supply Box still lacks a power supply cord.

I made the call - again- to customer service. Because I had a p.t. appointment for an injury, I was a bit cranky from some residual inflammation and not willing to be so, how you say, patient with the lack of electrical comprehension. No more Miss Nice Gal.

HPSC: HPSC, my name is ***, will you be willing to take a short customer service survey at the close of this phone call?

HOME: Sure.
HPSC: Is this Miss Bossybeehive?
HOME: Yes.
HPSC: How may I help you Miss BBH?
HOME: Well, you should see in your records that a call was made to your customer service center on Saturday, April 11.
HPSC: Yes. Yes I see that you called. How may I help you?
HOME: If you notice in the notes, there was a problem in our shipment.
HPSC: I see that you purchased a shiny new computer which is a fine computer.
HOME: I don't know about that because You People (I never refer to anyone as You People, but this just fell out so appropriately) failed to send an electrical cord with the computer, and then today failed to send me an electrical cord as a replacement part.
HPSC: I see that we ordered you a Power Supply Box and...
HOME: Yes. A Power Supply Box does not satisfy the problem because we have no power.
HPSC: I'll transfer you to Technical Support.
HOME: No. Technical Support won't help with this problem because it's not related to anything technical. It's a power cord. You know, like the thing that connects to the wall and to the computer. That is what you didn't send.
HPSC: I see that a power supply cord is not listed in the accessories that you ordered.
HOME: It shouldn't be! It's a cord. It's not an extra. The cords aren't noted for the speakers that hook to the computer, the cords aren't noted for the woofer that hooks to the computer, the cords aren't noted for the monitor that hooks to the computer. It's not an accessory! It's just a standard part of the computer.
HPSC: I'm sorry ma'am. I don't have a power cord listed here. Can you read me the inventory list that came with your computer?
HOME: Sure. But I'm telling you that it's not going to be listed because it shouldn't have to be. It's like doors on a new car. There're not listed in the inventory because they're standard!
HPSC: Yes ma'am.
HOME: (I read the inventory list).
HPSC: The power cord is not on your list, ma'am.
HOME: I know it's not on the list. It's something that's expected to be in the box! If I lived in the middle of Antarctica and ordered this computer, I wouldn't have a local hardware store or BestBuy to drive to in order to purchase a power cord because it should've been in the box with the new computer. It's not an extra.
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Let me look for a part number.
HOME: There shouldn't Be a part number because it's just a fucking cord. It's a cord, like a snake, only rubberized with a girl-part on one end and a boy-part on the other. You know, three-prongs?
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Do you have the original list of items that you ordered to be included in the design of your computer? Perhaps it's on there and you did not check the box.
HOME: It's a cord! The computer is an electrical tool. It's a cord that connects the computer to the wall outlet, you know, to transfer electricity. You know, like the same kind that you have with a lamp, or a hair dryer or a radio. They run on electricity.
HPSC: Yes ma'am.
HOME: You don't know what I'm talking about do you?
HPSC: (Silence)
HOME: It looks like a rubber snake with gold pokey things near its tail that plug into the wall. I don't know how else to describe this. They're called electrical cords and there isn't one with this computer that I just purchased!
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Okay ma'am.
HOME: You still don't understand what I'm talking about do you?

HPSC: (silence)

HOME: Look, if I don't have the electrical cord, that black rubberized thing that hooks into the 3-prong portal at the back of my computer while the other end hooks into an electrical outlet, what do you expect me to use to move the electricity, tin foil and a couple forks? It's a cord. It's part of the computer. Yes, it's an electrical cord, but not a Power Supply Box, but rope-like, or a big fat worm.
If you just lean over and look behind your computer or any computer in your customer service center you'll see that there's a black cord, like licorice that connects your computer to some sort of electrical outlet or power strip. Do you see what I'm saying?
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Please hold.

(12 minutes later)

HPSC Supv: Hello Ms. BBH, this is floor supervisor ###. How may I help you?
HOME: (I repeat the same yell-a-thon schpiel I just ranted at cust svc rep ***). I don't get why this is so difficult to understand. It's like something from Kindergarten it's so fucking simple! It's an electrical cord. Not an accessory. Not a power strip. Not a Power Supply Box. Not a cosmetic case or a calculator. It's a cord. We use them to plug in things that need electricity, like, oh, this computer, which doesn't have one!
HPSC Supv: I understand.
HOME: Do you? Because it seems like it's over-simplified and the fact that all I need is a power cord to solve my new computer's problem isn't listed in the HP customer service script of how-tos.
HPSC Supv: Yes. I understand. For your inconvenience, we'll credit you $xx.
HOME: Well, thank you, but that still doesn't get me any electricity between my wall and the computer. What do you want me to do put my finger in the socket and simply hover over the computer and create static electricity?
HPSC Supv: No ma'am. I understand your frustration. We'll order you another Power Supp...
HOME: No. I don't need a box. I need a cord. A cord. Please. Just stand up and lean over your computer and see what I'm talking about. It's the same thing as what we use to turn on our refrigerators and toasters. That black ropey looking thing. It's a power cord. It has 3 prongs on one end and hooks into the wall, and 3 receding prongs on the other that hook into the back of the computer.
HPSC Supv: Okay. I'm leaning over my computer and I see a cord that attaches to the computer.
HOME: Is it 3-pronged? (I can't believe she's actually looking at the back of her computer)
HPSC Supv: Yes. And it connects to the surge protector.
HOME: I don't want a surge protector. I want that first cord you mentioned. The 3-prong to 3-prong cord.
HPSC Supv: It's 3-prong to 2-prong.
HOME: Yea, okay, I don't have one so I can't tell you if that's how it should be. But it's a power cord. It sends electricity to the computer from the outlet.
HPSC Supv: Yes ma'am. I understood you needed a Power Supply Box. This is what you need?
HOME: That's what I've been screaming about.
HPSC Supv: Please hold on one moment.
(3 minutes later...)
Okay we'll send you this replacement part in a few days?
HOME: That is absolutely unacceptable. Next day air or overnight. I live an hour from HP headquarters why can't one of these people just drop one off at my house? (Can't believe I said 'these people'). I'm sure one of the HP board members lives near me.
HPSC Supv: Yes ma'am. We'll send this overnight. I'll give you the replacement part number.
HOME: A part number for a cord? Okay.
HPSC Supv: We'll send this overnight.

*+*+*+*
I realized when the phone call ended that I wasn't transferred to the customer service survey people.