This floodgate of what I now call “sparks of light from the prism” amaze me. It is everywhere. I find good deeds in my newspaper’s letters to the editor, on Facebook, in books I’m given, and from random discoveries. A heightened awareness of good seems to foster more good. It also spins my Irish temper into an Irish toast. What would once have given me cause to jump all over some nincompoop now coerce me into smiles and humor.
Spouse rushed from the morning news on the tube and into the spare bedroom when he heard me rustle through an old cedar chest for my pink rabbit ears and skunk tail. “NO darling!” he wailed. “They’ll either haul your naked ass, but for the skunk tail and rabbit ears, to jail for indecent exposure, or the neighbors will simply close their drapes and pretend they didn’t see you—again–running stark naked and screaming down the street.” “Shut up! Help me find my […]
I sipped more ginger tea. I thought about the Tea Party demands; I thought about the progressive demands; I thought about my own budget (or lack thereof); I thought about religious demands; I thought about corporate demands, and I started to gasp for lack of oxygen.
Two cups of ginger tea later a spicy idea landed. Start my own party, the Ginger Tea Party.
My first black friend was in high school. We teamed up because, like me, irreverence surfaced to her tongue and she hurled some pretty funny commentary about school and life. Our skin wasn’t an issue. More important was our shared teenage angst—you know, boys, make up, zits, bras, and cars. Last names and skin tones made no difference in my youth. I wasn’t raised that way. The person who influenced me most was my godfather, a tap dancer with deep Irish roots. […]
Maybe because the magnetic North Pole has shifted closer to Siberia than what my world atlas indicates, we’re shifting into Mr. Well’s likely interpretation of “ Inception.”
Marie, Greta, and Twyla would have recoiled from the behavior and speech demonstrated by women like Sarah, Sharron and Michele—each of media and political acclaim
Our iconic date of September 11 nears. The hate that darkened that historic day proliferates and I fear that I’m slipping into some nightmarish rabbit hole with twisted reality and tangled nonsensical tales.
It is as if the Ten Commandments are turned inside out and what is good is bad and what is bad is good.
My passion for the whale began in the early 1980s when an editor assigned me to write a feature story on the “new” whale watch tours.
Route 66 traverses my American life. My father bought a canvas radiator water bag for the blue and white 1955 Chevy wagon. We packed fried chicken, buttered white bread, hard-boiled eggs and Oreo cookies in a basket, and left California behind to see the USA in our Chevrolet eastbound on Route 66. When school returned each September, the iconic “What I did Last Summer” essays by classmates told tales about live lions, snake pits, dancing Indians, and buffalo burgers all experienced along the […]
There you go again politicizing and “religious-cizing” the natural disaster in Haiti. From here on out I will not purchase anything advertised on the broadcast/print media that help fund these old idiotic white men.
The Muse Pallet 