

I cohost the Average Attention Span podcast with my brother, Shannon. Or, used to. It’s been a while. We also make music.
I like ball pits in theory.
Probably unfollowed by most of my Facebook friends for spamming their feeds with animal activism.
I think sleep is the best medicine and I don't get enough of it.
I like to dance and take walks and watch TV.
Makeup is fun, but feels bad on your face.
I read a lot of fanfiction and enjoy posting on message boards.
I can cook.
Cat person. Probably also a koala person.
I volunteered at a primate sanctuary for a year.
I was a caregiver for various family members.
When she saw this picture, my daughter said, “You look happy.” The director of the sanctuary took it. I was handing out pumpkins that somebody donated. I’d baked them with seeds and nuts and maple syrup in the tiny sanctuary kitchen, while passing small pieces of fruit to a blind macaque named Honey.
I have a daughter. I’m a mom. I speak in third person.
I love dinosaurs.
I like tomato sandwiches, tomato soup, and having my hair brushed.
A chimp once gave me a mouth shower.
I’ve chased a coyote off with a cast iron pan.
I’ve never sat in closets reading comics. Never pushed broccoli off my plate. I didn't play with fire or kiss boys behind bushes. My demons were tame and knew their place.
I look in the mirror and I see someone old and tired. Someone who wrote shitposts about emperor on the Colosseum walls. Someone who bathed in the sink and threw bones at the feet of giants to decide my fate.
Sometimes my butt outgrows my pants and I use the pants as a resistance band to exercise my thighs.
How do I get a kelp forest in my kitchen?
Are mothmen drawn from their subterranean dwellings by the moon? Is that what’s happening at O’Hare? Confused moths?
Why do shirts have collars? I'm serious. Is this like a fin we evolved away from flapping uselessly in the windmills of my mind?
Can I substitute a climbing rope for a library ladder?
Why do air fresheners in restaurant bathrooms always smell like rotting flowers?
Can you break a pizza? Break it like bread. Communion. We are one in marinara.
If my buttons were candy I'd always be naked and sticky.
Why are blue buttons and sea stars so beautiful but also so gross? Life confounds me.
I have the best neighbors in the world. They love kids and animals, and they’re always ready to help. We share pictures of fawns and foxes, and we shared food and generators during the freeze. I freaking love fawns and foxes.
I asked my brother if I could post a video he took of the foxes yawning and stretching on our picnic table, and he said, “Really? There’s an old sink rotting in the grass behind them.” I said, “No one doesn’t not think we have that.”
The deer think they get fed when the cats do. It must be how another neighbor does it. The does show up like, “Trick-or-Treat!”
A possum moved into my roof and fixed a leak in my bedroom. Now I feed him every night to thank him for his charity.
Sometimes it sounds like the squirrels are moving furniture, and I think they're at war with the raccoons. I'm so afraid a petting zoo is about to burst through my ceiling.
How weird would it be if I pulled out a bib at a restaurant? Would you leave?
My favorite forms of currency are homemade coupons and crinoid stars. Under the right circumstances, I will also accept unusual rocks, gold ingots, and pie.
Aren’t stamps just sticker currency? I wish we could use stickers as currency. That would be pretty cool. Except for the landfills. Can we make stickers eco-friendly? I bet Neri Oxman is all over it.
A very old Knights Templar once took two heavy tomes out of a locked case and, with a pointer finger pressed to a thin closed seam, into my worn yellow backpack, and told me they would answer all my questions. His voice echoed in the ancient library like a quetzal in Chichen Itza. I could see it falling through the cracks of secret staircases and hidden passages, like a marble chasing gravity through a maze of neoclassical design.
I don't actually like candy, and I have no idea what I'm saying. I just type things that I think sound good, like a pulmonary artery squeezing a juice box.
I take a lot of delight in vending machine contraband. Especially, pocket ninjas. I will magpie the heck out of those pocket ninjas.
I make up vaguely Southern-sounding phrases and watch people struggle to work out if I’m joking.
You don't always get to decide. When you have a choice, appreciate it.
At any time, I might grab you, and say, “Tell me it's NOT Saturday!” Don't be alarmed. Just roll with it.
Selkies, Swan Maidens, and Tennin were so very obviously hot space women.
My glasses are purple.
My good book is the Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I will quote iambic pentameter at you.
That one hair after shaving. Did it duck and cover?
At the end of every period I say, “This house is clean.”
Why are banal things corny? And what's wrong with corn? It's the backbone of agricultural efficiency.
I want to know that Fiji is more than a marketing gimmick. They say there are forty varieties of orchid in a park called The Garden of the Sleeping Giant. I wonder if that’s where Ender learned that the only way to win was not to play at all.
A sassy tortoiseshell named Piewacket once proudly marched into my room with all the pageantry of a Roman emperor and dropped a huge dead rabbit at my feet. Which I then realized wasn't a rabbit at all, it was a rat, and it wasn’t dead. The rat-rabbit launched itself at my head like the Beast of Caerbannog and we spun like salsa dancers toward the landing, tipping backwards, and toboganing down the stairs like a human-rat tumbleweed. Halfway down, the rat repelled off my chest and landed in the living room, shooting like a bullet into the laundry room, where I heard the cat flap click like the swish of a skirt. I laid in the middle of the stairs panting like a turtle on its back, staring up at the landing where Piewacket sat radiating, “You’re welcome.”
You know how people always say that cell phones are built to break down after too many updates, like a clown car at a Marx Brothers family reunion? I think that’s why humans start to break down, too. Planned obsolescence. We can only handle so many updates before we have to upgrade.
I like to pray. When I feel helpless and unhelpful, and have nothing left to give, it feels like something. An intention. Love, for what that's worth. Don't ask me to whom I pray. Half the time, I don't know. I just focus on those I'd like to help and ask for the best for them.
I don't want anyone to hurt. Even people who are hurting me. Even the bad guys. I'll defend myself, but I wish no one pain. I wish them growth. I wish them empathy and perspective. If my soul finds itself adrift on foreign ocean, I beg it return to me, and fill my heart again with benevolence and love.
Whenever someone uses the phrase "dumber than a box of rocks" I always think about the guy who invented the pet rock and how he made a fortune off a box of rocks. That's not dumb.
Bitches’ Brew or Machito Goes Memphis for RV sessions? I’m conflicted.
There is no such thing as ‘Truth or Dare’. To tell the truth is to dare. To speak and wear honesty is to dare so far you might tumble off the edge of the world. Each word is a spell that could turn like a snake on the one who charms it. A three-hundred-word essay on why the Beetles broke up and Donald Trump became president, sipping mimosas at a baby shower. But dishonesty is for the meek and misguided.
I understand not telling someone something that would hurt them, though. Life is complicated.
When something is close it's scary. When something is far it's impossible. Truth. Dare. Jump. Swim. Drink, shout, run, fall. Get up again.
My family lives in a large, slightly shabby, slightly sheik, treehouse. Like the Lost Boys in Peter Pan, by James Mathew Barrie. We have guard cats and three tactical armadillos. The cats will pour into the house like Voltron if someone comes, and the armadillos disperse like Curly, Moe, and Larry, knocking down anyone in their path.
We have no central heat or a/c, so it’s always either unbearably hot or uncomfortably cold with a touch of swamp gas, and there’s this one horribly warped floor board that always makes me think I’m stepping on a stale fig newton.
The entirety of the treehouse is ensconced in fluffy white crepe myrtle, purple drank mountain laurel, twineberry and honeysuckle, Carolina creeper, and arthritic scrub oak. The porch is rotting away. The windows are covered in wild fox grape. Junk cars line the dirt and gravel driveway.
You know in your bones that somebody’s made s'mores with saltines instead of graham crackers, and that it was the least concerning thing to happen in that a crack house.
I bet Sid Barrett ate his s'mores with chocolate milk and apathy.
Tootsie Rolls taste like chocolate milk for astronauts.
I wonder what it's like to be so rich you get tired of pistachios. That sounds depressing.
Every day I wake up and think to myself, “Round TWO! GO!”
My morning routine looks like Laura Dern's sprint to the generator in Jurassic Park (1993), but with cats instead of raptors.
Naked and watching faces fall like the aluminum powder in an Etch-a-Sketch. Wrapping my hands around the bat and stepping up to the plate like big thing in competitive pie consumption.
Do I brush my teeth? Of course, I fucking brush my teeth. Climb back under a rock, cromags-a-million.
My brain is like a junk drawer. As soon as my feet touch floor, it’s like, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go! Stabilimenta are most commonly found in the genus argiope argentata. Compound eyes are composed of units call ommatidia. Wine for ten, apps for six, and they’re still hiring for the kitchens. Two red lights. Seven sweaty dudes going into Bigs, staggered. Bright sun, no wind. Metal awning, double glass doors. “Protected by security company” decal on the lower right. “Emergency shut off” switch on the middle left. Recessed. Three outdoor freezers. Chains on one. A rack for firewood on the right of the last freezer before a picnic area with metal umbrellas and cement tables and benches. Bundles of wood in transparent packaging, no text. A propane cage on the far left between the two freezers on that side. “Amerigas”. Eight windows on each side of the doors. Four and four: four tall, four small. Tubular lights outside, canopy lights inside. Sign for drinks “2 for $5.55”, and another for “$2.58”. One grease stain on the curb to the left. Two cars to the left, three to the right. A hatchback and a sedan. One large black truck to the right. Cars at all six of the pumps behind us. The car wash attendant looks like he hates his life. I would too in this heat. I need to call Crimm and Berry. Or post on Facebook or something. If I don’t reach out, I’ll never have friends. Bullies crushing my autumn leaves in preschool. Mom standing in the doorway watching the rain. Wet rosemary, silently judging cats. Surprising Florence with a kiss. She smells nice. Worried she thought it was weird. Miss my cats. That one time we showed up late to a performance and an actor in the play told us off. Still want to crawl under a rock. The kind you hide keys in. A faux glacial conglomerate with a hollow core, dead inside, like the lime scaled coffee pot in the conference room of a Holiday Inn. I’d have to be Magic School Bus small, though. Rock iguanas are so cool. What are the logistics of rescuing one? How big of a project is the vivarium? Would they fight the ‘dillos? Those three blind mice would walk right into that. Lilly Tomlin is cool. I wonder what her life is like. Does she rock out to The Who’s Magic Bus? I’d be all over that. Six trees. Fountain grass, Black-eyed Sussans. Bright sun, clear sky. Apartment complex on the right, non-descript red brick building on the left. Oh! I forgot to look at the bug last night! Damnit. Now, I’ll never see that bug… lizard! “Baby! Come here—oh. He’s gone, now. Too fast.” I wonder if the UFO I saw was using road signs. The cyber truck looks like a prop from Back to the Future II (1989). Billy Jean is not my lover. Hem fuckin’ LOVED cats. Papa was a player. That one spot where the paint chipped off the canvass. White wall, two doors. Moving picture with limited range. Full moon, shadowy threshold. Autumn leaves whipping around a tall, frail, thin body. A lady with flowing chestnut hair and a green conical hat, wielding a feral-looking walking stick. Music.” Then I hear the plaintive wail of “Mama! I’m HUNGRY!” in the next room, and I know it’s about to get real.
Breakfast is V8 and half a Jet Alert. And maybe another Jet Alert. A beastly amount of caffeine is what's on the menu.
A hundred alerts on the Reddits? Nope. Not clicking that. I’m a lover, not a fighter.
Cognitive dissonance is a hell of a drug, and it comes for us all. Check those boxes and re-evaluate. I think Mark Twain said that. Or something like it.
If you have trypophobia, never look at a close-up picture of a house centipede’s eye.
I had an eyebrow piercing for exactly forty-eight hours when I was seventeen.
Two of my eyebrow hairs turned white and I quit the whole hair game. It can be free now.
I probably don't need all those supplements but taking them makes me feel like an astronaut.
I set alarms on my phone for certain times for no real reason. I just like turning them off.
I totally believe in crawlers, gnomes, fair folk, but you KNOW that’s somebody's parrot out there pranking people in the woods. Also, have Sam and Cody never heard the ghastly sound a deer makes when calling to its fellows?
Dogmen are kind of sexy. I would totally read a Skinwalker Ranch fanfic shipping Dragon and a rogue dogman. It's a tale as old as spacetime.
Giant spiders won't wait for the kata move.
Feeding seagulls is magical. Feeding ducks is frustrating.
Framing is important. For houses, for paintings, and for sentences.
Bananas and avocados are delicious but unduly biodegradable, composting all over the place. Some people are like that.
A lot of being a mom is just knowing the right time to bring out the popsicles. And when to turn off the tv. When to buy new shoes. When to introduce them to Led Zeppelin and David Bowie. To always have back up mac n’ cheese. To always pack the sandwiches, sweaters, and sunscreen. To be up to date on all the names of all their imaginary friends. To never say no to a bedtime story, even if you’re tired. To never lose your shit when it hits the fan. To always have their backs with teachers and principals. Put your best Han Solo on. “Don’t sweat it, kid. I got this.”
Do you ever want to take pistachio shells and make bicycle helmets for mice and their nonexistent bicycles?
Impressionist landscapes are my jam. I like a good wind swept botanic.
AntsCanada was fueling my dream of having a kelp forest in my kitchen, a tide pool in my living room, and an orb weaver habitat in my bedroom, until he turned his life-size terrarium into a Wardian bumfight. I’m not down with that.
Thinking burns a lot of calories. When I want to eat a high calorie snack, I make myself draft a story about it in my head while I do it.
Do you ever stop and think… “Those garden gnomes have seen a lot of shitake.”
Sometimes sweet things taste sad.
If you’re getting rug burn over terms like “organic” and “ethically sourced” you can fuck all the way off. We’re talking about averting human rights violations and farming methods that preserve the environment. If that’s trendy that’s a blessing.
It’s trendy to attack something for being trendy. It’s also easy.
On Friday nights, I just want to listen to Belle and Sebastian and try to masturbate without crying.
Sometimes I look up porn to remind myself why I don’t ever want to look up porn. I do the same thing with news publications. Scroll Twitter for ten minutes and you knew we’re taking the “f” in ‘decline and fall’.
I will laugh all day at dragons fucking cars, though.
My sleep number is unlisted.
I lost my house key in the garden.
If you send me a picture of your dick I’m sending you a picture of a lamprey.
Pulling your hair into a ponytail makes you feel like you're about to get shit done.
Smiling makes you feel like things aren't so bad.
Shaving your head means shit's about to go DOWN.
I know all the lyrics to Enter the Ninja.
Pool noodles are not optional, they're ESSENTIAL.
Garbage plates and Beyond Meat Tony Burgers with an orange fizz or root beer at Magnolia Cafe. Vegan Krispy Kreme glazed dozen. The buffet at India Palace. Vegetable lo mein at Ding How. Panang curry, Tom Ka Tofu, and spring rolls at Jasmin Thai. Taro boba at Bobalicious. Berry toatsers, Papa Ranchera kolaches, Gansito Bars, Chocolate Croissants, Jalapeño Popper Turners, Strawberry Lemonade Scones, and Cinnamon and Strawberry Conchas at Miss Chickpea’s Bakery. Portland Creams and Voodoo dolls at Voodoo Doughnut. Enchiladas and Flautas at Viva Vegeria. Pretzels and Veg-Out pizza at Mellow Mushroom. Nachos, Mac n’ Cheese, and Chick’n and Waffles at Go Vegan San Antonio near UT. Johnny Pops and SorBabes, and Non-Diary Ben & Jerrys, and vegan Magnums.
Joey Diaz scares the shit out of me. He’s like a gunned-up Kodiak melting down on snozeberry jam and cracker coke rolling down your mountain.
Indiana Jones wasn’t just some snake charming parkour peacock. He studied. Researched. Travelled and collected. Developed skills and a kick-ass cork board murder wall. The quest is a dream catcher. A blood pact. A crossroads commitment. Something that takes, and takes, and takes before it ever gives back.
Think about all the things I thought were too dumb to write here.
Born and raised in Texas. We have Harry Knowles and Robert Rodriguez. Willie Nelson, Beyonce, Janis Joplin, Patrick Swayze, Blind Lemon Jefferson, The Butthole Surfers, Graveyard Girl, Roy Orbison, Buddy Holly, Stevie Ray Vaughn, George Strait, Donald Hoffman, Kris Kristofferson, Richard Linklater, Owen Wilson, Miranda Lambert, Kenny Rogers, Dabney Coleman, Meth Damon, James Andrew Harris, Scott Joplin, Meat Loaf, Shelly Duvall, Waylon Jennings, Boz Scaggs, Ethan Hawke, Sandra Bullock, Freddie King, Carol Burnett, Gary Busey, Robin Wright, Phylicia Rashad, Forest Witaker, Eva Longoria, Jaimie Foxx, Joaquin Castro, Matthew MacConaughey, Lou Diamond Phillips, Selena Gomez, Bill Paxton, Renee Zellwegger, Woody Harrelson, Mike Judge, Pendelton Ward, Wes Anderson, Megan Thee Stallion, Win Buttler, and Selena. Kinky Friedman and Tom Ford. Zooey Deschanel and Jensen Ackles. Shack. Davey Crockett. Tommy Lee Jones and Sissy Spacek. Lex Freidman, Joe Rogan, Elon Musk, Shane Gillis, Theo Von, Tom Segura and Christina Pazsitsky (acquired). Sonic and Whataburger. Taco Cabana and Las Palapas. Voodoo Doughtnut and Waffle House. BBQ and Tex-Mex. Tamales, breakfast tacos, kolaches. De la Rosa and Alamo Candy. Kick-ass Indian buffets. Vegan brisket, and possibly more tigers than currently reside in the wild. Peaches, pecans, strawberries, watermelon, blueberries, oranges, wildflowers. Austin, NASA, Tesla, Fiesta, Sherwood Forest Faire, HEB, Dell, the Spurs, the Hill Country. Office Space (1999), Twister (1996), Bottle Rocket (1996), Smokey and the Bandit (1977), Pure Country (1992), Bubba Ho-Tep (2002), Desperado (1995), Manos: The Hand of Fate (1966), King of the Hill (1997), Dazed and Confused (1993) Rushmore (1998), Tin Cup (1996), Reality Bites (1994). That Frost bank commercial starring Willie Nelson (it’s on YouTube). Crazy weather. Baptists and Santeria. Bluebonnets and armadillos. Roadrunners and bluebirds. Bobcats and feral hogs. Negligent gun laws, Alex Jones, Joel Osteen, Ted Cruz, and a war on women, immigration, and trans rights. It’s a sometimes infuriating, sometimes wonderful, sometimes strange, sometimes scary place to call home.
I grew up in a sheltered multigenerational household consisting of my mom, her two sisters, and my maternal grandparents. My brother and I were sometimes homeschooled and did not engage in typical adolescent behaviors. We dropped out, became caregivers, lost our family, grieved… took a number, took a seat. Became stones in the river of life, and let the water soften our resistance, the weight of it disappearing like a cough drop under the tongue. Blindly struggling to afford gas and groceries and keep our family home. It went from Tangled (2010) to Miss Havisham eating cake in her ruined mansion. We knew we had to get our shit together fast, and we tried. Good lord, we tried, and we’re still trying. Like everybody now, I guess.
Our family had some dysfunctional attitudes via my grandmother, who was famous for inciting arguments. She wasn't a bad person; she loved us very much. But she created a lot of discord in our home. The more research I've done to identify, and resolve learned dysfunctional behaviors, the more forgiving I've become toward her. She grew up in a different time. A hard time. And she had issues that were never properly addressed. I can't truly understand what she faced or the environment that made her the person I knew. The person whose quick thinking under pressure once saved my life.
My maternal grandfather was a contract negotiator for the military. He worked on the Apollo and Stealth programs. I know this from what my family told me, and from his personal records. I don’t know what he did exactly, but my mom said that my grandfather would come home and just gush about conversations with Werner von Braun, and how brilliant he was. I know enough to know that von Braun was part of the all the rocket stuff. Yes, I said “rocket stuff”. Bite me.
My mom said they moved around a lot. That my grandfather traveled a lot. That he worked at White Sands Missile Range, and at one point they lived in Indian Springs, Nevada. That the base in Indian Springs was under ground and only active above ground at night. Mom told me they had an escape plan for nuclear war that didn’t include my grandfather. That he told them he would be underground somewhere, were that to happen. He could track any animal and was an excellent marksman, but he looked like an accountant. Wore glasses, always had a pen in his pocket. Scuffed up new shoes before wearing them. Quiet and soft spoken. Didn't break rules. Patriotic. Cried during the National Anthem. Took the flag, and all that, that very seriously. Despised bullies and liars, and discrimination of any variety. Smoked two packs a day. Marlboros. Never in the house, though. Always on the carport, even in the rain and snow. Was a hunter but went vegetarian after accounting for a factory farm. Spoke Spanish and German fluently. And French, I think. He was some kind of WWII badass. Given a field commission by General Patton. I have no evidence of this, just family lore. The story went that had to be moved very quickly to avoid being offered a position on Patton's staff because, "Nobody said no to Patton." Again, just stories.
He played and enjoyed watching football. Read a lot of sci-fi novels. Was moral but not religious. Left behind only three possessions, all from the war: a trench knife, a Drilling rifle, and a Minox Riga. I’ll take a picture of the Minox if I can dig it out. My mom processed the film in the camera back in the eighties, I think, but it was just troops and villages, and a picture of a seated officer lifting a beer stein.
My impression through his daughters, and my own in the short time that I knew him, was of a humble, emotionally intelligent individual who cherished his family and his privacy. We called him “bompa”. When I was five, he walked to the pharmacy near our house and bought us an electronic toy Santa car for Christmas. I remember him bringing it home and turning off the lights in the kitchen before letting it go. So delighted, as my brother and I shrieked with excitement, watching as it zoomed around playing Christmas music, red and green lights flashing. I love that memory.
More about bompa: In University he wrote a sweet poem about a conversation he had with a “little star” at dusk. And he liked to walk everywhere like I do. As Elizabeth Bennet would say, “The distance is nothing when one has motive.”
A story about bompa: When my mom was a kid, she and bompa were driving home when some power lines went down in front of the car… or maybe it was ball lightening, I’m not sure. I’m not sure mom was sure. Mom said she saw electricity on the dashboard. But before she could even process what was happening, bompa threw his arm out and pinned her to the seat, yelling, "Don't touch anything!" Then he kicked the driver's side door open, grabbed her by the seat of her pants, and threw her ten feet from the car. And he was right behind her. She said it happened so fast she didn't have any time to be scared.
Another bompa story: One day, a car jumped the curb in front of their house, almost hitting my mom and her sisters, and some kittens they were playing with. Bompa chased the car on foot for several blocks until the guy parked in front of a church and went in. Mom said bompa followed him into the church and beat the crap out of him. Obviously, my mom wasn't there at the church, she was only present for the car jumping the curb and bompa chasing it down the street… and she was a kid, and this is just what she said she heard happened.
A little more about my bompa: Mom said he was dropped behind enemy lines with British paratroopers during the war. That they “took over a castle” and “stayed there for a while”.
It was one of the only stories he told, and it was very vague. After the war, he trained at Langley to become a contract negotiator. I don't know much about what that entails other than paperwork. Mom said his most famous case was the moon one. That he wasn't allowed to take files home. That everyone had to be careful what they said over the phone and always be on their best behavior. Never cause any trouble because it could affect his job. I’m guessing he was worried about psychological fitness. “Awarded Secret” immediately followed by “Awarded Top Secret” and “STEALTH” in all caps were all over his service record.
One more story and an aside: mom said that bompa told her he killed an enemy he wasn't meant to during the war, because he momentarily lost his mind over how evil that person was. Someone he was supposed to keep alive, or interrogate, I’m not sure. He said the person shocked him and he momentarily lost his shit. Mom said he cried when he told her this. Mom also said bompa was given the opportunity to move the whole family somewhere in the Middle East and work there. That he turned it down because he thought it wouldn't be a safe environment for his family.
More stories: My grandmother’s younger sister married an officer in the Air Force. She threw dinner parties, and worked hard to climb the social ladder in a way that grammy just wasn't capable of doing. But I don’t think that's something bompa expected or wanted. My mom said her aunt used to make fun of bompa for being a “boring paper pusher”. But he wasn't. He was freaking Brock Samson.
My grandmother was very close to her sister. They spoke on the phone almost daily. On her sickbed, though, my grandmother told me, rather fervently, “Don’t trust [grammy’s sister's name].”
My grandmother’s two nieces attended her funeral in their mother’s place as she was too sick to travel. Afterwards they offered to take my brother and I, one to California, one to Pennsylvania, to help us develop our educational prospects. After accepting, our great aunt asked that I legally change my name again to something more socially acceptable and urged my brother and I to join the Air Force. Which, if you’ve met either of us, you’d understand how unrealistic an aim that is. Something about college benefits, which was very a generous offer. I mean, it was all generous. And I was grateful. I still am. Just never been good about strings.
My bompa’s dying wish was that we “get off the fault line”. That was it. It didn't make sense. It’s a low-risk fault line, and he’d never mentioned it before. Now, I think I know why. Slowly piecing that one together.
We did attempt to move. Twice. Went halfway across the country with all our belongings. McMinnville (which my grandmother comically had difficulty saying, so she made up her own names for the place with a divisive huff), OR, the first time. Then Colorado Springs, CO, where grammy’s younger sister and brother-in-law were stationed before retiring and moving Pennsylvania, then Florida. The second move went: Missoula, MT, then Albuquerque, NM, which boasted a charming little ice rink at the base of the mountains, a lovely little cookie cutter adobe residential, a natural history museum I regret missing, and the best green chili veggie burgers, nachos, deep fried shrooms, zukes, sweet potato fries, and ice cold root beer floats this world has to offer, at the Owl Cafe. We always came back to Texas, though. McMinnville was too rural. Missoula even more so. Colorado Springs was too cold. Albuquerque seemed right, but then grammy had a stroke and we moved back for insurance purposes. The second time, we’d already gone through the sale of our house and we ended up moving back, but to the treehouse in the Hill Country.
Before leaving the Pacific Northwest we took a detour up to BC. Got stalked by a German pig farmer. Bought poutine at a McDonald's drive-thru and ate in the car. Watched the moon’s gumdrop reflection on the cold dark waves of the Salish Sea from the taffrail of a Vancouver Island ferry as the wind tried to knock us to the deck, screaming its siren song in our delicate human ears. Had a strange foreign lady hand us a xerox of a check and ask that we give it to our embassy. I just kept it.
In Colorado Springs, my mom and aunt burned our files in the fireplace at the apartment we were renting. Boxes and boxes of stuff from the storage unit, as a winter storm raged outside, and I sat reading an Anne Rice novel that my aunt had bought me at a used bookstore in town, a small, brightly lit hole-in-the-wall, with a street-facing window, and a friendly cat to dote on. My brother says he doesn't remember our mom and aunt burning all our files, but he was in his bedroom on his computer every moment that we weren’t on the road or talking about movies, so it’s whatever. And, honestly… our mom and aunt were always doing strange stuff that we didn’t tune into. That's just how they rolled, and how we responded.
I did a Google search for “bompa” and it's Flemish for grandfather. I Googled “Flemish people”. They mostly reside in Belgium.
I don't know a lot about bompas’ mom. Bompas’ dads’ family is more well documented: two Welsh brothers came to America as indentured servants. One burned a bridge and fought in a war. The other founded a cemetery. I read about them in elementary school.
Maternal grandmother grew up on a farm in Oklahoma. Biscuits and gravy are the smell of my childhood. When she cooked or cleaned, she sang, "Shoo, fly! Don't bother me!" She called exercise "calisthenics". Watched daytime soap operas and the news. Said things like, “Don’t do me that way!”, “I’ll snitch you bald-headed!”, “That’s possum dirt”, “You don’t know how to clean!”, “Useless as tits on a boar hog!”, “cattycorner”, “cattywampus”, “warsh-rag”, “washing machine”, “Jezebel!”, “He’s a dirty old man!”, “Flatter than a flitter!”, “Someone just walked on my grave”, “My nose is itching; someone’s talking about me”, “If you drop a knife, a man’s coming!”, “It’s about to come a storm!”, “Little toad frog!”, “Naked as a Jaybird”, “The Devil’s beating his wife!”. Constantly shifting between an awkward media-inspired transatlantic clip and a more natural Oklahoma church lady seesaw. She had a twin brother who died when they were babies after drinking raw milk. Her father was a teacher, and he died when she was very young. Her mother went to work in the fields while my grandmother minded her siblings and the farm. Every story about growing up on the farm was awful. Dogs eating the pie fillings just as the preacher arrives for Sunday dinner, and everyone just digging in. Using the outhouse in a snowstorm after her little brother sewed up the legs on everyone’s long johns. A beloved pig dragging its guts across the lawn after an abscess burst. Her little sister coming in from playing in the rain, saying she felt like she was going to die, then passing away that same night. Her other younger sister, the one who lived, encouraged her to leave Oklahoma after high school and enroll in college out of state. Grammy was pre-law, working as a secretary, and dating a judge when she met my grandfather, and he went off to war. She loved plants and animals and having people to feed and take care of. When you were sick, she was as gentle as a spring rain encouraging the flowers to grow. The rest of the time she was as crabby as a ruler-wielding Catholic school nun. She was a hardworking, antisocial, nervous, neurotic, self-conscious, germophobic, puritanical, forthright, finical, fighting, easily embarrassed scold, with sharp elbows. Amazing in an emergency. Best person to have in a pinch. But day-to-day, her fears and anxieties seemed to eat her alive, and she would transfer all that negative energy to everyone around her, feeding and manufacturing discord all the days of our lives. We called her “grammy”. She would have laid down her life for us.
A grammy story: The first time my mom brought her high school boyfriend home, grammy went and hid in the bedroom for the first half hour. When she came out, she was dressed up like she was going to church (which she never did) and snuck into the shadows of the kitchen. My mom had made her boyfriend a plate of food, and they were sitting at the dining table. That's when my grandmother noticed my mom had set the table with the regular flatware, and covertly switched it out for the nicer silverware when my mother’s boyfriend wasn't looking. He looked down and saw the fresh fork and knife and thought he'd gone insane. My mom was embarrassed, but defiantly indifferent.
Another grammy story: One day, the local priest saw grammy watering plants in the front yard and pulled over to chat. He said she dropped the hose, didn't shut off the water, ran in the house, and shut the curtains. And didn't come back out.
One more grammy story: Grammy thought they were “supposed” to go to church but couldn't handle being around a lot of people. So, she'd dress my mom and aunts up, and drop them off at the entrance every Sunday. Mom said aunt Peggy, the oldest, would go to the bathroom and read until it was time to leave, and she and aunt MaryBeth would sit outside the door waiting.
My grandmother always acted like she didn't understand how normal humans interact, but was desperately trying to figure it out, and getting frustrated. Imagine Ethan Peck's version of Spock from Star Trek: Strange New Worlds (2022), in the episodes where he struggles with his emotions, but speaking with an Oklahoma accent and vernacular. That’s what my grandmother was like.
Mother was a professional artist. Her medium was oils. The smell of linseed oil is also the smell of my childhood. Linseed oil and L'heure Bleue. And cigarettes. Ashtrays. Smoke.
My Mom was a really good cook and probably should have been a chef. She was an award-winning artist, but I think she would have liked being a chef more. She craved community and financial security, and I think art was unfulfilling in both these respects. She had waist-length copper hair, and eyes like the bluest sky. A million freckles. Taught archery to kids at summer camp and worked at a stable before I was born. Read a lot of romance novels, and always wanted to learn Japanese. Got married too young. Twice. She was a good mom. And I think that's saying a lot considering her childhood with my grandmother.
Mom was close to my grandfather's father growing up, who was kind of a magic man. Mom said he could charm bees and snakes and track any animal. Ate squirrel and opossum. That he slept under the stars, carved little monkeys from peach pits, and could tell you where to find something you’d lost. That he'd chat with the garbage men and tell stories to the neighborhood children on the front lawn at night. That he called mom “coyote” and made her jump off the roof of the house a bunch of times to teach her how to fall.
Mom said he called her “coyote” because she was “a trickser”. And because my grandmother named my mother after an old boyfriend to spite my grandfather because he tried to make her lose the baby on the way to the hospital. That doesn't sound like grandpa, but this is the family lore. I assume they maybe though grammy had been unfaithful. Although, that doesn't sound like grammy. Mom also said that the hospital where she was born had no “girl” baby bracelets, and that the doctors took her from her family and wouldn't let them see her for three days.
When doing some family tree climbing, I discovered that Tommy Lee Jones (the actor) is probably great grandpa’s nephew (which is funny for several reasons). Great grandpa was estranged from his side of the family, so we never met them. But the family is old and well-known, and the information that lead me to believe this was public. I think my aunt Peggy kind of looks like him. She got the eyes, and the brow, and that cheek meat. Mom got more of bompas’ moms’ looks, with the longer face. My brother and I got more of my dads’ subterranean elf had a fling with Charleton Heston look. Genetics are awesome.
My mom made us watch Coal Miner's Daughter (1980) about two hundred times growing up… and who doesn't love the cinematic monolith that is 1997’s Volcano? So, yeah. I’m a fan, too. But after hearing Jim Carrey's story about bumping into Jones at a restaurant during filming together, and Jones telling him he “hated him”, and “couldn't sanction his buffoonery”, I think may be wary of ever meeting him. I came away from that story thinking that Carrey handled it pretty sensibly and sensitively. And that Tommy might have been going through something with less grace than he would have liked in a situation that was not ideal.
And that great grandpa probably moved away from his family for a reason. That maybe he was too woke for the yoke of West Texas ranch culture. Something like that. Not that I know anything about it. I was raised different. Really different. For better and for worse. And not that I know nothing about it. I was raised here, too. And it’s my culture, too. For better and for worse.
That said, I’m pretty sure I would similarly rub most West Texas ranch folks the wrong way. There’s buffoonery in my blood. Also, bridge burning.
My mom was an abductee. My grandfather believed her. The first time it happened, he freaked out and tore the house apart looking for clues. Mom said he checked every door, window, and closet, then made her repeat her experience to him over and over, parsing every detail.
Now that I'm typing this… was he looking for listening devices? Before asking questions that he didn't want overheard… never considered that. Huh.
He told mom she could never speak about it to anyone. Especially, over the phone. In fact, NEVER over the phone. To anyone. But to tell him immediately when it happened again. That there were cars on the street that watched the house, and his job had files on all of them. Whatever that meant. I really wish I could ask mom about this stuff again as an adult, because it sounds so crazy.
She said “they” walk through walls. That they took her through walls. Used telepathic images to frighten her into climbing onto an exam table and showed her the ocean from a spaceship. That they didn’t speak, but when they were displeased, some of them would hiss at her. When I told my mom about my own experience, prior to her telling me anything about hers, it was this detail, the hissing, which was so specific, that convinced her we had all experienced the same thing.
My mom went on to paint this haunting life-sized portrait of a grey alien that seemed to glow in the dark. I don't know what happened to it. Knowing mom, she probably gave it away. Or it’s packed away somewhere in a closet… if I can find the polaroid of the finished painting I’ll come back and add it. That’s probably in some closet, too.
My grandfather would repeat the same warnings again when my mother was in high school and made a psychic prediction that came true and spooked some teachers. She did things like that a lot over the years. Saw a stranger's deceased pet playing in their yard, got messages from people's grandparents about documents they needed to find and where to find them. She just knew things. Little things. Like great-grandpa did.
I have no evidence for any of this, and I’m not making a statement about what I personally believe. Just relating the story I was told.
My great-grandfather also claimed to be an abductee. But he didn’t use that word. I don’t know if he imprinted his experience onto my mom, or if one or both of them had imagined experiences due to some inherited delirium. If you’re reading this, you probably think so. Maybe something unusual happened AND they were crazy. The Universe, the brain, and people… they’re all pretty strange territory. A riddled wrapped in a Joel Schumacher wide angle. Elusive and unpredictable.
My grandmother also had an experience. Again, no way to know what really happened, and I can’t ask them now. But she said that she and her siblings would hide in the trees outside their home when their mom came back late, to avoid something that would come in the night and take them. My grandmother was very reluctant to talk about it. I guess the further back you go, the murkier it becomes. More vague, more silly. Like half a sweater at the end of a long loose thread. Again, could all just be a big bag of mixed nuts.
After lupus nephritis and nine years on dialysis, lupus cerebritis, two strokes, mitral valve replacement, hypopituitarism/empty sella syndrome (her pituitary gland did not show up on MRIs), and what doctors claimed was one of the worst lupus rashes in North America (it was photosensitive, looked like a burn, covered more than half of her body, and was photographed for medical journal I don't know the name of), my mother died in the hospital of sudden cardiac arrest.
My maternal grandfather died of lung cancer. My maternal grandmother died of a malignant meningioma. One of my mother's sisters died of cervical cancer, the other of breast cancer.
My mother was the last to pass, and the hardest. It felt like the end of the world.
My mom never met a creature great or small that she didn’t want to mother in some way. She saw homeless people huddled outside a grocery store and ran home to make them soup and collect blankets and clothes to give to them. She fed the birds and rescued stray cats and dogs. Chatted up cashiers and servers. Never stood back when she could offer help. She was a damaged, insecure teen, hiding in bathrooms at parties because she didn’t think she was deserving of friendship and hospitality. Terribly, terribly insecure. And she often said the wrong thing, offending people. She didn’t really have a filter, and she could be rude. Though, she didn’t mean to be. And she always regretted it. She tried to hide both the insecurity and the social blundering with earnest hard work, false bravado, and over enthusiastic charm. She was the life of any gathering. The heart of our home. And she would do anything for her family, no question. She wanted nothing more than to be with us, close to us, always, and to see us thrive.
I can still picture her bent over the rosemary before dialysis. Inhaling its scent and touching the leaves and rubbing the oils into her cracked arthritic birdlike hands. Or standing in front of the kitchen window and tipping her face to the sun, basking in its warmth. I miss her every moment that I draw breath. My aunts, too. They are never far from my thoughts. And my mother is always whispering in my ear, “You are stronger than this. And this is not the end.”
I dropped out of school a bunch of times.
I'm like, five feet tall.
Awkward extrovert.
Fussy and fidgety.
Gullible and weird.
Sentimental.
Hygienic.
Dumb baby.
Would describe myself as “Lights on, but the candy bowl is full of toothbrushes.” A major flake, with the morals of a Disney princess, and the OCD of a young Howard Hughes. I’m a mess, but I’m learning from my mistakes. Curbing impulse control, managing social cues. Swallowing word salad like gravel.
I’ve always wanted a golf cart.
I use nursery stake tags from my favorite plants as bookmarks.
My coffee is usually cold by the time I get to it.
I’m not that fond of coffee.
If I have it at all, it’s black. A double red eye if I need to feel sick and wired. Or a spoonful of instant. Let that demon tea fill your mouth cavity with bitter chewy regret. Or skip straight to Jet Alert. That said, I’m not opposed to a cinnamon soy macchiato, but I just have to be ready for it. Don’t spring that shit on me.
I was a Starbucks barista.
I liked talking to customers and taking special orders. Rude customers never bothered me. If someone was rude it was kind of funny. Bosses were different, I guess. Not all of them, though. Ralph Martinez was the best boss I ever had, and not just at Starbucks. Like, ever. Of all time. The best. And he had a lovely singing voice. Always a pleasure.
I saw the Power Rangers movie in the theater with the Starbucks crew: Ralph (who picked me up and dropped me off in his Nissan Cube), Veronica (who told me I could be a manager if I wanted to, and worked for it), Rafael (Raphael made me my first cinnamon and toffee nut soy latte, and told me my personality was like Appa from The Last Air Bender, and swore it was a compliment), Nathan (who went out of his way to befriend me on the first day), Jerico (who should have be famous already), Bensen (who had the best deadpan delivery), Erica (who smiled sincerely at every dumb picture on my phone), and Josh (who helped find my heavily pregnant butt a good seat at the theater; he was like, “No. You’re not sitting all the way down there.”).
I used to wear novelty drop earrings to work like Shelly Tambo in Northern Exposure (1990), and a grey sweater with an embroidered badge of a steaming cup of coffee with a heart on it. I used to get the earrings in sets at Claire’s. My favorite were these little coffee cups. I wore those a lot, probably more than any others. Customers always commented on them.
I used to change the name on my name plate every day. Ralph got it.
I’ve had older coworkers tell me they despaired when I was hired. That they all thought I’d be dead weight, but then I proved myself willing to listen and work hard. I’m proud of that.
One day we had severe weather and the power went down. But our instructions were to keep taking orders, and the line went out the door. I was on register and had to memorize the drinks and call them out while taking money and jotting down what we’d sold on a notepad, without slowing down the line. We slammed that day. I’m still proud of that. Even though I know it’s not rocket science, and we didn’t save anybody. I guess it’s because it’s something I didn’t think I could do. I tend to think of myself as incompetent. Not at stuff like manual labor or looking after people, but other stuff. You know the stuff. Money and math, politics and socializing. That stuff. Probably, because I’m nervous about the responsibility and expectations that come with being competent, and I’m afraid I’ll embarrass myself.
My coworker Cassandra and I used to dance with the customers in drive-thru. Colton was a hotheaded control freak on the clock, but chill outside of work responsibilities. I really did love the majority of the people I worked with.
I also worked at an ice skating rink. Skate guard, mini golf, party rooms; split shifts, and three hundred laps a night in a freezing ice box, even when I fractured my ankle. I loved all of my coworkers at the rink, too. And the regulars. They all became either friends, good friends, or dear friends, and a lot of the time they felt like family. Carinette, Ana, Ryan, Gates, Tory, Dallas, Jake, Cameron, Hanna, Nick, Bernadette, Pattie, Arthur, Carolyn, Sandra, Marissa, Michelle, Shay, Heather, Chris, Emily, Janiece, and Betty. I love you all. Thanks for giving me a chance when I needed it. For being there when I was tired and hungry and just trying to make it. I swear I’ll figure my shit out some day and call my friends.
My first job was working at a breakfast taco place. I had to beg them to hire me. Had to promise to be their slave. They wanted me sunup to sundown, all week, with no time off and no vacations, for janitorial, dish washing, loading, and food prep. Payment would be however much they thought I'd earned at the end of the week. First day comes to a close, and I see my brother’s headlights in the empty parking lot. Discreetly palming my timecard, on which I'd written my first and last name (they wanted no other information), I limped into the sparkly twilight. I was desperate, but I knew there had to be something better.
I’ve also worked in the kitchen at the rodeo, and various equestrian events, from four in the morning till midnight, doing food prep, burgers, fries, and register.
Anyway. I’m not fond of coffee. Not really. I prefer juice or kombucha in summer, and cider in winter. Good cider. With a side of whoopie pies. Ever since Amish country. It changes you. Amish country. Mostly, I drink water without all the stuff in it.
But bring me a thick porcelain diner cup, blistering hot, fresh from the sanitizer, with a generous splash balmy black bean juice, the heady aroma climbing over the table like Christina Aguilera released from her bottle of Everclear and Kool-Aid, and I will melt into that sticky scarred Formica tabletop like I’m seeking refuge in the cracks and craters of J. Allen Hynek mission report.
I don't remember any of the drinks I made as a Starbucks barista. It’s all muscle memory, though. Right?
The worst part of working at Starbucks was tossing all that unsold food at closing. It physically hurt to load up a trash bag full of untouched food and dump it. We weren’t allowed to do anything else. Such a waste.
I don’t like to talk about sensitive situations involving other people. Even if I trust you, even if it’d do a body good to get it out. Sometimes, when it’s heavy, it just happens. But I’m very reluctant.
I like stews. Thick ones. I want the heat to melt my face and the pottage to coat my gut like a microfleece.
Apples, mother fucker! Do you even know a Braeburn from a Jonagold? Tap the fuck out.
Vegetarian since my first viewing of Jurassic Park (1993). Vegan since a year before my daughter was born.
I’m annoyingly vegan. I'd call cow's milk butter “the rape butter” but I'm afraid someone might think I'm weighing in on Marlon Brando. Then again, I'm fine with that. Two birds, one megaphone.
I want to learn to play the electric sitar.
I get really excited about lunar events.
I find disco balls slightly threatening.
Frosted Mini Wheats make me think of Christmas.
Glow in the dark nail polish is disappointing. It doesn't work, and it looks and feels like you let snot dry on your nails.
I wish unicorns were real.
When I'm happy I eat a lot. When I'm anxious eating is hard. When I’m sad it's impossible.
If you’re buying whisky at Kroger they’ve already won.
For most people, it’s not so much that they see what they want to see (although, that does play a part in any case), it’s that they see what they’ve already seen. And what they’ve been conditioned to see. Experience can work like blinders.
Principals and practicality do not always harmonize. I worry about this a lot. A lot. In my bones. In my meat and sinew. In those tiny little spider veins that crisscross the backs of my calves and make me think about how old Hugh Jackman’s getting.
Has anyone made a cheese ball with the cream from gutted Oreos? I feel like this is obvious, even though I prefer cheese. Stinky vegan cheese.
Don't tell me what to put on my charcuterie board. I will have gummie worms and plastic dinosaurs, and you will fuck off.
Jalapeño hummus is so good.
Oat milk compliments coffee and chocolate better than cow’s milk. Lindt makes oat milk bars, toffee, and truffles. Tell me I’m wrong.
Lindt is also Fair Trade. Nestle, Hershey, and Mars are not. "A study published by Tulane University in 2010 revealed that over 1.8 million children work on cocoa farms in Ghana and the Ivory Coast."
Almond butter trumps peanut butter but makes me think about that time Vegetable Police sat at his kitchen table and mournfully shelled a dragon’s horde worth of almonds.
Chicken soup flavor is just carrots, onions, celery, garlic powder, parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Put that in a pot with some wild rice and mushrooms, and you have Campbell’s beat without the grease. Want the grease? Add coconut oil and Impossible nuggs.
I want rum raisin marshmallow fluff, and I can’t stop eating Goya plantain strips.
I love a Burger King Impossible meal. That’s a real treat. Used to enjoy Whataburger’s rings (even though I’m allergic), fries, and pies, but the rings and pies are no longer dairy-free. Almost nothing at Whataburger is. Maybe the taquito.
I’m pissed at Taco Bell for not going vegan. It’s not like they’re using real meat and cheese, anyway. And I’m mad at Taco Cabana for dropping the Beyond Meat Bowl. That was awesome.
Cyndi Lauper and Judy Tenuta should have gone to White Castle.
Whenever I see "Newtons" in relation to bite force, I think about Fig Newtons, and imagine a lanky Acrocanthosaurous with a mawfull of fruit and cake.
First light passes me off. It has no right to be that beautiful.
When people aren't strong enough to trust them with the truth and they don't even know they've failed you. I wonder how many people I've failed.
If I see an animal that needs help, the activity, outing, or vacation is over. My priorities have shifted to helping that animal. If that's a thing that bothers you, I'll bother you a lot.
Every time someone tells me I think too much I feel sorry for them.
Writing is about the micro, not the macro. See your story the way Lydia saw the model in the attic where Beetlejuice lived.
If you can teach, you can write.
The only way to get better at writing is writing. Go on Twitter and write Hem’s ‘six word story’ all day every day. Not on your feed, though. Not in your comfort zone. Respond to people. As fast as you can, as much as you can. Use different aliases, perspectives, styles. Challenge yourself.
Don’t get precious about your writing or any creative endeavor. The exercise is its own reward. You only get stronger.
Writing isn’t just grammar and vocabulary. It’s having a great idea, and having a great idea about how to explain that great idea. You have to train your brain to always be spitballing.
Maturity comes out in writing. You can be a respected academic or grizzled war hero and still write like a thirteen-year-old girl talking to her diary if you stopped maturing around high school.
Great novels aren’t about the writing, they’re about the concept, and how you present that concept. Lots of great writers never wrote a great novel.
If you want someone to leave you alone start talking to the furniture.
Those who unite in ridicule divide by the same means.
Hitchhiked a few times. Nothing too far, or too terrible. I lived, but would not recommend it.
Jumped from a moving vehicle once. Luckily, it wasn’t going too fast. Busted my knee on a rock rolling into the grass. When you’re done, you’re done.
None of the women I grew up around wore makeup.
Being comfortable isn’t educational.
Being bored is a choice.
I like to carry emergency spices. Sea salt, stevia, old bay, Louisiana Cajun, garam masala, cardamon, hatch pepper, Tajin, mango powder, harissa powder, Colman’s mustard, ancho chili, umami, za'atar, cocoa powder, five spice, pumpkin spice, cinnamon, nutmeg, lavender, smoked Danish sea salt, pink peppercorn, ginger, bay leaf, Kashmiri chili powder, Mexican vanilla, Tahitian vanilla, Madagascar vanilla, smoked paprika, gochujang, dark brown sugar, juniper, cilantro, Tasmanian mountain pepper, curry, cumin, turmeric, dill, fennel seed, green curry, red pepper flake, gumbo file, fennel pollen, celery seed, basil, saffron, kala namek, Sichuan peppercorns, rosemary, and thyme. Also, hot sauce. Del Primo, Boerne Brand Texas Style, Herdez, Tapitio, and Taco Bell. Hichifuku white soy sauce. Crema di Balsamico. Lord Sandy’s Worcestershire. Inglehoffer stone ground. Hellman’s vegan mayo, or Kewpi vegan mayo. Heinze ketchup. Lao Gan Ma Spicy Chili Crisp. Cowboy Candy. Chow Chow. Branston pickle. Ferrel’s Sorghum Molasses. HEB pecan pie almond butter. Oma’s peach syrup. The Great San Saba River Company apple pecan preserves. Poteet strawberry preserves. Homemade lemon curd. Orange marmalade and raspberry jam. A tin of orange spice tea, a tin of lavender-vanilla rooibos tea, Ippodo matcha powder, Lipton’s, Taza cinnamon hot chocolate wheels, a jar of Postum, and a shaker of sprinkles. Those multi-chamber shakers with different kinds: sanding, jimmies, and sugar pearls. I’ve recently found a unicorn themed mix that my daughter likes. We put them on Oreos.
I think it’s also a good idea to have a Welly first aid kit, a window breaker, a seatbelt cutter, a flashlight, and a Gerber multitool. My godmother has an emergency witch kit, and I do sometimes have that stuff, too. Never know when you’ll need to bust out some sage and do a banishing. Zipties and binder clips. Trash bags. Toothbrush and paste are good. Floss. Larabars, Kind bars, Bobo’s Oat bars, Lenny & Larry’s cookies, Wheat Thins, Oreos, chips, Fig Newtons, Anni’s bunny fruit snacks, nuts, apples, silly putty, panty liners, a wet brush, hair ties, an empty zip drive, a zip drive full of my favorite wiki articles and fanfiction, a zip drive full of photos and info I might need, Vaseline, ChapStick, change of clothes, wet bags, reusable food storage bags, Tylenol, Motrin, Imodium, Loratadine, Benadryl, ginger candy, Qualia Focus, EmergenC, Jet Alert, Guaifenesin, Zofran, Melatonin, Bacitracin, hand sanitizer, Clorox wipes, napkins, a water purifier, a set of screw drivers, a Hooker lockpick set, gauze, skull and cross bones cloth hockey tape, adhesive remover, a Garmin handheld GPS or GPS smart watch, a fire starter, iodine tabs, fifty feet of nylon paracord, bear spray, coyote urine, a tourniquet, a moleskin kit, self-adhesive bandage wrap, GOOD TO GO and Backpaker’s Pantry freeze dried food, Gatorade, Alani Nu Cosmic Stardust Energy sticks (pixie sticks for grownups), a Ziplock bag, a garbage bag, glitter, sharpies, an Emergency Bigfoot Electronic Noisemaker, Bowie Stylophone, mini Theremin, pocket spirit box, mini motion detectors, perimeter alarm, palm stones, tarot and oracle cards, a tin of mints that doesn’t contain mints, Thai curry takeout box, a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, microfiber towel, Dawn dish soap, Ethique shampoo bar, headphones, a charger, a sewing kit, waterproof lighter, extra socks, battery powered camp lights, Star Trek action figures, dinosaur headlamp, screaming zombie doll, repair tape, tin foil fire resistant document bag, ShiKai vanilla hand lotion, O’Keef’s Working Hands cream, Sakura Micron pens, Jellyroll pens, Halloween themed stickers, a Goo Jit Zu doll, mini Godzilla, a Pinky High Bounce ball, a bag of cat food, a can opener, a book (maybe two books), a notebook, toilet paper, a shovel, a hammer, an axe, a flare, a UV wand sanitizer, emergency sleeping bag, emergency tent, emergency thermal blanket, GSI cookware set, duct tape, crazy glue, nitril gloves, disposable masks, a music player, a poncho, and tiny rubber dinosaurs. I call this my “bug out burrito”.
I hate how we are now. I hate how much I like it. How easy it is to let go. Every sconce and headlamp whispering secrets and confessions into the pale moonlit night as we savagely burn our telomere links at both ends. Returning to the bedrooms of our childhoods, to all those newborn dreams. Bobby socked feet bouncing over too-narrow beds, pumping in time with our restless scrolling. Poets with deaf, dumb, and blind-sight. Basking in the lurid glow of our digital age technology as long and slender tree fingers pluck the stars from the sky, and the wind howls a mournful tune, kissing keys and foreign alphabets, bent elbows and long lashes, sad sighs and mislaid ambitions.
All my friends ARE strangers, Larry McMurtry. All I have are a pocket full of parasocial relationships and an empty box of Pop Tarts. The s'mores one. But the organic knockoff brand, because Pop Tarts aren't vegan.
I've never seen a lamp post I wouldn't hook an arm around, and swing like a tether ball. If only I were more buxom, less respectable. If only.
I miss having an actual camera. My mom’s Polaroid 600 or 35mm Nikon.
My mom and I used to listen to Art Bell on a yellow SONY boombox. We watched X-Files (1993), Buffy (1997), Bones (2005), LOST (2004), Frasier (1993), The Closer (2005), Northern Exposure (1990), Turner Classic Movies, and A&E’s Pride and Prejudice (1995). Our favorite movies were Hellboy II (2008), The Mummy (1999), Once Around (1991), Mama Mia! (2018), Flashdance (1983), Howl’s Moving Castle (2004), Jaws (1975), and Land of the Lost (2009). We watched them anytime they were on tv. My mom liked Law & Order, too. And all the A&E murder mysteries. Miss Marple (1984), Hercule Poirot (1989), Midsomer Murders (1987). We like the David Tennant era Doctor Who (2013), too. We made microwave popcorn and cheese plates, which mom called “bear” snacks, and we always had the doors and windows wide open to let the wind and the wildlife in.
The Spin Doctors are a happy accident.
One time, my dad served roadkill turkey for Thanksgiving. He said it was fine, “the ants hadn’t gotten to it”. And thus, the “rule of the ants” was born.
That was an echo of my parent’s first date, when my dad hit a deer on his way to meet my mom and threw it in the trunk of his Mercedes.
I was almost born in that Mercedes.
My mom said my dad sold that Mercedes so that no one could say “she got the Mercedes” in the divorce.
During a funeral in Oklahoma my aunt Peggy stumbled out of the viewing line and fell on the coffin. It was raining, real muddy, and her foot slipped under the casket before she could right herself. As the coffin squealed beneath her, sounding like a fucking siren, she cried out that her shoe was hanging by a toe. Without a second thought, my mom flopped into the mud and climbed under the coffin, yelling “Don’t move! I’ve got it!” People were laughing so hard, but also trying hard not to. Even the minister. Every moment with them was a Marx Brothers movie.
My cats think inside the box.
Cameras mount to assert their dominance.
There is a Pillows track to chase every tear.
I often imagine what it would be like to run through an orange grove. An olive grove. A redwood forest. A canyon. A Walmart in Dusseldorf.
It would be awesome if buses were shaped like peanuts.
If crows had hands we'd be in trouble. And it'd be weird.
The Magus is my favorite book, but I don't know why.
I told my daughter that Santa was the All Father leading The Wild Hunt on his eight-legged horse, Sleipnir. She nodded like that made sense.
Spring cleaning isn't just for Spring. Like the spirit of Christian appropriated Yule, I keep it in my heart all year.
Fuck feathers. And would we know if dinosaurs were chromatophores?
I like putting together an outfit. Staging an area. Buying ingredients. Lists.
I always get too close to snakes, spiders, and critters. Mostly, due to poor eyesight and unchecked curiosity. So far, I’ve been lucky.
Are gift bags a kind of reward for attendance? Are these party’s lame and in need of bribery?
My gift bag would include secret glitter, a magic lamp, and a chocolate pie.
My first cell phone was an orange Envy and I loved it so much.
The amount of Tylenol and Motrin I had to take to skate on a fractured ankle for a month put me in the ER with gastritis.
Favorite 80s bubble pop: Uptown Girl and I Wanna Dance With Somebody.
Favorite 80s movies are: The Goonies (1985), The Breakfast Club (1985), E.T. (1982), The Lost Boys (1987), Labyrinth (1986), The Princess Bride (1987), Legend (1985), Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), The Neverending Story (1984), Sixteen Candles (1984), Beetlejuice (1988), Flashdance (1983), Moonstruck (1987), Running Brave (1983), Ghostbusters (1984), Big Trouble in Little China (1986), La Bamba (1987), Die Hard (1988).
Favorite fear is the one that drives me.
Favorite drugs are caffeine and antibiotics. Both important in different ways.
Favorite shitty restaurant is Golden Corral. If I’m going to shit my guts out, I might as well do it while laughing at the bags of powdered food products piled behind the buffet. China Harbor runs a close second. So much gas and bloating. It's like all the food was formed from Pandora's box of six-piece chicken and slime.
I really like plumeria, banana trees, jasmine, honeysuckle, fairy castle cactus, pencil cactus, prickly pear cactus, desert roses, oncidium orchids, string of pearls, ivory towers, bear’s paw, dancing bones, hobbit jade, lily pads, snowballs, golden gate Ficus, flaming katy, monstera, alocasia, pink, blush, and purple Eden climbing roses, loquat trees, pecan trees, orange trees, apple trees, peach trees, bay leaf trees, avocado trees, lemon trees, live oak, ponderosa pine, cedar, juniper, lavender, hydrangeas, irises, tomato plants, pepper plants, okra plants, apple mint, salvia, purple cone flower, and all the varieties of rosemary.
I used to figure skate. I already said I worked at a rink, but… yeah. I started around the age of twelve. I loved it. I was okay at it.
You can take up figure skating for not very much money. It’s just skates and ice time, and maybe some classes or coaching. The skates can be expensive, depending on what you need. But you don’t have to buy new ones very often (not unless you’re pounding out triples every day). You can use the same boots for years (two is recommended) and transfer your blades when you buy new ones. The thing that IS kind of inaccessible for most people is competition. You can’t do that unless you have a ton of cash and started when you were four.
My aunt Mary Beth was co-editor of her school paper with my godfather’s sister. She went on to get a degree in journalism at UT Austin. Then she worked in an art gallery in Alamo Heights.
My aunt Mary Beth loved France, Queen, Annie Lennox, and fashion. She always remembered and celebrated everyone’s birthday, even if she didn’t know you very well. Rescued animals. Loved dogs. Was always doing something tragic to her hair.
One Halloween, she bought my brother and I a giant pumpkin and someone stole it off our porch while we were trick-or-treating. I don’t even know how, because it was huge.
We used to visit her at the gallery, and the gallery owner would buy us croissants and Palmiers at the bakery next door.
One Christmas my aunt was too broke to buy presents, so she made everyone a coupon book (this was before I was born). Things like “will rake leaves” and “will sit for one portrait”. One of the coupons in my mother’s book was “will put your shoes on and tie them anytime, anywhere” as an apology for having made her little sister do this many times for her when they were children. My mom waited until they were having dinner with friends at a fancy restaurant to slip off her shoes and pass the coupon to my aunt. Without missing a beat, my aunt wordlessly took a knee and put my mother’s shoes for her. She wanted to visit France, fall in love, have a bunch of children, and write a book. When she died, we found a bottle of expensive perfume tucked away in her bathroom, still in the box, unopened.
My aunt Peggy was a CCRN. She did relief work in Africa. The first half of her career was in the surgical/cardiac ICU. The second half was in pedi recovery. She had a soft heart and loved children. She was our second mother. My mother told her so in my aunt’s last moments as we all gathered round her bed and clung to her arms and shoulders and bawled our eyes out.
When my aunt Peggy was a kid, she won an award for having checked out every book in the children's section of the public library. She read a stack of books every week of her life. Science fiction, fantasy, romance, but also medical texts. She always had several books in her bag, and we visited libraries and bookstores like we were picking up groceries.
The day we found out my aunt Peggy had a week to live we sat at our kitchen table and held each other close and cried. Then she and I ran an errand that took us down that long scenic road to the next town. We went to Half Price Bookstore one last time, and we rescued a sweet stray dog. I think about that day often. She was so strong. It was our last adventure, and how I’ll always remember her. Calmly taking that stray dog up to the Firehouse so they could get him to a local rescue. She was strong, stoic, gentle, and kind.
When I had to schedule a procedure for my daughter at the children's hospital, the nurse I spoke to over the phone remembered my aunt. She gushed about my aunt Peggy’s kindness, courage, friendship, and bravery, and it made me cry.
You can learn from your own mistakes. You can learn from your friend’s mistakes. You can learn from your parent’s mistakes. You can also learn from someone’s strength, tact, and dignity. I feel like my mom, aunt, and godparents gave me a lot of strength and dignity to emulate.
We used to go to the local art museums, and the zoo, with my mom and our godfather when my brother and I were kids.
My godfather makes ginger beer and mead and marmalade. He can make chainmail, and he knows all about bladed weapons, and the history of many genres of music, and he plays the bass guitar. And his nephew makes guitars. And one of his nephews is the punk rocker Bad Bunny. He’s a little scary. My godfather. Not to me and my brother, but to other people, I think. He can be very direct and doesn’t suffer fools. He sometimes carries a violin case full of chain link into meetings. His conversational style reminds me of Garry Nolan’s. I think they’d get along.
My godmother is the calmest, most gentle and perfectly composed person I’ve ever met, and I’ve always envied that, because it’s nothing like my nervous energy. Her humor is subtle and dry and delivered with a sunny smile. She performs a banishing spell that sounds like a song. Her hair has always been long and pale, and she has the kindest eyes. She plays the bodhran and sings in an Irish folk band. She knows all the words to Fairytale of New York.
My godparents have always been there, through thick and thin, at a moment’s notice, with love, with kindness, without hesitation. A stabilizing force. I am so very grateful for that. And I love them both very much.
My dad has always been active and health conscious. He knows a lot about herbs and supplements, and houses and contacting. He’s always worn Wrangler jeans, western boots, or white tennis shoes, plaid button downs, or IZOD polos… houndstooth driving caps. He’s always had a bamboo steamer in his kitchen, no matter where he lived, and shoeshine box under his bed. He’s always been open to new ideas, to an extent, which I appreciate. And he apologizes when he’s wrong, which I also appreciate. Smooth jazz, rice cakes, Irish Spring soap, Zapp’s Crawtators, Rossini, and yellow legal pads remind me of my dad.
When we were kids, he built us a train set and read The Chronicles of Narnia to us before bed every other weekend. When we were older, he would come by periodically to take us out to eat. Usually, Northern Indian cuisine. Sometimes Italian, or a buffet.
My father isn't a soft man, and he doesn’t have a lot of patience for soft people. People like me. And we don’t have much in common or see eye-to-eye on many issues. I love him very much, though. And I know he loves me. He helps us when we need it, and he’s helped us a lot in recent years, for which I’m grateful. He’s a good grandpa, too, for which I’m also grateful. My daughter loves him and always looks forward to seeing him. I do, too.
More than anything, I suppose, my father has taught me that people are complicated and more than one thing.
Paul Hudgins used to give my brother and I watercolors for our birthdays, which my mom then framed and hung on the wall. Shannon still has the one of Superman astride an Andalusian, and I still have the one of the girl and her grey tabby cat at Taos Pueblo.
I wrote to Paul after my mother died to tell him. We exchanged regular correspondence for about a year. Things got rough again, and I stopped. I regret that. There are reasons, but they aren't good ones. I don't know if he’s still alive. Wherever you are, Paul, I’m sorry. And thank you.
Postcards from members of the Texas Watercolor Society are framed all over our house. Paul Hudgins and Kuo Yen Ng. Mostly New Mexico landscapes. Abiquiu and Ghost Ranch.
Some of my best memories are catching lightening bugs with my dad in a park in Alamo Heights, going to a stargazing party with my aunt Peggy at SAC, and spooning on the hard wood couch with my aunt Mary Boo while watching Conan the Barbarian (1982), cocooned in her loving embrace. Also… waking up next to my mom. Sunlight and warmth and safety.
My dad was a legend at running vehicles into the ground. He once used a brick tied to a rope to break at stoplights. The passenger doors were tired together with the same rope, as was my seatbelt, and I often shared my seat with a free range buzzsaw. I have no idea how we got away with that. The trunk was also loosely secured with rope and partially gaping, with tools and two-by-fours sticking out like rude elbows. The back windshield was completely covered in poster-sized pictures of aborted fetuses.
My dad did the school drop off one time. His car broke down at the head of the line and belched out a huge cloud of exhaust, which immediately descended on the crowd of students and teachers. As I collected my things, I realized I didn’t have a pencil. My dad got out of the car and took the rope off the trunk, and proceeded to pull out every tool he owned, and set it on the curb. I looked around, and Shannon was gone. Vanished. Wisely. As I watched, in mild horror, my dad took out a utility knife and one of those carpenter’s pencils. The flat ones. The kind you have to whittle. And like some kind of sadist, he began to chip away at that pencil at a snail’s pace while I, and the entire student body, waited in silent awe. Life with my dad was like a Trailer Park Boys movie.
If I’m not wearing my glasses everything ten feet from center is a Degas.
I think I stopped wearing my glasses (not all the time, but you know) to limit sensory overwhelm.
I don’t know how to whisper.
I have no filter.
I can keep secrets, but you have to put a post-it on it. I don’t “get” obvious. I’m like a kid that way.
I don’t usually pay attention to what people are saying. Usually, I hear what they’re NOT saying, and it distracts me. Not what they think you want to hear or desperately want you to know. The things they themselves don’t know.
In first grade I won a storytelling contest in elementary school. You had to reimagine a long and detailed story, after only hearing it once, using as many details from the original as possible. Being one of the youngest in the contest, I was not expected to recall even one element. But I won the whole contest, beating out several grades above me. Maybe it’s a bigger deal in my memory than it actually was, but it seemed big to me. My teachers were impressed. Which is strange, because they didn’t seem to like me at all.
In second grade I won second place in the school bike fare despite not owning a bike and having never learned to ride a bike until twenty-four hours prior to the event. Maybe that says something about me, maybe that says something about the school and community. It’s a ring toss.
In third grade I tried out for my city's theater company. I got the idea from some bullies at school who were also planning to try out. My Mom was awesome about it. Neither of us had any idea what we were doing, but I filled out all the paperwork, and stood in the very long line, in the very big theater, with a whole bunch of very talented kids, and waited for my turn to warble. Other kids had costumes and sheet music to hand the pianist. I was in jeans and hand-me-downs and sang a hymnal I'd found in one of my grandmother's Oklahoma song books. When I got up there, I told the judges I would be singing In the Garden “a capella”. A term I'd heard someone else in line use. Then I just laid into it. My Mom had told me she'd be sitting in the back of the theater, and that she’d stand up, and cup her ears, if she couldn't hear me. When I found my mom afterwards, she had tears in her eyes. She said I was so loud people came in from the parking lot to hear who was singing. I made "first cut" but didn't bother with the rest because the second part was dancing, and I had no dance. On Monday, the same mean girl-bullies cornered me in the restroom at school and demanded to know why I never told anyone I could sing like that.
In fifth grade I ran for student council historian and won after dropping all of my notes during my speech and opting to just do an improvised comedy set instead. I wasn’t popular or well-known, but I became “the funny one” during the debates… and as Hannah Gadsby would say, “Uh-oh.” I lost my position toward the end of the school year for having too many sick days and letting my grades fall.
I used to collect novelty condoms from truck stop vending machines on family road trips. I kept them in a lunch box made of license plates. The one from Vegas was glow in the dark.
My worn copy of Hamlet made me feel so badass in elementary school. I told my teachers, “Fuck, yeah I read this.” I didn’t say fuck, though. I didn’t curse when I was a kid.
Growing up, I had a talent for knowing which cereal boxes had specific toy surprises. When Kellog’s Rice Krispy Treats were giving away Pokémon keychains, I had a certain order in which I wanted to collect them. I’d stand in the isle at the grocery store and look at all the boxes, and the one I wanted would flash like a little beacon. I always got the exact one I was looking for, no repeats. It went Jigglypuff, Gengar, Squirtle, and Pikachu. I still have them.
They’re so sepia now. Like a newspaper clipping pasted into A Victorian yearbook.
Favorite sweet is candied pumpkin. It tastes like bonfire and honeycomb if bonfire were a river and honeycomb was the song it sang.
Favorite ice cream flavors are Ben & Jerry's Non-Dairy Phish Food, HEB Non-Dairy Mint Chip, Sorbabes CocoaHaze, Sorbabes Peanut Butta Lava, and Sorbabes Strawberry Crisp.
Favorite sandwich is inspired by a regency romance novel that I read when I was twelve. My first. "The Bad Baron's Daughter" by Laura London. One of the books my mom and aunt gave me to explain sex and dating. The sandwich was banana and yellow cheese with mayo on two hunks of challah. Not the bread in the book, but the bread I had on hand the first time I made it. Also, the book didn't use mayo. But I have to have mayo.
When my mom and my aunt gave me “the talk”, my aunt began by awkwardly telling me that a penis was “like a steel rod in a velvet sheath”. My mom got irritated with my aunt and said that everything she knew about sex came from romance novels, and my aunt got mad at my mom for being mean. They handed me some romance novels, and I said, “Okay.”
My dad went through my bag on one of his weekends and found one of the romance novels. A Jude Deveraux, or Julie Garwood, or Laura London. He sat me down for a serious talk that went like this: sex before marriage is a sin, I didn’t need to know about sex, and I was too young to read romance novels. I was twelve or thirteen. I said, “Okay.”
One year we thought we had a poltergeist. Objects flew off shelves, voices whispered in ears, lights flickered, shadow people lurked, jewelry went missing, and we woke up with our clothing on inside out. A priest did a soft “exorcism”, then the police showed up. Said we were being targeted by drug smuggling occultists. The police camped out in our living room for about a week. Something like that. They brought in a pair of “occult specialists” who worked with the police department to question my brother and I. The “specialists” dressed and behaved like the SNL character Stuart Smalley. Blonde and pale, with ice cream colored clothing. One of them had strange burns on their forearms, like swirls or rosettes. They asked us about objects moving on their own. What we had felt, seen, and heard. If we had any marks on our bodies, particularly our ears. If we heard drums at night, and if we’d seen anything strange in our bedroom mirror. It was super weird. My mom got fed up and told them to leave. Said we were going to act like none of that happened. But we all started sleeping on a big mattress on the floor in the living room with the lights on, and my mom started wearing “holy” oil that she bought at a local Christian store, even though we weren’t religious, and the only church we attended was the Holy Sepulchre of nature and good books. She told the poltergeists to leave, too. She said this was our home, and our time, and they weren’t welcome. We ate pizza and watched dumb tv shows, and we didn’t talk about it.
Now, I wonder—do the police even HAVE occult experts? Why were they camped out in our living room? They kept telling us we were being targeted. That they had to be there to catch the people who were causing the poltergeist activity. But… how? None of it made sense. I was a kid, though. My memories are the memories of a kid. So, take all of this with a grain of sodium chloride.
We were questioned at the police station at some point. We were there for about half an hour. I don't even know why. I just remember sitting in an office when a bunch of school children on a field trip walked by, and frantically whisper, “Juvenile Hall…” behind cupped as they pointed at my brother and I through the glass and feeling like a fungus.
The priest who did the “exorcism” was same one that grammy ran from in the yard. His name was Father John Thompson, and I think he was a family friend. We weren’t religious, and we didn't go to church, but mom liked to be active in the community, especially with seniors, and Father John knew mom through those activities. He also came to visit when bompa and aunt Mary Beth were sick, and when grammy had her first brain surgery. An honest, warm, jovial type. Told “dad” jokes and had that Santa Clause physique. He seemed to take the “haunting” seriously, but he also seemed to be humoring mom at certain intervals.
We burned my mom’s beautiful hand-painted alebrijes because they were deemed “devil-like”. Which was absurd. And our Milton Bradley Ouija board. Which we’d hardly used, but the results had been kind of creepy. Then he blessed the perimeter of the house, and the house itself. Then the police came with the story about us being “targeted” and needing to have a sleepover. Bonkers. Totally bonkers.
For a while, the house felt very electric. Then it stopped. Or just got quieter. Right after mom took control. My brother was embarrassed. He told people he was making it up. Even though he wasn’t the only one who saw the strange phenomena. My mom didn’t talk about it at all. I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t understand it. I don’t know what happened or what we saw, or why it got so weird. We were stressed out and sad about a lot of stuff. Like losing bompa and aunt Mary Beth. And mom, grammy, and aunt Peggy’s health wasn’t the best, at that point… and, yeah, we had some magical thinking. But we weren’t delusional. And sometimes these mysterious events involved other people, people who didn’t live there. I know I’m grasping. Probably because I’m embarrassed, too.
I shared a room and a mattress on the floor with my mom until I was fifteen. Then I had a mattress on the floor in the living room, to be close to my grandmother through the night. Her hospital bed was in a corner of the kitchen, and she and my mom were both bedbound at the time. That was the year I dropped out of ISA to focus on things at home. Around the time that my mom’s lupus rash went into remission, just before she went on dialysis.
My mom and I were really into gardening. Our backyard looked like an oasis. Mom always made sure the birds and deer had access to water in the heat.
I’ve walked through the Hill Country bush at night. Been stalked by a mountain lion. Chased water moccasins down a dirt road. Basically, Ellie Mae Clampet running pas de bourree to Yakety Sax. How dated is that reference?
In times of high anxiety, mental anguish, or indecision, I call my godparents because they make me feel safe. The way my mom and my aunt made me feel safe. Like my shoulders can unclench, and I can catch my breath, and a smile might not be that far away.
Any time I’ve called my godparents for help, they’ve come. They were there when my mom died. They were there when my daughter was born. My godmother made my brother a sandwich and brought it to the hospital during my labor. My godfather taught my brother how to drive. When we had wildfires, my godfather rushed over in case we needed to evacuate. When I had a UTI at work, my godfather came and picked me up and took me to the ER, and he paid for my antibiotics. When we couldn’t afford garbage pickup, and a portion of our back yard had become a dump, my Godmother helped me clean it up. She helped me pick through rotting garbage and hauled it off. They’re amazing.
My godparents were always the “cool” people in our life. They wore cool clothes, and did cool things, and knew other cool people, who esteemed them highly. They knew all the secret restaurants and had Hunter Thompson like escapades. Participated in town festivals and were the face of recycling in regional commercials.
They always stopped to help, always showed up for friends and family. Loved everyone unconditionally. For most of my life they were our window to the world. When we were about to lose our house to tax debt they paid the taxes. And it was huge. A monumental kindness that I have no idea how to repay. They said they wanted nothing in return. Nothing but our happiness and financial stability. But I have to find a way to repay them. It’s a matter of love and honor.
I need to repay the kindness so many have shown us. The kindness and consideration that my brother has shown me. We continue to struggle with bills and debt, like so many people at the moment. It can seem endless. Fruitless. Without my brother’s strength, optimism, and ingenuity, and the moral and financial support from those who love us, I don’t know how we would have come this far.
But accepting financial assistance from our godparents made me feel like we’d lost them. I could no longer share our struggles with them, or go to them for advice, without the risk them feeling pressured to help us again. Or, gods forbid, that we were soliciting that help. The shame of it all burns so deep and the loss has been crippling. Like being a Viking with no stars. They're still there, still wonderful… but I don't feel like I have the right to reach out anymore. Not until I'm less of a burden. Not until I have good news. I feel that way with all my friends, actually. I don’t want to update anyone until things are better.
Food poisoning once. McMinnville, Oregon. Pea soup from a vending machine in a motel lobby.
None of the women in my life growing up wore makeup.
I like spending time with people who expose me to interests I never would have found on my own. Even if I don't end up loving it, I walk away with knowledge and perspective.
I wish more things in my life felt like beginnings instead of endings. I'm so tired of endings.
Don't take me to a restaurant that doesn't have options listed on Yelp. I'm not into asking the staff which menu item isn’t a soul killing, rain forest burning, baby slaughtering, organ wrecking abomination on a plate that might make me weep into my napkin, and possibly projectile vomit on my way to the toilet while exuding strong Craig from Parks and Recreation (2009) vibes. That’s not a fun time for anyone, and I think we all want to avoid it.
Further, would you be enticed by a rock-hard assurance that “They’ll have SOMETHING there you can eat, right?” Fuck, no. I’m not paying twenty bucks for a plate of frozen veg or overcooked pasta swimming in whatever condiments I can scrounge up from the table. And, no. I don’t want the “amazing” vegetarian plate. Fuck that. And fuck whatever most omni places think salad is. Not into it. Not unless I’m in a ditch giving bjs for Choco Tacos after the fourth great war with Florida.
I need to get a bifold for flourish.
A few weeks before my aunt died, a young tortie showed up with two kittens. We took them in, and the week after my aunt died the tortie gave birth to four more kittens. We got them all fixed and vax’d, and kept them all. At that time, we had eleven cats. And they became the gentlest, sweetest, most wonderful cat family in the known universe. Every one of them was so special.
The majority of this post has been written in the Substack editor on my phone as I've thought of things to say while a child throws food at the back of my head or smacks me with a plastic sword, which means editing blows soggy breakfast cereal. 1, my laptop is an old grey mare who deserves nothing but blue skies and green pastures. 2, I don’t really have a two. 3, I put down anything I thought someone who doesn’t know would want to know before meeting me, because I feel that my existence needs explanation. And it probably does. 4, I put down anything I thought anyone who DOES know me might want to know to better navigate future interactions. Because it’s all in the wrist… 5, I put down whatever I wanted my daughter to know when she grows up. Life advice, survival tips, family history. Stuff I wish I'd known at the start of this story. Things I can no longer ask. Maybe it'll help other people, too. Sometimes I go a little crazy with the list making and side stories. I know that. If it puts sand in your shorts, skip it. I won't be offended. Take what you need and leave the rest.
You can't milk a goblin. I mean, you CAN. But don’t.
The crusts are the best part.
I’ve only planted a few trees. I should plant more trees.
Never used a dating app.
Never lived by myself.
Globe making is a really neat art form.
I would eat popcorn salad.
Philip Glass is not fucking around. He's like the Nag Champa of the music world.
Your shoes say a lot about you. If you wear sandals all the time, you probably live in a warm climate. I wear Crocs. I don't know what that says about me. My mom bought them for me in a hospital gift shop.
When the world feels like an animal, and I feel like a smaller animal next to it, I whisper, "Please don't eat me. Be my friend."
I don’t like three-hour films. I think men are more into this than women. It’s like sex. Women are like, “We can do it again, dude.”
Crystals are basic bitch territory. I know this. We all know this. But I still love them.
There are “church ladies” and “crystal ladies”, and I want to be a crystal lady when I grow up (which is never).
Do people really clap at the end of animatronic theme park rides?
I type “dude” more than I actually say it.
I sleep on top of a quilt. Not under. And it has to be a quilt. In a nest of fleece blankets, on top of the quilt. Cats on all sides.
It's hard to not sing the Umpa Lumpa song when you’re doing squats. Just try and resist.
I listen to Messiaen's Catalogue D'oiseaux a lot. I really should learn French. Not that it's at all necessary for this project.
Climbed Cerro de la Silla while six months pregnant. I waddled up that mountain. In strappy sandals.
I’ve never seen my mother and father kiss or hold hands.
I like brussels sprouts.
I’m learning Japanese.
I might have arithmomania, dyscalculia, and ADHD, and maybe autism.
I had balance issues and developmental delays in school. I did occupational therapy in preschool and was held back in the first grade. My mother told me it was because I couldn’t read as fast as the other children. When I read anything, I consciously and unconsciously repeat each word a certain number of times, then count the words in each sentence a certain number of times, then the punctuation. I've done this for as long as I can remember, and I do it with everything. Signs on the road, cereal boxes, vitamin bottles, subtitles (subtitles are a BITCH). I've worked hard to suppress it, manage it, mask it. And I can do it, but it IS a lot of work. And as far as I know, it's not something that I can just "edit" from my behavior like it’s the CRISPR clapper. “Gene on! Gene off!” That said, I seem to read pretty fast now, regardless. Whatever “fast” is, or if that’s even desirable. Basically, my teachers thought I was dumb. And lazy. And didn't look any further or ask any questions. And my mom was so overwhelmed at that point, she didn’t either. It wasn’t until middle school that she began looking into what some of these issues might be. But not with me. With my brother. He had his own issues. But that’s his story.
My first manager said they bullied me because I was “Just so weird.” We were off the clock, and I was in tears, begging her to tell me why she hated me. Variations of this would play out in school and jobs pretty regularly over the years, until I grew up enough to know when to walk away and not take it to heart.
A manager at another job got a coworker to give me a hand-written apology for bullying me and opening a freezer door on my foot. I said, “Thanks for the signed confession of workplace harassment. If I need it, I have it.” They were shocked. I’m not dumb. I think they were, though. Still. I didn’t do anything with it. Maybe I should have. Maybe I'm the dumb one after all, voicing an intention and failing to follow through. Because they made damn sure I’d never have the pleasure of working anywhere similar in the area, very nearly the whole city. I just don’t like conflict. I don’t want to stir up trouble. This was when I decided to walk to the equestrian area and beg them to let me work in their kitchen. It was a bonus that my brother would no longer be saddled with the burden of driving me. Not that he saw it that way, but I understood the cost. It felt good to be able to turn a negative into a positive, to not let anything keep me down.
Another manager asked to talk in the bathrooms, then asked me to remove the splint from my broken arm where the conversation wouldn't be caught on camera. She needn't have bothered. I was too naive and insecure to do anything but what she asked, and I never questioned it. Another manager backed me into a wall behind a shelf, also out of the spotlight, and yelled in my face, towering over my smaller form and practically spitting on me… and I think I went into mental hibernation. That manger, too, thought that I was strange and therefore someone worthy of disrespect and abuse. I was clueless then. I’m not now.
The one time I got jury duty and wasn't a caregiver, but knew that I couldn't afford to take time off at work and continue to eat and pay my bills, let alone the question of transportation, the judge stopped me mid-incoherent babble, and with a kindly Dumbldorian smile, said that it was okay. That I could go.
My limits with social situations are usually pretty obvious. I’ve been told many times that I’m the one the Vikings/cavemen/Spartans would have left to the elements, and the first the zombies would kill. That I’m lucky I live in a time and place that humors my peculiarity.
I realize now how many people either 1, took advantage of, 2, pitied and infantilized, or 3, punished me for being developmentally delayed. I never understood until recently why people were weird or mean of overly nice, or why it made me uncomfortable. I'm not angry, but I don’t feel good about it.
Visual learner.
Synesthesia. Because OF FUCKING COURSE Synesthesia.
Music is my memory palace.
I’m touchy feely, but don’t always like being touched. I would very much like to lean into someone and let them stroke my head into somnolence, but something keeps me at arm’s length.
Social situations, even if I enjoy them, are exhausting. Clutter REALLY bothers me. It's a counting-trypophobia-dust thing. I wash and organize as I work because everything has to be cleaned separately and in a certain order. And if the order gets disrupted, I… try not to get upset, and just process my emotions. I enjoy making list. I would even say that list-making soothes me and helps my brain unwind. I loathe being unprepared. There is nothing more embarrassing.
I truly don't understand my own feelings sometimes. I have to stop and analyze how I'm feeling. Sometimes I have to do this for a long time. A very long time.
When I go silent I’m buffering.
I need clear instructions about what is and isn’t appropriate, expected, or rude. What is and isn’t a secret. What is and isn’t flirting. What is and isn’t insensitive. I have trouble understanding things in the moment and my mental age does not match my peers. Trying to communicate this is hard. People start treating me like a child, slowly over enunciating, and metaphorically patting me on the head. If I shut that shit down, they get mad and think they’ve been trolled.
I was bullied in elementary school. Every year. Kids cornered me in bathrooms to harass me, threw food and school supplies at me, called me names, ruined my assignments. The teachers bullied me, too. I missed social cues and talked too much, and some of them didn’t have a lot of patience for that.
School taught me that socially gifted individuals from financially stable households succeeded in life by showing up and making friends with other socially stable and financially gifted individuals from families of the same, and so on, and so forth. And that attendance and test taking were more valuable than academic acrobatics and clever rejoinders. And that I is fucked in all respects.
One of my stims is moving from foot to foot. Another is tapping my fingers against my thumbs. Another is repetitively grasping my hands left then right, left then right. I also like to click my canines. I did the last one more when I was younger, and have struggled to mask this throughout my life, aware of how strange it looks.
I REALLY hate lying. And I require significant moral incentive to do so. Even then, it's so unbearable. Even lies by omission feel like a choke hold. The only things I've ever tried to lie about were personal things. Stuff I was embarrassed about, but that didn't necessarily affect anyone else. Like ill-timed bodily functions or private thoughts. And I still think about those things. Whether or not it was right to lie. And sometimes I confess them anyway, and sound like a crazy person, because I'm the only one who cares in those instances. I feel the weight of secrecy and deception like Jacob Marley's chains. If I suddenly realize I've done something harmful or hurtful to someone, or if I've misled someone, I have to confess the mistake at once, to all involved. Even if it's been a long time, even if they would no longer care, even if they would care a lot, and sever ties.
As a child, it really hurt to be told by an authority figure of caregiver that they KNEW I was lying and be punished for it. Like they couldn’t see how hard it was for me to conceal ANYTHING. I remember spritzing some perfume on myself in someone else’s bathroom when I was six, then lying about it in an embarrassed, knee-jerk kind of way to my dad when he asked me what I was wearing. Then going to him the next morning in tears, begging forgiveness for lying, saying that I was wrong, and never should have touched someone else’s perfume without their permission, and that I should never have told a lie about it. That shit ate me up inside. I did that one more time when I was fifteen at a Christmas party. I impulsively depressed the atomizer on a bottle of hair spray by the bathroom sink because the scent sounded interesting. I instantly knew that I’d violated the trust instilled in me as a guest and felt awful. The owner of the hair spray knew exactly what I’d done, too. They didn’t seem too bothered by it, more amused, but they were likely just being polite. I felt like dirt. Dumb, rude, childish. And a hypocrite, because I’d hate it if anyone touched my stuff like that. I never did anything like that again.
I am not overwhelmed by research. I like to be reading more than one book at a time, going back and forth between articles online and notes in my journals, with podcasts and tv playing, all at once. My thoughts are similar. I have a lot of different programs playing out in my head, and I'm skipping around in there like a Pinky Hi-Bounce. That, combined with the sensory overwhelm in social situations, has often given those around me an unfortunate impression of my character. I may not always respond in a way that people are used to someone responding or be present in a way that most people are accustomed to others being present. I say seemingly superficial, odd, or inappropriate things, because I have a lot of thoughts happening at once, and because I place so much gravity on how my words are received. I've been called strange, weird, neurotic, sensitive, a doormat, an airhead, a pussy, a child, and have often been accused of being high. I think this all just boils down to the optics of a person physiologically affected by sensory events, with low to no ability to filter out irrelevant information.
It takes me a while to work through the framework of conversations, and the thoughts and emotions they give rise to. Things I heard and saw and what I thought about them. I guess it’s like organizing a very active inbox.
Caregiving should be overwhelming for me. It's a lot of delicately fluctuating variables and leaden responsibility with no room for error. But I've been doing it all my life, so it's very much in my comfort zone. Homemaking, first aid, cooking, cleaning, appointments, nurses, doctors, advocacy, patient care, childcare, crisis management… like a bike. I know it's weird that talking to a neighbor or calling Amazon about a return could cause overwhelm and exhaustion but grilling a nurse about medications and asking to speak to the doctor are no big deal. I just know what to expect, and the anxiety and insecurity these situations normally generate for a person like me has been humbled by years of application.
When people talk, I see it being typed up on a white page in my mind like I’m reading it in a book. I also narrate and sketch the scene. When I describe things, it’s like a game of memory. “What does this card remind me of?”
Once I accidentally deleted a huge piece of writing. I was devastated. Then I sat down and rewrote it word for word. I don't know if I could do that again. I’ve never tried. I just know that I’m good at remembering stuff. Which is what helps me understand social cues after the fact. Never in the moment, but after the fact. I’ll sit and replay events, inspecting the evidence, trying to understand what I was seeing, and what the desired reaction might have been.
My godparents were always the “cool” people in our life. They wore cool clothes and did cool things, and knew other cool people who esteemed them highly. Knew all the secret food restaurants, and had Hunter Thompson-y escapades. Participated in town festivals, and were the face of recycling in our regional commercials. A cute hippie couple who knew how to be eco-fresh. For most of my life they would come and sit at our kitchen table and be our window to the world. And the, when we were about to lose our house to tax debt, they stepped in a paid the taxes, so we could keep our family home. A monumental kindness I have no idea how to repay, though they said they want nothing in return but our happiness and financial stability. I have to find a way to repay them, though. Somehow.
Somehow, I need to repay the kindness that so many have shown my brother and I. And the kindness and consideration my brother has shown me. We continue to struggle with bills and debt… like so many people at the moment. And it can seem endless, and fruitless. And without my brother’s strenght, optimissim, and ingenuity, and the moral and financil support from loved ones in times of need, I don’t know that we wolkd have gotten this far. I have to do better. Be smarter and stronger. I have to find a way.
Taking money from them for the taxes made me feel like we lost them. I couldn't tell them anything. Not anymore. Not unless it was all success and stability and stars, or risk them feeling pressured to help us, or that we were socilting more help. That has been such a deeply painful loss. They're still there and still wonderful, but I don't feel like I have the right to reach out. Not until I'm less of a burden.
I work hard, not smart. And I doubt myself.
I think I'm good at mopping, sweeping, scrubbing… flipping burgers, flipping tables, prepping veg, working drive-thru… cashiring, caregiving, cutting, painting, breaking down trucks. But not a lot of people want to hire me for that, either because I'm too small, look too young, or act too weird. Or all three. But I never thought I could be or do anything else. So I just kept running at that brick wall until the worst people hired me, for the most toxic situations.
I’ve had a lot of shitty low-paying jobs that stretched me thinner than graphene. I've taken so much crap just to stock the fridge with ramen, rice, and beans, and make desperate payment arangements. I feel like I should be ashsmed of myself for not doing better. And for all my poor financial decisions when I was doing better.
The people who design and construct obstacle courses for hamsters on YouTube are pretty clever. And so are the hamsters!
Body pillows are better than standard pillows. Try it.
I would very much like to just lean into someone and let them stroke my head into somnolence. But I don't like being touched. Much. By most people. In most situations. I’m a fortone cookie of contradiction.
I wish more things in my life felt like beginnings instead of endings. I'm so tired of endings.
I take pictures to better understand the moment, and to remember the perspective.
Most of the time, all you've got to inform you are the facts, your heart, your history, your honor, your conscience, and your gut, but each is powerful in its own way, and not to be ignored.
I introduced my brother to Led Zeppelin. My brother introduced me to Orson Scott Card.
After dinner, I put my ear to my daughter’s stomach and pretend there’s a gastronomic house party rumbling around in her tummy. I tell her mac n’ cheese to keep the music down, and she laughs every time.
I’m so glad there are so many different kinds of jam and pickles and maple syrup.
Until you know how someone responds to stress, boundaries, disappointment, teasing, criticism, responsibility, vulnerability, fear, shame, pressure… you don't know them at all.
The Minions speak Molanguese.
Las Vegas has old people cruise ship at midnight vibes. And as fun as that sounds, I don't really get it.
Build-your-own-Solar System should just be like a pack of doughnut holes and Takis. Could get messy, though. But tasty.
I don't celebrate Thanksgiving. Not since Byte. But I'll share the heck out of PBD Greys’ vegan Thanksgiving freestyle every year.
You don’t have to fear something or someone to be respectful of the damage it, or they, can do.
You catch more bees with honey but it's curiosity that killed the cat. Curiosity, and a broken heart.
Artificial fragrances are the Christian devil.
Outgrew the dirty hippie thing and matured into a lovely germaphobe clean freak.
Can't leave dishes in the sink, triggered by dust and mold, shoes come off for rugs.
If you bring anything into my kitchen that looks like it could be at home in a miscellaneous items box at a garage sale, like it could use a good hosing off out behind the house, like I'm going to find myself calling poison control later in the evening "just to be safe", trust that behind a polite but delicate facade I am freaking the fuck out. It’s where Garrett Watts and I part ways. Likewise, anything that can’t go through the wash, or be scrubbed with dish soap, or wiped down with disinfectant on a regular basis, won’t last long in my house. I make exceptions for books and art. To an extent. I have trouble with antique stores, antiques, dust, strong smells. Strong vibes. I know this isn’t cool. Whatever.
Chores and homework before recreation. Always. I can't relax when there's something on the books.
One of my best memories is catching lightening bugs with my dad in Alamo Heights. Going to a stargazing party with my aunt Peggy. Spooning on the hard wood “couch” with my aunt MaryBoo, watching Conan the Barbarian (1982). Waking up next to my mom. Sunlight and warmth and safety.
I like anticipating steps. I like keeping pace with something bigger than myself. I like problem-solving. I like strategizing. If I have a clear objective, I feel like I can sing to the stars. Like maybe I’d be good at games and puzzles if I could ever slow down and stop being so overwhelmed.
I like wearing rings and earrings. Sometimes neckaces or chokers. But rings more than anthing else. One of my oft donned rings is a Navajo design. It was the last birthday gift from my mother. Another ring I like wearing is a wide silver band with a Moonstone cab my daughter's father made me. I wore it all though my pregnancy. I wore it with a silver fixed baled mexican fire agate pendant also made by my daughter’s father. Customers at Starbucks always commented on both, and would ask me where they could buy them. I also like wearing toe rings on my figers. I have several from a local county that I attened with my mom many moons ago.
I don’t know what it is about jewelry, but it doesn’t want to stay on me. It’s a weird little trick I do. But neat, too. Because it always comes back.
Casually, I’m a mess. A rude, loud, impulsive, apologetic, clumsy, overwhelmed, oversharing, people pleasing, blabbermouthed idiot. I’m getting better, though. I mean, not at being that. At NOT being that. I took the chicjen soup for the soul, and I'm older and wiser, now. Learning from my mistakes. Curbing impulse control, managing social cues. Swallowing word salad like gravel.
If I see an animal that needs help the activity, outing, or vacation is over. My priorities have shifted to helping that animal. If that's a thing that bothers you, I'll bother you a lot.
I have no interest in participating in organized competition. Fun to watch, but not to do. For me.
Jennifer Saunders' cover of Hero trumps all other versions, and human Shrek is hot. Inexplicably.
A hot glue gun, a heat gun, a staple gun, Mod Podge, hockey tape, Gorilla tape, dental hygiene tools, and jewelry crafting tools are all insanely useful around the house.
I like taking care of people and hate that I'm always the one who needs help.
It's not always a complete lack of empathy that fosters and permits cruelty. Sometimes people are just too focused on their own discomfort to notice or care about your pain. Or to see that they're partially, or fully, the cause of it. The blinders of conceit and selfinterest are married to the shield of superficial charm, and the sword of negging, projection, and blame shifting.
Thief energy is some of the worst to be around because they’re always sizing you up, and they’ll turn on anybody, even family. Addict energy can be similar, it's just not organic.
Don't trust anyone you just met, or don't know very well. And even then. Look for the good but don’t expect or assume it. Assumption doesn't just make you an ass, it makes you vulnerable to a variable.
Patient and curious is superior to judgemental and reactionary. It seems obvious, but it's not. I dearly wish someone had pointed this out to me in the wild, and prepared me for the falsehood of social contracts. Disabused me of my low self-confidence, and people pleasing ways.
Most people aren't good with change, even if they say they are, and don't have much patience for irregularity, unpredictability, waiting rooms, speed bumps, what I call “expectation vs reality anxity”, emtional and mental diversity, cultural diversity, emotional instability, physical or emotional frailty, confusion, mixups, inconsistency. Never hesitate to pause and reassess a situation when things start to hiccup or go tense. Just breathe, ask, listen. And don't rush.
Don’t automatically assume that someone meant to be rude. If we all asked follow up questions, calmly voiced our feelings and concerns when we felt ourselves becoming reactionary, and tried not to take things so personally… to educate… ourselves, others, whatever the situation calls for… instead of judging and snapping… we'd save so much time and energy.
Not everyone gets sarcasm.
There’s responsibility, acountability, pushing through, and trying harder… and then there’s: I have a problem doing this thing, it may not be something I can feasibly work through, so I need to not put myself in a podition to have to do this thing, or have anyone rely on me to do this thing. That’s also being respons8ble and accountable. When someone telks you this, listen. Don’t just tell thrm they need to try harder.
You absolutely can be responsible for how you’ve made someone feel, but like everything, it’s situational, and there’s context to consider. But “I can’t MAKE you feel anything” is a bullshit response, and shiws a tital lack of care for the person ypu’re saying it to.
People are as sensative as they say they are. There’s no “too” about it.
People who tell others how to think and live and love and feel are insufferable assholes with guru syndrome.
I was at home when the towers fell. My mom, my aunt and I watched it happen on live tv. It was horrifying. My brother was in Germany, staying with a DLR scientist (I think she looked for life on Mars, or it's potato moon). We were on the phone with him, and his newsfeed was delayed. He didn't believe us when the second tower fell. He kept saying, “No, it's still standing.”
There’s a story behind how I got my copy of David Carradine’s Endless Highway. It's ironic, and I don't want to tell it.
Rachel Maksy is the pumpkin queen. She also makes me wish I owned a sewing machine, and knew how to use a sewing machine.
Celina Spooky Boo and Kall me Kris are the queens of adventure and seance. They are the wholesome, eccentric, fun loving, up for anything, ride-or-die best buddies that everyone longs to have in their lives. Unless you already have that, then cheers.
Celina and Kris NEED to collaborate with Garrett and Andrew.
B. Dylan Hollis, Tanara Double Chocolate Productions, and SenyaiGrubs are my favorite comedy crockpot channels, right now. They’re like Christmas Crack, and I desperately wish that they were vegan.
Julian Solomita is vegan and funny And fearless. So, there's that. And the food is legit. But I always cringe when he jumps on the counter.
I like Mr. Beast. Along with most of the internet, I guess.
Some mistakes are easily put right. Some mistakes are like when Evie loses her balance, and knocks down every bookcase in the library.
I just found out what snail mucin is. Holy hell. Leave snails alone!
Peppermint Butler is my spirit animal. Dude is freaking fearless.
Diana Pasulka has a comforting phonological delineation. I've unintentionally learned a lot about organized religion.
When I say “oily beavers” I mean orb-weavers.
The sound of a horse blowing raspberries is kind of reassuring. Also, cats purring. I mean, obviously. And I feel that deeply in my bones. Those old calcium hoarders.
Just getting into Professor Elemental. I can dig it.
If you put the spotlight on That Vegan Teacher while ignoring Earthling Ed and Tabitha Brown and Joaquin Phoenix and Angela Davis and James Aspey and Genesis Butler and Jane Goodall and Joey Carbstrong and Seb Alex and Eric Adams and Babette Davis and Greta Thunberg and David Attenborough BUT MOST ESPECIALLY EARTHLING ED, A.K.A. ED WINTERS, to justify ignorance and bullying and torture and ecofascism, take your selfstisfied and petty guffaws, and shove it. I’m vegan, and I follow vegan topics, and I only know of That Vegan Teacher through non-vegans making fun of them. They aren’t representative of the community or the cause. I half believe That Vegan Teacher was funded by corrupt meat and dairy lobbiests to give Average Joe on the Internet a convenient target to belittle a very inconvenient truth that’s taking money out of their very deep and dirty pockets. And whether or not that wild and wooly theory has any wild and wooly spider legs, people are still picking on a possibly mentally unstable person. It’s punching down, and it’s repugnant. Ignore them, and hope they get help. And if you truly crave a friendly spar on the topic, debate someone your own size.
I once danced naked in a church. A very lovely old building with an abundance of stained glass and natural wood. And once on a roof top of a two story house. Both times were at night with my best friend from ISA. We were seventeen and streaking seemed edgy. I'm not sure why now.
Dream job: Working with orchids in a greenhouse. Or something involving paleography. And music. Singing with my brother. Library science. Dusty old tombs and pots. I could also say working with shelter animals, but I think that would mentally break me. I'm too soft. I would take them all home. I just need a lot of money to give to them, and to the people working with them. I also think the system needs reform, and I would seek out people who could meaningfully contribute to that effort.
That said, I want to volunteer at animal shelters. I have so much respect for people who work and volunteer at shelters. All shelters. It’s important work, and I want to contribute. Shout out to Rocky Kanaka and Joey Graceffa! Everybody go watch them!
I wish I had enough money to regularly give to gofundmes on Reddit and save euthlisted cats and dogs posted on social media. I think about it a lot.
Once an action is taken, it cannot be called back. You have changed the timeline. But equally, you cannot pause in a flow state and maintain the integrity of the flow. Choose your path. Cautious, controlled, and ruminative, or bold, clever, and quick. There is risk with either. Assess the tools and the hand that guides them, and not necessarily the risk itself.
The people who immediately exploit and abuse any intimacy, confidence, or vulnerability they come in contact with are the ones you avoid. The people who make a point of respecting boundaries and trust are the ones you keep around.
Never operate heavy machinery when you're tired. Or anything with the potential to maim, or burn your house down. Ovens, curling irons, drills, handsaws. Don't be stupid. It can wait.
The first thing I remember eating as a kid that wasn’t mashed nanners or commercial baby food was a Las Palapas bean and cheese taco, followed by a sip of my mom's fountain Coke. We were in the front seat of a truck at the drive-thru.
Breakfast growing up was bacon, eggs, and pancakes. Scrambled eggs, never waffles. Or we had breakfast tacos. Chilaquiles, bean and bacon, bacon and egg, potato and cheese. Sometimes, we had eggs in a basket. Which was an egg fried in a hole in a slice of bread. We never had cereal, or doughnuts, or poptarts, or breakfast bars. Nothing like that. Grammy didn't think it was real food, and deemed it a waste of money. We grew okra and tomatoes in the backyard, and sometimes other things. I don't think we had a microwave until I was a teenager. Maybe a little sooner, I'm m not sure.
I've probably eaten tacos every day of my life. Made some version of guacamole every day.
School lunch in San Antonio was much like school lunch anywhere else in the country. Square pizza, taco salad. But just before the holidays, we got spicy hot chocolate and crispy bunuelos.
They also taught us to square dance every year in gym, and make cascarones during Fiesta.
My mom cooked lots of different stuff, while my grandmother made mostly Oklahoma farm food and Tex Mex. Lots of biscuits and gravy, collards, fried okra, creamy mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, fried chicken, tunafish salad, macaroni salad, ambrosia salad, coleslaw, baked macaroni and cheese, green bean casserole, pimento spread sandwiches, vegetable stew with whole vegetables, beef stew, chicken and dumplings (this was bompa's recipe, with heavy cream, potatoes, carrots, celery, big lumpy strips of dough), bean soup, cornbread, orange carrots, pan-fried brussels sprouts, creamed corn, broccoli cooked to exhaustion, greasy pan-fried french fries (lots and lots of french fries with everything), peaches canned and fresh, pepper steak, chicken fried steak, sausage, brisket, hot dogs, hamburgers, hoppin’ john, hillbilly ham, and strawberry shortcake, sheet cake, or pie for desert. Salad was a wedge of iceberg lettuce and ranch dressing. Grammy made us drink the juice off the greens, and it was a lot like hot buttery Sencha. Which was good. We didn't make box stuff, like Hamburger Helper or Betty Crocker. Everything was from scratch and seasonal. Grammy used a lot of pepper, thyme, paprika, cayenne, celery seed, bay leaf, rosemary, cumin, sage, dill, oregano, cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla extract, onion powder, garlic powder, worcestershire, and tobasco. We didn’t make our own salsa, and we weren't loyal to one brand, but we stuck to what was local. It was salsa roja, salsa verde, or orange sauce, until hatch pepper season. Then we made green chili cheeseburgers. Grammy didn't cook fish. Or chili. Or rice. Or much pasta, aside from mac and cheese. Mom made a lot of pasta, though. It was very much Oklahoma potluck, slash greasy spoon, with some Tex Mex thrown in, on top of whatever new dish mom was trying out that week, usually something Julia Child-inspired. Drinks were always black coffee, sweet tea, Coke, Dr. Pepper, orange juice, or milk. And grammy always cooked like she was feeding an army and it was her job, so the fridge was full of leftovers. I think it's at least ninety percent why grandpa married her.
Pizza was for birthday parties. We never ate out at restaurants, and the only fast food we had were Las Palapas tacos, and the occasional McDonald’s on a weekend. Until we got older. Then we started eating at this one Indian buffet every holiday after my dad did a renovation for them. We all grew to love Northen Indian cuisine, and it became our new tradition. Then we tried Thai and Vietnamese, then Japanese, then Moroccan, and we started eating out more often, trying new things when ever we could.
The house was always clean and tidy. No dirty dishes, no crumbs on the floor. There wasn't much furniture. No nick-knacks. Very few paintings. Not until my mom and her sisters started buying things. Pieces of art, pieces of furniture. And my mom's art. The only rogue element was that grammy used to write phone numbers on the wall by the phone. And she had a framed print of van Gogh's Sunflowers (1889).
My mom liked The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle and Friends (1959), and would put it on the tv in the morning to get us up for school. We watched that and all the old Hanna-Barbera shows. But also the Warner Bros. cartoons, Ninja Turtles, Thundercats, Carebears, DuckTales, Chip n’ Dale Rescue Rangers, Alvin and the Chipmunks, Sesame Street, Fragle Rock, and The Muppet Show. We watched It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown in October, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in December. Grammy had a set of Encylopedia Britannicas, and we had a set of the Berenstein Bears books, a few of the Little Monster books, a Beatrix Potter compilation, some Zoo Books, Lisa Tuttle’s Cat Witch, and two Christmas-themed books: The Church Mice at Christmas, and Morris's Disappearing Bag. We never bought books at the book fair, and we only got toys at Christmas and our birthdays. And I know that mom went without and really struggled to get us the toys we wanted.
My first cuddly was a Steiff chimpanzee named “Mr. Monkey”. I put lipstick on him, and you can still see it. Then a black cat named “Belle”, who had a bell, and two skunks that were hand puppets named “Cherie” and “Bay Street”. “Cherie” was my favorite and i took her everywhere. I also had a huge tan knit security blanket I put in the freezer (I thought the freezer made it smell good). Later, I had a couple teddy bears, and a big Lion King plush that I loved very much. My brother had a moose with clothes and roller skates named “Montgomery Moose”, a golden brown teddy bear named “Honey Bear”, and a dapper Jeremy Fisher Frog plush. We also had several E.T. dolls with peeling skin and glass eyes. The toys we played with were Ninja Turtles, Star Wars action figures, My Little Pony, Carebears, Strawberry Shortcake, Rainbow Bright, Thundercats, Legos, Barbie, Lincoln Logs, a Speak n’ Spell, the games Mouse Trap and Clue, a jump rope, a little doctor kit, those wiggly rubber crocodile finger puppets. I had a Cabbage Patch doll, and we both had a Glo Worm. There was a Little Tykes picnic table and a metal swing set in the backyard. I had a pink shell necklace with tiny carved elephants that aunt Peggy brought back from Nigeria. We also had some rubbery Jurassic Park dinosaur toys. I used to carry one of them around everywhere I went. My daughter has those now.
When we were older, we really got into anime. Dragonball Z, Cowboy Bebop, Sailor Moon, Inuyasha, Evangelion, Fooly Cooly, Gundam Wing. Then Adult Swim.
Grammy wore the same synthetic blend leopard shirt sleeved blouse with “ladies” jeans or thin polyester “slacks” with white Keds almost every day of our lives together. When she wanted to dress up, she always painted her nails strawberry red, permed her hair, and dyed it copper. My mom called the style “the sheep’s butt”. Mom was mom.
Mom and grammy did the tarot at the old kitchen table all the time, but only at night after dinner. Mom said grammy’s mom did the tarot, too. I never met her, but I know that mom was close to her and helped care for her before she died.
The kitchen table was one mom bought from grammy's little sister when she did some physical labor for her. The one who rescued grammy from sweat shop hell in Oklahoma, and whose husband was in the USAF. Mom idolized her aunt for a long time because she handled existence better than grammy seemed to, and lived a more glamorous life in general.
Mom had a music box made for her maternal grandmother with money she made working at Wataburger, or Brackenridge Stables, or the archery club. Not sure where it stands on the timeline. And not sure of the name of that archery club, only that it was somewhere in Alamo Heights. Anyway. It was a porcelain penguin on an iceberg that played “Thank Heaven for Little girls” from Gigi (1958). Mostly, because mom liked Gigi. I don't know if she watched it with her grandmother and it was special for them.
Mom said that when her maternal grandmother still lived in Oklahoma they would stay with her in summer. That she used spiderwebs and moss she grew on her fireplace for woundcare.
My great aunt's daughters came for grammy's funeral in my great aunt's place because she was too sick to travel by them. After the funeral, the older daughter offered to host Shannon at her house in California, and the younger daughter offered to host me in her home in Pennsylvania, to help us get into school. Shannon accepted right away. I accepted a few weeks later.
I had very little experience of my cousins and great uncle prior to grammy's funeral. Only grammy's sister. In Pennsylvania, I grew close to my hosts. At the end of my stay, I had one on one time with each of the rest. I wish we were still in contact. The suddenness and brevity of the experience was disorienting. I'm still processing it years later.
I adlib my lines, too. But on one's filming it. It's very much a bear in the woods situation. You never know what those bears are getting up to. They're like the Keebler Elves.
I don't like to walk in the rain because I don't want to step on snails. If I have to do it, I try to step lightly. If I feel a crack or a crunch, I immediately step back. If it's a snail, I carefully remove the shattered bits of shell and try to access the damage, then move them to a better place, to recover.
I took the final part of the GED in a trailer on a middle school campus in the Hill Country during a thunderstorm with tornado sirens blaring. Before we started, the proctor looked at my name on the sign-in sheet and said, “SkyBear, huh?” I just nodded.
I forget about that song by Ultravox, Vienna. And when I remember, I play it like twenty times. Talk about running up that hill. “THIS MEANS NOTHING TO ME!” Same with that cover of Song for a Siren by This Mortal Coil.
I just started Dubliners on Project Gutenberg. So far, magical. But too many commas. Also! Just getting into the band of the same name. That’s full circle.
A lot of Jacques Vallee's books are freely available online, too. I keep meaning to dive in and belly flopping.
My grandmother was strangely game for many of my artsy photo shoots as a kid, and helped me take some of them.
She was also the first person to congratulate me when I got into ISA. She was the one who handed me the letter when I got home from school, with a big smile on her face. She just knew.
Vegetarian since my first viewing of Jurassic Park (1993). Vegan since a year before my daughter was born.
I’m VERY vegan. I'd call cow's milk butter “the rape butter” but I'm afraid someone will think I'm weighing in on Marlon Brando. Then again, I'm fine with that. Two birds, one megaphone.
Megalodon would beat the Mossasaur with bite radius and size. Livyatan would beat the Meg with speed and cunning. That’s kind of a given, though.
My favorite gods are the Seven Lucky Gods. I also like Thoth, Bast, Kali, Saraswati, Amaterasu, Artemis, the dryads, kodama, kaibyo, kitsune, tanuki, okami, trickster raven and raccoon spirits, unicorns and qilin, fairies and onis and jinn.
Hand sanitizer does not remove dirt, it disinfects. IT MEANS NOTHING TO ME. But I'll take it. What else am I going to do? Wash your hands, people.
My mom planted a grape vine under our bedroom window so we could watch the birds weaving in and out of the foliage.
I had a peach tree outside my bedroom window at my grandmother’s house. It was a single story ranch. I would climb out of the window and sit in the cool dirt under it’s forked branches and write about my hopes and dreams, which were all very silly, in a cheap spiral notebook, with jellyroll pens.
When I was a kid, I realized hours after the fact that I’d smashed a gecko in the hinge margin of our front door. And that it was still alive, struggling to free itself. I knew there was no saving it. Half it’s body was crushed. And I wasn’t a vet, and I knew nothing about reptile medicine. I didn’t know how it was even still alive. And I was a kid. With no resources. I was helpless, and the gecko was helpless, and it was horrifying. So I killed it as quickly and cleanly as I could, and I prayed for benevolent spirits to come to it’s aid. And I asked for forgiveness. For being myopically self absorbed, and for the physical and mental pain that I unwittingly put that gecko through. And for the rest of my life, I thought about that gecko. Maybe once a week or once a month, but I never forgot it. And I tried to be a better human.
I like to think about unspoiled archaeological sites in remote locations.
When someone treats you like you're always on trial, and they're the judge…that's not a friend, that's a guru. Which is another term for conman.
I like knick-knacks. But only my knick-knacks. Other people’s knick-knacks are strange and foreign, and I find the experience of them unsettling. Not always, but most of the time. It’s something I’m working on. I feel the same about nudity.
I am not good at ignoring tacos.
I love writing. It's like finding out someone else cleaned the cat box every time I open wordpad.
I love Kumail Nanjiani as Howell on Bee and Puppycat (2022). And Prismo. But Howell more.
There’s still time to be friends.
I’ve started teaching myself the bo staff. Or rather, YouTube is. Instagram also has some nifty tutorials. Most of them relate to Star Wars in some way, though. Which isn't a bad thing, just humbling.
Tide pools are fascinating. The ocean scares me, but I could visit these wet salty pockets every day of my life. Purple sea stars, thorny sea urchins, crabs, slugs, chitons, rock weed. I wonder if the bacteria in my bathroom sink is as glorious at the microscopic level as one of these craggy basins? My mind strays to Chihuly’s hanging gardens of wilting colored glass.
Nude sushi sounds like sexual repression.
Want your house to smell good? Cook something. Not much smells better than fried stuff in a pan.
When you agonize over making a good impression, being on time. Bringing the fucking apple. And they laugh, and say, “I totally forgot about you! Maybe next time.” And you're that ten year old in baggy seasonally inappropriate clothing again. Staring at the girl scouts selling cookies in front of Michaels craft store, ironed and coiffed, with their mom hovering in the background like a dragon made of macrame. And they're looking at you like you've rubbed dirt on your face, and you’re sinking lower behind the dashboard, hoping to just disappear. Maybe you played the game wrong. Let your insecurities take the wheel. Maybe you should have realized sooner that there are no hard and fast rules to adhere to. That the smart ones are making it up as they go. And that people are rude. Sometimes. If they think you have nothing to offer. And they’ll make you think the same, if you let that shit get in your head.
I've spent some time this year wondering why everyone I come in contact with seems to think it okay to be rude to me. To be critical. To be disrespectful. To take my attention and cooperation and good humor for granted. Did I do this? Maybe. If so, how do I change it? And can I even blame them? Then again, I don't treat anyone I know that way. To my knowledge… to be fair. I give everyone my best. I prioritize whoever I'm speaking to. I try to be honest and present, sensitive and kind. But I've noticed that people don't behave that way toward me. I've been called a doormat… is this it? I have boundaries now. Good ones, I think. I'm older and more self-aware. Maybe I just… need to take a few steps back. And continue to consider. Everything.
I’m more interested in biomechanics than paleoenvironmental reconstruction, though. Not that I know a whole lot about any of that. But of the paleo things I’ve research, this seems to be how I trend. But then I AM environmental magnetism. And that doesn't make sense.
I don't think I knew how country my dad was (despite the brick and roadkill) until a few years ago, when I overheard him reminiscing with his brother about a legendary hunting dog named, “Rip.” I've never heard him talk about anything the way he talked about this dog.
I used to change the name on my name plate to something ever more bizarre all the days that I worked at Starbucks. Ralph got it.
Richard E. Grant’s Film Diaries have been a touchstone in my life.
I tie my shoes with the tunnel, not the bunny ears. Which is not a choice, that’s just how my mom and my aunt taught me, and probably how they were taught. I’m thinking I should break that cycle, though, with an Alpine Butterfly knot. My kid loves butterflies.
Growing up, I had a talent for knowing which cereal boxes had specific toy surprises. When Kellog’s Rice Krispy Treats were giving away Pokemon keychains, I had a certain order in which I wanted to collect them. I’d stand in the isle at the grocery store and look at all the boxes, and the one I wanted would flash like a little beacon. I always got the exact one I was looking for. It went Jigglypuff, Pikachu, Squirtle, and Gengar. I still have them.
Harland Williams is killing it as the evil wizard in Spooky Buddies (2011). It’s a departure from his earlier work, to be sure. But a fortuitous foreshadowing of things to come.
I still want to read Black Swans. But the more I read about Eve Babitz and the L.A. art scene, the more my enthusiasm wanes. It’s just not my thing.
I’m just getting into Hozier. I don't know how to say his name yet.
You can always find reasons to feel less than. And reasons to feel more than. Reasoned or irrational, earned or unearned. Examine both sides of that coin carefully, and try to be happy with who you are and where you’re going. And if you aren’t, change it to the extent that you can, but don’t dwell on toxic narratives. They’re just speed bumps on the road to deeper selfawareness and greater wisdom.
Do you ever want to take pistachio shells and make bicycle helmets for mice and their nonexistent bicycles?
Framing is important. For houses, for paintings, and for sentences.
I feel certain that someone has made s'mores with saltines instead of graham crackers, that it is the least concerning thing that has happened in a crackhouse.
I bet Sid Barrett ate his s'mores with chocolate milk and apathy.
Bananas and avocados are delicious but unduly biodegradable. Composting all over the place. Some people are like that, too.
I had a subscription to Cigar Aficianado. I was a weird twenty-something.
AntsCanada on YouTube is fueling my dream of creating kelp forest in my kitchen, a tide pool in my living room, and an orb weaver habitat in my bedroom, in the worst way.
Impressionist landscapes are my jam. I like a good wind swept botanic.
Thinking burns a lot of calories. When I want to eat a high calorie snack, I make myself draft a story about it in my head while I do it.
When people's ideas become fixed they become dumb whether or not they were smart to begin with.
Do you ever stop and think… “Those garden gnomes have seen a lot of shitake.”
Sometimes sweet things taste sad.
If you’re getting rug burn over terms like “organic” and “ethically sourced” you can fuck all the way off. We’re talking about averting human rights violations and farming methods that preserve the environment. If that’s trendy that’s a blessing.
It’s trendy to attack something for being trendy. It’s also easy.
When a confident stranger's gaze wobbles, and their verbal delivery falters in the face of shy shenanigans and slippery puns. That moment when you don’t know if they’re going to enthusiastucally join in, awkwardly play along, or mentally squash you like a bug and quit the building.
FAVORITE B-MOVIES
Chopping Mall (1986)
The Beast of Yucca Flats (1961)
The Killer Shrews (1959)
Attack of the Giant Leeches (1959)
The Giant Gila Monster (1959)
Track of the Moon Beast (1976)
Pumaman (1980)
Monkey Shines (1988)
Gymkata (1986)
The Robot vs. the Aztec Mummy (1957)
Doomsday Machine (1972)
Birdemic: Shock and Terror (2010)
Plan 9 from Outer Space (1959)
Eegah (1962)
The Creeping Terror (1964)
Manos: The Hands of Fate (1966)
The Room (2003)
Nukie (1987)
Mac and Me (1988)
Highlander 2: The Quickening (1991)
Battlefield Earth (2000)
The Mole People (1956)
The Screaming Skull (1958)
Abraxas, Guardian of the Universe (1990)
Titanic: The Legend Goes On (2000)
The Legend of the Titanic (2004)
Tentacolino (2004)
Surf Nazis Must Die (1987)
The Howling III (1987)
Blood Freak (1972)
Werewolf in a Girls' Dormitory (1961)
Atom Age Vampire (1963)
The Crawling Hand (1963)
Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (1964)
Double Dragon (1994)
Village of the Giants (1964)
Mutiny in Outer Space (1965)
The Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954)
The Devil's Rain (1975)
Space Mutiny (1988)
X-Men: Apocalypse (2016)
Street Fighter (1994)
The Thief of Bagdad (1940)
FAVORITE YOUTUBERS
H3 Podcast
H3 After Dark
Ethan and Hila
Bloodbath
Simone Giertz
Casey Niestat
Tigerbelly
Theo Von
Julien 2
Rachael Maksy
BlackBean CMS
Megan Moon
Tasselfairy
Some More News
Nefertiti ASMR
Eddie Burback
Sydney Morgan
Cody Ko
Elise Buch
Chubbyemu
Cassandra Bankson
Lizi ASMR
Van Girl Yuka
Mariah Alice
Alysa Vanilla
One Man Five Cats
Eva zu Beck
Maddie Taylor
Antoinette Yvon
Ame in a van
Quin Gable
Studson Studio
Knarb Makes
Grizzly Gaz
Caitlin Rielly
Jessica Kellgren-Fozard
Khadija Mbowe
Sweet Boys
Whitney Cummings
Ear Biscuits
Bad Friends
Primm's Hood Cinema
Andrew Santino
Bill Burr
SimplyPodlogical
It's [redacted]
Bedtime Stories
Bob Gymlan
The Undead Goucho
TheCryptoman
Paranormal Roundtable
Generation Zed
Red Letter Media
Philip DeFranco
CrazyRussianHacker
Garrett Watts
Jaime French
Kelly Stamps
hannahleedugen
Nile Wilson
mytoecold
Daily Dose of HasanAbi
Rebel Wisdom
Peter McKinnon
EvanandKatlyn
Mr. Beast
Earthling Ed
Erin Janus
James Aspey
The Lune Innate
Silver Hare
Mama Doctor Jones
Vsauce
Facts in Motion
ElectroBOOM
Stuff Made Here
Jenny Nicholson
Joey Graceffa
Pearl Swirl
Irish Jesus
Emily D. Baker
Guillaume Néry
Memory Hole
Josh Gad
idubbbzTV
Everything is Terrible
Deangelowallace
PewDiePie
Jarvis Johnson
James Marriott
Jenna Marbles
Julien Solomita
Threadbanger
Simplynailogical
Christine McConnell
Janelle Eliana
Kurtis Conner
Michelle Khare
HasanAbi
TwoSetViolin
How To Cook That
CinemaSins
Observe
Hindz
Good Mythical Morning
ContraPoints
Marno ASMR
Gentle Whispering
Latte ASMR
Goodnight Moon
asmr zeitgiest
RaphyTaphyASMR
JoJo's ASMR
Neil Cooper
Sarah Louise Tilsley
Made In France ASMR
ASMR Bakery
Olivia Kissper
FredsVoice ASMR
Jazz's Angel Number Tarot
Miss Synchronicity
Happy Twins 11:11
Baba Jolie
Ali'sTarot
EsoTarot
Roseology
White Feather Tarot
Cenus
kloee taylor
Ancient Star Queen
Vanessa Somuayina
Shonetta's Divine Tarot
EAT READ LOVE INC
Charmed Intuition
Miracle Forest
Guild of Ambience
Vault of Ambience
Autumn Cozy
ASMR Weekly
dreamy sound
Calmed By Nature
ASMR Rooms
Cozy Rain
Massage ASMR
ASMRPlanet
Blue Whisper
Ecuador Live
ASMR Barber
Psychology in Seattle
Dr. Todd Grande
Theories of Everything
Lex Fridman
Animal Save Movement
Farm Sanctuary
Edgar's Mission
One Man Five Cats
The Dodo
James Welsh
Robert Welsh
Marcus Welsh
Jackie Aina
Shereene Idriss
Alexandra Anele
Manny mua
snitchery
Alissa Ashley
Devyn Crimson
Hyram
Mixed Makeup
Brad Mondo
Art Bell
Russell Brand
Safiya Nygaard
Editing Is Everything
penguinz0
Kat Blaque
Sauce Stache
Tabitha Brown
avantgardvegan
SweetPotatoSoul
Hot for Food
Lauren Toyota
Ghetto Vegans
Edgy Veg
Wicked Healthy
B Foreal
Mary's Test Kitchen
Goodful
Tabitha Brown
Make It Dairy Free
Jane Esselstyn
The Vegan Zombie
BOSH.TV
Monson Made This
Vegetable Police
Sea Shepherd
earthlings
Forks Over Knives
Cowspiracy
Extinction Rebellion
Direct Action Everywhere
Conscious Muscle
Jane Unchained News
Badass Vegan
Theoria Apophasis
Skweezy
The Stitchess
Dollightful
Poppen Atelier
The World of David the Gnome
Bigfoot Crossroads
Banana Peppers
Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee
FAVORITE BANDS AND ARTISTS
The Kinks
Led Zeppelin
The Who
The Libertines
Jimi Hendrix
Kishi Bashi
Beach House
Radiohead
The Pillows
Pulp
The Beach Boys
Dido
Morcheeba
Birdy
The Cranberries
Varuca Salt
Belle and Sebastian
Fleetwood Mac
David Bowie
Iggy Pop
The Stooges
Cat Stevens
Muddy Waters
The Yardbirds
Bob Dylan
Janis Joplin
The Rolling Stones
Thin Lizzy
Kansas
Allman Brothers Band
Alanis Moresette
Boston
Travis
All Them Witches
Fleet Foxes
The Boxer Rebellion
The Heavy
Sia
Florence + The Machine
Flying Burrito Brothers
Gram Parsons
XTC
The Byrds
FIDDLAR
Michael Kiwanuka
The Fratellies
Smashing Pumpkins
Natalie Merchant
The Dead South
Foxygen
Fiona Apple
Robyn
Talking Heads
LORDE
Queen
Neil Young
George Harrison
Cream
Donovan
The Pixies
The Beatles
The Velvet Underground
PinkFloyd
Stevie Wonder
Iron and Wine
CCR
Philip Glass
Patsy Cline
Nina Simone
Joni Mitchell
Roberta Flack
Plumb
Prince
MUSE
Guns and Roses
The Mamas and the Papas
Jefferson Airplane
Crosby, Stills & Nash
Simon and Garfunkle
John Denver
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Sophie B. Hawkins
Hozier
Electric Youth
Leonard Cohen
The Crystals
Moto Boy
Blondie
The Clash
Yo La Tengo
Jason Walker
Sublime
Die Antwoord
Bobby Hebb
ELO
Moody Blues
Willie Nelson
Misfits
Three Dog Night
Bee Gees
Roy Orbison
Buddy Holly
The Zombies
Neutral Milk Hotel
The Brilliant Green
Night Ranger
Styx
Warren Zevon
First Aid Kit
Otis Redding
AC/DC
Billy Squire
Ellie Goulding
Iconna Pop
Mazzy Star
FAVORITE TV SHOWS
Adventure Time
Hilda
The Owl House
Kid Cosmic
Gravity Falls
Amphibia
Rick and Morty
What We Do In The Shadows
Legion
Buffy The Vampire Slayer
Supernatural
Stranger Things
Trailer Park Boys
Reno 911
Love
The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel
The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt
The Mandalorian
Parks and Recreation
The Office
Burn Notice
Lockwood & Co
Bones
Gilmore Girls
Northern Exposure
Scandal
The Good Place
Bridgerton
The Queen's Gambit
Wandavision
Ghost Adventures
The Vampire Dairies (shut up, it's not that bad (yes it is, actually, but I'm still into it))
Magical Egypt
Ancient Aliens
The Boys
The Punisher
Luke Cage
Jessica Jones
Firefly
Midsomer Murders
Peaky Blinders
Luther
The Night Manager
FLCL
Cowboy Bebop
Samurai Champloo
Venture Bros.
Space Ghost Coast to Coast
Aqua Teen Hunger Force
Mike Tyson Mysteries
Cromartie High
Great Teacher Onizuka
Trouble Chocolate
You're Beautiful
Boys Over Flowers
Coffee Prince
Magnum PI
Quantum Leap
Outlander
Riverdale
Sherlock
The Americans
The Umbrella Academy
FAVORITE MOVIES
Land of the Lost (2009)
Semi-Pro (2008)
Anchorman (2004)
Eurovision Song Contest (2020)
Hellboy (2004)
Hellboy II: The Golden Army (2008)
Pan's Labyrinth (2006)
Indiana Jones (1981, 1984, 1989, 2008)
Guardians of the Galaxy I and II (2014, 2017)
Deadpool I and II (2016, 2018)
Kung Fu Hustle (2004)
Labyrinth (1986)
Big Trouble in Little China (1986)
In Bruges (2008)
Beetlejuice (1988)
Super troopers I and II (2001, 2018)
Almost Famous (2000)
Mamma Mia! (2008)
Ant-man and the Wasp (2018)
Howl's Moving Castle (2004)
My Schoolmate the Barbarian (2001)
Kickass I and II (2010, 2013)
Gen-X Cops (1999)
Gen-Y Cops (2000)
Startrek III: The Search for Spock (1984)
Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home (1986)
Closer (2004)
The Thin Man (1934, 1936, 1939, 1941, 1944, 1947)
Duck Soup (1933)
A Night at the Opera (1935)
A Day at the Races (1937)
Animal Crackers (1930)
The Cocoanuts (1929)
Room Service (1938)
The Princess Bride (1987)
Batman Returns (1992)
Thor Ragnarok (2017)
The Quiet Man (1952)
Highlander (1986)
The Mummy (1999)
The Mummy Returns (2001)
Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
The Goonies (1985)
My Octopus Teacher (2020)
FAVORITE MOVIES THAT I ENJOY AND RESPECT, BUT DON'T NECESSARILY WATCH ALL THE TIME
City of God (2002)
Miami Vice (2006)
Boogie Nights (1997)
Only God Forgives (2013)
Amalie (2001)
Empire of the Sun (1987)
Raise the Red Lantern (1991)
Kundun (1997)
The Piano (1993)
Electric Dragon 80.000 Volts (2001)
American Graffiti (1973)
Spirited Away (2001)
Woman of Water (2002)
Volver (2006)
Lorenzo's Oil (1992)
Malcolm X (1992)
Journey to the West (2013)
Last of the Mohicans (1992)
Close Encounters (1987)
The New World (2005)
Gridlock'd (1997)
Frost/Nixon (2008)
In the Heat of the Night (1967)
A History of Violence (2005)
Rushmore (1998)
The Birds (1963)
Amadeus (1984)
Mississippi Burning (1988)
Samurai Fiction (1998)
Bramstoker's Dracula (1992)
Up (2009)
Y Tu Mama Tambien (2001)
Citizen Ruth (1996)
Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure (1989)
Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey (1991)
There Will Be Blood (2007)
The Science of Sleep (2006)
Breakfast on Pluto (2005)
To Sir, With Love (1967)
JFK (1991)
Archipelago (2010)
His Girl Friday (1940)
House of Flying Daggers (2004)
Impromptu (1991)
28 Days Later (2002)
KIDS PROGRAMMING
My Netflix, Amazon, and Hulu profiles are a seamless ribbon of kids programming. Our current favorites are Hilda, Leap!, Tumbleleaf, Corey Carson, Adventure Time, True and the Rainbow Kingdom, Spirit: Riding Free, Sea Beast, Bigfoot Family, Hotel Transylvania, Gnome Alone, The Croods, Okko's Inn, Over the Moon, The Guardian Brothers, Mary and the Witches Flower, Bubble Guppies, Octonauts, Number Blocks, Earth to Luna, Rescue Riders, The Deep, Peg + Cat, Trolls World Tour, Pets 2, Izzy's Koala World, The Magic School Bus, Buddi, Puffin Rock, Pete the Cat, How to Train Your Dragon, Shreck, Puss in Boots, Lou Bao Bei, Waffles and Mochi, Trash Truck, The Ollie and Moon Show, Gabby's Dollhouse, The Dragon Prince, and all the Julia Donaldson adaptations.
On Disney+, it's Bluey, Amphibia, The Owl House, Luca, Raya and the Last Dragon, Frozen I and II, Moana, Princess and the Frog, Brave, The Lion King, Mulan, Coco, The Good Dinosaur, Turning Red, The Book of Life, Lilo and Stitch, Wreck It Ralph, Ralph Breaks the Internet, Onward, Tangled, Beauty and the Beast, Winnie the Pooh, Tinkerbell, Guardians of the Galaxy, Thor, and Cinderella.
BOOKS
I have a love-loathe relationship with the two Johns, Steinbeck and Fowles. I've read Great Expectations, and All My Friends Are Going To Be Strangers, many times. Wole Soyinka and Yukio Mishima have an elegance that shames me.
Lots of Classic Rock bios. I'm With the Band, Life, Grevious Angel, Moon... stuff like that.
Bukowski is brilliant but vulgar. Douglas Adams is a pleasure. Orson Scott Card is visionary. Michael Chabon is cute.
Loved Slouching Toward Bethlehem, by Joan Didion... With Nail, by Richard E. Grant.
Had a Michael Crichton phase, a Laurens Van Der Post phase. A Chuck Palahniuk phase. A Heinlin phase. An Ann Rice phase. An Agatha Christie phase. Read all the Harry Potter books (we'd buy one copy, and everyone in our family took turns), and the Southern Vampire Mysteries (my Aunt Peggy and I took turns). Read a bunch of Barbara Michaels aloud with my Mom.
Loved Wuthering Heights... Jane Eyre. Jamaica Inn. Read a ton of Jane Austin, probably all of it (it's been a while). Also, Hemingway.
Still just getting into Hunter Thompson, and I've been saving Kurt Vonnegut and Gabriel García Márquez for a rainy day.
So, so much fanfiction.
If you're a fan of Harry Potter, and ever wished for a similar version of those tales set in America, with a fast-paced story, awesome world building, and a flawed female protagonist, do yourself a favor and go read the Alexandra Quick series by Inverarity, on ArchiveofOurOwn. You won't regret it.
Darke Angelus was always pretty fun, too, if you dig DBZ, and ship Bulma and Vegeta. Anything by Subtilior... "Advent", "Shards of a Dream", "Erlkönig", "In A Glass, Darkly"... all Labyrinth. All pretty dark.
Also, check out...
"In Which An Old Woman Appears" by OwlAway (Howl's Moving Castle)
"The Mandalorian, his son and the Storm Trooper" by LadyIrina
"9 Insane Conversations with Sherlock Holmes" by
pennydreadful
"then felled by wishes" by Mira_Jade (Thor, Labyrinth)
"Bed of Thorns" by Nym (OUAT)
"Curses and a Cup of Magic" by Orphan_Account (Howl's Moving Castle)
"The Goblin Market" by ViciouslyWitty (Labyrinth)
"Of Queens, Kings, and Pawns" by Chancecraz (Star Wars)
"Dealing with Dragons" by Flamebyrd (Howl's)
"What You Wish For" by KnifeEdge (Labyrinth)
"In Short Order" by pontmercy44 (Stars Wars, Kylo/Rey shippers)
"Funny That Way" by LuvaGoodMrE (Thor, Loki/Darcy ship)
"The Quite Ordinary and Utterly Unremarkable Guide to Charming Glass" by velvet_sometimes (Howl's)
"Ipseity" and "A Gem of A Soul" by Baphrosia (BtVS)
"A Raising In The Sun" by Barb Cummings (BtVS)
"Chosen" by snowpuppies (BtVS)
"Drunken Binges, Funerals and Formals" by mellowenglishgal (TVD, OC)
"Fighting Crime, Spinning Webs" by thebandragoness (Spiderman)
"Supreme Chancellor Obi-Wan" by stonefreeak (Star Wars)
"Hearts and Their Consumption" by setepenre_set (Howl's)
"The Red Dragon Tetralogy" By Lisalu (DBZ)
No longer accepting threatening phone calls after midnight.
Youtube: Average Attention Span (vidcast)
Youtube: Unicorn Bones (vlogs)
Reddit: u/UnicornBoned
Discord: Unicorn Bones
Twitch: @alphagammatanqueray
Tiktok: Averageattentionspan
Twitter: @UnicornBoned
Pinterest: @mskybear
Gmail: lindwormfire
"Do not fear mistakes, there are none."
Miles Davis

I'M AN ORIGINAL CATCHPHRASE
Bonnie, thank you for being kind in a terrible moment. Anna, thank you for doing my chart, and making me laugh. Robin, thank you for helping us save out cat. That was everything.
