The Writer's Block

Karma

2011-09-04T14:54:00.000-07:00

Photo by rosevita
http://www.morguefile.com

Karma

How could it ever have come to this? NEVER, in his wildest dreams, had Charles Richmond Alderman, III ever believed in justice. It was a commodity, like anything else, obtainable by the highest bidder. He provided it for those who could pay. Had provided it, that is. Justice had been his forte and he'd lived well by virtue of his silver tongue and skewed logic--his ability to bewitch minds and sway juries, to provide a picture everyone in the courtroom, even the accused, could buy.

And now this? Dumpster diving? Hoping for classy breadcrumbs? Dipping and diving and scrapping with the rest of humanity--uh, avian life, that is, for his daily meals. And they were so stupid! "Mine! Mine! Mine!" He'd gone from night-long discussions of life in the Legal Beagle to THIS?

It was that last case. He'd seen it in the homeless man's begging eyes as they carried him off to serve his time, a handy pawn in the wheels of justice who would now receive three good meals a day for the rest of his meager life. He was doing the man a favor--had gotten him off the streets! Hurrying out the door of the courtroom to make it to the airport with his guilty, but wonderfully wealthy client for a victory celebration in Paris, how was he to know that his victim's son would have his own moment of guilt. Or that he would be the mechanic in charge of private aircraft at Kennedy and that it would be so easy to create an accident? Or that reincarnation was real?

Or that God had a sense of humor?

Was that French bread in the fat lady's hand?

by Mari Sloan
copyright September, 2011

The Definition of GOOD

2011-08-20T21:35:00.000-07:00

CAPTAIN AMERICA

We just got back from seeing a movie and, true to form, it was a superhero movie from the comics. Alan is antsy, he can't sit still, so it takes something like one of the heroes he's worshipped since childhood to get him in a theater, and there have been a lot of them lately, a good percentage leading up to "The Avengers," Marvel's superhero coalition that is going to save our world next May. Alan was a great collector at one time, selling his collection for a lot of money at a time when he needed the money more than he needed the books. He knows all of the characters, all of their back stories, but he likes to watch my reaction to their reincarnations, since I'm a newbie with them.

I tend to like them all. I like movies and if superheroes are going to get us into a seat, I'm ALL for them. I liked Superman--of course, even I knew Superman, and bit by bit we've seen them all. Each one of them has some dimension that sets them apart from the rest. Superman, the tortured "Boy Scout," Spidey has troubled teen-ager all sewed up. Batman--well he was the best psychopath I'd ever imagined until I saw WATCHMAN--which captured that area for good. I loved WATCHMAN for its wickedness. I cheered the Hulk, Daredevil amazed me and Thor could have charmed away my chastity--if it had existed at my old age. Each one had one dimension or another, but none of those movies made me cry. Today, at the close of CAPTAIN AMERICA, I bawled like a baby.

Why? I wasn't sure myself. I don't cry at movies. Alan cries at movies and has cried at a lot of them, as does his daughter and a lot of his family. They bill themselves as "Leakers," but I'm not one of those. I sit through movies, laugh a lot, but I don't cry. So WHY was I crying? Then it hit me. Steve Rogers was a character who was just GOOD. Good as in pure, sweet, giving, NOT tortured or conflicted--just good! I loved him when he was a scrawny runt being beat up time and time again in Brooklyn but taking his beatings--and I loved him when he explained to his dream girl Agent Carter that you couldn't run away. I loved him when he kept getting rejected for the military but he needed to join because "other guys were over there dying and he should be, too." I loved him when he was the only one who fell on the dummy grenade in training when a whole bunch of his so-called buddies ran and hid, guys he didn't even like all that much but that he was willing to die for anyway. I loved that he was waiting for the right girl and that he didn't know what "fondue" meant and had to have Stark tell him. I loved that he was always willing to stick his neck out but he even accepted being pidgeon-holed into selling war bonds and looking like an idiot and an ass because that was what he was told to do. He was simple, uncomplicated, and GOOD! When it ended I cried because he didn't get his first date.

Don't let the critics scare you. This Marvel movie defines goodness in the same way that WATCHMAN defined wickedness, and I'm willing to bet most of you will be glad you saw it. It is a thing of beauty. It is GOOD.

(Now I want a Sonic Screwdriver AND a Captain America Shield for Christmas. If it works for me, I can be good, too.)

Mari Sloan
Copyright August 2011

:-)

A Lewis Grizzard Fourth

2011-07-02T12:25:00.001-07:00

This was written for an online family, a “Respond To All” E-mail group formed from patrons of the infamous AOL Author’s Lounge eleven years ago, right before I moved to California with MSOM. This piece of writing means a lot to me—always will. Lewis Grizzard was a famous Atlanta columnist who was one of the “Good Ole Boys.” His last act in this world was to marry his girlfriend in the hospital, while he was dying, so that he could leave one more lovely lady a house.

A Lewis Grizzard Fourth

"I just hope heaven doesn't run out of Camels and fried chicken"
--Lewis Grizzard--

Dear RTA Family:

I had plans for this fourth of July. Unfortunately, the plans cancelled and I found myself back at the house with nowhere to go and only the Lounge as a hangout, where I found most of my friends. This was comforting, but no solution. I felt a little sorry that NONE of us had anything much better to do than to spend a beautiful holiday talking big about sex when it is common knowledge that none of us are getting any. Okay. I have prospects. But I digress.

Around two o'clock my niece popped in with a tall, lanky kid I had never seen before.

Aunt Mari, can we borrow your grill?"

Two thoughts went through my head simultaneously. Who would possibly borrow someone else's grill on the Fourth of July? And how was it that she knew with such certainty that I wasn't using it?

"You can borrow the grill but I come with it." It was okay---I’m not proud. And I'd be a fool to let the possibility of a free meal on the Fourth walk out my door with my grill. After a shocked look, Keely chimed back.

"Sure. We eat at the Park while the fireworks go off. We'll pick you up."
Then Keely marched into my kitchen and she and her lanky friend decided what food of mine should accompany the grill.

They reappeared at seven and rushed me into the car. We arrived at Tiffany's house, where Tiffany and her husband Kevin finished cooking the chicken on my grill. Around eight, Tiffany's mother arrived with the kids, two year old Jacob and eight month old Jade. Kevin and Scott, Keely's beau, climbed in the back of the pick-up truck with the food, and the two vehicles made their way slowly along the city street about a mile to the park.

The park is typical small town. Even though I am technically in the city of Atlanta, each suburb is its own small town, and Chamblee was ready for a big celebration. Wall to wall people of every color, shape and size, kids and cars were everywhere. We parked about a quarter of a mile away, loaded the food into the baby carriages and carried the babies; walking toward a grassy field where about a hundred people were picnicking on the grass. Before we reached the picnic area--the soccer field, we waited for the "parade" to go by.

Every Fourth of July has a parade. In my old neighborhood, the city where I lived in what seems another lifetime now, the parade was a huge affair, with floats and high school bands and all sorts of marching groups. In Chamblee it was every kid that had a wagon or a bicycle--with bikes and kids dressed in their red, white and blue patriotic best. Banners waving and kids wheeling proudly, all marched down the main street behind the police car with its blue flashing light, two bicycle cops bringing up the rear.

When we reached the field, Tiffany took Jacob to play on the Kiddie Slide, a gigantic inflated runway rented for the occasion, and we laid out the food. Ribs, barbecued chicken, beans, potato salad---it was all there, and I could picture Lewis sitting on the grass with his childhood friend and advisor, Weyman C. Wannamaker on one side and his stepbrother, comic writer and local character, Ludlow Porch (his real name) on the other. Lewis never minded sitting on the grass. He fit in with real people like Tiffany and Kevin and Angelique and Keely and Scott and me.

Around nine-thirty, right before the fireworks, the police shot out the street lights. (This caused me some concern. First of all, the policeman wasn't exactly a great marksman and it took almost an entire chamber of BB's with his BB gun to take the two fluorescent bulbs out. When I looked worried, Kevin assured me this was SOP--Standard Operating Procedure).

"They do that every year. The park won't turn the lights out but the state will come out and replace the bulbs."

It sorta made sense. This was Chamblee. I lay on my back, waiting for fireworks or stars as Keely, my niece, tossed baby Jade up and down, and angelic, curly-haired Jacob dismembered another orange section, his idea of a holiday dinner. Angelique shouted, the only way to be heard over the noise, and I sat up, looking around me. There was a flag lit on the field, and the beautiful notes of the Star Spangled Banner began.

"Oh say can you see?"

The first rockets sprayed a starburst into the dark sky. Baby Jade stared upward, transfixed, then waved her arms at the pretty colors so far out of her reach.

"By the dawn's early light."

The show continued, whirligigs and squiggles, and then a projectile opened to release what looked like thousands of golden butterflies, winging their way to earth. I watched Jade, wondering if this might become one of her first memories. She was not frightened, even when the explosions were so intense that we could feel a percussion recoil from them.

"The rocket's red glare
Bombs bursting in air
Gave proof...through the night
That our flag was still there."

The show ended with the usual earsplitting cascade of everything left in the piratectic's packing case, and we left slowly, following about three hundred other weary revelers in the dark. Lewis, Ludlow and Weyman faded into the memories that they are now, and I had one overwhelming conviction. Next year, although it would be in a different place, it would be fireworks for an Ole Goat and his Squid. And the Squid was in one heck of a hurry to get back to the duppie and find out how the Ole Goat was faring in the land of Nuts and Flakes.

by Mari Sloan
(the Squid)

One Hundred Years--Ronald Reagan

2011-04-09T16:29:00.000-07:00

Reagan’s life
Born 2-6-1911
Died 6-5-2004

(All quotes in italics and surrounded by quote marks were from Ronald Reagan.)

He was born in Illinois and came to California as a sportscaster from the mid west, with the hope of acting in movies. He married Jane Wyman, had two daughters and adopted a son, did movies, had his first family break up and became the president of the Screen Actors Guild. While president, a young actress came to him because she shared a name with someone whose political views were exactly opposite of hers, and she was afraid it would affect her ability to get acting roles.

He and Nancy Davis may not have fallen in love at first sight, but after that first lunch, they shared their next bunch of meals together. He married her in North Hollywood, with William and Ardis Holden as their only guests. He and Nancy had two children, Patti and Ron, and his happiest times were at home. Nancy gave up her acting career and spent full-time being Mrs. Ronald Reagan. It was common knowledge that he was the dreamer, and she was the facilitator of his dreams. When he traveled for General Electric Theater, going all over the United States as their spokesperson and speaking at factories all over the United States, he wrote her some wonderful love letters, many on display at the museum.

Politically, he started out as a Liberal Democrat, and moved to the right in his views. He hated big government, loved small business, and was essentially Libertarian in his estimation of freedom. He was at his funniest when criticizing the federal government:

“Government is like a baby. An alimentary canal with a big appetite at one end and no sense of responsibility at the other.”

“The taxpayer - that's someone who works for the federal government but doesn't have to take the civil service examination.”

“Governments tend not to solve problems, only to rearrange them.”

“One way to make sure crime doesn't pay would be to let the government run it.”

And, more seriously:

“Protecting the rights of even the least individual among us is basically the only excuse the government has for even existing.”

“Government exists to protect us from each other. Where government has gone beyond its limits is in deciding to protect us from ourselves.”

“Recession is when a neighbor loses his job. Depression is when you lose yours.”

In 1966, as governor of California, he cut back state funded programs ten percent, and raised taxes, resulting in a surplus that he channeled back into programs during the later part of his two terms. When running for president of the United States in 1980 at the age of 69, he campaigned with a platform of restoring faith in America. He became our oldest president, our only president to have ever been divorced, and was nicknamed “The Great Communicator.” Nancy Reagan believed in “dinner diplomacy,” and may have been the White House’s most gracious and hardest working first lady. Believing in proper presentation with no monetary waste, Air Force One china was bought from Pan Am when that airline collapsed. The White House had no official china when she became first lady and a prominent china maker donated china, allowing her to choose its pattern.

Reagan began his first term of office with a bang. While he was making his Inaugural Address, Iran released the fifty-two hostages they had held for fourteen months, giving his presidency and his message of renewed faith in America a first vote of confidence. Sixty-eight days later he was almost assassinated and a few months after that, on August 5th, he fired the air traffic controllers whose union had the audacity to put public safety at risk by walking out. While the only president who was a lifetime union member, (of the AFL-CIO), no union had the right to jeopardize the lives of American citizens by not doing their jobs. I will never forget the shock that I felt, and thousands of other citizens felt, as we listened to his short and to the point speech and asked ourselves, “Can he do that?” He could, and did. He broke that union.

He hated Communism and had many very serious quotes concerning his views during The Cold War, always a life and death matter to him, no matter what he quipped. He looked at it realistically, saw it as a force that had pitted itself against us and that was attempting world domination.

“How do you tell a Communist? A Communist is someone who reads Marx and Lenin. How do you tell an anti-Communist? An anti-Communist is someone who understands Marx and Lenin.”

One of his not so funny funniest moments came when he was sound testing a microphone and didn’t realize he was going out live to America. As a joke, he quipped:

“My fellow Americans, I'm pleased to tell you today that I've signed legislation that will outlaw Russia forever. We begin bombing in five minutes.”

It went out live, prompting quick emergency calls to world leaders to let them know it wasn’t so. He used words from Communist leaders to illustrate his points, became known as the “Teflon President” when even after the Iran-Contra Affair, when the World Court actually found the USA guilty of “war crimes against Nicaragua” for supplying rebels with arms, his popularity declined only briefly. In spite of this, he and Russian leader Gorbachev formed a bond later and were able to talk. A wonderful negotiator, Reagan was eventually able to boom, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” in Berlin, and then see it come down about a year later.

When I think of the marvelous things that happened during Reagan’s terms, I can understand the tears running down my cheeks, and Alan’s cheeks, as we looked at this man’s grave, on what would be his centennial year. We forget that these things happened while he was at the helm. He began with freeing the hostages in Iran, he ended with the dissolution of the Cold War and the ending of the Soviet Union. How could we forget? My tears don’t come from his historical significance, though.

I am remembering Nancy Reagan on the day of his funeral, tiny and fragile, mourning her ninety-four year old husband, whose memories had ended ten years before when the “Great Communicator’ developed Alzheimer’s, and bravely announced it to the world. I am remembering the several thousand ordinary Californians who skipped work and waited in line to say goodbye to him, before the lone hearse with the small military escort took his casket to the Reagan Library for the graveside service that laid him to rest on his library grounds. I saw that hearse roll by from the top of a bridge in Thousand Oaks, one of very few people who were in place to see it, a few moments of closure on The 101. (Closure for me as well as for the busy highway.) I remember listening to the guns from my apartment. We could hear them when they fired the salutes in Simi Valley, nine miles away, “as the crow flies.” I cry for the love he felt for Nancy, for his country, and for his dreams, which she helped him complete and make come true.

“There are no constraints on the human mind, no walls around the human spirit, no barriers to our progress except those we ourselves erect.”

Article by Mari Sloan
copyright 4/2011

The Coalition of Oranges

2011-03-24T18:43:00.000-07:00

The Coalition of Oranges
By Mari Sloan

One day it was noticed that the citizens of the small island country of Rockana were looking rather peaked, all ten thousand of them. Humanitarian forces immediately sent doctors, who determined that ninety-seven percent of the population, all living on rocky soil and receiving an average three hundred sixteen days of rain each year, was suffering with scurvy. They had no citrus groves and had never seen an orange, lemon or lime, not to mention a grapefruit.

Six countries from the International League of Humanitarians decided that the citizens must have oranges, immediately! One of the countries had twelve ships full of oranges nearby, so it was decided that they would dock and start handing out oranges right away. Since one of the other countries had one ship carrying oranges nearby, they, too, would disperse oranges. On the first day the first country handed out two thousand oranges and the second country handed out four hundred. The other four countries promised to hand out oranges as soon as they could get some. Two of the countries had orange groves in surrounding countries and just needed to go get them, and two of the countries didn’t actually have groves and bought oranges for their own citizen’s consumption, so they needed to purchase oranges to donate.

Meanwhile, a number of the people on Rockana, consuming oranges for the first time, complained of stomach pains, or disliked the sharp, sour taste. Some actually loved the oranges, as long as they were free.

Soon the first country, the one with the ships of oranges, became worried that it would be seen as an orange aggressor, if people continued to get sick. Inflicting oranges on an unwilling population for their own good could be a very bad image for them, so it asked the other countries in the coalition to be in charge and to eventually take over. All five other countries in the coalition agreed cheerfully. As long as the first country continued to hand out oranges, they would manage the operation entirely! Meanwhile the first country continued to hand out bags of oranges, hoping to soon be relieved.

A month passed. Some citizens of Rockana ate the oranges, and others began a regimen of vitamin pills. Oranges began to accumulate, and to smell. A few enterprising citizens discovered they could sell oranges to the other five countries in the coalition, giving them money for their vitamin C. This was a win/win situation, allowing the other countries to meet their orange quota. So during this first month Country One disbursed two hundred thousand oranges and the second country disbursed all of the oranges left on its ship, around twenty-five hundred. When empty, it sailed for home, presumably to load up with oranges and return. The other four countries contributed six-hundred oranges, twenty-two-hundred oranges, three-thousand oranges and twelve-hundred oranges. County One was thrilled at the increased participation!

During the second month the first country began to give out of oranges. Its sailors were homesick and wanted to go home. Each day the look-out scanned the horizon from the crows nest, hoping to see ships appearing from the direction of the countries who had groves. Only the sea gulls and an occasional albatross circled the roost.

By the end of the third month, all of the oranges from the first country’s ships were gone, and the sailors, who had been eating the oranges, were hungry and discouraged. None of the relief ships had made it back. There was still considerable grumbling from citizens of Rockana who never developed a taste for the tart fruit. When the other five countries were told that they must take over because County One’s ships were out of fruit, they were distraught! “Where will we buy the oranges to give the citizens?” they asked.

“Relief ships?” The countries with orange groves responded. “Why would we pay to transport oranges when there were so many for sale here? True, the ones remaining are starting to rot, but look how much healthier the citizens all look!”

It was so. Hardly any of the citizens had scurvy any more, and there was a healthy vitamin supplement industry market that had developed on the island. In fact, many of the islanders were getting their pills for free from a sinister character known only as “Mr. B,” who required nothing more than a future child from each of the participating families, a sort of “futures trading” operation that appealed to the population. After obtaining a promise that existing pregnancies were exempt, families were signing up for the supplements in droves. In return for the promised future baby, each existing family member would receive their vitamin C pills for life and would never have to eat any of the unpalatable fruit. A new era was beginning!

Three of the Orange Coalition countries, including Country One, thought this agreement was reprehensible, but it was argued that none of the coalition had the right to interfere in domestic decisions of another democratic country. The islanders had every right to decide for themselves what they would do with their future offspring, and not only was there a new market developed, but population control and birth control clinics were booming! The island had never HAD it so good! When "Mr. B" was told that there didn’t seem to be any new pregnancies among any of the families receiving his vitamins, he just laughed. “Give them time,” he responded laconically.

Later it was discovered that the president of one of the non-orange producing countries was the mysterious “Mr. B,” and the other two non-orange producing countries quickly arranged to sell their supplements to him so that he could meet his demand. While the two orange producing countries were disappointed, they did get to be in charge for several months without ever having to actually transport any oranges. Fuel was expensive!

The crisis was proclaimed over, the coalition was dissolved, and everyone lived happily ever after

The Long Night

2010-03-22T11:07:00.001-07:00

The Long Night

Don't think about it. Don't pre-suppose. Everyone sleeps when it is time.

Is my book on the nightstand? Good. Did I turn down the heat? Is the door locked? Okay. Better check the door. God forbid I might nod off and someone lets themselves in and murders me in my sleep. Sleep. How sweet it would be if a pack of roving gypsies could let themselves in and make off with my computer and I just lie here, like Sleeping Beauty, imprisoned by blessed sleep. How many days has it been? Don't think about it. Better check the door.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-two steps to the front door. This is fun! I wonder how many steps it is to ... Stop that! I can't get started with that. Back to bed.

Okay, head down, pillow exactly at half past the center of my forehead and not mashing my eyes. I hate when my eyes feel mashed. Where is my little pillow? What the hell? Leprechauns take my pillow? There a pot of gold here somewhere? I want my pillow back. Ah, here you are, sweet neck comforter. Thought you could escape by hiding under the bed. You are mine, all mine. Okay, stop thinking. I'm not thinking now.

I'm still not thinking now. Not thinking now. I'm really not thinking now. S--t! What is that horrible noise? Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.

It has to stop! Is that the kitchen sink? Damn studio apartment, every function smashed up together. No bear cave when I need to hibernate.

Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. All right. It's got to go. Pulling back blanket. Getting to feet. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Thirteen steps to the kitchen sink. Way too close. I'm glad I know that now!

Okay. Drip not going away. Must fix. Crescent wrench. Where crescent wrench? Toolbox under turntable. One. Two. Stop that! No more counting footsteps. Pull out toolbox. Take wrench. Go to sink NOT counting steps. Tighten that sucker good! No more drip. Not counting steps. Back to bed.

Under covers, pillow in place NOT mashing eyes. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. C--p, it's like daylight in here. Did I close the blinds? Of course I didn't close the blinds. Damn street light is like a lighthouse beacon, guiding ships right down the street out there. I can hear them, freaking cars, one after another. Whomp, whirr, whirr, gone. Whomp, whirr, whirr, gone. Whomp, whirr, whirr, gone. How far is that light from my balcony? Could I bean it with a heavy bowl? I could at least close the blinds. Up again. To the window. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Okay, I'm counting. So freaking what. I count. Big deal.

Which cord? Yeah, one pulls, one closes, I'll try them both. I have to clean down behind this computer. Look at all the stuff down there! My Ronald McDonald pen! Yeah, hamburgers rot the mind but ... And my agent's card? I need to call that sucker! What time is it? I've been looking for that for ages! Three a.m. Okay, calm down. Will do it tomorrow. Still night out. Just pull the cord. Make it dark. Don't get the broom. Don't sweep behind the computer.

Well, back in bed. It'll be a lot easier to sleep knowing it's clean behind the computer now. Lots easier. Now what is it that I need to ask Victor? I made a list. I wonder where that list is now? All right. No thinking. No counting and no thinking. No thinking. Hmmmmm. Hmmmmm. Hmmmmm. Not working. If I just knew where that list was. Maybe if I find that list--no! Get a grip. Maybe if I read a little. Where is my lamp? It's so damn dark in here!

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six ...

by Mari Sloan

In spite of Ourselves!

2010-02-14T09:39:00.000-08:00

Love is a funny thing! It evades you for fifty years and then smacks you right on the head when you least expect it. True love doesn't mean never having to say you are sorry, but it does mean being happy and comfortable around your one true love. After ten years, Alan is still my best friend and the only person on earth I am completely comfortable around, and this is our song.

:-)

My gift to you this Valentine's Day ....In Spite of Ourselves - John Prine- Iris Dement LIVE.mp3

Hi Ho! Hi Ho! Off to Work I Go!

2010-01-30T11:08:00.000-08:00

For those of you who don't know me well, I live in one of the most gloriously beautiful places on earth, Southern California. It has its problems, but scenery isn't one of them. This is a view of my pilgrimage to my "day job," the one that makes it possible for me to write.

I make a left at this corner every day, gearing up to face the freeway!

There is snow on those distant mountains, even though the temperature where I am is more than sixty degrees.

My little corner of the workplace. :-)

Pink-blue sky! And the moon is already up!

Now the sky is ON FIRE!!

And the fire just burns more intensely as I pull out of the parking lot, on the way home.

Another day, another dollar, in SoCal.

Uh, Mr. Game Warden, Sir ...

2010-01-12T18:41:00.000-08:00

Today I found a blip on one of my Lists about the Mystery Blog "Working Stiffs," so I bopped over there to see what they are doing. One of the bloggers had competed in a "Flash Fiction" contest, and I love Flash Fiction, so given an opportunity to finish the paragraph after the given first line, I couldn't resist. Now I would like to finish the story.

Uh, Mr. Game Warden ...

by Mari Sloan

copyright Jan. 12, 2010

The first line was "I was glad to find that the ground hadn’t frozen yet."

(Beginning with that line, I continue.)

I was glad to find that the ground hadn’t frozen yet. It was difficult enough to dig up dinner when the temperature wasn't six degrees below zero and the wind wasn't howling down the small space between my neck and my collar. Whose idea had it been to bury the stag in the first place? Somehow I think the video that posted on YouTube from the "Hunting Cam" totally defeats the goal of fooling the game warden. Better get this barbecue going or work on my alibi now!

The animal's death was more like an accident, anyway. Six of us received new rifles for Christmas, and that meant that we needed a good target practice, out in the woods, to perfect our skills on the new equipment. Someone scored a photo of Robert Downy, Jr., in the buff, sitting on a bed and holding a pillow over an appropriate place. It was a close call between that picture and one of Jude Law, who seems to mesmerize our women and is high on our target practice wish list, but Downey won. The photo was enlarged and posted proudly on the target tree, but just as we lined up to take our first shot, a twelve point buck strode out of the woods and ambled between us and the photo.

I don't know about you, but with me, well, habit just kicked in. Six shots rang out in unison. That buck went down like a gunny sack of peel-able vegetables, and it was several minutes before anyone remembered that it wasn't hunting season. And no one knew anything about the camera. The warden must have set it up since last season, because we would have noticed a camera in the trees next to our stand, for sure.

Six shots rang out, and five of them hit the buck. When we got out the shovels, it was noted that three shots centered directly in the creature's heart and two made hard to hit entries through the animal's brain. One hit Robert Downey, Jr., right in the pillow. I sure hope that one was mine!

Soul Food New Years ;-)

2010-01-01T20:14:00.000-08:00

My Sweet Old Man and I were feeling pretty under the weather this New Years, so we had no problem with staying home this New Decade. The one thing about New Decades is that they bring to mind many of the Old Decades, and this year was a good one to pursue some of the old traditions, all of which seem to be concerned with accumulating money in the New Year. You eat Black-Eyed Peas, you get a dollar for every pea you consume. (That seemed a bit light by todays standards, so I upped it a bit to $10 a pea.) Greens also mean money, and Collards are the best. So the menu was formed--Hop-A John, Collards and Cornbread. "What meat?" MSOM asked but I had an answer for that one.

"We don't need no stink'n meat." No living creature died to provide us with our meal this year. We also have Sweet Potato Pie (complete with homemade pie crust, not by me, I'm sorry to say.) MSOM helps people with their computers and sometimes they are grateful. This friend was TWO pies grateful!

First I went to the store to get the Collards, because it takes a long time to cook Collards properly. Collards here are VERY different from Collards back in Georgia. When I was a kid we bought them in huge, bound bundles, dripping sandy red mud, enough to cook down and feed an army for $3. Here they are spotlessly clean, bound in small bundles of about six to ten large leaves, and I bought six bundles today at $1.69 a bundle. These are some kinda "mutant" Collards, too, because the ones we used to get were TOUGH unless you cooked them for six or seven hours, and these are already getting tender. When you finish cooking them, no long how long it takes, they need to fall apart when you touch them with a fork. First, though, you have to clean them, and there is a trick to it. Wash the leaves, then you hook a finger into the space between the main stalk and gently separate the leaf from the stalk. Then drop the leaf pieces into a pot of boiling, salted water. You should have stripped stalks to throw away that look like the stalks above.

Soon you will have a large pot simmering that should simmer slowly from three to six hours. You can add meat, ham, hambone, meat stock, or my personal choice, vinegar and hot sauce, but don't let them fool you. Just because the leaves turn pretty and shiny dark green doesn't mean that they are ready to eat. They need to simmer for a long, long time. Even California Mutant Collards. Hop-A John is actually a Southwestern dish, and is very simple. One can Black-Eyed Peas, white rice (I cheat and use the ten minute kind) and lots of salt, pepper, pepper sauce, margarine (or Butter Buds) and my choice--my own home grown balcony hot thai peppers to spice it up. Pile the peas on the rice, and enjoy. I add Jiffy Mix corn muffin mix cornbread to the meal ( and ignore my mother turning over in her grave.) I remind her that she has to pick her battles and I do the Collards RIGHT! The truth is that I just can't cook cornbread or drop biscuits anything like the ones she used to make effortlessly. Pile up your plate and enjoy. Pour pepper sauce or vinegar on the collards and slather the cornbread with butter, honey or jam. And make sure you have Sweet Potato Pie for dessert, even if you have to buy yours. By the way, this was Vicky and Bud's reaction to the news that I was cooking them SOUL FOOD!

(Not really, but I'm going to keep putting pictures of them up until they join the site. It's worked before!!!) ;-p Mari

The Dying Time

2009-12-07T07:25:00.000-08:00

Late September and early October is always a difficult time for me. I'm from North Georgia originally, and the cooler temperatures there, added to the vibrant colors as nature flashes its last hurrah before its seasonal death, always send me into a roller coaster ride of emotions. I'm not in Georgia now, I'm in southern California where the patterns are different, but the habits of a lifetime are very difficult to change.

My mother died in the Fall, right after her birthday, and her last hurrah began in the Spring that year and was over in what seemed an instant. Only six months to finish a lifetime that had always been a struggle, and her death was no different.

She had lung cancer which meted and developed into bone lesions in her thigh, spine and skull, and by the time she came to live with me for her final three months the lesion in her skull rendered her incapable of recognizing family members a lot of the time. By the time she reached the end I thought I would be grateful for the end of her suffering, no more head splitting headache or screaming confusion, but I just missed her, still miss her. Toward the end I realized how much I love her, yes, still love her. I will not put a past tense on that word.

When I began writing flash stories for a writer's group and was given the word "purple" as my subject word, I realized that maybe this story could be a sort of quick final tribute, in a fashion, to her bright spirit and unorthodox soul. It's quick, but catches something that she had told me once, that I was too young and stupid to understand at the time, but at almost sixty, I understand it now.

And the subject word was: PURPLE.

(From "Baker's Dozen," my growing flash short story collection)

And sometimes we reach the front of the line. The topic was PASSAGE.

Purple

by Mari Sloan

They were all so worried. Through the fog created by the drugs and her body’s natural chemical defenses she saw their faces appear, as if through a thick gray cloud, for brief, immeasurable moments. She knew time played tricks on her. Time and whatever they pumped into her system to ensure she felt no pain. Faces appeared and faces left; voices resonated words trailing each other like steps on a stairway. As each disappeared, the mist took their place. She could not see further than the side of her hospital cot.

Their faces were so sad. Her daughter cried, tears streaking her cheeks and small mewing noises erupting from her throat. She reached to touch her but nothing moved. Poor Elissa. She could never actually cry. She always tried to hold it in. At forty-three she still carried that stiff upper lip legacy her Father taught her so young. How little that mattered now.

“When I am old I will wear purple.” She remembered the horror on Lissa’s face when she told her that. They were shopping for something to wear to a funeral, of all things.

“But Mom, you can’t wear purple. People would laugh at us.” It matters so little what we wear. It matters that we satisfy our dreams, sweet girl. How she wished she could say that and erase those tears from her child’s face. Poor little Goose. She was going to miss her so much. This death thing was so inconveniently timed. There was so much that her baby still needed to learn from her before she went away. Like how to laugh, for instance. The young are so damn serious. And Lissa wasn’t all that young anymore.

There. It happened again. Her thought left her before she replaced it with another. She could barely see the faces now. Colors filled her world like sparklers on the Fourth of July. She struggled to breathe, but it didn’t really matter. She no longer felt her body. She decided to hold her breath, like she used to when she teased her Mother. It was odd. She’d never felt excitement before without feeling all the bodily cues. None of this happened now; no racing breath, no pounding heart, instead her mind careened wildly into the abyss, her mind and her soul.

Whatever the rites of passage for the new place that she approached, she realized she could never have prepared for them. Like life itself, you just arrived, one thread in the fabric of the Universe. And her color would be her own, a vibrant magenta, a beautiful shiny purple woven in with the rest of eternity to be. And it was now.

The Final Episodes of MONK

2009-12-06T08:07:00.000-08:00

Generally I'm not a critical TV watcher. I love the Monk series, (not the least because I'm married to a man who is somewhat OCD and is proud of it) but IMHO the last, and highly touted, farewell episodes royally SUCKED.

First of all, in the last few minutes a sudden recollection of having seen the killer with Monk's grocery buggy in the store results in a sudden cure for Monk, and no one spares 3 seconds worrying about Natalie, who is now poisoned also. Why didn't Natalie think of that before she poisoned herself? The poison is on the wipes. DUH.

Speeding along to finish in the next few minutes, Monk is at the Judge's house trying to get him to dig up an eight year dead corpse in the rain and WAY too long is spent on THAT fiasco. When the judge conveniently decides to off himself, he CHANGES CHARACTER COMPLETELY and decides that his last words will be "Take care of her." WHAT? He killed THREE people to protect his secret and at the last moment he's going to reveal that somewhere there is a happy adult who was raised by a perfectly fine professional couple who was supposed to be a dead infant? I think not. It's too sudden a switch to create much sympathy for the judge. Don't worry. The plot for this can still get worse--and does.

Now that Monk knows that Trudy had a daughter (with that horrible judge, which is NO character reference for her, to me) they magically find that a newborn just the right age and in the right place was adopted by a couple and the child kinda looks like Trudy. Mostly, in spite of having blond hair, she looks like the buck-toothed judge (Remember Coach?). I guess they couldn't find anyone who really looked like Trudy. What's more, the grown-up kid is sweet and willing to put up with Monk's compulsive, immediate attachment to her (like a leech!). Remember this is MONK we are talking about. This isn't his kid, but that doesn't faze him, or the kid, in the least. Miraculously, it does cure ALL of the rest of his OCD and he's able to do ALL of the things he was formerly unable to do, and he chooses to "retire," even though he has no income.

There is one plus right here. They flash through and show how everyone has more than Monk in their lives now, Natalie has a boyfriend, Leland has a new wife and Randy has, of all people, a new position as a police chef in New Jersey AND Sharona--what a pair THEY make!

Last scene shows Monk and his new obsession striding along the beach, (at least three of Monk's phobias as I remember) and as he is telling her that he is accompanying her on her annual trip to Canada, someone runs up to tell him that there is a body. Let's hope, for her sake, that he falls for the bait.

Awful writing.

How I Spent My Black Friday

2009-12-01T08:48:00.000-08:00

On Thanksgiving this year My Sweet Old Man mentioned something called "Black Friday," and not always being really "with it" I looked up from my computer and asked, "What is that?"

"You know. Black Friday. The day you shop all night. When all the sales are. Don't you read those ads before you throw them out?" Actually, I don't.

"So. What is it?" Vaguely I remembered something about my boss scheduling himself for work on the Friday after Thanksgiving, which I thought was strange since he is off on Fridays, but I don't always question what I don't understand at work. Bad idea. I wasn't scheduled, so I didn't ask.

"Black Friday used to be the slowest shopping day of the year, the day after Thanksgiving, so they started making a big deal out of it and having sales, big sales, and doing goofy stuff like opening the stores at strange hours, making it so that you can shop all night." We had just gotten back from a nice Thanksgiving dinner, complete with plenty of mulled wine, and I was feeling no pain.

"Who would want to do that?" Well, a few hours later I decided it might be fun, and my poor Sweetie, already half asleep, was too far gone to worry about me. I hopped in the car and decided to go see what was open.

I showed up at the mall at midnight, right in time to see a mob hit Toys R Us. The parking lot was packed, there must have been a thousand people in a line that wound right out of the shopping center, and people kept coming. The employees, as I passed the window, looked terrified. I didn't need anything, I just wanted to see the show.

Next I took off and went about eight miles over to Target where I found around fifteen people freezing their tushes off waiting for five AM. They looked REALLY cold, so I headed back to the first mall, making a stop first at Dennys for breakfast. At two AM I got into the line for Old Navy, which opened at three AM. While standing in line I discovered something about California people. The only time they are particularly friendly to strangers is when they are trapped in a line with them. I chatted with a man in shorts on one side of me, a woman in sandals on the other and one kid from Michigan who was wearing a fur lined parka. I wished I'd thought to wear socks.

When it opened, I hooked a couple of sweats, a sweater and some warm socks and got into the line for the check-out, which was already all the way to the back of the store. While waiting, warm this time, I discussed the ethical aspects of merging the several lines with a couple of nice ladies, and we all politely requested clearance from the person in back of us whenever we approached anything "shop worthy" and needed to make a "break" to look. It was all very civil and some of that crew made it to Sears at four AM.

I blew off Sears and showed back up at Target at five AM to find that the line of fifteen had increased to wind around the back of the building. Still, I had socks now, and it was already five, so they gave everyone in line a pretty cloth shopping bag and welcomed us all in. I should have realized that the people who had already grabbed buggies from outside had them for a reason, but I just barely missed being trampled by the stampede for the electronics department (the TVs). I looked around and realized I didn't really need much of anything, so I bought a vacuum cleaner that wasn't even on sale, and headed home, arriving at seven AM Friday, to get some sleep. It was FUN! :-)

A New Era!

2009-06-15T22:34:00.000-07:00

Several days ago I blogged about the loss of Roseanne Savo's wonderful groups in Ventura County, and tonight I have wonderful news. Roseanne is going to continue some of the groups as a non-paid volunteer, and while times and meeting locations will change, the groups will continue.

The Monday night group that I attend is going to change times and meet at 2 PM on Fridays, but Barnes & Noble is thrilled to have Roseanne continue. A NEW Era begins!

:-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-):-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-):-) :-):-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-)

Mari Sloan

I Walk Carefully, Into The Dark Night

2009-06-11T08:15:00.001-07:00

Today I need to rant. I'm a calm person, never, well, almost never, aggravated by politics, or traffic, or even benign idiocy, but there is one horrible scourge that sets me off every time. I happen upon it at the most unexpected times, from some of the nicest people, and all I can do is to take a deep breath and move on, politely adopting the vague or "no comment" technique valuable in court. I cannot read or deal with passages written in present perfect tense.

Now I can see that there is a legitimate use for rare, short, passages written that way. Your protagonist is experiencing a disturbing dream, a SHORT disturbing dream, and his or her mind is functioning in that mode. I have faith that the manuscript will return to its regular, easy flow and rhythm, so it can be endured. It will go away, the hero or heroine will be normal once again, I can resume soaking up the action and the voices in my head will leave. The nightmare will be over and I will resume experiencing the story in its warm, well-polished and accustomed grooves.

If it's short enough I can transpose it into more accustomed forms of communication in my head as I'm reading and it is as if it never was. Worst scene scenario? An entire novel I was looking forward to reading is written that way. It isn't going to happen and I'm going to have to figure out some sort of excuse to its author that doesn't sound too lame or insulting. AKKKKKK! Some of my favorite authors lapse into this sort of insanity occasionally and I'd rather have my toenails removed or a hundred chain letters in my e-mail than wade through this mind altering form of speech. Today, I've been infected.

"I walk over to the coffee machine. I pour water into the reservoir and measure out three, no four, scoops of dark, rich grounds into the paper lined basket. I think, this is too much, so I carefully dip the plastic spoon back into the black abyss ...."

This will go on ALL day long.

:-) Mari

The End of an Era

2009-06-09T08:20:00.000-07:00

I have a moderately boring life, but, like many people, I'm careful to follow my routine. For a while it was hectic, but with the slowing of the economy, I am finding one thing after another coming to an end. It's almost as if 2009 blasted in, with C H A N G E as its slogan, and nothing IS as it WAS. My schedule changed, eliminating the wonderful Westlake Library book group mid first Wednesday of each month. The same change meant that I could attend Mysteries to Die For group again, but the two are so different, it's not a trade. Working on Sunday now cuts out Sisters In Crime in Pasadena once a month. The one constant was Monday night.

Every Monday night, unless it is a holiday, you can find me at the Westlake Village Barnes & Noble, talking about every subject you can imagine with one of the most wonderful women ever to transplant to California, Mrs. Roseanne Savo, Founder and Facilitator of Literary Options, Cultural Connections, Literary Wanderings, and Creative Gatherings, groups in Ventura County, California, that were sponsored by one of the organizations the promotes adult literacy and adult education. Through these groups Roseanne has given new authors, and better known ones alike, an opportunity to reach readers countywide. Pushing a huge carryall that makes its appearance at each of these meetings, she dispenses author cards, promotional material, flyers, news about who is appearing where, and in general is the circulatory system for anything that is happening within the county related to literature, art, writing or politics. After fifteen years this is coming to an end.

They say money can't buy love, happiness or common sense, but we are about to see if it bought sanity. Without Roseanne, the literary community will be functioning without a good portion of the glue that helps keep it stuck together here. Hundreds of authors have been launched through her hard work and unwavering support. Hundreds more may give up mid first novel without her.

Ventura County NEEDS Roseanne Savo and her groups. The pennies spent sponsoring these were cost efficient dollars that kept budding authors off the street and writing the next decade's soul. Cutting money for the arts is a tough call, even in these uncertain times.

:-( Mari

The Writer's Block

2009-06-07T09:10:00.000-07:00

The quote I remember the most often about writing comes from a movie, the unforgettable "Throw Momma From the Train." It isn't the beginning of his ill-fated novel, which he could never manage to nail, but the one you hear over and over throughout the film. "A writer, writes."

Duh! Unfortunately, way too often, a writer DOESN'T write. Here I will list a few of the reasons I don't write.

"I work forty plus hours a week." (Actually thirty-eight right now, but who's counting).

"I'm hungry." (ALWAYS)

"I don't have time to settle down and write something before I have to do something else." (Fairly valid, seeing as I am the largest writing snail on earth. If I'm LUCKY I will leave a nice slime trail of words behind me.)

The truth is that writing is work. I sit down waiting for that torrent of words that makes my writing so different from every other writer, and it is a slow-go. I write a sentence--then correct my spelling, change a word or two, in other words, stall for time while the next sentence forms. I write the next one, change the word that is a repeat of a word in the previous sentence--are you bored yet? Sound familiar? The good part of this is that I have actually developed my spelling and grammar to the point where these no longer slow me down. But that is never the real hitch, is it?

Where does inspiration originate? That is the FIRE that sends those words flying onto paper with the speed of a machine gun--tat tat tat tat tat tat tat!!!!!!!

For me the fuel is readers. If I can read something out loud to someone else, it keeps coming. Hopefully this blog can take off and become an instrument for overcoming writer's block while becoming a "block" where other writers can also share. Jump in and have fun! Now I really do have to get ready for work. (Excuse #1, you know.)

:-) Mari