I did some Wonder loaf

Oh, buddy. Do I have a treat for you.


The fabulous Suzanne, my sistah from anuthah muthah, shared this ditty with me in a comment way back yonder, and I just can't help but share it with you.


FRIGGIN' HILARIOUS, my peeps!


Almost as funny as this. Maybe.


I loves me some Joe Cocker, I tell you what. He is spastically beautiful... to me (can't you see -ee -eee -eee?). This video is so beautiful and laugh-inducingly side splitting that you must watch it.


Shall we call this form of music video something like "Benny Lava-fied"?


Enjoy.

What about in this turbine?

Indeed, Joe Cocker. Indeed.

Loud and bawdy

A conversation with Phil prompted me to share this ditty with you.


What is the worst song ever made? Really think about this. There are some fantastic crappers out there. Some songs might be catchy, but the lyrics are awful and downright hysterical. Some didn't even try to be catchy. Just awful.


Phil's choice: "Naughty Naughty" by John Parr. Do you remember that one? It's even sillier when Phil sings it. "Naughty naughty, loud and bawdy, t-t-t-t-tease me..."


I can't decide upon just one. Too hard to pick. There are lovely gems like Judas Priest screaming, "I'm your turbo loverrrrrrr. Tell me there's no otherrrrrrrrr."


Then, of course, we have Foreigner. Good ol' Foreigner.


"Are you hot, mama? You sure look that way to me." Followed promptly by, "Are you old enough?"


Is anyone else taken aback that Billy Ray Cyrus was able to eek out a career after this disaster: "Don't tell my heart, my achy break heart..." completely with hideous dance maneuvers and mullet?


Phil is quick to point out this gem, which might be our favorite for most awful song ever:

Don't even get me started on the unknown rap song that Phil and I heard at a gas station in my hometown (another car was blasting it, not the gas station).

"Gonna lick your pussy like a Reese's Pieces."

WHAT? I don't even know how that applies.


So, my pets, what are your votes?

Bang your head

I guess I should start by asking, how the heck are ye? I know I've been absent. I've been concentrating on getting my life under control, and that doesn't always include blogging. Look for updates, perhaps even a side-shoot blog here and there in the future. How exciting!


Anyhoo...


Last night we attended a free concert at Cheesman Park. The concert was a lovely offering from The Colorado Symphony. Those of you in the know may recall that I was a band geek of some magnitude back in the day. Clarinet, to be precise. Every once in awhile, I get the desire to toot my horn again. Sometimes.


Cheesman Park is an odd but beautiful bodkin. It is one of many parks in Denver, but it has a historic claim that may cause a few heebie jeebies. Cheesman Park was once a cemetery. If you read the link provided, you'll see that transferring the burial plots was not completely finished. This link provides a more detailed, gruesome description of the conversion from cemetery to park.


Creepier still, although there are an estimated 2,000 graves remaining in Cheesman Park, there is now a swath of homes over a former section of the cemetery between Cheesman Park and Congress Park. This page talks about more of the gruesome cemetery dealings and confused, wandering spirits around those homes.


Yikes.


*shudder*


Rest assured, we did not get assaulted by any ghosts. The only untoward advances we may have experienced would likely have come from Cheesman's more frequent visitors, who just happen to be gay. That's right. Cheesman Park is and has been one of Denver's cruisin' alleys for lonely fellas.


Ah, Denver. How you amuse me.


I told Phil that if I were single, the area around Cheesman and Capitol Hill would be a great place to live (lots of multi-residential homes with old timey charm). He agreed. I mentioned that he might have a few times where he needed to mention his heterosexual status, however, if he lived there. We were walking back from the concert when this conversation took place, so Phil added,


"I am perfectly secure in my heterosexual manhood while I carry this picnic basket."


Hehehehehehe.



Anyhoo...


The concert was lovely. It was a change of pace from our usual rowdy jazz fests at City Park. Talking was a bit of a no-no at the symphony concert. Amos became a spectacle, as usual, for the people around us. How can anyone resist this face?

Certainly not you.



A family in front of us had a few kids meandering about. A child with an unusually large head approached us as Amos was too much for him to resist. The boy repeated over and over that he is two (while holding up random numbers of fingers), asked me for juice, and then told me he wanted to go bye-bye. It was the most entertaining conversation I've had in years.


Because the mood of the concert was a bit stoic, sounds out of the ordinary from cellos or timpani were very noticeable. At some point, we became aware of a "whooping" sound. I scanned the crowd and found myself staring at the stage. In front of the stage was a young man holding onto the edge while "whooping" and banging his head. A few seconds of this made it apparent that this young man was very enthusiastic and most likely mentally challenged. There was not much else to gawk at, so we watched events unfold as a lady came out from the crowd to calm the fellow down. She didn't ask him to leave the stage. She stayed there with him for a moment and lovingly hugged him while slightly rocking out with him to the sounds of Beethoven. It was a beautiful moment, I thought.


Then, she went back to her picnic. Rocker Boy stayed up there, enjoying the concert and occasionally pumping his fists in the air. How often do you see such an enthusiastic response to a classical concert? Odd as it may have been, I enjoyed his enthusiasm and the casual air it added to the audience of mostly older citizens. As the percussion hit a great solo, Amos began to groove, and so did Rocker Boy. His enthusiasm reached new decibels of whooping. His lady friend began to walk over again, just as someone working with the symphony (a symphony roadie?) approached him as well.


The showdown began.


The lady calmed Rocker Boy down, as she so gently had done before. The roadie seemed pretty miffed that anyone had the audacity to show any appreciation other than clapping. Verbal jousting occurred between them, while Rocker Boy just wanted to get back to his place next to the stage. Roadie must have said something rude, since the lady grabbed Rocker Boy by the hand and purposefully marched away to their picnic spot. Then, Roadie had an animated, hand-flailing discussion with Roadie Number Two.


I wasn't sure how to feel about what we had just witnessed. I was really wanting Rocker Boy to stay in his place at the stage, pumping his fists and punctuating the air with occasional whoops. As a former band geek, I remember plenty of times when people would yell and scream while we were playing during a halftime show. Sure, it's not a symphony, but I learned to deal with interruptions. Is a city or statewide symphony really above having an appreciative fan, even if his method of showing it is a bit more animated?


I dunno.


I do know that Phil is still secure in his ability to carry a picnic basket, no matter what neighborhood we cross.

Dance for me, gypsy

This amuses me. I want to join this ragtag group of misfits and play a scrub board or blow on a jug. Maybe tingle the triangle.

Dance for me. Do not fear me, gypsy. I come for your tears.



Lip Dub - Tambureddu HD from Leonardo Dalessandri on Vimeo.

Monkeys walk upright

I think the title says it all. Or perhaps you require a video?

He walks! from Sarah Porter on Vimeo.

YAY, AMOS!!!!!


He took his first steps last night. Just small, tentative steps. Then, today I held his hand and let him go across the room, exactly the way that is shown in the video. Except, I didn't catch it on video. So, technically the video is of Amos' second sashay across the dance floor.

He didn't disappoint me, though. How about that walk, sit, stand up, and walk again maneuver?! Huh?! Woo!!!

Alrighty. You can go on about your day. Did you do anything significant and earth-shattering today?

I think not.

Five stars for Edna Turnblatt

Well, at least that's what Amos thinks. Amos has decided that the greatest movie of all time is the John Travolta version of Hairspray. I watched it one day, and the little man started groovin' and a shakin' to the sounds of Negro Day (that's part of the movie, not me being racist). It's apparent that somewhere deep inside, my boy has soul.

And he gotta let you know.

Groovin' to Hairspray from Sarah Porter on Vimeo.

That's actually a subdued version of his rockin' out. Sometimes he has a whole head thrashing thing that goes along with it, maybe with a hop and floor tap for a flourish.

For some reason, John Travolta's man hands and veiny forearms do not prevent Amos from enjoying the movie. *SHUDDER* (and yes, I did just say "veiny")




I'll throw in a little more fun for your Friday pleasure. Here are Phil and Amos demonstrating their own version of getting around the house. Amos does this ALL THE TIME. I think that this particular move is why he refuses to walk. Why walk when you can do this?

Amos and Dada scootin' boogie from Sarah Porter on Vimeo.

And then end it with a dance, of course.



In other news, please visit the fine folks at this week's edition of Five Star Friday. What? My blog is included in the superb selections? Really? You don't say.

Toot toot on my horn... toot toot toot toot...

Seeking cold pockets of joy

Ugh. The dog days of summer. The time when I curl up under a single sheet on the bed, flailing this way and that to find a cool spot on the mattress. Bleah. At times like this, I would like to be amphibian. Or reptile.

It hasn't been discussed, but we may have officially given up on watering the lawn. Denver is incredibly dry this year, and our poor pseudo-lawn and xeriscape plants have suffered. Xeriscape plants can suffer, you say? Oh yes, young one. When exposed to sun at this altitude and put under the care of the neglectful Porters, anything is possible. I'm not saying that you shouldn't visit and that we won't water you, but uh... maybe.

Amos' single tooth continues to threaten us with its deadly sharp edges. He delights in having me feel his little calcium nugget and proclaim, "Tooth! Amos has a tooth!"

I told Phil last night that this is the only time in Amos' life that he will have just one tooth. Then we both looked at each other, and I said, "Well, hopefully." Let's not encourage Cletus to neglect his mouth hygiene.

I'm thankful that his teeth are finally making an appearance. We've had Amos on the dental plan since January, thinking that he might be like others his age who had mouths full of teeth that were already covered in gold and diamond encrusted grills. Not so for Amos.

Although Amos has three other teeth threatening to show up on the scene, what does a dentist do for just one tooth? Do we learn how to brush one tooth, and then show Amos how to floss on each side of it? Do we buy whitening stripes and then cut them down to size and wrap that one tooth over and over until it gleams? Do we allow Amos to puncture canned goods like an old-timey can opener? Maybe he could punch decorative holes in a copper sheet so that I can have a pie safe like my grandmammy used to have.

Whatever new uses we find for that tooth, I know which one I am ruling out: chewing on my finger. He has already maimed my index finger with that fang. This might be the first time I am thankful that I stopped breastfeeding him.

Break the skin

Before you all soil yourselves from the rage I spewed the other day, I apologize. It was therapeutic, though. Very helpful. Scream and rant sometime. Quite cleansing.

We've had various family activities to keep us occupied during this holiday. Thursday, we sat in the park and listened to the Colorado Symphony play patriotic songs. I shed a tear or two during the salute to the armed forces. I'm not a big supporter of the war (not a supporter at all, actually), but when an old man stands up to humbly be recognized for service to his country, it makes me proud.

We picnicked and relaxed in the grass while people admired Amos (as usual). It was a lovely evening full of stars and beautiful music. Lovely, lovely.

Last night, we walked toward downtown to watch the fireworks. We found a spot in the grass (dirt and dried twigs) overlooking the highway and with a clear view of Coors Field. The Rockies were in a tight game that went long, so we sat and then sat and then we tried sitting. All kinds of humanity ebbed and flowed around us. Finally, around 10:30, maybe later (maybe sooner - who's counting?), the official fireworks began. Not that we hadn't already been entertained and frightened by the various illegal items popping around us. Balls to the cars that actually drove through a fervent display of sparkles on the street. That was either ballsy or sheer stupidity. Don't even get me started on what I think about the two guys on bicycles who peddled through it.

Anyhoo...

Amos enjoyed (sort of) his second Fourth of July. He was only a few weeks old during '07s July 4th, and a few neighbors popped loud and colorful things on the street. Despite his tiny stature, Amos was not intimidated. That is when we decided that we have a cool kid. This year, Amos was a little shy, but then he warmed up to the sounds and lights. He pointed at the sky and said, "Huwah!" I take that as a sign of approval.

On the way home, we ran through a sprinkler gauntlet that was much like Indiana Jones bookin' it away from that giant boulder. Except, it wasn't like that at all. Imagination and a little wine are great for a late night walk.

Today was full of shopping. Phil delighted himself with picking out little outfits for Amos. I swear, Phil is turning into a teenage girl with the way he coos over Amos' little man britches or how adorable a T-shirt will be on him. I think I'll buy him some Hello Kitty gear. For Phil, I mean.

Tomorrow, God willing and Sleepy Sarah willing, we will trudge through the mountains for our weekly hike. I'm addicted to the mountains again. How is it that we have lived here for so long, yet we only hiked after we moved here and have just suddenly revived the idea? The Porters: not always intelligent.

OH. OH!

And Amos just got his first tooth! We see the little nugget breaking the skin. I look forward to the day when I can feed him food that he will actually chew rather than gumming away at and then packing into his big chipmunk cheeks.

So, I bid you farewell for the evening. Here's a tasty drink that I toast in your general direction:



1 part tequila
1 part triple sec
1-2 parts 100% pomegranate juice



Yum yum.

Primal scream

A therapeutic primal scream to the world at large, referred to hereafter as the informal You.



I'm going to tell you the truth. It might hurt one of us. Get the Band-Aids.

I'm going through a crisis of sorts. It has nothing to do with the topics that normally create a swarm of activity around a blog entry. It has much more to do with being the child of a shitty parent and dealing with the aftermath.

*waits for sounds of crickets*

I have a lot to say and there is no one around who seems to want to listen. Oh, sure. Go ahead and pretend you want to lend me an ear so I'll play you a song, but we both know it will be more out of tune than that 30+ year-old guitar sitting in my basement. I think I've reached the point of stopping the feeling-sorry-for-myself routine to just becoming numb and silent. Is this that "acceptance" stage of grief? Acceptance sounds so nice and calm, when really it is just numb and silent. Silent and numb.

Silent and numb does not create many blog entries. It also doesn't invite one to read about other peoples' lives and then pretend to care. That sounds harsh, I know. Alas, it is true.

I'm tired of people asking me how I am doing and then glazing over and/or changing the subject when I actually give them an answer. How am I doing? The only answer you want is, "Fine. I'm great. How about you?" It isn't true. When I do talk about the difficulty of dealing with my father's death and the horrific aftermath of it -- from somewhere around $300,000 of hospital bills, to caring for my mother, to staving off the vultures who want to rape and pillage my family home -- along with my own inability to digest the emotions of it, that is when you turn away. You've done it, and you know it. Everyone from neighbors, friends, Internet acquaintances, to various family members have done it.

And you know what? You really suck for doing that.

And screw me for knowing that my sadness is big and scary and justifiably frightening to anyone outside of it.

You know what I don't want to hear? I don't want to hear how difficult it is for you to react to my grief. It's not like I'm crying in front of you, begging for a tissue. No, I just matter-of-factly declare what I'm going through, and you still turn away.

I don't care that you aren't able to come up with something to make me feel better. I didn't ask for you to do that.

And fuck you for making me feel like I'm the one who should make YOU feel better. I don't give a shit that my situation is too harsh a reminder that someday you will lose a close family member and deal with the dirty details.

I don't care.

-----------------

Upon reflection, perhaps I am still stuck in the anger stage of grief management.

-----------------

I can imagine it must be one hell of a task to try to ease my burdens over a loss, when the real burdens started decades ago. Poor you.

If you have any ability to read between the lines, past blogs clearly indicated that my dad was a total shit to his family. To his colleagues, however, he was a god amongst men. I have letter after letter from his co-workers, talking about how wonderful he was and how he did this or that for their careers without hesitation. I don't respond. They write to me again to see if I received the first letter because, by God, it is so important that they know that a daughter of the great god of workplace received their touching words.

You know what? I don't have a damn thing to say to that. My version of that person is not the same, and telling me how great he was when he was away from his family does not improve the situation. I didn't see that person. I saw the person who blamed others for his own mistakes. I saw the person who neglected his health, wanted to die, and then yelled at everyone around him to fix the problem and "get involved, God damn it!" I saw the person who admitted that he was "one cold jackass" for most of his life, and then expects me to relish his assessment of my own: "You were always too emotional."

I don't want to hear about how sick people become mean sometimes. Because, you know what? Total shits become even shittier when they are sick, and telling me that does not improve my outlook. I already know that.

Stick this feather in your cap: Fuck everyone who thinks that you should not speak ill of the dead.

The dead left me to clean up the mess.

For a moment, I considered going to a therapist. After all, that person would listen because I'm paying them to listen. Thing is, no therapist is going to tell me what I don't already know. I already know how to deal with this. I already know the process. I already know that it's not my fault and that what I'm going through is a difficult, long, drawn out procedure. I already know that.

I know that I should talk about my feelings. I tell Phil about them all the time. He takes the brunt of the ugliness that you aren't willing to share. I already know who is the real god amongst men.

I still see the images of him dying. I still can hear the long, labored breaths and the hands reaching to the hospital ceiling for unseen things. I can hear my sobs as I recited The Lord's Prayer in his ear, still trying to desperately create a loving end for someone who hadn't shown me much. I still see the bloody bruises on his hands that were covered by makeup for the viewing, which failed and began to show the blood bruises again on the day of his funeral. I see his coffin being lowered unsteadily and on a tilt because the funeral director wanted to hurry up and get to another service. I see my idiot brother smoking a cigarette beside the grave, knowing full well that smoking is what killed his father.

What I can't shake: I still see the emaciated body that one doctor described as a "concentration camp victim."

Victim. Seeing him as a victim is not what I'm capable of at this juncture.

So, you sit there and wonder why I don't write much, answer your calls, read your blog, or leave you witty comments. To tell you the truth, it isn't my job right now to make you feel better. I'm not capable of that. It's my job to pick up the pieces and move on. As much as it sucks, it is taking a lot of time to get there. It would have been nice if you had helped. Don't EVEN start in on me and my inability to accept help. Blah blah blah. I don't want your advice. I just don't, and you've already shown that you don't want to listen to the problem in the first place.

I don't know what the point of this entry is, other than to tell you the real answer to the question you don't want answered. I'm still a happy person. I laugh all the time, albeit less than I did before. I still enjoy life. We've been going hiking every weekend and breathing in the wonders of nature. That, more than anything you could have said to me, has performed miracles on my soul.

In short, I'm learning how to do this without you, Dad. You always wanted to teach us about fierce independence. You've succeeded by a landslide, I'd say.