Going to Graceland

We were much more Beatles fans than Elvis fans growing up in my household, a distinction in tastes sharply noted in "Pulp Fiction", in an infamous scene between John Travolta and Uma Thurman. My college boyfriend was an Elvis fan from Brooklyn, which is sort of like being an urban cowboy. It didn't fit, but he liked to cop tastes contrary to the norm to appear different, like sporting a beret or wearing an ascot.

And so I found myself going to Graceland one summer, on an epic road trip that spanned the South to my Dad's place in West Texas. I love road trips, finding them much more preferable to horribly bumpy and terribly turbulent flights that go against the Gulf Stream, a fact that was confirmed for me when my Colorado boyfriend began private pilot lessons. It's gotten worse, too, from compulsive over-travelling brought on by a runner's type of fast pace neurosis that's as addictive as their high sugar and highly caffeinated lifestyles. Chemtrails are the sign that you've polluted the sky, you ugly American.

My exes would fight me on my American preference for the open road, but given my quickness of mind, I usually won out, as I did in this case, because my Brooklyn boyfriend didn't have a driver's license or a car. He was captive to me and my advanced skill sets, a state of affairs that never abated during our acquaintance, much to his chagrin. I made the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia my first day driving, to a smog-filled summer's day that took the wind out of my sails for the rest of the trip. Going to some tourist trap to see the housed remnants of a overdosed singer I never really liked? Great. What a way to spend my summer.

Two days later, I brought us to the state of Tennessee, for a tour of Elvis Presley's house. My very stoned boyfriend was so out of it from getting high in the parking lot, he blurted out that he wanted to see "EVERYTHING!", when the ticket agent asked him which tour he wanted. We'd been flagged by the golf cart security duo as outsiders, for walking towards the house from the graffitied walls outside the grounds, when you were supposed to know to go across the street to buy a ticket, even though no signs were posted with instructions to do so. When he found out that it would cost us over $150 (in 1988, on a working class college kid's budget), he blanched white, and in an embarrassed whispered aside, I told him to just do the house tour.

It was horrible. Priscella still lived in the top floors when she was in town, so we went past his recording studio and racketball court to an impromptu grave site in their backyard, which gave me a blessed moment of silence among the weird hick crowd, who worshipped him like he was some sort of demigod. They also toured his tour buses, his car collection, his costumes, his airplane collection (one of which was named the "Lisa Marie"), and a movie theater that showed his films exclusively. I half-heartedly bought a couple of tepid souvenirs in the gift shop, and then we got back on the road.

My naive New York City boyfriend didn't know how much trouble I steered him out of, until we stopped at a gas station in Mississippi, with a visibly pregnant (and cigarette smoking) woman talking with the clerk behind the counter. They both narrowed their eyes at us when we walked in, eyeballing his dopey "CULTURE" t-shirt, with the word emblazoned over a picture of 70s rhinestone jumpsuit Elvis visiting the White House, posing with Nixon in the Oval Office and shaking hands. He wanted to make an ironic hipster statement that was cutesy "tongue in cheek", and definitely not appreciated by them, which was backed up by our brief exchange with the rural couple at the counter.

The large beer-bellied clerk said to him: "What does that t-shirt mean, boy?" My young boyfriend nervously deferred to him with two palms up, in a conciliatory gesture: "Oh, we've just been to Graceland. It was awesome!." I paid for the gas and asked for smokes, while the two hicks pondered his statement. After a very long pause with continued staring, the large man finally said to us: "Well, we worship him around these here parts." And with that, we were back on the road, albeit with a much more sober and quiet white kid from the city sitting next to me.

Happy trails to you America, on all of your summer road trips. For most of the masses, this is prime vacation season. Just be sure to steer clear of rural areas that worship dead, drug-addicted rock stars. See you 'round the way, mes amis.

CULTURE

Confederacy of Dunces

http://nyti.ms/1skVMyf

You've seen it on all the news programs lately: why all this fuss over some old flag? Because, (and this will be the last time I will address this issue with any amount of serious consideration, because it's that fucking stupid to me), our ancestors fought and died in our nations' bloodiest war: a civil war that divided families and pitted brother against brother, in the name of righteousness. 

Southerners created their own stupid dip-shit flag and useless Monopoly money so they could pretend to live in a delusional fucking world where it's okay to murder, torture, rape, and continually victimize people like they're worse than the cattle most of us eat every day. 

You see, if a cow didn't make the brutal trip across the sea and over a very long distance, like, say, the ones West African people were forced to endure under inhuman conditions, those poor people of the South wouldn't have food, ergo cows are better than people from another country. See? That's logic! No?! Well, my stars. 

http://theurbanchica.com/poetry-and-still-i-rise-by-maya-angelou/

Take down that fucking flag hundreds of years after we won the war, because it is a symbol of your continually deliberate and very calculated system of ignorance, hatred, and oppression, you inbred fuck. I mean it. You lost. There. Get over it. 

You will not "rise" again. There is no "confederacy", and they never will be. We are one united nation, shitheads. Oh, and your boringly repetitive music sucks, too. Ahhh...now, I feel better. Thanks, guys!

Here's your homework, fuck-up:
http://www.ushistory.org/us/27f.asp
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/aia/part4/4p2956.html 
http://www.history.com/topics/black-history/slavery
http://www.civilwar.org/education/history/civil-war-overview/overview.html 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Civil_War
http://www.history.com/topics/american-civil-war

For Kara

http://www.learnnc.org/lp/editions/nchist-colonial/1904

Seagrass

Kimberly is a sixth-generation weaver. And Lynette's granddaughter, Allisse -- they hope -- will be a seventh.

We've seen it countless times in the media: why all the fuss over this white rapper, or that jazz violinist from Harvard who paid for the privilege of playing at Carnegie Hall? What gives? This is equality! Or is it? 

I think you know it isn't, but if you want to feign ignorance, you'll know for sure after I finish this piece, because we all know cultural misappropriation* when we see it, hear it, or sell it. That cultural artifact IS NOT yours to have by birthright, and you know it isn't. 

When you borrow from someone's past without asking them for permission, or give them written consent, or at least do them the courtesy of paying what is often a small fee for their people's story, 
you rip them off again, which is why almost every ethnic minority on the planet still suffers from the ravages of poverty....because that's exactly the intended effect. Played the white man's game to win? Cool! 

Just don't look back, or lift up those who came first through recognition of their collective gifts, because that would make you honest in a very sneaky, nasty, dishonest, loathsome game. White girl from South Africa (and other empire-building African-Americans), you know who the fuck I mean. Kid, you keep rockin' to it, because that's all you, your background, and your life. You can't quit legit, can you? No, you can't. We have more than seven generations of strength. 

Welcome to today's assignment, class:

http://cbsn.ws/1CG7PSl

http://bit.ly/1TFnt4r

 

 

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cultural_appropriation

Mysterious Chow

My first meeting with "Mysterious Chow".

I've walked past the white house on the corner for months now, and until recently, I hadn't noticed the leash wrapped around a tree on the front lawn. At first I thought there might be an abandoned baby's toy on the lawn too, but upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a brightly-colored doggie chew toy. Huh. I wonder what kind of dog lives here? I hadn't seen one out, ever.

Wow! So pretty! But, so many questions....

And just like that, there it was, one beautifully sunny Spring afternoon when I was walking back from the library: a dog right there on the front lawn. And what a dog! It was a gloriously maned Chow Chow, its' gorgeous long fur lit from behind by the late day sun, streaming regally in the breeze, reminding me afterwards of a Chinese painting about a mythical dragon, or a fanciful lion, the splendid beast of a thousand fables. I was so surprised that I cried out a loud "Oh!" and "Heyyyy!", then proceeded to make kissy sounds and other rude noises at the it, while "Chow" rightly ignored me, only giving away its' peripheral attentions by shifting away from me when I tried to call out to it again, a little further up the hill. A perfect mien and bearing, too! "Chow" was aloof, attentive, aware, cautious, and supervisory. That's the sign of a solid, strong mind in a dog, just what you want as an owner. Hmmm....I wonder if "Chow" is a boy or a girl? What kind of owner does "Chow" have? So many questions....

"I see you. And?" So it went. I'd get a glance, then the brush off.

The next time I saw "Chow", I was determined to make friends so I could get a closer look, maybe find out his or her name by reaching for the cluster of dog tags around its' neck, a gesture that's typically too intimate with a relatively unknown animal. How to proceed? It's a chancy proposition to walk onto a stranger's lawn and just introduce yourself to a dog. Luckily for me, this a daffy, doggy sort of town, (http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2013/09/dogs-dog-statues.html), so, with a bit of hesitation, I moved in closer; first, by standing by the opening in the fence to the front yard. When the dog seemed OK with that, I walked around the yard a little, talking to it in a soothing, cooing way. Finally, I sat down on the front steps. "Chow" surprised me again by immediately getting up to sniff at me, tail wagging slowly back and forth. Excellent! Friendly, but hesitant and curious. That's real progress with an animal.

Mysterious Chow with "concerned" face and waggly brows. So cute!

"Chow" impressed me further, after inspecting my clothes, bag, and shoes, by backtracking to my first steps around the yard and a bush, to the steps I now sat on, matching my fresh scent on the trail I had just made, to the bottom of my sneaker. Smart! I liked "Chow" even more; that's a very advanced skill for a dog to show. I encouraged it to do so, as it made one last sniff of my sneaker to complete the loop. Very clever, "Chow". For my bravery, I was rewarded with my next clue: I spied a Tennessee Department of Health dog tag around its' neck, the kind that's required for pet vaccinations. Aha! "Chow" was from far away. That could explain its' recent appearance on the front lawn, and the white pickup truck in the driveway, but, was "Chow" a boy or girl? I couldn't tell. That's the thing with furriness. What's "Chow's" name?! I couldn't make kissy sounds and yell out "Chow!" every time we met. I'd have to go deeper, but I decided that was enough for the day. "Chow" had this adorably concerned expression, wrinkling its' brows and turning to look at the door and windows to the owner's apartment, as if to question whether or not to proceed. Circumspect, also a most excellent personality trait.

And also very shy!

The next time we met, I had a brief encounter with the dog, because "Chow" was tracking a fat, old, black and white Welsh Corgi walking (or waddling?) with his/her owner in the park across the street, busily marking its' territory around the yard, as far as the leash would go. That gave me my next clue in the case; "Chow" was probably a boy, but I still didn't know for sure. He (or she?) then did something really interesting. He stood right in front of me, with me standing on the sidewalk below, he above my head on the lawn and, as he barked out loudly to the dog, he peed right in front of me. Wow, "Chow"! He was saying in a very clear way, "Don't mess with her! She's my friend!", then he went into a full-on showy display mode, prancing around proudly in circles, barking and kicking up huge clods of dirt and grass, to spread his Royal Chow scent around. Thanks, "Chow"! What a pal.

Branching out to attend to guard dog duties.

The very next time I walked past the white house, "Chow" was lying down, a bit outside of my view on the sidewalk, beside the stone steps, with a German Shepherd puppy standing over him, barking playfully in his face. Okay, now there's two dogs; an aloof and proud Chow, and the other a possible future attack dog. That's a bit much, even for a hardcore "dog person" like me, which was probably the exact message the transplanted owner intended, what with years and years of New York City based crime dramas implanted into every newcomer's head. And when a young women came out by herself, I knew that was it. She didn't look like she was from these here parts, poor thing. Must be frightening to be an out-of-towner in New York, even in a place as relatively safe and beautiful as Rockland County's bucolic Hudson Valley region. This ain't the South, fo' sho'. She pulled the Shepherd puppy indoors by its' collar, as I stood by the opening in the fence on the side of the yard, deciding what to do. I loved "Chow", who was playing an adorable game of hide-and-seek with me behind the stone steps, but I didn't feel comfortable taking liberties with another persons' pet, especially with someone who had clearly not given me an invitation to do so.

"Are you catching this?!"

So, I did what any "nosy" New Yorker would do: when "Chow's" owner came out again to interact with him, I peppered her with a series of rapid-fire, but friendly, questions. Who knew when I would get the chance again? Their appearances were so sporadic and uneven, it could be months before an opportunity presented itself to me again. She was a bit tense, preferring to bite off short one word replies before finally graduating to a complete sentence, under the easy persistence of my obviously good-natured ways, thus bringing an end to my little mystery: "His name is Grizzly." Yeah! Perfect! Well, of course it is! And that's exactly what he is: a shy, sweet, fluffy, big, beautiful Grizzly Bear Dog. Happy hunting, dog lovers! Be safe.

Still, he will always be "Mysterious Chow" to me.