Yellow Brick Missives

July 8, 2013July 8, 2013

Aging Out

Fourth of July was winding down, and I was having a difficult time discerning between firework pops and pipe bomb explosions. Especially since I rate our neighborhood’s sketch factor based upon the number of times I’m accosted each day by meth addicts. Or followed by a deluded prophet claiming I’m the messiah.

Like the other day, when I became a contestant in Super Market Sweep: Dodge the Addict Edition.

Dear Combative Meth Addict:

If you get up in my face and demand money for the nonexistent baby (MethSandwich) your “mother” (the woman lighting up behind the bush) is caring for nearby, and then proceed to call me a “curly-haired freak” after I politely refrain, be glad that all I say in response is “Good luck with that.”

Whether it’s the thumpa thumpa pulse of Koreatown’s nightlife, or the prevalence of PBR-soaked handlebar mustaches, I’m finding myself opting for the Age Exit where bootcut jeans and fitted tees are still in vogue. Where I’m not the only one fighting the urge to channel my inner 95-year-old, throw my hands up like some Charlie Brown character, and yell at the slow-moving hipsters sporting cutoff Mom jean shorts to find the other half of your pants! Fashion faux pas aside, I know I can’t blame hipsters for everything–and not just because I’ve straddled the hipster line a time or two.

***

Lately, I’ve realized that my late twenty-something self can’t bounce back from a few drinks like before, and my body needs a little bit more time to recover from that partial cross-fit workout–the one that ended with me chugging orange juice to quell my ringing ears and shaky body from succumbing to a blood sugar crash. Eight years ago, I could’ve caught a few hours of shuteye in a friend’s tub before reaching up and turning on the shower, dusting off my clothes, re-wetting my contacts, and springing to my seminar on art since World War II. Not only that, but I also could’ve qualified to be a cast member on The Real World or Road Rules. But now, I’m the same age as that guitar-playing country guy who everyone thought was old.

That, and I’ve been dealt unintended reality checks. By fourth graders.

“Like the Nintendo 64?”

“Well, sort of. But older. You know, the original Nintendo. With cartridges this big.”

I’d expanded my hands about six inches apart. Incredulous, they’d cocked their heads in unison, as if they’d been watching a Pong game. (Yet another inapplicable analogy.)

“Why would they be that big?”

“Well, that’s what fit the machine. Okay, well, y’all know what a Sega is, right?”

More consternated looks had followed, as if I’d asked them to write a book report on that old classic Where the Red Fern Grows. But then, salvation–the hand-waving blond class runt.

“OH!”

Phew.

“My dad has one of those I think. It’s in a dusty box in the basement.”

“Alright. I think it’s time for y’all to move to the next station.”

Now, I know I’m not about to draw Social Security or anything. But there’re moments when we all realize that life isn’t stationary–that there will come a time when your jokes fall flat because the audience is too young to know why it was crucial to align yourself with either N-Sync or BSB (Backstreet Boys, duhuhhhh!). As infuriating as it can be, it’s interesting to acknowledge that I’m changing–that I’m cashing in all-nighters fueled by Red Bull and vodka for Melatonin and a few episodes of Murder, She Wrote. At 9:00.

Plus, with most of my twenties behind me, I’m starting to learn about all sorts of new things.

“You know, you really should get a colonoscopy.”

“Are you serious? Isn’t that for, uh, older…”

“Honey, just think about it. Especially at your age. And with our family history.”

I’m slowly making peace with my increasingly deep laugh lines, and tolerating the inset coffee stains on the backs of my teeth. But the unhealed shin scrapes still make me feel ancient, and remind me of my defunct circulatory system.

“Those still haven’t healed?”

“Babe, I heal like an eighty-five-year-old. On cumadin.”

But I’ve started to grow comfortable with the fact that peace and quiet and green space are more important factors in finding our new place than proximity to bars and clubs and ABC stores. That the din of nightlife can take a backseat to cricket chirps.

***

Sometimes, life gets incredibly loud. We let ourselves get lost in the cacophony, and ignore seemingly insignificant moments that, in hindsight, we grasp at for cherished remnants.

There’re plenty of reasons why we so easily dismiss a day here or there–chalk it up to a lack of coffee or bruised feelings–like there’s an infinite number to follow. But when we least expect it, we’re reminded in no uncertain, harsh terms that this is not the case–that we have to reconcile the good and the bad, and hug close any and all experiences. Because they make us who we are–they are our life’s manifold bookmarks, to which we turn on dark days to illuminate our minds and raise our spirits.

So the next time I have to skirt a group of tipsy hipsters hogging the sidewalk, I’ll bite my tongue. And smile, knowing that I’ve had those same good times, too. And will always welcome more.

Even if I experience them at a different pace.

July 4, 2013

Demolition Man

Dad inspects the doorjamb’s freshly flaked paint and eyes me suspiciously.

“If this gets any worse, you’re grounded. And I’m going to confiscate your cars. I mean it.”

Channeling the biggest doe eyes I can, I insist I have no idea what in the world he’s talking about. Shaking his head, Dad turns and walks back into the TV room. Once I hear the TV’s football commentary growing louder, I slowly close my bedroom door, tiptoe to my closet, and uncover my stash of meticulously mangled Matchbox cars.

***

As of late, I’d become obsessed with apocalyptic dioramas—the after-effects of anything cataclysmic. And there, across the floor, was my own little Hollywood-style set: a Lincoln Log village crushed asunder by the hooves of a possessed unicorn plush toy. The closest scene that rivaled this one was one I’d arrayed after watching Waterworld: The polar ice caps had melted and flooded Laura’s Barbie camper and the nearby Lincoln Log resort. At least Ken and Blaine had been able to cling to a passing seal and sea lion, and made it to safety. Barbie wasn’t so lucky. She drowned. As did Stacy; but that goes without saying.

Whether it was from repeatedly watching Red Dawn, or the time I snuck downstairs and peeked around at the TV at the worst possible moment of Schindler’s List, I’d never been able to shake my odd, albeit macabre, fascination with these people-things that populate the world around me. Why they do the things they do, inflict what they do onto others, and react in the most bizarre fashions when the world falls apart. No, I wasn’t becoming a sociopath: I was becoming an anthropologist.

But with this transfixion with the breakdown of society and its ensuing chaos came a profound interest in destruction. And that’s when my disappearances into the basement became more frequent, and my hammer-wielding competency peaked.

Each trip involved a fairly repetitious process with the same result: calculated destruction. Of course, these trips could never last long, since the basement wasn’t so much a playground as it was a place Laura and I never spent a great deal of time. The parents would become suspicious, especially if there were repeated hammer bangs. One bang was easily shrugged off with an “I knocked a hammer off the tool bench” coupled with the aforementioned doe eyes. Two or three bangs, not so much. So I had to be stealthy and poised: two things I’d never mastered.

So I’d select a cherished car, stuff it into a pocket, sneak downstairs, turn the historic key in the basement door, and shuffle down the basement’s narrow concrete staircase. With only a few moments to spare, I’d grab a hammer, position myself just-so, and bring it down with problematically-ferocious force atop the small metal bodies. A crunch later, and I’d scurry back upstairs and dodge Scooby’s accusatory, beady-eyed stares from his cage top perch near the basement door.

***

Demolishing things segued to pyrotechnics, with a little help from Captain Planet. Mostly because the Wheeler action-figure’s arm activated a lighter-like contraption that fired sparks from his open midsection. All irony aside, the power, and fire, was mine!

Unfortunately, this more socially-problematic behavior couldn’t be as easily hidden. But that’s when having parents who perform seasonal prescribe burns on isolated forest land came in handy. I won!

Still, toting along a shoe box house with interior cardboard dioramas to my first prescribe burn took some creative, on-the-spot explaining. How I squeaked my way through is anyone’s guess, but there I was, watching the tiny house be consumed by the inferno writhing around its soft edges.

But I could only hide my quirky behavior so long before I got complacent. Or cocky. Or both.

***

At some point the time comes for parents to trust their children to stay home alone and not burn the place down. Thankfully for my parents, I’d pilfered everyone’s shoe boxes and had plenty of ready-made cardboard houses to take the fiery hit.

One afternoon, I realize I have a sliver of time to offer up a house to Hades. So I hustle my sacrificial house outside, and use a found bent match to light it up. About fifteen-seconds in, a neighbor pops outside–just on the other side of a low privacy fence. To avoid detection, I hastily stamp out the burning half.

At this point, more discerning kids, or at least the sociopaths, would realize they’d better dispose of the evidence, go back inside, and act like nothing happened. But again, I don’t catch on, and I’m not unlocking sociopathic tendencies.

Not only do I run back inside with the extinguished cardboard house, but I don’t even think to cover up the smell. So ten minutes later when Mom and Dad return, I realize two things: One, never do this again; and two, never underestimate the fears historic homeowners have of faulty wiring. Within a few seconds of walking in, Mom and Dad stop, drop their hardware store purchases, and inhale deeply. Oh. Crap.

“Do you smell that?”

“Yeah, it smells like something’s burning.”

Instinctively, they start feeling the walls for hot spots and sniff along the kitchen’s periphery. I begin sweating profusely. Then force my exaggerated, toothy smile to a painful extreme.

“What…wha…what smell? I don’t smell anything!” Big smile.

“Oh. God. I think there’s a fire inside the walls,” Mom spouts, the timbre of her voice growing increasingly higher. “I think we should call the fire department!”

I feel faint. Dad begins lumbering to the phone, and I try desperately to convince them that they don’t smell a thing. But then, I do smell something. Something burning. Outside.

Standing on my tiptoes, I look through the window over the kitchen sink, and see flames. Contained flames. Grill flames.

“No, no, no! Look, look, look!”

Either the emphatic shriek of my prepubescent voice is so startling that it breaks Dad’s train of thought just enough, or saying things in triplicate conveys some unspoken truth to adults. But it’s probably the gust of air that wafts through the open back door and fills the kitchen with the smells of hamburger. Dad stops.

“It’s the grill. See!” I bellow, simultaneously pointing out the back door and to the kitchen window like a Police Academy officer directing traffic.

After convincing themselves that their oddly poised son is right, Mom and Dad shrug it off, venture into the plastic-covered downstairs bathroom, and begin their work again. I race upstairs, grab the remnant cardboard house, douse the entire thing in water, spray horrifically potent bathroom freshener all over the bag, and scamper back downstairs, out the open door, and to the big garbage can. Tucking my foible beneath the overflowing can’s garbage bags is almost too easy.

Victorious, I saunter back inside to where Mom and Dad stand prepping their supplies.

“Here, can you handle this?” Dad asks, handing me a hammer and motioning to some protruding nails from the molding.

I smile.

“I think I can manage.”

July 3, 2013

Excuse Me, Ma’am. Could I Please Have Your Uterus Back?

About five minutes into watching the North Carolina General Assembly banter about House Bill 695, my stomach knots up.

As has become routine with women’s rights issues, old white men are debating over the same anatomical parts from whence their devoutly Christian, heteronormative family sprung. But in multiple ironic turns, they completely disrespect the women that have given them, and their lovely offspring, life and make misogynistic allusions to “our women” as chattel. And all to honor His name and the preservation of “real life”–that sweet imbalance of power grafted from the 1950’s and stitched into the lives of twenty-first century women.

Why has it become so necessary to toxify women’s health debates with illogical, fallacious assertions and statistics from conservative think tanks–the ultimate political oxymorons–and thus endanger them through unnecessarily heightened restrictions on life-sustaining care, all in the name of theocratic ideals that allegedly value life as a gift from God?

Do these egocentric, bumbling buffoons not return home every single day and forget how critically important the women in their lives are to them–how their spouse, mother, grandmother, daughter, sister, aunt, cousin, or friend has had their back, supported them, or taken one for the team to cover their stupid, ball-bearing self?

I, for one, have a litany of reasons why I owe the women in my life so incredibly much, and would never be so presumptuous as to think that I–a man!–possess some innate, superior knowledge to decide how and when and why my mother, sister, grandmother, aunts, cousins, or friends can seek medical treatment.

Methinks these politicians haven’t perused their family albums lately.

But I’ll never forget the hospital photos of me all blood-covered and cradled in my mother’s arms.

Nor do I forget how my sister has always had my back.

How my grandmother was my right-hand gal during the tumultuous high school years and never once questioned why I preferred hanging out with her instead of other boys my age.

How my gal pals have lifted me up over the years, and have talked me off the proverbial ledge on more than one occasion.

So, as culturally-insensitive remarks fly and conservatives wield religious beliefs like scalpels–excising another slew of women’s rights from established policies–I can only remind myself of why we left and how absurdly tragic North Carolina’s fall from grace has been under the current administration.

And how terribly self-loathing these men must be to disenfranchise the very people who will always be the reasons why we’re all here today.

July 2, 2013

A Waking Reality

The straw in my homemade iced coffee is twirling around in a caffeinated maelstrom; Brand New’s “The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows” is streaming through the desktop’s speakers; the air conditioner is doing its best to keep up with the climbing heat.

And I’m finding myself contemplating approximately 248 things.

So I halt the circling straw, take a sip of coffee, glance at the Shiva statue staring at me from the desk alcove, and try to focus on the positive things and breathe and do all of the Zen stuff that you’re supposed to do when you’re feeling inundated by all sorts of stimuli.

Breathe in.

There’s a new journal next to me, the first seven pages of which I jotted full with a business schematic, each sentence ending more with a punctuated dream than a period.

Breathe out.

The All-American Rejects just queued up, and “Move Along” is bubbling into the slowly chilling apartment.

When all you got to keep is strong, move along, move along like I know you do…

The tiny Art Deco vase on the nearby kitchen table holds the last of the week’s dying flowers. The red is morphing into a deep umber–the color of floral finality.

A gulp of coffee later, and I’m scanning through my mind, trying to pinpoint what it is that I want to do.

…move along, move along just to make it through…”

I’ve been sleeping incredibly deeply the last two nights, and I’ve woken up in an oddly crisp haze–the most contradictory state of being I’ve experienced in a while. So unless Andy’s been slipping me roofies, I’m experiencing an unexpected catharsis–like my body knows something that my sleepy mind hasn’t yet wrapped itself around. Because this kind of sleep only follows emotionally-charged decisions: leaving graduate school, leaving my horribly toxic job, leaving for California.

…when everything is wrong, we move along…

And it hits me. We’ve moved. Moved along past the wart-covered parts of the past year. We’ve pushed forward, through tears and sleepless nights and cardboard boxes and packing tape and goodbyes and hellos. We’ve kept the momentum going, and are starting to feel the potential of just being happy.

And we don’t know what to do with that feeling.

Jay Brannan’s “Housewife” fills the room. I turn off the air conditioner. And sit and listen, fading in and out between the lyrics.

…two boys are falling hard…

Because we’ve overcome a lot together.

…crazy about each other, we both have fucked our pasts…

Shared and taken, embodied change and effected it.

…but when we are together, we have a fucking blast…

And have plenty more ahead of us. We just have to unlock our combined potential, nurture it, and help it breathe on its own.

So that it can help lead us on, into a future where we sleep deeply–dreaming of happily ever afters, and waking up in the middle of their reality.

July 2, 2013

Rinse and Repeat

My hair is flaming. Not gay-flaming–actually on fire flaming.

The flames savor my Aqua Net-coated curls, and aren’t even slightly blunted by Laura’s eight-year-old hands turned ad hoc snuffers. And while our parents are running full-tilt across the field–their mouths agape and faces contorted by fear and shock– everything slows down.

But before the flames lick my scalp, my parents reach us and extinguish my head with a mixture of dirt and water. Now reduced to smelly, singed puff balls, my sizable blond fro won’t be garnering any attention from passersby for a while. And Laura’s fingers will resemble Lil’ Smokies for the next few weeks.

***

Long after my parents realized that Laura and I could get ourselves into trouble in approximately four seconds, I’d passed through my early years with plenty of nicknames based on my curly hair.

From Cheese Curls and Curly Sue, to Goldilocks and Mop Top, I’d had plenty of little monikers, and responded to each with a knowing smile. Like most kids, I soon tired of the repeated name-calling, and wished for my hair to be straight like everyone else’s. But the most the curls ever did was change from bleach blond to dark brown. And tighten.

And while high school came with non-hair affiliated nicknames–like Pip and Faggot–I still got more hair-raising commentary from the peanut gallery: “I bet the girls love running their hands through those curls!” And they did–completely unsolicited no less. Not to mention students sitting behind me in class thought it was fun to hide pencils in my hair, so that when I bent to get something out of my book bag, I’d shed a forest’s worth of No. 2’s. But I figured that sort of thing would taper off once I graduated. I mean, out in the real world I’d heard of something called personal space. It sounded amazing.

Nicknames didn’t really follow me to college. But I came to resent my curls because, like most late-bloomers, I didn’t want to look like the baby-faced, naive “Boy Next Door” or a Boy Meets World doppelganger. So I used my misunderstood goth years to add a bit of flair–black hair dye–and style–a mohawk–to my so called life.

Soon enough, I realized I looked exceptionally dumb and gave my hair time to rebound. Plus, I assumed people would be less inclined to offer hair critiques if I didn’t draw attention to it.

***

Years after the mohawk incident, and following several unfortunate cases of head-shavings gone bad interspersed with “accidental dreadlocks” and a stylist intervention, I’ve come to realize how much work curly hair can be. And how good it can look when treated well.

Now, I’m not saying that people with straight hair have an easier time.

Actually.

I am. Because my morning routine involves approximately 612 steps. Or 10.

One: Assess rat nest; Two: Convince myself it’s worth the effort (have a cup of coffee if necessary); Three: Turn on the shower tap and dunk my head repeatedly; Four: Keep head under faucet until fro resembles a saturated sponge; Five: Run fingers through fro to break up massive snarls (scream if necessary); Six: Pump out palm-full of high-quality, non-alcohol based conditioner and run through hair; Seven: Use plastic, wide-toothed comb and brush through curls (whimper through remaining snarls); Eight: Rinse thoroughly and clean comb of dead Cousin It hair clumps; Nine: Towel blot dripping hair; Ten: Add Moroccan oil with keratin.

Now, this sounds easy and all, but it takes a good ten to fifteen minutes from start to finish. And that’s if I don’t want to do anything else to it. Sure, I don’t have to condition it whenever I go out. But the fact that Facebook’s tagging function can’t recognize me with untamed hair is telling enough for me.

But there’s a significant drawback to taming my hair: public crazies who feel it’s their duty to run their hands through it before informing me that my hair is, in fact, curly.

“You don’t say?!”

My sarcastic incredulity often falls on deaf ears, being lost amid profuse head nods and smiles–as if they’re affirming their toddler that, yes, they did just use the potty correctly!

And you wouldn’t believe the repulsive looks I’ve gotten when I’ve had a bad day and respond with something like “What in the hell do you think you’re doing? This is my fucking head!” As if it’s my fault for reminding them that my body isn’t the public’s domain. Plus, I can only wash my hair once a week, so I certainly don’t want someone’s hand funk mixed in until the next washing.

Still, the curls have gotten me out of jams before. Like the time a cashier made everyone else wait in line while I ran to get my wallet–all because she was certain I was Josh Groban. (Because Josh Groban shops for spatulas at the Dollar General in Sanford, North Carolina.) So I signed the receipt with a little extra flourish.

And even though I have to assure plenty of people that it’s not a goddamn perm, when all is rinsed and combed, I’m pretty glad my curls have lasted.

Because they’ve been a fitting metaphor for my life: frizzed and burned out, matted and kinked. But repeatedly conditioned and revitalized along the way.

July 1, 2013July 1, 2013

The Celebrity Factor

Soon after we stepped off the escalator with Janice Dickinson and her badly tattooed boy toy, she said something about a skank and laughed and walked her twiggy self away.

“Did she just call us skanks?”

“I dunno. Doubtful, but maybe she was annoyed because she thought I was trying to take her photo with my camera when I was checking the time.”

Janice’s commentary probably had absolutely nothing to do with us, but it got me thinking more about celebrities and why I’d even give a damn if she called me a skank. I mean, the only thing I know about her is that she’s never said no to a plastic surgeon. And that a manatee could swim through the unnatural space between her thighs.

When it comes down to it, celebrities are just like the cashier at the gas station, or the mechanic down the street, or you, or me–just with a lot more money and maybe a television show and a few dozen houses. Sure, that sounds sort of amazing, and I’d probably be alright with that for a day. But then the bills would come in for that Switzerland chalet I forgot about, and I’d be all like, “Well, how am I supposed to buy my third goddamned Maserati with built-in Zen garden?!”

I guess I’ve never understood the appeal of having my life on display for everyone to consume–to have random strangers pontificate about my love handles or that terribly tacky outfit I wore that one time. After all, that’s what Facebook’s for, right?

That’s not to say I haven’t flipped out after meeting an author whose work I love, or bumping into a celebrity. Usually, though, the reason why I’m excited to see them is because I’m drawn to them more by what they stand for outside of their celebrity persona than anything else.

But every now and then, I get drawn into the spectacular, buzzing fray. Like with the whole Paula Deen debacle.

The only thing I find sad about the whole damn thing is that Paula seems to be one of the only women on any cooking show who actually eats her own food. Still, I don’t have time for racists, or people perceived to be racists. (Because, really, if someone’s alleging you’re a racist, and there’re plenty of sound bites and statements to support it, it’s pretty likely you are.) And I have one thing to say to the gays coming to her side: She probably doesn’t like you anymore than any other minority, and she and Bubba would probably be glad to throw you and “them” into the kitchen; have all “y’all” enter through the back restaurant entrance; and get you cute little “N’s and F’s” all dressed up and tapping around some bigot’s wedding.

So, to anyone–especially a minority–coming to a bigot’s defense, all I can say is bless your misguided heart.

One thing about Paula’s swift and justly deserved fall from grace that I find so fascinating is that most of the public only started paying attention to it when Paula’s sponsors started pulling the plugs. And suddenly she’s on talk shows trying to recoup money and garner support. Are we really so enthralled with what Sears has to say that we can’t form our own opinions? That we have to rely on someone else to call bullshit first? And I don’t just mean about celebrities.

Hopefully as this country moves forward, there will be much greater accountability and transparency, and more people will feel the need to know where their shirt was made; what that sandwich funds; who authored that cookbook your stuffing recipe comes from.

With hope, we’ll see an upsurge in putting the right people up on pedestals instead of bigots who’ve slid by on their buttered cheeks for far too long.

June 28, 2013

Guillotining Scooby & Co.

On the way to World War Z, Andy and I get stuck behind a serial killer Aerostar, the distracted drivers of which are doing their best to sideline our Saturday afternoon.

Between my obscenities and gay hand gestures, Andy notices something.

“Oh my god. I think there’s a bird in that van.”

“A bird? Driving it? What do you…”

That’s when I see the macaw’s head pop up between the front seats. The parrot pulls itself up the driver’s sleeve, resting on the bulky shoulder with a few bobs of its head. Firmly rested, it keeps bobbing.

“I think it’s regurgitating for them.”

“What?”

*Gay hand gesture*

“I think the macaw is trying to feed them. But at least they’re not accepting it.”

“Like, throwing up? You mean it’s feeding them…”

“Nah. I’m sure they’re close to their parrot, but not that…”

The driver turns and accepts the cloyingly-sweet macaw’s offering.

And I nearly regurgitate a little myself. But as I choke down the stomach acid, I think about our family’s own little feathery lump of joy. And all of the wondrous treats he’s gifted us over his twenty-six years of life.

Twenty.

Six.

***

My gold Mercedes is totaled.

A door here, a tire there–all wrenched from the car body in the most ghastly fashion possible.

By the most vicious beak in Opelika.

I follow the trail from the kitchen to the beast’s lair. Scooby sits king-like atop his massive cage, looking out of the sunroom’s window bank. He looks down at me, his dinosaur eyes narrowing.

Yeah, mothafucka, yeah, I destroyed your goddamned car!

“I hate you!”

Inter-species sibling love at its finest.

***

Long before Scooby systematically destroyed many of my favorite Matchbox cars, his more sinister side manifested through my ad hoc rhinoplasty, which underscored the extent to which his tiny body pulsed with tornadic energy. Combine that with his narcissism, and the Mirarchi family had within its fold a sadistic megalomaniac flying amok.

Trifles didn’t entertain him. Pencils, Kleenex boxes, dog toys, jewelry, seed logs–all obliterated with little fanfare. He liked challenging, more difficult targets. Like that chirping, talking box we’d run to after the phone rang. Or the family Bible. Soon enough, he was victorious and thirsted for more.

Largely out of fear, we looked for scapegoats to satiate his needs. The dog was already terrified of him. We needed something slower, something trusting.

Then, Eureka! the solution fell into our laps: a nursing home wanted Dad to bring Scooby in for a Halloween party.

Not only do touchy-feely strangers make Scooby intensely uncomfortable, but droves of them would surely put him in his place–make him realize he’s no match for real people.

At least that’s how I viewed it.

So as Dad prepped Scooby, I watched mirthfully, thinking of the shell of a parrot he’d return as.

And return he did. Thirty minutes later.

But was that glee in his eyes? A slight, birdy chuckle?

No!

“You won’t believe this!” Dad, clearly disgusted, lays it out.

Apparently, after explaining the ground rules for interacting with Scooby, one elderly woman late to the festivities took a chance. And paid for it.

Removing his eye patch, all Dad can muster is “It all happened so fast.”

Blithely unaware and cooing Pretty bird, pretty bird, she’d extended her frail hand up to Scooby; and Dad saw her two seconds too late. Scooby, unintimidated and craving flesh, latched onto her finger like a bear trap on a rabbit’s head. With every one of her screams and jostles, I’m sure Scooby tightened his hold, even as Dad the Pirate tried to pry him off.

Scooby: 1. Humanity: 0.

***

Despite his less desirable qualities, Scooby has taught me that deadly things can come in all shapes, sizes, and feathered varieties–and that every living creature will demand that you respect it’s authority in some way or another. After all, it was just a blink of the cosmic eye that our avian brethren had scaly flesh and dinosaur brains.

Even still, I can be surprised.

Like the call I got a year ago.

“Laura was attacked by Benny today.”

“What?! Who the hell is Benny?”

“The Vulture.”

“Clearly. But who is he?”

“Benny the Vulture. An actual vulture.”

“Oh.”

“And watch your language.”

A wildlife educator, Laura had plenty of experience tackling impertinent birds and raptors. And it just so happened that Benny took a profound disliking to her early on, leaving her legs poked and chiseled by his beak.

But perhaps Benny sensed that the Mirarchi blood wasn’t clean of avian atrocities, and that it was up to him to right the wrongs of the past.

Like the Woodpecker Debacle of ’08.

October 19, 2008. The proverbial battle between Mirarchi and Bird reached its most intense extreme to date. The bird may have dealt the first, second, and third blows, but the fourth and final was dealt by Dad.

A few days ago, after returning from errands, Dad heard Woody boring yet another gaping hole into the side of one of the porch columns, right next to a recently patched hole he’d stuffed a tree branch into, to both dissuade the bird and piss off the neighborhood association.

“I think we’ll decorate it for Christmas!”

But Woody had returned. And sat hanging from the column, looking into the eyes of his nemesis.

“I had that gun loaded for three weeks and knew the minute we moved the scaffolding to the side of the house that he’d come back!”

By the time Dad ran into the house, grabbed the gun, and returned to take out the target, Woody was gone. But each day, right as Dad would settle down, Woody would return.

“I’d no sooner sat down on the living room ottoman when that little bastard came back! But this time, I was ready.”

Shoeless, Dad tiptoed out to the porch.

“When that little prick stuck his head right around the column, I blew him right off! He dropped like a rock. I didn’t care if anyone saw me blast’em!”

Once the echoes stopped reverberating off the neighboring houses, Dad admired his handiwork.

“I musta had that same look in my eye as the time I cut half the Christmas tree down with the chainsaw in the living room! But anyway, I bagged that bird in a Ziploc and taped the bag to the back door for your mom.”

***

Despite the tiffs between the avian and human members of our family–putting our scars and the now infamous Dad-Scooby decade-long feud aside–there’s still plenty of love threading us all together. Even if it’s of The Addams Family ilk–the macabre, slightly kidding way Dad jests about taking Scooby quail hunting, us eating peanut M&M’s in front of a deprived Scooby.

Still, there’s love.

There must be. Otherwise, my OCD-crazed ninth-grader self wouldn’t have worried so much that any one “S” overhanging my notebook paper’s bounding red lines would translate to Scooby’s head being lopped off guillotine-style.

I was looking out for him. In my own convoluted, magical thinking-like way.

After all, there’s a little sweetness nestled somewhere in that little bile-filled body of his that deserves to be celebrated. Because in his own birdbrain way, he cares about us, too.

Like the time Laura and I were staying home alone, and had stupidly left the front door open and the screened door closed. Since we weren’t supposed to answer the door, much less leave it wide open, we hid when a UPS carrier approached and called through the door. And out of nowhere, Scooby let loose a lascivious Yoo hooooo! from the back of the house that sent the young carrier bounding down the steps and to his truck. Victory.

That alone deserves a little respect.

***

The day after Woody’s demise, Dad set to patching the hole. But then saw something else: a series of smaller ones around Woody’s last stand. Pellet shot.

“Goddammit! Well, that bastard ain’t comin’ back!”

I imagine the front door being left slightly ajar. And, on hearing Dad shout, a quiet, contented chuckle filtering out from Scooby’s nook.

But he’s already here.

June 27, 2013

A Strange New Nation

With pundits on both sides firing off on yesterday’s SCOTUS rulings on DOMA and Prop 8, my Facebook thread rightfully aflutter with glad tidings and celebratory photos, my phone buzzing with calls and texts from family and friends, and my heart pounding with exhilaration, I kept repeating something–a new mantra of sorts–I learned from Dame Judi Dench as her on-screen character Evelyn navigates a new life in India.

“Initially you’re overwhelmed. But gradually you realize it’s like a wave. Resist, and you’ll be knocked over. Dive into it, and you’ll swim out the other side.”

And while Rachel Maddow likely won’t reference The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel anytime during her discussions about national LGBT rights versus state-centric LGBT rights, I find many of the characters’ quips about starting anew incredibly empowering. Because, like the retirees in their new environment, LGBT people have a new landscape opening up before their eyes.

It’s difficult to articulate the absolute importance of yesterday’s rulings, and the unexpected nature of it all–especially given the way the SCOTUS took a step back with their ruling on the Voting Rights Act. For many of us, it seems like a dream, while its reality leaves us in shock. So many activists–especially of the Stonewall-era–never thought they’d see such a day, experience this wave of change first-hand.

But as Evelyn so rightly alludes, resistance to the tide will only ensure a swift fall from grace. And I think Republicans are soaking wet and floundering. Because the rulings not only illustrate how grossly ineffective the Republicans’ egregious DOMA-defense expenditures have been, but they also reveal how archaic and anachronistic their conservative 1950’s-era perspectives of the sociopolitical and economic landscapes are today.

And while there is still plenty of work to do before the dissonance between the national and state definitions of marriage are reconciled and marriage equality spreads–including greater vigilance in southern states hard-hit by the Voting Rights Act ruling–it is a new day in this strange new nation.

With a legislative body whose anti-LGBT head has been lopped off–a welcomed decapitation.

Whose body is riding the wave into a brighter future.

June 26, 2013

A Welcomed Palimpsest

~~The past year has taught me a lot about dealing with indescribable stress and frustration.~~

~~But in many ways, I’m grateful for it.~~

I’m not going to lie and write that I didn’t think that ye olde SCOTUS wouldn’t follow yesterday’s ruling on the Voting Rights Act with more driveling, archaic, nonsensical rulings today. I hoped I’d be able to strike through all of this. But that’s not the way things will go. Because today isn’t about the rulings or the SCOTUS or the White House or Congress.

Today is about the people you see every single day, and what they’re feeling. It’s about empathizing and cutting people a break, about letting them mourn in their own way, so that they can process everything that’s happened. Plenty of conservative pundits will say that liberals are bleeding out their little hearts. But this was a slight of epic proportions; one that’ll take some time to overcome. Because there’s a lot to bemoan, and not just the gutting of a crucial piece of civil rights legislation and the continued relegation of LGBT citizens to second-class status.

What’s most disturbing to me about all of this is that such critical issues were left up to nine people to decide. Not nine justices; nine people as fallible and biased as you and I, each of whom is charged with determining the course of American political history. And yet, some of them wield the power of their position to make a point–to cross the “T” and dot the “I” on their legacy, rather than the legacy of our country.

Thirteen other countries have recognized the importance of acknowledging each of their citizens, and extending to them the rights and privileges we in the US desire: Argentina, Belgium, Brazil, Canada, Denmark, France, Iceland, Netherlands, Norway, Portugal, Spain, South Africa, and Sweden. And, quite courageously, same-sex marriage is recognized by twelve states in the US–Connecticut, Delaware, Iowa, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Minnesota, New Hampshire, New York, Rhode Island, Vermont, and Washington–the District of Columbia, and five Native American tribes: Coquille Tribe of Oregon, the Suquamish tribe of Washington, the Little Traverse Bay Bands of Odawa Indians of Michigan, the Pokagon Band of Potawatomi Indians of Michigan, and the Santa Ysabel Tribe of California. Do I believe it is only a matter of time before same-sex marriage and LGBT rights issues are no longer viewed in such a…

We win. America wins.

June 25, 2013June 25, 2013

If I was a White Supremacist-Misogynist-Classist

Dear SCOTUS:

I love saying your acronym, because it reminds me of scrotum–which is what our proud country is built upon! Because it takes real balls to stand up for what’s right–or is it reich? Oh, fiddlesticks–I forget how to spell it! Let me go ask my friend, Paula. Even if she’s a woman and clearly much more dense than I, a man.

But speaking of Paula, I’m sure I’m not the only one happy that she’s off the air. Not because of the black comments–especially since she’s just reminding us that it’s all about heritage, not hate, y’all. I’m glad because I was a little unsure about a woman being, you know, in the man’s realm–television. Which should always be tuned to Fox News.

Can I get an Amen?! Oh, thanks Scalia!

And Scalia, I have the utmost faith that you and your brethren will push the weaker sex back into the home, where they should always be knocked up (either by their loftly wedded husband or a rapist) and subjugated like a good 1950’s woman! Because it’s a man’s responsibility, and it’s up to him–and Him!–to speak for them. Plus, while the good wives are prepping dinner, they can take care of the darling Duggar-like clan they’ve spawned, because we know birth control is the devil and we’d rather see their lady parts fall out than take their personal health and safety into consideration. Plus, at home they’ll have time to watch their favorite shows and classic movies, especially that handsome man’s-man Rock Hudson.

Sure, he’s rumored to have been a homosexual, but that’s absurd! Those ninnies frolick around and decorate houses, and they certainly don’t look like him! Thank the Lord above that we can get away with denying them “civil rights”–like they can really be married. I mean, they don’t have the parts to, uh, make babies. Because that’s what a real marriage is: a penis and a vagina together forever. I tell ya, this whole business of recognizing those people and their deviant ways is a chip in our country’s armor. Before long, they’ll demand for us not to beat them straight. The nerve!

I mean, really. Between the homosexuals and the brown people, I’m at a loss. And don’t get me started on the handicapped and the environmentalists. To think that they feel that they’re entitled to the same things I have. And to access ramps everywhere? And a frack-free living? The audacity! Who in the hell will trim my lawn, or care for white children?

It’s the disintegration of society, that’s what it is! Pure anarchy!

But SCOTUS, with the trends you’ve made in the past, and with your news this morning about the Voting Rights Act, I have the utmost faith that you’ll return this country to its former glory, and will find a way to get that brown Muslim out of the White–I repeat, White–House.

Your humble straight white male minority constituent,

Bubba

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