Your Easter “Git Down”

.

It’s that time of year again.  

Easter.  

 A day we celebrate Jesus’ death.  But he rose again and because of the, the holiday has always been associated with rebirth.   Plants and flora which died during the harsh winter, are renewed by Spring’s dewy kiss and usually Easter usually represents that first big pucker.

Plus in the Gospel According to St. Nonie, you can start wearing white again when the clock strikes 12:01 on Easter morning.

I have interesting childhood memories of Easter.  

I remember hunting decorated eggs,  though NEVER this beautiful.  To have found eggs like those which you see in this basket would have been incredible.  No, the eggs my sisters and I found were these very faint pastel numbers with our names crudely written across them.  

Mother always decorated our eggs.  Picasso she wasn’t.  She got the idea that using a birthday candle to spell out our names across an un-dyed egg would work.  In theory, I suppose, was that the wax was supposed to have repelled any absorption of the  dye.    It kind of worked, though as time went by, mother got bored and resorted to initials.  

But then, as I got a little older; the Easter bunny wouldn’t make it to my house at all. 

One morning I woke up, peered out to the front yard and saw nothing.  There was no trace that he’d been there.    I woke my parents up and tearfully informed them of his horrendous oversight and they told me through intermittent yawns that the Easter  Bunny called them late the night before and told them that he broke a paw after falling down at an apres ski party in Gstaad and wouldn’t be able to make it our house that year. 

 He didn’t make it the next year, either.   Embarrassed that they’d forgotten to “bunny up again”, mother nudged daddy that Easter morning and he sheepishly gave me some lame excuse about Mr. Bunny being audited by the IRS for the tax years 1963 and ’64 and was up to his ears in legal trouble.  

I semi bought the broken paw bit,  but would/could the IRS be so cruel as to audit the Easter Bunny????  I simply stopped believing after that.   

In the small South Texas burg where I was raised, we celebrated Easter just like anyone else.  We got up, went hunting for ugly eggs, played with a few stuffed animals, nibbled on a chocolate egg or two when the Paters weren’t looking,  got dressed in our new Easter finery which included crisp crinoline petticoats, gloves and hats with elastic chin straps that hurt when they were popped or chafed because they were so tight.

We’d go to Mass, came arrive back home to a feast of baked ham, scalloped potatoes, green beans, a spring salad and invariably for dessert, a homemade yellow cake with white icing and on the icing was green tinted coconut to look like grass and Jelly Beans to represent Easter eggs.

How is Easter celebrated elsewhere?

Well in England, ham is also eaten and this special cake is made and served at tea time.

 It’s called a Simnel Cake, a rich fruitcake covered with a thick layer of almond paste (or marzipan for the kitchen literate). 

A layer of marzipan is also traditionally baked into the middle of the cake.

Eleven egg-shaped balls of marzipan are then placed around the top to represent the 12 true disciples (excluding Judas).

 Originally the Simnel cake was a gift to mothers on something the Brits called “Mothering Sunday”, which usually fell in mid-Lent.

 I do believe however, that here in the colonies, we call that, “Hallmark Scores Big“…or rather, “Mothers’ Day” which for us, occurs in the month of May.

In Mexico, Easter is celebrated with mass, family gatherings and cascarones.  These are hallowed out egg shells which are then cleaned, dried and filled with confetti, glitter, tiny bits of paper or whatever one can get out of the huge three hole hole puncher found on Cranky Catherine’s  desk.  She’s the woman no one likes,  but who’s been the receptionist at your father’s office forever.   

Traditionally, these are cracked over the head of an Easter reveller.  It’s tremendous fun, especially when glitter gets caught in your eye and all those tiny lacerations caused by those tiny, thin shards of sharp tinsel burn like fire.  Just Heavenly!!

In Budapest, overweight women who really should know better than to wear floral print, festively decorate large eggs in the same town square where 67 years ago, Nazi  troops shot innocent people, JUST because it was Thursday.

In The Philippines, street parades are held on Good Friday with people carrying large crosses to re-enact Jesus’s walk to His crucifixion.

In Australia,  hot cross buns are served for  Easter breakfast. These are a sweet fruit bun, which may have a cross on top. Children exchange Easter eggs, which are  usually made of chocolate.  Some chocolate eggs are also in the shape of cheeky looking rabbits, but in recent years Easter bilbies have also been made.

The bilby is a  very ugly native animal in Australia that looks like an insipid cross between a rat, a rabbit, a possum and an aardvark.   It’s as if nature found that it had all these spare parts leftover at Creation.    It just said, ”Well hell.  Let’s just toss all these extra things in to a salad spinner, give that bad boy a whirl and see what kind of crazy shit we get”.  

And voila!!!    The bilby.

It’s an endangered species, from what I understand.  Australian chocolate manufacturers are doing what they can to help.  A few years ago, they started making Easter bilbies and they give a portion of the profits to help protect these ugly ass critters from full extinction.

And back home, in Washington, DC, the Annual Socilialist Vernal Equinox Egg Roll is a great time to be a kid with a basket in hand in search of festively decorated ova strewn all over the White House lawn. 

Here, Premier Obama and Speaker of the House Pelosi, kick things off with a rousing speech about their rejetion of an international economic order sustained by private profit, alienated labor, race and gender descrimmination, environmental destruction and the brutality involved in upholding the social order and the violence used to defend the capitalistic status quo. 

Yes, this photo IS proof that all things with BIG EARS can be extremely frightening.

I mean Santa is one thing, but you be a little kid and get shoved in the lap of a HUGE humanoid rabbit with large buck teeth and the most menacing expressions and try not to cry.   

Big, huge rabbits are scary.

For example:

.

.

.

Steroids???

.

This next one is very strange.

It looks as though it’s part rabbit and part something that would be worshipped by black robe wearin’ coven members who think Satan is their pal.

 
.

.

Oh Petulant Lepus, be not angry and sullen…. 

.

Or dastardly…

.

Or vomit inducing…

.

Happy Easter, kids.……………………………………………………………………….

…………….  

..

.

My Blog Turns Three

.

It was balmy on that late March evening in 2007. 

A friend had called to ask how my most recent bout with unemployment was faring. I groused and whined and bemoaned my situation and wondered who I’d pissed off in a previous life to have been dealt such a horrific hand.    She suggested I start a blog.

I beg your pardon? 

A blog, she repeated.  

What in the hell is a blog?

An on-line journal of sorts.  Others can read it.  Come on, it’ll be a great way to channel your creativity and keep your name out there.

Out where?

In the blogosphere.

The blogosphere???   What the hells is that?   It sounds like it could be the surname of an ex-Illinois governor impeached for abuse of power.

I tried it and within days, I got hooked.  I don’t know why blogging can be so addictive.   I think I got into blogging for the same reasons I got into broadcasting, but not everything I write is a masterpiece. I have plenty of people who think I’m an idiot; an asshole and a rank amateur as a writer.

That bothered me ast one time, but I stopped allowing it to be a drain.  It’s way too much work to think yourself that special or to think the loudmouth stranger who deigned to tell me such a thing, had an opinion that was worth a damn.

Perhaps, but I’d like to think that I’ve evolved quite a bit since March 31, 2007.  Three years later, I’m wiser, less vulnerable and far less concerned with all the things that initially got me into blogging.  I no longer care about hits and views.  It’s no longer about being named Blogging Queen or being incredibly popular.   I DON’T care to meet other bloggers, as some do and I try never to refer to myself one. 

I’m a writer, dammit Spock.   Ive tried very hard not to get sucked into that blogging culture where everyone calls everyone else by their blogging name, which for some reason, really bothers me.

I love writing, but there’s actually a lot about the art of blogging itself that kind of galls me.  As a result, I’ve thought about calling it quits when my blog reaches a million hits. I decided that when I turned 50.  Well, that was a year ago.   A hell of a lot has happened since then.  I’ve not shared most of it.  That means it was sensitive subject matter for me.  It’s been the kind of things I had to work out privately;  in my head  as opposed to here, in a very public setting for all of mankind to read, assuming, of course, that all of mankind reads my blog. 

Which it doesn’t.

So, there you have it:  my blog is three years old. 

 I don’t know what the future holds.  I’m not particularly happy in my new job.  I’ve been rather closed mouth about things.  It’s not that the job is all that bad, it’s just that I can’t function in the general population.   I’m recidivist– only truly happy and content and feel safe in prison.   And by prison, I mean broadcasting.  

I’ve fought the admission that I miss the industry.   I suppose admitting it means I’ve not evolved.  Everyone tells me there’s life after TV and radio.   Then, why do I miss it?   I’ve tried to convince myself and anyone that would listen that I wanted out; that I was eager to live life without a mike in my face or a Program Director on my ass.  The reality is that I know nothing else.  

Therefore, I”m in a state of flux, which I think is somewhere near Nebraska.   I don’t know what the future holds.   Will this blog live to see age four???    Who knows and really, who cares.   Life will go on if I pull the plug or if you decide to never return.

But I suppose in some ways, if I’m the entertainer I’d like to believe I am,  if you make the effort to make my writing regular aappointment reading, fine.  Even though I don’t make a dime on it, I must–as that miscreant Dr. Phil would say–get something out of it. Theres’ reward in there somewhere.  I’m just not recognizing it outright…

Or maybe I am and just too embarrassed to admit that I’m that emotionally needy.

Well, be that as it may.  The real issue du jour is my blog and for the third year in a row, I thank you, my readers;  regular or irregular, incontinent or not.  You have given me a reason for writing.   I’ve given myself permission to write, too.  

Sp, thanks for finding me funny or so journalistically intriguing or so utterly ridiculous that you keep coming back for more.   

I will, to the best of my ability,  keep you coming back for whatever reason that compels you to do so.

Happy birthday, Blog.

I pray that at the ripe old age of three, you’ll get to work for once and start making your old lady some money..

 /’