TWalter

Walter Minter Tarpley was my best friend.   We had a strangely initmate love/hate relationship that only a gay man and a straight woman can have.  Our disagreements could divide a nation; our good times bordered on criminal but life with Walter was fun.    

He didn’t believe in much, except that a good time was had by all and he lived his life that way.    His carelessness bothered me at times, then again,he made me realize that I wasn’t really the hip, happenin’ chick I thought I was.   He was liberal.   Tim Robbins liberal.   I was Conservative and aging to the point of being politically on par with Elizabeth Dole, save for the fuel injected Southern hair.  

We argued about the ever growing abyss between the two parties, but we cared a great deal for each other.     I thought we’d be friends forever; but forever only lasted just over two years.

He died two years ago; July 4th 2007.    I can’t let an Independence Day go by without thinking specifically of my best friend and how his life changed mine and how his death, altered the way I look at life.

I wrote this post two years ago.     I republish it today.

For Walter.

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Twenty years ago, I dreamed of meeting one man that I could be friends with for the rest of my life…one man to laugh with, cry with….share my most intimate thoughts with.

He was given to me on a warm and sunny August day in 2005.

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Walter came into my life quite by surprise, but hardly by accident. He sent me an e-mail at the radio station where I worked. It took no time at all for us to become friends and when we did, I found that I adored Walter.He was devilishly handsome, brilliant, crass but polished, opinionated, fearless, acerbic, openly gay and hilarious.

To me, he was Perfection.

He was also a tortured soul. As was I, when we met. One would think that two fractured people would just create a pile of emotional shards. But that wasn’t the case with us. We seemed to provide the bonding needed to keep each other together. I think it was laughter that served as the consummate adhesive. We became best friends.

My relationship with Walter was rather cloistered. Few people understood our connection. I’m not sure even we understood the degree of our closeness. That was fine with us; we preferred it that way. When other people listened to us speak, it was as if we were speaking Esperanto. We jokingly said we spoke “TarKen”; our own language which was interspersed with many expletives and the requisite “Filthy” and “Dirty”, all spoken in a feigned British accent we used.

Few “got us” and that was OK.  We held on to each other, only letting go only when the other stepped free, but even so, the bond was never broken.Nor can it be. We were content  knowing that we’d found each other. We were happy to have found a certain “punctuation” to the paragraph of our lives.

We just clicked…my cup to his saucer—mismatched, chipped and crazing down the center, but still beautiful, even in it’s damaged state. Perfectly flawed.

Walter entered my life at a time I needed him most. He brought joy and laughter where there was none. He helped me learn to live again.   In fact, he was best time I’ve ever had. He felt like home. Comfortable, safe and secure. Like a hug, accented with the aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, wrapped in a soft, familiar blanket.   He never dismissed me or made me feel anything less than extraordinary.

He was never aloof, nor did he ever exist passively in my life. He was a willing participate–fully involved, concerned and more importantly, he was there when I needed him. We were good about being there for each other. Walter understood that Life is inconvenient. So is Love. Neither will ask for permission. Both can be obtrusive. He was never too busy for me, even when I was. H e was kind in the sense that he never decreed me as anything other than one of his very best friends. What an incredible honor!

We had our disagreements. They were legendary. And vicious!! Imagine a film recording of Joan Crawford telling off the board of Pepsico on a continuous loop that plays at painful decibels.We never stayed mad at each other;  at least, not that long.

Ultimately with Walter, I always felt loved. Unconditionally so. I could be thin, pudgy, hair perfect or teased up to a dizzying Elsa Lancaster’s Bride of Frankenstein height. I could be sans make-up or with a full compliment and wearing something that fashion-wise, would’ve have been considered only luke-warm from five seasons earlier. That didn’t matter.

To Walter, I was always just Laurie. No pretense.

To me, he was always Walter. No pretense.

One night he asked me why I couldn’t have been born a gay man. On that particular day, I had to fire six members of my staff. I was crying in his arms. I was wearing this silk blouse with, pink feather scuffs. I looked up at him, mascara streaming down my face and said, “Take one look at me, Walter. Look at what I’m wearing then take a gander at my make-up! I have to ask you, what makes you so sure I’m not?”.

Our friendship was enduring and so incredibly special. W e had this idea that we’d grow old together. That we’d live long enough to comb gray hair, use our AARP discounts at dinner, complain about arthritis and those damn kids and their crazy music. We thought surely one day, I’d be Blanche to his Baby Jane. Aging wouldn’t matter as long as we could view the process through each other’s eyes. Together.

But the Universe had other plans. It gave me Walter, but the one thing it couldn’t give me was a relationship with him that could be measured in years. He was only in my life for a mere 23- months. That was all. Even though I have many brilliant memories that could rival the most dazzling, star-filled constellation, I must state that this is all so incredibly unfair.I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I’m still not. My first hello to him–seemingly uttered just yesterday– still resonates on my lips!!

I wanted more time. I needed more time for one last look at his wonderfully handsome face; one more chance to absorb the warmth of his smile; to hear that wicked, wicked laugh; to read his soulful eyes; to feel the touch of his hand.

God, I sometimes question your existence and the pain I feel right now is representative of one of those occasions. But if you are real…if you do exist, then please give me strength.Help me fully understand this conundrum—that sometimes, people are put in our paths for special reasons. Is it because sometimes, it’s to force us to give of ourselves and sometimes it’s for us to receive? If so, then that means sadly, tragically, these beautiful, divine human gifts must also leave our lives for special reasons.

Why Walter left mine is something I’ll never, ever understand,  ut I know why he came into my life. And that was to save my life  and I’m a much wiser and richer woman for my all too brief experience with this angel.  In some ways, I’m alive,  here today because of this man.  I love Walter and always will.

His death cannot negate my feelings or the relationship I’ll continue to have with him. The love lives on because I do. And I live on because this precious man gave me a reason to do so.   His friendship gave my life back to me.

I went to his memorial service and saw his ravaged body lying in the coffin.   He would’ve hated that.   He would’ve loathed how his make-up had been applied and how badly he was lit.    I made myself look at him.   That wasn’t him, but I needed to see him one last time.   I fought the urge to cry as I touched his drawn face.   I stood there and smiled for a few fleeting moments when I thought about life and how everyone has to die.    This was Walter’s time to go, but unlike everyone else, Walter also knew how to live.  

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Twenty years from now, I’ll dream of how I met that one man who I wanted to be friends with for the rest of my life…one man I laughed with, cried with…shared my most intimate thoughts with.

And I’ll remember how he was taken from me on a warm and rainy July day in 2007.

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It was a game show that prided itself on being rather progressive.  It pushed boundaries in terms of it’s risque entendres and even as a kid, The Hollywood Squares made me laugh. 

A BRIEF HISTORY

It began as a black and white pilot on  CBS in April of 1965.   That pilot was hosted by Miss America pageant host, Bert Parks and the original seats in all nine squares were kept warm by Cliff Arquette as his comedy persona and alter ego,  Charley Weaver.   (Trivia:  Cliff is the grandfather of Roseanne Arquette of “Desperately Seeking Susan” fame and her sister, Patricia Arquette, of  TV’s “Medium”)   Wally Cox was there, as was gravelly voice Rose Marie, her Dick Van Dyke Show co-star, Morey Amsterdam; Jim Backus (the voice of Mr. Magoo and of course, Thurston Howell, III from “Gilligan’s Island, 1960’s B-lister, Abby Dalton;  Canadian warbler, Gisele Mackenzie,;50’s TV game show host and walking ashtray, the painfully thin and pointy looking, Robert Q. Lewis and actress, Vera Miles.  

CBS shot a second pilot hosted by someone named, Sandy Baron, but chose not to pick up the show’s option with either host.    It hung around in Goodson/Toddman limbo for about a year or so before it was snatched up by NBC.     Network execs chose Peter Marshall as host, a job he held for fifteen years until 1981. During most of its daytime run, it dominated the ratings until 1976.

While The Hollywood Squareswas a legitimate game show, the premise of the game largely acted as the background for the show’s comedy in the form of the zinger/joke answers.  Contrary to popular misconception, Paul Lynde’s often hilarious one liner responses were extemporaneous, out-of-the blue gems of uncompromised hilarity.    The show’s writers gave the lines to the stars prior to their “real” answer. The stars were also given question subjects and plausible incorrect (”bluff”) answers prior to the show.     So, yes, they were briefed before production and that helped them with bluff answers, but they were otherwise hearing the actual questions as they were  asked on air.

I figured the the stars were given pithy responses before hand, because let’s face it,  John Davidson, Vincent Price and Julie Newmar weren’t exactly known for their comedic prowess.

And that’s what made this show so funny.     Read on to remember some hoot from many, many years ago.

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Q.  Paul, what is a good reason for pounding meat?
A.  Paul Lynde:  Loneliness!

Q. Do female frogs croak? 
A. Paul Lynde: If you hold their little heads under water long enough. 

Q. If you’re going to make a parachute jump, at least how high should you be
A. Charley Weaver: Three days of steady drinking should do it. 

Q. True or False, a pea can last as long as 5,000 years. 
A. George Gobel: Boy, it sure seems that way sometimes. 

Q. You’ve been having trouble going to sleep. Are you probably a man or a woman? 
A. Don Knotts: That’s what’s been keeping me awake. 

Q. According to Cosmopolitan, if you meet a stranger at a party and you think that he is attractive, is it okay to come out and ask him if he’s married? 
A.. Rose Marie: No wait until morning. 

Q. Which of your five senses tends to diminish, as you get older? 
A. Charley Weaver: My sense of decency.. 

Q. In Hawaiian, does it take more than three words to say ‘I Love You’? 
A. Vincent Price: No, you can also say it with a pineapple and a twenty.. 

Q. What are ‘Do It,’ ‘I Can Help,’ and ‘I Can’t Get Enough’? 

A. George Gobel: I don’t know, but it’s coming from the next apartment. 

Q. As you grow older, do you tend to gesture more or less with your hands while talking? 
A. Rose Marie: You ask me one more growing old question Peter, and I’ll give you a gesture you’ll never forget. 

Q. Paul, why do Hell’s Angels wear leather? 
A. Paul Lynde: Because chiffon wrinkles too easily. 

Q. Charley, you’ve just decided to grow strawberries. Are you going to get any during the first year? 
A.. Charley Weaver: Of course not, I’m too busy growing strawberries. 

Q. In bowling, what’s a perfect score? 
A. Rose Marie: Ralph, the pin boy.  

Q. It is considered in bad taste to discuss two subjects at nudist camps. One is politics, what is the other? 
A. Paul Lynde: Tape measures.. 

Q. During a tornado, are you safer in the bedroom or in the closet? 
A. Rose Marie: Unfortunately Peter, I’m always safe in the bedroom. 

Q. Can boys join the Camp Fire Girls? 
A. Marty Allen: Only after lights out. 

Q. When you pat a dog on its head he will wag his tail. What will a goose do? 
A. Paul Lynde: Make him bark?  

Q. If you were pregnant for two years, what would you give birth to? 
A. Paul Lynde: Whatever it is, it would never be afraid of the dark.. 

Q. According to Ann Landers, is there anything wrong with getting into the habit of kissing a lot of people? 
A. Charley Weaver: It got me out of the army. 

Q. It is the most abused and neglected part of your body, what is it? 
A. Paul Lynde: Mine may be abused, but it certainly isn’t neglected. 

Q. Back in the old days, when Great Grandpa put horseradish on his head, what was he trying to do? 
A. George Gobel: Get it in his mouth. 

Q. Who stays pregnant for a longer period of time, your wife or your elephant? 
A. Paul Lynde: Who told you about my elephant? 

Q. When a couple have a baby, who is responsible for its sex? 
A. Charley Weaver: I’ll lend him the car, the rest is up to him 

Q. Jackie Gleason recently revealed that he firmly believes in them and has actually seen them on at least two occasions. What are they? 
A. Charley Weaver: His feet. 

Q. According to Ann Landers, what are two things you should never do in bed? 
A. Paul Lynde: Point and laugh

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Ever  notice that on early black and white episodes of “The Andy Griffith Show”, anyone NOT from Mayberry or neighboring Syler City always spoke as though they had Brooklyn accents?    Even if someone was  visiting from Raleigh,  he always sounded very New Yorkish.    Hhhh’mmm…..refresh my memory:  both Carolinas (before division) rooted for the gray team which represented the states south of the Mason-Dixon line, did they not????

I’ve often wondered about filming in 3-D.   Seriously, how do you give dimension and virtual tactility to film?    Also, I’ve discovered if you watch large screen TV with 3-D glasses on, you can also see a varied form of what you’re viewing in 3-D.   It only works in that which was filmed in color.   B&W don’t cut it.  Try it.   Especially after having a few drinks.

What really makes an airplane fly?  Yeah, I know it’s all about thrust and lift and speed, but those concepts confound me.   I don’t get flight,  especially when I watch the jet engine of a plane all heated up and creating it’s own friction, thus propulsion and I have to marvel at how the damn thing can fly.   God only knows how one of those HUGE military Hercules transports loaded with tons of equipment, jeeps and tanks bound for Iraq, can even roll along the runway, much less take-off and fly.   And think about this:  what really keeps these gigantic sons of bitches in the air?   How can a few big engines, a couple of flaps, a rudder, speed and a pilot defy gravity?

I’ve often questioned how allergens work to affect our bodies in such ways.  Congestion, hives, rashes, gastric distress, swollen body parts and even death in the most severe reactions.   Why can some people eat the hell out of peanuts and others can’t exist being anywhere in the presence of an open bottle or  can?

What purpose to ticks serve?  I mean really.  Do they eat aphids?   Do they create a delightful, human serving coagulant when they bite down?  One that can be harvested and turned into currency among the Inuits?    I think not.   I hate ticks and I hate raisins.  Therefore, ticks are unemployed raisins.   But I like grapes.  I only hate what dehydration does to them.

Cheerleaders.  Now, don’t get thy Hanes in a wad.,   I was a cheerleader in Jr. High and High School, so were my sisters and so was the woman who’s uterus incubated me for the bulk of nine months.    But really, what purpose do these people really serve?   Can a football team win a game without their cheers and screams for “defense”?    Do basketball players actually stop in the seconds before throwing one from downtown  to see if a cheerleader is encouraging him enough to sink it with nuthin’ but net?   Or are they just eye candy for frustrated pervs and sources of envy for the rotund, female Almond Joy addict?    

I liked being a cheerleader because it required even more people to look at me and know my name.   But  being popular often lends itself to being even more disliked.   So, the question beckons -  cheerleaders:  generators  of spirit OR wanton exhibitionists???      

YOU DECIDE

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Yeah.  Thought so.

I mentioned gravity earlier when extolling my ignorance with flight. Just for a second, try wrapping your head around gravity.  As w discussed, planes defy it, buildings defy it…gymnasts, too but countries  and continents also spit in its face.  

Go get a globe.  I’ll wait.   

(Insert  ’Jeopardy  ’theme….)

What?  OK then, look at a photo of one.   Go look at the South Poll and explain that to me.  How is it that people walk upright while traipsing around on the ice  down there?   Then go up north a bit and take a gander at the southern most tip of  Chile:    Tierra del Fuego.    It’s more down under than Australia, yet people are fine.    They drive, walk, fly…they live perfectly good lives, save for the occasional junta driven coup d’tat.

And finally, what about prayer?   It’s a global activity.  We all do it in varied forms; sometimes it’s called wishing.  Even so, can we look around us and believe without a doubt,  it works??  Is there always a catch involved?   Joy and jubilation for those who believe prayers are answered;  defeat and suffering for those with reason to believe their divine petitions were never even heard?

Believe it or not, the images below are all examples of answered prayers.

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So, does prayer (in its simplest definition) really work?

I suppose that depends on what you pray for.

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But I’m afraid this time, you’ll have to, Mikey.

I thought I’d go ahead and share my feelings on a very mournful day for Hollywood and former pre-pubescents from the early 80’s. Let me say this first: I am sorry that news of Farrah Fawcett’s death some five hours earlier has been overshadowed by the media overkill that is being given and will continue to be given to MJ’s death. Farrah spent the last five years of her life living it in pain. Cancer isn’t always a death sentence, but in reality, it often is.

I’m sorry Farrah died. I was by no means an ardent fan, despite her being a fellow Texan and I was way too heterosexual to find her anything other than a pretty young woman. Even so, I think when she got sick, she was strong as long as she could be and put up a worthy fight against this malignant nemesis. True, having fame and money helps; it supplies the troops and ammo needed to fight the battle, but all the money in the world can’t reanimate a body horribly, viciously ravaged by cancer. Death is often the only reprieve when that’s the case and today, Farrah Fawcett finally found hers.

 But Michael? His death is preliminarily being blamed on massive heart attack and rumors are circulatin that hard core prescription drugs may have played a role.  But there’s something about the oddness in his life that kind of makes you think dying in the way he did could be the ONLY way to add final punctuation to his life sentence. I first became aware of this small, talented nubian male child in the late 60’s. The Jackson Five’s first chart topper, “A-B-C”, served as my first introduction to their music. A few years later, in the fall of 1971 when I was 12-years old, I had matured enough to associate some emotion with his songs, namely “Got To Be There” and “Ben”. Then, by the spring of 1973, as I was finishing up my eighth grade year and preparing for my Freshman year in High School, I forgot all about Michael Jackson.

That is, until early 1980 when I was finishing up college in Austin, Texas. I remember eating eggrolls on the floor of the apartment of a gay couple with whom I’d been friends. The radio was on and as as the Top 5 Countdown started counting down, the number 5 song that night was MJ’s newest single, “Rock With You”. That song started his meteoric second career rise and he was untouchable…until he started allegedly touching a lot of young boys in inappropriate ways in the early 90’s. His fate was sealed then. His career took a slam and really, would never recover. He started hemorraging money and when that happens, “friends” can rarely be found. He fought off criminal charges, lawsuit after lawsuit and reacted accordingly by getting new noses, new cheeks, lips, dangling  his oddly named baby off the railing of a balcony in Germany, speaking with such a soft, high lilting voice that sounded like he’d been a lifelong member of Castrotti and of course, blaming vitiligo for his ever increasing mellanin decreasing.

That, my friends, is called a ‘deep end” and Michael Jackson went off of it with a two mile running start. It was said he had kept the Elephant Man’s bones in his home; he had a chimp/love interest named Bubbles. He slept in a hyperbaric chamber, married Lisa Marie Presley in one of the oddest pairings since vodka and iced tea and he had an unusal penchant for children. Where did this odd behavior come from? I’m thinking Papa Joe Jackson. I met a friend for cocktails earlier today. We’d just heard the news that Michael (who by the way, at 50 was just a few months older than me) had just died of an apparent heart attack. My friend insisted that Michael’s slick and hip dance moves were actually learned much earlier in life, when Michael was a child. Those slides and whirls and twirls and moonwalking were actually things he learned to dodge Joe Jackson’s belt in one of the crazed bastard’s ritual “ass whoopins”.

I think Pater and Mater Jackson knew their talented kids could get them out and keep them out of all those “hard times” in Gary, Indiana. It’s been said that Joe was exacting and a task master and probably secretly (and maybe not so secretly) resented his sons – Michael in particular, for achieving more in his young life than Joe had in all his years on Earth. What you’re about to read is no great globe shattering treatise on Michael’s life or psychopathy and what I’m about to impart has probably been said before, but personally, I don’t think Michael was a pedophile. At least, I doubt that was his initial intention. Now, wait a minute—before you order the tar and feathers, permit me to explain.

I think Michael was robbed of his childhood. He was just eight when he started fronting the band with his four other brothers. How many eight-year-olds do you know who have full time jobs, travel all over the world, apepar on Sullivan, Carson, are interviewed by Mike Douglas AND have a huge fan base of pudgy, acne faced pre-teens screeching their names? As a child, Michael was forced into having a particular priority that he didn’t want and perhaps, never understood: to help make the Family Jackson more financially solvent. Think about it: that’s a hell of a lot of responsibility for a child and a young Black child in particular, who was entering the Anglo dominated world of entertainment just as the water from the high pressure fire hoses in Selma and Birmingham were just starting to dry out.

Michael was surrounded by adults on an almost continuous basis. Record mogels, sound engineers, agents. He probably got to play some with his brothers while on tour but keep in mind, they were several years older. The truth is, Michael wasn’t allowed to be a kid. He grew up physically, but not emotionally and when he had so much discretionary income, he made every attempt to experience a childhood he never got to have. I submit for your perusal: Neverland Ranch with it’s llamas and Ferris Wheels, carousels, roller coasters and whatever else Disney was no longer using in California or Florida. I think he looked in the mirror and was confused by what he saw versus how he felt. I have no idea what really happened inside Mike’s Neverland manse. I’ve heard all about the “Jesus Juice” and other things he’s accused of using to ply these young boys into submission. And if anything ever happened, I’ll be the first to publicly admit these actions are completely despicable, not to mention, illegal and unforgivable. I’m not excusing his actions, I’m merely examining possible explanations as to what might have prompted all of his odd behavior.

In closing, Michael Jackson lived as he died – in the spotlight. But it’s more of a spotlight still burning from the past. In the early 80’s, he was a god. Worshipped by throngs were mere days away from seeing his image on a flour tortilla. He had money beyond the dreams of Avarice, but as with Farrah Fawcett, inall the moneyall There were triumphs and disappointments, gossip and innuendo, facts and fiction, drugs and sobriety, happiness and sorrow. He was a lonely man in a sea of humanity. He wanted love and never really found it. It’s ironic that he literally died from a broken heart.

But irony knows celebrity, though. It knows it well. In fact, it was there when a fast living  James Dean died in an even faster car.   

It was there when  comedian Sam Kinison, having just achieved three months of sobriety, was driving his Trans-Am on a Nevada highway in 1992. An extremely drunk teenager hit Kinison’s car with his truck and killed the funny man.  Just as Sam was getting a grip on the demons of addiction that plagued him, he was killed at the hands of someone who was carelessly indulging in his own.

RIP…across the board.

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Hello.   My name is Laurie Kendrick.  You might remember me from such blogs as the one you’re currently perusing.  

Since this  is the age of Change, courtesy of  the Man currently dwelling at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, in our nation’s capital, I have decided to comply.   Change is painful, but vital.    So, I’m officially declaring this old blog to be null and void, though it’ll remain up and open and readable at least until Brad and Anjelina decide to marry and adopt a male Yap Islander with webbed toes, between the ages of 34 and 36.  

So until then, feel free to read the ass out of my archives, but with this exception, there will be no new posts on this blog.

I know what you’re wondering.   You’re probably thinking, “but Kendrick has such an ego?   What will she do for an outlet?”.  How sweet to think me that conceited and according to some complete tools here in Houston and living in near the Shepherd/Durham vicinity of the city’s near north side, I’m completely self- absorbed, too.      

Then call me a walking Kotex with wings because perhaps, I am.   But hey, if my issues prove to be a humor enfuser for you and your life, because we all know that laughter is restorative, do my character flaws really matter?  

I think not.   Therefore,  vanity, thy name is Laurie because I have it on divine authority that there’s a new blog here on the sphere and it is and will what this old blog was and more.

Check it out, won’t you?   Cleck here.

And remember:  no seating after the curtain goes up, no cover charge any time, please remain a full six inches from your screen whenever reading and NO TOUCHING!!!!

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I want to make something perfectly clear:  the selfishness and deceit of someone else didn’t force my hand regarding the termination of my blog.  I don’t always lose my mind, every time I lose my man.   My God, if that were the case,  I’d be Rosemary Kennedy in a lithium colored party dress, standing wall-eyed in someone’s garden on Martha’s Vineyard, playing a tambourine without the metal jingles.   

You see, I have to be honest with you–I make horrendous choices in men.  I find replications of my father and that turns me into the real Goodbye Girl.   In fact, I’m marriage primer.  If you want to find the woman of your dreams and get married, date me.    Invariably this always happens.  I’m a marriage repellent and while this is true, it’s decidedly NOT the reason why I’m stopping the blogging process.  No,  I stopped blogging, mainly because I grew tired of constantly feeding the beast. 

Comedy is easy; but that’s only when it isn’t difficult.   I don’t always think people understood my humor and that’s fine.  I didn’t always hit a home run, but I never cowered while up at bat.  And yes, sometimes I got dark and brooded a bit and sometimes I wrote from what’s left of my heart.   Writers should never be one trick ponies.   I’m proud of that fact that I could negotiate the creative lines.

While blogging had its merit for me, it got to the point where I no longer  cared for the blogosphere that came with it .    It had gotten too clickish for me.  I am reminded of  snooty sorority girls on the University of Texas campus, circa 1977.   People hide behind anonymity to argue, to insult….to woo.  It’s become something of a meat market for the nefarious  and let’s be honest, these wiley tightwads know  it’s certainly cheaper than e-Harmony.   As a result, it became too predatory for me.  So that, coupled with the daily wear and tear on my creativity  comprise the reason for my wanting out. 

I could blame the Internet, but I won’t.   The Internet is an amazing  thing.  Al Gore should be completely laughing maniacally about his vainglorious  creation,  but it can also an impious arena.   It allows  some to be obscured, cloaked in fantasy and that allows to do anything we want; we can pretend to be anything we need to be.    Words paint the perfect mosaic and if we’re gullible and vulnerable enough, we get sucked in to to each syllable. .  We get conned and believe  the horseshit thrown our way because if we’re needy and desperate enough, we’ll find a way to deny it all, by distorting reality.   At the very least, we’ll pretend that bullshit is part of the courting process. 

Not long  ago, I wrote on my birthday post that often, we  don’t love wisely.  The runs the gamut, too.   Husbands, wives, girlfriends, old friends, family…business associates.   In our search for OUR needs and OUR wants, we’ve eliminated empathy from the equation.   We hurt each other and feel no remorse.  Oh yes indeed…we lie, we cheat and we steal.   Maybe not in terms of the law, but I assure you, larceny is involved.

Deceit for some is a skein of wool, to be played with at their liesure, but every ball of yarn comes unravelled and loses it’s appeal.    That means the ruthless little cat fucker needs to find another one.   He gets so bored so easily when someone discovers the chink in his armour.  What fun is it then to play when you can no longer pull the wool over someone’s eyes??    

I’m not here to preach.  I’m imperfect;  I’ve hurt people before, but I’ll tell you what, after lessons learned in the past few months,  I’ll never do it again.    You can’t play chess with someones emotions.  People are too fragile these days and once hurt, it’s difficult to recover.

But the strong do just that:  they recover and inevtiably they learn that disappointment is an unavoidable fact of life .   Heartache while damning, can also be used as an educational tool, IF we allow ourselves to be enlightened enough to view it in that way.     I now have an almost Pavlovian response to assholes.   I’ve aquired an early warning system of sorts.   Discerning this has been lesson to learn.    

Color me wiser.

As for ever blogging again, I’m still contemplating that.  You can take  the blog away from the writer,  but a writer still needs an outlet and dare I say, validation, too.  So, if I come back,  I’ll do so after a break and  IF I do, I’ll damn sure blog under an alias.    But I’ll let you know when and where I land.  If you’ve ever left a comment, you left your e-mail address.    At least most of you have left legitimate ones.   When the time is right, I’ll send out the mother of all mass mailings.

For the time being though, I’m taking a very healthy step toward self- actualization and perhaps in an oddly distorted way, this blog has helped me do this.  Time will tell, but for now,  thank you all for your support.  Even you assholes.   You actually made me a better person, once I realized your damning comments were your manfiestations of your problems; not mine.

In closing, I can only say that every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.

And then I’ll also leave you with this:   It’s a horrifying thing to see  death coming at the hands of your own creation.  This is true of Oedipus and his father;  Baron Frankenstein and his monster; and metaphorically speaking, of Laurie Kendrick and her blog.

But I know a decent priest, a shrink and an alchemist.  

See you soon.

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This morning, I woke up and heard a bird singing in the tree outside my balcony.  I stepped out to listen to it.   It’s shrill discords echoed in the quiet of the morning.   I listened for a while, then picked up a small a log and threw it in the general location of the singing little prick.    Today is not for joyous song; today is for dirges.

You see, there is a funeral to attend.    

There’s been a death in my family.  It wasn’t an accidental death; it was due to self-inflicted belief in something intangible…an ideal.    Laurie Kendrick  was someone I knew, but admittedly not that well.  From what I understand, she was kind and tried to make a difference… in her world, at least.  She was smart and funny. Well educated; the pride of some part of Karnes City, Texas.   She made people laugh and when she walked in a room people noticed.  Heads turned.  But oddly, they never noticed when she left.

Today, we bury what’s left of her innocence and her ability to trust.

In other words, we bury her.     

Laurie Kendrick  was 50.  She had no children and she never married, but  a few months ago, she  felt she had one shot left at finding that elusive brass round thing we all hope to grab  hold of.     The ring turned out to be zinc and her grip was never secure enough.

There will be no funeral service and no internment.    Unhappy endings have no start or finish. 

They just end.

She is survived by a cat and a blog.

♦

Actually, band and pep squad, this is my last blog post.  I am retiring.    I’ve been contemplating quitting  for several months now and a recent event has convinced me it was time to go.    It won’t be easy, because I loved this little blog,  it suddenly stopped being relevant in my life.  In fact, I had to come to terms with the fact that it had become a hindrance and ultimately it’s ended up bringing  me more heartache than joy.    Blogging  took over my soul for a while, but not any longer.  Sometimes, spinning your wheels and looking at a menu from which you are forbidden to order,  just leaves you exhausted and empty.   Very, very empty.   Yes, I did indeed loved my blog, but it’s also leavning me feeling rather empty.   That’s why I find it rather odd now that my one time reason for living is now my reason for leaving.

Heartache was the reason it began; defiance is the reason it is ending.   But it won’t kill me.   In fact, it’s the reason why I won’t go quietly into the goodnightof post relationship malaise.   Business relationships, personal relationships, friendship….all of efforts of human contact.  I can talk big now and try to convince us both that I’m fine and in a way, I am.  And in a way, I’m angry as hell, but then again, arrears of faith always hurt. 

My God, life is so strange.   Ifyou listen, Change is audible.  It has a crescendo.   It gets louder as it approaches and then once it’s made its presence known—-deafening silence.    You open your eyes and listen.    Reality is harsh.   It always sounds like pain.

But enough of that drivel.   I’m going out into the world to apply salve all over my life and then, once my wounds have healed, I will endeavor to seek self-actualization and maybe in the process, I’ll discover why my life has been this ridiculous lightning rod for emotional chaos and the intgrusion of goddamned soul crushers hell bent on spreading it.

Then, once I realize my actualized self (the new and improved Teflon coated La Kendrick),  perhaps  I’ll do a little fishing, learn how to knit, tinker in my workroom, become a Joe Biden groupie.  Maybe, I’ll start a one-woman show about the life and times of  TV’s Screech from “Saved By The Bell”.  Perhaps, I’ll do a little restorative stand-up around the Houston area while searing those in my past who I once thought would be in my future.   And the audience will think….”Oh yes, Laurie Kendrick.  I remember her. She’s still pissed.???  Wasn’t she once a man???”  

Maybe I’ll take some classes at Berkeley and try to grasp the concept of doing nothing for something.  Maybe I’ll determine how to find the problem to the answer.   Maybe I’ll head east and sit in on Sotomayor’s confirmation hearing and make fart sounds every time someone stands up or bends over.    

There’s a chance I might start writing critiques of  fine wines and then in a fit of whimzy, I’ll crank e-mail several Napa area vintners and tell them that Mondavi is Italian for swill. 

Hopefully, I’ll learn to stop forcing so many issues and trusting so easily.  Love is so important to me.  But finding it is alot like searching for those intrepid little Lady Bugs.   Look for them and you’ll never a single one of them.   Forget about them…relax, do something else and they’ll be all over you.

Life’s like that and I guess I’ve been forcing the issue.

Perhpas, this self-imposed blogging free zone will result in my writing a book  or two. 

God help him, if I do….

So, thank you all for your support. You’ve been great. I think a few of you have been with me from almost the beginning and I am indebted.  

You have helped make this one of the most memorable two years of my life.   Color me jaded, yes, but educated, too.    I will emerge ash covered from this unwitting Phoenician lair, a much stronger woman.   

So, onward kiddies.  Move forward.   Proceed through the blinding dissonance of  words, while learning the real, inarguable definition of what hopeful is and what heartache isn’t.    Never confuse the two.  Never toy with someone’s heart.   If you needsomething in your life; to quell boredom or to put  texture in your life,, do it by adding kindness, respect and charity.

And remember what I’ve always said about endings:   never, ever look back.   It will only turn you into a pillar of Mrs. Dash.   Hurt feelings yes, but  even in the midst of ruined Maybelline, we must always watch our salt intake.

LK

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Should we  assume  when a nationally known pet food manufacturer insists that it’s new, improved product now  has a new and improved taste, they’re telling the truth?    Does the phrase,  “four out of five dogs prefer the flavor of new and improved  Beasty Chunks”, actually make a difference to you and your shopping list?

When the ad proclaims, “Hey kids, tell your mom you want Chunk o’Chocolate, now with 25% more Brazil nuts!”     Do your kids hear the commercial and then jump up and spell out “Hurrah” in semafore?     Or are most kids up and dictionary bound to find out what they heck a Brazil nut is?

Or…

“OxyWash now has Freindium Paranoidathol cystals.   Just don’t get none onya”., says the announcer. Mr. Big Voice.    Then you think you yourself,  “It’ll kill my family, but By God, my clothes with be cleaner and brighter than ever!!”

We are all humans, I think.  That being the case, why is there a part of our consciousness that believes a good part of everything we’re told?  Why do we beleive a great deal of everything we hear?  

Because when it’s new and improved and promises love and hopes and dreams, we desperately want to believe it’s true.

Or is there another part of us that’s just  the opposite?  We doubt the sincerity of any and every thing  that we’re fed?   We’ve become just that jaded??  

I’ve often thought about cops and detectives, who deal with liars on a hourly basis..   They develop a sixth sense about the truth and the people attempting to extol it.    Suddenly, lies become palpable.   They can hear a lie being told from a mile away and in a way, seasoned cops can almost feel them.  They have texture.

There are those who can lie at the drop of a hat.  But the world consists of smart people who are stupid liars. The bad liars, you’re embarassed for them, but the good liars…they”re impressive.   To watch them at work is something to behold.   They don’t need to preface everything they say with a very pregnant, “Uh………….” at the beginning of every lie- filled sentence.    They’re smart enough to pull from their mental quivers one of a million different scenarios they have their disposal.  And this brilliant recall happens in less than a fraction of a second.  Amazing, really.

One more thing:   never lie to a liar who’s smarter than you.   You’ll lose every time.

Some men will turn on the romantic charm  and promise the moon for a crotch conqeust.  Anything to seal the deal, while many women, play the fairer sex, femme fatale bit to the hilt.  We know when and how to become completely obsequious and allow our men to engorge their egos,  as we allow them to think that they, the rulers of the roost, are smart and wise and the fixer of all things broken and/malaligned.   

Women.  We’re a brilliant species, really.   Far more advanced in many, many ways and I don’t say that just because I am one.

We have to be manipulative and able to cajole, gear and steer at the drop of a hat.   Men , now you can snipe  all you want, but I firmly believe that  you’re  happier men as a result of this.   Your egos need our bolstering.    And it’s really not all that one-sided.  Actually, we’re all aware,  at least subconsciously so,  of what we’re doing to each other.   It’s in our genetic coding for men to woo and women to wow.   You know, quid pro quo.  Ultimately, a woman’s intrusion supports the man’s intrustion.   It was all part of the divine plan.

Then, there’s that old adage that we’ve heard forever.  “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks”.   That’s even more of a reality for people.    If a woman is a steadfast liar at say…age 45 and has been for decades, unless a dramatic life  altering event occurs forcing her to change,  she’ll  always remain a lying, scheming bag of nag.  

If a middle aged man is and always has been a sociopath, completely devoid of empathy, sympathy and concern; a compulsive liar, delusional, selfish,  lives all alone and presents agoraphobic tendencies because he has the social skills and personality of a traffic cone, and therefore, frightened to death of intimacy and ONLY allows his self involvment in his “work”  to be his only consort, well, he isn’t going to change either.

Gee, that was oddly specific …

I’d like to hear from you.   Tell me your horror stories.  I want to learn about the strangest, weirdest, most mentally fractured whack job, Hitlerian thinking, virulent jerk you’ve ever  dated, ever were engaged to, married to or paired with at work.  And tell me how you  broke it off, ended it, got out of it, etc.  The demented partner can be male, female, gender debatable, I really don’t care.  

Basically, I just don’t want to feel all alone and that stupid.

Thanks for your input.

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I would like to believe that people come to my blog for a myriad of reasons.   I hope their primary reason would be because they want to laugh, to emote.  But lately, there are those who have come here to call me a political idiot, completely unfunny, a “Dennis Miller Wannabe”.   They question my IQ, my genetic coding, call me a hack and so forth.   

It is for this reason, that I often peruse the search engine terms on the administrative portion of my blog, just to see how visitors arrive in order to read my vainglorious, but yawn inducing fest of  prolix.   

Dennis Millerish?   Hardly.  He’s been writing like me for years!

Despite that fact, I get the strangest search terms tha tbring people to my blog:

• A lesbian reach around (???)
• exposed frozen cat nipples
• lewd behavior/HS principal
• crotch conquest
• corn and your rectum  

That’s just to name a few. 

I also get plenty of emails from people curious about a lot of things.  Why they ask me, I’ve yet to determine.  I’m just an unemployed journalist who blithers almost daily on a blog.  Nevertheless,  I get asked about writing, quantum physics, astronomy, entomology, psychotropic drugs, emotional pathologies, child rearing, stained glass making, crocheting, nuclear fusion and of course, the inner workings of the excretory systems of mammals, reptiles, rodents and someone’s 84 year-old  Uncle Sherman.   The questions literally run the gamut.

In fact, a  Mr. Richard Feder from Ft. Lee, New Jersey recently wrote in and asked,

“Dear Laurie,

Why is bird doo doo white?

Signed,

A Mr. Richard Feder

Ft. Lee, New Jersey”

Well Richard, thank you for your query.  Let me preface this response with the following: I am not, nor have I ever been  a veterinarian, nor  am I an ornithologist….hell, I don’t even like raisins,  but I will try to answer your question to the best of my limited ability.

Bird caca is chalky-white because it consists of this chalky-white paste which the White Coats call urate.  Urate is made of uric-acid crystals which are a by-product of bird kidneys. What you actually see is the color of the whitish crystals.  Now, within the urate is a chunk of stool–doo doo, caca, poo-poo, Number 2, fudge, a pinched nasty. a chocolate Linsday Lohan.   This piece is usually hard and tube looking, and gets its color from the bird’s diet. 

Bird feces is also  an good indicator of the bird’s health. That’s one of the first things veterinarians look for.  You see, checking doodie is their duty. Fecal hues range from greenish for birds who eat plant seeds and green vegetables,  brownish for brown birdseed, and even a reddish color for those birds who eat strawberries.

For shrimp-eating seabirds, it’s pink!  

Tippi Hendron in "The Birds" as interpreted by Barbie, performed at London's Royal Albert Collins Hall, Circa 1967

Then, that can ONLY meen that the poop of the birds that feasted on Tippi Heddrin’s hair in “The Birds”,  must be the color of Miss Clairol Morning Mist Blond Shade #4A???

To top it all off, bird poop contains a tiny sprinkle of urine. Why only a sprinkle, you ask? “Aside from the ostrich, birds don’t have bladders and can’t carry a lot of water around. They’d be too heavy to fly

and that’s why  ostriches can’t fly”, explains one bird brain at small college in Florida.

As mentioned above, caca color can indicate a myriad of things, including poor health.  Abnormal colors like red urine and urate may be signs of internal bleeding (other than a diet of red berries).  Brown tinged urate may also signal lead poisoning, and green or yellow urate may mean liver disease.

This colorful spectrum could also be an indicator of poor health in humans.  

So, the next time you “shit a rainbow”, I suggest you seek  medical attention immediately.

♦

Well, there you have it.   I guess this could be the first in a series of posts I’ll call “Ask Laurie”.  Therefore, if you have a question that you’re just too damn lazy to Google or inquire at Ask.com yourself, send it to me via  e-mail and I’ll make every effort to copy and paste the answer from somewhere and then make a joke out of it.  Be my first victim(s), won’t you?

I can be reached at laurie industries at gmail dot com.

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(Sorry, but this a re-post from  last summer.  I have been busy and felt uninspired and not very creative, so this is your minimum daily requirement of Laurie for  today.   Oh and Aniche, my darling, I’m a writer; just like you.  That means I write all kinds of stuff.   NEVER, EVER think that I could or would become nothing but a “proper, serious writer”.   I write  in all kinds of genres; but I’m a comedy writer by trade and by preference.   Even so, please know that I’m very serious about everything I write.    Thanks for stopping by.   It’s been forever.)

♦

A friend called me late last night, rousing me from a blissful Unisom/Benadryl/Valerian followed by Vodka induced slumber.

You see, I am Laurie of the Non-Sleeping Kendricks, so when I can manage to get a couple of hours of shut eye, it’s something of a triumph for me and a rare one at that. But because we hadn’t talked since well before Elliot Spitzer fell from grace and allowed prostitutes to blow his political career (wait–did that come out right???) , I forgave my friend for his indiscretion.

We talked about a variety of things; namely my days of living along the Texas/Mexican border. He asked if I’d been there lately and I told him that I went early last summer. I was there for only a few hours, but it was good to go back. Mexico has such a vibe. Well, sadly these days the vibe could be deadly. The drug cartels have just ruined the country. They’ve all but destroyed Nuevo Laredo, a once thriving town (and a damned fun town of well over a million people) that lies just across the International Bridge at Laredo, Texas.

In recent years, there have been deadly shoot outs on the streets of Laredo, including one which took place not far from one of Nuevo Laredo’s most prestigious neighborhoods, Colonia Longoria, a beautiful area that was home to some of the cities wealthiest families. Old oil and ranching money. It was a skirmish between Mexican troops, a couple of tanks and from what I understand, what’ was left of a branch of Pablo Escobar’s very heavily armed family of drug lords.

Anyway, there are a few cities along the border that are still safe. One of those is Acuna, right across the Rio Grande river from Del Rio.

So, I went there a few summers ago to satiate my Mexican jones. And yes, as they say, “when in Rome; do as the Mexicans do”, so we partied .

It was a wild time.

But the wildest time I THOUGHT that I had had was that which experienced once I arrived back in Houston.

So, the next thing I know, I’m standing in front of my door and for some reason, my key didn’t work in the lock. Good thing I kept a spare battering ram on my key chain. Two good hits and the door opened.

Well, apparently, my cat Charlotte did EXACTLY what I told her not to do in my absence. She had a huge party. Debris from a good time had by all, had been piled up by the door. Tender Vittles had been crammed into the keyhole. How I hate kitty party hijinx!!

I could feel the anger rise from within. I left strict instructions for her NOT to have anyone over, much less a party!

My place was wrecked. The litter box was filled to capacity. Apparently, when that was filled to the brim, my carpet served as vomitorium from the night before. There were horked up hair balls all over the place.

I made my way into the dining room. Catnip and rolling papers were on the table in plain site. Empty bowls of water and milk were strewn about.

A lamp was lying on its side. My leather couch had scratches all over it.

Some of my rare, vintage LPs from the early 70’s were all over the floor. Cat Stevens was blaring out of the speakers.

And just where was my furry, quadru-ped daughter/child?

I opened my bedroom door and to my shock and dismay, I saw little  cat clothes strews everywhere.   My bed was also in dissarray.  Sheets tangled up; the comforter had been kicked off the mattress.  I looked out on my Astroturfed deck and there she was in a bikini, reclyning  on lounge chairs, with a filthy, dirty, shameful Tom cat, also in a woman’s bikini!!  

What sicko, perverted shit  had my kitty/daughter been up to???

The only words that could tumble forth from my lips were “Whore, slut!”

The filthy neighborhood pimp daddy feline grabbed his collar and hissed at me as he ran passed. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Good thing too—I was livid.  He was still in his bikini.   Oh, how I hoped the other tomcats would see him dressed like that.

Charlotte was obviously embarrassed and place a beach towel on top of her scantily clad body.

“Young lady! I raised you better than this!!! What do you have to say for yourself?” I screamed.

Charlotte just started at me, blinking slowly as if to absorb my questions.

“Answer me!!” I demanded.

‘Meow”.

Yes NOW, I want you to explain right this minute!!!”

“prrrrrr”

“Per me, that’s who!”

Silence.

I went back inside my bedroom and demanded that she followed.   She jumped up on my on bed and I sat down beside her.  Charlotte merely  stared into space. She seemed different, more adult looking.  I told her to to get dressed, but keep swimsuit on.   Kendrick women are known for their ardent attention to mammary support,   I composed myself before I spoke, I’d felt absolutely nauseated at the thought of my beautful furry child engaged in vile  carnality with that…that…filthy Orange Tabby. I realized then that it was too late to have that special mother/daughter talk.

“Look Charlotte–I love you, but this is extremely risky behavior. You’re a Kendrick–you were raised on Iams, not Cat Chow. You’re accustomed to the finer things in life. Do you want to throw all that away? You will if you continue this way. Do want to ruin your life by having your first six to eight kittens by the time you’re a year old?”

She still just stared at me and licked her front paws.

“I guess some of this is my fault. I shouldn’t have left you alone. You weren’t ready for this kind of responsibility. What do you say we just write this off to bad judgment and having access to excess, OK? Help me clean up and we’ll never speak of this again”.

She looked relieved. She then jumped off the bed and onto the kitchen counter. I kicked aside some cat toys which were littering the floor and just shook my head while assessing the mess.

I turned my attention back to Charlotte.

“Well, Miss Kitty, before we bury the subject, I do believe I have a right to know who you were with in my bed”.

Whenever the cat has her tongue, Charlotte will start performing pantomime, which she did in this case. Her front paws were circling about wildly and after a few minutes, I got the gist of what she was trying to convey. It was something about Greeks or maybe it was the Greek alphabet.

Yes, that’s it. She was trying to explain something about the Greek alphabet.

As best as I could figure out, the male she was canoodling with was fat and Greek. No wait! That should be the words Greek and frat. As in fraternity. And I think she was trying to tell me “Sigma”…..yeah, that’s right. Sigma. But Sigma what?

“Mew”, she answered.

“Sigma Alpha Mu???? The Jewish college fraternity?”

“Really???? Charlotte, this is wonderful! You’re dating a Sammy? A nice Jewish male???? Your great, great grandmother Esther would be so happy!!!!”

I was practically spinning like a Dreidel, elated by my daughter’s choice. Then, I stopped and asked, “So, my beautiful feline, what’s your new Jewish boyfriend’s last name?”

Charlotte ripped off her four tiny bras and exposed all eight of her teats and in her little feline voice shouted at the top of her lungs, “KATZ!!!!!!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke up in my hotel room the next morning, head pounding and unable to move my my face.   The remnants of mascara and sweat from the night before had somehow compounded into this incredible polymer that had literally glued my right eye to the pillow case.

As I tried to separate my face from the cheap percale, I realized that slamming back Mescal Tequila on a wild Saturday night in Mexico with four dashing Latinos all named Paco will make you dream some weird shit.

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