Tell Saint Peter by Michael Alan Gill

It seemed easy enough at first.  I’d seen all the guys that I admired doing it.  Leonardo DiCaprio, John Wayne, Steve Buscemi—All a different class of guys, and they all did what I was trying so hard to do.  The flame whipped around in front of my face.  I lit my liter, dangling my first cigarette closer and closer to the flame with each second.  I stopped before it was lit.  It seemed easy enough at first, but it wasn’t—taking that first drag on my American Spirit was a difficult task.

I’ve always been a smoker.  I love a good pipe smoke after a meal, with a glass of gin if possible, and I’ll smoke a cigar anywhere; but this—this was different.  I’ve never inhaled tobacco smoke purposefully.  But here I was, sitting in the living room of my one bedroom apartment—an apartment that was specifically a “non-smoking” apartment—stressing out about whether or not I was going to be able to do this like some punk-ass kid, concerned about the level of appeal he has to the world.

“I’m just going to do it,” I told myself.  “I’ll light it, cough, and get it over with.  I don’t have to smoke more than one tonight, and I’ll get the hang of it in time.”  Again, I flicked the flint on my lighter, again I dangled my loosely clinched American Spirit in front of the flame, and again I stopped before it was lit.  It seemed easy enough at first, but it wasn’t—mustering up the stones to inhale the smoke produced from flaming tobacco leaves.

I just finished watching a Stanley Kubrick film called “Full Metal Jacket.”  After just one watch, it shot up to the number one spot on my top five favorite movies of all time—a spot that used to be held by the romantic comedy (500) Days of Summer.  Nobody in the movie smoked, that I remember.  But I do remember a bunch of guys running around, grabbing their crotches, and chanting, “This is my rifle, this is my gun.  This is for fighting, this is for fun.”  What a weird bunch of guys.  I was distracting myself from the task at hand—by the end of the night, I was supposed to be a smoker, and here I am thinking about a fictional depiction of Marine Boot camp.  And to think, it seemed so easy at first.

I could really go for a beer.  I’ve got one bottle left—a Belhaven Scottish Ale, sitting comfortably in my refrigerator, chilled to perfection and just dying to be drunk.  But I’m busy—I’m trying to force myself to light up a cigarette and smoke.  It was kind of funny.  There was no one around aging me on, telling me to do it.  No one was yelling, “What’s the matter, LaRoux?  Ya Scared?  You a chicken?”  No one, that is except for myself.  “Damn it,” I thought.  “When I finally finish doing this, I’ll probably have a good story for the Bohemian.  I’m sure those artsy pricks will love reading about how I forced myself into a tobacco addiction in a matter of seconds.”  Artsy Pricks—how dare I call the fine readers of the journal that.  Hell, I’m the same kind of person.  I love reading about how people get flung into addictions and things—it’s very entertaining.  I was out of line to think that anyone was a prick.  What I was really doing was trying to distract myself from the task at hand.

Holden Caulfield was very winded.  He was young, but he was always out of breath.  By the time he’d finished telling his story to the guy at the psych-ward, he had started smoking all the time.  Holden Caulfield is one of my favorite literary characters.  He’s the main protagonist—if you can call him that—of the book “The Catcher in the Rye” by J.D. Salinger.  Just because I like this book doesn’t mean I’m going to assassinate the president or anything.  I just liked reading about how this crazy son of a bitch spent his time in New York City.  He sure was a cool guy, Holden Caulfield.  But thinking about him—even thinking about why he was winded—is just another distraction.

“I’m done.  I’m not going to play around anymore” I told myself.  “I’m just going to light this damn thing and smoke it.  It’s that easy.  Puff puff, cough cough, and I’m done.  I can go back to watching Kick-Ass on Netflix.”  I opened a word document on my computer.  “Maybe writing about what I haven’t done yet will help.”  I began to type.  “It seemed easy enough at first.”  I kept typing and typing, mashing away at the sticky keys on my keyboard, in hopes that this inspirational event would trigger a great story, and that this great story would trigger the courage—if you can call it that—to light up a cigarette.  It didn’t.  837 words into it, I was ready to stop writing.  I paused—or, I should say, I am pausing.  Now, I’m picking up my green tinted 10 cent lighter that I purchased from the gas station down the road.  I twist the flint dial on the lighter twice, on the third time it lights up with an opaque yellowish flame.  I grasped the cigarette in my right hand, between my index and middle fingers and forced my face closer and closer to the lighter.  Finally it was lit.  My first American Spirit.  I inhaled the tobacco into my lungs, sure that I was going to begin coughing.  The cough never came.  I guess I’ve accidentally inhaled enough tobacco from cigars and pipes that the smoke doesn’t affect me anymore.  Still, I felt this strange burning sensation in my lungs.  “Lung cancer,” I thought.  “That’s the first sign that I’ve forever screwed up my lungs.”

I kept dragging–taking slower and slower breaths, hoping that I could continue typing while concentrating on this strange light-headed feeling that accompanied me.  “Am I dizzy?  Man, I could sleep really well after a few of these.  I should probably give the journal at least 1500 words though, so I’ll keep writing.”  It’s not as bad as I’ve heard it would be, smoking.  In fact, I think it actually helps me write.  I continued typing, only this time, not using my index finger—it was incapacitated, trying to grasp my American Spirit.  After a few slow, long drags on the cigarette, I was hooked.  I’d fallen in love with another vice—just what I need.  I won’t say that I didn’t cough the entire time that I was smoking.  I didn’t cough a lot, but I did cough.  I started blowing smoke through my nose, admiring the beauty of it in my glowing computer screen.  It seemed easy enough at first, but it wasn’t.  Lighting up that first cigarette was incredibly difficult.  Lighting up the second one won’t be so difficult.

“Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette.”  When I was a kid, me and my best friend would ride around on our bikes with a small CD player, listening to old country music.  This friend—Nicholas Johnston was his name—was obsessed with old country, while I was into bluegrass and rock ‘n’ roll from the 70s.  But, I’d tolerate old country.  It was good.  The song that we’d always sing along to had those words in it—“Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette.”  He and I chanted those words like a drunken choir up and down Oakdale Street, Winnsboro, Louisiana.  “Nick,” I said, “do you think you’ll ever smoke?”  “I don’t know,” he responded, staring at the street with a contemplative look on his face.  “What about you?”  “I don’t know, Nick.  I’ve always thought it was pretty cool to look at, but I’ve heard it hurts.”  “That’s what I’ve heard, too,” Nicholas responded.  The song continued, “Smoke, smoke, smoke and if you smoke yourself to death, tell Saint Peter at the Golden Gate that you hates to make him wait, but you’ve just got to have another cigarette.”  He and I screamed those words up and down our street, never fully grasping how different we’d end up.  That memory just went through my mind while writing this.  I’m not sure if it helps the story or not, but I couldn’t help but share it.  “Tell saint Peter at the Golden Gate that you hates to make him wait but you’ve just got to have another cigarette.”

While writing my essay about smoking my first American Spirit, my cigarette went out.  There are only so many drags you can take on a cigarette before it goes out.  “Damn it,” I thought.  “Now I’ve got to light up another one.   I wonder if it’s going to be as pleasurable.  I wonder if I’m going to have to think about it for a long time before I do it.  I guess I’ll have to find out.”  I pulled my second American Spirit out of the packet, lit the lighter, and stared, ominously into the flame.  It seemed easy enough at first, but it wasn’t.

Whispers at the Crossroads (2)- Brandon Reasoner

Whispers at the Crossroads- Brandon Reasoner

(continued)

Upon entering my humble abode, smack dab in the center of Waco’s finest ghetto, I was met with the faint, lingering scent of white copal. The sweetness of which allowed the shackles and fetters of contemporary ‘reality’ to shed from my being like the
dry, lifeless scales of a king cobra in blue. The stillness of the hour was something immaculate; accented by the steady rhythm of gentle raindrops dancing on the surface of the roof.  The daylight, faint and diffused through the rumbling clouds outside, entered through sheer lace curtains; highlighting the soft contours of the velvet floral sofa that awaited my horizontality. I glided towards the window, watching the crows and grackles congregate outside; amidst the weeds and climbing vines. Smiling and with an innocent chuckle, I admired the uncompromised freedom of these creatures as I blessed them with a grateful sigh. I opened the fastened window to allow the freshness of the early spring-time breeze to attend my company as I partook in one of my favorite late after-noon pastimes. Proceeding to initiate “Operation Thunder Bong”, I lounged casually in that vast velvet throne as it seemingly swallowed my body in its enveloping and comfy embrace.

I fell deeply into myself with each passing breath, amazed at the intricacy at which the tiny spider in the corner of my living room ceiling weaved its geometric tapestry of sticky silk. It was as if I had become that spider for a moment. The steady beat of my heart was as the rhythm of the universe, pulsating and reverberating through the vast stretches of space and time. Transparent rainbow chords harmonized with the celestial song of spheres that flowed with the tides coursing in my veins. Each on simultaneously melted and mingled with every fiber of my being.  The web was alive. Each crossing thread was a nexus point of infinite possibility, a passage into varying shapes of eternity.  Before me was a window into the unseen forces from which all form is manifested and multiplied through a process of endless reflection.

Slipping deeper into rapture, my trance was painfully broken by the cacophonous racket of the telephone.Irritated as hell, I hopped to my feet to answer that damn thing.

“Hello?”

“Hi Mr. Del Sool..Del Sooly..?”

“It’s Del Sole. Who is this?”

“My name is Brenda from Von Carrion Credit Lenders,
and I would like to offer you…”

“…Look lady, I’m not really interested in anything
you’re trying to sell…”

“…But sir, for only …”

“…I’m sorry, ma’am but I’m really not interested…”

“..It’s a limited time offer, sir and I think…”

“…Damn it lady! I said no! Now take me off your
stupid list and quit trying to sell me your jack-assy bullshit!”

AsI slammed down the phone, I headed towards the spare bedroom that I had converted into a painting and drawing studio. For me it was a refuge, a temple of creativity, and a shelter from a world that had gone completely mad; drowning in its own excrement and fear-saturated self pity. I found a moment of clarity as I crossed the threshold of my own personal sanctuary.  The annoyance of idiot sales people spamming my phone was pushed from my memory. As I entered, I found myself examining a painting that I had been working on for the past week or so.

…(To be continued.)

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle review by Shadow

I was planning to write a book review for you, something informative and analytical, but I find that all I have to say about Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle is READ. IT. PLEASE.

It’s basically about one family’s decision to spend an entire year eating nothing but the foods they could grow themselves or buy locally and their adventures in creative dining, but on a larger scale it’s about the way our country approaches food. Problems: unsustainable agriculture, which produces massive amounts of food but slowly poisons the soil. Genetic modification of plants, which does more harm than good. Farmers unable to make a living, shoved out of business by enormous corporations. A nation that is utterly out of touch with where its food comes from, leading to a deep sense of wariness toward said food and a host of psychological and physical health issues.

The act of growing and making our own food connects us deeply to our human selves and the ground we live on. The act of sharing with neighbors, buying produce from farmer’s markets and gifting friends with homemade goods connects us with each other. Kingsolver doesn’t outright say it in her book, but eating local foods is about a spiritual reverence for our planet, our bodies, and each other.

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle contains profound insight into the convoluted workings of our food culture. If you have a digestive system and a basic grasp of literacy, you should read it.

Bohemian Adventure: Part 5, Alas, the Last by Jim McKeown

Our last night in New Orleans, so we decided to take it down a notch, but we failed miserably.

We left the hotel about 6:00.  Instead of turning right out the door to the “Million Dollar Mile” or left (how appropriate!) to the French Quarter, we walked straight across Canal Street in search of a quiet restaurant with something besides seafood and/or Cajun dishes.

We passed a couple of places, but nothing fit.  Then we stopped at Tommy’s Cuisine to look at the menu posted on a window near the door.  Suddenly, Ramona said, “There’s Anne from Vanderbilt.”  Ramona obtained her MLS from Vanderbilt and went on to work there for 16 years.  One of the great things about going to conferences is reconnecting with old friends.  Ann got up from her dinner and came out to meet me and give Ramona a big hug.  They had not seen each other in quite a few years.  Ann recommended the restaurant most highly.  I had liked the menu, and when we went inside, I was hooked.

The restaurant was quiet, with dark, wood paneling from floor to ceiling.  An army of uniformly uniformed servers and busboys scurried hither and yon.  A chef came out of the kitchen and approached a table to greet a regular customer.  I could only think of one thing: Paris, France.

The hostess – also dressed entirely in black like the servers – seated us immediately.  Our server, Chris, brought us bread and water — prison fare not in any way predictive of what we had to look forward to!  He explained the daily specials, and we ordered.

We started with Oysters Bienville.  This dish consisted of fresh, gulf oysters baked with crawfish, shrimp, and fresh herbs.  I had turtle soup and Ramona opted for the shrimp and corn chowder.  We both got veal picatta, which is a dish of sautéed veal in a lemon cream sauce with capers.  Tommy’s version added flaked crab meat.  For dessert Ramona had bread pudding – a New Orleans staple – and I went with a hazelnut chocolate truffle.

Not only was this a fabulous, delightful meal, but our server Chris had a most accomplished and professional air about him.  He never hovered over our table, but I saw him and our bus boy keeping a close watch to refill bread, water, and remove plates only when we had finished a course.  Too many servers at the numerous chains in Waco constantly ask if everything is all right.

While drinking a cappuccino, I dropped a hint that I was a staff writer for a magazine, and the chef came out to ask us about the meal.  We had nothing but high praise.  I left my card and told him to check out the blog in a day or so.

Unfortunately, the evening came to an end, and we had to head back to the hotel for our last night of sleep on those sheets I mentioned in Part I.

Leaving New Orleans always gives a moment of pause – sadness for leaving, but joy at the wonderful memories, friends we made and revisited, sights we saw, things we heard and smelled and touched and the emotions we felt.  As we pack our bags this morning, we try and imagine how long it will be before we get back to The Crescent City, The Big Easy, “Nawlins,” our beloved City on the Mississippi.

Whispers at the Crossroads (1) – by Brandon Reasoner

Whispers at the
Crossroads

By
Brandon Reasoner

“You divide yourself by a process of reflection from me and are ever empty,
searching, desiring. Revert, then, to a time before divisions – a time of
wholeness and joy.”  (Liber 369, Book of Anubis)

_________________________

1

The air was thick; heavy with fog and the discontent of too many souls lost in their own petty illusions of existence. My cigarettes had gotten stale on me and I knew it was time to head home. I flicked the remaining remnants of my cashed-out square into a puddle that formed under the solemn boughs of an old live oak. I hesitated a moment before I left my seated position upon the French’s bench like headstone.  My attention was led to that puddle. Slightly, I slid my shades down the bridge of my nose. My eyes barely unveiled by the top of the frames, drawn to that pool of rainwater. As I watched, it was as if time had crawled to a near standstill. The droplets of water hit the surface and rippled gracefully across the outer skin of that delicate
and temporal sea of rhythmic distortions. I was in awe of the serpentine patterns that unveiled themselves to me, pulsating with a life and vibrancy hidden from the mask of common perception…A procession of primordial energy that nobody could ever notice locked in the limitations of three-dimensional, gross awareness.

“Perhaps I have journeyed too far with my fungal vacations and rides through ‘Cid town’, I thought. “In any case I should get home. I have work to do”.

There was a chill in the air. The waning winter sting drifted towards that mysterious place that holds the memories of yesterday; where tomorrow waits in utero.  It was early March and God only knew what the coming months and years would bring. The nation and world alike were being ravaged by a crumbling economy and the horrors of tyranny and bloodshed. The reptilian corpses, garbed in human flesh and fine suits ran the world. With a sly but none the less iron fist, they’ve been at the helm of all wars and destruction that has plagued our humanity and this island of Earth for ages. It seemed as those around me were in some sort of catatonic mental retardation. Unbeknownst to these misguided fools, battles raged in the desolate wastelands of irradiated deserts, giving the denizens of this Earth the progeny of malformed and broken houses of immortal soul. Meanwhile, in the lives of sheep, the drum beats of their anointed overlords ushered the sick masses to their nine to fives and their slow but steady journey towards an impending date with non-existence;  a fate worse than death or damnation. Still, the social architects could not help themselves but to rape and enslave us on our guided journey towards dreaded oblivion.

“Soon enough…” I said under my breath, “The poor bastards will see it.”

Bohemian Paradise: Part 4 & Bookstore Traveler: Episode #2 by Jim McKeown

Well, I did get up early to head back to the French Quarter and my favorite antique store – Whisnant Galleries on Royal Street, where most of the best shops do business.  Whisnant has an incredible collection of articles — some bordering on the bizarre.  A huge “alligator” mask from Papua/New Guinea dominates the entrance.  Also, African masks and figures, Chinese porcelain dating back over 2,000 years and up to and including Ming Dynasty pieces line numerous cases along both walls and in the center of the floor.  18^th and 19^th century paintings from France and America fill most of the limited wall space.  A 17^th century bronze Buddha, about 36 inches high, sits near cannons from the French period.  A tray of Greek and Roman coins and 19^th century helmets, gauntlets, and chain mail all only begin to scratch the surface of what this amazing shop has to offer.

All of this stuff soars way, way beyond my budget, but it sure is great to see these artifacts and art objects up close.

Next stop: my favorite book store in New Orleans, so this post will double as an episode of Bookstore Traveler.  Crescent City Books is at 230 Chartres Street.  The phone is 502.524.4007 and their website is www.crescentcitybooks.com.  Right now, their website is undergoing some reconstruction, so wait a bit before visiting.  It does have some interesting pictures of sections of the shop.

The downstairs contains tons of art, history, biographies, politics, government, as well as some newly acquired fiction first editions and a large selection of local authors.  The second floor holds all the fiction, science fiction, and literary criticism and biographies.

I found nothing during a preliminary search for a couple of my wants, but browsing stacks with other book lovers, looking for treasures, a missing piece of a collection, really has a charm unique in my world.  I do not believe a moment of this time could count as “wasted.”  However, a date for lunch, cut into my hunting time here.

My wife called to say she was on her way to The Gumbo Shop, my favorite lunch spot in NO.  I had chicken and andouille gumbo and a shrimp po’ boy.  Both were delicious.  The ice tea was a bit odd, but then I forgot it comes with chicory as does most of the coffee.  They have a lot of Creole and Cajun dishes, but their forte is gumbo and po’ boys.  You can’t go wrong there!

Our server, Brenda, was friendly and really knew all about the restaurant.  No surprise, since she has worked there for over 25 years.  She told us she left NO when Katrina threatened, and she came back the following October.  She was there when we came to New Orleans for the mid-winter library conference in 2006.  Fortunately, her home only suffered some minor wind damage.  She was far more fortunate than most of the city’s residents who were left behind.  She told us how much she loved the city and hoped she would never have to leave again.

That love of New Orleans is something you feel in the natives, in the servers, the shop keepers, the musicians, and visitors like us.  It is hard to explain a love for a city.  I love many cities: Philadelphia, New York, Charleston, SC, San Francisco, Paris, France, Florence, Italy, but I love New Orleans in a far different way.

Those other cities hold me with their memories, or their music, their restaurants, their sheer beauty, their art, and, of course book shops, but New Orleans has all those things to bind me to her.  The tragedy wrought upon this city still brings tears to my eyes.  Like Brenda, I hope it never happens again.

Well, that takes care of lunch, but where to eat dinner?  Seafood?  Cajun?  Creole?  Only time will tell!

PS: I have been taking pictures, but, for some reason, the software on my laptop gives me agita today.  When I get home, I will post a few pictures.

Bohemian Adventure: Part 3 by Jim McKeown

We had a dinner reservation, and we set out for the six-block walk to another favorite restaurant, The Court of Two Sisters.  We almost arrived late for two reasons.  Even though the sky still had lots of clouds, we decided against carrying umbrellas.  Of course, halfway there, it started to pour, and we had to huddle and rush from one awning to the next between bursts of more intense rain.

Then at the corner of the block with our restaurant, we saw someone I really wanted to meet: Grandpa Elliott.  He was featured in the video a couple of years ago of the song “Stand by Me” performed by singers and musicians from all over the world.  Here is the link in case you missed it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Us-TVg40ExM  Over 33 million views on YouTube!  It was a distinct pleasure to shake his hand.  He is probably one of the most famous street singers in New Orleans today.  I have looked for him for years.  Then, he got a phone call, so we continued onto the restaurant.

We entered the restaurant through a brick-lined arch which led to the bar.  That is when we first picked up the smells from the kitchen, and they were nothing but good.  The atmosphere was quiet – for the moment, as we were only the third set of diners seated.  On the other side of the room, several tables pushed together held about 12 women and two or three men.  We decided this was a “shelf” of librarians from the conference.  I coined that collective terms a few years ago, and we always have fun playing “Spot the Librarian!” at these conferences.

It was a little after seven as we got our menus, but we could already hear the beat of music through the back wall.  Bourbon Street was parallel to us, and it was a reminder that the music is always here in “Nawlins.”

This meal turned out to be the best of several great meals we had this weekend.  We started with escargot and mushrooms, then cream of spinach soup with crab, a Caesar salad – expertly prepared at the table by our server, Michael.  (So few restaurant do that anymore.)  For an entrée, my wife got the filet.  She wanted to make up for the regret she had last night when she ordered the fish, and then saw another diner’s filet.  I had shrimp, crab, and crawfish with penne pasta in a rich, creamy sauce.  For desert, we had our favorite, bananas foster, also made at the table.  Did I mention the wine?  We had a nice California cabernet – a surprisingly good house wine, with just a little hint of spice.

A slow walk back on Royal Street toward the hotel  took us past a book shop that opens at nine in the morning, along with a couple of galleries and antique shops.  Can you guess where I will be at 9:00 AM Monday morning?  I know this stroll will cap off a great weekend in “The Big Easy.”  I wonder where we will eat Monday’s lunch or dinner tomorrow night?

Bohemian Paradise: Part 2 by Jim McKeown

NOTE: Sorry this post is so late, but the hotel internet was down all day.

The night began at The Red Fish Grill right on Bourbon Street.  I started in grand New Orleans style with a “Cat 5 Hurricane.”  I honestly can’t remember the ingredients, but after two of them, who could possibly care!

The Red Fish is one of our favorite restaurants down here, not only for the food, but also the eclectic décor.  Obviously, marine life predominated, but the best part was the bar stools.  Each had a unique design – shrimp, lobsters, crabs, gators – all made of welded wrought iron and cut steel.  Laura Walton would be in heaven.  Light fixtures over the bar resembled open oyster shells, framing mirrors, and each with a pearl the size of a volleyball for garnish.

The smells of cajun spices wafted back and forth – moved by the slowly turning ceiling fans right out of the setting for a movie filmed in Casablanca.

We both had grilled red fish with wild mushrooms, shredded crab, and a lemon butter sauce, with potatoes and asparagus.  For dessert, the best pecan pie I ever tasted.

After dinner, we decided to walk around Bourbon Street.  Lights flooded the street in every direction and music of all kinds poured out of every window and door.  Street musicians filled in the tiny gaps between clubs.

It amazed me how many people were walking in and out of restaurants and clubs carrying drinks.  I know from the recent experience of a friend this is a decided no-no in Texas.

A party atmosphere prevailed all around us, and if it wasn’t still over 85 degrees at 9:00 PM, I would have sworn it was a cool, March night during Mardi Gras.  Everyone was dancing, singing, yelling, or clapping.  For extra spice, boudain, andouille, and gumbo reminded us this was a city known almost as much for its food as for its music.

A police cruiser, with blue lights flashing, raced across one intersection.  An ambulance followed, its siren drowned out the music for only a moment, then the zydeco, the banjos, the guitars, the horns, and the sound of dancers resumed control without missing a note.

Bourbon Street at Night

Monday is my last day, so I am going to hunt down those shops I mentioned in Part 1.  This “24-hour city” offers so much joy and happiness and beauty and plain old fun, I hate to leave.  I do so trying to figure out when I can come back.

Another Nerd is Born! by Jim McKeown

I have officially entered – quietly and with no resistance – the world of nerdity.

We are in New Orleans for the annual American Library Association summer convention.  Lots of free books, free pens, free calendars.  I have snared a couple of good advanced reader’s editions, and one published biography of King Edward the V of England.  I met the author, and she signed my copy.

Time after time at this HUGE convention, I take my glasses off to read something, lay them on a counter or shelf, and then walk away.  Well, no more sports fans!  I purchased a glasses hanger.  You know.  Those things that attach to your glasses which allows them to hang down for easy retrieval.

All I need now is a pocket protector for my pen and pencil.

Now, we are back at The Wall for rest before dinner on Bourbon Street.  A great restaurant lay ahead of us: The Redfish.  If I am in any condition, I will write and post the menu, and what I saw and heard later (much later!) tonight.

Bohemian Adventure: Pt. 1 by Jim McKeown

Our hotel overlooks Harrah’s magnificent casino and the “Million Dollar Mile,” lined with shops such as Gucci, Tiffany’s, and Saks Fifth Avenue.  As you can imagine, when we leave the hotel, we go out the back door to South Peter Street and a two block walk to Decatur and the heart of the French Quarter – Jackson Square.

The music, the smells, the sounds of Creole patois, the horse drawn carriages, the street artists and musicians as well as galleries, restaurants, antique shops, and clubs – are all here.  Unfortunately, the weather was filthy!  At 8 AM when we left the hotel, it was already 85 degrees.  By noon, the thermometer neared 100 with matching humidity.

Our first stop was Café du Mond.  Yes, we got hot coffee and a large plate of beignets – the delicious French doughnuts.  These puffy, 10X-sugarded little darlings have too many calories to worry about.  3 is always too many and never enough.  If you come to “Nawlins,” Café du Mond is an absolute must visit.  The café as been here since 1860 and is now open 24 hours a day, seven days a week.  It is always mobbed.

A long line meandered down the block when we got there, but it moves quickly, and we were seated in about 15 minutes.  The tables are small, and if you wait for a clean one, the wait will be unending!  Best to grab a table as soon as a party stands up; the server will come and clean and take your order all at once.

Then we walked around Jackson Square and looked at the art, we saw a couple of pieces we really liked, but we never buy the first thing we see we like.  If we are meant to have it, it will be there tomorrow.

When we completed the circuit of this small park, we detoured down a small side street with shops.  Several antique shops drew us in with interesting window displays.  I haven’t come across my favorite galleries and antique shops yet, but they might be just around the corner.  I’ll tell you about them next time.

About 11, we headed back to the “wall” between old and new.  Our hotel was picked, because it has the absolute best beds, sheets, towels, and robes we have ever experienced.  If you have never slept on 1,000 thread count sheets, you are really missing something.

But this is as near to the miracle mile as we will get.  After a brief rest, we are going out for lunch.  Tonight will be the time for some more bohemian experiences – music and food!

August 07,2004 by Esmeralda

If I could, I’d like to share one of the most significant moments in my life with you. August 7th, 2004 seems so distant now. It was a life-altering night, to say the least. But…

I can remember it like it was yesterday, even when it was actually nearly seven years ago. I was sitting on the edge of an emergency room table, in a hospital gown, alone, crying my eyes out. I had just been informed that the pains I had been experiencing a few hours before were not cramps, or  failing kidneys, but labor pains. Apparently, I was 6 months pregnant. I was only 16, with grandeur dreams of being a homicide detective, forensic science technician or medical examiner. And if that didn’t work out, I wouldn’t have minded being a veterinarian. My dream since childhood. For now though, I was trying to grasp the fact that I was about to be a mother. Not only  that, a mother of two. The doctor had confirmed early on that I was having twins. The more than likely cause of me going into labor this early and then into shock. Sitting there in that cold room, having been probed and poked, prodded and violated in every medical way imaginable, I wondered how I could have let this happen. I wondered how it was even possible because I’d had my period the last six months. And according to the well of general medical knowledge in my head, that was impossible. Right? So how could I be pregnant. Six months pregnant? How could that be possible? I was devastated. My whole world had begun to crash around me and all I could hear was the roar of my own thoughts, like the sounds of tsunami waves crashing against the shore. “How could you let this happen?! You’re sixteen, not invincible! How could you be so naive?! You’ve struggled enough in life and now you want to struggle forever?! You can’t afford a child?! You’re just a child yourself?! A stupid, insignificant child! No one’s going to forgive you for this. They’re all going to hate you!”

I  don’t remember much between the time I was on that table and when I was through delivering. Just fleeting moments here and there. Flashes of lights rolling by as I laid in a hospital bed being wheeled around. Nurses and doctors talking around me. Sticking and stabbing, peeling and pressing things onto me. One specific moment I remember is laying in the hospital bed waiting to go to an operating room, hooked to all sorts of machines, an oxygen mask on, drugged to near unconsciousness and my aunts talking to each other at my bedside. Or maybe it was my aunt and my mother. It’s hard to be sure. But I was vividly sure of what was said. They believed that I knew, that I was more than likely lying and had known the entire time that I was pregnant. They had no idea that I wasn’t asleep, and that I had heard every single word. Hearing that from my own family was heart-wrenching. I’d had a prior experience at a younger age with my mom not believing me when it mattered. But I didn’t think that the rest of my family was capable of it. But there it was. The way, it seemed, most of my family had truly felt about the situation. No one was on my side. I was sixteen so what could I possibly know besides how to lie, right? It’s what sixteen year-old pregnant teens do.

Amidst all of this chaos I also remember a nurse talking to me. Saying that she could give my babies a wonderful home with her sister. Her sister and her sister’s husband had been trying to have children for years to no avail, and all I had to do was fill a few sheets of paper out and they would have a wonderful home with a loving couple who was more than eager to have children. I had considered it. It was a logical choice being sixteen and a child myself. But that was a double-edged sword. How could a child make such a decision? So I sought out advice from the only person that I could, my mother. I informed her about the nurse and her offer, and if you ask her, she’ll deny what she said in response to this day. Something that she often does. My mother likes to hide behind the my-daughter’s-an-’A'-student-so-I-must-be-a-great-parent complex.

“I’m not gonna have any of my grandchildren raised by strangers.”

There was no second thought and that was that. I had no say in what I wanted my life to be after this, because I was raised to respect my mother no matter what, and she had made the decision for me. There was no changing it.

Another hurried flash of light and then I’m in a much larger room. There’s machine’s beeping, the sterile smell of hospitals and plastic fills the air, which I can faintly smell in the cold oxygen being pumped through my nasal canula. They put a sheet between me and my midsection and then I feel a sweep across my belly. Just like someone took their finger, swiped it across my belly, but with rather Herculean pressure. Then I remember feeling a shoving and pulling motion. I started to panic when I realized I couldn’t breathe. I was gasping for breath, imagining how they were just tossing around my guts, trying to save two little babies inside of me. My mother wasn’t there. Not that I can remember. So the nurse at my side told me to relax. That she had put a medication in my IV to calm me down. Then there was sleep. Lots and lots of sleep.

But there were no dreams, just a lot of darkness. As if my mind was too exhausted to even dream.It was as if my body had taken over, to let my mind get itself together, and keep itself from melding into a nervous breakdown.
It felt like I had slept for days, but it was just hours. I was woken up to be taken to see my sons. I had given birth to two sons. But when I was wheeled in to see them in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit), I immediately broke down. They were so frail.

Contained inside of these huge machines, were these two little angels without wings. They appeared so skeletal, hooked up to every machine imaginable. Oscillators shook their little bodies violently because they weren’t able to breathe on their own yet. Their eyes were covered with little masks because any sort of exposure would have stressed them and have done more damage than good. They had tubes through their noses to provide them with food. They were so small that the smallest diapers in the hospital wouldn’t even fit them. So they had small gauze pads as make-shift diapers until the specially ordered ones arrived. I fell completely apart. Upset at myself that I had done this to two innocent souls. That two human beings were suffering because I had no clue that they were growing inside of me. I was distraught at the thought that somehow I could have prevented this. I was warned by the physicians that they may not survive. That they perhaps would not live past the next 24 hours, and at the most three days. But to pray, because they had such amazingly strong hearts. They told me they would do everything they could, and that was all they could promise.

I don’t remember leaving.

But I must have left, because I awoke to a woman handing me documents to sign while dozed in and out of consciousness. Sign here, sign there. Fill this out, and that. All the while my heart was in pieces because I had single-handedly ruined my life, and the lives of two innocent children. I remember trying to choose their names. I had so much trouble. Maybe I just wasn’t good at naming things. Or maybe my mind couldn’t function knowing that I was now responsible for two lives. But I had finally settled on Mark David and Sage Logan.

I remember asking my mother how everyone was. Then being informed about how disappointed, and upset my three brothers were with me. She retold me the details of my brothers weeping over the phone at how their little sister had given birth. I was hoping my mom would’ve sugar-coated it for me. But what did I expect, I had brought shame upon my entire family. I had brought to fruition the very nightmare that parents have about their teenage daughters. I felt unwanted. Everyone’s life had ground to a halt because of me. Now everyone had to figure out how to function again with me plus two more.

ALL OF THIS, WAS MY FAULT.

That was the only thought in my head between the unconsciousness, sleep, and emotionally tortuous visits to the NICU.

When I was released from the hospital, decisions were made that I was no part of. I had done enough already apparently, and had displayed just how responsible I couldn’t be, so everyone ignored my opinions. It was decided that I would move to Brownsville for the duration of Sage and Mark’s stay in the Driscoll Children’s Hospital NICU in Corpus Christi. They had been recently transferred there because the facilities in Brownsville were unable to do more for them, and were more than excited to send them somewhere where they could be saved. It wasn’t as near, but were I to move back to Waco, it would be further away than the three hours Brownsville was. I was to move in with my aunt, change schools and GRADUATE. And once doctors saw fit that Mark and Sage could be released, I would return home.

I spent nearly six months there. I attended Los Fresnos High School. It was like my old high school. I was nobody, and I didn’t matter except to the small group of people who knew me. Teachers, my cousin and the secretaries in the front office. I wasn’t happy, but I was ok enough to function. During those months I spent most of my time on the phone with doctors, consenting to procedures over the phone. Blood transfusions, laser eye surgery, PDA ligation. I knew the nurses well, they knew my voice, and my face from the visits I would take every few weeks, thanks to my aunt and my mom when she was able to visit. Each visit I was taught the basics of child care with the extras of preemie care. Baby CPR, how to hook up apnea monitors, how to feed through a feeding tube, all the names and purposes of nearly twenty medications and much more. At seventeen, the boys were born the month before my birthday, I was undertaking tasks that some adults would not have been able to withstand and yet still have kept their sanity. I don’t know how I did it.

But I believe Mark and Sage had a lot to do with it. I drew strength from them on the days I didn’t think I could continue. On the days that I felt alienated from everyone, people in school, my aunt and her family. On the days I sat alone in that huge house while everyone continued on with their lives and their plans. The days I had to walk home from school for three hours, in a town that was a stranger to me, because my, sometimes overzealous, cousin would leave me at school. Even on the days when doctors would tell me there was a large chance Mark or Sage couldn’t survive the simplest of procedures, I drew strength from them. They were familiar faces to me in a sea of new people, new things, new places.

I returned home when I was released for Christmas break. Sadly neither Mark nor Sage were ready for release from the hospital at that time. But soon afterwards, Mark was able to go home and a few months later Sage followed. It was difficult with them both home. There were struggles, but I had immense help from my family, Julie’s family and Interim Healthcare, the nurses that were dispatched daily to my house to help with Sage. The past six years has not been without its struggles. Hospitalizations for pneumonia, the even deadlier RSV, for another round of laser eye surgery and the like. Visits with specialists from here to Fort Worth. Constant check-ups and follow-ups. It was tasking, exhausting and even frustrating at times, but I honestly would not change a single thing.

I’m glad to say that Sage and Mark are nearly 7 years-old. Sage no longer has a prescription list of medicines that would make a pharmacy jealous. He was released from his last specialist nearly a year ago, has physical, speech and occupational therapy three times a week and only occasionally gets pneumonia. He is considered mentally disabled, but for what he lacks in the average 6 year-olds scholastic education he makes up for in cleverness. As for Mark, after his release, he was pretty much as healthy as a horse. Glasses are about the only disability he has. Unless you consider not listening to his mother a disability. They’re rambunctious, energetic, rebellious at times, and just fascinating to interact with and watch. They keep me and everyone involved in their lives on their toes. I look forward to asking them what theme they want for their birthday party this year. Something only Mark has decided because Sage was unable to speak coherently for several years. Now though, with the help of therapy, Mark and Sage can argue about it, like two brothers are supposed to.  I know there will never be a dull moment with them, because there has yet to have been one since they were born and I, and everyone else, look forward to each and every single one.

Cedar Chest Treasures by Lisa Hathaway

My Grandmother lugged out this  enormous box and positioned it in front of me and said  “Happy Birthday Lisa !”

I was expecting money and wanted money. As I opened up this enormous crate sized cardboard box  I smelled a very strong odor of cedar as it engulfed my nostrils. Almost in fact, suffocating me . I pretended as though I loved this box or what ever it was, as to not disappoint her. I can remember wondering what would make her think that I would want a storage box but I now know that Grandmother knew best.

I reckon I was a horrible granddaughter for thinking this..at least..that’s how I feel now. I really despise the fact that my thought process was of such selfishness. Although, I do still manage at times to catch it rearing its ugly head and have to keep it in check.

As much as I have despised this cedar chest, I managed to hang on to this thing through a tornado, relocating several times, and homelessness.

I opened this chest for the first time in several years about 3 days ago to find that I kept all of the things that were probably the most dear to me through out all my high school years. I felt like an archeologist that just hit the mother load, my treasures.  I found music award ribbons, pins and varsity letters still not sewn onto a jacket because I could not afford a varsity jacket.I also found some of my first broken drum sticks that I was so proud of during marching band season bound up by a pink bow ribbon.

When I was a child, I would check out bird and Godzilla library books to use as a reference to draw.  I lacked my own creativity and I still do to this day. I hoped that taking art classes in high school would help me but it didn’t. I could only draw if I had a photo of the object or person.

I now cherish this chest that I could have cared less about during my early teenage years because it protected the only two drawings of mine that exist today..an old man and a self-portrait..both drawn my sophomore year.

                                    

Bohemian Scene: Johnny's Body at True Love Bar by Dominik

 

By Dominik Young

What are you doing this 4th of July weekend? I bet the answers are going to be a barbeque and/or looking at the fireworks. How about partying with Johnny’s Body? You know, everyone’s favorite rock ‘n’ rollin’ Gatevillians who always get the party started. You’re probably familiar with the band & their AWESOME performances at Beatnix Burger Barn , Ace’s Bar & Grill, & The Junction on Route 36 . Now, the Gatesvillians are bringing their brand of indie rock/Americana to True Love Bar, the newest rock & roll spot in Waco, TX . So, come out and show your patriotism while drinking some Lone Star Beers!!!

• Venue: True Love Bar , 1826 E. Lake Shore Drive,Waco TX 76708
• Cost: No Cover. 21 + .
• Time: Starts at 10 p.m.- 2 a.m.

Be sure to buy the band’s debut album “Swing Low Rock & Roll” on iTunes, Amazon, & CD Baby.

Bohemian Scene: Johnny’s Body at True Love Bar by Dominik

 

By Dominik Young

What are you doing this 4th of July weekend? I bet the answers are going to be a barbeque and/or looking at the fireworks. How about partying with Johnny’s Body? You know, everyone’s favorite rock ‘n’ rollin’ Gatevillians who always get the party started. You’re probably familiar with the band & their AWESOME performances at Beatnix Burger Barn , Ace’s Bar & Grill, & The Junction on Route 36 . Now, the Gatesvillians are bringing their brand of indie rock/Americana to True Love Bar, the newest rock & roll spot in Waco, TX . So, come out and show your patriotism while drinking some Lone Star Beers!!!

• Venue: True Love Bar , 1826 E. Lake Shore Drive,Waco TX 76708
• Cost: No Cover. 21 + .
• Time: Starts at 10 p.m.- 2 a.m.

Be sure to buy the band’s debut album “Swing Low Rock & Roll” on iTunes, Amazon, & CD Baby.

Book Review: “e: The Story of a Number” by Shadow

Eli Maor presents “e: The Story of a Number” as a social history of a mathematical concept, delving into the lives of mathematicians who contributed to the discovery and exploration of the number e, from Leibniz and Newton’s famous rivalry to the Bernoulli family tree. The historical parts of the book are fascinating, but the mathematical explanations are at best dry, and at worst utterly confusing. The book claims to be for “readers with only a modest background in mathematics,” but actually seems to assume that the reader is familiar with rather advanced geometry, calculus, and number theory.

 

In spite of the fact that, frankly, I had to wade through this book and ended up skimming whole pages with glazed eyes, Maor has done a nice job unfolding the personalities of some noteworthy mathematicians and scientists, right down to an imaginary conversation about music theory between Johann Bernoulli and Johann Bach (who were contemporaries, but never met). He’s also examined in exhaustive detail the many ways in which the number e is awesome.

 

e, of course, is about the coolest number ever, which is why I was so excited to read this book in the first place. e is a transcendental number, like pi, and is equal to 2.71828…. or 2 + 1/2! + 1/3! + 1/4! + … . The function y = e^x is the only function that is equal to its own derivative, and is the basis of the logarithmic curve and the logarithmic spiral. e is used in applications ranging from finances to physics to art, and is an important part of our modern understanding of calculus. Just trust me, it’s a gorgeous number. The shapes of natural structures like the nautilus shell are based on e, too.

 

 

 

 

In short, if you fancy math at all and have at least a little grounding in calculus and number theory, you’ll probably be blown away by all of the complexities of e, and will enjoy this book once you manage to wade through the equations. It’s also good for history fans interested in the development of calculus and in the lives of the mathematical giants who were crucial in the study of e.

________

Bohemia is a monthly journal that features artists, poets, writers, photographers. The magazine’s content reflects the best talent in our region, Central Texas. In addition, we follow our interests: which includes reporting on the arts all over the world. We are always looking for submissions.

Bohemia’s online readership is broad. The monthly issues receive hundreds of “views” and our blog receives hundreds of hits per day (and growing everyday!). You can view and download issues at issuu.com/verymandy for free. Print copies are also available to purchase and we have over 300 subscribers.

Go to our site, www.bohemia-journal.com, to find out more.

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True Trucker Diaries – Entry #2 by Lisa Hathaway

         I have a very lingering, vivid memory of an incident that happened to me one pitch black early morning on the 401 just east of the Tilbury, Ontario service plaza . As I watched the Windsor city lights disappear in my mirror I noticed one headlight close in on me until it disappeared. I knew it was right behind me and I kept looking but couldn’t see anyone. Tailgaters…Ugggh..Oh well, nothing new, but at this point I only have 3 weeks behind my belt as a solo driver, if even that. I believe I was delivering to the Oshawa area.

         I heard a voice speak through the CB radio ” Hey..JB.You have 2 wheeler(motorcycle) right on your bumper.”  I replied ” Yeah I know he’s been on my a$$ since Windsor.”  Keep in mind my truck was turned down to 60 mph. I couldn’t go any faster. So the driver that notified me of the tailgater started passing me and wanted me to inform him  if the motorcycle  continued to do the same to him. Sure enough he did. As soon as the driver’s trailer tailgate cleared mine I saw the single light jump into to the passing lane. I notified the other driver. As the other truck driver gained ground passed me he contacted me and said the following ” Watch this..I’ll fix him..gonna scare him a bit. “  I knew immediately what thedriver was going to do. He tapped his break pedal and then it happened..The motorcyclist went down. I will remember this visual, as if it were yesterday.. for the rest of my life. It still haunts me. The bike slid across the lane..but his body didn’t. He bounced off off of the pavement like a rag doll, not once..but multiple times..I thought to myself this man is dead.

TO BE CONTINUED…..

                                                     STAY TUNED NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENED ……..

        Please enjoy this video footage with a couple tunes from the talented JAIMEE HARRIS..

The BookWorm Presents: Patricia Briggs

I was never a very outgoing person. I usually kept to myself and during the ages of 13 and 14, much of that didn’t change. So in an effort to get me exposed to society and the elements, my mother would drag me outside and then downtown to the McLennan County Central Library. She drove me, entered, and then immediately sat down on a chair and proceeded to take a nap, while I relished the cases and rows of hundreds if not thousands of books. I mentally devoured every single cover and author. I was, in heaven. I perused every section that I possibly could. But being that my mother was by the “teen” section and rendered fully unconscious by exhaustion, decided to stay nearby and watch her and her purse since she obviously wasn’t able. But this didn’t ruin a single thing for me. While searching for some new intriguing material to read, I stumbled upon several gems. And promised myself to return again as soon as I could. As life got a little more complicated though, and I got older, I wasn’t able to visit the library as often as I’d have liked to. Then I eventually had children of my own and had completely forgotten about books, other than the ones I had already owned. My mind was so occupied with diaper changes, medicine doses and doctor visits that I came to rely upon the newspaper ads to keep me informed about the latest “new releases” or New York Times Bestseller. And on one of those particular Sundays is when I happened across Mrs. Patricia Briggs. Her book was being displayed in a Hastings ad. It was a very small advertisement for her book, overcrowded and surrounded by dvd and sales ads, but I was able to read the title and Google it. I was immediately intrigued and have since bought every book in this particular series, known as The Mercy Thompson Novels.

I am currently reading what most likely will not be the last in this series, but is the most recently published, titled “River Marked.” And it is just as well written as the rest of the novels which, in order, includes:

• Moon Called
• Blood Bound
• Iron Kissed
• Bone Crossed
• Silver Borne

Patricia Briggs did, in my opinion, an amazing job in fleshing out all of her characters for this series, especially that of Mercy Thompson. Mercy, you see, is a double threat, a mechanic and a “shapeshifter” or “walker.” She can change from coyote to human in an instant and bring a seemingly hopeless VW Rabbit back from the dead. She is also at times, a magnet for immense trouble and gets involved with all sorts of sordid creatures, vampire-possessing demons, werewolves and fae, just to name a few. And within these books, you follow her through to places like her garage, Underworld, and the Tri-cities. The novels are also staged in modern times, with the only difference being that Humans are well aware of the existence of werewolves and fae, or fairies. You not only accompany Mercy on these perilous adventures, but you also get insight into her struggle to find out what she really is. You experience the full ferocity of her emotions as she tries to make sense of her origins, deals with being raised by and following the laws of werewolves and tries to figure out where in this world of creatures, human and otherwise, she fits into.

But I fear, I may have already said too much. Though if you are already intrigued, then both Mrs. Briggs and I have done our jobs. If not, then at the very least take a glance at the covers of these novels. The artwork is amazing and rendered by the very talented Daniel Dos Santos. You can view these covers and many other of his pieces of artwork at [ http://www.dandossantos.com ]. So go to your local library, Hastings or Barnes & Noble, check these titles out for yourself, and hopefully you will also agree that they are an entertaining read.

Sounds of Bohemia : June by Dominik Young

By Dominik Young

Welcome back fellow Bohemians! It’s a new month. Do you know what that means? It means NEW MUSIC! I don’t think I have to tell you to prepare for a wonderful listening experience. The instant you saw the title, you’re probably ready to song-binge like crazy. In this edition, we have Skylar Grey , the singer from Dr. Dre’s “I Need A Doctor”, come out with a new single “Invisible” co-written by Rob Thomas of Matchbox 20.  You oughta know why indie-folk singer Lissie made into the VH1 Top 20 and this list with the powerful single “When I’m Alone”. Canadian New Wave band Austra will make you “Lose It” with their chilling vocals. And let’s not forget about newly formed hip hop group Radical Something who has what might become the new summer jam for this year.

• Patrick Wolf – The City

• Team Me – Dear Sister

• Austra – Lose It

• Radical Something – Be Easy (ft. Kinetics)

• Lissie-When I’m Alone

• Digitalism – 2 Hearts

• Baby Monster – Mr. Success

• Telepathe – Throw Away This

• Shane Eli – When No One Cares (samples Junior Boys song of the same name)

• Regina – Jos et sä soita

• Niki & The Dove – The Fox

• Skylar Grey – Invisible

BONUS TRACKS:

• MindsOne – Code of Ethics (ft. Thee Tom Hardy & Rapsody)
• Snakes Say Hisss – Comes and Goes
• Late Bloomers- Never Don’t Grow

Summer Reading List by Shadow

My father recently acquired the entire contents of a house in an estate sale, and invited me over to pick through the bookshelves. I’m quite impressed; the homeowner had excellent taste in books and many rooms full of literary goodness. I managed to bring home quite the stack, and I can’t wait to start reading.

 

So the first part of my summer reading list goes as follows:

 

e: The Story of a Number by Eli Maor

The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress by Robert Heinlein

The Spiral Dance by Starhawk

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver

Timeline by Michael Crichton

The Glass Bead Game by Hermann Hesse

When God Was a Woman by Merlin Stone

12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women by Gail McMeekin

Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen

Embodying Spirit by Jacquelyn Small

House of Sand and Fog by Andre Dubus III

Einstein’s Dreams by Alan Lightman

 

There are many more, but these are enough to occupy me for at least a month, maybe more. Of course, I’ll let you know how they are as I finish them. I have high hopes for “e.” My geeky parts can’t wait to read that one!

Ohio Bound (Video and photo Collage) Part 1 by Lisa Hathaway

Its summer time again and that means family and fun and a 1300  mile road trip over night for me. I decided  this time to mix work with pleasure. Sometimes I believe in “rocking the boat”.

I embarked on my journey from Waco, TX June 11th 10:00pm and finally arrived at my parents house in Deshler , Ohio June 12th 7:00pm.

The route taken is the following: I35 North, I35E to Dallas, I20 East, 635 North, I30 east into Little Rock, Bypass I430, I40 East into West Memphis , AR, I55 North, I 57 North, I 70 East into Indianapolis, IN, I69 North into Fort Wayne IN, Bypass 469 to US 24 into Defiance, State Route 281 East to my parents house.

The video is a clip from my first fuel stop.

After arriving in Little Rock I took the bypass hoping I would be able to get a great shot of the city night lights but it was to foggy. I stopped in N.Little Rock to stretch out . Watch this Meet and Greet with Damian !

This concludes Part 1 of Ohio Bound..Please tune in later this week for more video and photos..Thank You…Lisa

Bohemia Captain’s Log Stardate June 18th by Mandy

I had a pretty amazingly Bohemian day yesterday. Busy busy busy!

First of all, my assistant was sick. So no Damion! Yikes. Well, the show must go on.

There was a photo shoot scheduled for our new Bohemian, Non, at… what time? I didn’t really know. I knew they were doing it and I had offered to come along to assist Lindsey. And I wanted to burn a soundtrack for the shoot, but didn’t really have time.

When I started getting texts about the shoot at around 8:30, I was still in my PJs and the photographer was on her way. So I decided to leave the house in my PJs (no bra, TMI aware) and go pick up Non to meet Lindsey because… I felt timeliness was more important than a shower (and let me tell you I was in a gnarly state).

Non had this great idea for a photo shoot locale, an abandoned house that she and her roommate had explored once. I will not reveal the location of this abandoned house, but when I drove up to Non’s duplex, she was sitting in the grass writing. I had to honk and roll down the window to break her out of her writer’s trance, and then she jumped in the car and we were on our way.

Lindsey was waiting at the Whataburger where HWY 6, HWY 84, Franklin Drive, and Waco Drive converge. We gave each other the thumbs up and speeded off to our secret location… at the abandoned house— woooh (scary ghost sound).

The house was amazingly perfect and you will see I speak the truth when you see the pictures. In fact, I am trying to negotiate a deal for Lindsey to be able to show the pictures at Hemingway’s because Hemingway’s is a local business that supports the arts by showcasing art on their wall.

The site had all kinds of raw wood, architectural salvage, and abandoned junk lying around.  Plus, Lindsey has all kinds of props that she uses. I decided I better provide the soundtrack that I promised by singing and dancing around. Salt N Peppa in the house! And we’re effect, working up a sweat! There was a spatula, rock climbing, a Blair Witch lookin stick mobile, ants, doorways, screens, more music by me (Abba!), a run-in with a local who said we looked like good people so we could carry on, and much, much more photo shoot shenanigans.

We decided we were parched, so even though I was in my PJs, we decided to go eat somewhere. Lindsey decided that our dilemma was blog-worthy. She said someone should blog about which places in Waco it would be (somewhat) acceptable to show up in your PJs and eat. I said another factor to consider might be time of day… but around 11 AM, we decided it was appropriate to hit the Taqueria #9 across the street from Hastings on Valley Mills.

We had yummy food. I took note that the waitress brought us 3 SEPARATE bowls of salsa for our chips. And when I ordered queso, she brought us separate bowls for that too. I looked a hot mess and was horrified by how many people were around but the food was good. Lindsey broke out the camera and Non and I went berserk on how great the pictures were. They really are just… STUNNING! Lindsey is aces! And Non knows how to model from head to toe.

Well, I asked the women what they were doing for the rest of the day and they said, “Hanging out with you and working on Bohemia!” and I was like “Righteous!” We went back to my place and I got dressed. We somehow got into a music discussion though and my vinyl came out (what can I say?). Lindsey showed us some YouTube of an amazing band she loves called Mumford and Sons. There’s a story there that I will let Lindsey share. And I might have shown them some of my really bad dance moves. (Not bad as in good). Cuz I have no shame!

Then we just started brainstorming all kinds of neat Bohemian ideas!!!!

Then we went to meet Jarrod from Plotz bookstore because we are planning the launch party for the magazine to be at Plotz! It is going to be awesome! I told Jarrod my story and the Bohemia story and we actually got into some great conversation about Waco and how Waco has many talented writers and avid readers. I can’t wait for the launch party. Penney, our lay-out designer and also ”Beatnix lady,” offered to organize the launch party… this is going to be mid July. I will reveal July 15th as a probable date, and that is all I can say. The magazine will actually come out July 1st and we might have a party just for Bohemians on that day. Mid-July will be the PUBLIC deal at Plotz and it will be by invitation only… .

So then we went to Common Grounds in an attempt to network over there. I think Common Grounds should sell our mag in their little gift shop area. The students at Baylor who are writers and photographers and artists are going to want to submit their work to the magazine. The magazine is a literary journal featuring short (fiction) stories and poetry. We supplement that with features on artists and photo essays. There is amazing talent in Waco, Texas.

Anyway, I love Common Grounds. I love the atmosphere and the people and coffee. Their stage out back is AMAZING. IT is under a canopy of trees.

So then we were cruising back down 18th street back to my apartment… and we decided that since Lindsey and Non had never been to Penney’s house and since she’s kind of famous, we should drive over and ambush her. I have been to Penney’s 5 million times, but I get lost every time. I really don’t know why. I know the landmarks and street name and everything… I just always pass it. Always. It is just one of those things.

She has the house with the Santa Shoes and Patron bottles (can you find it?). We knocked. And she was like “AHHHHHHHH! You Bohemians never leave me alone!” but very accommodating to us. So sweet. She gave the tour… and her roommate Benn made an appearance (music writer and former editor–after me– of the old alt press rag, City Review, that Penney financed from 2007 to 2009). I was a writer then… not so much any more. I actually became assistant editor, then the editor of City Review… then in 2008 left the publication to teach children.  Benn is our new web site moderator. Thank you, Benn. I told him that his photo shoot was next… and he looked embarrassed as he pondered the idea.

So, back to the bat cave. We decided to pop a cork and have a drink of wine. More Bohemian brainstorming ensued. Lindsey and I discovered we are both in our 30s and it is hard to find people in our age group to tramp around town with so we decided we will be partners in crime. Non told us about her times she’s spent hitch-hiking and living in the woods– she is truly an adventurous and socially conscious soul. Love her! I like tramping around town with her too. Then we bid our farewells.

Next on my agenda… business launch party for WacoFork.Com. WacoFork is an incredible concept for a business and .com here in good ole Waco, Texas. I was stoked about meeting Corey and Chad and they turned out to be really sweet. (Chad is a writer… by the way). I got a free t-shirt and Poppa Rollos Pizza (best pizza on Earth) and it was a great event. Penney actually got me the invitation and Rebecca, my ad sales person came too. I love you Rebecca… shout out. (Follow Rebecca on Twitter. She is a Twitter fanatic!)

This has been hell week for Rebecca, because I basically challenged her to sell the entire magazine in one week. We had tons of leads all over town… people who love the idea of Bohemia and wanted to sponsor and be involved but I do not possess the salesman skillz necessary to sit down, negotiate a deal, and collect a check. I am not that person. Rebecca loves Bohemia and she says that has made all the difference this week– getting out there and selling the magazine. People know that this is totally a grass-roots thing. People know that Waco doesn’t have a literary journal and needs a literary journal. People know that the magazine has the potential to grow into a Waco icon. So after all of her hard work and my gratitide, I offered to take her out for a refreshing beverage.

We made our way over to Hem’s on Bosque and celebrated Bohemia Hell Week! So excited about all the ads and sponsors she’s collected. Thank you Becs! (Can I call you Becs?) Nicole was was tending bar and in fine form and I had a Corona. Yay!

And that was my crazy Bohemian day yesterday– peace out.

Early Memories by Jim McKeown

One of my earliest memories is walking with my mother as she pushed a stroller with my sister.  Our destination was the Kensington Branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia.  In addition to reading to me in my earliest years, my mother took me on frequent visits to the local library.

In the summer between fourth and fifth grade, I joined the Summer Reading Club at the branch.  The goal was to read ten books in the summer and write ten book reports.  That day, I was introduced to the children’s librarian, Marie Guertin, or Miss Marie as we called her.  She had the softest voice and the gentlest smile.  I credit Miss Marie with introducing me to a whole world of books outside the ones in my home.

Adventures of a Brownie, Carcajou, King Arthur, The Big Wheel, and Mr. Popper’s Penguins, are only a few of the ones I remember and have found copies to add to my library.  Unfortunately, the last is about to be shredded by Hollywood.  Even the bits I have heard on TV tell me the story will be distorted beyond all recognition.  Don’t even get me started on the casting.

Anyway, back to those earliest memories.

Each September, Miss Marie would come to my school and distribute the certificates for the students who had successfully completed the summer program.  Oh, what I wouldn’t give for even one of those certificates to turn up!

A real schoolboy crush on Miss Marie developed, and I looked forward to my frequent visits to the library.  Even when I went to high school, the branch was only one station  before mine on the el, and I almost always stopped off for a visit.  Miss Marie always welcomed me and asked about what I was reading.  She told me about some of the books she was recommending to students those years.

Fast forward to about 1988.  I was teaching a class on drama to a group of senior citizens at the Cottman Avenue Branch of the library.  One day, I wandered into the children’s library, which was right next to my classroom.  Seated at a desk was Miss Marie.  I was stunned.  Her hair was now white, but she still had that soft voice and smile.  I chatted with her for a while about the old days, but alas, the class was ending, and I did not get back to Cottman Avenue after that chance encounter.

My family still lives in Philly, so on every one of my frequent visits, I made a mental note to stop and see if she was still there.  I must have forgotten to press save, because I never made the trip.

Fast forward again to 2011.  I was determined that my visit this time would include the branch to see if anyone knew anything about Miss Marie.  One of the children’s librarians remembered her, and to my surprise, she thought she was still alive and living in a nursing home somewhere in Philadelphia.  She promised to see if she could find out about her for me, so I left my cell number with a hope that I would hear from her.

So far, no call, but every time the phone rings, I anxiously look for a 215 area code.  Stay tuned.  I am not giving up on this one.

Put Down That Chip! by Esmeralda

It’s summertime in Texas and we all know what that means. Sun-kissed skin, kid-like zealousness as you look forward to the weekend and delicious burgers at cookouts with friends and family. Oh summer. Isn’t it grand? Surely there’s nothing that could possibly ruin one’s summer right? Well perhaps the somehow inevitable sunburn, or the flared tempers caused by daily temperatures exceeding 100 degrees, or the awkward moment when someone no one invited shows up at the cookout. Luckily, these things can all be remedied rather quickly. Aloe Vera, ice water, and a plate-to-go.  Ahh. Summer is saved.

Or so you thought. I’m not here to burst a rain cloud bubble over your summer. But out there, lurks a danger. In the last place you would probably expect, amongst all the fixin’s for the cookout. Laid out for all to see, touch, taste, and maybe even fall ill from. That danger, fellow Bohemians, is “the Dip.”

I know, I know. How in the world could it be dangerous? It’s not like you’re bringing expired dip to the cookout, right? Well I would like to introduce you to the commonly practiced occurrence that would be double-dipping. For those of you that don’t know what that means, it’s dipping your chip once, biting it, and then dipping the moistened and bit end back into the dip again. Blegh! I’m sure most of you reacted the same way. Especially when realizing that no one keeps an eye on the dip. I mean why would anyone, really? And despite the fact that most of us put some on our plates at cookouts and unknowingly prevent double dipping, kids will be kids. We all know that cookouts are at times a free range for kids to roam about, play and snack on what’s available. And I’ll be danged if it isn’t chips and dip that they go after first. There’s also other people who subconsciously stand by the table munching, crunching, and double-dipping away without any thought. I know, I used to be one of those people. Now the entire point of this blog is not to spur the birth of a new set of germophobes, but to merely quench my curious thirst about how dangerous double dipping one’s chip really is. Is it like putting your whole mouth into the bowl? Or is it pretty safe, and nothing more than another reason for people, moms especially, to get all worked up about germs that are no more harmful than cotton candy kisses and rainbow bear hugs? I’m sure that everyone’s main concern is , well let’s be honest, that no one, but ourselves, know where our mouth has been. And heck even that’s not so reassuring. So, here’s some information that I gathered via Google on how dangerous double-dipping really is.

*According to the NY Times:

“A team of nine students instructed volunteers to take a bite of a wheat cracker and dip the cracker for three seconds into about a tablespoon of a test dip. They then repeated the process with new crackers, for a total of either three or six double dips per dip sample. The team then analyzed the remaining dip and counted the number of aerobic bacteria in it.On average, the students found that three to six double dips transferred about 10,000 bacteria from the eater’s mouth to the remaining dip. Each cracker picked up between one and two grams of dip. That means that sporadic double dipping in a cup of dip would transfer at least 50 to 100 bacteria from one mouth to another with every bite.” Clemson professor Paul L. Dawson, a food microbiologist, who led the double-dipping study stated, “The way I would put it is, before you have some dip at a party, look around and ask yourself, would I be willing to kiss everyone here? Because you don’t know who might be double dipping, and those who do are sharing their saliva with you.”

Now I know what you’re thinking, and it’s either one of two things. “Gross!” Or, “I could just flip my chip and dip the part that hasn’t been in my mouth yet back into the dip.” Yes, it is most definitely gross and you were holding that chip with your hand, correct? Unless you’re a germophobe with a supply of germ-x at hand or have just gone to the restroom, the odds of you having just washed your hands are slim to none. So wouldn’t it be like sticking your fingers in the dip then? I’m not trying to say that we are all disgusting slobs whose hands and mouths aren’t ever clean, I’m just trying to point out the obvious and prevent any illness because who wants to be sick during the hottest season of the year in Texas, am I right? So the next time you’re at a cookout, make sure someone volunteers to be the dip dictator. Have them dole out portions of dip and then put a lid on it. That way you can prevent the spread of bacteria from your sweaty Uncle Jose, ya know the one that has a  different girlfriend every other weekend,to everyone else. So have a great summer and don’t forget to stay informed and stay safe fellow Bohemians.

A Tour Through Downtown Austin by Dominik

By Dominik Young

Come take a tour through Downtown Austin with Bert McLendon on pedicab. The photographer’s reason for this nighttime ride was to experiment with time lapse photography. And I have to say that it’s a success. This video truly immerses you in the downtown area. You’ll feel as if you’re riding along with the photographer.

 

The pedicabber who took McLendon on this downtown adventure is Cassie Baker who works at Red Devil Rides. Her exceptional services really pleased the photographer. So, the next time you get a pedicab in Austin, be sure to tip Cassie EXTREMELY well. If you’re an actor, model, or business professional needing photographs, contact Bert McLendon at his official site.

Memoirs of a 3 Year Old by Lisa Hathaway

                                   I am seriously considering the possibility of starting a journal of my many life experiences. So..I thought breaking them up into categories or entries would  be one way to organize it better. I wanted to start out by just referencing the first few memories that enter my mind. There were two memories , both surprisingly were negative.  Is that so surprising? Rumor has it our brain picks and choses which memories are saved and which we lose.

                                  My first memory is that of being rushed to the emergency room at the age of 3. My Mother thought I ingested nearly a whole bottle of baby aspirin. The delicious orange flavored aspirin. I can vaguely remember the immense discomfort of having my stomach pumped only for the doctors to discover it was empty. Honestly…I am surprised that my stomach was found empty because for some reason I remember sneaking into aspirin but that may be a false memory or it’s possible maybe I did at an earlier point and it went undetected.

                               So..it was determined that the bottle of aspirin was shorted by the manufacturer.

                              The second memory , is the most memorable,  is that of my oldest brother hitting me over my head with a gardening hoe. My Father built a sand box out of wood and painted it white. Instead of filling it with play sand he used what I believe today is “patio sand”. After it rains, patio sand will become near cement stage. My brother would use the gardening hoe to chop it up in order to make it more workable or playable. My brother would never let me use the hoe.                                                                

                             I decided the days of my brother taking over were over.This grave injustice would no longer be tolerated. I was going to make a stand and protest for equal rights.  I was 3 years old and pissed off. So..I stood in the middle of the sandbox and refused to move until my older brother handed over the hoe. He refused. I remember his exact words, he said ” Lisa, get out of the way. I am going to swing.” Honestly, I really don’t know what I was thinking because I stood there. I guess I may have assumed that he most certainly would not swing at me. Well, I was most definitely wrong. WAP….and off to the emergency room we go again. Luckily all that was needed was a “butterfly” stitch.

                                        

                                                       Mom’s House 1948

      My mother and I were looking at old pictures and we came across one of an old house. It was the house she lived in when she was 2 or 3 years old. This took her back to the memory of falling into a well. I have been told this story before when I was younger but it has more meaning to me now. Apparently she was playing outside and somehow fell into an old  well. My mother remembers falling on some boards and cans that were laying across the inside of the well with water underneath. Even though the boards broke the fall, she was still to small to hoist her petite body out of the pit. If it were not for the constant barking of the family dog the ending of this story would  more than likely be a tragic one. My grandmother heard the dog. After searching frantically she found a gravel rake and lowered it into the pit. They both struggled for a while and finally my mother emerged. After hearing of the incident..my grandfather immediately filled in the well.     

                                                                            

 

                             I wonder if we remember these negative incidents possibably because our brains are saving these memories as learning experiences, defense mechanisms or building blocks..Or is it because these bad experiences actually had a positive end result? 

                           I leave you with this to ponder…

 

 

                                                                                                     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Father’s Day, Mom by Esmeralda

Father’s Day looms near, and it’s a day of mixed feelings for me. Growing up, my life was ok. I moved a lot, had no real steady or reliable male figure in my life, and my mom struggled both financially and emotionally raising two rambunctious children on her own. My younger brother and I were raised knowing that our father’s weren’t exactly eager to see us grow up or take part in any aspect of our lives, or even our very existence . Being so young, it didn’t matter. We knew that our mother was always there for us and we had enough on our plates, backs and over our heads to remind us that we were loved. But as I got older, and saw friends who did have their fathers around, I got a bit envious. Not only were my friend’s families whole, but my younger brother’s father visited him and even took him away to visit one summer. Even though I know it didn’t really seem like much to him, to me, it was more time than I would ever experience in my lifetime with my own father.

I have few memories of my father. He was in my life momentarily, if that, and the memories of him weren’t exactly what I would’ve wanted, or any child would’ve wanted for that matter. He was a violent drug-addict in denial, who chose to expose me to his habit despite the dangers. He abandoned my family and I at a young age and left behind nothing more than a legacy of debauchery and failure for me to remember him by. I have two halfway decent memories of my “dad”, whose name is Joe by the way. Short for Sergio, although for all I know, it may not be his real name. For he lied about pretty much everything. I remember him trying to teach me to play the piano, and watching him perform. You see, my father was a very talented man. He could play any instrument he laid his hands on and he had the voice of an angel. My mother saw this in him, and immediately did all she could to help him be a success at it. Even getting him a shot to perform on a local tv show for exposure. But he never showed. He was offered record deals, but never took them because he didn’t want to abandon his band mates. That was fair enough, but in my eyes, I just don’t think he wanted to abandon his drugs. Ultimately, my father chose his drugs over us. Over everything. Over me. This realization didn’t hit me until I was 15, putting together the invitation list for my Quinceneara. I wanted to invite him so badly. But I knew he wouldn’t show. Why after 15 years bother showing up now? Being so young, I still really cared. I hoped, I prayed that maybe if he was given another chance, he would make use of it. Maybe he didn’t know that I wanted him around. Yeah, maybe he just needed to know that I needed him in my life. That was it, he needed me to remind him. But… as my Quince got closer, I had finally come to the conclusion that if my father had really cared, he would’ve sought me out on his own from the very day that we had been separated. It was a rather devastating moment for me, but a necessary one. It gave me the strength to be ok with the fact that my father wanted no part of my life, or anything to do with me. So my father didn’t want me, so what. It just made me appreciate my mother that much more.

Memories of my mother when I was a young child are vague. She worked a lot. And I mean a lot. Different shifts, all sorts of hours. She was never around for our first days of school, and we had very little time with her after school as well. I knew that my mom felt remorse for never being around. She constantly bought us gifts to remind us of how much she loved us. I remember one day coming home from school and finding that she had just bought us the Wizard of Oz vhs. Even though it sounds bad, from all of this, my little brother and I developed a form of independence. We cooked for ourselves, albeit nothing more than sandwiches and ramen noodles, but we did it ourselves nonetheless. And even though our mother did leave us alone, she taught us well. “Don’t answer the door, just run and hide in your rooms. Don’t answer the phone. If you do, take a message and say I’m in the shower.” We knew 911 and all the basics to keep us safe. I was also well aware of extra steps to take should anything else happen. All thanks to my mom for allowing me to watch all the AMW, COPS, and Rescue 911 my little crime-fighting heart desired.

I had all I needed and I was well taken care of, all because of my mother. Sure, she wasn’t a mother worthy of worldly praise. She did leave us alone a lot to work and to do other things, but I’m here aren’t I? I’m living, breathing, writing. I’ve been taught to  appreciate family ties more than most people. I’ve been taught how to fend for myself and learn things on my own. I may not have had a life full of Disneyland-esque memories, but I did have friends. I always had support and encouragement. I had my little brother. But most importantly, I always had love. My mother did her best and I appreciate that. I was also thankful for the fact that my mother gave me an opportunity to form my own opinion about my father. She despised him, but did her best to never talk down on him. Not often anyway. She allowed me to discover for myself, what she hoped to keep away from me, that my father was a father of many and yet a father to none. But once I realized this, she was there to wipe up my tears, and give me endless amounts of hugs to let me know that I was loved. And with that said, once that certain day rolls around, I’ll be there with a gift and flowers in hand, embracing my mother and wishing her a well deserved Happy Father’s Day.

Unschooling by Shadow

I’ve been considering homeschooling for awhile. Kindergarten has been a good experience for my son, but honestly, I think I can do better for him. Not just in the academic bits, either, but in teaching my children what’s important in the world: thinking for themselves, building community ties, autodidacticism, gratitude, and unschooling seems more and more like the best way to do this.

 

Are you familiar with unschooling? It’s basically the principle that kids will direct their own educations if given the chance, and the role of the adult is merely to guide them. So, instead of sitting at the kitchen table memorizing a history textbook one chapter at a time, my son will be going to the library for a book on George Washington and watching a PBS documentary on the ancient Greeks (just yesterday we studied the difference between a democracy and a republic, after a particularly adorable comment about the president living in Washington BC). He’ll be sprawled out in the living room telling me what he thinks of the Cold War. He’ll be coloring maps of Tibet while we talk about Buddhism.

 

 

I’ve spent quite a bit of time worrying that my kids’ education will be inadequate, that I’m not equipped to teach anybody anything comprehensively, let alone oversee the entire education of a human being, but you know what? I think I’m going to give it a try. In a way, we’ve been unschooling all year: I’ve always sworn my son learns more in the morning before school than he does while he’s actually there! Today we’ve studied cube geometry, the principle of reflection, and history in the 1990′s. He also made his own lunch and got his laundry out of the dryer, and NOBODY can beat this kid at metaphilosophy (which, admittedly, is a topic that seems to come naturally to five-year-olds).

 

So instead of worrying that I’m somehow going to fail as a homeschooler, I think I’ll choose to trust my son’s natural curiosity and my own love of learning to do the job. I’ll enjoy the freedom of unschooling and the excitement of watching my son learn about what HE chooses. After all, if it doesn’t work out, he can always go back to public school for second grade.

Book Store Traveler — Episode 1 by Jim

One of the greatest things I enjoy about travel is searching out and haunting used book stores.  I have visited way too many to count over the years, so, when I began my blog, (rabbitreader.blogspot.com] I added a special feature called “Book Store Traveler.”  I am now happy to bring this feature to the readers of Bohemia.

The Old Tampa Book Company is located in downtown Tampa between Madison and Twiggs at 507 North Tampa Street.  I actually selected three stores from an internet search that day – in case one is closed or fails to meet my ideal bookstore.  Upon entering the shop last Friday, I knew I would not need those other shops.

OTBC has over 40,000 rare, used, and out-of-print books.  The size of the shop is an important criteria for me, because I like my day searching the shelves to be leisurely.  Shops larger than 50,000 books quickly become overwhelming.

My primary interest is in fiction, and I have a long list of favorites.  An author becomes a “favorite,” when I read one of his or her works, and become so enthralled, I must find everything this author has written.  An author becomes a “super-favorite,” when I need to replace paper packs with first edition hardbacks.  You can see a list of these favorite authors on the profile page of my library catalogue at: www.librarything.com/rmckeown

This visit landed me several important editions to my collection.

But first back to the store.  David & Ellen Brown are the proprietors, and the shop has been at this location since 1995.  The store has a simple grace and a nicely organized, compact, elegance to it.  The books are almost all in excellent to outstanding condition.  Most of those volumes with dust jackets have cellophane wrappers protecting the jacket.  Serious book collectors must have a dust jacket as near pristine as possible.

Fiction, art, poetry, and collectable editions dominate the main section of the shop.  A back room has an extensive history, government, politics, science, and nature collection.

My first stop here – and at every instance of a first visit to a new store – is the fiction section.  My practice is to scan the section quickly – looking for some of those favorites and super-favorites.  I snagged an English first-edition of Iris Murdoch’s novel, The Green Knight on this scan.  The English first (i.e., editions printed in England) are always most desirable by collectors, since a “first American” edition is, in reality, a second edition.  Murdoch is my number one super-favorite.

I also added volumes by favorites Doris Lessing and Tina Ansa.  An interesting paperback I had been hunting for a few years, London: A Biography by Peter Ackroyd found its way on to my growing pile at the checkout counter.

Another area of interest in these hunting expeditions is books I read as a child.  Back in those days, most of my reading came from the local library.  Adding books to this collection is mostly a matter of luck.  I search the shelves of children’s books from the 50s, and if a title or the illustrations jog my memory, I consider it a hit.

This time, I found an old edition of Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift and A Boys King Arthur illustrated by N.C. Wyeth, father of noted artist Andrew Wyeth.

All in all, I have to say this was a most enjoyable and profitable visit.  I want to especially thank Penelope for her kind assistance.

The shop has a website: www.oldtampabookcompany.com and the phone number is 813.209.2151.  They are open weekdays from 10 AM to 5 PM and Saturday from 11 AM to 5 PM.  Stop by and say hello!

*—[TNT] by Esmeralda

I nearly lost it yesterday. I was happily walking towards the heated pool where my son has therapy every Friday, when a mature young lady stood in my way having a conversation with an older male. Before I reached her, I figured common sense and manners would lead her to politely oblige my caravan of children with the right of way. Apparently, being courteous wasn’t on her list of things to do today. So I stood there, figured maybe she didn’t see us, and said excuse me. Nothing. No budge, no “Oops I’m so sorry.”, not even a muscle spasm suggesting she was going to scoot over. So I did what any mother with a full schedule and no sleep would do, I gritted my teeth, said excuse me again and once I realized she was pretty much ignoring me, maneuvered my children around her and proceeded with my day. Sorry if I disappointed anyone. I’m sure some were expecting a knock-down drag-out brawl, but me moving on and past that situation was a milestone of sorts and I’ll elaborate as to why.

Way back when, I remember being a peaceful child. Nothing phased me, bothered me, irritated or angered me. Nothing at all. I, and anyone that has known me since my younger years, can pretty much vouch for that. But lately, as my age has begun to slowly make its climb to a more rickety rung on time’s ladder, this hasn’t been the case. Unfortunately, my patience and calm demeanor has morphed into the ever feared and never revered Short-Fuse Syndrome. Now, this is my own term, I’ve heard others call it a “short temper” or “you need anger management classes.” But you get my point. How am I able to make such a diagnosis? Well, I know from personal experience. I have a younger brother who, let’s just say, tends to get hot under the collar rather quickly, for lack of a better phrase. So it was easy to diagnose myself knowing the most common “symptoms.”  Quick and sudden facial reactions to the slightest hint of disrespect, a low tolerance for BS, frustrated responses to the simplest of questions and even the feeling of a pounding in your chest as if your heart is about to burst out and open a can of whoop-a on someone who seems to have lost all common sense and courtesy. I apologize, that last symptom may have been aimed a little more specifically towards someone than I had intended. Now all of this sounds pretty terrible. And well, you know what, I’m not gonna sugar coat it,it is. It tends to be exhausting trying to control your temper or moods. At some times it feels like you’re restraining a dragon with a chihuahua’s leash. Now add on to that the dreaded Texas heat with the Neanderthal’s that we sometimes happen upon and BOOM! You’ve got trouble. Where exactly am I going with this you ask? Well, I’m here to let anyone who occasionally or even frequently suffers from this, at times debilitating, condition know that there’s a few simple things you can do to keep from going postal at a moments notice.

4 Tips To Keep From Losing Your Cool:

1. Breathe. Not many people realize this, but when you’re about to rage on someone, who most likely doesn’t deserve it, you tend to stop breathing. You end up holding your breath, as if somehow thinking subconsciously that it’ll keep all your anger contained internally. No. It tends to have the complete opposite effect. You go off like a bottle rocket. Phreeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwww….BOOOOSSHHHHH! So breathe, when you feel that fuse burning, just breathe. In, 1…2…3…4…Out, 1…2…3…4. Try it, you’d be surprised how well it works.

2. Visualize your “Happy Place.” Yeah, I know it sounds cheesy, but it works. This has actually kept me from blowing up like fireworks on the 4th of July several times. Visualize any place, a meadow with wildflowers, a mountain top, a jungle enshrouded by trees, or heck the front porch of your grandpa’s house. And it doesn’t have to be an actual place, it could be a moment, a memory, a sound, a scene from a movie,or heck even the smell of your favorite food. Anything that brings you a little happiness and distracts you long enough to chill.

3. Count to 10. Another, simple and well-known tip to keep steam from bursting out of your ears. This tip is pretty much self-explanatory. But one thing I can add, is that if once you get to ten and haven’t relaxed, keep counting. If numbers are dull, count sheep, so what if you’re not asleep, you’re just trying to avoid your own personal nuclear meltdown.

4. If all else fails, WALK AWAY! This tip is to be used at your discretion. Sometimes you’ve just had a bad day and visualizing your happy place while breathing and counting fluffy bunnies just won’t cut it. So walk away, take a stroll, ask yourself if the situation was really that bad. If the energy you exert being so upset is really worth it. Sometimes we lose control and forget to just take a step back and look at ourselves. That reality check alone can be all you need to simmer down.

Now I know most of us aren’t spit-fire angry 24/7, and I’m not either, for the most part, but there are those moments, where your fuse is dangerously short and some innocent bystander could possibly  get hurt in the explosion. These are just ways to avoid that and any dire consequences that may arise in the eruption of Mt. You. So stay cool fellow Bohemians and most importantly, stay calm.

“…I now walk into the wild…” by Mike LaRoux

              It’s been a long time since I wrote, I admit that.  When I was offered a job writing for the bohemia journal I was told, “You need to be writing twice a week at minimum.”  “Ok,” I thought, “that oughta be easy enough.”  Well, here I am three weeks into this job and I’ve written one essay about a bad night that I had in downtown Waco.  I think it was an ok piece—It’s been a long time since I just wrote a personal memo like that—but still, I’m not getting the hang of this writing business.  I don’t know what my fellow Bohemians like to read.  So, I’m just going to share something with you.

                Earlier this week I watched a film called “Into the Wild.”  It’s about this guy named Christopher Johnson McCandles.  If you haven’t seen it, I’d highly recommend that you go out and rent or buy it right now, and if you have seen it, I highly recommend that you revisit it.  Trust me—It’s worth your trouble.  The film, staring Emile Hirsch as Christopher “Alex Supertramp” McCandles, is based on the life of a young man who, after graduating college with nearly all As, decided to throw away what was a promising future in pursuit of happiness—that strange, ethereal feeling that, according to Christopher, could not be attained by worldly possessions or wealth, but only by becoming one with God’s creation.  It’s a masterpiece that covers the depths of man in the darkest of circumstances—circumstances which, while grim, were both the responsibility and the joy of their bearer.

                                                                                                                   

This film—which is based on the John Krakauer novel of the same title—now has sparked a question in my mind—where does my happiness lie?  What, in this life, will fill my heart with an unquenchable joy and gladness?  Time has proven that wealth, like a beautiful woman, is quickly robbed of her charm with age.  It has also proven that neither shelter nor lack thereof will be enough to sustain me in my pursuit of joy.  Neither youth, nor health, nor knowledge; neither clothes, nor wealth, nor friends; neither the joy of a family, nor the desperation presented by the lack thereof—none of these things will offer me happiness.  As you can see, this film has proven itself to be very thought-provoking.

It’s rare that a movie sparks this much thought in me, so I highly recommend that you check it out—maybe it’ll have you asking some questions of yourself.

Thanks for Reading

1% part I by Mike LaRoux

1%

Lost – 1. Unable to find one’s way; not knowing one’s whereabouts.

    2. Unable to be found.

This week, at my job with the Bohemia Journal, I was tasked with the job of getting lost.  My boss, Amanda, suggested that I flip a coin or spin around blindfolded and then write about wherever I end up.  Amanda, as you can see, wanted me to be in a state where I do not know my whereabouts—lost.  This task was very intriguing to me, and I couldn’t avoid the opportunity; however, even more intriguing was the opportunity to interpret the word lost in a different way.  So, Amanda, this week, as you suggested, I got lost.  But I did not get lost in the sense that I didn’t know where I was.  I got lost in the sense that I was unable to be found.

I’m not an incredibly over dramatic person.  In fact, I’m a pretty mellow guy—I like there to be as little drama in a situation as possible.  So, understand that when I made it so that I was lost—unable to be found—I didn’t broadcast it to the world.  I didn’t make a big fuss about my short-lived journey.  I didn’t tell all of my friends on Facebook that, “I now go into the wild.”  I just went.  I walked out of my one bedroom apartment, walked slowly down the stairs, and then I went on a ride—I got lost.  Had anyone started looking for me, they would’ve discovered quickly that I was lost.  They would’ve said, “We’ve lost Michael!” and they would’ve been right.  I was going somewhere that only I knew about; a place where, on more than one occasion, I’ve found sanctuary from the day-to-day rush; a place where I would certainly be lost.

I started my journey at 11:52pm, Thursday night, June 9^th, 2011. It was a warm night—as most June nights tend to be in Texas—which meant that my journey was going to be a very comfortable one.  The mode of transportation that I chose for my ride was my 1984 Honda Rebel.  The tail lights, which rest comfortably on two wire hangers—a make-shift fix that, ideally, will provide both a safety when I’m turning, as well as a safety from my tail lights getting caught in my rear tire.  The mirror on the left side of my handle bars was badly bent—bent in such a way that it is always pointing towards my stomach, serving as a reminder that I cannot see where I am going, and that I should probably cut down on the beer and pork rinds.  My means of transportation, while humble, is, next to my guitar and my music collection, the most precious thing that I own.  We’ve been lost before, me and my rebel.

Unfortunately for me, I do not have a motorcycle license.  Yes, I do ride my motorcycle almost everywhere that I go.  I do not, however, have a motorcycle license—which means, as you must’ve already concluded, that I do not ride my motorcycle legally.  While I would like to tell you that this is some deeply philosophical means of sticking it to the man, or is some attempt at civil disobedience, I cannot.  Those motives make me sound way smarter and cooler than I actually am.  The real reason that I ride illegally is because I can’t afford a motorcycle license.  In order to get a motorcycle license in Texas, a citizen of the state is required to take a motorcycle safety course—a course which, in my financial state, cannot be afforded.

At 11:52PM, I inserted my key into the ignition of my motorcycle.  After turning the choke on and getting her started, my motorcycle and I began our journey—we got lost.  I, moving at 60 miles per hour—constantly checking my surroundings for police officers and slowing down significantly when one came into my line of sight—felt the same rush that I always feel when the wind rushes through my hair like it did this warm June night.  I felt amazing.  I felt free.  I felt lost.

For the entirety of the ride, I was singing lyrics to songs which I remember.  Cat Stevens, Peace Train had been playing on my computer earlier, and I couldn’t help bust sing that.  I also had Tuba Mirum, from Mozart’s requiem, stuck in my head, as well as a bunch of Creedence Clearwater Revival songs.  The whole time I was out I was doing two things—I was singing, or I was thinking about how I was going to put this amazing, unfathomable experience into words.  Singing “Up Around the Bend” at the top of my lungs is a lot easier than thinking about how I’m going to write an essay describing the most amazing feeling I’ve ever had in my life.  But that’s what I was doing.  I was singing, and I was thinking….

To be continued

The Monk & The Monkey by Dominik

By Dominik Young

Long time, no see fellow Bohemians! Yours truly is back with something REALLY cool. Its a animated short called The Monk & The Monkey , a senior thesis by Ringling College Computer Animation students Brendan Carroll and Franscesco Giroldini . The funny, heartwarming film is a moral fable that centers on a young boy named Ragu, whose given one final task by his master. However, he has to contend with a mischievous monkey while on his quest to become a monk.

The film is quite the visually, stunning masterpiece with its lush colors, charming characters, & picturesque settings. In some ways, the short reminds you of a Dreamworks Animation film. Both casual viewers & hardcore animation fans will be entertained by this touching tale.

________

Bohemia is a monthly journal that features artists, poets, writers, photographers. You can view and download issues here for free. Print copies are also available to purchase and we have over 300 subscribers.

Go to our site, www.bohemia-journal.com, to find out more. We are always looking for submissions.

Bohemia is a blog. Subscribe to our blog, bohojo.

Bohemia is a facebook feed, “like” us at www.facebook.com/bohemiajournal.

Follow us on twitter too– www.twitter.com/bohemiajournal.

True Trucker Diaries – Entry#1 by Lisa Hathaway

  
                                                        Toronto, Ontario

     1992 was a long,long time ago, so,  pardon me… if some of the memories are a bit vague,  because I failed to jot everything down right away. I will do the best I can to recall everything as it happened. I am choosing to tell you stories because trucking is one of the reasons that brought me to Texas in the first place. SO..in this diary entry I will just give you a bit of a tease and back-ground..and hopefully that will be enough to string you along every week or so for another riveting entry 10-4 ? Good Buddy?

         So where was I?  Oh yes…fall of 1992..I was a young 22 year old..afraid of the world..with no sense of direction. When I say no sense of direction I mean that literally. We didn’t have cell phones back then and no GPS. Just a map, a pay phone, and a dispatcher. I remember calling my dispatcher to receive my next haul information and directions. This is part of the conversation.

         Him: “Take 401 East to the Mississauga Road exit and go North”

         Me:   “Is that a left or a right?”

but; none the less, I had this brilliant idea to become a truck driver in order to better myself and NOT because I loved traveling and being away from home. What do you think of these ingredients so far? I am chuckling right now as I am writing rehashing these memories, just so you know!

        I lived in Romulus, MI and decided to follow in the footsteps of my roommate. I embarked on several journeys and luckily I am still around to tell you about them . At this point in time I only hauled freight into Ontario and Quebec. I was driving for J.B. Hunt Transport, one of the most hated companies by other Canadian truck drivers. I imagine that was because they felt I took their job. I spoke absolutely no French..not even slang French which is what is spoken in Quebec.

       SO..ordering breakfast at the Magog PQ plaza or it may have been a “Fifth Wheel Truck Stop”; I cant remember honestly,   consisted of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, coffee and I still thank God for the wonderful picture menu and I most certainly used it to the fullest extent possible. I pointed at my selection..which to make it easier on everybody was the front cover. The photo was that of “Sunny side up eggs”. Not a problem because I just made the motion of scrambling eggs and she figured it out and smiled. So all ended well.

                     TO BE CONTINUED >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                     Stayed Tuned to Bohemia-Journal for more

                                                         “TRUE TRUCKER DIARIES”

Please enjoy this Tom Cochrane video ” Life is a Highway” ..It came out the same time I started driving and was basically my theme song.

Fallin’ Off the Health Wagon by Esmeralda

Another summer has begun and I’m afraid to admit that my New Year’s Resolution of weight loss has yet to be resolved. It’s not that I don’t want to lose weight, I do. I would love to be able to run 4 miles a  night as I had before, it’s just that, heck, I’m a human. And as such, I’ve got less time on my hands than Lindsay Lohan. In the midst of trying to eat cleaner, exercise more, be supermom, and return to the once legendary status as an all A student, I got a little sidetracked. Sure I started out of the gate with the right idea, lean meats, a rainbow array of veggies and fruits, and lots of water, plus P90X daily. Easy enough right? Wrong. All too quickly, my tuna turned into oatmeal cookies, my veggies and fruits turned into just a glass of grapefruit juice and my exercise? Well, whatever I got walking to and from my car between my son’s therapy appointments and school, HEB, and pressing down my gas and brake pedal. Not exactly what I had in mind when I set this goal. But you know what, I’m not gonna spend anytime kicking myself around, beating myself up. That’s a complete waste of energy. I’m gonna gather what strength I have left, dust the crumbs off myself and climb out from the mountain of cookie wrappers I nap under and get back on that durn wagon.

Now you may have wondered what eating clean is. It is simply eating nothing more than what the Earth and nature produce. Fish, chicken, beef etc., vegetables, fruit and water. Here’s a few of my own tips, should you choose to eat clean yourself.

3 Tips for Eating Clean:

1. BABY STEPS! I cannot emphasize this enough. Do not just scrap your entire diet and start out clean, you won’t be able to do it unless you have the determination of a mountain goat. It is extremely difficult. Believe it or not, it’s hard to stop eating processed foods because sometimes it causes withdrawal and the symptoms that come along with it, such as headaches, aren’t that great. Candy, soda,coffee, and cookies are the hardest, in my opinion, to quit, but it can be done. Just slowly cut back on the amount you normally eat. And eventually they’ll be completely gone from your diet.

2. EAT WHAT YOU KNOW. Don’t go out and buy all sorts of unrecognizable vegetables and fruits with names you can’t pronounce. No, you’ll just make the change to clean eating that much harder. Start out with what you know, maybe it’s lettuce and tomatoes, apples and oranges. That’s perfectly fine. And maybe if you feel adventurous, try out something new each week. A pomegranate and some radicchio. Or Kale and some kiwis. You’ll slowly discover what you like and can incorporate it into your diet.

3. WATER IS THE NECTAR OF THE GODS. Strong belief of mine. Water is a building block of life and as most know, we are made up of quite a large amount of water. Nearly 70%, if I’m right. If I’m wrong, chill, I’m not a scientist. But water is refreshing, nourishing, and a necessity in a clean diet. It keeps you full and hydrated. But despite all… there is a downside. It gets boring. Yeah, water’s not that exciting. Whodathunkit. So, when you get tired of tap, warm, room temperature, or even ice water, try adding some fruit juice. LITERAL fruit juice. Cut a lemon in half and squeeze it in and yes, lemon is a fruit. If that doesn’t work, throw in some pineapple or mango cubes and let it sit in the freezer for a few minutes. It tastes amazing, but like I said, that’s my opinion. You can feel free to try whatever you want. Cherries, orange slices with lime juice, the flavors aren’t endless, but you could come up with quite a few.

Now keep in mind I’m not a dietician, nutritionist, doctor, or any other health professional. This advice is just what common sense and Apache Indian ancestry has taught me.Good luck on your journey and I’ll update you once in awhile on my own. ‘Til then I’ll continue to hold on to this rattly health wagon as oatmeal cookies are being hurled at me.

The Great American Apparel Diet by Shadow

 

So I’m doing this thing called The Great American Apparel Diet, right? Basically, it’s a group of people who have vowed to give up buying new clothes for a whole year. I joined because I’m one of those women with a closet full of clothes and nothing to wear, and when I learned of the idea, my first instinct was “I would not/could not stop buying clothes even if my only alternative was to be dragged through boiling oil by my earlobes and then forced to listen to a recording of mating cats every day for the rest of my life.”

 

I figured that reaction in itself was a pretty good reason to do the Diet. So I did!

 

Today, though, for the first time, I was naughty. (But being bad felt sooooo good.) I stopped at a church-run clothes closet to look around and was seduced by the racks and racks of free clothing. If it’s free, it can’t be THAT bad, no? And I do need summer clothes, as almost all of mine is maternity wear, so it’s not cheating TERRIBLY. Right? Sigh.

 

In some ways, it’s harder than I thought it would be to stop buying clothes, but in some ways it’s easier. On the one hand, simply avoiding clothing stores has been enormously easy, and even when I’m in a place that sells clothes, I can walk by the racks without stopping because I know I will not be buying anything, no matter how much I want to. I’m surprised at how easy that is. On the other hand, I’m terribly bored with my wardrobe, and skin-baring summer clothes make my body anxiety skyrocket. The simplest fix would be to buy a new outfit to temporarily make me feel pretty and thin, and I’ve had to deal with my body image issues in a whole new way thanks to the Great American Apparel Diet. This, I think, is ultimately healthy, but pretty freaking unpleasant some days!

 

Interested in joining? It’s not too late. You can learn more about the GAAD here: http://www.thegreatamericanappareldiet.com/

Dog Fight over Philly by Jim McKeown

Birds, the only remaining descendants of the dinosaurs, have long held a fascination for me.  Bird feeders and baths have dominated my yards since my 20s.  While not a fanatical birdwatcher – compiling lists, participating in a census, or traveling long distances for the express purpose of birding – I do enjoy watching my fine-feathered friends gobble up pounds and pounds of seed.

Several bird guides and a small pair of binoculars are near the back door of my house, so observation won’t scare them away.  I wish I had my binoculars with me the other day while enjoying a rare, mild, June day in Philadelphia.

For about 15 minutes, I watched three gray birds perform an aerial, acrobatic display to rival anything I saw in the 1986 love story/adventure Top Gun.  As a side note, the most interesting parts of the film involve Kelly McGillis.  Memo to self: file this along with Sigourney Weaver (see previous post). 

I have no idea what species these birds were, so I guess I should wish I had my guidebooks as well.

At first I noticed two birds performing aerial maneuvers topping Tom Cruise – loops, rolls, twists, turns, and dives.  Then another actor – a wing man?  a wing woman? – joined in and circled the main performers.  Suddenly, the second bird took over tailing the offender, and together, they drove the third bird away.  I saw the pair circling a tree, a few times.  They broke off the hunt, and returned to the tree near where the show began.

What were they doing?  Was the intruder a male trying to muscle in on a fine romance?  Or was it a female trying to take over a meticulously constructed, low-rent condo?  I’ll never know.  I went back the next day, but I saw neither hide nor feather of the heroes of the sky.  Maybe I need to move a little more in the direction of fanatical bird watcher.

Two Thumbs Up for Bob Ross by Lisa Hathaway

Have you ever wished that you could paint a beautiful landscape or background but you cannot afford an expensive art school or you just haven’t tapped into your creative side yet? Well, fret not anymore… grasshopper. You too,  can paint  ” Happy Little Clouds” just like Bob Ross.

I used to own several of Bob Ross’ instructional books and the end results of my paintings were very good, as a matter of fact, I was very pleased.  If  I didn’t tell people that I  followed instructions from a book , they would think I was this “God” of an artist but then again ask yourself ” What defines art?”

Below are a couple paintings that I did from the “More Joy of Painting” with Bob Ross. The first one is number 58 in the book and its name is “Snowfall Magic” and the second one is number 60 “Silent Forest”. Although, it only took Bob about 30 minutes to whip up a painting it took me anywhere from 2-3 1/2 hours on each of mine and you learn the techniques that each brush and knife will do.

I only have three paintings left because I started this painting endeavor back between 1999-2000 when I was living in Toledo, Ohio. I have done 5 other paintings which were given away as gifts and I do not have photos of those.

                                                                  Snowfall Magic

                                                                Silent Forest

                                                               Silent Forest

I also took photos of the actual Bob Ross book photos so that you can see what the original Bob Ross painting looks like.

Unfortunately,  Bob Ross passed away in 1995.

 

99 cents by Shadow

Goodwill is the best place to shop for books. Last week I stopped to drop off a few donations and found myself wandering the bookshelves, browsing. Well, my experience with bookshelf-browsing in Goodwill is usually that a book or two jumps out at me, which of course I buy, and then they turn out to be exactly the book I need to read right then. The most memorable such find was this lovely thing, a book that explores our broken cultural attitudes about our bodies and explains how to foster health both mentally and physically, which was precisely what I needed to read as I began recovering from my eating disorder.

 

 

Last week, I got smacked in the face by this gem:

 

This slightly hokey and dated book nonetheless lays out a variety of techniques for communicating effectively with children. I haven’t had to change much about the way I talk to my five-year-old, but the small changes I’ve made have resulted in a HUGE difference in his behavior. I can’t recommend this book enough! It’s like the simple act of reading it took away my uncooperative and tantrum-prone child and replaced him with an angel.

 

I love the way the universe presents me with exactly the thing I need, right when I can use it, and usually for about 99 cents. Funny how that works out, isn’t it?

Fun with Funny Funnies by Jim McKeown

Highlight of my day?  The comics, the funnies, the funny pages in The Waco Trib.  I have been reading the comics as long as I can remember.  Most of my favorites are long gone, but I still have several.  While I don’t read ALL the comics the Trib publishes, I am a faithful reader of most of them.

The best part of my daily dose is finding myself or others in those panels.  For example, while heading out on vacation the other day, several excellent examples popped up.

In Doonesbury, Alex, daughter of Mike and JJ lives with Toggle, a wounded Iraq War vet.  She has been prepping Toggle for a visit from Drew her gorgeous roommate from MIT.  Alex, worries she will steal Toggle the same way she stole many boyfriends when they were in school together.  When they meet, Toggle can only manage one word: “Yowzer!”  Alex’s response: “WHAT?”

I once met a friend of my first wife, and said something similar.  THAT is why she is now an ex.  Although, I think (hope?) Alex and Toggle will work this one out.

While on the subject of exes, Hagar the Horrible feeds me a warning.  Hagar is a Viking who leaves Helga, his wife, for raids on London and Paris.  Mind you, as something of a medieval scholar, I do not mind in the least about this anachronism.  Viking was a term coined in the 19^th century.  What we now call Vikings were known then as “Danes.”  Well, maybe I do mind a little, okay, I hate it, but the strip is too funny to let that get in the way.

His favorite pastime when he is not raiding is drinking and eating at the local pub.  In this episode, he talks to a friend, and says, “After many years of struggle, I’m proud to say ‘I got mine!’”  The drinking buddy responds, “I used to say ‘I got mine,’ too.  Then I got a divorce.”

No more Yowzers for me!

My favorite new strip is Get Fuzzy.  The strip has three main characters, Rob, a nerd who loves rugby, video games, and his faithful mutt, the loveable, clueless Satchel.  Then we have Bucky, the snaggle-toothed, ultra conservative, Siamese cat who constantly tortures Rob and Satchel.

Lately, Bucky has been studying mixed martial arts, and he decides to try his skills on Satchel.  Bucky has an unending stream of crackpot ideas to make him even richer, more famous, and more loveable than he thinks he is.  Bucky says, “I will now dominate you without throwing a single punch.  Prepare to be submitted via a deep and vicious armbar.  The pain you are about to feel…”  Satchel raises his arm and Bucky says, “OK.  I’m going to have to ask you not to lift me over your head while I’m dominating you.”

Our lab Marcy and our semi-Siamese, Pangur, have a mutually assured domination thing going on.  Marcy avoids Pangur, and Pangur professes indifference, but every once in a while, Marcy will walk by the back of the sofa, and Pangur will reach down and swat the top of her head.  Marcy just keeps walking without even looking up.

The last comes from Herman – a single-panel strip, and one of my all-time favorites – which I have been reading since it came out in 1975.  Herman is any character in the strip, but they tend to be rather large, disheveled, morose men and women, or dogs, or smart-ass kids, or even extra-terrestrials.  This strip features the typical male character and an alien that vaguely resembles Sigourney Weaver’s nemesis in the Alien series.  (Why I love Ripley is the subject of another post, when I am sure my wife will not be reading it!).

The two are seated at the counter of a diner, and the far-out visitor says, “I can’t face the next thousand years without my cup of coffee.”

Well, it’s time to head to Starbuck’s so I can face the next thousand … minutes!

Marilyn Monroe : A Birthday Tribute by Dominik

By Dominik Young

As many of you know, today is Marilyn Monroe’s birthday.  Marilyn Monroe is one of the best known iconic figures of the 20th century. Born Norma Jean Mortenson , Monroe spent most her youth growing up in foster homes.  In her teenage years, Monroe became a pin-up model which led to a film contract with 20th Century Fox in 1946.  Eventually, she would become a huge Hollywood star.  With her stunning beauty, the blonde bombshell captured the hearts of many people including President John F. Kennedy.  Sadly, her life was cut short at the young age of 36 due to a drug overdose. Despite the tragedy, Monroe is still revered especially in the world of art. We here at Bohemia will pay tribute to this sex symbol by presenting the best examples of Marilyn Monroe inspired art.

Let’s start with the most popular artwork by Andy Warhol, the leading figure of the Pop Art Movement :

 

You can also go through the Warhol experience at this web exhibit.

Other artists have followed Warhol’s lead :

Konrad Sanders

Christian Simonian

Alicia Hayes

Charles Fazzino

Paul Raynal

One Girl Creative

If she was still alive, Marilyn Monroe would be 85 .  Happy Birthday Marilyn. May your beauty still be immortalized!

________

Bohemia is a monthly journal that features artists, poets, writers, photographers. You can view and download issues here for free. Print copies are also available to purchase and we have over 300 subscribers.

Go to our site, www.bohemia-journal.com, to find out more. We are always looking for submissions.

Bohemia is a blog. Subscribe to our blog, bohojo.

Bohemia is a facebook feed, “like” us at www.facebook.com/bohemiajournal.

Follow us on twitter too– www.twitter.com/bohemiajournal.