Claire Richard, 1913-2010

Claire Richard, aka Ma-Maw, aka my stedpdad’s mom, passed away this week. At 97, it’s customary to say someone lived a long, full life. I had no idea how full a life she lived. I only ever knew her as a retired school teacher living in Opelousas, Louisiana, so imagine my surprise when I read her obituary.

She earned her B.A. Degree at S. L. I. now U. L. L. majoring in French and English literature with a minor in Biological Sciences and P.E. While an undergrad, she received several awards from the French Consular in New Orleans. She earned a Graduate Degree in Social Work at L. S. U. She also did post graduate studies at Columbia University in New York and McGill University in Montreal, Canada. She taught French and English in St. Martin Parish for a number of years before accepting a position at St. Helen’s Hall in Portland, Oregon where she taught French in High School and Jr. College until World War II at which time, she accepted an appointment with the Justice Department, F. B. I. division in Washington, D. C. working as a translator deciphering coded messages from French into English. Mrs. Richard later joined the National American Red Cross as a social worker and director, aiding military families and German prisoners of war.

Wow. Rest in peace, Ma-Maw.

Disjointed Thoughts After a Funeral

Standing in the kitchen about an hour after Aunt Debbie was laid to rest, transitioning from gumbo to jambalaya by eating a piece of Popeyes fried chicken, my cousin Marcie said to me, “Look at you. You’re probably writing right now, huh? Bet you can get two or three books out of this?”

I thought about joking that the dazed look on my face was simply from working my 5,000th calorie of the day in before noon. But I resisted. Truth was, my mind was close to redlining–there was a lot to take in–while also feeling slightly guilty about taking it all in.

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All You Need to Know About Caprica Fans

As a huge Battlestar Galactica fan, I really wanted to like Caprica. But I couldn’t. The show started off weak and gained a little steam by the end of the first season. And then this season is started off really, really weak and gained a little steam before SyFy just canceled it. It was a shoddy mismash of soapy elements, muddled religious and sociopolitical themes, entirely too many flashbacks, a cloying score, ham-fisted dialogue and questionable directing. It was as if, hearing that Battlestar Galactica was smart social commentary, the people responsible said, “Hey, let’s do more social commentary.” But folks, social commentary works best in cartoons and space operas because the viewers get sucked up in the action or the silliness. Here we were literally being preached at on a weekly basis.

Now Caprica fans — all 116 of ’em — plan to mount a “Jericho”-style attempt to get SyFy to change its mind. Fans of Jericho got CBS to extend the season by mailing execs thousands of packages of peanuts. Caprica fans? They’re gonna mail apples.

I’m sure the U.S. Postal Service and SyFy execs will appreciate the effort. Because we all know how well apples ship. I swear, though, if Caprica fans piss of SyFy execs so much they kill the other Battlestar Galactica prequel, I’m gonna beat some heads.

I Walk Up to Death and Hug It

UPS is raining death from above, rolling terror in the streets (according to hysterical media reports based on nothing). But you know what? I love logistics, so I’m not going to let fear of dying stop me from walking near a big brown truck. Mind, you this building contains UN diplomatic offices and I’ve seen the undercarriage of car being searched for bombs with those outsized dental-mirror-looking things. You can see how concerned everyone was by this. And by the FecEx truck three spots down. (Full disclosure: What can Brown do for me? Make me cross the street to take this picture. Just in case.)

This is not the toner cartridge you're looking for
A non-explosive UPS Truck on 44th between Third and Lex.

Not-So-Sneaky Sneakers

Today I strapped on my pair of Nike ACG hiking boot-shoe whatevers. I think last time I wore these was in Hawaii. These babies have walked the floor of Kilauea Iki Crater. These babies were there for the tsunami that never was. These babies are LOUD.

They creak and squeak. I thought maybe it was just the nubbins on the bottom of the shoe, protesting about walking indoors or on concrete. But no. I was just sitting here, flexing my foot and they still make noises that can be heard from across the way. I’d say maybe they need to be broken in, but I did a shit-ton of walking when I was in Hawaii.

Oh well, guess I won’t be sneaking up on anyone in the office today.

A Scary Halloween Story

So this year I’m actually going to bother with a costume that isn’t the “Barrel of Monkeys” I’ve been rocking for the past two years. I’m not going to tell you what it is. But I will tell you to pull it off, I need to go to Salvation Army or Goodwill.

But can I do that? Can I actually bring myself, in this climate, to go to a thrift store and buy used clothes.

Because you know who else shops at those stores? BEDBUGS! Bedbugs shop at those stores. Granted, getting part of the costume from Ricky’s was probably just as risky as shopping Salvation Army and Goodwill, but the latter two just seem skeevier.

Best Thing I Read Today

Have you seen the site Lazy Self-Indulgent Book Reviews? No? Go check it out. At any rate, while writing about Harlan Ellison’s “Dangerous Vision,” the reviewer uncorks this one.

I had been extremely close to my father, a homemaker, for most of my childhood, but our edges had done serious damage to our relationship through my teenage years. Personally, I think we as a species are too dismissive of the breach of common decency that marks adolescence. It serves a very serious purpose, in that we are supposed to look at each other upon reaching sexual maturity, and say, “my God, I must leave your home and build my own life, farewell.” Regrettably, the strange indoor-cat-like domestication of humans between 12 and 18 means that we must continue to live and friction with our parents for an interminable amount of time. Deeply unnatural, seemingly unavoidable.

Emphasis mine. Indoor-cat-like domestication of humans between 12 and 18. Yes! (Better yet, through the latest healthcare reform, we’ve classified people as old as 26 as children.)

Via The Awl.

Up Next on Intervention: Ken Wheaton

I blame my stepsister for this. She’s the one who started it. She’s the one who said, “Go ahead. Try it. It’s free.”

I’d resisted earlier attempts from others to try it. Besides, they were simply a bunch of addicted chuckleheads themselves, the sort of people who spend hours on Twitter talking about social media talking about marketing and engaging–obviously the sorts who had no personal lives worth mentioning, whose interior landscapes were empty voids waiting to be occupied by anything.

But my stepsister got me.
Continue reading “Up Next on Intervention: Ken Wheaton”