Thanks so much for your very well thought out reviews, probably more so than the piece itself! :-) Great advice about the house, I didn’t even realize I had done that! Please continue to review my work. I value your opinion. Best, Stevie Rey
Non-fiction / Love Shack
Love Shack
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
-1 Corinthians 13:13
Confession: My wife and I just moved into a new house and I am not handling it well. I’m not sure what a conniption is, but I think I’m about to have one…or at least an aneurism. The little vein underneath my eyeball is growing ever more prominent and my eye lids are starting to twitch. Did I say house? Lean to or Shantey is more like it.
Tin roof…dented. No kidding. It has a tin roof and it’s dented…and rusted, like the song says. There is no heat. There was supposed to be heat. My wife informed me about a week before the move that she had called the Propane people and they had come out to fill the tank, but there was no tank. Bummer. This morning it was so cold that I knocked over a lamp with my nipples.
So we did what any two insane people would do, we bought five space heaters and moved in. We moved into a hundred year old wood house with no smoke alarms and very old wiring with five space heaters. The next day my lovely wife Christen asked, “Sweety, do you think we should get a real tree for Christmas?” Yeah babe, just what we need…more combustibles. That’s just what I want for Christmas this year…Five MOLTEN things, four falling rafters, three French fried cats, and a parched hedge and a bare tree. No thanks, babe. Let’s go with the artificial one. I like my eyebrows pristine and unsinged.
I married Ellie May Clampett. It’s fitting because I think we just moved into the old Clampett house. You know, the one before the oil strike. Anyway, we currently have three cats, two dogs, two humans, and one illegal alien from Colombia living in the aforementioned fire hazard. We have four horses in the pasture and a miniature donkey on the way from Oklahoma, just in time for Christmas.
The illegal alien is my wife’s best friend from Colombia. She is a psychiatrist. I think I’m going to need her services soon. It would seem that all manner of brick layers and migrant fig pickers may find work in the US, but anyone with an actual vocation may pack their bags and get the hell out. That sucks, because if there is anything we need in this country, its therapy, and lots of it. We should give psychiatrists from all over the world forty acres and a condo.
Forrest Comes Home
Forrest, the cat, is not named after the movie character. He is named after the guy who invented the Ku Klux Klan. Now, I had nothing to do with his bizarre nomenclature. It was my infinitely sugar sweet, southern wife who is also slightly opinionated regarding all things southern. She believes that the South should have won the war, that no one should believe all the hype about Abe Lincoln because he was actually an imperialistic asshole, that the war was really not about slavery at all, but about states rights and lastly that Nathan Bedford Forrest was a gentle, wholesome church going Christian man worthy of having felines named in his honor some 150 years later. Forrest, the cat, lives with my wife and I and Caroline, the illegal alien, and the dogs and additional felines in the Love Shack.
Forrest, the cat, like his namesake is not known for his friendliness. He only shows up when he wants something. He thinks I’m not on to his paunchy little four footed trickery, but I am smarter than your average feline (only slightly less smarter than your above average ones). He is known to purr sweetly when you pet him for exactly three seconds and then he turns around and bites your hand. He is an overweight tabby with a tummy that nearly drags the ground and he weighs so much you can hear him coming down the hardwood floors of the Love Shack- thoom, thoom, thoom, thoom, thoom- when he wants to be fed or let out.
Granted, I am not, nor have I ever been, a cat person. Call me old fashioned, but I just have this desire to be loved in return for food and shelter and a nice place to do-do. Most cats are not into the love thing, and most humans just accept it and love them anyway. Hi-yevah, I for one prefer the bumbling, goofy, horse turd-eating canine to the prissy, aloof, “your not good enough to clean my cat box” feline. But, that’s just me. To each his own.
It bears mentioning that Forrest has recently undergone a lobotome of sorts or has possibly been having sessions with Caroline, our in-house, illegal alien psychologist. He has taken to spending time with us, purring in the recliner at our feet, seems mildly interested when we come around (this is a big improvement), and has even stopped biting when petted- all apparently because of a simple change of scenery. It seems that all along Forrest was a country cat living in the city and no one knew it, not even Forrest. When he finally made it home, he was like a new cat- frolicking for hours in the woods surrounding the Love Shack during the day and spending his nights curled up in the sweetest poses with his little paws covering his eyes if he happens to fall asleep with the lights on. Who knew a former Klansman could be so cute?
Faith, God, Goober, and Ziggurats
There is not a level place in all of the love shack. I do not think the carpenter who built it owned a level. Perhaps it was built, by the Amish who might take offense at any such new-fangled technology of the English. Perhaps it was built by terrorists who wish to drive me insane with all this infernal ascending and descending. Perhaps it was built by native Americans who had to leave abruptly due to Nordic invaders before they could finish the job. Maybe Elvis used to live here and he built it with the Memphis maphia; they must have thought with those badges Nixon gave them they could do just about anything. Maybe that’s where they got the idea to call it Rock and Roll, because as I write this I am slowly rolling to the left.
There is nothing that I can do to control this dad-burned pitching and rolling, and that in itself is maddening. I like to be in control. I think one of the reasons that this ordeal has been so difficult for me is that I feel out of control. I am a city boy in the country. A high tech, new world man (work with me, here), in Bugtustle. Neo in Mayberry. I keep trying to explain The Matrix to Goober and he is just not getting it.
I believe that one of the most difficult things for us human beans to do is to simply trust…to have a little faith in God that things are going to get better, to just kind of sit back and go with the flow and work the rudder. That’s why religion has always been so popular. We’ve been erecting totems, and sacrificing babies, and building temples, and churches, and pyramids, and ziggurats (you don’t know how long I have waited to use that word in a sentence) since time immemorial to impress God, to get him to do what we want him to do. What if He is not that kind of God? What if He doesn’t like totems, and temples, and religion for that matter? What if He just likes people?
Hope, Cornbread, and the Mentally Retarded
Hope is a lot like cornbread. Not in the sense that it’s dry and gritty and goes well with lima beans. Not in the sense that you better spread a nice scoop of butter on there or risk death by asphyxiation. Hope is a lot like cornbread in the sense that you can live on it for a while if there is nothing else to sustain you. Allow me to illustrate. Life for us comes dangerously close to sucking here in the love shack. There is not a right angle in the whole damn place, its cold, and if you turn on the tv and a lamp at the same time the circuit breaker kicks off. Verily, verily this doth suck. Hi- Yevah, we’re looking forward to a better time. Since it pretty much sucks to be me right now, I’m taking out a loan on future good times (having already established that I am very good with credit), knowing that if I trust (remember the whole faith, ziggurat thing) it will eventually get better. So, if things suck for you now, my friend, believe me, I can identify. Here, sit down and have some cornbread with me. We’ll get through this. Oh, yeah. Pass the butter.
Hope is for the mentally retarded and the certifiably insane. Hope is when you can look at a perfectly dire and hopeless situation and say “this time next year I’m going to be drinking Mai Tai’s on the beach with the latest Sweet Potato Queen’s book” or if you’re really good you might be with the good queen herself, laughing, telling stories, and basking in her buxom beauty and matronly wisdom and charm. If this is not mental retardation, I don’t know what is. You’re looking at one life and seeing another that is completely different! They have a word for this. They have several words…lunacy, madness, derangement! You’ve got a bucket, but there’s no chicken inside. You’re two packs short of a carton. Elvis has left the building. In short, you’re fruitier than a Blow Pop and nuttier than grandma’s pecan pie. Oh, and one more thing, God bless ya for being that way.
Cheeseburger in Paradise
Janet and Crissy have been fighting. By Janet and Crissy I mean my wife and her friend Caroline. Caroline is leaving and going back to Columbia and my wife is none too happy about it.
Today all three of us went horse back riding on the back forty and it relieved a lot of tension I think. At least it did for me. The love shack is ugly in almost every way, but it sits on one hundred acres of pristine, gloriously southern, country side, and we saw a good bit of it today. The birds were chirping, and the leaves were blowing, and the evergreens were….uh, green and even the horses seemed to enjoy themselves immensely. They shat with great abandon, and I got to see the anal sphincter of the equine in front of me working with infinite precision to evacuate its attached bowels. I found this to be quite an interesting site and it has lain seared upon my retinas for the remainder of the day.
Tonight we cooked burgers outside and all seemed to be well as I watched the sun set over the lake (and the horse sphincters, still burned upon my retinas). It warmed up today and the house was not as cold. The horses were in their pasture, their anal sphincters nestled cozy between their horse cheeks. The smell of mashed potatoes filled the air as I scooped up the burgers and climbed into the love shack for the night.
Love IS all You Need
There once was a wise and learned group of itinerant theologians known as The Beatles who made the audacious and supremely heretical claim that All You Need is Love. Now, The Beatles were from the strange and far away land of Engle- an island across a vast and often treacherous sea, an island of Hobbits and Hogwarts, Wardrobes and other sundry wonders. It was a good land, and they were merry, good men, one and all.
Now, one might be persuaded of the veracity of such a statement- All You Need is Love- but for the fact that on a daily basis each of us needs quite many things- air, money, gas for our cars, food, and Starbucks, but do we really need love? And is it, in fact, all we need? Were the good-hearted quartet merely waxing romantic or is it indeed an irrefutable fact that everyone, regardless of race, nationality, or party affiliation needs love?
I would submit to the reader that not only does everyone need love, but they need it more than any other thing, even Starbucks. Now, this is only the opinion of one man, a man who is neither Beatle, Monkee, nor Rolling Stone- just a lone seminary drop out pondering the meaning of life. But, I can tell you that before I had love, neither had I peace. Before I had love, joy was fleeting and pain was my constant companion- soul pain, deep and throbbing, and dark. And I sat upon the chilly stoop of the church and waited for love to let me in, not knowing that love is not found in silly man- made boxes of religion. Love is too big for religion. It breaks out in blinding shards of light and falls around our faces like confetti. And then you realize that love was right there all the time and is indeed all you need.
Tasmanian Devil, Agent of Love and Healing
I turned 38 yesterday, and I’ve been depressed as hell about it. It’s not that I haven’t accomplished anything, its’ the mess that I’ve made along the way. Some people whirligig through life like the Tasmanian devil shredding everything in their path. I’m afraid I’ve been one of those people. My pastor once made the astute observation that hurt people, hurt people. I can identify. I hope and pray that I’m getting better, though, that somehow there is a cure for this disease. Call me a hopeless optimist, but I believe that cure is love. Unconditional love. It settles us down inside, calms the savage beast, and somehow Taz spins a little slower, maybe someday even stops spinning altogether.
There is no denying that I have made a mess of my life. Two divorces. Financial ruin. Male pattern baldness. There is no need for me to feel like the lone ranger though. People are messy. That’s what makes us human beans. God loves us anyway. That’s the thing that’s hard to believe. We think that because of our messiness, God won’t accept us, when in fact, he only accepts messy people who stop frontin’ and admit it. No hypocrites allowed. And maybe, just maybe, if God can accept a guy like me- a total and complete failure (I freakin’ flunked out of preacher school! Who does that! You never even hear of it! I made a mockery of my so-called calling! It’s beyond scandalous!) then maybe, just maybe he can accept you too. And maybe, just maybe we can all stop spinning and churning and hurting people, maybe we can even help to heal a few broken hearts along the way. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Fonzie, Mother Mary, and Rubber Cement Boogers
Sweety and I had a fight yesterday. As usual, it was my fault. I have been just completely freaked out about this move. You’d think that I had just been forced to move from Graceland to the projects in Binghampton. In actuality, I moved from a two bedroom apartment with a beautiful, panoramic, view of a drainage ditch. The ditch vistas were home, though. They were home for a long time, and it’s hard leaving home. Later, I apologized. “Sweety, I’m sorry. I’ve been under a lot of stress at work and this bald spot seems to be getting bigger.”
The two most important words in any relationship (including your relationship with God) are “I’m Sorry.” I say these words most everyday to someone and they have the most incredible healing effect. If you haven’t learned these magic words, please do try them out! You’ll be amazed at how your relationships will improve. Don’t be like Fonzie. Remember Fonzie from the TV show Happy Days? Fonzie could never say, “I’m sorry.” He would try, but it came out “I’m sssss”, “I mean, Richie, I’m really ssssorr- rrrrrr.” He was just too cool to get the words out. What The Fonze didn’t realize is that saying “I’m sorry” is cool. It’s just about the coolest thing we can say to another human bean or to God for that matter. It says that “I was wrong. I messed up. I hurt you. Forgive me.” Apologies are the rubber cement that hold your relationships together. Remember rubber cement from grade school? It’s not just for making boogers anymore (they should use that line for a marketing campaign). Rubber Cement- It’s not just for making boogers anymore. I bet sales would go through the roof. But, we all need a heaping daily dollop of rubber cement to hold our relationships together. You know, it’s not just for making boogers anymore.
Sometimes when I whine uncontrollably, God has a way of putting things in perspective for me. I have been thinking this year that I really wanted to enjoy Christmas, really get into the Spirit of things. So, I’ve been trying to take a little more time to soak things in- the lights, Santa, stressed out shoppers on the verge of a complete, murderous, breakdown where they bludgeon the poor Barnes and Noble clerk to death with the latest Harry Potter book. These are the things that make Christmas a special time. So, I purposefully went about seeking all things Christmas and lingering a little while to reflect. I bought a David Sedaris book about Christmas and laughed out loud (David is a very sick man, by the way. His sense of humor only slightly less perverse than my own.) I sat down at the Wolfchase Mall and watched the kiddies ride the carousel (I saw several concerned parents speaking with the security guard). And, I went to the movies.
Movies are a major source of inspiration and theological training to me. It could be why my theology is so messed up. Anyway, I went to see this movie about the birth of Jesus, and immediately felt like a turd. Poor Mary, forced to move on the back of an ass. At least we had Uhaul. She was pregnant, I only had gas. She had a baby in a barn. The love shack is pretty bad, but at least it is indoors and there are no farm animals around (at least not inside). Little Mary, such a trouper. Little me, such a whiner.
……………………………….
The other day I saw Forrest out in the yard frolicking naked. Cat’s almost always do their frolicking naked. It’s really the only way to frolic proper. Forrest is getting along pretty good these days. He loves it out here. His personality has completely changed. We may have to change his name, now, because he’s so happy that “Forrest” just doesn’t seem to fit. It’s very funny, because he did not want to come here. On the way over, he hissed and howled and pretty much made a spectacle of himself. I did my own share of hissing.
It’s amazing what we can get used to, and even comfortable with. It’s amazing the awful places that can feel like home if we stay there long enough, like the ditch vistas where I used to live. Some of us have lived in the ditch vistas of religion for so long that it feels like home, but we have no idea of the freedom, and love that we could experience if we would lose our religion.
Moving is hard, but we do it anyway, because we want to have a better life. We want to have a better view. It takes some courage. It’s scary. But in the end, like Forrest the cat, we’ll be frolicking naked through the trees, free and unfettered by religion, bounded only by the rolling hills of unconditional love.
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Dauna reviewed Version 1 -
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I like this piece however it needs a little more description in places which others have touched on. I like your touches of humor. I like the story. I think you do stand a good chance of getting published.
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teaddub reviewed Version 1 -
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This is well written, in terms of the conventions of modern written English. I like the references to modern events, and current media happenings, like The Beattles, and Forest Gump. I was intrigued with your sense of humour, and I think you have a gift in that respect, but as in the last piece you wrote that I reviewed, you are missing something.
This is constructed much like any good creative nonfiction. It reads like a story about your house, but is in reality a way to denounce complainers and whiners. At least that is what I get out of it. Through your self reflection you have managed to create an environment where you explain that none of us have a right to complain, and that we should have faith in God, not in our religion. I will not get into a theologic dispute with you here, I agree on many levels. What I do dispute, however, is your lack of discription and concrete appeals to the readers senses. Read all of the greats on this genre, they all start with some discription. You have neatly avoided discribing the house(except in passing phrases here and there, I know it leans, I know it has a tin roof, I know it is wood, but I don’t have any idea what it looks like), the acerage around the house, the cats, even yourself. What does it smell like there in the morning? What are the texures of your life there? I don’t just mean touchable textures either, though they are important, I mean when you are on that horseback ride, how did it feel to you and your companions?
You have written a delightfully amusing little braided essay here, one that actually carries meaning. You made a couple of major philosophic faux pas’ but overall a great message. I wouold like to see this publishable. Give your readers a different essay, much the same, but include some of the more interesting concrete details for us to sink our teeth into, and then move your message through us.
camawin reviewed Version 1 -
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this is really good some extremely funny stuff in here, I especially like your “resident columbian illegal immigrant psychologist” you could probably write a story with nothing but her.
I’m having a hard time thinking of things to criticize here because as far as this type of piece goes I think it just about perfect.
what this world needs is more writing about horse’s anal sphincters…by the way that might be redundant, possibly just cut out anal.
I believe “maphia” is spelled mafia as well.
overall a great, funny read
thanks
kenbur1222 reviewed Version 1 -
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Nit Pics
lobotome > lobotomy site>sight
Big Pic
I fell over my chair, laughing! This is the best piece I’ve seen here yet, I’m giving it a no-doubts, no-hesitations TEN. Love it.
On a philosophical note, I would like to offer the author an alternative to saying “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry, but I don’t like this phrase, because when I’ve offered this humility before, the response was an immediate, disdainful “You DAMN sure are.” Which is rather deflating, even for humility. So I would posit, in it’s stead, the attitude of gratitude. Like “thank you so much for showing me the error of my ways.”
I’m going to save this little gem for future perusal. I hope to have your blessing?
onlywish reviewed Version 1 -
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You have a style that is interesting and unique. The structure of the story I enjoyed. A bit abrupt in transition but it works. You have given Forrest personality that I feel will be remembered. My only suggestion would be to expand on Forrest. Good job.
TimeTrader reviewed Version 1 -
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Down to earth humorous! Wonderful title. This man is the poster child for adaptation.
I would buy your book. Please make me your urbis friend and let me know when you post again.
TimeTrader
Virginia
Kym reviewed Version 1 -
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Damn, that’s some frenetic work! The pace correlates with a state of mind, though, in the quieter moments it may need to slow down some more for contrast. Really dug it though.
Goddess2006 reviewed Version 1 -
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Very funny! I laughed out loud a few times. I find it easy identifying in your main character in his struggles. I would have liked to hear more about the Columbian alien psychiatrist—it seems a perfect fit for your sense of comedy. There are some minor grammar and spelling errors, but I think your style transcends it. There is lobotome instead of lobotomy, I saw a missing comma, but I’m no grammar hound. Love the title, the biblical reference, everything seems to fit together very well—great read!
Whiskey reviewed Version 1 -
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I felt that this chapter was a little disconnected. The themes all relate to each other loosely but I felt that more work could be done to demonstrate how they are related and why they are relevant.
I liked the comparison of yourself with the cat.
Still digging the writing style.
I also like how you are never afraid to go to a confronting place with the imagery. The description of the horses was particularly memorable.
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