Camping For Christ

This year, some of the most reverent supporters of the 'Keep Christ in Christmas' and 'Bah Humbug on the ACLU For Questioning Our Need to Display Religiosity' groups broke tradition and extended one of their more devout rituals an extra day. There is little doubt that the PlayStation 3 and the Nintendo Wii are both icons of the values these people so desperately need to instill in their children, making the two-day camp outs on store parking lots to acquire the first ones available an act of mercy, not greed. It is possible some of these parents will be advanced to sainthood status, or at least given a church bulletin column for their delivering-souls-from-purgatory and saving-pagan-babies level contributions.

Witnessing this display of perfect parenting encouraged a rebirth of sorts in me. I repented for the times I encouraged my children to be individuals and not want something just because everyone else did. I regret telling them it is not important to always be first, and recognize the many opportunities I missed to prove my love for them by pushing my way to the front and trampling other people to make sure they had the appropriate toy with which to keep Christ in Christmas. I hope to burn in hell for the times I wrote x-mas.

Next year, I plan to be there three days early, so I can rectify the most grievous wrongs I saw this year. I will fight those storeowners who obviously refused to allow the campers to hang the Ten Commandments on their tents. I will stand strong, fight the ACLU, FBI, CIA, ASCAP, or anyone who tries to silence the 'Keep Christ in Christmas' prayer groups that were so clearly missing at these campouts.

I appeal to all of you. We have little time before Black Friday, so immediate help is needed. Please, donate to my ten commandments poster campaign. The least we can do is cash in our points for poster boards and markers, and provide each shopper with a 'Keep Christ in Christmas' poster to carry through the malls on Friday.

Those Were the Days My Friend

Posted to Gather August 15, 2009 01:29 PM EDT

In December 2005, there were few things I had not done, seen, or felt. Journals kept the details of my experiences, and major influences lived in memories and emulations. I used some of them in my novel writing and was ready to explore and reflect others in shorter work. Comfortable with where I was in life and in my writing, I settled into my seat at the Gather table, excited about the opportunity to read, meet, and mix with writers from whom I would learn to hone my skills and pour fifty years of highs and lows, loves and losses, friendships, life lessons, and opinions into fine-tuned essays, short stories, articles, and opinion pieces.

I read everyone on Gather, pleased to discover that my position—midway between beginner and accomplished—presented equal opportunity for give and take. I posted a few pieces and waited. A few people complimented my technique, debated my opinions, and discussed my reflections. It felt great, until I realized something was missing. No one suggested ways in which I might improve my writing. This was fun but I was not honing.

The writers I knew outside Gather appreciated anyone who was willing to comb their work for typos, or errors in spelling, grammar, and punctuation. They treasured those who also looked for inconsistencies in tense, detail, or voice, and who recognized problems with style, awkward wording, character development, or dialogue. Maybe writers in this community expected me to pay my dues before they would invest time in my work? I would give first and see what happened.

I scoured the site and commented on content. I also identified the obvious, simple errors. For the more complicated finds, I explained my critiques and suggestions and linked to educational sites and/or appropriate books. Then, I sat back and waited for the recipients of my time and effort to appreciate my diligence and thank me with genuine critiques of my work instead of the generic nice job comments I was seeing. (It’s okay to laugh and wonder how I could be so naïve after touting all that worldly experience in the first paragraph.)

The writers in this community were different. A few insisted they were professionals and therefore perfect, and that anyone who dared point out an error was jealous and not welcome. And there were others who insisted that only thugs and mean people thought there were rules to writing. They expected praise and high ratings, despite their errors, since they never intended to be real writers. I should be grateful they slopped some words on the page and allowed me to read them.

I adjusted my not-so-comfortable-any-more seat and considered the options: I could quit, or forget standards, or try to affect change, or wait to see if other writers came in. My decision to wait ended up being one of the best I have made. That probably surprises those of you who have suggested (so many times) that I should leave if I am so unhappy. I will explain my Those Were the Days experience and hope you will understand why I stick around longing to find people who will recreate those times.

A few brave souls came forward to admit that they, too, cared about the integrity of writing and hoped that we could stick together and hold one another to high standards and honesty. My Gather mailbox filled with encouragement from people who supported my position, but weren’t brave enough to risk the fallout that found people who openly admitted they cared about standards on this site.

A few more writers showed up, and soon, key elements stewed in an undercurrent of potential: intelligence, skill, discipline, strength, eagerness, vitality, ethics, talent, and wit. One great piece of work inspired another. On one side of Gather, writers linked to other writers and encouraged great work, while the other side screamed about being bumped out of top spots by grammar police and elitists. It was easy to ignore the screaming while I expected the undercurrent to burst into something phenomenal.

A human catalyst--posing as a teen werewolf--entered. Most of us feel something special when we see pictures of babies or puppies even if we have not and will never meet the subject of the picture. We fall in love with words in a song, and emotionally attach ourselves to characters in books and movies. Ideals grab our hearts. Art changes our lives. Once in a great while, for reasons we can’t explain, some identity—real or not—wins a permanent place in our heart. So it was for me, with the talent behind the teen werewolf (sometimes known as the wherewolf after long absences) icon.

Not only was he the catalyst I needed (I think I speak for others as well), he was a talent magnet. He raised the bar and silently issued constant challenges for me to be at the top of my game. He entertained. He demonstrated a perfect mix of perfectionist and humility. Before long, young, passionate, intelligent, witty, altruistic, humble, disciplined, cultured, eager, earnest, generous, and inspirational artists surrounded him. Many in that group were young enough to be my children, yet I felt privileged to be in their presence and to learn from them.

For a while, Gather was filled with creativity and growth (of the personal kind, I don’t know about membership numbers). I credit those passionate young writers, and believe their energy would have pulled in more members like them if Gather had appreciated and protected them and what they (and many of us) believed was the original vision of this site. Unfortunately, instead of protecting them, quality content, or that evasive vision - Gather allowed people who resented grammar police and elitists to harass, flag, misrepresent, and chase them off to share their brilliance where it is appreciated.

Spirits and motivation dropped. Writers stopped writing or left when their readers and inspiration dwindled, and their work was buried so deeply between games, diary entries, and single-line questions that no one could find it.

Recently, I accepted a position as member editor for the Writing Essential group, hoping I might infuse a new wave of inspiration and challenge, collect people who are passionate about the art of writing, or at least promise that on one day of the week, I would sponsor a collection of inspired, creative writing. I thought maybe, if readers and writers knew where they could ‘gather’ to meet other passionate writers with similar interests, the momentum would grow.

After several months and few responses to several appeals to the group for feedback, it is obvious that most members do not share my interests. I’m extremely grateful to those who do share my interests and to those who responded to my questions. I’ve heard from a few others, and have to assume that the majority who did not respond agree, that my focus is too narrow (fiction, prose) and my standards (must care about technique) too strict. Therefore, I plan to take my project out of the group and leave Tuesday open to a theme and moderator/host that will better serve its members.

Last night, I stood before the tavern (listen to the song if this makes no sense) and heard Monica and X Tabber call my name.  I’m not completely ready to give up my dream of creating a cozy corner in Gather where we might bring back or recreate a Those Were the Days atmosphere. I want to see if I have different results in a location where I am able to deliver exactly what I promise.

I created three new groups for writers and readers who care about the art of writing:**

• Character Development Workshop
• Fiction Headquarters
• Creative Non-fiction/Personal Essays

(Groups are not fully developed. I hope to get them cleaned up over the next few days at which time I will formally introduce them with guidelines.)  

UPDATE: Gather no longer exists as it was. It has changed hands and doesn't pretend to be a site for writers. If you manage to get in, or happen upon the old links that many of us posted to our work, you will only find fluff pieces, or something that one of the originals wrote, accompanied by a photo of their new fluff writer. Very deceptive. And disappointing.

Each group will have strict posting guidelines and content will be monitored. These groups are for beginning and accomplished members – anyone who promises to think before they write, edit before they post, treasure readers and writers who offer critique, to accept personal responsibility for remembering the group purpose and guidelines. Members must have thick skin, accept critique and praise graciously, and understand that members will read and comment on what interests them which means some members will receive more attention than others.

In other words, if you can’t remember that they sell food in the grocery and flowers at the florist, that you work on Tuesday but not on Saturday and your book club meets on the third Wednesday of each week, you don’t belong in these groups. If you are not capable of separating the writer from the writing, or you suspect these groups are cliques and that posting to them guarantees friendships or exclusion of people you don’t like, you don’t belong. What you post to an anything goes group does not belong in these groups*

Long-term goals:

• To twist a few arms and expand this beyond what I can comfortably handle. I would like to link each of these groups to poetry and other non-fiction groups that commit to the same standards.

• To promote these groups outside Gather and see if they attract new writers and readers.

* That doesn’t mean that you don’t belong, only that your anything goes post doesn’t belong.

Gone Postal

I placed an internet order for two 30ml bottles of e-liquids that usually arrive within a few days, in a bubble-wrap envelope that fits easily in my mailbox, along with the usual assortment of bills and junk mail. On Sunday night, I checked tracking information on the package because coconut e-liquid is my favorite and I was almost out, and also because the temperature had dropped to below freezing. 

On Monday, the tracker said the package had been delivered to my mailbox at 11:52 a.m. Schools were closed for a snow day and we had record cold temperatures (low teens) for this time of year. I really love my coconut e-liquid so I bundled up in my winter coat, gloves, and snow boots and trekked across snow and ice to get to my mailbox – a block from my back door. There was no package in my box. I returned home, circling around to the front door (where at least the sidewalk had been cleared) and there was no package at my door. 

Unsure what the exact procedure might be for scanning package delivery into the system, I thought maybe it had been scanned when it left the post office and was still in the carrier's truck. Maybe the weather had slowed the carrier down and he would get it to me soon. I waited until evening and walked back over to the mailbox. Still, no package. 

On Tuesday, I checked early and again later. In other places I've lived, mail carriers were so routine that I was almost able to set the clock by when the mail arrived. Not so with this guy. He might show up at 9 a.m., 5 p.m., or anywhere between the two. Not cool when I live a block away from the mailbox and don't know if an empty box means I received nothing, or he hasn't been there yet. No package. 

When I got back home after the second trip on Tuesday, I went to the USPS website and filed a complaint - because there was no option for tracking a package that they believe has been delivered, or reporting a delivery that didn't happen. I received a case number (not quite as long as the tracking number and starting with the letters HQ) and requested an email response. 

Wednesday – no package, no email response. So, I called my branch office. I explained the situation and was told the supervisor would investigate and call me back. Around 5 p.m., I realized the day was almost over and the supervisor had not called. I tried calling again but, of course, it was after hours and there was no answer. I returned to the website and found a fax number for my branch office. Great. I typed my story, complete with the original tracking number and the new HQ case number and said I would not only like to have my package, I would also like to know where it had been for two days and why it was scanned as delivered to my box when it had not been delivered to my box. I tried, multiple times, to send the fax but didn't get through. 

Thursday – Tried sending the fax a couple more times with no luck. No package, no email response, no return call from supervisor. Called St. Matthews again and said something must be wrong with their fax machine. Nope, nothing wrong with it – they don't have a fax machine anymore.
I said I had called the day before and was told a supervisor would call me back, but that didn't happen. The guy on the other end said he hadn't spoken to me and didn't know who had (but didn't shout out – hey, anybody remember this call). I started over. Told my story again. He put me on hold. For about 15 minutes, I listened to the most annoying few bars of music and a short message, over and over and over and over.

Frustrated, I hung up and called back. Said I thought someone put me on hold and forgot me. The person who answered didn't bother to shout out – hey, anybody put some lady on hold and forget her – just asked what I needed. I told my story again. Again, I was insulted with questions-for-dummies - did I check my mailbox? How about my front door? Did I knock on the doors of neighbors to see if they had my package? Yes. Yes. No. And I'm not going to knock on the doors of my neighbors to track my package that I know fits in my box and that has put in my box every other time I've ordered it. He didn't know what to tell me. 

I asked if he thought the tracking number or complaint number might help him. No. Then, he realized I live in an apartment complex and was positive the carrier had left the package in the office. I said no, when he delivers a package to the office, they call me immediately. And if they had called me and I failed to pick it up for two days, they would have called me again. So, I knew it was not delivered to the office. 

Maybe it was too large to fit in my mailbox so the carrier placed it in one of the larger, lock boxes. He wanted me to hang up, call the office, and return to the mailbox to see if there was a key for the larger box in there. I told him there was not a key in my mailbox and I was not going to walk back over there but I would waste my time and the office staff time by calling there when I already knew – and had already told him – the answer to that question. I hung up, called the office, she said she would have called me if she had a package but, to be absolutely positive, she would check the packages delivered there today. Mine was not there. 

I called my branch again and asked for a supervisor. The guy on the phone said he was the supervisor and I'm pretty sure it's the same man I had spoken with before but he let me explain the situation and assure them that the package was not in the office. Then, I would have to call Consume Affairs. He gave me the number.

I called Consumer Affairs and received a recording instructing me to call 1-800-ASKUSPS, who would contact my local post office with my complaint. (It's safe to assume tears here.)
Called my branch back with this info. He asked if I called the 800 number. I asked why should do that when they are going to refer me back to him? If I wanted his help, I would have to call that 800 number.

I hung up. Called the 800 number where I received a voice-activation menu that included scheduling redelivery, scheduling pick-up, cancelling mail – but nothing for reporting a missing package. I tried 'customer service' and 'help' and 'missing package' and ended up with "Thank you for your call," before being disconnected.

Called my branch again. They can't help if I don't talk to the 800 people or, maybe I could try Complaints. He gave me the number for Complaints, where I got the same menu.
Slammed the phone down and returned to the internet, where I had to create an account, with a password that included lower case, upper case, numbers, symbols . . . After all of that, I could find no place to track my stupid case number.

Called Complaints again. Went through the same list – missing package, customer service, help, human, and, finally, found the magic key. FUCK YOU is either so unrecognizable or offensive to the robot that took me right to a real live woman. A very nice, real live woman who listened to me tell her each of the steps I had taken, apologized, and gave me a third number, this one starting with CA, that I can probably go nowhere to track. 

Nice Lady was emailing my branch as we spoke and promised someone would get back to me. Soon.
All of this over a $20 order. I might have forgotten it if this were not the third time in a few months that tracking information stated packages had been delivered to my address when they had not been. 

My other activities today included: 

Renewing my driver's license and getting the photographer who says, "Ready?" and then waited until my smile faded into a WTF look to snap the picture.

and 

Taking my glasses for repair only to find out they can't be repaired, and then finding the perfect pair of glasses only to find they'd been placed in the wrong section and were really $200 higher than the sale price section I thought I was shopping in.


 
I.need.nicotine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Lines Around the Cowboy’s Eyes

 
I'm just an old cowboy he'd say
broken down in my younger days
Somebody took the best of me
All I have left is what you see
I saw wisdom that couldn't be denied,
in the lines around the cowboy's eyes

 
His worn down boots had traveled miles
but I knew he still had dreams
I saw tenderness in a warm smile
and a man with places yet to see
I saw happiness for a little while
when his eyes were looking at me
I saw wisdom that couldn't be denied
in the lines around the cowboy's eyes

 
I saw years of real tough living
in the roughness of his hands
He had done his share of giving
probably rearranged his plans
but his eyes told me everything
he was a gentle loving man
I saw wisdom that couldn't be denied
in the lines around the cowboy's eyes

 
I said I hoped to see him again
and I saw him look surprised
He thought he'd lost the best of him
but I saw what he couldn't hide
I watched his lips turn up a grin
and I saw a spark in his eyes
I saw wisdom that couldn't be denied
in the lines around the cowboy's eyes

 
Sandy Morgan 6/94

Stop Peeing on My Leg About Tuesday Because You’re Pissing Me Off

I've been channeling Judge Judy for about twenty-four hours now. Can't count the times I've already thought, in her voice, "Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining." The latest time was when I saw a pundit try to convince us that the final sale of our country to the Koch brothers isn't really such a bad thing because old, white Republican voters will die soon.

 Assuming that my readers are sane, I'll give you a minute to recover.

 Ready?

 Seriously. That's how ridiculous the spin on the death of our country really is. The even worse news is that seemingly sane and reasonably intelligent people suck up everything those pundits purge and savor it like candy. My Facebook news feed shows a steady flow of already-recovered mourners totally relieved to see that someone thinks all will be okay once a whole voting block drops dead, or who are pleased to gloat over the fact that maybe McConnell will have to do some work or face VETO, and some who feel great about themselves because this loss gave them renewed energy to fight harder next time.

 Time for another break. Let 'next time' settle for a few seconds. We have plenty of years to waste.

 And then there are the ones who started late Tuesday night, talking about all of the mistakes the Democrats made (even pointing out how they deserved to lose for running scared of the truth that the critics won't admit) and who we should run next time - like brides who think only of the wedding and not the marriage.

 Yeah. That's the answer. Republicans will probably be a nicer bunch of degenerates next time and it'll be a piece of cake. Let's just forget this tragedy, wait for the old white folks to die, and it'll all be okay. Good plan.

 In two, four, or six (depending on the race) years, Republicans will no longer own the voting machines. They will have won over enough minority voters to give up on suppression and disenfranchising. (Wait! Won't those minority voters they've won over replace the old, white corpses?) They'll gladly redistrict and maybe even apologize for gerrymandering. And they will be too broke to run dirty campaigns, even if they still wanted to lie. Sounds great. Glad I walked myself through this so I can stop mourning, too.

 Honestly, who is really naive enough to believe these were all 'close races' that Republicans actually won, no matter how many times and how many ways the corporate-owned media say it? I can't imagine a less-informed bunch of people anywhere else on earth.

 It takes a special kind of twisted thinking to blame Democrats who did not vote, Democratic candidates who didn't say every single thing that every single voter wanted to hear, Democrats who didn't knock on enough doors, Democrats who couldn't outspend the Koch and Rove machines, MSNBC, the DCCC . . . Although every one of those things probably harmed momentum and turn out, and we need to address the mistakes made, the bottom line is this: Uninformed, willfully ignorant, misguided, corrupt, dregs of society Republican VOTERS sold us out, and turned this country over to the highest bidders. I plan to hold the ones I encounter responsible.

 I also hope to start a movement to edit all documentation to change the words democracy and republic to oligarchy. That should be our first order of business during this marriage – uh, administration. Because, the next election is two years away and we have work to do before we start talking about it.

 If I had any faith in Americans, I would put replacing voting machines with paper ballots, requesting UN monitoring of our elections, providing every citizen of voting age with a free voter ID card – but I can't go through the disappointment of being rejected and threatened over those again. I'm old and I'm weary.

 And I'm shopping for a new country.

 I pledge no allegiance to the flag of the un-united states of America, and to the oligarchy for which it stands, one nation, divisible, with liberty and justice for a few.

 My friend says it much more eloquently here.