A Brief Thing: How it Should Have Been

As a means of an introduction, let me implore of you my kind readership, forgive me of my mistakes, editorial errors, or general lack of cleverness. I wrote this quickly, a storytelling Tourette's Syndrome if you will.  Giggle and enjoy:

Little Red felt the basket drop as Mamma Red threw treat after treat into the wooden vessel. Little Red thought that certainly Grandmother didn’t need all these baked goods.

Mamma Red looked at her lazy, stupid daughter and hoped a wolf would maul her to bits.

The forest was charming and beautiful, chirping and rustling, but of course it was still a forest and appropriately filled with wolves and bears and cougars. But alas, Little Red was a stupid girl, and she ventured in anyways with lazy thoughts of shortcuts dancing through her head (a most barren place indeed).

Wolf gingerly nibbled a rabbit, his pack off sunbathing nearby, when he smelled Little Red stumbling through the forest, for she had not bathed in many days. He decided to follow her because he was lonely and his pack was very snarky (they did not approve of his love for cross (species) dressing, a hobby he most enjoyed).

Now, human children are slow creatures (Little Red especially), so soon Wolf grew tired of pacing behind. He trotted on ahead. Abandoning Little Red and her rancid stench, Wolf ran along to his favorite place on the outskirts of the forest.

Reaching the cottage at the end of the forest, Wolf pushed his snout through the door of Grandmother’s house. As per usual, Grandmother was passed out on her rocker muttering the lyrics to racist colloquial songs. Wolf lifted her from the chair and placed her tenderly into the wardrobe where he removed a nightgown and cap from their hangers. He climbed into bed and just was.

With her graceless knack for ruining all good things, Little Red barged through Grandmother’s door only moments after Wolf settled in.

“I’m HERE!” She bellowed, and Wolf quickly covered his face with blankets. Little Red skipped over to the bed and dumped the contents of her basket all over Wolf. “These are from mom,” Little Red chucked the basket onto the floor and sat down on the bed. Wolf only nodded behind the blankets. Little Red grabbed a treat from the bed and stuffed it into her face. “Grandmother, you’re really hairy,” she said with a mouthful of pastry.

Wolf felt himself sweating through his nightie. There was no way he could escape the girl. She was going to find out his secret and he was going to be humiliated. Little Red was pretty busy eating, so that bought him some time, but he had to think of something quick.

“Seriously, you look like Daddy’s backside,” Little Red spat pastry all over when she spoke. She reached forward to pull the blanket from Wolf’s face, and he cringed. And just as she yanked the blanket away, Wolf screamed the loudest, highest pitched sound any male of any species could make. Little Red just stared at him and continued to eat. “Yeah, you really need a shave.”

Wolf scowled at Little Red.

“Wow Grandmother, you don’t look so good,” Little Red rubbed her hands clean of her snack and grabbed another. “This will make you feel better. Open up!” Little red threw open Wolf’s mouth and jammed the pastry inside. “Lord above Grandmother, are these your dentures?” Little Red wiggled a tooth. Wolf shook his head and tried to get the fiend out of his mouth. “Stop moving Grandma! These can’t be your dentures; someone at the doctor’s must have messed up. Let me take them out.” Wolf struggled against Little Red, yelping and flailing under the sheets.

Amidst the thrashing, the front door flew open. Looking into the room was none other than Amelia Wudchopp dressed to the nines in flannel.

“What in the name of affordable plywood is going on in here?” Wudchopp demanded. Little Red had opened Wolf’s mouth as wide as it would go and had nearly gotten both hands and a chunky length of arm into it. “Is that wolf trying to eat you?!” Wudchopp stepped forward.

“Wolf? Lady, this is my grandmother. And you are one rude piece of work barging into here and calling my grandma hairy.” Little Red pulled her saliva-coated parts from Wolf’s mouth.

Wudchopp just stared at Little Red. She looked to Wolf whose face was a jumble of panic and horror and then back at the little girl (who had already begun to start eating again). With two huge lumberjack strides, Wudchopp walked up to Wolf and yanked his night cap straight off.

“You’re telling me this is your grandmother?” Wolf lowered his ears tight to his head in shame.

“Yeah, what’s it to you, crazy?” Little Red rubbed her belly. She got up and brushed crumbs from her dress. “Now, I know I can find something to—yes! These will work just right,” Little Red had been rifling through a junk chest when she stood and held a pair of gnarly, rusted pliers into the air. “Now let’s get those dentures out.” Little Red walked towards Wolf, who had shrunk his body as small as it could get against the bed. Wudchopp looked at the wolf and then the little girl.

WOMP! Wudchopp took the butt of her axe and tapped it once on Little Red’s head who at once fell face first onto the floor, cape sprawled out atop her.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here.” Wudchopp helped Wolf out of bed and the two walked towards the door. “So you like dressing up as old women?” Wudchopp made polite conversation, and the Wolf looked up in affirmation. And the two slammed the door behind them. As they did so, the wardrobe bulged open and Grandmother slumped to the floor, sound asleep.

The End. 

A Brief Thing: Uncomfortable

I like to think that I don't feel uncomfortable all the time. But in my charming little brother's words, "Ethan, everything makes you uncomfortable." I've decided for your reading pleasure to jot down a brief list of some of the things that over the years have made me utter the words, "that makes me uncomfortable." Bear in mind that this list is not necessarily a list of things that I hate, despise, loathe and wish ill of. Some of these things I have great respect or even love for. For a detailed description of why any of these things make me uncomfortable, feel free to shoot me an email. I've excluded anything painfully obvious like pooping my pants or public speaking. Enjoy! 

Things that make me uncomfortable:

Old people

Milk

Disobeying signs

Flamboyancy 

Farting in airplanes

Vaginal situations (excluding birth)

Sleeves below the elbow

Desperate sexual advances

Unattended children

Most teen-aged girls

Glaring inaccuracy of authority figures

Being a passenger in a moving vehicle

Cats

Fitting Rooms

Wal-Mart

Gas stations

Gyms

Bad posture

People being inappropriately comfortable

Biking

Going to public pools

Jaywalking

Shrimp

A Brief Thing: Fat Kid

Oh, I love food. I love eating it. Cooking it. Smelling it. Having it put onto a plate and handed to me. I was born this way, and I have decided that I will always be like this. I am coming out as a Fat Kid.

Recently, I was told that as a child I had a noteworthy fascination with breasts. A much smaller version of myself walked into the mess of several strange men replacing the carpet in my parents' house. I sat down on the couch and with exasperation said, "breasts, breasts, breasts." What is there not to be fascinated by? They make food. To eat. When my younger brother was born, I was nearly two and my parents found that I had assembled (without assistance) the breast-pump for my new little friend's food supply. Breasts.

This fascination has never crossed the line of sexuality, and I don't think that I have a deeply buried fetish for the female anatomy (wouldn't that be a surprise). And as an adult I have an, uncomfortable relationship with milk. Bear in mind, I have very little problem eating a cow--steak, burgers, meatballs, just add BBQ sauce and I'll eat any version of no-longer-mooing. But to drink a cow's milk. FROM A COW'S BREAST? A mutant breast with too many nipples? No thanks. Some sacred mother-child bond has been broken when you take a suckling calf off of that giant cow nipple to say "my turn." I'm easily tricked when it comes to this problem though. Turn that obscene cow milk into cheese, yogurt, or ice cream, and I don't even take pause. Never-mind that pesky lactose intolerance. 

Let's stretch. Rub your eyes. Please accept my apology, we've found ourselves at the end of a rant about milk. My point is that my career as a Fat Kid started early.

Being a Fat Kid isn't about having some spare pounds hanging about or a stash of candy in the nightstand (even though...). I like to think about my Fat Kid-ness like a spirit-animal. Haven't you heard of this? Watch "Brother Bear," it's all explained. I have an inner guide, a Fat Kid whispering to my soul. Ethan, eat that pie. And I say, "okay Fat Kid spirit-animal, I will eat that pie." 

There are some eyebrows being raised right now. I can feel them, the judgmental rays. Talk about eating disorders and what have you is likely spiraling around your heads. Just hush it up and have a snack. 

Look into the deepest part of your soul. Do you have an intimate appreciation for food? Can you eat something just because it is delicious at the expense of being indecently full? You may have your own little Fat Kid lurking about. Heed my words: be proud. Accept yourself. Love yourself. Maybe one day you will have the confidence to turn to your family, your friends, the world and come out as a Fat Kid. 

I am a Fat Kid. 

A Brief Thing: Double Knot

It would be lovely to say, "there" and point at a well-designed timeline of my life, "right there. That's when all of this started." Unfortunately, I'm comfortable with the knowledge that no such "there" exists for me (or anyone really).

Wading through my week, I was shuffling through a handful of events to briefly blog about, and I surprised myself as I was tying my shoes. Maybe one day I'll have the right combination of health insurance and a weakened self-reliance as to have a professional pick through the horrendous mess of neuroses, fears, quirks, and goals that have accompanied me like freckles and moles through my life. Until then, I have moments like I did this week, tying my shoe. Let's close our eyes and pretend that my well-designed timeline is in front of us. Let's yank at it and pull ourselves back to the mid-nineties when I was a preschooler with the best brown bowl-cut a boy could ask for. 

I learned to tie my shoes when I was four, and although I cannot place a memory, hear her speaking in my mind, it is by no means a stretch to conjure one up; my mother taught me how to tie my shoes, and she told me to double knot them. This seems innocent. She didn't want her poor baby to be running around (carefully. To put it nicely, I was a very careful child. I wouldn't ride the camels at the zoo because they smelled bad) with shoes that had fiendishly untied themselves. Maybe she told me this, or maybe she had just double knotted my shoes so frequently that I mimicked this when I learned how to make bunny ears, go around, and through the hole to make the perfect knot. 

We can release our grips on the timeline. Smooth it out, and we're back. Somehow I had become an adult and not noticed that having shoes double knotted is peculiar. At least, this is what I've been told, and I'm hard pressed to find any counter-examples. I just shrugged and continued to have shoes that never came untied.

This is important. 

I can't have my shoes coming untied whenever they please. 

THE HORROR.  

As if puberty weren't already a sloppy anxious nightmare, my instincts (psychotic disorders) instructed me to double knot my shoes. Every time I pulled that second knot tight I was compressing my nervous system into an even tighter coil ready to spring forth with disaster. Don't worry, I self-prescribed a dose of overeating to calm my nerves. Oh yes, fat, gay, anxious, nerdy--I was a lovely teenager.

Imagine my surprise this week, sitting on my bed before class looking down on two single knots. Perhaps it's because I bought new shoes with laces just shy of being long enough to double knot. Maybe I was in a hurry once too many times. Or, there's a chance that I'm doing something right. 

The only certainty is that my shoes have already come untied several times this week and

I'm still alive. 

A Brief Thing: Why Should You Care?

The one voice speaking louder than the thousands shouting for my attention is the voice that belongs to the question, Why Should I Care? Of course it is in good company; Why Am I Here, How Do We Cure Cancer, Why Is Beyonce So Lovely. But every day I turn on the T.V., I open my email, walk to the bookstore, go through the museum and peruse Twitter (the worst of the bunch). The question that bounces around my brain is always Why Should I Care? When I ask this, it is not with arms crossed and a pouty scowl. Understand, I want to care. I really do. Artists, Musicians, Writers, you must meet me halfway or at least somewhere along the way.

Allow me to take a breath before I end up delivering a full out rant. I need not take much time explaining that there are a lot of terribly awful, soul-crushingly bad books, T.V. shows, movies, etc. You have eyes and ears, if they function then you need not be reminded. This is why for years I've put off writing a proper blog (let's be honest with one another, writing or making anything really), I haven't been able to supply an adequate answer to our looming question. The question is modified a bit in this case to be a resounding, Why Should You Care? I simply will not add a blog, short story, painting, or novel to the torrential rains of Twilight, Jersey Shore, and millions of bits of media without being ABSOLUTELY SURE that You Should Care.

I've left taste (taste in music, art, etc.) out of this brief discussion because taste is a devilish critter that mucks up so many discussions about art that would otherwise be enlightening or at least thorough and smart. If we have dissimilar tastes that restrict you from being my audience, then so be it. Taste will endure as long as individuality does, and it must be left off the table to have a worthy discussion. Otherwise, please believe me, I have the gift of empathy dear audience. I am an audience member for most of the waking hours of my life, and I understand. I understand that you are sitting in front of a screen somewhere, reading these words thinking, "Ethan, Why Should I Care? Hm? You're just an artist sitting down at your Macbook with your nose so high in the air you can tell me that the ceiling smells like dust and the fumes of pretension." Well, let's hope you are perhaps a little more forgiving than that, but even if you aren't, it is okay! I understand. I've been right where you are sitting, and you'll just have to believe me, I care about you, audience member, and above all, I care about what I'm writing. 

Hopefully I will throw these ingredients into the internet and come out with something readable and enjoyable, but I cannot make any promises. However, I will show up and find some brief things to blog about, and I will care about them. Hopefully you will too.