Humpty Dumpty was pushed. Jack and Jill were tripped. Goldilocks was framed. Sleeping beauty was over-medicated. The chicken crossed the road because of housing discrimination. The Puss in Boots used steroids. The Old Lady Who Lived in a Shoe had so many baby daddies she didn’t know what to do. The race between the tortoise and the hare was fixed. Hansel and Gretel were domestic violence victims. Rapunzel wore hair extensions. Little Bo Peep posed nude for Playboy. Alice in Wonderland dropped some bad acid. Snoopy was spayed. Miss Piggy dropped out of finishing school. The Ogre failed to take court-mandated anger management classes. The Emperor’s new clothes were stolen. The Black Cat was the target of yellow journalism. Prince Charming was a jerk. Mary had a little lamb because she was abducted by extraterrestrials. All the Big Bad Wolf needed was a hug. Cinderella was anorexic. The fire-breathing dragon had an extremely large carbon footprint. Lady Godiva had a wardrobe malfunction. The Three Blind Mice were born near a nuclear power plant. Jack’s beanstalk was genetically altered. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum were clones. The Seven Dwarfs were gay. The Farmer in the Dell had a condo in the city. The Farmer’s Wife slept with the traveling salesman. Jimmy cracked corn and he don’t care ‘cuz he’s takin’ the Fifth! The London Bridge is falling down and the engineer is hiring a lawyer. The Beauty and the Beast were cousins. Jiminy Cricket was a Wiccan. The Fairy Godmother was heterosexual. Snow White falsely claimed the Seven Dwarfs as dependents. Pinocchio’s lies caused deforestation. All fairy tales are plagiarism!
I’m enjoying my summer vacation from teaching so far. I get up whenever I feel like. I have a cup of black coffee while I rub the sleep from my eyes. I more or less kill time and stall before I go out my front door for my morning run before it gets too hot out.
Lately, I’ve been slowing down on my runs. I’m not sure if it’s due to age and/or allergies. Of course, I’ve had these experiences before, even when I was in my twenties.
I have been running, on and off again, since high school. I first started running competitively at Divine Heart Seminary when I joined the cross country team. For some reason I wanted to be on a school team because I thought it would be cool to be a high school jock.
My first race was the Marshall County Cross Country Championship in Indiana. Since I didn’t know any better, I ran alongside the lead pack right from the start. After about a mile, I suddenly slowed down to a crawl, or so it seemed to me. I’m not sure where I placed, but I received a ribbon.
I have one run that I will never forget: I was running on some backwoods road in Camp Pendleton when I felt a presence running alongside me. I looked over my shoulder and saw a coyote. At first, I was startled, but I continued running as if this were normal. The coyote and I ran together for about five minutes before we went our separate ways. Well, enough stalling! I am now going out for my morning run.
Carmen has always caught my interest. As a name because my mother was named Carmen. I have also met two Italian males named Carmen. I have met a couple of girls named Carmen, but I can’t seem to get too involved with a girl with my mother’s name.
In high school, I had to read part of the opera Carmen by Georges Bizet. As I learned later in life, French composers have written some of the best Spanish classical music ever. That’s just one of those mysteries of the universe! I don’t even remember in which class I read Carmen the opera or even why. But I do remember that it was a French opera about a gypsy who lived in Spain. Later, because of my interest in Carmen the opera, I read the book Carmen written by Prosper Mérimée on which Bizet based his opera. Eventually, I saw a video of the opera Carmen and loved it.
I love watching different interpretations of the same work. So I was ecstatic when I saw the movie Carmen by director Carlos Saura. The characters in the movie decide to produce a stage version of the opera Carmen while also referring to the original book by Merimee. The movie is set in Spain, so they will make a flamenco version of Carmen. There is a lot of wonderful flamenco dancing and guitar music in the movie.
The main problem for the director Carlos of the flamenco version is finding the perfect Carmen. Well, as luck would have he finds her: Her name happens to be Carmen and she also happens to be a gypsy. The movie blurs the line between fiction and reality on multiple levels and the viewer must differentiate between the action of the characters of the flamenco version and the actors who portray those characters. Sometimes the actions and emotions of the actors and characters overlap.
I also recently saw–again!–the movie Carmen Jones that stars an all-African-American cast. The movie follows Bizet’s storyline faithfully and uses his music, but the lyrics were changed to suit the updated plot and characters. The story takes place down south near an army base, perhaps some time around WWII. Carmen works in a parachute factory instead of a cigar factory. Instead of a toreador as the rival lover, there’s a boxer. Don Jose is still a soldier, but a U.S. Soldier. The movie is very good and the lyrics that are true to the characters are sung well by Harry Belafonte and Dorothy Dandridge. Of course, none of this would have been possible without Bizet’s wonderful Spanish music.
I was once at Blockbuster and saw another version of Carmen, a hip hop version. I didn’t have time to watch it, so I didn’t rent it. Now that I have some time, I plan on seeing it. I wonder how faithful the movie is to Bizet and Mérimée. I’ll have to watch it real soon!
After Duke, the best dog I ever had, I never had another pet for as long as I lived alone. When I had my own apartment, I liked living alone so I never had a pet. Now that I’m living alone again, I have no pets. I enjoy the solitude between visits from my sons.
However, when I was married, my wife and four-year-old son insisted that we get a dog. I kept making excuses at our first house in Bridgeport that the house wasn’t big enough, the yard wasn’t big enough, or someone would steal our dog. After a few years, I moved next door to my brother Jerry whose neighbor sold the house to me for a discounted price since he didn’t use a realtor. I enjoyed living next door to my brother for the most part–except that he always had some home-improvement project in progress and eventually he would call upon me to help him.
Anyway, once we settled into our new house, my wife and son started talking about getting a dog again. All my previous excuses were no longer valid, and I was too tired to invent new ones. So, we immediately went into negotiations. I knew we were getting a dog one way or another. And despite the promises of my wife and son that they would be walking, feeding, and taking care of the dog, I knew that eventually the dog would become my sole responsibility. I insisted that I get to choose what kind of dog we got. I got my wish and chose a chow chow. Was I ever sorry! But not immediately.
I had a friend who had not one, but two chow chows. Whenever I would visit him, the dogs would look me over and then I would pet them and then they’d go away. So, I pitched the idea of getting a chow chow to my family. They weren’t too enthusiastic about a chow chow. We saw one at the park and we went over to talk to the owner. He let us pet his chow chow and he was very friendly. My wife and son were then sold on the idea of getting a chow chow.
Well, we bought a six-week-old chow chow puppy, and he was the cutest little fur ball that you ever saw. The woman who sold him to us said that if we ever changed our mind about having him, we could take him back to her farm in Indiana. My wife, son, and I had more negotiations over naming the new puppy. I insisted on naming him Beowulf, but my wife and son outvoted me and named him Simba, after The Lion King. My niece Bridget came next door to our house every day to feed and play with Simba. He grew so fast, and he wasn’t cooperating with the house training. He was almost full-grown, and he was still relieving himself in the house. I would put his nose in it and hit him with a newspaper so he wouldn’t do it again. This had worked with other dogs that we had previously had. One day, I was about to punish him for pooping in the house when suddenly he turned on me and tried to bite me. Well, I had to show him that I was the master, so I picked him up and he kicked the wall and we both fell to the ground. I wanted to show him that I wasn’t afraid of him, so I wrestled him to the ground. He bit my hand and forearm, but I took him back to his mess and hit him with the newspaper. When I let go of him, he growled at me and walked away giving me the evil eye. My wife and son were watching, and they were both pretty scared by what they had just seen. I knew something was wrong with this dog because I had never heard of a dog biting its master before.
I also learned that chow chows are very territorial. My niece Bridget would come and go to our house at will before we had Simba, but afterwards she came to visit him a lot. She really loved that puppy. Until, one day, Simba was sleeping by the side door of the house. She came into the yard to pet Simba, but he woke up and started biting her. As she ran out of the yard screaming, he bit her behind repeatedly until she was out of the yard. I really didn’t understand his behavior at all because Bridget took care of Simba since he was a puppy, and she was like part of our household. I didn’t realize how vicious Simba was until then. There were a few more incidents where children walking by would see Simba in the yard behind the chain-link fence wagging his tail. When they tried to enter the yard to pet him, he wouldn’t growl or bark, he would continue wagging his tail. After they entered the yard, he would bite them. I put up a six-foot wooden fence around the whole yard to protect the neighborhood children from Simba.
A boy and his dog!
Simba never bit my wife or son, but when the twins were born, he bit Adam when he was about one and a half. Adam walked by Simba while he was eating, and Simba bit him. I risked getting bitten, but I punished Simba for biting my son. Most dogs don’t bite small children for something like that. I wanted to take him back to the farm where we bought him, but my wife said no. She insisted that we keep Simba. This dog was a real monster. If he didn’t like someone on the other side of the fence, he would start chewing on the wooden fence. I had to replace some of the boards on the front gate because he had chewed through them. Another time, my sons and I were going to a little league game. Simba was in the yard, and I opened the garage door and the minivan side door for my sons. Simba ran and jumped into the minivan before my sons. He wanted to go for a ride, but we couldn’t take him with us. I told him to get out, but he wouldn’t. I told him a few times. So, I reached to grab his collar, but he bit my hand so hard that I thought he had broken some bones. I started yelling at Simba like a maniac and tried to grab his collar again. He was so afraid of me that he ran out of the minivan. For two or three days afterwards, he would run away from me. A master and his dog should not have to live in fear of each other.
When my wife and I were getting divorced, we agreed on everything except what to do with Simba. I told her she could have him since she was the one who wanted a dog in the first place. Besides, Simba had never bitten her. She didn’t want him. I was stuck with Simba. When I was selling the house, I knew I had to give Simba away, but no one would be able to take him because he was too vicious. He even scared me, and I was his master. Eventually, I had to take him to the Chicago Animal Control Center. But I didn’t know what else to do with him. Well, they probably had him put to sleep because he would most likely bite anyone who tried to befriend him.
Now, my sons keep asking me to get a dog, but I keep making excuses. I’m afraid to get another dog! If I ever do, I’ll get a mutt.
As I was reading the Chicago Sunday Tribune today, I had many repetitive, random, redundant, and recurring thoughts. First, I started subscribing to the Trib again after a six-month hiatus. They promised me a better delivery service this time. I shall see just how good the delivery is this time.
When I previously subscribed, I hated not getting the newspaper delivered when I was supposed to get it. So, I would buy the paper somewhere on my way to school, and when I returned home, it was finally delivered. Sometimes they didn’t deliver it at all. The only time I received the paper every single day, even the days that I wasn’t supposed to get it, was when I asked for a vacation hold!
Today, I remembered why I liked the delivery. The Sunday newspaper! It’s like receiving a present that I enjoy unwrapping. I genuinely enjoy lazing around the house all morning and afternoon reading as much of the paper as possible and doing crossword puzzles.
As I was looking through the sales, I stopped every time I saw a lingerie or bikini ad. These ads have always captivated me in a way that I’m sure is not natural. Yes, I caught myself staring a few times. There is something very appealing to me about these female models and I don’t know how to explain it.
Well, this led me to recall the time I was in the Marines in California. I was stationed in 29 Palms in the middle of the Mohave Desert, and I met a certain Patrick Connelly who was the oldest Marine I had met up to that time. I was surprised because at 22 years old I was the oldest Marine I knew until I met Pat. He was at the unbelievable age of twenty-seven because few people would want to endure Marine Corps boot camp at that age, but Pat did.
He had previously been in the Army and the Air Force, and he thought he would give the Marine Corps a try. He had grown up in southern California so he always recommended places that we should visit in order that we could say that we really had experienced California. I really did get to see all sides of California because of Pat.
He once recommended that we go to The Body Shop. To me a body shop was a place where you took your car after an accident. “No!” Pat corrected me. “The Body Shop is a very famous California destination for tourists.” I had no idea what he was talking about until he explained that it was a strip club in Los Angeles. I had never been to a strip club, so I still had no idea what he was talking about.
Well, since I wanted to see as many tourist attractions as possible, I tagged along. Actually, I drove us there. I was the only one with a car and they would pay for the gas. Because I had an out-of-state plate, I could buy gas on any day instead of waiting for the appropriate odd or even day according to my license plate.
All the guys were excited all the way to L.A. because we were going to The Body Shop, especially Pat. I just didn’t get it. I really didn’t. We got there and I asked for a beer. Only they didn’t serve beer. I thought it would be like a comedy club where you pay a cover charge and then must buy a two-drink minimum. In fact, they didn’t serve anything at all. They had a pop machine in the foyer if we got thirsty. There was a state law prohibiting the sale of alcoholic beverages in strip joints.
I didn’t get it. In real life, usually the alcohol flows and then the clothes come off, naturally. All my friends were whooping it up in anticipation of seeing the strippers while they bought their pop. It cost about three times the normal price. I didn’t buy a pop. I really wasn’t thirsty right then and I wasn’t planning on cheering on the strippers, so I really wouldn’t have to wet my whistle later on.
The place was packed, but we found some seats. I sat on a stool with my back up against the wall. Pat was the happiest of all. He kept smiling at us and asking us if we were having a good time. He asked me several times if I liked the place. I was actually glad that I had gone, but when I’m in public, I look the same whether I’m having a good time or I’m bored.
The strippers came out, one at a time, and stripped to the loud cheers of the audience, mostly men. As I watched the show, I leaned back against the wall. And I fell asleep! That is, until Pat gave me an elbow to my side and asked, “Isn’t she a great dancer?” I said yes, she was, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. I really didn’t understand how all these men could get so into the show.
Maybe that’s because I’m different. I need to be emotionlally involved in order to receive the full benefit of such a performance. I faked it as best as I could and I think I managed to pull it off because my friends were so excited that they really didn’t pay much attention to me.
As I looked at the lingerie ads today, I realized that the lingerie and bikini models are more attractive than those strippers we saw at The Body Shop. Perhaps, that why I couldn’t get into them.
When my brother Joe got married, he had a bachelor’s party. His future brother-in-law called me up several times to make sure that I was going. This was an unusual bachelor’s party considering that the brother of his bride-to-be arranged all the festivities. The future brother-in-law with his long blond hair looked the wrestler Triple H. But he insisted that he wasn’t as tough and as muschular so we called him Double H.
We met at a comedy club and Double H made sure that the emcee knew it was my brother’s bachelor’s party. Of course, the emcee then proceeded to roast my brother.
We enjoyed the comedy show and I thought the fun was over for the evening. But Double H said that we had to car pool to our next destination. He was very secretive about it. He even had designated drivers. I had no idea where we were going, but I got into the car that Double H pointed to. Well, about an hour later, we’re at a strip club. Double H paid for everyone’s cover and we were inside.
At least this place served beer. Double H was so proud of himself for getting everyone to the strip club. He told the club manager that this was my brother’s bachelor’s party, so they brought him up on stage and tied him up on chair. Then all the strippers started to give my brother lap dances. Oh, the look of pride on Double H’s face was just too much! Every time I see Double H at family parties, I thank him for that bachelor’s party. And brother Joe is still married!
Anyway, this also reminded me of one of my former students who was always tired during class. She always apologized for being tired during class, but she didn’t tell me why she was up all night. I never asked because she was an A student. She always studied and did all her homework. Towards the end of the semester a few students recommended that we take a class field trip. They insisted that we go to a place that served alcohol since they were all twenty-one or had fake IDs.
Since I am a Spanish professor, I insisted on a Mexican restaurant where we could eat Mexican food and drink Margaritas. Well, we had fun and everyone revealed a few personal details about themselves, including me. But we all had fun and said that we had to do it again real soon.
Well, the student who was always tired in my class and I were the last two of our bunch to leave because we wanted to finish our last Margarita. We talked awhile and she told me a little about herself. The reason she was always up very late at night was because she was a stripper at a gentlemen’s club. She was doing it because the money was good. She was paying for her tuition and she had no student loans to pay off upon graduation. She also bought her own condo with a 50% down payment. We had an interesting coversation, but I didn’t judge her because of her employment. How did she look? Well, she was attractive, but I don’t think she was beautiful enough to be a lingerie or bikini model.
However, I’m sure she compensated for her deficiency with her dancing skills. And here is a very telling note about our capitalistic society and how much we value different consumer services. She earned much more money as a stripper than I earned as a college professor!
Chicago USA 