It’s been a full week, fellow sharers. I apprehended a criminal. Quit laughing, I’m serious. Okay, so all I really did was alert my manager to some suspicious activity, but that led directly to the arrest of an actual felon. Handcuffs and all. Sounds cool and kinda is, I suppose. I got commendations and pats on the back and the like. Probably get an extra star on my next evaluation too. The boss was especially pleased and even high-fived me in front of other people. I was quite full of myself and my impeccable instincts until I heard the whole story. I can’t go into specifics, but I was told that when confronted, the man broke down in tears, confessing that he was on probation for previous minor criminal activity and this arrest would mean a more permanent incarceration. The big house. The hoosegow. The chain gang. He kept saying that he would never see his kids again and his life was over. They said it was pretty awful to hear. Hmmm...I feel a big ole case of guilt and compassion coming on here. Ick.

               Now I know what you’re thinking, my practical-minded fellow sharers. The dude did commit the crime all on his own and he made the choices that put him in this situation. Nobody is responsible for those actions but the man himself. I completely agree and I believe he should reap that which he has sown. Here’s my problem with that though. Without giving away the actual incident, his crime was hardly worth actual prison time, trust me. He’s hardly a real danger to society. At least I don’t think he has been in the past. My other problem with this is that my actions in themselves did result in these consequences. If he were a child-molester, a drug dealer, an car-bombing terrorist, I would be thrilled with my heroics and insist on being given a cape and my own logo. But man, I’m just not sure it warrants his punishment or my praise.

               Okay, so enough of that. I did the right thing according to the information I had and certainly from a legal standpoint. The point is that all our actions can have consequences far beyond the immediate. All I did was report upwards and in turn I might have drastically and eternally altered the lives of several people. (That's a little heavy-handed and I’m giving myself too much credit here, so let me rephrase and take some of the God-complex out of that last statement.) Ahem.

               The thing is, fellow sharers, we must always be aware and conscious of how we move in the world. We affect everything around us in innumerable and often unseen ways with every breath. Just like the butterfly’s wings that spawn hurricanes hemispheres away, it’s all in the ripples. Watch your ripples, fellow sharers.

Joke of the day:
Q:  How do you get a sweet little 80 year old woman to say the F-word?
A:   Yell BINGO

                  John Denver is my hero. Stop laughing, punk, I’m dog-down serious here. He has been my hero since I was a small child and his untimely death has not diminished his stature in my mind at all. I don’t say this because of his environmental work (which was inspiring), or his simplistic yet eloquently naive way of viewing the world, or even his idealistic enthusiasm that was large enough and contagious enough to virtually put Aspen -and Colorado - on the map as a destination of choice. Nope, these are all good reasons for admiration, but mine is a little more personal. He is my hero because his records always brought a vacation with them.

                  I notice you fellow sharers are currently sporting a bemused expression of ‘que?’ or possibly ‘quoi?’ on your befuddled countenances, so I will kindly explain. When I was little, my parents owned a copy - vinyl for those of you old enough to remember that relic of bygone days - of John Denver’s greatest hits. My father would put that record on and get this dreamy faraway look in his eyes. We’d listen to it a couple of times, everyone singing along, and by the end of the day he’d be all high strung and energetic. The next thing I knew we’d be packing up the family vehicle and heading for the hills. Time and $$ didn’t always allow for a trip to Colorado or Wyoming (though frequently we didn’t let that stop us), so we’d often make due with the hills of eastern Oklahoma or the Ozarks of Missouri/Arkansas, but one way or another we’d be high in the mountains by week’s end. Almost without fail.

                  When I got old enough to reckon out cause and effect I’d often bring out that album on purpose when I felt a road trip was in order. And you know what? Most of the time it worked. Like magic. To this day I don’t know if Daddy knew he was being manipulated or if he just didn’t care, but off we would go, bouncing down the highway, eating ham sandwiches , drinking kool-aid, and singing wildly along with the radio. Is there really anything better in life, I ask you? Nope, not much.

                  I inherited my love of the open road from my father and I cannot hear the strains of “Rocky Mountain High” or “Country Roads” without this insane urge to hit the highway and head for the hills, just like him, so I suppose I inherited that bizarre tendency too. Genetics and environment collide in strange ways sometimes. All I know is that days like today, when the first rush of real spring weather makes the dogwood explode and the scent of blooming flowers and trees is all around, cabin fever is an understatement. Staying cooped up is out of the question, but lack of funding may keep me prisoner despite my wishes.

Hmm, wonder what my dad is doing right about now. And where did I put that cd?....

               Well, fellow sharers, you can stop holding that breath, uncross your fingers, and thank God for those fully answered prayers because I’M BACK! Heehee. Okay, so maybe my absence didn’t cause that much wide-spread panic, but I have returned in any case. Why, you ask, was my disappearance so lengthy and mysterious? Simple. I’ve been working. Let me classify that...I’ve recently taken a part-time job to supplement my dangerously low income until the powers that be get their act together and reward me with the riches and easy-living I so deserve. Until then, though, I need moolah and so I’ve agreed to let someone besides myself boss me around. The thing is, I haven’t had an official boss in quite a while now, and I’m having to adjust. It blows. It blows so much that I’ve been coming home and (quite literally) falling into bed after my shift ends. This has understandably encroached on my ability to keep up with my internet life, leaving my email unanswered, my various groups unparticipated-in, and my blog looking more like a bl...

               As a result, I have nothing entertaining, enlightening, or edifying to contribute to the world today because I’m too pooped and I seem to have lost some manner of brain cells. But I do vow to get my act together in the future and return with guns ablazin’ pardners. Sometime, anyway. Just let me get a little nap first....

               The above entry was composed several months ago (on an obvious sugar high) and left to fester on my hard drive to await posting. Unfortunately, I was almost immediately thrust into a full-time position and lost all possibility of updating with any regularity whatsoever. I’ve included it as a prelude tonight to simply underline the difference in tone that a few months of living like a ‘normal person’ can bring about. You see, I’ve been doing the 9 to 5 steady job thing - well, not really, since I work mostly evenings, but I digress - for 9 months now and it’s beginning to wear on me in a serious way. I’m not good at it. Oh, I don’t mean the job itself- I’m damn good at that of course - but the routine, the mundane quality, the steady drip drip, tick-tock of a humble, stable existence is quickly shaving off years of my life expectancy. I’m getting restless and I can hear the shackles rattling as they grope for my unfettered wrists. This is how it starts. Out of sheer necessity, you take the option that is presented and follow through almost willingly, eager to do your citizenly duty, and &/or eke out some sort of sustenance only to find yourself suddenly 5 or 10 years down the road with nothing to show for it except a few material comforts and a possible, but by no means probable, sense of security. Your life just seeps past you and all the wonder and thrill of living is leeched from your skin like blood.

               Ick. The melancholy. I know. I’m just having a reaction to the word ‘ordinary’. I’ve recently found myself being pushed/pulled up this ladder of corporate-like, bureaucratic-minded accomplishment with no real input on my part. You do well, people expect you to keep progressing. Then words like management training and promotion start to creep into conversations and you don’t fight it because your natural instincts for achievement start to kick in and you almost literally cannot back down from your own ‘betterment’. That sort of talk usually includes more money and since that’s something very few of us can afford to turn down, you go along. Pretty soon, you’ve got a hefty salary with benefits that other people would kill for and you are trapped because you can’t throw away that kind of opportunity. Then comes the new car lease, the new house, a perfectly normal marriage and 2.5 kids. By then, you have to pay for day-care and doctors, you’ve acquired a mortgage payment, etc. You start talking about your retirement fund and college tuition saving accounts and it’s all over with before you can even blink. Uggh, man. I so do not want to go out that way.

               I know, I know. You people are shaking your heads and making that little tsk tsking noise. Why wouldn’t someone want all that-- that’s what people do, that’s the kind of thing people work for, hope for, plan for. I realize that. And you know what? That’s great. That’s wonderful. I sincerely hope that every person on this round world gets that if it’s something they want. As a matter of fact, here...take mine. I’ll share. But it just isn’t for me. At least not right now. Talk to me in 5 years and maybe it’ll sound like paradise, but as of now I’m just not ready for it. I’m so close to bolting it’s not even funny. If it weren’t for my serious obligations, even more serious bills, and the fact that I’m actually enjoying my ‘temporary’ job (damn the luck), I’d be out of here so fast the tire marks would be visible for decades.

               But alas, I can’t do it. There’s just no way at the moment. I’m stuck for the time being and who knows when I’ll be able to make good my escape.

               David and Dustin (the two most important men in my life besides Daddy of course) have always said that I must forget about settling for anything. I am (or was) special and my potential would never be fulfilled as long as my life was sane and dependable. They said I had to make things happen, force the universe to acknowledge me, not just for myself, but for all those nameless, faceless people who will never have the chance or the power to do so themselves. Sounds nice and encouraging, but I just realized something. Now I'm not just failing myself, I’m failing untold legions of the mediocre.

               Insert dramatic sigh.

               So, fellow sharers, I’m bummed. I’m stagnating in a quagmire of my own inadequacy and the smell is beginning to overwhelm me. Much like the stench of the current pity-party I’m throwing here. But hey, you can’t be perky and unsinkable all the time. There are days when the stench must be vented and the burden of fanning the aroma has fallen on your shoulders. My sincerest apologies.

               In the spirit of hoping for the best, I plan on whining about my life only occasionally and the next post will have a much more buoyant mood. Either that or I’ll be too drunk to care.

Just kidding.

Next Time: Why John Denver Is My Hero (And No I’m Not Kidding)

     Why is it that being single at thirty is considered sacrilege? When you meet people for the first time they tend to lump you into a category that says virtually nothing about who you really are, but colors the way they regard you completely. (I’m not talking about people trying to pick you up--in that case the category lump is good). It’s mostly married people of course, but really everyone does this. Why is what I’d like to know. What does it say about you to be single at such a ripe old age? Or more to the point, what do people think it says about you?

     Here in the Bible Belt this type of thinking is pretty prevalent. I say that because friends from other places don’t seem to encounter the single-stereotype as much. Around these parts, if you haven’t been married at least once by your late twenties, you are automatically labeled as ‘unique’ (if they’re being flattering) or ‘downright odd’ (if they’re being honest about what they think.) Now don’t go getting snarky, all you married folk. I’m not saying you always act or speak differently ‘round us unhitched peeps, but come on, be honest. Don’t you tend to think of us in a different way? Just a little bit? You know you do, even if you don’t mean it unkindly.

     Even my own family doesn‘t understand why on earth I have no desire to sink numbly into wedded bliss. (Thankfully, this does not apply to my immediate family who is actually happy I haven’t taken the plunge, so they don’t have to deal with whomever I will bring home). They mean well, I think, but the problem is in the way marriage is viewed. I can’t even count the number of girls I’ve known who took the phrase ‘catching a husband’ to heart. They made it a goal to snare some poor sod at all costs and went after that with complete abandon. Dignity abandoned, integrity abandoned, happiness abandoned, etc. It’s as if they were out to prove something to the world. Perhaps the thinking is that if someone is willing to marry you (even if unfairly coerced), then you are worthy somehow. Isn’t it frightening to think that people  would risk their happiness, their future children’s happiness, not to mention all the paperwork, just to validate their low self-esteem? I’ve seen couples who fight continuously and never have a moment’s peace around each other. Couples who don’t like each other as people, so much so that I’m sure they won’t last another week, but instead I get the news that the wedding is on. And invariably, the girl is brow-beating the guy daily to get engaged. Wazzup wif dat? Now call me crazy, but if you have to fight with your significant other or trick him into putting a ring on your finger, I don’t think you have the right to question my morals or personal choices. But I suppose that’s just me.

     Okay, so I’m being a little too harsh possibly. Not all married couples jumped in just for shits and giggles or were bamboozled right to the altar. In fact, almost all the young married couples I know are in very happy, very healthy relationships. They also happen to be highly intelligent, thoughtful people. In other words, they did the research before buying in. Hey, I even know a few who spun that old wheel-of-chance and got lucky. It does happens...just not very often.

     The funny thing is that I have quite a few still-single friends -both men and women - in the late-20s to early-30s range who are ring-free by choice, with the exception of one or two who are ready to settle down, but still shopping around. For the most part, though, my single friends remain that way because they haven’t found someone they thought was worth all the hassle. They tend to think it’s quite important when you promise to commit your lives to another and they want to take the time to get it right. See, here’s the lowdown. These people are all intelligent, attractive, quite special people. They’re not being rebellious or subversive. They aren’t against marriage as an institution- political, religious, or otherwise. They’re not trying to make some kind of statement either. They’re still single because they just are. No more, no less.

     So when you meet an aging single person, try to remember a few things. Just because we’re not married with rugrats doesn’t mean we’re weird, or overly promiscuous, or unappealing, or commitment-phobes, or immature, or (my favorite) defying the will of God. We’re not necessarily being anti-establishment, or gay, or lesbian, or suffering from abnormal body odor, and there is nothing wrong with any of us. (Except of course, for the fact that spouse-related questions on EVERY form of EVERY kind in the entire country that we must fill out EVERY day tend to make us angry and cynical.) Hell, for the most part, we’re just taking our time. That’s all.

     Besides, have you looked at the divorce rate lately? Who’s looking smart right about now? Who, I say?

          Funny story today, fellow sharers, and it comes with a motto. It’s all about one of those college pals of mine I mentioned the other day, so if you recognize her, be nice and make fun of her often. To understand the motto, you’ll have to have a bit of back story, so bear with me here. See, it goes like this.

          My friend was notorious during her younger years for having a bit of a dicy record when it came to things like accidents. It’s not that she was clumsy, really, just accident prone to an alarming degree. Happily, she has since shown marked improvement. By that I mean she no longer injures herself in frequent and bizarre ways. Anywhoo, the small town where our university was located had this great town park. Actually, it really was a nifty little park that I didn’t think I’d miss until it was gone, but I digress. There was a lake with walking trails, picnic areas, fishing docks. It even had a carousel, mini-golf, and a train ride during the summer months. Ooh, and there was a snowcone stand and a swimming pool, and it was grassy and shady and......sorry. You don’t know what it’s like to miss trees until you live in the desert. But again, I digress. Okay, so this park also had a type of zoo thingy. Well, it was really a pen with a chain link fence that held an odd and various assortment of animals. Mostly deer, a couple of llamas, and a few donkeys. That sort of thing. It was supposed to be the home of a small flock of peacocks, but they had long since flown the coop (literally) and roamed the park at will, shrieking at everyone with that horrible call that will scare the ever-loving punk out of you if you’re not expecting it.

          Okay, so the park was a great place to hang and it’s usually crowded until the middle of winter. Don’t forget, this is small town Oklahoma we’re talking about, so crowded is a relative term. Crowded enough to usually annoy me, at least. The park road circled the lake completely and it was pretty ---the scenic route-- so we even relieved boredom by driving around the damn thing as if we hadn’t graduated from high school dragging at all. Well, my friend was putting in some driving-and-thinking time one afternoon when one of the peacocks literally jumped into the middle of the road so fast that she had no possible way of avoiding it. (So she says, but I wonder if she didn’t just get momentarily distracted by the guys playing basketball shirtless). Either way, she swerved to avoid the bird, ran off the road, and crashed into a guard post. Busted the headlight, dented the car a bit, but she was (mostly) unharmed. The peacock even lived, but it was a close call and he probably felt the need to prioritize and rethink his direction in life. So, other than a minor headache from having to recount the episode to her father and a rather fierce grudge against the peacock population, she came home relatively unscathed. That’s when things started to get odd.

          A few days after the first near-miss, my friend, driving through the park with witnesses this time, ran a-fowl (sorry) of yet another maniacal bird. Or maybe it was the same one and recognized her car. We’ll never know. Needless to say, she was miffed. I can’t clearly remember if any damage was done to the car this time, but she didn’t care. Those peacocks were clearly on her hit list. For the next few weeks, she would get this homicidal glint in her eye when anyone mentioned going to the park and we noticed that she seemed to volunteer her driving services more often than usual. And you know what? Those darn peacocks actually did leap out at her car. I’m sure there was a vast conspiracy involving avian walkie-talkies and smoke signals, because they seemed to know when she was coming and braced themselves for the event. The war had begun. By the end of the month, my friend no longer felt any urge to go to the park. Hell, she rarely felt an urge to drive anywhere, so convinced was she of her imminent death by critter, like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

          Then one day, while driving near her home over half an hour away from the scene of the original peacock assaults, she ran into one of their field agents. Or a few maybe, I can’t remember. She was driving down a lonely, unpopulated back country road when some rogue bird threw himself under her wheels. She again tried to swerve, probably more out of instinct this time than concern for the bird’s life. However, his blue-feathered luck had run out. She skidded on gravel, screamed, and plowed the poor birdie into roadkill. This upset my friend greatly, because she generally doesn’t enjoy slaughtering the wildlife needlessly. At least, she felt that way before the bird attacks. I personally think they’d just pushed her too far at last.

          So we naturally comforted and consoled her, which consisted of everyone snickering at any bird reference and making up any excuse to work the word peacock into a sentence. (Just try it, there are many ways and all of them are entertaining.) She eventually got over it, stopped having near collisions with the fauna --which pleased her poor dad who was paying for all the body work--and we all forgot about it completely.

          That is, until a few weeks ago when I get this message from her regarding peacocks. It seems that last month she was driving along, enjoying the day, when some creature yet again tried to commit suicide against her fender. She told me that her first instinct was to swing the wheel wildly and pray that the ditch was relatively soft and tree-free, but something stopped her. She closed her eyes, tightened her grip on the wheel, and let animal vs. machine deal with itself. She was not happy about this as she wished the little guy no harm in any way, but she was sure that she was going too fast to avoid him and trying to swerve would only result in painful doctor bills and more body work for her car. Or possibly no more car at all, depending on the ditch and all. When I ask her what it was that changed her mind, she replied that she could just hear her father’s response when she told him about the latest incident. In her head he was yelling “JUST HIT THE PEACOCK, FOR THE LOVE OF PETE!!” And you know what she told me?

          Sometimes, you just gotta hit the peacock. Words to live by, fellow sharers.

     I’m back, fellow sharers! Safe, and for the most part, sound. In all my romantic reminiscing about the joys of greenery, I seemed to have forgotten a few things. Like bugs. Bugs and humidity. I seem to do nothing but wipe sweat with one hand while swinging wildly at the attacking fauna with the other. On the other hand, I couldn’t ask for more trees, grass, or water (it’s been raining non-stop since I arrived). Eh, I suppose it’s a trade-off wherever you go.

     And now, to change the subject dramatically and without preamble, I’ve been thinking about first impressions. I tend to trust my instincts fully in most things--they’re rarely ever wrong. It’s when I don’t listen to my inner voice that I usually wind up in trouble. However, I’m not infallible (gasp!) and I’ve been wrong a couple of times before. For example, when I met the person who is now my best friend, I couldn’t stand him. He seemed to embody all of the things I didn’t want to be around. I thought him uptight, elitist, conservative (oops, did I say that?), and insufferably square. Chef Boyardee, was I wrong. He is none of those things. Well, no more than any of us at least. I just didn’t know it until I knew him.

     Thinking this over last night, it occurred to me that I had been wrong. Actually, truly incorrect. I know, I was shocked too. So I started thinking about my first impressions throughout the years. Most were on target, but even those failed to leave room to discover the actual person behind the way they at first appeared. I was usually surprised by the different facets I found when I got to know people on a deeper level. This is a vice-versa issue as well. People rarely ever get the full picture when they meet me for the first time and are always taken aback when they learn what kinds of things I like, what my talents are, that sort of thing. I find it amusing really.

     We all do this, though. We look at a person and size them up based on the way they appear. Whether they are good looking or not so much, dressed like an accountant or a tattoo artist, we judge. Or maybe pre-judge even. We may even write-off getting to know others because of those preconceived notions. How stupid is that, my fellow sharers? Pretty darn. I can’t imagine what I might have missed by turning my nose up at the people I’ve read wrong in the past. It would be a sad, dull world.

     So, today’s moral is just this: give everyone you meet a chance to surprise you. It’s worth it.

(And here are some crackers to take the edge off all that cheese).

     Well, my fellow sharers, it’s the end of an era for me. Okay, not an era really since it only spanned a little over a year, but at least a chapter. This will be my last post from (almost) south of the border. Yep, I’m heading back to the land of grass and trees and green things once more. As much as I miss those three things, though, part of me is terribly sad about leaving. Living here has been an adventure and I’ve learned so much about myself that surprised me. I wasn’t sure if I could live in the desert, to be honest. I’m a mountain person at heart, and I need trees and water to keep me relatively sane. So the prospect of living in the Sun City was a little daunting on that account, not to mention that none of my friends or family ever even considers heading in this direction. At least, not intentionally. But what I found here was a vibrant city with colorful people and a beauty all its own, vast and wild. I’ve learned that the solitude of the endless desert can do wonders for soul contemplation and can be a balm to the spirit. I understand now why so many people are drawn to the lonely, barren places. There’s something about all that open space, all that empty size that gives you an entirely new perspective. There’s room to breathe, long and deep, and in this overcrowded world that is something to appreciate, my fellow sharers.

     So, while I may not be an utterly changed person, I’m at least a renewed one. I seem to see things more clearly now and I think I may even know myself a little bit better than I’ve ever done. The desert has taught me valuable lessons, and even if I never return, they will stay with me forever. I’ve been reminded that nothing --people or cities--will be exactly what you expect, that adaptability is a great gift, and that there is untold beauty in the most unexpected places. But most of all, I learned that I can still be pleasantly surprised. Nice to know indeed.

     So thanks, El Paso. I’ll soon be on the other side of Red River, but I won’t forget you. The wild western heart of this dusty border-town will remain in my memory for good.

Happy Trails.

     College friends are like war buddies. You know how they say soldiers and policeman form intense bonds with their comrades-in-arms? It’s supposed to be a reaction to relying on other people for the safety of your life in extreme situations and such. Well, your closest friends in college become like that, albeit to a much lesser degree. I can’t speak for everyone, but my college years were all about upheaval and insanity. True, whirlybird insanity. Muy loco. Everyone around me was apparently going through the same thing at exactly the same time, and frankly, I think it’s a wonder any of us made it out alive. I personally can’t remember more than a few truly sane moments in all the years I was going to school. I also can’t remember entire months of my freshman year, but that’s another story. The point is, when you hit that weird age where new independence meets new responsibility and you have no clear idea who you are or what you want to be, it gets difficult to maintain your sea legs. You kind of grope around blindly trying to ‘find yourself’ and work toward a ‘future’, which is frighteningly vague (for most of us, I think) and fairly intangible. All while trying to make the most of the BEST YEARS OF YOUR LIFE. Sheeesh. Reality check, anyone? You say things that you’d never intended, do things that will haunt you the rest of your life, and spend the last couple of years trying desperately to erase the damage caused by your first two years. Or maybe that was just me.

     But no, that covers about 75% of the people I went to school with, so I think I’m pretty safe in the assumption. At any rate, if you’re lucky, you had at least a few good friends who did their dead-level best to help you out despite the fact that they had issues all their own. They covered for your ass, talked you out of the REALLY bad ideas, and if they were right there with you when you crashed, whatever form that took. These people went through it with you, right through the hurricane’s eye, and there’s no hiding from them. They know where all the bodies are buried, for certain.

     After graduation, things mellow, but get weirder in a way. People get on with their lives, and the humdrum of daily living takes the desperate edge out of your friendships. You may want to keep those friendships, but you no longer need them so much. And so, as is the way of things, you start to lose touch with a few, then a few more, till finally you’ve parceled out the handful that work best with your new life. Sometimes that corresponds with the people who know your dirtiest secrets, and sometimes it‘s less uncomfortable to avoid those people. Out of a group of about 20 of us who used to hang, 10 of whom were very close, some of us are still friends, some of us are even closer friends, and some of us just avoid each other altogether. The funny thing is that I would still do anything for any one of them even now. Guess that’s part of the war buddy thing. They may have pissed me off and I might not have spoken to them in years, but if there was a need I’d be there, just like that.

     The real reason that college pals are like war buddies is something else, though. Now, I’m not a soldier nor a policeman, so I’m going on pure speculation here, but I think a major component of this type of relationship is the fact that it’s so damn hard to explain to others. People who weren’t there may sympathize, may empathize, but they’ll never really get it, will they? I have quite a few friends that I made post-college and I consider some of them closer friends these days than I do those old college buds. But if we ever start to talk about things that happened during that time in our lives, a wall goes up. I can tell all the stories I remember, show all the photos I have, and I know they still just won’t QUITE get it. I’m sure they feel the same way. If you weren’t there, you’ll never really understand. The nice thing about it is that you’ll always be bound to those people in a very real way, and whether you still like each other or not, that link is long-lasting and damn near indestructible.

     Salute to all my friends from those long-gone college days. It may not have been a war, but it felt like we were fighting something. Thanks for watching my back, guys. 

     So I went to see Return Of the King one last time before it leaves the theaters. (Yes, I’m one of those people, so you should know that up front.) I do realize the dvd comes out on Tuesday, but watching it on the big screen is an entirely different experience. Plus, I’d only seen it a few times and the last time doesn’t even count, since it was interrupted continuously by a fellow audience member, which is our topic for today. No, I’m not going to rant about rude, inconsiderate, loud asscrunches who tend to populate the movie-going public these days. Instead, we’re going to talk about the most unusual disturber-of-the-peace I think I’ve ever encountered.

     That day was really hideous as far as I remember. Constant problems with sales and the post office and miserable people who feel the need to make others miserable as well, that kind of thing. Stress times five. So after such a poopy day I decided some “me” time was in order and headed to the theater for a little matinee happiness. I thought, hey, Monday afternoon, great time, always quiet, always nice. Not so, preciousss. Every single parental unit in the Greater El Paso metropolitan area with children under 4 brought not only said children, but their dog Skippy, baby's favie widdle battery-powered talking teddy, plus the entire extended family who just HAD to show up for a flick on MY MONDAY MATINEE TIME!!!!

     So, she started during the previews which of course I ignored. She kept going through the opening music, which I still ignored. Then she got louder during the opening Smeagol/Deagol scene. Her little friends kept shushing her to no avail. Finally, I asked her very nicely to please be a little quieter. She apologized sincerely and actually did quiet down for a while. Ah, sweet moments of bliss. You could tell she didn’t want to be obnoxious, she was just deaf. I think I mean that physiologically too. Stone deaf.

     The real kicker is that she was just so very very enthusiastic about the movie. All of her extremely loud and unnecessary comments were merely expressions of sheer joy at seeing the movie for the first time. Yup, you heard me right. It was her first viewing and I don’t think she heard one snippet of dialogue during the entire 3 & 1/2 hours. But boy, did she love Love LOVE the flick though. And she SHARED her opinions with everyone in the theater. She screamed, she guffawed, she gasped in horror. She bounced up and down, she hid her eyes in the scary scenes, she grabbed anything within reach during tense moments (and this included me on more than one occasion.) She shouted both general and specific directional commands to each and every character that dared grace the screen--no matter how important or secondary they were to the plot. I think Frodo looked at her quizzically at one moment near Orodruin. I KNOW Legolas actually tried to impale her with an arrow during the battle of the Pelennor Fields. Sounds incredible, but I’m telling ya, this kid had better vocal projection than a third-rate wannabe chorus girl in a sad little off-broadway production of Oklahoma. She could BLOW and all of Middle Earth, Valinor, and parts of California were privy to her demonstrations! (I swear it was literally a DVD audio commentary in its proportions--except no one in any dimension or plane of existence would ever ever want to listen).

     And still, after my first intervention, I didn’t say anything else to her. I mean, whaddayagonnado?Apparently, people must have expected me to bear the responsibility of reprimanding her because they started giving me death glares from Hades, but by then my brain was so fogged over and exhausted from trying to block her out that I didn’t process the looks until later on. According to my sister, there was another girl about the same age on her right who was fiercely unhappy with my little chatty Cathy. Tricia (my sister) said that she finally started replying to the retarded comments with snarky little jibes of her own. Tricia said she was very clever. Tricia was amused. Tricia says we musn’t judge all young girls by the actions of one. Tricia is very wise...but then she didn’t have to sit by HER all day.

     So, the only thing that she said which actually pissed me off (and I do mean pissed me off) was her comment during Theoden’s death scene. Yes, she did indeed have the cajones to speak then. Just when Theoden is farewelling Eowyn and most normal people are dangerously close to tears, this little gem of childhood shouts “Hurry up, nobody cares!” This was met with several boos of disapproval and I must have glared the death glare hard enough to crack obsidian because she whimpered a bit and shut the hell up for an entire 3 minutes total. Ah, sweet long-forgotten bliss.

     But the worst, and I mean the absolutely unforgivable sin, had to have been the fact that during the gut-twisting, angst-wrenching, heart-ripping final struggle between Gollum and Frodo, which is vast and heavy in its implications......during that terrible climactic moment near the end of all things, little miss-advertisement- for-birth-control starts laughing manically. Giggling, shrilly and loudly. All I could do was look on aghast, numb with mortification, while people behind me booed, hissed, and threw things at her. I know this because I benefited from some of the projectiles. (Someone threw a new & still-wrapped piece of Juicy Fruit).

     Finally, after five total “Is that the end?” queries from her (she never learned) the movie ended. This kid turns to me and very sweetly and demurely says “I’m sorry if I was too loud or anything.” I couldn’t reply. I mumbled something like mmmhaahmm.. or something and begged caffeine off my sister. By the time we got to the car I actually had a headache (and never have headaches). The thing is, I can’t get her voice out of my head. It keeps calling to me, calling. I don’t think I will ever be rid of it now. There are some pains that can never fully heal.

     So now that I’m much more intimately familiar with the wonders of Excedrin and have sworn off children entirely, or at least plan to send them to boarding school at the age of 10, I will leave you now with this simple lesson. The moral of the story is:

     There’s a little Gollum in all of us Smeagols and the only thing it takes to bring him to the surface is one afternoon locked in close proximity to a foghorn-voiced, sugar-highed, pre-pubescent, non-book fangirl.

The line is very thin, my preciousss. Oh yes, very thin the line isssss.......