Weakness of the Week: "The Real Housewives of [Insert Location of Choice Here]"

Can I stop watching this?  No.  Please, God, can I just stop watching re-runs I've already seen?  Again, all signs point to "no."  And as the countdown has begun for the season finale of the "Housewives" of NYC, I have bookmarked bravotv.com so that I know EXACTLY how much time is left until the final show.  Because that's what Jill Zarin's mother would want me to do.

And are these housewives that entertaining?  Are they, in fact, "real"?  Do I really need to expend energy wondering if a physiological problem is causing Ramona's eyes to bulge like that whenever she opens her mouth to speak?  Is it important that I find out if the Countess may retain her title after a divorce, considering that her Count has run off with an Ethiopian woman in Switzerland?  Do I really want to know who Gretchen has been dating post-show?  Should I continue to use the words "low-budget bitch" or "trashbox" in describing unladylike females who also enjoy wearing bad hairpieces?

The answer to all these questions, my friends, is a big, Spanx-covered, Botox-injected, surgically enhanced, seven-figure, tequila-infused, diamond-studded and animal print-swathed "YES."

So, thanks, Real Housewives.  You're my Weakness of the Week.  Now, where's my Skinnygirl Margarita*..........

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With Apologies to Tom Waits & Meg Rains.

"You can never hold back spring
You can be sure that I will never
Stop believing
The blushing rose will climb
Spring ahead or fall behind
Winter dreams the same dream
Every time
You can never hold back spring
Even though you've lost your way
The world keeps dreaming of spring..."

--"You Can Never Hold Back Spring" by Tom Waits

[This entry wrote itself Sunday morning, in a long-overdue email response to poet-friend Meg Rains.]

This is probably more than you want to know.  I woke up this morning at 5:30 due to the stomach rumblings of a nearby French bulldog and went to stand watch outside while business was conducted.  I looked around as David Byrne talked his way into my head.  How did I get here?

Then my dead grandmother visited me in revisited sleep. Clear as day. I was lying on my current bed, which is not my own but instead is borrowed along with the room I'm in, and she was next to me on her back. I was snuggled against her small frame in the way I did as a child. Mamaw was one of those cold little women who never took comfort in affection, but she tried. She wore polyester in shades of mauve, just like before she died. I wrapped my arm around her and felt the sharpness of two or three ribs on her side. She put her arm around my shoulder. I told her that I missed her and was so sorry I never really got to know her. She said, "That's alright. I'm sorry I didn't get to know you, because you're a phenomenal person. But it's alright....I'm right here."

If I had my way, I would always wake myself up laughing. It only happens occasionally, but when it does, it feels like summer sunshine. But today was one of those other days, when you wake up with tears on your face and neck, and your dog wonders why their person is so upset.

I have been in limbo now for five-plus-months, working freelance and living presently with my oldest guy friend Jackson, with whom every day has been a blessing and has also been like some episode out of "Will & Grace."  I have stalled my job search for about two weeks now, because I was temporarily fed up with frustration in sending my life's busy work into the black hole of no response. Because I look at that stupid electronic document and think, my God, what have I done?

And the worst part for me right now is fully committing to ANYTHING. Work, passion, friends, family. Whatever. I find it hard to focus, and even when I'm deeply concentrating and heavily sweating and meditating hard in my yoga practice and am asking God and the Universe and baby Jesus to please remove whatever psychic obstacles are in front of me so I can have a Clear Vision and see my Special Purpose and can Get On With The Next Big Thing, nothing comes.  I have a fantastic screenplay still in rewrites.  I find it hard to correspond--as some unfortunately know--and unlock myself to purge and be lighter. Have this blog, don't really know what to say. I have a year's worth of experiences from over yonder that I cannot bring myself to unearth. Why?

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down....

I have a shrine of sorts in front of me as I sit at the writing desk that one of my best friends, Eva Fleischauer, gave me after her dad died. Johnny Cash is giving me the finger, tiny Ganesh quietly sits in front of some daily affirmation placard while a Red Octopus finger puppet can't be bothered to stand up straight. A buckeye, two stones and a mussel shell surround a stainless steel die given me by an Irishman. And two Chinese fortunes try to fake me out every day with their fake words of wisdom--"(smiley face) You will have a bright future (smiley face" and "An unexpected event will soon make your life more exciting." And then, beside the oil painting of a grey cat who looks remarkably like my old pal Cleveland, is my newest addition--my vision board. While true vision escapes me, I am trying to force-feed my psyche exactly what I want to bring into my life.  

I am trying.  But am I searching too hard?  

And you can't hold back Spring, says Tom, so I keep impatiently waiting for change like some peaceable, overly-caffeinated hobo shaking an empty cup outside a train station.

j:.

A Revival, Y'all

"Dreams unwind, love's a state of mind..."

--"Rhiannon" by Fleetwood Mac

Went to bed in Dublin, woke up on the other side of the sea some months later.

And in the hazy in-between days, I managed to find my way home, fix a broken dog, find my balance and find some work while I work on manifesting the Next Big Thing.  A modern-day gypsy by default more than by design, and as evidenced in part by my scarf collection.

So, I just decided that I'd dust off this Webby corner of the world and write a bit more.  

More soon.

j:.

In Transit

A brief word before I go offline for the weekend prior to my departure: Though my feelings are mixed as I prepare to leave Ireland, I'm thankful to all and happy for your passing interest in my ongoing adventures.

You'll hear from me once more when I arrive in Dublin on Monday.

Stay tuned, y'all.

j:.

A Sort of Homecoming

So, I presently live maybe one mile from the ruins of Carrigogunnell Castle in County Limerick. Local historians agree that the castle was most likely built around 1449 and was nearly forever occupied by the O'Brien family (likely, my friend Chris is a descendant) on the site of a former volcano that had gone dormant ages before that.

By the way, Flatmate Kevin from West Cork likes to put on his best Irish pirate voice and say, whenever he sees castle ruins or versions of same, “Ah, dere's a shtink of oppression off it, lads.”

This castle is now covered in the Irish version of kudzu, which would be your garden-variety (known here as “bog-standard”) ivy. And overgrown trees and scrub brush. But it's still an impressive sight.

And it is also a favorite destination of mine, where I take the dog on hikes after work or on the weekends. Bog-standard castle in ruins, according to most. Well, according to me.

Until now, that is...see Bono's backdrop, below.

[And thanks to Jay Stanley for pointing this out.]

What's interesting about this is that, for me, U2—not The Pogues or "The Quiet Man" or Thin Lizzy or Van Morrison or even “Darby O'Gill and The Little People”--put the first images of Ireland in my head, courtesy of MTV Music Television. I had to watch MTV covertly in the homes of neighbors and friends, because my mother wouldn't allow MTV in our house.


So, a flag-waving Bono singing about "Sunday Bloody Sunday" at Red Rocks first taught me about The Troubles that the Irish faced. And one of my first cassette tapes I bought at Hot Dog Records in Jonesboro, Arkansas, was “The Unforgettable Fire.”






So, I've long been a fan. And also, I always thought that the drummer was, like, way hot (far right, in photo.)

The other side of this castle is where Lola and I visit, where the kids have burned bonfires for literally hundreds of years, celebrating celebration and apparently engaging in various levels of grab-ass.

Weird how these things reveal themselves, you know?

Hope to see you, too, soon.

j:.

Sideshow Anecdotes

"Life inside the music box ain't easy/The mallets hit the gears are always turning/And everyone inside the mechanism/Is yearning/To get out..."

--“Musicbox,” Regina Spektor

Some really great and entertaining things have happened in along the roadside here in Ireland.

You can go back to one of my earliest blog entries and click on the photos link to see my St. Patrick's Day celebrations in Miltown Malbay, out in County Clare. Good fun, even if the parade theme intended participants to “take the piss out of” the U.S., as they say.

The Irish are real and honest and what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of folk, but I've also found that nothing is taboo and everything is fair game when it comes to “slagging” (also known as “taking the piss,” noted above) and humiliating people for sport. And they are truly masters of sarcasm.

Overheard when someone asked an Irishman and former Limerick resident what he misses about Ireland since his move to England, your man replied, “I miss the insincerity.”

...

I've heard a lot of great live music while here, and I've traveled a lot on the weekends and on bank holidays, dragging Lola with me wherever and whenever I can. So far we've gone with friends to Cork, West Cork, Sligo, Dublin and out to the edge of the earth at Spanish Point for some beach time...

...which is exactly what she and I did on Labor Day weekend, when I participated in my first-ever Ramadan Treasure Hunt. Anyway, the family of one of my housemates is an endlessly entertaining and creative bunch, and they decided to create the Ramadan Treasure Hunt, which involves said family of revelers who devise clues and divide everyone into teams that drive around the countryside near the Cliffs of Death, and the team making it back with all the answers in the least amount of time wins. Someone along the way realized they were holding this event at the onset of Ramadan, hence the name. And winning earns you bragging rights and the first chance to draw a prize out of the bag that everyone else gets to draw from also.

After the hunt, one of the O'Sullivan family members decided it would be funny to craft an Evil Eye from a marble and molding clay and put it in Lola's nose-nook.

Which he did.

And it was.

For your enjoyment, above.

...

Never the photojournalist, I forget my camera mostly always, so it's a miracle there's any evidence of my ever living here. But I rather like that the images are just filed in my brain and mine to keep. Or maybe that's a convenient excuse for forgetfulness. Dunno.

Thanks to the Aaron Dunn family for stopping by on their Irish holiday, and for picking up the check for breakfast. Much appreciated.

Happy Autumn, y'all.

j:.

That’s Mister Python, To You.

"Life's a piece of sh!t, when you look at it.

Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true.

You'll see it's all a show, keep 'em laughing as you go.

Just remember that the last laugh is on you.

And...always look on the bright side of life."

--"Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" from Monty Python's "The Life of Brian"

This is all very well and good and lovingly dedicated to my Red Octopus kinfolk:

At the Tom Waits concert in Dublin recently, I was THIS CLOSE to Terry "I'm-the-Jailer-in-'The Life of-Brian'-and-also-the-only-American-member-of-Monty-Python" Gilliam. Only two rows behind, four seats over. (I know! I know! Tom Waits is growling out his songs, and all I can do is hear, "Always look on the bright side of life...") Not to mention that he was the last director to work with Heath Ledger before his untimely Olsen-Twin-induced death. The thought did cross my mind that perhaps if Terry Gilliam kissed Heath Ledger at some point during the movie shoot and if I now kissed Terry, it would kinda be like kissing Heath Ledger by default. Brilliant! More beer.

So, when my whiskey-soaked leprechaun date decided to introduce me, something funny happened. Which is what you want out of a situation like that, if you're meeting a member of the BEST comedy troupe of, like, ever.

LEPRECHAUN: Terry, young Jennifer here is from Amer-i-kay, also. Hails from Arkansas...

ME: (interrupting, as you do, and trying not to stare at his mullet) Hello! You're one of the funniest men of, like, ever. Did you know that?

TERRY: (maybe a little scared?) Hi? And thanks? My granddad was from Arkansas...

ME: (now mesmoried by the mullet--that hair never worked for Mick Fleetwood, either) Well, how in the hell did that happen?

TERRY: (proffering a pen for the autographing of one dollar bill) I don't know, actually. Should I sign, "To Jennifer...?"

ME: Yes, please. It's my last dollar bill. You know, our dollar isn't worth the paper it's printed on these days.

TERRY: Neither's my autograph.

(rim shot)

Thanks, don't forget to try the veal and please tip your servers.

j:.