Walking past the Lincoln Theatre (To Michael)

I do that every day from my cheap parking spot at a church off the beaten path downtown. I always look at the band names on the marquee. 97 out 100 times, I don't know who they are.

The headliner last Wednesday was Hanzel und Gretyl. You prolly don't remember them, but I drug you to see them playing with Sister Machine Gun at that space at Mission Valley well over 10 years ago. Besides us, there were probably 30 other people in the place. Dunno if you can recall that night, but I freakin' loved both those industrial bands and felt really bad for them: Every step they took on that wooden stage resonated through the nearly empty space.

I was probably among 20 people in North Carolina who bought the H+G cd. I lent it to the one I don't care to hear about after we broke up, then bought my own copy back from Record Exchange. I played it tonight for old times' sake.

My God, it was horrible. I mean, the beats are okay, what you'd expect angry-with-no-reason-to-be, bedecked-in-black-clothes-and

-Dr.-Martens kids in the 90s to dance to, but I don't know how people like I was then expected to be taken seriously using that kind of drivel as our mantra.

To wit: "Dysfunction, in the face of chaos! Swallow my fingers, in the face of chaos!

Gah.

Juror number two

I sent a guy to jail today. A skinny, bespectacled 29-year-old father of four with no criminal record. I didn't want to.

The "victim" was twice his size and regularly beat the hell out of his wife, the defendant's sister-in-law. From here on out, I'm going to refer to the "victim" as the plaintiff, even though it was a criminal trial, not a civil one.

The plaintiff started it. He went to the subsidized apartment where his pregnant wife had fled to be with her mother. He hung out in the parking lot drinking with his friend, knowing his wife's family hated him for abusing her. He started what turned into a melee by threatening to kill her sister and the defendant. He tried to knock a baby out of a stroller before grabbing a child's tricycle and swinging it at the crowd with no regard to people's safety.

The defendant, granted, had been drinking, too. He went to his car and retrieved a butcher knife and came back to the fight trying to get the plaintiff to back off. All the witnesses were lying, had a ridiculous number of children, had criminal records and had refused to speak to the police. The only thing I know was true was the plaintiff got poked with a knife and was taken to the hospital by his wife and friend.

Once he got to WakeMed, the staff called the police. The plaintiff was treated for a superficial wound less serious than the one I gave myself a couple of months ago when the screen door hit me. The plaintiff was treated with Bactine (no stitches) and released in just over an hour. The RPD confiscated his clothes, and found in his pocket a dime bag, even though the plaintiff had testified to us that he didn't smoke pot. Testimony showed that once he was released from the hospital, he made his wife take him back to the scene to look for his weed because he thought it had fallen out of his pocket during the melee.

If only the jab hadn't been in the plaintiff's back, I could have voted for acquittal on the defendant's claim of self-defense. I hate that there wasn't a clause for "defense of others," because it seems clear to me that's what he was doing. At the very least, I was able to stand up in the jury room and say, "With intent to kill was not proven and I will not vote for it."

If only the hospital hadn't been required by law to call the police, I could believe ghetto and family justice could have served the plaintiff for all the abuse he inflicted on his poor, young wife. I know that's not right, either, but at least I would have been spared the burden of first-hand knowledge that this world exists, the burden of sending a young man to jail for trying to protect the members of this violent, irresponsible, criminal family he married into from even more violence.

I was heartsick when I left the courthouse. I can't feel bad about doing what I was tasked to do: impartially enforcing the law as it is written. But my heart was heavy with guilt about the things I should be doing for people who didn't get the blessings and opportunities I was born into. I SHOULD be a mentor. I SHOULD go back to school and become a social worker or a teacher at an inner-city school. But I won't do those things. My M.O. is to throw money at things that bother me, so I can say I'll write checks to Planned Parenthood and Interact before tax time.

Will that help? Probably not. And therein lies my shame.

How to charm a Southern, English-major cat lady

I was just listening as Steve spoke with a mobile veterinarian about coming around to look at Eudora's red eye.

Steve: Her name is Eudora, spelled E-u-d-o-r-a.

(pause)

Steve: Exactly as in Welty. That's who she was named for.

After Steve told him that, the vet replied, "Woo! I'm gonna like that cat."

And I'm gonna like this vet.

I've crossed the line and become one of the wacky relatives I blog about.

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving in Shallotte. Daddy made his famous fresh flounder with shellfish stuffing, Aunt Jo brought ham with her wonderful ham gravy and raisin glaze, and Steve made a beautiful apple tart.

After lunch, we put the phone on speaker and called Jill and the boys in Vermont. After we heard, "Hello?" my parents, Aunt Jo, Steve and I shouted "Happy Thanksgiving!" Then we heard a little boy voice ask, "Who is this?"

My mama talked over the rest of us and said, "It's Pops, Tweet, Aunt Jo, Aunt Lee Lee and Uncle Steve!"

After a moment of silence, a grownup-lady voice came on the phone. We all started talking over each other again, announcing Thanksgiving best wishes.

"I'm sorry?" came the reply.

So for what seemed like an excruciating amount of time, we all looked at each other, whispering maybe we'd dialed the wrong number. I can't speak for everyone else, but I was cringing at the thought that we had called the wrong house, and with our accents, we were coming across as a really bad stereotype New Englanders may have of Southerners.

Finally, my mama spoke on behalf of the embarrassed rest of us and said, "We may have the wrong number."

"Are you calling for Jill?," the voice asked.

Thank GOD! Apparently, Banyan had answered, become confused and handed the phone to the nearest adult, one of Jill's houseguests.

Jill found this hysterically funny. So I told her about the flounder, ham and collards we'd just eaten, and she got homesick.

Alzheimers: If you don't laugh, you'll cry

I posted a story about my Grandma, and my goodest buddy Michael mailed me an interesting counterpoint. Of course, as is my rambly nature, I blabbed on and on.

---------------

Was she kidding? If she was that was BRILLIANT!! If it was the Alzheimer’s talking then unfortunately it was equally as funny.

M.

--------------------


HA! I've never thought about it that way. I think from now on I'll choose to think she was kidding.

It's such a cruel disease when you think about it. She suffered from it for 10 years before she died. But can a person who doesn't know what's going on suffer? Whoa, that's deep.

I remember my mom telling stories about things Grandma said and laughing and I questioned whether or not we should be laughing about them. My mom, in a great sweep of wisdom, told me that we could laugh or cry, and laughing is better.

To wit:

Grandma fell and broke her hip about five years into the sickness. She was being treated at New Hanover Hospital, and was struggling to get out of her bed. My mama was there and tried to restrain her. Grandma asked, "Who are you?" "I'm your daughter," my mama replied. Grandma yelled, "You're not my daughter, you hussie!"

I got to Wilmington the next day. I had no sooner walked into the room when Mama said, "Watch your Grandma," and fled for a break. Grandma asked who I was and I told her my name. She said, "Get my pocketbook, Leigh Ann. Let's go to a restaurant." I was only about 23 at the time and had to explain to her over and over again that her hip was broken and she couldn't get out of bed. "Get my pocketbook, Leigh Ann!" I hadn't wanted my Mama to come save me so badly since I was a little kid.

A couple of years after that, the family briefly placed her in a nursing facility. I went to visit her there. My grandpa had been dead for about 14 years at that point. Grandma didn't know who I was, but she kept asking, "Where's Lee?" I told her I didn't know. Finally, someone (can't remember who) came in and told her that her husband was dead. She started yelling that he wasn't dead and accused her children of burying him alive to take all his money.

Grandma's final three years were spent in a wheelchair in her home in rural Columbus County. Save a break to go to my sister's funeral, where she repeatedly asked, "Where's Amy?" she spent her days in silence. We went to visit her, but the sight of her sitting in silence under the old-school clock, which ticked out every excruciating second, was really hard to bear.

By the last Christmas, when I was 28, she couldn't even swallow water; it had to be mixed with a gelatinous substance so she wouldn't spit it up. She'd lost most of her hair, wore trifocal glasses that magnified her eyes into cartoonish, huge blue circles and had shrunk into a shell of the wonderfully huggable Grandma she used to be. We parked her wheelchair in the center of the living room as we opened presents and she just slumped there until, apropos of nothing, she raised her head, focused her newly clear gaze on me, and declared, "You're too selfish to have young'uns!"

By God, this woman who'd been written off to dementia was dead-on right.
Miss you, Grandma!

Sunday dinner with my grandma

Note to non-Southern friends of LA: In the South, we call the noontime meal "dinner." The evening meal is "supper."

My grandma invited us all over for Sunday dinner after the Alzheimer's had begun to set in, but while she was still coherent enough to engage in social activities and conversation.

The serving style in our family is to lay out the dishes on a counter and serve ourselves buffet-style before sitting at the table. One of the dishes Grandma "fixed" was a casserole. It looked really good, so we all ladled some onto our plates. At the table, someone asked her what it was.

"I'm not really sure," she replied.

Two beats later, she asked, "Has anyone seen Bubba? I can't find that cat anywhere."

GQ Joshua

My nephew Joshua is a fashion plate.

He and I sneaked out of a house full of stressed out/irritable family members when he was five and went to a surf shop over on the island. I bought him his first rash guard and board shorts with skulls. He proclaimed, "I'm hardcore like Aunt Lee Lee!"

A couple of years ago, I called Jill and the boys were fighting. Banyan wanted to wear one of Josh's hoodies and Josh was pulling it away from his brother, screaming, "It doesn't match his pants!"

Joshie's now nine. I talked to Jill earlier and she told me they'd been in a second-hand store a few days ago. Joshua picked out a tweed cap, argyle sweater and solid print wool scarf. He then rolled up his baggy jeans to show off his Chuck Taylors. Some random person said he looked European.

The next morning at the bus stop, this little seven-year-old girl who is totally in love with Josh was admiring his outfit. Joshua casually replied, "I look European."