Sudden Departure

Sister Mary, the long-time administrator of my childrens' school, resigned abruptly last week due to an increasingly acrimonious relationship with some of the school's directors. As far as I know, it's just a matter of good people who just can't work together. She is being replaced by the sister who has been her assistant for the past 25 years, so everything that is good will continue. DW and I spoke with Sr. Mary yesterday, and we gave her a copy of this photo and a photo of Toby to take with her wherever. Sr. Mary is a wonderful person, and hopefully her order will place her in a similar position where she can share her considerable gift for working with mentally retarded and autistic children.
 

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike.

Toby and I had some big fun today, that's fer shure. We started with some swinging at the train depot park, then went for French fries. Went home for an hour or so, then I pulled Toby's bike out of the garage.

He got on the bike, and we went to the neighborhood park. He decided he wanted to ride instead of swing, so we went down the path alongside a stormwater retention pond, then back around to the swimming pool across the street from the park. Toby wanted into that pool, and he didn't care what he had to do to get what he wanted. The pool doesn't open for another month. Anyway, he kept saying "door! key!" and placing my hand on the latch and padlock. Then he figured out how to climb over the gate, which meant I had to be extra vigilant to prevent that from happening. We went around and around with this for half an hour or so. No violence, just a battle of wills. Finally, I picked him up in one hand, grabbed the bike with the other, and walked down the path next to another retention pond.

Toby got back on his bike after he calmed down, then--wouldn't you know it--there was a family having a pool party in their back yard. Toby made for the yard, and the homeowner invited us in. People in my neighborhood can be very nice like that, which is one of the reasons I don't mind living 44 miles from work. I took Toby's shirt and shoes, and he and the birthday boy had fun splashing me and each other for about 45 minutes or so. I came back home with a drenched Toby on his bike and a beer in my hand.

Then we were off to a different park that has better swings. Toby and I were doing our loud, rowdy routine, in which I pretend to be a monster while I swing the hell out of him. A sweet-looking little boy got onto the swing next to us, with his mother pushing. She had a sour, I'd-rather-not-be-here expression on her face. I pointed at a third child and told Toby that Adam swings like that kid. The kid on the swing next to us started talking to me. I could see that he wanted my attention, so I talked to him a little while Toby was in between pushes. The kid told me that his name is Tyler, that Adam is his cousin, and that his cousins always beat him up. One time, his cousin Andrew beat up his cousin Adam, so Tyler hit him with his belt. Tyler's mom's expression hadn't changed a bit. Yikes. And I thought things got crazy in my household. Toby wanted to leave at that point, so we did PetSmart (dogs), Circuit City (a vestibule surrounded by automatic doors for Toby to play with), and Target (toys) on the way home. He picked up his shoes a few minutes ago, so I suppose we'll be off to somewhere else very soon.

Meta-Haiku

Pencil in my hand,
"Stench of Zen" in my nose--Oops!
I sneeze on the paper.

Reflections on Highway Wildflowers

Purple, yellow, red--
Tiny flowers; soft blanket
on the naked earth.

Highway median,
wildflowers in bloom--but the
mower will come soon.

Flowers on the road--
The fragrance of the flower
driving is sweeter.

Unexpected Guests

Dream gates open wide--
Surprise! Libido has his
fantasy lovers.

Poser in the Park

The remnants of my green hair. 

 

Road Trip!

Under the Tuscan Sun

I had an e-mail exchange today with a law school roommate who is one of the most interesting people I know (plus he looks in here on occasion, so "hi"). He's now living the life of a gentleman farmer with his wife and three kids, and renting out a restored farmhouse on a hillside. Anyway, here's the view from his front door, near Lucca, Tuscany. Not shabby at all! 

This used to be my lukewarm commentary on the Joseph Smith Papers Project. It made my brain hurt.

My yard again

I've posted this photo before, but I'm posting it again as a confession in light of my yardwork photo. This was taken last summer and shows what my back yard really looks like.  

I Love Yardwork

I've made progress in my yardwork projets in the past couple of weekends. Today, I weeded the useless little bed in front of the living room window. I do that a couple of times a year. Usually, I wait until the weeds are taller than I am, but this time I got the clumps of weed grass out before they got very tall. Also, I sprayed Roundup on the weed grass clumps in the seam where the driveway meets the garage. Last week, I actually cut the grass. I can't imagine what the neighbors must think. 

Randy's Drug Dream

Well, that sure was an unusual dream. Last night, I made the mistake of washing down my extra-hot microwave burritos with a bottle of Corona. Some of my gentle readers may with to substitute Coke for the beverage I mentioned, should they choose to retell this story. I'm just saying. Anyway, that mix of food and beverage does not go too well with Wellbutrin and Lexapro, and I woke up two or three times in a cold sweat last night.

Later on, after I was all sweated-out, I had a dream that some of the cool kids from my past were running a meth lab in somebody's living room. I was hanging around the house outside of the lab with another geek who was around the cool crowd, but not really a part of it. As an act of pure spite, we had tipped off the FBI about the meth lab (hmm, shouldn't I have called the DEA?), and we were waiting to let the feebies into the house. Strangely, the feebies missed the lab when they first entered the house. "That's odd," I thought, "meth labs usually stink to high heaven, and this one doesn't smell at all." I know this from work, by the way, so don't anybody get any wrong ideas. Also, one of my signals to the cops was to hold up a sign supporting the University of Kansas. Even though I was asleep, I knew something was wrong with that, because I grew up in Oklahoma, not Kansas, and I matriculated at Louisiana State University. Anyway, the cool kids came running out of the lab when they realized the FBI was there, and one of them emotionally asked how I could have betrayed them. I stood there and lectured the guy about how it felt to be a geek and to be excluded from the cool crowd. How embarrassing--I was being both a geek and an asshole at the same time! Somebody help me!  

Physiology 101

As anybody who looks at cable news is aware, America recently has learned a bit about the physiology of the human brain, particularly regarding the distiction between the cerebral cortex and the more primitive brain stem and thalamus regions. Here is a brief discussion of the physiology of Zen, from the website of the dojo I attend:

The correct attitude of mind comes naturally from a deep concentration during zazen on the posture and the breathing.

During zazen the conscious flow of thought from the cerebral cortex is greatly diminished and the thinking brain becomes calm and cool. Blood flows toward the deeper layers of the brain, the thalamus and the hypo-thalamus, and this body-brain becomes more active and developed. The nervous system becomes relaxed while our deeper brain becomes more active. Receptive and attentive in every cell of the body, you learn to think with the body, unconsciously.

During zazen, thoughts, conscious and subconscious, naturally and continuously rise to the surface of our mind. Don't try to stop these thoughts from arising. But at the same time, don't get involved with the thoughts or let them take you away from concentration on posture and breathing. Just let the thoughts pass, like clouds in the sky, neither opposing them nor attaching to them. Shadows pass and vanish. Images arise from the subconscious, then disappear. The brain becomes deeply calm. One arrives at the deep unconscious, beyond thought, to hishiryo consciousness, true purity.

Hishiryo is the unconscious of Zen - universal mind. In Japanese, shiryo is thinking, fushiryo non-thinking. But hishiryo is absolute thinking, beyond thinking and non-thinking. Beyond categories, opposites, contradictions. Beyond all problems of personal consciousness. Our original nature, Buddha nature, the Cosmic unconscious.

When the mind empties and the intellect is calm, peaceful, at rest, nothing obstructs the deep intuitive and unlimited life force that springs up from the depths of our being, that which precedes all thought, the eternal flow of the activity of the Cosmos. Practicing zazen, sitting concentration, without object or goal, you can experience hishiryo and understand mushotoku, the secret and essence of Zen. But this understanding must be beyond that of common sense or intellectual logic. It is direct perception, here and now.

Mushotoku is the attitude of non-profit, of not wanting to gain anything for yourself. It is essential to true Zen practice. Giving without expecting to receive, abandoning everything without fear of losing, observing oneself.

Zen students develop wisdom if they are vigilant in their Zen practice, in their effort to know themselves, to go beyond themselves, to give of themselves without expecting any personal gain. If you abandon all, you will obtain all.

I don't mean to suggest that Terri Schiavo was in a Zen state of mind for 15 years. Her cerebral cortex evidently was missing, meaning that she could not be at all aware of here, now, or anything else. By acknowledging that thoughts arise during zazen, Zen recognizes that the cerebral cortex cannot be entirely shut down. And nobody would suggest that atrophy of any portion of the brain is a positive development. However, it strikes me as at least a little interesting that a spiritual/philosophical/religious practice would have a basis in brain physiology, particularly when that practice arose 2,500 years or so ago, before anybody had much of an idea about how the brain works.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming

I went to the city this morning for zazen, and I'm glad I did. The semi-retired roshi comes on Sundays, and he opened the floor for questions after the sitting and ceremonial portions of zazen. I asked a couple of practice questions; I also had a nice sitting. Still, I need to drop off body and mind faster than I usually manage. Practice, grasshopper, practice. 

What did that warning label say?

I've been struggling with depression this week, stemming largely from the guilt feelings I discussed last week. It's not a black depression, but I'm sufficiently concerned to step-up my exercise and Zen activities. I need to shake these blues and be my old, happy-go-lucky self again.  

Sex Haiku

I couldn't decide which of these to post, so I'll post them both and let you decide:

Springtime for lovers--
two bodies, thrusting together
fire burning within

or

Springtime in the park--
two bodies, thrusting together
felony offense

Under the Sea

This is the Flower Garden Banks reef, 50-100 miles or so south of the Louisiana/Texas border in the Gulf.  I'd like to go diving there someday, but only after I lose a whole bunch of weight.

A year or so ago, I read a magazine article trying to push scuba as a Zen activity. I thought it was a dumb idea at the time. Now I think it kind of makes sense from a mental-relaxation standpoint--but only when there are no bullsharks swimming around or depleted air tanks to worry about. I'll have to think about it next time I go underwater.

Easter feast, Randy style

Toby and Adam eat their Easter feast. That's what I call good parenting! Oh yeah, that's the boys' father in the maroon shirt. 

Almost a smile, anyway.

Adam almost smiled! 

Guilt Trip

I've been thinking recently about the notion of guilt. I feel very guilty about my childrens' situation, even though I know on a logical, intellectual level that I am not at fault, and that the decisions I have had to make were made as objectively as possible and with their best interests at heart.

Anyway, my own guilty feelings have led me to think about guilt generally--what kinds of things I've felt guilty about in the past, what kinds of things I feel guilty about now, and whether it's healthy for me to feel guilty about anything. Also, an LDS apostle with the initials BKP not too long ago gave an address about guilt as a motivational factor. The notion of good guilt is not an idea I happen to agree with, actually; nevertheless, the BKP talk did turn a few wheels in my head as I was busy disagreeing with it.

When I was younger, I felt guilt over such normal teenage activities as masturbation, taking an occasional smoke or drink, and sexuality generally. I even felt guilty about having sexual dreams. With the help of life experience and, more recently, Zen, I recognize that a great many things just are--neither good nor bad, just are--and should not induce guilt. That really helps me as the father of two disabled kids. Still, I'd like to think I'm a moral person, and that some actions or thoughts perhaps should induce feelings of guilt and/or shame. Thoughts? Comments? 

Missionary Moment?

Well, kind of, anyway. The other morning, the door at the Zen dojo was locked and I couldn't get in. I happened to run into a coworker on the street on my way over there. I came back to the office and vented to my coworker about the dojo door being locked. "You go there?" he asked. He explained that he had read about Zen in college and found it appealing, but that he had never pursued a practice. He then asked me whether I had any brochures and whether the dojo has a website. I obliged. I had a nice experience there this morning; nothing spectacular, just a few minutes of mental freedom. 

Randy, your insecurity is showing!

I've noticed on my sitemeter that I have a few frequent readers who have never commented on anything. I don't mind that so much, but I'm just curious about why you read my scribblings. So, if you're one of these frequent readers, please leave a comment. Finally, thank everybody for your continued patronage. 

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Toby after Palm Sunday mass, Alexandria, Louisiana. We took DW's parents up for an overnight visit. The kids had big fun in the motel swimming pool and at Burger King. We all went to mass this morning. Lots o' love! 

Hell no, I won't go!

I will NOT parade around the circle and into the chapel and I absolutely will NOT hold a palm frond! Got it? 

Where everybody knows your name . . .

Toby in the playland at Burger King in Alexandria, Louisiana. We were surprised to find that the counter people at the store know our kids by name. 

More fun than shopping at the mall . . .

Woo-hoo! Dumpster diving!

Yesterday's prank got me thinking about what kind of jokestering could persuade some of your humble correspondent's quieter readers into joining the ranks of Dumpster Dive commenters. Anybody got any ideas? 

Beautiful Dreamer

The other night, I had a dream in which my wife had an ex-husband who was enormous, violent, and apparently just released from prison. He was attempting to take the children whom the two of them had together, but over whom she had custody.  He threatened to beat her and started chasing her and me. We ran into a building and I locked her into a room. I then chased the ex to his car, let the kids out, and beat the living crap out of the guy. I may have even killed him, I can't remember. Earlier the same night, I had a dream that had me actually screaming in my sleep. I don't remember anything at all about that dream. I'd much rather have my wild sex dreams. They're, um, interesting, and sex is better than violence any day, except in mob movies.

"Hero." No, not me. The movie.

This afternoon, we watched "Hero," starring Jet Li. The movie is un-freakin'-believable. The acting is different from Hollywood films, the pacing is slow, and there is far less dialogue than in most films. The martial arts sequences are superb, mixing great fighting with Matrix-like computer animation. The cinematography is brilliant--indeed, it may surpass "Lawrence of Arabia" and "Doctor Zhivago," and that's saying something. The filmmakers use colors, costumes, settings, and even calligraphy in a way that makes every scene of the film a work of art unto itself. A great example of film as art. Check it out!

Stepping Out

Last evening, we actually went to a social event, with a group of people from the Zen dojo. It was at a Mexican place in Mid-City N.O. We haven't been together in years to anything social that didn't involve our childrens' disabilities. It was a nice evening with a nice group of people. I need to pay more attention to the social events at the office, too. Our boss is big on planning extracurricular outings, but we've not been able to attend them.

I've seen several bumper stickers recently with the slogan, "To hell with Iraq: Rebuild the Flora-Bama." The Flora-Bama is a piece of vanishing Americana--a dumpy roadhouse, right smack on the beach on Perdido Key. Also, it's symbolic of what many around here call the Redneck Riviera, despite the best efforts of the tourism authorities to sell it as something a little more upscale. It's big fun to go in there--it's like a maze of small barrooms and stages, with 3-4 bands playing on some nights. The Flora-Bama was badly damaged by Hurricane Ivan, but the owners are determined to get the place up rebuilt. So, to hell with Iraq! Rebuild the Flora-Bama!  

I tried to post this last night, but due to either the effing blogger software or my own computer, it got lost in the effing ether.

That weirdness out of the way, I had a moment of exquisite dad-ness on Saturday afternoon, albeit one that ended strangely. As background, when our kids were diagnosed with autism, I set out two parenting principles that I’ve pretty much managed to live up to: 1) I’ll attempt to give my kids as many “normal” childhood experiences as possible; and 2) I won’t be embarrassed by their behaviors. Both of those came into play on Saturday.

We bought our boys bicycles for Christmas, hoping that they could learn to ride them in the next year or so. Both bikes have training wheels. Kids with a dual diagnosis of autism and mental retardation have steep learning curves, except for those things that they really, really want to learn–then they become so focused that they can’t help but get it.

I took Toby and his bicycle out into the street on Saturday afternoon. Since Adam wasn’t around to scream bang his head on the front window, I was safe in taking Toby out solo. We started with Toby on the bike and me with my hands cranking his feet on the pedals to make him go. I had to crank one foot, let the bike move to a stop, then go and crank the other foot. Toby figured out how to brake, so he was frequently stopping the bike. We went this way up and down our street. He let up on his braking as we made our way around a very long block, and it looked like his next visit home would see major biking progress. I tried to turn him to the right to go back home, where DW was waiting with the digital camera. No luck; he wanted to go left. I asked if he wanted to go to the park, and he said “park!” Okay, I thought, we can go to the neighborhood playground 4-5 blocks away. We got to the turn for the park, and Toby fought my attempts to turn him in the right direction. Hmmm, I wondered what he had in mind. Oh well, best not to incite a temper tantrum.

By this point, he was pumping his feet on the pedals by himself; pushing down with one foot, then lifting both feet, then pushing down with the other foot. I maintained a gentle hand on his back, giving him an occasional push. This continued for a while, until we got to the entrance of our subdivision, just under a mile from our house; we had gone slightly over a mile at this point. Okay, time to turn around. Nope, he wouldn’t go for it. Again, best not to incite a tantrum.

We went across Airport Road and onto the bikepath. Toby took off like a bat out of hell. I had to move quickly–breaking into a full run at some points–just to keep up. Oh no. We have different ideas about the bicycle, I realized. I saw it as a fun activity and a rite of passage. He saw it as a way to get himself wherever he wanted to go. To his mind, what good is a bike if you can’t use it as a mode of transportation? The bikepath runs for maybe a mile and a half, ending at the local Head Start preschool about 100 yards or so before the Target parking lot. I had no choice; I had to stop him. Airport Road is too busy and too dangerous on a Saturday afternoon to take any chances. Toby exploded. I had to place him in a restraint hold in the Head Start parking lot as he head-butted, bit, hit, and screamed. This in view of dozens of passing cars. I hoped for either DW or some good Samaritan to come along. One nice thing about living here is that good Samaritans are not all that rare. Sure enough, a woman pulled up and offered us a ride home in her Suburban. Toby tantrumed for 15-20 minutes after we got home, then we went to Target in the car.

Public tantruming be damned, this was a triumphant moment for Toby. It was also a great moment for me as a father. To me, seeing him ride that bike was better than seeing a "typical" kid earning an Eagle Scout award. It was a real high.

Last night, I was tossing and turning about one aspect of this story I didn’t mention at the outset of this post. My own father was extremely impatient about my ineptitude when learning to ride a bike, especially when it came time to take off the training wheels. I remember vividly one time I began to tip over. My dad grabbed the bike from under me and threw it at the curb. He couldn’t hide the fact that I disappointed him in things like sports, even something so irrelevant as learning to ride a bike. As some of you know, I have some very deep insecurity about my masculine identity, and that hit hard last night as I tried to sleep off a very active weekend. Some things just can’t be suppressed, no matter how hard you try. However, I don’t want this to be about me, so let’s savor Toby’s triumph.

Toby watches as the ferry approaches the dock. 

Toby on the Mississippi. 

Most kids remember their favorite fish at the Aquarium. Mine remembers the exact locations of the elevators in the building. This morning saw us running from elevator to elevator and playing with the buttons so Toby could watch the doors open and shut. 

A few silly haiku I wrote while watching my son play computer games:

It goes without saying
Blue's Clues and Thomas
Obsessive computer play --
Toby is at home.

My Split Personality
Fragrant incense burns
A dove lands on my shoulder.
Martin Scorsese?

Randy the Rasta
Heaven on the Earth;
Bob Marley sang about it.
What was he smoking?

History Channel Icon
History Channel
Adolf Hitler on the air,
Twenty-four/seven

"Liberation from the self is living each day without a place to stand or ideas about who we are. That's when we can dance with life."
-- Dennis Genpo Merzel Roshi

I think I've experienced a few moments of liberation as defined by Genpo Roshi during zazen/meditation. You pretty much have to open your mind up to whatever comes up to meditate successfully, and take the good with the bad. One morning in August or September 2004, I struggled to get my mind to slow as I began to sit. Suddenly, I was in a dreamlike state, my mind flying through the clouds in a blue sky. My mind was invisible and alone, with no body or any other physical entity attached to it. There were no boundaries, and my mind embraced everything, and everything embraced it. I felt free of all of the psychic baggage I usually carry around, and free of all the concepts of self-identification I cling to. I've had several other similar experiences over the past few months, though without the clouds and sky.

I've had a few other interesting mental moments during meditation. I was introduced to Buddhist thought by the Dalai Lama's "An Open Heart." He suggests choosing some emotional state or area in which one can improve, then focusing on that during meditation. I started with a couple of positive ones--love and compassion. I felt some wonderful energy throughout my body; I also felt some intense sadness. This past Sunday night, I was moping about my boys. I sat on my zafu and relaxed my mind. Suddenly, an intense feeling of love swept through me. It wasn't coming from inside me; it was my boys' love for me. It's difficult to explain. They are unable to express that themselves due to their brain disorders, and the feeling I had was awesome.

I wouldn't say that I've achieved a state of enlightenment or satori or whatever, but I think I've had several transient glimpses into what that is like. It's nice to have a spiritual/philosophical practice that works for me. And that's how I view Zen--it's not a religion to me; rather, it's a system of practice and philosophy that allows me to see within my own head and work to improve myself.

Also, Toby says "hi" to his Uncle Billy.

I've added a few links that I suppose reflect both the light and dark sides of my personality. My lighter self has added links to two Zen-related blogs I like--Wandering Where You Will and The Xen Chronicles. Those blogs contain haiku and philosphical writings. My dark side has added a link to Court TV's addictive-as-heroin Crime Library. If you share my fascination with violence, crime, and criminals, that's the place. Be forewarned: You can spend hours on Crime Library and still want more.

I wonder. Is my fascination with Crime Library and Mafia movies a dark shadow piece of my optimistic, spiritually seeking side; a compensation for my shy, gentle nature; or is there something more to it? Bwahahahaha!

I haven't seen "The Aviator" or "Million Dollar Baby," so I can't venture an opinion about whether Martin Scorsese was robbed of another Oscar this year or not. However, this was Marty's fifth Oscar defeat. "Taxi Driver" lost to "Rocky" in 1976; "Raging Bull" lost to "Ordinary People" in 1980; "GoodFellas" lost to "Dances with Wolves" in 1990; and "Gangs of New York" lost to "Chicago" (a movie I loved) in 2002. Nothing against "Rocky" or "Ordinary People"--I hated "Dances with Wolves"--but "Taxi Driver," "Raging Bull," and "GoodFellas" are three classics of the American cinema. Perhaps the Academy is uncomfortable with Marty's explorations of the dark, violent Jungian shadow piece of the collective American psyche, I don't know. But, damn, I love those movies.  

Sex and Lexapro--
I'd like to have them both, but
it ain't Viagra!

This morning I went out and joined a gym by adding myself to DW's membership. She hasn't been there in several months, but she never got around to resigning. I did a decent beginning upper-body workout. However, despite jogging yesterday, I had a very hard time with cardiovascular activity. I ran for a few minutes on a treadmill, then rowed for a few more minutes. I am terribly out of shape, and it will be a very long time before I get back to where I was in the early 1990s.

This is part and parcel of my attempt to take positive steps to overcome the grieving and depression I've felt for the past few weeks. Yesterday, I cleaned Toby's room, but I couldn't go into Adam's room for more than about five minutes. Today I'm working on his room. The fact that I can go into their rooms is a good thing, I think. I'm keeping up with zazen and Zen reading, and I'm watching a course on CD from the Kanzeon Zen Center in SLC. Finally, my psychiatrist bumped up my antidepressants, which should help too.

Some of these will ring true to Ann and Craig:

You Know You're From New Orleans When...

Your sunglasses fog up when you step outside You reinforce your attic to store Mardi Gras beads You save newspapers, not for recycling but for tablecloths at crawfish boils When you give directions you use "lakeside” and “riverside' not north & south Your ancestors are buried above the ground. You walk on the "banquet" (sidewalk) and stand in the "neutral ground" (area of ground between a two sided street) "by ya mommas" (by your mother's house). You take a bite of five-alarm chili and reach for the Tabasco. The four basic food groups are boiled seafood, broiled seafood, fried seafood and beer You are asked to name the holy trinity and your reply is "onions, celery, bell pepper." Every once in a while, you have waterfront property. Your mama announces each morning, "Well, I've got the rice cooking ... what will we have for dinner?" You get a disappointing look from your wife and describe it as, "She passed me a pair of eyes." You give up Tabasco for Lent You worry about a deceased family member returning in spring floods. You push little old ladies out of the way to catch Mardi Gras throws. You leave a parade with footprints on your hands. You believe that purple, green, and gold look good together You know what a nutria is but you still pick it to represent your baseball team. No matter where else you go in the world, you are always disappointed in the food. Your loved one dies and you book a jazz band before you call the coroner. Your town is low on the education chart, high on the obesity chart and you don't care because you're No. 1 on the party chart. Nothing shocks you. Period. Ever. Your idea of health food is a baked potato instead of fries with your seafood platter. You have to take your coffee and favorite coffeemaker with you on a three-day trip. You call tomato sauce "red gravy." Your middle name is your mother's maiden name, or your father's mother's maiden name, or your mother's mother's maiden name, or your grandmother's mother's maiden name, or your grandfather's mother's maiden name. You've done your laundry in a bar. You don't show your "pretties" during Mardi Gras. You know that Tchoupitoulas is a street and not a disease. You suck heads, eat tail, sing the blues and you actually know where you got them shoes. You know why you should never, ever swim by the Lake Pontchartrain steps (for more than one reason). You cringe every time you hear an actor with a Southern or Cajun accent in a "New Orleans-based" movie or TV show. You have to reset your clocks after every thunderstorm. You consider garbage cans a legal step to protecting your parking space on a public street. You fall asleep to the soothing sounds of four box fans. Your one-martini lunch becomes a five-bloody mary afternoon... and you keep your job. You're walking in the French Quarter with a plastic cup of beer. When it starts to rain, you cover your beer instead of your head. You eat dinner out and spend the entire meal talking about all the other good places you've eaten.

Get Your Own "You Know You're From" Meme Here



More cool things for your blog at
Blogthings

I have it on good authority that one of my brothers-in-law reads Dumpster Dive on occasion. Here's a not-so-good haiku in his honor:

Tall, young, hot RM
BYU women want him;
he'd much rather fish.

Deep, dark ocean world;
upward migration at night--
interesting dreams