Expatriate Games

Okay, so my cousin Torrie – with whom I have been connecting on our family site – has finally joined the blog community and in my attempt to introduce her properly, I came back to a topic that is constantly confusing me! But I think I finally have a handle on the situation so I’m posting it here before I forget all over again! Aaaaand pray I get the basics right:

Okay, so at the top we have Elmer Luke and Arethea Clemons – my grandparents, but Torrie’s great-grandparents. This is important because it’s the generation that determines the cousin titles. That sounds obvious but it … really wasn’t. I got confused over this repeatedly. And still do if I don’t have an example to work with. Sorry, Torrie! So anyway! My grandparents had my dad (in the picture up there that almost sounds like revolution), my aunt Juanita (in the picture to the right) and about a zillion other kids. Or, like, six. Anyway, then Aunt Juanita had my FIRST cousin, Lorrie, and my dad had me (…well. After about a jillion other people. Or six. And after many millions of my cousins were born.) Lorrie is Torrie’s mother. SO. When my first cousin has a child, that person (ie, Torrie) becomes my first cousin ONCE REMOVED. Aaaand, we’re like the same age, as you can tell from my picture (the bottom of the left column) and her pretty b&w (at the bottom of the right column).  How does that HAPPEN?

So, that whole second cousin thing. According to Genealogy.com (and feel free to check my work!), they would have the same great-grandparents as myself, but not the same grandparents. So, my great-aunt’s daughter, Deb, is my second cousin! Right?! When you have a family as big as the Clemons clan, this sort of thing comes up pretty often.

Anyway, the first time I think I really seriously tried to get a handle on this was after watching a BBC Reveals documentary on incest. O_O Yeah, aside from that german couple that just refused to stop bumping uglies (even after one of their four children was born with some sort of mental retardation), there’s that whole law that allows you to marry in your family after the third cousin. Well, now that I look at it, third cousins are pretty far down the line. It just means you have the same great-great grandparents. Same generation. Different grandparents. Still. With six billion people on earth…I’m feeling like you could probably get out of the family tree.

That’s not really accurate, obviously, but I didn’t wanna call it: Saturday (not really) in the park, I think it was the fourth of July (but it’s April). Because, I don’t wanna call Chicago a liar. Are they just one entity if they’re called by the band name? Hmm.

So, he played with three dogs, three kids and about a dozen adults today. My son. The dogs names we know, though! Tiger, Zion and Luca. People, you ask? Right. Anywho, he had a very obviously great day and it was nice to be at the park so long today, getting some video of how far he’s come. He used to be so afraid of heights and also used to not understand how to use one’s upper body to hoist one’s self up. Now, he’s climbing like a madman. Crazy. Video to come.

So, not far back (you better recall!), I posted an entry about my childhood best friend, Serrana. Today in the mail I received a package from her with a Hoops and Yoyo card (LOVE THAT LINE) and a box of Mike and Ike candies. First of all? This is for my birthday. Which. Is in July. Now before you ask if she knows it’s in July, we’ve known each other since fifth grade and her birthday is one month and five days after mine so yes. She is in a temporary location for training right now and didn’t want to lose it in the move. So aside from how amazing it is just to get that package and think about someone who’s been a part of my family from such a young age, with whom distance and disagreements were never drama(!) – the Mike and Ike. In that previous entry, I mentioned how she and I would routinely spend $20 on candy and a container of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie. The makers of Just Born took quite a share of this money. And I have some delightful memories to share. Flashback central in three. Two.

So, there’s the original, which is what she sent to me. It’s not this exact throwback box design but it’s similar and I totally love it. Might not even open the box. But this wasn’t even our favorite. Because, ten or so years ago (whoa. aren’t I too young for that phrase?), Just Born had a beautiful plethora of related candies.

Now, Strawbana? This is where it was AT. The absolute most perfect blend of flavors. As far as I remember (and feel free to jog my memory, Brown Bag), THIS was our staple. When we’d walk down Potomac to Northgate to whatever reincarnation the gas station was at that moment in time (or, let’s be real, when we’d send Carlton), this was a must have. … OMG. I am just loving seeing this box design again after them RETARDEDLY taking all of this away from me and replacing it with such atrocities as Mike and Ike: Berry Blast. In which one of the flavors – and you can never tell which – is like taking a bite into a ball of paint. And your whole mouth wants to die. Not because it’s soooo toxic. But because you were expecting CANDY.

This little number is actually the first one I remember trying. I, sadly, cannot remember the taste but I know that we had them on several occasions. Again, it was something about all of these beautiful, colorful boxes and variations and pairings. A part of my childhood has been stolen from me, I’ll tell you that. I knew something important had died the instant they took these away.

Cherri. And. Bubb. I am so HAPPY right now. These are another special choice. When I was growing up, my Dad had season tickets to the Sacramento Kings. Because there were five of us kids, we’d always take the tickets out when he got them and divy up them up between us, going round robin to select the games we’d like to attend. Ana always got the Bulls. I seem to remember Jennifer and I swapping at some point when she had the Clippers. I loved Charles Barkley so I always wanted the Phoenix Suns. But on my turns, we’d get in the car for that ride that seemed soooo long (because at the time there was nothing in the expanse around the Arco Arena!) and we’d head to the gas station where I’d get the biggest box of Cherri and Bubb available. Once at the game I got nachos and soda. After the game, particularly if the Kings won, I’d get a burger from Carl’s Jr. (Because the ticket stub was good for a free burger if the Kings won, lol.) Just looking at this box gives me sensory memory of all of those smells and that feeling of being an only child for a few hours.

And, finally: there were Jolly Joe’s. These, paired with KitKat, were the summer after 8th grade. My mom was a live-in caregiver for four elderly people (the man was Joe, the others I don’t remember) in a tri-level near Lake Natoma. I’d walk from the house to the main street and go to the AMPM to get snacks because at the house, there was only convalescent food. Though I did develop a taste for breaded veal. Just Born still offers these but now they’re called Mike and Ike grape candies. So lame. Could we not keep ANY of the whimsy?!

Le sigh. So, thanks, Serrana, for sending me into that whirlwind of memories.

Good. Times.

UPDATE: And, just for historical accuracy! This was the Hershey’s bar that I would be chasing for the rest of my natural life. Why people do hurtful things like discontinue products is beyond me.

If ever I miss the UK, I read things like this. And, before you say something about how reading the news should therefore make me balk to the US… it doesn’t. Because this is mine. The US, that is. There’s this whole song about it, come to think of it. That and I don’t nearly think of the US as being quite so… ridiculous. Just. Ridiculous.

So, I’ve been a bit absent and, boy, are my numbers suffering for it. Which. Is more your fault than mine. I personally am at a huge crossroads and, anyone who’s been there (and if you’re older than thirteen, you should know at least conceptually what I mean) knows that even when you know the direction you’re going to take, the fact that you reached that fork in the road is still very intense. And though because of my historian’s temperment, I initially feel that I should record absolutely everything for posterity, I slowly realize that my life is actually mine before it is shared. Sounds like a “duh” concept, but no.

I will however say that I sent out a query letter today! O-O And one not lubricated by the support of an insider, at that. And a funny thing happens. When I approach something differently, I tend to like it even more. Which makes me wonder if I just like the “new”. For one thing, I dislike paraphrasing because I, myself, know every little thing that’s been left out. All of which seems paramount, bien sur, because I am aware of its absence. (Yes, I am describing what bothers everyone, I’m sure.) And yet, once I pass that initial threshold and accept the huge and gaping omission, the next cut is usually not only fine but freeing.

Doo doo doo-do, doo da doo do.

And so, my children, after a brief respite from the internets (how many of them are there, you ask?!), I have returned. Resurrected, if you will. No, too far. And here’s what I’m thinking about (that’s fit to print for an undisclosed viewership of possible strangers):

A) Jamie Foxx, I am quite disappointed in your humanity. Why. Did you apologize for the rash Miley Cyrus statements you made on your radio show?! I have absolutely nothing against the girl but you’re a comedian! You are expected to say hilarious ridiculousness! FINE! Be a responsible father. Sucks to your asmar.

B) Andy has something against me. He keeps having his comments closed on his blog, which is hurtful and wrong. Especially because I wanted to comment on the wordles he posted. Because, yes, it would be fun to analyze … if I could leave a comment. ANDREW.

C) My son has said the following things in the past 24 hours: “Tarnation!” and “Gee-wilikers!” I… don’t know what to do with that yet.

D) Our Easter/Resurrection Day was awesome, despite life’s obstacles. We went to The Rock of Roseville, where we’ve visited many times and whose ministry is absolutely amazing. Right now we’re listening to the podcast series called “Father Wounds” and reading the book written by Pastor Frances, which is an immeasurable blessing for … anyone who had a childhood, wonderful or not.

E) I suddenly have a taste for smoked sausage.

Aaaaaand. Do NOT take this the wrong way. But for a couple of months, I’ve been thinking about whether or not we’ll have another baby. Please refrain from squeeing in my ear, though. Because it’s called thoughts.

And so a wonderful website called Wordle has made it possible for me to share my literary work with you! This is truly a glorious day! As we all know, I consider this blog a personal one but I don’t really write about my work. And I’m completely willing to accept that this is one of those things that arouses me immeasurably and actually does little or nothing for others. But, how can I know! So I’m showing you anyway because every new (to me) interpretation of my work is exhilirating. And we know I love me some dopamine release. From the following you should have a complete understanding of my novel, “Anagnorises” (a name to which I am attached though I am beginning to know it will change):

The funny thing about this is that the size of the word is determined by the frequency of its use and I still think that it’s overstating the character names, which in my opinion seem trite when taken out of context. It’s like when someone begins their book description with, “It’s a story about a girl named Jamie…” thereby making it seem entirely ridiculous from the onset, mostly because it couldn’t possibly be about a girl’s name… and if I’d read the book without having it described I might realized how much is encapsulated in that name and it might ring significant upon hearing it because of the context and awareness I have for what “Jamie” means. Otherwise, … all character names sound lame to me. I try not to use them when talking about my books for that reason. And names mean a lot to me, which makes my resolve to protect them from this inevitable misrepresentation even greater.  This makes sense, right? (Not do you agree – do you understand what I’m saying, Andy.)

So that one was produced from “Icharus Flying”, which is a book that I know has to be transposed into a graphic novel. I’m not a visual artist so this is understandably on the back burner. I like the multiple directions for this one because of the story, obviously.

And, finally, there’s “Atlantis Submerged”, which is a magic realism novel. Even though I’m taking it apart and weaving in what I’d thought was going to be a second book, I only included the text from the original work. Aaaand, here it is.

Did you find my son’s name in that last one? We already knew that it would be the name of our first son (and our first-daughter-name is in there, too, however tiny). I also love how the words “know” and “knew” are so prominent. Hilarity.

So I’ll stop with those, since anything else would be an in-progress wordle (which seems pointless) or a substantially shorter work. Again, I’m sorry if this entertains only me!

Outside of the obvious and what is becoming known as the ethereal artistry of geniuses like Toni Morrison (this dichotomy helps others not feel as though they will be held to such a lofty standard, so they can feel free to think their work useful), it seems that the largest similiarity in those who are considered “good writers” is the ability to describe the hell out of something. Pages and thousands upon thousands of words dedicated to the glistening black of twilight, to the phenotype of a girl left raw by neglect and abuse or of an Applachian sliver of forgotten America. And, based on the alternative – who otherwise would be considered good – I guess it’s alright. (But that’s like having to choose between spoiled milk and milk slightly sweetened as it turns.) The problem with this MFA brand of writing is that while they demonstrate their chops in a meaty word count and long-winded explanation of the summer rain….I don’t care about the story. After I get unwrapped from some enjoyable enough tangent… what the hell were we talking about? Forget it, I’m gonna watch Hulu.

I just read something about how if you don’t believe in evolution, you shouldn’t be using medicine because it’s made by science. And this is the first time I’ve heard this ridiculous sentiment. Can I even start saying why this is stupid? Firstly, as a Christian, I believe that God gave us the intelligence to understand the elements of the world He created and use them to make our lives richer. Or longer, in regards to disease. I had no idea that man literally fabricated medicine out of his own imagination. That totally explains the long and arduous process in which millions of people died because of that whole trial and error thing. Let’s never say Science like it’s foolproof and instantly, magically effective. It’s a product of humans. It has a learning curve. This of course says nothing of tying evolution and medicinal science together in the first place. ? Anyway, I totally don’t even have the interest at the moment. I just went 24 hours without contact with the outside world. I’m gonna read some comics, yo.

So recently I was having a convo with the Cait-Cait (see blog roll) about my son’s …quirks. To which she responded by asking about my own childhood weirdness. This released no more than a million memories that will no doubt “explain” a lot.

What are the weirdnesses that were the Clemons childhood? Well, let’s start with the flat-out dorky facts. My sisters and I were homeschooled for preschool (they are older so this means I got to start school ridiculously early); one of the bedrooms in my childhood home was converted into a classroom complete with chalkboard and cubies and everything else A Beka ever suggested. Basically, we were all about the education. This would become increasingly evident when we took an interest in State Reports. During the summer. This means, we’d each choose a state and “research” it with our Britannica collection before composing a report and creating visual aids (state bird, state flower, etc). This…was summer. Summer was also book reading contests and sometimes daily visits to the library. (When we weren’t riding the light rail downtown to visit the cathedral or taking ridiculously long walks along the levee.) Highlighted memory: Ana was learning pre-algebra in school and when she came home, she would teach it to me. … For serious. It was a blast. (Insert memory of Ana’s first attempt at riding the bus home. We drove with Mom to the appropriate stop to pick Ana up and she wasn’t there. Mom freaked out. We drove to the school. Not there. Drove to all known bus stops. Called school officials. Went home – finally – to enlist Daddy’s help. Only to find Ana happily at home.)

Our next shared obsession would have to be the tape recorder. There’s a tape of Ana and Jenny singing Children’s church songs (and at some point, Mom comes in and rescues me when I start crying). I just remember Jenny pleading with Ana not to interrupt her song, saying, “I don’t do that to you!” Preciousness. Anyway, we would later record ourselves reading books. Mostly one about a forgetful family who can’t remember where they’re going or something about having their bags packed. They hire an elephant to teach them how to remember. I distinctly recall one of baby Christopher’s lines: “Maybe they’re tickets to a game in Hawaii!” And that one of the kids names was Phoebe which we all thought was so weirdly pronounced. Wish I could remember the name of that book. We recorded ourselves reading it dozens of times. We also would make up our own episodes of the cartoon, C.O.P.S (Fighting Crime…In A Future Time). But possibly the strangest recording obsession we had? …. A Raisin In The Sun. I’m…totally serious. My sisters and brother and I recorded ourselves performing A Raisin In The Sun on tape. Dozens. Of Times. Promise. O_O

We would later become obsessed with video recording. My sisters and I would make a dance troupe called Swat Team #3. (Crunch) Ana was Downtown Julie Brown, I was Sade and I can’t remember Jenny’s moniker. These videos entailed the three of us jumping on Anastasia’s bed to music. This is strange for several reasons. #1) We did this a lot. To lots of songs. Jumping. On the bed. #2) We did a lot of actual choreography for other music videos and variety show performances… so why did we just jump on the bed for ST3?!? Right. Anyway, these were interrupted by our trademark commercials. The Nordstroms Semi-Annual Sale was a big one. It entailed us strutting past each other on the bed in our most fabulous outfits. (Years later, all book reports were videos we made wherein we made as many commercials as legitimate thematic representation. The one I still have was for a junior high book report on some book in the Fear Street franchise. Commercials include: Pops, Java City, Dreyer’s Ice Cream, Britannica Encyclopedias.) We also loved our computers. Therefore we made several newspapers (complete with real and boring news reports) and then videotaped ourselves making a full-length broadcast from our backyard, complete with a news desk and mugs of water. This project ended up being so dry and boring that we fastforwarded through it every time. O_O

Then of course there was Shakespeare. Jennifer and I memorized entire acts from Much Ado About Nothing, Twelfth Night and the like. (Twelfth Night would become my personal obsession.) We would recite them in a sing-song voice for the pleasure of our parents and any one in front of whom they requested a performance. (They were used to our Anniversary Variety Shows, Birthday Shows, etc – which always had singing, dancing, props…once I learned to play Bing Crosby’s “What’s New” on the piano and my toddler baby brother sang along.) Anyway, the Shakespeare was hilarious because before we actually began paying attention enough to care about the characters, Jenny and I would do this comical, almost robotic rendition complete with head jerking from side to side to the pantameter.

I guess I could go on forever… Just some memories rolling around in my head. Maybe our childhood obsessions weren’t so run of the mill after all.

This movie has replaced Glitter. I am watching it, of my own volition, right now. Josh and I could easily give you a scene by scene update on it, (for example: she wears the same layered dumpstore fare two days in a row without explanation, which is also true of her office girlfriend…who didn’t get paid for that retardation, I wonder…plus her name is Patience, she has the hair of Pollyanna and she can’t raise her voice to ask the neighbors to turn down the music at 3am – ALL this to cover the inability to get a decent script that includes actual characterization) BUT rather let’s revisit the initial response. (After I vomit fecal matter over the literal repeating of the line, “Seems like ya might be feeling better, Sal <giggle,giggle>” and the butt bouncing dribbling scene in front of a group of inner city kids OR the way the “director” thinks that shutter speed and fast cuts when coupled with horribly shabby CGI does an entire movie make!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1byobwtfomgrofvomiting)

Subject: Holy S@%$bricks, Batman!!
Posted Date: Thursday, July 06, 2006 – 3:54 PM

Ever so often….we are given….a film….so …… repugnant…. that we literally … can’t….STOP…..WATCHING. That film… is CATWOMAN. Someone. Anyone. Take Halle Berry. And HOLD. HER. Stroke her hair. Tell her it’ll be okay. You’ll be lying. But, dammit, do it anyway. Because she has crossed a line… a line so pronounced that most people never come within a hundred yards of it. We all knew she was a modern day Dorothy Dandridge. Tormented. Confused. On neither team, longing to belong. But none of us suspected that she could read a script where dialogue like this:
Bad woman: Gameover!

Catwoman: Guess what? Overtime!!

…would sound – or read, rather – profound. You simply MUST watch it to believe it.

Let’s begin at the beginning. The concept of Catwoman makes sense. In Gotham City. Alongside Batman. And the Penguin. How. On God’s green earth. Did someone think it was a concept so exciting as to subsist on its own?? How can you even begin (and no worries, they don’t) to explain why a cat was able to bring a regular ass woman in a regular ass city back to life?!? HOW? How can you explain the Egyptian meets Christina Aguilera soundtrack? How can you justify the “b-ball scene”?? I won’t even try to explain that last one. Go. Go now. Run. You must witness it for yourself. The least we can do is pad her straitjacket pockets with a mere $3 in rental fees. Or watch it on HBO on Demand. Je-SUS. Corpus Christi! This movie had several scenes, several lines where – even having already sold and promised her services – Halle should’ve quoted Bernie Mac, “This shit is booty!” and saunted her ass home. Because that catwalk strut she does in the movie? The one where she squares her shoulders and thrusts her pelvis forward? It screams, “Hi. I should have more security than I do but I’m damaged and fragile and the least little criticism will send me off a ledge so please be gentle and don’t point out that my hair looks RIDICULOUS.” And don’t worry. I’ve not even beGUN to “ruin” the movie for you. So many treasures yet to be disclosed. How about the fact that you never actually SEE her fight anyone? As in, she didn’t spend months learning to fight. No, no. We rely on sharp editing skills for that one. And computer images. No lie, folks. Oh. OH. I’m sorry. Did I forget to mention that the movie deals with a police department outside a fictitious, comic book world and YET we are expected to believe that “all of the evidence points to Catwoman” when the fiendish devil who’s really to blame did nothing more than empty a gun into a man then slash his cheeks a few times and toss the gun to Catwoman (who is, btw, wearing gloves)?!? WHAT?!? Oh and the part where the Detective compares the lipstick from a wine glass to a picture of himself with lipstick smeared on his face (ALL THIS DONE IN A CRIME LAB) that he apparently had taken after Catwoman kissed him (WAIT, DIDN’T SHE LICK HIM??)?????? POURQUOI?
*dies…
Resurrects: Oh, watch Lovespring International. Funniest. Women. Ever.
*dies.

Wanna see my attempt at an intervention?

Subject: Bethany calls Halle Berry
Posted Date: Thursday, July 06, 2006 – 4:20 PM

Bethany: Hey, it’s me.

HB: Hey, girl!

B: Yeah, yeah, yeah, what-it-do…liiisten. Halle. Halle?

HB: Yeah?

B: Halle. I’ve been doing some thinking.

HB: Yeah.

B: About that new part you’re so excited about.

HB: Ooooh, girl! It is gonna be off the hook!

B: Yeeeah. I vote no.

HB: B, are you serious? Why??

B: I just -

HB: I mean I am looong overdue for a comedy AND I immediately fell in love with the script! It has depth, it has a fair amount of drama, I mean, I literally cried at parts.

B: Ok, but you cry in almost every part you’ve played. Whether called for or not. Remember that part in X-Men 2 when you got all glassy-eyed.

HB: I – don’t remember.

B: Well do you remember a part in X-Men 2 worth crying about?

HB: N-not really.

B: Point proven. So, I just figure, you know… you’ve got a couple dollars. I can loan you some if you’re crunched… you don’t have to do every script they send you. Do you?

HB: This is the opportunity of a lifetime, girl. I don’t know…I just can’t see passing this up.

B: Halle.

HB: I mean, I’m hearing you but I am on a roll right now and -

B: WHAT?

HB: I’m not gonna keep getting handed these awesome roles if I start denying people!

B:(aside) Oh, this girl done lost her damn mind.

HB: I just – I think I’ve gotta go with my gut.

B: Yeah, girl, you do that.

HB: I mean.

B: Yeah, I hear you. And maybe I’m wrong, you know. Maybe reprising the role of Smurfette -

HB: Thank you.

B: Gonna change your career.

HB: Thank you, girl. That’s what I’m hoping. I mean. This character has meant so much in my life and I just think that women are going to be so empowered when they see

*click*

HB: B? … Bethany?

…It did not go well.

Which one do I like better? This one…

Or this one…

Feel free to tell me why.