Friday, January 28, 2011

Okies n Me

How I ever ended up in this town is for God herself to explain, and I’m listening.
I look around me and it’s like, “Dorothy, you’re still in Kansas” as I drive my “hippie machine” in and out of the 2 strip malls and onto the back roads of the hamlet where I have resided for the last 6 years.
There’s the senior center, the donut shop, Lou’s Tire and a Straw Hat. Anywhere USA. Instantaneously, I notice the marquee on Prunedale Feed and Supply:
Ladies Night Tuesday 5:00-8:00.
I’m wondering what the hell a women’s gathering would do at a feed store… Like would there be wine or just hot dogs and a silent auction filled with farm equipment as prizes? Down the road, there’s the Calvary Christian Church on my right whose marquee reads:
Under Same Management For The Last Two-Thousand Years.

So I decide to investigate the history of my community and here’s what Wikipedia says:

Prunedale is a census-designated place in Monterey County, California, United States. Prunedale is located 8 miles (13 km) north of Salinas, at an elevation of 92 feet (28 m). The population was 7600 residents at the time of the 2000 census. But the sign now reads 10,897 as of 2008. Plum trees were grown in Prunedale in the early days of its founding but the trees died soon after due to poor irrigation and fertilizer. Some locals on occasion call the area "Prunetucky." The origin of this term references the often unkind but sometimes true stereotypical characteristics of the populace, which had a large population of Dust Bowl migrants from the Rural Midwestern and Southern United States ("Okies," et al.).

So we’re known for plum trees dying due to poor irrigation and fertilizer and residents that call it Prunetucky?
As if being poor, illiterate, redneck and having a high ratio of persons on America’s Most Wanted list is something to be damn proud of?
The other night, I was forced to go to CVS (We actually have two.) as I was out of that clear, eucalyptus molten I occasionally partake in, and as I turn into “strip mall # 1” there’s a cluster of 5-8 jacked-up vehicles; all having chipped paint, one headlight, and confederate flags in their windows and all parked in a football-type huddle with about 7 shirtless, BEER DRINKIN teenage Pruntuckian males and their “ladies” having a fun night in a parking lot. Their music is blaring so loudly that I can’t hear myself think and of course I steer clear of the whole celebratory shebang. Why? Well, those boys don’t take too kindly to a linen-wearing, tofu eating lesbian in a silver VW Bug with her PEACE, Practice Non-Violence, Equal Rights, VICK You Make Me Sick and Repeal Prop H8TE decals all over the glass and bumper. And quite honestly, I don’t take too kindly to them either. The partitions are there. It’s similar to the 1960’s in Jackson, Mississippi in which the blacks knew their boundaries; like the margins on notebook paper, and the whites knew also and neither crossed over those lines that had been drawn decades before them. They actually didn’t have a burning desire to because those lines; those walls that divided them, felt as comfortable as a woman taking off a tight bra after a long hard day at work. I parked an agreeable distance away from them.

I savored and highly recommend Kathryn Stockett’s debut novel entitled The Help if you haven’t yet read it. Be prepared to meet three audacious, unforgettable women. It’s a timeless and universal story about the lines we abide by, and the ones we don't… no matter if you live in Jackson Mississippi, Carmel California or Prunetucky.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Tune In

After taking a week's vacation (unpaid) from the keyboard I'm back and not surprising, I seem to have something to spew...
I took my aunt the other day to have cataract surgery on her left eye. During the hour wait, I found myself in the waiting room, with shall we say, a piece of shit guy, his 83 year "young" mom, and a blonde woman who smelled like Charlie cologne and who was so friendly I felt like I was being lathered in maple syrup. But it was the dude that got my attention; caused me to notice things like his jello belly that pooched out of his turquoise tee-shirt (which had a logo of a large bass on a fishing hook) and folded over onto his 4 inch belt buckle...His eyes were glued in the pages of Jimmy Buffet's "A Salty Piece of Land" as if it was a life-changing experience; as if a mediocre singer is now Jesus. I notice he never looks up when his mother speaks to him. I notice when she asks if he'd like her to treat him to a cup of coffee while they wait, that his "No" sounds like a grunt. She continues to unobtrusively fill the room with patience and kindess. He continues to ignore her and I notice his body language. The waiting area smells like air-conditioning and Dial soap and the wait is long and silent like a storm that hasn't hit.
The bastard of a son leaves the room to take a call and his mother looks up at me and for some unknown reason says, "He's so different than his father." Having observed her husband before he went in for his procedure, I smiled and commented, "Yes. Your husband's vitality and smile filled the room." This made her embarrassment start to disipate I do beleive. For the next 5 minutes or so we talked about things we enjoy; her husband still skiis at 84 years old, she loves the slots and gardening...I, reading, travel and a good cup of coffee. At that, she smiles as if wishing she could treat me to a cup instead. When he returns, our conversation ends. She returns to her magazine and I to my book but I'm no longer really reading. I am thinking about older folks in our society; the ones we have loved and the ones we simply meet in a waiting room...At what age do we deem them uninteresting? When do we as a society see them as no longer having anything valuable to offer us? And when do cell phones, cheap novels, and strangers become more of a precedent than our moms or aunts?
The nurse opens the metal door and calls my name. My aunt is ready and I'll need to pull the car up. I stand and make eye-contact with the stranger and we exchange smiles that say more than words. When I see my aunt, I have this burst of wanting to pick her up in my arms and twirl her around like the wind right there in the damn hallway. When we are both settled in, before I put the car in gear, I tell her that I love her. I notice how much I mean it.
Last night, while sitting together in her kitchen as we always do, she says to me, "There's something I've always wanted to try." I notice a devilish school-girl grin on her beautiful face... "a mojito."
Well guess what my faithful followers? It's Mojito Saturday!

In peace,

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

The Sky is Falling...

I thought all our nation's whack jobs lived in my park.
Then I came across prophetess Cindy Jacobs from Texas who recently witnessed to her flock about the dead birds falling from the heavens above Arkansas. Cindy Jacobs, whose followers' demographics, according to, consist of those having an avereage annual income of 64 grand, average age 50, 93% Caucasion, 100% women...
and those who follow Tom Delay because God spoke directly to him to "rebuild the conservative base of the Republican Party." Cindy and her husband Mike, whom she clearly told God should be the prophet, not her, because he is male, founded Generals International in 1985. What began as a group of leaders gathering to discuss,intercede and rid the nation of corporate sin issues has become an international pulpit that receives and then delivers daily messages from God.

"Americans are disturbed and perplexed by the worldwide phenomenon of birds and fish dying by the hundreds and thousands. We have sought answers from scientists, professors, and psychics, but none of their answers seem plausible. I don't think it's fireworks, sonic booms, or pollutants that have caused thousands of birds to fall from the sky." preached the prophetess. "And I don't think it's a coincidence that this sign from God has occurred in Arkansas. The Lord has revealed to me that the repeal of "don't ask, don't tell", which originated in Arkansas by a former Governor, has moved Him to send a message."

Thank you Jesus! Someone has finally come up with a credible explanation: God is smiting the birds of the air and the fish of the rivers by the tens of thousands with one deadly blow from his gigantic celestial saber because of the current repeal.
If you don`t see a causal relationship between the repeal of DADT and these dead animals, that's proof positive that Satan is blinding your mind.
Of course this thought led me to another...Does God hate trailer trash? And if so, might thousands of birds hit me on the head or a tornado rip my mobile to pieces as I'm out doing my rounds today? So I sought answers and came across this actual letter from a little girl who lives in a trailer park in Georgia. It was posted in her church's newsletter. I do actually think this is "a sign" for me to heed and take caution.

Deer Pasture,
Me and my momma useta live in Pine Glen Luxury Mobile Home Park. We had us a reel nice singul-wide with a sattulite TV dish and a inflasion swimming pule and us and all are naybors wuz real happy and everything. But last month we wuz sleeping and a giunt tornaydo come in the middle of the nite & smasheded up all are traylurs and sucked my momma right out of bed and smacked up gainst are propane tank . And my bestest frend Danielynn got throwed into a crick before a trackter landed on top of her. I herd that traylers get recked by tornaydos all the time, so im just wondering for how come the Lord hates are guts so dang much.


Keep me in your prayers friends! Please take a minute to view Cindy's statement; the link I have posted for you...let's also pray that women won`t be inspired to wear the wacky outfit she's wearing in the video.
-Chicken Little
(aka tpg)

Monday, January 10, 2011

Cock in the Park

I often go to Urban Dictionary in search of the true meaning of my life. For me, it’s more “cut and dry” than The Bible or Deepak Chopra. The definitions are short and while not always sweet, they are tangible for sure. Because I’ve been stuck in this hell hole for 6 years now, today I sought a deeper understanding as to the “How’s and Why’s” of my landing:
trail*er park
(noun)1. an over-priced area of land filled with trailers 2. usually contains pot heads who didn't/won't graduate, pregnant teenagers, 5 year olds who say 'fuck', nosy old people, one or more displays of the confederate flag, and sometimes (only in crowded ones) a meth lab. 3. occupied by white trash and avoided by most people.
Did you see Cops yesterday? The hick who got arrested lives in a trailer park.

There are days when the action just doesn’t find us here and then there are the other days. I got a call to join the small gathering in the middle of the street yesterday. Wanting to fit in, I remained in my flannels, my hair uncombed and my teeth unbrushed and I joined my fellow "trailers":
(adj.) 1. shortened version of trailer trash to describe their social and economic standing. 2. used to describe poor uncultured white people/rednecks that live in trailer homes because their dad is a drunk loser or their mom is a single slut parent working either collecting welfare or working at a check cashing store. 3. trailer people are known for eating macaroni and cheese with weenies and cheap light beer for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Popularized by 8-Mile the movie, and My Name is Earl TV show. Trailer is related to ghetto but one is white the other black, but both distinctly low-class.
A'ight Jim-Bob, fuck it then lets just get drunk and do some donuts at Walmart.

There's Senor Ayala in his Perma-Press Security Uniform, Gustavo smelling of pollo and pinto beans, Annalee Focker (Actually, it’s Forcker but if the shoe fits…) with her yapper Muffy, and Dustin accompanied by his psychotic wife and their rat-faced dog who is currently “undocumented.” The army man’s wife is peering out her blinds taking pictures because she hates me and won’t come within a yard. We’re all staring at this an ostentatious strutting peafowl of a visitor who has somehow made its way to our grotto.
“Que bonito.”
“Es un hombre.” (It’s a male.)
“ Wow! It’s beautiful.”
“Wonder how the heck it got here.”
“?Es comestible?” (Is it edible?) After hearing that I realize it’s
much too early for me to drink… “¡NO! USTED NO PUEDE COMER. IR A SAVE-MOR PARA POLLO!" (NO! You can't eat it. Go to Sav-Mor for chicken!)
He continues to debate me…
“Es pavo, verdad?” (It’s a turkey, right?)
I’m losing it because in reality it hits me that I belong here. The ancestral dark side of me that none of you know; my roots that were planted on the dusty trails of Oklahoma and in log cabins deep in the mountains of a Tennessee Valley... So I join in the merriment and laugh with my neighbors and comment on the azure and slate blues on its neck, and then I put on my “manager’s hat” and promise to locate its owner. Amazingly I do: A one-armed man and his grandmother who live on the other side of the grove own the bird who now has managed to shit all over Focker’s roof and is perched there gawking at all of us fools. After hosing the roof, it jumps down and that grandma (abuela) grabs its feet in one fucking rapid swoop and it is hanging upside down before we all could even blink. Then the one-armed man puts the bird and the abuela in his beat-up Camaro and heads back over the hill…
Later, when I was tucked away in my abode, it occurred to me that this was probably the most entertainment they had seen in weeks and that it was the highlight of their meaningless days. And for a brief moment, I feel a twinge of compassion for all of them, for their lives, for the choices they’ve made, for the opportunities that have skipped over them. For one brief moment sarcasm escapes my body and I am walking in their shoes. And you know what my friends? As much as I hate to admit this to you...The shoes fit fairly well.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Waiting On The World to Change

The most experienced bloggers would write their first post of the New Year with sentiments of peace; perhaps a host of wishes for the Lord God to ascend down upon each and every nation and Zap us with a series of "Holy Spirit Sucker Punches" and we all would be filled with love, compassion and non-violence and all that and more would cosmically spread like water on a Bounty paper towel and peace would reign throughout this great land.
Other veterans of the keyboard, in their infinite wisdom, would introduce 2011 with reflections about those they've loved and lost, excruciating lessons learned that have built character and will make them better humans in the coming 365 days... resolutions to lose weight, to cleanse with green tea detoxifiers, to be kinder to their snoopy-ass neighbors, to make love to their spouses more often...
But not this writer. No sir-ee. My head is full of "little thought-bombs" that are currently detonating in my mind. I want to hit hard where it hurts.
In reading today's world news, I applaud Italy for banning plastic bags in the New Year. California Assemblywoman Julia Brownley introduced AB 1998 last year in our sunny, "eco-friendly," state with a list of supporters that reached from Weed to the San Diego-Mexico border. (See link for documented proof of supporters!) Yet, it failed. FAILED! And though the entire human world contributes trash to our shores and ocean floors, the United States, home to only 5 percent of the world's population, contributes 30 PERCENT of it! Now let's think about this for a moment because we do have our God-given rights to freedom and abundance. We've got to have our plastic H2O bottles when we work out at the gym or spa, don't we darlings? And I DO have a tee-shirt that says "GO GREEN" and of course my "TREES ARE COOL" bumper sticker. Furthermore, when we see the little recycle triangle on our bottles, GLAD tupperware containers and plastic bags, (that we "double-up" because a half-gallon of milk is heavy) we feel good inside. We actually perceive we are doing our part by separating the trash from the plastic, and it's all hauled away by large green trucks and neatly recycled... That somehow it miraculously evaporates to organic dust and that there is no more plastic on earth or in heaven. Well guess what well-meaning enthusiasts? We're fools.
So I've attached some video, some parts are hard to look at, but all are an essential New Year reminder. And I command you to check 'em out! Yeah, I'm waiting on the world to change, but as of today NO MORE PLASTIC BAGS OR BOTTLES in this trailer! That's my 2011 resolution. Jump on board the train my faithful followers and pass it on!