​k, I received a letter from someone who had written for this site back when it was a full-on webzine with multiple writers on the masthead and me as the editor. 

It started out amiably enough with the usual pleasantries: They hoped I was well. They really liked working here.  They missed everybody and thought the virtual press room we shared was a blast.  Then they cut to the chase and sked if I ever considered reviving the old Zen Dixie.  

​Is it ever a good idea to get the band back together and hit the road?  We  saw how The Blues Brothers ended. 

Oh, you sweet Summer child.

No. 

I've mostly tried to put a happy face on the years that this was a collaborative effort. Mostly. As editor, the majority of my time was spent in stewardship to everyone else's visual and written work.  This was not a bad thing, but it wasn't what I intended and it wore me out. 

It was also educational. 

I learned I wasn't so special that someone who had proved to be untrustworthy at one website wouldn't be just as treacherous to me. (You know those stories of girls who tame the one wild horse/dog/juvenile delinquent no one else could handle? I thought that was me.) 

Compulsive liars gonna lie.  I stayed up one night because a writer suicide baited me then admitted that she spent the night on the couch watching Dawson's Creek with her mom while I frantically searched for resources for her in her province. Every one of er essays brought emails from people who were hurt and angered by the lies she wrote.  Later on, she would lie to former editors and colleagues, telling them  things I'd never said or done.  

There was the writer who kept requesting I buy a subscription to Getty Images so she could have pictures worthy of her essays.  Yes, her essays were beautiful, but it was out of our budget with me already paying for webhosting, domain registration, UCANN, and so on.  I found a museum that offered an exhaustive archive and even a standing press pass for her.  A month after I shuttered the website, I started getting letters from Getty's lawyers.  This was no scam and they weren't playing.  It turned out that writer lied and kept stealing from Getty and I was on the hook for thousands of dollars. There was no way this person could have paid it or even helped. I emptied my savings and moved on. 

Should I consider doing it all again?  Another alum recenly disrupted my attempt at posting a playlist.  I deleted her posts so I could finish and offered to let her to a guest list, explaining the structure, the time involved using multiple formats. etc.  I told her to send me eight to eleven songs,  She sent me twenty, most of which were unusable. tI put together a list and told her it would go live the following week.  She decided to send me more songs. I told her the list was done.  More songs.  I finally had to ignore her.  When the list went live, she went silent for a couple of weeks.  Then she started interacting again, and gotgot ru.de I'd had enough, called her on it and she sent a long, long, long letter I deleted unread. 

Everybody has their limits.   

Wow.  That's not even the complete list of reasons why friends here on the ground spent about a month helping me decompress after it was all over. When I told Dale this place was getting a shakedown and makeover, he reminded methat he knew where I lived and I'd better NOT take on a masthead this time.  He would be very cross if I did. 

Don't worry, Dale (and Faith, and Sarah, and Amy, and...)  All I want to do is write.  I don't even care any more if anyone reads it.  In fact, I reckon most of it will go unread and that's fine.   

Looking at my old blog, Confessions of a Cheesegrits Fiend, it struck me that I used to write a lot more than I do now.  This might be because the format was more plug and play.  All I had to do was sit down and write.  No SEO, no layout, no trying to place pages.  As I moved (and am still moving as of this writing) all of those essays over, I wondered if I quit worrying about descrete pages and just blogged; would it make me feel more inclined to write? None of what sucks the joy out of just putting words to the screen.  Right now the plan is to create a handful of blogs based on things that interest me and a place for what I wrote for Cheesegrits, The Comedy Patio, and The East Nashville Farmer's Market Blog.  Will it work?  I guess time will tell.

Good grief! Oy with the sick stuff! Well, the truth is, I'm working on getting better with a new heart person. She's positive and laid back enough to listen to my concerns. Ever wonder what would happen if Meghan Trainor was a medical fairy godmother?  I've met her. 

What's up otherwise?  I pray a lot. I feel grateful for everything.  I try to be the best, wisest, kindest person I can be and fail at that pretty often.

Relearning to meditate has been interesting. Monkey Mind can come up with some interesting thought bits.

God to me: I brought you this far. Don't even think about giving up. 

Walks of faith are nice. Kumbaya is a pretty word. Now it's time to take off the training wheels. 

Empathy is beauty, not weakness.

and my favorite from this morning...

Slow White Bronco. John Elway! 






​

     This week we lost a fictional character who was sometimes called "America's Dad" and an actor whose picture might have been very appropriate for an illustration of what a compelling movie villain should be like.  

     Why do these two go together so well?  They were both screen personas and yet they grabbed our imaginations, sometimes stealing the scenes from the purported heroes whose narratives they were intended to support. 

     Where to start? 

     Will TV be the same without the familiar comforts of the Cooper Family on Young Sheldon? Those of us who spent time in Texas at the shank end of the Twentieth Century often felt what Sherwood Anderson called that shock of recognition when details of their lives rang so true. The sweetness of their perfectly imperfect selves made it impossible to not fall in love with everyone involved. 

     What struck many of us after giving the show a chance was how good George was at being a dad. As he was written in The Big Bang Theory, he was a disengaged, philandering,  alcoholic.  Showrunner Chuck Lorre had this to say about George on his vanity card for the final episode: ​

       The tears weren't just on the set.  Many of us felt the loss of that televised image of what fatherhood can look like. We have come to normalize -lionize, really- an ideal of snarky, gleefully evil, sometimes downright hateful and definitely toxic masculinity.  Someone who adores his wife, and loves his family even if he doesn't always understand them has become a unicorn of sorts.  George Cooper's death signals the departure of a dad in the truest sense of the word, possibly right when that is exactly what we need. 

     And at the other end of the onscreen character arcana...

     I have a good friend who used to write for a TV magazine.  She told me that one of her first interviews was with Dabney Coleman.  It is with her permission that I'll write her observation that he was "gentlemanly, sweet, and had a talent for making ladies and men who were so inclined get the vapors." 

     The funny thing is he was so good at being so bad onscreen.  William Atherton might have the market cornered on fussy, legalistic screen antagonists, but it was Mister Coleman who so fully embodied the magnificent bastard. 

     Thinking back to some of his iconic roles, those characters might have been a lot less fun and possibly unwatchable had they been played by anyone else. Tootsie and 9 to 5 are classics because he was rubber to Dustin Hoffman's and Dolly and Company's glue.  

     Thanks for all the great movie memories, sir. ​

​     Have you ever noticed how many people in the Bible are having a bad day? 

     This question occurred to me while talking to a cousin this week. As I unpack this a little more, it's growing some legs. This isn't just Job losing everything and everyone or everybody at Golgotha. There are a lot of stressed-out people in that relatively short book. (Depending on the edition, it has anywhere from just shy of 1,300 pages to a little over 2,000 pages.) 

    Thinking on this further, most of the myths and sacred stories from Western traditions have the stressed and ultimately blessed as their heroes. Even though this is not the main hangtag of a hero's journey as defined by Lord or Campbell, it certainly helps when you're trying to point them out in crowd. 

     It brings up a common thread among various paths. Sometimes I think we are given these stories as a way of telling us we need a big, steaming cup of perspective. 

     "Are you there, God? It's me, Jas."

     "Yeah. Jas.  You do know there is mass starvation in Yemen and people killing each other over ancient tribal disagreements they can't even identify in the Middle East. Closer to home, there are three children left to their own devices in an apartment just off Charlotte Avenue who are sharing ketchup packets because it is the only thing left that is edible until their grandmother gets off from work.  So what is it among your own resources that does not cover your needs?" 

     "The perspective I just found.  Thanks for the reminder."

     My woobies and feefees are what rendered me unable to write anything helpful to people wrestling with problems over the past few weeks. All I could offer was the next best thing.  Okay, strike that.  It was actually far better to do what I did, which was to listen.  

     We need to listen more. It would help keep our senses of perspective sharper and open to the constant adjustments we need to make. Whether it's as allies or friends or family, sometimes we just need to shut up and let someone else slip their shoes on our feet. We might be wiser and better able to help if we did.

     I might be misremembering, but it seems like it was a Memphis-based columnist named Rheta Grimsley-Johnson who once wrote something to the effect that people in the South are accommodating to a fault.  The problem is that others will often mistake that for weakness or a lack of self-respect and take advantage of our regional character. What happens is people from other parts of the country (and more than a few locals to boot) will say or do things that they would not dream of saying or doing at home or to someone whose opinion actually mattered to them.

     The result is that we, and the "we" I am referring to is Southern women have developed patterns of passive-aggressive behaviors and coded speech that are specific to our regional identity.  Yes, people are taking advantage of our manners and mores to be boors.   We strike back, sometimes even harder with what amounts to an iron fist in a white party glove, but only before Labor Day. A classic example of that is the use of the phrase, "Bless your heart." It doesn't mean what you might think it means. 

     This is something that came to light when I joked with some friends from another part of the world that we may have a reputation for keeping sweet, but deep down we are as mean as vipers.

     Well, we were. 

     When did we get so quiet around people who have no regard for our sensibilities or the feelings of the people we care about? Maybe because the bullying came from people who look like most of us, claim similar roots, and identify as people of faith as well as being mothers.

     That might explain why no one raises their voices when common bullies with nothing better to do with their time throw hissy fits about drag queens reading to children.

     Does no one raise their voice when alleged "ladies" bully school shooting survivors?

     Who are all you people who decided to spray paint over the "United Methodist" parts of your church signs because you want to let certain folks know they are not welcome?  THAT IS NOT WHAT JESUS WOULD DO. (Seriously, I wonder if the Beatitudes in the original Aramaic included the phrase, "Be not a jackass to thy neighbor.")  You can't possibly be actual Christians.

     What about of those who proudly display Confederate battle flags?  You do know those are hurtful to a large number of the people around you.  One other thing and I can comfortably say this because I actually do have documented roots in the Antebellum South: 

     WE  LOST!  YES, YOU IDIOTS, WE LOST THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR AND YOU NEED TO THANK THE GOOD LORD WHOSE MESSAGE YOU KEEP PROFANING THAT YOU LIVE IN A COUNTRY THAT TOOK YOUR SORRY, SCABIES MARKED, BARELY LITERATE, SCARILY INBRED ASSES BACK!

     For those of you with a short attention span:

     WE LOST!

     Where was I? 

      There are people in my life who exhibit the refined sensibilities of modern day Ashley Wilkeses and who honestly believe all persons of my sex should keep sweet.  As the kids -or people who desperately want to sound like kids- say these days, "Sorry, not sorry."

     Got a problem with that?  Bless your heart. ​

           So Taylor Swift is personally, all by herself, ruining the NFL.  Nice to know that a league of hard hitting, big shouldered men who eat live bison off their charcuterie boards and pee lava can be brought down by a willowy, sensitive but whip-smart young artist and business woman who is best known for capturing the romantic longing that lurks in the hearts of Zoomers. Darn her feminine wiles!     

      I first heard about Taylor's very special relationship with the Kansas City Chiefs from my nephew and niece-in-law.  Their response was, "At least she's not dating Pete Davidson." My response was, "Oh. Okay. More football fans. Yay!"    

     Then the backlash started. Every image of her in the stands cheering on her boyfriend's team caused self-described true and honest fans to rage. Millions of bits and bytes of bandwidth gave their lives so grown men could throw fits about Marcia! Marcia! Ma- wait.  Sorry. TAYLOR! TAYLOR! TAYLOR!  

     I don't have a dog in this fight.  In a distant, abstracted sense, I am glad for them that they're happy.  The upcoming game is far more interesting to me than who is in the stands. 

     Okay, there is a sense of shame that hits me when I think about this situation. Years ago, I was a credentialed sportswriter who covered the Nashville Predators for a Montreal-based website. That year, Mike Fisher was traded from the Senators to the Preds.  There was speculation about when and where his wife, Carrie Underwood, would make an appearance. 

     Her first night at event level in Nashville, she walked through with an entourage that included some of the media people for the team.  At the time, there were five writers/reporters waiting at the staff elevator to get to club level so we could take our places in the press box. 

     As Underwood and her entourage approached the elevators, one of the Predators spokeswonks barked at us to step aside. Ms. Underwood required an elevator and NO ONE ELSE was allowed to be on the elevator with her and her people.  

     One of the more seasoned veterans sighed and we all took a small step away from the elevator doors. The Predators Media Wonk barked again that the elevators were for MISS UNDERWOOD AND ONLY MISS UNDERWOOD. 

     Five heads swiveled in Carrie Underwood's direction as we took a couple more steps back.  I looked up and saw a mix of game faces and some out and out disdain.  At that point all I wanted to do was get upstairs, plug in my computer, assemble my camera, and get ready for the puck to drop.  The whole thing was just annoying to me and it probably showed on my face. Worse, that was when I made eye-contact with Ms. Underwood. 

     "Well?" Said Big Older Reporter Guy. "Go ahead."

       The media wonk stopped for a moment and turned to Underwood, who looked like she wanted to be anywhere but the bowels of Bridgestone Arena. She said nothing.

     "We're, uh, we're not ready yet," stammered the media wonk.

     The reporter snorted, turned, and got on the elevator. The four of us followed him.  I figured if there was an armed response, he was big enough to hide behind. 

     That night, I realized I wasn't very nice.  Worse, I took for granted that nothing I said or did would have made a difference. Thing is, I was the only other woman there at that moment. I should have made some gesture, even if it was just a smile, to welcome her.  I didn't.  You know? I still feel shame about that. I was old enough, smart enough, and talented enough to not feel a need to be one of the boys and yet that was the stance I took.  Damn. I'm sorry. 

     Nobody is so successful, rich, famous, or beautiful that they are completely immune to scorn.  This is especially true when they are the newcomers to a new-to-them milieu. I hope some of the current sports press corps are being nicer than we were. 

     If you're still upset about Taylor and Travis, keep in mind that you are trying to spoil the fun of complete strangers and you are letting complete strangers spoil your fun.  Take some advice from the woman herself: Y'all need to calm down.   ​​

​ It's 5:20-ish on December 5th. I'm sitting in the kitchen with one of those giant coffee cups that got to be popular after everybody saw them on The Gilmore Girls, had to have one, and Pier One and Ikea took our collective zeitgeisty wishes as their commands and complied. Yes, there is coffee in this cup, Community Breakfast Blend, to be exact. It's slightly sweet with an acidic aftertaste, which goes well with monk fruit sweetener and almond milk. 
    
     What's a babe of the world like me doing in the kitchen with her Bosscat and coffee at this hour?  Working. Leaving Facebook open so a friend who found himself stuck in the hospital can chat when he feels the need. Wondering how to get ready for the coming year. 

     The coming year... That's so arbitrary, really. Our sense of time is this narrow, windowed perception shaped by various religions, philosophers, shifts in the observable physical world, and other iterations of the passage of days as delineated by The Powers That Be. The coming year could start right now, but that would put me and anyone else who is contemplating such a concept even further out of step with the rest of humanity.   

     The whole "in step with humanity" thing got to be a cute concept during the height of COVID fears.  In spite of being a homebody of Dickinsonian proportions, it got to be a bit much.  No art or book groups. No communal knitting. Everything was on the internet pipeline. Mon Dieu. Le suckage.  That was then.  Now?  Cases are on the rise in the Southeastern US and as much as I enjoy being an old lady, the fact that it puts me on the endangered species list... To steal from the Asian English term for a possum ("Magical Mouse Rat Funny Animal Friend") it makes me want to "scream at own ass."  FOMO is real and it is knowing I am missing out on Posadas and Eids and Yule Dumb Suppers and Diwalis and the Eighth Crazy Night, only those aren't happening either because so many people got out of the habit during the first wave of the pandemic. 

     "Who do people study now?" I asked a former classmate whose daughter is following in her footsteps by majoring in the most unmarketable degree available in Western Arts and Letters, ie. anthropology. It turns out they do something called "anthropoetics" and fieldwork takes place online in platforms where people gather. Kids these days. Somewhere in the either, Papa Franz is either weeping or having a tremendous belly laugh. 

      It's now 7:49.  Friend is getting discharged.  Yay! I have talked down a half-dozen people who are ready to go The-Grinch-Meets-Game-Of-Thrones on co-workers, fellow parishioners, and a various others in their lives. Time for breakfast and a good laugh before I wade back in. 

Reading and writing on...
​Jas