4th of July drama drama drama . . .

Dear you:

Happy 4th?  No!  This should be my my job now:




Redneck water ballet.

Check out the last 3 days of weather in the Panama City Beach area.  Record breaking rains and maniac flooding.  I need this, not.

Here in the beach house, the front lawn is now a lake and water is seeping in through the south walls.  I am now skilled in sopping up flood water with beach towels.  Add this to my other new and unwanted skill:  grounds keeping.  WTF.  To make things worse, random "neighbors" keep cruising by in their behemoth vehicles, causing a mini-surf to roll into my lake-yard.  That really helps!  Thanks for driving by, neighbor.

As I type, more rain is falling.  We are beyond record breaking levels.  I've stopped looking for the "inch increase" news on the Weather Channel.  According to the locals, this has not happened here in Inlet Beach -- ever.  (Other than during hurricanes, but that is another "thing".)  So, now that I live here -- more or less -- we have the crappiest 4th of July weekend in commercially recorded history.  I could be trapped here for more days; I am going on four now.  I am so bored.  And so confused.  What is going on in my experience zone?  Since 2011, it has just been bizarre.  Tedium challenges, like this flood-in.

Meanwhile, a jet crash lands at San Francisco airport, a coup occurs in Egypt, and the Zimmerman trial continues. George is way too cold (except when his relatives get on the stand and speak glowingly about him -- then, he gets all teary because it is all about HIM). 

I suppose I should close with a good thought.

Give me a minute, I am trying to come up with one.

Oh, never mind.

Kisses and basic regards,
Ms. Fleming - still in exile

Miss Paula and Master George . . .

 
Hello you!

Oh, that's the wrong Paula.  But I'd ask the same (sort of) question featured in that image to the other, not-so-cute Paula.  The one all over today's news-buzz.  Seriously, Ms. Deen, are you high?

What is up with this "I grew up in another time and place" crap?  I was born in segregated Birmingham and that messed up situation is something I never "absorbed".  In fact, it was like living in a Twilight Zone episode. If there is a generation who should totally shun racism and any of its weapons or words, it should be us -- those raised in the Southern sinkhole of Jim Crow, Paula D. and me.


But what do I know.  I'm an ex-dancer and an adjunct English instructor without the proper apologetic credentials or modest underwear. 

Today, CNN is featuring the Paula Deen drama in tandem with the latest on Mr. Snowden, Mandela's precarious health and the George Zimmerman trial.  But it is the "little" stories of Paula and George that are fusing in my head.  And I don't mean the stories of Paula Abdul and Boy George (I wish).  Fat Paula and fearful George represent the new reactive mentality, prompted by the election of a brilliant, dark President (who is someone I support even as I throw dishes across the room when I consider Gitmo, First Amendment violations and considerable support given to the horrible oil companies).

Chauncey De Vega's blog says it just right.  This is what I am thinking, and Chauncey says it better than I can:

"Food celebrity Paula Deen’s admission in a recent anti-discrimination lawsuit that she routinely uses racial slurs such as “nigger”, and how she yearns for a return to Jim and Jane Crow America, is an almost perfect moment where she broke the metaphorical fourth wall of racism in the Age of Obama. 

In her deposition she explained how:

[W]hen asked if she wanted black men to play the role of slaves at a wedding she explained she got the idea from a restaurant her husband and her had dined at saying, “The whole entire waiter staff was middle-aged black men, and they had on beautiful white jackets with a black bow tie.

“I mean, it was really impressive. That restaurant represented a certain era in America…after the Civil War, during the Civil War, before the Civil War…It was not only black men, it was black women…I would say they were slaves.” 

Such images remain potent in American popular culture. And for some white folks of a certain age, as well as those possessed of a conservative, Right-wing political orientation, such images embody “real America”, and a "simpler" time before black and brown folks "forgot their place", the gays and lesbians came out of the closet, and women embraced feminism." 

Hooyah, Mr. De Vega.  There it is.

Now, imagine my joy (read this as sarcasm please) when I drive up to Alabama this week to visit Mom and get to hear the bigots spew "reverse racism" nonsense in defense of that Crisco-dripping-kitchen-hag, Paula.  And, similarly, their defense of George, the man who uses his Second Amendment rights because he can't handle a verbal battle or (if this is what happened) a manly little fist-fight.  

So.  What I know is this:  their time is up.  With or without them, we are moving on.

Depending on what state you live in.

Signing off with kisses and so many cheers for the Miami Heat's NBA victory.  Gotta love that.

Your Joyce

Absolutely fabulous!

Dear you:

There she is . . . Miss Utah . . . speechifying.  Something like "create better education" was her response to a question about income inequality.  Your major bloggers are way ahead of me here, posting comparisons to Miss South Carolina's response about why Americans didn't know basic geography (map shortage -- like in "the Iraq").  Seriously, Miss Utah sounds positively Mensa material compared to her southern belle comrade in pageants.

But look at the picture!  Why are we obsessed with botched answers when the microphone holders reveal a truly shocking truth about America:  pink net dresses and Jersey Shore menswear are coming back.  If we keep this up, we won't need to worry about national security "issues" (I feel restrained and won't even mention the darling boy's name or the current "problem") because we will crumble from within.  Our enemies see it coming:  death by bad fashion.

But who am I to criticize.  I wear Walmart hooker heels (gold tone) and still refuse to dye my ever greying hair.  As for that:  my 58th birthday is/was this fine June.  Where do I go from here? I shall continue to chase academic gigs  here in la Panhandle because, really, we do need to "create better education."

Send me maps for my birthday gifts.

Kisses,
Joyce

The world is more than tornado stats . . .

Hello you!

Life in the new zone continues busily fabulous.  What else would I say?

The literature course I am teaching in a 6 week time frame is and has been rewarding in so many ways.  But my eyes twitch when I get the "I didn't read the material" thing.

I wonder, as I evaluate my preconceived notions and certainly certainties, if we are as free as we think we are?  Clearly, this is the best game going.  I am in no hurry to pack a bag and click my heels towards Canada, Norway or even Australia.  Here I am and  here I love.  Yet . . . there is the nagging discomfort:  Bradley Manning as symbol.   What am I to do with that?

And here in the Panhandle of my darling Florida, I see a vast destruction of space and a lack of "growth planning".  Why is the "no 3 story buildings on beachfront" zoning being ignored or bought out by certain developers?  Why is the population expanding but the resources (like libraries or basic public transportation) not?  Why are there so many Baptist churches and fewer and fewer . . . birds and trees?

Call me crazy.

Everything is possible.  Why are we reacting rather than acting?

And why do my thighs not look like they did when I was 30?

I think the last question answers the one that came before it.

Bring the love!  I am happy and swimming in the Gulf's warm bathtub gorgeousness after prepping for a lecture on Emily Dickinson for class tomorrow.  What more could a middle class princess want?

Kisses and thoughtful provocation -
Joyce - Your Joyce to those who are in the tribe :)

Cinco De Mayo & War

Hola you!


Instead of bottomless tequila shots celebrating Cinco de Mayo, geopolitical watchers are knocking back black coffee(s).  The lead in this Sunday morning's news is Israel and its bombing of Syrian  military research (?) facilities.  What should we have done prior to this action?  What can our USA do without trooping into one more conflict?  Would it matter anyway?

Writing from the beach house -- my residence -- I "hear" the chatter about this new war on cable news, while blogging, while running literary history through my head for tomorrow's class meeting, while scanning the cloudy sky for a break so I can dive in the Gulf.  Here, in one place, and yet connected to other places and other times.  This strikes me as exhausting but necessary.  Staying in touch with current events.  A habit taught in grade school (but perhaps no more -- unless trolling social media counts as information) sticks.  But what do I do?

Email Marco Rubio.
Email the Prez.
Email Super Man to save us from our selves.

So, back to this tiny dot on the map:  we begin a summer session at Gulf Coast State College.  What will the dusty writings from femmes back-in-the-day matter?  I suppose it is yet another exhausting but necessary task -- staying in touch with human events, then as well as now.

I wonder what Emily Dickinson would Tweet?  She certainly had a gift for doing a lot with a few words.

Here comes the sun!
Diving in.
Happy Cinco . . . Seis . . . Siete . . . Ocho . . . Nueve etc. de Mayo.

Love,
Your Joyce

April, showering everything on us.

Hello You!

B Strong.

This Saturday eve I am finally talking at you again.  I have completed the grand move to Panama City Beach, installed in the Fleming beach house, so the last 2 months were semi-lite-madness.

There is nothing really I can say, after the Marathon, after the odd-slow-never here spring.

But I am here; the house is cleaned and slimmed down to nice essence; the Gulf glitters and roars across the way; my literature class should convene starting May 6 at the new and wonderful school; all addresses and licenses are changed and I am (officially) all in.  Plus . . .

I purchased my car.  Oh hell no!  Oh hell yes.  Darling Hyundai Accent 2013.  Eco-efficient.  I call him Armando.

The necessity of mobility rules and there it is.  The last ultimate sign of commitment.  Done.  Dotted line signed and a certain Florida bank now owns me for 6 years.

Ridiculous lush-life complaint, isn't it?

Oh, how HAPPY I AM to be out of St. Pete and that NOT-college gig.  Oh yeah.  But the tropics, the heat?  Of course I miss that much.  But it is an easy trade and necessity rules in this instance too.

Enough.

So, I'll stop writing these fragments and take your eyes back to the top.  Boston:  B Strong.

And there you have it.

Love, in my way,
Joyce - on the next page

The PopeThing - Yet Another Award Show!

Hello you :)

The "living in 3 places" situation is coming to an end, at last.  Mom is doing well in Birmingham (even though the neighborhood is . . . iffy); the beach house in PCB is prepped for move-in; an instructor gig is lined up for summer.  Voila.

Exhale.

I could detail the irritation of being back in St. Pete at the condo and clashing with the brain-disruptions these people give me (like the fact that I cannot get out of my contract early even though I have been a FABULOUS renter), but why?  Bigger brain-disruptive (and more comedic) action exists outside this zip code:



Is that photo-shopped?  Or did lightning really strike the Vatican the day the Pope pooped out?  Apparently, according to the "news", the selection committee hasn't been given the definitive word from god yet as to who the next P will be.  So the next dude to wear the red shoes is still a big mystery.

How exactly does god tell these guys who to vote for?  Doesn't god have to chose from a preselected bunch of Cardinals?  What if god wants someone who is NOT a priest to be Pope?  What if god has a sense of humor and a love for pop culture trash?

Maybe this is his top ten list of Possible Papal People:

1.  Pamela Anderson
2.  Me
3.  Kanye West
4.  One of the Kardashians -- you choose; he said it doesn't matter
5.  Pitbull with JLo -- a dual popedom
6.  Geraldo Rivera
7.  Me (I know I am on the list already, but you shouldn't question divine logic)
8.  The guy who fixed my washing machine at the beach house in record time for a low price
9.  Donald Trump
10. All of the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders (they work as a unit anyway)

More regular postings to come, now that I will be settling in 2 places rather than 3.
Loves and kisses,
Joyce Marie