Orthophilia: The Never Ending White Stench

"UGH!! I smell you, you dirty mother fucker!"
A friend said that to me once, pulling her t-shirt over her nose in disgust as I darted through the cottage we were vacationing at in the deep north of Ontario - making an immediately b-line for the bathroom where a pre-filled tub of hot water sat, waiting for me to submerge my stinking, rotting feet in.
Ah yes, the human foot.
51 seperate bones make our feetsies quite the complex orthopedic structure, don't they?
But aside from the ingenius architecture of our feet, what baffles me more than anything - at least about mine - are the smells they are capable of emitting.
LITERALLY - intoxicating scents.
TOXIC being the operative part of that word.
When I was in my early twenties, something happened with my two little tootsies:
If they even got SLIGHLY wet in my shoes or sandals - they would emanate an odour capable of clearing an entire city block.
I kid you not.
It was like the whole room filled with a foul-smelling foot-GAS. I'd take my shoes off and it was ALL you could smell throughout the entire HOUSE!
My mother would KNOW when I came home and walked in the door - not because she could HEAR me - but because she could smell me, when I removed my shoes.
It wasn't just repulsive - it was flat out SHOCKING - shocking that a human FOOT - with no apparent exhaust holes or open sores - could create such a thoroughly putrid stench.
I don't even think I'm making myself clear enough here.
Imagine, for a moment - the smell of parmesan cheese.
Now - combine that smell with say, the smell of a dirty hamster cage.
Throw in the delightful scent of public-bathroom stank - and just for fun - dash on a couple splashes of Herb and Garlic vinagrette salad dressing.
A hint of freshly cut onion combined with the most sour milk you can imagine - and you've got an idea of what my feet would smell like.
"Dan, um...seriously...can you please go scrub your feet?" A friend once asked, as I took a seat in their living room, about to enjoy a nice glass of wine.
"For FUCK sake," I cursed, putting my wine back on the coffee table "Is it seriously that bad?? What the fuck can I do about this?? I feel HELPLESS!! What the FUCK am I supposed to do, seriously???"
I was in dire straits. My friends were REPULSED by my feet.
At the time, I was single and DREADED the idea of EVER going on a date for fear of having to take off my shoes and NOT be within 5 inches of a bucket of water to immediately dunk my feet in to suffocate the smell.
Surely I would be single for the rest of my life and it would all be the fault of my two, cursed, stanky feet.
"Um..." my friend stammered, trying to put it as politely as he could.
"Perhaps you should go to the hospital."
For real.
My feet stunk SO BAD people would direct me to the emergency room!!
"For FUCK'S sake Dan," someone once said. "Go to a mother fucking DOCTOR!! GOOD GOD!"
I'd stare at them, my lip trembling, furious - but beaten because the smell was just so over-whelmingly bad.
I couldn't argue. I didn't have a leg - or a nice smelling foot for that matter - to stand on that would hold up ANY kind of counter-argument.
It was just fucking obvious and they were right: I had a problem.
Now, you're probably imagining a pair of moldy, flakey feet, with rashes between the toes and pus under the beds of my toenails.
Not the case.
I would stare in amazement at my feet, with my nose plugged, and note the healthy, smooth white skin between my toes.
I'd shake my head in disbelief at how silky soft the bottoms of my feet were.
To touch them and look at them you would think I had soaked them in strawberry scented water for hours on end.
"I gotta say," I'd comment to myself, smiling proudly: "You have some pretty damn good looking feet!"
Then the smell would hit me, and I'd wretch and shiver.
I tried everything.
Pepperment creams.
I tried extra soap lather with an exfoliating sponge - scrubbing my feet in the bathtub for an additional TEN minutes - above and beyond regular bath tub grooming.
Lathering.
Rinsing.
Repeating the process.
I sopped them up with every SPECTRUM of shampoos available - from Salon Selective to Herbal Essences.
Deep conditioning treatments would follow.
I would soak my feet in GREEN TEA before my bath. That was my mother's suggestion.
I'd use ARMPIT deodourant on them, spraying them down right along with my pits after a shower.
I used Dr. Scholl shoe inserts.
Talcum powder.
I traded in my wool socks for breezey cotton socks.
I ditched my doc martens for a pair of light weight athletic runners.
Then I gave air-walks a try.
Nothing.
My aftershave was no longer used on my neck and torso - it was sprayed on the bottoms of my feet.
Once, with tears in my eyes, sitting on the edge of my bath tub - I scrubbed my feet with a hard sea-sponge and COMET - literally - scouring my feet with comet hoping it might be strong enough to kill whatever bacteria was possessing my feet.
It wasn't.
My feet still stunk just as bad after what is now referred to as "The Night of the Comet".
It was like a chemical reaction - especially in the winter.
My feet would just POUR sweat, my socks would be soaked.
Most nights - my shoes would have to spend the evening on the porch, instead of the closet with the rest of the shoes that weren't tained by whatever kind of invisible foot-oil my feet were poisoning them with.
"Jesus, they'll stink up the whole fuckin' house - get those things outside! My god! They smell like ...fuckin nasty Sour Cream and Onion chips!" my mother would say.
She never swore, unless she was referring to my feet.
Then - I met Life Partner.
When we first met - my feet were kind of in remission, which was nice.
Our first 2 months together were stenchless, and we lived in the throes of that glorious honeymoon stage - a glimpse of how most normal couples live -not even giving their feet a second thought.
I thought the odreal was over.
I chalked it all up to everything being back in balance inside the universe within my feet.
I'd take my shoes off care free, even cuddle up on the couch with sockless if I felt like it...
It was as if someone just snuffed out whatever stink-mechanism once thrived inside my feet.
Except, it wasn't snuffed out.
It was just resting, dormant - like a volcano waiting to EXPLODE in an eruption of repugnant smells.
"Oh! GOD!!! JESUS CHRIST!" Life partner once cursed, a confused wrinkle furrowing his brow as he stared at my feet like they were foreign objects, or tumors attached to me that he had never noticed before.
"I'm sorry," I began. "Do you mind if I run into your bathroom and really quickly wash my feet...something...is not right here."
I felt my face go red.
The stench was back. Full force.
"This is it," I said to my big toe, as I polished it with a wash rag. "He's going to break up with me."
Fortunately for us both - me and my feet - this was not the case.
For the following weeks - we developed a pattern.
I'd come over to Life Partner's house nearly every night - and before we gave our kiss and hug hello - I'd go directly to the bathroom, where a nice warm tub of water, foot lotion and hard wire brush would be thoughtfully waiting for me.
My shoes and socks would instantly go in the "STINKY FEET BOX" that Life Partner designed for me.
The "Stinky Feet Box" was an old shoe box that Life Partner decorated with stickers and coloured with magic markers.
Decals of feet, drawings of shoes with a green gas coming off them - and emblazened on the front in big bold block letters the words: "DAN'S STINKY FEET BOX".
Inside the foot box were spring-fresh dryer sheets, mounds of baby powder, a few cones of insense and a smattering of assorted potpourri.
The box was closed - and the nasty scent - sealed like a tomb.
"I can't believe it," Life Partner would say the next morning, opening up the box.
"Your socks...they're like...hard balls of....concrete!"
And it was true.
The rought texture of the rolled up balls of my socks felt more like STONE than cotton.
Regardless, when someone can tolerate a stench like that and WORK with it - make a compromise - and even set aside a little section of their home to a shoe box where my stink was welcome to stay - that's love baby.
That's true love.
That Christmas - our first Christmas together - Life Partner bought me a can of FOOT DEODOURANT.
I was touched - and shocked because I didn't even know something like that existed.
At the same time - I was skeptical.
Bleach and dish soap - even chlorine pucks wouldn't work on my feet.
I didn't imagine this foot deodourant would.
Quelching the smell of my feet was like trying to put out a raging inferno with a misting spray bottle.
But - to my disbelief and life partner's wonder - it worked.
After I bathed - I'd spray my feet with this incredible miracle-spray and my feet would be dry as a mojave desert with absolutely NO scent - except maybe a HINT of sunflower.
Eventually - we were confident enough to throw out the "STINKY SHOE BOX" - pack away the wire brushes and return the comet to its rightful place - off the shampoo shelf and back under the kitchen sink, where it belonged.
Life Partner and I smiled at each other, our bare feet up and resting on the coffee table, side by side - together - shining and ecstatic with happiness - proof that no matter HOW STRONG - no foot-stank would EVER be powerful enough to rip the likes of us apart.
My salsa-farts however, well...I'm gonna save that for another blog.

Perez Hilton has lost it.

Okay, I hate being bitchy and ranty - but this picture was posted by perez hilton on his very popular gossip site today.
While I get it that his blog is supposed to be funny and light-hearted - and even controversial - and it's meant to focus on celebrities and their flaws - for real...? Why is he calling Drew Barrymore a "Cum Slut"?
Furthermore, why is he CONSTANTLY calling women SKANKS and WHORES or BITCHES?
Frankly - I'm fucking sick of this shit.
Calling someone a "Cum Slut" or a "whore" - is not entertaining to me - it's just fucking sexist.
I don't care how "gay" and "Fagulous" you are.
It's just flat out rude and stupid and before I get all fucking "politcal faggot" on this blog - I think it fucking perpetuates a train of thought and a state of mind that says it is okay to think of these women as SLUTS.
He just calls someone a cum slut - out of the blue! For no reason.
"Cum Slut".
Was there a homemade sex video found of Drew swalling 40 loads?
Did some celebrity ex-boyfriend of hers give a tell-all description of her appetite for cumshots?
NO!
But "Perez" took it upon himself to just drop the word "Cum Slut" next to her name - and NOT ONE PERSON IN THE COMMENTS has MENTIONED IT!!!
No one has mentioned it - because we are desensitized to it!!
It's no big deal on Perez Hilton to call women whores or bitches or sluts or cum sluts.
He gets like - a couple million hits on his website a DAY!!!
Now I'm not saying BAN HIM - or CLOSE HIS WEBSITE DOWN!!
But seriously...each and every day - I am just more and more disgusted by the path pop culture is heading down.
ANd yeah...I know. It's Perez Hilton...it's not supposed to be taken seriously...it's just some dude who is blogging...freedom of speech and all that jazz.
But he's obviously raking in some money with the advertising - and with up to 4 million hits a day - guess what? Maybe it SHOULD be taken seriously...fuck...does CNN get that many damn hits a day?!?!?!!?
He is NEW MEDIA, NEW TABLOID - and maybe it needs to be put in check.
For a minute there - I thought it was going the right way - and eventually everyone COULD have fun with whatever way they chose to express their sexuality.
Apparently - not - because you'll be called a WHORE - without reason - and it's completely okay.
While I am gonna miss the celebrity gossip - I think I might be DONE reading Perez Hilton...seriously...it's bad for the fucking BRAIN!!!

grossed out,

Dan

MY MIX TAPE POEM

wrote this little ditty a few days back...it's about mix tapes.
Mixed tapes.
mixtapes.
and other stuff too. There's an upcoming mixtape artshow at Phog...happening in March.
Check it out here.

Anyway, I used to be a huge fan of the Mix Tape. Making them and getting them.
I used to make covers, collages, spend HOURS devising the perfect tracklisting to give to that special someone. And there were so many different TYPES of messages you could send to people through mix tapes. When someone made you a mix - a good one - well-thought out maybe with an underlying theme, subliminal or otherwise...you knew they put some SERIOUS thought into that shit.

I'll be submitting a homemade mix tape to the art show.
Maybe you should too!
Let's fuck our computers, snub our CD players and iPods and bring it back analogue.

And now, my little poem.

Death To the Mix Tape!

I remember alright,
if i think REALLY hard
when my head's in my hands
and my memory is jarred
about a time when music
played it's OWN accord:
Snapping pause,
stop,
rewind, eject
and finally,
record -

and songs played
like messages
subliminal and timed
with openers
and closers
and building
as it climbed
and tracks were captured,
analogued
smoothed out into shape
and polarized,
and realized
in the art of
the
mix tape.

I lined my mix tapes
with songs i wish i wrote for you:

an electric pulse for track 1 -
and a "punch-you-in-the-gut"
track 2

a
"this is what you REALLY mean to me"
"three"

and a
4
to make you
hit
the
floor,

by 5 my subliminal message
ain't so subliminal
anymore.

Sex track six
and it's heaven for seven,
a fantasy of how it could be

but 8's full of rage
and 9 keeps track of
how you and me
could never see
eye to eye
(back then)
so i close with 10
in a hurricane of dissaray -

but i'll pick right up
where i left off
cuz that was
ONLY
just
side A.

Mono et mono
and tape to tape
with mere seconds
of time to waste -
and love like a rhythm
through spools of sound
to see whose got
better taste
in lives that played like
soundtracks thriving
on
memory and tone
and lyrics that kept
you sobre
even if you were
getting stoned -

but see time is like a motor
and music keeps
the order
and oblivion gets closer
every day
cuz - we can skip to track 11
or slash track 7
and cassette tapes
are gettin' in the way
of the fine line we walk
between laughter and tears
and adrenalized music
through the headphones
on my ears
and the 12 string chime
of sick guitars in bands
with music on my radio
and a pen in my hand
i mapped out my songs
til something solid came through,

and then i sketched a track list,
made a mix-tape,
for you.

but,
if time is like a motor
and we're all just getting
older
and music kept the order
through our double
tape recorders -
then we're sufferin'
in the throes
of utter chaos
and disorder

my friend sings:
"people don't care
about music
like they used to. "

iPod wages war
and profit closes
doors
and changes creativity
to mainstream slaving
whores
and most kids don't play
albums
start to finish
anymore,

they just download
the hit single
from their local
iTunes store
and put it in their shuffle
where it's nameless,
ever-more.

We motor faster everyday,
like the bottom
being scraped
like the sad
skipping sounding:
"Death TO the mix tape!"

Charging mp3's on a VISA card,
consume the music -
then discard
faster, faster
speed it up
cut track 9,
down

load me
up!

we need to slow it down ....
on our ole sound boards,

we need
"mix-tape mentality"
to be restored ...

we need to bring it back
analogue
cuz I'm just getting
bored

we need to
pause.
stop.
rewind...

and then simply,
hit
record.

The Descent

I watched the movie The Descent last night and let me tell you - it restored my faith in the film industry.
Lately, I've only been renting old movies because frankly: New movies flat out suck shit.
For real.
Whatever happened to good old fashioned horror movies? The last few I rented were just so unbelievably bad - OR predictable that they weren't even worth watching.
"Seriously," I asked Life Partner one night. "Who the fuck even gives a green light for these movies to be produced?? Does the movie industry have just ABSOLUTELY NO GRASP on what good horror is anymore?!?"
So I was purusing the new release wall last night, skimming past the usual shite psuedo action movies with the same three "hot" actors (Leondard DiCaprio, Josh Hartnet or Colin Farrell) and the token hot chick - (Scarlett Johannson - which one of the action boys usually has a hot passionate kissing session with midway through the "action") and figured I'd be hitting the oldie section once again for a tried and true picture that won't leave me feeling ripped off.
Then I spotted a flick called The Descent.
Cool cover, it was a horror movie, interesting reviews...so I figured: "Fuck it."
At best - it will be a B-movie that I can at least lose myself in and have a laugh at.

Let me just say this:
Not since I was a KID - have I had to turn down the volume on a movie so I wouldn't startle myself! FUCK - for real - I had to watch some of it with the SOUND turned down, for fear of jumping out of my skin.
This movie was SHEER enjoyment. PURE OLD SCHOOL HORROR - all the elements were in place.
I was on the edge of my seat the ENTIRE time.
I also discovered I am completely claustrophobic. I actually had a hard time breathing at certain points during this film and had to look away.
The suspense, the gore, the plot, the characters...I am just flat out MADLY in love with this movie.
The plot is nice and simple:
Six chicks decide to go cave exploring in the middle of a very secluded forest.
TERROR and CHAOS insue.

That's all I'm gonna say.
I highly recommend you do NOT read up about this movie more than that before you watch it.
Just rent it. Seriously.
This is like...one of those GOOD OLE movies we used to watch as kids at slumber parties...the kind that used to make everyone afraid to get up to get a drink of water - or sleep with the light out.
Except...it's new.
Horror movies are back!!! Fingers crossed...

YAY!!

Dan

Little Trouble Girls

UMmmm....




Is ANYONE else.....





Wondering what the fuck....

Is REALLY ...

Going ON here?!??!?!?

Seriously.
What the FUCK is going on?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MISTER JAMES CRABBE!!!!
HOPE IT'S A GOODIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Perhaps, drinks are in order.

hearts and birthday farts,

DAN.

My Vagina Monologues: Brody

***I feel weird calling this a "Vagina Monologue". A Vagina Monologue - if anyone is not familiar - is a blog I used to write - with a focus on various girls who made a BIG life-lasting impression on me...usually someone I am no longer in contact with. While this story fits that criteria exactly...I think a more suitable title for this particular story - would be: Brody, and Her Plastic Horns.
Here she is...

A few weeks back during my lunchbreak I was wandering through a dollar store killing time.
Eyeing up the shotglasses...the coffee mugs...the pots and pans...part of me still ASTOUNDED that you can - FOR REAL - buy a pasta strainer for 1 dollar - INCLUDING tax!!
That's a steal.
Regardless, my little shopping basket was still empty.
I made my way to the party-favour section.
This is always THE most fun section to shop in.
You can decorate a house up - LAVISHLY - in ANY colour - with ANY theme for UNDER 20 bucks!!
My friends and I once threw another friend a "PINK BIRTHDAY SURPRISE" party - complete with different shades of magenta, pink and fuscia streamers hanging from the ceiling, matching napkins, paper plates and cups - and pink and white balloons dancing across the floor.
11 bucks total.
We did a tropical island theme once, which included eye patches for everyone, flower lais, grass skirts and glorious, glittering palm trees in every corner.
13 bucks, brothers and sisters.
Hell - if anyone dropped by the ole homestead this year for a Hex-mas drink - you'll understand that I am being honest when i say my living room was transformed into a sparkling, snowy winter wonderland straight outta the gay North Pole.
Complete with a blow-up Frosty!
16 bucks, total.
I fiddled through the balloons in the dollar store, the disco balls, the whoopee cushions, napkins and beach balls wondering what theme my next dollar store party should carry, when something caught my eye.
A small pack of plastic, coloured horns.
Five in a pack for 1 dollar.
Just simple funnels of plastic - when blown into - they make obnoxious and annoying squeaking sounds.
They are meant for babies, tiny kids.
The kind of toy a parent hides on their child after spending one day in headache-city.
Immediately - it reminded me of someone.
I thought of Brody - an eight year old girl I met very briefly.
I was in grade 3...it was probably 1985 or so.
Kids at that age - at least in my class - don't really start to have defined 'cliques' yet.
Sure we all had our best friends and our favourite playmates...but there was no sense of US vs. THEM yet. We were innocent enough to be able to like EVERYONE for what and who they were - and play together.
We were still a "class".
Everyone got along because that's just what kids did.
That year, very few people noticed we had a new little girl at our school - also in grade 3.
Her name was Brody.
She had short brain hair, a round face, a tiny button nose - and she was the first girl in our class to wear glasses.
Coke bottle glasses that made her perfectly circular, unsure blue eyes look like they were as large as headlights.
I remember her wearing an orange dress and a brown cardigan sweater.
She was very quiet.
She never said a single word.
Even though no one seemed to really notice her - for some reason, I could not stop staring at her, on her first day. It's weird, but I remember it like it was yesterday.
She sat alone, by the window, and kept her eyes down.

At recess time, she stayed inside and I spied through the classroom windows.
Our teacher was sitting with Brody, at her desk - and Brody still had her head down.
Even though all the kids didn't QUITE understand what the fuss was about, we all assumed since Brody was new to the school, the teacher was PROBABLY just trying to make her feel more comfortable. Filling her in on the ins and outs.
Perhaps Brody was just shy.

Maybe what happened next was an attempt on her parent's part to help Brody feel more comfortable with her new classmates, because very shortly after she arrived at our school - we all recieved invitations to a birthday party at McDonald's especially for Brody.
Back then, being invited to a party for someone you hardly hung out with was not a big deal.
It was a party - and it was at McDonald's! It meant free presents, a day full of games and a happy meal you didn't have to BEG for.
If you got an invite to a McDonald's party - you darn well attended!
So the day of the party came.
In those days - the parents handled the presents, so I'm not sure what I even ended up giving to Brody as a gift.
In fact, I can't even really remember seeing Brody for most of the party.
I remember a clown playing games with us kids. I remember sitting at a table with other classmates, colouring a picture of the Hamburgler. I remember trying to pin a tail on a pin-up donkey.
I recall an intense round of musical chairs, in which I lost out to my best friend Michael.
And then of course - the highlight of the evening:
The gift opening.
The one moment when EVERY kid's attention was focused solely on the guest of honour:
Brody.
We all sat in a circle, as Brody, propped up on her mother's lap, was handed gift after gift.
I noticed, and I am sure I was not the only one, that something about Brody's enthusiasm for the gifts was...different.
It was like she didn't understand.
Her mother unwrapped the presents for her.
"Wow...look at this Brody! Hawaii Barbie!"
Brody stared, her huge, coke-bottle eyes blinking.
Almost confused. But that's not the proper description.
It was as if she didn't understand the idea or concept of a present.
Like she didn't know what toys were.
It was as if she couldn't comprehend the idea that when you have a birthday party - you get presents!
I looked at my mom - who was one of the "chaperone" parents (this is before I was too cool to hang out with my parents AND my friends at the same time).
For some reason I was worried.
I gave her a confused look.
A lump was in my throat and I didn't understand why Brody was so unresponsive to all her gifts.
My mom gave me a smile and it was like she told me immediately "I know, I see it too. Something is different about her. Not like other children."
I turned back to Brody.
A Hungry Hungry Hippos game, a set of coloured pencils and a pretty pencil case, a small package of nail polish...none of it inspired more than a blank, emotionless stare from Brody.
Her mother smiled weakly.
Finally - a gift from Brody's grandparents.
Her mother opened the small package up slowly to reveal a set of multi-coloured, plastic horns.
While we were only 8 years old...I immediately knew that a gift like that was for babies!
Not for mature grade 3's like us!
Brody however, felt differently.
Her eyes immediately lit up, and she began bouncing up and down in her mother's lap, reaching for the horns.
She was so excited.
The look in her eyes was a magical, excited twinkle - the kind usually reserved for Christmas eve.
She didn't speak, but her breathing picked up and small sounds came from her throat.
Grunts.
Like when a baby, in a play pen is reaching for her favourite rattle.
I could only stare at her.
For the rest of the night, as all us kids gathered up our coats and left with our parents, Brody sat in the corner, transfixed, playing with her new horns.
I was completely confused and fascinated by it.
"Some little girls and boys are like that," my mom told me as we drove home. "Brody is your age, but in her mind - she is like a younger child. She likes things a baby might like. Things you've outgrown, she still likes to play with."
That was about as basic an explanation my mom could manage and it still hardly made any sense to me.
"In her mind, she is younger, like a child."
My mother compared the mind of Brody - to that of my little sister - at the time who was only 2 years old.
"She looks like a big kid, but really - she's just like Lana. Some kids are just like that. That's how it is for them. She might be like that for the rest of her life."
I was completely baffled.
But I understood it with the comparisson to my sister.
My sister, whose juice cup I help hold.
Whose food I help cut.
Who I lift up so she can get a firm grip on her favorite toy that is sitting on the couch.
Something about Brody was helpless, but loveable.
I knew at that moment, I was to become friends with Brody.
I would play with her horns. I'd colour pictures with her and if she scribbled outside the lines, I wouldn't care.
Brody and I were going to become best friends.
It was going to be my mission in life to make sure no harm would ever come to her.
For some reason - I wanted the rest of Brody's life to be as fun as it was when she was in the corner, completely mesmerized by her toy horns.
The next day at school - I arrived in the playground to find Brody, pinned against the fence, while older boys and girls were pulling her hair and calling her names.
She was crying.
Not crying like a grade 3 whose feelings were hurt.
Crying like a frightened little toddler, who is afraid of her very LIFE because she just didn't understand what was happening.
This sounds cheesey but the look in her eyes seriously PUNCHED ME IN THE THROAT.
I froze. All I could do was stare. In horror.
In shock.
I'd seen kids get picked on before, or cry in the playground - but this was different.
Disturbing.
The people were picking on her because they were afraid of her.
My school never had anyone like her. We didn't have any disabled or special-needs students.
We didn't even have a speech teacher or special ed classes.
Our teacher came and broke it up and had to take a tear-streaked Brody inside by her plump little hand - and then - it hit me.
I thought about the look in Brody's eyes and how terrified she was.
Terrified and confused, wondering why her parents put her in this place, with mean kids - not understanding what they were doing to her...wondering why she couldn't stay home forever and just play with her horns.
And I started bawling.
Sobbing.
I cried so hard, my stomach hurt and I had to lean against the wall.
I didn't even know why I was crying.
I didn't understand.
Looking back - it was probably the first time I cried for unselfish reasons - the first time I cried for someone else.
Something about the look in her eye...the same eyes that sat, blinking blankly and not registering her gifts, the same magnified eyes that lit up like fireworks when she saw the coloured plastic horns, the same eyes that cried in fear and confusion and pain.
There was something so innocent about them...and I just couldn't stop crying.
Maybe it was my first time seeing REAL cruelty and it surpassed all my worst childishly naive fears.
I don't know.
I had no idea why I was sobbing, but I couldn't stop.
Eventually - the teachers came to take me inside, I was hysterical - they sat me near the office and called my parents, asking they come take me home.
As I sat, trying to calm down, trying to wipe the ugly things those mean kids were saying to Brody for reasons even I didn't understand from my head - Brody's mother arrived.
Brody was sitting in the teacher's staff room and our teacher was running in and out with the principal, and a worried look on her face.
Brody's mom carried her out of the school, while Brody rested her head on her mother's shoulder, relieved, but traumatized .
I saw the same look a million times, when my sister was 1 year old, after spending hours in her crib crying...and finally, my mother or father gave in and lifted her up. She would cling to them, eyes red, but calm. Relaxed.
Safe.
That was how Brody looked as her mother carried her out.
And I never saw Brody ever again.
"The school was not a suitable environment for Brody", our teacher explained to us the next day.
I stared at Brody's empty class seat.
"Brody was special".
And Brody was so special, for more reasons than I'll ever even understand or realize.
I still think about her once in a while and there are days when I am STILL just as baffled by the fact that she affected me so much.
But that morning, seeing her against the fence and feeling her helplessness was one of the most intense emotional experiences I'd ever felt.
So intense - I feel it today still - almost just as strong.
Back in the dollar store, after I put the plastic horns back on the shelf, I had to wipe the tears off my cheeks as I wondered what ever happened to Brody.
Wherever she is - I hope she's safe and happy - maybe playing, transfixed with a few plastic horns and her world is still innocent and unchanged and beautiful and she has someone watching over her, to protect her.

Anna Nicole

Well, what hasn't been said about Anna Nicole?
While I can't say I was completely shocked when I heard she died, I was sad.
I've always been a fan of Anna Nicole Smith for one reason:
She always seemed pretty real.
Sure, her chest, face and hair may have been fake - but in every single incarnation Anna Nicole has ever appeared in public as - she's always been 100% honest about it.
When she was fat - she was fat.
"I'm big. So what?"
How many people in the public eye - who are only famous for their figure - could even MUSTER those words??
Anna Nicole made a fucking reality show - and the fact that she was heavy wasn't even the focal point.
She just happened to be a big gal, but still had a blast.
She flat out - just did NOT give a shit - and that's why everyone thought she was such a freak.
Celebrities - even the tough ones who claim to "just not give a fuck" - give a fuck.
They care GREATLY how they look, how the public will percieve them.
Anna Nicole just put EVERYTHING out there. If she was a train wreck - a train wreck is what we got.
If she was feeling good - we knew DAMN WELL just how good she was feeling.
If she was a little tipsy...well...hey, why hide it, right?
We've all been a little tipsy before.
She never took herself too seriously, which is commendable.
I'm shocked by all the mean things being said about her.
"Anna Nicole is dead, and I'm still laughing my ass off...fuckin' junkie."

This was someone's MOM. A human being.
Maybe she was a little flakey - but aren't we all a little flakey??
The bottom line is this:
When Anna Nicole appeared on your TV screen, you knew something interesting was going to happen - and she ALWAYS no matter WHAT could make you smile.

She was a true freak - in a GOOD WAY - and I think the entertainment world lost someone who stood out in ways other celebrities would never have the ability, or the courage to.

Rest in peace Anna!!