What do you think of when you think of “America”? Do you think of an afternoon walk on Cape Cod? Do you think of how shoddy that last pitch was and how could your team give it up again? Do you think of a quiet afternoon in a coffee house, sipping a tasty hot beverage? Or do you think of endless plains interrupted only sporadically by the random farm? Me? I think of all this and more. In truth, when I hear the word “America”, I think Continents. Plural. There are two of them.

 The world has seven continents and two-hundred fourteen (give or take) countries. So let me ask you something. What is America? Is it The United States of America? Is it the two continents that dominate the Western Hemisphere of the world? Well, in the greater scheme of things, America is The Americas. Two of them. North and South.

 So where do we get off calling ourselves “Americans”? Do we own the rights to the title? Actually, considering how things work, we probably do. But if that is the case, it’s wrong. Technically, everyone from the two continents is American, so why do only people from the USA call themselves Americans? If it were up to me, I’d be calling ourselves MeiGuoRen (Mandarin for “People of the Beautiful Country”) but since in English, they’d look at you weird if you called yourself that, let’s settle for something better.

I have lived abroad for a sixth of my life, and whenever people ask me where I’m from, I say “The USA.” Why don’t I say “America”? It’s too vague. “I meant, what country are you from, not what continent are you from.” Ah! My bad. I’ve gone through that conversation about a thousand times. Admittedly, some of them were only in my head, but the point remains that saying we’re from America is too vague.

English is the most precise language in the world. Trust me, it’s true. The Romance languages have genders for all items, but only in English can you have 5 different ways to say hello, about another dozen to describe the feeling of being happy (content, satisfied, ecstatic, thrilled, fine, pleased, glad, joyful, cheerful, in high spirits, blissful, exultant, delighted, cheery, jovial, on cloud nine) and no less than fifteen tenses (seriously: 3 general forms, present, future, past. Then each one has a simple, perfect, conditional, and continuous sub variants) all used to point out certainties of time, so why must we content ourselves by improperly labeling ourselves?

The simple solution is to do what I do: “I’m from the USA.” Problem solved!

So then we get into the question of Nationality. It’s an adjective that when given an ‘s’ at the end makes it a noun that represents all the people of the country. At least it does with American. “I am American!” Ah good. You’ve identified your continental origin. Now which country best describes you? “American!” Yes, you said that. Are you Canadian American, Brazilian American, Mexican American, African American (don’t get me started on that one. Continent being used to describe another continent? WTF? European American and Asian American are no better.) or Guyanese American? “American!” Sigh. Yes, but from where? “The USA!” Ah! Why didn’t you just say so to begin with?

We can’t. There is no Nationality for The USA. Yes, we’re the country of international mutts. The USA is the place where people go when they hate their homes. Yes, it’s the land of the free and the home of the brave, but really, WHO THE FUCK ARE WE? Are we really so arrogant as a nation to demand the world think of us whenever they think of the 2 American continents? It’s a sad thought. But I have a couple solutions. The only question now is which sounds better?

Statian (stA-tee-an)  Statese (stA –tease) or Staters (stA-terz)

The phones are open. Discuss.  

She rode up to me with the fire of her mane billowing whipping up angry tongues of flame in her wake. Her gallop carried her up 24 stories where her transparent form melted through the concrete wall and window until she stood snorting her hot lotus breath on me. There in the darkness that her phantasmal inner fire couldn't touch, the breath curled around my sleeping form and seeped into my brain.

And I dreamed.

So seldom that she has visited me - maybe ten times in my knowing life - that I didn't recognize it at first. The faces I saw were there, the scents of home hadn't changed. I could smell the barnyard's manure, the cows from across the way, the musk of the basement rooms where my brother and I had spent our teenage and early twenties years, the tang of the soft water pumped from our well. I was back home. But it was different, too. There were more people around, more than just the frequent biker or jogger training up the road. Here, there were people in a city not unlike those of a swampy city from the satire I've been helping with.

The place had become a road paved on the bridge of Good Intentions, a place where we strived and worked, where innocence was paid for by sweat. And in the swimming pool built up in favor of we children, that sweat had been used as the chlorine in which we swam. My parents were dead. They had been taken by agents with BANK tatooed to their faces, leaving me and my brothers alone with the house, and I realized, at their funeral, that I wasn't ready for this. I lacked the skills I needed to live here. How was I to feed myself when I didn't know how to make the money needed to get that food. Even the simplest, smallest thing was priced outrageously. An apple for an hour's work? Ridiculous! I couldn't teach. I couldn't ride. I couldn't do anything except the minimum wage down the road at McDonald's, where I had to eat, as well.

I could only hold out so long. The end was inevitable. It was only a matter of time before those emotionless androids called BANK would come for what was theirs. Even after selling everything: my car, my Transformers collection, my comics, everything in the house, the pipes feeding in water, the insulation in the attic, there wasn't enough. I heard their car crunch down the gravel in the driveway. My heart was racing. Where could I go? What could I do? They clomped up onto the rotting doorstep.

Thump! a hand sounded on the door.

Thump!

Thump!

My heart pounding in my chest, I came to. Shaking, I looked about the room and stumbled to get a drink. As I poured cup after cup of water down my throat, I looked around, knowing that I wasn't alone. I had been visited. I saw something terrifying and in that, I saw the fears that I had long refused to acknowledge. I was here in Thailand, in a home I made for myself, not the wild confusing morass of life that was the USA. I was safe. But with the retreat of her fire, I'm left chilled. The Nightmare has found me. She had come to me in my sleep to remind me that no matter where I ran, no matter what I did, if I wasn't smart, her master would unleash my own personal Hell upon me. All I can do is fortify against such a seige and pray, pray, pray that my decisions would prove to be the tactics that hold his evil at bay.

The good news is that, like the Trey Anastasio song, it's "Alive Again." People are out and about the Siam area, doing their shopping thing, mobbing the entrances and exits, and buying, buying, buying. I spent such a comfortable ride on the BTS sky train that my nose was in a book the whole time. Not that that means much: I could easily be walking down a street and assume that the "pop pop" of gunfire was just some fireworks or else some vague thing that MIGHT warrant a "Huh. Look at that..."

The bad news is that I did gape offensively at several charred husks of rent metal and scorched concrete that were commercial buildings. The sight angered me. Not because burnt metal is annoying or that Cajun-served concrete isn't tasty either for the eyes or the palate (the latter being knowledge coming from an interview with an industrial grinder that wanted to become a Transformer), but that it was a rude desecration of the hard work of hundreds - perhaps thousands - of people who built the places or worked in them or shopped in them. (For those who think that shopping takes no effort, try driving into BKK center in less than 3 hours. Then tell me how well you managed to keep your cool in the traffic) On a personal affront to me, the yummy custard pie place that I had wanted to stop as a gift for Bia had been scorched (along with the other block of the building it was in), leaving me pulling an upraised arm Willem DaFoe from "Platoon".

                Chapter 5 – The Mighty Monument

                “Welcome back to the land of the living!” Hamish said after Zelig groaned his way awake on Hamish’s back.

                “Where are we?” Zelig mumbled.

                “You’re on my back. I knew you’re tired and didn’t want to wake you. And as for all of us, we’re back in the lift. Pyrite’s taking us to change this slip for some tullacks. Can you walk?”

                “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that’s actually fainted before,” Celia snipped with good humor as Hamish let Zelig back onto the floor. Having a credit slip for a good sum of tullacks had filled her with too much joy to actually warrant bullying him.

                “I thought she was going to kill me. My life flashed before my eyes.”

                “Really?”

                Zelig nodded, staring far off into the distance. “It was so incredible; I saw every book I’ve ever read, and…” he paused frowning.

                “What is it? The only time I’ve seen you so seriously in thought are those times when you’re reading and afterwards ask me, ‘Have you ever heard of Mongolioose?’ or something odd like that.”

                “Umpa’s stories flashed more often than I would’ve thought they would. I mean, like every one in four or five images.”

                “I always told you that they’re the greatest thing in Lumbidoor.”

                “Maybe,” Zelig said, possibly even considering it.

                “Who’s Umpa?” Niero asked, rubbing his shoulder. When The Boss had thrown him into the elevator, he had smashed his shoulder hard, though insisted he barely felt it.

                “Umpa’s why we’re here,” Hamish said. He’s the oldest person in all of Lumbidoor and he can tell stories like nobody else.”

                “I love stories! And I’m pretty good at telling them, too. For instance, the thing about money is that it never seems to stay where you left it.” And so it was that the three Lumbans got a story about the phantasmal elements of Pyrite’s favorite subject. With his bushy tail wagging behind him, Niero led them down the street, his pace undiminished by his tale. Celia was impressed by his ability to talk seeming without thought, like his pointy little canine mouth was a water spigot that was left on.

                The four hours they had spent inside the station had hardly changed the city at all. The heavy black cloud that always hung over it had sighed into a wider, flatter ring, but that was about it. Neon lights scissored and danced up and down, revealing small dips and gaps, like inverted hills in the cloud. Zelig was so relieved to be free of the station that he did not even realize how much he was enjoying their walk.

                “‘…Under the livery!’” Pyrite quoted with a brief laugh. Looking around, his smile twinkled in his eyes. “And here we are.” They had stopped at the foot of a tall green glass building. “Thneed Greed Bank! Inside, you can do almost anything you need: cash slips, change money, get loans, pay bills, and even buy stock.”

                Through the revolving doors, they found queues of Grand Thneed City inhabitants patiently waiting for their turn to transact. A line of desks were set up on one side of the spacious, sterile room. It was to one of these that Niero led them.

                A moustache with glasses was at the desk, busy with its computer screen. The fingers attached to the hands attached to the arms of the moustache danced across a globe on the edge of its desk. Zips, zooms, zaps, and booms tinged from the monitor. The name plaque on the moustache’s desk read: Therem O’Badu.

                “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your charming company tonight, Mr. Pyrite?” Therem O’Badu drawled without turning its spectacles from the monitor. “Have another run-in with The Boss of the Grand Thneed Taxi Company again, hmm?” ( Read more... )

                Chapter 4 – Niero Pyrite

                It seemed like only a heartbeat had passed before they were cruising up a ramp and into the giant garage of the Taxi-Wheel station. Swarms of Taxi-Wheels zipped up and down the station’s various ramps, giving Hamish the sense of worker bees buzzing in and out of a giant honeycomb nest. The analogy became so prominent to him that the various ramps became branches in a mighty tree that was also a building. Even the tunnels inside resembled the hexagonal shape of a hive. Hamish decided to not share his premonition with Zelig, lest his cousin panic that they would be turned into some strange Whirly-Wheel meal.

                According to the number painted onto the floor, they pulled to a stop in parking spot 42315. A parking meter with a mute black screen stood between the spot and the wall.

                “This will only take a moment,” Hollis Hes Holl Hellalo told them, removing a small card from his pocket and slipping it through a slot in the machine. With a quiet whine, the screen came alive and a voice like sandpaper said, “What you doin’ back?”

                “I am most sorry, Boss, but I have encountered a very small problem. Trite, really, but one that I know would concern you. My most recent passengers are unfamiliar with life in the city and, well, it’s a little embarrassing, but, they don’t have any tullacks with which to pay for their ride.”

                “Another batch?” the sandpaper voice of the Boss sighed. “This is the third group this week. Show them to the lift and get back out there. I can’t pay you if you don’t bring me any tullacks!”

                “Right away, sir!” Hollis Hes Holl Hellalo said, giving a slight bow to the screen. “Please, my young Lumban friends, join me out here.”

                Quietly, they left the rear chamber of the Taxi-Wheel and hoisted their sacks back on their shoulders. Zelig, feeling quite anxious and embarrassed about his failure to mention Grand Thneed City’s use of tullacks, asked, “Do you know what will happen to us?”

                “Oh, I’m sure that it will be nothing to worry about. You might have to run some errand or do something for the company. The Boss will explain it all to you when you see her.” He brought them to a big hexagonal door, which sighed and split before them. “Take this lift up to the 32^nd floor and you will find the boss. Be as polite with her as you have been with me, and everything will be fine. Thank you for choosing my cab. Have a nice day!” With that Hollis Hes Holl Hellalo all but pushed them into the lift and retreated down the corridor to his Taxi-Wheel.

                When the elevator door closed, they felt a curious sensation, like their heads were suddenly trying to grind their way into their chests. Hamish said, “I don’t feel good.” Even Hamish, whose eyes were larger than most Lumbans, seemed to become more bug-eyed from the experience. Celia had retreated into herself. She was a curious young Lumban, but she hated nothing more than getting in trouble. So it took several moments for both her and Hamish to realize that Zelig said, “We should leave.”

                “How?” Celia asked, too worried about what would happen to them to even criticize him for cowardice.    
( Read more... )

                Chapter 3 – Grand Thneed City

                A tourist brochure once described Grand Thneed City as “the wondrous home of the super-efficient Grand Thneed Production Plant, a city boasting unmatched views of the Lumbidoor Valley with endless vistas of the Kiminigor Mountain range. Activities within the city abound, including sporting events or concerts in the Rhoodendron Auditorium, poolhall excavations, picturesque jaunts in the Founder’s Park, wholesome tours of such places as both the Zelgo and the Adnoh Motorized Whirly Wheel plants and the Whopnoz Fizz pop factories (in which you can sample no less than seventy-two different flavors of pop!). Accommodations are endless, ranging from one all the way to five and a half stars, including the super exclusive Founder’s Inn (also open for tours). It is a city of all cities, with never-ending light shows and the greatest buildings anyone could ever hope to see!”

                The people of Lumbidoor, however, never encountered such a brochure. Instead, their depiction of Grand Thneed City was best coined nearly one hundred years ago by Arginpole J. Salisap, that it was “like a giant egg that had been cracked over the hillside with large chunks of the shell poking up from it.”

                Stepping into the city, Hamish admitted, was something entirely different. Had he read the tourist brochure, he might have agreed with its depictions of the bustle and life, a very contrary mindset to his previous belief that it was a giant omelet. Of the two descriptions, one thing he could not argue was that the place was big. In fact, it was HUGE.

                “Had Salisap ever actually been here before?” Celia asked.

                “I don’t think so,” Hamish replied. “Why?”

                “I think he would have something different to say about this if he had.”

                Celia referred to the giant towers that surrounded the three young Lumbans. These were as unlike the houses in their hamlet as a dog was a mountain. The colors were all wrong, for one. Instead of single solid colors, some of these buildings were more like tapestries, lines of red over lines of green over lines of cyan over lines of maize. Then there were the materials used in construction. These weren’t wood or stone, though some did seem to be stony. Many she could look through, revealing all the various city-folk in their daily bustle. One immense structure, in particular, really caught her attention. It rose from the paved streets like a tree, but glowed so brightly as to almost be fashioned from solid light. Hamish had to pull her away lest he and Zelig lose her.

                Mere moments later, Hamish became entranced as Celia had. He became too entranced by a giant panel of some strange sporting event to notice he had walked into the street. A slew of speeding Motorized Whirly-Wheels sped down the road toward the unsuspecting Lumban. When their drives saw Hamish daze-walking before them, they laid out their horns, but probably would have knocked poor Hamish right under their giant rear wheels had Celia not yanked him back to the curb.

                “Watch it!” squeaked a woman with bright feathers for hair, flapping her arms as the pair tumbled into her.

                “Sorry!” Celia said, grabbing Hamish’s arm.

                Zelig, at least, was no trouble at all to either of his friends. He clung to a small loop on Hamish’s back pack, his closed eyes firmly fixed to the ground. It had taken the three several hours to get this deep into the city, and had long ago lost track of time in the confusing mix of light and the dark shroud surrounding the city. While it was true that the lights here never ceased, pockets of darkness pocked the city like the indented warts in a frog-u-pine. Discussing it, Celia and Hamish agreed that the dark backdrop only helped to make the zigzagging lights stand out all the more.

                “So,” Celia said, taking a break on a brightly painted bench that was nowhere near as comfortable as it looked. “Any ideas on where to start looking?”

( Read more... )

                Chapter 2 - Umpa

                Umpa died that night.

                A heavy, oppressive cloud entered Lumbidoor and refused to leave. Death had come at last for the old Lumban who had escaped its grasp on countless occasions. It rode in its chariot through the streets, chilling all to the very bone with its shriek of victory. Death had won, and it was hell-bent to make all know.

                ~

                The Narrator is kidding.

                Truly! Worry not, Dear Reader, Umpa really did not die that night.

                But he was in very bad shape. Immediately following his collapse on the dais, Mayor Buggles, Round Rhunda, and the Chuple Twins rushed Umpa to his bed behind the little green door. Almost immediately, and after a brief but very thorough appraisal of his condition, Rhunda returned to the main room of the Great Hall and started delegating duties.

                “Moma, get two handfuls of Eysi vines from my house. Make sure they smell! If they aren’t strong enough to make you gag, find some that are. They won’t work if they aren’t extraordinarily potent. Seuss, go put a big pot of water on to boil. Better toss in some meet-mint leaves. I don’t need anyone fainting while we mix this Eysi tonic.”

                “Yes, Rhunda!” they said, bolting from their tables.

                Mayor Buggles, meanwhile, returned to the dais. Murmurs of concern erupted from the assemblage. Those murmurs wasted no time in maturing into full-fledged panic. “Everybody! Please just relax!” Buggles said, endeavoring to nullify the excitement. But the room was far too loud. It swallowed his voice whole and came back for seconds. Lumbans are passionate people whose loyalty to each other knows no bounds. And Umpa – brave, adventurous, old Umpa – was like a grandfather to their entire community. Mix passion with concern and utter adoration, and the result was bedlam. Men shouted, women cried, babies shrieked and little kids – who thought this was all a game – screamed at the top of their lungs.

                An old saying popped into Buggles mind after his first three attempts to quiet everybody down. ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures.’ So Buggles got desperate. He inhaled. He inhaled for a few seconds. He inhaled for an entire minute. He inhaled so deeply that his already ample body more than doubled in size. Then he exhaled with the single word,

                “QUIET!”

                In the hurricane that erupted from his belly, chairs tipped over, Lumbans fell into each other, glasses shattered, and then, silence fell. Disheveled Lumbans staggered back to their feet. They pulled themselves up off the ground, dislodged their bodies and those of their loved ones from the walls, dabbed the remnants of their meals off their faces with napkins, and replaced their wind-blown hair. They all stared at their Mayor with wide, frightened eyes.

( Read more... )

                While the name may look like a middle schooler’s first attempt at profanity, Quentin Tarantino’s movie, “Inglourious Basterds” is far from an effort at the profane. Exciting, loud, chock full of colorful characters and boasting a bevy of cinematic shots that some directors use with a clumsy disregard for their audience’s stomachs. Not Tarantino. While it could be said that all directors have vision, Tarantino’s vision is one that returns cinema to its traditional artistic years.

                The premise is about as simple as a movie can get: the good guys versus the bad guys – or in this case, the Jews versus the Nazis – but given a nice revenge flavor. The Basterds are an all-Jew American task force sent into occupied France during World War Two with one goal (as quoted by Brad Pitt’s Lt. Raine): “To kill naatzis.” With his announcement that each of his men will owe him 100 Nazi scalps, it’s no wonder the Reich nicknamed him “The Apache.” The Basterds are given a chance to bag the biggest scalp of them all when they learn that Hitler, himself, will be attending a film premiere in Paris. Coincidentally, this is supposed to go down in the same cinema owned by a young Jewish woman whose family was brutally murdered by Col. Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz). Yet oddly, the lines get blurred somewhere, and it’s one of so-called “good guys” who evokes the terrifying (but hauntingly beautiful) image of a pale maniacally laughing woman’s face on a raging inferno.

                And therein exposes my sentiments about this film: it’s beautiful. Since it is Tarantino, you come to expect certain conventions. Sure, almost everyone is going to die. Sure, there will be some kind of trans-existential discussion about an esoteric concept that nobody in their right mind would consider giving any more than a moment’s thought, and then there’s the obligatory discussion about film – which he does drag on a little too long – but none of those Tarantino elements detract from the overall beauty. He does suspense very well, as depicted most notably in two scenes: the opener, where a long Nazi caravan approach silently screams that this will not bode well for the poor farmer who has to host the group, and later, when Pitt’s Raine condemns a Nazi officer to death. In an ominously black door, there comes only the heavy repeating thud of a heavy object, a flare of dramatics that a team of Basterds would exploit. He does the underground bar Mexican Standoff well with some fun and games, social dick-comparing, and final mess with entertaining flair. The slow shots of faces, of cathedral sunroofs superimposed on a stunning set piece, and those smart SS outfits… well, they make he happy that Michael Bay isn’t the standard.

                Perhaps, however, I am being overly positive with this film. I admit, I suffer a bias. See, to me, movies are supposed to be fun. That could be why I’m so heavily drawn to cartoons, comedies, and Sci-Fi/Fantasy. Sure, give me the occasional drama, too: they often manage to connect threads that keep the audience afloat over those gaping plot holes. Sadly, I can’t condemn “Basterds” for plot holes. I can condemn it for not being historically accurate. But if really wanted historically accurate, I’d put on the History Channel. In any case, maybe my praise is on to something here. It’s just nice to be able to watch movies that may be violent, they may be revenge-driven tales, destruction, and the deaths of almost the whole cast – though those who do survive are a bit of a surprise – but golly gee whiz, they still manage to maintain the classic sense that this is a means of entertainment.

                Where the acting is concerned, it was like I was watching real people. A particular element that Tarantino does so well is Human Folly. Mistakes happen, and in “Basterds,” when they go wrong, they tend to leave a high body count. On the other end of reality, certain stereotypes are used with uncanny precision. The All-American inability to speak more than one language is a prime target for ridicule, and is justified as Pitt’s Raine pulls out a brutal Mid-West drawl that is supposed to be Italian. As actors are concerned, Pitt is good, but he is a delicious side when compared to the main dish that is Waltz’s Col. Landa, however. He managed to bring a wonderfully nuanced and utterly precise character to life. Perhaps his only flaw was that he was almost too good at being the detective. Good thing that he gets his comeuppance at the end; if only all Nazis had such fitting fates. But then, if they had, would we have been able to see a group of Jews kick so much Nazi butt like a group of superheroes? Probably not. Thankfully we have Tarantino to put the imaginings in such solid work.

                Chapter 1 – The Rainy Day Feast

                While the people of Lumbidoor were as diverse as any small community, nothing said Lumban better than Feast-day. The reason for this being that it brought together their three favorite things in all the world: friends and family, food, and a story that ignited their imaginations and took them away to far-distant shores, where they swam the Mikeo Straight with two-headed Uddars or scaled chasms on the giant backs of rollikains or kissed moons. Compared to the union of these three things, even the fabled beauty of Lumbidoor could only pout in jealousy.

                Lumbidoor (to explain in case the Reader has never had the pleasure of visiting) sat in the shadow of the great, snow-capped Kiminigor Mountain, where fields and forest met with a neighborly “hay,” and the Shortened Silver Silkies called to each other from the branches of the Whistling Willows they called home. Giant Tupars grazed in the fields, and when the sun was too bright, they’d flare their large dorsal fans for shade. Nestled up between these fields and forests, sitting squat in the middle of the valley, was the town proper. If the Reader were to walk up the main street, they would see the bald men strolling back and forth, pushing carts laden with the giant Citrunar cobs and baskets of the bright green Zip-pootle berries. The women, wrapped up cozy in their skirts and aprons, nodded at the men folk, their shoulders carrying buckets of Tupar milk or water from the River Teck. The elderly lounged in comfortable rockers as their pipes sent citrus-scented bubbles popping into the air. And at the top of the main street, the Great Lumban Hall sat in wait for Feast-day to arrive.

                At the start of this Feast-day, the women were busy as usual: cooking in the giant kitchen in the Great Lumban Hall. Round Rhunda scurried back and forth, sampling the food to make sure they were ready to be served. No, good Reader, Rhunda did not get her nickname from her shape but instead from her capacity to make her way “a-round” any job she had. She was a born manager with an exceptional attention for detail. In order to do her job right, she had long ago figured out how to seeming be everywhere at once. If anyone needed something they only needed to shout out Rhunda’s name and she would be there with advice, a suggestion, or a flat-out order.

                 At present, Rhunda had a ladleful of spiced pumpkin-ginger soup just within reach of her lips. When the taste touched, she withdrew and smacked loudly so as to get the very best flavor from the dish. “Ah, perfect, Eacey! Was that two dashes of Tupar cream? What a difference!”

                “Old Farmer Chupe and the Chuple twins have just crested the rise to the Hall, Rhunda!” exclaimed Iris, who had been watching the window.

                “Oh dear, oh dear,” muttered Rhunda as she deposited the ladle back into the soup-pot. “We’re just about out of time. Veris, Tupper, Vignet, Sandi: take out those platters of cold meats, cheeses and breads. Don’t forget Celia’s Golden Gobble Cobbler! She’s been wanting to impress a certain lad with it.”

                Rhunda then shouted over the clanging of pots, splashing of liquids and rustling of utensils as the girls set the last of the dishes onto their serving platters: “Wyma, make sure you set out at least twenty more places than you think will show!”

                “Yes Rhunda!”

                “Muma,” Rhunda said, wrapping her pudgy fingers about the arm of a twinkle-eyed scurrying woman. “How is my hair? Am I presentable?”

( Read more... )