dograt: a true story.*

It was a sunny, albeit chilly afternoon in Strasburg, France when our two young heroines encountered the beast. They had set out looking for the Petite France neighborhood and somehow ended up going in the complete opposite direction. Without a good map to guide them, they quickly became quite lost.

“Hold on a sec,” Danni paused. “Let me try to figure out where we are”.

“I’m pretty sure we’ll run into it if we just follow the river,” Liz replied. “It’s supposed to be right where the river bends, look right there!” She pointed at the crappy bus map.

The girls continued along the slushy sidewalk until they came to a small crossroads. One option was to take the safe, dry high road well above the river. The other option was to descend to a small icy path along the banks of the river.

“What do you think?” Danni asked. “Stay up here, or walk along the river?”

“I don’t know,” Liz replied. “It looks kind of pretty down by the water.”

And just like that the girls made one of the worst decisions of their lives! As they ambled down the slick cobblestone path towards the water’s edge they could not have know that they were slipping and sliding towards an almost certain doom.

After only a couple of minutes the girls realized that they were not alone along the river’s edge. The banks of the river were teaming with snowy white swans. Now while some cultures worship the swan as an elegant and majestic creature it is a known fact that they are actually quite mean and dangerous. They have small razor sharp teeth capable of piercing even the toughest human flesh, and their uncommonly long necks help them to reach their prey from a great distance.

“Hey look!” Danni pointed at the winged beasts. “Swans”.

Liz took a step backwards, “swans are mean Danni, don’t you remember Geneva!”

The two girls laughed, and pulled out their cameras, so as to not miss a possible, photo du jour. As they began to photograph the scene the girls became aware of the horrific stillness settling on the river’s edge. The swan beasts began to drift away from the banks hissing through their fangs as they retreated to the safety of deeper waters.

“Something’s spooked em,” Liz cringed. “But what could be terrifying enough to spook a swan!”

“Shhh” Danni whispered.

From around the river bend the girls heard a small scratching sound. It started off quiet like the sound of someone scratching their head in a crowded room, but it continued to get louder, and louder until it was just inches away.

“Look!” Danni pointed into shadows under the bridge. “There’s something there!”

At that moment the setting sun began to reflect off of the surface of the water, revealing an appalling creature under the bridge. At first the girls thought it was a small dog, but in a flash of furry it whipped it’s rat like tail through the air bringing it crashing down on the hard stones.

“Oh my God, what is that!” Liz screeched. “It aint no dog!”

“Can it be…” Danni stared, “Liz, I think it’s one of those rat things, I’ve heard about in Besançon! What does it have in its mouth?”

“Well Danni, that would appear to be a human hand” Liz coughed.

The rat beast was indeed chewing mercilessly on the index finger of what could have once been a right hand. Sensing the girls fear, the creature shifted position focusing its glowing red eyes on Danni (she was the smaller of the two girls and therefore the easiest prey).

“I think it’s looking at me Liz” Danni shifted uncomfortably. “I think I’m going to call it a dograt, because it’s obviously a rat, that is the size of a dog.” Liz mused.

She couldn’t have known the mythical origins of this king of rats. Folklore claims that a “rat king” is a phenomenon that arises when a number of rats become intertwined at their tails forming a giant rat ball. This dograt, however, was more terrifying in nature and intent that a million small rats stuck together. It had glowing red eyes capable of piercing the deepest darkness. Its long sharp teeth, second in hardness only to diamonds, were able to slice through steel. Its breath created a poisonous cloud that followed it wherever it moved. Finally, in the heat of battle the dog rat could detach its left hind leg and throw it like a grabbling hook at it’s prey.

The dograt dropped the hand, licked its blood soaked lips, and scampered along the edge of the water straight for Danni. This sudden movement from the beast startled the swans even more sending them into a fearsome feathery flapping frenzy. This was enough to catch the attention of the dograt. The extreme toughness of swan meat, and the thrill of the chase were more than enough to entice the creature.

In the heat of the confusion, the beast slipped into the water. Moments later it had grabbed a large swan by the neck and begun dragging it down stream, as the girls watched in horror. Dograt and swan entangled in a bloody death grip toppled about in the shallows of the river, feathers and fur flying in all directions. In the end the dograt was victorious. It hoisted its prize up to the hard stone steps a couple of feet from the girls and began to devour the still warm swan.

“That was probably the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen… in my entire life” Liz whispered.

“What?” Danni replied.

“That was disturbing.” Liz repeated.

“Yeah,” agreed Danni. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

The two girls decided to take advantage of the dograt feast to escape the potentially harmful situation. Once safely back on the main road, they took one look back only to see the dograt hiss, and latch onto the face of an unsuspecting tourist as her husband attempted to take a picture.

“I guess we got pretty lucky today,” Danni mumbled trying to make sense of the situation

"I guess we did” was all Liz could think to respond.

The girls moseyed along the correct path to the Petite France neighborhood where all the wonders of the Christmas markets and the beauty of the historic buildings would ease their minds of the horrific memories of dograt.

“I think we should get gauffres” Liz smiled.

“I agree,” Danni laughed. “Gauffres au nutella”.

*actually an overly dramatic version of a true story. Some facts may have been elaborated to make the plot more interesting.

Bull fighting… Machismo, or just girly man onsies?

I have recently had the pleasure (I use the term lightly) to attend a real, fairly hardcore bullfight. After surviving nearly 3 hours of devastation, bovine murder, and sequins, I have some serious questions regarding machismo culture and the very essence of masculinity!

Lets start by looking at the term bullfight. You break it down and you have two words: bull and fight. It doesn’t get more macho than that does it? A bull is a large horned beast, and fighting is the ultimate way of releasing too much testosterone. In concept the matador, the person fighting the bull, is a sex symbol. He is the fighter, tamer, and slayer of the beast. The matador expounds in his elegant dominance over the beast… Ok… what really I saw was a small skinny man in brightly colored sequined spandex with a sword strut around and kill a severely wounded boy cow.

Ok, you want to talk about ridiculous... let's examine the "star" of the show. The word matador comes from the Spanish word matar to kill, or when referring to an individual a killer. Now when I think of “killers” I think of black clothing and maybe a facemask. Really, nothing that would make them stand out in a crowd or gain unwanted attention. The matador, however, is the complete opposite of this. He wears a skin tight, colorful sequined onesie, with a funny little jacket, Mickey Mouse hat, bright pink tights, and loafers with a puffball on top. Really this “killer” attracts too much attention to himself. Also this killer really just puts the bull out of its misery. I mean the bull is subjected to quite a bit of torture before it ever deals with the matador. First it’s stabbed by an armored man on an armored horse, then a serious of other men run at it and inject barbed spears into it’s back. This, of course, causes the bull to lose quite a bit of blood. Between the blood loss and the running around in circles the bull is practically spend by the time the matador kills it. Killing something that's already dying... or using complex teamwork to kill something really isn't that macho.

And what about the object of the killing spree? He's just a big hunk of beef. Who ever heard of a town full of villagers needing protection from a raging bovine? You just let a mad cow run around for awhile, and eventually it goes back to chewing it's cud. Trust me human flesh has never been found in the four stomachs of a cow. A real man would fight a real monster, right? It be one thing if it was a Minotaur or something with at least a little bit of credibility. Leave the boy cows alone already!

Finally, the whole spectacle reminded me of a high school basket ball game. "the band only plays when the matador is doing well" I heard the man in front of me explain to a tourist group. I waited to see what kind of jam the band would pull out to keep a good fighter pumped, and what did I get? No "We Will Rock You", not even a note of the "Chariots of fire" theme... no it was...mariachi music... something you would hear on loony toons. So when these fancy little men with their silly swords and pink socks, fight well, they are rewarded with bouncy, little tunes.

In conclusion, I'm going to say that while bull fighting is overly gory and bloody, it is surprisingly wimpy. Hey, maybe it's because I come from a culture where manly men bump chests, never cry on the outside, and enjoy knocking each other down for sport, but I'm not gonna be impressed guy a little skinny dude in a spandex jumpsuit, pom pom shoes, and a Mickey Mouse hat unless he's fighting a dragon with his bare hands!

And now, an illustrated guide to manly matadors:

Hey Bull, you got blood all over my fancy pants, so I'm gonna kill you! ... after you pay the dry cleaning.

You come to me now bull, I am ready for you...

Excuse me bull, before I plunge this sword into your heart, would your mind telling me if these spandex pants make my butt look big?

Now, watch me brood I am a sexy brooder, look at my brooding stance... isn't it exquisite!

I'm gonna pick me a winner... and... and...and... oh shoot, it was just a sequin.

Ah yes, I am the winner, so now I will have these nice, muscly men carry me around on their shoulders... how manly we all are, yes... man...ly...mmmm.

A poem for a puppy

Ginger

A poem in memoriam of a special puppy

I wanted to find a way to remember and celebrate our dog Ginger

She was a constant figure in our lives for over 16 years, and we all really really miss her.

Ginger, I miss you, you big yellow fuzz ball,

Here’s the list of all the things about you that I miss most of all:

I miss you dragging me down the alley on walks,

I miss you’re sympathetic look during our heartfelt talks,

I miss your crusty, cruddy, disgusting volleyball,

I miss how you’d lick us to death if we happened to fall,

I miss how silly you were if you happened to get inside,

I miss how your game of fetch was more like a game of collide,

I miss how you needed comfort whenever there was a big storm,

I miss how you’re hugs were so instantly warm,

I miss when you’d roll over and try to get me to pet your belly,

I miss how sometimes after a really intense rain you were oh so smelly,

I miss you running along the fence trying to catch a car,

I miss how you liked to get free, but you never ran far,

I miss you sneakily trying to steal our food,

I miss trying to brush you, while you tried to elude,

I miss trying to run you down in the dark,

But what I miss most of all is the constant sound of your bark.

Gingy, it’s never fair when you have to say adieu.

It’s just not going to be the same without you.

And if you’re up there with Grandma Jean looking down from above

I hope you realize how much you were loved.

the kinderman chronicals: part deux.

The grating sound of Danni’s voice hit Liz like a shock wave, propelling her backwards in time… far, far back to that fateful night twenty years ago…. The night Hans Kinderman died. Liz suddenly felt a wave of emotion knock her upside the head. Before she had time to react, a single, silver tear slipped quietly out from under her cumbersome, black leather eye patch¹ and slid slowly down her dirt stained cheek. She quickly regained composure, but her scowl intensified as she looked into the mug placed before her. She had spent tormented decades forgetting the pain she felt that night, but in just minutes this pipsqueak of a café owner brought it all rushing back. This was going to be harder than she’d planned… but Captain Lizzle had never backed down from a fight, and she certainly wasn’t going to do so now… not when she was so close to the sweet taste of vengeance. The saying is that revenge is a dish best served cold; well in this case it was absolutely frigid.

“Tea?” Liz hissed through her teeth, as she pushed the steaming mug of Moroccan mint towards the senile shop owner. “I didn’t come all this way, on this very day, to this very café for fricking tea, Danni!” A light flickered behind her heavily lined eye, “… if you are going to offer me something to drink… offer me something worth drinking,” the flicker turned into a flame, “offer me the kinder drink”.

Danni Frowned, “I do not make that drink anymore”.

“Oh no?” Liz planted her claw-like hands on the counter and leaned in menacingly. “Decided the drink was a little dangerous, did cha!?!”

Danni immediately grasped the severity of Liz’s comment, “I…I just haven’t been able to keep any Kinder in the shop since that day” she stammered, shrinking from the crazy gaze in Liz’s eye. She knew that there was no way of avoiding the argument; it was nothing more or less than the continuation of a very long, very bloody battle between the two of them… a battle that would end only in death.

“It really is a shame Danni,” Liz replied. She was like an Icelandic volcano ready to erupt and wreck havoc on the western European airways. “A shame that you ever made that drink as a way to seduce and steal my soul mate, and essentially ruin my life”.

“You’re going there, Liz? Really? Do you always have to go there? It has been more than twenty five years…” Danni began.

“Twenty five years of nothing but… suffering … torture…PAIN…” Liz reached into one of the large pockets of her cloak, and began emptying its contents onto the counter. Unsatisfied, she moved on to another pocket and then another. Danni jumped as Liz haphazardly flung a large tabby cat in her direction. Finally, from the very depths of the cloak Liz produced a small black box. She pulled a rusted key from a chain around her neck and slowly opened the box.

Liz reached into the box, “make the drink” she mumbled through gritted teeth. “I want the drink!”

Danni shuddered. On the palm of Liz’s hand were two individually wrapped pieces of Kinder chocolate. “There’s no way… how long has that been in there? That can’t be thirty year old chocolate?” she gagged. Liz had a crazy look in her eyes. “Seriously Liz… you want me to make hot chocolate out of something that has been rotting in your pocket for thirty years!?!”

“Chocolate never goes bad Danni,” Liz gingerly peeled off the faded white and orange paper and aluminum with her dirt encrusted fingernails, and shoved the dry crumbly discolored mess into Danni’s hand.

Danni shrugged her shoulders and tossed the Kinder into two of her finest mugs. Death by stale chocolate wouldn’t be the worst way to go… considering the circumstances².

It only took Danni a couple of minutes to brew the dangerously chocolaty concoction, but those couple of minutes were the longest minutes of Danni’s life. Liz remained silent, thoughtfully stroking the tail of a very shaggy, very old cat that had been hiding under her hood. She was sizing Danni up… which didn’t take long considering the extremely petite stature of the vendeuse. Liz was trying to remember what Danni was like before her betrayal. She had once been one of Liz’s dearest friends… they had traveled the world together, and both had taken part in the slaying of the Jabberwocky ³. But that was a very long time ago. Now all of the pleasant Danni memories were plagued by treachery.

Danni slid a steaming mug over to Liz, western bar style. Despite the fact that the semi dissolved chunks of kinder were practically petrified- causing the hot chocolate to take on a sickly grey color and bubble like witches brew- the comforting smell of Kinder filled the room. Liz couldn’t help taking a deep breath before taking a long drink from her mug. As soon as the chocolate touched her lips everything came rushing back… the good, the bad, and the chocolate.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It is a little known fact that the dreaded pirate Liz graduated college with a degree in French and a Minnesota state teaching license. She had actually meet Kinderman while teaching abroad in the south of France. There was an intimate connection and chemistry between them from the very beginning. One day after a frustrating trip to the grocery store (Because she was saving up to buy her first ship and launch her pirating career Liz was living off of a diet of chocolate bars, tap water siphoned from a neighboring apartment, and whatever she could mooch off of friends and relatives) Liz happened to look up in time to see a piece of scaffolding hurdling in her direction. She quickly leapt out of the way causing a chain reaction preordained by the gods of love.

Liz’s blind leap caused her to trip over the curb of the sidewalk and into the busy street. Sh

e was sideswiped by a speeding taxi, which spun her quickly across the road and out of the way of traffic… frogger style. Liz attempted to step onto the opposite sidewalk, but a gust of w

ind swept the sports page of a local newspaper into her face, temporarily blinding her. As she struggled to free herself from the newspaper Liz tripped over a homeless man’s dog. She then fell forward into the fancy door of a small café, which suddenly opened sending her toppling ba

ckwards into the arms of a rather startled Hans Kinderman.

Lookin

g into his gorgeous, toned pectorals Liz knew she was smitten. It was only after he had bought her dinner (at the café with the fancy door), and escorted her back to her apartment, that she looked into grocery bag to find a young Kinderman staring back up at her. Hans Kinderman was indeed the grown (and handsomely matured) Kinder boy from the box of Kinder chocolate.

Kinderman had been a fairly successful child model. At the age of 6 he was accidentally discovered while on a semi annual big market trip. The Kinderman’s were from a very small remote village in secluded German mountains. The only ways to access the village were, a treacherous 5 day hike through the mountains, army helicopter, or traditional pirate ship. Every year the Kinderman family would make the 5 day trek to the next town to sell their goods at the market and to stock up on essentials (and goodies) that they were unable to produce themselves. To transport everything through the mountains and back they traveled with a herd of sherpa-trained Siberian mountain goats, and an old donkey named pickle. Once they had set up at the market the young Hans would sing and dance as a way to draw people to his family booth. Needless to say before he was discovered Hans knew very little of the larger outside world. Once he got a little taste of that world he was hooked. Though he tried, he was never again happy in his small, secluded town.

The year Liz and Kinderman met was the same year Kinderman scored his first big modeling campaign (even bigger than the Kinder campaign). The next year, with his help, Liz was finally able to purchase her own authentic pirate ship. Together they ruled the 7.5⁴ seas for nearly 13 years. They were 13 years of piratey bliss. Due to their exploits and adventures Captain Liz and her first mate Kinderman were two of the richest people in the world, and without a doubt the most famous-est pirates ever!

One chilly September morning, out of the blue, Kinderman realized that he no longer loved the deep folding waves of the open ocean. He had lost the urge to feel the salty sea breeze rustle through his long untamed locks. Perhaps most unsettling of all, for the first time in 13 years he found the even sway of the ship more nauseating than soothing.

Kinderman was like an untamable gazelle when he made up his mind about something, nothing could sway him. He decided that he needed to make port and take a break from piracy. Liz, blinded by love and the desire to make her other half happy, let him go. It was a decision she regretted for the rest of her life. Within two months Danni had seduced and stolen Kinderman.

By the time Liz realized what had gone down, Kinderman was gone for good. Her life began a dangerous spiral into insanity. Without Kinderman she left piracy and turned to rap music and drugs, eventually losing her mind completely and becoming a crazy cat lady.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Liz quickly drained her mug and turned to Danni, “It’s time for you to close shop for the night”.

To be continued …

¹ Liz wears an eye patch over her left eye, despite the fact that the eye is completely functional. It is a fashion piece most likely picked up during her pirate years. The fact that she continues the sport the useless accessory only expands upon the fact that in her latter years Liz is completely loopy.

² Not only was Liz known for being a fearsome pirate, but also a well connected gangsta rapper, and rifleman. (see post “what are you going to do with your life”).

³Arguably one of Liz’s most successful conquests, the Jabberwocky was a nonsensical literary creature from the demented mind of L. Carroll.

⁴ Due to the effects of global warming and the melting of the polar ice caps, the state of Utah was completely ingulfed by the Great Salt Lake- making Utah more of a sea than a state.

Tale of Hans Kinderman: Part 1

It is 5:07 on a Wednesday at the Café de la Révolution. Two customers chat on a couch, sipping their Sartres. Another leafs through the Oxford History of the French Revolution. Danni is behind the counter, cleaning off the espresso machine while humming the Marseillaise. All of the sudden the front door opens. A melancholic figure wearing a large cloak enters and approaches the counter. Danni wipes her hands on her apron and turns around to greet the customer. The mysterious guest pulls off her hood and reveals her face. Danni is immediately stunned in horror. A haunting silence fills the café.

Guest: So you recognize me.

Danni: (Looks intently at the guest’s face.) Of course I recognize you.

Guest: You know why I’m here then.

Danni: (Glances at the calendar hanging on the wall. Closes her eyes for a moment and focuses her attention back to her guest.) Yes.

Guest: I hoped that you had not forgotten.

Danni: No. That would be impossible.

Guest: It would have been terrible if you had forgotten.

Danni: As I said, I did not forget.

Guest: Good. That would have broken my heart. And you’ve already done that. I can’t bear the thought of going through that pain all over again.

Danni: I’m sorry.

Guest: I didn’t come here for an apology.

Danni: Alright. What can I get you then?

Guest: I didn’t come here for coffee either.

Guest: I came here for revenge.

Danni remains silent. Closing her eyes, she imagines letting out a scream. How dare she come in here and say something like that? Especially today, the vicennial of Hans Kinderman's death. Danni opens her eyes and looks at the woman standing in front of her. She studies the ragged eyepatch the wrinkles protruding all across her face. She had never before seen such profound yet fatigued lines. She never would have imagined that this same old and miserable woman was once that young and lively Liz she knew so many years ago.

Serves her right, that bitch.

After a pause, Danni decides to ignore Liz’s threat. Searching for a teapot, she urges her guest to sit down. Despite her irritation, the prude does without much resistance. Danni follows with the teapot in hand, hoping a cup of hot tea would calm her old acquaintance. While pouring the hot water, Danni feels Liz’s glower and ire. Sitting back in her chair, Danni looks again at the old woman, trying to rekindle the image she once held of her.

Danni: (While sipping her tea) So, Liz, how are the cats?

To be continued.

summer fashion.

It is the first day of summer. While to many this means longer days, barbecues, ice cream trucks, and lounging in the sun, Tyra sees summer as a critical time to revamp her style. As America's Top Model Extraordinaire, there is no way she can be seen donning a look from last season. So we decided to help her.

Braiding her long tresses, we first gave her a Caribbean-inspired look that would make her ready to hit the beach and join up with the Rastafarians.

This coiffure also made her resemble a certain malevolent creature in ancient mythology. Especially when hung upside down. She was a great asset to a prank on fellow pod mates.

Unfortunately, Tyra did not prefer to be hanging from the doorframe. So we decided that she was not cut out for such an exotic look. Knowing that "retro" is in, we thought that an 80s big hairdo could be attractive.

Total dreckitude.

So we quickly pulled it back and added some cats to give it more of a 1700s Marie-Antoinette feel.

Exquisite, a complete work of art. But the cats became restless and scurried away, leaving Tyra in a bigger mess than she started off with. So we were left with only one more option. The chopping block.

With extremely limited experience as a cosmetologist, I audaciously took charge of the hair reduction process. Tyra held her breath in anticipation for her next hairy disaster.

Liz held Tyra's hand while I snipped and razed her long polyester locks.

Yet there was no need for fear. Dozens of minutes later, I set down the scissors and turned Tyra around. With a short layered bob, and a piece of flair, our friend can now be proud of her hair.

Now what will she desire when fall comes rolling around?

another poem...

A good teacher is like Napoleon

Liz Whitt

When asked to find a metaphor to describe my teaching philosophie,

Of course a long list of important French figures came to mind, but who… oh just who would the best one be?

I could have chosen, Guallume le conquérant, Charlemagne, Jeanne d’arc, Clovis, Louis XIV, or Vercingétorix

But you see I had a major issue with the fact that nothing rhymes with quatorze… or Vercingétorix.

A little more pondering finally brought me to a pretty satisfying conclusion

I’ve decided that a good teacher should be a little something like l’empereur Napoléon!

I can tell you’re all thinking, Liz you’re insane, Napoléon was a frickin’ dictateur!

And while that may be true,

I must reassure you,

That he was not nearly as bad as M. Hitler.

I need to talk to you about my teaching philosophy, so I’ll try not to get the readings too blurred,

Just to warn you things could get a little existential, just stop me before I reach the absurd.

I firmly believe that the very first week a teacher must usurp control.

When the students are wild,

And quite easily riled

The teacher must have la parole!

Once the teacher becomes the emperor or empress

Self elected…

Hey, even somewhat respected…

He/she will be able to cultivate and mold young minds with the possibility of success.

In our classrooms we plan to teach what we know, be it l’histoire, la musique, les maths, ou le français

But we must also teach students to discover who they are, and that in fact who they are is ok.

Often joining the “real world” feels like invading the frozen tundra of la Russie

No matter what they intend,

It’s a big fat dead end

It’s going to suck to a certain degree.

We must teach through example how to pick ourselves up when we fall

If our students resign themselves to Elba we’ve taught them nothing at all!

Finally, it needs to be said:

I believe it is true

We all face Waterloo

The question is what will you do

Who will you develop into?

Which values do you wish to embed?

So am I traditional, modern, postmodern, contemporary, analytic, other… or none

I could make myself sick

Just trying to pick

I should probably take the best parts from each one.