Be a Horse in a Dog’s World

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It only took about 24 takes to get this picture. Clearly Taszer had a blast. Dazzle? Not so much.

It’s been three and a half years since we had to put down our old boy, Preacher. At the time, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to get another boy again. Preacher was it. He was the Walrus. He was The Man. He was on duty from the moment we met him until the horrible day we had to say goodbye. While Dazzle was our sweet and silly little girl that came to give him some pep in his step, Preacher was our forever dog.

And then almost a year later, after a visit to Minnesota which included spending time with our Kuvasz breeder family I got a text saying that a boy named Taszer (they spelled it “Tazer”, I added the sz for the full Hungarian feel;) had fallen in love with Zandra and told her that she needed to take him home. Home being my house at the time as she was getting on her feet after stumbling a bit. Hmmmmmm, am I ready for another boy? Will he be as perfect as Preacher?

Well, no. He wasn’t. Of course. But I tell ya what, he was many things that Preacher wasn’t and most important of all-he loved his new girl and loved us. So eventually, he came home. Home being MY home. Now, Taszer was already 5 years old so some of the house noises and goings on were a bit foreign to him. He wasn’t afraid of the vacuum until Dazzle talked him into it. He wouldn’t eat cheese treats until Dazzle called him a moron enough times that he’d finally take it as a treat. To his last days, he’d still carefully take the first bite back to his bed and munch it and then run back to the kitchen for more. Which was usually gone because Dazzle was all, “move your feet lose your cheese, dude.”

Around his first Christmas here, Zandra and I were having an argument and I yelled at her. Afterwards, Za went to work and I had a session out in the gym. When I came back to the house, Taszer had literally shit and pee’d all over my floors. From the kitchen to the living room to the back room. All. Over. And as my head nearly exploded, he just sat and looked at me with a “Do not ever yell at my girl again” face. In which case, I calmly looked at him and said, “If you ever do anything like this again you are fucking gone. Got it? Fucking. Gone.” I’m pretty sure he gave a slight nod and walked away feeling as if he had won that round. Tell ya what, Working Dogs are no joke. Of course Zandra thought it was hilarious and probably gave him treats for sticking up for her.

One of the more endearing attributes of Taszer is that he thought he was a horse. Now, I’m not just saying this. See, the breeder’s live out in the country and for a long time have had horses living on the other side of their fence. My theory is that Taszer saw them run and said to himself, ya-that’s me. That’s what I look like when I run.

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Secretariat. One evening the Disney ‘Secretariat’ movie was on the television and during the middle of it, Matt motioned for me to look at Taszer who’s bed was always right next to my chair. Sure as shit, he was watching intently and I’m quite sure recognized the horses as his brethren.

There was nothing “Dog” about Taszer’s run. He would trot; cantor; chuff when annoyed or tried to intimidate you; his little doggy feet would sound like thunder when he got a good gallop on in the back yard which was pretty impressive because our back yard isn’t very big at all. Basically, Taszer lived his life believing he was a horse. When we’d pass other dogs when out walking he wouldn’t give them the time of day. He wasn’t rude about it, he just didn’t believe he needed to associate with them. He was very sweet with Dazzle but maybe she looked enough like him to know that while she wasn’t a big, beautiful creature like him, she was okay.

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Taszer always had smiles for his girl.

When Zandra moved back to Minnesota we kept Taszer here to make sure she could find a place and get situated. Then a funny thing happened: Taszer became MY boy. Pre-Christmas shitting was forgotten and I came to rely on his majestic attitude and overall silliness. Taszer never got enough pets. If you were sitting on a chair and had your hand available, he’d come up underneath it with his head and keep bothering you until you started petting him. The wood floors were always a bit of a challenge for him and at times when he was slipping about he would just look at me and say, “Would you just get horse stall mats like all the other horses have, Mom?”

He was family, not just Zandra’s dog. Ours. Mine. Dazzle’s. Family.

We “joked” with the breeder’s after bringing Taszer home that he would keep Dazzle young and when Dazzle finally passed on we would get another little girl to keep Taszer young and the cycle would just continue through the years. Taszer turned 8 this fall and Dazzle 10 but both of them were in great health and I felt comfortable that saying goodbye was a long ways off.

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This picture was taken in mid-October. Right after Taszer’s 8th birthday. He and Dazzle were on a field trip to my son’s house for the weekend and Zac’s girlfriend’s dog kept trying to snuggle up to Taszer. She finally won and there ya go. Adorbs.

But then he wasn’t. Taszer had a very fast and devastating brain tumor that took him in under two months. It was horrible. Two days after Christmas, Matt already on a plane for a quick work trip and the kids packing up to head back to Minnesota and I knew Taszer had taken a turn for the worse. I told Oz and Zandra to say goodbye and then, even though my house was trashed from a week of Christmas fun, I laid on the floor by his side and didn’t move. I tried to force some water into his mouth and just cried. No. Way. It’s only been two years. You’re only 8. We have more years we’re supposed to spend together. This cannot be our ending. Even though I knew it was.

Our vet was supportive and we made an appointment for the next morning to say goodbye unless his condition improved. But we all knew it wouldn’t. I talked to the breeder’s and let them know what was happening and they were supportive and loving. I had a plan in the event he went into distress during the night and slept right by his  side on the floor to make sure he was comfortable. We watched the Hobbit movies, something that will always remind me of him. I didn’t want to even close my eyes knowing that 9 a.m. the next day is looming.

Taszer had a relatively comfortable night but around 5a.m. he started to visibly be, “not awesome.” I knew this was the right thing to do but seeing him jump into the car for his last time and especially out of the car at the vets absolutely shattered me. How can this dog who seems to healthy getting out of the car be dying today? One look at him by the Doctor when she came in the room and said, “Yes, it’s time” gave me very little comfort. I know it’s the right thing to do, but still so very difficult.

I’m thankful for our time together but still so sad that it wasn’t long enough. I’m sad that I lost a family dog to disease rather than old age. I’m sad that Dazzle doesn’t have her buddy. I’m just so sad. OH! Here’s a fun Taszer story; while digging isn’t a huge problem with our Big White Dog’s, Taszer had dug a hole so deep in our back yard corner that prior to a cold spell before Christmas, he was in the hole so far that for a minute I couldn’t see him. When I started to call for him, he butt up’d and happily strolled to the door. Filthy, which was fun because he’d just had a bath, and satisfied. I’d joke with our neighbor that some day our dog is going to find the dead body he’d buried in our yard and he’d laugh…I think. I’ll always believe Taszer’s one regret in life was that he never found that dead body. Now we have a hole about four feet deep in our yard. I dunno, plant a tree? Big boy, I miss you so much.

But here is Taszer’s legacy: be a horse in a dog’s world. Be bigger and better than everyone around you even if those around you are already big and good. Strut your shit because you are a magnificent beast, errrr, person. Don’t get distracted by those little dogs, errr, problems that are insignificant in the long run. Be a horse in a dog’s world.

As I opened the back of the car to let him out at the vets, I snuggled deep into his fur and said, “You are the greatest horse I have ever loved. You are irreplaceable. You will never be forgotten.”

If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans 

James Herriot

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Mixed Messenges

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I read somewhere that 2017 was designated, The Year of the Woman. First off, uhhhhh, okay. Pandering to trends is the new normal however disgusting it may be but I suppose it sells newspapers and lawds know the papers are having a hard time these days. (By the way, I still love my hometown paper the StarTrib out of Minneapolis/St. Paul. While it definitely has a political slant to it, the slant is as narrow as it probably can be in this day and age and it’s able to discuss a multitude of subjects without bashing political rivals. I had a chance to read a Sunday’s version of The Globe out of Boston and that is one amazing newspaper. The Spotlight section spoke out against the dismal outlook for the mentally ill in Boston and the rest of the paper was so incredibly well written that I lost time and thought I was back in 1980 when print was reliable. The Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel is crap. Utter and complete crap. It’s good for lighting the charcoal chimney, not much else. Sloppy and misleading writing; lack of fact checking without even a look in the rear view mirror as to whether or not “sources” are trustworthy, and outright lies fill 8 pages of a waste of the 15 minutes it may take someone to read it. Crap. Pretty representative of local papers around the country.)

Anyway. Not the point of today but thanks for letting me get that in.

Women are mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore! Oh wait, time for a selfie…

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If ever I came upon this in a globo-gym, I would ask the stupid woman if she were auditioning for Playboy and then tell her she’s doing it wrong because they really just want to see how her Vag photographs. Silly girl.

Millions of women marched on Washington and around the country, sporting their Labia hats (even though they called them Vag hats. Ummmm, maybe before you costume up you could just google anatomy that shit) which was sure to garner respect from all those evil men (or I guess just one really in the Oval Office and no, I don’t mean Clinton. He’s the cool one) I guess. I mean, when I want respect I try to behave in a way that I would find respectful. I don’t ‘tit’s out’ in public unless me and the hubs are getting nasty in an empty elevator or something (this doesn’t happen mostly, I just want to see if he’s read the whole article.) But woman find this empowering so the media will jump on it and we’re all supposed to just be amazed at how empowered we are.

Ashley Judd stood up and denounced the evil that was entering Washington. All the while KNOWING there was a sexual predator in her neck of the woods and 20 years after her run in with him, finally decided to speak out. What a huge piece of shit.

Also,

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But hey, we won’t talk about the hypocrisy today of every single woman in every single business who chose to shut up and put up/out for the sake of their careers. I mean, feminists unite around the “we make up our own rules according to how this is going for us” pole and wrap those ribbons! You go girl!

Oh wait, I haven’t selfied in a few minutes here, hold on…

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Grlfriend needs to work that sideboob angle a bit better or invest in better bolt-on’s and also, if you’re going to wear a trucker hat shouldn’t it at least wear your sponsors trucker hat? You don’t have a sponsor? Dude, bolt-on’s and side boob. Get on it.

The lady-bits landscape is so confusing these days. You have millions of women screaming “RESPECT ME YOU PUSSY GRABBER!” and you have millions of women saying, “HERE’S A PICTURE OF MY BODY INCLUDING MY TITS AND ALMOST PUSSY, YOU MUST RESPECT ME!!!” Well, geez. Which one is it?

Here’s a few fun facts of sexual assault/harassment:

  1. As a woman, you choose what you’ll accept in daily life. So when a man pats you on the ass in the office with an obligatory, “good job babe” and you don’t scream from the fucking rooftop,YOU SLIMY MOTHERFUCKER. WE’LL BE HEADED TO HUMAN RESOURCES FOR THAT PAT ON MY ASS AND IF YOU EVER TOUCH ME INAPPROPRIATELY AGAIN I WILL NOT ONLY SUE YOUR ASS AND THAT OF THIS COMPANY, I WILL WAIT FOR YOU IN A DARK PARKING LOT WITH A MILLION OTHER LADIES WHO LIKE TO MARCH AND WE WILL PAT YOUR ASS UNTIL IT IS A BLOODY PULP! GOT IT? See, unfortunately, you are responsible for what you’ll put up with. And for those who interject, “ya butt Jules they just really liked their job and wanted to climb the corporate ladder”, okay. Then that’s your choice. You choose. Job promotion or integrity. See, the feminists have lied to you all this time. You actually CAN’T have it all. Choices will need to be made. I know, it’s not fair. I honestly know this. My world is in the gym world. Sexual harassment and various forms of sexual assault are a common occurrence. What we accept, we live with. We don’t get to come back 20 years later and scream at one man for perceived harassment while we’ve been complacent and handed excuses to another man who made sure you’ve made lots of money. I mean, I guess you can but you’re a hypocrite and in my world, a huge piece of shit. You’ve demeaned those who have been raped/molested/assaulted and didn’t have a voice in the matter. This isn’t some kitchy fucking hashtag Facebook campaign, this is real life and thriving despite sexual abuse is real empowerment. And hey, I even got to keep my shirt on.
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This photo was taken at the 3rd Annual “Slutwalk” protest to highlight misconceptions about sexual assault and rape. Ummm, okay. How about if women in clothes just start standing up for themselves on a daily basis? I guess that’s not “likes” worthy.

More fun facts…

2. Rape is not political. It is personal. Let me say that again. RAPE IS NOT POLITICAL. It is not partisan. It does not matter if you were raped by a Republican or Democrat or Independent or Tea Party’r or Green Party’r. It does not matter if the rape was committed by a Christian, or  Jew, or Muslim, or White guy/girl, or Black guy/girl, or a State Farm Furry. Rape is rape. If you are joining the media and the local mob asking for one person’s head because they have accusations from unnamed sources and not another who has openly admitted to sexual assault, you are a huge piece of shit. A woman was wronged, that is the only thing that matters. Allowing the media to herd you into the local sheep pen to ensure that outrage is selective is incredibly unseemly. Be seemly.

3. If a woman has allowed herself to be a pawn in another man’s game to get ahead, own it. Look, we all play the game even a little bit to move forward in life, work, and maybe even sport. We have all made mistakes walking through life and most of us are afforded to right wrongs and grow and deal with things differently. That’s cool. Just own it. Most of us also understand that you can’t turn back the clock and we’ll just have to live with those mistakes; support others where we can, and move on. Moving on isn’t hypocritical, being selective is. As my favorite Deadwood character says, “Declare or shut the fuck up.” Succinct.

4. Don’t publicly question if another woman has truly been sexually assaulted. It actually serves no purpose and here’s the rub, you don’t fucking know. So shut up. Along the time of the trendy hashtag Facebook campaign, a lot of people (some I know and adore, others just idiots) thought they were giving an opposite point of view by questioning whether so many woman were truly impacted. Geez, knock it off. First off, who cares? Second off, maybe that was the point after all. Highlighting how common sexual impropriety occurs and that tons of women you know have been negatively affected. Look friends, just because you have a Facebook account doesn’t mean you HAVE to comment on shit. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve learned this the hard way. I didn’t come out of those instances looking good and I can tell you that those interactions will stick with me long after happy little joy joy posts will.

5. Along those lines, know this, not everyone has the ability to handle such news that you have been sexually assaulted. This is deep stuff, or it should be. It’s not trendy. It’s not cute. It hurts people for a very long time. Some are not able to move past it. I hate that for them. I am so very sorry so many can’t move past it. I’m not special because I have, I’m just lucky. I have an incredibly support system and I was put on this planet with enough spit and vinegar to avoid societal games that other Peterson’s like to play. But there are many people I know who cannot deal with the fact that I was raped and molested by my brother, many who know and love him, and there is nothing I can do about that. I can’t love them less because it’s not up to me how people process deep shit. I’ve had to process deep shit since I was very little so I’ve had more time to practice. Lucky me. Heh. Years ago, I hit my husband with some very deep shit and saw the shock in his face and the “holy shit I have no idea what to say” written all over his face. That’s ok. He just hugged me and said, “I’ve got your back” which was the exact perfect thing to say. But again, I’m lucky.

And now I’ll get to the point of this post, wait, first another selfie…

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This one is particularly disturbing to me. A) she still has baby fat which would indicate she’s pretty young. 2. holding your shirt up with your mouth? Come. On!

As I’ve eluded to up there, women send mixed messages. That needs to stop. You can march in your Labia hats all you want but until women, and women you know, stop sending mixed messages, this shit continues. Do you have a friend who partially clothed social media selfies all the time? Do you say anything to her about it? Most likely yes, and most likely no. But this is a problem. This is a big problem. We want men to want to GET into our pants but then bitch when men JUST want to get into our pants. Mixed message. We shove our tits out in Social Media and then scream that we refuse to be treated as just a pair of tits. Confusing.

See, we want it all. Feminists told us we can have it all. So we do. Sorry. Mommy said you were a special snowflake genius destined for greatness, she lied too. Sorry. And here’s the rub, it’s your fault. YOU. You women out there who watch friends and colleagues whore themselves all over the place in real world and social media and say nothing. Oh sure, you’ll march. That’s easy. Selective activism. Cool. But stepping up to a co-worker and saying, “You know what Sugar, while it’s true I would love to have your bangin’ body and perfectly squeezable shaped titties, you showing them all over the office affects every women trying to garner respect through professionalism and a job well done. Can you just cover them here and then after work we’ll happy hour and you can pop’em back out and drink free all night. Cool?”

When you see a woman coming out of, oh let’s just say, Matt Lauer’s office and her clothes are disheveled and she’s crying, did you just put your head down knowing full well what went on and say nothing? Or did you scream from the rooftop, OH HELL NO MATT LAUER YOU HUGE PIECE OF SHIT! YOU RAPING AND ASSAULTING WOMEN AT THE OFFICE IS FUCKING UNACCEPTABLE AND YOU ARE FUCKING DONE!

Nope. No one did that either. Acceptance by silence. Mixed messages.

Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Realize the strength, move on.

Henry Rollins

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Lil Nuggets

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B Fox and Moser (Maui No Ka Oi!)

Years ago, I participated in a weekend of Olympic Weightlifting with the Texas crew as they were trying to form a training cert to compliment their strength training cert. I had already been warned that it would be a grueling 36 hours that would include lecture time along with 5 hard training sessions. Truth be told, I was honored to be able to participate and I held my own as the eldest lifter of the group.

One of the visiting coaches was Jim Moser, fresh in from Maui (Maui No Ka Oi!) and ready to bring his Island coaching to the weekend. His relax man approach was a fun detour from the structured, no rest for the weary, weekends we were used to. His lecture style was shoot from the hip and it took me a little while to adjust from the bullet points and ultra prepared cert style I’d spent so many weekends listening to.

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Hunter looks on as Jim Moser compliments Anthony Pomponio’s lat spread. (Maui No Ka Oi!)

I found myself drifting off here and there when Jim laid down this Lil Nugget of knowledge…Always strive to raise your minimum in the gym. Wait, what? Yup, every time you walk into the gym, know what your absolute; feel like shit; ate like crap; no sleep, minimum is for a lift and work to raise that number over time. Top numbers are for meets, get better in your everyday. I loved it.

I still think about that advice a lot. It’s the most meaningful advice I took away from a weekend of intense lifting and lecture time. OH! Also, in true York Barbell fashion, we would line up to lift a weight and once the person in front of you was done, you would be expected to be lifting that bar as soon as it settled on the platform. At some point on Sunday morning, I finally threw the white flag and said I needed to rest more than the 40 seconds I was allotted with our small group of women. Jim looked over at the men’s platform and sheepishly said, “Oh right, the men have almost three times as many people as you girls. You can slow down.” NO FUCKING SHIT!!!!! Our pace significantly slowed enough for us to actually hit some of our top lifts. While it was actually kind of funny, always be thankful if you’re sucking air to have an old lady or man speak up and give you an extra few seconds of rest. You’re welcome.

There ya go, 36 hours; 5 hard training sessions; countless lectures, and one amazing steak dinner on Saturday night and I took away one thing that has stuck with me.

And really, I learned an even bigger thing that weekend. That no matter how much time or money is invested into becoming a better athlete (this applies in all walks of life actually but we’ll focus on lifting and throwing for now cuz it’s mah jam) you may only walk away with one little nugget of information that will pay out dividends in the future. And that’s awesome. If you get more out of something, kudos. Good on ya. But that one golden nugget may have an amazing impact on how you approach training for success and aren’t you a lucky girl?

Because of that weekend, I now look for those Lil Nuggets that will turn my training or practicing on it’s ears and suddenly make sense of confusing concepts. Enter last week and a Facebook post by our good friend, Big Daddy (that’s all you need to say, if you’re a thrower, you know who that is) who made a comment that someone without “X” years of experience shouldn’t be writing a book on training. Yes, he was calling someone out specifically. Yes, it is the main reason I’ve deactivated my Facebook account for now. JC folks, there are real problems in the world and this post garnered over 150 comments. I.Just.Can’t.

Anyways, the post had the usual suspects of Ya Man, fok that! and the other side of Uh Uh, they may have something to say. Give ’em a chance. Boring. While I’m a firm believer that we all get to have our own opinion on shit (usually mine is right), I also have a different point of view from our pal. See, that training/throwing manual (that I haven’t read) may have just ONE lil nugget in there that will affect your gym or field time and pay out dividends. Just ONE. Maybe more, but unless the book is in the hundreds of dollars isn’t it worth a few bucks for ONE POSSIBLE AH-HA MOMENT?

I’ve been around throwers now for about 5 years. It’s been fabulous; and so much fun, and so incredibly frustrating that not telling someone to shut the fuck up becomes the focus of the day rather than throwing far. Standard cues are repeated for every toss that actually means shit to what the person is doing mechanically. Even throwers who throw supes far don’t always know what they’re doing right or wrong and will give a novice thrower supes stupid advice because it’s what they do and they throw far.(Attention novice throwers everywhere! Sometimes people throw really far with technical imperfections that doesn’t mean shit because at the end of the day, they understand how to move in the space; are super strong, and have physical aptitude to be an awesome thrower. They’ve been throwing since they were in junior high and have been removed from novice status for so long, they’ve forgotten what it feels like to not understand how to instantly place a hammer into “orbit” or block or whatever else the cue is. You’re not them. You need solid mechanics. Go see K.O.)

I’ve literally asked some Pro’s questions and received answers such as, “I have no idea, I just do it.” I appreciate those answers though, because then I don’t waste my time trying to replicate whatever I saw that seemed to bring success.

On to Instagram. It belongs here, really. (This is where a judge on Law & Order would say, “get there faster counselor.”) I have stated before that I have learned more from Instagram than I ever thought I could. One throw that scrolls across my feed can make sense of concepts and attempts to do things than practice ever could. A stone throw from Mike Beech is one of these posts (you can tell me all day to use more legs in a throw but until I see it and try it, it will fall on deaf ears.) People I don’t know toss out those Lil Nuggets every day and all I have to do is sift through the attention whoring; sports bra and shortie shorts wearing, bikini clad date seeking bimbo’s with the “I just hate my body, see all of it here. Isn’t it horrible, here, look up my ass and tell me how I have value” posts to find them.

Lifting is the same way on the IG. Sometimes it’s subtle and at other times it is a punch in the face, DO THIS! I try it and OH HEY, it works! It has accelerated progress at very low cost (my time. There are too many minutes spent on social networks, another reason Facebook is out. I must be better than that. I must give attention to around me rather than in FB land. IG has value for me so that stays…for now.)

In conclusion, buy that books. Watch those videos. Listen to that thrower/lifter. Hit those throws practices. Seek Lil Nuggets that will set you apart from others BUT, do so with discerning eyes and ears. Just because someone does something better than you doesn’t mean things out of their mouth are valuable.  On the flip side of that, just because someone hasn’t been doing something very long doesn’t mean everything out of their mouth is wrong. In fact, I believe that someone newer to a sport later in life who has figured things out faster than others has VERY valuable things to say. Hell, I’ve taught hammer throwing to women who never touched the thing and instantly threw further than my average on day one. Yay that I understand it enough to teach; Boo that I suck throwing it.

Ask questions, don’t ever (IMO) show blind faith in someone’s words. Make them explain the reason for exercises. If mechanics can’t be explained, well, buyer beware. Seek, but be selective in what you find.

And don’t fight on Facebook. Find something better to do. Go make coffee; or have sex; or train; or throw; or carry an old ladies groceries (but not mine. I’m good.)

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A very normal image as to what my desk looked liked at the end of those home field work weekends looked like.

Maui No Ka Oi!

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Burn Her!

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If you haven’t seen the movie Hansel & Gretel, go ahead and do it. It’s pretty fun and the witch scenes are super cool. I like movies that entertain and don’t fucking lecture from Hollywood writers and actors on how I should be living my life. 

This past weekend, the hubs and I hit the road and drove a whirlwind New England tour that included the worlds greatest Pizza (Pepe’s in New Haven); Chinese dumplings (Portland), and of course a Lobstah roll (Bahston.) We had amazing beer in Lipswich and came upon a restaurant in New Hampshire that had been flipped by Robert Irvine along a stream overlooking a covered bridge. I can now say that I understand why everyone says New England is beautiful. It truly took my breath away in many parts and due to the warm fall, there were still many colors on the trees that mirrored in the crystal clear waters in the many lakes and streams. It was stunning. I absolutely loved it. If we weren’t so old and tired, we really could have whooped it up but we did our best and coming home craving protein and eggs tells me I did my junk food consumption proud!

One stop I really wanted to make was Salem. I have always had an intrusive curiosity of the witch trials in Salem and the fact that these events have been so romanticized in books, movies, and television persuade  young girls  to believe that being a witch and perhaps being burned (didn’t happen by the way) would be “Super cool.” I had sent a note off to our Tavern tour guide in Boston asking if she knew of any Salem tours that weren’t cheesy. Her quick reply, nope. Uhhhh, okay. Direct but that’s what I wanted. Because of  our Tavern Tour in Boston and her expertise and professional way it was delivered, we have high expectations for tours. However, we decided to stop for a few hours anyway, have a snack and tour around ourselves a bit and see what’s what in Salem.

After having some noms Calamari and cocktails, we walked to a local cemetery that included the grave sites of some of the famous of Salem and alongside held a very sweet memorial to the victims of the witch hysteria. witch1

People left various prizes for the victims on these stone benches jutting out from a stone wall and from now on, I’ll always travel with a little something to leave in case the opportunity arises again to pay homage to the situation.

While walking around the cemetery, there were two tour groups huddled together separately with both tour guides giving their take of the witch trials. It was horrible. Cheesy while wearing costumes and trying to charm the tour customers. Using their voices to try to bring fear to some words while humor to others. Theater. Disrespectful. Awful.

We quickly hot stepped it out of there and moved on to the memorial. Better. I don’t know quite how to explain it, the energy was smooth. Flowers and beads, candles and even dolls left on various benches brought a lighter feel but it was still very respectful. I liked it. We walked to each bench and read each name. Most of these women were turned in as witches by their husbands. I cannot fathom the betrayal felt prior to the fear and knowledge that they were about to be killed because their husband wanted to feed a mob. Kinda takes asshole to a different level eh?

Anyways.

It had a FAR better energy than the cemetery itself and along with a gorgeous, sunny and 70’s day, we had a nice 10 minutes walk around the memorial. Until the end. That’s when a tour of four or five people stopped at the very end of the memorial so we were somewhat blocked off. Now, while I will always show respect to the locals and especially someone just making a living, this tour guide was horrible. Barely able to fit into his 5XL Pats jersey, talking while trying to catch his breath from the presumably walk around the corner and looking as if he’s ready to drop at any moment so someone can just roll him into the cemetery and let him  decompose on his own, his whole demeanor was “Just give me my money and let me stop walking.”

It gets worse. Two of his attendees, also whipped from whatever walk they just had, sat their fat asses on one of the memorial benches while listening to Pats jersey guy trying to catch his breath. Crushing whatever gifts left for the spirits and energy of that particular victim without even a glance. FOK!

That was it. We’re out of here. Fuck this place. I imagine in three hundred years this is what the Oklahoma City bombing memorial will look like. Or the Trade Center memorial. People treating it as a joke and a way to earn a buck. Because this is how it starts. Right now. The way we’re heading.

The disrespect starts quietly and gains momentum based on what the current mob mentality is. Currently it is that traditional values are viewed as racist and white supremacist. Loving your country is frowned upon at best, ridiculed at worst. This past week, the President of the management group of the Green Bay Packers praised his players for wanting to use their work as a platform for “change.”

Uhhhhh, ok. Which “change” exactly are we discussing? “Change” of the high rate of domestic violence in your league? Drug abuse? Murder? Drunk Driving? Black on Black crime within their own inner cities? Which platform do you want to change cuz that sounds pretty cool. I mean, I dunno what protesting the National Anthem has to do with that but anyways, which “change” are we talking about?

While they sit their asses on the memorial benches of veterans and police who have died trying to make THEIR America better, which “change” have they affected? None. But they have their beloved Press (nee “Mob”) and are ensured to be viewed in some kind of positive light even while they sit their millionaire fat asses on the memorial benches of Americans.

Eventually, the people of Salem realized that the people they murdered were probably not witches and “oops.” 300 plus years later, we can still talk about this dark period in our history and, hopefully, pay homage to those affected. I wonder if in another 300 years, Americans will be able to discuss issues WE’VE fucked up with respect and learn from our mistakes.

Basically, will they be better than us? I just really, really hope so.

How strangely will the Tools of a Tyrant pervert the plain Meaning of Words!

Samuel Adams

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