The Poisoned Ink Well

Tuesday, November 12, 2002

Let me rephrase my intent from the start of this blog. (The very first entry) I see writing as an art form much like my grandmother's swamp scenes. I enjoy picaresque vignettes and appreciate the synecdoche of all things. This last screwing that I got courtesy of the Baton Rouge scene has given me something besides the rug burn (on the proverbial red carpets) and that is the freedom to express myself on subjects and people that I (being the loyal little liberal faithful that I once was) had formally considered taboo, always going after only the most onerous and obvious targets/subjects (translation right wing nuts). From now on no one and nothing is off limits in my work.

Problems With Punctuation or Remembrances of Former Nazi’s

I remember when I was a child of nine
In the mid 1970’s in southern Louisiana
Waiting for my mother outside the A&P grocery.
I leaned on the newspaper machines
As I watched a mustached man in a brown suit
Who was stalking back and forth in front of the store.
He was trying to get people to talk to him.
He looked miserable on this day
He kept nervously tugging on his collar
And he swallowed in between every word.
He was being politely ignored,
He was an embarrassment to us even back then
We in our new yet somewhat ill fitting suits of seventies southern liberalism
walked proudly past him….. No rebuff needed.
I guess because no else would talk to him
he approached me.
Perhaps hoping that a child would be more open minded.
He stood in front of me,
His shoulders hunched, his knees bent , and his chin thrust forward
So he could be at my level.
His body formed a question mark on my mind.
To me he was just another stranger,
So if he offered candy I was prepared to run away.
Instead he thrust some leaflets in my face.
(My mother warned me about perverts showing little girls
Pictures of people having intercourse)
I was curious so I leaned over just to get a peek.
But instead of pornography he handed my leaflets
About his white racist platform.
Now he had me backed up against the wall
in between the newspaper machines.
I was stuck and I couldn’t run away.
I had the New Orleans Times Picayune to the left of me
And the Baton Rouge State Times to the right
And David Duke hunched over me
Like a giant question mark.
Just then my mother approached and saw I was trapped.
I recognized the fierce look in my mother’s eyes.
I shrank back knowing the penalty for talking to strangers.
My mother’s eyes bore down on David Duke
Still not recognizing him.
Mr. Duke did not seem to see this feral look on my mothers face.
He stood no longer in a questionable position.
Shoulders back, chin up, back straight,
His body seemed to form an exclamation point.
His pale iridescent skin beamed brightly in the sun.
My mother thrust her hands in between the newspaper machines
Hoping to retrieve me from my hapless position.
But Mr. Duke misunderstood my mother’s intentions.
He thought she meant to shake his hand.
So he began pumping her hand vigorously.
He said he was David Duke of the white people’s party.
He said I was a perfect representative of all he wanted to protect.
I stood behind them shaking, my body curled up
Like a little comma in Mr. Duke’s agitated quotations.
As we walked away my mother crumpled Mr. Duke’s literature
And dropped it on the pavement
Where it lay like a period between him and me.
My mother was visibly shaken,
But as she held me close to her body I felt her begin to relax.
Our neighborhood was still safe,
Her baby wasn’t accosted by a pervert
Only by an over zealous neo-nazi.

by Mel ( among my many other aliases) 1991

Fallacies that I see are that men are chivalrous in the Southern US. Believe me they aren’t. Most of the men I have known including the white collar criminal types (translation: lawyers and business men) would just as soon have you killed or done in (however) as to look at you.

When my pussy became 35 years old it apparently had outlived its usefulness to that type (not that I would have fucked any of the old geezers, anyway, only in their dreams)

Unbeknownst to them I had found a lot of productive and useful things to do in life that had nothing to do with the color of my hair, how wide I could spread my thighs, or if I could bend all the way backwards and grab my ankles.

I have employers that valued me chiefly for honesty, work ethic, dependability, and intelligence, but man don’t tell that to the assholes in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Their books have no covers, even when they throw them at you.

It's that time of the year again. This is the time when I would be bottling gallons and gallons (up 50 fifths) of Kahlua for family and friends, but I quit drinking. This doesn't mean that you have to, so here is my most favorite recipe. If you want use flavored coffees (I ususally do) you can make hazel nut or french vanilla. (Hah and you thought I was a bitch when I was drinking, I am alot more to handle sober)


Recipe By :
Serving Size : 1 Preparation Time :0:00
Categories : Alcohol Beverages

Amount Measure Ingredient -- Preparation Method
-------- ------------ --------------------------------
1 quart 100 proof vodka
5 cups Coffee
1 1/2 cups Brown sugar
1 1/2 cups White sugar
2 Vanilla beans

Bring to a simmer. Bottle and set for two weeks.

Ok, here is how we do it. I hate to throw this recipe out, without giving you my years of experience.
So here are some helpful hints.

One gallon of vodka will make four fifths.
Fill the bottles half full with your vodka.
I usually collect bottles from friendly bartenders in my area (god they’re going to miss me this year)
I boil the empty bottles to sterilize and remove the labels.
Then make your own labels (remember put Mel’s Kahlua on them)
Make your coffee at twice it’s usual strength
then boil the coffee, sugar, and vanilla (if you can’t find the beans at a specialty shop vanilla extract works just fine, about one cap per fifth.)
Boil for about 15 minutes stirring frequently and don’t scorch.
Then let it cool before adding it to your vodka in your fifths
(if you don’t let it cool, you will loose your alcohol and we don’t want that to happen, do we? Nooooooooooooooooo).

And yes, tasting as we prepare it is alright. Invite some friends over and you can blame me if you wake up two days later in a strange man’s bed, but don‘t blame me if you end up in jail.

Store bottles in a cool dry place. Give as Christmas gifts with instructions to open on New Years Day and make sure that you’re invited to every, (and I can’t stress this, enough) unscrewing.