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I originally had several ideas for a post tonight. I was perhaps going to wrap up the Tales from the Trip series, or about Miss WTF's excitement at not only her son running the Wests Tigers onto the field Sunday but their thrashing of the Broncos - with photos to boot! But alas, I'm waaa-aaay to pissed off for that now.

You see, my Teen has decided to once again try and re-establish a connection with her father, my ex-husband whom I refer to as the Bastard. I call him the Bastard because of his history of kicking the crap out of me during our 5 year marriage. So I think I'm entitled.

Now it seems that in the 10+ years since we parted ways, his life has taken a turn for the worse. The grass, for him, was not greener on the other side of the fence. Naturally, he blames me for this. Up until tonight, this never bothered me. In fact, a small part of me took a perverse delight in it. I think I would have to be Mother Theresa to not feel this way, and she was way shorter than me. But mostly I pitied him, as I have little time for anger.

So why am I all upset about it now? Cos my child has been dragged into it. It's one thing to personally hold me responsible, but when you (or rather his current wife) start telling my kids that the reason their father is mentally unstable and cannot function is because of me, then you've just turned my pity and general ambivalence into pure unadulterated anger.

Please, family, do not leave me comments about how I am not to blame and how much he sucks and yadda yadda yadda. You won't be telling me anything I don't know and/or believe. My opinion has not changed. I am merely furious about such absolute bullshit being told to my daughter - who unfortunately wants so desperately to have her father show any kind of interest in her at all that she just may swallow it. If only she would show the smarts of her 11 year old brother and see it for what it is - an excuse to not grow the fuck up and accept responsibility.

While I attempt to once again take the high road and get my anger under control - it's not good for me or the Tadpole - I ask for your patience in the return to the fun place, or at least interesting place, Mooselet Musings can be.

Now excuse me while I find the missing pieces of my skull and wash the grey matter off the curtains after my head explosion.

Manuel Ramos

NORTHWEST DENVER LITERARY CHALLENGE
Here's a writing contest that offers almost $2000 in prizes and gift certificates to North Denver merchants, publication in the North Denver News, and judging by the well-respected Lighthouse Writers Workshop (Mario Acevedo is on the faculty.) The theme of the contest is A Denver Story, meaning that the piece should be set in Denver but the actual topic apparently can be just about anything, as long as it qualifies as nonfiction. Length limit is 750 - 1000 words, deadline is August 21, and submissions should be emailed to jayspatiocafecomcast, or delivered to Jay's Patio Café, 2563 15th Street, Denver.

SPECIAL SCREENING OF ...AND THE EARTH DID NOT SWALLOW HIM
...and the earth did not swallow him is scheduled as part of Texas Public Radio's Cinema Tuesdays series for July 25 at the Bijou at Crossroads Theatre in San Antonio (7:30 PM). Director, writer and producer Severo Pérez will attend and answer questions and Dr. Antonia Castañeda will introduce the film and moderate the Q & A after the screening. TPR's website says this about the movie: "Brilliantly adapted from Tomás Rivera's acclaimed novel ...y no se lo tragó la tierra, this is a haunting and powerful film about a young Mexican-American boy's coming of age amid the poverty and adversity he and his family face as migrant farm workers in the 1950s." Go to this link for more information.

CAN I BRING UP KEROUAC?
Presenting a piece that I did not use, "written" by a character from one of my novels. A love poem, of sorts. Or maybe it's about the weather. As usual, all rights reserved.

Jack & Letting Go
One more storm due
this winter,
The day I,
the heart-breaking Chicano,
listened to the White Voice
of the Beat Generation
offer supplication to
Black Jazz
Neal
and the Three Stooges.

(He found their antics
symbolic
of the America
he tried to find
out there,
while I grinned
boyishly
watching three
cool guys,
almost pachucos,
do their Moe, Larry, and Curly
act
in littered alleys
of Southern
Colorado -
you think that’s cosmic,
Jack,
karma, maybe?)

She did nothing
to bring this on
other than carry out
the temptation
of the fantasies
in the skin book letters,
and promise never to insist.

The Voice died
a paunchy drunk
and they claim
he voted for Nixon.

At least he did not
have to say
I think it’s better
if we don’t see
each other
for a while.

She read about Jack,
never read him, though.
Did not go for that ride
on the road -
never heard him sing
about
essential Americas,
never sensed
that smile beneath his words,
held back but straining
from good shit
and cheap wine.

I could see it, man,
in my working class kitchen,
not subterranean,
as the tape clicked dead
the winter storm exhaled
and the cool breath
iced my heart
for her.

Later.