L M Harmon

Sweet mama! Will they get any higher? We are quite seriously considering a scooter. It feels horrible taking part in this robbery.

Read my latest column. Before gas gets to $4.00.

It is our national holiday, here in the Nation of LouIslam. We fly our fleur-de-lis flags, we roast the ceremonial meal of horsemeat in mint julep sauce, and every station plays Run for the Roses non-stop, whether on TV or radio. We’ve elected that jerk college football player from Jerry Maguire our king in years past, but none shall ever overtake the mighty power of the twins from Quark, the Double-Trouble-Mint terrors, Barnstable and Brown.

Money in this city is brown. Brown like tobacco, brown like bourbon, brown like horseshit rolled in the dusty sparkly turf of The Track. The Track is where we worship, our high, highly-televised temple, but our pagan offerings are made, our sacrifices by lottery or pool, in satellite, unauthorized rituals across the landscape of greed, hope, and pretension. Ah, for the love of Churchill Downs. Where once there was a church on a hill, now there is only an enormous labyrinthine opportunity to throw your money down, put a horse down, fall down off a balcony, fall down in the infield, cast down your heavenly graces and choke down a $4 hot dog–down with your soul–down with YOU, loser, forever.

Pay tribute, instead, to visiting princes Carson Daley or Nick Lachey. As Hugh Hefner and his trio of witches descend in a gloriously-spinning web of black tulle and lies, imported harlots dancing mechanically and aggressively atop cast-away parade floats remember this day as the best of their lives. They’re all too young for liquor and drive two hours home before collapsing at the neighborhood all-night diner over a plate of waffles, in a fit of giggles because Edward Norton ignored them all night, and they guffaw over some old perv (who will turn out to be the dad of one of their recent sorority alums) who grabbed their asses and made lewd faces with his cigar. In a fit of shame, they will merge the memories, and by next year it will have been Norton who salivated over the departing cheer captain (and she alone), and she’ll consider meeting him at the airport in her best Victoria’s Secret ensemble.

The track is wet, and beneath their suits in their stained undershirts, men who cling from football to basketball to baseball puff cigars from crowded balconies as they espouse the traits of sloppy-track winners of yore. They shoot daggers at their wives in exotic tribal headgear, wishing for a stiff wind to blow away such expensive haberdash–but when these women approach bearing liquor, they smile and give them money for bets. Children flip through newspapers and scour track programs for tips. A little old lady hawks her gold-handled cane to put the last of her money on a long-shot, farm-raised outside of Glasgow and named for her childhood sweetheart, a traveling bluegrass musician of middling fame.

Ah, Derby. You win some, you lose some, you leave a hell of a mess behind. Tomorrow we’ll be forgotten, this Louisville, this Derby town, this host of the glittering gem of the world’s finest B-listers and self-indulgent playboys-in-training. The door will shut, slammed close. It’s not us who are Cinderella facing the clock, but the party itself that closes down at an early midnight, hours before sunset, when the orgasm of a two minute horserace is run, done, down, and gone. Denizens will retreat to their porches, their backyards, their television sets already reset, flipping for “something good on,” as the last bag of chips vomits forth its stale and sticky goodness, washed down with a warm, cheap beer.

See you next year, Derby. Ah, we miss you, already.

With my handy-dandy guide to actual KID-friendly Derby events, published in Today’s Family.

But we turn it in on time, anyway.

I am sneaking this post in, in between a rousing game of Hi-Ho Cherry O! with the boys, and a movie I feel they should watch–a documentary about an architect and his sketches. Yeah. I’m *that* kinda mom.

Lately, it’s been nuttier than a Payday, in terms of the deadlines I have been eating. I’m working on:

• a poetry collection
• a collage workshop for kids of parents w/ MS (”MS’ing Around”) through the MS Center & the MS Society
• my book proposal
• two feature stories for the paper
• my column, due tomorrow
• a short piece for Business First
• a feature story for Today’s Woman

and I just submitted another piece for Business First, and one for Today’s Family, and one for Derby News Network.

What’s infinitely more bizarre is that I’m sure I’m leaving stuff off the list of “to do”s as well as “done”s.

I’m also mid-way through writing Chapter Nine of my latest novel, a trashy troll romp set in the roiling gutters of the Midwest. You never knew cornfields could be so much fun.

I can’t even go into the rest of my responsibilities, which, suffice to say, are more than putting plastic cherries into baskets.

Steve is home, so this entry is officially over.

Best way to reach me right now is by email, then by phone, in case you were wondering.

Check out my latest column.

And God help us, we are trying to have a yard sale, and I am planting my garden in between all this insanity. Yeah, really!

Like it’s my job.

Seriously. What would we do without it?

I’m working on a poetry collection right now for a really neat editor. If I’ve written you a poem in the past few years, please remind me. I’ve had computers go down, notebooks fly to the four corners of the earth…any memory-jogging you could do for me would be helpful.

Additionally, I’m thinking of incorporating some current events into this. That really seems to be what grabs me, lately. Suggestions are welcome! I love a challenge. (No sestinas, please).

Oh, that reminds me! I wrote a sestina years ago that was actually half-way decent. It must be 15 years now. I wonder if it exists digitally anywhere. (Help!) It was about autumn, and falling down, both physically and relationally.

Last Sunday the News and the Tribune ran a fun piece on the amazing resurgence of textile crafts like knitting and crochet. I know how fun it was, because it was Steve-o and me who stalked and lasso’d the participants for the story. I am so envious of their craftiness! This week I attempted to modify some tee shirts, but I think scissors and creative cutting is about all I can manage right now in the crafty scheme of things. Someday, though, I might return to the Grinny Possum and say “Okay. I’m here. Do your worst.”

Sorry for the short note, but I have an early meeting tomorrow and I am swamped w/ work right now. One of these days I will sit down and outline all my current writing projects, on this very blog. Then I will delete it unposted, because it’s insane. But making myself insanely busy, I guess, keeps me happy.

Even if it DOESN’T keep me off the streets.

No flip-flopping allowed!

Our local schools are closed for Spring Break this week–I hope you’re having a terrific time!

Happy Easter! The bunny hasn’t come yet at our house…I need to give her a hand.

Now to try and figure out how to talk to the kids about the resurrection, without Sean getting upset that “some people dies–but we’re still alive.” He chants that like a mantra some days.

Okay, typing is loud. I better jet. Have a great day!

Well, it’s nearly done, but we may still have some room for contributions, if you or someone you know has been diagnosed with MS, and you have a positive story to share with your community.

We’d love to hear from you! Please email missionpossible.news@gmail.com