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October 2015 * Volume 1 * Issue 1

contents

? Magazine October, 2015 YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO GET

October 2015 * Volume 1 * Issue 1

contents

Angelia Roberts

ABOUT OUR OCTOBER COVER

Zach Mann

Striking PAIGE GANTAR of New Orleans, Louisiana helps us say goodbye to summer as the cover model for our Premier Edition. The image was shot by Little Rock photographer, John David Pittman, from whom we managed to wrestle a brief interview and some more examples of his excellent work.

Meet him on page 44.

? Magazine October, 2015 YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO GET

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Question Mark Magazine Vol. 1 No. 1, October 2015 Published by J.A.R. Publications P.O. Box 6382 Springdale, AR 72766 E: cybermouth@hotmail.com Copyright 2015, Rick Baber Question Mark (?) Magazine is electronically published monthly, free to online subscribers, by J.A.R. Publications, through ISSUU.com.

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Advertisers: Please contact us via email: cybermouth@hotmail.com

? Magazine October, 2015

Editorial

Streams of Consciousness Frank Wallis

video and audio that can be produced by pretty much anyone with one finger and the IQ of a garden slug.

Smoking the world without a filter If you are a viewer of period drama like Mr. Selfridge, you may have noticed that newspapers held all the cards at the beginning of the 20th Century.

If anything was awry it didn’t count for much unless it was in the newspapers. Lord Loxley wasn’t a thief until his crimes were reported in the newspaper.

Enter radio.

Enter television.

They’re both buoyed by the written word.

With radio, only the quality of the signal, a reporter’s writing and reading skills and the listener’s own listening skills gets into the way of the news.

The word has to jump all the same hurdles on television as it does on radio, but on TV it’s filtered through beautiful people who read the news often written by folks employed by wire services who are never seen on camera.

But the printed word came before them and it's alive and well here on the Internet along with

There's never been so many media heavyweights as we have now.

But in the old days, newspaper editors were the studs, beguiled only by fallible reporters who brought the news to them.

Editors sometimes shared the ink.

They invited readers to compose letters to the editor of a certain length or word count to appear in the opinion pages. That was one of Average Joe’s few hopes for reaching the masses quickly.

Historically, letters to the editor have been immeasurably important properties for newspapers.

Still, Average Joe’s opinion was made available to readers at the whim of a newspaper editor.

What most readers didn't know (and some will never figure out) is that all editorial content was in times past filtered by none other than the editor.

Letters to the editors, particularly, were culled for content that the editor didn't like.

Letters to the editor were culled on the basis of factual content or lack thereof. In a word, truth.

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Editorial (A newspaper can be sued for content in a letter to the editor that's untrue and defamatory.)

Letters were culled because an editor didn't like the writer. That seems unfair, but some bonafide creeps have found jobs in news.

A kindhearted editor might hunt down letters authored by people who were clearly not wellversed on the topic they were trying to address.

For a telephone call, an editor might explain to a letter writer circumstances that had changed since a letter was written. Another editor might be thrilled to publish a letter that was off the mark factually just to see the letter writer make a fool of himself.

In the print world, we are not in every case our brother’s keeper.

Editors looked for letters authored by deranged people or people with developmental disabilities, authored by people who clearly mean to incite angst in a religious sect or non-religious, authored by people who have it in for aspirants to certain lifestyles, letters aimed at gender, letters aimed at race or ethnic minority. I’ve seen many letters during my 30 years in print authored by people who change topic in mid-sentence; letters that turn to jargon that no one can understand; letters written in cursive text that runs on top of previously written lines so many times it’s impossible to decipher.

Editors culled for content that resembled advertising. They tossed out thank-you letters.

I don’t know if any newspaper ever kept an inventory of the letters to the editor rejected versus letters the editor published, but I’d venture to say we could resurface U.S. I-40 in 2X12-inch lumber with all the paper wasted on letters to the editor over the years.

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If letters to the editor on the abomination of the homosexuality were currency, we could pay a chunk of the national debt.

You could clog the Grand Canyon with the letters to the editor on the sins of the political parties, candidates and public officials.

The volume of paper wasted on letters to the editor about lousy Judge Grimm, who ruled against the writer in divorce court, despite all the evidence, would paper the Golden Gate Bridge.

The volume of paper wasted on The Revelation and lost humanity and the mark of the beast, Gog and Magog, is inconceivable.

Some might say the thought that went into the letters was wasted, too.

I don’t know. I doubt thought is ever wasted.

But for centuries, editors, and in another large measure, reporters, were gatekeepers for what made it into print and what didn’t make it into print. This made them the most despised and beloved people afoot.

All this, you may have noticed, has changed.

There are no meaningful gatekeepers for the Internet. Facebook police have set the bar low.

In-the-toilet low.

If you think Diet Coke causes cancer, go ahead and publish that and worry about the science later or not at all. If you're a believer in the Jade Helm Conspiracy Theory peddle it right here on Facebook without meaningful challenge. If you can spin a good yarn you'll have followers instantly.

Throw up a website. No questions asked.

No one asked questions of the people who paid $20 for the web address www.craigslist.com or www.facebook.com, asking, perhaps: “Will these people police for the exploitation children?”

“Will they accommodate prostitution?”

“Do they care if someone drops a racial slur or a masked slur?”

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Editorial “Will they allow all forms of personal bashing?”

“Will they allow bullying among young people to the point one or several are driven to suicide?”

“Will they allow unending verbal assaults against religious or non-religious people?”

“Will they allow people of conservative political views to be abused by liberals?” (Not necessarily in that order.)

“Will they allow pornography that can be accessed free-of-charge by anyone who knows how to type?”

“Will they go looking for a person who might bring a new angle or information to public discussion?”

“Will they try to put a stop to the posters of obviously deceptive information?”

(Sane people should know trouble is brewing when we start using nouns as verbs. "Friended" is just wrong.)

The editors of yore had much power. They did little to protect it. They will never have it again.

Take me out and shoot me, but I believe that is not a good thing.

Here's a fellow who needed an editor: http://youtu.be/_0V_xf3OQgM

Here's another: http://youtu.be/N9Qmoiugz7Q

Like it or not, we have a mostly unregulated media. Any moderation must be brought by the consumer. It’s apparently what we the people want. No one's cropping our photos or cutting our texts or telling us how many selfies are permitted.

Any being with a pulse and self-aware enough to find keys on a computer or smartphone can say anything they wish in any one of a number of places on the World Wide Web. Only consensus from readers might bring some notion of truth.

There’s nothing to stop me at mid-morning on any school day from posting that a gunman is loose in one of our public schools. Only an eyewitness in or near the school could hope to speedily dispel such a lie.

Why am I sharing all this?

Bottom line: I believe the Internet needs cops and the cops should be the domain owners. If you buy a chalkboard and display it publicly you should be accountable for what others write on it.

I need to be the cop of my status page. I need to do some unfriending. I thought Facebook was pretty cool when it started up. I friended everyone. ? Magazine October, 2015

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? Magazine October, 2015

Editorial

Camille Nesler Sorry, but vigilante justice doesn’t cut it.

Here’s the second question. Say a group of Wiccans move into town and buy up some land to build their church/May-Pole ...Assembly/whatever the heck they call their place of worship, and everyone starts griping about it. And then suppose I make the comment that the United States grants freedom of religion to all recognized religions, not just the Christian religion. And as a recognized religion, the Wiccans can build whatever floats their boat?

What, exactly, am I defending with that statement?

The religious practices of the Wiccans or the freedom of religion granted to us all? If you picked the first one, you’d be wrong. But hey, at least you’d be in the majority and have plenty of company, because when I wrote a column a few years back stating that very thing, I was called a “filthy pagan” and a “devil-worshipping witch,” among other things.

Logic is a dying trait My husband told me once that less than two percent of the population uses logic when speaking.

At first I didn’t really believe him (I tend to have a little more faith in humanity than Nick does). As the years go by, I’d like to add to his statement and say that most people don’t use logic at all. None.

Nada. Zero. Forget just when they are speaking, they don’t use it PERIOD. Here’s a little test to see if you fall into the tiny percentage that does.

If someone committed a horrible crime and I were to make the statement, “They deserve a fair trial” what, exactly, would you think I was defending?

The criminal? If so, insert a loud and obnoxious buzzer sound at this point because you would be wrong. What I’m defending when I make that statement, is the right of every United States Citizen to a fair trial. We may not like whatever heinous act the dude committed, but at the end of the day, he is entitled to a fair trial.

For the third question, let’s throw in a group that 99 percent of the population all despise: the Westboro Baptist Church. You know who they are. It’s those lunatics who show up at our military funerals and shout how God hates America; God hates fags, and a bunch of other nonsense. How they can claim to be a church is beyond me. I may not know a lot of things with 100 percent certainty, but the one thing I do know is that God doesn’t hate any of us.

Almost every time they show up somewhere there’s a news story on it, or some type of media coverage, and tons of people wanting to know how they can get away with doing this type of thing. Well, let me tell you how. Our Constitution allows any group the right to “peacefully assemble.” So as long as they stick 100 percent to the letter of the law and stick to public property, they can’t be forced to leave.

So tell me what I’m defending with a statement like that? The Westboro folks or the Constitutional rights of all Americans to Freedom of Speech and

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Editorial to peacefully assemble? Hopefully, you went with the second choice, but most don’t.

You should see the frenzy it sends people into when I make comments about these loony birds having Constitutional rights. I immediately get called one of “those Westboro nuts.” Again, among other things.

And now for the final question. Even if you got the others right, if you miss THIS one, you flunk the logic test.

Our founding fathers didn’t bother to define marriage in the Constitution.

There’s been a lot of talk lately about marriage equality and the definition of marriage. To me it seems pretty simple. Our founding fathers didn’t bother to define marriage in the Constitution. Go back and read it. You’ll see they didn’t even mention it once.

So essentially they left that door wide open. Our Supreme Court has now ruled that by denying a particular group of individuals (in this case homosexuals) the right to marry, we are violating the Constitution under life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I don’t know about you, but there is no way I am going to support ANYTHING that violates the Constitution. When you violate one group’s rights, you put all of ours at risk.

If the Supreme Court ruled they have the right to marry, then they have the right to marry. Now when I say this, does that make me a homosexual? Do I somehow become gay by association? Am I condoning a “sinful lifestyle?” Am I going to be forced to marry a woman? No, no and NO! All I am defending is the Constitution and the rights it provides to every American Citizen. Not just the Christian citizens. Not just the heterosexual citizens. And, lucky for the majority of folks, not just the smart citizens either.

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? Magazine October, 2015

Adventure

by Underlyin Emoshun were a mixture of drug use and bad dental hygiene. The dollar store underwear and fuzzy leg warmers weren’t what I expected either, but a few were pretty decent on the pole.

One dancer came over to our table in a feeble attempt to sweet talk my husband into buying her an expensive drink and, of course the obvious - a lap dance. After telling us her “poor me” story about how “baby daddy” had left her and her “boo” and she barely had food, he still wasn’t biting. Not because he isn’t compassionate, but because we know a stripper’s job is to send men home broke. It’s what they do. I am pretty sure he was as nervous about what might be in the chair she just removed herself from as I was. I was sadly disappointed but not discouraged.

How do I know? Well, you see after 45 years on this earth, I finally did it, I went to a strip club, well a bunch of them. Not so much to see what all the hoopla was about, I won’t lie, I went with my husband of 25 years in an attempt to add some spice to our marriage. I will tell you, it is a whole culture in itself, and the open minded me decided, “What the hell do I have to lose?” So off we went.

Stop, 1: The (I can’t tell you) Poplar Bluff, Missouri.

It took one trip for me to see the strip club thing was way over rated. I was not impressed with many of the girls, as the majority appeared anorexic and pre-pubescent although we were assured by the bouncer they were all over 21. Yes, I asked. Quite frankly, they were all lacking the one thing I felt most men came to see—the big boobs.

With their nipples literally covered with band aids, and some missing teeth, I was sure their issues

I went home with my “I told you it was a bad idea” mentality, feeling a bit like pervs who sit in those coinfed porn machines you see in the movies or in the back room at all night truck stops. A few weeks later, we opted for Little Rock.

While the club appeared much cleaner, it was a single stage setup, smaller than the previous place.

One step into the smoke filled room gave me hope that we would see some good looking women who had their teeth and could actually dance. I was quickly impressed, with a girl of average build, but blessed in the top department who looked as if she could be a model and danced like none other.

Acrobatics from the cross bars in ceiling, extreme pole dancing and calculated moves, impressed me.

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Adventure I got up and made my walk to what we later deem the place near the stage - pervert row. The music was great, the crowd cheered and like many others, I slung my dollar bills on the stage as she danced in front of me. My husband was laughing and amazingly still the shy one planted in his seat with his Coke, guarding my beer with his life. Later, yet another model-quality stripper came and talked to us and explained she was a former high school dancer and cheerleader and at the age of 26, she began stripping after her job as a dance clothing sales representative brought her into the clubs and she realized the income potential. She said the club had allowed her to not only buy herself a set of admirable boobs, but also a full mouth of porcelain veneers. She admitted she spends two to four hours a day in the gym, tanning and practicing, but said she is not fond of the pole because it makes callouses on inner thighs and is

She was my husband’s first lap dance and with a $40 price tag, I hoped he enjoyed unsightly.

himself. Unlike the girls in Popular Bluff who offer a nude private lap dance option at a higher price, Little Rock dancers can be fined for complete nudity. He admittedly was a bit disappointed in the private dance but we both became more intrigued.

One shocker at the Little Rock club was a very well endowed, heavy set dancer who owned the night and was an obvious favorite of regulars. Weighing in at over 250 with at least a size F boobs, and out of this world confidence, it soon became apparent the woman not only had skill, but also class, as she danced and the dollar bills rained on her. She also sat at our table and explained how she loved to dance and was a housewife. She came to the club for fun and decided to try her hand at it one night.

She later bought a pole and began practicing daily with YouTube videos and is now the club’s highest yielding stripper. This sure blew the “size 5 blond with big boobs” stereotype out of the water - the one I created in my mind based solely on media portrayal of women. Men of all ages and ethnic

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backgrounds contributed to her. But let me tell you, there are as many or more women at these clubs having a good time as there are men, often girls’ night out groups. Yes, I asked.

After visiting Little Rock, we went back to a second club in Popular Bluff that had high ratings on the Internet. The club was upscale (if there is such a thing at a strip club) with a racing theme. Most of the dancers were average to above average in appearance and maintained their teeth. It was here that I got the biggest taste of the real lives of strippers. This time we brought one of my husband’s friends, who was an admitted strip club junkie, with us. Soon, two beautiful Barbie doll types joined us at our tables. They were great dancers and for the first time, I now shamelessly sat on pervert row with the crowd flinging dollars and throwing back beer. Before I knew it, one pulled me on stage, stripped my top off and began touching my breasts. It was strangely arousing to me, all the while knowing the ploy was to increase the money deposited in her leather thongs. She then came to our table and I began to talk to her about the hows and whys of being a stripper. Her husband had been killed in a car wreck leaving her and her daughter; she was in college to be an accountant but wanted time with her daughter and her waitressing job was not paying the bills. As a former cheerleader, she loved dance and decided to give it a try, after two weeks bringing home over $1,500 working only three nights, she was hooked, but admitted she drives three hours so no one will know her. Her friend, another beautiful blonde gave my husband and his friend the best lap dance they could have asked for, she was a state beauty contest winner (yea I verified) and hula hoop dance champion. She told us,

the pair also does private parties for $5,000 with a guarantee of receiving at least $1,000 in additional tips. They were the first ones to actually give us their nonstage names and added me to Facebook when the bouncer wasn’t watching. Cell phones are

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Adventure prohibited while working. We were hooked, had a great time and were let into a secret about the two, who by now I knew felt they might get that before-mentioned private party after our friend told them he was “into the gas business” (when he really is just a technician for a gas company). The girls told us the club was under new ownership and hosted “The Wild Side” after 1 a.m. The girls left the club at midnight and worked until 4 a.m. at the other club. We knew we would be back, mostly out of curiosity.

As we had undoubtedly found spice, I must admit I wanted to know more. The pervert in me had escaped and I wanted to go to the Wild Side. So a few weeks later we did just that. The girls dance completely nude and the club features nationally known models and dancers from larger clubs in the St. Louis area once a month. It didn’t take me long to realize, where the name came from. We arrived at 1 a.m., to an already growing crowd, way past my bed time. Before we could get seated at our table, a thin dark haired naked girl had pulled me onto the stage with her and pinned me to the pole in front of a huge cheering crowd, later I found out she was the centerfold model for Hustler in February 2015 (yes, I googled her name and pics).

I admittedly felt uncomfortable not knowing where she had last been. Completely nude, the girls danced three at a time on a stage alternating on three poles, and my husband and his friend were taken up more than once. We felt

strangely normal as everyone was there to have a good time and explore their sexuality and we didn’t know a soul. There were men and women from all walks of life, dressed in anything from dress pants to leather dresses. The men got as much or more of a thrill out of watching the girls pull women out of the audience. The girls know their business as this certainly brought the dollar bills out.

This too was perhaps one of the funniest trips we made to the clubs as my husband bargained with a big-boobed, very attractive black girl for a bottom dollar lap dance. He got it. He came out with a tee shirt in his hand, the “been there done that got the shirt” kind. But besides that, he had a strange look on his face, one that was a mixture of sheer horror and embarrassment as I instantly honed in on it and requested a run down on what went on behind the curtain under the weird bouncer’s watchful eye. He simply said, “Not now, I will tell you later, we just need to go.” I wouldn’t take that for an answer. He made me swear not to laugh out loud at him as he told me. After pointing to the back of his shirt where it was obviously wet, he informed me the girl “leaked milk all over me.” I immediately and hysterically began laughing. He went on to explain she has a “three month old baby she is nursing and dancing stimulated her milk glands,” As gross as that is, it opened my eyes wider to the scope of the lives of those who choose stripping for a living. The girl later told us

she is a single mother of two and works two jobs as both a nurse’s aid and a cashier, goes to college at night and strips two weekends a month to pay her bills. Why these people feel comfortable in telling me their lives is beyond me, but maybe because I am the only one who asks or maybe they all hoo-dooed me. Who knows?

The last adventure took us to Memphis, and the weirdest and most eye opening trip. Perhaps one of the nicest of all the clubs, it didn’t take long to realize what was different. The strippers couldn’t take off their tops and needless to say, the only money being made was on lap dances as the stages were bare, absent an every-other-song dancer who was obviously not trying too hard. It was only from meeting one of the girls in the restroom, after ten minutes and getting ready to leave, did I inquire about the reason they kept their tops on.

The woman, who was very attractive and

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Adventure appeared to be in her late 30s, said the Feds had recently come in and there were under age people in the club being served alcohol and getting private dances. They were shut down temporarily. Shelby County then enacted some sort of a law making it illegal for strippers to bare their private parts. The law was almost an oxymoron in itself. The girl, who was also a hairstylist, said she used to make between $1,200 and $2,000 a weekend before the law and now barely makes $200. This forces the girls to travel to Nashville and Jackson for work.

So, the strip club adventure taught me to never judge anyone and not to believe in all the stereotypes about this sort of women, but it also opened my eyes into the unknown. It let see how average people interact with naked women, it taught me that sometimes we need to step out of our comfort zone to experience things. So please don’t inject the whole STD thoughts. These girls simply take off their clothes and dance. After all, we all have a freaky side if we want to be honest about it.

The real lives of the tri-county strippers is almost stranger than fiction.

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Adventure

Rick Baber (Continued from the July, 2015 issue.

Catch up! Read it (HERE).

Nancy had decided she’d just go up the street for a drink. As each of us, one-by-one pulled out our phones to discover that they were dead; wondering how the hell we were going to find her, or contact the limo driver to have him pick us up, she came strolling down the street with the drink still in her hand.

She was all good now. Ready to go. But first, Beeper and I had to inconspicuously take a seat by the plants in front of the building and see if we could retrieve a couple of important items that had to be left there in order to avoid an unpleasant incarceration in the Kansas City jail. To our total surprise,

those articles were still there, behind the 3rd bush from the steps. Amazing.

Once the retrieved items were safely tucked away, Beeper, on blind faith I suppose, took Nancy by the arm and marched briskly down the street toward the corner where Rob had dropped us off before the concert. The rest of us tried to keep up.

There was the long black Escalade, right there on the same corner. Somebody jerked the back door open – to the surprise of the middle-aged man and his companion inside.

“Down here, dumbass!” I heard Beeper yelling from down the street, in front of our actual transportation.

I looked. There was no beer can holding open the moon roof on this ride.

“Sorry dude!” I said, slamming the door before the man inside could respond. But then I had to open it again to let Robin out.

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Adventure

We piled into our still-hot ride and Rob rolled slowly along the streets of downtown KC. I had positioned myself by the functioning passenger side rear window, which was, of course, rolled down to compensate for the absence of actual air conditioning. As I hung my head out the window, people along the streets turned to stare, surely thinking I was some kind of old rock star or something. Or, so I thought, until I realized they were all looking at the beer can.

Nana had not eaten before the concert. We decided we’d have Rob get us out of the downtown area, lined out for our trip home, and then stop so she could get something to eat, and let all the girls go do the bathroom thing. With the intercom not working, and all of our cell phones dead, the only way we

himself – given all the “issues” with the limo that had occurred earlier in the evening. He came out with one and hooked my phone up for the next leg of the journey. Everybody came out and loaded up once again, now looking forward to napping on the 3 ½ hour trip back to Bella Vista.

Now, here begins my rant regarding our dependence on electronics nowadays. Me. The guy who can’t relax until I have a charged and working cell phone on my person.

Instead of simply going back the way we came, and getting back on the highway that would ultimately take us home, ol’ Rob, once again, decides to trust Google Maps (I presume) on his phone. Of course, none of us were watching, but after about 10 minutes it occurred to me that this limo was on some

Why are we out in a goddamn cornfield?” could contact him to make that request was to knock on the glass behind him. He rolled it down and Robin gave him instructions – including those to leave the window down so we could communicate. Matt was already going to sleep across the seat directly behind the driver. Bored to sleep.

Somewhere south of town, there is an exit with a still-lit convenience store sign. Robin had Rob take the turn and we pulled up on one side of the lot and bailed out. Still obsessed with the lack of communication thing, I took my phone up to Rob and asked him if he could put it on the charger, up there in the limo cockpit. I’m anal like that about having a working phone.

Not surprisingly, the charger he had up front wouldn’t attach to my archaic iPhone 4; but we were in luck – there was a convenience store, right here. So, I started in to purchase a charger that would work, but Rob stopped me and volunteered to buy it

pretty rough roads, turning much too often. I looked out the window to discover we were on some narrow gravel road, maybe three feet wider than the limo itself, in the middle of what could only be described as “nowhere.”

There was enough light from the moon to see flat fields, stretching out to the horizon. No houses; no cars. I hung my head out the window again to get a big breath of the fresh country air. Wild critters were scampering out of the tall weeds, smiling at me, then ducking back in as the long car roared past.

Beeper, who had remained totally crashed through the pit stop, was jolted off his seat from a chug hole. He sat up and looked through my window.

“Why are we out in a goddamn cornfield?” he asked.

“I think that’s sugarcane,” I replied, looking ahead to see a raccoon’s eyes reflecting in the headlights.

“What the hell is he doing? How hard is it to get back on the damn highway after you

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Adventure

pull off at a gas station?” He was pulling out his phone to call the driver and register his complaint. Then he just stuck it back into his pocket, realizing that the battery was dead.

“Robin!” he tried to shout over the roar of the tires on the gravel road, “Ask that sonofabich where the hell he’s taking us!”

“What?” she said, holding her hand up to her ear.

“Wha’d she say?” he asked me.

“She can’t hear you,” I told him.

“Shit!” He just waived it off, turned over and went back to sleep on that half seat he was on.

Willie and Matt were both sound asleep, as was Nancy, on the floor in front of Beeper’s half seat. Nana and Becky were both awake and looking concerned. I tried to look cool, so as not to cause them additional fright, but it was becoming more and more clear to me that Rob was taking us out into the country where he could murder us all and dispose of our bodies so his employers would never hear the story of what a miserable trip this had been. What other choice did he have? And it would be easy for him, because the only potential weapons we might have had on us, our pocket knives, had been confiscated by that damn Staples Center and not returned.

They would be responsible for our horrific demise – and nobody would ever even know it.

I formulated a plan. When the car stopped, I would jump out immediately and run into the tall weeds, grabbing that White Russian bottle on the way, and close the door behind me. By the time Rob got back here with his unregistered and untraceable .38 automatic, I could be completely out of sight. When he opened the door to murder most of my family I would run out of the weeds behind him and rap that bastard in the head.

It was a good plan. Sure that it would work, I lit another cigarette and continued to watch the road varmints. Then, suddenly, we’re in a hard left turn, still doing about 35 mph. I

looked ahead and saw a wooden fence, a dead end, as the limo made a 180. People inside are being slung about and drinks are spilling. It looked like Nana may have been saying a silent prayer. Becky was giving me that “WTF” look.

This is it, I thought. I grabbed the bottle and had my other hand on the door lever, hoping that it, unlike most other parts of this automobile, would work when I needed it to.

But the car didn’t stop. We were spared, for the moment.

We went back down the road about half a mile to a dirt road intersection we had passed and took a hard right. I looked ahead and could see the lights of tractor trailers on the highway.

“There’s the highway!” I exclaimed, trying to bring some relief to my frightened companions. There was a collective, though unheard, sigh of relief.

Beeper mumbled “Dumb bastard,” and went back to sleep.

In only another five minutes we were back on the Interstate. I couldn’t check my cell phone to be sure that we were going south, because it was up there with Rob, plugged into the only functioning outlet. So I kept watching the road signs until I saw a “Joplin” sign. It now appeared than maybe he was, in fact, going to return us to Nana’s house, alive.

Just in case, however, believing my phone had sufficiently charged for emergency use, I asked Robin to get it from the driver.

… Rob was taking us out into the country where he could murder us all and dispose of our bodies…

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Adventure

12:45 am. Our driver is clearly asleep.

I had just texted my son to let him know where we were. Like me, he worries about people when they’re out on the road. But when I told him I was the only one awake, I really wasn’t considering the driver. Just after I sent the text, there was a sharp jerk as the long limo ran off onto the rumble strip on the right side of the road, slinging Robin out of her seat onto the floorboard. Nana’s and Becky’s eyes popped open. We all remained quiet – like nervous passengers on an airplane when it experiences turbulence. We just stared at each other for a few moments, then began to relax.

Then, up ahead through the open divider and then the front windshield, we can see the line in the middle of the highway moving farther and farther to the right, as the vehicle ran off onto the left side rumble strip, then jerked back toward the middle of I-49.

Robin, wide-eyed, pointed to the driver’s head, laid back against the glass.

“Is he dead?” I yelled to her.

“He’s asleep,” she yelled back, thinking perhaps her shouting, right there behind him, might remind him of his duty to deliver us to our destination in one piece. Maybe cause him to sit up straight and at least act like he was awake. It didn’t.

“Tell him you gotta pee. Pull off at the next exit. He can get out and walk around,” I told her.

She climbed over Matt and started talking to the guy through the divider. He sat up and agreed to take the next exit where there was an open store – of any kind. There was only a little more weaving back and forth before he did that.

When he got stopped, he started to come back there and open our door, like a driver’s supposed to do, but most of us were already out of the vehicle. I ran up to Rob and politely suggested he get a cup of coffee

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while we were there. He nodded in agreement and went inside the store.

By the time he came back out, those of us who were awake made a group decision that I would ride up in the front, just to make sure the dude stayed awake.

I made the suggestion, but he shrugged it off and said he was “fine now.” He had gotten a large cup of coffee and some snacks.

“Are you sure?” I asked him.

He was sure.

Back in the car, back on the road, Nana, Becky and I never took our eyes off of him, sipping his coffee, eating his snacks. We didn’t have that much further to go; and thought we’d be OK now. Then I got a return text from my son. Freaky.

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Adventure

Neosho came and went, and we were then on the home stretch. But shortly thereafter the car started weaving again. It was going to be a shame if we all died so close to home. Robin woke Willie up, so he could experience it with us, I guess. He said the driver had told him earlier that he had come to us, just after finishing up a straight 22 hour shift, driving Whitney Houston. It all started falling into perspective. I told Willie that Whitney Houston had been dead for quite a while. He conceded that maybe it was Mariah Carey, but he was driving for somebody for 22 hours.

I took inventory of all the glass, particularly on the bar, and figured that no matter which side of the road we ran off, that was going to cut us to shreds. Looking intently, I found no place to put it all where it would not present a hazard.

I had Robin start up a conversation with Rob, telling him that when we got to Nana’s, he should pull into the empty church parking lot across the street, rather than trying to get the forever long vehicle in and out of the short cul de sac again. That seemed to work, and he kept the rig straight for the rest of the trip.

Finally, with everybody but the sleeping Beeper, Nancy, and Matt taking turns breathing, we turned down the hill toward Nana’s townhouse and damned if that guy didn’t pull in, again, nose first into that driveway. We woke everybody else up and bailed out, resisting the urge to kiss the asphalt there. Once unloaded, I told Rob that his best bet would be to back the limo out across the road, into the parking lot of the church, then he could drive out straight.

Otherwise, he was going to get stuck in the ditch across the road.

I walked behind the limo, on the passenger side, to block traffic and signal him into the parking lot drive. He backed out, cut the wheel as if he was going to back onto the road itself, and ran straight into the ditch.

There he was, stuck across Riordan Road, just below the steep hillcrest.

Realizing that something had to be done in a hurry, I ran into Nana’s house, quietly, so as to not wake Pa Jim, using the flashlight on my phone to go down the spiral stairs into the basement and see if I could find a rope there so I could hook him up to my car and pull him back out of the ditch. There was no rope.

Nothing.

When I got back to the front door, Pa Jim had walked out on the front porch, wearing only his tighty whiteys, to see what all the commotion was. He confirmed he didn’t have a rope as I ran past him to get back out there, finding Beeper and Willie and Matt, back in the ditch, trying to push the damn thing out before somebody came speeding over that hill and cut it in half.

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Adventure

Rob said to me, “Why don’t we get one of the women to sit in the driver’s seat and all of us guys will push?”

I told him that we didn’t really want any of our womenfolk mangled when some drunk came flying over that hill in his pickup truck.

I jumped into the driver’s seat and dropped it into drive. Rob ran to the back and started pushing. With dirt and grass flying into the faces of the guys pushing and rocking the car, somehow we kept from high-centering the rocker panel on the pavement, and I pulled it out of the ditch and lined it out on the right side of the road, facing uphill.

When the boys got out of the ditch, Rob thanked us all and apologized profusely.

Everybody loaded up their own cars and embarked toward Fayetteville and Springdale. Bec and I were the last to leave.

Back on I-49 we saw blue lights flashing ahead. But we were surprised to find that it wasn’t anybody from our party that was stopped.

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The next afternoon, back at home, I started downloading pictures from my little camera and my phone, to document the experience.

There, from the pictures I took out the window as we were driving into Kansas City, I found this one – clearly showing demons on the side of an old building downtown.

Demons that weren’t actually ON that building. I checked. A Facebook friend had a relative who lived there and recognized the building as the old Kansas City Star building.

The relative sent my friend another shot, taken virtually from the same angle and there was nothing painted on the building. Nothing.

When I posted the picture on Facebook, people tried to tell me it was some kind of reflection on the glass, of me taking the picture.

I have never worn pink fingernail polish, as far as anybody knows.

This explained it all. Made it all so clear.

The demons were in the car all along. It really was a road trip from hell.

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Buena Vista, Colorado

[This is the first in a series of pieces rediscovering America, written & photographed by Beth Arnold.]

IT WASN’T UNTIL I returned from France that I discovered my love for the American West. This was quite a surprise to me, and not just because I’d felt so at home in France, particularly in Paris. There I took long walks along the Seine; perused exhibitions of art, photography, and sculpture; shopped in my neighborhood markets for plump roasted chickens and a stunning variety of cheeses, juicy figs, and shiny aubergines; bought buckets of coral tulips for our table and handmade chocolates for our desserts; sat at sidewalk cafes and sipped cups of café crème and glasses of wine— whites, reds, rosés, Champagnes. And I wrote and wrote and wrote. I had a popular blog—“Beth Arnold: Letter From Paris”—that gave me immense pleasure to produce.

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That was not nothing, as our last Paris landlord was wont to say. He was an artist himself, a decorator, a painter of trompe l’oiel, a finder of bargains in the tiny shops and on the narrow streets of Paris that he knew as well as the lines in the palms of his hands. And he knew and appreciated the struggles that creative people meet in their daily lives. I liked him particularly for that.

Parisian Cafe

My time in Paris was part of the life, or one of the lives—how do we speak about the elements of ourselves, our desires, the components and iterations of our identities?—that I had always wanted. There I felt electrified in the world around me, and I delighted in the visceral nature of that beautiful city. In short, I was living the life that I had always felt I was meant to live.

Besides the beauty of France and its culture, what had drawn me in the beginning was something that many in the “Lost Generation”—those expats who’d escaped the U.S. for Paris in the 1920s—had felt as well.

Malcolm Cowley summed it up brilliantly in one of my favorite books about writers, writing, and American and French culture: Exile’s Return: A Literary Odyssey of the 1920’s: “Life in this country is joyless and colorless, universally standardized, tawdry, uncreative, given over to the worship of wealth and machinery.”

Macarons and ice cream at Laduree

I suspect Cowley’s observation about American life has rung true for Americans of many generations. Would this have started in the 19th century with the advent of the Robber Barons?

Once I returned from France in 2012, Cowley’s pronouncement seemed even truer than when I’d left a decade earlier. Besides the intolerance being regularly and vociferously spewed from “Christian” churches, an even greater number of Americans were voting against their own best interests to enrich the coffers of the ultra- wealthy. In the 10 years I was gone, the United States had become the Divided States.

As for Cowley’s charge about American life being “universally standardized,” it turns out he was looking into a crystal ball. I came back to a cookie-cutter sameness covering every block and street of every city in this country, whether we’re stopping for ice cream,

The Seine

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? coffee, restaurants, or hotels. Big corporations are pushing their brands across every square inch of America. Greed is celebrated and authenticity is passé.

And so almost 100 years after the Lost Generation flew the coop to another continent, I returned to a country that felt, to me, as lost as I felt in it. A stranger in a strange land, what was I to do? The answer I came up with was to spend as much time as possible rediscovering my native land—who are we Americans today? Where are our pockets of authenticity? In this Digital Age, when almost everyone claims to be a writer and real journalism has nearly disappeared, where have our writers and journalists gone? Where are the artists and artisans? How do we live? What will this returned exile discover about herself? Will she find her place here once again?

As a girl, I went with my family from our home in Batesville, Arkansas, to Colorado, Utah, and Wyoming.

We drove up Pike’s Peak and across the Continental Divide in our white 1962 Chevrolet station wagon. We hiked above the tree line, rode horses over well-worn trails, fished for trout in icy streams that tumbled through the slips and turns of the countryside. We had never seen anything like the Rockies and the ebullient nature that cracked them open and blew them skyward. The cores of these connected ranges are pieces of continental crust over a billion years old.

Once upon a time the Appalachians might’ve had peaks like their Western cousins, but they eroded eons ago.

MY HUSBAND, JAMES Morgan, has a son and daughter-in-law who own a house in Breckenridge, Colorado. They go there in the summers for hiking and in the winters for skiing, but because they have young children the house stands empty in the fall. They graciously offered it to us, so in August 2012—five months after our return to the States—we headed West. I, for one, was happy to go anywhere far from the noxious Arkansas heat.

Jim and I have always loved watching landscapes fly by, and even driving across Oklahoma and Kansas, in a car packed to the gills, was no exception. But it was only when we reached Colorado that I could breathe again.

The air turned cool and the Rocky Mountains—which had once seemed so cold and forbidding to me—now struck me as holy, houses of gods such as Jung might have dreamed. They provided the constancy and stillness I was looking for.

Rocky Mtn. National Park

Brent, Beth, Bobbye & Blair Arnold at the Royal Gorge

We were en route to Crested Butte, then a bona fide Colorado Ghost Town and the place where my attorney father was to spend several weeks at the Law Sciences Academy. Total Western greenhorns, we had a lot to learn in those weeks we spent in the tiny town of mostly empty Victorian houses. My brothers and I were appalled that local fishermen caught and ate what looked to us like baby trout—fish we would’ve thrown back at home. Not only that, they ate the skin and bone, much as we might eat a fried bream tail. We also rooted out the glittery mineral called Fool’s Gold and learned that it was basically worthless. Even so, my brother Brent loved the shiny mineral.

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We drove on to Salt Lake City, where we listened to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and floated in the Great Salt Lake. We stopped for a few days at the lodge in Yellowstone National Park to enjoy the outdoors, which was as close to camping as my family ever got. We were cabin-renters, motel-stayers, and lovely-hotel enjoyers. It wasn’t that we didn’t do tons of outdoor things. We hiked in the woods, picked wild berries, and often ended up in activities that terrified us kids, such as our father holding us out over the Royal Gorge so we could get a better view.

house shoes at Sundance Sheepskin and Leather, a small family business that’s been operating in Guffey, Colorado, since 1971. These are the kinds of businesses and artisan craftsmanship I love to find and support.

Nothing in their store was made in China. Amen. And this was a day I repeated several times, because I liked the feel of it.

These were all uniquely American experiences.

Western experiences. That trip was one of my first tastes of a bigger world that I grew to appreciate and long for.

Now Jim and I spent the autumn retracing the tracks my family had made during that long-ago trip West.

This time my eyes were opened in a different way. We saw that Colorado wasn’t just full of old ranchers raising cattle and sheep. (Colorado lamb is well known for its tenderness and flavor.) It wasn’t just the ski bums who fell in love with winter sports, clear mountain air, and eye-popping vistas that cast a line down into your heart and hooked you into the universe and nature.

These enthusiastic sportsmen and -women work several jobs to keep themselves afloat, in and out of ski season. They’re an integral part of the mountain scene and culture as well as the workforce. I’m a natural interviewer, and I like to hear people’s stories. The ski bums drew me into theirs, particularly one guy who was going to EMT school and then wanted to be a mountain rescuer in snow season. What a heroic desire.

What I liked was talking to people who were passionate about what they were doing no matter what it was. I’ve always said that authenticity is the most attractive quality a human being can possess. So no matter what someone’s class or career, if they’re authentic, that is what raises them up and draws others to them.

And Colorado was also full of dynamic young people creating 21st-century businesses in small communities all across the landscape. One of our favorite towns was Buena Vista, where we liked to buy coffee at the Buena Vista Roastery—after eating lunch at the Eddyline Restaurant near the banks of yes, the Arkansas River.

Right across the street, I bought handmade boots and

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Handmade Moccasins at Sundance Sheepskin & Leather

Salida is another town not far away that exudes that peculiarly Colorado vibe of clean and healthy energy and funky cool. What once had been a railroad town reinvented itself to beckon tourists for the skiing, whitewater rafting, and kayaking. Salida has a happening feel to it—things to do, places to hang, a pleasant place to stop and sit on a rock by the Arkansas River. And be. Which we did. I see Salida as one of the towns binding old and young Colorado together.

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But, oh, how Crested Butte had changed. I wandered the streets of this charming village looking for clues of my family and me. Crested Buttte had gone from Ghost Town to ski resort, and most of the shopkeepers and full-time residents were people who’d moved in from off. There were a few totems—a hotel and a house that seemed familiar. I went in several shops and the museum to find someone who might actually know some history. Frankly, I didn’t find anyone. What a shame. And one of the shopkeepers had tried to sell me a sterling silver charm, except it wasn’t appropriately marked. Trying to cheat tourists? I hated that since I’d liked her.

mountains are sacred, and are filled with healing energy.

It took me many years to learn that, just as it has taken me a long time to understand how much I love a good adventure and how I thrive on being in foreign cultures—the American West counts—with enriching vistas and people who speak exotic tongues that I don’t know but somehow feel. And in discovering these new tribes and clans, I recognize that in their heart of hearts they are the same as me.

Crested Butte is one of the prime examples of the comeback that mountain sports have provided Colorado, a state that now seems good at reinventing itself — not just accepting but pushing change. That’s what it’s also doing with startups and entrepreneurialism. Boulder is the tech mecca that’s home to entrepreneurial evangelist and what I call the Church of Brad Feld and his Tech Stars accelerator as well as a near-perfect collegiate environment for the University of Colorado.

The Arkansas River at Salida, Colorado

Crested Butte

In Colorado, the sun shone even after the snow fell, glistening in air as it drifted down to the pine-needled ground where the small forest creatures live. We saw deer, moose, fox, elk, porcupines—even one lonely, bone-gnawing bear. Being in the Rockies, having all this wildlife around me, literally took my breath away. The gods of sun, rain, and thunder blew clouds painted pink and orange, and I hung my Tibetan prayer flags from tree to tree. What I have discovered is that these ? Magazine October, 2015

Breckenridge, Colorado

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Living

Angelia Roberts “Lady Godiva” by John Collier

There was a time when anyone over the age of 50 was considered on the downhill side.

Retirement was on the horizon and pretty much limited to making a will, pre-paid funeral arrangements and reflecting back on life instead of living it.

Baby Boomers, who refused to grow up or give up, created the demand for an industry explosion where millions would be spent on anti-aging products, senior dating sites, drugs to enhance sex lives and the book and movie industry moved into showcasing adults who weren’t just making bucket lists, but living them.

These middle-age adventure seekers started skydiving, rocky mountain climbing and while they might not last eight seconds on a bull named Fu Manchu they took the “Live like you were dying,” lyrics literally with an honest look at where their life had been and where it was going. This generation had put their stamp on marriage and divorce repeatedly, but even those in loving and content relationships found themselves alone, abandoned and cast into the single scene when they had to deal with the death of a loved one. For some, getting into the relationship game was as daunting as learning to speak a foreign language.

Carrie, Tess, Robert and Sam are prime examples.

Carrie had no idea who she was until she walked out of a 30-year-marriage, Tess had spent the majority of her life looking for love in all the wrong places, Robert couldn’t keep his eyes on one woman and when Sam found the right one, death took her from him way too soon.

These are their “Sex in the Middle Ages” stories.

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Living Standing naked in front of a full length mirror had never been a pretty sight.

Like most women, Carrie had agonized the majority of her life over the size of her butt and thighs and she wished for additional padding on top to even it all out.

Losing the first 10 pounds kept her going, at 20, people started noticing and by the time she hit the 30-pound mark she actually felt good about herself.

Being single was going to have its rewards, even if it was only on the scales.

Carrie wasn’t a slow learner when it came to figuring out her marriage was never going to work. It wasn’t his first affair, the second or the third; it had just always been easier to stay than go.

When she turned 50, she packed her bags.

Not once was getting back on the marriage train to nowhere an option, even though it would have made financial sense. No amount of pleading, promises or prayer was going to change her mind.

Days, weeks passed, before the knowledge set in that she should feel something—anything, but whatever was inside had been crushed so long ago that she had zero capacity to be mad or sad.

And then she had sex.

Not the missionary, boring, let’s get this over with kind, but the, I can’t believe I have missed this kind of sex.

Like a drug addict looking for the next fix, she got so high on the excitement that she actually went in search of it.

The first time she slept with someone wasn’t without its awkward moments.

“I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t tell you what size his ...,” she faltered on the word penis, “or what it looked like. You have to remember I had only slept with one man and this was all about trying to find out if there was something wrong with me.”

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Her insecurities got a major boost when she realized it wasn’t.

“It awakened this need in me that I didn’t even know that I had.”

The last time she had physical contact with her husband was two years before she left, and it was at her request.

“I initiated it and he just wasn’t interested.

When I brought up our sex life he couldn’t even remember the last time we had done it.”

Laughing, she confessed, “I think God kept me married all those years or I would have been a whore. I have discovered I like it. If someone would have told me I would be single, sexually active and having the time of my life, I would have thought they were crazy.”

And there is a little bit of excitement in knowing her life changes would surprise others.

“I think for the first couple of months I was in shock. For years I had always kept myself busying doing for others and now I was walking into a strange home every night with no one to cook for, no one to clean for and no one to be angry at.

That was real eye-opener.”

Robert had something in common with Carrie’s unfaithful ex-husband, because he has never been in a monogamous relationship.

The need to find the next available woman had always cost him and he always seemed to be rescuing some poor damsel in distress.

He found new relationships exciting, but he always knew he would tire of them and move on.

Each time he thought he had found the right companion he realized that he was either picking the wrong one or just simply could not follow through in the relationship department.

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Living At 55, he was tired, but still searching. Half the time he was just angry that his sex drive was more in his head than in his worn-out body. He had replaced real companionship with various porn sites, the occasional strip club or massage that would lead to a happy ending.

He had no willpower when women made it known they were available.

“I still want the real thing, whatever the real thing is,” he said. “I still want to find that woman I can be totally honest with and not feel the need to cheat on, but I don’t know if that is possible.

She would have to be a little quirky with that bad girl sinner image on Saturday night and Bible quoting saint on Sunday morning. Somewhere along the way he had just given up in ever finding his real soul mate.

While he does not consider himself emotionally inept, he finds loving someone is not as hard as staying in love with them. Daily repetition finds him looking at other ways to add spice to his life, which always leads him down the path of infidelity.

Even now he admits that being faithful would be a challenge.

Tess is the female version of Robert.

She bores easily.

The majority of her life has been a succession of on again, off again, significant and insignificant others. Her biggest problem has always been in finding someone who could hold her attention.

Even though she might stay for long periods of time, she knew early on that each relationship would meet with the same ending.

She racked up a couple of divorces and told herself she would not make those same mistakes again.

The man she was searching for arrived in her ’40s.

And, the moment she had sex with him, she knew — he was the one. That was terrifying.

Having him, keeping him and fearing he would turn out like everyone else was always a constant mental battle.

So, when he said “Marry me,” she panicked.

“Every time I watched Meryl Streep in ‘The Bridges of Madison County,’ I knew exactly how she felt when she was unable to get out of the truck. That scene was so much like mine. I kept thinking, if I had it to do over again, there would have been a different outcome. I finally came to the conclusion that I didn’t marry him because I didn’t want us to become normal. And, it was easier to put him on this pedestal and think I had something special.”

Even though she realized the driving force had been a strong sexual connection, she still hoped someone of that magnitude would enter her life again and when he didn’t she made the decision to avoid all relationships.

And then the man she had always been looking for arrived.

In reality, he had always been there.

For years they had shared every detail of their lives and one day she woke up to find he had moved from her head to her bed and then, without even realizing it, to her heart.

This mental, physical and spiritual connection put her in a totally different playing field - one she was unfamiliar with.

“Since I’ve never really been in this particular place I am not sure how to describe it. It’s like a daily conversation so stimulating that when we have physical contact it is not like anything I have experienced before. Maybe it falls into some kind of tantric sex. I can’t help but wonder if I am being cursed or if I have being given this incredible gift.

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Living

Sam knows about gifts.

He was well into his 40s before he realized he was just lucky to be alive.

Women had always come easy for him. They were like the coke he snorted up his nose, pleasurable and necessary at the time, but not meaningful. And, for years, that lifestyle was one he loved.

He was just an average guy before he became immersed in the underground world of drugs. It wasn’t something he planned on, but after he committed the biggest portion of his income to an investment opportunity, he realized he had to find a way to supplement his daily life until that paid off. So, he started running cocaine.

“But, like all drug runners, I started using, and I liked it. I wasn’t just living on the edge, I was over it and after a couple of unfortunate events, it was time to go home.”

Making that transformation back to some semblance of normal ended up being the best decision of his life. His investment gave him more than enough to start a new life.

And, that’s when he met Carol, an independent professional woman, who held him to a higher standard.

She made him want to be a better person.

“I limited myself to a few beers and some occasional marijuana. My only bad boy image came when I roared through town on my Harley.”

They discussed marriage during their 12-year relationship, but not taking that step had suited them both. The lack of a legal commitment had no bearing on his belief they would grow old together and he was totally committed to spending the rest of his life with her.

But three months after she was diagnosed with

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cancer, she was gone.

There was no time to really prepare. He had cared for her around the clock until she took her last breath.

And it would take a long time for his anger at God to subside.

For months after her death he wallowed in anger, pity and loneliness. Cold beer and the occasional joint helped numb some of the pain, but it was only a quick fix and that was limited because he didn’t want to fall back into his old lifestyle.

Occasionally, he would connect with female companions, but they were not Carol. He was lost and the only person he felt he really connected to was an old friend. And then without really expecting it he admitted to himself he might be able to love again.

Sam is good with where he is in his life, but he is now open to the right relationship. Like a lot of men his age he knows some of his attraction is his stability and has found women want to trade a real relationship for security.

“I find it harder to get rid of them because they want that and that is why I am attracted to independent women.”

At 54, he feels blessed to have had a real love in his life and knows he has come full circle and is lucky to be alive. That knowledge, he said, had put him in a more spiritual role, which is somewhere he has never been before.

He believes if someone special is supposed to be in his life then God will send her, if not, he’ll be fine with that too.

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Living by: Rhonda Crone

She sat in her daily uniform - an eggplant velour sweatsuit over baby faux-rockconcert tee (today it was the Beatles Magical Mystery Tour) - humming to the tune which echoed from the little green room at the end of the hall, “…and that’s what an island is!” She was certain the damn purple dinosaur ripped off this particular melody from Jimmy Buffett but how is any freakin’ toddler gonna know that? Well the mommies are onto it. “Barney must be exposed for the hack he is!” she thought as she balanced her checkbook at the kitchen counter. $38.52. And it was only Wednesday. She heard clunking and jamming coming from the hall. Her two-year-old was changing the video tape herself (this was a newly acquired skill).

Rhonda Crone wrote this piece back in 2008 when she had a one and five year old at home, full time.

She spent a lot of time blogging about her imperfect life as a "stay at home mom" who drank a lot of Yellow Tail. She's now a "career-woman" but still maintains her blog, where you can find more of her ramblings, and recipes too.

www.rhorhosbistro.squarespace.com

Barney is a Hack (and other important truths)

And there it was, that voice. Leah gazed out at her flourishing suburban tomato garden, sipped her decaf green tea and fantasized that she was the demure blonde (fake) chick with the dreadful baby-sweet voice that invented those Baby Einstein videos (she knew the voice was blonde because the founder gave a personal introduction with each video, in all her blondeness). “Hi, I’m Julie Clark, founder of the Baby Einstein Company.

Enjoy the show.” Every time Leah heard it, she wanted to puke. Hi, I’m Julie Clark, I’m rich as fuck.

I have Thirty-eight MILLION dollars and fifty-two cents in MY checking account. And MY husband works for ME!” Why couldn’t she have come up with that?

It’s pure genius. All you need is a video camera and some toys, kids, dead artists and classical musicians. You can steal from them and nobody cares. This totally pissed Leah off. She was smart and creative, even blonde (fake also). Why didn’t she think of it first? Why couldn’t she think of

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Living anything to make a million dollars? Even a few hundred would help at this point. She was grateful to be able to be home with her own child, but money was getting tight these days. If things didn’t look up soon, she’d be forced to go back to a cubical and her daughter to some eighteen yearold moron for eight hours a day in an institutionallike setting where they serve beanie weenies for lunch. Her philosophy was, since she went to the trouble to have the kid, the least she could do was raise it, imparting onto it her own dysfunctional personality traits instead of someone else’s.

If she had thought of the video idea, the sad thing was, she’d never follow through with it, anyway. She never seemed to finish anything. She hadn’t finished her graduate thesis. She couldn’t even finish washing dishes, – she had to leave something in the sink – or roll the window of her car all the way down. When she did laundry (it was hit and miss), she washed a load and left it in the washer for a couple days, until it mildewed and she had to re-wash it, or worse, her husband discovered it first. She did stay home all day after all, what did she do?

Well, if you must know, she spent a lot of time on short-lived projects, like painting, writing toddler board books, working on the memoir she started four years ago, or the occasional editing project she was sent from her sometimesemployer. Every now and then, she sent out a submission. She had received twenty or so rejection form letters (the really nice ones actually had someone’s signature in blue ink) in the last few years. She had come up with several killer entrepreneurial ideas, but none really stuck. Right after having the baby, she wanted to write a book on pregnancy (she knew everything since she had been pregnant…once), then there was the small ad agency, and the pop-culture-themed bistro. For most of these things one needs determination, or more likely, financial backing. With determination,

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one may be able to get financial backing, but, well, it’s a circular problem.

Leah wasn’t sure if it was a million bucks, or immortality that she truly craved in life. She always thought she would have made her mark by now. Complete and total rejects are doing it on reality TV these days. What has this world come to? At thirty-three, she had never had anything published, never sold a painting, and she wasn’t a rock star – specifically Olivia Newton-John - like she’d planned to be when she was eight (if you consider Olivia Newton-John to be a rock star).

But, when she thought about it, she’d never really tried, besides singing Hit Me With Your Best Shot at karaoke or getting onstage (half-drunk) with her now-ex-musician husband in the bars he played.

She wasn’t even a member of the choir in high school. What was she thinking? It was too late for her.

She often felt guilty. While Leah was working on all these never-completed projects, what was Zoe doing? From three months on, well, take a wild guess. She was watching videos. At about four months of age, when Leah was certain the immobile infant still couldn’t budge from the little pillow contraption she built around her on the bed, there was a loud thump on the bedroom floor. Leah ran around the corner to find baby Zoe face-down, wailing. She thanked God that room was carpeted, and that they couldn’t afford one of those waist-high fancy beds, or there would be something worse than rug-burn on Zoe’s forehead.

Eventually, after collecting (and contributing to Julie’s fortune) a video or DVD on practically every trip to Wal-Mart – Baby Van Gogh, Monet, Da Vinci, Shakespeare, Bach, Beethoven, Noah, and the list goes on – they began to explore other options. Leah had thankfully discovered that she

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Living could rent videos at the library for free, and that’s when Barney came along, with some other childidol characters. A new struggle began. With all these choices, Zoe went back and forth on which video to watch, pitching mini-fits, “Wanna watch Barney ABC!” and just as the tape went in, “No, wanna watch Dora! No, Baby Monet!” Finally Leah would just leave the three videos and let Zoe take control of the VCR. And she thus became fluent in VCR operation.

Don’t overreact and call S.C.A.N. just yet.

She didn’t just ignore her child all day, sticking videos in front of her (she had always said her kid would never even watch TV). They went to toddler story time at the library and to the park and chatted with the other baby-Mommy combos.

They colored and painted together and read lots of books (the kid was a mini Picasso and could actually recite pages of Dr. Seuss). She just used videos as babysitters at certain times during the day when Zoe wouldn’t accept that Leah was either actually working for money or just on a never-to-be-completed non-paying project.

Besides, the videos were entirely educational (her kid would most certainly be a genius prodigy child).

She remembered at age 30, how she was a divorced, working, thin and stylish party girl living alone in a cool apartment within walking distance to bars. She had a brand-new shiny Volkwagen Beetle that she didn’t need and couldn’t really afford. Her life was rather carefree, excepting all the debt she had accrued from the divorce, graduate school, and …the partying. It was carefree because she just didn’t really care. She made her minimum payments every month, so what was the problem? She thought her job basically sucked, but then, not altogether.

At age thirty-one, the working party-girl lifestyle became a faint, distant memory, overnight. That’s what happens with pregnancy.

One day you’re just a person, the next, you’re a pregnant person. Two very different things, indeed. The night before, she was drinking margaritas and singing karaoke, and then, the next day, found herself a couple months pregnant. The good news was that she still squeezed into her size four jeans. Jeans that, two years later, she wouldn’t be able to tuck a buttcheek into after the 50-pound weight gain that she had so shamelessly accomplished during pregnancy and never fully lost (a weakness for chocolate cake, key lime pie and three-a.m. grilled cheese sandwiches had been her secret weapon, for those who are seeking a significant weight gain). The bad news was that she and the baby’s father were not even together, she had no health insurance, she had no idea what to do! But, it all somehow worked itself out.

She and Zoe’s father were married now.

Since having Zoe, they had both grown up (mostly) and settled down. They were Parents. Good ones.

They had a happy, mostly functional family. And now, Barney songs, quoting Dr.Seuss (why doesn’t Eminem just admit that’s who he stole his rhyming pattern from?) for fun, and the words “poohpooh” were everyday realities. She felt out of touch. She didn’t know the difference between last season’s and this season’s Manolos. She carried a diaper bag, not a Prada. Her left ring finger donned a Scott Kay, not a Harry Winston.

She worked from home; she had no place, besides the local college beer joints, to show off these ridiculous things if she could afford them. But, if she did go out on her scheduled Thursday night with girlfriends, she knew she still had the mojo to get some cute twenty-three year-old MBA major

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Living to buy her a dirty martini, if needed. At least, she still had that.

She knew that, once not long ago, Julie Clark must have been just like her, sitting at her laminate-top kitchen counter, balancing her thirtyeight-dollar checkbook, and drinking her Celestial Seasonings tea. She knew that Julie, after the tea, also proceeded to make her trip to Wal-Mart, the bank, the post office, and maybe even Target (if it was a really good day). But Julie knew then, deep in her little blonde heart, that someday her voice would make someone puke, and it was all the comfort she needed to get through the day. Look where that optimism got her!

Leah smiled, and licked the envelope, the inside of which was a children’s book submission (she gave up her dirty memoir months ago). From the hallway rang a sweet, but utterly endearing voice, crying out, “Momma, I got pooh-pooh!�

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Not as spectacular as it was supposed to be; and, oddly enough, the world didn’t end like some thought it would.

But, if you play the Powerball Lottery, and you rub the picture while saying “Luna Luna Luna,” you’ll have a one in 175,223,510 chance at winning the jackpot on the night you play.

You’re welcome. ? Magazine June, 2015

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? went down in Fayetteville, Arkansas September 23rd through September 27th.

Best I can tell, it went off without too many hitches.

At least, here in Springdale, we didn’t hear an unusual number of sirens.

Not being the owner of a motorcycle, myself (for the last 30 years or so), and not having the nerve to actually rent a motorized wheelchair, strap on a helmet and leather vest and ride the thing down to Dickson Street (the thought did occur to me, briefly), I just drove the SUV down there on Saturday morning to listen to the roar, up-close, and grab a few pictures.

So, with no biker stories of my own to tell. Here they are. Let us know if you see anybody, or bike you know.

By Rick Baber

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For information concerning Bikes Blues & BBQ, click below. https://www.bikesbluesandbbq.org/

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Editorial , what seems to be a very complex problem is ridiculously simple. There are but two sides to this issue of mass murder gun violence. On the one side is the relative ease with which a person is allowed to procure weapons in this country. On the other side is the serious lack of funding for meaningful community based mental health facilities and staff. I support the constitutional right to bear arms. With this right, however, comes an awesome responsibility.

Thorough background checks, coupled with closing gun show loopholes and a requirement to not only register firearms but to incorporate a notification system when guns are either sold, given away, or stolen must be included. Law abiding gun owners have nothing to fear, yet the NRA keeps fanning the fires of fear to protect not a constitutional right but rather a multibillion dollar business. The second side of effectively dealing with this issue is to promote community based mental health and to remove the stigma attached to the same. During the Reagan years, funding for such necessities was essentially scrapped in order to pay for the debacle of a ludicrous war on drugs. Imagine a country where these people who commit these atrocities could get the mental health attention they so desperately need. If you can't imagine such a thing, you are part of the problem. If you can imagine a safer world for yourself and for your children, you are part of the solution.

Zach Mann lives in a house down by the river in Nashville, Tennessee. Over the years, he has had several columns in various newspapers in Colorado and Oklahoma and has contributed editorials to several other newspapers and national periodicals. He achieved his greatest literary accomplishment by getting fall-down drunk with Hunter S. Thompson at his Owl Creek, Colorado home.

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One of the things we’d like to do with ? Magazine is introduce our readers to interesting and creative people, through interviews in every issue. We couldn’t be happier to begin with this guy – Little Rock photographer, John David Pittman. If you haven’t heard of him before this, get ready. His skill and passion for his work are sure to bring the fame he deserves.

JDP was gracious to answer a few questions for us, and allow us to display some of his excellent work – including the cover image for this issue.

?: John David Pittman. Full disclosure here. I’ve known you since you were a young whippersnapper, studying … I guess I could say “studying” at The University of Central Arkansas. Now you’re a full-growed (sic) man with a beautiful wife and daughter and a booming photographic studio in Little Rock, Arkansas. As a photographer, myself, I have been admiring your work for quite a while now. I guess my first question would be “how did you end up in the photography business?”

JDP: Man, that’s a long story. I’ve always been drawn to photographs. When I was a kid I loved to simply look at photos. Whether they were the images my mom made using her old Canon AE or those found in the pages of National Geographic or Sports Illustrated. I even had my own little Kodak Instamatic that I ran around with taking pictures of toys and dogs. But it wasn’t until much later in life that I found my love for it again. My girlfriend at the time (now wife) bought me a camera for my birthday. When we got engaged and opened her business in 2010 we needed promotional photography and had no money to hire it out. I did it and they didn’t suck too bad. I had been bitten. I started learning everything I could about how to make my images better by spending countless hours watching YouTube tutorials and practicing on whoever would let me. By the summer of 2012 I had a licensed commercial photography business and a studio space in downtown Little Rock. I still have to pinch myself sometimes. It’s come a long really quickly as a result of

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? a lot of hard work and determination. I’m very thankful for the success I’ve had to this point. I got a late start so I plan to keep working harder every day and hopefully will continue to grow the success as well. ?: Where is your studio located?

JDP: My studio is located in the historic

Gans Building in downtown Little Rock, Arkansas at 217 W 2nd Street. I’m a short walk from the Old Statehouse, the Capital Hotel, the Main Street Creative Corridor, and the River Market entertainment district. It’s a pretty sweet spot to be for a creative.

street to have a portrait done? What’s your preferred method of contact by potential clients? Website? Email? Etc. JDP: I’m a commercial and editorial photographer so it’s very rare that my clients are individuals. My clients tend to be businesses, advertising agencies, magazines, etc. But I do still love to work with individuals who dig my work and want to work with me to create something cool. I want to talk to anyone who likes and wants great imagery. If your readers want to get a feel for my style then I encourage them to visit my website: www.johndavidpittman.com and reach out to me via the contact options there. ?: What types of photography do you do; and if you could choose only one, what would it be?

JDP: Again, I’m a commercial/editorial photographer. I primarily specialize in commercial or editorial portraiture but not limited. In the last few months I have worked on projects that involved shooting product for Sam’s Club, custom homes for a construction company, and I even directed my first video project as a promotional piece for a cycling studio. Later this week I’m going to photograph some big rig trucks for a transportation company. As a commercial

photographer in a small market, you have to be able to wear a lot of hats. But if I had to choose, I would most definitely shoot editorial portraiture. It’s the most fun and the most interesting to me.

?: Is your work done there by appointment only, or could somebody just walk in off the

?: Are you limited to any particular geographical boundaries, or will you travel wherever the job takes you? How far from

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Little Rock have you ventured for your trade?

JDP: Planes, trains, and automobiles. If I can get there, I’ll go there. I do a lot of regional work in places like Nashville and Dallas. But I’ve worked in Las Vegas and New York. I’m going to New York twice in October actually. ?: As I said, I’m a fan. I’ve seen quite a bit of your work, including your commercial photography, which is excellent. It’s your portraiture, though, that I find simply amazing. You have a fascinating signature technique. Where’d that come from?

JDP: It took a long time to recognize that signature style myself. But once I did I’ve been able to harness it and use it. I believe the thing I strive for in all my portraits is what I call a human moment. Whether it was real or something I was able to sneakily direct my subject into, I want the viewer to feel something…a connection to the person they are viewing in the image. Those are the images that have always resonated most with me. They are the images I relate to and enjoy the most. Our emotions are what separate us. It’s what makes us special. If I can reflect a little of that through my images then that makes me happy.

?: Who are your influences when it comes to art and photography?

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JDP: I’m inspired by so many different forms of art and people. Sticking with photography, a few names that are always at the forefront of my inspiration zone are Richard Avedon, Irving Penn, Dan Winters, John Keatley, Peter Hurley, just to name a few. ?: What were your memorable gigs?

favorite

or

most

JDP: Favorite and most memorable are probably two very different things! My personal work is always my most fulfilling and that’s what drives your development as a photographer. I did get to shoot a really cool job for Ford Motor Co. last summer to create an ad that ended up running in both

Automotive News as well as Time Magazine.

That was really cool. I also really enjoy my work with The Arkansas Repertory Theater. ?: How do you think being a family man has affected your art?

JDP: I was never a photographer by trade as a single man. But I was a photographer before I was a father. I can’t pinpoint how being a husband and a father has directly affected my art but I’d be an idiot if I said it hasn’t. I’m sure the emotions involved with both roles play a large part in the way I approach certain images and concepts. ?: Canon or Nikon?

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JDP: My primary camera is a Nikon D800 and I also shoot a Fujifilm X-Pro 1. I’m a Nikon guy simply because that first camera my girlfriend/wife bought me way back when was a Nikon. I’ve just upgraded gear within that family since then. Canon makes great gear as well. No loyalty there for me. ?: If you could spend one hour, talking with any person, living or dead …. just kidding.

How’re you gonna talk to a dead person?

You’ve been kind enough to share some examples of your work for our readers. Could you tell us a little about each shot?

JDP: I’ll answer that question. It’s my granddad Pittman. He’s a 94 y/o WWII and Korean War vet and pretty much the coolest human being I know. I’ll spend an hour talking to him any time.

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?: John David, thank you for your time!

(More images follow)

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Next Issue…

Thanksgiving’s coming.

Thank YOU for reading!

You never know what you’re going to get! We’ll see you then.

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