centre of the universe - the dreaming

"D- did WHAT!?" R- said, a hint of laughter in her voice. R- is Bri'ish, and her accent is best when she's talking about something ludicrous.

"He jumped out of a tree, and now he can't remember where his parents live, and his dogs need to be let out to go pee, and..."

"What the hell was D- doing jumping out of a tree?"

"Well, he was...plummeting. So I'm wondering if you know..."

"No, I mean, first, I can't even imagine him *getting* himself *up* a tree, but what the hell was he THINKING?"

"Um. Well, there's this poem," I said, twirling the phone cord around my finger.

"Stop twisting that damned cord over your bloody fingers!" My mother shouted from the living room.

"Ow," said D-.

"Sorry," I said.

"What?" R- asked.

"Nothing," I said. "Anyway, he read this poem about boys jumping out of birch trees and gently lowering themselves to the ground as the trees bent."

"...huh." She replied. "Bet the tree broke..."

"Heh. Yeah, it did. Anyway, do you know where his parents live, because we have to go and..."

"How far'd he fall?" she asked.

"Oh, about ten or fifteen feet," I said.

"Jeesus. Did he break anything?"

"Just his memory. Anyway, d'you know where..."

"His WHAT?"

"His memory," I said. "He got a bit of a concussion, and..."

"A BAD concussion," D- shouted from the couch. "Ow."

"...and he can't remember where his parents live and we have to go let the dogs out," I finished quickly.

"Oh. Well. They live on such-and-such street, but I don't know the number. Maybe if you got the phone book..."

"Got it! Thanks, R-!"

I got D- back into the car, then drove across town to his parents' place, answering the "where are we going?" questions every few minutes, and sighing at the "I remember someone named J-" comments. D- had to fiddle with every key on his chain before he could find one that opened his parents' front door. But when he got the door open, the dogs ran out at us, stopped for a moment to lick our shins, then bolted outside.

"Are they always this excited to see me?" D- asked.

"Yes. Especially when they really have to pee." The dogs took a *very* long time peeing. After a few cuddles and pettins, I insisted D- go to the clinic. He claimed he was fine, until I asked him where *he* lived, and after a blank stare, he got himself into the passenger seat.

The clinic wasn't too busy, but we had to wait for half an hour or so, and when it was D-'s turn, he asked me to come with him. I was decidedly uncomfortable.

"What if they have to check for a hernia?" I asked.

"You can step out for a moment," he said.

"What if they have to..."

"Please, just come with me," he said. I went with him. He sat on the examination table, and the doctor came in after another twenty or so minutes. While we waited, we went over the facts together, many of which were still a bit woozly in D-'s memory.

"So," the doctor said as he closed the door behind him. He glanced over the tops of his glasses at the chart in his hands. "Which of you is D-?" He waited for a brief moment before laughing. "I always say that," he said, "when I first meet my patients."

I stared. D- grinned weakly.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked.

"Well," D- began, "you see, it's kind of a strange thing that happened."

"There's a poem," I began.

"By Walt Whitman," D- continued.

"No - Robert Frost," I said.

"Right. Robert Frost." He said. "About jumping out of trees..."

We both stared at the doctor expectantly. The doctor returned our expectant stare with one of his own. "Yes?" he said.

"Well," I began.

"I kind of..."

"He thought the tree would just bend and lower him gently to the ground, like in that poem."

"You didn't..." the doctor began.

D- nodded gravely. "I jumped out of a tree," D- said.

"You did WHAT!?" The doctor said, eyes wide.

"Well, I just...in the poem..." D- began.

"In the poem, the trees gently bend and lower the boys to the ground. But the trees in the Red don't do that." I said.

"I chose the wrong sort of tree," D- continued, "or the wrong size."

"..." the doctor said, staring. "..."

"He hit his head," I said. "He lost consciousness for about two minutes. He's experienced dizziness, headache, and memory loss."

"And memory loss," D- said. "Lots of that. I think."

The doctor stared and stared. "Normal people," he began, "Normal people do *not* jump out of trees."

D- just sat there, nodding sagely.

"Poets jump out of trees," I said, helpfully. The doctor shot me a fiery look. "Um. But poets...know the right...sorts of trees...and they don't....get....concussions..." I let the discussion slowly fade away.

The doctor checked D- over, muttering now and then about stupid people, and stupid ideas, and didn't we know that the brain is a delicate, delicate organ, and why on earth would you jump out of a tree? And sometimes he said something about literature being dangerous if it's going to be all jumping out of trees from here on in. And what do they TEACH you in school these days? Aren't there poets who don't write about jumping out of trees? Don't they know how DANGEROUS that is?

Finally, the doctor stood up, told D- to quit reading poetry and to take some aspirin and rest for a couple of days. He said, "most of your memory should come back, but you could have done permanent damage. PERMANENT DAMAGE; do you understand that?"

"Oh yes," D- said. "I think my tree-jumping days are numbered."

The doctor glared at him.

"He means over," I offered. "His tree-jumping days are over."

"NORMAL people," the doctor pontificated insistently, "do not *jump* out of *trees*."

And that was the time my friend D- jumped out of a tree because a poet said it was cool. Just goes to show you how dangerous books can be.

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

We sat together under the tree, the broken tree, for a little while. Every now and then, my friend would say, "Gee, I have a bad headache," or "this is a very odd day". I sat beside him, agreeing with him that it was indeed a very odd day, or that it made sense that his head hurt, owing to the fact that he had a concussion. Then he looked at me, his eyes wide, and said, "What day is it!?"

"Tuesday."

"Oh," he said, seemingly calmer. Then, "Er, what *month* is it?"

"July".

"Oh," he said thoughtfully. "I wonder if I have a job."

"Yes," I answered, "you do. You work mostly evenings, but your schedule is open until Saturday."

"You seem to know quite a lot about me," he said. "Are we romantically...inclined?"

"We are not," I answered hastily. Perhaps too hastily.

"Ah," he said. "I see. Is your name...J-?" he asked.

"No," I answered, momentarily feeling very bad indeed. Then I realised he wouldn't likely remember how quickly I'd insisted we were not romantically involved. "But J- is a friend of mine. She works with you."

"Ah," he said, "because I think I remember J-."

"Mmmm." I said. Earlier that day, we'd quarrelled a little over the fact that he wouldn't shut the eff up about J-, and I was quite tired of it.

"You know, I have the *worst* headache," he said.

"Would you like to go to the clinic now?" I asked.

"I think I'll just sit for a moment. If you don't mind my asking," he said, "what am I doing out here in the woods? And what, furthermore, are you doing here with me, if we are not romantically inclined?"

"We were walking together. Hanging out. Then you decided to jump out of a tree. That did not end well for you."

"I don't suppose it would," he said. "Walt Whitman wrote a poem about young boys climbing trees and they would hold on to a branch, or the sapling's trunk, and then let go with their feet, and the tree would bend gently and lower them to the ground."

"Well," I said, "I've always said that no good comes of Walt Whitman."

"Or maybe it was Robert Frost," he said. "I have the worst headache."

"I think it's a good idea for us to go to the clinic," I said. "After all, it is Tuesday."

"What's special about Tuesday?" he asked.

"Headache days at the clinic," I replied. He glanced suspiciously at me, then started to laugh. It was the first time he'd laughed in half an hour. I figured things would be okay, then.

Slowly, I helped him to his feet. He was unsteady, and a little dizzy. He leaned heavily on me as we climbed the forested hill on the way back to the car. "I think I'm starting to remember, now," he said. "I remember someone called J-."

"Yes," I said, a little out of breath from half-carrying him up a hill and across a field. "I suspect you do. You wouldn't shut up about J- earlier."

We rested often, and discussed things like headaches and trees and Walt Whitman. Sometimes we discussed Robert Frost, as well. Once, I broached Gerard Manley Hopkins, but that caused a great deal of consternation, so I backed down. After a couple of hours, we were in sight of his car.

"Oh look," he said. "A car! Perhaps we can flag them down, and..."

"That's your car," I said, tired, sweaty, and a little short of temper.

"I see," he said. "In that case," he reached into his pocket and drew forth some keys. "One of these ought to do the trick."

I grabbed the keys out of his hand and shook my head at the look of offense he shot me. "You can't even remember your name or where you live. You can't stand up on your own. You have a concussion because you JUMPED OUT OF A TREE. I am NOT letting you drive."

"That's probably a good idea," he said. Then, as soon as he opened his door, a look of fear crossed his face. "Oh my God," he said.

"What!!??" I asked, suddenly alarmed at his ashen look.

"I have DOGS," he said.

"Um. Yes?"

"I have two DOGS!"

"I know."

"We have to go back for the DOGS!!"

"Oh, ah, yes, well, you see, your dogs are at your parents' house right now. In fact, we might want to stop there first so they can pee."

He sighed heavily in relief. "That's good to know. Do you know J-? I think she works with me."

I sighed heavily and started up the car. I was a tad rusty on driving standards, but after a few bunny hops, I got us going. "This is a nice car," he said. "What year is it?"

"Um," I said. I glanced over at him.

"This is *my* car, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes. Completely. I'm driving because you have a concussion."

"Oh! That would explain this terrible headache I have."

"Which you got from...."

"...jumping out of a tree?" he asked tentatively. I was very pleased.

"You remembered something! Good for you!" I exclaimed. It was a very Princess Bride moment.

"You know, I could have sworn I have dogs," he said. "Two dogs. Little things."

"You do have two little dogs," I said. He glanced around the car. "They're not here right now because they're being featured in a commercial for pet food, and their handler says it's best if you're not there to distract them, so we came for a walk in the woods," I said.

"Ah," he said. "Of course. I remember."

I glanced at him. "Do you also remember that you perform in the lounge at the hotel in town?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I sing Elton John songs."

"And Kim Mitchell," I said.

"Only in the summers," he said.

It should be noted that my friend was the night auditor at the hotel in town, didn't sing Elton John tunes, and his dogs were never featured in any commercial. I am a bad, bad person.

"Do you remember my name?" I asked.

"You know, I'm terribly bad with names," he answered.

"Well it's okay, owing to your having a concussion and all."

"I have a concussion! That would certainly explain this headache. It's a doozy."

"My name is cenobyte," I said.

"I knew that," he said. "It's just that I'm really quite bad with names. What day did you say it was?"

"Tuesday."

"Ah. That's good then. I work on Friday, I believe. Hopefully this headache will go away by then."

I glanced at him. We were driving through the city now, toward his parents' house. "You remembered something else!" I said.

"Well!" he said, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. "Good for me."

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

It was difficult not to panic, really. We were several kilometres away from the car, through hills and hummocks and light forest. My friend was not a big man, but I was fairly certain I couldn't carry him the whole way. I began looking around for something with which I could lash together some boughs to make a travois. I figured I could use my (and his) shoelaces and strips from our shirts, etc., if I had to.

I was kneeling with one knee at either side of his head (but not in a naughty way. Sicko), making sure he didn't move his head too much. Staring down at him, I sighed.

"Sometimes those are very difficult questions," I said. "People struggle with their identities all the time. Sometimes for their whole lives."

He closed his eyes. "My head *really* hurts," he said.

"Well, that makes sense. Do you know what happened?" I asked.

"I was hoping you knew that."

"I do. But I'm trying to assess how bad your concussion is."

"Oh. I have a concussion, then?"

"Yes. You do."

He tried nodding. I put my hand on his forehead and told him, "Please don't move your head. I'm not sure if you have a neck injury."

"A neck injury?!"

"Yes."

He opened his eyes. "You know, looking up at these trees, it reminds me of a poem I read once."

"Was it the one by Robert Frost? About young boys climbing trees?"

"Or maybe," he said, "it was Walt Whitman. How did you know that?"

"I'm terribly clever," I replied. "Do you remember what happened?"

My friend glanced around, trying not to move his head. "My neck doesn't hurt at all, you know," he told me. "I think I can sit up."

"I should get you to sign a waiver," I said.

"A waiver?"

"Because all those people who broke their necks thought they were fine and then the people with them let them move, and SHABANG!" I shouted. "All busted up forever."

"I see." He stared up at the sky. After several minutes, he asked, "if I *have* hurt my neck, what can you do?"

"Well, I hadn't really got that far. I suppose I'll stabilise it as best I can with splints and fabric, and go for help."

"I must be very lucky to know you," he said.

"Oh, of course you are. But maybe," I said, "maybe you actually *don't* know me. Maybe I'm just a kind stranger who happened upon your nearly lifeless corpse in the woods."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," he said. Then he closed his eyes again. "Do you know why I have such a bad headache?" he asked.

"A better question is, do you know why?"

"Did I..." he began, "have an accident?"

"Yes, you did!" I was very excited. I thought perhaps he was remembering something.

"I'm guessing, you know," he said.

"Oh."

"It's more likely than having been lured into the woods by a beautiful young woman who then hit me over the head with something very heavy, only to have her nurse me back to health."

"There could have been two women," I suggested. "The first one bludgeoned you, and then perhaps I happened by and took pity on you."

He opened his eyes and stared up at me. "That's ridiculous," he said.

"It's no more ridiculous than jumping out of a tree," I said, somewhat insulted that he'd shot down my flawless theory.

He closed his eyes again. "People don't jump out of trees," he said, as he rubbed his temples.

"Careful," I said. "You're moving."

"I think I'm okay to sit up," he said. "I'm pretty sure I didn't hurt my neck."

"Yeah? How are you sure of that? What happened, anyway?"

"You know, that's the strangest thing. I don't remember."

"Tell you what. I'm going to just wrap this sweater around your neck, okay? I want you to keep your neck as straight as you can."

"That's very kind of you," he said. Then he looked at me quizzically. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Yes," I said. "Do you know you?"

He furrowed his brow. "Well that's odd, now. I couldn't tell you my name. Huh."

"Your name is D- W-," I said. "You were named after your father, who is also D- W-, but they don't call you junior. They call him D--, and you D-."

"Oh, that's nice," he said. He began a slow attempt at sitting up. "I'm sorry, it's just that I have such a bad headache."

"That's all right. It's what happens when you jump out of trees."

"What!?" he asked, shocked.

"Sometimes, when you jump 20 feet out of a tree, you end up hitting your head and getting a headache. Due to the concussion."

"I guess that makes sense," he said. He was sitting up, leaning against the selfsame tree he'd leapt from. "I can't imagine why anyone would jump out of a tree. That's ridiculous."

"Maybe I lured you out into the woods, and then bludgeoned you."

He glanced up at me. "That's a more likely explanation. Who jumps out of trees?"

"Robert Frost might," I said. "Or maybe Walt Whitman."

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

"Birches" by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

A friend of mine and I were walking in The Red, and he said, with a wistful look on his face as he stared up at the tall young poplar trees, "You know, I read a poem by Walt Whitman about these boys who jumped out of trees, and the trees would just lower them down to the ground."
And I said, "No good comes of Walt Whitman."
And he said, "Well, maybe it was Robert Frost."
And I said, "He's no Walt Whitman."
And he said, "Is that a good thing?"
And I said, "Absolutely."

I think this friend of mine may have been trying to impress me with his vast knowledge of poems about young boys who jump out of trees. And then my friend shimmied up a poplar tree. I think he was also trying to impress me with his vast tree-shimmying ability. Then my friend grabbed the tree up above the teeny tiny branch he was standing on, and he jumped out of the tree.

And the tree bent, and bent, and bent, for about ten of the twenty or so feet he was above the ground. And my friend shouted: "Look! It's just like in that poem by Robert Frost!"
"Or Walt Whitman," I called. "And no good comes of Walt Whitman!"

And then the tree, which was just a bit too big, and also the wrong sort of tree, snapped in half.

And my friend plummeted to the ground.

And the top of the tree he'd been holding on to plummeted to the ground after him.

And he hit the ground. And his head hit the ground. And the tree hit his head. And he lay there for a while. Probably he was thinking of Walt Whitman. Or Robert Frost.

I went to him, and made sure he was breathing (he was) and that his heart was beating (it was) and that he had no compound fractures (he didn't) and that he wasn't moving his head (he wasn't moving anything). Then I did the knuckles-on-the-sternum thing and I called his name, and he opened his eyes and he said, "Hello."

I thought that was a perfectly reasonable thing for a man who's just jumped out of a tree to say. "Hello," I said. "How are you?"

"Well," he said, looking up at me, "My head really hurts."

"You lost consciousness," I said.

"I did?" he asked.

"You certainly did," I said. "I was a little worried."

"Oh," he said. "That's nice of you."

We stared at each other for a moment.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked.

"Not a clue," he said.

"Do you know who *you* are?" I asked.

"Not so much," he said.

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

I was driving home after work this afternoon.

No, that isn't right.

My heart aches. I don't want to listen to the radio until the tempestuous news cycle is finished with this. In fact, I don't even want to share it with you. I'm going to, though. A three-year-old boy went missing in Abuquerque. His mother confessed to burying his body in a playground. She did this after she had laid down with him on the play structure, placed her hand over his mouth and nose, and strangled him. She had second thoughts, and performed CPR on him, and revived him. Then, she strangled him again. The CNN news story is here.

The woman reportedly told police she didn't want her son to grow up feeling unloved and alone.

So she killed him.

I cannot stop thinking about this woman and her little boy.

On the heels of the vitriolic rant posted here a couple of days ago, I am beginning to wonder...to seriously wonder what the hell is going on. What kind of hell do you have to be in to murder your baby? What kind of hell did she go through when she was a child to convince herself that her child's death would save him from the horrors of a life she herself cannot endure. What kind of hell will she live through for the rest of her life?

The pictures in my head are vivid and horrible.

I don't want to hear or read any comments about how the mother should be put to death or sterilised or tortured. I don't, in fact, want to hear anything about this. I want to turn off the outside world right now, but I can't unhear the report. I can't unread what I've read ...unknow what I know... This will be all over talk radio and newspapers and blogs in a few hours, if it isn't already, and yes, I am contributing to that. I am contributing because my soul is shaken. Because maybe in writing about this, I can calm my thoughts.

What I want is ...I want the mother to heal. I want her to be rehabilitated, not vilified. No, I'm not insinuating she's not guilty, or shouldn't go to prison if found guilty. No, I'm not saying that she oughtn't be punished.

She will never know her son's joyful, pure laughter. She will never kiss his soft cheek. She will never hold his hand in the park again. No first day of kindergarten. No bike rides. No splashing in puddles, no endless board game afternoons. No clutching hugs, and no little voice saying "I love you, Mummy". She has taken the greatest gift, the greatest honour someone can be given, and she has destroyed it.

And I need to believe that she has done this thing because she honestly (however delusionally and mistakenly) believed she was protecting her baby. I need to believe that.

Two years ago, a frightened and messed-up young woman gave birth to a baby in the toilet in a local store. She left the baby in the toilet and left the store.

Another woman abandoned her baby on a -29 February morning in 2007. She waited and watched until she saw someone in the house of the doorstep she left her daughter on.

Please, God, send them to me. These broken spirits, these children whose mothers cannot bear them.

If I could be mother to the world, believe you me I would. If I could gather up each of these children in my arms, I would.

All alone I didn't like the feeling
All alone I sat and cried
All alone I had to find some meaning
In the center of the pain I felt inside

All alone I came into this world
All alone I will someday die
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby
Sand and water, and a million years gone by

I will see you in the light of a thousand suns
I will hear you in the sound of the waves
I will know you when I come, as we all will come
Through the doors beyond the grave

All alone I heal this heart of sorrow
All alone I raise this child
Flesh and bone, he's just
Bursting towards tomorrow
And his laughter fills my world and wears your smile

I will see you in the light of a thousand suns
I will hear you in the sound of the waves
I will know you when I come, as we all will come
Through the doors beyond the grave

All alone I came into this world
All alone I will someday die
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby
Sand and water and a million years gone by
-Beth Nielsen Chapman, "Sand and Water"

Labels: babies, breaks my heart, just wrong, Wishes

Watching a documentary called "Painted Babies at 17". It's about these young women who were in 'beauty' pageants when they were ...well... infants. You know the kind I'm talking about. Parents and grandparents (usually mums and grandmums and aunties) tart up these gorgeous little girls and trot them out on a stage to sing and dance and trained-monkey their way into the "hearts of the people". I'm sure they haven't changed that much - four year old girls doing little waggly-arse dances and singing sexually suggestive songs.

They put enough makeup on these poor kids that they look like really bizarre, crushed-face twenty-five year old women. It makes my heart ache.

If there is a Hell, it is a constant beauty pageant, where you're never pretty enough, never talented enough, you never have a permanent enough fake smile. Someone else always has a nicer dress, sparklier shoes, whiter teeth. I can't imagine all the money that people spend on this shite.

And you know what the parents say? The parents say "oh, she loves it! She wins cars, money, cruises..."

Right. Because a FOUR YEAR OLD needs a CAR.

Oh Christ. One of these girls is singing this song: "I see people working, and it just makes me giggle/I don't have to work; I just have to wiggle, because I'm a blonde! Don't you wish you were me?"* My teeth are grinding. GRINDING, people. **

So let's take a step back and reflect on what these parents are teaching their children - the women who will be ...well, judging from what the young women are saying now, the women who will be married to the men who will be running the country in ten years.

Value 1) Physical looks are paramount. If you have a blemish, you're going to lose.
Value 2) You are more valuable if you can sashay and wiggle.
Value 3) Your appearance will get you everything you need in life.
Value 4) Pretty clothes are more important than free will.
Value 5) The more sparkly crowns you have, and the bigger they are, the better a human being you are.

I've heard people say before that beauty pageants are child abuse. I tend to agree...not just because parents are forcing their daughters to act like sparkly blow-up sex dolls, but because they're teaching them *horrible* things. Sure, you can make the same argument for parents who push their kids into *anything*, whether it's hockey or swimming, or the army. And the minute I see a parent teaching their kids that the better you *look* as a hockey player (snicker), the better you'll do, I'll probably laugh out loud. Yes, it's a little questionable to force or to pressure your children into anything. But seriously. Pressuring your children into this horrific bleached, tanned, manicured, taped, plastic promenade is, frankly, fucking disgusting.

My friends who have girl children are teaching their girls to be strong, intelligent, able women who value justice and morality over gorram false eyelashes. I shudder to think what becomes of these pageant girls as they become women. I shudder to think.

Anyway. I'm screaming inside. What is the matter with people who think this is okay? What's the matter with people who don't see how wrong this is?

No three year old should have to ever wear makeup for any reason. No four year old should have her hair bleached and backcombed and coiffed like that. No five year old should sing those songs or dance like that, and I don't care how many people say that the only people they're performing for are judges and parents. It's disgusting.

Just. Stop.
___
* The full, horrifying lyrics reprinted here, for your viewing displeasure. It does please me that whoever transcribed these lyrics can't actually spell "Blonde":
Because I'm a blonde I don't have to think, I talk like a baby and I never pay for drinks
Don't have to worry if I'm getting a man if I keep this blonde and I keep these tan
Cause I'm a blonde yeah, yeah, yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah

I see people working and it just makes me giggle,
cause I don't have to work, I just have to wiggle
Cause I'm a blonde B-L-O-N-D
Cause I'm a blond don't you wish you were me?

I never learned to read and I never learned to cook
Why should I bother when I look like I look?
I know lots of people are smarter than me, but I have this philosophy, "So what?"
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah

I see girls without dates and I feel so sorry for them cause whenever
I'm around, all the men ignore 'em
Cause I'm a blonde nyah nyah nyah
Cause I'm a blonde nyah nyah nyah

They say to make it you need talent and ambition, well I got a tv show, and this is my audition;
Umm. . . okay. . . what was it?. . . ummm don't tell me. . . oh, yeah, okay "Duck Magnum, duck!"
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah

I took an IQ test and I flunked it of course, I can't spell BW but I got a Porsche
Cause I'm a blonde B-L-I-N-D
Cause I'm a blonde don't you wish you were me?

I just want to say that being chosen as this month's Miss August is
like a compliment I'll remember for as long as I can.
Right now I'm a freshman in my fourth year at UCLA but my goal is
to become a veterinarian cause I love children
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah

Girls think I'm snotty and maybe its true
With my hair and body, you would be too
Cause I'm a blonde B-L- . . . I don't know!

Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah!

**As God is my witness, if I ever hear anyone singing this song in anything other than a disgusted or mocking tone, I'm going to break some teeth. Not my own.

Labels: Bad Mojo, just wrong, kids