even padre pio (jr.) showed up at the dance

My sons school held its annual Spring Dance last week. This event has been going on for nearly fifty years. Each grade level rehearses a dance or two then they put on a show for us parents. I cry every year. These kids work so hard and then throw themselves into the performances. The oldest kids are fifth graders so they are all still young enough to really get into it.


This year involved an unexpected treat. There was this little boy (not yet school age) who was dressed as a monk - you know, brown robe, rope belt, padre deal. He would run out on 'stage' between each dance number and bop around in his monk costume. Most kids who are into dress up go with super heroes or princess', not this little one.


I wish I could've gotten better photos of this miniature Padre Pio. He was out there running around, getting the stigmata (okay the stigmata part is just a fantasy of mine but still) then his Mom would shoo him off the 'stage'. Aren't the sneakers just the perfect touch?


In doing a little Padre Pio research (click on this posts title for a nice little Padre Pio link - including a stigmata photo!) I found this tidbit:

Interesting fact about the Roman Catholic Church: There have been a total of 266 popes in the almost 2000 years since St. Peter and none of the popes has ever experienced mental impairment because of old age! In the past 229 years there have been 15 popes, with an average age at death of about 79 years. Ten of these men have lived to be over 80 years old.

And it makes me wonder how on earth anyone could prove this 'interesting fact' about 'mental impairment'. I guess I just need to have a little faith...

he shares a birthday with bob dylan

Today is my nephew's nineteenth birthday. He was always a handful, but not a bad handful. He was a really smart kid from go and so lovable. Some kids are harder to connect with, but not my nephew. He was fun to hang out with. I remember taking a hike with him when I visited right after his little sister was born. He was around four years old. As we walked he'd find trap door spider nests (are they called nests?). He'd say, 'Look Aunt J.J'. & show me how the trap would open, being careful not to damage the spiders handiwork.

More recent memories I have, are of him playing on his high school basketball team. He was always naturally athletic - really good at all sports. His coach almost never used him (really - hardly ever). My nephew just kept his head in the game & was always the first to congratulate a teammate for a good play. Or he'd try to lift up a teammate who was having a rough game, giving him a pep talk - keeping things focused.

Me writing in the past tense makes it sound like he is dead. He isn't but he has been struggling with a drug problem for the past five years. It seems crazy to say, how could a nineteen year old have a five year old drug habit? He was raised by two of the most loving people you could imagine. Up front, honest people who faced these issues head on. Some parents might deny the truth, or play the 'he'll grow out of it' game. Not my sister & brother in law. I remember them telling me when my nephew turned twelve, 'He's going to try every drug out there'. And I remember being pretty mad at them for saying so. I felt like they were pigeon holing him. But they just were facing the truth. They faced it before I was ready to.

My sister and her husband tried everything possible to help him. I mean everything. Moving from a neighborhood that had kids who were a bad influence, to a home in the middle of a citrus grove (no neighbors). Sending him away to schools that specialize in helping kids like my nephew. Psychiatrists, psychologists. You name it, they tried it. It sometimes would work for a while, but eventually he'd start using again. It became apparent that until my nephew wanted help, he'd keep living the way he had been - using.

He is now living out of state and I worry about him dying or getting sick far from home, or him ending up in jail. He can be such an amazing young man. I remember visiting them around a year ago (he was clean at the time) and he hung out with my son & I while we played ping pong. He goofed around with us & we had a great/fun conversation. I guess the fact that he is capable of being such a truly neat person makes this whole mess even tougher. I mean, it is much easier to 'write-off' a schmucky loser of a person. Which isn't to say that he hasn't done plenty of schmucky things...

I just want to shake him though you know. I want him to get over it, stop using, come home, be safe, stay alive, stop breaking his parents (and the rest of us who love him) hearts. And I am sad at him and really mad at him. I understand that a drug addict is incapable of thinking about anyone but themselves, but that doesn't make me miss him less. And it doesn't make me worry less or want to write him off. I want him to wake up, get help and come home for good. I want him to mean it when he says he is ready to stop. Then I want him to stop. He has so many who love him and are ready to help. But the help is meaningless until he wants it for himself. So yeah, it is his birthday and I am thinking about him. And I love him and am mad at him and just want him to be safe and stay alive.

timothy mcsweeney rejected me

I sent McSweeney's a submission for their "Open Letters to People or Entities Who Are Unlikely to Respond" feature and was politely and promptly rejected. I thought I would go ahead and lay it to rest here, as I had mentioned (back in March) that my cat is a cutter.


Dear Sparkles,

Please stop cutting yourself. It hurts you. Your chin looks disgusting, and you have to wear that cone that we both hate.

When my niece rescued you from that convenience store parking lot you were a real mess. You settled in though, and seemed grateful to stay inside and have your food and water provided. I gave you a clean litter box and an adequate amount of brushing and petting. I admit, I actually wanted another dog, but you came around at the right time (when former dog was on last leg) and as my Mom gently pointed out, cats are easier in an apartment. Not having to go home everyday to walk you on my lunch hour sealed the deal.

I have come around to accepting (not quite embracing) being a cat owner. You have taught me a great deal about myself. Sometimes I want petting and sometimes I just want to sit on the couch facing away from company too. I'm OK, you're OK, right?

Things were fine between us for a while. But then you started screaming all night long like a cat in heat. But you weren't in heat because I saw to that when I dropped you off at the spay and neuter clinic. I thought you missed the outdoor part of your life so I let you go out and in. This didn't make you any quieter and you kept getting beat up, so I made you indoor only again. I figured you would be safer and healthier.

Then I came home to bloody footsteps. You had cut your foot on a knife in the dish drying rack. First of all, you aren't allowed on the counters, and if you would follow the rules you wouldn't have hurt yourself. Now that I think about it, maybe that was a suicide attempt. It would follow your other neuroses'. It was very difficult for us to get through the stitches healing, bandage changes and the like, but we did it. Then you started cutting.

What is wrong with you?! You relentlessly scratch at your chin with your back feet. You scratch so much that you make big sores and I have to make you wear the cone. You hate the cone and I say 'just cause' in hating the cone. It is hard to eat while you wear it. I would imagine it is uncomfortable. You can't bathe yourself and cats like to bathe.

My reasons for hating the cone are quite different from your reasons. I hate the cone because when you are looking around in the litter box for what needs burying, you inadvertently dip the cone in your waste. I don't really care for the cat poo decoration, and I certainly don't like you jumping up on my bed in the middle of the night with poo stuck on the perimeter of your cone. It is smelly, unsanitary and just plain repulsive.

Please stop cutting yourself. You used to be such a pretty cat. You've always been crazy, but at least before the cutting you were pretty. We can get through this, but you need to take the first step and stop cutting. Let's get rid of the cone for good.

Sincerely, J.A. Johnson

tom waits and robert wilson broke my ankle

The posters advertising The Black Rider are up all over Los Angeles. I am sure the show will be amazing. My reaction is bittersweet when I see them though.


Back in 2002 I had a lovely sixth row center single ticket to see Woyzeck (Woyzeck was another Robert Wilson/Tom Waits collaboration, as is Black Rider). I had fought and fought with the now former husband about me seeing the show. We fought because he thought $72.00 was a stupid amount of money to spend on theater. We fought because he would have to watch our son. We fought because my needs and wants were unimportant to him. The fight came after I had bought my single ticket though because I knew if I asked, I would have lost the battle against his angry 'no'.

I was quarter past excited the night of the show. I think my last night out to see something I had interest in was in 1999, so I was long overdue to see something that nurtured my needs. I remember getting quite dolled up. Flower in my hair, nails painted red, and off I went to UCLA for my night out! I paid my $7.00 to the parking lot attendant, threw my truck in park and headed for the theater. As I was walking (briskly because I was so thrilled to be out doing something I wanted) I missed seeing the speed bump in my path. I stubbed the top of the speed bump with my right foot which somehow sent me flying. I mean, flying - no feet on the ground flying. I caught my fall with my left foot, fishtailed my leg inside of my engineer boot and heard a nasty twisting/snapping/crunching sound. I remember watching my lucite purse noisily bounce and skid ahead of me while I sat in the pile of my landing. There were about fifteen or so people around me, heading to the same show. They sort of collectively gasped and walked towards me. A man asked if I was alright and I told him "I think I broke my ankle". The crowd stepped back a few feet. A lady asked if I needed some help, while another yanked on her dates arm saying 'Hurry, we'll miss the show'. I asked nice lady if she could help me stand up. I wanted to see if I could put any weight on the ankle. At that point I really still hoped to see the show. Nice lady helped me to my feet and I found I could put a little bit of weight on it, which seemed like a good sign. I asked if she could help get me to my seat & she obliged. Off we went with me putting most of my weight on her. This went on for about fifty yards or so when I realized that there was no way I could make it to my seat, much less sit through a two hour play. I gave her my sixth row center seat (she was there alone too) and told her to take my seat and give away hers since my ticket was better. She was really hesitant, but what else could I do? I had visions of trying to sit through the show, then the pain kicks in and I have to get help to get me out of there. I hobbled back to my truck which thankfully was an automatic & started driving back to Burbank to my assigned hospital. Somewhere along Sunset Boulevard the pain kicked in along with my panic. I called my (now ex) husband and remember screaming about the pain and that I was sure I couldn't make it to Burbank from West Los Angeles. He told me later that after seeing me bust the same ankle years before on a dirtbike (I had to ride the bike back to our campsite & didn't go to the doctors until the next day) and recover from a c-section when our son was born, staying pretty calm both times, that he knew I had really hurt myself. I u-turned on Sunset and headed for UCLA Medical Center.

I had broken both tibula and fibula and torn a ligament between the two. Surgery was required to put in the hardware to set the bones. Three months on crutches because I could not put any weight on the ankle until the ligament healed. After the three months, another surgery (minor) to remove the screw that was holding the ligament in place. Then I was allowed to put some weight on the ankle and begin my physical therapy. In those three months I figured out that vicodin was a friend and an enemy. It sure helped the pain but it also made me depressed and constipated. I have always been a think the best/be positive type of gal, but on vicodin I felt like 'I'll never get better". I had to remind myself that it wasn't life threatening, just some broken bones, and to get over it...


A couple of years after the initial injury, the hardware started bothering me. It was limiting the movement of my ankle. Bumping my ankle with the hardware against anything was quite uncomfortable. Another surgery to remove all the hardware and the healing continues.

My Mom said recently, that breaking my ankle was what helped me (and her) realize that I had married the wrong man. I saw more of his true unkind self when he was upset that he had to pick up the slack at home. He'd say things like "How much longer until you can drive yourself to work"? I remember him being mad at me for having to pick up the groceries at the store which I had shopped for online. My Mom stayed with us for a week after the first surgery. She helped with the cooking, cleaning, shopping and all other household chores. (Soon to be ex) husband chewed her out for 'doing the laundry wrong'. My Mom had some inkling before this incident, that I had married a not so nice guy. His attitude towards her for helping us cemented her beliefs. Breaking my ankle was a blessing. When I told my Mom my reasons for leaving, she had seen firsthand how critical and unkind he was. Instead of my announcement being a big surprise to my Mom, it was a 'what took you so long'.


When the doctors asked if I wanted to keep the hardware, I figured my son would want to see it. He was very interested in the x-rays, so I thought seeing the hardware would be neat for him and it was. But I kept the hardware as a souvenir. Not of the missed play at UCLA, but as a souvenir of how a broken ankle helped rescue me.

too ornery to die

George Jones' show last Saturday was a real treat. He is still struggling with some bronchitis, but is quite spirited. At one point during the show my friend leaned over and said 'We don't have to worry about George Jones anymore. He is too ornery to die'.

nick cave wrote a screenplay & I celebrated my third anniversary with david sedaris

I heard on public radio that The Proposition will be playing at the NuArt in Santa Monica (or is that West L.A. but on Santa Monica?) - opening May 5th. I saw this the other night and liked it quite a lot. Intense. Violent. A rape scene which wasn't too graphic, but still rape & hard to watch. A period piece western that takes place in Australia. Nick Cave wrote the screenplay. Guy Pierce plays the lead & was on hand for a question & answer deal after the movie. I was impressed and surprised by the questions being asked (yes some dopes, but mostly decent questions). I left feeling lucky to have been able to be a part of it (er, to watch the movie & listen in on the Q & A - I kept my mouth shut).

It was a busy week all around. The night after the movie I hit my third annual David Sedaris reading (& another Q & A) at Royce Hall / UCLA. Each year it gets better which seems impossible. Now that I have seen him three years running, I feel like I can compare the shows. This years Q & A seemed almost like we were all at a dinner party with David Sedaris as our guest. And that perhaps our guest had tied on a few because he seemed especially loose, meant in a very complimentary way I promise. Just loose enough. Each year he suggests a book (and has many recommendations posted on his website: http://www.barclayagency.com/sedaris.html - I tried inserting a link but each time I tried publishing the post it lost everything so I am irritated, and you get to copy and paste - my apologies). I haven't read this years suggestion so I can't comment on that book, but I really liked last years suggestion, 'Random Family'. I especially love when he explains why he wants us all to read whatever book he brings to share. He is so humble as he talks about the other book & author. One of those moments in life when there is sincerity and sincere flattery and humility.

I leave his shows feeling so good. Which is the exact opposite way I feel when I shop at a bookstore. I feel sad and overwhelmed by all the books I won't ever read. Books I won't read because I don't know about them or there isn't time (I mean right now I have so many in the rotation: I just finished Beware of God Stories, I am in the middle of a George Jones autobiography, still reading 'The Kangchenjunga Adventure' - that one is so good that I am reading it as slowly as possible because I will miss it so much when it ends. And there are others that I am in the midst of & so many more begging to be started.

So, happy anniversary David Sedaris, your gift of sharing books you love couldn't be any sweeter.