NOR'EASTER

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GRAMMY:  That was one hell of a storm, yesterday, huh?  You alive over there?

ME:  Oh, Grammy!  Everything’s a mess!  There are trees down in the driveway, my basement is flooded, I have no power, and I found my mailbox half-way down the street.  What about you?

GRAMMY:  I’m sitting in a nice warm house with lights, and I’m as dry as a bone.  Oh, and the mailman is dropping my mail through the slot as we speak.

ME:  I don’t get it, Grammy.  How do you always escape disaster?

GRAMMY:  Ha!  Disaster wouldn’t come within two feet of me.  I’d kick its sorry ass all the way to Kookamunga.

ME:  To where?

GRAMMY:  Kookamunga. You know.  One of those weird places.  Like Timbuktu and Kalamazoo.

ME:  You’re making those names up.

GRAMMY:  Right.  I have nothing better to do than make up fake city names.

ME:  Well, actually, Grammy, you don’t have anything better to do.

GRAMMY:  Yeah, poor me.  Sitting here all comfy cozy when I could be hauling tree trunks and bailing water out of my cellar.  Well, I guess we can’t all be as lucky as you, huh?

SPRING

ME:  Grammy, you changed your curtains!

GRAMMY:  Yep.  Took down the heavy winter drapes and put up the spring curtains.

ME:  But it’s February, Grammy.  We won’t see Spring until at least mid-April.

GRAMMY:  Yeah?  Tell that to the birds.  The damn things have been waking me up every morning for the past ten days.  Twitter, twittery, tweep.  The damn things never shut up.

ME:  And that made you change the curtains?

GRAMMY:  If the birds are back, Barbara, Spring isn’t far behind.

ME:  Not according to the groundhog.  He saw his shadow.  That means six more weeks of winter.

GRAMMY:  News flash, Barbara.  If it’s sunny, he sees his shadow.  If it’s cloudy, he doesn’t.  And you know what?  He’s never really told anyone what he sees.  In case you haven’t noticed, groundhogs don’t talk.

ME:  No, but people interpret what he sees.

GRAMMY:  Yeah. Stupid politicians looking for a photo-op.  You don’t see Stephen Hawking hanging around the gopher hole, do you?

ME:  It’s not a gopher, Grammy. It’s a groundhog.

GRAMMY:  And that makes a difference?  (sigh)  She can’t believe in God, but a weather-predicting groundhog is perfectly acceptable.  Lord, take me now.

Photo:  Source

OLYMPICS

ME:  What are you watching, Grammy?

GRAMMY:  The Olympics.

ME:  I thought you hated sports?

GRAMMY:  Yeah, well when have the Olympics ever been about sports?

ME:  Uhm, forever?

GRAMMY:  Uhm, no.  They’re about entertainment and advertising and political statements and ‘my country is better than yours.’  Right now, the Dutch are winning.

ME:  The Dutch?

GRAMMY:  Yeah.  We were ahead for a while. Had some snowboarder and his coach dropping four-letter words quicker than a B1 bomber.  But the Dutch caught up and left us in the dirt when one of their speed skaters asked an American sportscaster if she was stupid.  Now that was a moment.  Made me wish I was Dutch.

ME:  But Grammy, he was rude to her.

GRAMMY:  He said what he thought.  Lord, I can remember when people used to do that here.  Now we’re a nation of nice, polite ninnies as boring as cottage cheese.

ME:  Well, personally, I’d rather be boring than mean.

GRAMMY:  And let me tell you, Barbara, you are.

ME:  Grammy!

GRAMMY:  Oh, shut up and get out of the way.  Someone in the stands is throwing eggs at the Swiss Curling team and you’re blocking my view.

Photo:  Source

EXTINCTION

ME:  Here’s your newspaper Grammy.  Although I don’t see why you can’t get your news on the internet and save a tree or two.

GRAMMY:  Ha!  Look who’s talking, Miss Buried-in-Books.  If you want to save a damn tree, get yourself one of those book-reader thingies.

ME:  No.  I thought about it, but it would just be too weird not having books in the house.  It’s even kind of scary.

GRAMMY:  Scary?

ME:  It’s like we’re facing the extinction of the written word.  When it all goes digital, nothing will be permanent.  Read it today, change or delete it tomorrow.  And if anything ever happens - POOF! - all that information is gone.

GRAMMY:  You know, that would make one hell of a good story.

ME:  Ooh, you’re right, Grammy!  A dystopian novel.  And I could write it!

GRAMMY:  Yeah.  On the computer causing the problem.  And when it’s finished, you can kill a tree to make a book.  It can be one of those self-fulfilling prophecy things.

ME:  Oh, wow, Grammy.  You're so right!  I could be like Jules Verne and H. G. Wells!

GRAMMY:  No.  They would have gotten the sarcasm when they heard it.

Artwork:  Red Tree Factory

NEWS FLASH!

GRAMMY:  Hey, Barbara.  Come look at this.

ME:  Oh my!  What is it?

GRAMMY:  It’s a rarely seen bearsharktopus.  It lurks in the warm water off Puget Sound.  Yesterday, it was photographed after devouring two fishermen and their small fishing boat.

ME:  Oh, Grammy.  That’s a fake.  There’s no such thing.

GRAMMY:  Oh, yeah?  Tell that to the National Inquisitor.  They’re printing the story and the picture tomorrow.

ME:  How do you know what they’re printing tomorrow?

GRAMMY:  Because they told me so - in this letter they sent with this check.  And next week, in the Amazon, the bones of Piranhasaurus Rex are going to be found.  This Photoshop thing is great!

Photo:  Source

VALENTINE'S DAY GIFT

ME:  Grammy, look what Alfie gave me for Valentine’s Day.

GRAMMY:  A picture of feet?

ME:  They’re not just any feet, Grammy.  They’re Julius’.  And those are my hands.  Alfie Photo-shopped some pictures he took of us, and this is what he came up with.  Isn't it a great gift?

GRAMMY:  Oh, Lord.  Someone’s in love.

ME:  I’m not in love, Grammy.

GRAMMY:  No, but he is.

ME:  What makes you think that?

GRAMMY:  Because that’s either the gift of a scheming gigolo or someone who cares.  Since you’re already sleeping with him, he’s not plotting to get you in bed, and he’s not after your money because you don’t have a pot to piss in.  So he’s obviously someone who gives a damn.  Lucky you.

ME:  You say that as though it’s a bad thing, Grammy.

GRAMMY:  It is.  If you marry him, you’ll move in with him.

ME:  Oh, Grammy.  Even if I did get married, I’d never abandon you.  I’d still visit you.

GRAMMY:  That’s the problem.  If you marry him, you’ll be right next door.  I’ll have your sorry ass over here every day.  (sigh)  Lucky me.

FLYING

GRAMMY:  What the hell are you two doing in here?

JULIUS:  Flying.

GRAMMY:  Flying?  That’s my bed you’re destroying.

JULIUS:  Sorry, Grammy.

GRAMMY:  Sorry?  You’re both sorry.  And you, Typhus, you’re old enough to know better.

TYPHUS:  We were just having fun.

GRAMMY:  Well, I’m all for having fun.  But don’t have it in my bedroom or on my bed.  Got it?

TYPHUS:  Yeah.  We got it.

GRAMMY:  Good.  Now take these keys and head on over to Julius’ house.  You can’t fly over there, either, but you can do some diving.

TYPHUS:  Wow.  You got a pool, Julius?

GRAMMY:  Of course he doesn’t.  His mother's a single mom with no job and a leeching ex-husband.  But she does have a king-size waterbed.  Now get the hell out of here.  And have fun.

Photo:  Source

HOSPITAL VISIT

GRAMMY:  This is a hospital?  It looks like something out of an old Vincent Price movie.  And why the hell are all those vultures circling overhead?  How bad are the doctors here, anyway?

ME:  The doctors are fine, Grammy.  And those aren’t vultures.  They’re crows.

GRAMMY:  Yeah, well if you know anything about birds, you know crows are nothing but smaller, smarter vultures.

ME:  Can we just go inside and get this over with?

GRAMMY:  We?  You’re not the one getting poked and prodded.

ME:  No, but I’ll be listening to you complain.

GRAMMY:  Well, pardon me for living.  I’ll try and drop dead soon so you won’t be inconvenienced.

ME:  No one’s asking you to drop dead, Grammy.

GRAMMY:  Of course not.  That would be rude.  But don’t tell me you’re not hoping.

ME:  That’s nonsense, Grammy.  You and Julius are the only family I have left.

GRAMMY:  Yeah.  And why is that?  What exactly happened to everyone else?  And where is Julius right now?

ME:  He’s been eaten by crows.  Now get your ass in there, old woman, or I’ll cut you into pieces myself!

GRAMMY:  Ooh.  Touchy, aren’t we?  Some people just can’t take a joke.

MULBERRY STREET

JULIUS:  What’s that, Grammy?

GRAMMY:  A photo of Mulberry Street.

JULIUS:  Like in the book?

GRAMMY:  Better than the book.

JULIUS:  Wow!  Look at all the people.

GRAMMY:  Yeah.  People weren’t afraid to go out in those days.  See that guy?  He had a bathtub on his fire escape and made his own wine.  Used to let all us kids stomp the grapes.  Until the cops busted his tub because he wouldn’t pay them graft.

JULIUS:  What’s graft?

GRAMMY:  That’s what you pay the cops to make them go away.  And see that store?  You could go in with a nickel and come out with a bag full of candy.  Until the mob busted up the place when Mr. Fantalaro refused to pay protection.

JULIUS:  What’s protection?

GRAMMY:  That’s what you pay the mob to make them go away.  And there’s Viola Di’Odorio.  She had a singing chicken.  Until Angelo Prado shot it for dinner one night.  Yep.  Those sure were the days. (sigh) You know, I think it’s time you had an allowance.

JULIUS:  What’s an allowance?

GRAMMY:  That’s what you pay little boys to make them go away.  Now go buy something and leave me to my memories.

Photo: Souce: 
Click photo for a really great view!

CRUSHED

TYPHUS:  Look what I got at Goodwill.  Gotta look sharp if I’m gonna be an entrepreneur.

GRAMMY:  A new suit and a big word.  You’re off to a good start.  So what’s your new business?

TYPHUS:  Pot.

GRAMMY:  Pot?

TYPHUS:  Yeah.  I found this book.  Just fell outta the sky, like it was meant for me.

GRAMMY:  Oh, Lord. Y ou’re gonna be a dope dealer?

TYPHUS:  I’m gonna be a rope dealer.  I did some research.  You can make hemp from pot.  And you can make rope outta hemp.  And if you want hemp here in America, you gotta go to Canada.  I’m gonna corner the market.

GRAMMY:  You’re gonna go to jail.  You have to go to Canada because it’s illegal to make it here.

TYPHUS:  Making rope is illegal?

GRAMMY:  If it’s made of hemp.

TYPHUS:  Well, that’s dumb.

GRAMMY:  Yep.  That’s your government for you.  They think we’re all gonna start smoking rope.  Turn into a bunch of rope fiends.

TYPHUS:  But I already bought the plants.

GRAMMY:  Well, I can’t let you be a drug dealer, boy.  Bring me the plants and I’ll burn the evidence. And don’t forget to bring the rolling papers.

Photo: Source

HATS

ME:  So, do you like my new hat, Grammy?

GRAMMY:  No.

ME:  No?  What do you mean, ‘no?’

GRAMMY:  I mean I don’t like your new hat.  What the hell else could I mean?

ME:  Well, why don’t you like it?  What’s wrong with it?

GRAMMY:  What’s wrong with it?  You look like a little girl in her Sunday bonnet.  All you need now are a pair of patent leather shoes and white gloves.  Grab your Bible and it’s off to church you go.  Oh, wait.  You don’t go to church.

ME:  You’re not funny, Grammy.  And I happen to like it.

GRAMMY:  Yeah, well, you like your ex, too.  I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.

ME:  (glancing in mirror)  Does it really look like a little girl’s hat?

GRAMMY:  No.  It looks like a little girl’s hat from the sixties.  The early sixties.

ME: ( tossing hat on couch)  Oh, you’re right.  This doesn’t suit me at all.  And who even wears hats anymore, anyway?

GRAMMY:  (putting hat on)  Well, on the right person, at the right angle, it could look pretty damn good.

Photo:  Tom Robinson Photography

MARIJUANA

ME:  What happened Friday, Grammy?  I knocked, but there was no answer.

GRAMMY:  And you didn’t break in?  I’m a hundred years old.  I could have been dead!

ME:  Well, if you were, there wouldn’t have been anything I could do.

GRAMMY:  So you left me here to rot for the weekend?

ME:  I figured you had gone out for a while.  You do have that friend at the old folks’ home.  So what did happen?

GRAMMY:  Oh, I was up all night on that internet thingy, then slept all day.  So what did you do, since you couldn’t hang around here?

ME:  I bought Julius a book.  See?

GRAMMY:  It’s Just a Plant: A Child’s Guide to Marijuana?  You’re kidding me?

ME:  Marijuana is a fact of life, Grammy.  He has to learn about it sooner or later.

GRAMMY:  You won’t teach him about God or Santa Claus, but marijuana is a-ok?

ME:  Marijuana is real.  God and Santa Claus are . . . .  Hey!  Give that back!

GRAMMY:  (tossing book out window)  You want it?  Go get it.  And when you can’t get back in, it’s not because I’m dead.  It’s because I don’t open my door to idiots.