The Bitter Tears of Dorothy Zbornak

Oh, that's right! I have a blog!

Seriously, since I last provided signs of life, I haven't forgotten about Entartete Kunst. A healthy hoard of half-written posts will attest to that. No, I just haven't had much free time in front of the computer, as anyone who's attempted to contact me by e-mail might gather. Today, however, is the first paid vacation day I have enjoyed in more than a year, so it's time to attend to business. My new job is excellent, my lady and family and kitties are all doing well, I'm sleeping again thanks to my CPAP machine, and I've been taking the opportunity to get out of the condo more often. I may even have seen you for a brief moment. Hello again!

Of course, when I'm home, I'm often attending to whatever disc we have from Netflix. Recent selections have included "Gimme Shelter" (one of the most fascinating rock documentaries ever made, and Sassy Frass had never seen it), "The Passion of the Christ" (okay if viewed as an artsy, "300"-ish interpretation of mythologized history, but somehow not as gruesome as I'd always hoped), "The Good Girl" (we gave the hated Jennifer Aniston's mopey "dark comedy" a chance, which was a huge waste of time) and "Absurd" (the new Mya Communication version entitled "Horrible," Joe D'Amato's once-rare Video Nasty that's merely a shitty Italian "Halloween" knockoff). Then there's the current television season, which continues unabated... I have never written much here about my current TV habits, but that may change. There just happens to be a lot of stuff worth following that's on right now. I mean, fucking "Lost," right?

Otherwise, I have gotten out to a good number of concerts, and I am still keeping up with new stuff as best as I can. Check out the new playlist over on the right, featuring one song from each of the first 20 musical releases of 2010 that I heard. I don't feel like writing about 'em. Give the tunes a chance. If you like anything, Google it. If you don't like how something unfamiliar sounds, give the song a minute in case the horrible, roaring metal suddenly morphs into something else. I'm personally loving the new efforts by Sigh, Orphaned Land, Eels, Ihsahn and, believe it or not, Overkill, along with the impressive debut albums of Fang Island and Barren Earth. Don't worry, I'll eventually get to the 2009 top 10.

But, enough with the name-dropping bullshit. I know what you animals want! After three months without a post, there's only one logical way to stage my comeback: with another excerpt from my forthcoming tome of "Golden Girls" fan fiction, to be entitled "The Cookie Connection":

I

Dorothy never knew it was possible for pain to be so sharp and so dull in such equal measures. Yet, the throb in her left hip, which had awoken her at 2:30 a.m. and persisted through two adult doses of Bayer, had achieved a unique, maddening balance. It was as if an idiot child was trying to insert a dull screw into a wet, knotty hunk of enchanted pine while some eldritch forest spirit forced it back out with its heathen blood-magic. This was the third night in a row that the mercurial hip agony had kept Dorothy from sleeping. It was starting to terrify her, but she dared not say anything to her housemates.

Speaking of whom, one of the others was definitely up as well. A hearty warble drifted under Dorothy’s bedroom door, as cheerful as a springtime finch. She at first suspected her mother, but having never heard Sophia sing happily, let alone before 6 a.m., she dismissed her suspicion. Gripping her hip and cursing her years of motherhood, Dorothy worked herself to her feet and limp-shuffled toward the kitchen, a stormy, sleep-deprived glare plastered on her face.

Indeed, it was Sophia providing the cut-rate Dean Martin impression. She was dusted with a fine white powder and appeared to have been baking.

“I ate antipasto twice/Just because she was so nice/Angelina! Oh, good morning, pussycat,” blurted Sophia, startled by the sudden appearance of Dorothy’s floral print-draped frame in the doorway. “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” replied Dorothy, “if you’re Marlee Matlin. What’s gotten into you, ma? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Time to celebrate! I just got wonderful news. Do you remember Marie Scavolini?”

“Wasn’t she the girl who boiled your pet rabbit back in Sicily?” Dorothy didn’t like where this was heading.

“That’s the one,” Sophia crowed. “Poor Bugs never had a chance. I always said, ‘I hope I live long enough to show Looney Tunes cartoons on Marie Scavolini’s gravestone.’ Now I can! The miserable crone was eaten by an alligator!”

“Ma, that’s ridiculous,” moaned Dorothy, her sore hip quivering like a cornered spaniel.

“Ridiculous? Marie’s good-for-nothing son took her on one of those Louisiana bayou tours. Her hat blew off, she leaned over to get it, and – CHOMP!”

“Really? I can’t believe it!” Dorothy paused to consider the woman, and could find very little worth considering. “I remember she had those awful, jagged, yellow teeth. Maybe the alligator thought she was its cousin.”

Just then Rose came into the kitchen, already dressed for the day in a billowing pink sweater and breezy teal slacks.

“Good morning, girls,” chirped Rose. “Who’s an alligator’s cousin?”

“Some woman Ma hated from Sicily,” summed up Dorothy.

“That’s funny. Did I ever tell you about Helga Flernderfer?” Rose asked hopefully.

“Don’t tell me,” snapped Dorothy, not in the mood for another St. Olaf story at such an early hour. “She fell asleep in a haystack and woke up married to an alligator?”

“No, of course not,” laughed Rose. “That was her sister Olga. Helga married the alligator’s cousin!”

“But the alligator’s cousin was also an alligator!”

“Oh, Dorothy,” replied Rose, shaking her head in bemused pity. “St. Olaf may be old-fashioned in a lot of ways, but we were anything but traditional when it came to animal families. Maybe where you come from, all the alligators are related. We had birds that were related to fish, frogs that were related to mice and alligators that were related to city councilmen.”

“Come on, Rose, what was an alligator doing in Minnesota?” wondered Sophia.

“The company he worked for transferred him there. You see, a long time ago, the herring plant held a sweepstakes...”

“Enough, Rose!” Dorothy roared, another wave of sickening pain flowing out from her hip. She softened her tone. “Don’t you have to get going to set up for the bake sale?”

“Oh, you’re right,” said Rose, glancing at her wristwatch with a jolt. “I don’t want to be late. Those poor kids at the orphanage... so many of them are terminally ill. They need all the help they can get.”

“Just think of the help they’ll need after she’s done with them,” zinged Sophia, cocking her head at Dorothy and her thumb at Rose.

“Bye, Rose,” Dorothy responded, relieved to finally see the morning moving along. “We’ll come by a little later. I want to stop at Zayre on the way to the bake sale. I need a new shawl.”

“Rose, can you bring those red tins on the counter?” Sophia asked. “I made a few batches of my special Italian almond cookies for the bake sale. I figured the orphans could actually use some money, and between Mildred Wallace’s prune cake and Father Miller’s fig tarts, they weren’t going to make any.”

“Oh, thank you Sophia,” said Rose, slipping on her sunglasses and jingling her keys. “But you know I made my snickerdoodles, and they always bring in the most money.”

“You mean they used to,” replied Sophia with a superior smirk. “Now that you have my almond cookies, you won’t have to rely on your old snickerwhatsis.”

Rose gasped quietly, aghast at Sophia’s culinary hubris. She struggled for a retort before Dorothy broke the silence.

“Come on, Ma, get yourself cleaned up. We can stop at Phar-Mor between Zayre and the bake sale. They have that diet chocolate fudge soda you like.” Dorothy shuddered in revulsion at the thought. The stuff smelled like soggy Tootsie Rolls and rotten-toothed despair.

“Oh, boy! I love the eighties,” exclaimed Sophia, hurrying out of the kitchen. “Our president’s an actor, phones don’t have cords and you can drink carbonated chocolate out of a can!”

“I hope Blanche is okay,” exclaimed Rose, who had opened the back door in preparation for her journey. “Her car isn’t in the driveway.”

“Didn’t she have a date last night?” asked Dorothy through her teeth. If there was much more of this procrastination, she would push Rose out the door.

“That’s right. I think she was going to see that police officer again. He sounds so nice. What was his name? I can’t think of it.”

“It’s either Hardcastle or McCormick. Goodbye Rose.”

“I don’t think that was it.”

“GOODBYE, ROSE!” Dorothy hollered, turning away to hide her grimace and hobbling after Sophia. As Rose gathered up her snickerdoodles, she glanced at the tins containing Sophia’s cookies, then in Sophia’s direction, then at the tins again. She bustled out the door, intentionally leaving the Italian almond cookies behind.

II

Blanche primped her bouffant in the restroom mirror, puckering her lips and swaying her leathery bosom back and forth. She knew that she was stunningly beautiful, but there was something about her companion that had made her pause to verify it. After all, from his devil-may-care stubble to his casual pairings of white Italian suits with pastel t-shirts and no socks, Detective James Crockett was the sort of guy a woman, even one as stunningly beautiful as Blanche Deveraux knew herself to be, did not meet every day.

Indeed, as she prowled into the hallway where the Miami vice officer stood waiting, she could sense the other women in the vicinity cravenly sizing him up. Sonny, as he asked her to call him, exuded a raw sexuality that Miami women found irresistible. She touched his arm lightly.

“Ready to go in, Sonny?” asked Blanche, just loudly enough so that Mildred Wallace could hear.

“Sure, baby,” said Sonny. When he turned to look into her eyes, Blanche heard a saxophone playing somewhere, softly. For some reason, she was compelled to stare at him admiringly for a moment, as if waiting for the roar of an unseen audience to die down, before stepping forward and snaking her arm alongside his. “Anything for the kids,” he finally concluded. They stepped out into the bake sale benefiting St. Egbert’s Home for Boys and Girls.

As Blanche and Sonny approached Rose’s table, they could see a disturbance brewing. Sophia had apparently brought her own cookies and set up selling them directly next to Rose’s sales area. A man in a denim jacket had been browsing Rose’s snickerdoodles when Sophia leaned over and said, “Excuse me, sir? Do you really want to pay that much for a cookie that was mixed by a dog?”

“That’s ridiculous, Sophia,” snorted Rose, quickly flashing a smile at the customer. “A dog didn’t mix these cookies, sir! Isn’t that the silliest thing you’ve ever heard?”

“I didn’t say a dog mixed them. I said they were mixed by a dog, meaning near the dog. That mutt’s hair must be all over those cookies.”

“Sparky didn’t go anywhere near the cookies!”

“Not when you were around. While you were taking a bathroom break, I caught him standing in the mixing bowl!”

The man dropped the snickerdoodle he was inspecting and stepped over to Sophia’s display. He bought a half dozen Italian almond cookies and hurried away.

“Hello, girls,” announced Blanche, swooping in on Sonny’s arm. “I don’t believe you’ve met Detective Sonny Crockett of the Metro-Dade Police Department?”

“Gee, it’s nice to meet you, Detective,” said Rose demurely.

“I’ll say,” said Sophia. “The cops are a lot better looking these days.”

“It’s just Sonny. And it’s a pleasure to meet you both,” said Crockett charmingly. His attention seemed to be diverted by Sophia’s customer, who was nibbling at one of the cookies. After a bit, the man licked his lips, stared at the cookie, licked his lips again and smiled, swallowing the rest in one bite.

“Won’t you try a snickerdoodle, Detective?” asked Rose, shooting Sophia a hateful glance. “They’re for a good cause.”

“Sure,” said Crockett, peeling a few bills from his classy gold money clip. “They look delicious.” He told her that they tasted that way, as well.

“My Italian almond cookies are nothing to sneeze at,” offered Sophia, sitting up proudly. Crockett propped his half-eaten snickerdoodle in his mouth and grabbed for his cash again, but the denim-jacketed man who bought the cookies earlier darted in front of him.

“They’re the best cookies I ever had,” said the returning customer, now extremely animated and rubbing forcefully at his gums. “I don’t know what you put in those, lady, but give me six dozen!”

“You see?” Sophia preened, first at Crockett and Blanche, then, more deliberately, at Rose. “Who needs snackerhoodoos when you can have fine, Old World tradition?”

“Snickerdoodles are from the Old World, too!” burst Rose.

“I meant this Old World, not an Old World in a galaxy far, far away,” concluded Sophia, satisfied in her triumph at last as Crockett bought a dozen Italian almond cookies. He handed them to Blanche, whose eyes went wide as soon as she bit in.

“Ooomphff, Ffophia” she exclaimed around the crumbly dough. “These are amazing! You’ve got to give me your recipe. Sonny, you have to try these.”

“I will in a minute, Blanche,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the cookie fan in the denim jacket, who was now jittering in the corner, wolfing down handfuls of the powdery crescents. “Will you please excuse me for a minute, ladies?”

“Of course! Don’t be gone long,” purred Blanche. “I might wander off and you’d have to put me in handcuffs again.”

Crockett strolled up to the man and cautiously said, “Melvin? Melvin Diaz?”

“What?” barked the man, looking up quickly. His lips were caked with saliva and crumbs and white powder, and his eyes had turned a dangerous shade of red.

“I thought that was you, Melvin,” said Crockett, flashing his badge. “Remember me? The last time you got hauled in for running cocaine to the Guatemalans?”

“Hey, man, I-I’m through with th-that stuff,” said Melvin. He scanned the orphanage’s greeting hall for a handy exit, but could not find one. “You can ask my parole officer, I ain’t failed a drug test in six months!”

“I’ll bet you'd fail one right now,” chided Crockett, reaching for his handcuffs. “You’re higher than a kite.”

“No way,” exclaimed Melvin, pushing his back into the corner. “I tell you, all I had today was some coffee and these cookies.” Nervously, he dug his hand into the box to pull out more, but Crockett snatched them away.

“Let me see these cookies,” said Crockett testily. He ran a pinky over one and touched the tip to his tongue, then spat violently. “Just as I suspected. Cocaine! Melvin Diaz, you’re under arrest for public consumption of narcotics. That’s a violation of your parole.” Melvin squealed in fear.

“Wait a minute”, hollered Sophia. “Cocaine? You’ve got to be kidding. That’s just powdered sugar.”

“Oh, my stars,” said Blanche, dropping the remains of her cookie and stabbing at her lips with sharp-tipped burgundy nails. “Sonny, does cocaine make your mouth go all numb? Because my mouth is all numb. Sonny, I can’t feel my mouth, it’s all numb. Sonny?”

Just then, Dorothy sauntered out of the ladies’ room. Her mother had insisted on opening one of the unrefrigerated diet chocolate fudge sodas in the car, and when Dorothy had to brake quickly to avoid a careless driver, it had spilled all over the upholstery. After five minutes of hunching over, dabbing the sewage-colored mess from the seat while its unholy stench wafted up in the sticky Miami morning heat, she not only wanted to have her hip removed with a chainsaw, but needed to vomit on top of it. Having to lumber through a large room festooned with fragrant fudge on the way to the toilet did not help.

Now racked with bottomless misery, Dorothy only wished to lurch back to the car, drive home and soak in the tub until she died. Naturally, she was greeted by her mother in handcuffs, being led by a very sharply dressed plainclothes officer, and trailing both a terrified Blanche and a confused Rose.

“Pussycat! Pussycat, help me,” cried Sophia as the cop led her past. “I was framed!”

“Ma, what have you done now?” Dorothy winced.

“Your mother is under arrest for distribution and sale of cocaine, ma’am,” mumbled Crockett, lighting a cigarette in the doorway. “Those cookies probably have a street value of over five thousand bucks.”

“What are you talking about?” Dorothy sobbed, at no one in particular. “What is he talking about?”

“I told him, Dorothy,” Sophia pleaded. “When I was walking out of the grocery store with the powdered sugar, I bumped into a guy who was carrying a bag just like mine. We both dropped our bags. He must have been smuggling the cocaine, and the bags must have gotten mixed up!”

“Of course they did,” agreed Dorothy, her tormented body shocked back to attention by this fresh hell. “Officer, please. My mother is 84 years old, how could she be a drug trafficker?”

“Until we get this straightened out, she’s coming downtown,” growled Crockett, yanking Sophia outside.

“You’re making a big mistake, buddy,” she snarled at him. “What do I look like, a jazz musician?”