Man, this would make the funniest SNL skit.
A 'Tit'illating Morning
A while back, I was at the doctor's office, chilling in the waiting room, reading a Science magazine about the deep, dark workings of the brain. The writing was dry as hell and man, it was quiet in there. The room was packed, and I was deep into reading my article (skimming and popping my gum), when I heard a loud voice announce this: "Hello everyone! I'm here!"
Startled, I looked up.
The voluptuous, loud woman fiercely smiled. Red-faced and perky, she held her tiny newborn baby in a body sling. Swinging her body from one side of the room to the other, she searched for a place to sit.
Well I assumed that's what she was doing. Not the case.
People moved to get up, but the woman shook her head, turning them down on the "here, lady with baby, take my seat" gesture. She waved her arms, swinging that baby around, nearly bowling people over.
I was confused, but oh so intrigued.
Then, without warning, the woman whipped out what appeared to be a 100-pound breast, showing the saucer-sized nipple and all to the world. She stuck the gargantuan nipple in her baby's mouth, and then she proceeded to walk around, talking to people, swinging her large body, the Planet of Boob, and the tiny, sling-bound baby all over the room. She nearly smashed the watermelon-sized milk sack into my face. This was not a case of some woman nursing her baby in a quiet corner, oh no. This woman was standing in the center of the waiting room with a completely visible mammoth-sized tit, and she didn't give a fuck what anyone thought about it.
I looked around. Dude with the People Magazine kept his face buried in his reading. His face was as red as a baboon's ass. Others just looked up and smiled.
Nearly shouting, tit lady walked over to chat it up with the nurses, while that disc of a nipple popped in and out of the baby's mouth. Greeting everyone in the room, the woman then bantered with the nurses about her appointment and all the while, she moved, swung, catapulted, and fired that boob around. It was as if that knocker had a life of its own. For a moment, I wondered if that tit had eyes and a mouth. When the nipple fell out of the baby's mouth, the mother laughed, stuck that amazing teat, her nipple planet, back in its place and then, led by her chest, she moved to chat it up with another waiter.
I thought the poor baby might choke, but he/she seemed as happy as hell. Who wouldn't be thrilled with that never-ending supply of nutrition? Suck, suck, gurgle, gurgle. The sucking sound echoed throughout the waiting room. I was mesmerized by Baby Momma, but it was time for me to see the doc, so I rose up, taking one last look at the size Z boob, wondering if the woman would squirt milk all over the room in some kind of Wild Kingdom protest, but all she did was swing around and chat, swing around and chat.
Cantaloupes, honeydews. I got to thinking, how do women find bras for that kind of thing? I certainly had no idea. I'm all for breast feeding in public, oh yeah, but this bold woman could have easily fed a small nation with one squirt of her magnificent juice.
Mother Earth, in the flesh,
C.A. MacConnell
10/07/2015
10/05/2015
The Perfect Round
As a preteen, one day, I was at the Kentucky Horse Park, and I was nervous because it was my first big show with my horse Rojo (Southern Accent). He was an experienced, 15'3 chestnut gelding, and Rojo was quite a
"packer," as we called them, meaning, he knew his job, and he always
seemed content with his mission, whether at home or at the shows. Ro was
kind, loving, upbeat, dependable, and always positive; he never held a
grudge.
When we went in the ring that day, we had an absolutely flawless, perfect jumping round. Unfortunately, Ro was ultra-excited about the perfect round as well, so much so that right after the last jump, nearly mid-air, he let out an enormous, rodeo-worthy buck. Of course, this put me out of the ribbons completely. Now, Ro was a registered quarter horse, and his hind end was extremely strong. He didn't act up much (hardly at all), but the rare times he did buck -- boom -- the rider, any rider, was toast. (A few years before, I watched him do it to his former owner on a trail ride. One buck, and she was gone). Usually, bucks wouldn't throw me, but this buck was massive; it definitely caught me off guard. So I went flying over his head, and I landed in the soft ring sand. Ro was still so jazzed up that he went tearing around the horse park. All around, people yelled, "Loose horse! Loose horse!" like they did, while eating a sandwich or teaching a kid or walking a dog.
I remember feeling the sand in my pants, and I remember the long, horrific walk out of the ring and back to the barn. Head down, tears, the works. The epitome of horse show humiliation. At the time, it seemed like the end of the world, similar to the day when I had a piano recital, and my second page of notes was blocked by a piece of paper, and I couldn't see what was next, so I just banged my hands on the keys, made some terrifying sound, and left. And it was all recorded -- this monstrosity of sound. (My last piano recital ever)
Show horses were hilarious when they got loose. Usually they took a quick trip around, a victory lap or two, and then they went back to the barn, or the ring, or right into their stalls. Many times, they ran around crazed, heads held high, and then they'd end up chilling somewhere, quietly grazing, as if to say, Well, that was fun. Now I want my dinner. Usually it was quite anti-climactic.
So it didn't take long for Rojo to end up right back where we were stabled. When I saw him, he was chilling in his stall, eating hay. He didn't feel bad about it. I think he thought he did the right thing -- helped his girl have a perfect round, and then let the whole horse park know how awesome he was. Seemed to make sense to him, to celebrate his victory. And yes, the pro show horses knew when the round was good or bad, for sure. But he did know that I was mad at him, and he knew he was in trouble for some reason, but I think he was confused as to why.
When my trainer found me, he smirked a little, patted me on the back, and said, "Man that was the best round ever! If you just would've hung on, you would've won the class!" Then he chuckled. He was trying to get me to lighten up, but it didn't work. Getting bucked off was one thing, but getting bucked off after a perfect round really hammered home the embarrassment and such. In our makeshift show tack room, my trainer's brother tried to comfort me through a few jokes and a hand on my shoulder. I remember looking at him, nodding, and listening intently, hiding in the shade of the red and black curtains. Teary, I smiled at him a little.
To this day, when I bring up this show to my Dad, his entire face sinks, and he says, "Oh, God, I remember that day," and he says it in this deep, drawn-out, dreadful tone, as if we're talking about a world catastrophe. Like the piano recital, ha.
As kids, I suppose these things are catastrophes. And then we learn to ride on. And the people around us give us the strength to do so. And we get ready for the next show. Time for a comeback.
P.S. A day later at the show with Rojo, I signed up for an equitation jumping class in the big ring, and the jumps were bigger than I'd done with him, and we rocked it. And we ended up getting ribbons in the small ring as well. It ended up sweet.
When we went in the ring that day, we had an absolutely flawless, perfect jumping round. Unfortunately, Ro was ultra-excited about the perfect round as well, so much so that right after the last jump, nearly mid-air, he let out an enormous, rodeo-worthy buck. Of course, this put me out of the ribbons completely. Now, Ro was a registered quarter horse, and his hind end was extremely strong. He didn't act up much (hardly at all), but the rare times he did buck -- boom -- the rider, any rider, was toast. (A few years before, I watched him do it to his former owner on a trail ride. One buck, and she was gone). Usually, bucks wouldn't throw me, but this buck was massive; it definitely caught me off guard. So I went flying over his head, and I landed in the soft ring sand. Ro was still so jazzed up that he went tearing around the horse park. All around, people yelled, "Loose horse! Loose horse!" like they did, while eating a sandwich or teaching a kid or walking a dog.
I remember feeling the sand in my pants, and I remember the long, horrific walk out of the ring and back to the barn. Head down, tears, the works. The epitome of horse show humiliation. At the time, it seemed like the end of the world, similar to the day when I had a piano recital, and my second page of notes was blocked by a piece of paper, and I couldn't see what was next, so I just banged my hands on the keys, made some terrifying sound, and left. And it was all recorded -- this monstrosity of sound. (My last piano recital ever)
Show horses were hilarious when they got loose. Usually they took a quick trip around, a victory lap or two, and then they went back to the barn, or the ring, or right into their stalls. Many times, they ran around crazed, heads held high, and then they'd end up chilling somewhere, quietly grazing, as if to say, Well, that was fun. Now I want my dinner. Usually it was quite anti-climactic.
So it didn't take long for Rojo to end up right back where we were stabled. When I saw him, he was chilling in his stall, eating hay. He didn't feel bad about it. I think he thought he did the right thing -- helped his girl have a perfect round, and then let the whole horse park know how awesome he was. Seemed to make sense to him, to celebrate his victory. And yes, the pro show horses knew when the round was good or bad, for sure. But he did know that I was mad at him, and he knew he was in trouble for some reason, but I think he was confused as to why.
When my trainer found me, he smirked a little, patted me on the back, and said, "Man that was the best round ever! If you just would've hung on, you would've won the class!" Then he chuckled. He was trying to get me to lighten up, but it didn't work. Getting bucked off was one thing, but getting bucked off after a perfect round really hammered home the embarrassment and such. In our makeshift show tack room, my trainer's brother tried to comfort me through a few jokes and a hand on my shoulder. I remember looking at him, nodding, and listening intently, hiding in the shade of the red and black curtains. Teary, I smiled at him a little.
To this day, when I bring up this show to my Dad, his entire face sinks, and he says, "Oh, God, I remember that day," and he says it in this deep, drawn-out, dreadful tone, as if we're talking about a world catastrophe. Like the piano recital, ha.
As kids, I suppose these things are catastrophes. And then we learn to ride on. And the people around us give us the strength to do so. And we get ready for the next show. Time for a comeback.
Me years later, as a Prof. Trainer
C.A. MacConnellP.S. A day later at the show with Rojo, I signed up for an equitation jumping class in the big ring, and the jumps were bigger than I'd done with him, and we rocked it. And we ended up getting ribbons in the small ring as well. It ended up sweet.
10/02/2015
9/29/2015
The Fox Hunt
When I was very little, I started riding hunter/jumpers at a barn called Red Fox Stables, and I mainly jumped and showed in the rings, but I happened to make friends with some people who liked to fox hunt, so I agreed to go along with them one Saturday. I thought it was no big deal. Just bored and going along for the ride. I could take a little ride through the woods, I thought. I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into.
No worries -- we didn't kill any foxes. Actually, fox hunts mainly involved a lot of drinking, howling hounds, dangerous, fast-paced, drunken stunts on horseback, fancy clothing, and running through crazy trails while following the lead of the even crazier hunt master. We never even saw a fox that day. Picture a massive herd of random riders equipped with flasks, a group of twenty-five or so hounds, no safety measures, and a bunch of huge obstacles in the way. At the horse shows, jumps were made of poles and other materials that would give and fall if a horse/rider team hit them, which was safer. At a fox hunt, the jumps were solid as hell, which meant that if a horse didn't make it over, both horse and rider were pretty much toast.
Despite the danger, everyone looked spiffy and polished -- makeup, top hats, well-pressed coats, shiny boots and all -- but it was a strange scene. Reminded me of old paintings, and I felt as if I were suddenly stuck inside of one, but in those paintings, the huntsmen always looked so calm and distinguished. In a real fox hunt, the sound of the people and hounds was earsplitting and the whole group moved so fast, I barely had a chance to breathe. Trees, mainly low-hanging branches, became the enemy. I knew that a sturdy branch could clothesline me. Dodge, duck, hang on. That was the way it went.
Most of the hunt riders didn't come from hunter/jumper farms, and they didn't show much, and they really didn't take a lot of lessons, if at all. Rather, they just saddled up every now and then for these events to dress up, be social, and have a random dangerous ride with friends. So to reiterate, there was the following scene: inexperienced riders with flasks of liquor, wild hounds, breakneck speed, huge obstacles, groups madly running through rough trails, and no real map or directions. Also, there were no cell phones at that time, so if anyone got hurt, too bad. The hunt must go on.
Four hours, this fox hunt lasted. I was riding a monster-sized draft horse named Shuttlebus, and although he was a kind teddy bear, and he really took care of me, old Shuttlebus was as wide as he was tall, and I was only about four feet tall, so you can imagine the back, leg, and hip pain I experienced after four hours of riding that massive creature. Picture a baby straddling a Cadillac. His tan face was so enormous, he looked like a large, stuffed dinosaur. I didn't take my horse, because he was unaccustomed to the noise, and I didn't want him to get hurt. Shuttlebus the machine was as mellow as they came, and he had been hunting before; he had no problem with the madness. My giant pillow for the day.
I came out of it alive, and I had fun because I had a great horse, but I never did it again. But it makes me think back to those days and how much has changed in the horse world. Now I watch people use splint boots, wraps, bell boots, blankets, and all sorts of things to "protect" their horses. Sure, I do it too, just for the look. But back then, we let them grow their coats, we never used blankets, and we never used any protective gear for them or ourselves. Hell, half the time, we never even wore helmets. We turned them out in huge groups every single night, whether rain, snow, sleet, or hail. We only kept them in if there were severe lightning storms. And over the span of thirty years, I've seen many, many horses get hurt at the track, in the barns, in stalls, in the show ring, or in training, but I've only seen two become seriously hurt in a field. One was a mare still fresh off the track, and she recovered. The other one was my horse. After we sold him to a girl on a Kentucky farm, he got hurt in a field, and he died.
But even though it was my horse, and even though I lost a wonderful friend (such a divine creature), even though I mourned a great loss, I have always felt the same way about their care. I still say let them be horses. In life, there is always risk, so let them be naked. Let them run free. And the way I see it is this: he died too young, but he died a free horse. I suppose things happen as they should.
C.A. MacConnell
No worries -- we didn't kill any foxes. Actually, fox hunts mainly involved a lot of drinking, howling hounds, dangerous, fast-paced, drunken stunts on horseback, fancy clothing, and running through crazy trails while following the lead of the even crazier hunt master. We never even saw a fox that day. Picture a massive herd of random riders equipped with flasks, a group of twenty-five or so hounds, no safety measures, and a bunch of huge obstacles in the way. At the horse shows, jumps were made of poles and other materials that would give and fall if a horse/rider team hit them, which was safer. At a fox hunt, the jumps were solid as hell, which meant that if a horse didn't make it over, both horse and rider were pretty much toast.
Despite the danger, everyone looked spiffy and polished -- makeup, top hats, well-pressed coats, shiny boots and all -- but it was a strange scene. Reminded me of old paintings, and I felt as if I were suddenly stuck inside of one, but in those paintings, the huntsmen always looked so calm and distinguished. In a real fox hunt, the sound of the people and hounds was earsplitting and the whole group moved so fast, I barely had a chance to breathe. Trees, mainly low-hanging branches, became the enemy. I knew that a sturdy branch could clothesline me. Dodge, duck, hang on. That was the way it went.
Most of the hunt riders didn't come from hunter/jumper farms, and they didn't show much, and they really didn't take a lot of lessons, if at all. Rather, they just saddled up every now and then for these events to dress up, be social, and have a random dangerous ride with friends. So to reiterate, there was the following scene: inexperienced riders with flasks of liquor, wild hounds, breakneck speed, huge obstacles, groups madly running through rough trails, and no real map or directions. Also, there were no cell phones at that time, so if anyone got hurt, too bad. The hunt must go on.
Four hours, this fox hunt lasted. I was riding a monster-sized draft horse named Shuttlebus, and although he was a kind teddy bear, and he really took care of me, old Shuttlebus was as wide as he was tall, and I was only about four feet tall, so you can imagine the back, leg, and hip pain I experienced after four hours of riding that massive creature. Picture a baby straddling a Cadillac. His tan face was so enormous, he looked like a large, stuffed dinosaur. I didn't take my horse, because he was unaccustomed to the noise, and I didn't want him to get hurt. Shuttlebus the machine was as mellow as they came, and he had been hunting before; he had no problem with the madness. My giant pillow for the day.
I came out of it alive, and I had fun because I had a great horse, but I never did it again. But it makes me think back to those days and how much has changed in the horse world. Now I watch people use splint boots, wraps, bell boots, blankets, and all sorts of things to "protect" their horses. Sure, I do it too, just for the look. But back then, we let them grow their coats, we never used blankets, and we never used any protective gear for them or ourselves. Hell, half the time, we never even wore helmets. We turned them out in huge groups every single night, whether rain, snow, sleet, or hail. We only kept them in if there were severe lightning storms. And over the span of thirty years, I've seen many, many horses get hurt at the track, in the barns, in stalls, in the show ring, or in training, but I've only seen two become seriously hurt in a field. One was a mare still fresh off the track, and she recovered. The other one was my horse. After we sold him to a girl on a Kentucky farm, he got hurt in a field, and he died.
But even though it was my horse, and even though I lost a wonderful friend (such a divine creature), even though I mourned a great loss, I have always felt the same way about their care. I still say let them be horses. In life, there is always risk, so let them be naked. Let them run free. And the way I see it is this: he died too young, but he died a free horse. I suppose things happen as they should.
C.A. MacConnell
9/28/2015
9/26/2015
9/25/2015
Photo: You'll Feel
You'll Feel
They were singing The Rolling Stones' "Wild Horses." :)
C.A. MacConnell
9/19/2015
9/16/2015
9/09/2015
9/08/2015
Loaded: Tackling Hitchcock and Fellini
Hollins University. Original Bradley Hall, Creative Writing Grad Center, the place of much genius work, and the location of many strange occurrences, including unwanted "photography exhibits," shots taken at parties the night before, and the temporary home of a lost professor -- a live chicken.
Loaded: Tackling Hitchcock and Fellini
During the first semester in grad school, I was partying so much that I pretty much lost touch with reality and at some point, I had to write this long term paper on Hitchcock, one that counted for half of the grade for the entire semester. Sure, it was a big deal, so I repeatedly got loaded and watched Hitchcock’s Marnie, and I was all ready to sit down and concentrate on the writing but instead, I got totally loaded again. Overall, it was the worst paper I’ve ever written.
I wrote something crazy, head-splitting, and pseudo-deep about tracing the color yellow throughout the film. The entire paper was about yellow. That’s right -- every single word had a reference to yellow. There’s only so much one can say about yellow, and it was over ten pages long -- including footnotes and references -- and this genius work would have been hilarious to anyone who wasn't inside my fucked up head. At the time, I thought I was the deepest, yellowest person on the planet. I was the sun, an egg yolk, the yellow slide at the pool. I was a yellow Frisbee, a yellow sun visor, yellow hair. I was a banana, a lemon, a rubber ducky. And on and on.
But interestingly enough, the paper was so bad and so funny that I got an A-. I lucked out because my professor thought it was hilarious. That must’ve been what saved me, because it was horrible, and I made twisted symbolic connections that made no sense really. Like an acid trip within a paper. Really, the paper should’ve been called, “Get Comfy Because For Ten Pages, I Will Be Talking Out of My Asshole.”
Ten pages of nothing but yellow. I was so obsessed…it just got deeper and deeper and deeper. First, I wrote about yellow objects, then shades of yellow, then about dialogue that was a reference to yellow. I made numerous, super deep connections to the sun and butter and everything yellow, and none of it had anything at all to do with the movie, but the title of it was, “Tracing the Color Yellow Through Hitchcock’s Marnie.” I would’ve given me an A+, just because it was so terrifying and funny, but I guess I was lucky to get the A-.
My professor must’ve roared when he read the thing. The best part was that he wrote a two-page long, deep, yellow commentary on the back of the paper, and his critique was even better than the paper. Even funnier, considering this man is a highly esteemed, well known, award-winning, published author, and he’s considered a genius by many, and yet he took the time to write a two-page ridiculous commentary on my ridiculous paper.
Once, for the same professor, I wrote a research (extensively researched) paper on Fellini’s La Strada, and I started it off like this: “Are you a woman or an artichoke?” It was a reference to a quote in the film, but the way it read, it seemed like I was asking the professor that question. Of course, I went on and on about artichokes. Pages about nothing other than artichokes. I thought I might fail Fellini, but I got an “A,” amazingly enough.
I’m lucky I made it through grad school. Hell, I’m lucky to be alive. Back then, I was running on booze and coffee, not much else. Maybe a yellow cookie here and there. Here’s to all things yellow and strange plants pulling me through.
Ah, look at the progress. Are you a woman or an artichoke?
C.A. MacConnell
