My addiction was ill affording a man of my privilege. Of my parentage.
My drug use was an embarrassment to my mother, an insult to my father, and a distraction to my future. I refused to conform, dropping out of school and leaving the nest to catch up with manhood on my terms. No Ivy League degree, no private practice with Dad after Medical school, no grandchildren for my Mother.
My rebellion was borne of boredom, the boredom coming from such privilege throughout adolescence. I had been able to duck and dart for years, avoiding punishments to my detriment throughout my boyhood. Fostering a sense of entitlement, my father also groomed me to understand I would carry on his legacy, which seemed stifling and unnecessarily selfless. Medical school was contrary to my lack of ambition. I avoided responsibility under the guise of “finding myself.” My father’s illness mandated my return to the riches.
What was my plan? That was a good question.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Looking for Love in all the wrong places.....again.
As we shook hands, she smiled at me a bit warmer. I had graduated, and my teacher held my gaze and hand as I thanked her upon completing my second attunement. Others milled about, and Ronda again approached me and asked if I had a moment alone.
I gushed for a few about how I was more normal now, how Reiki was moving my chakras in the right direction and such, yada yada. I was deeper, kinder and more honest & shit. She looked deep at me, and as I shook her hand, she HELD mine. It felt closer. I got cold, and SCARED.
”What are you looking for?”
I continued my sales pitch, highlighting how my job skills now would be so worthy as well as effective now that my Chi was all flowing & such.
She pressed, with her hand now closing over mine in mid shake. She began to tell me she herself had discovered her own abilities as a CLAIRVOYANT when she was a child. She divulged she was not only Reiki Queen of teachers, but also a practiced INTUITIVE. She was open to receive all methods of intuitive information daily, and as sensitive to others exclusive energies she was, it was impossible to deliver every single urge and impulse she was inundated with as she went about her day. It was on rare instances, she delicately shared with me, that she actually moved on information and not only deciphered what the messages were, but to then go about delivering said “clues” to the unsuspecting. She stopped me mid-Queen story, clearly not taken with my sudden self actualization and sales pitch.
“No, let me re-phrase that. WHO are you looking for?”
Who? I realized this was not a job interview. She knew something, and of all the skeletons and secrets sputtering about, I knew what SHE was going to know. The Bio-pop story. She was not to be challenged, and she had info direct from the universe, more credible to me than DNA-which I tend to afford its reliability.
She was in as far as I was concerned.
“Oh, come on, it’s no one,” I smirked when she asked again who I was looking for. Tears welled, and my usual verbal barrage was stuck, unable to move past the heartbeat pounding up against the rising lump in my throat. I felt sadness a second before I could stop it.
The BIO thingy. AGAIN. As compelled as I was to resolve this missing puzzle piece of my life, I meet the issue with frustration. I refuse to let all my divine existentialism be summated into a “little girl lost” defense, much less resort to suffering from lost daddy syndrome. I will just die if it turns out all my efforts actually do sum up to the search for a man.
“No, that is where you incorrect. My dear, on the contrary. He is the MOST SOMEONE someone could be. That is why you cannot FIND who it is you KNOW is there. He cannot be named, for who he is, nameless as it may be-is SOMEONE so critical to the happiness of everyone that he MUST stay unknown."
I gushed for a few about how I was more normal now, how Reiki was moving my chakras in the right direction and such, yada yada. I was deeper, kinder and more honest & shit. She looked deep at me, and as I shook her hand, she HELD mine. It felt closer. I got cold, and SCARED.
”What are you looking for?”
I continued my sales pitch, highlighting how my job skills now would be so worthy as well as effective now that my Chi was all flowing & such.
She pressed, with her hand now closing over mine in mid shake. She began to tell me she herself had discovered her own abilities as a CLAIRVOYANT when she was a child. She divulged she was not only Reiki Queen of teachers, but also a practiced INTUITIVE. She was open to receive all methods of intuitive information daily, and as sensitive to others exclusive energies she was, it was impossible to deliver every single urge and impulse she was inundated with as she went about her day. It was on rare instances, she delicately shared with me, that she actually moved on information and not only deciphered what the messages were, but to then go about delivering said “clues” to the unsuspecting. She stopped me mid-Queen story, clearly not taken with my sudden self actualization and sales pitch.
“No, let me re-phrase that. WHO are you looking for?”
Who? I realized this was not a job interview. She knew something, and of all the skeletons and secrets sputtering about, I knew what SHE was going to know. The Bio-pop story. She was not to be challenged, and she had info direct from the universe, more credible to me than DNA-which I tend to afford its reliability.
She was in as far as I was concerned.
“Oh, come on, it’s no one,” I smirked when she asked again who I was looking for. Tears welled, and my usual verbal barrage was stuck, unable to move past the heartbeat pounding up against the rising lump in my throat. I felt sadness a second before I could stop it.
The BIO thingy. AGAIN. As compelled as I was to resolve this missing puzzle piece of my life, I meet the issue with frustration. I refuse to let all my divine existentialism be summated into a “little girl lost” defense, much less resort to suffering from lost daddy syndrome. I will just die if it turns out all my efforts actually do sum up to the search for a man.
“No, that is where you incorrect. My dear, on the contrary. He is the MOST SOMEONE someone could be. That is why you cannot FIND who it is you KNOW is there. He cannot be named, for who he is, nameless as it may be-is SOMEONE so critical to the happiness of everyone that he MUST stay unknown."
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Dawn of a New Queen 2010 (Summer Repercussions)
Oh REALLY?? You are TIRED? It was exhausting to watch her? Try having to BE her. As I have had to for years.
Once again, The Queen was under fire. It looked as if she was fleeing, running away again after a bloody slashing of roses as she barreled past. Once again, and across the land, it was heard the orders for heads to roll.
She was eager to be heard this time, eager to defend her "honor" as it was mocked. Her own vested interests in such a love story? Well. this time it may be seen. Maybe it held weight, who she was in humor. Or better, in hindsight.
Just MAYBE she didn't have cloven hooves and a blackened heart.
Her simple, dwindling monarchy at hand, she eagerly met the ladies for lunch. The ladies felt pretty, happy and confident. The ladies all thought of an alliance, an out from the gossip and sludge. The trumpets were at hand, and the graciousness was genuine, heartfelt, and certainly exceeding in expectations. The date was a rollicking connection between the ladies at the table. All a little afraid of the truth.
And It hurt The Queen, this discord. In order to defend her own heart, she would be taken as a warrior of no reward or regard.
She was the vilified intrusion AGAIN. What she KNEW was a familiar dalliance had turned into a dangerous fracas. Dangerous in that the warfare would victimize the most innocent. The Queen was not only involved but indicted with no testimony.
Suffice a deposition would only render hurt on Her. She who was duly noted as the One. The One, The Queen was unmistakenably NOT.
The Queen was energetic and entertaining in her uninterrupted and finely tuned banter. Quick witted, easy to listen to and feel included in with. She was interested and instigating, you let her in and offered information easily. Many felt intruded upon, but what the ladies at the table felt was warm, funny, and true. Moreover, after decades of riot and reign, the ladies at the table knew when it was reciprocated. And the two were worrisome that the other was less villian than victim than hoped.
For the Queen to have also uncovered the attempted coup among her inner circle was crushing. Suggested and proven to within a doubt, The Queen felt powerless to the untruths already cemented. Alas, she was now in a quandary, as to fight or abdicate.
There turned no need for battle, for the two at the table broke bread in kind and kissed goodbye for now.
I see The Queen also wounded, which is rare. Noble and honest was she when it made her look a FOOL. She grudgingly gave a damn about the whole thing, including him.
Ugly and uncomfortable as the lunch was, it was also lovely. As the ladies left, I felt them pleasantly safe, yet heavily wrought.
Off with HIS head.
Once again, The Queen was under fire. It looked as if she was fleeing, running away again after a bloody slashing of roses as she barreled past. Once again, and across the land, it was heard the orders for heads to roll.
She was eager to be heard this time, eager to defend her "honor" as it was mocked. Her own vested interests in such a love story? Well. this time it may be seen. Maybe it held weight, who she was in humor. Or better, in hindsight.
Just MAYBE she didn't have cloven hooves and a blackened heart.
Her simple, dwindling monarchy at hand, she eagerly met the ladies for lunch. The ladies felt pretty, happy and confident. The ladies all thought of an alliance, an out from the gossip and sludge. The trumpets were at hand, and the graciousness was genuine, heartfelt, and certainly exceeding in expectations. The date was a rollicking connection between the ladies at the table. All a little afraid of the truth.
And It hurt The Queen, this discord. In order to defend her own heart, she would be taken as a warrior of no reward or regard.
She was the vilified intrusion AGAIN. What she KNEW was a familiar dalliance had turned into a dangerous fracas. Dangerous in that the warfare would victimize the most innocent. The Queen was not only involved but indicted with no testimony.
Suffice a deposition would only render hurt on Her. She who was duly noted as the One. The One, The Queen was unmistakenably NOT.
The Queen was energetic and entertaining in her uninterrupted and finely tuned banter. Quick witted, easy to listen to and feel included in with. She was interested and instigating, you let her in and offered information easily. Many felt intruded upon, but what the ladies at the table felt was warm, funny, and true. Moreover, after decades of riot and reign, the ladies at the table knew when it was reciprocated. And the two were worrisome that the other was less villian than victim than hoped.
For the Queen to have also uncovered the attempted coup among her inner circle was crushing. Suggested and proven to within a doubt, The Queen felt powerless to the untruths already cemented. Alas, she was now in a quandary, as to fight or abdicate.
There turned no need for battle, for the two at the table broke bread in kind and kissed goodbye for now.
I see The Queen also wounded, which is rare. Noble and honest was she when it made her look a FOOL. She grudgingly gave a damn about the whole thing, including him.
Ugly and uncomfortable as the lunch was, it was also lovely. As the ladies left, I felt them pleasantly safe, yet heavily wrought.
Off with HIS head.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Summer 2010 taking her sweet ass time....
"She's on her way, I promise."
"ANY MINUTE, she KNOWS we are waiting."
"If she flakes, I am SOOOOO OVER IT for GOOD. "
Looky, there! She kinda snuck in, what with the shenanigans around her-right under our weariness. Such a diva bitch! You are LATE! IT IS ABOUT time YOU SHOWED UP.
I haven't missed a summer in over 20 years. And I have at least a baker's dozen cupcakes tucked around me in the tasty pack of girls I got left. Join me, won't you?
"ANY MINUTE, she KNOWS we are waiting."
"If she flakes, I am SOOOOO OVER IT for GOOD. "
Looky, there! She kinda snuck in, what with the shenanigans around her-right under our weariness. Such a diva bitch! You are LATE! IT IS ABOUT time YOU SHOWED UP.
I haven't missed a summer in over 20 years. And I have at least a baker's dozen cupcakes tucked around me in the tasty pack of girls I got left. Join me, won't you?
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
1999-ish Sober Mother Fuckers
Once Donnie had a toehold, the Compound began to lose its Girl Power.
The Artist moved in her boyfriend, who brought two cats and a truckload of SMF grief. With the Compound settling down, The SMF’S stepped in as the law of the land. They worked most of the time, but each had a certain charm. Her SMF could get anyone into any gig. But greet him too eagerly and he would scowl back at even the cheeriest of good mornings. Not one of us girls had enough guts to swindle him for anything. His militant sobriety quieted the Compound, of which housed a handfull of relapsing SMFs who lurked and leered from the blinds.
After the band breakup we rallied round The Norwegian. She was chaste and virginal and playing drums in an all-girl punk band afforded her some danger. She took comfort in the form of a new best friend, a great three legged kitten named Hector. Then she falls in love. With the highest of profiles, qualifying his tenancy. His presence was incessant and entertaining, his debauchery countering the SMF’S stoicism.
The Artist throws in the towel and leaves the SMF boyfriend. He is now grudgingly single, and to our horror, he stays on at the Compound. He rents the tiny living room to yet another SMF, an easier one to love. He had a 13 year stint of sobriety that he seemed to white knuckle through daily. In his lanky deliciousness, the nearness of him was electric-even at its most platonic. His band was scary, and his girlfriend was a goddess of goth in her day. We were a little star struck, and to our amazement she would join in with us girls as if she was one of us instead of the punk chanteuse we knew her to be. Weekends we shared slumber party duties with our daughters.
The Compound grew, thinned and melded into a familiar, Long Beach fable, with faces and connections and anecdotes aplenty.
The Artist moved in her boyfriend, who brought two cats and a truckload of SMF grief. With the Compound settling down, The SMF’S stepped in as the law of the land. They worked most of the time, but each had a certain charm. Her SMF could get anyone into any gig. But greet him too eagerly and he would scowl back at even the cheeriest of good mornings. Not one of us girls had enough guts to swindle him for anything. His militant sobriety quieted the Compound, of which housed a handfull of relapsing SMFs who lurked and leered from the blinds.
After the band breakup we rallied round The Norwegian. She was chaste and virginal and playing drums in an all-girl punk band afforded her some danger. She took comfort in the form of a new best friend, a great three legged kitten named Hector. Then she falls in love. With the highest of profiles, qualifying his tenancy. His presence was incessant and entertaining, his debauchery countering the SMF’S stoicism.
The Artist throws in the towel and leaves the SMF boyfriend. He is now grudgingly single, and to our horror, he stays on at the Compound. He rents the tiny living room to yet another SMF, an easier one to love. He had a 13 year stint of sobriety that he seemed to white knuckle through daily. In his lanky deliciousness, the nearness of him was electric-even at its most platonic. His band was scary, and his girlfriend was a goddess of goth in her day. We were a little star struck, and to our amazement she would join in with us girls as if she was one of us instead of the punk chanteuse we knew her to be. Weekends we shared slumber party duties with our daughters.
The Compound grew, thinned and melded into a familiar, Long Beach fable, with faces and connections and anecdotes aplenty.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Some Solstice 1996
If embroiled once again in the minueta of "As The Town Turns,” and it is by oversaturation or self imposed mutiny that I bid adieu, It is only a matter of time before I get jonesing for a good Long Beach summer night .
Many a year can pass, but I can close my eyes and recall the names of who’s in line to play pool at The Reno Room on a Thursday night. Lean to the left and I can hear music and recognize the voices as if a decade and a handful hadn’t passed. Still waiting for mine on the jukebox, so crammed full of dollars that it wails Tom Jones’ again and again until the whole building is quaking in chorus for Delilah’s response. A handful of regulars remain, ignoring the bouncers as they herd off the patrons. They finish their drink as the girls count their tips, and its around 2:42 am.
By then, the tweekers have locked up at one of a dozen dens, flipping glances through the blinds as they wait for no one to crash through the door. The die hard race and slalom for afterbeers while some head straight home. The night ticks away as many await the 6 a.m. Bloody Mary, and the booty calls slow with the compromising of standards in the early a.m. The taxis slow, the streets settle, and the town quiets down to couple, snuggle, and sire what will be fodder and fact for the masses to meander over the next week.
Many a year can pass, but I can close my eyes and recall the names of who’s in line to play pool at The Reno Room on a Thursday night. Lean to the left and I can hear music and recognize the voices as if a decade and a handful hadn’t passed. Still waiting for mine on the jukebox, so crammed full of dollars that it wails Tom Jones’ again and again until the whole building is quaking in chorus for Delilah’s response. A handful of regulars remain, ignoring the bouncers as they herd off the patrons. They finish their drink as the girls count their tips, and its around 2:42 am.
By then, the tweekers have locked up at one of a dozen dens, flipping glances through the blinds as they wait for no one to crash through the door. The die hard race and slalom for afterbeers while some head straight home. The night ticks away as many await the 6 a.m. Bloody Mary, and the booty calls slow with the compromising of standards in the early a.m. The taxis slow, the streets settle, and the town quiets down to couple, snuggle, and sire what will be fodder and fact for the masses to meander over the next week.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Summer 1997
The girls from Sacramento moved into the middle bungalow when I lived in the front of the Compound. Being the front house, I was meet and greet duty, and was able to distract the unwelcome, the overbearing or the belligerent by inviting into my place.
The girl in the cottage before Donnie was from San Pedro, and figured she will be a super real punker chick now that she has moved to Long Beach. She also fronted an all girl band, and within the first month had her reluctant guitarist/artist installed in the house to her left. The artist brought her best girl party friend, who kept us all in gossip and scandal until she had one too many and had to be run outta town. To balance party girl’s misogyny, they set up drummer girl in the last spot on our side. Such a sweetheart, The Norwegian, such a good girl. She turned out to be punker than the rest. She was a preschool teacher at her church. She held us to her scale of morality and virtue. To add some sunshine, the girls in the middle rounded out the Compound, bringing us a fresh faced, 18-year-old small town glee.
For that first year, our inter-habitation among the Compound blended so smoothly, when visitors came for one or another, it was etiquette to pop in all the pads. Guests would trail along to the next house for a beer, knock on one door for a cigarette, and check on the party girl to see how she was feeling from the night before. You could head to the back for a bong load, then back to the front house, where I was always prepared to entertain, and entertain we did- any and every according to their preference of hospitality. The Compound was estrogen ruled. One time or another everyone six degrees separated from another spent some quality time in or about one of the cottages. Many a night, if chemically challenged, one of the couches each of us had outside (these were TINY cottages) had a sleepover guest. It got a little out of hand.
The girl in the cottage before Donnie was from San Pedro, and figured she will be a super real punker chick now that she has moved to Long Beach. She also fronted an all girl band, and within the first month had her reluctant guitarist/artist installed in the house to her left. The artist brought her best girl party friend, who kept us all in gossip and scandal until she had one too many and had to be run outta town. To balance party girl’s misogyny, they set up drummer girl in the last spot on our side. Such a sweetheart, The Norwegian, such a good girl. She turned out to be punker than the rest. She was a preschool teacher at her church. She held us to her scale of morality and virtue. To add some sunshine, the girls in the middle rounded out the Compound, bringing us a fresh faced, 18-year-old small town glee.
For that first year, our inter-habitation among the Compound blended so smoothly, when visitors came for one or another, it was etiquette to pop in all the pads. Guests would trail along to the next house for a beer, knock on one door for a cigarette, and check on the party girl to see how she was feeling from the night before. You could head to the back for a bong load, then back to the front house, where I was always prepared to entertain, and entertain we did- any and every according to their preference of hospitality. The Compound was estrogen ruled. One time or another everyone six degrees separated from another spent some quality time in or about one of the cottages. Many a night, if chemically challenged, one of the couches each of us had outside (these were TINY cottages) had a sleepover guest. It got a little out of hand.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Mid 1970's
Uncle Fernando was nothing like his brother. For starters, he had LONG HAIR. And he was a MUSICIAN.
He lived in the Pacific Northwest, far from the eyes of his family and farther from their expectations. On one visit we arrived very late in the evening, our parents having driven through the night. My sister and I slept through the long drive, yet I awoke before her, and listened to them speculate as they often did. I didn't understand what "hippie" meant, but the tone from my mother suggested I should be frightened of him, or rather, their impression of him.
He lived freely, as if a part of a collective where one could dance barefoot to bongos and tamborines. We arrived to a whirlwind of tie-dye wafting as Uncle Fernando’s wayward companions hefted amps and speakers and smoked on cigarettes that smelled of over ripened fruit. I hummed in anticipation as the room bristled with life upon plugging in. Tired and exasperated, Dad and Mom cautiously perched with my sister and I on each lap. They looked uncomfortable and whispered for us not to touch or eat ANYTHING and NO COOKIES. The brothers had not seen each other in years, for Fernando had hit the road when his brother returned from Vietnam.They looked so much alike, and still looked so different.
Fernando embraced the subculture of the 60's, in sharp contrast to the structure and duty his brother held first as a soldier, and now.as a husband and father. Their family and lives had changed since 1968. Upon arriving and greeting his smiling, stoned brother, my dad looked much older than his young age. Fernando dripped of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. He was surrounded by breezy young girls, patchouli scented and braless. Fernando winked and whistled as his band jammed for hours on end.
My sister and I cheered and screamed between songs, and ended the show alongside the band. With tambourines of our own, our Uncle pulling us from the grips of our parents to dance and get a feel for being center stage. It felt warm and inviting and the cookies tasted just fine.
He lived in the Pacific Northwest, far from the eyes of his family and farther from their expectations. On one visit we arrived very late in the evening, our parents having driven through the night. My sister and I slept through the long drive, yet I awoke before her, and listened to them speculate as they often did. I didn't understand what "hippie" meant, but the tone from my mother suggested I should be frightened of him, or rather, their impression of him.
He lived freely, as if a part of a collective where one could dance barefoot to bongos and tamborines. We arrived to a whirlwind of tie-dye wafting as Uncle Fernando’s wayward companions hefted amps and speakers and smoked on cigarettes that smelled of over ripened fruit. I hummed in anticipation as the room bristled with life upon plugging in. Tired and exasperated, Dad and Mom cautiously perched with my sister and I on each lap. They looked uncomfortable and whispered for us not to touch or eat ANYTHING and NO COOKIES. The brothers had not seen each other in years, for Fernando had hit the road when his brother returned from Vietnam.They looked so much alike, and still looked so different.
Fernando embraced the subculture of the 60's, in sharp contrast to the structure and duty his brother held first as a soldier, and now.as a husband and father. Their family and lives had changed since 1968. Upon arriving and greeting his smiling, stoned brother, my dad looked much older than his young age. Fernando dripped of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. He was surrounded by breezy young girls, patchouli scented and braless. Fernando winked and whistled as his band jammed for hours on end.
My sister and I cheered and screamed between songs, and ended the show alongside the band. With tambourines of our own, our Uncle pulling us from the grips of our parents to dance and get a feel for being center stage. It felt warm and inviting and the cookies tasted just fine.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Love 2002
They thought that the two would fall in love on the first date, a BLIND one to boot. They were RIGHT, he and The Queen were perfect for each other. And as quick as it was, it was over. Again and again and again......
First Love happens when you are young and unfettered. Not three or six relationships deep in failure. Early on as a teenager, when crying and tantrums and 18 hour make-outs seem so grown up.
They were far from unfettered. No longer teenagers, they tried at love miserably. The relationship ended over the course of two years, leaving a sloppy stained puddle of love and passion and partying and nonsense. He did not help matters.
Yet this was The Queen's Own Love. It Was CERTAINLY not First Love, yet IT CERTAINLY was her Own Love. This is prologue to the messy marriage to the BBD, remember? The Queen gallivanting herself into the mess with the Love, The Best Friend, The First Love of The Best Friend and Her? The mutinied BFF’s forged an alliance? The Queen's come uppance? You get the picture.
Truth be told, her Own Love & BBD shared a pseudo-BFF status known throughout the male world as the "BRO". Hence, “BRO’s before HO’s”.
Infantile, yes. Albeit A Code of their own.
Again, how dare her.
First Love happens when you are young and unfettered. Not three or six relationships deep in failure. Early on as a teenager, when crying and tantrums and 18 hour make-outs seem so grown up.
They were far from unfettered. No longer teenagers, they tried at love miserably. The relationship ended over the course of two years, leaving a sloppy stained puddle of love and passion and partying and nonsense. He did not help matters.
Yet this was The Queen's Own Love. It Was CERTAINLY not First Love, yet IT CERTAINLY was her Own Love. This is prologue to the messy marriage to the BBD, remember? The Queen gallivanting herself into the mess with the Love, The Best Friend, The First Love of The Best Friend and Her? The mutinied BFF’s forged an alliance? The Queen's come uppance? You get the picture.
Truth be told, her Own Love & BBD shared a pseudo-BFF status known throughout the male world as the "BRO". Hence, “BRO’s before HO’s”.
Infantile, yes. Albeit A Code of their own.
Again, how dare her.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Summertime 1966
The Queen was conceived in the Age of Aquarius. In Sunny Southern California, South Bay proper.
As the summers of love swept up those ready for some times to a'change, the barefoot beauty walking the sand took no heed of the churning and percolating of the world around her. With wars being raged, radicals uncaged, and demonstrations staged, she had but one thing on her mind. She was knocked up at the juicy and tender age of 16.
She had a beau, a boy from around the block who was far, far away in the jungle. His letters were a constant, just as his presence had been since they were children. His longing for her love was what he lived for, what he leaned on to sustain him during his tour of duty. She considered him sweet. she coaxed his generousity at her whim, yet compartmentalized him from her friends, her family, her heart.
The one she pined for thought of HER as sweet. She was only a fling to him, and forgotten once he was deployed to Vietnam, too. Puzzling, when she was not the type to be forgotten. His indifference to her charms, so beguiling to boys before, was infuriating.
She had a reputation as being fast, so the question of her honor would be answered as her delicate state grew. The letters from her beau arrived daily, yet they offered little comfort or interest. His devotion to her was blind, and she made no mention of her indiscretion.
As the summers of love swept up those ready for some times to a'change, the barefoot beauty walking the sand took no heed of the churning and percolating of the world around her. With wars being raged, radicals uncaged, and demonstrations staged, she had but one thing on her mind. She was knocked up at the juicy and tender age of 16.
She had a beau, a boy from around the block who was far, far away in the jungle. His letters were a constant, just as his presence had been since they were children. His longing for her love was what he lived for, what he leaned on to sustain him during his tour of duty. She considered him sweet. she coaxed his generousity at her whim, yet compartmentalized him from her friends, her family, her heart.
The one she pined for thought of HER as sweet. She was only a fling to him, and forgotten once he was deployed to Vietnam, too. Puzzling, when she was not the type to be forgotten. His indifference to her charms, so beguiling to boys before, was infuriating.
She had a reputation as being fast, so the question of her honor would be answered as her delicate state grew. The letters from her beau arrived daily, yet they offered little comfort or interest. His devotion to her was blind, and she made no mention of her indiscretion.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Summer at the Rabbit Ranch
Summer of 197?
When She was 12, her parents divorced.
To distract the four sisters of the imploding of their family, Mom sent her children to her sister's. It was to be an idyllic and adventurous month. There first teen summer was to be a joyous, boisterously barefoot and suntanned season, yet the grieving and shock upon learning of their father's indiscretions and ultimate exodus rained only gloom, anger and heartbreak.
The consolation for the sisters was that in the Country, not only did their fast and lawless cousins promise a summer of fresh-aired bounty, but also thrice married Auntie was matron over Uncle Next's Rabbit Ranch. Next had a name, but was known to everyone by his own descriptive of who he was to Auntie. The sisters boasted to their friends of the vacation, describing green rolling hills upon which cotton-tailed bunnies cavorted among the fields of clover, as laughing children scampered to catch and cuddle them. Melodies of ice cream, moonlit hay rides and hay-chomping farm animals wafted across the hills to busily charm the girls. Envious as they often felt of the Sister's and the privilege and ease so seemingly surrounding the A-list girls, the neighborhood kids felt nagging jealousy at what seemed to be a Heavenly trip to the Rabbit Ranch.
"How much longer?" huffed Cute One, angrily elbowing her Middle Sister.
"I have to go to the bathroom," pouted The Middle.
As per usual, Mom sighed as she daydreamed over the drone of her daughter's voices. She muttered a "soon," and continued to ignore them. With the girls gone, she had drafted a regime to entice her husband home. The separation and his embracing of bachelorhood had defeated Mom daily, and her hopes of luring him into her arms again were only dampened by the constant chaos of the now unmanageable coven.
He was so much better at disciplining the girls, at coaching their numerous activities, at loving them. It was exhausting to Mom, who had four times been disappointed by daughters. The competition for the only man in the house had become a losing battle over the marriage, with each darling developing a warmer relationship with her father than the previous daughter.
The Firstborn was strong, boisterous, and as determined to remain an individual as her dad was.
The Cute One had his friendly demeanor, his instant likability and his ease at every task.
The Baby was coquettish, beautiful, spoiled by everyone.
She was the favorite. A mirror image of her dad, from the blue eyes and blonde hair to the derisiveness of tone directed at Mom, who she blamed for driving their dad into the arms of his undemanding, sexy lover.
Exiting the freeway, the girls giggled and nudged one another as they passed farm after farm, and the road to Uncle Next's grew bumpy and endless in the heat. So primped and pony tailed in their bright, sunny pinafores that morning, the girls excitement waned as the long drive jostled their bubbly mood to that of frustration and boredom. The girls began to gripe and antagonize one another in the manner they had been accustomed since the fretting among their parents. As the road roughened and graveled, the Rabbit Ranch materialized ahead. A bristle of excitement jolted the girls waning spirits once again, as their dreams of a magical wonderland of fluffy, cooing bunnies and butterflies scampering to greet came to fruition.
"Why are all these bugs around here?" complained Middle, who also had inherited her mother's incessant discomfort. Alas, the palatial ranch hacienda was akin to a desolate and muddy barn from what they could see, waves of hazy, heavy heat and thick clouds of odorous waste were in the dusty air as their arrival was met.
Uncle Next hunkered down from an unseen workshop befitted in a black rubber apron to protect his mottled and worn coveralls. The girls scanned past the tumbleweeds blowing and wrinkled pert freckled nosed at what was odors far off from the meadows of sugar and spice promised to them. Mom stayed in the car, avoiding her sister, who had predicted that Mom's badgering and insecurity would drive away her husband. Slamming out a rusty screen door came their country kin, barefoot and casual, but sloppy and smudged. The cousins all bounded towards each other, the laughter and relief infectiously lightening their somber dispositions. The glee charmed the girls, and their apprehensive and guarded arrival soon melted as a trio of floppy eared game bounded from an unhinged pen, and the children were soon scurrying to contain the corral of bouncing bunnies. Each girl soon was snuggling and cooing to the rabbits, which seemed to calm their high-strung, wild behaviors at home of late.
"G on, kids, grab yourself a pup to groom. Y'all can play ranch hands and help out you Uncle Next. Its just about feeding time, so pen up them hares and ya'll can learn about farming."
The sisters painstakingly adopted a rabbit each, carefully choosing one to nurture and name that could absorbed the toughened demeanor they had developed over the last few months. She chose a scrappy bullish hare of mottled orange and brown splotches. Sweet Baby found a playful, bounding rabbit of silvered coat that she chased across the field all day. The girls traipsed alongside their cousins as their tension and friction faded with the afternoon sun. The summer stretched out before them, and with it, the hope of a rescued and reunited home sweet home to return to in September. The afternoon dusking, the girls mussed and smudged, yet refreshed and sunbathed in fresh air and warm weather. The ragtag parade, led by a barefoot and gangly boy from up the road, strolled as they followed each other up to Uncle Next's barn to see what chores awaited them. Amidst the raucous singsong, Uncle Next called out for the girls to bring in their rabbits. Their cousin's scowled and sulked as was their nature, having been reared and ranched among the rabbits.
They trudged into Uncle Next's silo, into a scene of gruesome terror. The silo was dark and thick with buzzing flies, and the earth under their bare feet was sticky and syrupy. As the sun filtered through the rough hewn windowpanes, the girls stared in horror at the slaughtered, skinned carcasses that hung gaping from rusty nails, dead bunny after gutted and gorged dead bunny. The skeletal remains piled high, awaiting either Uncle Next's deft skinning or bulk cremation. Bloody and torn hides piled upon each other, drying out so to be stretched and bolted to hundreds of others and farmed off to furriers in the city. The four bunnies they had gleefully adopted that morning and had pampered with baths and grains lay wide eyed and broken at their feet, glued to each others hides with dried blood and entrails as gnats dove above them.
The girls stood and stared in shock, disbelieving the carnage yet woefully aware of the summer that lay ahead. The mucky earth beneath their feet felt like tar, and the sheer horror of the slaughterhouse before them seemed fitting for such a dismal time in their lives. She sighed with resignation and with the exasperated expression on her face that would remain for 20 years. She bent over to carefully select an appendage from the nearest pile of limbs and paws. It had been her nature to forge ahead, braver than her less resilient sisters. The snarled paw, crusty and cloven, would testament this cruel and vicious ruse their mother pulled, allowing the girls to hold a false sense of happiness and anticipation for their summer vacation. She and her sisters tempered their fears and disappointments over their father's departure, and upon returning home were able to face the facts that their lives had been disrupted and security in all they had known would be replaced with struggle, woe and contempt. She methodically and callously gifted the talisman to her mother upon her return eight weeks later. The house seemed larger without her strapping, strutting father.
Mom, newly singled and inundated with have-to's, bustled around the house, occasionally ranting about all her mounting tasks, interspersed with crying jags and bouts of self-pity.
The sisters often threatened their own children with trips to Uncle Next over the years The rabbit foot she took, now withered and worn of silky fur was just a curled and sharpened toenail that would slice into her soft hands over the years, reminded her daily of the summer at the Rabbit Ranch and the smell and sight of the worst the world had to offer.
When She was 12, her parents divorced.
To distract the four sisters of the imploding of their family, Mom sent her children to her sister's. It was to be an idyllic and adventurous month. There first teen summer was to be a joyous, boisterously barefoot and suntanned season, yet the grieving and shock upon learning of their father's indiscretions and ultimate exodus rained only gloom, anger and heartbreak.
The consolation for the sisters was that in the Country, not only did their fast and lawless cousins promise a summer of fresh-aired bounty, but also thrice married Auntie was matron over Uncle Next's Rabbit Ranch. Next had a name, but was known to everyone by his own descriptive of who he was to Auntie. The sisters boasted to their friends of the vacation, describing green rolling hills upon which cotton-tailed bunnies cavorted among the fields of clover, as laughing children scampered to catch and cuddle them. Melodies of ice cream, moonlit hay rides and hay-chomping farm animals wafted across the hills to busily charm the girls. Envious as they often felt of the Sister's and the privilege and ease so seemingly surrounding the A-list girls, the neighborhood kids felt nagging jealousy at what seemed to be a Heavenly trip to the Rabbit Ranch.
"How much longer?" huffed Cute One, angrily elbowing her Middle Sister.
"I have to go to the bathroom," pouted The Middle.
As per usual, Mom sighed as she daydreamed over the drone of her daughter's voices. She muttered a "soon," and continued to ignore them. With the girls gone, she had drafted a regime to entice her husband home. The separation and his embracing of bachelorhood had defeated Mom daily, and her hopes of luring him into her arms again were only dampened by the constant chaos of the now unmanageable coven.
He was so much better at disciplining the girls, at coaching their numerous activities, at loving them. It was exhausting to Mom, who had four times been disappointed by daughters. The competition for the only man in the house had become a losing battle over the marriage, with each darling developing a warmer relationship with her father than the previous daughter.
The Firstborn was strong, boisterous, and as determined to remain an individual as her dad was.
The Cute One had his friendly demeanor, his instant likability and his ease at every task.
The Baby was coquettish, beautiful, spoiled by everyone.
She was the favorite. A mirror image of her dad, from the blue eyes and blonde hair to the derisiveness of tone directed at Mom, who she blamed for driving their dad into the arms of his undemanding, sexy lover.
Exiting the freeway, the girls giggled and nudged one another as they passed farm after farm, and the road to Uncle Next's grew bumpy and endless in the heat. So primped and pony tailed in their bright, sunny pinafores that morning, the girls excitement waned as the long drive jostled their bubbly mood to that of frustration and boredom. The girls began to gripe and antagonize one another in the manner they had been accustomed since the fretting among their parents. As the road roughened and graveled, the Rabbit Ranch materialized ahead. A bristle of excitement jolted the girls waning spirits once again, as their dreams of a magical wonderland of fluffy, cooing bunnies and butterflies scampering to greet came to fruition.
"Why are all these bugs around here?" complained Middle, who also had inherited her mother's incessant discomfort. Alas, the palatial ranch hacienda was akin to a desolate and muddy barn from what they could see, waves of hazy, heavy heat and thick clouds of odorous waste were in the dusty air as their arrival was met.
Uncle Next hunkered down from an unseen workshop befitted in a black rubber apron to protect his mottled and worn coveralls. The girls scanned past the tumbleweeds blowing and wrinkled pert freckled nosed at what was odors far off from the meadows of sugar and spice promised to them. Mom stayed in the car, avoiding her sister, who had predicted that Mom's badgering and insecurity would drive away her husband. Slamming out a rusty screen door came their country kin, barefoot and casual, but sloppy and smudged. The cousins all bounded towards each other, the laughter and relief infectiously lightening their somber dispositions. The glee charmed the girls, and their apprehensive and guarded arrival soon melted as a trio of floppy eared game bounded from an unhinged pen, and the children were soon scurrying to contain the corral of bouncing bunnies. Each girl soon was snuggling and cooing to the rabbits, which seemed to calm their high-strung, wild behaviors at home of late.
"G on, kids, grab yourself a pup to groom. Y'all can play ranch hands and help out you Uncle Next. Its just about feeding time, so pen up them hares and ya'll can learn about farming."
The sisters painstakingly adopted a rabbit each, carefully choosing one to nurture and name that could absorbed the toughened demeanor they had developed over the last few months. She chose a scrappy bullish hare of mottled orange and brown splotches. Sweet Baby found a playful, bounding rabbit of silvered coat that she chased across the field all day. The girls traipsed alongside their cousins as their tension and friction faded with the afternoon sun. The summer stretched out before them, and with it, the hope of a rescued and reunited home sweet home to return to in September. The afternoon dusking, the girls mussed and smudged, yet refreshed and sunbathed in fresh air and warm weather. The ragtag parade, led by a barefoot and gangly boy from up the road, strolled as they followed each other up to Uncle Next's barn to see what chores awaited them. Amidst the raucous singsong, Uncle Next called out for the girls to bring in their rabbits. Their cousin's scowled and sulked as was their nature, having been reared and ranched among the rabbits.
They trudged into Uncle Next's silo, into a scene of gruesome terror. The silo was dark and thick with buzzing flies, and the earth under their bare feet was sticky and syrupy. As the sun filtered through the rough hewn windowpanes, the girls stared in horror at the slaughtered, skinned carcasses that hung gaping from rusty nails, dead bunny after gutted and gorged dead bunny. The skeletal remains piled high, awaiting either Uncle Next's deft skinning or bulk cremation. Bloody and torn hides piled upon each other, drying out so to be stretched and bolted to hundreds of others and farmed off to furriers in the city. The four bunnies they had gleefully adopted that morning and had pampered with baths and grains lay wide eyed and broken at their feet, glued to each others hides with dried blood and entrails as gnats dove above them.
The girls stood and stared in shock, disbelieving the carnage yet woefully aware of the summer that lay ahead. The mucky earth beneath their feet felt like tar, and the sheer horror of the slaughterhouse before them seemed fitting for such a dismal time in their lives. She sighed with resignation and with the exasperated expression on her face that would remain for 20 years. She bent over to carefully select an appendage from the nearest pile of limbs and paws. It had been her nature to forge ahead, braver than her less resilient sisters. The snarled paw, crusty and cloven, would testament this cruel and vicious ruse their mother pulled, allowing the girls to hold a false sense of happiness and anticipation for their summer vacation. She and her sisters tempered their fears and disappointments over their father's departure, and upon returning home were able to face the facts that their lives had been disrupted and security in all they had known would be replaced with struggle, woe and contempt. She methodically and callously gifted the talisman to her mother upon her return eight weeks later. The house seemed larger without her strapping, strutting father.
Mom, newly singled and inundated with have-to's, bustled around the house, occasionally ranting about all her mounting tasks, interspersed with crying jags and bouts of self-pity.
The sisters often threatened their own children with trips to Uncle Next over the years The rabbit foot she took, now withered and worn of silky fur was just a curled and sharpened toenail that would slice into her soft hands over the years, reminded her daily of the summer at the Rabbit Ranch and the smell and sight of the worst the world had to offer.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Summer 1994
The first few months back in town after the first divorce, and I am sandwiched between a singer and a surfer at the Bayshore Saloon. The singer was barefoot and broke, and the surfer was bronze and beautiful. I had huge crushes, flirting between both. We girls would fend off their constant belligerence. No fear, harmless drunken badgering, sloppy yet sweet. We would dodge them as we bar bounced, as they trailed and teased, hitting us up for rides, cocktails, or pills. I knew they did this with every girl in every bar from here to there. I have known this since the end of the 1980's. The last time I partied with the singer and the surfer.
It was at the Old Hillside on P.C.H. I was, fat, ignored, and utterly gameless. Yet I was a bride and a mother.
My Rock star husband had taken me to see his friend's band, and I was HUGE with my second pregnancy. I felt ugly, awkward. It was summer, and many were high and sandy from the beach. His friend, the Singer, was nice to me. The rest of the night, he trailed me, inquisitive, interested in our gestating marriage, teasing Rock-Star husband, offering us his drink tickets. Rock-Star husband and the Guy he smoked out with in high school laughed a lot and talked guitar shop. Guy he smoked out with in high school said goodbye because his band was going to play and Rock-Star husband bristled slightly. Guy he smoked out with in high School played his ass off, partied all night, and bagged a barefoot babe to buy his beers and drive him and his shrapnel home. Rock-Star husband also met up with many of his high school friends. We had a good time, and he enjoyed himself. They teased him for still being a longhaired Hessian despite having a Wife & kid & one on the way.
It did not really seem to have been very important then, because Rock-Star husband could not remember anyone's names. But at the end of the night, leaving us to head home rather early, Rock Star Husband dismissed it, driving away from an unending orgy of excess and excitement.
"Those guys are always gonna be getting stoned and scamming on younger chicks. We're like, what, adults now.” Rock-Star Husband bemused, his disdain forced and his dreams derailed.
They were getting too old to fuck around with the same people and underage girls. He said with a tone of contempt that they would always be resigned to play backyard parties for the price of a keg of beer. It is not as if those guys are even close to makin’ it, he bemused. At least we have a manager and a studio to practice in, Rock Star Husband thought as he stared out the window, hoping his Dad's garage and fax machine elevated his band.
The first few months back in town after the first divorce, and I am sandwiched between a singer and a surfer at the Bayshore Saloon. The singer was barefoot and broke, and the surfer was bronze and beautiful. I had huge crushes, flirting between both. We girls would fend off their constant belligerence. No fear, harmless drunken badgering, sloppy yet sweet. We would dodge them as we bar bounced, as they trailed and teased, hitting us up for rides, cocktails, or pills. I knew they did this with every girl in every bar from here to there. I have known this since the end of the 1980's. The last time I partied with the singer and the surfer.
It was at the Old Hillside on P.C.H. I was, fat, ignored, and utterly gameless. Yet I was a bride and a mother.
My Rock star husband had taken me to see his friend's band, and I was HUGE with my second pregnancy. I felt ugly, awkward. It was summer, and many were high and sandy from the beach. His friend, the Singer, was nice to me. The rest of the night, he trailed me, inquisitive, interested in our gestating marriage, teasing Rock-Star husband, offering us his drink tickets. Rock-Star husband and the Guy he smoked out with in high school laughed a lot and talked guitar shop. Guy he smoked out with in high school said goodbye because his band was going to play and Rock-Star husband bristled slightly. Guy he smoked out with in high School played his ass off, partied all night, and bagged a barefoot babe to buy his beers and drive him and his shrapnel home. Rock-Star husband also met up with many of his high school friends. We had a good time, and he enjoyed himself. They teased him for still being a longhaired Hessian despite having a Wife & kid & one on the way.
It did not really seem to have been very important then, because Rock-Star husband could not remember anyone's names. But at the end of the night, leaving us to head home rather early, Rock Star Husband dismissed it, driving away from an unending orgy of excess and excitement.
"Those guys are always gonna be getting stoned and scamming on younger chicks. We're like, what, adults now.” Rock-Star Husband bemused, his disdain forced and his dreams derailed.
They were getting too old to fuck around with the same people and underage girls. He said with a tone of contempt that they would always be resigned to play backyard parties for the price of a keg of beer. It is not as if those guys are even close to makin’ it, he bemused. At least we have a manager and a studio to practice in, Rock Star Husband thought as he stared out the window, hoping his Dad's garage and fax machine elevated his band.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Summer 2004
‘The last we heard the Queen had been dethroned,” some whispered.
Other guests were leery as to the validity of her wedding-none more than the Queen herself.
Look at her. This hasty celebration seemed contrite in light of the poorly conceived courtship. Her “Bigger Better Deal” had fallen far short of what he had offered her, and the One she still loved had called her cheating bluff as soon as she strayed. Now she was had. Stuck with The BBD. Less than a summer earlier, she crossed the line, gleefully embracing him after trading in a couple of “Best Friends Forever”. The BFF’s were bitchy, but would be missed.
(A Good BFF status is maintained by proper allegiance to ‘The Code’.)
The Code, when abided, proved one’s allegiance over the years. The Code had gleamed and glistened through weather and elements, withstanding countless sub-par unions, pacts and dalliances. Many appeals argued on the basis that an “excusable example defining commitment” had been implied, resulting in overturned convictions and reinstatements.
(The Code affords many an out, I remind you. Look it up.)
Back to BBD, of which she was betrothed. They happened upon each other frequently over the decades. He was the first love of one of the departed BFFs. #1 BFF kept him close to her bosom over the last twenty years. This in spite of her having her own husband for the latter ten.
(Now you may refer to certain key dictates in the Code, primarily in regards to generating interests in BFF’S “Don’t Touch” list. Any deviance from Code is DEVIANCE FROM CODE. Admitted. Stay with me.)
BBD and #1 BFF had quite the teen love, well funded by his adolescent income source. Most fifteen-year-old boys actually rely upon the fast food industry to earn and learn themselves fiscally, at least in the 1980’s. Yet with BBD’s charisma and high dolla’ dreams, minimum wage was minimum RAGE. Geographical location aside, BBD had been reared well and had the taste of the upper class, due to the educated palate of his parents. Ghetto bred, BBD was not only lawless, but lucrative. His entry-level marijuana sales titillated the tame yet tawdry teenage girls of which compiled his first customers back in high school. They shared first love as most do, courting and carousing.
Hence, first love. First Love is torturous and heart wringing and rarely exclusive. It is First Love nevertheless. We may all hope that love manifests into an idyllic memory over time. This was no exception. BFF and BBD held each other close over the years, literally and figuratively. The Queen was privy to their history, as well as knee deep in her own faltering true love. Fuck The Code.
How DARE her.
‘The last we heard the Queen had been dethroned,” some whispered.
Other guests were leery as to the validity of her wedding-none more than the Queen herself.
Look at her. This hasty celebration seemed contrite in light of the poorly conceived courtship. Her “Bigger Better Deal” had fallen far short of what he had offered her, and the One she still loved had called her cheating bluff as soon as she strayed. Now she was had. Stuck with The BBD. Less than a summer earlier, she crossed the line, gleefully embracing him after trading in a couple of “Best Friends Forever”. The BFF’s were bitchy, but would be missed.
(A Good BFF status is maintained by proper allegiance to ‘The Code’.)
The Code, when abided, proved one’s allegiance over the years. The Code had gleamed and glistened through weather and elements, withstanding countless sub-par unions, pacts and dalliances. Many appeals argued on the basis that an “excusable example defining commitment” had been implied, resulting in overturned convictions and reinstatements.
(The Code affords many an out, I remind you. Look it up.)
Back to BBD, of which she was betrothed. They happened upon each other frequently over the decades. He was the first love of one of the departed BFFs. #1 BFF kept him close to her bosom over the last twenty years. This in spite of her having her own husband for the latter ten.
(Now you may refer to certain key dictates in the Code, primarily in regards to generating interests in BFF’S “Don’t Touch” list. Any deviance from Code is DEVIANCE FROM CODE. Admitted. Stay with me.)
BBD and #1 BFF had quite the teen love, well funded by his adolescent income source. Most fifteen-year-old boys actually rely upon the fast food industry to earn and learn themselves fiscally, at least in the 1980’s. Yet with BBD’s charisma and high dolla’ dreams, minimum wage was minimum RAGE. Geographical location aside, BBD had been reared well and had the taste of the upper class, due to the educated palate of his parents. Ghetto bred, BBD was not only lawless, but lucrative. His entry-level marijuana sales titillated the tame yet tawdry teenage girls of which compiled his first customers back in high school. They shared first love as most do, courting and carousing.
Hence, first love. First Love is torturous and heart wringing and rarely exclusive. It is First Love nevertheless. We may all hope that love manifests into an idyllic memory over time. This was no exception. BFF and BBD held each other close over the years, literally and figuratively. The Queen was privy to their history, as well as knee deep in her own faltering true love. Fuck The Code.
How DARE her.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Random weekend recap
This weekend started around 5:30 pm, when I spent a few happy hours with my family until 9ish, when it was off to Alex’s to see The great John Doe. Held my cool as long as I could. I became superfan stalker on him by enlisting the most spectacular Shannon to broker a photo op as he left the stage.
After a few awkward moments of digital issues the image was snapped, and Shannon & I teeny bopped to the parking lot to giggle ourselves through a cigarette. She shared a memorable moment of herself nabbing a photo op with a favorite rockstar a few years back, assuring me that my shreds of cool were not totally lost.
We kissed and hugged and parted ways, her back into the show and I to the other side of town. By midnight I had joined up with Cat & Co. to see The Stymies at the Pike. We drank and sweat through a Stooge-ish show as well made nice with The young Rome, who we cajoled into returning to the Clam to jam acoustic with The young James as we ladies swirled and sang along.
Late night grilled cheese sammies, You Tube Roulette and a bubble bath as the sun rose and I took note of the night.
By noon I will be found poolside with Reba as we wring the last rays out of the summer. Come evening, when we shall slum over to the Regal Inn to get rowdy with ALLDAY and dozens of our closest friends.
It is Sunday and by 2 pm I will be celebrating birthday style in HB for Aubra’s darling son, which will also be a long overdue reunion with beloved Ladies all grown up and spoused and sobered. As well, always fun to see who may materialize from the past. Aubra's good like that with the invites.
After a few awkward moments of digital issues the image was snapped, and Shannon & I teeny bopped to the parking lot to giggle ourselves through a cigarette. She shared a memorable moment of herself nabbing a photo op with a favorite rockstar a few years back, assuring me that my shreds of cool were not totally lost.
We kissed and hugged and parted ways, her back into the show and I to the other side of town. By midnight I had joined up with Cat & Co. to see The Stymies at the Pike. We drank and sweat through a Stooge-ish show as well made nice with The young Rome, who we cajoled into returning to the Clam to jam acoustic with The young James as we ladies swirled and sang along.
Late night grilled cheese sammies, You Tube Roulette and a bubble bath as the sun rose and I took note of the night.
By noon I will be found poolside with Reba as we wring the last rays out of the summer. Come evening, when we shall slum over to the Regal Inn to get rowdy with ALLDAY and dozens of our closest friends.
It is Sunday and by 2 pm I will be celebrating birthday style in HB for Aubra’s darling son, which will also be a long overdue reunion with beloved Ladies all grown up and spoused and sobered. As well, always fun to see who may materialize from the past. Aubra's good like that with the invites.
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