Friday nights are often reserved for ordering take out, especially when Travis is home, because it's fun and I don't have to think anymore. Work has been extremely challenging for a number of uninteresting reasons, since Christmas is near and the office is winding down. We ordered thai and both got a dish called Kai Ga-tiam, or garlic "beef" with rice. Trav finished his and I ate just over half, setting the rest under a side table. We started watching Elf: Buddy's Musical Christmas and I grabbed all the things needed to finish wrapping a couple presents.
Because we live to please MyFitnessPal (not really but it is working!) we planned on going to the gym before Trav's 11pm show. He & Leroy napped for a spell while I finished the packages, and we were ready to go around 9pm.
Now I am totally aware of a personal shortcoming, which is often forgetting to put something away. It can be paper, food, a brush, magazines, bills, etc. You name 75 things and I've left a good portion of those out. It's an affliction that's been with me since I can remember and tonight we caught up.
In the commotion of mind, getting ready for the gym, and my shortcoming, I completely forgot to put away the garlic/onion "beef." We went to the gym for 40 minutes and in true fashion, I recalled my error the SECOND we walked through the door. Without fail I snap remember the moment panic swells; why can't that kick in before I leave? But puppy greeted us in the usual sweet way he does. Happy to see us, waggy tail, hoppy, picking up toys, the works. Maybe he just slept, maybe he didn't realize, I told myself. But as I looked toward the table I saw the box pulled from under it.
fuck. He had eaten the remaining rice, some broccoli, some "beef," and some peripheral garlic. There was still food left in the container, including much of the sauce. but fuck. Leroy eats appropriate non-dog food, such as carrots, blueberries and brown rice - so it's no surprise he went for what he did. He doesn't eat a lot of that, but supplemental additions to his kibble. He loves it and gives him different vitamins maybe not normally found in his daily diet. With this though, I know garlic & onions aren't good for dogs, so Travis began looking up possible symptoms while I called the vet emergency line.
I explained what happened. The guy was calm and said it being cooked was likely less an issue than raw, given the small amount he ate, and more likely scenario is he'll have an pupset tummy. We could bring him in for a shot to induce vomiting, but only within the next hour before things started passing. The pupset tummy would likely show up within 12-24 hours, but other symptoms maybe not for a few days.
Now all I can think is what have I done to our boy.
I continued with questions about permanent damage outside the vomiting, and he said there are a few possible side effects, but the vet would have to investigate. Throughout the conversation he never felt we should bring him in unless we wanted to. My mind ran over everything, including what if something is wrong and I don't take him in... Then it's my fault. But he & Travis both felt Leroy would be ok, so I desperately asked those feelings to step aside. I got the number to poison control in case we had more specific questions and the call ended.
I sorta just sat there, processing the information and trying to read Leroy in case there were symptoms I was missing. He was perfect though, just wanted pets, tummy rubs, & to play with his ropey toy. I mean that's awesome deep down, but even that can't eliminate the feeling you've let the two most important boys in your life down. I am half responsible for this little fuzzy creature that I love beyond words and I made a mistake. It could have been an awfully worse mistake - it wasn't, but it could have been. Have I become too careless since he's such a smart boy? In the end, we decided against the shot and to monitor him.
I'm not one to dismiss my errors easily, so naturally the mountain of guilt that arose felt like the weight of 1000 judges reminding me of my failure. I started crying. Not uncontrollable, not inconsolable, but the kind that steady streams out when your entire body has no other means of releasing emotions. Instead of formulating sentences, you can cry and get the same relief.
Let me just tell you, Travis is kind and amazing. He calms me. He insisted Leroy would be ok and went over similar facts the tech did. He pointed out Leroy's playful attitude, hugging him saying does this look like a boy who isn't feeling well? I smiled and said no... sniff... He reminded me to not be so hard on myself, to which of course I argue it was my carelessness that could have really hurt him. He came back saying it was an accident and he's ok, so it should remind both of us to make sure we pick up anything puppy enticing. I got major hugs and felt a little better.
I monitored him the entire night, even falling asleep holding his little puppy paw.
As I complete this entry, almost 24 hours later, he never threw up. He never showed any signs of indigestion or unhappyness. We went for a walk, even to the puppy park for an hour... everything seems to be right in the world of Leroy. The only remnant that actually put a smile on my face, was finding a rice grain in his beard. That happens to Travis too. :-)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This will likely be the closest thing to parenthood I get. And I made a mistake, but Leroy won't slam a door in my face when he's 16 because of it. So I can't imagine going through this routine time and time again with a humanoid, the ups and downs of errors that will ring through my brain asking whether this will mess him up for life. I don't know how I could handle that, knowing the feeling I just went through. There are other reasons I don't want to have kids, but this cycle is certainly a big check in the negative box. I now being scared isn't a reason to never do something, but it does make you think...
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Friday, December 19, 2014
Hey Asshole
A few Wednesdays back, Travis, Leroy and I went to dinner with some friends and their pup, whom we haven't seen in several years. It was a place that serves tasty food & beer, including my favorite foamy goodness that's aged in whiskey barrels. I say it's my favorite yet can never remember the name, although there is a C somewhere. Leroy and Beckett got along smashingly and us ladies gabbed while the men gabbed too. Two tough guys were getting wasted and chatting up this pretty thing, telling tales of this guy named Charlie who had a killer boat. It was a really awesome, relaxing evening. Until it wasn't.
Because of the dogs, we sat on the restaurant's patio, that butts up (butts) to a busy main street. So picture it. You step through the metal flanked committee and have an open walkway towards the inside restaurant. On either side are rows of tables that line the walls. The outer seats are matched with chairs, while the inner is a solid, thick, wooden bench. We're at our 4 top in the back and to the left, with only one other table further inlet. My back is to it, while I face our friend Claire. I had set my phone on this other table because no one was there while we were eating and I wanted to keep my chipped & cracked device ketchup free. I didn't really move away from that position the entire night.
We finished dinner and let the dogs non-obnoxiously play on the bench, pretty engaged between them and laughing. I grabbed my phone from the table to take some photos, but it was too dark. Leroy noticed some pretty birds leaving the restaurant. He trotted on the bench to greet them, while they commented on his lovely, giant ears and groovy Star Wars sweater. I put the phone down where it had previously floated on its metal moat, so I could be a responsible puppy parent while they were engaged.
Whether this guy had been scoping out the joint from the sidewalk or simply got a hair up his butt (butt) I'll never know.
But (butt) fuck that guy.
Per the security cam footage, he walked past the metal flanking gates, onto the patio, and inside to the restaurant. He grabbed a menu and came back outside, sitting where else, but at the table my back was too - and where my phone was. He threw his bag over my phone the second he planted his tush in the seat, not more than 2 feet from me. He stupidly fumbled around with the menu, thinking he's being all slick by "pondering" what he would order. The nerve. I mean yes, my lack of awareness too, but dude, the nerve.
About 5 seconds later, slick was gone.
About 5 minutes later, we got up to leave. 5. minutes.
We started looking around, under the chairs, my friend in her purse, every place the phone SHOULD have been. It's a very unnatural feeling missing something you know you had. You repeatedly pat your pockets, shove your hands in your coat, check your shoes, your hair. I started looking at Mr. & Mr. Hit-on, wondering if they somehow they snagged it. I scanned every face still there, hoping for a sign of guilt. But nothing. Everyone was in their own conversation, completely oblivious to our peril. sad face.
After driving a couple rounds to see if he was still around, we gave up and went home. Shut off service, blocked it, changed passwords for the few apps I had running, and remotely detonated it. After handling all the security stuff though, my emotions began. As I took mental inventory, it became clear how many photos weren't backed up, the numbers I lost, and the personal notes I always need that were gone. Can't get that back-ever. It's just a material thing, but it's still my material thing I didn't give permission this asshole could take. I don't like feeling someone has photos of my Leroy and my veggies. Notes about presents and journal ideas. Offering written gibberish that is up to me to decide when or if I'll share. It's invasive and violating, and it was just a fucking phone! I can't imagine a home invasion or being car jacked. I learned the next day by taking the steps I did, it should have been very difficult for any schmuck to access the items I was worried about - which is nice and comforting. But still.
But the phone wasn't pristine, it was chipped & cracked and I hope he sliced his wrist or cut his nose doing blow. Because once it's dead in the water, naturally the only thing he can do is blow. All I can do is laugh.
So because baddies & potential baddies I'm sure read journals, don't be an asshole. And don't hack shit. And don't steal stuff. It's easier being kind.
besos.
Because of the dogs, we sat on the restaurant's patio, that butts up (butts) to a busy main street. So picture it. You step through the metal flanked committee and have an open walkway towards the inside restaurant. On either side are rows of tables that line the walls. The outer seats are matched with chairs, while the inner is a solid, thick, wooden bench. We're at our 4 top in the back and to the left, with only one other table further inlet. My back is to it, while I face our friend Claire. I had set my phone on this other table because no one was there while we were eating and I wanted to keep my chipped & cracked device ketchup free. I didn't really move away from that position the entire night.
We finished dinner and let the dogs non-obnoxiously play on the bench, pretty engaged between them and laughing. I grabbed my phone from the table to take some photos, but it was too dark. Leroy noticed some pretty birds leaving the restaurant. He trotted on the bench to greet them, while they commented on his lovely, giant ears and groovy Star Wars sweater. I put the phone down where it had previously floated on its metal moat, so I could be a responsible puppy parent while they were engaged.
Whether this guy had been scoping out the joint from the sidewalk or simply got a hair up his butt (butt) I'll never know.
But (butt) fuck that guy.
Per the security cam footage, he walked past the metal flanking gates, onto the patio, and inside to the restaurant. He grabbed a menu and came back outside, sitting where else, but at the table my back was too - and where my phone was. He threw his bag over my phone the second he planted his tush in the seat, not more than 2 feet from me. He stupidly fumbled around with the menu, thinking he's being all slick by "pondering" what he would order. The nerve. I mean yes, my lack of awareness too, but dude, the nerve.
About 5 seconds later, slick was gone.
About 5 minutes later, we got up to leave. 5. minutes.
We started looking around, under the chairs, my friend in her purse, every place the phone SHOULD have been. It's a very unnatural feeling missing something you know you had. You repeatedly pat your pockets, shove your hands in your coat, check your shoes, your hair. I started looking at Mr. & Mr. Hit-on, wondering if they somehow they snagged it. I scanned every face still there, hoping for a sign of guilt. But nothing. Everyone was in their own conversation, completely oblivious to our peril. sad face.
After driving a couple rounds to see if he was still around, we gave up and went home. Shut off service, blocked it, changed passwords for the few apps I had running, and remotely detonated it. After handling all the security stuff though, my emotions began. As I took mental inventory, it became clear how many photos weren't backed up, the numbers I lost, and the personal notes I always need that were gone. Can't get that back-ever. It's just a material thing, but it's still my material thing I didn't give permission this asshole could take. I don't like feeling someone has photos of my Leroy and my veggies. Notes about presents and journal ideas. Offering written gibberish that is up to me to decide when or if I'll share. It's invasive and violating, and it was just a fucking phone! I can't imagine a home invasion or being car jacked. I learned the next day by taking the steps I did, it should have been very difficult for any schmuck to access the items I was worried about - which is nice and comforting. But still.
But the phone wasn't pristine, it was chipped & cracked and I hope he sliced his wrist or cut his nose doing blow. Because once it's dead in the water, naturally the only thing he can do is blow. All I can do is laugh.
So because baddies & potential baddies I'm sure read journals, don't be an asshole. And don't hack shit. And don't steal stuff. It's easier being kind.
besos.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Tell You Thursday: Keeping Hope Alive
It's that time of year when I realize I should have completed my gift making months ago, should have written down all the shit I need to do, and should not keep track of how many days till 24 hours of A Christmas Story because I want to watch now!
But at this point, life makes it a cyclical habit that's hard to break.
It's also the time of year where me and my most special girlfriends from high school get together for a holiday gift exchange and night of debauchery, as if we never missed a day of each others' faces. This fierce group of 6 has managed to exercise our holiday right almost every year since 1999. But don't totally picture one-night stands, don't totally think limitless booze, and don't totally speculate a lot of opinions. Not quite but sort of.
We've been comrades and foes, criers and huggers, drink buyers when relationships soared and failed, and even a few that swapped. Seen girls kiss boys and girls kiss girls, girl steals boy and boy splits town. Through parents reading journals and being chased by cops, threatening to run away to Seattle and scrounging for Whopper money. College and trips abroad, marriage and divorce, careers and start-overs, a couple of kids but most of us with pups, money and not so much money. Naked runs on a private beach and piercings that have long been removed. Brilliant tattoo choices and some not so much. Denial of drug use and abandoned houses, generator parties and part time jobs. Outdoor sleepovers where we spent all night figuring it out... together. Always, together. And laughs, laughs and more laughs I wish I heard more often.
Seriously, this is a set friendships spanning 15-20+ years, where without saying, we are still there for the best and worst of each others' lives. Long conversations using our parents phone have transitioned to facebook chats and rambling text messages, but we still love each other. We appreciate each other more than the day we graduated and that's fucking tops. This will never change because growing up in a desert town forces that existence upon you, whether you ask for it or not. There is a bond between people that is rarely dissolved, albeit windy at times. I would never exchange these ladies for anything in the world.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The gathering of the ladies changes location year to year. Often it's what works best timing wise, other years someone has moved into a new place. 2012 hosting was bequeathed upon us because it was the first Christmas in our new home. Sweet & junk, but yes of course!
After the formalities of re-stoking the catch up fires, we pour drinks and eat snacks and talk stories of what's been happening. Then the opening and stealing of the gifts begins. This is where gentle claws come out to play for a spell. It can take anywhere from 30-60 minutes of us cackling between the choosing, drink & smoke breaks. But anyone who's been to a gift exchange between a great group of friends, knows what an awesome time you have.
A few hours into hanging out this particular year, the idea of getting into a little trouble was appealing. Not raise hell trouble but our classed up version of it. Us doing something that usually results in a "I can't believe/remember that happened..." as we recount & relaugh at our forever memories.
Not sure why the idea struck me, but I suggested we visit Bob Hope's house because they put up this ancient nativity scene every year. Maybe it was to share the Christmassey mood or simply a mini-activity before doing something else. Either way, I enjoy it for non-religious reasons and thought they would too. It has white & blue lights that project strange shadows and oversees the neighborhood like a tall, plasticine governor should. We designated a driver, piled in shoulder to shoulder, and headed off for how ever long it took.
We circled before parking in their little mini-driveway that is on the edge of the property (look here - we parked about 10 feet in front of the red bows.) Silly me for thinking we would just stare & make jokes. Silly me for thinking it's fine to pull up in front of a very high profile house around midnight as if it was our own crib. Silly me.
Nope, they wanted more action. Never in a destructive way though - never. Just in a we're having fun way and someone has an idea that leads to another idea, and eventually we're like I can't believe we did that. and so on. To also note, at the time I don't think anyone actually lived there, but it's Bob Hope's fucking house so tom foolery eventually gets noticed.
Two of these lovely ladies decided they needed a close up view of the manger and started climbing the fence. If you look at the daytime photo, it doesn't seem that tall. But turns out does require a strong finger foot hold and a heave ho. They struggle for a few minutes but eventually make it and we're all laughing. However, internally I'm like fuck-fuck-fuck this place is being watched. It's a nice neighborhood where I'm sure they don't take kindly to even cute girls laughing and walking the fence this late. So they're up there holding baby jesus and riding the donkey and yelling back to us at what they see over the walls. They are taking photos and then disappear for a hot minute while my other friends light a smoke.
I finally can't shut my inner mum up, so I urge them we should leave before something bad happens. Surprisingly I think we all felt it and everyone mostly obliged. :) I let out a deep breath of releif, sat in the car while they scurried down, thinking in a minute we'll be driving off to the next adventure. Sigh, ok good we're all in the car.
That's when a neighborhood security patrol car pulled up. fuck.
By no means were we drunk, but drinks were had. There's neighborhood patrol because it's a ritzy hood. But I thought it's fine - they can really do anything cuz they're rent a cops.
Two younger gentlemen rolled down their windows and we mimicked, before asking what we were up to. I was somewhat familiar with the local backstory and was with it enough to answer straight. I said my friends were visiting from out of town and I wanted to show them the beautiful manger, because it had always meant so much to me at Christmas. How happy I was someone still put it up, without the Hope's living there. Play it up Brandi, but not too much I thought.
Well my charming personality and general cuteness of our car must have won them over, because they smiled, suggested it was time to leave and to have a nice night. Then they drove away and that's when I saw who had employed those nice young men.
COPS. Yes, COPS. FUCKING REAL DEAL, ARREST OUR ASSES COPS DROVE AWAY with the same politeness as they pulled up with. And not just fancy neighborhood cops, like the city cops that ALWAYS WRITE TICKETS AND LOOK FOR SHIT TO BE WRONG. But by the grace of Hope's Nose, they let us go without so much as 30 seconds worth of discussion.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We had a bonding moment that lasted through our hangover breakfast the next morning and then we parted ways. Hugging and savoring the last 24 hours that will tide us over till next year.
I love you bitches.
But at this point, life makes it a cyclical habit that's hard to break.
It's also the time of year where me and my most special girlfriends from high school get together for a holiday gift exchange and night of debauchery, as if we never missed a day of each others' faces. This fierce group of 6 has managed to exercise our holiday right almost every year since 1999. But don't totally picture one-night stands, don't totally think limitless booze, and don't totally speculate a lot of opinions. Not quite but sort of.
We've been comrades and foes, criers and huggers, drink buyers when relationships soared and failed, and even a few that swapped. Seen girls kiss boys and girls kiss girls, girl steals boy and boy splits town. Through parents reading journals and being chased by cops, threatening to run away to Seattle and scrounging for Whopper money. College and trips abroad, marriage and divorce, careers and start-overs, a couple of kids but most of us with pups, money and not so much money. Naked runs on a private beach and piercings that have long been removed. Brilliant tattoo choices and some not so much. Denial of drug use and abandoned houses, generator parties and part time jobs. Outdoor sleepovers where we spent all night figuring it out... together. Always, together. And laughs, laughs and more laughs I wish I heard more often.
Seriously, this is a set friendships spanning 15-20+ years, where without saying, we are still there for the best and worst of each others' lives. Long conversations using our parents phone have transitioned to facebook chats and rambling text messages, but we still love each other. We appreciate each other more than the day we graduated and that's fucking tops. This will never change because growing up in a desert town forces that existence upon you, whether you ask for it or not. There is a bond between people that is rarely dissolved, albeit windy at times. I would never exchange these ladies for anything in the world.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The gathering of the ladies changes location year to year. Often it's what works best timing wise, other years someone has moved into a new place. 2012 hosting was bequeathed upon us because it was the first Christmas in our new home. Sweet & junk, but yes of course!
After the formalities of re-stoking the catch up fires, we pour drinks and eat snacks and talk stories of what's been happening. Then the opening and stealing of the gifts begins. This is where gentle claws come out to play for a spell. It can take anywhere from 30-60 minutes of us cackling between the choosing, drink & smoke breaks. But anyone who's been to a gift exchange between a great group of friends, knows what an awesome time you have.
A few hours into hanging out this particular year, the idea of getting into a little trouble was appealing. Not raise hell trouble but our classed up version of it. Us doing something that usually results in a "I can't believe/remember that happened..." as we recount & relaugh at our forever memories.
Not sure why the idea struck me, but I suggested we visit Bob Hope's house because they put up this ancient nativity scene every year. Maybe it was to share the Christmassey mood or simply a mini-activity before doing something else. Either way, I enjoy it for non-religious reasons and thought they would too. It has white & blue lights that project strange shadows and oversees the neighborhood like a tall, plasticine governor should. We designated a driver, piled in shoulder to shoulder, and headed off for how ever long it took.
We circled before parking in their little mini-driveway that is on the edge of the property (look here - we parked about 10 feet in front of the red bows.) Silly me for thinking we would just stare & make jokes. Silly me for thinking it's fine to pull up in front of a very high profile house around midnight as if it was our own crib. Silly me.
Nope, they wanted more action. Never in a destructive way though - never. Just in a we're having fun way and someone has an idea that leads to another idea, and eventually we're like I can't believe we did that. and so on. To also note, at the time I don't think anyone actually lived there, but it's Bob Hope's fucking house so tom foolery eventually gets noticed.
Two of these lovely ladies decided they needed a close up view of the manger and started climbing the fence. If you look at the daytime photo, it doesn't seem that tall. But turns out does require a strong finger foot hold and a heave ho. They struggle for a few minutes but eventually make it and we're all laughing. However, internally I'm like fuck-fuck-fuck this place is being watched. It's a nice neighborhood where I'm sure they don't take kindly to even cute girls laughing and walking the fence this late. So they're up there holding baby jesus and riding the donkey and yelling back to us at what they see over the walls. They are taking photos and then disappear for a hot minute while my other friends light a smoke.
I finally can't shut my inner mum up, so I urge them we should leave before something bad happens. Surprisingly I think we all felt it and everyone mostly obliged. :) I let out a deep breath of releif, sat in the car while they scurried down, thinking in a minute we'll be driving off to the next adventure. Sigh, ok good we're all in the car.
That's when a neighborhood security patrol car pulled up. fuck.
By no means were we drunk, but drinks were had. There's neighborhood patrol because it's a ritzy hood. But I thought it's fine - they can really do anything cuz they're rent a cops.
Two younger gentlemen rolled down their windows and we mimicked, before asking what we were up to. I was somewhat familiar with the local backstory and was with it enough to answer straight. I said my friends were visiting from out of town and I wanted to show them the beautiful manger, because it had always meant so much to me at Christmas. How happy I was someone still put it up, without the Hope's living there. Play it up Brandi, but not too much I thought.
Well my charming personality and general cuteness of our car must have won them over, because they smiled, suggested it was time to leave and to have a nice night. Then they drove away and that's when I saw who had employed those nice young men.
COPS. Yes, COPS. FUCKING REAL DEAL, ARREST OUR ASSES COPS DROVE AWAY with the same politeness as they pulled up with. And not just fancy neighborhood cops, like the city cops that ALWAYS WRITE TICKETS AND LOOK FOR SHIT TO BE WRONG. But by the grace of Hope's Nose, they let us go without so much as 30 seconds worth of discussion.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We had a bonding moment that lasted through our hangover breakfast the next morning and then we parted ways. Hugging and savoring the last 24 hours that will tide us over till next year.
I love you bitches.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Three Names; Two Cards
The three kids who live across the street continually remind me they aren't all rotten.
Tonight when I got home, an unassuming gift had been left at our door. Two cards were tucked neatly into a package of cookies, wrapped with a purple bow. I had no idea who would have left such a gesture, so I read on.
The first was a happy birthday note card
(I got a wee bit misty because SWEETNESS & CUTE)
Tonight when I got home, an unassuming gift had been left at our door. Two cards were tucked neatly into a package of cookies, wrapped with a purple bow. I had no idea who would have left such a gesture, so I read on.
The first was a happy birthday note card
(I got a wee bit misty because SWEETNESS & CUTE)
The second was this
(Queue bucket of full on tears because I can't believe how thoughtful these kids are.)
I was so overcome with happiness I cried. I cried like one of those people that cries at mega sweet shit; unbeknownst to me I was even capable of that. I eagerly showed Travis who had a huge smile on his face too. Feeling everything so instantly was weird, because I'm not one who normally gets emotional about or around kids. But seriously, can I hug them for all the times?
Thank you Paige, Palmer & Rebecca for sweetly ringing in my birthday eve...
We heart you.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Tell You Thursday: The Monkees Gave Me Head
November 20, 1968.
46 years ago.
The United States and their breadth of screaming teeny-boppers were not prepared for what would be unleashed upon them.
Head. The psychotropic movie starring The Monkees, who at the time were tripping with the likes of The Beatles and Frank Zappa. Head. The movie difficult to describe by normal standards.
Head. The movie where the bodies of The Monkees die, sing, trip, solve, and die once again.
It certainly fits the space of free love / experimental / turned-on 1960s. However, at that time the majority of The Monkees audience was anything but open.
I discovered it watching TV late one night, because a movie called Head is gonna catch your eye. I had seconds when they showed Psyche-Out. dude. Both have hippie Jack Nicholson. Both should be seen.
But this entry isn't about the movies, it's about the most basic of personality questions, "Who is my favorite band." Asked by friends and Travis, and for the last 18 years, the answer has been The Monkees. And here are the responses I get.
1. They didn't even play their own instruments.
- Ah mon frare, they weren't allowed on the first album, but did on everything else.
2. Didn't that one guys' mom invent White-out?
- yep.
3. Why do you like The Monkees (sarcastic tone implied?)
- don't know, just do.
4. no response, just face confusion.
- lame on you.
Last Tell You Thursday I wrote a story involving music and my tattoo artist. I realized then that psychedelic music has always lived in me, I just didn't know it for the first 14 years of my life. And traditionally, The Monkees aren't considered part of that scene, say like Jefferson Airplane or The 13th Floor Elevators. But they were deeply ingrained and relevant, despite the clean image the record companies wanted. They were eventually given the freedom to make the music they wanted, play & arrange how they saw best, and collaborate with friends like Carol King and Neil Diamond. They rule something fierce.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In high school, I received an offer from Columbia House: 12 CDs for the price of one. I scanned a paper mailer for the ones I wanted. I have no idea what else I got, but their Greatest Hits album struck me. I remember siting at my desk, sunlight pouring through the window, when I thought "I used to watch their TV show and kinda like that one song, I'll give it a shot."
That was it - I was hooked from the moment the mailer ripped open. Nothing had musically impacted me like that before and I kinda didn't know what to do. I replayed it over and over again, figuring out how to save my allowance to buy another album. I searched thrift store album shelves, hoping for a lucky score. And to this day, I honestly don't know why it fucking spoke everything to me. It just did. I quickly trashed their radio hits for the off-album tunes that helped shape my mind. The Monkees led my path down a phycadelia rabbit hole, up to the 70s, into the gutter of punk, down the street to rap, and a sky full of a bajillion other songs I never realized I was missing. It was like getting a continual fix, one CD or LP at a time.
I urge you if you've never given them a second thought past Daydream Believer, please check out some of my top songs, in both experimental and just awesomely supreme: Porpoise Song, As We Go Along, Goin' Down, and The Mike Nesmith songs.
This is my thing and some of the reasons why I answer why I do. There's others, but they're mine. I just hope everyone gets a moment like that at least once in their life.
It's a beautiful trip, where ever you go.
46 years ago.
The United States and their breadth of screaming teeny-boppers were not prepared for what would be unleashed upon them.
Head. The psychotropic movie starring The Monkees, who at the time were tripping with the likes of The Beatles and Frank Zappa. Head. The movie difficult to describe by normal standards.
Head. The movie where the bodies of The Monkees die, sing, trip, solve, and die once again.
It certainly fits the space of free love / experimental / turned-on 1960s. However, at that time the majority of The Monkees audience was anything but open.
I discovered it watching TV late one night, because a movie called Head is gonna catch your eye. I had seconds when they showed Psyche-Out. dude. Both have hippie Jack Nicholson. Both should be seen.
But this entry isn't about the movies, it's about the most basic of personality questions, "Who is my favorite band." Asked by friends and Travis, and for the last 18 years, the answer has been The Monkees. And here are the responses I get.
1. They didn't even play their own instruments.
- Ah mon frare, they weren't allowed on the first album, but did on everything else.
2. Didn't that one guys' mom invent White-out?
- yep.
3. Why do you like The Monkees (sarcastic tone implied?)
- don't know, just do.
4. no response, just face confusion.
- lame on you.
Last Tell You Thursday I wrote a story involving music and my tattoo artist. I realized then that psychedelic music has always lived in me, I just didn't know it for the first 14 years of my life. And traditionally, The Monkees aren't considered part of that scene, say like Jefferson Airplane or The 13th Floor Elevators. But they were deeply ingrained and relevant, despite the clean image the record companies wanted. They were eventually given the freedom to make the music they wanted, play & arrange how they saw best, and collaborate with friends like Carol King and Neil Diamond. They rule something fierce.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In high school, I received an offer from Columbia House: 12 CDs for the price of one. I scanned a paper mailer for the ones I wanted. I have no idea what else I got, but their Greatest Hits album struck me. I remember siting at my desk, sunlight pouring through the window, when I thought "I used to watch their TV show and kinda like that one song, I'll give it a shot."
That was it - I was hooked from the moment the mailer ripped open. Nothing had musically impacted me like that before and I kinda didn't know what to do. I replayed it over and over again, figuring out how to save my allowance to buy another album. I searched thrift store album shelves, hoping for a lucky score. And to this day, I honestly don't know why it fucking spoke everything to me. It just did. I quickly trashed their radio hits for the off-album tunes that helped shape my mind. The Monkees led my path down a phycadelia rabbit hole, up to the 70s, into the gutter of punk, down the street to rap, and a sky full of a bajillion other songs I never realized I was missing. It was like getting a continual fix, one CD or LP at a time.
I urge you if you've never given them a second thought past Daydream Believer, please check out some of my top songs, in both experimental and just awesomely supreme: Porpoise Song, As We Go Along, Goin' Down, and The Mike Nesmith songs.
This is my thing and some of the reasons why I answer why I do. There's others, but they're mine. I just hope everyone gets a moment like that at least once in their life.
It's a beautiful trip, where ever you go.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Tell You Thursday: A Drawing For Your Thoughts
C'mon, you can tell me. We all have at least one, so don't pretend you're oblivious to what I'm talking about.
there, there... it's ok. it stops me too...
Music is all around us and it's fucking beautiful. Birds, cars, water, tunes, chewing, walking, showers, crickets,book page turning - all sounds that can, to someone, be invigorating. And because of it, on more than one occasion, I've stopped breathing by the flood of memories that overtook me. It's that powerful. That's when music finally talks back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was an early Saturday morning in August this past year; I was driving back from Las Vegas. The sky was cloudy & windy, allowing the windows a break from their thanksless job. The air blowing past my face and muh hand, dangling through an atmosphere where very few cars could disturb me. I was on the road a couple hours when the two Pandora stations that had been streaming since yesterday, were played out: The Misfits & The Shirelles. Both are fantastic, but I'd had enough head-banging & head-bopping for the morning. I scrolled through my other presets and perked up when I found the Psychedelic Garage station I created months ago. I forgot what songs rotated through, but greens were The Byrds and it was perfect. I absentmindedly sang the words I knew and mumbled the ones I didn't, laughing.
A couple more songs and a commercial played before The Doors, The End inched up in volume. Without fail, it happens every time. That's when I played the role of driver while my mind reenacted one night 15 seasons in my past.
I saw Palmdale through 19 or 20 year old eyes, driving to my tattoo artists' home around 8pm. He was at least 10 years my senior, cute and just me knowing him made all the bitches jealous. But it wasn't just his face, he was nice and artistic and liked me. The kind of dude that said the right things and for the people that mattered, was never insincere. The type of dude that would always be too cool for the Antelope Valley. He just was and his home complimented that. It was always dark inside, even in the scorching desert sun. I never knew whether that was because the windows were covered with paper or the curtains were permanently stained with cig smoke & whiskey. I'm sure on any given day it could be either.
I stood, a kid, facing his door when it opened with a smile and a 90s button up flannel. A hazy waft of hippie incense levitated around him. At every turn, twisted drawings, posters, prints, books, crows, a thousand things all strewn in a perfectly messed way. Yellowed stacks of paper & tattoo magazines his friends were in, should have screamed hoarder. But it didn't, which is bananas. I can't explain it.
There was never any funny business between us as we never explored that path. But I felt so grown up around him. Like he and I were having real conversations, not just gossip about the weekend. Maybe that was me being 20, but maybe not. I do know he was one of only a few fellas, besides Travis, to ever made me think. I only realize that now by writing this entry.
So we're hanging out & junk when he asked whether I minded some music. Duh... I told him to pick whatever. I dig many genres, but have always held a gigantor fascination for the 60s, especially psychedelia. My favorite band is The Monkees, with about a 1000 others right below. He could have chosen anything from punk to psychobilly to classical to jazz, so how stoked was I when he picked The Doors, The Doors. He commented how you have to be in the right mood for it. I agreed, but confessed to never having heard the entire album before. He laughed and triumphantly declared with his wiry body then it was the perfect night to experience it! He bent over the old player, carefully placing the needle at track one. I remember thinking what precision for such a crappy player & scratched up record. He grabbed a cigarette and lit numerous candles with his smoke.
The record blew through side 1 before I realized just how free our conversation was. It was playing but background noise. At the beginning of side 2, he asked if I was up for something. Unless it's boning, yes, I was up for something. He asked if he could draw a freehand design against my back piece because most people (erm I'm sure ladies) told him no. It had only been about 6 months since he finished two large dragons and the ink addiction was still fresh. I said absolutely! How cool was this gonna be! I have always been a dudes chick, especially then; In my mind it was nothing to be topless in my non-boyfriends home.
He grabbed his script of choice, a sharpie, and I took off my tshirt & bra. I was facing away from him the whole time, but stood there momentarily not knowing what I should do. I didn't want him to touch me sexy like, but I knew he had to touch me in some way. He gently took my shoulders and angled me against the candlelight. As if scripted, the last song of side 2 started as he began. The End. I had never heard it before, I mean really heard it, so I closed my eyes and let the beginning notes dance. I stood there vulnerable, while Jim began his declarations and dude drew his imaginations. The underlying lull of the organ keeping me upright.
He'd pause occasionally to evaluate the vision. The End continued. I was able to follow every movement of the pen, up and down my back, through my shoulders, entwined into my neck. I knew he'd make something singularly incredible. The guitars continued; the Oedipus moaned. He worked swiftly as the song jabbered on through the rise and fall of Jim's emotions, eventually stalling the needle. In fact, it was the only song I heard in the entire 45 minutes span. I'd never taken part of something so supreme. And snap like that, it was over. We dare not move in the hopes of savoring what we'd just experienced. No more drawing, no more music, no more atmosphere. I suddenly became aware of how cold I was. In the same way the soft crescendo swelled, it pulled out even faster. I looked around knowing nothing had changed, yet everything seemed ordinary.
And while I only briefly saw the end illusion, and can recall no part of it today, it will remain perfectly imprisoned in my skin forever.
That was the last night I ever spent with him and I'm glad. I walked back to my car a fucking lady.
Aren't memories glorious.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't like cliches yet I think about "I'll never forget that night." That certainly holds true for now, which is partly why I write this journal. I was scared for so long to fail against some unmeasurable bar, but honestly I just want to remember. Remember my life, remember all the fun & heartache, friends & donuts - before we all become someone else's memory.
there, there... it's ok. it stops me too...
Music is all around us and it's fucking beautiful. Birds, cars, water, tunes, chewing, walking, showers, crickets,book page turning - all sounds that can, to someone, be invigorating. And because of it, on more than one occasion, I've stopped breathing by the flood of memories that overtook me. It's that powerful. That's when music finally talks back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was an early Saturday morning in August this past year; I was driving back from Las Vegas. The sky was cloudy & windy, allowing the windows a break from their thanksless job. The air blowing past my face and muh hand, dangling through an atmosphere where very few cars could disturb me. I was on the road a couple hours when the two Pandora stations that had been streaming since yesterday, were played out: The Misfits & The Shirelles. Both are fantastic, but I'd had enough head-banging & head-bopping for the morning. I scrolled through my other presets and perked up when I found the Psychedelic Garage station I created months ago. I forgot what songs rotated through, but greens were The Byrds and it was perfect. I absentmindedly sang the words I knew and mumbled the ones I didn't, laughing.
A couple more songs and a commercial played before The Doors, The End inched up in volume. Without fail, it happens every time. That's when I played the role of driver while my mind reenacted one night 15 seasons in my past.
I saw Palmdale through 19 or 20 year old eyes, driving to my tattoo artists' home around 8pm. He was at least 10 years my senior, cute and just me knowing him made all the bitches jealous. But it wasn't just his face, he was nice and artistic and liked me. The kind of dude that said the right things and for the people that mattered, was never insincere. The type of dude that would always be too cool for the Antelope Valley. He just was and his home complimented that. It was always dark inside, even in the scorching desert sun. I never knew whether that was because the windows were covered with paper or the curtains were permanently stained with cig smoke & whiskey. I'm sure on any given day it could be either.
I stood, a kid, facing his door when it opened with a smile and a 90s button up flannel. A hazy waft of hippie incense levitated around him. At every turn, twisted drawings, posters, prints, books, crows, a thousand things all strewn in a perfectly messed way. Yellowed stacks of paper & tattoo magazines his friends were in, should have screamed hoarder. But it didn't, which is bananas. I can't explain it.
There was never any funny business between us as we never explored that path. But I felt so grown up around him. Like he and I were having real conversations, not just gossip about the weekend. Maybe that was me being 20, but maybe not. I do know he was one of only a few fellas, besides Travis, to ever made me think. I only realize that now by writing this entry.
So we're hanging out & junk when he asked whether I minded some music. Duh... I told him to pick whatever. I dig many genres, but have always held a gigantor fascination for the 60s, especially psychedelia. My favorite band is The Monkees, with about a 1000 others right below. He could have chosen anything from punk to psychobilly to classical to jazz, so how stoked was I when he picked The Doors, The Doors. He commented how you have to be in the right mood for it. I agreed, but confessed to never having heard the entire album before. He laughed and triumphantly declared with his wiry body then it was the perfect night to experience it! He bent over the old player, carefully placing the needle at track one. I remember thinking what precision for such a crappy player & scratched up record. He grabbed a cigarette and lit numerous candles with his smoke.
The record blew through side 1 before I realized just how free our conversation was. It was playing but background noise. At the beginning of side 2, he asked if I was up for something. Unless it's boning, yes, I was up for something. He asked if he could draw a freehand design against my back piece because most people (erm I'm sure ladies) told him no. It had only been about 6 months since he finished two large dragons and the ink addiction was still fresh. I said absolutely! How cool was this gonna be! I have always been a dudes chick, especially then; In my mind it was nothing to be topless in my non-boyfriends home.
He grabbed his script of choice, a sharpie, and I took off my tshirt & bra. I was facing away from him the whole time, but stood there momentarily not knowing what I should do. I didn't want him to touch me sexy like, but I knew he had to touch me in some way. He gently took my shoulders and angled me against the candlelight. As if scripted, the last song of side 2 started as he began. The End. I had never heard it before, I mean really heard it, so I closed my eyes and let the beginning notes dance. I stood there vulnerable, while Jim began his declarations and dude drew his imaginations. The underlying lull of the organ keeping me upright.
He'd pause occasionally to evaluate the vision. The End continued. I was able to follow every movement of the pen, up and down my back, through my shoulders, entwined into my neck. I knew he'd make something singularly incredible. The guitars continued; the Oedipus moaned. He worked swiftly as the song jabbered on through the rise and fall of Jim's emotions, eventually stalling the needle. In fact, it was the only song I heard in the entire 45 minutes span. I'd never taken part of something so supreme. And snap like that, it was over. We dare not move in the hopes of savoring what we'd just experienced. No more drawing, no more music, no more atmosphere. I suddenly became aware of how cold I was. In the same way the soft crescendo swelled, it pulled out even faster. I looked around knowing nothing had changed, yet everything seemed ordinary.
And while I only briefly saw the end illusion, and can recall no part of it today, it will remain perfectly imprisoned in my skin forever.
That was the last night I ever spent with him and I'm glad. I walked back to my car a fucking lady.
Aren't memories glorious.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't like cliches yet I think about "I'll never forget that night." That certainly holds true for now, which is partly why I write this journal. I was scared for so long to fail against some unmeasurable bar, but honestly I just want to remember. Remember my life, remember all the fun & heartache, friends & donuts - before we all become someone else's memory.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
Our Gentle Acquaintance
I have never written a short type story like this, nor have I typed my words without stopping, let alone without editing before posting. But these are my words as the rain sings.
Around midnight, Halloween's night, the rain plummeted down upon the soil. It struck suddenly, without word, long after the children's screams and feet have been laid to rest. A few lucky souls are out amongst the heathens, at parties or somesuch, but I am home, alone, with only a puppy and an acquaintance as my friend.
I've opened the door to scathe sounds of water dropping amongst the earth, trees, roofopts, yet hopefully not through mine above. To a town as parched as ours, you welcome this long distance friend into your home. Even splashed across your laptop, as I see him now.
I stepped outside to really test how fierce he'd come. Pretty heavily, I murmured. awesome. I watched in silence, hugging puppy Leroy. Both of us alone. waiting for it to stop, like so many times before. When suddenly we heard a clatter. A racket, coming from next door. Low, angried barks from one spouse to another. I struggled to hear what they were fixing. Heads bobbing, desperately trying to sort the issue our friend sprang upon them.
my tea is ready. my puppy is curious.
I nervously look upon our ceiling once more. "Was that spot there?" yes, it's ok. "Did that mark preceed our friends arrival?" Hopefully...
I silence anything else around us. The heater warms my back, while the cool hands of our friend gently pat my face. I take a sip of tea, happy I rushed to make it.
I stare out into the yard, dim lights from the other house faintly glows into my eyes. I think about Travis, knowing how sad he'll be he's missed this. The old women behind us is stirring. I imagine her hair in soft curlers, dirty silk nightgown, cursing in Polish. She always forgets we've met, but I'm sad to see her move. I think about my car and it's charger, fighting our friend for electricity. I hope it's ok; he's never been alone with them before.
I understand why people buy expensive sleep machines to capture this moment. The lull, the appeal, is quite dramatically soothing.
I don't want it to end. I don't want it to end. I don't want it to end.
Around midnight, Halloween's night, the rain plummeted down upon the soil. It struck suddenly, without word, long after the children's screams and feet have been laid to rest. A few lucky souls are out amongst the heathens, at parties or somesuch, but I am home, alone, with only a puppy and an acquaintance as my friend.
I've opened the door to scathe sounds of water dropping amongst the earth, trees, roofopts, yet hopefully not through mine above. To a town as parched as ours, you welcome this long distance friend into your home. Even splashed across your laptop, as I see him now.
I stepped outside to really test how fierce he'd come. Pretty heavily, I murmured. awesome. I watched in silence, hugging puppy Leroy. Both of us alone. waiting for it to stop, like so many times before. When suddenly we heard a clatter. A racket, coming from next door. Low, angried barks from one spouse to another. I struggled to hear what they were fixing. Heads bobbing, desperately trying to sort the issue our friend sprang upon them.
my tea is ready. my puppy is curious.
I nervously look upon our ceiling once more. "Was that spot there?" yes, it's ok. "Did that mark preceed our friends arrival?" Hopefully...
I silence anything else around us. The heater warms my back, while the cool hands of our friend gently pat my face. I take a sip of tea, happy I rushed to make it.
I stare out into the yard, dim lights from the other house faintly glows into my eyes. I think about Travis, knowing how sad he'll be he's missed this. The old women behind us is stirring. I imagine her hair in soft curlers, dirty silk nightgown, cursing in Polish. She always forgets we've met, but I'm sad to see her move. I think about my car and it's charger, fighting our friend for electricity. I hope it's ok; he's never been alone with them before.
I understand why people buy expensive sleep machines to capture this moment. The lull, the appeal, is quite dramatically soothing.
I don't want it to end. I don't want it to end. I don't want it to end.
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