Wednesday, February 3, 2016

The Day the Music Died

In 1959 a small airplane crashed into an Iowa field just minutes after takeoff. Aboard that plane, one of music's greatest vocalists and visionaries. A cold blizzard scuttled across the wreckage, obscuring it; the silence was deafening. Back at home, a beautiful wife carried his child, yet grief would take the child as well. He wasn't just a rocker, he was a composer. A Mozart. But most of the world saw him as a stuttering clown in black-framed glasses. Buddy Holly, RIP.

Monday, February 1, 2016

Music and Life

Wanted to drop in and say that I'm STILL HERE. Currently I am working on what looks to be the last round of edits, fingers crossed, and so far things look good. The sun is shining today and it's not as cold as they said it would be. Are they ever right?

I was thinking the other day how much music, namely rock and roll, influenced my life growing up. Things are so different now, music is so different, but when I was a kid we had the radio on all the time. And it's like we were always thinking about music. I have to get that song, when's the DJ gonna play my song, I've got my tape ready, will he talk through the intro, will I hear it again in an hour or so? Every night we stayed up until 9 to watch music videos on our local channel. We didn't have cable, but at least we had that show. On Friday night we stayed up past Johnny Carson to watch Friday Night Videos, then the Saturday video countdown, then on Sunday we listened to Casey Kasem's top 50—once after church, then again on repeat. Before going to bed we'd listen to our favorite station and in the morning more and more and more. I don't know if it's even possible to love and consume music as much as we did back then, because the songs are so self-absorbed now. They used to be about life and relationships, and now they're just about . . . something else. There were real problems in music back in those days (not too long ago) . . . life problems. And when YOU had problems, it was like they all made sense. Once time I had my heart broken and every song on the radio in my car was a love song and it hurt sooooo bad. That's the power of a good song.

Anyway, sometimes I'd give anything to go back and be surrounded by a wallpaper of rock and my favorite bands. It was fun.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015


photo credit: Piled High via photopin (license)

It seems unreal there's another book coming out. How weird. When people ask, "What do you do?" It's hard to admit that I'm a writer. It's like saying, I'm a big phony, or I love myself, or something cheesy like, I'm special. It just doesn't feel right. But I am a writer and love every second of it. Always been lonely, always been happiest by myself, and so writing is like that little ingredient of happiness where there's always been a void.

What do you love to do?

By the way, it doesn't look like we'll have much snow this Christmas. I feel bad because in my heart I wanted a mild winter and was enjoying the very spring-like temperatures, however, the kids were really looking forward to some of the white stuff coming down. I remember one year while we were doing our shopping I said to them, "Oh, look at all the snow! What a blizzard! We'd better hurry up and get into the store before we freeze our butts off." Then we sang "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow" while walking through the parking lot, much to the amusement of passersby. There wasn't a flake in the air or a touch of frost anywhere to be seen, but for that moment it felt like we were in the North Pole. If there's one thing I want my children to have, it's a good imagination. And you can't cry over spilled milk if there isn't any milk in the first place. Or snow.

Here's another question for you: What is your favorite Christmas song? And your most hated? And . . . what is your favorite Christmas memory? Or any winter holiday memory . . .

I hope you're having a wonderful day. Thanks for stopping by.

Friday, December 11, 2015


photo credit: Carrots via photopin (license)

The other day I shared something on Facebook that basically said: Here's how to drop people on your friend list who agree with Chump Voldemort (I'm sure you know who he is). Didn't receive any flak for it, but I could see how some would find it offensive. Then today I saw George Takei share the same post. His comments varied from supportive to downright angry. How dare you suggest anyone get rid of a friend just because their political beliefs are different! That's UnAmerican. Freedom of speech, yadda yadda yadda . . .

Does anyone else feel like Facebook is turning into the worst post-Thanksgiving dinner argument ever known?

I woke up this morning and had an epiphany: Chump Voldemort isn't all he claims to be. It's an act. We really shouldn't worry about him, because the impression I had was that he hasn't a change in hell of winning the coming election and he's pretty much a bunny in a cage at this point. He might bite your finger when you shove a carrot through the mesh, but it's only a nibble. Basically, he's harmless. So, let's not all get crazy friending and unfriending each other like the Sneeches did when one had stars and the other one was a plain-belly.

Here's the deal: Chump Voldemort will say anything to win this election. He will lie, steal, cheat and he will try to win anyone over in any kind of way, if he knows it will work. He is determined to get in the White House and absolutely no one out there can convince him to tone it down or play by the rules. His personality type is to shave corners and cut in front of the race—it's how he's done it his entire life, and running for president is no different. Didn't you ever have a friend in grade school who would say anything to get attention and who hated being alone even if it was for five minutes? Chump Voldemort is that kid. Clearly he wants this bad, but I honestly do not feel he believes half of what he says. The minute he gets into the White House he'll forget everything and do whatever works for him. It's a dupe for his followers. He's like a celebrity wrestler putting on a good show, only to shake hands with his opponent afterward. "How's the cat, Petey?" "Oh, good. . . Well, time to go home and watch Downton Abbey."

Not everything you see is reality.

The problem is, his followers have gotten so worked up that they are in a literal frenzy, and it's like they don't even know what they're saying. They're angry, but what for? They're restless, but can't sit down. It's a conundrum of all sorts and the only solution is to talk and yell and wrassle it out until the spirit goes. What's offensive is the fact that they would ever support a person like Chump Voldemort in the first place. Okay, he hates illegals, we're good with that (they say). Now he hates women, fine. Women are strange and they have . . . periods, even though Ma was a woman and gave life to me and all that. Now he's making fun of disabled people. Why not? We're so angry, so desperate, that we'll accept any little fuzzy nugget this guy throws out. Have you ever heard that saying, "If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything . . . ?"

And the rest of us look on in horror.

But, did you ever think about what will happen when Chump Voldemort gets into office? He's going to grin and say,  "Eh, I don't really mean any of that. I just wanted to see how my ass felt in this chair . . . ah . . . " Which is good. Really, really good. I say that because I'm happy to know it's all an act. And like I said before, he is not going to win the election. Not by a long shot.

In the meantime we have to find a way not to lose our shite (another British reference!) every five seconds on social media. We need to be more savvy and less gullible. We also need to be more kind. Who cares about Chump? Let's care about each other. Every single gazillion of us on this earth.

So, I won't unfriend anyone yet. Even though, like many, I am severely disappointed. But I feel in my gut that the world will eventually come around.

I wish you all a happy Friday. Thanks for reading and take care of yourself, and each other.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

My gut, my glut.

 This picture makes no sense.
photo credit: Pigeon at St Mark's Square via photopin (license)

I've discovered something about myself. I hate gluttony. I hate overeating, I hate feeling lethargic, I hate too much sugar, I hate too much time indoors, I hate boring TV shows, I hate 'richness' whatever it is, not rich people or things, just whatever that thick, greasy, icky feeling of 'richness' is. I hate it. I hate five days of rain and ice without snow, and crappy music, and Taylor Swift singing "This Christmas" while I'm in the grocery store on a Saturday afternoon. It's all annoying, and I hate it. I  hate it when people do too much or anything, or too little of anything. I hate my crappy typing, and the way I can't spell 'thesaurus' after all these years. I need a thesaurus to spell thesaurus. I hate wearing socks in bed. I hate when I wake up and someone's used up all the toilet paper and I have to get creative and think about personal hygiene at 6am before the coffee's even been made. I hate dirty dishes. I hate my vacuum. I hate fake sweeteners.

But . . .

I love stretching. I love feeling good. I love being light and happy. I love sunlight. I love birds--all of 'em. I love the esoteric. I love dimples. I love the color black. I love green tea. I love carrots. I love cats. I love my dog. I love being outside. I love old movies. I love writing. I love chap-stick. I love 1970s soul music. I love The Beatles. I love Bob Dylan. I love Chris Isaak. I love cooking shows. I love Levi's. I love Beck. I love sea seat. I love coffee. I love driving in my car with the windows open listening to Keane. I love my kids. I love museums. I love Picasso. I love laughing. I love cake. I love pranks. I love wine. I love lakes. I love mascara. I love pianos and guitars. I love cussing (in my head). I love my bed (and rhyming). I love my books. I love my friends. I love to sing Freddy Mercury. I love road trips. I love being on stage. I love records. I love books.

I love you guys.

It evens out. Almost.

This might have all been fueled by Excedrin. If you read it, thanks.

Saturday, November 28, 2015

New Bloggie Poo

As if I don't have enough to do, I've decided to start a new blog. It's about my favorite subject, and you know what (who) that is . . . John Lennon! If you're interested, come on by. If not, it's okay! (wanker) Instant Lennon.

I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving, and please, please don't end up in jail for a veggie steamer.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015


photo credit: Ear via photopin (license)

The boy failed his hearing screening at school. Remember those? It's where you and your classmates line up outside of the nurse's office and then put on a pair of lice-infested earphones just so you can listen to a bunch of muted beeps while raising your hand, up down, up down, like Jerry Lewis on speed? It was recommended that I take Liam to get a 'real' test done at a 'real' doctor's office for a price of $50. It's not the money I care about, it's the whole idea of having to take him when I know this is all the result of a mere head cold. Okay, it's a little bit about the money.

Anyway, we go and I'm praying hard that his ears are fine, because we've already been through this before. The whole burrito: hearing test after hearing test, ear tubes, recovery, can't get water in his ears and then three layers of scalp builds up because the kid can't wash his wild monkey fringe. When he finally does wash it, a million fleas are jumping off flakes. Okay, no fleas, but you should have seen the dandruff that kid built up! The thought of going through all that again is no bueno.

But as a mother, you know. You have to.

Not sure if you've ever been to a real ear doctor before, but there are some scary a$$ tools in the examination room. Skinny metal thingys and sharp pokey objects, syringes, priers and drills, and then the dreaded poster of the inside of some poor kid's bursting cochlea. It's frightening! I have PTSD now. But of course as the parental unit I have to be the one to say, oh, there's nothing to worry about, the doctor won't use any of those instruments on you (looks frantically for cotton balls to stick in child's ears).

When the doctor comes in spouting light chatter and geniality, and tells Liam to lean back for the exam, I take stock of all the work I've done over the years. The nice clothes that fit and don't have any holes, the brand new pair of sneakers, the fillings and capped teeth because he was too wiggly to brush when little, the voids because the baby teeth didn't come out on their own and the dentist recommended they get pulled, the eyeglasses that make him look like Harry Potter, and the nice hair cut that's already growing out two days later. If I wasn't around, who would do all of this? I'm the silent worker, the unpaid, yet always ready for action myriad. My work is never finished, and yet I must carry on to the end. Kids would walk around looking like a mini-Sasquatch, if not for their mother.

All turns out well: his hearing is fine. It was just the cold. But then I knew that. I'd already done a test in the car, windows open, radio at full blast. From the back seat Liam listened for me to whisper a certain color, or a food item, or the name of his favorite game character. He heard each and repeated all. It's similar to the mommy temperature test: a hug, or a kiss on the forehead. Never fails.

Someone told me recently that their school kept sending their child home because of a fever, but the child wasn't actually sick. Turns out, it was the school thermostat. It needed fixing. A group of parents formed a coup to get it fixed.

That solved the problem.