flashback

This is me in 1983.


And my date, Bob. Cute, weren't we? Senior corn roast at my high school (that's a can of soda pop being lifted). It was a fun night. After the corn roast, we went to the movies to see Mr. Mom. But it was sold out, so instead we saw Jaws 3-D. That epic was so bad, we laughed our way through it. When it was over, we drove an hour to the ocean to look for Jaws in person. It was a late night getting home, but it was a blast.

I just found Bob again thanks to a certain social networking site. He commented on the status of a mutual friend from our home town, so I sent him a note. By the next day, we were reminiscing about life a quarter century ago. Ain't technology grand?

making fun of the 80s

This video is funny. Though I must say, I never thought that the sketched lead singer dude had a pipe wrench of his own. It always looked to me like sketched uniformed guy was approaching sketched lead singer dude as if he were going to hit sketched lead singer dude with his pipe wrench. Funniest of all is how seriously everyone took this video when it came out. Technological marvel, and all.

And now that I think about it, doesn't it seem this video may have had some influence on the people who write "Heroes?" You know, the comic book predicting what's about to happen? Whoa. Deep.



P.S. Props to Dreama for tweeting this, else I might never have seen it.

old journal entry

June 21, 1992

The weather is very summerlike today, which really shouldn't be a surprise considering that yesterday was the summer solstice. It's 93° F, but the wind makes it quite comfortable.

I went down to Carkeek Park, and for the first time since I started going down there, I parked my truck and wandered around on foot. I went over the "skywalk" and down to the beach (if you can call it that, there is very little sand to speak of).

It was amazing.

I took pictures of the Olympic mountains, which were clear as day, and walked up to the low tide. My sneakers are soaked and smell strongly of sun-rotted seaweed. Every step I took, it felt as if the soft soles of my sneakers were destroying hundreds of species in a single step. The stones were thick with barnacles, and strips of the tiniest snails I've ever seen peeled back like loose threads on an improperly sewn hem.

There was a group of children, all around 5 or 6 years old, playing in a tidal pool at the mouth of the pipes which ran under the railroad tracks. After having wandered the beach, I went up onto the tracks and walked down to that tidal pool. As I tiptoed from tie to tie, I found a half flattened nickel in the rocks of the bed. It made me remember the happy frustration of having put a penny on the tracks behind Grandma's house and not finding it after the train ruthlessly knocked it away. I picked it up, and put it in my pocket.

"I found your nickel. Thanks," I said to the non-existent person who'd left it behind.

I reached the spot where the pipes ran beneath the tracks and took a picture of the children playing below from that perch. Not five seconds after I snapped the picture, a train rushed up behind me. I walked, half sliding, down the pathway to the tidal pool, reaching the bottom as the train raced by. It was long and loud, and the kids screeched with delight as they bounced on a makeshift, driftwood see-saw in the middle of the water.

I walked back up the skywalk and headed for my truck. It's quite an amazing park, in some spots quite like what I imagine a rainforest to be like. I left content and looking forward to the time I have visitors here to share this marvelous place.

* This photo is of me with Katie, my "Little Sister" on a cold day in Carkeek Park a couple years after I wrote this entry. Katie is now 22 years old.

the present and the past

2008

If you know me, you know I love two types of cars -- Toyota and Jaguar. My lottery fantasy of owning two cars (how extravagant) has always included a Toyota SUV (old dream, 1988 4Runner; new dream, 2008 Highlander hybrid) and a Jaguar (old dream, 1975 XJ 3.4; new dream, 2008 S-Type). There is some flexibility in there. I like my current Scion, and Ted's Prius is pretty darned cool. And it's impossible for my head not to turn at the sight of the new Jaguar XK (rrrrrow).

Other automobile makers occasionally earn props on Kelly's Opinion of Cars. When I lived in Connecticut, I regularly saw an Aston Martin DBS that was jaw-droppingly beautiful. I like the new generation Mini Coopers. And someone in the town where I live now drives an orange Lotus Elise in nice weather (i.e. not for the last three months), which is certainly eye-catching (though I would personally never want one, and would certainly never fit into one).

Tonight, I saw a Mercedes Benz CLS 55 AMD in a parking lot, and holy guacamole, it is one pretty car. I've never been a big fan of MB, perhaps because, despite their luxury reputation, most of their designs were just boxyugly when I first started ogling cars in my youth. In any event, it was lovely, and I just thought I'd mention it.

How this car rave segues into reading old journals, I can't tell you. I just started wandering through the first of my entries when I began electronically chronicling life, which occurred just as I moved myself 'cross country. Here's a smattering from June 1991. For me, it's interesting to read because I see some aspects of my personality that are exactly the same nearly 17 years later, and others that are now completely different. It's also cringe-worthy for its mundaneness and complete lack of creativity.

A brief primer in preparation for this.

• I moved from Maine to Seattle, where I had no family, friends, place to live, or job lined up.


• The trip was 5000 miles instead of 3000 because I "detoured" to Los Angeles to visit my brother.


• Current cost for a room at the SeaTac Motel 6 is $44.99 per night, plus tax.


• "Sisters" turned out to be one of my favorites shows.


• Although upon arrival I expressed frustration at the concept of still being in Seattle after six months, it was all I could do to pry myself away from that wonderful city nine years later.


• Anyone who tackles a long drive should read "On the Road."


• I did not get the job at the Seattle Art Institute.


• The house where I first rented a room contained roommates, Bean, Mike, and Dave.


• Dave drove a bakery truck at the crack of dawn, and his spare time was spent at his "second job" (i.e. the race track, which he called "the plant").


• The money that funded my trek was a cashed-out pension.


• I lived in Seattle for one year before getting a television. During that first year, I became a regular at the Lake City Library, where I not only read lots of books, I used the communal computers one hour per night to journal and work on my resume, and Mavis Beacon taught me how to type correctly.


• Priscilla and Phoenix (my cats) ended up staying with my parents for nearly a year. I brought them back to Seattle with me when I returned from my friend, Pam's wedding in 1992. Phoenix never adjusted. She ran away in 1993. Priscilla remained my precious kitty love until she died in October of 1998. It is her picture below, taken from my dining room table (she was on the skylight above).

1991

June 21, 1991

A trip cross country, almost 5000 miles in 2 weeks, gone by. And I didn't write an ounce of it down. I rationalized that everything would come back easily enough when I look at the maps, motel receipts, and pictures. But I was frustrated that I couldn't write or tape things as I was driving. There were many inspirational sights, sounds, smells and events which conjured up creative literary images.

For some reason today, I decided it was time to write now. Time to write everything. I have encountered so many thoughts and emotions. If I'd written them down (or somehow recorded them), I would have filled a lot of paper space or blank tapes. It may have helped me to organize some of these many, overwhelming, and often confusing ideas.

June 22, 1991

This morning, as I was waking up, I realized where I am (Motel 6 on South 188th in SeaTac), and when that happened, it suddenly made me feel ALONE. None of my friends or family is here, and I'm having a challenging time trying to get started (anything -- job, apartment) because everyone I talk to is a stranger.

I have to go brush my teeth, throw on some clothes, and ask the girl at the desk the location of nearest laundromat when I pay another $32.02 for this room.

June 23, 1991

I was watching a show called "Sisters" last night and thinking about how hard it is to be here with my family and friends in New Hampshire, Maine, etc... . One line in the show was a younger sister saying to an older sister who was leaving town "there's nothing you'll find out there that you don't already have right here."

I've thought about that. I had it good where I was. A comfortable job, a nice apartment full of furniture and other necessary implements, close access to my friends, and regular visits to my family. It was good. Obviously something was missing, or I wouldn't have left it all behind, right? Hmmm.

I'm looking for a job and an apartment. I wanted to be idealistic and find a job I would really enjoy -- preferably in the music industry. It's tough not knowing exactly what I want. And my money's not coming from a never-ending source, so I've just got to find employment.

I interviewed at a place called Mills Music in Bothell on Friday. It's a store which sells and rents musical instruments, sheet music and supplies. A nice man, James Mills, and a beautiful store. Of course, I went in after he talked with Isaac Meyers -- grandson of the man who ran Meyers Music... a legacy in the instrument world in Seattle. James was kind enough to tell me that I was up against some pretty stiff competition. Oh well... even if I don't get hired there, I know that I can rent a piano for $39. a month!

I have an interview tomorrow at Promotions in Motion, an advertising agency. I'm hoping to be hired on the spot. Talk about optimistic. I want to start working THIS WEEK... I NEED THE MONEY! I also think it will help me to find an apartment once I'm employed.

June 24, 1991

I had it great. I had a comfortable, secure job, opportunity to be published bi-weekly, nice apartment... . I've been through this before. I'm just frustrated that I left it all behind to find something better. I know what is said about hindsight. I could have used that time to develop my writing skills and apply to other careers while employed in a stable job. But I could only possibly appreciate that opportunity after giving it up and moving 3000+ miles away.

I'm trying to find an apartment. I am now running low on money, so I want to get into a place soon. AAARRRRGGHHHH! Now I just want a job so I can pay everything off. Now I'm going to watch Nightline, about unemployment and overwhelming debt.

½ hour later...

Someone mentions that Christmas eve is 6 months from tonight and what rushes through my mind is how I'm going to buy presents and why the hell I would still be in Seattle.

June 25, 1991

Jack Kerouac never anticipated the 90s.

June 26, 1991

OK. I have a place to live. It's a little room (not that little, but not huge) with a corner window (a cool thing) in a house with three other people. I've only met one of them. It's kind of strange, but as long as nothing unusual happens between now and tomorrow when I get my keys, I'll be OK.

Now I just have to find a job. I want that job at the Seattle Art Institute. I want that job at the Seattle Art Institute.

I WILL GET THE JOB AT THE ART INSTITUTE OF SEATTLE
I WILL GET THE JOB AT THE ART INSTITUTE OF SEATTLE
I WILL GET THE JOB AT THE ART INSTITUTE OF SEATTLE
I WILL GET THE JOB AT THE ART INSTITUTE OF SEATTLE
I WILL GET THE JOB AT THE ART INSTITUTE OF SEATTLE
I WILL GET THE JOB AT THE ART INSTITUTE OF SEATTLE

June 29, 1991

Saturday. What did I do on Saturdays in Maine. I think I went to New Hampshire enough that when I actually stayed in Maine, I allowed myself to vegetate. Watch movies, listen to records, clean the apartment, drive somewhere. Today, I slept til 10:00 (not really, I kept waking up 5:30, 7:00, 7:30, 8:00, etc...). Then I had an English muffin for breakfast. I talked to Dave for a little while. His 1974 Barracuda passed the state emissions test. Then he went to the track.

Bean wandered up and down for a little bit, altering (her client) Barbara's polyester skirts. Then, she went to a conference.

I ended up reading "The Carousel" by Rosamunde Pilcher, the author of the runaway best seller "The Shell Seekers." It only took 3½ hours to read. It was a good-but-predictable story. It did make me realize that if I want to write professionally, I need to be reading more often. If I read more and diversified things, I'll have a better grasp on the styles I do and don't want to emulate. I've been reading the newspaper every day for a couple weeks now. I quite enjoy it. I never bought the paper in Maine, because I never needed or wanted to.

Right now, I want to be employed more that just about anything. I'm thinking about the influx of bills I'll be getting in the mail on Monday (Mom's forwarding them to me). The only thing which allays my fears of unpaid bills is that I paid (and in some cases overpaid) all my bills before I left a month ago. So, at the most, I'm a couple weeks behind. And everything from Maine is paid --electric, phone, cable, oil, etc... . My auto insurance will be due in a month.

Anyway, I do need to start working this week. The sooner I start, the better! It's hard to imagine that on June 6th, I had $1600. cash, and as of June 29th, I have less than two dollars in loose change. I'll have to go through my receipts to figure out where it all went. I know that 17 or 18 nights in a hotel adds up quickly (17 x $30 = $510. approx.), plus $400 to move into the house. Plus gas, food, film, tolls, crates, hangers, etc... . That's where all that money went. It's not like I was being extravagant and buying souvenirs everywhere I stopped. In fact, the only things I bought for myself are postcards. I bought a gift for Gerry, and paid for gas for Denise when she drove me to Idyllwyld and back. Regardless, I knew that I would spend that money: that's what I planned to do.

I just expected to be immediately employed, and if I had been, I'd probably have my first check by now.

What a boring life I lead. I was just talking to Dave about various things, mostly rock 'n roll. It started because "Alone" by Heart was on the radio. He said "Heart: Seattle's Biggest Embarrassment." It struck me as really funny, and I howled! He said he'd met Ann Wilson about 10 years ago at a party, and she was doing major coke. The conversation led to artists, musicians, actors who invariably get involved with drugs and alcohol. It's almost a prerequisite that if you're remotely famous, you have to have a slightly scandalous lifestyle. Which leads me to the conclusion that I will never become famous due to my past, present, and presumably future straight-as-an-arrow lifestyle.

Anyway, nothing makes me feel like I’m me here. I no longer have my job, home, alma mater, family, or friends to support my sense of myself. It has been largely based on those things for a long time, so when I took them all away, I struggled with my identity. When I first got here, all I was was an unemployed nomad in a city full of strangers. It is my task to affirm myself (as a person -- not as a job or a home) within these circumstances.

It's amazing, the thought process that occurs in the absence of television. Dave has a TV in his room. He put it out in the living room for half a day, and I watched in mindlessly. But it's his TV, it's always been in his room, and unless I buy a TV, I'll be watching none of it. That will be a very good thing. I won't have to pay for cable. Although that would probably be nominal ($6.00 or so), it will be that much less to budget. I will be forced into other alternatives, such as reading, writing, and getting out and about.

Look at everything that I've written just because there's no television.

June 30, 1991

I'm not getting my cats. I just talked to my parents. The conversation was going along normally, then my mother asked if I minded if they had the cats declawed. So many things rushed through my mind that I forgot to say anything. It was obviously a longer pause than I thought, so she asked again -- or said something relative to shake me back into reality.

The things that went through my head:

• I found a place to live that would allow me to have cats so that my parents didn't have to house them for any longer than necessary.


• If they're declawed, they're going to be angry, and I won't be there to help them through recovery.


• They won't be able to travel for a couple months, probably.


• These cats are my children, and I feel like an uncaring parent who has abandoned her babies by moving cross country and leaving them with someone else to care for them.


• They are one of the few stable things in my life, and I've been shifting them around ever since I got them. Moreso, in recent months.


• My parents think I'm a freeloading, spoiled brat, and they need to be totally responsible for them.

get that mushroom

Anyone who spent as much time as I once did playing Super Mario Brothers (or even a fraction as much time as I did) will appreciate this. What a riot!

teenage diplomats

In my hometown, there's this one hill. It's a grassy hill tucked into the middle of some woods. It's a really big hill. We called it the Ski Hill, because that was one of the things we could do there. We could also sled, toboggan, snowboard (yes, we had snowboards in the 70s). The surrounding woods provided good cross-country skiing trails. And there was a pond at the bottom of the hill where we would skate and play hockey.

Luckily, the town had the good sense to make a park of this little oasis in the trees. I knew every inch of the park well because, in addition to participating in all these activities, my Dad was the Parks & Recreation Director.

A lodge was built with a wrap-around deck outside and a fireplace, concession stand, and lots of couches and chairs inside. There was equipment rental, and the lower level had snow grooming and clearing equipment. The sound system was always playing music. For some reason, every time I hear the song "Blinded by the Light," I think of the ski lodge. In fact, I did most of my skiing around the age of 10, so that makes complete sense.

Playground equipment was installed at the edge of the woods so the park could be enjoyed in the "off" season. The annual Easter egg hunt took place here. But perhaps the most telling additions to the park were a tow rope and a massive wooden ski jump. In fact, at one point, it was the largest ski jump in the state. My oldest brother was the only one of us with the guts to actually climb up and jump off that thing. The best I could muster was to help heap snow in certain parts of the hill to make much more manageable jumps. There was also one section between the high hill and the mid-sized hill that was prone to moguls, which were also a lot of fun. To this day, my memories of time spent at the Ski Hill are all very fond.

As the 80s were drawing to a close, the litigious nature of the world eventually wrapped its claws around the park. Fearful of lawsuits should someone get hurt while playing, the insurance companies began charging ridiculously high premiums to provide the town with coverage. Little by little, they were forced to change things. The tow rope was removed. The ski jump was dismantled. My father retired, and it became a big hill with condominiums and office parks encroaching on all sides.

I drove over there the other night. It was empty. Granted, it was night, but there are still big lights that would allow for evening activities. I was the only soul around. There were four rows of hay bales mysteriously lined down the hill. And this sign caught my attention:

Rules for Winter Sliding

1. Anyone using the park for winter activities performs so at their own risk, in accordance to State of New Hampshire Recreational Use Statute RSA 508:14
2. Sledding and snowboarding are only permitted
3. Downhill skiing is not permitted
4. When a whistle or horn sounds, all activity must stop
5. Snowmobiles are not permitted
6. Do not move hay bails (sic)
7. Building jumps is not allowed
8. Walk up the hill in between the bails (sic) of hay
9. Upon completing a run downhill, exit to the sides as soon as possible
10. Plastic sleds and inflatable tubes are acceptable and permitted for use. Metal sleds and toboggans are not allowed.
11. Sledders must be in a sitting position at all times. Sliding headfirst is not allowed.
12. Sled down hill one at a time -- do not form chains
13. Snowboarders must be aware of sledders at all times
14. Do not leave children unattended
15. Please be alert and conscious of others on the hill
16. Please respect the authority of the personnel who enforce these rules and regulations
17. Not responsible for lost, stolen or damaged property
18. Animals are not permitted
19. Please follow the rules and regulations as specified
20. Have a safe and enjoyable time!

Please note: The town reserves the right to suspend any activity and remove any patrons from the facility if caught engaging in disruptive, destructive, unruly, dangerous, or illegal behavior. The town also reserves the right to enforce the above listed rules and regulations and has the authority to ask individuals who challenge or repeatedly violate the rules to vacate the park.

Sad. Half of the fun things that we could do there are gone, and they replace common sense with statutes, rules, and regulations. William Blake was right. Heavy sigh.

~~~
Song: "Far Away" by Ingrid Michaelson
Reading: Signs (of the times) at my old haunts
Other: One of our employees said to me yesterday, "Getting old isn't always fair"

Incredibly cool sledding picture above by Cat Scott.

poles converging

The 80s were my "formative" years. I entered high school in 1980 and graduated from college in 1988. The vast majority of vinyl in my record collection was released during this decade. I had conservatively 843 hair styles during that time, though contrary to the faulty recollection of my family and friends, I never dyed it pink (well, not intentionally).

Although I had an appreciation for the punk aesthetic and its music, my claim was always that I was "new wave, not punk." This difference was most evident in the genre of music (British alternative pop), fashion accessorization (multiple piercings but only in the ears), and the rebellion factor (the closest I came was "Rebel Yell").

One of my favorite artists of the decade was a singer/songwriter/musician named Nik Kershaw. Catchy songs and clever lyrics -- a great combination. He enjoyed a little success in the States with the song "Wouldn't It Be Good," but was a massive success in England for much of the decade.

During the 80s, it was relatively easy for me to get his albums on vinyl. But toward the end of the decade when I started building my CD collection, it became much more difficult to procure their digital counterparts. I eventually found an independent record store in Yarmouth, Maine where a sympathetic owner (and fellow Kershaw fan) sought out the hard-to-find discs for me.

Like many artists, Nik slowed down after a period of high exposure, shifting his focus to writing hits for other artists (including Elton John!) and recording his own albums on a much more elongated schedule. I've managed to stay relatively on top of their releases and usually found a way to procure them since then.

Yesterday, I woke up from a dream where Gwen Stefani was performing a concert in my living room with Billy Idol and Nik Kershaw singing backup for her. (There was more to this dream, but isn't that enough detail?) I headed into the office with the distinct goal of filtering my iTunes library and listening to nothing but Nik Kershaw for the day.

I did just that, and spent a little time reading email and the New York Times while listening to gems like "Wide Boy" and "Billy" (how appropriate, given Mr. Idol's appearance in my dream). Then, at some point, I looked at iTunes and realized that the mini iTunes store at the bottom of the screen was suggesting I consider a couple other selections from Mr. Kershaw. One of them was an album I did not have! Released in 2006!

How did I miss this?!

Needless to say, I purchased it on the spot, and have been listening to it ever since. I am very pleased with it, and just have to forgive myself for letting five months pass before realizing it existed. (In my defense, I've had a lot going on in the last five months.)

Fast forward to last night. It was 11:00pm, Ted was asleep, and my second wind kicked in. I flipped channels looking for something interesting to watch on TV when I found the Henry Rollins Show on IFC. I watched it with interest, as I find Mr. Rollins eminently compelling. And while I was enjoying the conversation, it slowly occurred to me how much Henry Rollins now looks like Nik Kershaw. To wit:

Nik Kershaw 2007

Henry Rollins 2007

Now, to the uninformed, this might not seem such a big deal unless you have an appreciation for how very different they are from each other. Here are two additional comparisons to drive the point home. First, photos of each from long ago.

Nik Kershaw 1983

Henry Rollins 1983

Now, for musical differences. Take a few minutes to watch these videos.

Nik Kershaw 1984

Henry Rollins 1984

And there you have it. Today's "whoa, how did that happen" moment. Well, I guess it was actually yesterday's moment, and I'm just now getting around to blogging it. I feel compelled to once again observe how infrequently I'm blogging when, theoretically, I have more time to do it now than ever before.

I have also ditched writing about American Idol all together. This is partially due to my waning tolerance of it, and partially due to Ted's new Tuesday-Wednesday weekend which keeps us busy and even traveling. Oh well!

Now, I must review my "To Do" list, head to Costco, and get productive.

Song: "All About You" by Nik Kershaw (of course)
Book: "Field Notes on the Compassionate Life: A Search for the Soul of Kindness" by Marc Ian Barasch
Other: Won $330.40, mostly playing roulette, but also at the nickel slots

every little thing i do...

It happened, and I wasn’t prepared. I missed the first opportunity, but wasn’t about to let the second (and possibly last) slip by. So, even though I felt fairly certain they would be difficult to obtain, I mustered up some faith and gave it a go. And a mere 20 minutes later, I was in possession of tickets to see The Police at Giants Stadium.

I was so excited, I had butterflies in my stomach. Isn’t that bizarre? I mean, all I did was buy tickets. And bad ones at that (upper deck). And the show isn’t for months. But I was seriously excited.

My friend, Rina, and I went to see them in August 1983. We had wanted to see them at Sullivan Stadium in Foxboro, but tickets sold out too fast. Then, an incredible thing happened. My Dad -- knowing how much we wanted to go to the concert -- bought us tickets to see them in Hartford. If he hadn’t already been declared the coolest dad ever, that gesture cemented it! Then, we just had to get from New Hampshire to Connecticut.

I didn’t have my license, and Rina did. Her parents wouldn’t let her take their car. So my parents allowed Rina to drive our car to Hartford and back. As it turned out, we both did some driving. But that’s a very long story for another day. We drove to Springfield, Massachusetts where we visited my Aunt Bobbie and Uncle Don and then stayed overnight at my sister’s apartment. The day of the show, it was raining. We drove from Springfield to Hartford, arriving so early that we just sat in the car (for what now seems like a couple hours) before venturing into the arena. Rina took a picture of me holding a lighter under the tickets with an evil look in my eye – as if I would ever burn anything so precious as concert tickets.

Naturally, Rina and I are going together to this summer’s show, too. It will be almost exactly 24 years since we saw them in Hartford. I swear I’m not old enough for that to be possible. Speaking of which, don’t you agree that Andy Summers looks amazing for 65? I think 60 is the new 35, which makes me a teenager after all!

In any event, I’m going to see the Police again, and I can’t wait. Jon Pareles wrote a great article about them in the February 18th New York Times. Take the time and read it. It’s well worth the time. But before I close this entry with that article, here is a not-so-random song combination played recently on my iPod. I’m telling you, this technology is smart. I loved this grouping of songs.

"Love & Kisses" Sam Phillips
"Full Moon Full of Love" k.d. lang
"Transcontinental, 1:30AM" Vienna Teng
"Back to the Middle" India.Arie

They Can Play. Can They Play Nice?
By JON PARELES

In a high-ceilinged studio at the Lions Gate film complex earlier this month, the Police were rehearsing for a very public first gig: opening the Grammy Awards broadcast last Sunday with their 1978 hit ''Roxanne'' before announcing a world tour the next day. Sting, 55, on bass; Andy Summers, 64, on guitar; and Stewart Copeland, 54, on drums, were working through a list of two dozen songs. For the first time in decades the Police would be back together for more than one night. ''I've trapped myself back 30 years,'' Sting said.

Read the rest here.

wrapped around my finger

I'm a huge music fan, and to this day, enjoy discovering new music as much as listening to the old. If you know me or have read any of my blog, you know this to be a fact. That established, I confess that I long ago stopped caring about the Grammies. While they were moderately cool to watch in the 80s, they started going downhill in the 90s, and anything I've seen since then (snippets from online entertainment sites) shows more of a decline.

So, when I heard that the Police were reuniting to play on the Grammy awards show, I had two conflicting thoughts. The first is this: people wonder why the Grammies seem out of touch. How about featuring a band that broke up 23 years ago. At the same time, I was and am still a huge fan, and will tune in -- at least temporarily -- just to see Mssrs. Sumner, Copeland, and Summers play.

Heaven help me if they decide to tour. I'll have no choice but to pony up the $300 to see them live again. The first time since I saw them at the Hartford Civic Center in August 1983, with a new and upcoming opening act called R.E.M. I'm off to watch the Grammies.

unearthed

A few weekends ago, I drove to my parents' house and spent two days clearing out the large closet of the very small bedroom I last occupied around 1984. Three siblings, two nephews, and a niece also pitched in. I'd stored my record collection and some other memorabilia in there when I moved to Seattle in 1991. It's been there ever since, despite the fact that I moved back to New England nearly seven years ago. So, my brother has been helping our folks get organized this summer, and when he happened across said closet, I was called into action.

Somehow, a great of deal additional stuff managed to accumulate on top of my stash. To top it all off, because the closet had been so full when the professional animal control company came to block off all possible mouse, squirrel, skunk, and raccoon entrances into the old farmhouse, it was the one place they couldn't access. Therefore, about a million happy little mice have made quite a comfortable home in there over the years. There was plenty of chewed cardboard and fabric to show for it, though the more dire consequence of all that eating (ahem) was quite distressing. We did lots of cleaning -- ourselves and the house.

The little buggers nibbled through the spines of about 100 albums that were stored in crates. Argh! Thankfully, the remaining records (approximately 1200 albums and 12" singles, and 1000 45s) were all safely secured in boxes that the mice apparently found too daunting to chew. Everything is now safely in brand new, climate controlled, and pest-protected storage. Moving all that vinyl caused me to contemplate a couple things.

First, records are really heavy! I moved those things twice a year, every year, for all four years of college. Each trip, the number accumulating. I moved them three more times to each place I lived in Maine before their final move into Mom and Dad's house when I headed West. I'd nearly forgotten how much they weigh in large groups.

Second, I'm really looking forward to listening to this stuff again. Although I have replaced some of it on CD or MP3, I own a treasure trove of music that has never been released digitally. I'm going to have to set my computer up to capture the stuff and make my iTunes library more representative of my whole collection. That sounds interesting, but I still haven't even come close to getting my CD collection (which numbers approximately 1500) into iTunes yet.

That weekend was the start of a trend for me. I'm cleaning out. Decluttering our space. Lightening the load. Taking inspiration from Mom & Dad's house, and one of my favorite home shows. Upon opening a mysterious file box, I discovered a notebook I'd written when I was first living in Seattle. It includes the last of a series of lists that I created annually highlighting my favorite music released during the year.

Here is my 1992 Best of Albums list:

1. Alice in Chains "Dirt"
2. k.d. lang "Ingenue"
3. Pearl Jam "Ten"
4. Thomas Dolby "Astronauts & Heretics"
5. Enya "Shepherd Moons"
6. Matthew Sweet "Girlfriend"
7. Arrested Development "3 Years, 5 Months & 2 Days in the Life Of..."
8. Annie Lennox "Diva"
9. "The Commitments" soundtrack
10. Bobby McFerrin & Chick Corea "Play"
11. Bobby McFerrin & Yo Yo Ma "Hush"
12. Madonna "Erotica"
13. Alison Moyet "Hoodoo"
14. Ephraim Lewis "Skin"
15. CeCe Peniston "Finally"
16. Michael Penn "Free-For-All"
17. Prince & New Power Generation "[the symbol that later became his name]"
18. Queen Latifah "The Nature of a Sista"
19. Shakespeare's Sister "Hormonally Yours"
20. Go West "Indian Summer"

I have a couple observations about this grouping. First, it was my requirement the list could only be comprised of records I actually owned. It being my first year after arriving in Seattle, I had precious little money to spend on music (as mentioned in a recent post), and so my choices were limited. Second, I'm fascinated to see how I have become more appreciative of some of the "lower" ranked records since 1992. Ephraim Lewis is a great example. At a modest #14 here, I might well place it at the same rank or even higher of my all-time favorites (a list I've threatened to create but have never actually done). It comes close to being a perfect album.

But wait, there's more! My 1992 Best of Songs list (alphabetical, not enumerated):

• Beastie Boys "So What Cha Want"
• Mary J. Blige "Real Love"
• Brand New Heavies "Never Stop"
• Chesney Hawkes "The One and Only"
• Cowboy Junkies "Murder Tonight in the Trailer Park"
• En Vogue "My Lovin' (Never Gonna' Get It)"
• Extreme "Rest in Peace"
• Live "Operation Spirit"
• The KLF with Tammy Wynette "Justified and Ancient"
• King Missile "Detachable Penis"
• L7 "Pretend That We're Dead"
• The La's "There She Goes"
• L.A. Style "James Brown is Dead"
• Lush "For Love"
• Madonna "Deeper and Deeper"
• George Michael "Too Funky"
• Public Enemy "Can't Truss It"
• Screaming Trees "Nearly Lost You"
• John Secada "Just Another Day"
• Sting with Eric Clapton "It's Probably Me"
• Sugarcubes "Hit"
• Sundays "Love"
• Tears For Fears "Laid So Low (Tears Roll Down)"
• They Might Be Giants "Hey Mr. DJ, I Thought You Said We Had a Deal"

Even though there is definitely some diversity in the group, it feels so narrow now. I suppose that makes sense given the volume of new (and old) music I've enjoyed and/or procured since 1992.

Here's an example. I just bought a new album (the entire thing digitally... I've evolved to the point where I no longer need physical evidence) that is rapidly growing on me. It is "Dreaming Through the Noise" by Vienna Teng. This is not her first album, but I am just now learning about her. Wonderful music.

art imitating real life

To make an incredibly long story as short as possible, my family drove some 13,000 miles on a 'cross country vacation in 1973. Our Volkswagen bus was filled above the brim. Mom and Dad alternated driver's seat and shotgun. Eldest brother, Gerry, had the most space in the 2/3 middle seat. Brothers, Chris and Sean, shared the back seat. And my sister, Cathy, and I made a little fortress out of the "wayfarback." All of our clothes, food, and sleeping bags were packed in two massive, silver fiberglass cubes secured to the full-size roof rack. We must have been a sight to behold.

Despite the fact that I was only seven years old at the time, I remember a good deal of this trip. Some things stand out -- riding a cable car in San Francisco and better still driving the bus down Lombard Street, fog and chipmunks (but no giant stone presidents) at Mt. Rushmore, red mud flooding into our tent at the Badlands, the "four knuckle knocker" scaring the pants off Sean who was sleeping in the bus, waking up with the bus parked inches from a cliff at the Pacific Ocean in California, eating a very late dinner at a place I'd never seen before called "Taco Bell" and not understanding why I couldn't get a hot dog. I remember a lot of games played in the car. I remember every minute of a whole day at Disneyland.

One memory is partial but permanent. It goes like this. We were in the desert Southwest somewhere (give me a break, I was 7). We'd stopped at a gas station for refueling and a bathroom break, and then headed back out on the road.

This is the part I don't remember, so I have to retell it as my Mom tells it. We were about half an hour past the gas station when a little voice in the back (that would be me) said, "Where's Cathy?"

Oops. We'd left one behind.

This is the part I do remember. My father drove faster than I'd ever seen him drive to get back to the gas station. And when we arrived, Cathy was standing in front of the huge plate glass window -- her long, brown hair braided, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her face twisted in anger, and her foot tapping impatiently. She scolded us, hopped back on the bus, and off we went. Again. With all present and accounted for.

Now, I can't speak for Cathy. I can't imagine how she must have felt. We had a plan in case anyone got lost on the trip (everyone was to call my father's secretary, and she would coordinate a location to reunite). My sister had followed the rules and called Diane. But there hadn't been any phones in the half hour trip past the gas station for us to use, as well. Remember, 1973. So, my poor sister had to wait almost an hour for us to come back.

In hindsight and for me (the one who didn't have to go through this), it's kinda' humorous. You know, one of those stories she can tell her grandchildren. She doesn't need to tell her children, because our mother's been doing that for years.

So when I saw the trailer for the new movie, Little Miss Sunshine, I laughed more loudly than I have in a long time, and with such force that I cried. I immediately called Cathy. I hope the past 33 years have created enough of a buffer for her that she might be able to laugh at it, too.

I think Fox Searchlight should pay my sister a royalty.



Cool to catch a Sufjan Stevens song in there, too.

the quiet niece

Sure, to people who really know her well, Megan can be pretty boisterous. But compared to the truly noisy people in the family (and there are plenty of us), she's downright silent.

When she was little, she was a fashionista. She even helped her mother coordinate outfits right down to the accessories, coats, and make-up. One Christmas, in an effort to reel in out-of-control gift-giving, the family decided to draw names so only one person would buy for each kid. I got Megan. I think she was five years old that Christmas. The fun part about this method was that I got to spend my entire "kid budget" on one kid! It was an easy decision: I bought Megan a miniature wardrobe. She was little. Fred Meyer and Target had inexpensive clothes that were cute and colorful. It was a blast.

Ah, but that was 12 long years ago. For today is Megan's 17th birthday. A junior in high school, contacts replacing glasses, braces removed, a boyfriend, a job, and a driver's license (alternately in and out of her possession), a plan to become a high school social studies teacher. The girl who became my second-oldest niece and first goddaughter is growing up. (Can you hear the sniffing again? Pass me a tissue!) Her wardrobe now consists of demin and fleece, which is almost universally the teenager's uniform. She may be just the tiniest bit less helpful to her fashion-challenged Mom.

Happy birthday, Meg! And please let me take a picture of the front of your head sometime before you graduate from high school!

where were you 6,576 days ago?

I was a senior in college. It was very cold that day. I attended classes, deejayed a shift of alternative music at WSJB-FM (ah, the joy of college radio), had a 2-hour shift at my work study job, watched Oprah. In the evening, as part of a music appreciation class, I "rented" one of the College's 15-passenger vans and took about ten other students to the symphony. Most of the participant were underclassmen. I don't know why I remember that detail.

Anyway, it was snowing by the time we left campus for Portland. The symphony was wonderful, although they did one piece by Shostakovitz that I found nearly impossible to listen to. The dissonance was terrible! If his intent in composing the piece was to make the listener feel on edge, he succeeded. Later, I wrote an article for the school newspaper called "Cacophony at the Symphony." I was a clever one, I was.

When the show was over, we headed out to the van, now covered in several inches of snow. I drove very slowly back to campus, dropped everyone off at their respective residence halls, returned the van, and walked back to my townhouse. When I got to my room, there was a message on the door for me to call my parents.

Knowing that my sister-in-law had gone into labor the day before (poor thing), I had a hunch what this message was all about. The phone in our townhouse was being used (one phone for 24 girls), so I ran to the next townhouse over. It was the boys' townhouse, and they rarely used their phone. I called home and received the news that my new niece had arrived! Her name was Caitlin Elizabeth.

I've become one of those middle-aged ladies who always says things like, "my, where has the time gone?" and "I can't believe it's been 18 years." You know what? I don't care! I am middle-aged. And I really don't believe it's been 18 years.

Happy birthday, Cait! You've brought joy and laughter and light into my life ever since that cold snowy night in 1987.

flashback 1995

My freshman year of college, there was a tight housing situation on campus. A new dorm would not be completed by Fall, which meant that the freshman and sophomore women were required to live in triples for the first semester. So, I had two roommates. Pam was one. As it turned out, she and I ended up rooming together for all four years, and have stayed close ever since. Michelle (a.k.a. Meet-shell) was the other.

We were happy enough together that we remained a triple, even after the new dorm opened in January and all the other residents spread out. I remember one sleepy morning when all three of us were still in bed, the dean knocked on our door, opened it, and upon seeing us asked the RA, "why are there still three girls in this room?" When we told him that we wanted to remain in a triple, he thought we'd all gone mad.

Meet-shell only stayed there for that one year before transferring to a different college. Although our contact has waxed and waned over the years as we both made various moves through several states, we now stay in touch through our blogs. Recently, she posted an entry about her wedding anniversary, detailing that one of the fun components of the celebration was renting a brand new Mustang for the day.


Michelle with the new 'Stang in 2005

This made me chuckle as approximately 10 years ago, I, too, had my picture taken with a brand new Mustang that was mine only for a short period of time (I rented it while I was home for the holidays). So, I told Meet-shell that I would post that picture here.


Me with the new 'Stang in 1995

I guess it's just natural to want to take a picture of yourself with a cool car that isn't actually yours! Happy anniversary Michelle and Jason!

~~~
Cool four song combination that just played on my iTunes

[1] "Testosterone" - Bush llll
[2] "Chicago" - Sufjan Stevens llll
[3] "Parting Gift" - Fiona Apple llll
[4] "Behind Blue Eyes" - The Who llll

the logical next step

In my youth, I kept the occasional diary in a bound book of some sort with a cover of manufactured or handmade origin. The impetus to actually create entries in said diaries was usually of a traumatic nature. That is to say, something happened in my little life that was so big, it overflowed all traditional means of release (like crying to my mother or complaining to my friends).

The diaries became letters to myself sometime in my early teens. I believe the inspiration for this phase was Mr. Dion's 7th grade English class assignment to write a letter to my future self, seal it in an envelope, put a stamp on it, and wait until the appointed time to open it. I suppose he hoped this exercise would shed some light on the issues that were genuinely important in life (at least those as seen through the eyes of a pimple-faced, hormone-injected, 13-year old lunatic).

For most of high school, my calm and premeditated diary-keeping was done in just such an epistolary fashion. More frantic entries occurred in a Garfield blank book. Oh heavens. Off I went to college and I scribbled the important details which required cranial escape into the back pages of spiralbound notebooks. Once, as I recall, I burned some of them with much ceremony and solemnity. 19. Ha.

Graduation. The real world. Many things to vent about then, but still my entries were less than sporadic. The real revelation came when I decided to move from Gray, Maine to Seattle, Washington in 1991. On my 5,000+ mile wending across America, I was resolute in my decision to keep a record of the trip. I wasn't so concerned with my emotions as with empirical details. Time spent driving, money spent on gas, monuments visited. The trip only lasted a couple weeks, and really, I spent most of it driving, fighting with a Triple A triptik, and locating out-of-the-way double diamond rated motels.

It was in Seattle that I started my new life as a journaller. No longer could I call these accounts of my life "diaries:" the term was too juvenile. I was 25 years old and had just left everything I knew behind to create some sort of new life for myself on the other side of the country. There was a lot to write about.

I started in the leftover spiralbound notebooks of my college days, but upon discovering that I could use the Lake City Library for one hour per day (and with a little inspiration from the insipid television show 'Doogie Howser, M.D.'), I began keeping my journals in Word documents. I've done this with remarkable consistency ever since. More than 13 years, hard to believe. Some months, the journals are tiny -- two sentences, and usually about how I haven't written anything lately. Sometimes, they are titanic. In the month I contracted EBV, I typed 129 single-spaced pages.

In the past couple years, they have become much less detailed. I attribute this to Ted. He is my sounding board; so all the things I once thought out by entering them into journals, are now discussed with an actual human being. :-) He has done wonders for my soul, and the decrease in journal entries was a small price to pay.

I do come back to the journals once in a while. But it's amazing how many big events in my life I have not entered, in the past year in particular. I've a hankering to get back into it. Maybe a new blog will be just the impetus this time around. Welcome to the 21st century. Are there really people out there who want to read my ramblings online? I guess I'll find out.

Creating this blog was accidental. I signed up for an account so that I could create a signed entry on someone else's blog (my friend, Josh Katinger, who recently wrote about the death of our friend, Mark Tarsi). I think Josh has inspired me, at least momentarily, to give the blog world a try.

The name I'd hoped to give my blog was already taken (which lays to rest any notion I had that I might still have an iota of originality in me). So instead, I've tapped deep into the well for sanguinary blue.

About 10 years ago, I created and ran a poetry group on AOL. It was actually designed for tandem haiku (if you really want to know more about this silly concept of mine, I'll be happy to tell you). The haiku were sometimes marvelous and often, well, silly. But I did make a great many online friends through this forum. One such friend was Wally Page.

He and I wrote a tandem poem about the difficulty we were having actually catching up with each other. Hopefully, Wally won't mind that I reprint the interesting -- if somewhat obtuse and pretentiously arty -- work here (we lost track of each other years ago). Wally contributed the first paragraph: the remainder is my response. If you aren't already aware, Corene Ellis Young is my nom de plume. Another long story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Azure by D. Walter Page and Corene Ellis Young

hey,
tried to write
insanity full of ink
fountain pen broke shit
now the ink runs on
blurred vision I
see

sanguinary blue
oozes mercilessly;
blots out light,
blots out reality.

oily tears
splutter
neither here
nor there,
piercing ink
like stars
that stab skies.

random destiny:
artist's means and emotions
collide into
unintentional
masterpieces.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I like the image of a pen bleeding, hence "sanguinary blue." As if there's so much to be said that the ink can't flow fast enough, so it bleeds instead. I liked the concept of "unintentional masterpieces," too, but again, it's a bit pretentious (even if it is tempered by a lack of calculation and/or ambition).

And thus begins my new blog. I haven't the vaguest idea where it goes from here. But at least now I can add a post to Josh's site.