The Phonograph.

I’ve created a parlor of sorts in my home, converting what should be a front dining room into a ‘vintage’ media room. By vintage I mean that it is a place to sit and read books without the temptation of the television to convince me that the Kardashian’s are more interesting than finishing Lords of Chaos.  Is Khloe Kardashian’s contribution to society any less menacing than that of Varg Vikernes? Is not the destruction of decency and propriety at the hands of celebrity just as disturbing as black metal inspired church burnings and murder? Each destroys life, the latter just quicker than the former.  However, I am not focusing on either today, and instead I am focusing on what I like to call my Parlor.  Back in the day, parlor’s were sitting rooms, or formal rooms for receiving guests.  So too is my parlor, a smattering of art on the walls, paintings, and vintage photographs of my parents looking out over the proceedings. Father, in his 70’s formal Masonic portrait, shot once reaching Master Mason status. Mother, smiles sweetly in her senior college portrait, engagement ring on finger, and cheeks colored by 50’s retouching.  They are on either side of “The Night Golden Boy Lost His Soul”, a painting I purchased some time ago from a talented friend moving to Brooklyn.  Then there is the console, moved from my living room and full of books I’ve yet to read, the current 80 hour work week discouraging me from completing that task. The good news is, once the work stops, I’ve got plenty of books to keep me busy so I shan’t need to purchase any for some time, thereby saving me coin.  Also on this console is my grandmother’s jewelry box which I cannot open, nor can I move it. It sits there untouched, along with my final horrific memory of her, it has no where to go.  The console currently  houses this year’s Christmas tree , a magenta foil number, erected as I shan’t be here for the holidays. My usual winter ritual of going to market and getting a tree will be foregone this year. Getting older means not always getting to do exactly what it is you want to do, and this year sacrifices must be made at the holiday, leaving many of my favorite rituals undone.  On the upside, I actually will have time off, and won’t be hostage to the Detroit Auto Show as I have for the last ten years. Trade offs can be promising.

The piece de resitance of the console is a phonograph I acquired a few years back. I will say no more of said acquisition other than I am grateful for the phonograph. I have mentioned on this very page before my disgust at giving away my singles collection. Alas, I did not give away my album collection, which is minimal at best, but laden with childhood favorites, records that were my sister’s or brother’s or parents, as well as a handful of music I bought during my college radio DJ days, a brief respite from my cassette collection of the time, as certain things were only available on vinyl.  There are also random vintage LP’s picked up at Salvation Army stores, things like Goulet’s Christmas record.  We all need Goulet, and that is something that can never be replaced. I feel  lucky to have seen him drunkenly slurring through Camelot a few years back, it’s moments like that the kids will never be able to appreciate nor participate in. The good ones are all gone. So if your asking the ‘what three people dead or alive would you like to have dinner with’ question, sure as shit you know that Goulet is gonna be at that table. Sitting there next to Foster Brooks and Phyllis Diller, and at the end of dinner they pass me the torch.

My LP collection is curious, it contains the first LP I was ever given by my older brother, back when I was in elementary school – Michael Jackson’s “Off The Wall”. I remember being confused by it at first, wondering what possessed him to purchase this record. I liked it though because my big brother bought it for me, and therefore it was worth listening to.  I have often lamented over my older siblings taste in music doing nothing for me the young impressionable music listener, disappointed at their lack of punk rock and heavy metal records, instead having things like Fleetwood Mac and Steely Dan (my brother) and Barbra Streisand (my sister). I always felt this left me behind, once I entered college and had friends who’s siblings gave them the gifts of Led Zeppelin and The Ramones and The Stooges. I felt cheated to a point over having to learn about music history on my own, I now see this as lucky, having the choice to develop my own musical tastes, which border on the curious to be certain. Without Off the Wall would I still have gotten into Soul Train and early rap and R&B? Without the unsettling cover of Frankenstein featuring a picture of the first Albino I had ever seen, would I ever have gone down the path of Dio? None of these questions can ever be answered because who knows why you like what you like? I sure as shit do not.

So this afternoon, while I catch up on work pulling things together for the final days of job related chaos, I listen to Mono, over and over. It helps me focus, it is calming to listen to the side of a record play then to flip it over. More soothing than the iPod where you can cycle through different genres with a mere “Shuffle”. Instead in my parlor I can play records that remind me of places and times – The Muppet Movie,  there is nothing as forlorn as Kermit’s Rainbow Connection. House of Freaks, of which I was obsessed, a record I found in the collection at the campus radio station, and one that I played over and over.  I was doing some cooking a few weeks ago and listening to the record for the first time in years and it prompted me to look up where they are now. A bad idea, finding quite tragic and horrible news, which ultimately had me put the record away and gave me nightmares.  There are records that have been gifts from others not unlike that album from my brother so many years ago, guessing as to what I might like, a task which as I learn more about myself, might not be that simple for those around me. Each one a reminder of a place, or time. You can’t really have that kind of nostalgia with an iPod. There is no “I downloaded this with the giftcard I got from so and so”.  Your big brother can’t give you iTunes for Christmas and have it make an impact on you some thirty years later. So for that, we have the phonograph. Which doesn’t just play music, but memories as well. Occasionally with a skip, but always cued up for another listen.

MeYow.

Normally I shy away from amateur night activities. The night before Thanksgiving, Halloween, St Patrick’s Day and New Year’s Eve can all be classified as amateur nights. What is amateur night you ask? Amateur night is the night in which people who don’t drink for a living like to go out on the town and get ‘wasted’. It is a bad night to go out for many reasons, anywhere from added police patrolling to unsavory youngsters lurking in the bathrooms to throw up, and or weaving their way through bars spilling drinks and shit.  On Halloween, St Patty’s Day and New Year’s there is usually some sort of additional dress code which makes it easier to spot the jackasses. Not so on Thanksgiving Eve. The Thanksgiving Eve crowd could be comprised of mild mannered college students home for the holiday and stepping out to see what the new and improved Detroit has to offer. It could also be comprised of people’s brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews. The holiday being the great equalizer in a normally predictably crowd.  In the past, I would bartend on the eve of Turkey Day and then go frolic amongst the floats lining Woodward Avenue. It was a night for good tips, ghetto hairpieces and Poopy Time. That was the past, this is present, and I no longer have a bar to hide behind, so I must go out amongst them.  Fate dealt a cruel blow, for I would have to go all the way to Pontiac for said entertainment.  The Jesus Lizard reunion tour was at the Crowfoot instead of some manageable close  to Detroit venue. I would not be denied my fix, so a clever plan was hatched, and a designated driver sought, first in the form of a limo, ultimately ending in a leisure van.  There is no better way to travel to Pontiac to see the greatest band ever, than the leisure van.  It was as if heaven opened it’s gates and sprinkled magic dust on the proceedings. The night could only get better.

Strange thing about the kids these days, they are pussies from what I can tell.  No offense kids, I blame your parents and their ‘everybody wins’ sports. There were a couple of these so called kids in the audience, well more than a couple, but I shall point out two.  As I mentioned, it was a lucky night, so I found myself heading towards stage right with a cocktail in each hand. I was not carrying one for a friend, nay, I was carrying two for me.  This is not a regular occurrence so imagine my surprise when it happened twice in one night. Pay no mind, my luck with cocktails isn’t the big story here.  So I head towards the Denison zone and I notice a rather sizable contingent of ladies in said zone, this doesn’t surprise me, after all, he is the Silver Fox, or was. Who am I to judge.  The ladies were locking down some major floor space and there is nothing more unpleasant that a girl fight, so we skittered around them despite their sideways glances.  We found a spot very near the front behind a couple of kids, who didn’t appear to be of legal drinking age.  Knowing full well what happens at a Jesus Lizard show, I offered a fair warning to the boys, “Mama’s going double fisted here gentlemen, step lightly, nobody wants a spill”.  They stared at me, glaze eyed, no doubt getting out their iPhones to text their parent/guardians that things were getting out of hand, and the show hadn’t even started. Who doesn’t think a line like that is hilarious? Kids these days, that’s who. They aren’t bright, despite their Baby Einstein bullshit.  You can only get so many book smarts, sooner or later you have to learn from experience. Cept these kids aren’t getting the optimum experience, only what the internet tells them is good, or bad. Regardless, I guess they get props for being at the show when they could have just as easily ended up at the WAB. I went easy on them too, back at the 500th show the unruly kids got a ball pinch courtesy of my cohort Leesh. A drink splash is nothing in comparison. Maybe I’ve gone soft.  I surveyed the rest of the crowd and there were many an old timer which was nice to see.

The lights went down, the band kicked in and Yow was off to the races being passed through the crowd like an hors d’oeuvre at a wedding reception. It was a beautiful sight to see. The band was as tight as ever, Wm Sims appearing every bit a Dorian Gray behind his bass. It was delightful to see Mac behind the drums again, and Duane, sporting a serious mustache, trading in his Silver Fox status for more of a distinguished cowboy on safari look, yet still bored. So be it.  The crowd reacted in their usual way and I was pleased to see the girl in front of me, a seemingly bookish type on the exterior, red polo and sweatshirt, yelling all the lyrics.  I would have high fived her, but my hands were full.  The crowd was swirling so I quickly finished my drinks and got into the stew. There is nothing in the world that can dissipate your woes like a Jesus Lizard show, but you need to be in the mix.  The swirling and pushing kept on, not unlike a crowded subway which is derailing, it was quite enjoyable. Then Yow came our way, there was a brief moment, a battle of wills as it were. I the victor.

The band rallied, song after song, each better than the next.  It came time for Yow to haul out his junk, which is something I didn’t recall from the other times I had seen the band. Perhaps I had blocked it from my memory in some sort of Bob Flanagan reactor mode. But the junk was brought out and displayed for the world to see, like some sort of Stretch Armstrong demo.  After that, Wheelchair Epidemic was played, and my night was complete.

Leisure Van turned into a pumpkin at 1 am, so we needed to head back to the city and to the Lager House where another equally good show was happening. We had missed most, but were able to catch some Lee Marvin Computer Arm which is always a delight. Somehow, I ended up with two drinks in my hands yet again so they were vigorously consumed.  Memory started to slip away at this point, there were repeated conversations, old friends and the dreaded lights of last call to contend with.  Home is never far away when one is at the Lager, so saunter back I did, to a peaceful slumber. Dreams of Yow, like a sugar plum, dancing in my head.  I knew, when I awoke later that day, that there was much to be thankful for. A dinner full of carbohydrates, a powerful, but fleeting hangover, and ears now deaf from the pounding they received the night before.  Perhaps things not on everyone’s wish list for a Happy Thanksgiving, but all pretty high on the top of mine.  I have looked into the face of the sun, I can never return.

The Mondays.

It’s a holiday week, so I must confess I am more amped than usual. The idea of a day off midweek is very welcome indeed, in spite of the treachery that has led me to this week.  Lately my life seems to be a swirling abyss of insensitivity, as I am surrounded by savages daily with no hope for parole.  This week, one gets the sweet taste of freedom, even if it is merely a mirage in the desert of Fuck You. I’ll take it, as a matter of fact I’ll take two, moderation is no friend of mine.  So here I sit, in relative warmth, listening to Mono and drinking coffee and typing. It is almost like life is back, though I know it not to be true just yet.

This week has many perks to it, aside from heat and Japanese noise rock.  For this week, the Jesus Lizard comes to our fair berg. Like a glimpse of nineties sun, the children can not steal this joy from me, and instead they will be left weeping in a huddled mass, trembling in the wake of what once was.  As if. Nothing frightens the children these days, especially not good fashion and common sense, so we trudge on, forced to endure Mudd Club revisited at the H&M. Brooks Brothers never looked so good, but I no longer channel my inner 80’s Spader so that too, still remains un-chartered territory. It’s an addled Monday to be sure, full of locations to scout, schedules to sort out, episodes to craft and bad feelings to push down.  It even had me heading to the post office, which was unusually busy, yet relatively efficient.  Most downtown services have their own special customer service vibe, but the post office was downright friendly today, despite my clerk having no front teeth. That didn’t stop her from being nice, and I salute her for it.  I do not salute the Swine Flu carrying baby devil in line behind me however, who was all of 6 and had the hacking cough of a sixty year old smoker. At least in his second round of phlegm ups, mother told him to cover his mouth, and queried with a ‘you were runnin around the playground today weren’t you’. I know I was, so I slunk towards the counter and away from flu boy before he could germ out an answer. Sometimes I miss working in my home and not leaving for days, this was one of those times.

A quick tour of Clark Park and all was well. There is still much to do to get sorted for the next week, but for now it’s Monday, and in my Geldofian world, this does not rank as a bad one. So be it.

Sunday.

What could be more delightful than a Sunday with only three or four hours of work to do? It’s almost like a day off. The first thing I like to do on a day off, is head for an omelet station somewhere and egg up. Today was no different, so I hopped in the car and headed off to meet a friend for breakfast.  Back in LA, I tried various breakfast joints, and there were thousands to be had. Martha’s was a favorite right near the beach, but it all depended on if I was in Hermosa, Redondo or a stupor. Occasionally I would cruise up the 110 to visit friends and grab breakfast at Lamill, and by occasionally I mean three times over the course of the 14 months I was there. Having absolutely no relation to LA whatsoever, it was the drive to Honest John’s that reminded me of the City of Angels on this particular Sunday morning. Honest John’s is about two  miles from my house and it takes all of five minutes to get there. No planning ahead necessary, it is as simple as “I’ll meet you in 10″ and boom, you are there.  Granted, it isn’t as savory as Lamill, but it doesn’t disappoint. The drive, while short and sweet, was long enough for me to wax nostalgic. So that is what I thought of, all that time in LA and how Sunday morning was pretty much the only time I didn’t mind driving whilst in exile. Driving places on a Sunday morning was almost enjoyable, as there were a manageable amount of cars on the road. You could actually get someplace 20 miles away, in 30 minutes, as opposed to the hour and a half it usually took any other time of day or week.  As I sped through the lights on Cass Ave the words “I do not miss that” came to mind.  And they were true, on this particular Sunday morning, I do not miss Los Angeles.  It seems that the City of Angels was my own personal demon, or perhaps it was demons that kept me there so long.

There were no demons present this Sunday AM, which is unusual as the devil works extra hard on Sundays, hence Golf.  Even 89X doesn’t suck on Sunday morning because they play flashbacks. To my amusement, they played James during my drive. whic I haven’t heard in ages. The chorus encouraged me to Sit Down, and the music took me back a great many years to the time of James, The Levellers, crusties and such. A recent Gap commercial has let me know that this time is back. Thank heaven I saved my flannel, never giving up grunge entirely.  The song ended abruptly and it was time to head in for a morning snack. I love this town.  No bumper to bumper traffic, no annoyed other drivers. No traffic at all. Empty cities have their perks.

Sunday tally: Vagrants crossing the street en route – 3. Flashbacks  – 3. Different flashback time periods – 4. Hours of actual work – 2. Hours of housework – 1. Movies watched – 2.25. Hash brown orders – 2. Hash browns enjoyed – .5. Hours stayed up too late writing and not sleeping, therefore not being rested for work tomorrow – 2. Regrets – many. Chuckles – 2.

Sleepless.

As I gracefully grow older, I find that I require more sleep.  Yet it seems I get less of it. I reflect back on simpler times at university when I would sleep in daily and feel no guilt about it. Naps were a regular occurrence at 506 Grove, and it didn’t seem as though there was much guilt involved. If you needed sleep you took it, with relish.  We all graduated not knowing what was in store. Had I known perhaps I would still be in college, for with work came ridiculous hours. Toiling, at the bidding of the man, I now find sleep more a need than a want. I have to have 8 hours, but I want 12.

I think it is fair to state that our parents did not warn us about this particular part of life. Now, as they spend their days retired, time delightfully spent reading or napping, and the occasional trips to Walmart – they marvel at their children’s ability to go, go, go. Yet, it is clear they did the same thing, they just don’t remember.  Will our generation, already over houred by our employers, be allowed the delights of retirement? Or will we, more than likely, plunged into poverty by the succubus Boomers, work well into our 80’s if we are to live that long?  It is clear to me, that I will not be able to work the hours of my current job in my 80’s, I can barely handle it now. So what lies in store.  It’s no wonder I can’t sleep.

My recent bout with the five hour sleep cycle no doubt has to do with Daylight Savings Time. Still, waking up at 5 am was not a welcome morning.  Especially when I was allowed another two hours. Oh well, whatever, nevermind. It’s a cup of tea for me, and a blog lamenting adulthood. Being a grown up kind of blows, but they never tell you that, because if they did, you never would have slept as a child and instead spent all your youth time fighting.  No, they trick you into believing grown up is something you want to be, with things like “Career Day”. All the while it is no doubt the teachers joke, inflicting regiment upon you and ultimately leading you to the denial of sleep.

Not cool.

Desperate Times.

The old saying ‘desperate times call for desperate measures’ is indeed true. It seems as though restaurants and shops are returning to grassroots marketing, as I have seen since my return to Michigan a plethora of roadside marketing mascots.  This is a trend I will happily get behind. I mean, it doesn’t get me to go into the business, but I will give the mascot a hearty wave or honk of the horn in approval.  It’s about time that people got creative, and by creative I mean it’s about time people started wearing mascot costumes on a daily basis.

I’m no furry, but I enjoy the comedy of a mascot costume a bit more than the average American. For years I have been saving up for my own “Happy Bear” costume, but at $700, I can’t really justify it as bills need to be paid.  What could be more entertaining than sitting on one’s front porch dressed as a Happy Bear waving to the passing motorists?  I wish everyone in my neighborhood had one, because then there would be no crime, only joy.  Someday I will own Happy Bear, and someday I will sit upon my front porch as said Happy Bear and the passers by, both bum and neighbor shall be filled with delight.  The same kind of delight that filled me when I passed Little Caesar the other day on Vernor.  It is rare we get out of the warehouse for something known as lunch, but Friday we did, and as we raced back from Lupita’s there on Vernor, was Lil’ Caesar.  He wasn’t about to stand there and wave like other mascots, Nay! This Caesar paced back and forth as if he were beginning an old school slamdance.  He paced, he danced and he entertained.  Naturally he was treated to a honk of approval. We need more of this in Detroit, if only for morale. I suspect I will attempt to find a reason to drive that way daily.

Today, I was driving on John R after a failed trip to Babies ‘R’ Us. I believe I’ve blogged about my trip to the Babies on Hawthorne back in California and the cruelty I endured there. Today’s trip was no different. Vile place it is. I shan’t return again. From now on anyone I know who registers there, can expect a gift in the mail, off the interweb, and not a nicely wrapped package at a shower. The lone highlight was cruising back towards 12 Mile and seeing a forlorn Hot Pepper Mascot at the side of the street waving. I am not even sure the place they were advertising as it appeared to be in a strip mall. What I do know, is that it was hilarious, so I waived, and was treated to a somewhat unsettling wave back. There was something alien in the Pepper’s wave, almost insidious, and I was grateful to be in my car. All I know is that Hot Pepper despite very likely being evil, erased all the bad I experienced at Babies ‘R’ Us.  I was cleansed of the horror of the experience.

Imagine a world in which mascots roamed free, and advertising that was awarded for having the best mascot. It would be a world free of unhappiness. Could we handle such a place? I can, and I am ready. Bring it.

A Night in Heaven?

I was driving to the AT&T store in Allen Park of all places Sunday. Sadly, my new phone purchase the evening before had been marred by my inability to figure out how to plug in the charger. Sadder still was the woman on the phone who was unable to help my and suggested I come in the store.  Because I had so much time to spare, after spending an hour in there the night before making agonizing decisions.  One of the decisions, (we already know when faced with long term choice I panic) was a phone befitting a high school student who spends all their time texting. I opted for said phone and have spent the better part of 36 hours trying to figure out my motivation for buying said phone.  When all my friends swear by iPhone, what possessed me to get the Nokia Surge?  Sure iPhones seem nice, but I have yet to see one with a working Magic 8-Ball App, so Nokia it is. I am just not ready to be that available, some things should be left for the computer. Luddite, why yes.

The obtaining of phones is not my purpose in this missive. For it was something on the trip there, that triggered this particular unleashing.  In scanning the radio dial I happened on Obsession by Animotion.  A little known eighties band consisting of a few men with unfortunate hair and Mrs. Richard Marx. I recall this song for it was tied in with cinematic juggernaut A Night in Heaven.  Who can forget the Christopher Atkins vehicle about a carefree college student, stripping in his spare time.  I am not really sure what drew me to this song, nor what was appealing about the movie, but in retrospect, I can only begin to assess the damage both these examples of eighties excess have caused to my fragile psyche.

Case in point, the lyrics of Obsession including such pre stalking nuggets, like:

“You are an obsession
I cannot sleep
I am your possession
Unopened at your feet
There’s no balance
No equality
Be still I will not accept defeat

I will have you
Yes, I will have you
I will find a way and I will have you
Like a butterfly
A wild butterly
I will collect you and capture you”

While the writers of this tune no doubt thought they were laying down some sultry and titillating lyrics, they were actually providing a generation of impressionable girls a bad business plan. A confusing mix of desperation and hubris, it is hard to determine whether they are suggesting the listener make themselves into some sort of eighties sex slave, or make their intended into one.  It definitely doesn’t bode well in the ‘people as chattel’ category.  It could even be loosely be attributed to my own troubling romantic pass.  The chorus is a real zinger, no doubt hooking in a great many eighties ingenues :

“You are an obsession
You’re my obsession
Who do you want me to be
To make you sleep with me
You are an obsession
You’re my obsession
Who do you want me to be
To make you sleep with me”

It struck on that fateful drive to the phone store, that had I never heard this song, perhaps a great deal of social shapeshifting could have been circumvented for the quiet life. Clearly, Animotion, and subsequently the listener must consider what kind of pretzel they must twist themselves in to be appealing to the object of their mixed up desire.  I looked up Animotion, not having any of their albums, and found out Michael Des Barres co-wrote Obsession. That makes a bit more sense. I remember being appalled by Michael Des Barres early on, as he replaced Robert Palmer as the lead singer of Power Station for their tours.  Youthfully naive we were not pleased to see this replacement in concert, and even more horrified was I, when some lusty bitch threw her drawers to the stage and Mr. Des Barres picked them up and wiped his face with it.  I was far to young to understand such a ribald gesture, but  then it smacked of ewwwww. To be honest, it still does. After reading the Miss Pamela book series, I am no more fond of Michael that I was as a youth.

So, if the lyrics of Obsession weren’t enough of an impression of my pliable and plastic mind (Copyright – Pastor Hart – often said while gripping my skull whilst praying during children’s sermon on Sundays), tying it to A Night in Heaven most certainly was the nail in the coffin of my future world.  For anyone who hasn’t seen this stunning piece of cinema I will summarize it for you. Christopher Atkins plays a cocky community college student, who dances as “Ricky the Rocket” (not to be confused with Poison’s Ricky Rocket) at a male strip club.  His teacher, played by Leslie Ann Warren (not to be confused with Leslie Anne Down) is in an unfortunate marriage and taunted by the forbidden fruit that is the stripper student. Now thankfully I have never been a high school, or community college instructor, but I am no stranger to the allure of the “studly-but-shallow teen stripper” type.  Atkins was Prime Rib back in the 80’s, and Community Colleges then, weren’t filled with hope like they are now. It’s easy to see why Leslie Ann had to nail Ricky the Rocket, lure of Obsession notwithstanding.

Sadly, the ride to the phone store was long enough for me to identify these two pieces of eighties outsider art as contributing factors to the mess of a grown up I am today.  Staying true to the idea of therapy, I will place A Night in Heaven in my Netflix cue in attempt to locate where it all went to shit. I recall little of this movie, I am not even sure I saw it for when it came out I was too young to get into it. But I remember the trailer, and I remember silver lame’ and I am pretty sure, that is where it all started to go south. Night in Heaven? or eternity in hell?

This Time with Violence.

Ah, seems it was only yesterday, but actually it was early June when my garage got broken into. Chalking it up to an unlocked door in a locked back yard I figured it was just a matter of time. After all, it was near season’s change, and with the season’s change so too comes increased activity.  That was when it was warm, and the sniff of warmth sent the neighborhood criminal, so fingered by the other neighbors, into a beehive of activity. Hitting several places on the block.  Once the witch hunt was finished there were cries of racism all around, and we all realized if you call the cops they are probably not going to come. Why leave the comfort of the casino?

There is always something unsettling about knowing you have no help in a crisis. The cavalry is never coming and your tenuous settlement is exposed. Surely this is a way many people live on a daily basis, something we associate with third world countries and bad neighborhoods. So one can’t really complain when it happens to them taking into consideration all the horrible things people endure daily. Looking at the bigger picture, destruction of property and theft is low on the scale compared to genocide, and health epidemics. Still it’s annoying as hell and shakes your belief in the goodness of others. How do you protect yourself from crime? In this day and age, anything can happen, toss in some litigation and no one wants to go into the sauce, except the criminal types because they know no one is going to do anything. Everyone is getting theirs – be it the criminal, or the lawyer. It’s all bullshit, and I have raged against it endlessly. I don’t feel that rage today. The sun is out, and it’s my favorite season. So be it.

What’s up with people that they think they deserve shit without working for it? As you know, I blame the boomers, they are the ones who fucked it all up, and continue to fuck things up. Now you got all kinds of folks thinking they deserve shit, and earned shit just by showing up to work and having a pulse. There is no free lunch, no such thing as free money, and there certainly isn’t anything like free love – sooner or later someone has to pay. For now, it seems as though the person who works hard and lives the clean life, well, they are the ones to pay.  Like my neighbor. Fine folks in condo association. They happen to be moving leaving one of our units up for sale, aka, empty. So the local criminal types drive into their garage, in an effort to loot an empty space. Last time, they just crept into mine, smashing out a window and taking a piece of shit radio. This time, a car through the door, and a whole lot of nothing.  What’s the point? They get bolder, and we get our sense of safety taken away. I may just have to trade my baseball bat for a gun. Something no one wants.  Though at work I am  learning how many people are walking around with concealed weapons permits – and it’s a lot. Oh, for a simpler time, in childhood, when the shotguns were kept in the basement, except for one, kept on the second level, bullets in the nightstand. We were prepared for an onslaught of zombies when I was a child. What the hell happened? How am I supposed to fend them off now, with a flashlight and a baseball bat.  I need to arm up. That is for sure.

In Sickness and in Health.

In my time in exile, I was an office of one.  Alone each day, with no real contact with the outside world can be good for many things.  The best thing being, rarely coming into contact with germs of any kind, save for the type of filth a cat lady can scare up.  Being that I am not a cat lady as of yet, my place was clean and my life was germ free.  Sure I would fly back and forth to Detroit, but I would pump the system up with lots of Airborne (screw you class action suit, I still believe!) and hop aboard, crossing my fingers that the person next to me didn’t have TB.  I managed to go a long long while sans sickness which was delightful. You never really appreciate your health until you get blindsided by some doctor telling you something you didn’t know, nor believed would happen, but that isn’t what this blog is about. Nay, I am bitching about the common cold.

I mean, I am not really surprised to be stricken with this congestion.  Been running at full tilt for about two months, surrounded by people covered in germs in a filthy, freezing warehouse.  No, I am not a meat packer, if that was your first question.  I am actually surprised that the sickness took this long to hit me, and I chalk it up to a night spent drinking until 5 am Friday for finally pushing me over the edge.  4 AM is fine, 5 AM is just stupid for one of my age, but the Pinata of Tears spread nothing but joy and the desire to keep Party Train racing down the tracks. (Note – this is not a metaphor for cocaine).  Party Train, my insidious alter ego, decided that in lieu of the bar that was closed, that I would go into the band room with my empty sixteen ounce glass, and also in lieu of said mixers fill it with vodka.  At least that is what I think I did.

So now, my immune system is punching me in the throat to remind me I am but a filthy human, and not a god fueled to power by vodka and soda.  Maybe it was the cursed lime that the tenders laced my drink with, sans lemon.  That has to be it. Whatever it was, resistance was down, and now, my is throat scratchy, my eyes are watery and I sound like Brenda Vaccarro.  This has left me with some troubling thoughts and got me thinking about sickness past.  Remember, when you were a kid, and if you got sick, you had to stay in bed until you got better?  People actually gave their bodies time to recuperate before heading back into the thick.  Sickness at the homestead depending on the severity was handled with aplomb by most spectacular mother.  The sofa bed in the sunroom was pulled out and the sick child was placed there to sleep, all the while staying closer to mother who went about her daily work in the kitchen taking care of the family.  This could last for days, as the increasingly healthier child got better. Siblings would return from school and regale the sick one with tales of the outside world. Father would return from work, and if the child was getting better, bring something from the store, like a favorite food to get the sick one eating again.  It was on one of these sick beds, where I may not have been really sick, that I first watched Katherine Chancellor (aka Jeanne Cooper) get her real life facelift done on Young and the Restless.  Vowing to never ever do that to myself at a young age, I have now come to understand what it is that lead Jeanne to the knife. After all, her character was cougaring then, far before it became the vogue thing to do.  Perhaps Jeanne Cooper was my first time fighter. I will never know.  What I do know, is that I miss recuperation time.

This world moves fast now, and only the weak are allowed a sick bed. Things must go faster and faster, and a day off is met with a series of tasks that must be completed.  Where have the days of sleeping it off gone?  Why do we feel guilty taking any time for our bodies to heal themselves, instead relying on series of over the counter meds and witches brews to heal us?  When the cold first indicated that it would throw a wrench in my weekend plan I started the program, jolting the body with various batches of Vitamin C. An Airborne, followed by a teaspoon of chopped raw garlic, followed by some honey and some echinacea.  All my body really wanted was sleep, and I would have given anything in the world to be back on that bed in the sunroom resting, whilst mom toiled away at her day.  Sickness is the hardest thing to grapple with in the parent/child role reversal that happens with adulthood.  Mommy is no longer there to make things better, so the endless supply of Nyquil must suffice in her absence. That and the voodoo homeopathic remedies, that propel me back to work with the disease a little more dormant, but still on the cusp.  No one gets any off time, it is frowned upon, so on we go.  It is probably why we never really get better.

Enjoy the Silence.

Up early this AM with no real reason to ‘blog’ other than the fact that it has been ages since I have. Do I feel guilty? Nay, I feel nothing. It has been going like this for awhile which has been difficult to fathom. No ups, no downs, just an even keel of mellow peppered with the occasional drunken evening.  This was my staple when I was in LA, but not so much here in Detroit. Detroit was always filled with the next fun thing to do, or the next rock show to see.  While there are still rock shows aplenty, my time in exile has taught me that I do not need to see each and every one, taking a four show a week schedule down to a maybe one every two weeks.  At first, I will confess, I found this distressing. It is not an easy slip into the comfortable nothingness of middle age, sans toddler to chase after. Certainly I chase my own, inner toddler, on a daily basis – but I know that brat fairly well and have adopted a ‘Mommie Dearest’ stance towards it.

It probably doesn’t help that I am weary. I often wonder, especially on early cold mornings when I pine for more sleep, how my friends have adapted into lives with things like pets and children. With responsibilities to others over themselves.  That has always been a foreign concept to me as my life has been set on auto pilot for quite some time.  What is it like to introduce chaos and compromise into one’s regimen? How does one forgo the ordering of internet based retail therapy in lieu of things like diapers and puppy chow.  As if babies could thrive on puppy chow. It was good enough for me growing up…

Back to the original topic, I will not allow myself to exit reality so quickly this morning. With oatmeal in my belly and hot tea in my cup I am focused for the day. Ready to complete my tasks and start on new ones, but first, I must sit back and listen to the quiet.  As I mentioned things were quiet in my time in exile, but it was a different quiet. There were waves and thumping car stereos, screaming drunks and passers-by just a few feet away from where I sat on my fabulously comfortable white sofa.  Here I am ensconced in the back of my house, the only noise is the hum of the refrigerator which grows increasingly louder as I focus in on it. The windows are shut to keep the autumn chill at bay. The heat is not yet on as I am forcing myself to make it to October, or perhaps even November before dipping into the cost that comes with warmth.  I wonder how long things will be quiet, before the chaos kicks in again?  Granted there are two types of chaos from my point of view, surface chaos which is all the daily bullshit drama one must face to be in the world, and there is internal chaos.  My quiet as of late comes from the silencing of the internal chaos which usually comes from a busy schedule and many other things to think about aside from your own personal issues.  I’m giving my issues a rest today, in fact, I think I am putting them on hiatus the month of October to see how it pans out.  I’m tired, and the silence is relaxing. I think I will run with that for awhile.