Learning to Walk (a dog)

[While attending Rick’s funeral, and with Mark at work, our friend Jay was asked to look after Lucy, our 5lb shi-tzu.  Jay took it upon himself to also write a guest blog post for Green Monkey Tales.]

It’s funny how quickly you forget the basics: their tricks, their schemes, their nifty maneuvers.  How they run, how they hide, their fake-outs, their Heisman’s.

Lucy started off by making like she was headed for the door, ready for her morning walk.  I grabbed a baggie from the closet and headed back down the entryway stairs to the front door.  Except, Lucy didn’t follow.  She just stood atop the stairs as if she had already taken her walk.  But I knew better.  Mark texted me earlier saying he couldn’t get Lucy out the door without missing his train… would I walk her?

I climbed the stairs once again but Lucy scampered into the dining room and beneath the table.  On all fours (me, not her), I reached for her.  She cowered and back-stepped to the other side of the table’s pedestal.

I know this dog fairly well and know she doesn’t particularly like men other than Mark.  Fortunately, I’ve been a dog owner for more than 10 years so I’ve been tried, tested, approved, and licensed in the doggy world as a dog lover and advocate.  Sadly, I had to put my dog down about a year and a half ago but after 10 years, you don’t forget the basics like chasing down a sneaky dog.  Plus, Lucy likes me.  Well, sort of, she doesn’t really like anyone other than Mark and Shannon.  She shows equal affection for me as she does her ripped up toys, so that says something.  Lucy refuses, however, to be picked up by anyone other than Shannon and Mark.

A couple things to note:

• Lucy weighs 5lbs.  Seriously, she’s like a squirrel, but cuter.  The chase should have been over by now. However…
• I watched Cujo for the first time this weekend (true story).  Needless to say, I was going to play her game.

I backed out from the table, stood up, and walked around to the other side before resuming the position.  She backed away again.

I got up, walked to the kitchen and started rummaging through the drawers. “Where the hell are the dog treats?”  All I could find were treats for Phoebe the Cat.  I considered what would be worse on the carpet for Shannon and Mark to discover: Lucy’s vomit (after ingesting cat treats) or poop (from no morning walk).

I walked empty-handed to the dining room table and tried again.  Not surprisingly, Lucy back-stepped to the other side of the table.  Once again, I backed out, stood, walked around, and kneeled one last time.  It worked.  Lucy walked tentatively toward me… before darting passed!

After banging my head on the dining room table, I cursed, stood up, turned, and watched Lucy scamper up the stairs.  I gave chase but she ran right into Mark and Shannon’s bedroom.  You know how you don’t necessarily trust—or simply want—people in your house while you’re away?  Well, you can trust me.  I hate being in other people’s homes while they’re away.  I never feel comfortable.  Despite being one of the most trustworthy and respectful people around, I always feel strange in someone else’s unoccupied home.  Needless to say, I didn’t want to chase a friggin’ dog the size of a ferret with the agility of Reggie Bush through Shannon and Mark’s bedroom.

With Mark gone until evening and unsure what time Shannon was expected back, I felt obligated to give it a go.  Once again, I got down on hands and knees and crawled toward the bed.  Lucy calmly sat beneath watching my every move.  Was that a smile?  I reached an arm under but she backed away to the other side of the bed.  Fully trained now, I stood, walked around, kneeled, reached.  Same thing.  Despite her familiarity with me, she simply refused to come out from beneath the bed.  Screw it.  I texted Mark saying I had given up and that I’d try again in a couple hours.  Round I: Lucy

30 minutes later…

I was home, trying to get some work done, but I felt bad.  I remembered all too well the mornings in which I had an early conference call and couldn’t take my dog out first thing.  I recalled her eyes.  And how she sat beside my desk without so much as a whimper.  I saved my work and headed back to Shannon and Mark’s.  I texted Mark on the way: “I know she hates to be picked up but are we talking scratches or a trip to the ER?”  (Cujo was frightening, I tell you.)

Arriving at their door, I gave the knocker a good rap, announcing my visit to Lucy and Phoebe the Cat.  I was hoping Lucy would greet me at the top of the entryway stairs (like my first visit).  I was prepared to pounce on her (that is, after seeing Mark’s response, “minor scratches lol.”)

As luck would have it, only Phoebe the Cat greeted me this time.  You need not be a Rhodes Scholar to guess where Phoebe was hiding.  I headed up the stairs, into the bedroom and kneeled beside the bed.  Winter gloves on this time (I’m not an idiot), I reached for her.  She backed away.  The bed was just big enough to prevent me from reaching the center.  I started shifting things that were stored beneath the bed (sorry, Shannon and Mark!) to block her escape to the other side.  That, however, didn’t work.  Lucy—who I’m now convinced doesn’t have a bone in her body—squirmed over pillows and around boxes to safety.

I walked downstairs and searched the kitchen for treats yet again.  Exasperated, I turned around and what did I see leaning against the wall but one of (yes, one of) Shannon’s batons.  For those of you who don’t actually know her, Shannon twirls fire.  Yes, you read correctly: “twirls fire.”  Often naked, I’m told, but that’s not the weird part as far as I’m concerned.  She friggin’ twirls fire!  But I digress…

I grabbed the baton and headed upstairs like a [reference to LA cops removed].  “Lucy, let’s go. Out!” (Yes, I started talking to the animal.) “Out,” I shouted again, “let’s go!”  I started poking and prodding and got her to move positions.  With the added length of the baton, I was able to coax her out from beneath the bed.  I stood up and walked slowly toward her but she jetted out of the room and down the stairs.  Progress.  I closed the bedroom door and descended the stairs.

Hello, Dining Room Table.  I found myself rubbing my head (subconsciously?) and kneeled down.  I angled the baton around the pedestal and poked Lucy from beneath the table.  With that, the tables turned, so-to-speak.  The minute she headed to living room, I knew she was mine.  It was like taking her queen in a well-played game of chess.  I grabbed the leash from the chair in the living from and cornered Lucy in the V of the couch.  Her last line of defense was just a pawn: the coffee table that stood between us.  I faked left, she went right.  I went right, she went left.  I stepped over the coffee table and she froze.  Checkmate.

As I bent down to put the leash on her, I realized that wasn’t wearing a collar!  (Note to dog owners: if you want your friend to walk your dog, put its collar on before you leave the house!)

I still wasn’t ready to try picking her so I considered my options.  The leash was super long, more than 20 feet, and I considered a slipknot.  Something felt wrong about that so I reconsidered.  Now I’m not proud of it—nor am I exactly sure of how the idea entered my head after deeming a slipknot to be mean-spirited—but I actually considered tying Lucy up… like a calf.  And that’s when I noticed something: Lucy was lying down.  I couldn’t tell at first because she’s so small and so close to the ground that it always looks like she’s lying down; her legs are only about three inches long.  Lucy had submitted; she simply gave up.  If I didn’t know better, I might have thought I heard her whimper “uncle.”

I wasn’t about to fall for another one of her tricks so I slowly—very slowly—took two steps backwards and reached blindly for the collar on the living room chair.  I kept my eyes on Lucy the entire time.  I stepped towards Lucy and as I bent down I realized that the collar was one of those full-body jobbies designed for dogs that pull incessantly.  Lucy is 5lbs for chrissakes!  With no idea how to fasten this type of collar, the idea of a slipknot re-entered my mind.  But first, I gave the collar a chance.  I unclasped one of the buckles and put the strap that formed a small hole over Lucy’s head.  That left two larger holes to figure out.  Was this thing really a dog collar?  Did they have a three-headed gila monster upstairs (Google it)? WTF???

Having had enough, I pulled the remaining straps beneath Lucy’s belly (mindful not to give her the impression that I was going to lift her up) and closed the remaining clasp.  I didn’t care that it wasn’t on properly… it was on and it was around her neck.  I attached the leash and gave her a little yank.  We were off.

Finally outside in the snow, Lucy and I had a non-verbal conversation:

Lucy: “I’m not peeing.”

Me: “The f%ck you are.”

Lucy: “OK, but I’m not pooping.”

Me: “I don’t give a sh%t.”

She peed, I took a picture, we went home.  Walking up the path to the condo, I got a suspicious look from the cranky neighbor—the neighbor who Shannon failed to “vote off the island” in a recent blog post.

“F%ck off,” I thought or said.  (Shannon/Mark, if your wreath is gone, we’ll assume the latter.)

I opened the door, removed the contraption from Lucy’s neck and let her scamper in.  I tossed the leash inside the door, locked up and walked home, nearly taking a spill on the ice not 10 feet from where Lucy peed.

Round II: Jay

Life Lessons

Richard W. Phillips died suddenly at his home, on February 3, 2011.  He was 56 years old.  The night before he passed, I dreamt that I gave him a big hug and thanked him for all that he taught me.

I was 15 when Rick and I met.  I lied to my mother about an urgent girl scout meeting and instead, sat pretty in the back seat of my best friends, boyfriends car - a 1969 Chevrolet Camaro convertible, bright blue, with a wide double white stripe down the front, and pearl white interior.  Damn that car was pretty.

We were headed to a drag race.  His opponent drove a plum crazy purple, Plymouth Duster.  It was souped up, loud, and in my opinion, ugly.  

It was summer and I was shivering.  They were racing title for title.  I still remember the piercing sound of dueling engines, and the sick feeling in my stomach as they tour off down the road.  When it was over, the Camero came in a distant second.  The winner approached us and said, "Keep your car, I'll take the girl."  To my surprise, he was pointing at me.

It felt like a scene out of a movie.  Boy wants girl, boy gets girl.  Only he was no boy.  He was bold, strong, confident and determined.  At 20, it was clear to me that he was a man.

It was the first day of spring when we married.  Rick wore a forrest green tuxedo. His hair was parted just above his ear and slicked straight across the top of his head.  His brother Joey was his best man.  I miscarried our child the week before.  We cried for a long time after that.

Rick taught me how to drive and bought me my first car - an orange, Ford Pinto.  One summer, as I was driving backcountry roads with the windows down, wearing nothing but my bathing suit, I was pulled over by the police and questioned on being a communist.  When I asked where they got their information, they pointed to the upside-down, red white and blue, "USA 1" Chevy license plate on the front of the car - Ricks way of expressing his distain for the baseball, hotdogs, apple pie and Chevrolet brand.

Rick taught me how to fish - which meant more than just catching the fish.  He made me hook the worm,  hold the catfish with my bare hands, and remove the hook even if he swallowed it.

Rick taught me how to play cards - how to bluff and when to bet it all.

Rick taught me patience, how to sit in silence, how to breath deeply, and how to appreciate life's simple moments.

Rick taught me kindness.  He was considerate, generous and loyal.  He defined what a good man meant. Because of him I expected these qualities in all men, later realizing they were few and far in-between.

Rick was a good man, a good husband and a good friend.  We lived together for less than two years but we stayed married for almost twelve.  Our deal was simple - we'd leave things as they were until the next big bite.  The time it took to finalize a divorce would give us time to make certain it was right.

Rick was the first to remarry.  I never met his second wife.  I wouldn't see him again until 1997.  By then he was single.  We were at a bar and his brother Paul was playing the guitar.  Later that night, Rick and I talked for hours in the parking lot.  We were honest about ourselves and about the mistakes we made along the way.

Other than his hair, Rick never changed.  He remained true to himself.  When I saw him in the summer of 2009, he was happy, he was in love, and the eye of his attention, Phyllis, was at his side.

The last time I saw him was at a Forth of July party at his house.  I showed up with my dog,  a 5 pound shi-tzu, and a big smile.  I'm almost certain I was invited but I'm not certain if he knew I was coming.

Again, it felt like a scene from a movie.  The country cozy home that was once his parents, remained vibrant - only the color had changed.  True to form, Rick was surrounded in loyalty, laughter and in love.

Sandy, forever his right hand man, was by his side.  Mocha, his chocolate lab, was at his feet.  Phyllis was gracious and attentive to everyone, including me.  His nieces and nephews were playing baseball in the backyard and everyone wanted Uncle Ricky on their side.

The last words Rick said to me sum up our relationship perfectly.  With a butt in one hand and a beer in the other he said, "Tell your dog to stop chasing my rooster or I'll sick my cat on her."

Rick... thank you for the laughter, for the lessons we shared, and for a lifetime of memories.

I noticed there is a 1972 purple Duster for sale on Ebay.  It's listed at $25,995.00.  WHAT a deal!

February 7th, 2011 

Rick's brother Paul sings Fishing in the Dark in Rick's memory

Phyllis and Rick

Last time I saw Rick - with his best friend Sandy by his side 

and Mocha at his feet.  

Bird Porn

Have you seen my Bird Porn?

In the spring of 2009, after accidentally filming two birds fornicating, I uploaded it to youtube and posted it on my Facebook page.

It got a lot of hits and I was amused by the online bantering it generated.

Later that summer, my husband and I were invited to a birthday party hosted by one of his coworkers - an elegant rooftop affair overlooking Time Square.  Even though he worked for his company for several years, I had yet to met any of his colleagues.

Contrary to MonkeyME, my husbands is calm, quiet and conservative. Determined not to taint his professional image, I prepared for the party by purchasing Jimmy Choo, 3 inch shoes, raisin red pumping lipstick and studying well-behaved, trophy wife's watching both versions of the movie, The Stepford Wives.

If nothing else, I would be plumped-up, tame and stoically, in pain.

The party was in full swing when we entered the 42nd story rooftop. Because there was only a hint of a railing, I held my husbands hand tightly and steered us away from ledge.

I wasn't certain what to expect from this band of bond traders.

A general surveillance showed an equal split right down the middle - wife's huddled on the inside, husbands teetering on the edge.

The dance was perfectly timed:

and 1, 2, 3, 4 couple enter left, host enters right
and 5, 6, 7, 8 leads wife to herd and husband to bar

I was left with a brood of blond bobbed, overwhelmed, stay at home mommies.

Bored by the details of labor pains, play dates, diaper duty, and sore nipples - I slowly moonwalked my way towards the edge.

AND there, in the center of our men, stood a curvaceous Russian beauty.  Her name was Lena.  She had wild eyes, never ending legs, and a contagious smile.

It took some work on my part to corner her, but I was determined to find out why she chose finance of fashion model.

My husband, Mark, made no mention of a female coworker and I never thought to ask.

"Mark is married?" she asked
"Yes, thats why I call him my husband" I answered.

After an intense interrogation, I discovered that Lena laughed with her mouth wide open, dated a doctor, smoked cigars, is a classically trained pianist, and was once detained on the suspicion of being a spy.

It's hard to top that.

"Want to see my bird porn?" I asked.

Well of course she did.

We spent the next few hours, tossing back scotch, puffing on stogies, and guessing the cock size of her coworkers based on the size of their hands.

"Mark's is HUGE"  I assured her.

Lena left the company a few months later with no forwarding address.

In doing research for this post, I googled "bird porn" and to my surprise, this is what I found.

LENA AND THE BIRD PORN

A pop, smooth punk recording artist, and owner and founder of the "Thank You For Your Sex" brand.


I guess I made a lasting impression on Lena.

Hey, want to see my Bird Porn? 

photo found on Google Image

OUTWIT, OUTPLAY, OUTLAST

Recently, I asked the question...

"If life were an episode of SURVIVOR and you could vote one person off, who would it be and why?"

The answers varied. Some people pounced on the question. Others avoided it.

Some responses were clever and quite humorous, while others were down right diabolical.

I stressed that the question did not perpetuate violence.  The person voted off would be asked to leave immediately, but would not be harmed in any way.  This was an act of empowerment.

Some people asked questions.  They wanted to know where the downcast degenerates were going.  Were the accommodations luxurious?  Would there be chores?  What would the typical day of an ostracized individual be like?  Would they be joined by others and how long would they remain there?

Clearly some people over thought this and I, was one of them.

After several mindful cocktails, I narrowed my choice down to 3 people.

The first is an unreasonable, egocentric client.  I cringe at the thought of our posture perfect meetings.  The pickled pitch of his piss and vinegar voicemails and open ended emails are exasperating.  There is no way I can please him - nothing I do is good enough.  Despite my professionalism, or maybe because of it, he treats me like a disobedient dog.

The second, is a well ridden, over baked, soul sucking, psychopathic, once-upon-a-time homecoming queen, who destroyed a 35 year friendship by jumping into a one night stand with the openly declared, love of my life, when our courtship took a brief intermission.  She told me, "I'll get you two back together!"  She told him, "You'll like ME better."

The third is my downstairs neighbor - a grumpy, member of the Good Old Boys.  This curt, curmudgeon interprets any given moment as utter misery.  Even his dog looks depressed.  If the sun is shining and the birds are singing, he'll squint hard and complain they crapped on his car.  He has solutions for all of life's problems but doesn't care to implement any of them.  His way is the right-winged, right way, and if you're misguided enough to stand at his attention, he'll insist you "get his drift."

So... which one did I choose?  

As difficult and as demanding as my client is, I knew I couldn't vote him off because he's a client.  I need all my clients - even the beastly, backbreaking ones.

As for the neighbor, he slams the front door hard enough for me to know when he's coming.  Besides, who would take his place?  The thought of a racy, well endowed divorcee, thriving on a diet of home cooked curry, is enough to force me into seeing the sunny side of Mr. Grumpy.

That leaves the de-friended, psychotic succubus, right?  She does seem the obvious choice, and it would have been a slam dunk if a jaded lover hadn't already voted her off.

I started thinking BIG.

Sarah Palin, Osama Bin Laden, Bill O'Reilly, Lindsey Lohan...

But I figured, given enough time and rope, they'd probably vote themselves off.

My head was spinning.  Everyone's choice was straight forward and simple, except for mine.

Until one cold, bitter night, when a depraved, deviant, soiled the freshly fallen snow of a sleepy, coastal Connecticut town.

Somewhere between the hours of 11:31 pm and 5:25 am, in the height of a bellowing full moon, a callous crime was committed.

Someone snatched the wreath from my front door.

It was round, approximately 24" in diameter and was punctuated with noble fir, blueberry juniper, incense cedar and three, ponderosa pine cones.  There was no bow.

It was NOT dead. It was not thriving, but it was not past its prime.  

It was doubled wired to an ornate, wrought iron wreath holder that was screwed into our storm door's hardware.  

The perpetrator took his time.

An inspection of our dumpster, along with trash receptacles in a 2 mile radius, showed no evidence of the crime. After interviewing neighbors, I discovered this was a crime of large proportions - 12 other wreaths were missing.

What pissed me off the most is that someone not only stole my wreath, they stole my thunder. 

I AM THE WREATH POLICE!!!

Every year, a week before Easter, I put on my bunny uniform - grab my handcuffs, whistle and official bunny badge, and comb the neighborhood for outdated holiday decor.  

Lights, garland, wreaths, deflatable Christmas characters, baby Jesus's, all warrant a cleverly worded citation.

* * * * * * * * * *

Feeling underwhelmed by the lack of warmth and sunlight? 

Hands always free when you walk in or out of the door?

Call 1-800-LAZY ASS 

We'll gladly dispose of your holiday eyesores. 

* * * * * * * * * *

But I never steal our neighbors belongings, no matter how tacky or tattered, and I certainly don't go on patrol before Valentines day or even Saint Patricks Day. I patiently wait for the crocus's to POP.  

Once I found a rotten pumpkin, on the third stoop of a slippery step.  I would have been doing them a favor by tossing out their jack-o-lantern, but even this constitutes a crime, punishable by law, and worse - my name, front page in the police blotter.

As of today, the assailants identity is still unknown.  

But that doesn't mean I can't vote him off the island.  

And because I assume my wreath was considered an eyesore, I've replaced it.  

It's wired tight, alarmed with sound, and sure to catch everyone's attention.

* * * 

* * * 

TAKE THE STRESS TEST

.The Stress-Test consists of viewing a photo of 2 Dolphins... The dolphins appear to be nearly identical when viewed by stress-free individuals.  The test is not sufficiently accurate to detect mild stress differentials, but is very accurate on individuals with higher stress-levels.   Deviations in appearance between the 2 dolphins are indicators of potential stress-related problems and the deviations, if any, may also indicate the source of stress.   If you experience significant deviations, you may want to consider taking things a little easier...

How did YOU do?
Not only did I fail, but to me, the dolphin on the right bares a striking resemblance to a llama!!!  This is proof positive that I am suffering from the worst possible type of stress.

SELF IMPOSED STRESS

What could be worse?  Knowing you alone created it and then worshiped and wallowed in it!

Instead of writing, I spent a solid week bitching, scheming, ranting and reeling over .....  ???

Egocentric BULLSHIT!!!

I can't admit this anywhere other than here but... I did NOT play nice in the sandbox.

I  abuse capitalization, bold text,  "..."   "!!!"   and  "???"
I repeated words like "REALLY???"... over and over again !!!

I was confrontational, competitive and arrogant.

This mixed with a self diagnosed, obsessive compulsive personality disorder, is a recipe for disaster.

It got so bad that people stopped laughing at my jokes.

Eventually, it turned physical when my fury settled in my lower back.

I woke each morning feeling stiff, tired and beaten.

Desperate to regain my jovial self, on Friday I willingly took part in a Friend-tervention - a liquid laced, extra long weekend, focused on helping me get my wit back.

I knew I was headed in the right direction when I disguised the true identity of my super tall friend, Jay by introducing him as Boris - the non-english speaking Russian, and uber successful inventor of pajama jeans.

Before long, Friday rolled into football, and with that came the much anticipated Jets vs Patriots game.

I am a diehard New Orleans Saints fan.  Whenever they play, I switch my Facebook profile picture to this...

But now that the Saints were out of the playoffs, I needed a new persona.

I decided to auction off my loyalty to anyone willing to give me a new uniform.

This was the clear winner...

Would you look at me!!!   Look at how HOT I am!!! 

Not only do I like the new and improved me, but the response has been so overwhelmingly positive that I may stay in photoshop land... FOREVER!!!

Initially I was worried that the top made my waist look too small or that my bottoms hugged me in all the right places, but the postings of praise allowed me to relax, have an extra slice of pizza, and enjoy my cyber high.

Some credit the Jets surprising victory over the Patriots to my wearing of the green.

And I've been told that, in preparation for next weeks game against the Pittsburg Steelers, I'm getting bigger BOOBS!!!

Hey.... my back feels so much better and I sure do hope I made you smile :)

photoshopped ME courtesy of my jazz lovin' buddy, Jim Quinn

Thanks for making ME smile time and time again!

***

Riding High

Because it fades, and changes, and ends too soon...what will you do with your WILD and precious life?

Everyday we are given a choice.  Will you enjoy the passage of time or will you hold onto the past?  Are you filled with enthusiasm or deadened by despair?

It is easier to remain stuck in old believes and behaviors, even if they no longer serve us and make us miserable.  We know that a change is long overdue but we are trapped in the illusion of our reality.

The fear of the unknown tucks you in each night.  You awake hungry and exhausted.

I gravitate towards those who seize the day with both hands, and shake it hard.

Contortionists who braid social and silly with sensibility and spirituality.

We party, work and play with passion and purpose. We welcome our mistakes knowing thats how we grow.

Because our spark, although fleeting, rides high and leaves a perpetual trail...

I see myself as a huge fiery comet, a shooting star.  

Everyone stops, points up and gasps "oh, look at that!" 

Then whoosh, and I'm gone...

and they'll never see anything like it ever again...

and they won't be able to forget me - ever.     

 Jim Morrison

The Wild Ones

Only tame birds have a longing. The wild ones fly.

- Elmer Diktonius -

My 2011 toast was declared in my home town of Dallas, Pennsylvanian.  In the doorway stood the shadow of a little girl longing for things to come.  

I am the wild one.  Determined, driven, compulsive, and unrealistically optimistic.  Where did this seed come from?  

I have kept flying.  It takes courage to keep the wings in motion.  To enter each day with compassion, reverence, and conviction.

Regret, resentment and guilt will not ground me.  I stumble, I stand, I sturdy myself - time and time again.

I am grateful for the love and gentle kindness bestowed upon me.  For what I flew towards or fled from - the bright and the brutal.  For what triumph and tragedy have taught me.  

Magpie Goose courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Stylish hairdo courtesy of my mothers steady hand and my unwillingness to sit still.

First and Final Breath

There is much to be learned from the miracle of birth and death. 

Both are challenging, awakening, and humbling.   

Both expand our limited ability to see beyond the brevity and beauty of human life.

William Wordsworth wrote that babies come into the world trailing clouds of glory.  The dying hold the same cloud and ride it home.  

Photographer Sarah Robertson of Image Bearer's Photography, captured the first and final breath of Paul Perkins who's heart beat for less than an hour and a half.  During that time he was surrounded by love.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come  

William Wordsworth 

This video was featured on Life with Kaison, "a place filled with happiness and love"


***

Ho, Ho, Ho

(I'm the HO on the right)

Last weekend, in celebration of all things jolly,  I attended my 5th annual Santa gathering known as Santacon - a colossal band of costume clad misfits focused on spreading goodwill, good cheer, creativity and spontaneity. 

Santa's take over Time Square

Santacon (short for Santa Convention) got its start in San Francisco in 1994 and now takes place in over 178 cities and 24 countries.

The largest gathering on record took place in Moscow in 2006, when over 70,000 Santa's formed a virtual sea of red.

Santa's fill the streets of Moscow

Santacon - a marathon long flash mob meshed with libations, reindeer games, song and dance - begins at 10:00 am and if you pace yourself just right, finishes at sunrise.  

Washington Square Park - NYC

Contrary to what people might think, Santacon is NOT a pub crawl and Santa gets upset when you call it that.  So much so that every time you say it's a "pub crawl" a sugarplum fairy looses its wings (t's that serious).

Panda finds herself at the right hand of the father 
Santacon 2009

Santa is never sloppy, nor does he participate in violence, vandalism, or inappropriate groping.

Frosty Shannon - Santacon 2008

Santa encourages good deeds by bringing canned goods for the homeless, treats for the children and free entertainment for the tourists.

Gothic Santa hanging with hero's 

Santacon 2007

But mainly, for me, it's an excuse to costume up, click away, and party like a Rock Star!

Santa Shannon aka "Tally Ho" dancing on a bar 

Santacon 2006

Christmas Mess Me - Santacon 2010

Talk about a ROCK STAR!!!

Thawing Out

Outside - There is a light dusting of snow coupled with a ridiculous amount of salt.  The waterfall, which flows less than 200 feet from my door, is 75% frozen.  I rush from the car to the house and have persuaded the dog to do the same.

Inside -  My curtains are closed to keep out the cold.  A treadmill replaces my laptop.  I have pounds to lose and nothing to write about (half truth).

I'm reading Naked, Drunk and Writing by Adair Lara.  I'm fully dressed, sober and running out of excuses.

If I were not in a self imposed funk what would I write about?

Step One - Ideas

1.  Dad stuck in the tub - how he got there and how I got him out ...with dignity.
2.  Red Dance - moving beyond my insecurities.
3.  Online Deception - dating gone wrong.
4.  A Best Friends betrayal  - a juicy good TRUE story
5.  Santa Convention - jolly, clean, holiday fun

Lets see where I go from here.   Most of my work stems from an email.  Who wants an email?

Thank you for not giving up on me, and for reaching out, repeatedly.

Shannon

Thawing Out 

Short Film by Jean-Julien Chervier

synopsis
Since he arrives to the nude-camp forced by his mother, Leo a 12 year-old, feels like dying. Until he meets Antoinette and her magic mushrooms...

http://www.brooklynfilmfestival.org/films/detail.asp?fid=964

Hope Floats

...beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it's the middle that counts the most.  Try to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning.  Just give hope a chance to float up.  And it will.  (from Hope Floats)

Happy VooDoo

I am caught in a multi-sensory spell of fine food, rich culture, great friends, enticing spirits, and irresistible music. 


Today is the start of the VooDoo festival in City Park, New Orleans.  For three days, twelve hours each day, six stages will host an eclectic twist of music genres meshed with crafts and interactive art installations.  


A giant glow-in-the-dark paper airplane, technicolor mushrooms, illuminated hula-hoops, and a bottom-lit translucent tsunami wave bursting from a lagoon, will accentuate our playground.  Vibrant pieces that fuse technology and electronic media with the nonconventional use of sustainable materials. 


We'll be catching headliners Ozzy Osbourne, Muse, Drake, My Morning Jacket, Crystal Method, Weezer, MGMT, Paul Van Dyk, Hot Chip - mixed with our local favorites, Kermit Ruffins, Galactic, Trombone Shorty, Buckwheat Zydeco and Treme Brass Band. 


In addition to Voodoo there's a full schedule of events including the Witching Hour Ball, Krewe Halloween parade, and the Saints game.   


I will need to pace myself. 

Here For You

Each person is an intricate piece of infinity - Eyedea

I have cried every day since hearing of Micheal EYEDEA Larsen's death.  

I am crying for many reasons.

  

For the loss of his talent - his sophisticated, musical brilliance and poetically genius, lyrics.  

For the loss of a son - knowing the sting, the sling, and the sorrow, too well.  

For the loss of a friend, a best friend.  

For the loss of his omni strong presence.  

I am crying because Micheal died alone despite the fact that he held out his hand and his heart to anyone in need.

I am crying because a mother found her son.  Lifeless

I am crying in a mirror of memories.

I remember watching Eyedea spit it out in Blaze battles when he was just a kid - confident, cocky, lyrically destroying his opponents.  He was a warrior.   

There was something about the way he spoke his truth.  He didn't stick to the conformities of hip-hop or rap, he fused genres - tossed in punk and rock, picked up a guitar and jammed.  

His voice was raspy and raw, an acquired taste (in a Dylan, Neil Young sort of way), but the moment you heard it you knew it was real - cause it hit you so, damn, hard. 

I grew up in a musically magical era.  Everything was rich, powerful and new.  Hendrix, Morrison, Joplin, were part of my preschool.  

Finding my way watching The Stones, Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull and Pink Floyd take the stage. 

Thinking nirvana would last forever.... 

But it didn't.

I didn't connect with the hair bands of the 80's so for over 10 years I stopped listening to new music.  

There was one distinct exception...  

I remember standing in a neighbors living-room, with my toddler son balanced on my right hip and both my arms wrapped around his waste - jamming to Sugar Hill Gang's Rappers Delight and thinking...where the hell did this sound come from!

I raised my son on all my greats, and as he grew he developed his own taste.  Biggie, Tupac, Tribe Called Quest and the Fugees to name a few.  And thats how this lily white grandmother got her first taste for hip-hop and rap.  

Eyedea and Abilities first album, First Born, came out the same year my son's first child was born.  I remember Kerry showing me the cover - a picture of a fetus in utero.   

Eyedea connected the most with those that heard the message.  Those who needed to know they were not alone.

For fans in need, his lyrics kept hope alive.

I can't say I have a lot of respect for much of the main stream stuff thats out there now.  There are some notable exceptions and they earn my ears by keeping it real, following their truth, just as E & A did.  

Rap in Paradise Mikey, and please tell Big Pun, Dolla, Baatin, Tao, Aaliyah, Eazy-E, JMJ, Tupac and Biggie, we miss them...

and if you have time, tell Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison and Bob Marley, peace out, one love, and right on.  

 "Always remember that whereever you go and what ever you do, my love will always be with you. I knew before you were born that you were going to affect the world. I didn't know how or with what gift, but now I do. You have given me the most joy, trouble, happiness and pain. Now it's time for the rest of us to step up and be the humans you know we can be." 

Ross Raihala

HERE FOR YOU

We're all born into this river without knowing how to swim
And eventually we learn how to keep this water under our chin
Some times this river is so cold to be in
Freezing my soul, solidifying my skin
Regardless of how far I see, I never see my travels in
Were carried by the current, being driven by the wind
The scenery we pass, we'll never see again
So we store it up as memories and don't let go of them
Were under a spell thinking the river should go straight
He said, "(holds?) and desire to control our own fate"
But all the pain we experience as a result of our expectations
Because it's the rivers nature to twist and turn
The shit can burn
And I know it
I have the same conflict
But I try to sit and flow with this rivers natural process
And sometimes when I watch myself float downstream
I see the beauty of it all, and it feels like a dream
And at that time I appreciate the rivers course
Some part of God, reality, momentum, force
I stare up at the naked moon, and she stares down at me
(I'll cite false boundaries and all my powers to see)?
The universe is not something separate from yourself
I know you feel alone, but that's why I'm here to help
I know you feel alone, but just look up at the stars
And everything that is out there is what you really are

We gotta learn to see the beauty in each moment of life
Everyone has different pasts and we're seeking the light
The world is divided between peasants and kings
But the truth is everyone is looking for the same thing
Now I want you to know
The role you play is part of the whole
Without you it couldn't be, and I mean that with compassion
So if you need anything, I mean anything at all
I'm here for you; all you gotta do is ask man
I'm here for you, in the same way that you're here for me
Each person in an intricate piece of infinite
I feel that if you could see what I see
Then we as humanity could be free
I'm here for you, not for any self centered reasons
Because existence is interdependent and all related,
Connected in its different manifestations of one single mind
You ain't isolated from the world even though it feels like that sometimes

I see the hurt when I look into your eyes
How you struggle to hold it and keep in bundled inside
It drives a dull blade deep in my heart; it makes me want to cry
So I offer you a hand to help wash away the rainy skies
I'm running out of words, but I haven't yet made my message clear
So if none of this makes sense, I just want you to know I'm here
As a musician, as a friend, as a teacher, as a student
To grow and realize everything is in constant movement
Each problem that we face is just a part of this movement
It seems helpless, but if we stick together we'll get through it
And return to the essence from which we've been uprooted
And wake humanity from these illusions
The second you can look into the sky and see your own reflection
You know your head is in the right direction
The river riding always moves, but with it I live
And everything is perfect, just the way it is

We gotta learn to see the beauty in each moment of life
Everyone has different pasts and we're seeking the light
The world is divided between peasants and kings
But the truth is everyone is looking for the same thing
Now I want you to know
The role you play is part of the whole
Without you it couldn't be, and I mean that with compassion
So if you need anything, I mean anything at all
I'm here for you; all you gotta do is ask man
I'm here for you; all you gotta do is ask man
I'm here for you; all you gotta do is ask man 

I'm Here For YOU!

Micheal Larsen EYEDEA Memorial Fundraiser

pictures courtesy of google image