Not Sure How Much More of This We Can Take

112° on Tuesday? Seriously? We're moving into three solid months of triple digits. I'm really looking forward to winter.

Weekend Be Good

As Noel would say, "Bollocks, it's been a fookin' week!" And no, that's not me in the picture. I considered taking one of myself in the same pose, but it's just too much work. I did take two Excedrin along with my usual Thyroidzilla repellant this morning. Hey, two of those caffeine-laden puppies and a cup of coffee get me feeling half-human.

Tomorrow night we're having a little pre-birthday party for Joel (whose birthday is on the 5th) and I have every intention of getting ridiculously stupid. Not so badly that I'll feel like shite on Sunday, but just enough that I can let go of this week. You know how it is.

So Badger is going back to Oz for a couple of weeks and he says that during the flight there he'll be sipping champagne in his jim-jams. How cool is that? I flew first class once (twice, actually, if you count the return) and it was awesome. About 3/4 through the flight hey handed us pristine washcloths saturated with hot water and then wrung. The best part for me though was drinking a cold Heinie in the Red Carpet Lounge while waiting to board the 747 (this was back in 1981). Although the trip was paid for by one of the richest men in show business, however, I was shy to take advantage of it. I mean, I could have ordered endless glasses of champagne and all manner of other things, but I didn't. Even during my stay in one of London's best hotels, I hardly touched the mini-bar. My mother taught me how to be a good guest and I don't do well with the carte blanche routine. Not that I wouldn't like to learn how to...

I dreamed last night that I was trying to perform a particular song for some people and some guy in the back kept singing along, and quite badly. He kept messing me up and it got so frustrating that I had to decide if I was going to quit altogether, or drown him out. I decided on the latter and he left. Take that!

Well, I have a mountain of things to do today. Have a great weekend!

And Now For Something Completely Different

Lost Post #3

Post Title: Adrenalin Rush
Post Date: May 13, 2005

What an evening. This morning I moved all the plants back outside and set up the patio furniture again. Considering we have 6 chairs, a table with 2 chairs, 5 hanging plants, 7 floor plants, 9 pots of herbs, 1 long planter, perhaps 6 table plants and numerous candle jars, all this moving about is quite a job.

This evening Lynette and I went out for dinner and then to Heather's choir concert, all 8th and 9th graders. The kids did great, but the choir teacher is a buffoon. No, she's a musical idiot. First of all, it was nothing more than a popularity contest (read: a display of her class pets, none of whom really were very good). The worst part was that she lied to her class, telling those who had won awards for solo and ensemble competitions (Heather won a solo award) that there wasn't time for any of them to sing apart from the choir. Funny. Why then did she (on the sly, mind you) rehearse her pets, who performed on their own? And why were we subjected to a trio between the three music teachers? We don't go to these stupid things to listen to the teachers.

For the grand finale, the school orchestra joined in, sitting in the pit, conducted by their teacher. Did Ms. Megalomaniac leave the stage? No. She directed the choir! Two conductors? That's a train wreck waiting to happen! To the kids' credit, they never lost time or pitch, despite the fact that the orchestra did not tune to the piano that was being played onstage by one of the teachers.

As soon as the applause died down, a voice came over the P.A. system announcing that the National Weather Service had issued a warning — the west end of town was getting hit with baseball sized hail. Lynette said, "Oh no! The plants!" and I replied, "Forget the plants, we have to get the car in the garage!" We live on the west end of town. We and several other people stood to leave in order to rescue their cars and Ms. Megalomaniac called out, "Wait, everyone!" And why? So that we could watch her receive flowers! Believe it!

Paying her no further mind, a large number of us parents ran out to the parking lot through drenching sheets of rain, the sky lit with lightening that hit at least every second, and thunder clapping directly over our heads. The sky was an eerie yellow-green. Tornado sky.

We drove the three miles home very quickly and while Lynette made room in the garage for Dan's Jeep (he came down for the concert), I busied myself at top speed, pulling all the plants and furniture in under the patio roof. Just in time, too. The hail began falling hard. Soaking wet and my hair hanging in wet clumps, I came in and turned on the news. Of course, here in OK, if it isn't happening in Oklahoma City or Tulsa, it just isn't happening, so I turned to the Weather Channel, which had gone off the air for some reason.

The worst of it passed in less than 30 minutes and now we're enjoying a nice thunder and lightening storm with a steady, albeit gentler, rain. I've poured a glass of wine.

When the Worst that Can Happen Happens

I'm one of those people who, when things get really bleak, asks, "Well, what's the worst that can happen?" Usually, the final deduction—when I go through the long "doom" list of possibilities—isn't as scary as I'd imagined and, often, it turns out to be a good thing in disguise.

Let's say we can no longer pay our DSL bill. What's the worst that can happen?
No internet.

What's the worst that can happen?
No Facebook, no blogs, no online social life.

What's the worst that can happen?
I'd be forced to write more.

What's the worst that can happen?
I'd be more productive.

What's the worst that can happen?
I might actually write enough books to begin making some income.

What's the worst that can happen?
We wouldn't be hungry!

It's no secret around this corner of Blogsville that feeding the family is an ongoing crisis. In fact, wondering where the next meal is coming from has slowly become a way of life, the normal state of affairs. I'm not saying that it's become easier to live with, but I've gotten used to being really excited and grateful when I can somehow scrounge up three or four dollars in change. It's like a gift from heaven and I feel like I've made it through one more day of keeping the wolves from the door. I can make a hell of a split pea soup with four bucks!

Last night Dr. Kielbasa came over bearing kielbasa (of course), peppers, potatoes, and beer, and proceeded to make us an amazing Polish dinner. We had a great time. During the course of the evening I bemoaned my current issue with getting paid by the university for updating and revamping the music department's website last spring. I've been waiting on that $450 check for three weeks, dreaming of the day when I can put it in the bank and then fill the pantry and fridge. I've been working with the financial department, keeping my cool and being nice, but my patience had begun to run out. Not easy to be gracious when your special needs son is beginning to have scary thoughts of ending it all because going to bed hungry is just too hard to cope with.

Anyway, I'd learned that the secretary with whom I've been working hadn't processed my check because she lost her daughter in a car accident last week. Talk about the worst that can happen. I was glad that I hadn't lost my cool with her and that I'd inserted those little smiley faces at the end of my inquiries. But it wasn't the worst that could happen. Not by a long shot. As we sat at the table last night the Dr. told us that not only did she lose her daughter in that accident, but her three grandchildren as well.

There's nowhere to go with that. The question ends there. The worst that can happen has happened and there's nothing good that's going to come out of it.

So, while I'm patiently waiting for this check, biting my nails and counting how many potatoes there are in the pantry, I'm also counting my many blessings.

Lost Posts #2

Post Title: Nigeria Must be Loaded
Post Date: April 16, 2004

Seems the Nigerian people are the wealthiest on the face of the earth. They must be, judging from the amount of email I get from them wanting to give me literally millions of U.S. dollars. Most of the letters are run-of-the-mill, but yesterday I received an offer that was truly unique, at least in my experience with these shysters. Here is our correspondence thus far (I have not edited their emails to me):

ATTN. MR. S.K. Waller:
I am Barrister, Smith Geep a solicitor at law. I am the personal attorney to Mr. Mark Waller a national of your country, who used to work with Shell-development Company in Nigeria. Here in after shall be referred to as my client.

On the 21st of April 2000, my client, his wife and their three children were involved in a car accident along sagamu express road. All occupants of thevehicle unfortunately lost their lives. Since then I have made several enquiries to your embassy to locate any of my clients extended relatives this has also proved unsuccessful. After these several unsuccessful attempts, to locate any member of his family hence I contacted you.

I am contacting you to assist in repatriating the money and property left behind by my client before they get confiscated or declared unserviceable by the bank where this huge deposit were lodged. Particularly, the finance company where the deceased had an account valued at about $20.5 million (TWENTY MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND U.S. DOLLARS). They issued me a notice to provide the next of kin or have the account confiscated within the next ten official working days.

Since I have been unsuccessful in locating the relatives for over 3years now, I seek your consent to present you as the next of kin of the deceased since you have the same last name, so that the proceeds of this account valued at $20.5 million dollars can be paid to you and then you and me can share the money. 60% to me and 40% to you.

I have all necessary legal documents that can be used to back up any claim we may make. All I require is your honest cooperation to enable us see this deal through. I guarantee that this will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law. Please get in touch with me by my email and send to me your telephone and fax numbers to enable us discuss further about this transaction.

Thanks
Best regards,
Barrister Smith Geep.
GRACE CHAMBERS

____________________

Dear Mr. Geep,
You can't imagine the scene of mourning that is taking place in my home at this very minute upon reading the news of the death of my dear Uncle Mark, as well as his longsuffering wife and wonderful children. Our entire family wiped out in the blink of an eye! My children are weeping, my wife is weeping, and I myself am weeping as I write this reply. We have been wondering for some time why our letters went unanswered, why we stopped receiving his yearly Christmas update letter, and why we got a "no longer in service" message whenever we tried to call. Uncle Mark was my father's youngest brother and after my father's death in 1993, all we had left was Uncle Mark. Now we are truly alone and I am the last in the Waller family line (my two children are girls).

I suppose you are aware that although Uncle Mark was a good man and an excellent provider, he did have a tendency to drink too much. I do hope the accident was not related to his habit of driving while under the influence of alcohol.

Also, have you been in contact with his mistress? Her name is Oluchi, but I don't know where she lives except that her city is Abuja. I met her once when they flew to Los Angeles for a short holiday in 1997. One afternoon he asked if I might not show her the sights while he conducted some business in Beverly Hills.

Less than a year after that visit, he wrote to say that she had borne him a son and was quite surprised because his doctor had performed a vasectomy on him after his third child was born. I avoided the subject as much as possible with him because I confess the woman made advances at me that I was unable to resist during the day I spent with her. I knew that the boy could very well be my own. Because I have only daughters I would like to do all I can to see that the boy is well provided for. I hope you understand the sensitivity of this situation: that my wife can know nothing about it.

Awaiting word,
S.K. Waller

____________________

Dear Mr. Waller,
I was in receipt of your mail and all you said have been well understood.
Please do send me your Tel.3s immediately. As soon as I receive it. I will proceed to Union bank Of Nig Plc to put up a letter of claim on your behalf as the next of kin to the late Mark Waller. Even the bank have indicated there rediness to transfer the fund to you. So reply immediatrely

Regards,
Barreister Smith Geep.
Tek# 00234-80-56227762

___________________

Dear Mr. Geep,
As I explained in my letter, my wife can know nothing about this money due to the fact that there is a male who should naturally inherit it. And then what will happen upon the occasion of my own death? What will my wife and daughters think when they find out I slept with my uncle's mistress at the Beverly Hills Hotel? Therefore, I cannot send you my phone number, and I have no FAX. Besides, my wife is home all day and answers the phone. 

I really do need you to look into the matter concerning his (my) son. Certainly a well-known and well-respected law firm such as yours can dig into this for me. 

S.K. Waller

____________________

Mr. Geep never responded to this email and I never again received any offers from Nigeria. And it was a lot of fun to yank his chain. SO glad I found this lost post!

My Blogging Mojo

Something unexpected happened the other day when I found so many of my lost posts via the Wayback Machine. I got addicted to blogging again. I found my blog mojo. Who knows how long this will last though. Guess I'd better indulge while I have the fevah.

Of course, I never really quit blogging, I just started paying more attention to my other blogs (which now number six) until, eventually, I gave myself blog burnout. But once I began reading my lost posts everything came back to me.

Of course, I have nothing else to occupy my time. I'm only writing four books, editing other people's work, marketing, web designing and trying to keep food in the kitchen, all of which only takes about 45 hours out of my day. I have plenty of time for six blogs!

Guess I'b better get back to being lazy today.

That Long Ago? Really?

Today marks the 42nd anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing. Who doesn't remember exactly where they were that day?

I'd just graduated from high school and was feeling a little cut adrift. My family and I were invited down to San Gabriel for a BBQ at the home of some friends. We watched the landing--sitting on pins and needles--and when it was over, we all went outside and just looked at the moon.

The day was so significant to so many people that I even included it in the first book of my trilogy. Where were you?

Disqus FAIL

Alright everyone, so that was a huge FAIL!

I removed the Disqus commenting system because it seems to have some issues with the new Blogger overhaul. I do too, come to think of it... Anyway, we are now back to the old, familiar Blogger way of doing things and we should all be happy now. I just wish Blogger--in all the upgrades and pointless revamping--would create a blacklist feature. I really liked that about Disqus.

The Dogs of Summer

Look, I have no problem with dogs. I'm a "dog person" and I miss having a dog so much sometimes, it's actually painful. And I'm pretty patient where pets are concerned. I'll deal with your dog crapping in my yard, pissing on my tree, and even drinking my cat's water. No big deal, just everyday things in the life of a dog.

What I can't deal with is your barking dog keeping our family awake all night and then waking me up after I've finally managed to join them. When your dog wakes me up, although I'm wearing 33db earplugs, there's a problem. DO something.

I called Animal Control last month because you went off with your boyfriends for three days, leaving your dog tied up outside in 105° heat. She'd knocked over her water bowl (as dogs will do) and was so thirsty, she broke free from her tether and began roaming the neighborhood. C'mon. She's a Pitbull, a dog that scares the crap out of most people and she has no business roaming the neighborhood. I saw her out in the main street, where she nearly got hit twice, so I seduced her back to your yard with a big bowl of water. I didn't dare try to tie her back up--I wasn't going to venture that close to her; she doesn't know me. When Animal Control finally showed up (about an hour later), all they did was tie her up. That didn't stop the barking that wasn't too serious a problem at that point. I understood. She was lonely and hot. Shame on you. I didn't even mind when she chewed my bowl into little pieces. She was bored. And now I see you've acquired a Pitbull puppy. Great.

Since then, you take her somewhere in the daytime. Good for you! But at night, when you're sleeping off whatever substance you've filled your poor little ditzy college girl head with, she barks. Relentlessly. From where you tie her up not 30 feet from our bedroom windows. Can you not hear it? Can you not hear me when I open our window and yell, "SHUTTHEFUCKUP!!!" two or three times every night?

So last night at 4:30am I called the police and filed a report. The dog was quiet for awhile, but after I'd been asleep about an hour she started in again. That's why you got that not-so-patient note taped to your door.

We'll see what you do about it tonight, and we'll see if I have to come knock on your door at 4:30 in the morning, waking YOU up.

Take a Ride in the Wayback

In 1996 the Internet Archive began archiving the web for a service called the Wayback Machine. They've now archived over 55 billion web pages.

I looked up this blog (using the blogger address) and came up with only one, this one from August 5, 2008. That template didn't last too long, did it?

I wish I could remember my other URLs. First, I posted to my own domain, building my blog in Frontpage. Then I moved over to Wordpress. I can't remember either of those addresses, however. Damn. I'd really like to get some early screenshots.

Anyway, to look up yours, just type your URL into the field and click the search button. At the top of the next page you will be told how many "pictures" they took of your site. You can then search by year and click the dates that your site was grabbed.

Have fun!

Holy Crap! 9 Years!

It's hard to believe that I've had this blog for 9 years today. I remember writing my first entry like it was only a year ago. Back then I had no intention of making this such a huge part of my life, and I certainly didn't know the effect it would have on me as a writer. And need I mention all of the people I've met because of it? The web truly is an amazing world.

My Blogger stats tell me that I've written 1,955 posts, but it's actually more than that because I lost so many when I stopped building this blog in Frontpage and went to Wordpress in 2003 and then again when I migrated from Wordpress in 2005. Remember all that moving about?

Anyway, you deserve a good round of applause for continuing to come back to read my ideas, beefs, woes, opinions and dreams. Nine years is a long time to pay sometimes daily visits--I commend you!

In honor of the occasion, here are some stats, based on hit counts and browser searches:

Top 5 Most Popular Posts:

1. 101 Christmas Gifts Under $10 (November 8, 2008)
2. The New Google Image Search Sucks (July 21, 2010)
3. How Dumb Can We Get? (February 25, 2008)
4. Tattoo You (November 16, 2008)
5. Straight Out of a Romantic Painting (June 30, 2009)

Top 5 Countries Who Come to Call:

1. USA
2. United Kingdom
3. Germany
4. Canada
5. The Netherlands

Top 5 Search Keywords:

1. new google image search sucks
2. amazon icon
3. insomniac blog
4. $10 christmas gifts

Thank you all so much for continuing to come back. Thank you for your comments and your conversation. You've seen me through exciting times and sad times, through dreams built and dreams shattered. If that isn't friendship I don't know what is and if not for you this blog would have folded a log time ago!

11 Days to Good Writing, Day 2: Master the Fundamentals

In my never ending quest to edumacate myself in what exactly makes a good writer, I found an About.com article, What Is the Difference Between a Good Writer and a Bad Writer? by Richard Nordquist. I found it so useful, in fact, that I've decided to post his compilation of quotes, followed by my own thoughts. I don't claim to be "a good writer", but I strive to be. I hope these posts will help you, too.
__________

Day 1: Master the Fundamentals

“I am approaching the heart of this book with two theses, both simple. The first is that good writing consists of mastering the fundamentals (vocabulary, grammar, the elements of style) and then filling the third level of your toolbox with the right instruments. The second is that while it is impossible to make a competent writer out of a bad writer, and while it is equally impossible to make a great writer out of a good one, it is possible, with lots of hard work, dedication, and timely help, to make a good writer out of a merely competent one.” Stephen King, (On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft)

It takes some people a long time to grasp the importance of the three building blocks of writing: vocabulary, grammar and the elements of style. If you haven’t memorized this little three-item mantra, take a moment to do so. Take a year. Take a lifetime. As I said in my previous entry, Don’t Expect it to Be Easy, anyone can get an idea for a story. Most people will even be able to write that story down, but few will do it well enough to qualify what they create as good writing. A good story and good writing do not necessarily go together any more than a good piece of music and a good performance do. Ever hear Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata played by Vladamir Horowitz? Ever hear it played by a kid at their recital?

Yeah.

Telling a story and writing a story are two different things. You can tell a story sitting on your kid’s bed or from a podium at a conference and, if you flub an adverb or have to backtrack because you forgot something, no one cares. They see the nuances of your face and hear the inflection of your voice. They interpret your hand gestures and read your body language. To read a story is a very different experience. All you have are static words, so it stands to reason that those words must be carefully chosen and skillfully put together and, while taking care of all that, you must keep the thought simple enough to convey a multitude of things that are going on in a situation, both seen and unseen. This is why a solid knowledge of form is so important. If I had my way, I’d add structure to the mantra, but I guess it’s implied under style. I’m big on structure, so I’m going to spend a little time on it with you.

Structure:
All art forms have some sort of structure. Take the simple essay form:

I. Introduction
II. Point One
III. Point Two
IV. Point Three
V. Conclusion

Or, as I wrote in my lecture notes in school many years ago:

I. What the hell am I writing about?
II. What’s the most important thing about it?
III. How can I develop that a bit and add a second point?
IV. How do I put those together and add a third point while bringing it back to the original idea?
V. Tie a bright red bow to bring them together as a cohesive whole.

It was fun studying writing while majoring in music composition because I quickly learned they were essentially one and the same where form was concerned. Here’s the structure of the Sonata-Allegro form, upon which most great pieces of music are built.

VI. Introduction
VII. Exposition
VIII. Development
IX. Recapitulation
X. Coda

See the similarity? When I began to see this form in the world around me I got very excited. I started recognizing it in architecture, paintings, movies—I began to see the world differently, to hear music differently, and to read differently. It changed the way I viewed life and the universe at large. I’d swallowed the “red pill” and saw the world through an artist's eye. Your writing must have form. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. Or, as Mark Twain wrote in his Twain’s Rules of Writing, “A tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere.”

Grammar:
For godsake, know the difference between to and too, through and threw, and sight and site. And please know simple plurals. In a manuscript I recently edited I was horrified to find that the writer consistently got those wrong and also used “guest” when she meant “guests”. She made the all too common error of using “alot” and split words like “meanwhile” and “anyway”. These are basics and no one—I repeat NO ONE—who hasn’t learned them should be seeking a publisher. Final draft? I wrote back and told her it was a rough draft. I haven't heard back from her.

Vocabulary:
You should seek to acquire a wider vocabulary through reading, but you can’t if you lazily skim over a word that’s new to you. Since about 1981 I’ve built my vocabulary (and continue to do so) with a simple trick: when I come upon a word I don’t know, I look it up, then write it in my journal, copying the definition, part of speech, etc., and then I use it in a written sentence. Finally, I use it as much as I can in my daily life until it has been digested.

Style:
Too many young or inexperienced writers mistakenly think that the elements of style are the same as personal style. Whenever I suggest they buy a book on style, they say, “But I have my own style!” or something to that effect. I’m not talking about that. The elements of style are a set of prescribed rules of writing American English. Written by Strunk & White, it is a guide concerning…

“Eight elementary rules of usage, ten elementary principles of composition, a few matters of form, a list of forty-nine words and expressions commonly misused, and a list of fifty-seven words often misspelled.”

Before you can write a novel you must be able to write a chapter. Before you can write a chapter you must be able to write a paragraph. Before you can write a paragraph you must be able to form a sentence. Before you can form a sentence you must know the parts of speech, understand punctuation, and have a decent vocabulary. I’m not a blind follower of rules. I adhere to them, not for their own sake, but because I want what I write to have impact and meaning. I don’t want to tell you there’s a blizzard, I want you to shiver from the cold. To do that, a writer must begin by mastering the fundamentals. This should be every aspiring writer's consuming passion.

Blog Versatility

I don't know why, but after nine years of blogging, I'm still tickled when someone presents me with an award. I haven't seen all that many in the past couple of years though. I think they kind of came and went with the first flush of blogging infatuation. Sadly, now that we have places like Facebook and Twitter, blogging and reading blogs seems to be taking a bit of a nosedive as a popular daily activity. I blame this on the ever-decreasing attention span. But those of us who like to read and who are curious about how other people think will not give up either reading or writing blogs until the last blog host closes up shop. And I don't predict that happening anytime soon.

Anyway, I was presented with The Versatile Blogger award by Jaq over at Byzantium's Shores. He too has been blogging for nine years, and let me tell you something: when you've been posting nearly every day for that long, you have to be versatile. I accept this award with a great deal of humility. You see, I consider Jaq to be an exemplary blogger, thinker and human being. I was a fan of his long before he even knew I existed and it took me a long time to "woo" him, so his opinion of my blogging really matters to me. Here's what he said about me:

"SK Waller of Incurable Insomniac is also a fantastic blogger from the wilds of Oklahoma. She's had a tough go of it through life, but she writes openly and honestly about it all. Hers is a musical soul, and she's got a lot of songs to sing. I constantly wish for her to have a big success story."

Thank you!

So now, I'm supposed to tell you seven things about myself, then present this award to some bloggers whom I think deserve it. I hope I can think of seven things that you don't already know about me!

1. I like to "try on" other people's faces. When I see someone whose face and/or expression grabs my attention, I find myself mimicking it to find out how it feels. I don't do this where they can see me though, I wait until I'm out of their sights.
2. I like raw food. Especially raw potatoes, radishes and tomatoes with a bit of salt, and at parties I like to serve barely blanched vegetables like green beans, asparagus and cauliflower. Raw meat, however, is right out.
3. I don't have a car! But if anyone would like to send me one, I really like Mini Coopers, Jeeps, and vintage Volkswagens (bug or van, I'm not picky)  ;^)
4. I've started writing Rock music again. On an electric guitar. And the songs are pretty damned good, too. When I went back to school in 1986 to study classical composition, I dropped my passion for Rock, Blues and love songs. Suddenly, it's come back to me and I'm loving it. Imagine that. At my age!
5. I have little feet. Until I started going barefoot all the time, I wore a size 5, but these days I'm up to a 6. And they're really narrow. When I was a child I had to have special shoes because my feet were AAAA width. Our kids say I have "fairy feet". I inherited this from my Irish grandmother, Nora. She was 4' 10" tall, weighed 90 lbs. and wore a size 3 shoe. Wow! Talk about your Pictish blood!
6. I'm secretly working on my next book, Harley & Colette. But you never heard me say that (actually, you didn't--I wrote it). Yes, I'm busy writing my trilogy, but sometimes I sneak over to H&C and work on it when I need a bit of a diversion.
7. My favorite junk food is BBQ pork rinds. Yeah, I know. Bite me.

And now, the bloggers:

• Vienna for Dummies: Badger is witty, intelligent and cynical, and he has razor-sharp insights. He's also one of the kindest, most tender-hearted men I've ever known on the web or off. His blog is always the first place I go when I venture onto the web in the morning. I hope his current blog block is only temporary because I love reading him every day while I have my first cup of coffee. I vote Badger the blogger I'd most like to sit and drink wine with.
• Ladybits: I await each of Mrs. Anke's blog posts like I do absinthe drizzling over a sugar cube. Each and every entry is a delight as she writes about her town of Royal Tunbridge Wells, in England. Her humor is sparkling, her humor is a bit naughty, and I just love reading her.
• In Jayne's World: Okay, I admit it. I'm not into political blogs. In fact, I hate politics with a purple passion, but I read Jayne Martin's blog in the same spirit that I used to watch The Daily Show and The Colbert Report (when we had cable). Jayne really needs a show of her own because she cuts through the crap that the media puts out and she delivers it clearly and in a way that always makes me (for reals) laugh out loud.

There are so many other blogs that deserve this award, but it's late and my muscle relaxer has kicked in. If you didn't get awarded please don't think that I don't love your blog--I've tried to select bloggers to whom I've never presented an award in the past.

And now, goodnight!

Hey, I Clean Up Pretty Well

I got the editorial! (Click to embigiate.) Here's the original in all its effin' glory.

Stillwater News Press, July 12, 2011

Stillwater News Press Hops To

Well, that was pretty cool. On Monday evening I cleaned up my blog entry (I mean I really cleaned it up!), Things I've Learned From Being Broke, and I submitted it to the Stillwater News Press via email. It wasn't two hours later that I received a reply from the editor, asking me for a head shot. I sent it and the thing was in yesterday's paper.

Remember when life was like that? When people didn't drag ass about doing things? When procrastination was the exception rather than the rule? When your appointment was longer than the time you spent waiting for it?

Thanks SNP. You're my kind of outfit!

(I'll post a scan of the article tomorrow.)

Things I've Learned From Being Broke

I should have these things down by now. I've been broke so long, I can't remember what financial security even feels like. I think the last time I experienced it was back in 1970 when I moved back in with my parents after my husband died. Sheesh. I was 18. You do the math. But you know, I have learned a few things. If you're having a bad time of it right now (as I know a lot of people are, including us), I hope these pointers help. Don't think for a moment that I live up to these every day that I have to wake up wondering what my family's going to eat. I'm still learning, and I'm writing these down for myself more than anyone else.

• Get up, take a shower and get dressed. Nothing feeds depression quicker than not taking care of yourself. I know. It's all too easy for me to stay in my jim-jams when there's no money. I mean, what's the point of going to all that trouble? Who's cares? Well, you do, or you should. Just the act of grooming yourself can give you a lift and help you see the situation a little more positively.
  
• Clean your damned house. It's bad enough being hungry, but it's worse if you live in a pig sty. It's about self respect, and money is not a prerequisite for that. It can help, but it's not required.
  
• The Dollar Tree is an awesome place. We hit it before we go to the supermarket because we can get little luxuries and not bust the budget. Soft drinks, cookies, cleansers, even toiletries cost only a dollar each. What's not to love? Why spend four or five dollars for something when you can get the same thing for a buck?
  
• Creditors and other @$$holes have no souls. They don't care that there's only one can of tuna in the pantry and a slice of cheese in the fridge that has to get you through the week. They want their money now. Screw 'em. You can live without credit (it's not easy, but it can be done) and once you realize that, they have no power over you. If anyone else is demanding money from you and being a prick about it, tell them to go stuff themselves. Anyone that has never gone to bed hungry has no idea what it does to you psychologically. If they've never gone hungry so that their kids could eat, they can't know the mind f*** it is. Screw 'em. If they keep abusing you, they have no soul. Take comfort in the fact that karma is a bitch for those who act like bitches.
  
• Always pay your house payment/rent first, then your utilities. Don't stop at the pub after getting your paycheck. Don't buy cigarettes, beer, wine, or alcohol. Don't even buy food. Pay the rent first, then the utilities, and then budget the rest. It's easier to be hungry if you have lights, heat and air, and water, but those things will be meaningless if you have no place to sleep at night. Shelter always comes first, comfort second, sustenance third, and everything else after.
  
• Don't get grumpy, bitchy, mean, or in any other way take it out on your family. It's not their fault. You've hit hard times, that's all. Don't let it affect your family's overall emotional well-being. In fact, bring everyone together and talk about it. Ask if anyone has any suggestions. And be sure to emphasize that the situation is only temporary.
  
• Keep your spirits up. Sure, you're scared. There's no food in the house; how could you not be scared? But try to keep a sense of humor and optimism. When popcorn is all there is for dinner, put a disk in the player and call it a family movie night. Remind yourself that you're a good person, not a reflection of your wallet's condition. This is a hard one, I know. I deal with it every day of my life, but sometimes I just look at Lynette and say, "F*** this f***in' shit! What the f***!?" We laugh, get a little silly for a moment, and it feels better somehow.
  
• Know that you're not alone. There are a lot of people who are hurting right now. Don't dare tell me this is only a recession. Where I live it's an all-out depression. In fact, I know my dad ate better during the Great Depression than we do now. There are some times that beans and cornbread—what he called Depression food—look like a gourmet 5-star meal around here! I don't like that others are in the same boat, but it helps knowing we're not alone.
  
• Lastly, don't give in to the poverty mentality. You are not poor. You are not trash. You are a human being who has fallen on hard times. Hell, maybe you were born into them. But things can get better if you see yourself as a worthy individual with something to contribute. Lift your sight a little higher and look beyond the current situation. Make sure your reach always extends beyond your grasp and never quit believing in yourself and your ability to better your life.

When Ghosts Come to Call

I met Gary Plyly on Sunday February 20th, 1972. (Mouseover pictures for captions.)

Some friends of mine, Charity and her boyfriend Gary, came by my house, inviting me to go with them to a party in Thousand Oaks. They told me to bring my guitar because there would be musicians there. When we got there, a few people were hanging out--not too many, maybe five or six. It was Gary's house on Foothill Road, overlooking Westlake and the US 101/Ventura Highway. It was little and yellow, with a front porch and a long flight of stairs leading up to it. A 1950s construction perched on the face of an oak tree strewn hill. He had a wooden electrical spool that served as a table in the kitchen. It was the first time I'd ever seen that done and I loved it. We all kind of sat around drinking beers and passing joints while music played on the stereo. That was the first day I ever heard A Horse With No Name by America and I remember the sound system in the house was awesome! It should have been because the guys who lived there were musicians.

I fell like a ton of bricks--love at first sight--for Gary. Looking back, I'm sure a lot of girls did. He was a magical, different kind of guy. A Merry Prankster kind of character who was known for playing his flute while parading through the house stark naked. Very free-spirited, and he looked like George Harrison, only better, if you can imagine that.

He didn't seem to take any notice of me, though, until we all went out onto the porch to jam. Someone set up their drums in the back corner and I sat on the floor with my guitar. The other guys had their acoustic instruments. We all jammed a bit, then Gary asked me to sing one of my own songs, so I did, although I have no recollection of which of my songs I performed. I guess my friends had told him that I was a singer/songwriter in the midst of a promising career.

Gary accompanied me on his flute for a bit, then put it down and just listened to me. I felt pinned beneath his velvet brown gaze and I fear I played rather badly from nerves. I had my camera with me that day and the drummer grabbed it to take pictures for me. I've since run into that drummer via my Gold Coast California Dreamin' blog and I found out that he was one of Gary's roommates at that house. He is Wade Johnson, who had been the drummer of The BluCoats during the mid-to-late Sixties. Small world! We're currently involved in an exciting email correspondence about how we met that Sunday afternoon.

I don't remember anything else from that day, except that Gary kind of cozied up to me (at last!) and when I and my friends left, he asked me to come back the next day. I did, and we spent the afternoon in his room talking, playing songs for each other and, well, you know. Says Wade,

"I was the drummer on the porch the day you were there and I have pictures of that day and you. I remember a very pretty girl we were all attracted too and Gary was the lucky guy."

The timing was all off though. I was leaving the following week on a six-week tour of Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas and Colorado. I dropped by one more time to give him a poster that my manager had made of me and he hung it above the piano while I watched. We said our goodbyes and he asked me to call him while I was on the road, which I did. I'd fallen so hard, as only a 20 year-old girl can do, and I thought of him constantly during the tour. When I finally returned to Ventura County, I tried to reconnect with him, but he'd already moved on to someone else--no surprise there--so I dropped it and went on with my life. I was sad, but that's the way it goes sometimes, and I've never been a clinging vine.

Fast-forward to 1990. I was looking for a quick way to make some money and somehow I found out that a guy in T.O. was needing an assistant to help him set up lighting at some punk raves in the L.A. warehouse district. I called him and he told me his address. "Just come over around seven and we'll go on to the gig," he said.

When I turned onto Foothill, following his instructions, I thought, "How strange. What if this guy lives at Gary's old place?" I was in for a huge shock. He did and, when I knocked on the door, there stood Gary. His hair was short and he didn't look good. When I went inside, he led me to a kind of cushioned, curtained, gypsy looking area in the kitchen where the table had been. It looked like an opium den, really pretty cool. He lit some incense and we shared a joint, and I tactfully tried to find out if he remembered me. He didn't. I don't think he remembered much of anything, to tell the truth. He seemed pretty far gone and he was hard to relate to. He had been such a beautiful soul when I met him back in 1972. What happened to that sweet, open, magical man?

After the gig we went to The Atomic Cafe for a huge bowl of ramen, and then back to his place in T.O. We talked a lot during the trip and, in his driveway, he asked me if I wanted to come up for a while. I declined. He wasn't the Gary I remembered. It was like being with a total stranger. Spending the entire evening with someone who didn't remember me and whom I couldn't recognize was weird. It was kind of like an alien had taken possession of his body. He was pretty whacked out.

Yesterday, I read on Wade's Fb that Gary was killed in a car accident a number of years ago and it made me sad, nostalgic, wistful. Not only does Wade have pictures of that day, he says that he may even have a reel-to-reel of the jam. Suddenly, I'm being propelled back to 1972!

I never told Gary who I was, or that we'd met and shared something lovely for a very brief time; I didn't want to make him feel bad about not remembering me. I've never forgotten him, however. And now I'm becoming friends with Wade because of Gary. In his absence, Gary has become a magical connection between two people who barely remember each other from a jam session on a front porch overlooking the Ventura Highway.

And now, in the heat of writing my Rock trilogy, I realize that I have been blessed with two Gordons in my lifetime; I can't help but see the similarities between Gordon's and Gary's personalities, and my tender feelings for both of them. And then there's Ernie, one of my oldest and dearest friends who is also a magical, brilliant, special man. We surely do write what we know.

Isn't life amazing?

Pictures 2, 5,6 and 7 courtesy of Wade Johnson.

Why I Love Ventura #9: Bart's Books

Yeah, I know Bart's Books is in Ojai, a good 20-minute drive into the Topa Topas on Highway 33, but Bart's truly belongs to everyone in Ventura County.

Touted as the world's largest outdoor book store, Bart's Books was created in 1964 when owner Richard Bartinsdale's personal book collection grew too large for his bungalow on Matilaja Street. That's pronounced Muh-TILL-uh-haw.

When he ran out of bookshelves--and walls on which to place them--Richard decided to build shelves on the outside of his house and let people buy his books on the honor system. See a book you like? Just toss a quarter through the slot in the front door. After nearly half-a-century, people still exercise their better natures by following this innocent expectation. And in all that time the cost has only increased by a dime. He now asks 35¢ for the books outside the store.

Richard then began building bookshelves on the patio, against the outside walls of his house, in the garden, along the fence, and anywhere else he could find room. For a long time, instead of having a cash register, Richard put coffee cans on top of the shelves for payments. Eventually, he was forced by his collection to move out and leave the property to what is now Bart's Books.

The outdoor areas were covered with latticeworks and ad hoc covers, and the books stay in unbelievably good condition. But then, it is California--and Ojai besides--and weather isn't usually that much of a problem. The house itself is temperature-controlled and holds the rare and collectible books. And it smells delightfully bookish, just as you might expect, and just as it should.

The best thing about Bart's, however, is the price of the books. Whenever I've been there I've never left with fewer than twenty because most of them are marked at $3 and under. Many are even under a dollar, except for the new titles they started stocking last March. I bought a paperback edition of Boswell's London Journals for 75¢! And they have tons of sheet music to boot. Everything from Blue Velvet by Bobby Vinton to the Hanon Scales. If you spend the entire afternoon there, you'll most certainly walk away with a treasure that cost you less than you'd spend on a cup of coffee.

Today, Bart's Books is home to nearly one million books ranging from the specials that line the outside walls to rare, out of print first editions and art books valued in the thousands of dollars.

If you ever go to Ojai (and you know, you really need to), you would be quite remiss if you didn't stop in at Bart's. Better take an empty suitcase to carry all your books home in.

302 Matilaja St.

Ojai, CA

Visit the Bart's Books Website

Dropping the Sword

Throughout my life I have been given mountains of predictions from adults. From my grandmother to Frank Salazar, many people have graced me with little pearls of wisdom about what it's like to get older. While I appreciated this for the most part, I always filed their insights away in a directory called, "The Distant Future", but more and more, I find myself referring back to them.

It's almost as if there was a fame demon who took possession of me at the age of 13. We played a game of cat-and-mouse for 43 years that was fun, exciting, frightening, exhilarating and heartbreaking... sometimes simultaneously. In recent years, however, I began to feel like Don Quixote just slashing at windmills and I've at last arrived at a place where I've dropped my sword and wondered, "WTF?"

My mother accurately predicted that someday I wouldn't be able to wear my beloved signature black turtlenecks because the feeling of tightness around my neck would irritate me. My grandmother said that all the dressing up would get old and a daily commitment to wearing comfortable clothes, not putting on makeup, and not bedecking myself with jewelry would win out. Frank told me that we come to place in life where we just have to eliminate the clutter, both internally and in our personal environment. My father philosophized about the simple joy of puttering around the home and garden stores.

Where for many, many years I dreamt of a life of premiers, awards, parties and red carpet media attention, I'm now dreaming of sitting at a favorite sidewalk table enjoying a coffee and people-watching. Instead of stepping over my star on the Walk of Fame, I now look forward to walking a dog. While I once imagined being asked for autographs by strangers, I'm happy with private parties with a few close friends who understand and care about me.

Perhaps the fame demon ages as we do, or maybe he just leaves to find a jugular with a stronger pulse. Whichever it is, I'm happy to be rid of his grip and I finally understand my father's words, "When you're older, being content isn't such a terrible thing."

Still, it's become a habit of mine on Friday afternoons to wax nostalgic over the weekends of my 30s when friends came over unannounced, bearing cheap snacks and boxes of wine. I loved the impromptu nature of my life back then, with all of my younger friends. But let's face it. They're now older than I was then. I live in a different state and the world is a very different world than it was then. Life has gotten more serious. At least that's how it feels sitting in the smack middle of the country, far away from any hint of the bohemian lifestyle. Even young people here are so.bloody.serious. Life is more about working, acquiring, and fitting in with a prescribed status quo than it is about making one's life their work of art. Of counting for something larger than the paycheck, sixpack, and pickup payment.

I am of a dying breed, I fear. There is no room in our modern, confoozled America for artful living. Life has gotten too hard. I really belong in Europe and if I could somehow manage it, that's where I'd be.

Not My Summer Vacation

Holy crap, I've been busy. Sorry I haven't been able to leave a post in a few days. Besides working over here, here, and here, my email correspondence has suddenly gone through the roof. And then there are the articles I was asked to write. All good stuff.

Being ill for two weeks really helped, because I could sit here and work with minimum exertion or angst over my body suddenly feeling like it didn't belong to me. I seriously thought I was going to die. I started cleaning up my personal messes and making amends with people because of how badly I felt. I even made a list of songs I want played at my funeral. How scary is that?

But I'm much better now. It's like I never went to the doctor at all. So much for her Prednisone treatments. That crap seriously messed me up. The pain I can deal with, but that  shite? No way! I used to pay good money for hallucinations back in the day, but that stuff sat on my head in a very weird way. I thought I was going crazy. The hard part now is that my pain meds are nearly gone and I can't refill them. No insurance, you know. So it looks like I'll be going back to Excedrin for level 8 pain.

Through all this, we've been having record high temps around here. It was 105 one day. My poor Morning Glories are struggling to survive and, to tell the truth, I really don't care. Hauling the hose around is a major deal. Oh, man, that sounded nasty...

The other thing that I hate doing when I feel unwell is picking up garbage from our yard. Being on a corner, we're bound to get the odd frat boy's beer can, or the occasional Taco Bell wrapper. I can handle those. What I can't handle are all those freakin' ad papers. I dodn't subscribe to them, I don't read them. I have no interest in buying Bubba's '78 El Camino or Jed's slightly used gun rack. But still, nearly every day, a different car drives by and tosses one in our yard. I put them in the trash. I don't even save the rubber band. So what it boils down to for me is that some jerk is throwing his trash in my yard for me to pick up and throw away. And there are tons of them! That's why I have to go out and pick them up every day. I really hate that. And, yeah, the beer cans and Big Gulp cups add up. We pay the trash bill for these guys?

While writing this I began to feel guilty, so I went out and put the sprinkler on the Morning Glories.

P.S. Although it'll take me a couple of days to get used to the new Blogger interface, I think I'm going to like it!

You See, I Just Don't Care

That, of course does not apply to those of you whom I care about. What you think about me matters a great deal, but then you actually know me, so the opinion of anyone who's never met me won't matter to you. But seriously, where people in general are concerned, I just don't care.

Usually, when I hear someone say, "I don't care" I figure they actually care very much. In fact, I figure they care desperately but don't wish to be vulnerable to the consequences of caring. I used to counteract that fear with stating that I care more than what is probably healthy. I owned up. I acknowledged my vulnerability.

But you know, we get older and all that changes. Other things become more important than what people on the internet think about us. Health, financial worries, family crises, personal disappointments--and all the good stuff too. Soon, what a handful of schmucks and losers behind their computer screens think about us becomes about as important as dog shit on a sidewalk: something to be stepped over and forgotten, not picked up and carried.

I could make everything disappear in about an hour. I could take my sites down, remove my ethernet card and never come back. That's how important all this is in my Real World. You who think you have something on me, or who have set out to damage my reputation (whatever that is) would evaporate into the urine cloud you came from, never to be heard from again. I'm not famous and I'm not going to be famous. I'm nobody. I'm 60 years old and life is winding down. Besides, it's the internet we're talking about and face it, no one cares about your beef with me. Least of all, me.

We'll all be in our graves soon enough--is this really how you want to live what's left of your life? In a few years, as you're lying on your death bed, you're going to regret all the time and energy you've wasted on me. This is your life and according to some people, you get only one. Think about it.

We become what we care about, so I'm turning my caring over to my friends and family. The internet, with its trolls and spiders and toadies, can stuff itself.

I just don't care.

Too Damned Hot

A solid month of triple digits. Of the lowest temp being around 90 at three in the morning. And I don't see it cooling off because we haven't even come into the hottest time of the year.

This is going to require beer.

On the Way to Summer

Like many Americans, my happiest memories of summer are of family camping trips. But while Dad loved fishing from a shady riverbank and Mom enjoyed reading in a folding chaise, my favorite part was just getting to wherever they'd planned for us to spend those lovely two weeks each year.

The best year was during my ninth summer. There were five of us that trip. My parents, of course, and my older brother who was 16. We also took my 15 year-old future foster sister who had come from Texarkana to spend the summer with us. My dad had a Volkswagen camper van that he'd outfitted with a dinette, an icebox, and, most important to the three of us, speakers hooked up in back so that we could listen to the AM radio.

We went to the Redwoods that year, a drive up the California coast that took two full days. Along the way we played Rummy 500, drank Shasta sodas, snacked on fresh fruit that Mom bought at a roadside stand, and listened to songs like Hit The Road, Jack by Ray Charles and The Wanderer by Dion. We were never a family that argued or fought, so the van was full of laughter and excitement. And, frequently, that one thing that dads and brothers are famous for on long trips in the family car...

The back of the van felt so cozy to me. I loved how compact and efficient every square inch was and how I could sit at a table while riding along the Pacific Coast Highway, a living room on wheels. It was all rather new back then, remember. There was no air conditioning, no movies, no cell phones, no laptops. Just the family, the fun, and the long road ahead. We always carried a first-aid kit that included Dramamine, Band-Aids, Bactine, insect repellent, and a spray-on sunburn relief along with the usual precautions against fainting, cuts, bee sting, and snake bite. As I recall, I used the Dramamine and spray the most.

My mom always complained that camping was no vacation for her because she had to do the same things she did at home, only the hard way. But even she enjoyed the getting there while she played co-pilot to my dad, helping him to navigate using a Rand-McNally's rather than a GPS. That was the year we discovered Presto Logs, Second Skin, and Bacon Thins, and it was the year we discovered how much fun we could have cooped up in a VW, on our way to summer.