Vacation Tales of the Witch - Pt. 3

Well, another lovely autumn day here in New York, where it’s been like – 80 FUCKING DEGREES OUTSIDE.  Positively balmy.  T-shirt and shorts weather.   Yeah, the Universe really must be yukkin’ it up at MY expense,  having spent my “flu-cation” in the artic, frozen zone just last week.  Yuk yuk YUK.  At least it’s a little colder out today. Takes the sting out a little, but not much.

Ok, so I know I still have this alien thing to get you up to speed on.  But FIRST, while I’m thinking about it, please allow me to reiterate just ONE MORE mystical back-story of mine.  (And I’m just gonna start referring to these on the BLOG here as “Lynn-cidents”  because frankly I’m growing weary of calling them ‘incidents, occurrences’, and what-have-you.)

The following Lynn-cident began early in the morning on one of the darkest of dark days:  September 11, 2001. 

I had my ass in gear earlier than usual that morning, because apparently there was an “oversized package” waiting for me down at the Richmond Hill Post Office.   I couldn’t imagine what it could be or who it could be from.   My goal on that brilliant Tuesday morning was to hit the P.O. on my way to work.  And it truly was just SUCH a brilliant day.  Many a New Yorker will tell you that they can never forget the blue of the sky that morning.  Dazzling.  Clear.  Almost hurt your eyes.  Temperature, perfectly balanced.  Not a speck of humidity nor a cloud to be seen.

I get to the post office at 8:30.  Not much of a line and then I’m signing for my package.  It IS pretty big - perhaps the size of a small guitar amp. But not too heavy – easy to lift. 

I can’t resist offering a corny joke to the mail-gal at the counter: “Wow!  Hope it’s not a bomb!”  She jokes back: “I hope not either, honey!  I’ll cross my fingers for ya!”   And then me and my mystery-package are on our way.

Back at my car I can’t resist opening the package, because now I see that it’s from my dear cousins who live in Boston.  Me and Chris recently provided musical entertainment at a large family reunion, and it’s a thoughtful thank you gift.  I open it and I’m thrilled:  A bottle of sparkling champagne from their local vineyard, along with two beautiful champagne flutes and a couple of cool t-shirts.   Absolutely lovely!

Feeling ever-so-cheerful by this nice surprise, I start driving to work.  I click on the car radio, and Howard Stern and Robin are announcing that the first Tower has just been hit. I know at once that this is not their usual silly banter, and in my heart I feel a queasy tug.

I pull the car over on

Myrtle Avenue -

right by the old JAHN’S ice cream parlor and turn the engine off.  I jump from the car and call my husband from the corner phone booth.  I feel profound relief when he answers after several rings – he hasn’t left for work yet.  (That’s his area, right by The Towers.)   I tell him:  “Don’t get on the train.  Put on the news.  A plane just hit one of The Towers.”

I meet Chris back at home and together we watch the T.V. in horrified, mostly silent disbelief as the rest unfolds and keeps unfolding…unfolding…unfolding:  An insane, never-ending domino course of terror and destruction.   My younger brother works at The Towers and for several unbearable hours we don’t know his whereabouts. But the Gods smiled on him that day, and when our phone rings and it’s his voice I nearly faint with gratitude. 

We can see the smoke from our neighborhood in Queens.  Feel the grit in the air.  For weeks after, we breathe that vile, acrid ‘not just smoke’ smell, too.  So it feels strange that me and Chris are scheduled to leave for vacation on September 14^th.  It feels like we have no business going on holiday, as it were, while our home town sits in grief-paralyzed, smoldering ruins.   But go we do, because we’ve already paid in advance for a private cottage by a lake in the Adirondack mountains and - selfish or not - we’re both thinking: “Fuck it.  It’ll be a relief to get some distance from this awful thing, even if it’s only for the week.”   So the Friday after The Towers fall, we pack up the car and go.

The gift box from my cousins is still in the car.  I never unpacked it, figuring we’d just bring it along on vacation with us.  The night that we arrive at our quiet little cottage by the water, we’re decompressing from our long drive and I decide hell with it all, let’s open this champagne.   I open the box and look at the bottle.  Hadn’t noticed it before, but the label on the bottle is an artfully abstract sketch of two geese, flying side by side. Purposeful.  Twin missiles.

We’d rented this old cottage a couple of time before, from a sweet little lady named Betty.  Found her on the internet.  Very reasonably priced and very secluded.  TOTALLY haunted.   I can usually scope out these vibes, and let me just say that this place was fairly jitter-buggin’ with ‘em.  Nothing terrible, you understand.  Subtle stuff, nothing concrete. 

Except this time.  This time was different.

I guess it was about the 2^nd or 3^rd night at the cottage.  We’d had dinner and some drinks, and I remember it had been a melancholy evening of me and Chris crying and talking about the disaster back in New York.  Finally, we packed it in and went to bed. 

We opted to sleep on a big fold-out bed in the main living room instead of the smaller bedroom.   We had a pup (Ellie) and a cat (Benjamin) with us at the time and it was just roomier.   It got very dark here at night, as this cottage was situated in a small valley and completely surrounded by giant pine trees.  During the day, sunlight could barely filter in, much less moonlight.  And it was quiet…my goodness, was it ever quiet.  Times you could hear your heartbeat loud in the room.  

Anyhow, we were all in a deep slumber.  Until I think I hear Chris say: “Is that you?” Groggily, I turn to him in the pitch dark but he’s snoring.   I ask: “Did you say  something?”  Still snoring.  Hmmmm.  Must be dreaming?  I turn on my side and I feel cold all the sudden, pull the blankets up around my neck…almost start falling back to sleep when THE LIGHTS START FLICKING ON AND OFF and OUR PORTABLE BOOM-BOX that’s sitting on a table across the room TURNS ON BY ITSELF and starts BLASTING  the Eric Burdon & The Animals tune:

“WE GOTTA GET OUTTA THIS PLACE!  IF IT’S THE LAST THING WE EV-AH  DO…”

It is as loud as HELL.  LOUDER than I thought that boom-box could GO.  I am now sitting bolt upright.  My dog Ellie has woken too and she is trembling and blinking in startled confusion.  We both are.  But CHRIS and the cat Benjamin are STILL SOUND ASLEEP. 

“CHRIS.” 

He is snoring and so is the cat.  Just as suddenly as the music started, it cuts off like a knife and the ceiling lights blink OFF, no more flickering.  I am sitting there in bed, almost hyperventilating.  I get up and I turn the lights on. Then I  cross the room to the boom box.   It’s not even plugged in. 

Chris stirs: “Why you getting up?”

Me: “YOU DIDN’T HEAR THAT?”

Chris: “Hear what.”  He goes right back to sleep.

Me and Ellie sat up until dawn, watching and waiting for the sun to come up. 

After that trip, we bought our own cabin so we never went back to Betty’s place.  Don’t think we’d really want to, anyhow.

 To Be Continued….

Vacation Tales of the Witch - Pt. 2

So, I think how these aliens *  might *  play it before they pay one of us humans a call is that they wait until we’re sort of at a low ebb.  You know, not at the top of our game.  Feeling a mite peakish.  It’s just a theory, of course.  On the other hand, some might argue: Well, Lynn, you were just in a semi-drunken fevered state and therefore hallucinating and there were no aliens at all…

But nuh-uh, I don’t buy that, because ever since we’ve journeyed to our isolated, high-altitude cabin retreat these past 10 years, I have experienced some distinctly odd occurrences, fever or no fever and – yes folks - drinks or no drinks.  And I’ll also mention these occurrences to Chris if they’re particularly interesting, but sometimes I don’t bother.  ("Ok Lynn, this is not the kinda place where we need to be SPOOKING OURSELVES…”)  I mean, he’s a fairly tolerant man and not a closed-minded one by any means, but why overload him with unnecessary heebee jeebies? 

However, I don’t have any problem giving YOU guys a little back-story on some uber-natural (…or not?  ‘Cuz it’s starting to feel kinda natural to me…) kinda stuff I gots goin’ on. 

Like something that I long ago dubbed “THE TRIBALS” for instance:

Whenever I am residing in a wilderness area, be it at our Catskill cabin, New England or wherever we’ve camped over the years - I am frequently woken in the middle of the night by what goes from a low rumble to a nearly deafening roar.  My interpretation is that what I am hearing is bare feet stamping on a dust floor in a rhythmic circle around me, especially just near my head and shoulders (I can feel the vibration, too, pretty strong).  This, accompanied by multitudes of guttural grunting.  Also, what sounds like skin-drums being pounded with sticks.  I wake with a start and without meaning to I wake Chris in the process.  I'm not scared or anything, just stunned because it becomes SO LOUD, also accompanied by a feeling of nearly being STEPPED ON.  So this will JOLT me out of the deepest of slumbers.  Of course, when I wake up the room is dead-quiet (except for my hubby: “Huuhhmmm….whaaa….???”)  So then I'll just tell him: "Sorry, honey…it was The Tribals again."  And we go back to sleep, pretty much right away.  The Tribals rarely come back on the same night, tho’ it’s happened on occasion.  It doesn’t much phase me anymore.  Sometimes I’ll even think: “Wow, been awhile since The Tribals”…and don’tcha know, shortly thereafter they’ll kindly make an appearance.

I’m big on lucid dreams as well.  Not always, but often enough I’ll remember my dreams really, really clearly  – so much so that I began taking notes years ago and I refer back to them now and again and sometimes they’ve proven to be almost precognizant.    ANYWAY….One dream was most vivid and it involved a young, blond woman who came to me smiling.  She looked a little like Sissy Spacek, circa: “CARRIE.”  She claimed to be a musician (“just like you…”), and she said that she needed me to “fill in for her.” 

At the time I had this dream, I was gigging a lot with my band.  So I ask her: “Well, what do you need me to do?  I’m pretty busy myself these days.”  And she just keeps smiling this eerie little smile, as if to say: “I don’t need to tell you – you already know.”   She’s not saying it out loud, but I KNOW she’s thinking it.  And I’m getting a little annoyed with this smiling routine of hers, so I just ask her: “Listen, who ARE you, anyhow?  Do I KNOW you?”  And she says – loud and important-like - still smiling:

“I AM ARLUV.  OF ARTAL  TWARLATOV.”

And I WAKE with a gasp, thinking: “I KNOW HER. I KNOW HER.”  And I look around in the dark on my nightstand for a pen to write this down, because it just…I don’t know…it GRIPS me and it literally takes me some time to catch my breath, bring my heart rate down. 

But then I fall back to sleep almost immediately after I write ole’ Arluv’s information down and when I wake up the next day I don’t know what the fuck it means.  So I tell Chris about it. 

And he goes: “Say that again.” 

Ok.  “I am Arluv.  Of Artal Twarlatov.”  

Chris:  “That’s your language.  That’s definitely the language I always hear you speaking.”

Which – that’s another thing. Chris tells me that some nights I have these big long conversations in my sleep where I’m speaking in a completely different language that sounds like…well, I guess it’s Twarlatovian or something, huh?

To Be Continued….   

Vacation Tales of the Witch, and Shameless

Well, this was a really strange vacation.  I can’t say for sure if it’s because I was abducted by aliens mid-week or not but if I were to hazard a guess,  that certainly COULD be a contributing factor.  But let me not get ahead of myself here.

I had high hopes about spending more than a full week up at our secluded mountain cabin in the heart of the gloriously autumnal Catskills.  The night before heading off into the wilds, me and the hubby celebrated our looming VACATION WEEK by treating ourselves to a fabulous dinner at our favorite restaurant here in Queens.  And ya know what – I could be wrong but that marvelous evening might have sent me spinning into COFFEE RE-TOX HELL. 

Yeah.  After all my hard work kicking the coffee habit several weeks prior,  I just couldn’t resist plunging into a huge double espresso to cap off that fine Italian  meal. And let me tell you something, that espresso was fantastic.  I practically mainlined that shit.  Felt like a real world-beater doin’ it, too.  Wa-HOOOOO!   I’M OFFICIALLY ON VACATION!  DOUBLE ESPRESSO’S FOR EVERYONE!  PRONTO, PRONTO!  MOLTO BENE …Più eccellente…or whatever the hell means outrageously swell in Italiano.

Anyhow, over the course of the next several days, these caffeine-fueled feelings of excessive grandeur hastily and offensively morphed into fever, chills, stomach grips, delirium and nausea to name just a few of the unpleasant symptoms I began to experience whilst camping.  I spent much of my time disoriented, sipping tea, fitfully napping and waking up in order to stoke the fireplace, all to the steady, relentless sound of Chris sawing wood outside.  Because another thing – it WAS FREEZING the entire week.  We even had one day of snowfall.  (It only truly warmed up – beautifully and suddenly - on the morning of our departure, at vacation’s end.)

To further enhance the ultimate vacation experience, it seemed that every time I managed to pass out in another feverish nap,  Herman (who was, naturally, shot out of a cannon the entire week) would commence barking, trumpeting  and bellowing endlessly at every little twig snapped by a passing turkey or chipmunk.  I began referring to our beloved little cabin retreat as “The Abu Ghraib-Inn.”

BUT – I did manage to read EASTER PARADE, a brilliant, exquisitely depressing novel written by one Richard Yates. (This dude’s got depression and angst down to a fine science.  He also wrote REVOLUTIONARY ROAD, also highly recommended.)  And after I polished THAT book off, I launched deliciously into my Enquirer and STAR mags, purchased en route to cabin specifically for vacationing purposes, mind you – this is not a “regular thing” for me, you have my word.  And call me crazy, but between Travolta and Cruise… I dunno … is it the Scientology connection or is it purely coincidental that these are both unyieldingly imbalanced individuals? 

I listened to Ryan Adam’s “Cold Roses” CD and wept along with him for Jerry Garcia.  I also took some scenery pix, many from the vantage point of our little front porch, shivering with fever and, well, also because it was often BELOW FREEZING out there.  Some gorgeous sunrises and sunsets and best of all, all week long the nearly full-moon emerging intermittently from behind thick black clouds to blaze exuberantly against the deepest of blue night skies. 

But still, I battled this virus-y, re-toxy malaise.  Each day I glanced over guiltily at my bongos, guitars and – worst of all – my lovely old piano.  They huddled together, abandoned and ignored, and glared at me from across the room.  My sick despondency contagious to my poor, beloved instrumental friends.  They seemed to beckon: “Play us – we can heal you!”  But alas, I simply couldn’t summon the strength or will. 

Into the 4^th day or so of this nonsense, I had a couple of vanilla-infused shots of vodka (for the nausea, of course) and chased it with perhaps half a bottle of red wine.  I put on Bob Dylan’s Time Out Of Mind CD and before I knew it, it was Time Out of Mind for Lynn. My head hit the pillow and I fell into the sleep of the dead.

And it was shortly thereafter, my friends, where my vacation week got just a tad more inneresting…

To be continued….

 

Mother Moon

The current forecast: Sleet with snow...

Yet to the mountains we must go

With hopes there be a warming trend

Lest scurryin’ it may well send

Me and me posse, blue with cold

No, but it shan’t be

A thousand times No.

For MY forecast reads differently

Despite what I’ve been hearin’…

For t’is my favorite time of year

And I will not be fearin’…

Yes, t’is my favorite time of year

When usually the skies are clear

And colors burst in chaotic scene

With air so crisp and sharp and clean…

There’s pumpkins waitin’ to be carved

There’s eggs to fry and books to read

Logs to cut and fires to stoke

And music, wine and the Lord’s sweet weed.

Poems to write, and stories, too…

Dogs to walk and my Shellfish Stew…

There are Runes to read, (always so wise…)

There’s Mother Moon piercing black velvet skies

There’s talking with my good, fine man

Late into the night

And waking in each other’s arms

In the cold, pink morning light.

Beauty can be fleeting, yes

But not if it is true.

Yes, to the mountain we must go –

And I wish the same

For You.

 * * * *

QUITE THE SITUATION

O, boy.  This J-O-B of mine.  It’s really a pip.  All of these office jobs are pips.  In case it hasn’t hit you yet, this world is a regular insane asylum and an office job will get ya front-row seats EVERY TIME.

I’ve worked in plenty of offices over the years.  Import firms.  Export firms.  Daycare centers.  Accounting firms.  Corporate banking.  Insurance companies.  Contracting firms.   Construction companies.  Trucking companies.  And then, of course, there’s my latest (and I do believe longest) office gig:   LAW FIRM.

Working in a small law firm is like no other office job I have ever had.  Well, aside from my boss being a more-than-somewhat unhinged individual in his own right, I have to say that the quality of the CLIENTELE goes off into the stratospheric charts as far as being – on the whole – deranged.  I blame this on the fact that once you’re looking to hire a lawyer, you’re generally at the end of your rope and sort of a desperate character at that point.  Not ALWAYS the case of course, but if there’s anything these past 12 (!!!) years or so has taught me, it IS the case about 99.9999999% of the time.

Today was a doozy at work, and I ALMOST decided to write this blog about today but then I remembered an even more bizarre work story so that’s the one I decided to share for now.  Not to worry.  It’s not like there’ll be a shortage of these any time soon.

Many particularly loony potential clients show up unannounced.  They are of the “wander in wild-eyed off the street” variety.  If my boss happens to be in the office when this happens, he’ll initially make himself scarce.  In other words, he BOLTS with blinding speed into the bathroom, SLAMMING the door behind him.   This endearing tactic leaves the insane person alone with me, and he/she will inevitably start telling ME all their bullshit problems that I couldn’t give 2 craps about.  And they usually smell bad or have some kind of compulsive or unsanitary tic or habit.  I don’t know why this is, but it’s nearly always a guarantee.  I will not bother to describe these tics or habits and please believe me when I say it’s for the best.

Anyhow, when my boss has finally composed himself enough to make his way out of the bathroom, he’ll then gregariously invite his prospective new client into his private office with all of the fanfare and sociability of a mayor presenting someone with a key to the city.   An enterprising little bullshit dance, performed with flare and verve. 

Monday. Thru. Friday. Every. Goddamn. Week. Year. After. Year.

BUT – on this occasion, my boss happened to be at the courthouse and it was just me in the office.  Ya know.  HOLDING DOWN THE FORT. 

So there I was, sitting at my desk, surfing the web and minding my own B.I. bid’ness-as-usual when in walks this strange dude.  (That’s another thing - my idiot boss always leaves the front door unlocked.  If I don’t stay on top of the situation, any freak or murderer can waltz right in.) 

Strange dude shuffles in and is standing before me.   Maybe 60 years old.  Rumpled corduroys, nubby sweater.  Grayish, disheveled hair.  Damp, sloppy moustache.  Black horn-rimmed glasses balanced crooked on his doughy face. 

I ask my favorite all-time question: “Can I help you?”

And then He speaks.  Now, I think I’m pretty decent at writing phonetically but I’m  gonna ask you nice people to help me out here and also try to imagine his voice as a combo of Dracula and Pepe` Le Pew, only on serious barbiturates.

Dude: “Ah WANDER eef-a YEW kin HALP weeth a certain TERRIBLE SEET-YEW-AY-SHUN.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but the lawyer is in court all day today.  I can take your name and telephone number, and I promise he will call you as soon as he returns.”

Dude: “THEEZ  SEET-YEW-AY-SHUN…eet  eez vurrrrry serious.  VERY SERIOUS.”

Me: “Well, sir – I’m sorry to hear about your situation, but there’s nothing that I can…”

Dude: “EETS ABOUT MY WIVE.  I WANDER EEF I kin jus’ tell YEW and maybe…”

Me: “Sir, I am not a lawyer.  The only thing I can do for you is take your num…”

Dude: “MY WIVE eez being TAUNTED most CRUELLY!  EET EES NOT RIGHT!”

Me: “Taunted?  By who?”  (Why O WHY does my blasted curiosity always have to get the best of me?)

Dude (hissing in an almost malevolent whisper): “There are PEEEE-pul, posing as VOLUNTEERS…at her JOB.”

Me: “Posing as volunteers?  What kind of job is this?”

Dude: “THEY ARE IMPOSTERS!!!” (Smacks my desk.)

Me: “Wow.”

Dude: “Zey are MOCKING my WIVE.  They are merely POSING as VOLUNTEERS and zey haff zee NERFFF to TAUNT and MOCK her!  At her own playzzzz of employment!!!”

Me: “So where does your wife work?”

Dude: “In zeee LAB.  Taking BLOOD.”

Me: “And these volunteers are mocking her? About taking blood?”

Dude: “NO NO NO NO NO.   THEY ARE NOT VOLUNTEERS.  They are merely POSING as VOLUNTEERZZZZZZ….”

Ok, so now I can see that it was a mistake engaging him because the dude is getting all riled up. 

Me: “Ok, sir.  I’m going to ask you to leave now because I’m very busy…”

Dude: “WHAT WOOOOD YEW DEW???”

Me: “What would I do about what.”

Dude (angry as all hell now): “EEFF PEOPLE POSING AS VOLUNTEERS WERE MOCKING YEW, WHAT WOULD YEW DEW IN SUCH A SEE-CHEW-AY-SHUN???”

Me: “Well, I don’t know.  Because I’m not in that situation.  But I’ll tell you what I’d do if you don’t get the hell out of my face right now.”

Dude: “WHAT?  I AM ASKING YEW WHAT WOULD YEW DEW????”

Me: “Please leave, sir.  This is the last time I am going to ask you.”

He stares at me reproachfully, not moving for a moment or two.  I return my eyes to my computer screen, simultaneously opening my top drawer and removing my little can of pepper spray.  He leaves.  I get up and lock the door behind him.

Hey – gotta pay that rent!  

Anyhow, that dude never came back.  I’m sure it’s just as well, but now I’ll always be left to wonder what kind of imposter-volunteer-lab-mockery was going on with his wife’s situation.   Oh, how it haunts me. 

                                               

                                                             * * * * * * * *

Aaaah, yes....havin' one of THOSE days....

This PMS, it ain’t no fun

It’s really hard on everyone

Well, everyone who comes near ME

They have it worst by far, you see.

PLUS my doggy’s on the fritz,

Tummy aches an' gots da shitz…

I took her to the vet last nite

My poor ole’ Ellie…how she shook with fright

They took some blood from her wee doggy-arm

She yelped and shivered with alarm

I couldn’t wait to get her home

And treat her to a Meaty-Bone.

This morning, who should call but they…

THE VET, seems things had gone astray…

Some jackass went and DROPPED THE TRAY

An' Ellie’s BLOOD spilt all away!

So tonite I must bring her back again

More trauma for my fuzzy friend…  L

I hope there’s not too much distress

Made that much worse

By my PMS.

HUNGARY, YOU ARE IN MY PRAYERS

Ha-cha-CHA!  Me Mums and Pops are leaving for Hungary today!  They’ve been planning this trip for what feels (to me, anyhow) like centuries!   I stop by for a “fare-thee-well and good luck” visit.

Mom: “I just hope we get there alright and get back home in one piece.  Your father is all wound up in a knot, worried about everything.”

(Pop is on the phone in the living room, conversing with his sister in Hungary about their pending arrival this evening.)

Me: “Really? He seems ok.”

Mom: “Oh, SURE – to YOU he seems fine.  But you don’t know what I’m GOING THROUGH over here with him!”

Me: “Well, just have a good time, Ma!  Chill out, take in the sights, enjoy the family over there…”

Mom: “Your father is just so nervous,” She makes madcap little hand motions: “He’s enough to get anyone crazy.”

Me: “Well, just take it easy on him then.”

Mom: “I’M fine!  He’s driving ME crazy!”

Me: “I didn’t mean anything by it…just try to take it easy on each other and enjoy the trip.”

Apropos of (seemingly) nothing, Pop walks in with can of Right Guard, plunks it down definitively in the middle of the dining room table between me and Ma.

Mom: “I CAN’T PACK THIS – WE ALREADY HAVE A CAN OF THIS PACKED.”

Pop: “Who the hell wants to pack it??  I want to USE it.”

Ma: “WHEN?  YOU’RE ALL DRESSED!”

Pop: “It just so HAPPENS that I’M GOING TO CHANGE MY SHIRT!”

Ma: “WHY?”

Pop: “Because I HATE the shirt I have on and I SMELL.”

Hey, I’ll bite: “Oh, yeah?  You smellin’, Pop?”

Pop (wise-ass grin): “Perhaps not to the public AT LARGE.  But for my own qualifications, I am not up to STANDARDS.”

Me: “Hmmmmm!  Alrighty then, man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!”

Mom: “Oh, well excuuuuuse ME!  So take your Right Guard and go change – who’s stopping you????”

Pop: “JEEZ, YOUR MUDDER IS MAKIN ME NUTS.”

Mom: “DO YOU SEE WHAT I AM DEALING WITH???”

Pop: “What YOU’RE dealing wit’?  What about what I’M dealing wit’?”

Mom: “If you’re gonna change, you better do it BEFORE THE AIRPORT CAR SERVICE GETS HERE.”

Pop: “They won’t be here for ANOTHER HOUR.  How long do you think it takes me to CHANGE MY SHIRT?”

Mom: “WELL,  you also wanted to PUT DEODORANT ON…”

* * * * ** *

Sigh.  SAFE TRIP, YOU TWO!

I’m gonna miss those crazy kids!!

Oh, Autumn...you just SLAY me...

Twin Pines against

October sky -

We come in "twos",

I dunno why...

Two cats, two dogs

Two humans, We...

And Twin Pines

Cross the road from me

Mother Nature's towers of Green

On our old, wooden porch

With a cup of tea...

Twin Pines against October sky

Enough to bring a tear to eye...

Another Autumn, on the fly...

We're family now,

These trees and I.

Leaves a-crunch 'neath critters feet

Nowhere for miles a pavement street

Maisy races in a crouch...

"No, you CAN'T bring that chipmunk in the house!!!"

Hubby snorin', still in bed

Covers pulled up o'er his head...

Coyotes rampage the valley below

Herman, watchful - on patrol.

Many trees already bare

But there will still be color here

In deep, lush hues of Evergreen

Twin Pines, the loveliest

I've seen.

* * *

ONO HE DIDN'T !!!

Tomorrow, Oct. 9^th, marks what would have been the 70^th birthday of  John Lennon.  John is by far my favorite Beatle.  Now, I know a lot of people say that, and as far as I’m concerned they SHOULD say that because he frankly commands top billing among those 4 fellas,  artistically as well as intellectually and (yes, I’ll say it George – no disrespect intended) spiritually.   Those other guys are great, sure, but John frankly could not help himself:  He’s simply a different kind of animal.  Hell, McCartney can’t forget that and neither should the rest of us. 

Since I was a very young child, John Lennon influenced, informed and colored so many of my musical, literary and humanistic ideals.  I watched in mystified admiration as he pursued his penchant for fearless, uncompromising activism.  Lastly, it certainly didn’t hurt that he was also incredibly handsome. SIGH.   What. A. Guy. 

John’s murder in 1980 was an unparalleled, cataclysmic event in countless lives, mine being no exception.  Tomorrow, as always, I intend to celebrate this amazing man’s LIFE, and all that it has brought to my own life over the years. 

In honor of said exceptional and incomparable life,  I offer you the following true tidbit.   Had there never been a Sir John Winston O’Boogie Lennon, (or one Ms. Lena Bubbyshins, for that matter) this wee tale would never have existed much less been told…

* * *

I was maybe 14 or 15 years old and returning home from an afternoon of playing handball.  My dad was sitting at the dining room table talking to mom about a grueling 3-week job he’d just finished.  

Pop (as I calls ‘im) came over from Hungary in 1956.  For most of his life, he owned and operated an ornamental steel company out of Williamsburg, Brooklyn.  Back-breaking, meticulous work that he loved.  Many of his jobs were Manhattan-based.  Pop speaks excellent English and he sports a distinctive Euro-hipster accent, somewhere between Brooklynese and his native Hungarian.  (Brooklarian?)

Anyhow, I’m standing at the kitchen counter making myself a tuna sandwich, half-hearing my dad’s voice until it slowly starts filtering in that this JOB he’s talking about is that he just completed INSTALLING THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE in JOHN AND YOKO’S APARTMENT IN THE DAKOTA. 

I spin around from the sink, nearly stabbing myself with my fork: “JOHN LENNON?  You’ve been working in JOHN LENNON’s APARTMENT?  Since when?”

Pop: “Almost 3 weeks.  Thank God that’s OVER.”

Me: “And you NEVER MENTIONED THIS TO ME???”

Pop: “Since when you care about who I work for?”

Me: “JOHN LENNON??? You couldn’t even GET ME AN AUTOGRAPH?”

Pop: “These people, they live like slobs! They never get out of their pajamas.  You don’t want their autograph.”

Me: “O my GOD.”

Pop: “They float around like spooks, always smoking.  That’s all these people do is smoke.”

Me: “O my GOD.  WE HAVE TO GO BACK THERE and pretend you LEFT SOMETHING BEHIND!!!”

Pop: “What?  Who the hell wants to go back there?”

Me: “I DO.  I WANT TO MEET JOHN.  I WANT AN AUTOGRAPH… I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS.”

Pop: “What are you, crazy?  Those people don’t look like they BATHE.”  He gets up to pour himself a scotch.

Over the past couple of decades, I’ve finally forged a great relationship with my Pop.  But back then…well…I don’t know how it is for other teenage daughters and their fathers.  But to quote Robert Plant here: COMMUNICATION BREAKDOWN.

Me (Despondent now, I can see there’s no hope): “Pop, it’s just that I’ve been listening to this man’s RECORDS constantly from the time I could walk…”

Pop: “So?  Listen to his records!  Who’s stopping you from listening to his records???”

You’d have to know my Pop to read the body language, but let’s just say: END OF SUBJECT.  I wander away in bereft shock, forgetting all about my tuna sandwich.

But now, all these years later I can’t help but reflect:  Let’s just say my dad DID bring me to the DAKOTA for my Summit with John.   What in hell would THAT have been like, anyhow?  My 14-year-old self standing there sheepishly before John and/or Yoko, meekly offering my hand or autograph paper and pen?   Hoping that John bestow – gasp - a hug or a kiss to his #1 fan from Queens?  Everyone knows how downright withering John could be on a bad day.  Douche chills.  No, the way it worked out is probably all for the best.

Some years later, in one of the many Lennon biographies I’ve read over the years, (The Last Days of John Lennon), the installation of that spiral staircase is briefly mentioned.   It is also mentioned therein how acutely uncomfortable John was about having “burly construction men tromping around his living space for nearly 3 weeks”.   So there ya go.  No wonder John smoked like a chimney and forewent the usual (I hope) shower during that interlude.  He was completely thrown off his game by my Pop and his cronies!    A sigh of relief - Yeah, no way I’d wanna be implicated in that mess.

And now, in this beautiful and tragic world, my Pop (God bless him) is still alive and kickin’ like the dickens,  a mere handful of years older than what John would have been tomorrow.   And honestly, shouldn’t it be enough that my dear ole’ Pops BUILT with his own two hands the very staircase that Johnny Ace traversed daily, for the last 3 years of his life here on earth?  His delicate, talented hands caressing the cool wrought iron banisters that MY FATHER – my very own flesh and blood – exactingly installed with his own roughened, equally talented hands?  Yes, it should be enough.  And it is.  More than enough.

Strangely, over the years I have had a reoccurring lucid dream wherein I am sitting cross-legged in a sunken-style living room across from -  lo and behold - my Pop’s painstakingly crafted spiral staircase.   John soon appears at the top, and as he makes his way down toward me he asks with that cheeky grin and a wink: “So luv, ‘ow’s yer ole’ maaaahnnn?” 

Happy Birthday, John.   

I love you – yeah, yeah, yeah.  (And I love you, too Pops.)

Guess the joke's on ME...

* * *

I thought I was smug, but make no bones

I ain’t quite beaten this JAVA JONES…

I thought I had this coffee thing beat…

But today finds me slumpin’ low in me seat

Me heads-a poundin’, me eyes unclear

Even after a full-night’s sleep, I fear…

One week gone by, assumed I was safe

But now here I sit like an orphaned waif…

Chewin’ me nails down to the quick…

This blasted TEA is making me SICK...

Eatin’ Exedrine (they contain some caffeine)...

Barely feelin’ like half a human bean.

I’m stickin’ it out, tho’ – I won’t give in

This is one battle I’m plannin’ ta win…

I won’t let this crap throw me in a tailspin

I’ll emerge from it stronger, sure as my name be

LYNN…

Oh, I thought I was smug, but make no bones

There's ain't no WAY I've beaten this

JAVA JONES.

* * *

P.S. - Eckhart’s lecture last nite:  PURE  ECK-ZELLENCE!!!!!

  

Ahhhh...A FINE WEDNESDAY IT BE!

I guess it's been about a week now abstaining from coffee and it's going pretty well.  Nothing earth-shattering.  Although, while one of the reasons I quit drinking it was because it was affecting my sleep patterns...it seems that NOT drinking it is having some affect on my sleep patterns anyhow, only in a different way.   As in:  BEFORE, I had trouble FALLING asleep and STAYING asleep.  NOW, I have no trouble falling asleep but I wake up (WIDE AWAKE) at like 4:00 a.m.   The only answer is to get up and DO something for a couple hours before I can get back to sleep.  The other morning it was manuscript editing.  This morning I paid bills.  I wonder how long it will take before this new "schedule" levels itself off...or IF it will...?

Listen, talk about EYE-OPENERS...after I drop Chris off at the train today, I'm driving along (dogs in the backseat, business as usual) and I find myself at a red light, behind a big city bus.  And THIS is the poster that I find myself staring at:

"HARRY LOVES LISA!!"

Now, I'm not a T.V. Head, but I recognize these two nitwits.  She's an aging gamin who originally put those injected duck-lips on the map, and he was once a heart-throb on - was it "L.A. Law"?  One of those. 

Okay, so - I mean, just look at these two.  This is what people are watching.  There's absolutely NO HOPE in television.  There never WAS, but this to me seems to clinch it.

Anyhow - busy day (and night) ahead!  This NY weather is rockin', too!

SEIZE THE DAY~!  ~ ox *