A WEIRD POEM

So a little over a month ago, Herman

Goes and (seemingly) sprains his leg.

Front-left ankle joint. 

All swollen. 

The vet puts him on an anti-inflammatory

  and joint antibiotics. 

Two weeks later, not much better.

X-rays. 

Looks like either a bone infection or bone cancer.  

Osteomyelitis or Osteosarcoma – take yer pick

But hope for the first one. 

And either way, this is will be

Not fun.   

He will be 5 on July 4^th.

He’s so beautiful and full of energy.  

I spend my spare moments holding his lame

Foot while he sleeps, stroking it. 

It’s so beautiful, this foot.

I’ve never seen such a pretty foot…

Much less held one.

Ellie’s Herm’s big sister

Even tho’ she’s little. 

Not her heart, tho’.  Ellie has

The heart

  of a Lion. 

She’ll be 12 in August.

She Will Be 12 in August.

* * * * *

AND, IN THE END...

So this whole RAPTURE thing that’s supposed to hit – what, tomorrow at 6:00 p.m.?   Sharp?  I dunno.  Maybe it will, maybe it won’t – who’s to say, really?  Some people get really annoyed by the whole thing, or upset or whatever.  But I think it’s kind of exciting.

I mean, we make fun of these Christian Scientists or whatever they are.  Actually, who’s responsible for this, anyhow?  I’m woefully uninformed.  But it’s a certain Christian sect.  I say “certain”, because I know an awful lot of Christians and they are not buyin’ it. 

Honestly, I could never deal with the religiosity thing.  This whole fear-based,  punishment-laden, heavy, threatening mess.   And in my soul of souls, I honestly put no credence whatsoever into the END TIMES crap.  But I have to admit,  I am fascinated by it.  And today I found myself actually fantasizing about IF IT REALLY WERE TO HAPPEN…

So because I love you so, I shall generously share herewith the view from my brain, as imagined by me, according to my current plans for tomorrow, which is May 21, 2011:

* * * * * *

MAY 21, 2011

11:00 a.m.:  Roll outta bed.  It’s a semi-sunny, oddly muggy morning.  Dogs need walking.  Me and Chris, Ellie and Herman hit the McDonald’s Drive Thru in Glendale for iced coffees and I do believe I will have one of those oatmeal-n-fruit cups that they just started carrying for us HEALTHY folk.   Then we head up to The Dome, where doggies can get their park on and we can sit and enjoy our breakfast.   This kills about an hour and a half.  Sky is clouding all the while.

1:30 p.m.:   We come home and put on a record.   Today is actually my parent’s 51^st wedding Anniversary so we have 6:00 p.m. (!!!!!!) reservations at Belmont Steaks to celebrate with them.  My two brothers will be joining us as well.  And for the record, tomorrow (May 22^nd) is me and Chris’ 12-yr. wedding  anniversary.  So who know what the hell THAT means.

But anyhow, we put on a record and take turns showering.  I get the dogs and the cats fed and then we put on another record and maybe lay down for a little bit and read and cuddle or whatever and then before you know it we get up and get dressed and it’s TIME TO GO TO DINNER.

5:45 p.m.:   We leave the house, and I’ve had to give Herman an extra dose of PET CALM because he’s super-upset because for some reason he hates when we go out in the evening.  Daytime is not really good for him, either, but EVENING LEAVINGS – oy vey.   Plus we all have it in the back of our minds that tonight might be The Apocalypse so nobody’s real happy about that, either.

6:00 p.m.:   For the entire 15-minute drive to the restaurant, the sky gets darker and darker.  Also, the wind picks up violently.  We nervously try to laugh it off.  I express the wish to go back home, the hell with the restaurant, but Chris talks me down.  I realize I am being silly.  Right?

We arrive at Belmont Steaks and I can see thru the window that my parents are already seated.  My mother waves to me sweetly thru the window, Edith Bunker-style.  My dad is wearing one of his John Gotti shirts, as I call them.  As usual, he looks serious but pleased to see us.  Always that light in his eye.  Not too many people in the place.  Maybe 3 or 4 tables of patrons, couple of people at the bar.  Sky is black now. 

My brothers are here, too.  Both are grinning, but their eyes look big to me as we approach the table.   We look at each other, and as the wind hammers against the large front window of the restaurant we are reading each other’s thoughts as siblings do:

 “Is this crazy, or what?”

And that’s it.

* * * * * *

CRUCIFIXION - PT. 3

As soon as I get the 911 operator on the line, things start looking up.  She just sounds so calm and lucid - as if plunging a knife clear thru my hand is a perfectly reasonable thing for me to have done on a fine Thursday evening at home.

I’ve already given her my address …

Me:  “… and now I have a dishtowel duct taped around my hand…but I feel kinda dizzy…”

911:  “…Okay, that’s good. (???)  What you need to do now is sit down in a chair and hold your hand up - as high as you comfortably can.”

Me: “Like, up above my head?”

911:  “Above heart level is fine.”

Now why the hell didn’t I think of that?  As soon as I elevate my hand, I can feel that the blood stops gushing almost immediately.   The 911 broad stays on the phone with me until the EMT dudes ring the buzzer.   I thank the nice broad, hang up and buzz  ‘em into the building. 

Two youngish EMT dudes make their way up the stairs.  I’m standing there in my doorway waving my bloody-soaked dish-toweled right hand in the air while struggling with Ellie - who has become a squirming a football - under my left armpit.  

Dude # 1:   “What are you doing?”

Me: “What do you mean, what am I doing?”

Dude #2: “Why are you holding that dog like that?”

Me: “What?  Why can’t I hold my dog?”

Dude # 1: “It just looks strange.”

Me: “She’s just a puppy.  If I don’t hold her, she’ll bolt down the stairs.  YOU wanna chase her down the stairs?  Because I’m pretty busy bleeding to death here.  I don’t really feel up to dealing with that, too.” 

Dude # 2: “Okay, let’s just get you inside…”

So we go into the living room, since the kitchen in that apartment was the size of a storage closet.  I put Ellie down and I sit on the couch.  The one dude starts removing the dishtowel. 

Dude # 1:  “Wow, how’d you DO this?”

Me: “Death by candle holder.”  Meanwhile…

Dude # 2:  “THIS IS YOU?”

Me: “What?”  I look up.  Chris is an artist and our apartment is wall-to-wall oil paintings.  The dude is staring up at one painting in particular – a huge portrait of a voluptuous and utterly naked woman splayed out on a table.  It’s one from his early art school days.

Me: “No, that’s not me.”

Dude #2: (sounding dejected): “Oh.”

These two finally buckle down together, swab and re-wrap my hand.  I have to stay seated throughout, hold it up high or else the blood starts pumping out again.  Then it’s time to hustle me off to the Emergency Room. 

I put a protesting Ellie into her crate and grab a jacket and my keys but as we’re leaving it dawns on me that Chris will be home soon and he’s gonna come into the apartment to find bloody mayhem all over the kitchen and one hysterical, incarcerated puppy. 

Me: “Listen – give me a second, guys.  I have to just leave my husband a note.”  The dudes are waiting for me in the hallway.

Lucky for me, I’m a lefty.  I JUST start scribbling a note when I hear one of the dudes say: “ARE YOU THE HUSBAND?”

And then I hear Chris’ voice: “Uuuhhhh…yeah….?” 

I can tell exactly what he is thinking just by the sound of this interaction:

Oh, god…what has she done now?  Has she actually killed herself in anticipation of failing as a dinner hostess for my parents? 

And I’m sorta right, because in the after-aftermath of all this, he admits to me: “I had no idea what to expect.  Just being called THE HUSBAND in that way sent shivers of pure dread thru me.” 

Which, well it should because ACTUALLY – later on at the hospital, while my hand was being FLUSHED FOR PARTICLES (OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW) , Chris was being relentlessly interrogated by the hospital detectives as to whether in fact it may have been THE HUSBAND who committed THE STABBING. 

We got home from the hospital very late – actually, it was about 2 or 3 in the morning when all was said and done.  I did manage to have one more rather significant melt-down when the x-ray technician went “on break” JUST before it was my turn to get x-rays and I’d already been waiting for over 2 hours.  I was threatening the staff, getting kinda loud.  CAGED HEAT  kinda stuff.  Hey, it was a rough night.  At any rate, by the time I was finished up over there, I don’t think anyone had any more doubts about who had committed their very own stabbing.  Chris was officially off the hook.

Just before I collapse into bed, exhausted from my own hysteria and high as hell on painkillers, I hear my mother's voice floating in from the other room - on my answering machine: "LYNN WHERE ARE YOU.  ME AND YOUR FATHER ARE VERY WORRIED.  CALL US NOW.  We want you to CALL US RIGHT NOW."  And then, mercifully, everything goes BLACK.

The dinner party was postponed exactly one week and it was an unmitigated triumph.  Somewhere there are photos of me raising my wine glass with one hand, beaming and waving cheerfully with my other big, giant, bandaged mitt.

So this was a real fun adventure.  And as always, I’ve enjoyed dragging you all into it with me.  And I came away from it very lucky because while there is some nerve damage, it is extremely minimal and it has not affected my life as a musician or otherwise. 

I do still get that little tingly sensation occasionally, tho’, if I move the hand just right.  And it serves as a useful reminder to always try to keep my wits about me.   Because ANXIETY KILLS.

Or in the very least, it can sure hurt like hell.

* * * * * *

CRUCIFIXION - PT. 2

…So anyhow, there’s an awful lot of stuff on display atop my old piano.  Lots to clean and shine…

But that’s OKAY!  With my task clearly mapped out, I experience a surge of newfound confidence, poise and… dare I say ?…panache!   Industriously, I fill up a cardboard box with all of the crystal candleholders and shlepp the works into the kitchen, plunking it down next to the sink.   I fill the sink with warm, soapy water and pick out a favorite crystal votive as my first candidate.   TIME TO GIT TA WORK!

Hmmmm….There’s a lot of built-up wax at the bottom of this baby.  Ridiculous amount, really – good thing I’m doing this important project because honestly, that much extra wax can be dangerous when burning candles…WOW… it’s really caked in there…

So I grab, what else?… a STEAK KNIFE and set about piercing thru the waxy buildup.  And I would say almost IMMEDIATELY, the brutal, serrated dagger powers RIGHT THRU THE BOTTOM OF THE GLASS and DIRECTLY INTO MY PALM. 

“Uhhhhhh……AAAAAAGGGGGH”.  I stare down at this mess in total shock.  The glass of the votive candle holder falls away, having split neatly into two halves.  All that is left is my hand with a steak knife stuck in it.  And here’s the best part.  The tip of the knife is actually protruding OUT of the OTHER SIDE OF MY HAND.  

In a sickly and horrific dreamlike state, I YANK the knife out.  OH, THE PAIN - THE PAIN - THE PAIN - THE PAIN.  But even worse…  THE BLOOD - THE BLOOD - THE BLOOD  - THE BLOOD - THE BLOOD. 

The blood the spurting all over the kitchen.  Hitting the walls, the floor, the dog, the cat. It’s like a bad Monty Python skit.  Without thinking (and what else is new?),  I plunge my hand into the soapy, warm sink.  The foamy water turns a deep, rich burgundy so quickly that I almost lose consciousness.  I am vaguely aware of my own voice coming from somewhere: “O no O god O no Ogod O no Ogod O NO….”

I have to admit that up until this particular incident, I was simply not well-versed in the area of home emergency first-aid, at least the art of performing it on myself while I’m bleeding to death all alone in my kitchen.   I mean, I’ve gotten pretty good SINCE then, but during THIS escapade, things were just not looking very good. 

However, why in hell I decide to call my mother (instead of 911) at this moment MUST have some kind of deep-seated psychological implications, honestly.  I mean, she lives clear across town, does not drive and quite frankly has a few panic issues of her own.  But CALL MOM I do, covered in my own gore and hyperventilating to the point of incoherence.

Mom: “HELLO?”  She already sounds really anxious, but that’s normal for Mom.   See, that’s the thing – Mom always answers the phone sounding as if she’s expecting the worst news.  In fact, I joke her about it.  So for a change, this time she’s way ahead of the game.

I’m trying to control my breathing, but I know what I sound like: “Ma….I stabbed myself…”

Mom: “WHAT?  WHO IS THIS?”  I’m her only daughter, but whatever…

Me:   “Ma, it's me.  I was cleaning a candle and I’m bleeding – the knife went right thru my hand…”  My voice sounds faint to me and I'm starting in with the tunnel vision.

Mom: “GO TO A NEIGHBOR’S HOUSE.  GO RING A NEIGHBOR’S BELL.”

Me: “What?  Our neighbors hate us.  They’ll turn me away.”

Which may or may not be true.  We lived in a 3-floor walk-up with (mostly) a bunch of Dominican people who really didn’t care for our late-night rock n’ roll jams.   And the rest of our “neighbors” were elderly people who also didn’t care for our late-night rock n’ roll jams.   I had a visionary flash of myself, weakly staggering into the hallway and rapping on their doors, and nobody answering as I eventually crumple into a lifeless heap on the cold, wet tile floor in a pool of my own sticky blood. 

Mom: “GO TO THE NEIGHBORS.  SOMEONE WILL HELP YOU.  GO NOW.”

Me: “I might faint…”

Mom: “DON’T  FAINT.”

Me: “I don’t want to.  But I don’t know if I’m fainting because of all the blood or because I’m just fainting…”

Mom: “RUN YOUR HAND IN THE COLD WATER AND THEN GO TO THE NEIGHBORS.”

I actually try the cold water thing, but that makes the blood start really pumping out in buckets.  So that can’t be good.  But I really am feeling like I’m just on the brink of passing out now, so…

Me: “Okay, I’m gonna go, Ma.  I better call an ambulance.”  Wow – took me awhile to figure THAT one out…  And I hang up.

I look down at Ellie, who’s been pacing around my feet, whining up at me mournfully.  I shakily pat her with my non-bleeding hand and tell her:  “Don’t worry, little bubby…I'm okay...”   Oy.  So far this one really lucked out in the Mommy Department…

I duct-tape a dishtowel around my bleeding hand and dial 911…

TO BE CONTINUED….

CRUCIFIXION BY DINNER PARTY

Ahhhh…how I’ve missed you all, my little Springtime Squirrels.  And I mean that in the most affectionate possible way.

Before life continues to have its way with me, I figured I’d pop in here with a little adventure story that came to mind for no particular reason as I poured over song lyrics this weekend. 

Well, actually, I do know why it came to me.  It’s because as I was working on some guitar chords, I felt an old familiar tingling sensation in the palm of my right hand.  There’s a straight, shiny ½-inch scar on the palm of this hand and it signifies my own personal mini-crucifixion.  So hey – this is almost like an Easter story!  Or something.

It happened on a Thursday evening about 12 years ago. 

I am newly married to my second (and present) husband and my brand-new in-laws are scheduled to come for dinner the following night.  I could be wrong, but I don’t believe we’d ever had them over before.  Either way, our apartment totally looks like a bomb hit. 

Me and Chris are both extremely good at planning all kinds of things like straightening up, cleaning and shopping for refreshments.  But we’re even BETTER at spending our spare time hanging out in the park with our dogs, coming home to pop a record on, cracking open a frosty cold one and jamming on our instruments!  Usually followed by perhaps a movie OR -  a very popular favorite - taking a marathon nap.   

To say we are not prepared for company in less than 24 hours … much less IN-LAW company… well.  I am suddenly feeling the pressure.  We’re both working full-time, of course, so that’s always good for an excuse.  But not really when you extend the invite 2 or 3 weeks in advance, which we did.  

So I get home from work, my mind racing.  I’ve picked up some shrimp and wine on my way home and it seems like a paltry, pathetic attempt at normalcy.  I cannot believe how ghastly the apartment looks - it is literally in shambles.  Not FILTHY or anything, but suddenly it looks like a bohemian commune gone mad.  Had Rev. Jim Jones come in and handed me the Kool-Aid, I’d-a drunk it on the spot and asked for seconds.   My well-documented ANXIETY ISSUES kick into instantaneous high gear.

Our dog Ellie was just a little puppy then – still being house-trained.   She’s in her crate yipping frantically ‘cuz it’s been a pretty long day for her.  I attempt to get her over to the wee-wee pad as quickly as possible, but as soon as I open the crate she jumps out and EXPLODES all over the living room carpet - crapping, pissing - the whole enchilada.    My head explodes along with her bowels.  Standing amongst this ruinous sewage, I lunge for the phone to scream at Chris.

Because as always, Chris is not home yet since he always gets home well after I do.  I wait breathlessly until he answers, when I can start full-tilt with my conniption.

Chris: “Hello?”

Me (voice tight with panic): “Honey.  I am gonna lose it.”

Chris: “Uhhh...What...?”  (12 years later, he still gets that forlorn-yet-knowing inflection in his voice when he hears me winding up for the pitch…)

Me: “I AM GONNA FUCKIN’ LOSE IT BECAUSE THIS APARTMENT LOOKS LIKE A PIECE OF SHIT!!!”

Chris: “O, god…Lynn…it’ll be alright…”

Me: “NO IT WON’T!!!  HOW CAN IT possibly???  WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO?  YOUR PARENTS ARE COMING TOMORROW.  WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH US?”

Chris: “There’s nothing wrong with us!  We’re good, honey!  We’re golden!  You gotta calm down, please…”

Me: “I CAN’T CALM DOWN.  THE DOG SHIT  EVERY WHERE.”

Chris: “What?  In her crate?”

Me: “NO – ALL OVER THE FLOOR.  SHE PEED, TOO….THE RUG IS ALL SOAKED.  I BOUGHT SHRIMP AND THEY LOOK LIKE SHIT, THE GOOD SEAFOOD PLACE WAS CLOSED…”

Chris: “Alright, you are not making sense right now Lynn.  I will be home in an hour and we’ll get everything fixed up nice, I promise.”

Me: “THERE’S TOO MUCH TO DO.  THERE’S NO WAY.  I’M KILLING MYSELF NOW.”

Chris: “I’m going to hang up, okay?  Because the sooner I hang up, the sooner I can get home to help you.”

Me: “YOU’RE COMING HOME RIGHT NOW?”

Chris: “Yes.  Okay?  Are you gonna be alright?”

Me: “Okay.  Please come home right now.”

Chris: “Okay.   See you in a bit.”

Me: “Thanks, honey.  I’m sorry I’m insane.”

Chris: “I know you are.”

Me: “That I’m sorry or that I’m insane?”

Chris: “Both.”

I hang up, feeling a little better.  First things first – I set about cleaning up after Ellie, who has been staring at me with a face full of worry.   I feel terrible when I look at her sad brown eyes.   My big tabby-cat Benjamin is taking it all in stride, at any rate.  He knows me pretty well – he’s got a few years on Ellie.  I take a break and cuddle with the animals on the couch for awhile, just to get my bearings. 

I scan the room – where to begin?  I know.  My piano.  It’s truly the showcase in the tiny apartment, bearing on its mantle numerous ornate candles, various crystals and tchotchkes that I hold dear.  

Yes...yesss...I shall begin by cleaning and shining up all of my lovely goodies…it’ll be like therapy…

TO BE CONTINUED…

A Cowboy, A Giant and A School Bus

GROWN-UP UNEMPLOYMENT.  

Word!  Grown-up-after-a-12-year-stint-in-a-virtual-insane-asylum-unemployment  may just be the very best kind of unemployment there is.   Life is my oyster and I got some slurpin’ ta catch up on.  YO!  Pass d’at cocktail sauce!

Whilst bookin’ around town this week,  I found myself on the road with many a school bus.  Which brings to mind the following yarn.

About 13 years ago, I did short stint (about 16 months) as a receptionist at a children’s daycare center here in Queens.  This place was an unrelentingly demented nuthouse.    (Christ, what the hell IS it with these places where I’ve been employed?)   Anyhow, the people who ran this monstrosity were absolute freaks - bordering on depraved.  I needed the income at the time, but honestly - I despised this bunch. 

Not the kids, tho’.  I mean, while lots of the kids who attended the daycare were completely insane Ritalin Kids, for the most part they were also fantastic. 

Many were obviously attention-starved and they used to come into my cubicle and hang all over me and tell me all kinds of crazy stories and stuff and I’d draw pictures with them and tell them jokes and give them kooky hairstyles until one of the depraved freak employer shit-heads would inevitably be drawn by the sound of a happy child and come over to yell at the kid:  GO INTO THE BIG ROOM WITH THE OTHER CHILDREN AND STOP BOTHERING LYNN.  SHE IS HERE TO WORK NOT TO PLAY WITH YOU.   

And then later I’d go find the kid and just tell ‘em:  “Don’t you worry about shit-head over there.  She’s a big mess and everybody hates her - that’s why she’s so angry all the time.  Just look at that shriveled, nasty face of hers!  Eww, right???   You’re never bothering me.  You come talk to me whenever you want, bubby.”

And they always would come back to hang with me because as one feisty little Latino gal told me when she found out I was quitting:  “Damn, Lynn!  You’re the ONLY COOL PERSON IN THIS PLACE.   NOW what’re we gonna do?”  (Sigh.  Wonder how she turned out.  She was a real pistol, that little one.)

But anyhow, before I left that scene for greener (?) pastures, aside from my clerical duties, the Depraved Shit-heads used to force me to also drive a school bus.  Well, not actually FORCE me to.   But for some damn reason I’d always relent and end up driving the school bus if one of the drivers called in sick. Which was pretty often.  Honestly, I did it for the keeeds. (ß  using my “Mr. T.” voice here) Because the place was not only an after-school daycare.  During the summer it became a sort of a hellish summer camp. 

Now, I don’t have a school bus license nor have I EVER had a school bus license.  But I had experience driving a huge Chevy van around with my band for years and honestly, this school bus handled better than my old tank.  So driving was mostly a breeze but the kids could get a little rowdy sometimes and that’s when I’d just pull over and stand up to face them in the bus and scream at the top of my lungs.  Usually something like this:

“I AM TRYING TO DRIVE, HERE.  I WILL NOT SAY IT AGAIN: IF YOOZ DON’T SETTLE THE FUCK DOWN I WILL END UP CRASHING THIS BUS INTO A WALL AND WE WILL ALL DIE.  DO YOU WANT TO DIE? BECAUSE I KNOW I DON’T WANT TO DIE.  WHO WILL FEED MY DOGGIES IF I DIE???   AND YOUR PARENTS WILL BE VERY UPSET IF YOU DIE.   SO JUST SHUT THE HELL UP AND SETTLE DOWN RIGHT NOW SO THAT WE CAN ALL LIVE!”

Which would send most of them into giggles, and then they’d settle right down. 

Little Sunil and Little Sulil were tiny Pakistani boys – brothers.   They had these huge, deep brown eyes.  Kinda serious, except they’d laugh hysterically every time I made a nasally voice and said: “Here we go again guys  – onto the JACKIE ROBINSON PARKWAY….”    They used to call me Cowboy because sometimes I wore a wide-brimmed leather hippy hat for our bus excursions.

So then I’d hear Little Sunil in the back of the bus: “Be quiet!  Cowboy doesn’t want us to die!”

And then Little Sulil pipes in: “…and her DOGS will be HUNGRY…!”

* * * * * *

Most of the time, I’d be driving the kids to the Jamaica Library or to Flushing Meadow Park to the Museum of Science because these things were free and the Depraved Freaks were always looking for a way to soak the parents for a “DAY TRIP”, just so they could pocket the cash and dump the kids at a shitty ‘free place’ for the day.  And honestly, I didn’t mind because at least it got us all away from the Depraved Shit-heads for an afternoon.    

So it would be me driving the bus, with like 35-40 (mostly unhinged) kids packed in solid, along with one “Assistant” who was supposed to be handling these unhinged kids.  The Assistant was a gentle, highly intelligent middle-aged Guyanese woman. I’ll call her “Grace” because honestly, she embodied the word.   The children loved Grace, too, but she had little or no control over them whatsoever. 

The Depraved Shit-heads treated Grace like an indentured servant because they knew she needed this job very, very badly.   Me and Grace loved getting together on these trips and talking trash about the Depraved Shit-heads.  Man, we could Yenta it up for hours while the kids ran amuck all over the place until we’d eventually get kicked out and have to head back to the daycare center…

* * * * * *

One day my impromptu driving assignment was to take Grace and the Gang to SYMPHONY SPACE on the Upper East Side to see – what else? – a FREE PLAY. 

I didn’t know where the hell I was going in that section of the city, but that wasn’t really the problem.  The problem was one kid that was gonna be on my bus.  He was always trouble.  A real hard-core black kid, Nathan.  This kid had a huge chip on his shoulder.  He came from a rough home.  He had no father figure to speak of and a very tough, very tired mom. 

Nathan was one of the older boys at the center, about 11 years old.  A big boy for his age.  Smart kid, despite it all.  Very talented, too – could sing and dance amazingly.  He was also a thief.  He stole from everybody, adults, kids, didn’t matter.  I used to regularly catch him climbing on a chair to get to my shoulder-bag that I kept high up on a bureau in my office.

Me (clearing my throat loudly): “Nathan, dude – not cool.”

Nathan (Smiling, still standing on the chair): “What’s not cool?”

Me: “Get off the chair, Nathan.  And don’t you dare try that again.”

Nathan: “Why?  Whatchoo gonna do?”  Climbs down from the chair, muttering under his breath as he saunters away leisurely: “White bitch.” 

Me: “What’s that, little brother?”

Nathan: (Big toothy grin over his shoulder): “SAND-WICH!”

* * * * * *

So anyhow, as soon as I find out that I’m driving into the city with Nathan onboard, I decide to enlist my boyfriend’s help.  Me and Chris weren’t married yet, I had only recently moved in with him.  I call him up quick, praying I caught him in time before he’s left for work.  He answers.

Me: “Honey, you gotta come with me into the city.  I gotta drive the kids to SYMPHONY SPACE.”

Chris: “Why do you need me?”

Me: “Because I need you, that’s all.  Please?  I’ll pick you up in front of our apartment?”

Chris: “Ok.  Gimme 10 minutes.”

THANK YOU, GOD.    As the kids board the bus, Nathan is already making one of the girls cry.  Another kid is screaming that Nathan took his candy and ate it.  Things are escalating quickly and not in a good way.  We hit the road and as we approach the block where I’ll be picking up Chris, I stop the bus and stand up for one of my infamous announcements.

OK, EVERYONE.  A GIANT IS COMING and if you DO NOT SETTLE DOWN AND BEHAVE he will THROW YOU OFF THE BUS, ONE BY ONE.  DO YOU GET THAT?  NOW, HE IS A KIND AND DECENT GIANT, BUT IF YOU GIVE ME ANY KIND OF SHIT WHATSOEVER WHILE I AM DRIVING THIS BUS, I WILL HAVE HIM THROW YOU OFF INTO TRAFFIC, ONE BY ONE.

Some of the kids giggle nervously but Nathan just glares at me. “Bullshit.” He says.

I sit back down and head onward.  Chris comes into view, all 6-and-a-half feet of him. 

Little Sulil (Reverently): “There’s the giant.”

Little Sunil: “I see him.  He looks pretty nice.”

Nathan really quiets down as Chris climbs aboard.  The whole busload of ‘em becomes positively angelic.  Grace catches my eye and gives me a happy little wink. 

And slowly, Nathan sidles up to the front of the bus so he can sit right next to Chris.  The four of us – Me, Chris, Nathan and Grace - end up conversing pleasantly for the rest of the trip about music and movies and sports and, oh, all kindsa good stuff!   That trip ends up being just a great day.  Even the free play didn’t suck so bad as I thought it would.

Me and Nathan were great friends after that and I never caught him climbing up on that chair ever again.  He was so talented.  I hope he did well for himself.

* * * * * *

Birthdays, Brothers and Mickey Mouse Banks

Howdy, my loves!  And I DO love YOU!

Whew, I really had to take a break from fine-tuning that damn MANUSCRIPT.  All work and no play, la-dee-daah and all like THAT.   I suppose it’s made all the more grueling when some of these chapters reflect some less-than-lovely aspects of my youth.  Little hard to take at times. 

But nobody wants to read a honey-coated memoir, least of all me.  The resulting past couple weeks have been a continuous opening of veins (maybe even an artery here and there...)  Hey, I got feelings, man!  I love the writing thing, but it DOES get me a little ferklempt occasionally.

At any rate, I woke up with an old song in my head today so it’s time for a little fun.  (For me, anyhow.)

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The Great Powers That Be have blessed me with two brothers this time around.  One is a year and half older than me and one is nearly four years younger, so for most of my life I have been neatly sandwiched between these guys within the familial realm.   They’re nice enough fellas.  They do their brotherly bit pretty well. 

Tomorrow is my older brother’s birthday and so this BLOG is dedicated to him! 

As kiddies, me and Bro # 1 were like Irish Twins, Frick N’ Frack, Beanie and Cecil, whatever the hell.

He was a real devil.  I’d really try to stay under the radar because sometimes my mom would be losing it with him.  I was too young to remember this, but it’s an old family story that when he was a toddler, he locked himself in the kitchen at the little apartment we lived in as kids.   My mom was frantically trying to open the door and she could see thru the key-hole that he was charging around in there brandishing a meat cleaver or some shit.  She could also make out thru her limited scope of vision what looked like BLOOD all over the kitchen floor.  (But it was actually a big tin of Paprika that he’d spilt all over the place.)  And all the while, he’s screaming bloody murder. 

My mom ended up getting a neighbor to break the door down or something.   I think they had to break a few doors down over the years for Bro #1.  Anyway, everything ended up okay.

 I idolized him with all my heart - just thought he was the bee’s knees.   He knew it, too and he took full advantage by getting me into all kinds of crazy hi-jinx.  I was such a sucker. 

There use to be these ugly little rubbery HUMPTY-DUMPTY figurines that came out of an old gum-ball machine on Myrtle Avenue and 80^th Street, right in front of what used to be SEAWALD’S GROCERY.    They were a quarter a piece.  These wiggly things were so stupid and pointless and grotesque, and EXPENSIVE – shit!  When I was 5, maybe 6 years old?  A quarter was like – MAN!   

Anyhow, Bro # 1 convinces me that these things are the best thing we will ever have, EVER, and that we MUST collect as many of them as possible in record time.  How?  How can we hope to accomplish such a feat? I wonder. 

He reminds me of our big, plastic Mickey Mouse banks that Mom keeps waaaaaaay up on top of the refrigerator.  Our Grampa has been giving us each a quarter all of our lives, every time we see him, which is like 2 or 3 times a week sometimes.  Mom has emptied them a couple of times already and still those banks are heavy. 

I don’t know where the hell Mom could be when Bro # 1 commences to breaking into those banks.  I mean, there was precarious climbing involved, as well as some clanking of coins.  I’m guessing she was in the bathroom or hanging laundry.  Whatever.  It amazes me to this day that we pulled that off.  THE GREAT MICKEY MOUSE BANK ROBBERY. 

And now, for the next part of the plan:  We are to walk up to Myrtle Avenue and GET THE GOODS.  

I am scared.  No, terrified.  I know that we are NOT ALLOWED OFF THE BLOCK.  Mom has been drilling this into my little head like the Our Father. 

Bro # 1 convinces me that it’s really only like going off ONE block, when you consider that -  technically - we’d only have to cross one street to get to Myrtle.  The rest of the blocks connect and it’ll only be like going around the corner and crossing one street!  Easy as pie and we’ll be back in no time and nobody will be the wiser. 

Aahhh….But when we return!  Yes, when we return, we will have riches beyond our wildest dreams.  Yes, we will be the proud owners of A MILLION OF THOSE HUMPTY DUMPTY THINGS. 

SOLD!   Heart hammering, I gear up for the voyage. 

As we leave to “GO OUT AND PLAY”,  Mom buttons my blue, nubby sweater and tells me brightly to:  “Stay close and don’t go near the street!”   I feel queasy with guilt, but determined.    Me and Bro #1 walk together up to Myrtle, me lagging a little behind – my heart tugging me backward to Mom.  Knowing that somehow, now that I was betraying her, I could never really go back.  Not really.

The stupid HUMPTY DUMPTY machine kept getting stuck.  Some of the fucking things had no arms and legs, musta been a bad batch at the rubber factory.  As we stuffed out pockets, I felt the eyes of passing neighborhood adults on us: “What the hell are THESE two up to?” 

Me: “I wanna go home.  I don’t wanna spend any more of my quarters.”

Bro #1: “It’s too late, we already spent all of yours.”

Mom found out, of course.  She probably needed a tip for the milkman or something and came up empty at the Mickey Banks.  She quickly puts 2 and 2 together when she starts spotting all of those useless, grotesque Dumpties laying around, getting caught in the vacuum cleaner and shit.   And man, she is pissed  when she realizes we have LEFT THE BLOCK. 

The rest is a blur, but this adventure really ended lousy. 

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Most of you know I’m a singer/songwriter.  But what many people don’t know is that both of my brothers have very lovely singing voices of their own! 

I gotta say, Bro #1 was positively OFF THE HOOK with his ‘in-the-shower’ renditions of many radio hits back in the day.  What he lacked in technique, he made up for with dramatic flair and sheer stamina. 

Now, I’ve always been in love with words and thus, lyrics.  Many people will listen to a song and concentrate on the melody line or the music-end of it.  And believe me, good music absolutely kills me.  But almost equally, I positively lust language and I worship words.

And you know how sometimes people THINK they know the lyrics of a song but it’s not even close?  Sure ya do.  Well, I gotta say that my dear Bro # 1 is probably THE most creative in this department that I have ever heard in my life.  

So herewith I bring you, in honor of his birthday, my Bro # 1’s top 3 HITS IN THE SHOWER

 (* circa early-70’s):

 Instant Karma – ©  John Lennon (1970)

 Real lyric:  Instant Karma’s gonna get you!

Bro’s lyric: It’s The Cops, They’re Gonna Get You!

The Night CHICAGO Died – © Paper Lace (1974)

Real lyric:  The Night Chicago Died!

Bro’s lyric:  The Night She Come…Or Die!

(And my personal, all-time FAVORITE): 

Angie – © The Rolling Stones (1972)

Real Lyric: Angie!  Angie! 

Bro’s Lyric:  I Am Jay!  I Ammmm... JAY! 

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So, BIG BROTHER … if you’re watching… Thanks for the memories.  And the melodies.  And if not those, at least...those incredible lyrics!  

Your Little Sister is wishing you a HAPPY BIRTHDAY AND MANY MORE! 

Lotsa Love~!   J  ~  *