SOMETIMES YA JUST NEED TO LIGHTEN UP

WELL!   OF COURSE, Maria and me decide to go swimming today.

So we get in the pool at 2:00 sharp, and about 15 minutes into the swim, the sky is growing darker and darker and we notice LIGHTNING in the distance! (There are big glass doors all around this huge pool, and 2 of them are OPEN!)

So I yell: 'HEY, LIFE-GUARD!!!  LIFE-GUARD!!!   SHOULD THOSE DOORS BE OPEN? IT'S STARTING TO LIGHTNING OUTSIDE!"   And this punk-kid life-guard, maybe 19 or 20 years old, smirks at me and goes: "Lightning?"   Like he's brain-dead. 

And I go: "YEAH, LIGHTNING!  ISN'T THIS DANGEROUS?"

He looks like Curious George, only he's not curious enough I guess.  And he goes, again: "You saw lightning?"

Me: "Yeah!" 

And then all the sudden the whole sky goes BLACK and MORE LIGHTNING starts flashing and all these whistles start going off and on the loudspeaker, some guy SCREAMING (barely deciperable, like the noise of a subway conductor):  'EVERYONE GET OUT OF THE POOL GET OUT THE POOL - NOW -  GET OUT OF THE POOL."
So we all high-tail it for the locker room, where we sit around for a little while throughout the storm and as soon as it let up a little, me and Maria got the hell out of there.  We can take just so much of this fuckin' crowd. 

There was flooding all over the roads coming home, but we pretty much missed all the thunder and lightning.   We managed to have a few laughs.

It was good to get a little swim-on and to see Maria.   I needed it, STORM STORY-drama and all.

When I got home, Chris had piled up chairs by the front door because he said Herman had been losing his mind and trying to claw his way out of the apartment.  Which never makes any sense to me, unless he perhaps thinks he's gonna find me out there somewhere, battling the inclement environment and needing his assistance.     

When I got in and sat down, Herman stood in front of me barking for 2 solid minutes (scolding me), and then laid his head in my lap for another half hour.

And we're all still alive. 

Good day, good day.

The End.

Rock Surgeon

Hi there, Surgeon -

Well look at you.

45 and waddaya do?

You play GOD and you do it well.

Gettin' us civilians thru living Hell.

Well hey there, Surgeon -

Yer mighty young

Yer pops must be proud to have

Such a son.

Well hey there - wow.

Hey there, now -

Hey there,

Hey, hey, hey.

And hey now, Surgeon -

How must you feel?

Does playing GOD ever get surreal?

Well, either way I thank you, Surgeon.

You and your hands and your knives.

Thank you, Surgeon-bubby.

For saving -

Yes, saving

Our

Lives.

Chapter 32

Chapter  32

It is around 11:00 a.m. on a Monday in February, 1996 (and although I am not certain, I believe it may have been the 12^th) that I first meet my future husband face to face.  Like the rest of the band members (with the exception of the newly unemployed) Chris works a day job, but he happens to have Mondays off.   It’s a surprisingly warm day for February: No jacket required.

I arrive at his address wearing a favorite thread-bare, fawn-colored sweatshirt over grey leggings and suede fringed moccasin boots.  Trademark bandana keeps the hair back, off my forehead.  My dogs are along for moral support, but also because when I’m not gigging or rehearsing I bring ‘em almost everywhere with me, anyhow.   They’re wearing their bandana’s, too.

            Chris lives on the 3^rd floor in a three-story apartment building in Richmond Hill.  With Girlie and Lula flanking me, I ring the bell.  First, a static burst over the intercom and in a few short moments, Chris comes down and stands before us.

            Everyone who meets Chris comments about his height.  He is, after all, 6’ 6”.  But despite the fact that tall men have always appealed to me, when I meet Chris I barely notice his height. 

When he appears at the lobby door: Grayish-blue eyes, thick black eyebrows and a beard to match.  A quick, courteous nod.  His gaze is open, friendly and frankly admiring, as I imagine my own must be.  He looks at me in such a way that it’s like we’re already in the know, in some kind of private club.  Odd, but then its not so odd, either.

            And then, there’s the dogs.  These two gals are notoriously picky and as soon as Chris opens the front door, he innately offers the backs of his hands for them to scent.  They sniff heartily before they both lift their faces up at him:  Two crazy grins, tails wagging vigorously in unison.  Pant, pant, pant.

Me: “Hey.”

Chris: “How’s it goin’.”

A quick, shy-but-firm handshake between us.  That’s one large, warm, sturdy hand, alright.  The dogs are bombarding him now, pushing each other out of the way for petting time with this new, charming stranger.

Me: “You’re good with dogs.”

Chris: “Oh, sure.” He is gently patting their heads, scratching their ears.

Me: “You have dogs?”

Chris: “Ahh…no.”

Me: “Then you’ve HAD dogs.”

Chris: “Ahh…no.”

Me: “Oh.  Well, they sure like you.”

Chris: “Sure, why not?  What’d I ever do to them?” 

This makes me giggle: “That’s true.”

A quiet moment as the dog-petting-fest continues.

Me: “So, here’s the tape.”

Chris (taking the tape): “Okay, great.” 

For some reason, I say:  “So this should all work out.”

Chris: “Sure, why not?”

Sure, sure, sure…why not.  Hmmm.  We gaze at one another for a peculiar moment, and it’s as if I’m seeing myself somehow: I can see myself the way he’s sees me.  It’s an imperfect, untarnished, pure examination.  Not decipherable, this.  Not known to me ever before.  I almost have to shake it off, this heady sensation. 

Me: “Ok - so I’ll see ya at rehearsal, then.   I’ll call to confirm the time.”

Chris: “Okay, great.”  He gives another of those nods:  “Bye, then.”

Me: “Ok, ‘bye, Chris.”  To the dogs: “C’mon, girls, in the car.”

Girlie and Lula linger, looking behind them at Chris (are you coming, too?).  They’re visibly disappointed to be leaving so soon. 

As we pile into my old white Chevy sedan, I look back also. Chris is watching us with a bemused little smile on his face.  He gives me a brief, comical half- salute.  

My breath feels short, a lump in my throat. 

I can hardly wait to see him again.

* * * * * *

If You Leave Me

If you leave me,

 You're finished

If you leave me,

 You're gone

Not a moment to spare

 Or carry on…

   Carry on…

If you vanish,

I'll vanish

And match what you do…

If you leave me,

I'll leave you

And we'll leave We

And we'll leave We

And we'll see

That there's nothing

But Love in our eyes

So then we'll stay

And just stay

Because we

Want

To.

"SHE'LL TELL YOU GO SHIT IN YOUR HAT."

On the cusp of our weddin' anniversary,

For some reason I had an ole memory…

Of…

When I FIRST got married,

In '88…

He was a nice fella, just not meant ta be…

But I'll never forget

The reception: My Ole' Pops

Was yelling this statement

With gusto, to a friend…

This friend who had said:

"Your daughter's a beauty."

And Pop yelled: "BETTER YET!...

SHE'LL TELL YOU WHEN

TO GO SHIT

IN YOUR

HAT!"

IT'S A BARNUM & BAILEY WORLD...

You know, I believe I may just have to be somewhat insane to go into a tiny health food store located in a run-down little section of Queens and start haggling about prices with the Sri Chinmoy Cultist who stands, sanctimoniously pissy, behind the counter.   But I guess I was at a low-ebb that day…

I have Chris and Herman in the car with me.  The plan is to drop Chris off at the train station so he can get to work.  But I've driven past this little shop a bunch of times and always meant to stop in, so today ends up being The Big Day.

First of all, since it's technically a NEW LOCATION, Herman the Incredibly Anxious and Neurotic Wonder Hound starts pounding full force on his window in the back seat as soon as I park and get out of the car.  It doesn't matter that Chris is in the car with him.  MAMA IS GOING SOMEWHERE STRANGE AND UNKNOWN, so Herm (in his typical fashion) screeching and moaning, continually hurls his full weight against the car window and door, like he's trying to escape from a gas chamber.  He has behaved this way from the time he was 8 weeks old.  Of course, THEN he was a mere 20 lbs.  Now he's almost 6 years old and weighs closer to 120…

Chris: "I'm gonna take him out and walk him around while you're in the store."

Me: "Oh, Christ.  He's gonna fucking freak, he's gonna wanna barge into that store with me.  Just please stay here in the car with him until I get back…I'll only be 2 minutes…"

But my dear husband is already walking around to my side of the car to release our boy Herm from his self-perceived Eternally Mommy-less Prison. 

NOBODY EVER LISTENS TO ME.

The street we're parked on is impossibly narrow for 2-way traffic, and cars are careening perilously close as Chris negotiates the tugging, grunting, salivating Herm away from certain death and onto the sidewalk.  Complicated by the fact that the dog has recently had leg surgery and he's lugging around a huge cast to boot.   Already I'm sick to my stomach from all this.  Plus it's weirdly HOT and muggy for a day in early March, for chrissake. 

I stand there in front of the stupid health food store, watching Chris and Herman wrestle around for the upper hand/paw. 

Chris (clearly distraught): "WELL?  Are you GOING IN or NOT?"

Me: "That was the plan.  But what the hell are YOU TWO doing?"

Chris: "NEVER YOU MIND WHAT WE'RE DOING.  WE'RE FINE.  GO IN THE GODDAMN STORE ALREADY.  I HAVE TO GET TO WORK, YOU KNOW."

Jesus.  I go into the store, leaving man and beast out on the sidewalk to grapple and scrape.

                                                                        * * * * * * *

As soon as I enter the store, I sense it's a mistake and yet I persevere.  A woman enters right behind me, she's practically climbing up my ass and she has a gigantic parrot on her shoulder.  Nice looking creature, the parrot, aside from the fact that it's screaming bloody murder.

The store is so cramped, it's a horrible layout honestly, and I'm just trying to put a little distance between myself and this banshee of a bird.  The woman accompanying the parrot is a little skinny nut-job and she's wearing huge Yoko sunglasses and the exact same colors as the parrot:  Bright yellow t-shirt, fire-engine red jacket over it, neon green bandana tied around her head.  Honestly, how much frigging attention do you NEED, lady, to get you thru this life?

Parrot Broad starts yelling around to nobody in particular.  With those shades on, you can't tell who the hell she might be addressing. 

Parrot Broad: "YES, SKITTLES!  I KNOW YOU WANT YOUR SEEDS!"  She whips her head around like Stevie Wonder: "HE KNOWS THERE ARE SEEDS HERE!  SKITTLES LOVES HIS SEEDS!"

She's got that much right, there are bins of seeds all along the entranceway of the store and it's sending Skittles into some kind of frenzy.   And I'm such an ass - I always feel guilty, like I have to help matters along and respond to every lunatic that starts in. 

I go: "Skittles is a good name for him…with his colors…"

Parrot Broad:  "THAT'S RIGHT!   AND DO YOU NOTICE THAT I AM WEARING THE SAME COLORS???  THE EXACT  SAME  COLORS  AS MY SKITTLES???"

Me: "Ummm, yes.  I did notice that…"

Indeed, I also notice that Skittles and the Broad have unnervingly similar screech  - I mean speech - patterns.  But I don't bother to point this out.

Parrot Broad: "IF I WAS 25 YEARS YOUNGER, I WOULD NEVER HAVE HAD THE COURAGE OR THE NERVE TO WEAR THESE COLORS!  OR TO HAVE MY OWN PARROT!   BUT THESE DAYS, I DO WHATEVER I WANT, WHENEVER I WANT.  AND NOBODY TELLS ME WHAT TO DO."

Yes, but I bet they DO tell you that you're a deranged lunatic.  ß This is what I FEEL like saying, but once again I just nod politely and edge further away from Skittles and Ma Seed-Vittles.  Throughout, I'm naggingly worried about Herman and Chris tussling around outside. 

This shopping spree was doomed from the get-go.  I can't even concentrate.  Like I said, the layout in here is horrible.  Not attractive, does nothing for me.  Plus the store smells musty.  I find myself staring at a moldy bucket of organic strawberries and an equally unappealing, obviously old head of cauliflower.  Fuck this store!

But then I start feeling guilty again - like I SHOULD buy SOMEthing -  so I ask the dude behind the counter:  "Do you carry Ezekial Sprouted Bread?" 

He gazes at me beatifically:  A very affected serenity.  I dunno, these cult guys.   To each his own, but I never buy their shtick.   Serene my ass - contempt is never far beneath. 

Dude: "Yes, we do."

Me: "What do you charge for it here?"

Dude: "What?"  Ahh! There's that contempt!  That took no time at all.  I really have a knack…

Me: "How much do you charge for a loaf?" 

Dude: "I believe we charge $6.00 for a loaf of the Ezekial."

Me: "Six bucks?  I can get it for $4.00 at Trader Joe's!"

Dude: "What are you DOING in here?  We're a SMALL STORE."

Me: "You know what?  I don't know what the hell I'm doing in here.  Because you're also a FILTHY store.  Later, dude."

And I walk out.  Really successful health food store outing. 

I don't know where Bird Bitch went in the meantime, but she's nowhere in sight.  Neither are Chris and Herm.  I look up and down the street, walk to the corner.  They are utterly missing.   Where in hell did they go with this freaking dog dragging a giant cast around??? 

I head over in the direction of our car, figure it's my best bet to wait for them there, plus get some A/C action.  But just as I'm approaching, I see a somewhat familiar figure making his way up the sidewalk coming directly toward me.  It's… DOKANDA.

Oh, God…not DOKANDA. I throw myself into a little Krishna gift-shop doorway.  (All the shops are in cahoots on this particular block.)   I wait until Dokanda disappears from view.  It's hard to tell if he spotted or recognized me, he'd been walking with a couple of buddies.  But it hardly matters now - one successful Dokanda Avoidance under my belt, that's all that matters.

I lunge for the car just in time to see Chris and Herm coming around the bend, Herm still with the grunting, lunging and drooling act going full throttle.  Chris, ditto with the pulling and cursing routine.  We all get into the car at the same time.

Me: "Did you see him?  Did you see DOKANDA?"

Chris: "Yup."

Me: "Did HE see YOU???"

Chris: "NOPE.  Thank God."

Me: "Jeeez, that was close…."

To be Continued……

Poem for an April Moon

Musical language,

Coloring, coloring,

Tinting and stoking and simmering,

Too.

Musical life,

Testing, testing,

Tempting and scorching then cooling,

Too.

Musical love,

Finding and finding,

Losing and finding

Holding and hoping

And working it working it -

Love is that

Elusive

Riff

Found and Finally,

Kept.