Roberta Gale- NOISE
A stream-of-consciousness, introspective, yet narcissistic diatribe on life, pop culture, sex, human nature, animal nature, and everything else.
Roberta Gale www.robertagale.com roberta@robertagale.com www.facebook.com/robertagale
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Roberta Gale NOISE
Richie Furay-Good Feelin' to know
I couldn't leave you without letting you hear Richie Furay sing "Good Feelin' to Know" tonight-more than 40 years after he first sang and wrote it when he was with with Poco. Enjoy!
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Richie Furay Band - "Kind Woman" Live in Tucson
I was lucky enough to see Richie Furay and the Richie Furay Band tonight at the Fox Theater in Tucson.
Furay blew me away-his voice was as good as, or even better than it was back in the day when he was a member of Buffalo Springfield, Poco, and Souther/Hillman/Furay.
Here's Richie doing "Kind Woman" from his Buffalo Springfield days. Kinda miss the pedal steel from the original version, but it was an unexpected bonus to hear who inspired the song—and she came on stage and gave him a kiss. Spirited, sweet, and not at all contrived-just like Richie.
The concert was a fundraiser for the Desert Heart Foundation, Tucson. If you're interested in donating, here's the info: Desert Heart Foundation 6080 N. La Cholla Blvd., Tucson, Arizona 85741 1 520 544 5500 Dr. Tedd Goldfinger Teddgoldfinger@comcast.net
Furay blew me away-his voice was as good as, or even better than it was back in the day when he was a member of Buffalo Springfield, Poco, and Souther/Hillman/Furay.
Here's Richie doing "Kind Woman" from his Buffalo Springfield days. Kinda miss the pedal steel from the original version, but it was an unexpected bonus to hear who inspired the song—and she came on stage and gave him a kiss. Spirited, sweet, and not at all contrived-just like Richie.
Download | Duration: 00:05:26
The concert was a fundraiser for the Desert Heart Foundation, Tucson. If you're interested in donating, here's the info: Desert Heart Foundation 6080 N. La Cholla Blvd., Tucson, Arizona 85741 1 520 544 5500 Dr. Tedd Goldfinger Teddgoldfinger@comcast.net
Toni! Tony! Tone! Or let me out of this loser life for $69.99 plus S&H-Tony Robbins
With Arianna Huffington drinking Tony Robbins' purple Kool-Aid I think it's time to bring one out of the vault. This is from one of the many times Robbins, the self-proclaimed "Inventor of the Life Coaching Industry" (if anyone gave me that title I'd go into the witness protection program) tried to resurrect his tired "Personal Power' tape series.
Download | Duration: 00:15:04
Jersey Gurls
Download | Duration: 00:03:55
It's been decades since I've written and performed my last parody tune,and I'm probably much worse for the wear, but here it is, "Jersey Gurls"sung to the tune of "California Gurls." And a big thank you to Punkprincess01for doing a much better job of putting together a no-vocals version,than I could ever do,
If you just must watch something as well as listen to it, have fun.
I heart Newark
Ah Facebook. Repository of the absurd, the profane, the banal, the reverie-inducing.
That last was provoked by a friend's pic of her standing with Santa at Bamberger's in Newark, NJ. circa 1965.
Summers spent working at mydad's dry cleaning story on Washington Street, hanging out atBamberger’s andtrolling Newark for comics and great food (sausage and pepper, egg andpepper,hot dogs and peppers-all on Italian bread, of course.)
Some of thegreatestsoul acts of the 60's would play the old movie houses like the Bradford and the Adams(James Brown anyone?)and send us their dry cleaning. The closest I got to stardom was tossing their gold lame' gowns and silver suits into the dry cleaning machine. I don't know if it was the perc or my fantasy of living like the people who wore these clothes, but I was high.
That last was provoked by a friend's pic of her standing with Santa at Bamberger's in Newark, NJ. circa 1965.
Summers spent working at mydad's dry cleaning story on Washington Street, hanging out atBamberger’s andtrolling Newark for comics and great food (sausage and pepper, egg andpepper,hot dogs and peppers-all on Italian bread, of course.)
Some of thegreatestsoul acts of the 60's would play the old movie houses like the Bradford and the Adams(James Brown anyone?)and send us their dry cleaning. The closest I got to stardom was tossing their gold lame' gowns and silver suits into the dry cleaning machine. I don't know if it was the perc or my fantasy of living like the people who wore these clothes, but I was high.
Great Pizza In Tucson
I'm a North Jersey girl who's lived all over the country-and a fiend for good pizza. Not good thin crust, thick-crust, stuffed, Chicago style, or gourmet pizza, just great f**king pizza.
Brooklyn Pizza is the best pizza in Tucson, period. For people who love pizza, that is. People who know that toppings are merely gilding the lily of an amazing pizza. Dough, sauce, cheese. Every one of these elements needs to be top-notch and Brooklyn Pizza's are. The sauce is not to tart nor too sweet, the cheese is high-quality and plentiful, the crust is salty yeasty, and chewy, and the underside of the pizza is the perfect shade of brown with a few charred lowlights-the sign of a perfectly baked pie.
Even the slices are fresh and don't taste like they've been sitting on top of a cold metal pizza pan for an hour, pathetically attempting to warm themselves by the light of a 100 watt bulb.
The prices are cheap- as they should be in a decent pizza joint. You go for the pizza, not the atmosphere.
A restaurant blogger once warned against going into restaurants where the people look too happy because it meant the place was more about the social scene than good food. I agree. And the people in Brooklyn Pizza look like they're eating, not smiling.
My only complaint is that the last time I bought a sausage pizza (yes, the sausage, which I think is homemade, will blow you away, too) the pizza maker was a bit light of hand with the topping and I got about half of what I usually get. Is this a fluke, or a cost-cutting move? I don't know, but I'm still going to give Brooklyn Pizza five stars because they're the only people in Tucson who truly understand how to make the real thing.
Extra props for homemade gelato,a solar-powered oven, and the Sky Bar next door where you can enjoy your pizza with anything a full bar can conjure up.
C'mon down.
I AM Shpilkes
If there's anyone alive more hyperactive than I am, I want to meet them. Of course they'll probably drive me crazy. I drive me crazy and I'm me. Do you ever want to get away from yourself but you can't because you're you? I know the feeling.
I wonder why I've been so tired for the past few months-menopause, depression, the change of season, boredom with a mind that just won't quit even after the bell rings, the tenth inning, the clock runs out of time. Gee, maybe it has something to do with that fact that even at 53, I just can't stop moving and/or talking. Even in my sleep. Or so Dave says. I find it hard to believe that after moving and talking all day that I wouldn't just conk out and keep still for a few hours, so once the willingness outweighs the inertia, I'll set up a video camera and see for myself. With any luck, the few seconds of fame I've enjoyed in my professional life will encourage someone to steal the tape and put it on YouTube. Or Blip. Or Vimeo. I just added those last two to make you think I was cool. Of course I'm not because if I was I wouldn't care whether you thought I was cool or or not. That's sort of Zen-ish, which is definitely cool unless Buddhist references became outdated while I was sleeping and allegedly moving and talking.
Was I talking about anything important before I got off on this tangent? i hope not, because I forgot, and I'm too lazy to read the beginning and find out.
I wonder why I've been so tired for the past few months-menopause, depression, the change of season, boredom with a mind that just won't quit even after the bell rings, the tenth inning, the clock runs out of time. Gee, maybe it has something to do with that fact that even at 53, I just can't stop moving and/or talking. Even in my sleep. Or so Dave says. I find it hard to believe that after moving and talking all day that I wouldn't just conk out and keep still for a few hours, so once the willingness outweighs the inertia, I'll set up a video camera and see for myself. With any luck, the few seconds of fame I've enjoyed in my professional life will encourage someone to steal the tape and put it on YouTube. Or Blip. Or Vimeo. I just added those last two to make you think I was cool. Of course I'm not because if I was I wouldn't care whether you thought I was cool or or not. That's sort of Zen-ish, which is definitely cool unless Buddhist references became outdated while I was sleeping and allegedly moving and talking.
Was I talking about anything important before I got off on this tangent? i hope not, because I forgot, and I'm too lazy to read the beginning and find out.
A bit o' night music in Tucson
So I'm still playing with my new digital audio recorder- can you blame me? The last one I bought was a Radio Shack cassette recorder that was a big as a my dog and weighed about ten pounds.
This is Howe Gelb, longtime fixture in the Tucson music scene, playing with the Portland Cello Project at the Fox Theater. The place was packed-as much with people who wanted to hear the music as with people who just wanted to see where the hell all their tax money went. The Fox spent millions to gut and rehab the "historic" movie theater years ago, and ever since the joint has been plagued by mismanagement. and overpriced events that hardly anyone goes to.
But I digress. I wanted to hear how my new baby sounded placed on my lap in the back of the main floor. So-let's hit it, shall we? Howe. ya ready???? Are the cellos in tune???
This is Howe Gelb, longtime fixture in the Tucson music scene, playing with the Portland Cello Project at the Fox Theater. The place was packed-as much with people who wanted to hear the music as with people who just wanted to see where the hell all their tax money went. The Fox spent millions to gut and rehab the "historic" movie theater years ago, and ever since the joint has been plagued by mismanagement. and overpriced events that hardly anyone goes to.
But I digress. I wanted to hear how my new baby sounded placed on my lap in the back of the main floor. So-let's hit it, shall we? Howe. ya ready???? Are the cellos in tune???
Download | Duration: 00:03:14
A time to feel great, a time to feel like crap, etc.
I went to the Tucson folk festival last night. No, I'm not a huge fan of folk. Yes, I can appreciate the emotion and to-the-bone honesty in the music.
No, it was not a bunch of hippie clothing booths that drew me downtown. Yes, it was Chris Hillman - he of the Byrds,, Flying Burrito Brothers, R&R Hall of Fame, Manassas, etc.
No, he did not sing the lead of the Byrdsoriginal version of the following song,( set to music by Pete Seeger in the early '50s and taken almost verbatim from the Old Testament Book of Ecclesiastes) but he sure did a damn good job (dig his mandolin playing!)
Audio nerd note: I was very excited to try out my new Olympus LS-10 audio recorder. No external mics or plugging into an audio board-I just held it in front of a speaker. It could have used more bass, and Chris' vocals should have been louder and mixed up front, but I didn't want to screw with the live sound.
Download | Duration: 00:03:34
I'm so pissed
I wrote this wonderful, creative, funny post about my sister's visit with a million details that would appeal to young and old, men and woman, but it just committed suicide in cyberspace.
My program was supposed to save drafts and autosave, but it's obviously not fail-safe.
I'm too disheartened and tired to write it again.
Tomorrow is another day.
Fuck computers.
My program was supposed to save drafts and autosave, but it's obviously not fail-safe.
I'm too disheartened and tired to write it again.
Tomorrow is another day.
Fuck computers.
Could we have a moment of silence for me?
First time in a long time I didn't wake up and go directly to my computer.Poured a cup of coffee and went outside with the dog. Sat at my imitation park bench and watched the quail peck another pressurized cube of seed into submission.
I thought I was pretty cool because I was reflecting—the thing people do when they're calm and clear and together. I was none of those things but if someone was driving by and looking at me they'd think I was.
Despite my inability to stop thinking about every other thing but nothing (but nothing is still a thing, so how could you be thinking about nothing but still be thinking about nothing? Maybe it's that other nothing that isn't really the nothing that's something but the nothing that's a non-thing.) This is what happens when Alan Watts has been sharing your nightstand with a water bottle and tube of Walgreen's generic Bert's Bees lip balm for the past year and a half.
So I had this thought that I immediately deemed BIG. Epiphany-flash-of -knowledge BIG. Zen satori BIG.
I thought about all the people who only visit Arizona in the Spring, and I realized that when you only see a place in peak season you have no appreciation for what it is or how it came to be.. And just as you can't fully appreciate a desert spring without experiencing the monsoon rains and floods and extreme heat of summer, I can't appreciate myself without embracing everything that formed me-even the really, really scary screwed up parts.
TAH-DAH! Instant life illumination. I'm all better now. Or at least for the half-life of a life-changing BIG thought.
Happy Passover!
I thought I was pretty cool because I was reflecting—the thing people do when they're calm and clear and together. I was none of those things but if someone was driving by and looking at me they'd think I was.
Despite my inability to stop thinking about every other thing but nothing (but nothing is still a thing, so how could you be thinking about nothing but still be thinking about nothing? Maybe it's that other nothing that isn't really the nothing that's something but the nothing that's a non-thing.) This is what happens when Alan Watts has been sharing your nightstand with a water bottle and tube of Walgreen's generic Bert's Bees lip balm for the past year and a half.
So I had this thought that I immediately deemed BIG. Epiphany-flash-of -knowledge BIG. Zen satori BIG.
I thought about all the people who only visit Arizona in the Spring, and I realized that when you only see a place in peak season you have no appreciation for what it is or how it came to be.. And just as you can't fully appreciate a desert spring without experiencing the monsoon rains and floods and extreme heat of summer, I can't appreciate myself without embracing everything that formed me-even the really, really scary screwed up parts.
TAH-DAH! Instant life illumination. I'm all better now. Or at least for the half-life of a life-changing BIG thought.
Happy Passover!
Do what you think is going to kill you
I've been terrified of small planes my entire life. But when I got a chance to go to Baja to check out some cool towns and see whales in a isolated lagoon, I decided to take it. I realized that I can never experience the kind of adventures I want to unless I go to lightly-traveled places. And that means boats, horses, mules, walking or small planes. Of all of those, small planes were the only means of transportation I was missing.
a snack before end of the world
Gee, I wonder if my split pea soup will be done before the world ends. I hope so, because it's a pretty good one, made with the requisite carrots, onion, garlic and four giant cubos de Knorr Caldo Con Sabor de Pollo. Mexican bouillon cubes can make anything taste great because they contain genuine FAT. Knorr is so proud of that fact they even list it twice as an ingredient: chicken fat AND hydrogenated beef fat. For hydrogen-riffic flavor!
Of course that didn't make up for the big ol ham hock I was dying to toss in, but didn't have. A couple of shakes of Bac-Os will do in a pinch.
And plenty of pinches are coming our way.
Quakes, tsunamis, blizzards, floods, droughts, record highs, record lows- they came, they're coming again, and most of us are going to die, even women who use Strivectin.
Luckily for you, I'm going to share a secret that may one day SAVE YOUR LIFE-considering you want it saved while everyone else melts, freezes or expires in some way involving shrieking and a tectonic or man made catastrophe.
OK-here it is: Split pea soup doesn't have to simmer for hours! Twenty to thirty minutes, tops, toss it in a blender, it's ready to go as fuel to outrun the sun's unfiltered death rays or for a picnic in an underground bunker.
Yep, the very same people who will soon vanish during Deathfest 2010 lied to you. "Honesty is the best policy." "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." "Generic ketchup is just as good as Heinz." "Soup has to simmer for hours."
Sometimes just knowing that you'll be the only one to survive is enough to make you look really, really, cool.
Of course that didn't make up for the big ol ham hock I was dying to toss in, but didn't have. A couple of shakes of Bac-Os will do in a pinch.
And plenty of pinches are coming our way.
Quakes, tsunamis, blizzards, floods, droughts, record highs, record lows- they came, they're coming again, and most of us are going to die, even women who use Strivectin.
Luckily for you, I'm going to share a secret that may one day SAVE YOUR LIFE-considering you want it saved while everyone else melts, freezes or expires in some way involving shrieking and a tectonic or man made catastrophe.
OK-here it is: Split pea soup doesn't have to simmer for hours! Twenty to thirty minutes, tops, toss it in a blender, it's ready to go as fuel to outrun the sun's unfiltered death rays or for a picnic in an underground bunker.
Yep, the very same people who will soon vanish during Deathfest 2010 lied to you. "Honesty is the best policy." "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." "Generic ketchup is just as good as Heinz." "Soup has to simmer for hours."
Sometimes just knowing that you'll be the only one to survive is enough to make you look really, really, cool.
Desert Bloom
I've decided to stop letting fear run my life-burst open the cocoon, let the larva out and the butterfly fly-wait-if I let the larva out it'll die unless I put it in a box and feed it lettuce like I did years ago when I opened the Mexican jumping bean and the green worm thing came out. Even that guy died after a week despite my best efforts at mothering . I think I got him to pupa and was terminal. Or chrysalis. Wait-that's for butterflys. Damn it, I was trying to impress you with my knowledge of the Class Insecta. Forget it. We'll start again.
So as part of this "live like you're dying" thing I adopted a few weeks ago I'm trying things I never have before. Like mid-grade gasoline and cheap bologna. Although you can't do a lot of stuff if you're really dying and feel like crap and can't get out of bed, but I'll ignore that digression for the moment.
Which leads me to my recent trip with friends on their Ranger. The Ranger is this cool four-wheel drive thing that's like a miniature Jeep Wrangler, only without windshields. You strap yourself in as if you're going on one of those roller coasters that costs a fortune to insure, and toss the entire package into the desert. For hours. I was lucky enough to be in the front seat or I would have thrown up, but it would have been the kind of vomiting that's worth it.
The best part was when I thought we were going to tip over, slamming the entire weight of the Ranger and four other people into my guts. It was then I had my epiphany. Near death=fun! Actually dying=drag! This is the way reckless people live and I wanted to be a part of it. If only my DNA wasn't programmed to steer myself away from danger. That's the Jewish thing. Everyone wants to kill us so get the hell out.
Well from now on, I'm livin' my life like a Gentile!
Oh yeah, and the border shared by Arizona and Mexico (now trendily called "The Borderlands" which sounds like somewhere you'd go to check out books and sip latte) sucks. It's full of garbage and drug runners and people runners and you'd have to be nuts to go into the middle of nowhere without a large group of people and/or a gun. We found this designer duffel just off the trail. Cell phones, walkie-talkies, extra batteries, chargers, and a toothbrush. Nice to know that dental hygiene is a priority for smugglers.
Yep, the places I used to peacefully hike by myself many years ago are the front lines of a clusterf**k. But you haven't lived until you've seen an empty Mexican Gatorade Bottle up close.
I wonder what flavor this is.
Join me as I take my next death-defying trip. Next up:Trader Joes the day the Fearless Flyer comes out.
So as part of this "live like you're dying" thing I adopted a few weeks ago I'm trying things I never have before. Like mid-grade gasoline and cheap bologna. Although you can't do a lot of stuff if you're really dying and feel like crap and can't get out of bed, but I'll ignore that digression for the moment.
Which leads me to my recent trip with friends on their Ranger. The Ranger is this cool four-wheel drive thing that's like a miniature Jeep Wrangler, only without windshields. You strap yourself in as if you're going on one of those roller coasters that costs a fortune to insure, and toss the entire package into the desert. For hours. I was lucky enough to be in the front seat or I would have thrown up, but it would have been the kind of vomiting that's worth it.
The best part was when I thought we were going to tip over, slamming the entire weight of the Ranger and four other people into my guts. It was then I had my epiphany. Near death=fun! Actually dying=drag! This is the way reckless people live and I wanted to be a part of it. If only my DNA wasn't programmed to steer myself away from danger. That's the Jewish thing. Everyone wants to kill us so get the hell out.
Well from now on, I'm livin' my life like a Gentile!
Oh yeah, and the border shared by Arizona and Mexico (now trendily called "The Borderlands" which sounds like somewhere you'd go to check out books and sip latte) sucks. It's full of garbage and drug runners and people runners and you'd have to be nuts to go into the middle of nowhere without a large group of people and/or a gun. We found this designer duffel just off the trail. Cell phones, walkie-talkies, extra batteries, chargers, and a toothbrush. Nice to know that dental hygiene is a priority for smugglers.
Yep, the places I used to peacefully hike by myself many years ago are the front lines of a clusterf**k. But you haven't lived until you've seen an empty Mexican Gatorade Bottle up close.
I wonder what flavor this is.
My body, someone else's self
Who the hell is this old broken old fart that's taken over my body? The one that slips on those hand crutch things before I type or smooths Tiger Balm patches on the base of her spine after she runs or can't drink coffee after
3 p.m because it keeps her up at night? The one who has to put on her glasses before she checks the fiber content of bread or grams of fat in deli meat?
I mutter to myself white I'm doing things, I need to "go" before I go out for the day, and I have to eat with my supplements so they don't upset my increasingly sensitive stomach.
I thought this crap wasn't supposed to happen until I was in my 80s and actually looked old: white hair, round glasses, bun, and knitting old.
I find myself saying " when I was a kid" or "back in the day" and mentioning my age often to let everyone, most of all myself, know that I've survived a bunch of things and survived. I'm old enough to remember when people used "back in the old days" for back in the day." I adopted the latter term years ago because the former sounds like it should go with "horseless carriage."
I look like me, talk like me, swear like me, act hyper like me, embrace sarcasm like me, laugh my ass off at South Park like me (although I'm aware that I'm probably over the top of their demo) and maintain the same low thrill threshold and ADD I've had since I was born.
This has to be karma. All my years as a waitress ( I stand my ground when it comes to this beloved term-'server' lacks warmth and sounds slave-y) I laughed at old people who wanted to know why the light was so dim because they couldn't read the menu, or borrowed glasses from their friends. Now I do that crap!
During first radio gig at 22, I played Porcelana ads and cracked up at the term "age spots." Now I know what they are.
I teach a college class and I warn the agile punks that this, too, will happen to them. Of course they don't believe me. I wouldn't either at their age.
3 p.m because it keeps her up at night? The one who has to put on her glasses before she checks the fiber content of bread or grams of fat in deli meat?
I mutter to myself white I'm doing things, I need to "go" before I go out for the day, and I have to eat with my supplements so they don't upset my increasingly sensitive stomach.
I thought this crap wasn't supposed to happen until I was in my 80s and actually looked old: white hair, round glasses, bun, and knitting old.
I find myself saying " when I was a kid" or "back in the day" and mentioning my age often to let everyone, most of all myself, know that I've survived a bunch of things and survived. I'm old enough to remember when people used "back in the old days" for back in the day." I adopted the latter term years ago because the former sounds like it should go with "horseless carriage."
I look like me, talk like me, swear like me, act hyper like me, embrace sarcasm like me, laugh my ass off at South Park like me (although I'm aware that I'm probably over the top of their demo) and maintain the same low thrill threshold and ADD I've had since I was born.
This has to be karma. All my years as a waitress ( I stand my ground when it comes to this beloved term-'server' lacks warmth and sounds slave-y) I laughed at old people who wanted to know why the light was so dim because they couldn't read the menu, or borrowed glasses from their friends. Now I do that crap!
During first radio gig at 22, I played Porcelana ads and cracked up at the term "age spots." Now I know what they are.
I teach a college class and I warn the agile punks that this, too, will happen to them. Of course they don't believe me. I wouldn't either at their age.
Don't kill the piano player, aim for the singer
I've probably sung karaoke three times in my life. I prefer to get my humiliation on a more regular basis, as often happens just by being myself. But I do understand the attraction-for a few minutes, a nobody can become somebody in front of verbally abusive and/or vomiting people in a badly lit bar.
And, amateur sociologist that I am, you can tell a lot about people by the songs they choose.
1. Aging rock chicks like to sing "Crazy on Me" or any other Heart song in which Ann Wilson sounds Robert Plant-ish.
2. Broads who still own crystals sing Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" or any song that involves Stevie Nicks twirling around in a black cloak.
3. Number-crunching guys who have yet to be promoted to a cubicle love Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" or any song that sounds ballsy no matter the group or lyrics.
4. Suburban boys on the edge of puberty love anything that makes them sound urban-songs with rhythmic lyrics that drop vowels and contain colorful euphemisms for sex or the organs involved (see Ludacris, Weezy, Timbaland,Fabolous, et al.)
5.Girls are up for grabs. They're hot for any ephemeral Top 40 hit sung by a woman-be it Ke$ha, Beyonce, Fergie, Lady Gaga, or Rhianna feat. whoever-the -hell: any chick act du hour with no last name will do.
Who am I kidding? I've sung along to every one of these songs in the car. But I just needed some kind of an intro to this article about Filipinos killing people during karaoke renditions of Sinatra's "My Way"
Have a nice day. And remember, public renditions of Ol' Blue Eyes signature tune may be hazardous to your health.
A Threesome: Patrick Swayze, Jung and Me.
Patrick Swayze and I were sitting in nearby booths at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Sort of like a Golden Corral but a bit more upscale (i.e. sauces were reduced rather than thickened with flour or cornstarch, vegetables weren't overcooked.) I'm not saying I like one better than the other- give me a chicken-fried steak made with fat n' flour white gravy any day-I'm just being descriptive.
We were attracted to each other, but Patrick was with another woman who just so happened to the be married-with-child daughter of a good friend. She was all over him. but he kept looking at me. Meanwhile the servers kept bringing out more food-so much that they ran out of room and were putting roasts on chairs and casseroles on the floor. I was attempting to balance my eye-lock with Patrick (can I call him Pat at this point? No? OK. Not a big deal.) with trying to grab some of whatever new food item was being put out.
I started pigging out on macaroni and cheese, scalloped potatoes with big chunks of ham, braised short ribs-all the stuff I wish I had waiting in the oven for me every evening but only have the time and patience to cook once a month. But even stuffing myself, didn't diminish my ardor for Patrick, nor his for me. As dreams often do, jump cut to P. and me, wrapped in each others' body, fulled clothed and surrounded by all that food.
What the hell did this dream mean? I liked Dirty Dancing, I admired the fact that he was still married to the same woman from his pre-fame days, I was sad when he died, but he didn't register that high on my Richter scale of personalities.
If everyone in my dream is a manifestation of something in my personality, which Jung believes fits into of a limited number of archetypes, what part of me is a guy who danced well and never got to the top tier of fame?
Or as my husband Dave would say, are dreams just mind excretions, no more meaningful than taking a dump?
If he's right, then dreams are even more important to me. Nothing is more vital than taking a healthy shit every day. You young punks can laugh, but Karma says you'll be there in a few decades.
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Three-course Emotion
I like my emotions like I like my dinner-each item separate and far away from the other stuff. Happy, sad, scared, shocked: I want enough distance between each so that I can savor or grieve as my psyche directs.
Unfortunately, that's not the way life is served.
Yesterday I received a call from the son of a friend I lost contact with years ago. The delightful news: he was alive, healthy, and engaged to be marred. The devastating news: my friend was dead.
What the hell was I supposed to feel? My governor wasn't kicking in. As someone who's ridden the roller coaster of emotions for decades, my survival mechanism for crisis has become think first - emote later. The event planner didn't show up and I was left with a bunch of empty chairs and no one to put them in the correct place.
After playing out this narcissistic tirade, the universal shock and disbelief set in. Yes, I say universal because I've never trusted my emotions and end up thinking what I think others would feel in this situation.
But I really felt nothing. Empty, numb, hollow, shot with so many shells I was unrecognizable to myself. How do you grieve someone you haven't seen in years? Someone who died years ago when you assumed all this time they were just doing normal things that people do every day and keeping their demons at bay with therapy and proper amounts of prescribed medication? Someone who was as energetic and humorous and quirky as you are?
So I switched the emote-o-meter to 'gratitude.' After all, her kid-who I've wondered about for years-was alive and gratitude is a good thing, right? The post-it note on my computer has been telling me so for six months now so it must be true.
The mashed potatoes got mixed in with the green beans and I have no choice but to eat them if I want to survive.
Life: 1
Death: 1
I'm waiting for the tie-breaker.
