I recently went home for a few days. I called my Grandmother prior to my visit and she told me the oddest story. She said that she was walking to her mailbox when a man got out of his car and approached her. She told me that he hugged her and called her Grandma. She didn’t recognize him and she asked him to identify himself. He said he was an old friend of my brother and me. Then she said the name. I promise you that he was never a friend of my brother. However, he was an old lover of mine. He didn’t live in that neighborhood anymore and the whole incident sort of bothered me.
The affair ended badly. I was only 17 when it started and it was rather scandalous considering the difference in our ages. Shouldn’t I have been in school instead of carrying on an affair? Well, I wasn’t in school. I graduated high school early, too early actually. I was smart and driven unfortunately, there was no money for college. I tried to work instead, but jobs for 17 year olds were not plentiful. I was offered and accepted a house-cleaning job, his house. He lived in my Grandmother’s neighborhood. Now the picture emerges. Why the men in my family didn’t try to kill him escapes me. After it started, we were very open about it. I guess my mother and the rest of the family knew how willful I was and they felt that any attempt to dissuade me might backfire. I was left, with a lot of grumbling from my mother and step dad, to learn a lesson on my own. I did, but it took, on and off, a couple of years. I put the incident with my Grandmother out of my mind.
A few weeks later, I’m at home for Mother’s Day and my Mom and I are chatting over coffee as she read the paper. She folded the paper down and peered over it giving me this funny look. Then folding the paper in half she said is this him, while showing me this man’s picture. It was his obituary. I took the paper from her and answered in the affirmative. I read it and thought God he was young. Cancer, I’m assuming was the cause, he smoked. No wife, no kids, and his devout Mother obviously had a great deal in input on the write up. There was a glaring typo which made me upset for a couple of reasons. One, at least your obituary should be free of errors and two, I was mad at myself for noticing the typo. I thought shouldn’t you be able to turn that off at a moment like this you callous bitch. The paper said that he had been ill for some time. Then I remembered him at my Grandmother’s mailbox. He knew he was dying. What was he doing, retracing his steps, thinking about me, trying to make amends, or simply reconciling his life? He died the day before I came home. Many thoughts ran through my mind. Should I stay an extra day and go to the funeral home, no, too many questions to answer there. Did I owe something to him or the past? Love is a weak, fleeting thing. I handed the paper back to my mother. Later she asked me if I was finished with it because she wanted to throw it out. There was that look again. What was I supposed to do, clip out the obit, laminate it, and use it as a bookmark. No Mom I’m finished with it. Now I’m not sleeping again, two, three days without much rest. I keep seeing his picture. It was really a good photograph of him. Obviously still handsome and a man women would sill want. I wonder who took it.
Sheff
Sheff
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Monday, May 22, 2006
Chance Meeting
I met someone, someone I would like to know better. I wonder if I‘ll get the opportunity. If he starts weighting the pros and cons, I think he will come to the brilliant conclusion that I’m not worth the trouble. In fact, I’m willing to bet that he runs for the hills screaming, the horror, the horror, while burning my phone number. At best, he’ll say to himself, “What the hell was I thinking.”
I asked myself, “Self why are you such a nightmare?”
Self answered, “Because you are a married nightmare you big stupid or did that slip your mind?”
“Geez, that totally slipped my mind. I guess that makes me a bit of an inconvenience.”
“Ya think!”
So if I never hear from him that will be completely understandable, regrettable, but understandable. I didn’t lie about being married. I was very upfront about it even if I didn’t answer his questions about my husband. I appreciated that he let me off the hook when he saw that I was not immediately forthcoming. I just didn’t want to talk about it or get into specifics. I’m wondering why I behaved that way. Usually I’ll tell anyone anything they want to know about me. Why so closed. Maybe I felt like I needed to explain myself. You know what, I can’t, and it’s too complicated. If I heard that it’s complicated crack from a man, I’d say bullshit. At least that’s what I would have said before. What’s strange is that I don’t feel guilty. I always thought that I’d go through some painful transformation. It didn’t happen. Everything unfolded calmly and naturally as breathing. I was abnormally comfortable with him. It was nice, very nice. He is much too young for me on top of everything else. I said I would never get involved with someone younger again. My husband is younger than I am. I don’t have a single male friend who would have a problem if the roles were reversed. A man and a younger woman is a cause for celebration in the male realm. Why am I allowing cultural programming to affect my feelings for another person? Am I trying to equate age with maturity? That is not necessarily how it works, does it. Well, I’ll see what happens. At any rate it was very nice meeting you.
I asked myself, “Self why are you such a nightmare?”
Self answered, “Because you are a married nightmare you big stupid or did that slip your mind?”
“Geez, that totally slipped my mind. I guess that makes me a bit of an inconvenience.”
“Ya think!”
So if I never hear from him that will be completely understandable, regrettable, but understandable. I didn’t lie about being married. I was very upfront about it even if I didn’t answer his questions about my husband. I appreciated that he let me off the hook when he saw that I was not immediately forthcoming. I just didn’t want to talk about it or get into specifics. I’m wondering why I behaved that way. Usually I’ll tell anyone anything they want to know about me. Why so closed. Maybe I felt like I needed to explain myself. You know what, I can’t, and it’s too complicated. If I heard that it’s complicated crack from a man, I’d say bullshit. At least that’s what I would have said before. What’s strange is that I don’t feel guilty. I always thought that I’d go through some painful transformation. It didn’t happen. Everything unfolded calmly and naturally as breathing. I was abnormally comfortable with him. It was nice, very nice. He is much too young for me on top of everything else. I said I would never get involved with someone younger again. My husband is younger than I am. I don’t have a single male friend who would have a problem if the roles were reversed. A man and a younger woman is a cause for celebration in the male realm. Why am I allowing cultural programming to affect my feelings for another person? Am I trying to equate age with maturity? That is not necessarily how it works, does it. Well, I’ll see what happens. At any rate it was very nice meeting you.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Me
A friend emailed this to me some time ago. She said it was me as a South Park character. The hair is the wrong color and it's longer, at least it is now. The rest is pretty acurate. For the record, I have a glass of wine in my hand at the moment and I don't believe I'm drunk...yet.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Compound Nightclub in Atlanta, Ga Sucks!!!!!!
Hi All,
I’ve been away for a while. I don’t have any good excuses for my absence. Well, maybe I do, but I’m not sharing. Anyway, I promised to trash a place of business and I want to be as good as my word, so here goes. Recently, I was in Atlanta, Georgia on (let’s say) business. After a lovely dinner with friends, we decided to go out for some fun. Fun was difficult to come by. First, we tried to play poker. Alas, the gaming started an hour before we arrived and we couldn’t get in on the action. To be honest, no one in this place looked like they were having any fun. The bartender agreed that there was no fun to be had in his establishment. The clientele were excessively serious especially considering that they weren’t playing for money. We left. Following the bartender’s advice, we hit the clubs downtown.
We arrived at a club called Swinging Richard’s. I didn’t know what kind of place this was and the naked dancing men was a pleasant surprise. Literally, Richard’s were a swinging. It was not too shabby until we were declined admittance to a private room for private dances. We were informed that the management did not allow their dancers to dance privately for women. Now some people were getting private dances. They were the male patrons. Sexism pisses me off!!!!!!!!!!! Hence, we left.
Out of habit, I do research before hitting a city. I read that the Compound was rated the #1 nightclub in Atlanta. I suggested we try that club in search of fun. Well folks, it was not any fun. In fact, it sucked from the moment we hit the door. Apparently, there is more than one entrance to this club. The one we approached was the VIP entrance. To enter through this door cost an additional $30. The door attendant told me it was well worth the price (wink, wink). I decided to let it go. We went in through the peasant’s door. Immediately, I lost my tour guides. As a result, I was left to explore this cavernous club on my own. The music is the same mind numbing crap that you find in any dance club. The club is over priced, generic and God awful dull.
I tried to find a bathroom. I asked some bouncers (sorry, I mean floor managers) where the ladies was located. They directed me to a door with numerous men going in and out. Hey guys! I said I wanted the ladies room. I was told that the bathrooms in this area of the club were unisex. Wow, I thought that concept died in the 1980’s. I was afraid that I had somehow managed to enter a time warp. Fuck is Regan president! Someone please kill me. Look fellows, if I don’t want to piss with men where do I go. You guessed it, the VIP area. I mean why else would you pay the big bucks. Now, I’m really pissed. At this point Shef went on a rant. Journalist, rip you a new one in print, blah, blah, blah, let me into your lily-white VIP pisser. This worked and got to pee with a nice journalist from a magazine that I won’t mention. She said her company frequently used the club. She was honest in her assessment of the place so, I will respect her anonymity. From the bathroom, I proceeded through the club looking for the people I came with.
Finally, after what seemed like hours I settled on to the cheap sofa of an abandon VIP viewing station. It appears that the elite like to watch the great-unwashed dance, but don’t like to socialize with them. Bored and very tired I lay my head down and waited to be found by my friends. Sincerely, everyone should employ this technique at least once in your lifetime. I guarantee you will be dumbstruck by how quickly you will be noticed. A speedy reunion with my lost companions followed. You can’t do this, be thrown out, do you want to reserve this area further. No, snotty server I do not. You see this VIP is bored and wants to leave your (at best elitist, at worst racist) nightclub. The last thing I did in Compound was to drop the velvet ropes and liberate the VIP viewing area. Dance comrades, dance, and enjoy the cheap champagne and stinky sofa once reserved only for the aristocracy. My work was done.
I still can’t get my head around a couple things about Atlanta. 1) I cannot go into strip club featuring women dancers unless a male escorts me. 2) I can go into a club featuring male strippers unescorted but I cannot have men dance privately for me. 3) I am expected to get partially nude and pee with men in a dance club. Does this seem right to you? Well anyway the Compound Nightclub in Atlanta, Georgia Sucks!!! I swear the place qualifies as one of Dante’s rings of HELL.
This weekend I am more than happy to spend in my little house among the trees, drinking wine, listening music and writing. Bye for now. Love, Shef.
I’ve been away for a while. I don’t have any good excuses for my absence. Well, maybe I do, but I’m not sharing. Anyway, I promised to trash a place of business and I want to be as good as my word, so here goes. Recently, I was in Atlanta, Georgia on (let’s say) business. After a lovely dinner with friends, we decided to go out for some fun. Fun was difficult to come by. First, we tried to play poker. Alas, the gaming started an hour before we arrived and we couldn’t get in on the action. To be honest, no one in this place looked like they were having any fun. The bartender agreed that there was no fun to be had in his establishment. The clientele were excessively serious especially considering that they weren’t playing for money. We left. Following the bartender’s advice, we hit the clubs downtown.
We arrived at a club called Swinging Richard’s. I didn’t know what kind of place this was and the naked dancing men was a pleasant surprise. Literally, Richard’s were a swinging. It was not too shabby until we were declined admittance to a private room for private dances. We were informed that the management did not allow their dancers to dance privately for women. Now some people were getting private dances. They were the male patrons. Sexism pisses me off!!!!!!!!!!! Hence, we left.
Out of habit, I do research before hitting a city. I read that the Compound was rated the #1 nightclub in Atlanta. I suggested we try that club in search of fun. Well folks, it was not any fun. In fact, it sucked from the moment we hit the door. Apparently, there is more than one entrance to this club. The one we approached was the VIP entrance. To enter through this door cost an additional $30. The door attendant told me it was well worth the price (wink, wink). I decided to let it go. We went in through the peasant’s door. Immediately, I lost my tour guides. As a result, I was left to explore this cavernous club on my own. The music is the same mind numbing crap that you find in any dance club. The club is over priced, generic and God awful dull.
I tried to find a bathroom. I asked some bouncers (sorry, I mean floor managers) where the ladies was located. They directed me to a door with numerous men going in and out. Hey guys! I said I wanted the ladies room. I was told that the bathrooms in this area of the club were unisex. Wow, I thought that concept died in the 1980’s. I was afraid that I had somehow managed to enter a time warp. Fuck is Regan president! Someone please kill me. Look fellows, if I don’t want to piss with men where do I go. You guessed it, the VIP area. I mean why else would you pay the big bucks. Now, I’m really pissed. At this point Shef went on a rant. Journalist, rip you a new one in print, blah, blah, blah, let me into your lily-white VIP pisser. This worked and got to pee with a nice journalist from a magazine that I won’t mention. She said her company frequently used the club. She was honest in her assessment of the place so, I will respect her anonymity. From the bathroom, I proceeded through the club looking for the people I came with.
Finally, after what seemed like hours I settled on to the cheap sofa of an abandon VIP viewing station. It appears that the elite like to watch the great-unwashed dance, but don’t like to socialize with them. Bored and very tired I lay my head down and waited to be found by my friends. Sincerely, everyone should employ this technique at least once in your lifetime. I guarantee you will be dumbstruck by how quickly you will be noticed. A speedy reunion with my lost companions followed. You can’t do this, be thrown out, do you want to reserve this area further. No, snotty server I do not. You see this VIP is bored and wants to leave your (at best elitist, at worst racist) nightclub. The last thing I did in Compound was to drop the velvet ropes and liberate the VIP viewing area. Dance comrades, dance, and enjoy the cheap champagne and stinky sofa once reserved only for the aristocracy. My work was done.
I still can’t get my head around a couple things about Atlanta. 1) I cannot go into strip club featuring women dancers unless a male escorts me. 2) I can go into a club featuring male strippers unescorted but I cannot have men dance privately for me. 3) I am expected to get partially nude and pee with men in a dance club. Does this seem right to you? Well anyway the Compound Nightclub in Atlanta, Georgia Sucks!!! I swear the place qualifies as one of Dante’s rings of HELL.
This weekend I am more than happy to spend in my little house among the trees, drinking wine, listening music and writing. Bye for now. Love, Shef.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Little talk with Jesus
So the other day I’m talking with Jesus and I say, “Jesus why do I choose to write about things that, I know in the end, will only piss me off?”
Without skipping a beat Jesus answers, “Because you’re a self deprecating liberal and it’s kinda what you do.”
“Damn you’re right! Why didn’t I think of that? Thanks man.”
“Hey, no problem, look, while I have your attention…”
“Yes”
“I think you should know my old man has it in for you. If I were you I’d keep a low profile.”
“Yeah…I sorta knew that but thanks for the intell.”
My buddy Jesus looking out for me.
Without skipping a beat Jesus answers, “Because you’re a self deprecating liberal and it’s kinda what you do.”
“Damn you’re right! Why didn’t I think of that? Thanks man.”
“Hey, no problem, look, while I have your attention…”
“Yes”
“I think you should know my old man has it in for you. If I were you I’d keep a low profile.”
“Yeah…I sorta knew that but thanks for the intell.”
My buddy Jesus looking out for me.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Confessional
There are a lot of things that I could be doing right now. All of which are probably more important, but here I am addicted to the purge.
This year started badly. For example, New Year’s Eve my spouse announced, at the last minute I might add, that he did not want to spend the evening with me. I’m a big girl, so I finished packing my bag and spent the evening, as planned, with friends. Could this be a sign that the marriage is in trouble? Yes, the marriage is far beyond repair. It would be painful to watch if it was happening to someone else, but it isn’t happening to someone else it’s happening to me. Most of the time I wish I could fast forward to the end and skip all the messy parts. You know what I mean, the guilt, name-calling, divisions of property, and deciding who gets custody of the pets. Divorce is never easy. Anyone who says any different is liar. Even if you have grown to hate the other person, it is still painful. If you still care, even if you don’t know why, it’s a thousand times worse.
The trust is gone from my marriage and I can’t get it back. I don’t want to bore you, but he was unfaithful. It was a few years ago. I know he was depressed. Screwing around is what a man does when he’s faced with some crisis. Ok, I can accept that, fine. He denies that he was sleeping around. However, I have proof. Proof that he doesn’t know exists. He was careless, as most men are, and so, I placed the evidence in my lingerie drawer. Everyday morning I put on my panties and I see the proof of my husband’s infidelity. Therefore, if anyone reading my blog is in a judgmental mood, BACK OFF! I have spent a good portion of my life loving a man Jesus couldn’t save, and now, I’m tired.
This past year, I met someone. I could have easily had an affair with this man. I didn’t. The almost affair illuminated an already troubled relationship. Did I really want this man? I don’t know anymore. I’m beginning to believe that what I hoped to gain was the courage to end my marriage. Silly girl that I am, I thought an affair would make that easier. Honestly, I can’t claim to be relieved that it didn’t happen. My only sin is that I still think about him. I shouldn’t. It’s a decadent waste of time and time is a luxury I can no longer afford.
Therefore, this year begins with a confessional. I absolve myself of all the sins I didn’t commit. I can’t claim that my soul feels any better.
This year started badly. For example, New Year’s Eve my spouse announced, at the last minute I might add, that he did not want to spend the evening with me. I’m a big girl, so I finished packing my bag and spent the evening, as planned, with friends. Could this be a sign that the marriage is in trouble? Yes, the marriage is far beyond repair. It would be painful to watch if it was happening to someone else, but it isn’t happening to someone else it’s happening to me. Most of the time I wish I could fast forward to the end and skip all the messy parts. You know what I mean, the guilt, name-calling, divisions of property, and deciding who gets custody of the pets. Divorce is never easy. Anyone who says any different is liar. Even if you have grown to hate the other person, it is still painful. If you still care, even if you don’t know why, it’s a thousand times worse.
The trust is gone from my marriage and I can’t get it back. I don’t want to bore you, but he was unfaithful. It was a few years ago. I know he was depressed. Screwing around is what a man does when he’s faced with some crisis. Ok, I can accept that, fine. He denies that he was sleeping around. However, I have proof. Proof that he doesn’t know exists. He was careless, as most men are, and so, I placed the evidence in my lingerie drawer. Everyday morning I put on my panties and I see the proof of my husband’s infidelity. Therefore, if anyone reading my blog is in a judgmental mood, BACK OFF! I have spent a good portion of my life loving a man Jesus couldn’t save, and now, I’m tired.
This past year, I met someone. I could have easily had an affair with this man. I didn’t. The almost affair illuminated an already troubled relationship. Did I really want this man? I don’t know anymore. I’m beginning to believe that what I hoped to gain was the courage to end my marriage. Silly girl that I am, I thought an affair would make that easier. Honestly, I can’t claim to be relieved that it didn’t happen. My only sin is that I still think about him. I shouldn’t. It’s a decadent waste of time and time is a luxury I can no longer afford.
Therefore, this year begins with a confessional. I absolve myself of all the sins I didn’t commit. I can’t claim that my soul feels any better.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Swarthy Pete sez "It's all about the ladies"
From: Swarthy Pete swarthypete@hotmail.com
Sent: Tuesday, January 3,2006 2:14 PM
To: Sheffieldjacobson@hotmail.com
Subject: Hey it’s Pete
What it is Shef. Thanks for all the praise on the blog. Hope you had a good holiday season. We'll have to all get together in the near future. Feel free to put this email on the blog, I created it specifically for that reason: fanmail/hatemail. Much fun to be had.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
My Alcohol Shame
Hi all, miss me? I’ve been very busy. This evening the pressure is off, all the deadlines have been met, and I have a few days, maybe a week free. I am going on a toot. To the un indoctrinated a “toot” is a bender, a drunk, tying one on, sort of thing. I was just interrupted by a phone call. I had to explain the whole “toot” thing again. I tried to engage my phone-calling friend in some extra curricular drunk-tivities. She wasn’t buying, but said she would call me back later when I was further along into Toot Ville.
I had to question her about the office gossip at her end. I was her date to a bar association party last weekend. Bar as in legal and lawyers, guns, and money party. My friend seated me between a divorce attorney and a single lawyer from her office. Was she trying to tell me something? I thought single lawyer was being nice, polite, and friendly. Then he apparently asked me out on a date. The whole I’m married thing didn’t seem to dissuade him at all. Of course, the whole asking me on a date was rather lost on me also. As I have stated earlier I’m am a little slow on the up take when it comes to men. Anyway, this guy met me last year at another party. I attended that party with my spouse. My hubby silenced the crowd late in the evening by calling me a slut. To his credit, he thought he was paying me a compliment. Single guy has had a year to ponder his move. He doesn’t have a moral dilemma with dating me considering the whole slut comment from last year. He thinks my husband is an ass, so in his mind I’m up for grabs. I wondered where he got this idea. My friend has been feeding the flame, or pimping me out; whatever suits your fancy to call this type of encouragement. I didn’t accept the date. I really felt my husband would not support my dating. I do not understand why actually, it’s not as if he’s still interested. It must be a guy thing. I’ll have to ask Swarthy Pete about it, he’s sooo…enlightening. Swarthy Pete tells all about things like this, guy rules, or Swarthy Pete rules. I love so many of these rules I keep promising to include them in my blog. Well, here’s one of my favs.
Swarthy Pete rule # 1, “Never turn down celebrity pussy. It is a rule; you jump on that shit like it’s on fire. Stop, drop, and roll baby. Let me put you out with my fire hose.”
See don’t you feel enlightened now. Aha, the mysteries of the alpha male revealed. I’m all a tingle.
I have to call Boobs and Notorious A. The last I heard there were some rumblings of a party. I’m ready for a party, then I’m always ready for a party. I want to wear glitter and sparkly clothing. That’s what the holidays are good for, being shiny.
……………………. Now children this is what happens when you drink and drive on the information super highway. I’m just now weeks or week later discovering this draft of a blog. I apparently got too tipsy to continue and just stopped in mid blog. I am going to punish myself and here is the punishment, “You must publish this blog and show the world your alcohol shame!” Thank you Mistress Sheffield, may I have another. Yes, yes, blog me, blog me until I can’t stand any more. Aghhhhhhhh.
I had to question her about the office gossip at her end. I was her date to a bar association party last weekend. Bar as in legal and lawyers, guns, and money party. My friend seated me between a divorce attorney and a single lawyer from her office. Was she trying to tell me something? I thought single lawyer was being nice, polite, and friendly. Then he apparently asked me out on a date. The whole I’m married thing didn’t seem to dissuade him at all. Of course, the whole asking me on a date was rather lost on me also. As I have stated earlier I’m am a little slow on the up take when it comes to men. Anyway, this guy met me last year at another party. I attended that party with my spouse. My hubby silenced the crowd late in the evening by calling me a slut. To his credit, he thought he was paying me a compliment. Single guy has had a year to ponder his move. He doesn’t have a moral dilemma with dating me considering the whole slut comment from last year. He thinks my husband is an ass, so in his mind I’m up for grabs. I wondered where he got this idea. My friend has been feeding the flame, or pimping me out; whatever suits your fancy to call this type of encouragement. I didn’t accept the date. I really felt my husband would not support my dating. I do not understand why actually, it’s not as if he’s still interested. It must be a guy thing. I’ll have to ask Swarthy Pete about it, he’s sooo…enlightening. Swarthy Pete tells all about things like this, guy rules, or Swarthy Pete rules. I love so many of these rules I keep promising to include them in my blog. Well, here’s one of my favs.
Swarthy Pete rule # 1, “Never turn down celebrity pussy. It is a rule; you jump on that shit like it’s on fire. Stop, drop, and roll baby. Let me put you out with my fire hose.”
See don’t you feel enlightened now. Aha, the mysteries of the alpha male revealed. I’m all a tingle.
I have to call Boobs and Notorious A. The last I heard there were some rumblings of a party. I’m ready for a party, then I’m always ready for a party. I want to wear glitter and sparkly clothing. That’s what the holidays are good for, being shiny.
……………………. Now children this is what happens when you drink and drive on the information super highway. I’m just now weeks or week later discovering this draft of a blog. I apparently got too tipsy to continue and just stopped in mid blog. I am going to punish myself and here is the punishment, “You must publish this blog and show the world your alcohol shame!” Thank you Mistress Sheffield, may I have another. Yes, yes, blog me, blog me until I can’t stand any more. Aghhhhhhhh.
Christmas Wrapping
Happy Holidays All! Did you make merry? I know I did on several occasions. The holiday season is a very inspirational time for me. I am constantly surprised at the behavior of my fellow human beings. I like to refer to the behavior change as, “Tis the Season of My Moral Superiority.” How do I know certain individuals feel morally superior, because they don’t hesitate to tell me just how morally superior they are in comparison to me. Oh and by the by, I am not made of wood. I have feeling. No, that’s not a type-o. I said feeling. You see I only have one feeling left in my little wooden heart. All the rest were killed by the callous comments of others over the course of my lifetime, so go easy will you. I have a sense of humor. That’s does not qualify as mean spirited. If you think I am mean spirited, well you obviously have a very large bug up your ass. I recommend lots of holiday cocktails to free yourself of that particular infestation.
Small children make the holidays fun and can cure most of your festive blues. If you don’t have or know any, go rent some, they are terrific. I took an open-air train ride around the base of a mountain in twenty-degree weather to see Christmas lights. I held my 3-year-old niece on my lap. We were bundled up and wrapped in a blanket, but I didn’t really feel that cold. She and I had a blast, and I was sober. That’s saying something folks, trust me.
Bell ringers say what you really feel. I worry that most of you guys will have ulcers by the end of the season. I mean you let me slide when I enter a store because you assume that I’ll give on the way out. When I exit and I don’t donate that bless you or Merry Christmas always sounds like you mean something else. I know you want to say, “Hey, you pagan tightwad I bet the poor would like an I Pod.” Please call me out on it, call everyone out on it. None of us has a good excuse and it would be entertaining for all concerned. Imagine having to really think outside the box during the season of mass consumerism. I can’t go to the mall until I have a good explanation for not giving to the poor. The unprepared would either stand there tongue-tied or scurry off to their cars in shame. I’m giddy with just the thought of such exchanges. Damn, I might just be mean spirited.
Small children make the holidays fun and can cure most of your festive blues. If you don’t have or know any, go rent some, they are terrific. I took an open-air train ride around the base of a mountain in twenty-degree weather to see Christmas lights. I held my 3-year-old niece on my lap. We were bundled up and wrapped in a blanket, but I didn’t really feel that cold. She and I had a blast, and I was sober. That’s saying something folks, trust me.
Bell ringers say what you really feel. I worry that most of you guys will have ulcers by the end of the season. I mean you let me slide when I enter a store because you assume that I’ll give on the way out. When I exit and I don’t donate that bless you or Merry Christmas always sounds like you mean something else. I know you want to say, “Hey, you pagan tightwad I bet the poor would like an I Pod.” Please call me out on it, call everyone out on it. None of us has a good excuse and it would be entertaining for all concerned. Imagine having to really think outside the box during the season of mass consumerism. I can’t go to the mall until I have a good explanation for not giving to the poor. The unprepared would either stand there tongue-tied or scurry off to their cars in shame. I’m giddy with just the thought of such exchanges. Damn, I might just be mean spirited.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Chris Whitley died.
A friend called from Wyoming a few minutes ago. I assumed the call had to do with the holidays being upon us, and it’s a good time to touch base. I was wrong. She said she called because she knew I would be upset. Chris Whitley died, she said. I feel like a disloyal ass for not knowing about his passing the day it happened. I don’t know why I’m surprised about hearing the news from a friend; it’s not as if Chris’s death would make the national news. It should make the national news but that’s just my anger talking. With all the crap that passes for music today. Chris’s death is unbelievably sad and a loss that unfortunately many will not experience. They won’t experience it because they never heard Chris’s music. Too many people listen to musicians who would sell their soul along with their art for commercial success. CHRIS WHITLEY NEVER COMPROMISED!
Shame, shame, on you, if you call yourself a music fan or a musician, and you never heard of Chris Whitley.
I knew Chris was sick and I suspected cancer because Chris was a chain smoker. The last show that I saw, Chris was smoking less and he was wearing a nicotine patch. When I heard of shows being canceled for health reasons, I suspected the worst. Fans speculated over the reasons for some bad performances and the canceled shows. Some blamed alcohol, some blamed drugs. I never joined these discussions, because of all the many times I saw Chris, I never saw him drunk or stoned. He was always soft spoken and generous. I’m staring at some of the cd’s that Chris signed for me and that wonderful artistic scrawl he made out of my name. I’ve always treasured them, now; I just don’t know what to say about them.
I started attending Chris’s shows when he was touring behind Living with the Law, sometime in the early 1990’s. I was privileged to see almost every tour Chris was on since that time. I am happy that I was able to meet Chris Whitley, and tell him how much I admired and respected his work, not many fans get to do that with artist they truly love. I remember being surprised at how soft Chris’s hands seemed to be for someone who played with such force. What a gentle soul.
I really hope there is a heaven. Anyone who knows me well, knows, that God and I are not on speaking terms. If God exists, I hope he is taking care of Chris Whitley. According to Chris’s brother Dan and his daughter Trixie, Chris died peacefully in the arms of his lover, Susanna, and surrounded by those he loved most. I am grateful for that knowledge, and if you had to go Chris, I’m so glad that you went enveloped in love. I am just a fan, nothing more, but I will mourn you like a friend.
Shame, shame, on you, if you call yourself a music fan or a musician, and you never heard of Chris Whitley.
I knew Chris was sick and I suspected cancer because Chris was a chain smoker. The last show that I saw, Chris was smoking less and he was wearing a nicotine patch. When I heard of shows being canceled for health reasons, I suspected the worst. Fans speculated over the reasons for some bad performances and the canceled shows. Some blamed alcohol, some blamed drugs. I never joined these discussions, because of all the many times I saw Chris, I never saw him drunk or stoned. He was always soft spoken and generous. I’m staring at some of the cd’s that Chris signed for me and that wonderful artistic scrawl he made out of my name. I’ve always treasured them, now; I just don’t know what to say about them.
I started attending Chris’s shows when he was touring behind Living with the Law, sometime in the early 1990’s. I was privileged to see almost every tour Chris was on since that time. I am happy that I was able to meet Chris Whitley, and tell him how much I admired and respected his work, not many fans get to do that with artist they truly love. I remember being surprised at how soft Chris’s hands seemed to be for someone who played with such force. What a gentle soul.
I really hope there is a heaven. Anyone who knows me well, knows, that God and I are not on speaking terms. If God exists, I hope he is taking care of Chris Whitley. According to Chris’s brother Dan and his daughter Trixie, Chris died peacefully in the arms of his lover, Susanna, and surrounded by those he loved most. I am grateful for that knowledge, and if you had to go Chris, I’m so glad that you went enveloped in love. I am just a fan, nothing more, but I will mourn you like a friend.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Boobs Mahoney's Birthday!
Boobs Mahoney’s Birthday!
Last Saturday was Ms. Mahoney’s birthday so a gathering of tribes was in order. We met, me, Boobs and Notorious A at an Italian restaurant. After much food and drinks, it was time for to rendezvous with Swarthy Pete for more cocktails and perhaps a film. The plan was to have a quiet evening with Swarthy Pete’s two dates and us four friends. Yeah, you heard me, Swarthy Pete wanted to bring two dates. We thought it mighty brave of Swarthy Pete daring to expose his women to us. Didn’t he know us? I mean, “We weren’t going to be ignored, Dan.” If you get the Fatal Attraction reference, you can imagine the plots that were discussed prior to his arrival.
Surprisingly, Pete showed up solo explaining that his dates were sleeping until movie time. Apparently, the three of them had had a big day. Rock on Swarthy Pete, we want details. It was a confusing tale. They both wanted him, one had had him but the other didn’t know, they were friends, who broke up with boyfriend, ex boyfriend was stalking, Swarthy Pete was threatening, Swarthy Pete is #1 the devil and #2 a home wrecker. I JUST WANT A BATH!
One thing was very clear; the whole affair fell under the bad idea category. It was time for an intervention. DITCH THEM SWARTHY PETE! Let’s go to a dive on the Westside and drink, screw the cinema. They can meet us at the bar if you have to have them Swarthy Pete. He said they weren’t old enough to get into the bar. Collective groans filled the air. I love you Swarthy Pete and I’m glad you are a friend to the youth but geez man is the crack of dawn safe from you? The voices of reason prevailed and after we had shots of something blue, we headed downtown.
When we walked into the bar, Jim Carroll’s All the people Who Died blasted from the jukebox. Aha, felt like home. We played pool and drank some more, which put everyone in rare form. Notorious A was in sort of a drunk funk that made her unusually mellow. Swarthy Pete claimed that he wanted to make out with some random girl because he was in that kind of mood. SWARTHY PETE SEZ, “YOU MUST BE THIS DRUNK TO RIDE.” You go Swarthy Pete!
The place began to fill up about 2am and we decided to leave around 3:30. I was standing near the bar trying to pay a tab when I was approached by two guys. One was really drunk and the other was, I guess, his friend so he could humiliate him. At least that seemed to be his purpose. Anyway, Mr. NotSoDrunk said he was a writer, a published writer no less. I remember thinking could it be that we have traveled so far just to in up in a writer’s bar. Mr. NSD kept up the 20 questions interrogation of me and I tried to discourage him by dropping the M word but he wasn’t buying. He started saying that anybody could write a book and he started talking about his, of course. Boobs came up just in time to hear the anybody can write a book crack. You know you shouldn’t piss Boobs off on her birthday. At this point If Notorious A had been on top of her game things could have gotten ugly. I can hear her sweet voice now, “AS YOUR EDITOR, I RECOMEND YOU KICK HIS ASS.” I didn’t feel violent at 3am so I followed the only other evil option open to me. I decided to fain interest just to watch him run around the bar looking for a pen. He found one and began to write all about his book and himself on a napkin. I thought there really is a lot of crap on that napkin. Is that your library of congress number you arrogant fuck? Now you fellow writers out there might be thinking, OH SHIT! was that me, was I in a bar last Saturday. Of course you were in a bar last Saturday, you’re a writer. The only way you weren’t in a bar is if you’re a poet. If you’re a poet, you stayed home, got drunk, masturbated and felt sorry for yourself.
Aside: Brother Poets I didn’t mean any of that, I was just trying to be funny. Forgive me. I know you are a sensitive lot and that was cruel of me. So, please don’t shoot me, I know most of you carry weapons. Love and Kisses, Shef
Anyway, Mr. NSD is right anybody can write a book and in his case not a very good one. I should mention his book here but I don’t want to give him any free press. I wonder if he is waiting for me to email him. NOT GONNA HAPPEN!
I got home about 4:30 and tried quietly slipping into bed. I heard an angry male voice say, “WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN.” Oopsy! Did I mention the M word stands for married? Well, that’s another story.
Last Saturday was Ms. Mahoney’s birthday so a gathering of tribes was in order. We met, me, Boobs and Notorious A at an Italian restaurant. After much food and drinks, it was time for to rendezvous with Swarthy Pete for more cocktails and perhaps a film. The plan was to have a quiet evening with Swarthy Pete’s two dates and us four friends. Yeah, you heard me, Swarthy Pete wanted to bring two dates. We thought it mighty brave of Swarthy Pete daring to expose his women to us. Didn’t he know us? I mean, “We weren’t going to be ignored, Dan.” If you get the Fatal Attraction reference, you can imagine the plots that were discussed prior to his arrival.
Surprisingly, Pete showed up solo explaining that his dates were sleeping until movie time. Apparently, the three of them had had a big day. Rock on Swarthy Pete, we want details. It was a confusing tale. They both wanted him, one had had him but the other didn’t know, they were friends, who broke up with boyfriend, ex boyfriend was stalking, Swarthy Pete was threatening, Swarthy Pete is #1 the devil and #2 a home wrecker. I JUST WANT A BATH!
One thing was very clear; the whole affair fell under the bad idea category. It was time for an intervention. DITCH THEM SWARTHY PETE! Let’s go to a dive on the Westside and drink, screw the cinema. They can meet us at the bar if you have to have them Swarthy Pete. He said they weren’t old enough to get into the bar. Collective groans filled the air. I love you Swarthy Pete and I’m glad you are a friend to the youth but geez man is the crack of dawn safe from you? The voices of reason prevailed and after we had shots of something blue, we headed downtown.
When we walked into the bar, Jim Carroll’s All the people Who Died blasted from the jukebox. Aha, felt like home. We played pool and drank some more, which put everyone in rare form. Notorious A was in sort of a drunk funk that made her unusually mellow. Swarthy Pete claimed that he wanted to make out with some random girl because he was in that kind of mood. SWARTHY PETE SEZ, “YOU MUST BE THIS DRUNK TO RIDE.” You go Swarthy Pete!
The place began to fill up about 2am and we decided to leave around 3:30. I was standing near the bar trying to pay a tab when I was approached by two guys. One was really drunk and the other was, I guess, his friend so he could humiliate him. At least that seemed to be his purpose. Anyway, Mr. NotSoDrunk said he was a writer, a published writer no less. I remember thinking could it be that we have traveled so far just to in up in a writer’s bar. Mr. NSD kept up the 20 questions interrogation of me and I tried to discourage him by dropping the M word but he wasn’t buying. He started saying that anybody could write a book and he started talking about his, of course. Boobs came up just in time to hear the anybody can write a book crack. You know you shouldn’t piss Boobs off on her birthday. At this point If Notorious A had been on top of her game things could have gotten ugly. I can hear her sweet voice now, “AS YOUR EDITOR, I RECOMEND YOU KICK HIS ASS.” I didn’t feel violent at 3am so I followed the only other evil option open to me. I decided to fain interest just to watch him run around the bar looking for a pen. He found one and began to write all about his book and himself on a napkin. I thought there really is a lot of crap on that napkin. Is that your library of congress number you arrogant fuck? Now you fellow writers out there might be thinking, OH SHIT! was that me, was I in a bar last Saturday. Of course you were in a bar last Saturday, you’re a writer. The only way you weren’t in a bar is if you’re a poet. If you’re a poet, you stayed home, got drunk, masturbated and felt sorry for yourself.
Aside: Brother Poets I didn’t mean any of that, I was just trying to be funny. Forgive me. I know you are a sensitive lot and that was cruel of me. So, please don’t shoot me, I know most of you carry weapons. Love and Kisses, Shef
Anyway, Mr. NSD is right anybody can write a book and in his case not a very good one. I should mention his book here but I don’t want to give him any free press. I wonder if he is waiting for me to email him. NOT GONNA HAPPEN!
I got home about 4:30 and tried quietly slipping into bed. I heard an angry male voice say, “WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN.” Oopsy! Did I mention the M word stands for married? Well, that’s another story.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
My first post
I feel like I may have given birth to an ugly baby. My friends will look at my blog and say oh what a sweet blog, what a cute blog, but then when I am out of earshot the truth will spew forth. Why the hell did she bother. I know its not very interesting right now but just wait. I promise to write something sexy. Today nothing sexy happened unless you count my trainer's comments about my ass. He's really very sweet. He quietly told me that he didn't want to offend me, but he thought my ass was great. I can't remember his exact words, something much improved blah, blah, blah. Then he took a picture of me while I was working out. He said he was going to post pictures of gym members on the bulletin board. So, I'm choosing to take him at his word that my ass does look great, much improved blah, blah, blah. And you know my ass should look great. I work out out 6 hours a week and it's about time someone noticed, besides my girlfriends. Hell someone else may have noticed. According to my sister, and some friends, I seem to have lost the ability to tell if a man is paying attention to me. I guess I'm distracted or something. Swarthy Pete, that's a friend of mine, was telling me about women having to spell out their interest in him because he 's man and didn't pick up subtle hints. He and I have discussed my internal maleness, so that might explain my failings in the I'm making a pass area. I notice men, and I'm open about my interest, if I don't feel I have anything to lose. The truth is if I have a genuine interest, I do my best not to show it. A while back, I may have missed a golden opportunity because, well I'm crippled by inaction. I spend way too much time thinking about Mr. Missed Opp. I keep thinking that I should do something about it, like contact him again. Boobs Mahoney, that's another friend, she thinks I should get in touch with him. She made an interesting point. She said, why is it that a man can pursue a woman and people say, oh he's in love, but let a woman pursue a man and she's a psycho, stalking bitch. She's right you know. She ended that part of our conversation by saying, besides he started it. I thought that was very funny and she almost has me convinced.
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