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Pungsnotded » Smart People

Smart People


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August 8, 1991

Actually, the date was August 8th, 2012. An old friend had stopped through town, via Spain. We immediately headed to the bar, on a weeknight. The place was nearly empty, friends and a bartender. Others drifted in and out. It was a Wednesday night. We closed down the place.

The bar had a digital calendar clock. Well, we thought it was a digital calendar clock. But then we noticed the year, 1991. It was silly, we started to pretend it was only 1991. Some of us were about to be in deep shit, it was well past midnight. We would be grounded for sure. That evolved into stories about what we were probably doing on that date. Reality set in and we finally figured out that the digital calendar clock was for the bartender. August 8th, 1991 was exactly 21 years before. The legal drinking age.

Twenty One Fucking Years Ago. I am sure, that as long as I exist in this world, the years will continue to fly by. My grandma always tells me the “days are long, but the years go fast”. Jesus. I do not want time to go any faster. Sometimes, I am cursed with a memory. I cannot find my car keys, but I cannot let a scene in time go by. It plays over and over in my head. Haunts me, until I write it down. Express it. Clarity.

The jukebox was playing that night. Here is the song that froze it in time. We all had drinks. Sitting on barstools singing along…so strange to look at faces, faces I love. Faces that explained “existentialism” to me. Faces that I have slept under bridges with. Faces that were the first to hold my newborn baby, so many years ago. These are the faces that I hope will stay with me, I have lost enough…

 

The strange thing with life is that sometimes, inside you know that a moment is important. The stranger thing is that you won’t ever realize how important. I was blessed in this life with amazing parents, and the best siblings a kid could ask for…4 of the most interesting yet different people. But we groove. We survive. We are there for one another. Always laughing. Positive.

I was blessed in this life with amazing friends. I have never had a problem finding them. They are everywhere. But to have childhood friends, that is such a gift.

“The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other’s life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.”
― Richard Bach, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah

 

You lose the physical presence of your friends over the years. Nothing you can do about that. But I have learned, since August to make those moments count. If we are all gonna be here, and we are all gonna survive, let’s go ahead and make it count. Enjoy every sandwich.

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think.

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cut.

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glow in confusion.

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shots and

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shots with string

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sew sew sew

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wrap presents instead

#1 reason to love Rory, in 1978, Bob Dylan was not allowed backstage at one of his concerts, because Rory did not recognize him.

#2 reason to love Rory, he is among 100 of Rolling Stone Magazine’s best guitarists.

#3 reason to love Rory, Jimi Hendrix, when asked what it felt like to be the best guitar player in the world, responded with “I dunno, ask Rory Gallagher.

#4 reason to love Rory, his sweat had so much alkaline in it, due to a rare blood type, that it wore off the paint/varnish of all his guitars.

Two things hit me while wanting to write about Rory Gallagher. One was a comment that Blu, left here yesterday, that has echoed through my mind. This idea that time is irrelevant has sent me thinking about past events. I realized that in my history, their were times when I knew more than I do now. Maybe I knew what was meant to be or maybe not. But I was definitely more together mentally if not intellectually. I do not attribute that to naivete.

The other thing that struck me was the idea of alone. Rory Gallagher’s music conveys what “alone” really is. And while “alone” may be this very sad thing to some, “alone” can also be very empowering. You can stand on your own two feet and you will always have those two feet. I mean, I really hope you keep both your feet. But if you don’t, think of the money you will save on socks.

It isn’t the lyrics to Rory’s songs that fill me inside. It is the guitar. He managed to play his guitar as a voice, he made it scream of his despair, his loneliness, his own angst. Rory was more than a talented superstar kid. He was more than a tortured soul, driven to drink. Rory represents what happens when we live life devoted to our true talents, to mastering our craft. He sits right up there with Bruce Lee when I think of lives well spent.

I flashback often to my twentieth year. I was knocked up by a bartender who never looked back. He had his chance and he didn’t take it. I never thought to feel bad about the situation. I was optimistic and young. Life found me 7 months pregnant driving around the countryside with an ex. I took a turn at the end of a hill and hit a snake. We got out of the car to have a look. I stood there, tiny in the world, looking at a thirty or more baby snakes writhing all over the road. That snake was pregnant. I felt my feet on the ground supporting my giant swollen belly. I knew then that I would never be able to depend on anyone else. I knew what freedom was. Life was never going to be about money and jobs and bills. Life just was and it was always going to be me who created my own happiness. That is the real “alone”. It is not sad it just is. I am not sure why a dead mama snake and a pregnancy ala “Natalie Portman left at the Walmart” showed me that, but they did.

I had forgotten about that feeling until yesterday. I lost track. I was so much smarter back then. I now have the greatest husband, and the best family in the world a girl could ever ask for. This is “luck of the draw”. I am here to paint my reality. I create it. This is my world. Lyrically, Rory Gallagher was so strong with seemingly simple words. The formula of Rock and Roll is, live young die fast. The problem with this is that some of us refuse to die, refuse to give in. In the mid seventies, amidst the glitter and atrocious fashions, Rory showed up in a flannel shirt. I am not going to be bought or sold and neither was Rory. Instead of lyrics, listen to the guitar. That 1961 Fender Stratocaster with the varnish eaten away, the one Rory kept track of and played for over 30 brilliant years, that is your lyric. That guitar was stolen and it found its way back to Rory. That is your story. That guitar is telling you everything you need to hear.

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Over Thanksgiving break we traveled to Alghanistan. Word on the street wass that Alghanistan is lovely this time of year. You can watch Star Trek, meet the Morton Salt Girl or get 2 free sweet kittens!

 

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A dizzy fuzzy stumble into the dark woods will reveal a one kickass abode, full of beer and good times. The Prime Minister of Alghanistan is Old Dirty Allen and he is the hostess with the mostest. He has the mostest skateboards I have ever seen. He makes those wonderful things and breaks them. He breaks a lot of them. I have one hanging one the wall in my kitchen, along with an orginal O.D.A. painting. I hope to tour my kitchen on this blog one day! Allen has shared beers in my kitchen and one time I even got to make him some Macaroni Salad!

 

 

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This trip was a short trip, but a worthwhile one. Much fun was had. The music was pumping and Alghanistan is sometimes “Standing Room Only”. That is because bitches be dancing and shit!

 

Cabin in the Woods

 

 

I count myself lucky to have had Allen work on my house, building me the best party deck this side of the Mississippi! (another some day blog post) He has built us a shed and an KICKASS tree house. When my brother came out to visit I was so happy to show him, we had a tree house growing up, it makes me smile to have one for my kids.

I think the most important part about Alghanistan is the music. OH! The music! Allen introduces me to so much new/old/cool/crazy shit, it is great!

Here are 3 of my favorites:

Mickey Avalon! Jane Fonda! I always wonder if she secretly jams out to this song!

HANDS DOWN THE BEST COVER EVER! I love you, Agnes Chan! Fuck you, JOLENE! Even Agnes Chan HATES you! I love how even in Chinese this song translates emotionally!

And Finally: The craziest/happiest/saddest suicide song I have ever heard! Deaf School, best band to ever come from Liverpool!

Love you Allen, you big cold tree! Hope to come back and visit real soon!

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This is real. Merlin was our waiter. At Pizza Hut. The ordeal lasted well over 2 hours. I expected more out of someone named Merlin.

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Chicken Nutget. REALLY? We had to get one. Turns out, they were just nuggets.

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This was in Florida, at a Dollar Tree Store. How could you EVER throw trash in that store? It is already full of trash! And only costs one dollar!

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One big ass mother fucking toe. Measures how much? 3 1/2 inches?? That is big!

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Traffic that will stay? Come on in! It is just a busted up bridge over a creek, pull over and shoot things!

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I love metal, so NO GENTLE!

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This should not make me laugh. I am SO sorry Dennis Wojtkiewicz. I have googled you. I cannot find one single picture of your fingers. Or even your hands. Your paintings are pretty amazing. I need answers. Click this for his amazing paintings:

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AND finally, my baby kitty, Simba. He is still kinda stupid but I love him. Even if he climbs the Christmas tree and costs me one million dollars at the vet. He is my baby boy kitty and I love him!

Sorry Dennis! HOT DOG FINGERS! That should not be so funny. But still, I am googling you OLD HOT DOG FINGERS!

There are few things so sweet in this world as a partner in crime. A sister. From the moment of birth, this younger creature was there to assist on every adventure your mind could conjur. Magical things, these siblings, so close in age, so willing to suspend disbelief with you.

 

As children, my sister and I had a summer home on our back screened in porch. It was carpeted, albeit scratchy indoor/outdoor astroturf, and our wonderland. We had all of our play dishes and my mother gave us some Blue Dawn dish soap to wash these tiny things. They were washed and dried and we were allowed to eat tiny portions of spaghetti on them. I think of it, every time I am washing dishes, in my grown up life. I used to dream, back then, of having our own homes, our own stuff. We agreed that when we grew up. we would eat cookie dough and cake batter for every meal.

Those early dreams, turned out better than I ever could have imagined. My sister owns a bakery. She works very long hours, with patience, hard work and skill. But when I visit, she carves out time for me. We have drinks and we dance. And laugh and talk. I can never stay up as long as she can, she has more endurance for that thing. She lives in a building and the first night I was there, I wandered in and out of her apartment, confused. Laughing. Wondering where I would end up. I had to call for her, to help me find my way. It was like a strange dream, but all of it was my sister’s world.

The weekends I spend with her are so amazing. Sweets and treats galore. Hobart mixers that are big enough to throw a man in and kill him, mafia style. Shiny knives and giant butcher block tables, where I lean and drink coffee. Watching her drizzle icing, or prepare sandwiches. Sunday mornings coming down, she makes me eggs and cookie sheets full of tater tots. We giggle and recover.

Our lives may not be as neatly lined up as the baby dishes, we washed and dried in our summer home, but they are happy ones. I hope everyone has a partner in crime in their lives.

There is a god, maybe many of them. Somewhere along the lines of human existence one of these gods spawned forth a Willie Nelson. It matters not, how he got here, just that he is here. He is here for me.

Willie Nelson is the god of calm. No matter how hectic, stressful, erratic and crazy my life becomes, my moment of “count to ten” is always Willie Nelson. The calm that radiates from the soul of that beautiful man is more than weed and voice. I can’t sing and I don’t smoke.

Willie is a gorgeous example of what happens when a human just chills the fuck out. In my mind, he walks into a room and life stands still. No road rage, no sadness, no Rush Limbaugh.

Willie Nelson has been there for me. I want him to visit my home. I want to sit on the front porch and watch cars drive by, while we drink cold Miller Lites from a cooler sitting between us. I want to walk through the woods with him while the light changes into the yellowish hue of a 1970’s photograph. Not that Instagram bullshit either, the real thing. The crosshatch texture, the smell, the carpet and beer cans, cigarettes lit in the ashtrays, the real 1970’s in a photograph. Willie Nelson and I will have a slumber party and wear our flannel pajamas and drink strawberry soda and eat M&Ms while watching the Flintstones. Imagine falling asleep under a quilt, outside, staring up at the sky with a fire beside you and Willie Nelson playing guitar and singing beside you. There are a million miles to go in the morning but that moment is so calm. Thank you, Willie Nelson.

May you all have a beautiful Willie Nelson Day!

I love books. Books, music, food and sewing machines. And beer. Anyway, Wednesday is going to be books I love day. I am going to start with the book that I love most in life. There are many, but this one is my stranded on a desert island choice.

Tom Robbins, Still Life with Woodpecker.

I read this when I was 17 and have reread it almost every year since. I find something new in it every time.

Here is a link:

Linkeedoo click here!

Buy it and enjoy!


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