Lord, have mercy! If you were in a romantic relationship with me, you’d have broken up with me by now, I imagine. Please to forgive. I don’t even know where to start with the last couple of months, much less if I actually should. I have been d.i.s.t.r.a.c.t.e.d. Even as I start to beg for forgiveness, I let myself get diverted by some packages being delivered by UPS. Let no box go unopened, I say. It might be a puppy.
_________________________________________________________
Pup would be a good place to start here. A friend who was watching me grieve for my beautiful Remy sent me a link on Petfinder. Even while protesting that I wasn’t ready for another dog, I was a goner before you could say “roll over,” and was driving the back roads to Monroe one beautiful October day. Max (a four-year-old mix of bearded collie and PBGV = Petit Basset Griffon Vendéen) was rescued and came to live in the little red house. He’s a nut ball and he makes me laugh every time I look at his furry face.
__________________________________________________________
As the leaves were turning and I was falling in love with Max, I was trying to find my wobbly footing in another love that was going off-track faster than I could correct the steering, or apply the brakes. It was bad NASCAR 
without a pit stop, or even a wall to stop the motion. When love is new everything in your field of (and peripheral) vision is stunningly clear. Sharp. Gleaming. And achingly fragile … like an expensive Riedel wine glass. You’ve never been surer about anything in your entire life. But when, and if, the shiny wears off and the cracks spider off into everywhere and nowhere, suddenly everything is muffled, dull, pillowed. And achingly fragile. When someone’s talking, you nod like you’re listening, but you’re not really. Suddenly you’re trying to walk through pudding or Jello® wearing 6” spike heels. Which in my case meant my flip-flops were skidding on every surface, every step I took. Downright treacherous, but that’s the thing about trying to make long distance love work. There’s all this empty space between in which to get trapped.
But ENFP says it best … me in love. I kinda think they nailed it.
“Puppy love” is a good term for describing your take on romance: fun, frisky, playful, cuddly, and young at heart. No matter what your age or how many times your heart has been broken, you are an eternal optimist when it comes to love. You are not someone who proceeds cautiously when you meet someone you find attractive. You are likely to fall passionately in love – or at least lust – quickly, spontaneously, and with total abandon. Holding something back for later is a concept you can’t quite grasp, especially when it comes to the joy of creating a new and exciting relationship. Yes, COMMITMENT can scare you. That one word may explain why you are still single at thirty, forty, fifty, or beyond. But you love, absolutely love, the concept of intimacy, sharing, and relationships. If only you could find that special one, you would be set for life.
______________________________________________________
And then there’s that new job thing. Should have led with that, right? Landed upright and happy at what’s turning out to be the job that’s been looking for me, and I for it, complete with a dynamic and creative director. I can’t wait to get there every day. So all in all, life’s pretty good.
Diversions aplenty though!
Carrboro Music Fest – September, 2012.
Another year, another success. And a day spent with my sister from Vermont and two old guy friends I hadn’t seen since the mid-80’s. Kate, Ted, and Clay, thank you for such a day! Loved hearing Saints Apollo!
YR15! Cat’s Cradle, Carrboro – October, 2012. Wow! YepRoc Records throws a memorable party to celebrate 15 years.
Finally seeing Nick Lowe after all these years … delicious! Seeing Chatham County Line again … sweet! Discovering Jukebox the Ghost … exhilarating! Experiencing Los Straitjackets … perfectly fright’nin’!
Thank you, Glenn Dicker, for taking time to talk with me for Chapel Hill Magazine’s The WEEKLY! Read our Q&A here.
Now get outta here … I’ve got a Twelfth Night/Epiphany party to go to and then Downton Abbey! It’s all good in my world. _________________________________________________________
Music for cooking a pot of Irish Beef Stew:
Creatures of Love (Talking Heads)
And it Spread (Avett Bros.)
Tears Dry on Their Own (Amy Winehouse)
Keys to Paradise (Trampled by Turtles)
Are we in Trouble Now (Mark Knopfler)
I Wish I Was Your Mother (Alejandro Escovedo)
Home (Phillip Phillips)
Schizophrenia (Jukebox the Ghost)
I was a reluctant first timer in 2010 when Leon Russell was the Saturday night big name artist. Been there, done that with festivals. I like little intimate venues where it feels like I’m yay-far from the stage and feeling up-close-and-personal with who I’ve come to see. Yes, I’m one of those … I want to see the sweat on the brow and the crazy faces the guys in the band make. It turned out to feel like someone’s ginormous backyard party (albiet a really big, cool backyard that has a view of the Cape Fear), and we were not all that many lawn chairs away from stage left. But wait. Two days of nearly non-stop music? More stages? Smaller ones, scattered around the park … one for blues, one for jazz … one of which was so close to the Cape Fear River you could almost party on the boats gathered off-shore. Local food vendors were filling bowls and baskets with seafood chowder, fried shrimp, and other goodies that were right out of the sea only days ago.
But that’s not my final stop for the night … I’m strolling just down the street to Cat’s Cradle for a double dose of Megafaun as they kick off the evening for The Old Ceremony’s new CD release “Fairytales and Other Forms of Suicide” just out on the locally-owned Yep Rock Records label. I like everything about Django Haskins, The Old Ceremony’s founder, including his name. I hope he was named after jazz-guitarist Django Reinhardt.
If you still can’t quite quit the night, turn right out of the Cradle and hit Local 506 on West Franklin Street. There are enough musical styles in alt/indie band, Morgan’s End, that you’re bound to find some notes in there that appeal to you. The odd band out here is Hunter Valentine. They have absolutely nothing at all to do with the local music scene, but you may recognize their name if you watch The Real L Word on Showtime where the trio are cast members of the current bi-coastal series that follows a group of lesbians through the daily drama of their own lives in both LA and Brooklyn.
Thursday there was something in the air. And it was not good. By Friday in the mid-90 degree heat, it was something altogether worse. Even Remy wouldn’t go gently into that good yard. I had to push him down the steps. Friday evening my neighbor, Katie, knocked on my door. We discussed the smell and the fact that her other-side neighbors giant 16-lb cat was AWOL. Uh-oh. We walked the two yards, hers and mine, sniffing … me trying to stifle my serious gag-reflex … trying to locate the dead thing. It was worse in my yard. Worser still on my back porch and I’m suddenly sure the dead thing is under my back porch. It had gotten dark enough that neither of us were going to go down on hands and knees with a flashlight to peek under the porch. After all, I’m the one who scoffs at characters in horror movies who go down in the basement without turning on the light asking “is anyone there?” We leave it that in the morning I’ll call our favorite man in the neighborhood. The one who comes to the rescue of us suddenly-helpless girls and seemingly loves every minute of being our savior. Back in the house, I lit candles and let loose an over-kill of room spray, but the dead thing was stronger than anything in a bottle or a jar. I fall asleep humming Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell.”
Saturday. Mid-morning. The savior arrives waving a short-handled rake. All he needs is a white horse. Only the knee-pads jerk me back from all but hanging a glowing salvation-like halo over his head. Yeah, I know, I’m a sucker for a ruggedly handsome savior. The search begins. The dead thing is not under my porch. It is not under my shed. It is not in Katie’s backyard. The savior walks the easement behind and suddenly sends up an “I got it.” Our first question … “is it the cat?” No, it’s a small deer. By this time, Chad and Shaena, my other-side neighbors have gathered with us at the fence where we toss around ideas of what to do with what’s left of the carcass. Black plastic bag at the curb knowing there’s no trash collection until Tuesday because of the holiday weekend. Sprinkling baking soda over to kill the smell. Collectively we all voted for ashes to ashes, dust to dust … let nature take its course.
We got cowbell!
When was the last time you tested tambourines? Once the 2 row, 2 metal (brass and stainless steel) version hit my hands, it was all over. Dual sounds … dry & bright … with more sustain. I like staying power 🙂
Fat Man in the Bathtub
The 2nd Falling (aka The Epiphany) Early afternoon Saturday, May 19 The Music Loft Carrboro, NC with Finney I spy with my little eye … a set of used conga drums. Black and shiny. Drawn like a raven to bling that glints and sparkles, I circle. I thump. Go through the want v. need discussion in my head. Circle some more. Tap. Sigh. Covet. Mine. The price tag dangles provocatively. Cost includes the stand and travel bags, which is a good thing ’cause I’m surely going to need those when I go on the road with Santana. That thought makes me laugh at myself out loud. The musician behind the counter and Finney, who is deep in bass accessories, turn to look at me. Suddenly it hits me. All this time … the boomerang drummer mojo was pointing me toward PLAYING drums, not playing WITH drummers. Instruments of mass percussion have been hollering at me my entire life and I wasn’t listening. No. They didn’t come live with me yet, and I’m fighting the urge. Yay’s or nay’s? ________________________________________________________ 
The 1st Falling (aka what really could be considered The 2nd Falling if you want to get technical about these things) Late evening Tuesday, April 2 What goes around … comes right back ‘atcha. Back in February, right around V Day, I got up on my lovelorn high horse and rode around a bit. It feels funny quoting me, but if you can’t quote yourself, then who? “From the view from my heart, I’ve been lucky in love. Lucky enough to have fallen world-spinning, vision-blinding, crazy-making in love three (okay, five, maybe six) times in my life. You could say it’s unlucky that I’m not with any of them, but that would diminish the original statement. Lucky that I’m still good friends with almost all of them … those that are still alive with a sense of humor and forgiveness anyway. A couple who left a sweet space in my heart just went permanently missing. The bass player with the crooked smile and the long blonde hair. The cowboy D.J with a heart of gold and a voice to melt … well … anything, including me. The one from art school that broke my heart in a gazillion pieces. He’ll surface one day. I just feel it. ” Exactly 50 days later. My bestie in Richmond calls. “Guess who I’ve just spent 2 hours with?” Never a big fan of guessing games, I made some attempts knowing that she’d never be able to out-wait my wrong answers before the name of the “one from art school” rolled off her tongue. “And he’s looking for you.” My heart did some crazy acrobatics and my brain turned to puffed rice. The three of us were roommates together way back in the early 70’s when I was studying painting at VCU. One of us (he and I can’t remember who, but it was probably me) picked the other up in a bar. After all, he was exactly my long-dark-hair-mustachio’d type. A bad boy bass player (yep, I’m recognizing a type here). He just never went home after that first night; that’s how he became a roommate. We pulled my twin bed mattress underneath the bay window so we could see the stars and lay there every night talking ’til dawn about everything under the sun, moon, and stars while listening to 8-tracks (Peaceful Easy Feeling, South City Midnight Lady, Can’t You See, Dream On, etc.) and an old Roberts reel-to-reel. He was my first reckless love and he was trouble plenty. The last time I saw him was in Nashville 1980 when I watched him ride off back to Macon on his big blue Harley. That’s not all that long ago, right? Armed with a phone number, a glass of Vinho Verde, and a healthy sprinkling of cautious curiosity, I dialed. Two hours later and something I didn’t see coming was going on. Or fixin’ to. For the next ten days and ten nights we spent two or more hours every night on phones in separate beds under windows looking at stars talking about everything under the sun = crazy time. Then 170 miles, 38 songs on the IPOD, up I-85/I-95 into the arms of a man who years before at the age of 23 made the ultimate sacrifice for me. Familiar, as if 32 years was really just last week, we held hands and jumped right over that edge one more time. Me and Finney … all giggly and goofy like teenagers. Go figure. On second thought, don’t. Just let it be. _______________________________________________________
Cat’s Cradle. Early & late … all at the same time.
March 19
O Canada
O Yeah
Happy 100th birthday to Oreo!
simmer2sizzle 