The Heart Is A Lonely Haunter

Our office is located in an old schoolhouse- built in 1917- and I'm starting to think it may be haunted. At least half-a-dozen of my clerks have, on separate occasions, informed me that they have seen movement out of the corner of their eyes and that they thought it was a rodent of some sort, but they didn't actually see it. I told them that I would speak with building services, but those were empty words, said for the sake of reassurance and little else.

I didn't want to alarm my staff, but I have seen "movement" as well, and it's not a mouse. It's a kid, a boy who appears to be around ten years old, wearing round wire spectacles and dark hair cut in a 'bowl' fashion.

I think he's wearing old-fashioned suspenders, only he's got them on backwards, with the crossed straps making an 'X' on his chest, and seeing as how he's semi-transparent and less than a foot tall, I figure he's probably dead and been that way for a good long while. In any case, he seems to like the area near what used to be the school's stage and is now a storage room, he likes to run backwards from left to right - not in reverse, he moves in the looking-over-your-shoulder-to-see where-you-are-going kind of backwards. If you look directly at him, he disappears, so I'm not sure exactly what he's up to.

There are some questions that I won't ask at work. One such question is: "Who did you vote for?"

Another would be: "Hey, can you see the little invisible boy in the corner?"

******************************************

My cats haven't done anything interesting lately, so I'll blog about what I ate. Fascinating.

Saturday, I broke my fast with a Dominic's chicken sub, served with grilled onions and peppers and slathered in hot sauce. It left me feeling hungry, but I had two radio shows to do first- I have my own Saturday show and I had also agreed to engineer a live performance by Tim Barry (of Avail fame) on DJ Dan's show. Tim was great, it was worth postponing dinner for.

Between the time that I got home and the time I went to bed, I estimate that I ate six large turkey, bean and cheese burritos. Things got a little blurry after burrito number four, but I had planned on making enough 'rito fillin' to eat for a week- but there were no leftovers at all- only the greasy skillet, a dirty plate and a tortilla wrapper remained in the morning, so I reckon I must have ate it all...maybe it was the invisible boy that done it.

Sunday found me hungry. Most days, I have a pot of coffee for breakfast and that kills my appetite until lunch time, but Sunday was different. I drank a pot of coffee and went to the market. When I returned, I began eating and didn't stop until well after midnight.

I think I set a personal record for most food consumed in a single day. I may have some of the items out-of-order, but this is what I ate:

- More than my fair share of fudge samples in the bakery section.

- An apple fritter.

-Four glazed doughnuts.

- Six bananas.

-Coffee, lots.

-Two large grilled sourdough sandwiches with turkey, cheese,onions, peppers, garlic, rosemary and cayenne
(My homemade ones were much better than Dominic's, I must say)

-A 29 oz. 'self-rising' frozen pepperoni pizza.

- A peach.

- An entire half-gallon container of Peanut Butter Chunk ice cream, topped with 1/2 lb. honey-roasted peanuts and a pint of Hershey's syrup. (Eaten over the course of the day)

Half a loaf of sourdough bread- heated, torn into chunks, sprinkled with parmesan cheese and dipped in garlic butter.

-One 1/2 lb. bag of store-brand 'Chex Mix'.

- 6 oz. yogurt.

- 3 white chocolate/macadamia nut cookies.

- The other 1/2 lb. of peanuts (see ice cream notes , above)

-3 large pancakes w/ honey, butter and maple syrup.


I never did feel sick or bloated. As I write this, I have just finished eating an entire pizza and I'm still hungry. I wish I had some ice cream. My diet usually consists of fruit, oatmeal, salad, beans and bagels- why the sudden attack of gluttony? I'm thinking tapeworm.

Below is another list. It's a list of the songs I played on Saturday's show:

THE NEW BREAKFAST SNOB, 1/25/2009

Bedtime Story- In A Cage
The best Israeli Prog-Rock band that I've heard in a long time.

Bad Haggis- Bad Haggis
I wish I had more Bad Haggis. It's delicious!

XTC- Crowded Room
Big party coming up! More to follow...

Be-Bop Deluxe- New Mysteries
Dudes. The turntables work if you know how to use them. Stop the email madness.


Lisa Maxwell- Harmonic Rock/Out of Sight
I am a sucker for rock chicks. The instrumental 'Harmonic Rock' was too short (1:47), so Lisa got two songs.

Steve Hillage- Saucer Surfing
Dude. The turntables work. I bought this album in 1984 and it works too.

Jethro Tull- Nothing To Say
Still more vinyl. Why do I have 50+ emails about our "broken" turntables?

Motorbaby- So Suprised
Smart, sexy supermodel rock. They said it couldn't be done. They were wrong.


Nijole Sparkis- Everything
Haunting in a good way.

Norine Braun-I'm The One
Oh, hell yeah! Norine is definitely The One. I don't even know what she looks like but I have a Mad Crush just listen'. Every song I've heard by Braun is in a different style, and it's all good.

Crack The Sky- Nuclear Apathy
These guys were big in Baltimore back when I lived in Maryland. I tried to pronounce "nuk-u-lee-ar" in the way of Bush, but I botched it. A caller informed me that I had misprounounced my mispronunciation, which forced me to make an on-air incorrection. Balance was restored.

Stark- Dreams Come True
News to me. I like them.

Jenny Madison- Midnight
I'm enjoying what I've heard so far. Substance to go with the style.

Carrie Rodriguez- She Ain't Me
CR is finding a regular spot on this show. A good thing, that.

Jon Yeager- Great Movies
He's very young but he writes some good Wilson-esque songs and has a great voice.

J.J. Cale- The Sensitive Kind
A truly great and under-rated American singer/songwriter.

Jon Prophet- Like A Train
This guy kicks ass in at least a dozen ways.

Arlo Guthrie- Wheel of Fortune
I love this song. Brings back some good memories, it does.

Elvis Costello- Turpentine
Elvis from last year. Raw and awesome.

Pere Ubu- We Have The Technology
Dude. The turntables work. I'm playing this vinyl as a way of mocking you.

Southern Culture On The Skids- No Longer A Sweetheart of Mine
Mary done broke my heart. In 1986. Still getting over it.

Stranglers- No More Heroes
Whatever happened to Leon Trotsky?

Second Place Driver- Leave
Me like this band. Me play more later.

Geoff Westen- Better Get Started
Also good. More to follow.

Pentangle- Blacksmith
Explain this "duty".

Kristen Cochron- Love Letters From A Fool
Ooops. Did I really hit 'send'? Fuckity.
Great voice though.

Trashcan Darlings- PlayStation
Absolutely awful. I love it.

Saved By The Bell

The robots have taken control of the station. In the movies there's always a kid genius who hacks into the network and saves the day at the last minute. Where is that kid now? I ain't him.

Band De Soleil- Woman on the Floor
This song is twelve minutes long, which makes it a great one for playing when things are breaking down.
Michelle Malone makes her guitar weep in the language of wah and I wish I could play this song louder but I'm busy troubleshooting...I'm forced to call outside help and that is not something I am used to doing or enjoy much. A phone call is made and order is restored during D. Bigay's drum solo. Anyway, I'm listening to it now because I missed it on Sunday.

Replacements - Kick Your Door Down
Having to deal with misbehaving computers at 6:30 am pisses me off and makes me wanna play my punk rock records. "Your radio is playing way too loud and it don't sound like me!"
Goddammit, it should sound like me! Turn that shit UP.

The Kinks- This is Where I Belong
I need this song to help get me back in the here. It's not long enough. Close.

Pretty Things- Passion of Love
This isn't even the song I wanted to play. I wanted to play Not Givin' In...fuck, this new song sounds like the Pretties circa 1965- not 2000ish. I liked them best in 1968-1971.

Jefferson Airplane- Feel So Good
This is from an Airplane LP but it's really just Hot Tuna in disguise. Go, Jorma, go!

Television- Friction
Many years ago, the bar I worked at had enough musicians employed to form a cover band for the X-mas party. One of the other guitarists chose this song- I was just a beginner and the guy gave me a copy of the LP Marquee Moon. I was advised to listen. I did. I still have that LP. Just played it...
"I start to spin the tale/ you complain of my dick -shun/
You give me friction/F-R-I-C-T-I-O-N"
(thank you Billy- wherever you are)

Lou Reed - Nowhere at All
I'm still in a sour mood and need this sort of song to settle me down by pumping me up- I goddamn love Lou Reed..."somebody's got to help me".

Damien Dempsey- Marching Season
Am I the only American who knows who this guy is? He's fookin' great and if you have an 8am mad-on at the world, then this is the perfect song for you. Honk!

Jethro Tull- Acres Wild
Today I skipped work and got a copy of my birth certificate, which is required to obtain a passport, which I will need if I ever want to see what Ian Anderson is singing about. And I do.

Clannad- Struggle
Isn't it a struggle? Of course it is. So what? Play on.

Fairport Convention- Walk Awhile
Tomorrow my car goes into the garage for inspection and a (hopefully) minor repair.

The Stranglers- Who Wants the World?
Fuck, I don't know. I live inside my head.

Manzanera/Eno/801 Live- Miss Shapiro/ You Really Got Me
One of the best unknown live albums ever.Brian Eno singing the Kinks...this came out before that Van Halen silliness.

Gentle Giant- As Old As You're Young
Are you as old as you seem? You are? Excellent.

Genesis- Lilywhite Lilith
"The chamber was in confusion.." are the first words to this song- it's what I thought of when I walked into the studio this morning- took me a while to get it cued, but the fade segued perfectly into the chanting at the beginning of the next song, an accident of fortune, or something more?

Loreena McKinnett- The Mystic's Dream
Gorgeous. Calms me down, gotta make some announcements...let's pick up the pace.

Chris Spedding- Breakout
"When the music breakout..." Doin' the slow-pogo (slogo) around the booth, don't wanna make the record skip..."we've been psychedelicized/ we've had our booties re-fried"

Joe Strummer- Get Down Moses
This is on CD so I can jump up and down as much as I want to, which is a lot.

Hawkwind- D Rider
Whoa...I can still feel the acid I took back in 1984...this album was old then. Being able to play this on the air is a truly sublime thrill for me.

Can - Dizzy Dizzy
Yeah, back to my theme of spontaneous disorientation...man, I just can't quite click. My clever ad libs turn to gibberish- luckily, it all makes sense in the context of Can.

Steve Hillage- Unidentified Flying Being
Gong- I Never Glid Before
Steve's a saucer nut and Gong have an entire mythology of their own, complete with Pot-Head Pixies and Teapot Taxis so pretty much anything I say about them sounds crazy...in a very good way. Steve Hillage was THE Gong guitarist...Alan Holdsworth might've been the better player, but Hillage had the sound. I'll take the sound.

Klaatu- Calling Occupants...
What the hell made me play this? I remember someone telling me this band was the Beatles in disguise...turns out it was some studio hacks from Canada. I think that Captain and Tennille or maybe the Carpenters (or both?) covered this song. No matter who played it, it's annoying the shit out of me.

Blue Oyster Cult- Kick Out The Jams
Dammit, this is more like it! Sure wish I still had my MC5 vinyl.

Be-Bop Deluxe- No Train to Heaven
Bill Nelson is so, like, totally underrated...he's tried all sorts of styles- even wearing makeup like Bowie- but nothing hides the fact that he's a guitar nut at heart. Dude likes to solo- as well he should.

Bob Dylan- Long Distance Operator
PJ Harvey- Send His Love To me
You either get this or you don't. I'm hoping that you do.

Talking Heads- Paper
I think this song is about my friend X's new dog and his attempts at house-breaking it.
"don't think I can get it- on the paper/ don't think I can fit it - on the paper"
Dude. Some things they pass right through.

Anyway, my show was a mess and I left feeling all scrambled,it was only 9AM, but it set my tone, so to speak...I was in a jumbled funk all day. I played guitar, tried to blog, took a long walk...nothing helped. It was just one of those long, useless days.

This feeling carried over into this morning. I just couldn't function at all.

I could barely manage to call in sick.

When I hung up, I felt better. I really do think my (paying) job is very bad for my mental health...hanging in for now...anyway, I didn't want to waste today. Yesterday was bad enough.

One of the good/bad things about being a (unpaid) DJ/Programmer is having to review CD's. We get a LOT of CDs at the station and someone has to listen to them, evaluate the songs and make suggestions (if any) on what to play. Sometimes this is great fun and sometimes it is sheer torture, but it needs doing.

I think I'm the only DJ we have that delves into Celtic music, so I wound up with a stack of "Celtic Journeys" CD's in my box. Hmmm...stock photography on the covers, looks like it's being marketed to New Age Soccer Moms, this doesn't look like it's going to make my goat float, if you know what I mean.

Surprisingly, I was able to find at least one decent song on each CD- except the one called "An Instrumental Journey" , which, were it a screenplay, would likely be written by Alan Smithee. In the UK, an elevator is referred to as a "lift". That CD is "lift" music. Ugh.

One CD featured a song called Cry Over You by Fiona Joyce, whom I had never heard of
before. It's the last track on the last CD I reviewed and it made the whole ordeal worthwhile.
Ms. Joyce is a beautiful singer and this song is a heart-breaker for sure, but what really turned me on- what made me save the song as a .wav file and not as an mp3- was the sound of the cymbals, the uncredited drummer's touch on the bell of the cymbal is captured perfectly, changing just so , following the words...a drum machine can't do that.

Beautiful.

It was worth listening to four hours of Druid Muzak to get to that bell. That bell was ringing for me.
I needed it and there it was.

Magic.

Someday

One morning in November of 2001, I awoke with my left arm numb and inflexible- not paralyzed, just very hard to move. I was drinking heavily at that time and I was quite accustomed to waking up and finding out that things had gone wrong the previous night- but I hadn't had this particular problem before.

I must have slept on it wrong , I thought, as I struggled to get ready for yet another day at what was easily my worst long-term job ever- manager of a discount shoe store.
Driving with a hangover is a lot like driving drunk- except this time I couldn't use my left hand to cover one eye. I couldn't even use it to steer. The only thing I could do was watch the fingers on my left hand change color from pink to purple, a phenomena I found a bit unsettling.

For an hour I struggled to flex it, get some feeling, make a fist...can't make a fist...ouch, that hurts...it was getting worse, not better. My arm wasn't asleep, it was sick. It was scaring me.

I took Barb, an older lady who was my head cashier, aside to tell her about my problem:

"Barb, I can't move my arm and it really hurts. I'm going to need you to run the store while I go to the doctor."

" Your arm? Is it numb and painful? That's what happened to my husband. He had a stroke and now he's crippled. How is your chest?"

My chest, which until then had been unnoticed, suddenly got very tight.Sharp pains radiated out from my solar plexus in every direction. I couldn't breathe and I knew- I KNEW-that I was going to die.
Of a stroke.
On the sales floor of a crap-ass shoe store.
I called my doctor- "get in here now", he said. "Get a ride- don't wait for an ambulance!" I did.

It wasn't a stroke. It was the first of many panic and anxiety attacks I was to suffer over the next several years- I still have them today, but they don't lay me out like they used to.

After it was determined that I wasn't having a stroke, they went to work on my arm. The heart fears were calmed and I was given a shot of something (morphine?) that made my arm feel very far away from the rest of me. I could see it and it looked funky blue, but it didn't bother me...more needles and electrodes...all so shiny. I was sleepy. Could I have a pillow?

After a week of consultations and tests, it was determined that the ulnar nerve in my arm had died from the elbow down and the flesh around it would eventually wither and become useless , if not dead.
I'd need an amputation from the elbow down.

I'm a musician and all the instruments I play require two hands, the guitar being my favorite. I'm not the best guitarist- (no one is, the common argument over who is the best git-picker is a spurious and wasteful one)- but there isn't anybody anywhere who plays like I do and that is pretty rare. It's a talent that I took a lot- too much- of pride in.
When I was told I'd never play again, I broke. Shattered.

I didn't think about how I would drive, tie my shoes, cook, hold a job, hold a lover in my arms...my first thought was : WILL I PLAY AGAIN?

I was told no, I would not. Not with a stump, I wouldn't.

So, at my doctors advice, I got a second opinion from a surgeon who was not on my insurance carrier's plan. He met with me, had his own x-rays taken and re-administered some tests. He ran an electrical current through my Ulnar nerve.

OOOOOWWWWWGODDDDDDTHHHAAAATHURRRTTTTSSSS

"That hurts, eh? Good."

"Good?" *whimper*

"Yes. Those [the hospital] docs are idiots . This nerve is alive. I can save your arm."

He didn't say say he might be able to. He said he could save it . He said this as matter-of-fact. The sun rises.
Water is wet.
He could save my arm.
Simple.

He had no doubt in his ability and that confidence helped settle me down. That and a giant bottle of Valium. I wasn't supposed to drink - the valium was intended to help with that, but I wound up mixing the two on a daily basis -along with Oxycontin and Demerol. A few Demerol and a fifth of vodka was only a mild buzz for me at one point...but I had to quit before the surgery. Alcohol, despite it's calming effect, is actually quite hard on your nerves and it increases your risk of bleeding out on the OR table.

For my arm, for my guitar, I quit drinking a few weeks before the operations. I had nothing else to live for but that was enough. For that, I would fight.

The operations went well, but it took six months of physical therapy before I could play a few simple chords...but after a few more months I was whizzing over the frets faster than I'd ever been able to play before.
The first docs were wrong. I would play again.
And I was wrong. I would drink again.

I won one fight, but I lost a long war in the process. Alcohol had taken over my life...if I am going to be a one-armed shoe-salesman, I thought, then the best thing I can do is drink myself to death...that was my intent, although I hadn't admitted it to myself yet.

By the time I got my arm back, my soul was lost. My ill- considered drinks of celebration immediately became the same old daily suicide routine. I drifted through an endless series of dead-end temp jobs. I didn't see my friends, the only brief happiness was a brief on-the -job affair that ended badly and left me even more desolate and forlorn than before. And drunk.

My guitar, which was the initial focus of my recovery, sat in the corner gathering dust.

I stopped writing in my journal and notebooks.
No poems.
No letters.
Nothing but me , my pills , my pain and the bottle.
I watched a lot of TV. I used a lot of drugs.

Then Hurricane Isabel hit Virginia. Sept 2003.
The temp agency offered me a job with State Farm handling storm claims, 7 days a week, 12 hours a day.
Amazingly, I accepted it and it was a good thing I did. I still drank, but not as much because the days were so long I had to cut back.
After the initial hurricane paperwork chaos, I started liking my work. I saved a lot of money- all that overtime was great...but I was drifting farther and farther apart from my friends.
It was loneliness and isolation that first drove me to blog- isolation and a deep hatred of Bush's neo-con cabal of war profiteers.


But the booze had me. I knew it had to stop, but I didn't care. I was hoping for death. I didn't have much -in my mind- to live for and I had convinced myself that my life was over and I would never be happy. I was a rotten person- a drunk of the worst kind- and not one person would miss me were I to die.

Of course, this wasn't true, but that is how an addict at the very end of their addiction feels. If they feel anything, that is. I suspect the last thing that you feel is nothing at all, but I don't want to know.

After another year it all caught up to me. I started vomiting blood one night after having to leave work early with stomach pain. I barely made it to the ER, where I was told I only had a few hours to live.
Who should they call?
No one. Don't call anyone.
I don't want anyone to know how bad it had become. I was dying, but I was also ashamed. How did I let this happen?

But the surgeries worked. When I woke up- alive- I had changed. I was still alone, unhappy and bereft of any love or joy, but I had something more powerful that that. Something that (I hope) had killed the urge to drink forever.

I had fear.
I was afraid of dying. I still am. I haven't had a drink since the first week of September, 2005. Not because I am brave or strong- I don't drink because I am weak and I am afraid of suffering and dying.

As time passed, I started finding new reasons to live. The radio station was my anchor. I needed it, and most importantly it needed me. I hadn't been needed for a long time. Anyone can do office work but not many people can produce and engineer live music in a deadline -is-now- broadcast environment.
I can. I even enjoy it and I'm a lot better at it when I'm sober.

And then there was blog. Somehow, I had accumulated a tiny but loyal group of friends, most of whom I've never met and probably never will. Like any group of friends, there were differences and problems and maybe even a broken heart, but by and large I feel that my life is much the richer for being part of this world. Having this outlet and the support that followed was a real source of strength for me during those horrible post-hospital months.


There are some of you that I would love to thank in person, but I will wait until I need a place to crash. Then I will show up in the middle of a hailstorm , huddled on your doorstep, clutching a battered guitar and a grimy paper sack containing my laundry and a pair of well-fed cats.

"Thank you", I will say, then I will ask: "Do you mind if I crash here?" and "You aren't allergic to cats are you?"

I'm kidding, of course. I would never put my cats in a bag with my dirty socks.


For all of our sake's , I'm hoping it won't come to that. For now, just know that I really do appreciate each and every one of you.

I wasn't ready to be sick again so soon, but I am. I don't know how bad quite yet, but it isn't good. No cure, but there are treatments.

But really, it might not be too bad. I can walk, climb stairs, carry heavy weights etc- with only slightly more discomfort than a 'normal' person. I have to quit smoking pot, but I should have done that anyway. I've had my fun with that for what? twenty-five years? Long enough.

I have friends who didn't make it through the last twenty-five years, but not because of pot- they drank. And snorted. And stabbed. Needles and knives. The rope.

Some of the survivors are alive, but they aren't living. The booze- and especially the cocaine- have left them hollow, hopeless and seemingly incapable of dreams.

I haven't suffered that fate. I have spent three days studying my disease and I am convinced I can beat it. Not cure it- that is impossible- but beat it down and live with it. Live well.

Because I can still dream. My latest dream is an old one and it is so pathetic and mundane that I am afraid to mention it because I fear derision and ridicule, which is silly because what I want is only what most of us want.

It's one of the oldest, simplest dreams in the world but it's a bit too complex to discuss here.

I am not even sure who I need to have this conversation with. It's possible that I haven't even met that person yet. I have to stay alive in order to find out.
But when we do meet, I hope that there's a plentiful supply of coffee at hand- because we will have a lot to talk about.

A War Child's Portfolio

When I was child we had a war. It was very far away and nobody seemed to understand what it was about. We heard about it every day because of the daily, detailed body counts, enemy and friendly ; this helped teach us the idea that some lives are worth more than others.

Between 'Nam bodycounts and Apollo Missions, I watched Planet of the Apes and Godzilla movies, so it was only natural that I'd write comic books featuring war between Apes and Dinosaurs, wars often fought in outer space.

My mother somehow managed to save some of them- she was literally homeless for months at a time, yet she held onto these. She's been dead nearly ten years and I am just now finding the strength to sort through the few possessions she left behind, but it's something I need to do.

Often, I find myself paralyzed with memory.

It's hard to deal with, but I want to share something that is important- to me anyway. It's a little lesson about how kids see war.
Let's start with one of my kiddie comics:


No big deal , right? Kids like war movies and monster movies- and by the time ( 1973?) I drew this , I already had a good idea of the difference between fake war and real war.

In real wars, you never got to see the grown-ups that you liked again- or if you did, they were never as much fun to be around after they were done with their war as they were before they went.

In fake wars, you got to see the adults later, in other movies, and they never stayed dead very long.

In my fake wars, dead was dead. When we played 'war' in the schoolyard I would argue that you don't stand up after you get 'shot'- you die and you stay that way.
In my comics, nobody won the wars, the only result was a dry recitation of casualties. Just numbers, really. I even blew up a planet in one story, which was years before Star Wars...

Apes and dinosaurs. Surely that's just a young child's fanciful imagination, right?

See for yourself:

In the circle in the bottom right hand corner it says "Make War No More. Peace". Even as a kid, I knew right from wrong, and war is almost always wrong.

Those bodycounts are among the most vivid memories I have of childhood- when I picture our old black and white Zenith console, I see a collage of Cronkite, NASA and 'Nam...countdown to lift-off, backwards to Zero; count forward to death, tick, tick, it's OK because more of them died than of us; who's playing? Kent State vs. Khe Sanh? March into madness...

Anyway, I was looking at those old scribblings as I was watching a cable news show called "This Week in War"- like it was a Sports show or something- and sure enough, there were the same old bodycounts...this time they move and blink and come with fancy animations, but it's still the same old death-as-numbers...and the more death we see the number we become.

That numbness may be the only thing saving us from madness.From noticing the madness, anyway.

In my mother's things I found another drawing. It's from a few years later and it scares the hell out of me because it's mine and I don't want anything to do with it.
There are parts of my life that I just cannot remember at all and this picture is part of that.

That blood disturbs me- thirty years after this drawing, I had boozed my insides into leaky, blood-soaked Swiss Cheese, and a fair amount of it came up through my mouth, nose and even my ears.
My hospital gown was the same color as that of the figure in drawing.

My question to parents: What would you do if your 10-year old drew a picture like the one above?
My mom took off, re-married and stayed away for years - she took this picture with her.

Was she hiding it?

To protect me?
To protect her?
Who? Why?

I'll never know.

I feel helpless.

Kathyrn

I was idling at a red light, enjoying the cool evening air, when Kathyrn and some dogs I didn't recognize crossed in front of me. Damn, I haven't seen her for at least six years - she still looks great; I swear she looks younger, but that doesn't surprise me.

She always seemed happy and healthy, even when times were tough.

That's when we met- during tough times. Kathyrn owned a small novelty shop next to the comicbook store that I managed from 1990-97. It was in a not-good part of town, but near enough to campus to get college business and rent was cheap enough to make the location seem plausible for retail...
Her store was called 'World of Mirth' and sold everything from boxing nun puppets to exploding gum.
Need some fake vomit? Check!

A glossy hardcover coffeetable book of WWII pin-up gals? Roger that!

Little capsules that turn into dinosaurs when you drop them in water? Yep!

How about a wind-up mechanical rat? Got it!

We weren't really friends outside of our shops, but we did share a certain shopkeeper camraderie - we both ran stores on a block that was pretty bad- the local college had been (still is) waiting for all businesses on it to close so it could purchase the land for pennies- the area was left to rot and was known for it's beggars, dealers, muggers and transvestite hookers.

Sometimes we'd grab a drink 'round the corner bar and "talk shop".

Usually we'd drink tequila and talk about what a shitty location our stores were in.

She moved her store to a better street after a year or so, but I digress...back to this evening...

I smiled at her and waved through the windshield- I was certain she'd say 'hello' at least, but she just smiled, shrugged and held up a tangle of leashes.

My hands are full of dogs, she seemed to say.

Oh well.
She sure does look good.
I know that she's my age, but she looks ten years younger.

Time has been very kind to Kathyrn, I thought.

The light turned green and I drove about a mile before I remembered that Kathyrn, her husband and their three children had been murdered at the very beginning of last year.

Time is a son-of-a bitch, I thought.