Obituary

Her mom was talking to her and the T.V. was on in the background when she first scanned the obit. Then her eyes returned to the picture and she felt the wind rush out of her lungs.

Him.

He had finally died. And she had never gone back to see him. She had stopped answering his phone calls. Not that there had been many. He called twice. Once he left a message, a quiet, "Hey, it's me," then a deep exhale through his mustache, "just wondering what you were up to." The second time there had been no message.

They had met over a game of pool on a quiet Wednesday night. She was too lonely to go straight home. They had played a few games, no pressure. He was far more expert than she but patient. After a few games he asked to buy her a drink and she accepted. He asked for her number at the end of the night and kissed her very softly and sweetly on the corner of the mouth. His beard was incredibly soft and it made a tickle through her whole body.

They saw each other a few times; quiet evenings over home cooked dinners at his tidy house. He had two dogs, they were easy going and her favorite part of those nights was holding his hand in the brisk early spring night, walking the dogs to the park. She stayed the night. He was warm and gentle and had a body of someone who had been fit and active his whole life. But he was older.

She didn't know what to think about it. She didn't know if it was OK to care about him,; she didn't want to have "daddy issues".

And then one night, they were laying in bed and without looking at her, he told her he was sick. Very sick. He said, given the newness of their dating, that it would be best if he could just be with his family at this time. There was a deep, long moment of quiet.

Was she meant to say otherwise? To tell him "No", that she cared about him and wanted to be there for him? That's what her heart and soul said. Her head said that he was right and that moreover, he didn't want to have to manage her existence in his life. So they spooned the night away and talked about how everything was going to be O.K.

But she knew it wasn't; he was sick. She asked along about him through a friend of a friend of a friend, who didn't really know. She dialed his number a few times, then hung up.

As her mother continued with her story and on T.V. some chubby man with spiked blond hair engorged himself on fried food, she thought of his soft hands, that first kiss. The sound of the exhale of his voice in the last message he left. She closed her eyes for a moment, and remembered.

Love Potion No. 9; t8kitez slowly melting on the NCW Riviera.

A lavender soaked evening.

An afternoon in the beautiful North Central Washington Riviera, with a splash of that magic Alice. RHG had fetched some good stuff this year at NWSS. It was a still and hot late summer day. A drop on a piece of spearmint gum launched me almost instantly. The author of a pizza cookbook I was leafing through stared at me with intense regard, then winked before all of his face began to sway to and fro.

We sat and watched the sun drift languidly across the sky, sitting in silence with each other, soft smiles facing back out into the yellow afternoon. The sky began to become pink and lavender. We listened to the birds and the bugs and sometimes I would venture out into the grass with bare feet, stepping deliberately because it felt as though all my joints were delicately balanced ball bearing. I watched my feet in the grass and Princess snaked her tail around my leg and laid in the sun.

Inside the afternoon, a million wild flowers bloomed inside my dome piece. I watched a bee, heavy with pollen dance along the rose bush in the backyard of Douchington Manor. I ate some raspberries. A little bush has sprung up voluntarily beside the cistern and the raspberries this season were tiny and perfect, a burst of bright, fresh tart juice.

The afternoon's gentle wind was the music. The sounds drifting in from the neighbors reminded us that we had not launched from this mortal coil to some quiet, personal Heaven. As the tree lines and fences buoyed along, it become apparent that I could quiet literally melt out in Sir Douchington's back yard. We retreated to the basement of the Manor to cool down a bit. As usual, Netflix was right there in our dimension and suggested "Bunny and the Bull". We clicked on it haphazardly, with the doe-eyed carefree 'tude of the sort of someone soaking in liquid L. The movie was delightfully engrossing; good story, good actors, awesome art direction. The basement was cool and still and we ferreted down the rabbit hole with the story. The evening had not yet began, the sun was still moseying across the sky, the most patient afternoon in August.

We finally were able to gather ourselves for a walk...

We took Moondog eArthfriend and set about a walk along the canal. A winding irrigation canal that wanders gently through old residential neighborhoods, it made for sparkling aqueducts in my mind's melting eye. Back yards and gardens pressed against the ledges. eArthfriend trotted along, almost prancing with glee to be out and about in the warm evening. The smell of backyard barbecues drifted along on with us, lifting our mood and moving our minds toward dinner. We had fixings for a Junior Congressman Sirloin Burger, his specialty.

There were places where the water glowed with the fiery reflections of the golden pink sky and sunflowers hung dozily toward the water. A family celebrated a birthday party with purple streamers and balloons and the sounds of children laughing as they bounced in blow-up castle and parents chatting over plates of roasted pork and cold beer in the can. Sometimes we held hands as we walked and sometimes we were silent. eArthfriend trotted down the ramps and lapped at the water and we would look at each other and laugh about jumping in ourselves.

Returning to the Manor, we set about dinner. The Jr. Congressman Burger was invented Memorial Day Weekend by RHG himself. Sirloin burgers lightly seasoned and grilled over charcoal. Spinach, lettuce, purple onion, tomato for the gentleman, stone-ground mustard, Stilton and cheddar on a toasted sesame seed bun. Wash it down with cheap white wine on ice and some curly fries with Johnny's Seasoning (from popcorn to prime rib, everything's better with Johnny's). We ate with relish, the luxurious meal soaking up into our welcoming appetites, reviving us, revving us up for a evening of shenanigans.

Cheap white wine goes down easy in the cool summer nights of late August on the NCW Riviera. His deck faces out to the edge of the valley and the sounds come down from the canyons. The coyotes will howl sometimes. We finally are able to turn on music, we are finally able to cope with the intensity. And even then we kept it low, letting the magic slowly build and we drifted through conversation, smoking American Spirits. And danced some.

It's hard to describe rolling through a day and night that felt like a walk through an impressionist exhibit. To know for a moment the almost painful prettiness of the sky when the sun is setting on the right kind of evening. How a field of hay or a vase of sunflowers can be so simple, so rough and so beautiful. Or how a sunset or the bridge can be recreated in such a way that it causes you to stop and stare into it and just imagine being in it. Like jumping into the chalk sidewalk drawings in the Mary Poppins movie. And then, it slowly melts away, oozes through your psyche and the colors and magic slowly retreat to the Land of Make-Believe until next time.

And you awake, on the other side, smiling..... ...

So you say...

So you say you don't know if I can keep up.

Ha.

Keep up with what?

When I was 13 I saved my pennies and went to Scotland for the summer to hike and visit my ancestral castle.

I've been bitten by a rattle snake I caught with my own two hands that was warming itself on the black asphalt one summer day. I saw it and couldn't resist ant I grabbed its tail and it bit me and that caused my hand to swell up. We iced it but I didn't think it would be a problem but the skin around my thumb on my right hand has never been the same.

I once shot a flaming arrow out into a lake because I achieved my 9th Level of Archery. I, in general have excellent marksmanship and can even shoot clay pigeons and hit home runs either left handed or right handed.

There is a lake nearby fed by glacial run-off. The last two years on New Year's Day I have jumped in to that lake. Last year we had to break through the ice to do it. All for the love of symbolism and a cup of chili.

I am a 31-year old woman with only an Associates Degree. I have crawled my way up to stand among gray-haired, pot bellied men and I hold my own. I have earned almost $10 million in grant funds for my agency in the three years I have worked there. I have never relied on a man for health benefits or to pay my bills. I put myself through my two years of school with scholarships and elbow grease. I worked as a counselor in a psychiatric hospital. I talked down a two hundred pound killer and held the open neck wound of a suicidal drunk and I caught a child by his pant cuff from pulling a Peter Pan out the second story window.

I've slept under the stars in the Golan Heights.

I've snowmobiled at midnight to see the Aurora Borealis. I am a co-owner of a solvent entertainment/comedy troupe. I am the best and most natural stage actor in 100 miles. I have been the face of a commercial ad campaign. I was a paid radio news host and DJ.

I beat cancer.

I rocked your world.
I am the Zombie Huntress.

Yea. So you are willing to defile yourself and do more drugs and you think you can do better.

You think you've got something? You think YOU can hang?
Just because you can't handle the controls doesn't mean this baby can't make point five past lightspeed.

The Ghost of Dave Niehaus teaches t8kitez about aoristic concidence.

The afternoon of April 8, 2011, sans ticket, after a light sushi lunch, I traversed a three-hour trip to catch a Mariners game with my pals. The day was bright and crisp. The drive was fast, the Windstar mighty and true.

I was glad to see my friends, most of all my bestie, a former roommate and co-"star" in several community theatre productions. Suffice it to say, I figured, since the game was sold out, I would end up drinking away the evening at a local sports bar whilst the kiddies enjoyed the game. Met the kidz at the Ginger Queen's apartment. We gathered our forces and went to the game.

We parked pretty far south of Safeco, so we could stretch our legs and take in the beauty of the surroundings, fenced-off parking lots, fast food company administrative offices and restaurant supply warehouses. We passed a meat cutter's shop with several hairy-shouldered and thick-handed men sitting and drinking on the loading dock. The pre-game chattered away from the radio placed upon a green plastic chair. I noted this locale in case I was not able to find a ticket and continued to the field.

I was kept making the "eye" at passers-by, looking for tickets, but I didn't see much goings-on until we got up to the main entrances, when the place got rather claustrophobic, even for a nice spring afternoon. Everyone was looking for a ticket and it didn't seem that anyone was selling. I told the kids they were cramping my style and to go on without me. The group split off, thinking they'd have to scrape my lush self off the floor of the Pyramid Ale concentration camp after the game and we'd all trek along to the karaoke bar which was destined to be the night Ender's game.

But as I was walking briskly to a bar I know that serves oysters on the half shell for fairly cheap, a man walked by with a fistful of tickets. He was on a cell phone.

"How much?"
He stops, looks as me. "Sixty."
"Where?"
"Left field."

I did a momentary calculation. Oysters. Baseball. Fuck it. "I'll take it."

I handed him the money and plucked a ticket from his paw and went forth to the fucking Mariners game.

I looked around in bewilderment and knew I would need a drink to fortify myself against this next effort. Two mini-bottles of cheap chardonnay in-hand, I followed the signs to Section 149, Row 31, Seat 10.

Right behind my friends.

Right fucking behind them.

For a second I stood at my seat, none of them noticed me behind them. They were busy drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade (the red ones...seriously, the doodz were drinking them- these people) and eating a pile of something. Something smelly. It smelled like I had fallen inside one of the pores of this hippy chick I know.

Garlic fries.

In the garlic fry-scented silence of the milling crowd and pre-game shenanigans, I watched them laugh and chat and I wondered if I had maybe been hit by a car and I was a ghost.

No such luck, Beard turned around and saw me and we howled our excited greetings. They asked where my ticket was and I pointed at the seat behind them and they all went on to express their own baffled amazement at such an awesome coincidence.

You don't get how awesome this is- there are, according to one of my more bearded pals, 48,500 seats. I think that's what he said, anyway. Regardless. There's a shit ton. Of seats. Truly, Dave Neihaus was looking down on my white canvas sneakers I purchased at ShopKo four hours prior in his honor and blessed me with such an amazing gift as a scalped ticket in a decent seat for a sold-out Mariners game.

Had I put such a sentence as together, in my mind, at that moment, I would have been able to understand the truth of what this night would bring. The first indication of this being a mixed blessing is that I forgot to bring a flask. But the folks I sat by were cool. One of the guys was a regular Bob Costas in dreds. He had his girlfriend en tow but she was trashed because, per her report, "It's the only way I can handle baseball." She was an adorable pocket-person, maybe five foot, maybe 90 pounds. By the third inning she was bored as could be and asked if I'd liked to have a smoke with her. I agreed and we left to smoke. She grabbed my arm, "I need you to remember how to get back to our seats..." she whispered to me in a low, conspiratorial tone. She nodded at her own conclusion and ferreted off into the crowd.

Outside she deftly rolled some American Spirit tobacco. I plucked a joint from my stash. "I've got grass, I'll trade you a drag," I offered. We smoked a bit, making nothing conversation and she looked around. A plan was brewing behind her dark eyes.

"I've got to pee."

"Okay, let's head in then."

"No, no.... the lines will be too long."

I could tell where she was going. Very well. "Let's do this thing." I pointed to the flight of concrete stairs. "The rail will block you." She turned to me.

"Give me a warning...if someone comes."

"That's the plan."

I leaned on the outside of the concrete railing and I heard her scurry up the flight of steps. We were totally in the clear, it was perfect and I started to contemplate peeing out here myself, because, as most country folk know, there's nothing, nothing at all as fine as peeing outside. But then a very well dressed woman walking a handsome lab started coming our way. The only thing out this way was the staircase so there was no doubt in my mind this woman was headed up them. I walked toward her, noticed I had half a jay burning in my hand, smiled, turned around, tamped it out and noticed:

A river of urine flowing down the stairs.

The urine was puddling at the bottom. Wow, two flights of stairs. That chick did have to pee. I didn't make very good work of slowing the woman down, she was deliberately avoiding eye contact and was making a wide berth around me, so I yelled, "Nice dog!" And really in the nick of time the little peeing goth fairy came around the corner buttoning up her black jeans. She smiled at the woman, "I really had to pee."

I think the woman was less interested in the puddles than her dog. On the way back in to the field you have to get your bags searched. I recently upgraded from plastic sack to promotional earth friendly grocery bag, free with my subscription to Mother Jones. It is nylon and cheap looking. Perfect. No one mugs this girl. Coach and LV bags are for suckaz. Anyway, I got forgot to tuck the little glass oregano jar I keep my joints and mahli in, back into my pocket and it was sitting loud and proud on top of my tampons and pilfered napkins and loose change. The security guard looked at me brightly, "You better not let them see that." He suggested. He waived his searching stick at the uniforms down the way. I smiled, "Huh?"

He laughed. "Be good, girl."

So luck was on my side that night. Luck was not on the side of the Mariners, who lost terribly. So terribly that my friends decided to leave before the end of the game. This sort of ruffled my feathers. When I pointed out we had collectively driven thousands of miles to be together that day, they shrugged. "They're losing" Beard explained.

"Of course they're losing," I replied. "They're the fucking Mariners. What did you expect?"

They didn't like my 'tude. I didn't like their flakiness. I didn't go to karaoke. Laying awake that night, watching the recap of the Mariners absurd loss, I prayed to Dave Neihaus. "Why? Why did this happen?"

Dave Neihaus appeared. He was wearing cut-off and white canvas sneakers. He was holding a frilly drink in his hand. "You rang?"

"Dave, you got me that great ticket! We were there for the game. We had all taken time off work, rented cars or gassed up our old minivans. We had purchased cheesy white sneakers. I had found a seat right behind them. What was the point?"

Dave sipped his drink. "My oh my."

"What?"

"That's a delicious Sex on the Beach."

I frowned, "Come on, Dave."

He laughed. "You know, you're a crabby bitch." There's really no denying this, so I made no reply. He took another sip and said, "Miracles only get you into the party, hon. You have to make the fun once you're in the door."
"You mean I should have gone to karaoke."
"You should do a lot of things. Like stop worrying about it and enjoy the fact you had a little miracle today."

"The ticket?"

He rolled his eyes. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Listen I gotta go. But yea, the ticket. And as my drinking poker buddy once said when he was alive, 'Buy the ticket, take the ride'." He raised his glass and hollered over his shoulder, "Yea, yea- I'm coming. Quit looking at my cards, asshole."

"Night!"

Did I mention that I got a ticket right fucking behind those kidz?

Ohai Qoo 4 honeybearz

Golden honey bearz.

Amber musical sweetness.

Pwn noobz, two point oh!

Senor and the Miracle of Pizza and Wings.

So this morning on PT I kept seeing a thread imploring for food. As it kept catching my eye every time I came back to my "PT Tab" refresh the board, I finally decided it was worth getting involved enough to click on.

Turns out there is this kid in Charlotte, NC who is hungry.

OP's name is senor and he implies he is currently dirt broke and is coyly implying he'd be grateful for some food. I see where another PTer jumps in and offers and I can sense senor's hope as he posts that he has PM'd the PTer. Then the disappointment.

Okay, so who cares? But I sort of do, because I just get it. Also, I like people. I am rooting for this guy, who is honest enough to put it out there and I just want to tell him, yea, I get it. I've got a few dollars and payday is right around the corner for me and God knows I want for nothing. Make something real happen today, t8kitez.

So I let senor know I'm ordering a pizza. I've already found Pizza Hut online where you just plug everything in. I put in my phone number because I don't think to ask for senor's for any reason. Duh. And then I post the order and wait for the showering praise to come. I e-mail my friend a link to the thread to brag that this old lady did her good deed for the day. But then, amazingly, EPICALLY, Murphy's Law strikes.

The internet goes down. We're talking DOWN. We get a company intra-office e-mail from IT indicating there is no time frame for getting back on-line. I might as well be on the dark side of the moon. And then my cell rings. It is Tristan, delivery dude for Pizza Hut in North Carolina. Yea, sorry guy. I don't know where the apartment is... I don't even have the address anymore. I don't have a phone number. I don't even have a first name. So I text my friend, whom I had just sent the e-mail with the link, You must get online for me. PT emergency. I text her my password and user name. Then I don't hear from her. Thirty minutes go by, then, she texts me back. She tried to send senor the information but Tristan had cancelled the order. She asks in the text, can I reorder?

Well, unfortunately, all the information regarding the order, where it was going and EVERYTHING, is contained in my PT inbox. Cognitive surplus don't mean shit if you can't access it. So, between texting my friend in OR who was logged on for me and calling NC Pizza Hut, the pizza did eventually get to senor.

Somewhere, there are tiny sparks of not wanting to let someone down made for a fun day for me, filled with the "lulz"; it almost seems like empathy is still alive and well. It feels great in a way because I almost gave up and even though senor would have gotten pizza out of the deal anyway, I was happy that I followed through because I didn't want to be a lazy asshole and let it go, just this once.

It's really the little things in life that make it. :)

http://phantasytour.com/bands/1/topics/2623322/posts

The worn smooth oar...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b7I9tCW-Q1o

^^^Press play.

So...I've been on a musical journey. What is beautiful about this journey it it is both external and internal. I have a positive symptoms of this exploration including: more music, new accounts on mediafire and megaupload, lingering on Audio Archive and listening to much, much more and increasingly eclectic music and seeking out live music.

The unmeasurable change is internal. Imagine, a wide, dark river. At each bank, dark, dense woods, the trees creating an early twilight on some still day. A fog snakes out around the dense, mossy hillside and coy fingers ribbon out curiously onto the water, so calm. So cool and still it quenches the thirst simply to be near it. The canoe moves graciously through it and the water parts with good nature. The oar is well worn and fits perfectly in the hand. The canoe and her captain are dwarfed by the river and the forest.

I can go forever. There is no end to this river, to the inside journey of the feelings and stories and dreams music can create. The same song a thousand times and a thousand different songs...both will take me along the river inside if I choose.