GROSS NEW LOVE POEM
I think we will carry on with
serious words and nervous gestures.
A day before or after
a wrestling match and too much laughter.
Maybe in my front yard
or at the beach.
Maybe wine will be involved
One of us should stop talking,
and acquire more camping supplies.
GRIEVING: RULES FOR THE REST OF US.
It was the deathbed. Like the Death Star but with less weaponry. They bring the death bed in when you sign up for hospice. Along with the death bed they give you nurses that are always stuck in traffic and a booklet that sums up the days of your loved one’s dying process. It was my grandmother this time.
Within these days she went from walking, telling jokes and laughing to bed-ridden and incoherent. This was unfortunate because I had finally gotten the pot brownies and was taking them to her. They wanted to try medical marijuana on the down low. This I could do. I can get weed. I can get pot brownies. I can get pot lollipops if that one guy would just wake up and remember to get them for me. Holy shit! If those Russian crusty punks would get back from California then I could get hash that you brew with your coffee.
They said I was going overboard. I just wanted to sit with her in her hell-fire hot living room and watch The Bachelor a few more times laughing.
That’s the thing about cancer. Some forms of cancer are merely thirsty and looking for shelter while others have a monstrous need to devour a body. And they don’t fuck around, wasting time.
Death happens in threes and she was my third. Third funeral in the last half of 2012. The last two were a week apart. One the weekend before Christmas and then my grandmother’s funeral the weekend after. I saw my grandmother everyday while growing up. I saw her as much as I saw my parents as an adult, which could be once a week or so. I can say at times I was closer to her then my mother. I liked her better. She was funnier, more generous in spirit and she gave me a ton of barbie dolls.
The night I found out, I had to write out the following rules and then go out and do as many of them as possible.
1. Get buck wild if you want to.
2. Stay in, turn off your phone and log off facebook if you want.
3. Do both.
4. Basically do whatever is going to help you feel human.
5. Plan your alcohol list for the evening. Whiskey and ginger ale and then Tecate always make me happy.
6. Be with your friends. Share stories about your lost loved one. Share stupid stories about yourself. Let people laugh because when they do, their eyes crinkle around the corners and the light hits their pupils. It is as if they flash their happiness at you.
7. Don’t talk. Let your friends talk around you and be comfortable in your silence. Let their presence hug the loneliness out of you. The one thing that can be worse than being single around the holidays is being single around the holidays and going to funerals. Family members like to scrutinize singleness. And suggest online dating.
So be happy as long as your are and then be sad for as long as you want. Who cares if the numbness breaks at 1 am after a few more whisky drinks. Let it seep out. Your friends get it.
POLICE RULE 2
This rule applies for a party or house show.
If the police warns you that you are too loud and everyone must leave, don’t go. Instead, when the officer shuts the door, cheer loudly as if someone just scored a touchdown. Do this only twice. Because if he warns you a third time then the police officer is going to start arresting people left and right.
I can’t help it if certain home-renters want to let a hundred wild drooling fools into their home to drink keg beer and listen to bands. And I cannot stop a mob of drunks for cheering a cop by throwing their hands up and screaming wildly as soon as the cop shuts the door. Who am I to stand out in a crowd like this? I better blend in. Throw my own fist in the air and cheer for the cop’s half-ass attempt at noise complaints. WEEEE.
However, the third time he had to come back to tell us to leave, we should have left. Maybe we should have pretended to leave, or pretended to be quiet. I remember the same cop warning us, and everybody was anticipating the next minute. The anticipation made us all act like giggling babies waiting to be tricked or surprised. Imagine 100 drunks acting like giggling babies. We couldn’t wait to cheer, and I am pretty sure he couldn’t wait for us to cheer. He shut the door. We threw up our hands and started cheering only to have him slam open that door. And scream like Nell Carter “I’m going to start arresting people left AND right.”
I really can’t imagine this officer any other way. He is forever a Nell Carter morphed into a male police officer that, to my best recollection, snapped and sashayed around when he said left AND right.
He, unfortunately, had other cop friends and everyone scattered and cleared the house. We ran to our cars while avoiding the police that were harassing the slower folks. We got to our car and made sure we were all there, and of course we were not. One person was missing, and that one person we found walking with a stern police officer while holding her head way down, probably believing her life was over. However I believe we convinced the cop that we would get her home or something. I don’t know. DERB is still with us. And times when she is not with us consciously, she is still with us spiritually.
Rules for Interaction with The Police
I have been in trouble with the police throughout the years and most were elementary situations that I could walk away from. Most were noise complaints and other misdemeanors. I felt I would write out some basic rules based on the situations that I have been in. This is to act as a guide if you ever fall into the glare of an angry-eyed cop.
The First Rule:
Always be completely sure that you and the police officer are on the same page.
I can be a little spacey. Also, if I am nervous I can be even more spacey. Nervous energy takes my thoughts and scatters them throughout my brain. So when I found myself in the back of a police car that was hightailing it through the pastures in north Alabama, I was beyond nervous. I was scared out of my mind. The entire situation was already blurry. My parents and the officers were perplex and disoriented, but so was I. And, well, who knows what I was doing?
The cop kept asking me in an angry tone where is the drop-off.
“Where is the drop-off?”
“Where is the drop-off?”
I had no idea what he was talking about, and then it hit me.
Oh! There must be a cliff or ditch back here so he wants me to help guide him through the pastures. He is driving backwards through the pastures awfully fast and aggressive I don’t know why he is driving backwards through the pasture with me in the back, but he is and he needs my assistance.
So at this point I am looking out the back window earnestly trying to help this police officer.
“Where is the drop-off?”
“Uh, keep going.”
“Where is the drop-off?”
“You got it. Keep going back.”
“Where is the drop-off.”
“I still don’t see anything. Keep going.”
About a long minute later, I think the cop and I both realized that we did not share the same definition of “drop-off”. As I said, I thought there was a ditch, cliff or something that he didn’t want to drop off. Apparently he thought I was involved in some sort of high-class, high-school, illegal-drug, drop-off gang.
There were kids getting busted for trespassing out here, and someone found a baggy with some prescription pain pills in it. Therefore, the police concluded, that this must be an illegal-drug drop-off area.
So let’s get this straight. Naturally all the kids decided to break into someone’s pasture to drop off illegal substances. That is a brilliant idea! Let’s add to the thrill of danger by combining two illegal things. I mean why exchange illegal drugs somewhere safe?
So yeah, be on the same page as the officer. When the police officer says where is the drop off, there is a good chance that he doesn’t need you assistance in navigating the pastures. It is more likely that you are in some serious trouble.
By the way, there was no high-class, high-school, illegal-drug drop-off place. You can only speculate what we were doing out there. Lucky for me, the police never quite figured out what we were doing out in the pastures. I am certain they thought I was an idiot for believing there was a cliff out in the middle of the pasture, but that mistake worked in my favor. I didn’t go to jail! And I think everyone but me left the pasture more confused than ever.
Wait. So. The first rule is not to be on the same page as the police officers. The first rule is to confuse everyone involved in the situation.
More rules later. One involves Derb.
Dear Old Neighbors,
Hello! I hope this letter finds you well. What can I say? Let me just cut straight to the point. I miss you guys. I can’t quite remember your names, and there is a chance that we never formerly introduced ourselves. Well, here it goes, my name is Brooke, and I need you to move back in next to me. Here’s the deal. You guys kept to yourself and had some sort of aversion to sitting outside on the porch. I can’t lie. That was a bit odd. Did you guys never looked at the incredible view? Whatever. You were pleasant (I guess?), and you were quite, meek hermits that had semi-quite sex in appropriate consistency and manner.
Then one day you were gone, and on my door step was a set of eight-pound dumbbell weights that were too heavy to put in your car. You got me! I never knew you did! So, thanks for the weights. My biceps will always be grateful. Hold on. I need to kiss them.
OK I’m back! Enough of the bullshit. You guys need to get your apartment back from the freaks that moved in after you left. Yes it is another couple and they seemed to be as bland and nerdy as you guys. At first, I was doing my neighborly part. I would smile and say hello as I go about my business, which was avoiding two other neighbors and leaving my home as fast as possible.
“Why,” you asked.
OK, in the recent past I have drank some drinks and made out with one neighbor. A couple of times. Therefore, to get to my car every day is some sort of walk of shame. Look, I can’t help it. He is really scruffy and that is my default type. The other guy just talks too much, which doesn’t help when I am trying to do the walk of shame as fast as possible.
Some might say I have gotten myself in a mess.
I think I am just going to kiss my super-toned biceps again.
The girl seems upbeat and jovial. She smiles. She talks. She talks non-stop and in a jovial fashion to her nerdy and pasty skin boyfriend, and to whomever she talks to on the phone. She has impeccable timing. She also has to sit on the porch by my bedroom. Every time I am in that sweet spot where thoughts give way to sleep, her voice comes bubbling through my ears and conscious. However, there has to be more than that alone to implore you to come back, my lovely ex-neighbors. It is not that I miss your lack of talking. But I miss the safe predictable sounds when you were having sex.
You see, last night I was having a round-about nightmare. One minute my family was murdered by some demon monster, and that same demon monster was trying to kill me. Then, all of a sudden, I was at my grandmother’s house watching a movie where the demon monster was on the television screen trying to kill an actor. And then, the actor on television turned into me. Shit! So I turned the television off only to find out my little cousin who was sleeping in the room next door was the demon monster the entire time. And the movie aspect of the nightmare was just to give you a false sense of security. That is scary as shit. Time to wake the fuck up. So I did.
I don’t dream about demon monsters regularly.
What inspired that dream?
And…what the hell are my new neighbors doing?
Those are some weird sounds going on next door.
I came to the conclusion they were unpacking and moving some things into their home. Probably the closets. Lots of shuffling sounds. Also, there were sounds that can only be described as the walls bending backward and forward. Maybe the walls were bleeding. What?
Then the haziness of the sleep and the nightmare wore off, and I realized it was 3:30 in the morning. Therefore I easily concluded they were probably not moving in… again.
I was proved right in my conclusion a second later when I heard the two making the happy-pancake sounds. You know what I’m talking about? Some call it the thunderclap. I am not going into detail but it is a sound that should be familiar when performing certain sexual positions. I think you can emulate the sound by keeping your hands and forearms real loose and then clapping? I am trying to perfect the sound between patron checkouts and I am uncertain if I am executing it.
You know, sometimes I don’t even stop typing these words while I pretend to listen to patrons elaborately tell me they need to turn in Janet Evanovich and renew James Patterson. With that said, I am sorry about the typos. Anyway, do you like Janet Evanovich? I hope not. However If you do I will gladly check them out for you every day. If you just move back in and kick out the not-so-sexy-sexual-demon monsters next door.
the girl you gave the weights to.
TYBEE ISLAND: PART II
I need to note that I am low maintance when it come to shrimp. I know I shouldn’t be. There was a period in time where Taco Bell offered shrimp tacos and I would willingly buy them and then eat them. I wouldn’t even complain. I know I should have.
We went to two different pizza places on the island. One is called Lighthouse Pizza. I cannot remember the name of the other one but let’s just call it Sloppy Pizza, which is a step up from the nickname my friends gave it the year before. (Racist Pizza)
First I would like to rate the food at Lighthouse Pizza higher than Sloppy Pizza. I say this because I could not see the food being prepared therefore I assume it was a safe and sanitary kitchen. Unlike Sloppy Pizza where we could watch the old man shuffle around, like a befuddled bag of bones, throwing toppings on pizzas, and then rubbing his greasy hair and then adding more toppings to more pizzas. We also watched the cook step on the meat-cutting board with his black grubby boot to reach the higher shelves. In which I then had this conversation with a friend as we both whispered through clinch teeth because we sat at the bar over looking the kitchen area.
-He put his boot on the meat-cutting board.”
-Maybe he didn’t. Maybe his foot was somehow underneath it.
-I watched him!
-Maybe they don’t use it as a cutting board anymore?
-There is meat on there.
Here I looked over to see a new package of salami or something, I don’t know. Something I don’t usually eat.
- Well. It’s still wrapped. So it’s not touching anything?
-Look you can justify all you want. I don’t eat meat.
I was drunk and really hungry.
So I went for it.
Some people opted out from eating at Sloppy Pizza due to the lack of cleanliness, but you know, I never got sick.
Point for me and point for the restaurant.
Two points and the victory goes to Sloppy Pizza even if they have no knowledge of hygiene and sanitary.
Honestly, they beat Lighthouse Pizza because I grew up religious.
LIGHTHOUSE PIZZA: REVIEW
Before I fell to the darkness of open-mindedness and the bitter truth of science, I remember listening to the fire and brimstone sermons with preachers that were redface and just plain mean.
They would shout at us and condemn us to hell unless you got saved. Or if you were already saved. Or if you were saved and forgot you were saved and then got re-saved. Or if you got saved because your older brother got saved, and you thought he was cool so you better get saved too, and then later you weren’t sure if the “saving” was legit. So just to be safe, you better get saved. One more time.
BUT LISTEN CHILDREN!
I think I met the devil, and from my understanding he is a tall, lanky gay kid floating between the ages of 20 to 22. He did have dark red hair and long nails, and that should have been the give away. That’s the thing. The devil is sneaky along with aloof and snarky. Maybe high. Definitely gay.
The devil confuses you and your situation.
That is his “go-to move.”
I am not sure why that needed quotes.
And I am not sure if there was a devil if “confusing the situation” would be his “go-to move.”
We had a party of 10, and some of us had been drinking so we were a little unfocused and scattered. Maybe even deaf. Actually, at this point some of us had been drinking for 7 hours. That equals a touch past scattered. I get that. But I am certain that the aloof redhead was the devil. It kinda went down like this.
-Do you have water?
- Uh no.
But here he says so quietly;
- We have bottle water. You have to buy it.
- I’ll take water.
Something is lost here. Because my friend didn’t get water and didn’t get free water.
NOTE: When a server says they ONLY have bottle water and you have to buy it, just remember it is a lie. Most restaurant have running water.
- Do you have wine?
Something is lost here.
-Can I see a wine list?
- Oh, I’m sorry we don’t have wine.
Here it should be stated that there was a shelf of wine on display right behind his head. If he turned around he could see them.
- Do you have a beer list?
- Oh. No we don’t have a list or anything.
We contemplate this in silence.
- Well can you tell us what beers you have?
- I actually don’t know all the beers. There’s a lot of them.
We contemplate this in silence.
- We have them all on a shelf around the corner. If you want to go look at them.
Here I looked at the other tables and saw some redneck men drinking Miller Light so I went with that. I understood our group dynamics and I felt sorry for the server having to deal with all of us.
We got drinks. We got food. My shrimp salad sucked. I didn’t care. We ate. We got our ticket.
Oh yeah, a family of dumb poor people sitting close to us insulted me by gawking and heckling me about my height. A physical attribution that I have no control over. Yet the fattest female in the group, and there was a contest, could walk around in a two piece letting her over-sized stomach hang out. She walked by my friend and only a thin layer of spandex protected the back of his head from meeting her nasty vagina.
It is dumb poor assholes like this that helped me to start another outlet on this blog called
It’s not about me. It is about all the assholes with no common sense and no emphatic and social skills.
Back to the review of the Lighthouse.
That fucking dumb-ass fat hillbilly family. They put me in the most paranoid and worst mood. When you have a table full of fat dumb fucks ignorantly talking about you as if you can’t hear them yet they are five feet away from you will put you in the most freakish and weirdest moods.
I was spiraling through one of those moods while everyone else tried to discuss the ticket with the redhead server. It was about the same as asking for water or the beer list. All I know is when it was my turn to pay for my shitty salad that only contained iceberg lettuce and three shrimp. I had to pay $44 dollars. Somehow doubling his tip where he made 50% of the check. For being a shitty server.
A few notes.
1. He winked at me. Or there was look. Something. I almost thought he was flirting. But that didn’t add up. The whole gay thing. But it was an intimate moment like he was letting me in on something.
2. I was also buying my friend’s dinner because I owed her. I didn’t want to mention it because I wanted to be dramatic.
3. Derb was talking, but I had no idea what she was saying.
4. So I was buying. Let’s get this over with. I feel like everyone is staring at me because, well, that one family of fucks were. I just wanted to get out of there before I passed out or punched that nasty girl in the stomach.
I step out of the restaurant and that terrible suffocating and paranoid feeling started to fade away. But I was still stewing.
44 fucking dollars
fucking dumb fat family
Whatever. The dinner was over. Forget about it.
Does this make him the devil?
But that wink was weird.
After I got back from the trip I checked my bank account, and right after the unjustly transaction of $44 dollars went through, my account stood at $666.66. That is how I knew there was a God.
And a devil.
And the devil was a gay 22-year-old snarky pothead.
Thus ending my review of Lighthouse Pizza.
Try the blueberry cheesecake calzone or some dumb shit.
TYBEE ISLAND: A REVIEW. PART I:
IF IT’S NOT THE 5-HOUR ENERGY DRINKS THEN IT MUST BE A HANGOVER FROM ALL THE WET WILLIES
I had no idea what to expect. I only knew that I had to go. This particular group of friends goes once a year, and I had missed every trip so far. I was not spending my Monday morning looking at their pictures on facebook from their past weekend. I know what they are going to say. Not the friends’ voices, but those stupid pictures’. They have voices as well.
“Look Brooke. These aren’t fake smiles. We are genuinely smiling because we just saw dolphins in the ocean. It was grand. We watched them save an infant as we sipped on our margaritas. Safely from the shore. We are on the beach and the weather is beautful. Look! We are all drinking your favorite. Mexican beer! Which one you ask? Oh just click on the next picture and you can see. All of them! We brought a selection. If you had just taken the time to go with us you could have a Tecate, Modelo or Dos Equis. Oh Brooke you want to know what else we did? We decided to rent bikes and go exploring up the foot hills. You won’t believe this but we found a unknown source of gold, and so we spent the whole day bathing in gold then we bottled up some, and took it down to the dive bars were all the locals bought us drinks for the night. Actually the night never ended. It was so much fun, and the dive-bar locals were just so hot that we just stayed up until we had to be at work this Monday and post all these pictures so you can see them. And what did you do? Do you have any pictures from YOUR weekend? Oh imagine that- a picture of you at The Plaza? I bet that was fun. I bet you’re glad you didn’t save time and money to go with us to this land of Mexican beer, never-ending gold, bikes, kayaks and men. Congratulations on ending up at The Plaza. Again.”
Note-I have certain disciplines or beliefs that I assume I might have forever. One belief was that I will probably never drink a 5-hour energy drink in my life. This past weekend I had two. So that is 10 hours of heart-pounding awesomeness. However I still can’t sleep at night. I am all jittery and sketched out. It could be the onslaught of playing “catch up” with graduate school, or maybe those 5-hour energy drinks were 20-hour energy drinks. Thus giving me 40 hours of heart-pounding awesomeness. Which is a lot more fun(?) then being cursed with insomnia and sketchy energy due to school.
Thus ending part I of my review for Tybee Island with these added exceptions.
1. Tybee Island has a fire work show for labor day that rivals Thunder on the Mountain. I wished everybody I knew could have been there. The moon was almost full. A tremendous firework show on a beach is something that everyone should see.
2. I thought Tybee Island was a rustic island that features a few cabins and one kayak rental shop that also serves breakfast food.
3. I was wrong.
4. Tybee Island is the Panama City of the Atlantic Coast circa 1983-1991.
5. The local men who frequent the dive bars are not hot. They are very old and white, and they mumble lovely nothings in girls’ ears as they try desperately to get away.
6. Actually the locals all look like different variations of Boss Hog with the exception of the guy we called the rapist.
7. The rapist was called the rapist because he wore white sneakers, white socks, white shorts and a white shirt. He also had the demeanor and grace of a rapist.
Even when he was stumbling drunk, it was the cat-like reflexes of a stumbling-drunk rapist.
8. Girls can make rapist jokes too.
9. One can feel like a character in a horror movie where all the locals act nice, but they are really plotting to torture you to death. This feeling is overwhelming around 2 a.m. to 4 a.m.
See the above picture. All peaceful and tranquil. It’s a lie. This doesn’t exist on the island.
This guy does. All of him. All ages and styles.
But so does this.
And then there’s always the rapist.
SHOW REVIEW: A BAND THAT I CANNOT NAME THAT OPENED FOR A BAND I DID NOT SEE
Do you like to party?
I do like to party.
Do I like to party?
I think I like to party?
I have been known to party.
I do like a good time with good friends, some danger and some excitement. Some nights can be bit more indulgent than others. Sometimes some nights are a bit more excessive than others. I’m older, and I have more responsibility thus I don’t party every night, but a party is a party. So if you ask me if I like to party typically and after some thought I will say “yes, indeed a do like a good party, kind sir.”
However, when the lead singer of a certain touring band asked me if I like to party, I flinched and I shrugged my shoulders and muttered some sounds that could have been a “maybe ehhh I don’t know.” I then scurried away. One reason is because the words were a question, but the tone was a statement and I didn’t like the way that guy was asking/telling me that I like to party. Too presumptuous on his part, and it immediately left me with the feeling that I walked into something a little bit more scandalous then I was ready for.
You see, my night was low key and lackluster, and I was completely fine with that. I dare say, I even arranged for it to be like that. I worked 8 hours, I ran 8 miles and then I went to eat with friends. After that I was done with the evening. It was close to midnight, and I was full, blissful and tired.
I am always exhausted whenever I immediately go out after a long run, which is always after all the bullshit of work. In this state, socializing is like trying to work out math problems on a chalk board in a dream where I can’t move my hands properly, and the fear of looking stupid is unbearable. Sometimes I have braces. Sometimes my teeth fall out. Whatever.
When I add alcohol to this tired state, the dream goes onward, but now I am sluggish and more silly. Maybe somebody would say I was more charming? I doubt it. I actually know that my face kinda melts downward and I don’t make sense. Therefore I was going to take my tired-ass home after hanging out on my friend’s porch. My heavy eyes craved my pillow.
However, I started to have some bleak and dark thoughts as I departed from the porch party. And those thoughts formed ugly lies.
Well, those two are good friends, and I never see them so I could swing by bottletree for a drink and then go home. I am really tired so maybe I will acutally do it this time. I will have one drink and then go home… two at the most.
Second winds are never good when it doesn’t involve an all day sporting event, and I started to feel my second wind once I got to Bottletree. I saw the friends I planned on seeing, and some other random friends that I was surprised to see. It was past midnight when I got there and the last band was playing. For one second.
Oh well. So I guess I was at the show, but I wasn’t their for the rollar coaster of affection for the touring bands. Especially the first band. Especially the first band’s bass player.
I don’t get caught up in the stereotypes and jokes about bass players. I’ve seen shirts and posters that state you should avoid hooking up with bass players. Apparently it’s fun to say the bass player is the lowliest member of any band. I mean I get the jokes. What, your retarded brother can play bass? I get it, but I don’t agree with it. I also play bass and sometimes I see extraordinary bass players playing in amazing bands. Even though the stigmas are different for female bass players, I still have my own burdens to carry.
I am a tall female bass player.
Before that I was a tall female.
Before that, in school, rednecks called me Sasquatch.
My second wind told me I was alright, but I knew it was lying to me.
My night was unfolding too quickly.
The whiskey shots were going down too easily.
I found myself drinking shots not at the bar like my usual classy manner. I was sitting in the back-stage area sharing sips of whiskey with the singer for the first band and his bass player. Also my friend that was recovering from a bad date was sipping the band whiskey as well. The singer for the first band was also the one guy that made me cringed as I walked in by asking/telling me “I like to party.” His over-confident suggestion was a turnoff. Yet here I was drinking whiskey with the guy. The good thoughts were still in the back of my head.
You need to go home…five more minutes…one more shot?
That bass player was cute. And he liked to smile at me. The over-confident singer was now trying to flirt with my friend. She wasn’t having it. His over-confidence was indeed a turn off for her as well. She was trying to convince all of us to go somewhere else. Those good thoughts were all but gone. The bass player was indeed cute. I think everyone else had left. I think things were getting suspicious. Especially for my shy and awkward ass. I tend to get left out of these situations even if I have been at a show for hours upon hours. How did this happen within the first half hour of showing up to see a friend?
Have you ever been to the RV’s parked at Bottletree?
Go past the entrance and it’s gnarly doorguys. Go past the crowds standing with arms crossed watching a band play. Go past the bar with it’s amazingly bright and beautiful bartenders. Cut right infront of the sounds of the music that is floating, hugging everyone in the room. Go past smoke. Go past drunk bullshit talk. Go past awkward or tired conversation with touring bands. Spin 20 times as fast as you can all the while sipping absinthe with a straw. Directions made easy.
The area where the RV’s are parked can be disorienting the first time you go there. I doubt people can walk through the area and not say that it is an amazing place. Unless their they are mute. But they think it’s an awesome place regardless. I hadn’t been there in a while and found myself disoriented and overwhelmed with how beautiful it was. The bass player was giving me a tour of the area and everything was nice and serene for one split second. Things changed fast
Charming Bass Player:”Do you want to check out the inside of the RV?”
Ridiculous Brooke: “Oh OK.”
We talked for a few minutes about New York City and work. I guess. Then apparently it was time to play the game “LET’S GET IN GIRL’S PANTS AS FAST AS YOU CAN!”
I played. For one second. I mean why not. I was playing the PG version so it’s OK to admit that. PG-13 maybe. He wanted to play the R version. I kept trying to play the PG-13 version. The thing about the RV was that it was dead quiet. Silence. Just us and the vinyl seats squeaking their tale-tell sounds.
For a few seconds it went like this:
PG to R to PG-13
PG-13 to ZERO
SQUEAK SQUEAK and then back to
Finally my sober yet hypocritical thoughts broke through the make-out session.
Brooke, this is the bass player. This is the BASS player of a band that you didn’t even see. This is a bass player that thinks he is hot shit because he is on tour, and he plays BASS in a band. Bass! Gross. Brooke, don’t do it. Don’t be one of those girls that hooks up with the bass player…the lowliest member in the band.
And so ends my review of the band that I cannot name that opened for a band that I did not see.
I was telling a co-worker a story from my childhood, and I was trying to explain the bookshelves in our garage that reached from the floor to the ceiling. I don’t know where the story was going and why the background setting was in the garage. I stopped talking half-way through the story. I looked at my co-worker and studied the quizzical look on his face, and I understood something then. Something almost life changing.
“Oh YOU didn’t have bookshelves full of snakes?”
I asked this casually and jokingly. He laughed. I laughed. However, my laugh was a nervous laugh because I realized that he didn’t have dozens of snakes ranging in all sizes and colors on display in his garage. Dead. Floating in formaldehyde.
The other day I asked my mom why did we have all those snakes and where are they now?
She stopped studying the newspaper and looked searchingly, imploringly at the wall and said she just didn’t know. She picked up the newspaper and said.
“Now Brooke, I want you to quit all that drinking.”
I was visiting my parents the other day and almost walked into a spider the size of my fist. I could tell that it had taken up a lengthy stay due to the delicate home it created with its webbing plus it had set up a spider-sleeping bag and spider-campfire. The spider itself was about 5 inches from the latch to open the gate. I wasn’t sure how far the web extended out so I squeezed in my gut and my bones, hoped for the best and tiptoed by it.
“Mom, why haven’t you killed that spider?”
“To watch it grow.”
I know. I know. I know. I shouldn’t try to harm spiders even if they are the size of my fist and leer at me as I try to visit my folks. My own damn folks. However I can not get over the time I stepped on a big brown spider, barefoot, and out poured hundreds of baby brown spiders. I don’t care for spiders. Writing this I can feel one crawling up my spine, and one tickling my foot.
To be honest, I might have exaggerated how many baby, brown spiders gushed out of the dead-mother spider after I stepped on it without shoes. It might have only been dozens.
Love your parents. Don’t step on spiders.