Tuesday, September 18, 2007

11:32 p.m. Tuesday and I can't sleep

When you make a hole in the center of a piece of Wonder bread then fry an egg in the hole in a hot pan full of foamy butter, that is called "egg bread". My Dad would even butter and fry the holes (like toast) and we fought over them.

Without ample time to shower, my Mom takes what she has always called a "bird bath" over the bathroom sink.

I watch "Golden Girls" reruns over and over. If I never marry, I'd find a group of wacky women to live with in later years. I would be Blanche. I adore how they dress, especially the nightgowns. My sleepwear is always flannel bottoms and cotton tank tops. I’m bringin’ fabulous nightwear back.

If I was cast on the reality show Big Brother I would dress like a Fredrick’s of Hollywood model 24 x 7 as part of my game strategy, including mules with a fuzzy marabou tuft on top.

The Christmas I was eight, my brothers and I fought so much Santa came and took our presents back. We had to pack them up and leave them in the foyer. After a week or so of being good, he brought them back one morning after church.

The best part of going to church every Sunday was watching my Dad thump the bottom of the copper collection plate instead of dropping coins into it and going to IHOP after for chocolate-chip pancakes with whipped cream.

I never got sat down for the sex talk. I recall finding one of those Your Body and You books in the bookcase, but that was it. For the longest time, I thought babies were "pooped" out.

My Mom wanted to name me "Jill", but my Dad insisted on "Jocelyn" after discovering the name in the some movie credits. I really hated having such an oddball, different-from-all-the-other kids name growing up, but wish I could transition to it now as an adult. But how do you do that? Did Gordon Sumner one day just demand everyone call him "Sting"?

My nicknames are "Jodie Luv" and "Dearinee" (dur-ree-knee). My brother’s nicknames were "Bobby Good-Guy" and "Jeff-Pork". I don’t recall Joe’s nickname. My Dad calls himself "Joey Kash". When I graduated from college, he had t-shirts printed up that read, "Joey Kash - The Adventure Continues (TAC)" because he was traveling a lot at the time, with a stop in Colorado for the ceremony. I have a picture taken that day of me surrounded by a dozen drunk people wearing the same dark navy blue t-shirt.

11:32 p.m. Tuesday and I can't sleep.

(Insert Monty Python joke here)

In news that is at the same time tragic and sad, police in Snellville, Georgia have questioned an armless man in the death of his neighbor. The victim’s sister was quoted as saying, "They got into a big confrontation, a verbal confrontation and a fist fight and he came after my brother, he came with full force, and head butted him as hard as he could".

A "fist fight".

Please forgive my giggles.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

The specter of Spector

Deliberations continue in the murder trial of Napoleon-complex music producer Phil Spector. O.J. and Robert Blake aside, let’s hope the California jury gets this one right. More on Blake later.

Spector has a long history of gun violence towards women, particularly those who express a desire to leave his isolated Cali “castle”. He tends to pull a gun, placing the barrel directly to their face. The temple. The nose. The mouth. And not just the ladies; the late Dee Dee Ramone detailed in Legs McNeil’s awesome tome, “Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk”, how Spector drew a gun on him when the time had come to say goodnight. Ramone said Spector held him all night.

The defense argued victim Lana Clarkson was depressed, sad that at 40 her dreams of Hollywood stardom had dimmed. So very late after work one night, she accepted a ride to Spector’s home, sat down for a tequila and decided to kill herself. In a mansion she’d never visited, she managed to find his gun in the drawer of a high boy, put on her coat, took a seat by the front door and placed her handbag over her shoulder and the gun in her mouth.

A woman claiming to be Clarkson's “best friend and soul sister” testified for the defense how sad her friend had been. How she told her she wanted to end it. Lana died in February 2003. That Christmas her “best friend” wrote in her annual holiday newsletter how she’d, “lost Lana at the hands of Phil Spector”. Today the "friend" books musical acts for a club in L.A. owned by friends of Spector. With friends like these, indeed.

A beautiful, funny and smart woman who’s managed for two decades to make out a living solely as an actress (taking the odd job when needed) wouldn't choose to end it all in the presence of a stranger and by completely obliterating her face. Her money. Actors are vain.

The handbag convinces me Spector killed Clarkson. The placing of the handbag on the shoulder is the international women’s sign of “time to go”. Lana wanted to leave, nothing more. Unlike the other women and Dee Dee Ramone, she didn't make it out.

As for Robert Blake, again it's one matter of evidence which largely convinces me of his guilt. Blake says he left his then wife sitting in a car, alone and on a dark street in the middle of night. Friends and family say she’d been scared in the days before her death that someone was out to get her. Her window was rolled down. You don’t roll down the window in an unsafe place unless you know and trust the face tapping on the other side of the glass. Blake was found not guilty.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Born on the 11th of September

Sydney and Jennifer Winthrop were born six years ago today. Their parents won't celebrate with a party. That will come this weekend. The parents feel it's "inappropriate".

Take a moment to reflect today, but never, ever stop celebrating life. My oldest brother died February 1990. His birthday is/was September 16th; mine is the 28th. For years, my Dad couldn’t acknowledge my birthday. No card, no call. He told me he couldn’t do it. He couldn't celebrate the life of one child because the death of another was so great. It broke my heart a little.

It’s sadly ironic that my Dad’s second wife died six years after on the same day as my now oldest brothers’ birthday. I had the nerve and the love to tell my Dad we must celebrate those walking with us as well as remember those who've gone on ahead. We celebrate my birthday every year now. And every year on my birthday I eat cake. It's "Jodie Rule" that eating cake on your birthday ensures another sweet year. I want lots of cake served at my funeral too. Gotta celebrate a sweet life.

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

You can't spell funnel cake without "fun"

A Labor Day tradition, A Taste of Colorado came to town this past weekend. Subtitled, “A Festival of Mountain and Plain”, the weekend-long event offers a smorgasbord of food, music and art. Several blocks of downtown Denver are closed off, the homeless who nap in Civic Center Park carted away and a plethora of local restaurants set up tent to sell overpriced tasty bits and libations (the Bayou Bob’s fried pickles, however, so worth it).

This year, we chose an evening trip. One, because it was Africa hot early in the day and two, to catch perennial 80’s faves Night Ranger on the main stage. You're motoring!!! What's your price for flight? The crowd a free-concert-in-the-park-80’s-lite-metal-pop-band draws is an interesting one. My butt had barely met blanket on grass, when the mullet to my right thrust a 64 oz plastic sipper my way and said, “Hey! How you doin??!! What ya drinkin??!! Have a taste of this!!”. Given his state, I was abso-toot-ley curious, but politely declined. We saw that cup and straw make about a dozen rounds to a multitude of mouths. Ewww. I saw more acid wash tapered jeans then I realized remained in existence (please tell me that trend never comes back) and older big-haired-super-fans (yes, even Night Ranger still pulls the groupies) in leopard tanks and Mom-jean shorts, with hot pink acrylic nails pumping the air alongside teen daughters, fueling the next generation.

Some of the feeding masses, even more of a stomach churner. Shovel it in, mouth full, use the hands. Tear into the eats like a monkey on cupcake. Then forgo the plethora of trash receptacles found every four feet throughout and leave a trail of used crap.

Sister Christian would not approve.

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