Through Every Forest, Above The Trees, Within My Stomach, Scraped Off My Knees, I Drink The Honey Inside Your Hive, You Are The Reason I Stay Alive

A friend of mine sent me two tracks by a group called Do As Infinity and I was listening to both of them earlier today. I must declare that I like them and I'm not exactly sure why. For the uninitiated, they are a group from Japan that have been making music for a couple years now. When I was listening to the first track, "Fukai Mori", at first I was self-conscious of the fact that I did not quite comprehend what I was hearing, seeing as all the lyrics are in Japanese. To be honest, it put me off to try and decipher what was being said. But, luckily, the more I listened the less it seemed to matter that I did not know what the song was about and the more it seemed to matter how it made me feel. The more I let go of my unfamiliarity with the language the more the music spoke to me. I found myself having to play the track twice more to validate that it was provoking such a strong response in me.

It was the same with the other track, "Taidama." This song was more upbeat and less wary as the other song, but it still made me feel as if I were witnessing something beautiful and strange at the same time. It made me feel like seeing the ocean for the first time, seeing something so vast and beyond my fully seeing the true scope of it all. It made me feel like the joy I was getting from it was only a part of the joy I could be experiencing were I to but know what the words actually said. It made me want to know more, feel more. By the time I heard this track I was trying my best to sing along even though the lyrics were beyond me; all fear of the unknown had vanished. Sure, this ocean may be vast and I may never see all of it, but it didn't matter so much. The song made little 'ole me smile and that was enough.

I can draw comparisons to the first time I made love to someone. I had all these inhibitions about not being sure of everything, of not understanding the intricacies and nuances involved. I thought the onus of comprehension was a requirement before I could "get" enjoyment out of the process. I wanted to understand sex logically before I firmly believed that I could be happy doing it. I believe that's why my first time was not as smooth as it could have been--too much analysis and not enough letting it be. I now understand that with some parts of life the more you try to understand something the less you enjoy it.

When I was finally able to come to terms with the fact that making love to someone feels good without trying to understand the particulars I started to disoover the real strength of something done for its own sake. Sex, like music or all art, is emotional and visceral. It doesn't take logic or reason to make it good or quality. Sometimes the best experiences are those that come from jumping in headfirst, damn the consequences. Just as you would never ask someone to jot down all the lyrics and composition of a song before you gave it a listen, you would never ask someone to draw a timetable to how the sex is to occur. You do it and you like it (or don't like it). That's it. That's all.

It's the same with Do As Infinity if you weren't brought up to understand Japanese. You listen to it and you like it (or don't like it).

And I like it. I like it a lot. It makes me feel like my Greg is with me, making love to me.

It makes me feel that good.

Breanne

I Watch Myself, Walk Away, A Foreign Spirit, Took My Place, I, I Disappear

As I stood watching Marona tell Ash that she couldn't in good conscience take the 50,000 Bordeaux if it meant sacrificing an entire island full of defenseless creatures--even though taking the money meant they could finally buy their home outright, even though it had been their dream for many years now--I thought to myself that I may not be able to make that choice if it ever came to me. I wonder how many other people are able to do the noble thing, stick to their principles, and merely give up on something that they had worked so hard for the entire lives.

Here's the crux of the dilemma. Which is going to make you ultimately happier; being able to afford a home of your own with no payments or renting or landlords, or being able to save the lives of a thousand or more individuals that you had been tasked in destroying? It's a fantasy plot, to be sure, as both choices seem out of the realm of possibility. But I wonder which would make me happier. It's been well-documented that I am not as naturally altruistic as my compatriot. And a huge part of me would jump at the idea of owning a home, an island nonetheless, that I could retreat to whenever the world outside seemed cruel and unusual. I think it's everyone's dream to be able to hang a sign outside your door that has your name on it. HERE RESIDES MOJO SHIVERS.

But, ultimately, I think some outside force would overtake me and I would do the so-called "right" thing. I think owning a home is one thing, but compelling others to be driven from theirs is another thing entirely. I wouldn't want to be the one responsible for forcibly removing another soul no matter how much I was being paid and no matter what I could buy for the money.

Marona and Ash live!

I wonder if this is how the first frontier people in America felt. I wonder if there were any peaceful dissenters who were morally torn at the prospect of the Native Americans having to surrender their land in order to make way for their own homes. After all, it wasn't exactly like they were unaware that their homes were being built on lands held by people for hundreds of years. I wonder if there was a twenty-something old man who was looking for his place in this new nation, saw who he had to drive off the land, and said to himself he'd rather remain in the city rather than squat upon someone else's homeland. I realize now that happiness is relative and that saying one dream is absolutely going to make me happy is wrong. Maybe, just maybe, what will make me absolutely happy may mean crushing someone else's happiness.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Said The Future's Comin' At You Like A Freight Train, And You're Walkin' A Wire, Cause She's Gone, Your Baby's Gone

I just came back from watching Sideways and it honestly deserves all the Oscar buzz it seems to be getting. It's that rare film that seems to blend the proper mix of drama and comedy, pitch and pathos, and still manages to tell a fairly ordinary story. When I say ordinary story I don't mean that to come off as being a putdown. No, I mean that in the most complimentary sense possible. It's the unique story that seems to take something that could happen to anyone of us and manages to make it engaging and incredible. I literally found myself wanting a story like the film's to happen to me which genuinely happens only with the most worthy of films. I found all four of the main characters engaging and I seriously wished the movie could have delved deeper into their backstories because they all seemed to be coming from places that warranted some investigation. Then again, I kind of like that in a film. I like it when everyone and everything seems congruent upon the particular time and place. This story felt like it could have only happened to these particular people and could have only unfolded in the particular manner it did. I highly reccommend anyone who has yet to see this film go watch it right away. And bring a friend.

wine as a metaphor for life? who knew?

There was one scene in particular that captured my attention and made me think of an experience from my own life. Actually, they were a couple of scenes, involving the loneliness Paul Giamatti's characters experiences back in his motel room while Thomas Haden Church's character was off having fun with the Sandra Oh's Wine Taster. I empathized wholeheartedly with him in being stuck somewhere with nothing to do and no one to do it with because that is exactly what happened to me.

I was in Philadelphia to visit someone I had gone out once with while she'd been out here in California. Let's just say that going into the trip I had certain expectations but upon arrival I had been sadly informed that my itinerary had undergone a certain change in fortune. And let us just say I was none too plussed about my having spent a small fortune in airfare and accommadations for a promise made and broken. So, after getting off the phone with my female companion close to tears and full of emotion, I proceeded to spend the next four hours in utter angst and turmoil. Like the girl in Glendora, I cried, cried, cried, cried, came back for more, did it again. I must have laid in that bed bored to tears and feeling like my vacation was all for naught. I watched programs on the television that I had no business enjoying and watching in the first place--how one can be so interested in the daily news of a foreign city is beyond me. I read Queen of the Damned for a couple of hours. And then I just laid some more.

I can tell you there is nothing like the desperation one experiences when one's immediate hope for better things has gone awry and he is left with the isolation of absence. It's like when you have plans and aspirations, be it for a trip or for a life, you have the strength of your determination. And when that is gone all you are left with is weakness of the sorrowful and lamentable. I felt it that night. I felt it hard. Those four hours I was crashing pretty hard. I was down on myself and I just wanted to pack my things and catch the next plane ride home.

Then I had a thought.

I figured I was in Philadelphia this one week. I could either waste it by staying up in my hotel room feeling sorry for myself or I could actually go and sightsee. I decided I'd wasted enough time in the city waiting for someone who apparently was never going to meet me. I decided I wasn't going to waste any more time. So at 4 a.m. in the morning I went for a walk around historical Philadelphia. It probably wasn't such a bright idea in the middle of the night, but I must say it felt freeing to be able to see the Liberty Bell and other sights without the big crowds that were there when I went later on the next day. I got to read all the plaques and just ruminate on the significance of every little thing on my own timetable. That hour of walking and reflecting on what this trip could be as opposed to what it had been did wonders for me.

I wouldn't go so far as saying that the rest of the trip went fluidly. I still had many terrible fights with the girl on the phone, but at least the rest of the trip was for the most part happier. Like the character in the film I turned what could have been a very downtrodden time in my life into one of my most memorable times I've ever had.

I came back to my hotel at 6 a.m., two hours after walking around, and they had just begun to serve breakfast in the restaurant. I sat down, talked up a couple of the restaurant staff, and even made a lunch date with one of the cute waitresses. All in all, I showed myself that a night that starts alone in my hotel room could end with a new friend and a new outlook on life.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

As He Came Into The Window, It Was The Sound of A Crescendo, He Came Into Her Apartment, He Left The Bloodstains on The Carpet

I have decided that I need a villain in my life. Someone who I can really get behind in hating and despising for all my worth with no second thought to compassion or sympathy. I need the antithesis of everything I stand for, believe in, and generally admire. After all, isn't a part of finding out who we are finding out exactly who we are not?

I am generally tired of getting along with everyone I meet and agreeing on general princple with everything they say. I need someone who gets underneath my skin without even trying. I need someone who just irritates me by being themselves. I need to know which beliefs I feel overwhelmingly passionate about that I would fight for them without a second thought. I don't think this can happen without an honest-to-god villain in my life. For the most part I think I weigh in on the good and beneficial side. I wouldn't say I need to register for sainthood just yet, but I don't I go out of my way to be callous and unfeeling. So, yes, I think it would take a villain to be my polar opposite.

He would have to be someone who is smooth and refined, but with an evil agenda in his mind at all times. Someone who appears to be thinking of others but is in actuality only thinking about himself. He would have to be someone who like the spotlight and the spectacle, is all about pretension and pomp, knows how to be smooth in any given situation, but in the end is found out to be shallow and without a refined intellectual thought in his head. He would also have to be all about the publicity and the fame without any regard to any real substance. He would have to be a smooth criminal as opposed to the bumbling hero I seem to like think myself. Finally, he would have to love the Manitobans.

In other words, he would have to be everything I'm not. The Yin to my Yang. The Kobe to my Shaq. The "other" everyone always seems to despise.

This is how I will know where I stand, by seeing for myself what I could have been and turned my back on.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Baby I Know Things Change, And There Might Be Some Rain, But The Clouds Are Going To Clear, And The Sun Is Gonna Shine Again

"It's never going to happen, Breanne. The chances for you ever conceiving are negligible. I'm sorry."

The shock on my face only lasted an instant before being replaced by a slow trickle of tears that never quite grew into the torrent that I had been expecting. After all, after two-and-a-half months of every conceivable fertility test and treatment I finally received the news I had been dreading and expecting all along. It was my fault. It was my fault that Greg and I were going to be an "only" couple. Yet even when you receive the news that you lack the capacity or the talent to do something it still hits you roughly. I imagine it's similar to when ballerinas or cellists receive the unimaginable news that they lack the talent to pursue their passions professionally. The only difference was I lacked the talent to have children. No big deal at all.

I next felt Dr. Welling's hand slip onto my shoulder trying to be reassuring, but how reassuring can the bringer of ill tidings be--especially less than eight seconds after delivering the direst of news? He mumbled something about being out in the hall if I needed anything else and that he wanted to give us time to collect ourselves.

I couldn't stop crying. There it was two days before Valentine's and we're hit with the news that, yet again, my love for my husband didn't mean diddly. I don't know who wanted kids more, the lovable galoot, who from day one of dating him already had names picked out whether we had a boy or girl, or the sassy ray of sunshine who had started putting away clothes for her children at age 11. To say that we were devestated does not lend enough creedance to just how inconsolable we truly were. And with every tear that fell and hit the linoleum floor the emptier I felt inside. I hit one of those plateaus, huddled over my knees, with Greg behind me where I felt so awful inside and so torn asunder spiritually that I actually reached a level of absolute incoherence.

For the first few minutes it manifested itself as nothing more than shallow whispers, the kind of low volume drone you would hear from scared prey or lost puppies. At first, I didn't even understand myself. I imagine I said words, but they may have just been the half-finished thoughts of a woman in turmoil. All the magazines always say the more traumatic the situation the more likely that logic and reasoning take a brief sabbatical only to be replaced by impulse and instinct. My first instinct was to rationalize a way out of it. Soon the whispers to my husband were replaced by catches of phrases about "second opinion this" and "impossible that." I was a good girl. I did everything the "right" way. I did not deserve this. I did not deserve this by a long shot.

I refused to believe I was being punished.

I started to yell at him to fix this--not that he could understand the least bit of what I was saying. I started to yell at him to tell me what we do next, now that the house we had purchased would have two extra bedrooms, now that both our parents would now be without grandchildren, now that all the trying and failing had ultimately landed us with absolutely nothing. I wanted the answers from a man who was just as scared and emotionally wrecked as I was.

I don't know what to do, Greg said. I don't know where to go from here.

And then he walked away and sat down on the far end of the exam room. I was thinking to myself, Hello, barren wife here. And, of course, I cried some more. If he didn't want to be with me, then fuck him. I wouldn't tell him I needed him and ask him to come over. I would get a divorce, that's what I would do. I would just take my belongings from our house and head for the hills. No man leaves his wife alone in a time like this, no man I ever knew anyway. When I was growing up I would see my daddy hold my mom like he believed in her. And when my mom was sad or distraught about any 'ole thing he would say the absolute perfect thing. When I was growing up I knew, absolutely knew, that I would marry a man that had all the answers when it came to making feel loved. I had thought Greg was this man, but the present circumstance was proving otherwise.

Longer and longer the separation between us grew. He was now slumped over in one of the chairs in the room, gaze directed outside the sixth story window at the city below us. I want to write that we heard the noisy clatter of the children playing in the school below us, but life was not the cruel. Nope, the only clatter I could hear was the construction kind. I remember because it was such a nuisance to even get into the hospital that morning, four hours prior. Had I known what the day would hold I don't imagine I'd have grown so irritated with all the delays and detours. I wouldn't have rushed here nor would I have taken time off of work had I known this was to be fate.

The longer he continued to look out the window the longer I continued to look, peek even, to see if he would be coming back to console me. But he never came. Eventually, I got tired of the waiting. I can only be so sad for so long. Instead, my sadness, as emotions often do, was replaced by a seething dislike for the man I'd been married to now for twenty months.

I didn't even bother changing out of the hospital gown. Hell's bells, I didn't even bother to grab my clothes on the way out the door. I had the impulse to get out of this hospital room, this hospital, this city, this life and as sure as hell get as far as I could from my husband. I blew by my doctor. I blew by the front desk. I would let him take care of all those unpleasantries; I needed to get away from this evil place.

I had made it all the way to the car when he caught up to me. I felt him reach for my hand. I tried to fight his grasp but I was already weak. I wanted everything to end. I wanted this whole day to be over. Somehow, in the back of my mind, I wanted to get home and sleep it off. The thought that I could forget all my troubles if I got some decent rest permeated throughout my brain. I felt Greg's head above mine. I could feel that he wanted me to turn around and face him. But he was the last person I wanted to face. Sadness had melted into anger and he was the easiest target. But I did not want to take it out on him. After all, it was all my fault. I had done this to both of us. I was the guilty party.

I felt him kissing the back of my head when he realized getting me to face him would prove an impossibility. He started kissing my lightly, like a grandfather kisses his grandchild, and never relented. He kissed me like that as I cried some more, face huddled in front of the rear side window, the tip of nose barely brushing against the icy acetone of the glass. He kissed me like that and never stopped kissing me until I finally faced him. He kissed me and kissed me until I believed he loved me again. He kissed the back of my head for twenty minutes.

It may not have solved all my problems or even made me feel the least bit better about the way things go. But I don't think I've ever forgotten what he did and how he did it. And so maybe I'll never have children who I will be able to love as my own, but I cannot say I'm without love completely. I'm in love with a man who is in love with me and even though it isn't everything I ever wanted, it's still quite a bit in my book.

Breanne

I Found A Dream That I Can Speak To, A Dream That I Could Call My Own, I Found A Thrill To Press My Cheek To, A Thrill That I Have Never Known

"Because sometimes in orderto move on to the next great thing in your life you have to leave the first great thing in your life behind."
"Kind of like saving room for desert."
--Amy Abbot and Delia Brown

I've been thinking about this maxim ever since I heard it tonight and I realized that I don't know if it quite applies to my life. I've been trying to wrack my brain for the one great thing in my life that I had or the one great thing in my life that I have now. Nothing really springs to mind. And I'm beginning to question whether or not I am truly destined for greatness or even for greater things. I always thought growing up that I would manage to do something that was truly impressive and would matter, not just to me, but to the world at large, to society in general. I thought maybe I would pen that great American novel. I thought perhaps I woudl critique the latest films and influence a whole generation of cinema goers. Hell, I even thought that I would design the world's best card game. Somehow my ambition to achieve more than this always seems to fall short.

I know what a lot of you are saying, that I'm still young and that I still have many viable creative years ahead of me. But how soon will it be before the next stage in my life kicks into high gear? How soon will it be before I am too spent and too jaded to produce something of real value and tremendous beauty? How soon will it be before the history I was going to make becomes the history of my ultimate failure? How soon is now?

I always seem to write about doing better things and finding fulfillment in my life but I never quite come around to the actual application of greatness in my life. I always talk about the generalities of success and, quite frankly, that's no way to get one's life in order. I need a plan. I need a blueprint for the future, a guide along the way to my fate. The trouble with me is that I never seem to think ahead. I am reckless and impulsive, and I always seem to fly by the wind and not my own two wings. I see the general direction my future is headed, hitch a ride, and conveniently comment to myself that this is probably a good direction to head anyway. Instead of plotting a course of adventure, intrigue, and, quite possibly, romance, I let someone else take the wheel and decide where and what is best for me. And the worst part about it is that I let this happen to me, I allowed myself to be hoodwinked into believing what others had in mind for me was really the best for me.

I need to find that next great thing. I need to find some solace among the sands. I need to find the strength to be an individual whose personality is a definition of his choices and not someone whose choices is a definition of his personality. I may not know what my first great thing was or even if I ever had a first great thing, but I know I have a great thing destined for me. Now all I have to do is start reaching for it.

my just dessert

I have plenty of room for dessert and I'm a hungry man.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Ooo You Make Me Live, Whenever This World Is Cruel To Me, I Got You To Help Me Forgive, Ooo You Make Me Live Now Honey

I think tommorrow may be the end of an era. After over three years of having my cel phone numbe I am in the process of having my number changed. It is nothing particular that is bringing about this grand transformation. Simple economics are at the heart of this celluar revolution; I have found a plan that is way cheaper for the volume of calls I receive. So, if any of you people out there want to still call the 9779 number, better do it now before I get the new one.



Of all the topics to be a little choked up over you would think that changing one's cel # would be the least emotional thing in the world. But the way I look at it I find it almost as significant as getting a new car. I especially find the loss of this number to be very monumental because this is one of the last vestiges of my relationship with my last girlfriend, DeAnn. I got this number shortly after she and I broke up as a way to keep up my friendship with her. I know it's not a terribly bright idea for exes to be friend, especially when there are some issues to be resolved, but she and I managed to make it work for a couple of year before severing all ties this past April. But as a last tie to that life and the person who I was when I was with her this cel phone is akin to my throwing into the fireplace my last picture of us together. I can either look at it as a sad occasion or as opportunity for a new beginning.

If there has any been one symbol of holding on too long it's been my cel phone. I'd have to say in the first two years 50% of the calls I made or received on this phone were from her. It might as well have been called the DeAnn phone. It was only this last year that it's turned into a instrument for good instead of evil. It's not so much that I think she was evil, but my whole trying to retain a lifestyle that just wasn't me any more was particularly unhealthy and the source of much heartache and misery. It was a very conflicted time and, as you can imagine, that phone was a silent witness to a lot of harsh words and many screaming matches. I'm hoping the new phone will have a better time of it.

Like I said, in the last year this phone has been the conduit for a lot of new memories and a lot of new people. That's why I think a new phone number should go along to commemorate this attempt at a new beginning. There are so many people I can call when the world begins to resemble a harsh August sky or when California starts to resemble a black hole. I want a new number that doesn't have any bad memories associated with it. I've already moved on past her and getting rid of the last number she can reach me at may be the final nail on the coffin.

So if any of you want my new number feel free to e-mail me or comment your request to me unless, of course, you're DeAnn.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Your Ship May Be Coming In, You're Weak But Not Giving In, And You'll Fight It, You'll Go Out Fighting All of Them

Recently someone I know tried to get me to go in with him on one of those Work-at-home opportunities. We had dollar signs in our eyes and the good life in our hearts. Of course, we were terribly disappointed to find out that what seemed like a good opportunity was nothing more than the sham we thought it was all along. I'm only glad we looked up some reviews before actually committing hand to check. It's a disheartening fact that 63% of all the work-at-home ads are being put out by the same company, Herbalife. What's even more disheartening is that so many people sign up to try to sell the stuff everyday, even though there is already a glut of people trying to cut their losses. If you don't believe me, just look up all the people trying to pawn off their product on E-bay. It's amazing how many people are actually losing money because they bought into the dream.

That got me thinking about some of my ideas to earn money, if not quick, with a certain panache. My first idea that I had when I was in high school involves two of my favorite pastimes, eating and staying up late. I had an idea for a 24-hour drive-thru buffet. Basically, my premise would be to have the patrons buy a limited-time pass--perhaps in increments of 6-hour blocks--during which time they could zip through the drive-thru anytime to get food. The twist would come in the fact that you could only order one "meal" at a time. So if you wanted four "meals" for your wife and two kids you had to go through the drive-thru four times. I know this enterprise would probably lose more money than it would make since there would be nothing stopping some chucklehead from going through the line multiple times in the 6-hour-block, but imagine what kind of buzz the restaurant would get in its opening month. After I came up with this brilliant idea I pretty much decided that I'd much rather be a patron of restaurant like this than an owner. Man oh man, I'd be buying a pass almost everyday and just use the restaurant like a supermarket. Everyday I'd be stocking my refrigerator with leftovers.

My other great idea would be to open a giant maze. Now I know many of you have seen those cornfield mazes where you can spend hours getting lost and trying to find your way out. When I say giant maze, I mean a GIANT maze. I'm talking 16 square miles long by 16 square miles wide by 16 floors high. I want the biggest maze in the world. I want a maze that takes weeks to go from the start to the finish, a maze where you have to pack as if you're going on safari, a maze where you know you're not going to find the way out by yourself. I figure I'd charge $40 per person, $60 for a couple, and $100 for a family pass of 4. I would advertise it as a test of one's mettle, of one's courage, of one's determination to make it through. I think that would hook a lot of people. Then once at my maze, I would make every patron sign a waiver relieving me of all liabilty for injury or disease, as well as any deaths related to hunger, starvation, and/or injury. Oh, did I mention that I'd have packs of wild dingoes roaming throughout the maze? Dingoes whose only source of food would be the patrons they would feast upon? Also, I think I'd throw in a couple of bottomless pits, flaming pools of tar you'd have to wade through, and maybe a crazy guy named Jed whose home would actually be inside the maze and who would get paid a bonus based upon the number of patrons he could actually chase into exhaustion. Of course, I wouldn't mention any of these perils before they got into the maze. After all, where would be the fun in ruining the surprise? See, I figure I'd make the real money in charging $1000 for my own search-and-rescure team to come in and save lost relatives and friends. I think after about a week of not hearing from a loved one people would be willing to put down an inordinate amount of cash to save them.

I'm not so sure about the 24-hour drive-thru buffet, but I think the maze could make some real moola.

Now all I need are some investors.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

'Cause Everybody Hurts, Take Comfort In Your Friends, Everybody Hurts, Don't Throw Your Hand

I was out with my friend Stephanie at Joshua Coffee a week ago today. It's not often that I get the chance to sneak out of the house to play girlfriend as tending to other people's gardens in a city known having beautiful gardens tends to keep little 'ole me fairly busy. So you could see these rare excursions into the real world offer a much-needed respite from my, er, reality.

We were playing that game where you try to guess what each person who walks through the front door does for a living. We were having a fairly jolly time of it for a long while. The more outlandish, the more brazen, the story the harder we would laugh. I think we came up with some fairly amusing anecdotes about some of this fair city's citizens. What was even funnier was concocting stories about people we actually know. That's the thing I love about living where I live; it has the charm and gentility of a small town with all the advantages of a major metropolis. In other words, I always bump into someone I know if I hang around one place for too long of a time.

This went on for a good hour, until in walked somebody who obviously had fallen on a rough time. Then the two of us didn't have the heart to try and guess what this guy's story was. An immediate air of pity and awkwardness swept the entire coffee shop. You would have thought that a full-blown leper had walked in. It is not like I have not seen my fair share of less well-off people or even full-blown poor, but there is always a sense when they cross the "line," so to speak, that divides "their" world from "our" world that an invasion has begun. In this particular instance the conversations grew more hushed and more than one set of eyes were instantly glued to the goings-on of the shop's newest patron.

That's when Stephanie, who I love like a sister, uttered something completely surprising. She pulled me over in hushed tones, cupping her hand over her mouth, and simply said that somebody really should usher this guy out. And when I asked her why, since he didn't seem to be harming anyone, she said that he was bringing everyone down. I may love her like a sister--we practically grew up in the same house--but I never said that Stephanie was the most thoughtful person out there. I couldn't believe she was putting her own discomfort before this man's right to get himself an overpriced cup of coffee, which is exactly what he was doing. Despite his appearance, he didn't seem to be a beggar or a vagrant. He appeared to be someone who had fallen on a rough patch, but he neither was intrusive or rude. He stood in line with everyone else, ordered his coffee, and then left. The whole affair took less than ten minutes.

But I suspect that Steph's discomfort wasn't merely at her world being invaded. I think a part of her discomfort issued from the fact that we do not want to be reminded of how difficult life can be at times. There we were, the two of us laughing one minute, and the next somebody ruins our fun with the audacity to be unshaven, unkempt, and, worst of all, poor. How dare they! I don't think it's a fairly uncommon attitude, but one I'm glad as all creation that I do not partake in. I'm the definition of chipper and somebody else's misfortune is not a cue for me to drag down my bliss. In fact, most of the time I look upon such people as an opportunity to spread my bliss. Had Stephanie not been with me and had I been in line I very well may have struck up a conversation with the man. I am willing to place bets that Stephanie's reaction is what that man typically runs into wherever he goes. I bet someone willing to talk to him like the human being he is would have probably made his day.

Everybody is hurting inside and I think it only takes one person's smile or well wishes to ease that pain. I should have talked to him despite what Stephanie may have thought.

I have a pretty smile, I've been told. Sharing it would not have been that difficult. Chalk one up to missed opportunity.

Breanne

Suddenly You're In My Life, Part of Everything I Do, You Got Me Working Day And Night, Just Trying To Keep A Hold On You

As you can see we have a new addition to the site. My gal pal, Breannie, has decided to take a less than lucrative position as guest writer on this site of mine. It's not so much that I thought this blog could use another writer, but the fact that I could always use another excuse to hear from one of my bestest pals in the whole world. I don't often get an opportunity to hear from her on the phone. We do e-mail with a tad more frequency, but not as often as I'd like. And the last time I saw her was that night in April. Frankly, I'm hoping that having her think about this project as a "we" thing will provide the perfect conduit to a more bountiful friendship.

It's funny that a person I've only seen twice in my life could prove to be someone I consider one of my dearest friends. There are a lot of friends I've known longer and many I live far closer to--even my friends in San Francisco are still within the same state. But I always manage to make lasting friendships with people who live on the other side of BFE. I think it comes down to the simple fact that I tend to open up more with people I don't see everyday. It happened with Jina. It happened with Breanne. It happened many, many, times with many, many different people. As I said before, I used to write to over 60 people and most of them never lived within a 100 miles of me. I tended to spill my guts to people living in exotic locales such as Ohio and North Dakota and, of course, West Virginia and Georgia. I wonder why friends who lived blocks from me ended up feeling far away and friends who lived thousands of miles from me I ended up feeling closer than God to.

I live a life of hermit sometimes. The only outlet I get to the world-at-large are these small posts that give an insight to how I am, who I am, and what I am. I think I've always had this gift for opening up on paper and on the phone, but never in person. I think that is why my closer friends are those that live far away because, knowing I don't have to see them everyday, I can loosen my darkest secrets and brightest ambitions upon them.

That's what happened here. I opened up to a girl who was struggling to learn how to write in Georgia and I've been learning from her ever since. I may have taught her how to write better, but she taught me to live better.

Welcome aboard, Breasier.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Love, I Don't Like To See So Much Pain, So Much Wasted And This Moment Keeps Slipping Away

Evening, fine gentlemen and ladies. I'm not sure if I need any introduction since it seems that every inch of me has already been exposed in yesterday's post. I suppose I'm here to give that final exclamation about a story that involved two people, the "money" shot if you will.


me last year as opposed to the 17-year-old me that gets posted up here

Goddamn, goddamn. The uproar that this story caused among the small group of people that mojo and I both know was heady. Pandora's box is definitely open for business.

Earlier this morning when I came upon this site like I tend to do on days I'm not with clients I discovered some things I had thought, up until today, he had forgotten. He sent me the post yesterday, asking little 'ole me for permission, to print what was up until then a private moment shared between us. And when I first read it I was bemused and bedeviled by the amount of smutty detail mojo had inlaid into what I thought was an absolutely beautiful experience. I was hurt that he thought so derisively of our night together that he would reduce it to its barest components. I honestly had thought mojo was a better man than that. I told him that I'd be a three-legged dog if he thought I was going to allow my honor to be besmirched in such a fashion. A lady simply doesn't act the way he had me act in his post. And, most definitely, this lady does not act in such a fashion.

I told him to write it over. I told him that what makes a sunset breathtaking is not the power of the sight hitting you over the head like a mallet, it’s the subtleties, the subtext, and the sublime of the sight. Capture that, I told him, and I would let him post our story even though it was against my best instincts.

There’s music in the melody of a perfect moment. There’s something that can’t be over-explained. He was over-explaining something I thought was really simple. The truth of the matter was that night was about two people who cared (and still care) about each other deeply, not two people who were horny as jackrabbits out in a field somewhere. If he couldn’t capture that then the story should have been better left unsaid.

Then he surprised me. He pulled the toy surprise out of the cereal box. I woke up this morning and read this wonderful account that touched upon the anticipation and nervousness we both had gone through. He captured very poignantly and with decency what amounted to my first time doing much of anything. He made this story a gift to me.

That’s why when I read a couple of the readers wanting to know how the whole story ended I immediately e-mailed mojo and asked if he would allow me the honor of penning a suitable ending. I originally told him that I wanted that part left out. I thought it better if we left the rest to the imagination of the audience. I did not want our kisses to be told.

But then I thought about how it remains one of my best memories and how good memories, if they are any good, should be told so that others may say the goodness too. A shuttered house gains no admirers in much the same manner an untold memory dies with its participants.

So, briefly, here’s my ending to that one moment in time when a girl stood in front of a guy and asked him to love her.
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“I’m not sure what to do here. I’m scared,” I said as I still motioned closer to him. He was the second guy I had ever stood completely naked in front. And the first was my father. And I hadn’t been naked in front of him since he stopped bathing me when I was three. You could say he was the first “boy” to ever make me feel that comfortable that it almost didn’t matter I was sharing myself with him. It was our time. It was our place. This moment belonged to us.

“Don’t be scared, Breannie. It’s only me. I think you’re beautiful. So don’t worry about what I think of the way you look. And you know I’m not going to ask you to do anything you don’t want to. It’s your show. Run with it.”

I have never been expressly proud of the way my body looks. People tell me that I’m cute or pretty or striking, but there have only ever been two people I have ever completely believed when they told me that I looked good. One is my husband. And the other is mojo.

I sat down on his lap and laid my head on his shoulder. I felt my heart beat inside of my chest like the wind beat down on our house when it stormed near our house. I felt the same security in being held like that by him that I felt when my mother held me. I have always been scared of storms, of the thunder, of the crashing noise of chaos that a storm brings with it. The only thing that has ever calmed me down is touching and being touched by someone I feel close to. And in much the same manner the chaos of the storm died away when my mother soothed me when I was younger so his touch soothed me now.

I wanted so much to be a part of him. I wanted so much to reach that level of understanding that only people in love are supposed to feel. I wanted that feeling. I wanted that feeling with him.

I reached for his hand and started moving it to my left breast. I wanted him to feel how calm my heart was because of him. I wanted him to feel how safe he made me feel. And as I felt the fingers of this individual I felt absolutely close touch the exposed skin of my breasts I steeled myself against the shock I was sure I would feel. But instead of the shudder of electricity I came to expect I sneezed. More importantly, I sneezed on him, on his shoulder specifically. I laughed to myself, but I still continued to move his hands upon me. I wanted him to feel every inch of me.

“Do you want me to…” I asked, motioning to my underwear.

“Not yet. This is nice right here. I think I’m happy right here.”

After about five minutes of him exploring every inch of exposed skin I asked him simply, “Do you want to get in the sleeping bag with me?”

“Sure, but first I think I need a little help in getting these pesky clothes off of me. Think you can assist in that area?”

I mock-saluted him. “I shall do my best, sir.”

So off came his pants. Then his underwear. Then mine. And soon we were naked as jaybirds on jaybird street. I wasn’t so much surprised as I was amazed that there he was letting me see him as he was, unprotected. Then he led me to the sleeping bag and instead of doing what we both expected would happen that night, we kind of just got lost in each other. We just stayed up for hours exploring the wonder of each other and laughing and playing. We just enjoyed each other. We just lay next to each other, being there without restrictions or reservations, with nothing between us figuratively and literally. We were as close as two friends could be without crossing this imaginary line where friends become more than friends, before consequences would come into play, before hearts had a chance to be really broken. And there we stayed, the train of our “relationship” never to leave the station.

We'd shared something, true. But what it meant to us couldn't be explained by what we did. You could only really understand it by who we were doing it with. That person next to me leant more meaning to the whole night and the nights that followed than acts or positions or labels. It was special in every sense of the word because he was special.

We feel asleep like that—in each other’s arms. We woke up the next morning in much the same manner. Maybe I hadn’t gotten to sleep that night as innocent as the night before, maybe I was more experienced in the ways of man than I had been the previous morning, but I didn’t wake up with any regrets and I didn’t wake up resenting myself or him. I woke up feeling happy. Unbelievably happy. So, yeah, maybe we didn't go at it like pros. That night we just had fun. Just sex would have been good.

That night I think we had something better.

Breanne

Fragile, Like A Baby In Your Arms, Be Gentle With Me, I'd Never Willingly Do You Harm

RATED M FOR MATURE THEMES AND ADULT SITUATIONS
It’s a little known secret that sometimes when I post certain people object to me identifying them by name in my stories. Some even go so far as to try to get me to edit my own writing to save them embarrassment. Most of the time I do not listen. However, in the particular case of this post censor myself is exactly what I did. I did it for two reasons. One, as it was originally written, this post verged on being the stuff of romance novels (heaving bosoms and manhood unsheathing aplenty). And, two, the other participant in the story asked me to tone it down as not to offend her husband. And since I love the other participant to pieces I have respected her wishes. What follows is the PG version of what was originally an R rated post.

Okay, maybe PG-13…

Today I was treated to the movie Elektra and I wasn’t disappointed. If you’re looking for a no-frills movie that is entertaining but doesn’t involve a lot of trying to piece together what’s going on then I highly recommend this film. I liked it so much I may see it again. I think what I liked the most about the film was how much the character of Abby Miller, Elektra’s protégé, reminded me of my friend, Breanne. She has the same feistiness and the same gung-ho attitude that make is such a joy to be her friend. In fact, watching the film made me think a lot of one particular instance where her somewhat assertive personality made an indelible impression on my life.

I had been hesitant to write this chapter in my life because it strays a little toward the personal side and it really scares me to put myself so out there, but in honor of the spirit that made such an encounter possible, I have decided to heave caution to the heavens and allow the story to live free. Enjoy.

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"My hay fever is kicking my ass right now. Either that or I have a cold," Breanne said, as she let untied her ponytail. Her chestnut brown tresses spilled out over her shoulders like a cape. Though her face looked a tad flushed from the two hour hike we had just taken, she still managed a smile that belied the fatigue we were both feeling. She sniffled, letting me know that her sudden proclamation was, indeed, a reality and not a threat.

"Better stay away from me then. God knows what I've already caught from you, Breannie," I joked, unrolling my sleeping bag in the inside of our two-man tent.

The date was April 22nd, 1995, and she and I had undertaken, on a complete lark, to hike from her parent's home in Macon towards Atlanta, using the most roundabout route I have ever seen. Her parents had left for the weekend, thinking that the two of us would just kick back at the house. Since I was a visitor and remarked how wonderful the house was on my last visit out east, they had assumed my current visit would resemble the last visit. They had imagined she and I would just hit the town, eat out, come back, and just relax at home where various relatives would come by and check on the two of us.

Breanne had other plans.

So we had left the afternoon before, small tent and full backpack in tow, along the highways of the Georgia countryside. She had said that her uncle had taken her along the same route three years prior and said she had such a blast that she was itching to take me along the same journey. So far, it was living up to expectations, as we had talked up a storm by the time we reached our stop for the second night. And, subconsciously, I think I was falling more in "like" with her as each hour passed.

There we were, at a rest stop near the highway, preparing to bed down for the night. The privacy of the location and the situation was not lost on us. Nothing eventful had happened the previous night, but I think the tension was somewhat palpatable this night. Like I said, I love Breannie to pieces, and back then I think she shared my feeling wholeheartedly.

"Oh, please, darling. Everyone knows you want what I've got," she laughed as she too unrolled her sleeping bag. The evening air was warm and the buzz and clatter of the highway was just a distant nuisance. I gave her a look to determine the seriousness of her comment, but she just returned a vacant smile. I just laughed it off as well and began taking off my shoes and socks.

"Why do you that?"

"Do what?"

"Take off your socks. Doesn't your toes get all musty in the sleepy bag?" She shuddered. "I can't stand the icky feeling you get when your feet touch damp sleeping bag."

"It's not so bad. I do it all the time. When I was Boy Scouts I was stuck in my socks for extended periods of time that I always rushed to take them off once we got to camp."

She ran her fingers in her hair as she kneeled upon her sleeping bag. Her oceanic blue-green eyes I saw affixed to her shoes as she was careful to remove just her shoes and not her socks. For some reason Miss Breanne Hollins was blessed with the type of eyes that glittered no matter the light you saw them in. Even something as mundane as her watching her shoes as she removed them was enough to make her look very, very cute.

"Not me, these puppies stay on the whole night," she said, indicating with her glance, the white ankle highs that currently adored her feet.

I shot her a mischievous grin. That's when I started to crawl on my hands and knees towards her. She didn't catch what I was up to at first, but by the time my hands were eight inches from the first sock, she pulled it away with great haste.

"I know what you're thinking, you sneaky demon, and you can just stop thinking what you're thinking."

But I still advanced on her position, this time with exagerrated intensity.

She tucked her legs behind her and scooted her back to the edge of tent. Then she placed her hands out in front of her in an attempt to protect herself.

"Stay away!" she screamed.

"Give me your socks. Give me your socks," I said, in my best imitation of a sock-stealing zombie. "The socks, the socks, I need the socks."

She started to laugh pretty hard as my hands were now jabbing through her defenses to get at the precious commodity nestled on her feet. Each time my hands grazed a piece of cotton, I let out this luscious sigh as if my hands had nestled on certain other naughty bits. This only served to make her giggle more.

"Stop that, darling. I'm working pretty hard here. You're ruining my concentration."

"I can't help myself. I need the socks. I gotsta have it."

"Over my lifeless body, darling."

That's when I mock-tackled her. Instead of trying to push my hands through her flailing arms I pretty much threw my entire body against her small frame. As my body bounced into her body our combined weight forced both of us to topple over. I ended up on Breanne with her pinned beneath me. It startled the both of us as I had just intended to use my torso to shield me from her arms which had started to whack me mercilessly.

There we lay, my arms quickly moving by my side, again, to avoid touching any naughty bits. Her arms, by comparison, were lifeless by her side, trying not to push me off or anything. We were cheek to cheek, or should I say my face was pressed up against possibly the softest skin I have ever felt. Electricity, chills, the heat of passion--whatever you want to call it--ran through my entire body as I readied myself to extricate myself from my compromised position. As I attempted to push myself off of her, suddenly her hands came to life with amazing alacrity.

"Stay awhile. Don't you like it down here?" she asked as she pulled my face closer to her. Then she kissed me. It wasn't particularly foreceful or graceful--nothing I'd imagine my first kiss with her to be--but, nonetheless it was nice. I felt every inch of her lips on my lips just as I felt every inch of her body on my body. I had wanted to kiss her the minute I saw her in person, the minute she lit up her smile at me at the airport with her parents. But the age thing and the worry she didn't feel the same for me always prevented me from acting on anything close to courage. Now that I was kissing her a wave of comfort splashed over me. This was how it was supposed to be, I thought as the kiss lingered. This is how she and I were meant to be.

Then, just as quickly as it had began, the kiss ended. I pulled my head back to look into her eyes. She batted her eyelashes at me.

"Was it good for you?"

"Definitely."

"Still want to take off my socks?"

"Does that mean we'd have to stop kissing?" I asked, inching my face closer to her again.

"I'm afraid so, darling. Can't have the socks and the kiss both."

I pursed my lips in thought, feigning a raging debate inside my hate as to which option pleased me more. This non-plussed her to no end and she shoved me off of her with great effort.

"That's it. Get off of me," she told me as she stood up on her knees inside the tent. She scooted to the other side of the tent and pouted.

"Come on, Breannie. I was just kidding," I said, trying to make my way to her again.

"Stay where you are. You've hurt my feelings and I don't think I want to kiss you anymore."

"Come on..."

"Nope. In fact, I think I'm going to take off my own socks, thank you very much, and make you watch just to torture you. That'll teach you to spurn me."

And that's what she did, she began slowling sliding down her right sock off her ankles. She did it so deliberately slow that it took her a minute to get the whole monstrosity off. Then she took twice as long to remove the left one. Finally, at the end of it all, she sat barefooted in front of me. Now I have never had a particular foot fetish, but seeing the pleasant sight of more flesh--especially after being turned on by the great kiss--made the experience than it had a right to be.

"What are you looking at, silly?"

"Nothing," I said, trying to shrug it off.

"You're looking at my bare feet, aren't you? You sick demon child," she stated. She started to shake her head in disbelief. Then she paused suddenly. That's when she got the devilish grin in her face.

She started upzipping the denim shorts she was wearing.

"What are you doing, Breannie?" I asked in disbelief, drawing out my question with every ounce of skepticism at the sight before me.

"Nothing. Getting ready to sleep. I've decided to sleep au naturel tonight."

"Um, you can't do that."

"I can do whatever I want," she continued, as she finished removing the shorts off of her ankles. So now she was sitting on top of my sleeping bag in just a tee and her skivies. Try as hard as I could, I could not avert my eyes from the plain white cloth separating me from very, very naughty bits.

Then she slipped off the tee.

And suddenly before I knew it she was sitting there in just her underwear. She was grinning as she saw the palpatable discomfort in my countenance.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing at all."

"You're sweating. You're sweating a lot."

"I can't help it. This doesn't seem quite real. And thinking that this may be real is scaring the shit out of me."

She guffawed, which was then interrupted by a very loud sneeze, which only made her laugh even more. The gentle curves of her body seemed to relax exponentially. She laid down on my sleeping bag as if she were sunning herself on the beach, her bare belly enticing me like a beacon of smooth and lovely skin.

"Come here," she called to me like a cat to its master. And like a cat it took me a moment to realize what she was saying was exactly what she wanted. I took my place and laid next to her on the bag.

"I don't think it's a big secret that I like you, darling. But being here like this makes me kind of shy now."

"Do you want to put your clothes back on?"

"No, not yet. Unless, of course, you want me to."

"No, not yet," I said, as I reclined back my head at the top of the sleeping bag. We were both now just staring up at the top of the tent. We sat watching the top of the tent for what seemed like ten minutes before she finally spoke.

"To hell with it," and she quickly stood up. I sat up to see what she was going to do next. She teased her hair a bit and stood biting the edge of her lip. She stood like that, with me transfixed on her figure, for the briefest of moments. Then she reached behind her bra and unhooked it, letting the bra fall to the ground.

"Fragile, like a baby in your arms,
Be gentle with me..." she started to sing as she stepped closer to me, "I'd never willingly do you harm."

That was the first and last time I saw Breanne completely and innocent.

I Could Leave This Agony Behind, Which Is Just What I'd Do, If I Wanted To, But I Don't Want To Get Over You

I was watching Lost today and was not particularly shocked to find that Boone and Shannon, the supposed "brother" and "sister" on the show, weren't all what they seemed. After all, this is a show that prides itself on catching you off-guard and placing twists whereever possible. However, this particular surprise I kind of suspected. The way Boone looked at Shannon in previous episodes you could kind of tell that he wasn't just protecting her because they were siblings, but that there was something substantially more there. And to discover that the two of them were not, in fact, blood-related, and that he secretly was in love with her only made sense. After all, here is someone who said all sorts of nasty comments about her, how useless she was, how dumb she acted sometimes, and yet still always ran to provide for her and make sure she was okay. If that is not the classic sign of someone who is harboring secret feelings then I don't know what is.

why couldn't Maggie Grace invite me to New York?

Yet another non-surprise is the fact that I, myself, have been down that road many times. I do not know quite the number of times I have found myself ineffectively attracted to someone who was all wrong for me. But I think what would be more surprising is the fact that I've been the object of such ill-fated crushes as well. I remember one case where I went out with this one girl from Santa Monica who was pleasant to talk to, an okay looker, and seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. She was a caretaker for a handicapped twenty-year-old and apparently made good money at it. I took her to lunch on our first date and then spent the evening with her and her charge. All in all, it was a pleasant experience and I was even half looking forward to seeing this girl again. It's not often that first dates go as well as that first one did. That should have been my first clue that the second date was not going to go so well.

On the second date she invited me over to her place where apparently she had built a shrine to me and my particular tastes. I mean--she had laid out everything I mentioned I had liked. There was Mountain Dew, Taco Bell, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and a brand-spanking new copy of The Wizard on VHS. Upon seeing all the preparation she had undertaken before my arrival, I remarked to myself that this girl was perhaps a little overzealous. Yet I still had to receive the sure sign she was experiencing the cutting effects of the soft edge of infatuation. That moment arrived when about forty minutes into the movie, my favorite movie, she tried to nonchalantly ask me if I wanted to fly to New York to meet her family. Upon seeing my somewhat surprised reaction she added the caveat that she was willing to pay for the whole expedition and that she was 100% sure I would love meeting them. Now normally the prospect of gaining a free trip to New York would be more than enough to overwhelm me with joy, but the prospect of a not so stable young woman accompanying me did, indeed, frighten the bejeezus out of me. I mean--everyone knows you have the person you're interested meet your entire extended family on the third date not the second.

Needless to say, I had to decline her generous offer. In fact, I declined her offer to spend the night as well. And to be entirely truthful, I had to decline her repeated attempts to prevent me from leaving the very minute her generous offer was levied. People always remark that you never know what you are capable of doing until you are put into extreme circumstances. I do not think the trip from Santa Monica to Sierra Madre has ever been made in a shorter amount of time than the trip I took on that particular night. In fact, my recounting of that drive has taken on boastful proportions in much the same manner Han Solo boasted about making the Kessel Spice Run in under 12 parsecs. She would call me the next day a record fifteen times in two hours, asking what she had done wrong and if she could see me again. And fourteen times I politely tried to make an excuse until the fifteenth time I finally had to tell her that I would consider seeing her again if she let me be for the next week. I told her I didn't want her calling for a week and that I would call her back the following week after I had had some time to think.

Of course, I never called her back and never saw her again. In truth, I avoided the whole city of Santa Monica for about a year after that incident in fear of bumping into her on the street.

Yes, when I watched tonight's episode of Lost I definitely understood just how infatuation will prompt you to act pretty crazily. I definitely empathized with Boone's plight. Sometimes being attracted to someone makes you irrational and do irrational things. I can understand that. But in much the same manner he had to reign in his feelings for his step-sister because of the stigma attached to such relationships I think sometimes it's for the best that you don't act on your feelings 100% of the time. Yes, we are creatures of passion, but passion does not rule us. Or, at least, it should not rule us.

Then again if Santa Monica Psycho Girl looked as hot as Shannon I very well may have hopped onto a plane to New York with her.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Every Time I Start To Remember, I Remember I Don't Want To Remember, Warp Me Back To 88 If Only For One Day

Once again I indulged myself with a bit of impulsive buying. I finally obtained myself something I told myself could wait, but, upon seeing it in the video store, I decided to buy anyway. Yes, folks, you are looking at the proud owner of that late 80s classic, Troop Beverly Hills. Short and sweet, I love this movie. Growing up, it was one of my favorite movies and is the movie I have sat through watching the second most amount of times--the first being The Wizard, of course. All in all, I have seen it seventeen times, including twice in the theaters. The cast was amazing. It had a whole lot of starlets that I had pretty big crushes on at the time including Kellie Martin, Ami Foster, Carla Gugino, and, of course, Jenny Lewis. Halifax, even the "head" scout from the Culver City Red Feathers was pretty damn cute.

how to waste ninety minutes of your life without trying and still leave smiling

I think the main reason why I decided to buy it was because it brings up very good memories for me. 1988 was a banner year for me. It was my last year of St. Rita's Elementary. I was preparing to go to high school. Everything on the friends front was clicking along. And, though the romantic department was developing as quickly as I would have liked, 1988 would also see me going to my first dance, going on my first quasi-date, and being told someone actually liked me back (finally!). I even remember seeing this movie with a group of friends. We all had convinced one of my friend's dads to drive us down to the Santa Anita Mall to go watch this film. It was me, two of my guy friends, and one of their sisters. I am not much to absolutely adore films but I simply adored this films. It was one of those few times when I actually was caught rapt in a film so that my friends seemed to no longer be with me. I just got the humor in this movie. I laughed so hard. Even though this film has its share of detractors I have always tried to champion this film as being pure escapist fun. I mean--Shelly Long isn't the greatest comedienne in the world, but there was definitely a reason why she hung out on Cheers for such a long time. She definitely has comedic chops. And, of course, there was the matter of a certain redhead who caught my eye in the film, but, alas, I wasn't to find out her name till a few months later with The Wizard.

a certain redhead...

Afterwards, I had a particularly pleasant conversation with my friends about the movie, but I think what stood out most from that day is what my friend's sister told me. She told me that I seemed to be having a pretty good year and that I should enjoy it because high school may suck. And, while I would not go so far as to say that high school exactly sucked, I would say that 1988 was the last time I was completely comfortable in my own skin and truly relaxed. It's true what they say, you will never be as carefree and as unencumbered as when you are a kid. While it may not be the happiest time in your life it certainly is the time in your life when you can find moments of happiness relatively easy. Some people find it in friends, family, sports, or hobbies. For that year, in that place, with that certain group of friends, I found it in a movie called Troop Beverly Hills.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

But Still The Stars Just Sparkle And Shine, Seems Like All The Time Our Boat Was Slowly Sinking, You Didn't Even Seem To Mind

Here it is, my first post utilizing Firefox as a browser. Huzzah!

I always seem to stretch the bounds of human endurance when it comes to sleeping. Today is the ninth day in the last twelve days I have gotten less than twelve hours of sleep. It’s not like I’m trying to be a goof and not sleep soundly. I just seem to have developed a nasty habit of sleeping after 4 a.m. and waking up at 10 a.m. That has been my schedule for the last five years and before that I routinely went to sleep at 3 a.m. and woke up at 7 a.m. Sleeping and I just don’t get along. I mean—I’ve made attempts to befriend him but he does not want anything to do with me apparently. His loss. Besides, as I’m accustomed to saying, I have too many friends anyway. Losing one isn’t such a big deal. Let him come to me if he wants me in his life.

I think part of the reason why I cannot seem to get the sleep I want is that too many wonderful things happen when everyone else is asleep, in the wee hours of the night. I have written every story I’ve produced between the hours of 10 p.m. and 4 a.m. I have met every single of one of my girlfriends after the 9 p.m. And too much of life seems to revolve around some cult show that only gets played after midnight—The New Twilight Zone, Northern Exposure, Quantum Leap, Mad About You. All those shows were shows I cultivated a nightly ritual to watch after everyone else apparently in the world had dozed off. I felt like my day, the part of the day that was all me, didn’t start until the last light in the buildings in my neighborhood went out. I’ve always felt like I owned that time, that because no one else could claim to be up they could not lay any claim to the nighttime.


Jina's first birthday gift to me. Think she was trying to tell me something?

This is what led me to perhaps a disheartening and discouraging aspect of my personality. I have always my ability to stay up far longer than most people to escape most people. For instance, when I was trying to avoid a friend who had pissed me off that day, I would just disconnect my phone and take off on a driving spree for four-six hours into the night. Many fights I’ve had with various individuals have been solved only by a timely drive along the coast—maybe down to San Diego or up to Santa Barbara—while I sorted out my feelings. I do not know—I think it’s a crutch for me sometimes. Sometimes I take off by myself late into the evening and don’t come back till early morning. I feel it’s the only time when I can truly be myself without having to put on pretensions of being someone I’m not or acting some way I don’t truly feel like. For example, if I did not want to see a particular person for whatever reason, I would just sleep through the day and do everything I needed to do at night. I think I’m still like that. A lot of the time I do all the work I think important in the twilight hours—reading books, writing, and anything else creative. This is the usual time I blog and surf to the net as well.

Truth be told, I think this is part of the reason why my last girlfriend and I drifted apart. Towards the end of our relationship, towards the end of living together, I used to look forward to the time when my girlfriend would head off to bed and I had the run of the place to myself. Not that I wouldn’t spend time with her, but the longer she stayed up the longer I felt “my” time was being encroached upon. After living by myself for so long it was awkward to not always be able to relax the way I was used to relax. Not being able to watch the programs I wanted watch, not being able to use the computer when I wanted to, and just plain not being able to come and go as I please felt restrictive. I felt like I had to ask permission to be the person I was, the person I had always been. I think this resentment at having to share my favorite time of the day translated to the way I treated her. I think she could tell I didn’t want to be sociable as the evening wore on. As the living together continued and as the nights entirely spent in each other’s company became less and less frequent we developed a heart-wrenching pattern. We’d eat dinner together after getting home, we’d watch an hour or two of television together or talk for the next couple of hours, but after that she basically lost me for the night. I would retreat to my study with the computer and she would continue watching television in the den. Eventually she’d come in and kiss me good night, then go to bed. I’d then get up and proceed to watch a few more hours of my programs on television and then head off to bed myself. It saddens me now to think of all the times we never went to bed together or the times I basically ignored her while I was off in my world on-line or writing something. I think she was 100% correct when she remarked, long after we had broken up, that we weren’t like a couple who lived together. We were more like roommates who didn’t particularly hate each other, but who didn’t particularly like each other. Towards the end I did get the impression we were just going through the motions of being a couple.

Hmmm. Maybe that’s another reason I cannot sleep—because I behave like an idiot in such situations.

Try As Hard As You Can, I've Tried As Hard As I Could, To Make You See, How Important It Is For Me

Jennifer had a brother named Jimmy who has always been my Newman. He's like one of those people that I don't hang around with all that often but when I do see him he always serves to bring out the worst competitive edge in me of anyone. Most of the time I'm not a really competitive individual. I've come to accept the fact that I am not going to be good at everything and I am going to be better than most as other things. I honestly do not see the point of trying to compete in skills and events I obviously will not win in. Now if it is a matter of something I think I'm good in and the other individual think he's good in I get really competitive. But, aside from this rare confluence of interests, I am content to let the other person have his day in the sun. However, with Jimmy, for some reason I have to make it my utmost priority to embarrass him in anything he attempts.

I think it has something to do with the fact that while she was alive and we were seeing a bit of each other a lot of the conversation with Jennifer had to do with her bragging about how great her brother was. "Did you know Jimmy's studying to be a dentist?" "Did you know Jimmy bought himself a new truck?" "Did you know Jimmy just found the cure for cancer?" It is enough to drive me crazy and more than enough to drive me to just want to show him up at every opportunity.

A couple years ago, I got my silent revenge by pointing out some inane mistake he had made about the novel Flaubert's Parrot by Julian Barnes, who happens to be one of my favorite authors. Jimmy was in the midst of taking a lit class at UC Irvine where they were reading that book and Jimmy, Jennifer, myself, and a couple of her friends were all discussing the book. Having read the book many times I was looking forward to the conversation as an opportunity to put Jennifer's brother in his rightful place. So when he casually dropped that the main character was "secretly" more content to be in his marriage and that all the lies in the book were just wishful thinking I took it upon myself to launch into a fifteen minute diatribe on just how wrong he was. I mean--I had citations, quotes, page references. I was on my game. In the end, Jennifer was laughing because I had worked myself up so much and Jack was smiling out the corner of his mouth. He was pissed. He tried to laugh it off, but the blowhard in him was absolutely dying inside. I loved every minute of that experience.

I would have said that it was important for me to be right when he was around.

Now, however, I find myself having different thoughts when I see him every now and again. Ever since Jennifer died I kind of feel bad for trying to compete with him. Now I wished that I got along better with him while she was still there to see it. I think it's become important for me to know that she knows that I don't hate him as much as I told her I did. Much like Newman, I think he was more my foil than my arch-nemesis. I think a part of me realizes that he gave me something that other people don't, a reason to sell myself. I am a very humble person at heart. I don't usually try to overwhelm people. I don't go out of my way to make an awesome first impression. I am very much of the school of thought that people can take or leave me at my face value. I do not possess one iota, one jot, of vanity in me. However, with Jimmy, I feel the need to at least be better than him.

The thing is now being better than him means being a better human being than him. I've made several attempts to get to know him better over the last year. And, for the most part, it's been met with some acceptance. After all, we both think much of his sister, and I think it was important to her that the two of us got along. You know how when someone is very important to you, you make allowances for their relatives and friends? I think that's definitely the situation here. I'm attempting to be on my best behavior now that she's gone since I was never much on my best behavior when she was still here. She never said anything, but I highly doubt she would have wanted to see our rivalry continue ad infinitum. I think she knew somewhere along the way we'd put behind our childish ways and be okay with one another for her sake. And I think for her sake I'm on my way to putting my annoyance at Jimmy behind me. Again, she never made any attempt to force this upon us but it does seem like the right thing to do for her.

Maybe I'll call him tommorrow and see if he wants to catch up on old times.

Your Words Are Ringin' Over And Over, Changing Everything I Thought I Knew, I Know A Love That's True, And It's All Because Of You

When I first stumbled across 5ilver.net (later to become voxura) I was amazed at the amount of honesty it's writer imbued into each of her posts. You might say that it was my first exposure to truly enlightening and entertaining weblog. The tales she spun out of her own life were just so captivating that it quickly became a site that I had to visit daily just to see what was going on in her life. To say that she was my favorite blog is an understatement. She was practically the only blog I ever read--sdfsdf.wox.org being the other. She was always personable and brutally honest, and I enjoyed coming to her site and seeing this little piece of someone else's life. I know it's cliche to say, but it was like I knew her in a way and I felt honored she would let me into her life. In later years her posts began to wane on the personal side and she started posting more and more infrequently. But I still got a kick of visiting her site.

I clicked onto her site today only to find out that she's ending her posting days after almost six years.

I just wanted to thank her for providing me with all those years of laughters and tears. I know I wasn't like this close buddy of hers, but I think of 80% of the reason why I started my own site was to try and emulate half as much entertainment value as her site provided me. I try to honor her by always being as direct and honest as I can when I write. I've always wanted people to come back to the site because of the substantial elements and not because of the glitz or glamor of my life. I mean--I don't lead the most interesting life, but I think I can tell about my life in interesting ways. I always admired that about her site, that she made even the most mundane day sound alluring. I don't know if I succeeded in creating something as memorable as her site but it makes me feel kind of special to think that people actually read my site and care about what I think. I only hope that I provided her as much joy when I commented on her site as she did in writing it.

Good-bye Mindy. I shall miss hearing from you.

Read her good-bye here. Classy. Very classy.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And I Say There's Trouble, When Everything Is Fine, The Need To Destroy Things, Creeps Up On Me Every Time

As always, my troubles began with a girl.

This girl's name was Heidi. She worked at the same bookstore I worked at oh so many years ago. Though, you wouldn't think to look at her at first, she was beautiful. She was the kind of beauty that snuck up on you, but, once it had found you, it never let go. She was the first girl I ever thought that short hair looked absolutely perfect on and she was the first girl who I ever met that had the gravelly, raspy voice of old-time femme fatales. Heidi was a remarkable girl among the mostly forgettable women I knew at the time.

She was the girl I talked to most at work. We would sneak away in the aisles together, when we were supposed to be working, and just sit there and talk to each other. I don't know--I guess she thought I was intelligent and witty. As for me, I thought she was energetic and funny, and a half million other things that I just hadn't experienced in a co-worker before. I don't think I've ever been really attracted to someone I worked with except for her. For months this is how our days went with us spending a good bulk of our time engaging in some of the liveliest banter I have ever been a part of. With the exception of dear Jina, she was the most intelligent girl I ever had the pleasure of sparring words with.

Then, yet again, much like Jina, I had to go and ruin things. I wanted more from the friendship than she was prepared to give. That is when I made the first faux pas of the two great faux pas I made with her. I asked Heidi out. She said yes. But instead of leaving the horse alone like a sensible individual would have done I had to go and look it in the month. I had to overanalyze and fret and fuss, and generally make a right nuisance of myself. I must have asked her three or four times a day leading up to our date what I should wear, what kind of plans we should make, where should we go before or after. I bet you can guess what occurred next. She got totally freaked out. In short, I scared her away. Also, I got the general sense she had put less impetus into our rendezvous than I had. She was looking forward to an outing with what she thought was a decent fellow, while I must have come across as in search of the future Mrs. mojo shivers. That's when she began avoiding me at work. That's when she asked to switch shifts so that we didn't work with each other anymore. And within a few months she had left work altogether, though this wasn't entirely my fault. She moved to Colorado ostensibly, but I think she must have been a little glad to get away from the likes of me.

A few months passed. Christmas rolled around since she had left for college. When she came to visit some of her friends from work we actually got a chance to talk a little. She was still as beautiful and as charming as ever. She had actually grown her hair out a little. At first when I approached to talk to her she seemed hesitant, but once she saw I had no agenda but to catch up with her I think she was relieved. I think we both cleared a lot of what was going through our minds concerning the whole debacle. I think we righted our friendship that day. She even left me an address I could write to her in Colorado.

And that's what I did. I wrote back and forth with her in Colorado. She told me about guys she was interested in in college, she told me how she was doing in Colorado, and we discussed the latest entertainment news and I told her all the gossip about the gang at the bookstore. I even told her about the girl I was dating at the time. She led me to believe I could trust her again. Actually, that's untrue. I knew I could trust her again. I started opening up more and more about stuff that seemed to be bothering me. And that's when I decided to let her in on a secret that had been plaguing me for awhile. I decided to recount an awful encounter my girlfriend had gone through a year prior to meeting me. I gushed and let loose a torrent about my feelings on the subject and eagerly awaited Heidi's reply to my bit of news.

That's when my need to destroy absolutely good things in my life crept back. That's when I made the second and fatal mistake in my friendship with Heidi. I was expecting her to write back with the same fervor and outrage that I had recounted my story with. The only thing was she was too shocked for words. And that's what she wrote back. She wrote back that what I had written had saddened and depressed her and that she absolutely had no fitting response to it. That's when I decided she was copping out and that she wasn't the person I thought she was. I took her genuine dismay and inexperience with expressing her feelings on the matter to mean she didn't care for me or my girlfriend's plight.

That's when I stopped writing her. That's when I stopped knowing her.

In one of her letters to me she sent me a gift completely on her own. It wasn't my birthday, it wasn't Christmas. She made me a dreamcatcher because she said I was the biggest dreamer she ever knew. She said with her dreamcatcher that I would be able to catch all the dreams that had previously escaped me and put them to paper so that all the world would be able to see them. She always believed in my writing.

This is what I'll always remember about Heidi, how she believed so much in me to give something of herself and make me feel absolutely wonderful. And when I stop to wonder how she remembers me I cannot help but think she looks back on me as the guy who fucked up our friendship not once, but twice.

So if you know a Heidi G., tell her I'm sorry and let her know I want our friendship back.

But mostly just tell her I'm sorry. That's the important part.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Oh We're So Very Precious, You And I, And Everything That You Do Makes Me Want To Die

Did you ever play those games in elementary school where you try to conjure up a picture what kind of children two of your classmates would have? I always had these insane ideas of bastard children with so-and-so's ear and what's-his-name's cleft chin. It was always funny to think of just how messed up how two people's kids can get.

As I got older I started to play a different game. I began to take song lyrics and combining two of them to see what kind of "story" or "message" one could tell if one blended them just right. This isn't much of a post and it might not even be that profound to you all reading this, but I came across this child in work today and I happen to think she's kind of lyrically captivating. Rilo Kiley and Elliot Smith make for a beautiful daughter.

Believing The Biggest Lie

You woke up an asshole
I couldn't believe my eyes
I really hate my bad eye
And I thought you knew

i'm waiting for the train
the subway that only goes one way
the stupid thing that will come to pull us apart
and make everybody late

You woke up my girlfriend
I can't believe my luck
I can't believe my bad luck
And I should've known

you spent everything you had
wanted everything to stop that bad
and now i'm a crushed credit card registered to smith
not the name that you call me with

You told your friends about me
I'm not as smart as you
And all your stupid questions
I don't laugh at you

you turned white like a saint
i'm tired of dancing on a pot of gold flake paint
oh we're so very precious, you and i
and everything that you do makes me want to die

And I hope things work out well for you
And I am not comin' back
oh i just told the biggest lie

And you knew all along
And you stole my best line
And you're right
You know I'd go to fucking hell for you

i just told the biggest lie
the biggest lie

“There I go believin' you again
There I go believin' you again”

Hearing the whole thing in my head it came across as sort of a duet, but then, as I began to imagine in my mind's ear, the actual melodies started blending together to produce something entirely unique and wondrous. Having no gift for composition I have no idea how one would even begin to replicate the harmonies I have in my head, but I definitely think in doing something for fun I stumbled across something else entirely. I may not have listened to Elliot Smith when he was alive and, again, I have no business getting anywhere near musical instruments of any sort, but I'd like to think of this as my tribute to an obviously talented man made possible by a band that I know had a lot of respect for him too.

I hope any and all of you think it's worth something too.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Cos We've Shared The Laughter And The Pain And Even Shared The Tears, You're The Only One Who Really Knew Me At All

I meant what I said when I said the ideal girl for me is Sara Stanley. She is the epitome of humor, empathy, intelligence, grace, and beauty that I have ever seen. Were a woman like that to really exist in the world I think it would be safe to assume she'd be happily married right now. The world has never been blessed with such a rare treasure that the fictional realm of Carlisle, PEI had in Miss Sara. Whether you judge her merits from the novels, The Story Girl and The Golden Road (my absolute two favorite books in the world), or from the wonderful television series, Avonlea (again my absolute favorite), that one woman has provided me with countless hours of wondrous adoration. Indeed, I still sometimes quote from the show in everyday life much in the same manner as I seem to quote Rilo Kiley these days. She definitely was an influence in my life in so many different ways.

the entire reason why I bought a tam o'shanter

The only complaint I would have to say about the television program was that there was a definite decline in quality as the seasons wore on. I compare it to a relationship with any relationship that you fall head-over-heels into. The first three seasons I was as happy as a pig in slop. The show could do no wrong. It possessed wonderful writing, awesome acting, and possibly the best ensemble of actors ever assembled. I literally built my entire schedule around Mondays at 8 p.m. and nothing could pry me away from television when the show was on the air. In fact, I liked the show so much I even watched the episodes I taped, two hours a night. It's like when you first fall in love; you start seeing her in rose-colored glasses and she is putting her best foot forward.

Season four is when I first suspected trouble. They started lessening Sara's presence on the show. Also, sacrilege of all sacrilege, they actually aired an episode that Sara was not even present in. It was still a good show, but it was a slight letdown from past glories. Again, using the love analogy, it was like the first time seeing her dark side come out. It still didn't ruin my enamoration of her, but it definitely gave me pause.

I miss Sara. Sigh.

Seasons five through seven I started to see I was falling out of love with the show. I still loved it, but I don't think I was "in love" with it any more. Sara had long been written out of the story arcs and when she did return it was akin to the adage "too little, too late." It was like I didn't even know who the show was any more.

I wonder why that is or, more precisely, I wonder why that is the way things work out for me? I inevitably fall headlong into a relationship and can see no wrong in my object of affection. I devote so much time to making sure everything is perfect in the beginning. I love, love, love, until I die. Then, after some time had passed, I begin to see the flaws in the person. I begin to doubt that she was ever as good as she first appeared to be. I begin to question my perspective--maybe I put her up on a pedestal that she never really deserved to be put on. Then, by the end, I actually end up looking forward to the time apart from her. I start to count the hours until I have to go back to her, which is no way to be in a relationship. For instance, my last relationship, before we broke up I actually was considering what it'd be like to date someone else or just to see what it'd be like to be on my own.

With a television show you have the option to only watch the episodes you really like. For me, I've honestly been considering just buying the first three seasons of Avonlea on DVD and forgoing purchase of the last four. I wish real life were that easy. I wish I could just revisit the first months or year of a relationsip and revel in the earlier glory days. I wish I could look at a relationship as seasons and I could just say, "The first three seasons rocked, but after that I kind of stopped watching." I think if I had the ability to compartmentalize a romance like that I'd have a healthier outlook on the whole dating thing. However, there's another part of me, the part that feels I have to buy the last four seasons of the show, that tells me that I shouldn't want to break up the show. I love the show and I should want to own the entire set. It should be the same with people. I shouldn't just want a person when they are at their best, I should want the whole kit and caboodle. If I am ever to love a person in the manner I think I am capable of I'm going to have to realize that every season with her isn't going to be emmy award-winning and that every season isn't going to change my life. But, season by season, if you stick with one person through the long haul, well, that's how classic relationships are built. It's not how individual moments stack up, but how the relationship as a whole can be taken.

the road to love, like the Road to Avonlea, is a rocky one... but worth it

Seasons come and go, but the woman, if she's worth it, will still be cherished even after her best stories have been told.

Especially if she's Sara Stanley.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Oh Elise It Doesn't Matter What You Do, I Know I'll Never Really Get Inside Of You, To Make Your Eyes Catch Fire, The Way They Should

a letter from Elise:

Dear ______,

I received your letter today and it hurt me sadly. It's so typical of a flawed, repressed personality such as myself to be surrounded by wonderful and courageous people like yourself. And while I cherish the emotional outpouring I, alas, cannot share them.

There was a time when maybe I could have entertained such illustrious thoughts of you and I making that perfect couple. I honestly thought that we made for a perfect match. You seem to share much the same perspectives, the same affection for the finer things in life, the same sense of humor. I took comfort in the fact that there was another individual out there who seemed to be so much like myself. You have given me more than a reason to look forward to our daily get togethers, you have given me a reason to look forward to life itself. You are definitely what the Victorians called a kindred spirit.

But taking a look at the way things stand now, I have to agree with your assessment. I think the only thing we have to look forward to now, if you continue your chase for me, is disappointment on both our parts. I will never look at you the way you want me to. I will never return the feelings that you genuinely seem to have for me. I wish the results could be different, but the way I feel for you is nowhere as wondrous and pronounced as you seem to feel for me. Besides, I am not worth your attention. I am a vastly imperfect version of the person you seem to think I am. I am flawed, rude, crude, opinionated, and basically a bitch when I want to be. I'm trying to be a better person. I'm trying to be someone people can admire, but I don't think I'm that person yet. And I definitely know I'm not the person you want. More importantly, I know I'm not the person who wants to be had by you. I'd only hurt you in the end. I know that now, but the difficult part was making myself believe that. I thought I could be the person you wanted eventually, but I know that I don't think I'll ever be as understanding and loving as the person you mention in you letter. I'm just not that good. I can only be who I am.

Elise.

No more. No less.

I hope this is not the end. I would understand, though, if this letter changes things between you and I. Just as your letter changes the way I view you I can only imagine that this letter will change the way you view me. I care for you. That has never changed. But I care for you far less strongly than you care for me. And for that I am truly sorry.

I remain your friend,
Elise

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Take No Heroes, It's No Good, They Don't Stand Up To You, Just Take The Bits You Think You Can Use

I recently found out that two of my favorite groups may be playing in February in Los Angeles. Aside from the fact that I shall have to be sure to budget my funds in order to both obtain tickets and swag, I must also contend with the fact that the letdown of the sophomore concert experience.

Much like artists themselves, I find that some concerts are handicapped from the get-go due to the resplendence of the initial show. For instance, when I saw Sarah McLachlan play Ventura in 1991, way before she had Lilith Fair, way before most of her hits had come out, she blew me away. There I was with my two friends, watching this incredible talent proceed to impress the Halifax out of me, amazed that she had yet to be spotted by the music-listening public-at-large. I was transfixed. I had been so enamored of her live stage performace I immediately made plans with my two friends to go see her the following day, despite the fact that the drive from my hometown to Ventura is close to two hours in length. I was that confident that the second show would measure up in quality to the first. Of course, though it was still impressive, I came to find out she did almost exactly the same set, told the some exact anecdotes, and launched into almost exactly the same banter with her band. I do not know what I was expecting, but it certainly was not a carbon copy of the previous day's performance.

Such is what I fear from Eisley's show with The Elected. I saw Eisley for the first time live this past October and it was one of the first times I was more interested in seeing the opening band more than the headliners. I found their performance to be energetic and lively, and the members themselves extremely personable and friendly. Eisley is the first group I have ever met up with before a show and just hung out. I have serious reservations that because they are headlining this tour that the same intimate conditions will not be present and I will cease to feel like I know them personally (though I probably don't) and begin to feel just like another faceless member of the faceless crowd.

With Smoosh I have a far easier time convincing myself that the magic of my first attendance of one of their performances shall be replicated in earnest upon seeing them again. One, I have already been contacted by members of their team inviting me to come see them if and when they make it down again. And two, yet again, they will probably be opening for another band so I think they will have more capacity for some conversation before the event.

she like electric, one of my "discoveries" of 2004

I think the problem with me is I think that just because I talk to a band before they play that we're bosom pals, which is simply not true. I don't think Eisley could give a rat's arse that I went from listening to their album and seeing them in concert in ten days. In fact, I almost got the sense of polite attentiveness from them when they were hanging out with me. If I'm not mistaken the most attention I received was from Boyd, their father/manager, and the conversation with the band members was limited to polite pleasantries. One "hello" and "how are you doing?" does not a connection make. I'm always fighting against this impulse to attach myself to the celebrity of talent, to the allure of fame and spectacle, that certain groups hold for me. I am one of the most starstruck people you will ever meet. Kirsten Dunst, when I met her, must have thought me a vacant fool. Fergie, before she was even Fergie, probably thought I was a smiling idiot.

Rilo Kiley has the unique power of being able to scare me away from ever wanting to meet them. They are my biggest influence in how I live my life and I seem to quote one of their songs in just about every situation. To meet them would violate my most sacrosanct laws. I'm a firm believer in never meeting with those people that you hold a candle up to. The people that you think of wise and experienced, those individuals who you think can teach you about how life is supposed to work, should never come across your path. I think you're only setting yourself up for disappointment. You're going to have this idealized view of them and then they're going to say something, do something, or be something you're not expecting them to be and all your pictures of how they should be will be smashed to. The cruel thing is they won't even know what they did to lose your admiration. They'll be doing something that's entirely characteristic of them and you'll still lose all respect for them. I won't put Rilo Kiley through that. They're too integral to my worldview to have me lose faith in them over simple fanaticism.

I think it's the same with concerts. You put the initial discovery of a group as this great epiphany, then when the second time to see them rolls around, you're inevitably disappointed that you don't undergo another epiphany. How dare they not revolutionize my life the way they did the last time I saw them, you say to yourself. Meanwhile, they continue to put on a great show after show. I think I'm going to resolve to treat the upcoming concerts as their own entities. There's a reason I'm even willing to go see them twice in six months. Let me take comfort in that fact.

I am a firm believer that the best milkshake I ever had was had by me in 1986 in a pharmacy near Washington D.C. I have never had a milkshake that comes close to matching my memory of that immaculate concoction.

I still drink milkshakes to this day, though.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers