I wake up in the middle of the night. Burning with memory of texture, the feel, the way the years softened the color.
It takes a few minutes to realize I'm here and now, not there and then.
In the darkness, I remember.
It was just below her knee. She never explained it, never told me the childhood injury that caused it. It was just there. And whenever I'd touch it or kiss it, she'd pull back. So willing in other ways, so shy about the scar.
And if the scar was protected, the cause of the scar was walled-in, completely off-limits. And therefore endlessly fascinating.
She'd been to New Zealand. At a time when people just didn't go to New Zealand. And she loved Split Enz, whom she'd seen in New Zealand.
And she loved her copy of True Colors, the album that had images etched onto the vinyl with lasers. As a result, when light hit the spinning record, laser images of different shapes danced around the room. So we'd listen to the album at night, watch the shapes on the walls, and talk about everything.
Except the scar.
Years later, the CD still sounds good. The perfect pop songs are there. But there's no laser-etched shapes to dance around the room.
And she's gone, too. Took the scar and her secrets and went far away.
But late at night, when the moon reflects off something shiny, I watch colored shapes dance around the room. And I remember the record, remember her.
You Stole My Soul and That's a Pain I Can Do Without...
Most of the year, this song bugs me.
But for a week or two after Labor Day every year, I'll hear this song... and be struck by the sense of melancholy and loss. And the painful realization the poor sap in this song would do it all again...
From his first solo album after the Raspberries broke up, Eric Carmen adds some Beach Boys-style harmonies for what should have been a huge gigantic enormous hit. Instead, it was bubblegummed-up by Sean Cassidy a couple years later.
But instead, the big hit for Carmen was "All By Myself," which is what it is. (And, for what it is, is a pretty good example of... that.)
Which brings me to this ad... which is simultaneously the most brilliant and stupidest thing I've ever seen:
Our beloved tuxedo cat Sitka P. Coldfoot (named after not one, but two places in Alaska) passed away suddenly and unexpectedly last Tuesday at the far-too-young age of 11 1/2.
He had a huge personality, loved playing fetch with his toy mice, meowing along at rhythmically appropriate spots when anyone sang, staring down the birds on the patio, kneading us, taking baths (except for the rinse cycle), watching TV with us (especially dog TV), and meowing, urping, and chirping at us whenever we'd talk to him.
Sitka was a rescue kitty who had over 2000 friends on MySpace (back when that was a thing). He was smart enough to figure out that doorknobs were key to opening closed doors (but not evolved enough to have the opposable thumbs he needed to open the doors). He listened when I talked to him and was the first to come and comfort anyone who was sad.
He loved just being in the same room with us and helped us taught us all kinds of lessons about life and love.
He once saved the life of a turtle and would demand that we pay the "belly toll" before we could go upstairs to the living room.
He made sure we knew he loved us with all his heart and soul.
He was a gigantic personality in a small body and the hole he left behind can only be filled by the memory of how much we loved him and how much he loved us.
I liked to say that getting him to pose like that was easy, it was the teaching him how to read part that was hard.
Godspeed, little guy. I love you more than I can put into words.
It is, perhaps, a sign of my music obsession that my first thought on hearing about Russian troops on the Crimean is to immediately think of the only song I know that uses the word "Crimean" in its lyrics.
In honor of the fact that there are FIVE Norwegian teams competing in the Iditarod this year (including two-time champ Robert Sorlie, back for the first time in many years), please enjoy this slice of Norwegian Rock & Roll.