You Can’t Count On Me

Last time on Soul To Body: http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2012/04/25/just-what-i-needed/

His crossed arms answered her question before he spoke.

“Well, Violet doesn’t need to know you’re with me. I’ve never eaten here so, why don’t you order for us?

Mallory fidgeted with her hair, separating the blonde streaks from the auburn while smiling at the waitress who approached the table. He eyed the waitress’ right arm sleeve of tattoos

“We’ll have BLTs and sweet teas and I like your ink.”

The waitress smiled and mouthed thank you. He caught Mallory’s eyes shoot darts at the her then lighten when she looked at him.

“Mallory, I like tattoos. I have seven.”

She grinned and played with her hair again.

“Oh, I do too. I don’t have any but I like them. Tattoos are sexy, especially on men.”

The conversation was awkward. He watched her struggle to recover. She held her breath. He tried to save the moment because they hadn’t eaten, yet.

“I think you’d look great with some ink.”

Mallory exhaled and then gave a wide grin. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the old, round metal table.

“I know this is really forward, and you’ll have to figure out someway to keep it from your daughter but my girlfriend at work has two tickets to the Counting Crows show.”

He squirmed in his chair and closed his eyes.

“Jake! Jake Hanna?”

He remembered the male voice calling his name in the Atlanta airport on the way home from the Mexican vacation where he met his late wife, Camille.

“Yeah, I’m Jake Hanna.”

He shuffled and looked at Camille, who put her hands on her curvy hips and raised her eyebrows.

“You’re famous Jake?”

He laughed and turned to the man.

“It’s me, Gary Boggs, from Smyth’s Olde Pub. I used to work there. I remember your band Boxer Ego. I heard you guys opened for Counting Crows then broke up. That sucks, man. What happened?”

Embarrassed he looked over his shoulder at Camille, who smirked, waiting for his explanation.

“Oh Gary, you know. Jimmy quit, Jody got married. Shoulda known we’ve never get far.”

Gary gave a blank look and shook his head. Camille began laughing. She walked over to Jake and whispered in his left ear.

“I don’t think your friend got the Bryan Adams song reference. Nice to know I fell in love with a musician in Mexico.”

He picked up his right hand and touched her face. They kissed by the baggage carousel.

“Jake, so, do you want to go to the concert?”

He opened his eyes and looked into Mallory’s anxious green eyes. His picked up his recently delivered sweet tea and swallowed a moderate amount.

“Yeah, I’ll go. You can count on me.”

This is a new episode of Soul To Body. You can find the rest of the story, so far, here: http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/soul-to-body/ This is also my answer to the StudioThirtyPlus prompt “she held her breath” and Write On Edge’s prompt of 450 words emphasizing dialogue – http://writeonedge.com/2012/04/red-writing-hood-prompt-more-than-words/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+TheRedDressClub+%28the+red+dress+club%3A%29

Today’s song is a spin on the band mentioned, Counting Crows, and Jake Hanna’s ironic statement “you can count on me” to Mallory. He doesn’t mean that. Here’s You Can’t Count On Me:

 

You Know You’re Right

It wasn’t what I was expecting. The feeling of hurt wasn’t as strong as past years. You’re missed every time my television or iPod or God forbid, the car radio, plays. I stopped using your song, inside my phone, to wake me a couple of years ago. I depend on the phone’s brain to compensate for my failing one. It’s been eighteen years. Today, your ghost is old enough to vote or serve in a war. You’ve shown me much. I divorced my mismatched significant other choice and found another someone who’s a ray of incandescent light in this dark world. I’m raising three beautiful kids. I don’t stay out all or night or intentionally spend every dime I have, living your dreams.  I don’t have to suffer for my art like you. I’m finishing something, I mean it’s only a book, but it’s mine and it’s honest. I think you’d appreciate that.Be true, be real, be fearless and never apologize. I think what you taught me more than anything is don’t quit because it’s hard. You quit and look what happened. Music went to hell, well a lot of it did. You quit and your daughter had to be raised by someone lacking the skills to do so. At least I left mine and found someone better. You know what else I wasn’t expecting? Happiness exists and not just in small doses, but extended periods of fulfillment. I have people who love me in spite of my illness. You taught me to stop believing in people like you and look inside. That’s your legacy, and it’s a damn good one. I write every day and I think about you each time a sentence is punctuated. I wonder if you’d understand a word of this or if you’d laugh if I told you that you’re the top search for this blog. You know you’re right when you can make sense of the crazy.

Rest In Peace, Kurt Cobain. You should be here.

***blogger’s note****

Eighteen years ago today, Kurt Cobain killed himself in his Seattle home. His body was found three days later. It was a watershed moment in my life. I’ve written elsewhere about him. Today, I decided to do so incorporating 2 prompts – Trifecta writing’s “Brain” http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/ and StudioThirtyplus’ “It wasn’t what I was expecting.” http://studio30plus.com/profiles/blog/list 

One of my favorite songs is Nirvana’s You Know You’re Right. These are some of 333 most honest words I’ve ever written. I know I’m right to share them. Play this loud.

 

Born of Frustration

Happy Birthday Jack Kerouac. This is for you.

James was brawny and tall, 6″4″, with a coif of long blonde hair that layered over his impressive head and shoulders. I couldn’t stand looking at him, well, at least in the way everyone else beheld him. I felt like a little boy, a pipsqueak of nothing. No matter what I said, tried, did, played, or wrote, it fell at his feet like broken arrows in a bad television western. I was too young to understand that James was a moment in time not an era of accomplishment. We were early twenty-somethings trying to figure out if screwing or doing or brewing was the way to be men. He called me by my last name, an insult that kept me in a place, my pathetic place, of insecure discontent that walled much more anxiety that I already experienced through my own disordered brain. Women tossed their bodies at James, he’d treat most of them with groupie indifference, work when he wanted, and get away with things that would’ve crushed my reputation. I would get lost in plotting, scheming, and pontificating how I would make the idiots around me see how I was smarter and more interesting than him. Nothing ever worked. Instead of getting attention or, God forbid, poetic justice on the smug lug, my words and thoughts would wander like smoke trailing into my nether region of envy, born of frustration. Time showed James peaked, back then. He was only what he was in front of everyone’s face. My 5’8″ brown-haired twitch of motor-mouth, dark moods, grunge clothed, music lyric spouting, notebook writing stress ball was a work in progress. I was minor league to his major league. But looks fade, people change, things move, thoughts matriculate. I used to see James as this Goliath and me this pathetic David, slingshot unarmed, a fool’s view. Years have a way of evening scores while maturity and gravity laugh at them over lunch, something grilled and diet, of course. Cheers, James. Hope you’re well.

*****blogger’s note****

In celebration of one of the truest artists in history, Jack Kerouac,  and a nod to three prompts; StudioThirtyPlus’ “Envy” http://www.studiothirtyplus.com/forum/topic/249/page/1#2469 , Trifecta Writing’s “Trail”  http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2012/03/trifecta-week-eighteen.html#comment-form, and Write on Edge’s “This week we’d like you to write about a time you found yourself comparing yourself, unfavorably, with someone else. Focus on how the comparison affected you, negatively or positively.”  http://writeonedge.com/2012/03/remembered-comparisons-hurt/ I wrote in the unstructured, stream of conscience style of the late beat superstar. It’s a great day to celebrate being a writer.

Today’s song is a distant memory. This is something emo and dumb and almost forgotten that I listened to during my time of comparision to someone else. Here’s James – Born of Frustration.

Bullet The Blue Sky

I wasn’t there. I wasn’t even close. The most vivid recollection is how blue the sky was that Tuesday morning.

It’s 8:56 am edt. Exactly 10 minutes after the first plane hit the first tower. About this time is when my co-worker ran into my office and said

“a plane just hit one of the twin towers, I think it’s a terrorist attack.”

My colleague was an ex Army engineer. He had investigated the terrorist bombing in the American Embassy Kenya, committed by Osama Bin Laden and Al Quaeda, He was the closest to an expert I knew. Our office, located in suburban Atlanta, Georgia; employed 33 people. Only 5 of them, including me, were American born. People from Columbia, Mexico, Iraq, and the Bahamas made up the other 25. All of us crowded around two televisions for several hours.

When the second plane hit, I just went numb. I know someone hugged me. I think I had phone calls from families. I just can’t recall the rest. The world just seemed wrong. That’s the word I use. Wrong. We are America. People, ultimately, like us. We stand for freedom, opportunity, victory, and specialness. Suddenly I realized, we weren’t special. We were hated and targeted. This happened in some unknown country where they didn’t care about each other. I was like the day. Wrong.

There is a cynical view that that day, that blue skied Tuesday, didn’t change anything or anyone. We obsessed over Jennifer Lopez wearing a scarf as a dress the day before. We will obsess about a Kardashian or a dancing c-list star tomorrow. I disagree. I changed. It is hard for me relate to people I knew before that blue skied Tuesday 10 years ago. It’s why I failed at facebook, don’t attend reunions, and rarely speak to people who I don’t think “have grown”. I’m not the same person I was 10 years ago. My politics changed. My religion changed. My self worth changed. The kind of man I wanted to be changed. That blue skied Tuesday morning set in motion a series of new beginnings that put me where I am today.

My office closed it’s doors about 3 hours early that day. I think I drove around for a while and listened to what was happening in New York, Pennsylvania, and Washington, on the radio. I’ll never forget my tears. At some point, this song came on the radio. It was written during the middle of Irish band U2′s American tour in 1986, 15 years before that blue skied Tuesday morning happened. The lyrics are shockingly appropriate.

*blogger* note – This is for http://www.studiothirtyplus.com “New Beginnings” and  http://www.writeonedge.com ‘s

Here’s U2′s Bullet The Blue Sky.

Mad Season

Here it comes. The metaphorical hurricane of emotion, stress, responsibility, birthdays, planning, money, girl scouts, judo,  football, baseball, cheerfreakinleading, and a new project at work.

I turn 41 in about a week. It means nothing to you, because it doesn’t mean anything to anyone else, including me. I have one child that celebrated her 8th year of life last weekend, I have a another child, the sweet blond baby girl, Carly Shane aka “The Goose” droppin 7 years down two days after me, on the 12th. My oldest daughter’s cheerleading has started, in earnest, as of yesterday. Lanier High JV took one on the chin 38-3 but Tay and her cheer partners were perfect.

Tay did it all with a sprained ankle. I did it all with a  full scale anxiety attack last night that kept me in knots until midnight. Welcome back, crazy. This month is going to be hard, so I will have to be more robot than ever.

I will begin traveling more for work next week. That puts pressure on my wife to handle the girls and their emerging activities. Goose starts girl scouts in two weeks while Bug continues beating people senseless at judo.

I honestly doesn’t know how we will get through the fall season, or as I’ve renamed it, the Mad Season. Tay’s Homecoming is at the end of the month of September. There’s a dress to buy and accutruments associated.  Money will tight and distributed among the children.

For the second year ina  row, my birthday will be put aside, for the most part. Bobina’s going to come home from work Saturday afternoon, dead tired, put on a  brave face and something “comfortable” and try to make the most of it. I love her for that.

Fall has started even though it’s 95 degrees. The Mad Season of never having a dull moment nor a peaceful money time is here. Time to shut up, grow up, and deal. This is the end of the summer and the end of just getting by. Time to get to work.

I’m rockin multiple prompts. You have my girls at www.writeonedge.com and their “talk about a season or the season” and you have the stars at www.studiothirtyplus.com and their prompt “The End”. Go check out their sites. Great people reside their and for some reason they kinda sorta like me.

Today’s song is from Matchbox Twenty. It doesn’t rock like a Rage song would, but the lyrics are perfect and it’s mostly about dealing poorly with stress, like you robot human hybrid hero does or doesn’t do. Here’s Mad Season.

Perfect Situation

Three years ago, my wife and I first discussed getting married. Well, to be clear, my 15 year old daughter, then 12, talked about my then girlfriend and I tying the knot. Here’s the story.

My daughter, Tay, and a buddy of hers came over to my house with Bobina. My youngest daughters were elsewhere. We goofed off, talked, played games, and they left because the girls had school the next day. On the ride home, Tay blurts out, “so are you guys getting married?”. She was good with the idea but her mom and I had only dated for a few months. Suddenly the issue was on the table. That night ended with my girlfriend telling me “I wanna marry you.” Three months later, this happened.

Then something even weirder happened. We became this:

I learned about a blended family. We’re one dude, one girl, one chick, two girls, a dog that’s always around, two kittens. The Bradys are three girls, a mom, three boys, a dad, a dog that disappeared, a housekeeper that lived in the laundry room and had a butcher boyfriend, and the collection of the worst hairdos. Forever, they seemed like freaks. I had a mom and dad that were school sweethearts. These days, being married for a second time to woman with kids; the line used in the Brady Bunch “the only steps in this house are the ones going upstairs” is like Walt Whitman poetry. I identify with that gloriously bad television show more every day.

Recently the creator of the Brady Bunch, Sherwood Schwartz, passed away well in his 90s. Also, the youngest daughter of the Brady Bunch, Cindy, also known as Susan Olsen, turned 50 years old. It made me slightly nostaglic for the show because I am in a similar situation, albeit, nonfictional, as the Bradys. The differences are stark. The exes of my wife and I are not dead. There is no maid. I don’t have perm. My family doesn’t take trips to Hawaii. But the sentiment of being a blended bunch exists. I consider all three of my daughters, mine. We talk about our problems. Every 25 minutes or so, I give a convoluted speech about doing the right thing and loving each other and yourself. Then my girls run out into the yard and throw footballs at their noses.

When I married Bobina, everyone asked me if I was prepared for the obstacles. There would be other parents to consider, raising two children whose births I didn’t witness, the extra expenses, getting used to four women instead of just one. The truth is, after 3 years, we’re all kinds of awesome. I remember feeling like a gladiator going into the stadium with the lions, armored and a “challenge accepted” glare in my eyes. Now, I just blend in with my bunch. It all seems natural.

The other day it was raining. My youngest daughters were on the couch, under afghans (because we’re fancy), watching ICarly. Carly (the character, not my youngest girl) lives with her older brother Spencer. Spencer has the maturity level of a ritalin starved 4 year old high on sugar cookies. My youngest daughter says “Spencer is silly. He’s not like a real dad.” My middle child answers, “yeah, daddy would never act like that.” I put down the guitar, put on some pants, swallowed my frosted flakes (because they’re grrrrrreat), and quietly contemplated my daughter’s thoughts. For the most part, my kids get it. I would give anything if Joe Namath or Davy Jones would visit us based on a lie.

*******blogger’s note*******

This is my answer to two writing assignments – one from the good people at Studio Thirty Plus http://www.studiothirtyplus.com/ who gave me “Challenge Accepted” and Katie’s group at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug who wanted “I Wanna Marry You” http://thewriteandthewrongword.blogspot.com/

Today’s song really isn’t compatible lyrically unless you use your imagination. I heard Weezer on my way into work and I just wanted to hear this guitar riff and use this title. It’s a good song and good video. You’ll enjoy it. I do find myself in a Perfect Situation. Plus I rocked two prompts. Here’s Weezer’s Perfect Situation.

American Woman

Helene despised her hands and fingers. Fourteen years of playing guitars had left them dry, cracked, and worn. She had a mild addiction to lotion and a strange habit of examining the hands of others. As she and Ramona sat down in the diner and placed their orders, Helene stared at Ramona’s extremities. Hers moved with grace. It was as if Ramona was more comfortable with her flaws than her better features. Helene looked at her hands, ran her thumbs over the inside of her calloused digits. She smiled. Her distraction meant she didn’t hear Ramona’s question, which was repeated.

“Helene, honey, what kind of guitar broke your cherry?”

Helene jumped. Comfort with sitting across from someone she respected and glued pictures of, to her songwriting notebooks hadn’t set. She smiled oddly.

“I learned to play guitar on an electric. It was a black and white Fender. My dad was in a band. He played mostly rhythm. I was about 10 year old when I found it along with this pitchy Marshall amp in our garage.”

The waitress brought their orange juices and waters. Ramona took a large gulp of the juice and waved her authoritative right hand like an orchestra conductor. Helene continued.

“My parents divorced a couple of years later. My dad stayed in Pittsburgh, where I was born. I moved to this town north of there called Mars.. There wasn’t a lot to do. I think my dad was afraid I’d quit playing with him not being around every day to show me how to change from chord to chord. He gave me the guitar. He called me every other day to make sure I was practicing. I played the hell out of that thing. The first song I ever learned was American Woman by The Guess Who. I know, right? How appropriately cliche!”

They laughed at the same time. The lines around Ramona’s mouth and eyes fascinated Helene. It was the first time in her 24 years, she’d ever thought about being older. Ramona stared back. Helene couldn’t wait. She took his advice and told Ramona what she wanted.

“I would love to work with you or for you or around you or whatever would give me the chance to learn. I’m so glad you invited me to that studio.”

Ramona smirked. The food arrived. She didn’t respond to Helene for several minutes. Helene’s nervousness increased. She knocked over her orange juice. It splashed into Ramona’s lap.

“Oh my god! I am so sorry Ramona. Oh my god, please let me get something to….”

Ramona waved her hand dramatically once more.

“Leney, and I’m calling you Leney until you make me stop, this isn’t the worst thing that’s been in my lap in the last few hours.”

Ramona reached her right hand, cracked, dry, that held her guitar pick for hours at a time, across the table. She grasped Helene’s left wrist.  It calmed both of them.

“It’s ok my Leney. It’s ok. Dig into those eggs or I’m going to eat them and write a song later about being a gluttonous pig. Thanks for telling me about your dad. My older brother taught me how to play. It was an old acoustic from Sears where I grew up in Providence. I played it for five years before I touched an electric. That’s why you’re such a good player. You learned to play hard and fast then went to slow and easy. That’s how most guys play. You impress me. Although you have the table manners of a toddler.”

They smiled and laughed. Ramona kept drying her waist and sneaking small bites of eggs, toast and hashbrowns. They talked more about music, their favorite bands, and what they liked to write. Aas they finished eating, Ramona rose.

“Ok, Leney, I’m going home. I will turn into a pumpkin soon and not even you get to see that. I have your number. When does your band, Slipper Socks Medium, play?”

Helene reached into her guitar case and found the 100 dollar bill he gave her. She met Ramona at the front of the table while Ramona retrieved her case.

“We gig four days from now at the Drunk Rhino. It’s in Hell’s Kitchen, near the Actor’s Studio.”

Ramona grinned and shook her head. She ran her left hand over her graying red bands.

“Well, I happen to be a whole lot of nothing that night. The Rhino is 4 blocks from my other studio and maybe 8 or 9 blocks from my apartment. We’ll see if I see you. Tear the place up, regardless. Bye Leney, I’ll be in touch.”

They touched hands. Helene couldn’t stop thinking about her feel.

******blogger’s note****** This is a new story episode about female musician Helene Troy. It is also an answer to the writing prompt “STRANGE HABITS” at http://www.studiothirtyplus.com.

Today’s song is the woman referenced in the story, Here’s American Woman, the original, by The Guess Who.

The True Story Of Chad T. Hines

I don’t like my name. I never have. When I was 13 I told my parents I wanted to change it to something “cool”. There were no other Lances in my life. I was tired of hearing Lance Crackers, Lance has ants in his pants (accurate but annoying to withstand), Lance Romance (at 13 it couldn’t have been further from the truth), and Lancey schmancey (popular with girls who didn’t find Lance Romance to be remotely possible). I played sports and occassionally hung out with a kid named Bo. The weird thing was, his actual name was Howard Leroy but his nickname that his parents gave him was Bo. So my indignation was two-fold. This kid had a great nickname his parents dropped on him! My last name is also unusual but considerably plain. Don’t take this as an insult to my family or their name. I’m proud of my heritage but our name(s) just don’t zing, boom, pow, or pizazz anyone’s tongue or marquee.

When I went to college I was approached by my friends to get a fake ID. I was 18 but looked 14. I had issues getting booze and entry into bars. When my buddies told me that if all five of us went in together, the criminal mastermind would reduce to price from 20 dollars per card to 15 dollars, I said yes.  I was saving money and I could be someone else. It was the first time in my life I used the ridiculous phrase “win-win”.  I punched myself in the face immediately after.

I attended the University of Alabama. Behind a dormitory was a printing shop, the name of which escapes me, 23 years later. We counted out our cash and realized we were short by a few dollars. I volunteered to go fifth, which meant I had a few minutes to run down the street to write  a check for extra money. The entire time I thought about what I was going to pick as my name. I was an aspiring writer. I imagined bylines and book jackets with my name on them and none  looked good with the name my parents bestowed. As the woman behind the counter cashed my check, I decided on my new name; Silas Bane. Yeah, I know, sounds masculine and unforgettable, right? I was 18, work with me.

I walked into the back of the seedy set up. My four friends had their new IDs. All of them possessed awesome pseudonyms. One of my friends’ ID showed Richard Razor. I punched him too. I stood in front of the camera, the jerk took my picture. Before I had a chance to say anything, the card was in hand, it read Chad T. Hines. Are you kidding me? I threw the card down and demanded he make another one. Then I realized this guy was a borderline gangster and my friends toted me out of the place with my crappy fake identification in the back pocket of my stone washed jeans.

A few weeks later I sat in my English class and started tearing out the pages of my notebook where I had written Silas Bane and other names I daydreamed. Once, an instructor had us write something using a pen name. I scribbled Chad T. Hines at the top of the page and took my B+ with pride. Chad bought beer. Chad talked to a few pretty girls in bars. Chad had his own college radio show. Finally, in 1992, after being 21 for a full year and not needing the use of Chad’s name, I quit using Chad T. Hines.

Have you ever used a pen name? If you could change your name, what would it be? Silas Bane and Chad T. Hines are taken. Try again, chumps.

******blogger’s note******* This is my response to the writing challenge offered by Studio Thirty Plus aka http://www.studiothirtyplus.com/ . The prompt was “Write About Something You Quit”.

Today’s song is dumb but fun. I liked The Tings Tings first record. Yet this song is kind of silly. It fits the story. Plus, some of you will get happy to it. Here’s the Ting Tings’ That’s Not My Name: