Listening to: Rooster and Man in the box  by Alice in Chains

Reading: Same stuff as the other post.  Roosevelt, Franzen, and the like

Currently on the east coast.  Our first stop was Boston on our way to Maine.  As we were leaving, heading out on the highway, I said, “Wait! Walden Pond!”

It turns out we were only 20 minutes away from it.  So we rerouted.

So there we were, surrounded by the brilliance Mother Nature created for her writer/painter Thoreau.  She, his muse.

And he wrote it, boy did he write it.  Over 2 years studying, living, absorbing this place.  And even then he couldn’t do it justice.  You just have to be there.  You have to walk in the fields and see the dragonflies posing on little stalks of grass.  Sitting there waiting for you to, well what you could say, write them?  Yes, it seemed that way.  They just sat there, spreading their wings, sticking their little butts in the air.  Proud citizens of muse country.

And it truly is.

When you are in a place a writer knows and cherishes, you can feel it.  The air is heavy with it, along with the humidity.

Alice in Chains came on the radio and instantly connected me with the place.  Raw, original, true storytelling.  So yes, I am using it as I write.  I believe Thoreau chose the song for me today.

And yes, there was a Thoreau-mart as it were.  Filled with mugs, magnets, t-shirts,  tote bags, tiles, drink coasters, and a good and worthy storage of all his quotes.  Oh yes, and books!

I am sure it was known the dubiousness Thoreau would have projected had he seen a place like this.  There should be a sign on the door, “Yeah, we know Thoreau probably wasn’t into this merchandise/establishment shit but you KNOW you want a Walden coffee mug!”

I did, I bought one!

And then I saw this t-shirt.  Given my New Monkees journey and getting to work with my own muses, it was perfect.   A different drummer, indeed.

When the book is published I am coming back to get this shirt!

I have heard talks of late of the dangers in telling the individual story.

One person’s account of what happened, of how they felt, of who their family was, and their life experiences.

There have been opinions, of which I won’t say their names or promote their platforms here, of the overall place narrative.

In other words, focusing on location, the time, the place, and pulling out to look at the huge forest of issue rather than just that one tree.  That one little tree, that longs to tell the story.

It has been 17 years since September 11th.  Today is a Tuesday, the same day of the week 17 years ago.

Year after year there was footage of the buildings and the planes, fire, debris, the memorials, a reading of names.

However, the individual stories of the lives lost are still coming to light.  Today I have been reading individual accounts of those who lost family members, of those who changed flights, of those who were responsible for shooting down planes.  So many voices lending more to the narrative.

I remember this great quote a rabbi said at the memorial so many years ago. Back when we didn’t have the numbers yet and thought it was 6,000 lives or more lost.  He said it was like losing 1 person 6,000 times.

I never forgot that line and it is so true. The individual story, the one little life that to  family and friends, mean everything.

The buildings to me mean nothing, and should mean nothing.  It is the lives within, the lives that ran in to save those lives, the families, the friends, those people on the planes, all of their stories, one by one by one.  I wish to hear them all.

The individual voice, in these troubled times, is more important than ever.

The “Survivor Tree” and I making our proper introductions. 

Listening to:  Burning House by Cam

Currently reading: Freedom by Jonathan Franzen, River of Doubt by Candace Millard

Sunday morning breakfast.  As I carry out my existence in the Hobbit House.  Happily tucking in to my little corner of this busy activity filled space, I have carved out my own Sunday tradition.

My morning breakfast.

I set up shop first. Usually I walk into a kitchen filled with dishes. A full sink, dirty counters, stuffed trash cans.  Signs of great meals, long evening conversations, and community.  Remnants of the good times before.  Wine glasses, and open bags of chips and candy bars, signs of late night nibblers.

I get to work. Trash disposed of and a quick walk in the sunshine.  Greet the turkey or deer  wandering around having their own breakfasts.

Head back inside, water on. Soap squeezed. Bubbles forming. Steam.  Turning chaos into order once again.  Filling dishwasher, scrubbing pans, cleaning countertops.  A clean start and a symbolic freshness to the day.

Pull out the flour, sugar, milk, eggs. Hot skillet and butter. Mixing and getting to work.

And everyone wakes up and wanders in. Coffee gets made, kids come in, one might stay and talk about the wonder of God and science.  The sis in law, dressed in pirate garb,  talks about her plans for the day. Brother in law, wanders down stairs, tired and sniffly. Grabs his pancakes and wanders out.  Mom in law wanders around with shopping list in hand, discussing what to make for tonight’s meal.

Step father in law comes downstairs asking if there are any pancakes left, and find several right there waiting for him.

The new barstools are tested.  Diets attempted, and only two pancakes are grabbed. However, the lure of cinnamon and nutmeg is too strong and a third and fourth are quickly grabbed.

Leftovers are bagged, only 2 small pancakes left. Guaranteed not to last the day.

Happy Sunday :).

I stare at myself in a bathroom holding a stuffed penguin named Waddles.  I look at my hair and clothes.  Hair once fluffy and brushed now flat against my head, constant pulling back and tucking strands behind ears.

I have been here before.  Different bathroom.  Months of a harshly lit bathroom with speckled floors.  The smell of antibacterial washes and creams.  The same haggard face staring at me.

The face I didn’t expect to see again.  A face that surprises me.  I guess it is the weariness. The  resigned eyes staring back. The exhaustion.

And I smirk at myself.

At least in this bathroom, once I walk out, I will smell breakfast and fried food.  I can sit down at a table with my family and indulge in multiple cups of coffee, eat huge pancakes, and crunch on bacon.

The other bathroom offered no comforts, other then a trek back into a colder hospital scrub down area, complete with a huge trough sink, worn hospital gowns, and rows upon rows of critically ill babies.  All fighting to hold onto that precious gift of life.  Life that had to be fought for, not freely given.  The hour by hour, second by second, battleground.

I am not there in that room anymore, in my little Mommy rocking chair, shoved way back to allow the medical staff to intervene if necessary.

I am not in that room anymore watching my baby squirm on an open bed, hooked up to tubes and lines, essentially holding him to life here on the ground. While Mother Nature did her best to yank him up to the sky.

No, now it is just dealing with the remnants of those days. The take away prize my son was given, the damage to his eyes.  Wild and overgrown vessels stretched over warped retinae. Tamed by lasers, but every once in awhile, breaking open.

Thankfully, no blindness. Thankfully, no retinal tears.  But I can still hear Mother Nature snickering.

I wrote brief bios on each of the New Monkees for the New Monkees Facebook page.  This was to give fans a taste of the book and a glimpse inside each man.

Jared Chandler. The guy with the eyes, right? Honestly, you don’t really know Jared’s eyes until you are standing right in front of him. They are this deep, piercing, well of sea blue (the picture doesn’t even come close to doing them justice).
I stepped into Jared’s life at a very pivotal moment. His story and his transition is still unfolding. Folks at the 30th reunion may have seen a bit of that during the live interview.
Admittedly I write Jared in a different way than the other 3. Larry, Marty, and Dino encountered a lot of their demons back in their 20’s then worked through them or still deal with them over time. Jared, in a way, didn’t handle the show ending the way the others did. His perspective seemed a bit different. Sure, the cancellation sucked and the way the 4 were treated sucked but he still seemed to have that resolve about him, and he had Courtney.
Unfortunately now, this has changed, and changed him as well. There is a distinct difference I found in interviewing Jared both during and after his life with Courtney. Then the death of his father. This new Jared, resolve shaken, confidence shaken, is slowly putting things back together, and is doing the best he can.
His friends and family, especially his friends in the military, and his now 31 year friendship and bond with the rest of the New Monkees, he leans on more than ever. Those guys are his brothers. His connection. His reassurance that things are ok, and that he will eventually be ok.
I pull back a little on Jared, and focus on how the other 3 New Monkees have flocked around him. Send him texts and phone calls, taken him out to lunch. Tending to him. You could see that happen at the reunion as well.
Jared at this time and at this moment brings out the best in all of them right now. The strength of brotherhood and the beautiful strength and solid bond of male friendship.

Jared and I

I wrote brief bios on each of the New Monkees for the New Monkees Facebook page.  This was to give fans a taste of the book and a glimpse inside each man.

Okay, (take a deep breath and exhale), Dino Kovas. Yes, the favorite New Monkee. I can hear his voice right now actually, demanding that I get on with it and write him for f*ck’s sake. Rip off the band-aid. So yes, let’s get to it.
Dino Kovas is a risk taker. He has been that way probably for more years than he can count. He has had a hell of a lot of disappointments that have gone along with those risks which have hurt deeply. That hasn’t stopped him yet, but it has taken its toll.
Dino is tough on one hand, angry on another, sensitive on still another, and he is driven. He, like Marty, is brutally honest. Although he will wait longer to give you the truth, and only if you are ready to hear it. You may not like it but he will give it. He expects the same of you. He wants you to disagree, to speak candidly, and to play the devil’s advocate. He values the art of a good debate perhaps even over a beer or good meal.
Dino has little time for small talk, ass kissers, and folks with any sort of pretense to them. He loves the fellow risk takers, those that think outside the box, and live by their own rules.
Michigan is where his heart will always be and he defines himself by this. Family and close friends are everything. His community is everything to him as well.
Dino wants a lot out of life but time is passing quickly and his patience is waning, including patience with himself.
Dino above all the rest has been the most curious about this book and has shown the most interest in telling the New Monkees story, whatever that may be and by whomever is ready to tell it. Right now that person is me, but he doesn’t seem to set his sights solely on me. If this story is good enough to be told and sold, and the bear satisfactorily poked then it is full steam ahead. The best one can do is just get on the train. That is why I am writing my freakin’ a$$ off everyday!

Dino and I

I wrote brief bios on each of the New Monkees for the New Monkees Facebook page.  This was to give fans a taste of the book and a glimpse inside each man.

Larry Saltis, was born on the same day and year as the last episode of the Monkees, March 25, 1968. You couldn’t have timed it better.

Larry is my transition man. He started out one way then grew and studied and became introspective and, through many many hours of interviews, explained himself to me. I entered his life at a time when he was ready to share pretty much everything.

Larry comes off as the quiet one to some people, and perhaps a bit of a perfectionist to others. However, still waters run very deep, and the need for “perfect” comes with a long history. There is a lot going on in that mind. Now, because he has told me so much I know by his movements or gestures what thought may be there.

To draw back a little, all four men have tells like this. A shaking lip, a chewed fingernail, a stretch, a smile, a smoke. They are really no different than you and me actually. Could I beat them in poker? Yeah, probably!

Note: Larry Saltis will be touring with his brother Heath in their band Colorvine.  Coming soon!

Larry and I

I wrote brief bios on each of the New Monkees for the New Monkees Facebook page.  This was to give fans a taste of the book and a glimpse inside each man.  

So much I can say about Marty Ross. The first word that comes to mind is honest. Now I don’t mean honest as “I will never tell a lie” cherry tree honest. I mean honest like “what you see is what you get” honest.
Marty Ross is honest. If he is happy you know it, if he is sad you know it, if he is pissed off you know it. You will know his mood at that moment. It is nearly impossible for him to hide it. He will holler, swear, and cut you down to size.
He is a man that will tell you exactly what he is thinking, and for people that can be a lot to take. You can love him or hate him, but like the famous saying goes you will never forget him.
But with that brutal honesty comes deep compassion. He speaks and acts from the heart. He sees you. One quick example was at the 30th reunion. Marty, upon seeing a fan working up the courage to approach all the guys at once, immediately stopped what he was doing and reached out to her. He pulled her right into the group, and thus a million pictures were born!
Marty is my tall, emotional, perfectionist as well. He holds musicians to high standards and himself to high standards. He is closest living embodiment of music that I have ever seen.
And that is both a blessing for him and a curse. He lives, breathes, and feels music constantly. His guitar at most times inches away from his hand. It is the air that he breathes, whether he always likes it or not. It is his oxygen.

Marty and I

Previously posted on the New Monkees and Amy N. Collen Facebook pages

The other night my friends, Marty and Dino, gave me a new chapter in my book, if not its conclusion. They performed with Micky Dolenz from the Monkees. A 31 year old conflict between the Monkees/New Monkees on its way to fully resolving itself.
In the huge chasm of the world this story matters little. To Dino and Marty it mattered a lot. Perhaps more than either realized. Both leaving the experience a bit shocked, exhausted, and relieved. The beginning of an ending that needed to happen.
It was a fact many of us could see. Jodi Ritzen who planned the event, all the cast and crew of the New Monkees, all the New Monkees fans from back in the day who fought the good fight against hostile Monkees fans, and all of us New Monkees fans today.
And I watched from the little Hobbit House here in Oregon, posting messages, answering emails, downloading pictures and videos, and furiously commenting on the live feed, cheering ecstatically for my guys.
And Marty did “House of the Rising Sun,” a song that brought down the house back in the New Monkees days. When he and his new friends Larry, Dino, and Jared watched and cheered him on back in 1987. All filled with alcohol and bonding together in a little pub in Los Angeles, reveling in their new success. A song Marty sang last night, loud and proud, dancing through it, and visibly relaxed. He truly owned it. His place on the great stage deservedly his, and I think last night he realized it.
And Dino’s version of “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves,” kicking and skipping and just letting loose. The stage and camera loving him always. Finding in him a quite visible vulnerability with that complex layer of tough guy bravado surrounding it.
And the tall, stalwart Micky Dolenz. Letting Marty and Dino do their thing, and giving both men a voice and validation they never knew they really needed.
So back to the book I go, and write these now slightly transformed men in their new chapter. I can’t wait to see where it leads.

Books I am reading:  River of Doubt by Candace Millard and Freedom by Jonathan Franzen

Music I am writing to:  Wait (Chromeo Remix/Audio) by Maroon 5

Something about visiting an establishment dedicated to the wonder and beauty of the cow teat.

I have never seen a place like the Tillamook Creamery.  I did visit a dairy as a child. A no nonsense dairy filled with cows, all in their stalls. Steel suction cups attached to their teats.  Visible evidence of animal, and the earthy shitty smell of it too.

At Tillamook there was none of that.  No stalls and no hay.    It was a place filled only with milk and honey, or rather milk and cheese, and salami, and ice cream.  A place filled with merchandise all dutifully lined up on a thoroughly scrubbed cement floor.  A place of yellow and black and wood.  A place of delightful clean.

Huge murals lined the walls of hard working farmers.  Proud granddaughters holding shiny milk buckets, fathers and sons dressed in overalls and boots, residing in the fields.  The epitome of the heartland farmer.  An easily embraceable down home life.

A life up at 5am, a life of gathering cows.  A life of small farmhouses and aproned wives at well scrubbed kitchen counters.  A life of frying chicken and berry pies.  Biscuits made at dawn, left in warm places to rise.

The creamery felt this way, even when you looked down and saw numerous factory workers packaging huge blocks of cheese off  shiny steel tracks.  It was felt in the long picnic style benches at the restaurants.  The gleam of organic soda machines and quality coffee decanters.

Thousands of folks filled these dairy halls.  All reading huge words on walls, peeking in display windows, and little children peering into cleverly hidden peepholes that only they could access.  Walk up the stairs and see cow footprints.  Stand in lines for grilled cheese sandwiches and vanilla ice cream.  Walk in the store and see the marvel of widespread refrigerated cheese and deli meats.  Huge coffee mugs branded with the Tillamook logo, even a farm style mug of that blue and speckled design.  Tshirts, bags, water bottles, and books.

A memorable place, and not a live cow in sight.