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#11 BEACH MUSIC: A time of tans, blonds and hot pants

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IT WAS A TIME OF TANS, BLONDS AND HOT PANTS, WHEN THE ENDLESS SUMMER WAS JUST A SHORT WALK DOWN A HOT SIDEWALK
Beach Music, an On the Street Where I Livestories is really a tale of two cities; San Juan, Puerto Rico and Santa Monica, California. It was originally published in the LA Times Sunday Magazine.


Beach Music We came to California from Canada, with a detour to Puerto Rico that lasted one endless summer of a year. A year in which I turned 15, and my hair turned blond from living in the sun. “Psst,” the boys and men would call after me in the blue-cobbled streets of San Juan. “Psst! Hey, blondie. Psst! Hey, cutie pie.” I was devastated when my parents said we had to go, that it was time to leave the island so that my older brother, Russell, could get a first rate education. The plan was to drive cross country from Miami and settle in San Francisco so that my brother could finish high school before going on to UC Berkeley. But, once we got there in the fall of 1968, we found that …

I’ll drink to that

I’m sick to death of writing about myself. I’m sick to death of my writing. It’s one and the same. I cant write fiction. Ive tried. Its just another story about me, supposedly incognito as a brunette instead of a blonde—a bottle blonde, at that. 
Thats this weeks excuse for not carrying on with my story about Derek. But really, do you even know or care who Derek is? Some boyfriend I had when I was twenty? Or was it nineteen? Is there a point?
Right now Im feeling like Richard Harris singing McCarthurs Park —

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again
Oh, no
I usually relish disappearing into my girlish headspace, settling back into the mushy comfort of memory but Im feeling too old and too cranky to even try. The cosmetics company that lured me into thinking I could erase my sixty two years with their magic cream insists on charging me $85 for a product that left me precisely 62.9 years old and looking every month of it. My ears are plugged, my back hurts, and it feels like the bear from the Revenant is sitting on my stomach. 
 It could be worse, I could be feeling like Richard Harris in A Man Called Horsehanging from hooks piercing my nipples. 

Its not a complete wash out, I learned on twitter that today is #NationalMargaritaDay. Whats an old girl like me to do but drink to it? 

IF you are interested in a boy called Derek, there’s a half dozen pieces filed under the Men tab. 


Cheers!

Comments

  1. I enjoy your writing! I'm also right there with you about some of my endeavors and feeling despairing of myself and how old I look. Thanks for the honest company.

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