March Comes in Like a Liar

Spring is always questionable in New England. It's usually Winter (parte deux), followed by Mud Season, slowly warming along the way. There's something joyous about that time, standing in mud or slush with sun on your face, maybe in just a flannel shirt over a tee. This year, there was Early Summer in Winter. I've worn sandals or clogs all Winter, never touching a sock. And March has been a clammy liar with stringy hair so far. It's way too warm for my liking, though at this point I'm fairly sure I'll be bitching about no Winter and despised warmth until the next time the day's high is 23'F,

Beest had her physical, and the mandatory shots and then 2 weeks later, a scary episode. She was acting strange, which is much stranger than a regular cat's strangeness. Repeatedly jumping in and out of the recycling bin. Not eating all her food. She was constipated. I gave her pumpkin and she was better. Then last Thursday morning there were little splats of watery blood everywhere. Everywhere. She wasn't yowing but she had a crazy look in her eyes. To the vet she went. An anal gland had gotten infected and burst. She had a fever. She must've been in significant pain. My poor cat! The vet gave her a 2-week releasing antibiotic and a pain reliever. I didn't know anal glands were a thing with cats, I thought that was a "some dog breeds" issue. It's a week later and she's her old self. I'm now wigged out whenever there's a spot on the floor, which happens a lot because she's a slob and shakes her head with a mouthful of food.

Gal Friday's daughter had an interview at the Hershey School, so she's been gone. It's both relaxing and stressful to have nobody around all week. However, my neighbor has caretakers 24 hours a day now. People are in and out at every hour.They all have to yell because she's deaf.  I don't know what's going on with her, it's not like we were ever buds. She's close to 90 and hasn't been the same since breaking her hip last year. Her family's been around a lot, never a good sign.

Billy's dumped the Indian twice in the last week, first running into the curb at his neighbor's driveway, then getting back on it too soon. His sugar's thru the roof. I'd like to smack him in the chops.

The Primaries are something out of a dystopian story. I can't even- that way there be monsters.

My Bernie lawn sign came today! Yay!

We're having steak and sea scallops for Easter Sunday! Yay!

I quit smoking. This time it's for good- I'm just really sick of quitting. It's inevitable that I quit for good at some point, so why keep picking it up just to go through quitting again? No. I'm done. Even though I miss it and want one right now, it's not worth quitting again.

Fecebook has been fun, and horrifying, but once the Primaries are done I'm putting it on a shelf. The Beest book needs to become my full time job. Right now it seems important to be on there broadcasting info among groups, but I'm not going to be a Fecebook activist forever.

And life goes on, within us and without us.
Happy Spring, my fellow babies.
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On Emo's Death

Keith Emerson fatally shot himself in the head, in the wee hours of Friday, March 11th, 2016. He was scheduled to play 6 concerts in Japan next month, and even though he had a 'cover' keyboardist, he was depressed that the irreparable damage to his hands meant he'd never play as he wanted to and had once been able to, again. His arthritis and nerve damage caused unending pain. He'd had surgery 2 years ago, removing feet of intestines due to chronic diverticulitis, but still had digestive issues. And last week he had bronchitis. His longtime girlfriend came home to their condo on Friday morning and found him dead.

Keith's death has taken the wind out of my sails a bit. There's been too much death and sadness this year, and Friday in addition to Keith, it was the 5th anniversary of my brother Tommy's death. 2 amazing musicians, 1 of them able to get far, 1 not ever able to get out of the cage of his mental illness. Both forever dead on March 11th. I don't even want to talk to anyone. Haven't returned calls. This is a profound sadness, not one I can cry off. It's one I have to take off in layers, a few hours of silence here, a few hours of music there. It's not depression, I'm not hopeless. I'm very, deeply sad. Sad that Keith felt dying was his only option for relief from what was hurting him. Sad that we'll never see him doing something fab again, that he'll never see Rachel Flowers make the big time, sad that I never met him, sad that we'll just be going on from here without him. That's what gets me every time. The world just keeps going, one of us having dropped out of life. The news is sad with splashes of horrifying. People I love are hurting a lot. It's all very real and very sad. 

RIP, Emo. We'll miss you. Now get Chris Squire off his ass and make some music for us to hear when we catch up to youse.

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