Dont Mince Words

When things get weird, I think about happy, simple times. For me, that would be college. I carried a full load, volunteered, worked, DJed and managed to find time to sample all the fresh beer in Farmville. One moment I will never forget was when the Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill record came out in 1986. Rap from three white guys…it was outrageous. I played it all the time at the two radio stations I worked for. I still smile when I think about the good times associated with that piece of vinyl.

Is it odd that last week I would want to rush to Tower to buy the latest Beastie Boys CD? I should have more pressing concerns, right? I should be searching for more writing gigs, getting laid, or solving local-level literacy problems. Nope. I haven’t been this excited for new music since the B-52’s Cosmic Thing. Shit, should I be admitting that?

I’ve been having a touch of post traumatic stress ever since the 9/11 hearings. I tried not to watch, but even at the gym I’d catch myself reading the closed-captioning on the TVs while on the eliptical trainer.

Friday, my former employee emailed me that she had signed up for the long-term effects health study. Like many that worked downtown, she’s been having health problems since 9/11. I don’t want to think about what may be wrong with me. Coming to CA was part of my solution – enjoy life and don’t think about health consequences.

In a way, I felt the Beastie Boys new album was put out to reconnect me with New York while I enjoy sunny southern California. This was their first album in six years and I knew they would have a lot to say about recent events in New York. I still want to forget about my personal experience of walking home from Wall Street to Brooklyn; however, I want to celebrate survival and rebirth.

I managed to hold the tears back while signing the credit card receipt at Tower. Outside, I began to cry as I looked at the To the five boroughs cover CD art. It was a rendering of the NYC skyline with the towers in it.

I rushed to the car and listed to “Ch-check it out.” I stopped crying, smiled, and I wanted to dance. When I got home, I listened to the remaining 14 tracks.

“An open letter to NYC” caught my attention immediately with it’s “listen all you New Yorkers” intro and a fast beated squeal that reminded me of a tape cassette being fastfowarded. I grabbed the lyric sheet.

While listening to this song and crying, I went to the health department website and got on the WTC health registry. I was no longer going to casually gloss over the fact that I was there and volunteered at the pile. The cough and sinus problems ceased when I moved to California, but I’ll never forget I was there.

Thanks to my lyrical connection to New York, I’m getting my ass in gear and dancing at the same time.

Check it out.

I never had a dowry, but my German background has blessed/cursed me with being well-endowed. Men would say…my personal pot of gold. Me and the girls have been hanging out for nearly 30 years now. I’m used to them.

When my friend recently got a breast reduction, I was naturally curious to see if the procedure had changed since my mom underwent the knife 20 years ago. I helped her change her goo bags and when the swelling went down, I have to say, her tits looked spectacular. But I wasn’t going to look at them. I could see the difference in her sweater and I was a little envious of the lighter load.

Tonight we went out with another friend and all New Boob Friend could do was talk about her tits. Enough already. We see. They look great and perky, now shut the fuck up. However, New Boob Friend stopped short on the sidewalk on Beverly and opened her top and said, “Ya wanna look?”

My equally well-endowed other friend peaked in and said, “wow, nice.”

I, on the other hand, had enough of the tit talk. “We are on the fucking sidewalk. Does this need to be a public viewing right now?” I asked. I was up to my collarbones in tit talk.

We walked to the end of the block and went to a gallery opening where New Boob Friend spent more time talking about feeling where the stitches were, nipple sensitivity, and other boobspeak. I can only imagine how girls who get BIGGER boobs yammer on. Nobody on the east coast would require so much “look at these babies” attention.

Fucking LA.

I went home, released the girls from their four-hook captivity and told them they were staying right where they were. If I’ve lived with them for 30 years, I can keep them around as-is a little longer.

“I am sure our lives are pretty dull compared to yours. But isn’t that the way it always was? You have always lived life more fully, taken it by the horns more that the rest of us! Have fun in the sun you California girl:)”

Sherri Thompson, 6/14/04
Richmond, Virginia