Holly Northrop Blog

Jasmine and her friend Weber rode for over thirteen hours on an overcrowded Greyhound bus across the state of Pennsylvania, through the bowels of Jersey and directly into NYC's Port Authority on Friday night. They arrived at the edge of Times Square after ten o'clock, hailed a cab and made it to Brooklyn by 11:00, where they were staying with a co-worker and friend of mine in his semi-roach invested (he tries relentlessly to deal but it's the whole building) one-bedroom apartment in the bad part of Brooklyn. You know that area where the trust funded yuppie pups are afraid to live in because it is more Bushwick instead of Williamsburg. It's the part of Brooklyn where his own neighbors call him "white boy" as a term of street endearment, with a slight hint of menace just for shits and giggles.

Saturday morning, Jazz and Weber got up early and headed out for their big day of NYC and the Siren Music Festival. This is one of the main reasons they came here. But first, they had to get on a bus to the subway, MTA is forever fucking with the subway over there and the L Train shuts down on the weekends, so you have to take a bus to the subway.

Once back in Manhattan, Jazz and Weber had lunch at the super model café;, where indeed the people are beyond beautiful. After a few more errands and a quick trip to Times Square and then a stop on Prince Street for a knock-off designer purse, they hopped on the good old F Train to Coney Island. In the five hours that they were at Coney Island, they saw some great music; (Detroit Cobras and M.I.A) from the comfort of the VIP area; road the Wonder Wheel; drank at the backstage open bar; and of course, got a little too much sun. They left before the New York Dolls came on and I completely understand this decision. If you end up staying at Siren to see the last band then you end up waiting for hours to get on a subway. Add that to the hour subway ride back to Manhattan and well, even Jasmine understands that is just too much to put up with.

Jazz and Weber, rode the train back to Union Square where they bought dinner at Whole Foods and ate in the park. After dinner, they jumped back on the L Train, rode that for five or six stops, got off the train and then got on a city bus with everyone else from the subway, and rode that for six or seven stops until finally, they were back at my friends apartment. She called me just before midnight to let me know she was safe. Jasmine had had a fifteen-hour day.

Sunday morning, she and Weber packed up their bags and were waiting for the subway bus by 7:30 am. She took the bus to the L Train, transferred to the E Train and got off at Penn Station where they boarded an Amtrak train for a two-hour train ride to Hudson.

To hang in Jasmines other world must seem like a visit to a foreign country to her friends in PA. This trip alone was the first time her friend Weber had ever been on a Greyhound bus; been to NYC without field trip supervision; been backstage at anything, let alone a massive rock festival or the first time she had ever been on an Amtrak train. Then there is the whole, hanging with Martha and me and all of our well-established middle-age lesbian lifestyle with talks of cats, yoga, the new Prius and chronic back pain.

Martha is having a few issues around letting go. I need to remind her that she managed to sell my Jeep Wrangler, a vehicle I actually really liked until it was stolen and left stripped and foul in an abandon lot in south Newark. Once they fixed it, it did look just like new, the thing just never felt right and the love was gone. Anyway, Martha managed to sell my car, without my signature and buy the Jeep Liberty. She went to work one day in my Jeep and came home with the Liberty. So now, she has to give it up and sometimes, Ms Harvey is only five.

After a long lesson in the Jeep ownership and the newly installed Satellite radio, all four of us went to the Diamond Street Diner for some lunch.

Lots of hugs and photos later there was a ceremonial passing of the keys to Jasmine that looked similar to a knighthood. We went for a test drive to the store for road munchies, then a lesson in gas fill up. Maps and directions, the 'do not drink and drive' talk, oil changes, gas prices, thoughts on keeping it clean and the wearing of seatbelts. I gave Jazz all of my cash and a small drug supply to be used in case of future mental breakdown, magazines, a book, Siren swag and a sleeping bag.

Stories upon stories unfolded and laughter was everywhere but then before I knew it we were driving to the Park-N-Ride for hugs and kisses. Jasmine got back in the Jeep and drove away while I hugged Martha telling her how proud I was of her for letting go of her Jeep.

"That was hard. I deserve a cookie." She said.

I miss Jasmine and four hours is not even close to being long enough time to spend with her. Yes, that was hard, I thought. Happy Birthday, Peanut.

Oh and yeah, one more thing, Jasmine Rai Northrop has a nose ring.

After completely dropping out for eight days, I now have 11 messages on the answering machine, over 200 personal emails, 2 feet of postal mail and 300 work emails. This is just one weeks buildup of crap. Nothing of any real importance lives within these messages; this is the information overload that I have somehow grown accustomed to. No wonder I constantly feel drained at the end of any given day. I should just erase all of it and start over. Reboot.

But, for eight wonderful days I managed to stay as wasted as possible and take a zillion photos. Many, many, many photos of the beach, sand dunes, birds, deadwood, beach bungalows and of course, Martha and Sheri.

Apparently, it rained in New York the entire time I was gone. Martha and I drove out of our New Jersey parking garage and into a monsoon at 6:00am on October 8th. It rained hammers almost the entire way down I-95 and by 7:30am, I had to take a Xanix just to be able to sit in the passengers' seat without repeatedly slamming by head against the window. Four and a half hours later, when we arrived in DC it was still pouring as I packed up Sheri's beach stuff into the back of the Jeep. Somewhere around Richmond, Virginia, it stopped being so fucking torrential and just drizzled. By nightfall, the rains had moved north but the flooding was apparent. Martha and I had been in the car for 12 hours and we were just a little loopy. I became twisted around with the directions the last leg of the drive and couldn't find the beach house. But after a little bit of yelling and a couple of U-Turns we finally pulled into the driveway of our new, blue bungalow. Another problem came with the front door. The combination lock wasn't working and Martha, crazy-eyed and pumped full of adrenaline, combined with Sheri's determination, pushed open the door. I don't want to say they broke the door because technically they didn't. It still worked; we just couldn't lock it anymore. This speaks to just how small of a town we were in. We would go to the store and NOT LOCK THE FRONT DOOR.

Although we were isolated on a non-tourist beach town, Sheri had a shinny new PowerBook with wireless internet, so certain parts of life could move forward if one chose to move them. Martha was able to test drive a MAC and I think she is possibly sold. There are some things that she isn't too crazy about but who isn't? So Martha and Sheri were posting photos of beach stuff and running slideshows for all to enjoy at the end of each day. I think I checked email twice but became despondent almost the second I logged on. One time I actually felt nauseous while hold the laptop. The nightly news had the same effect and by mid-week, I stopped all attempts to stay informed.

But with an active internet connection online shopping took place. Martha bought me a LUBITEL Russian 6x6 camera. It is coming from the Russian Federation and will be here in roughly three-weeks. All it really is is a cheap Russian toy camera but it does look fun to play with. The shipping costs just as much as the camera for a grand total, in US Dollars, of $40 bucks.

One thing that I did at the beach house was I turned the half-bathroom into a darkroom. I've had this pinhole camera kit forever and I thought it might be fun to mess around with it in a low-to-no pressure situation. At home, I can't get any room totally dark without altering something, (hell, we can't even see the stars at night) but at the beach house it was so simple. So for several days I took pinholes, made paper negs and printed contact prints using a light bulb and my arm as an enlarger.

On the nature front, two different crabs bit me on my foot within five minutes of walking along the waterline, completely freaking me out. Those little fuckers hurt and they weren't the cute sand crabs either. These were the crab, crabs. It was then that I made the decision not to swim in the ocean and to wear flip-flops while walking on the sand. But I was able to frolic at will in a hot tub overlooking the ocean under the moonlight, so that more than made up for the lack of oceanic action.

Biggest lesson learned is no real surprise; laughter is the best sound and medicine in the world. Well, almost. Drugs are good too and the sound of our cats purring as they ram their heads into me is pretty fantastic.

In what was not just a road trip, but also a road trip highlighting one of Martha's worst phobias, Saturday, overall, was as much of a bitch as we all knew she could be. Saturday actually started late Friday night when I packed the Jeep to the ceiling with all of Jasmine's crap. Packing a car like that is the equivalent of three-dimensional Tetris or, depending upon your headspace, the cube puzzle box from Hellraiser. Without a seat for me, it all fit—even the easel. As much as I wanted to go, the chance to deep clean the apartment seemed more alluring to me anyway.

So before dawn even cracked, Martha and Jasmine headed west across the great state of Pennsyltucky, destination: Jasmine's new apartment.

The drive was uneventful and Martha made great time. Over six hours later, they pulled into The Apartment Store parking lot and Jasmine ran in and got her keys. All very exciting stuff. They then grabbed Patrick, (Jasmine's roommate) and unloaded the Jeep. Then, Martha and Jasmine drove across town, out on the edge of the boonies to the storage area where the rest of Jasmine's crap was waiting for them. At this point, things got ugly.

At some point during the summer, Jasmine's storage room had become infested with spiders. Over the phone I heard varying accounts but my guess is that there were between one-million and one-billion spiders, (including egg sacks) all over Jasmine's, clothes, books, TV and knick-knacks. Martha said there were cobwebs ALL OVER everything. Martha is afraid of spiders. Like run right out into traffic afraid. She and I have an insect arrangement. She kills the flying bugs that unfortunately find a way into our apartment and I kill the crawling ones. This is an important point within any relationship. You have to know who is going to deal with the bugs.

But this was beyond any agreement and besides, I wasn't there. So they had to suck it up, wipe off what they could and load up the Jeep with boxes that looked like they came out of The Munsters prop department. Sounds like fun, so glad I missed it. I would have rather sucked cat litter out of all the little nooks and crannies of our apartment.

After the spider thing, they went to the bookstore to pick up Jasmine and Patrick's books. While they waited in a line with all the other spiders, err —I mean students, plans for the Wal-Mart trip came together. According to Martha, Wal-Mart did not disappoint in its hourly shot of adrenaline to the local economy. One billion spiders, one billion students and one billion Wal-Mart shoppers buying carts full of crap made in China.

After that, they then went to the carwash and vacuumed out the inside of the Jeep so that no little spider could climb up Martha's jeans during the drive back home, causing her to veer off the road and fly off a Pocono mountain top.

Anyway, Jasmine is in and she is officially a junior. Christ. This year not only does she have an apartment but a hefty course load. Combine that with almost no money and we will see what we get. Shaken not stirred, I'm praying for good grades.

Jasmine's friend Patrick arrived on time Thursday night despite oversleeping and missing his first bus out of the tiny PA college town he was stuck in for the summer. He managed to bum a ride to the next town over, where he was able to make his connecting bus. There was panic and tension in the air via Jasmine's cell phone Thursday morning, but she remained the calm, levelheaded one. I know, go figure, right? I must say it was impressive to watch. She made me leave my own office because I was making her nervous. Funny, I never think about that. How could I make someone else nervous when the entire world makes me nervous and twitchy?

Patrick spent all of his money on the first day here. It was kind of like when Jasmine got to the beach last summer and rode the boogie board all day long. By dinner time, her legs were mush and she was sun burnt like a five-year old brat, which by the way, was also her mood. The next day, she had to stay inside and could barely walk because she had shin splints.

Ah, yes, memories.

Jasmine, being the most excellent tour guide and obsessive nutbag, took Patrick bong shopping in the West Village, apartment trinkets and fabric shopping in Chinatown, Sushi in the East Village and bright lights and a movie (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) in Time's Square, all in one day. She came home with nothing but still managed to spend all of her money. Patrick came home with a green glass bong as long as my arm.

Okay, here is how Jersey, New Jersey is. The Chart House is a real nice place. It is on a pier over the Hudson and has an amazing view of Manhattan. If you eat there, you will spend roughly, $50.00 per person. Now, I understand that it isn't Manhattan, but for that kind of money one would expect a little bit of dress up from the customers. The five of us looked like movie stars compared to the rest of the room. Or as Patrick said, "We look like we have money." This made me laugh and stuck in my head as something that I just might want to look like more often. Face it, looking rich works.

For me, a clear indication that things are not quite right is when I find myself in the top tier of ANYTHING. Like a well-manicured lawn with weeds every eight feet, Saturday fuck off clothes and casual dress peppered the dining room of The Chart House. Not only were some men not wearing jackets, they were not wearing ties either. I saw women with no makeup and scrunchies in their hair. Some folks didn't even look like they had washed from the days running around. Two of the worst fashion nightmares that night were completely ridiculous. I saw an overweight Jersey girl wearing (very short) silk basketball shorts and a matching colored tank top. And no, it was not a J-Lo thing. It was an "I'm a lazy slob" thing. However, it was the guy with a bright orange tee-shirt with the sleeves torn off that really had my eyeballs. Once the sun went down, I did not notice my fellow diners but for about 30 minutes there, it was a little difficult watching some of those Garden State hillbillies run around the room.

Okay, enough, I'm done. Dinner was fantastic and between Martha, Sheri and myself there are probably over a hundred photos of just Jasmine. That child has had a personal photographer all her life. The flash on Martha's camera kept blinding the staff whenever they walked by and when Jasmine pointed out the we were annoying the people around us, Martha blurted out, "I don't give a shit, if someone wants to pay my bill then I'll be happy to stop."

Present giving is always a gas and this year Martha and I bought Jasmine an iPod. Now, all summer Jazz had been convinced that she was getting one so, in an attempt to throw her off that trail, Martha bought her a Mrs. Potato head. It is roughly the same size box so we thought it might be fun to fuck with Jazz a little. But she had none of it. In fact, she didn't even flinch when she tore off the wrapping paper. She opened the box and proceeded to "assemble" Mrs. Potato head right there on the table. So Martha made the long trek out to the valet parked car to get the iPod (we weren't sure how all of the whole present thing was going to work) and Jasmine played with the potato pieces while her Lava Cake candle burned.

The iPod was a hit and so was all the Emily the Strange paraphernalia and Sephora gift card from Miss Simon. Sheri's gift to us was a big help out on the dinner. Thank God. Martha pointed out that we ALL benefit from the fact that Sheri doesn't have children, yet.

So there was 21. Five days of celebration should be enough for her to remember her 21st, hopefully.

SUNDAY DRIVERS SUCK LIKE US
Getting Patrick out of here was even more panic filled then his arrival. Less than fifteen minutes away from Newark Penn Station, Patrick announced from the back seat of the Jeep that he didn't have his bus ticket. Something about it still sitting on top of the stereo or some such crap. It was 12:50, his bus was to leave at 1:35, and we had already been in the car for twenty minutes. Upon hearing this, Martha pulled a fast run around the block and we got back on the 1 & 9 headed towards home, except it wasn't really the 1 & 9 because coming out of Newark is a very different thing then going into Newark. Instead of highway travel, we were jammed up in local road traffic and not real clear as to where we were going. All we knew is that we had to get back to the apartment and grab that ticket or we were fucked.

Fighting our way through Harrison, Kearny and all the nice little dead body drop-off sections of Jersey City, we finally came to a road we knew. Only then, did Martha's Grand Theft Auto abilities kick in. She opened it up and I helped navigate. From the backseat, Sheri screamed while text noveling notes of terror to someone on the outside. Jasmine and Patrick laughed, bickered and cried out in pain as we slammed over potholes.

We raced all the way through Jersey City, past the old apartment where we almost ran over a realtor standing in the middle of the street holding white balloons and an Open House sign. We flew past the stupid mall and all the families with strollers, rushed by Queen Latifah's recording studio and snapped, like the tip of a whip, around the corner to our apartment building. Martha stopped on a dime and Jazz jumped out of the Jeep and ran into the apartment building, hopped on an elevator and rode up to the eighteenth floor.

Three minutes later, she came running out with the bus ticket in hand and dove into the back seat. Martha hit the gas, whipped the car around the block, up to Grove Street and straight down Erie, past the old apartment and back on the 1 & 9. In seconds we were back over the toxic swamps of Jersey headed towards Newark, it was 1:15. Panic set in when it occurred to us that we just might not make it. If Patrick were to miss this bus, we would have had to drop Sheri off at Penn Station for her train at 2:00 and then immediately begin chasing the bus to the next stop in Stroudsburg, PA.

At 1:25 we went the wrong way past Newark Penn Station and had to drive three blocks out of the way to find the proper One Way street to go back down to it. At 1:30, we pulled into the entrance to The Hilton, which is directly across the street from the bus terminal. We all jumped out of the Jeep, threw Patrick's luggage on the ground, hugged him and then Jasmine walked him over to the bus area, put him in line and told him not to move until his bus came. All of us got back in the Jeep and drove around The Hilton entrance to look for parking so we could walk Sheri to her track. We found parking but upon realizing it was $10.00, we drove slowly around to the very same Hilton entrance and this time we let Sheri out of the Jeep, kissed her and said our goodbyes.

Leaving Penn Station, we went the wrong way towards the 1 & 9 and ended up at Newark Airport, but by that point, no one cared and once we saw the airport, we knew where we were and how to get home from there. At 1:45 Martha, Jasmine and I were riding over the big black 1 & 9 bridge headed towards home. The car was quiet, our land speeds had returned to normal and I slipped into a small coma.

Choosing to be part of the problem rather than part of the solution, Martha and I drove our gas guzzling SUV right through the heart of Pennsyltucky last Friday to pick up princess Jasmine at college and drag her pickled body back home to Jersey City. There is nothing like a road trip akin to that to make a person realize just how much FOX News has a chokehold on the spoon-fed minds of the middle class. Between the Bush/Cheney bumper stickers tastefully displayed on various shades of deep red Buick LeSabres and the 'Support Our Troops' magnetic yellow ribbons slapped on the ass of the basic Ford Taurus, it was hard for me to gauge which one bothered me more. It was easy to tell however which one drove Martha crazy. Every time a we came upon a Bush/Cheney sticker (and there were PLENTY of those, let me tell you) Martha make a 'Uch' sound and flipped into road rage mode as she would flick on the blinker, hit the gas and zoom around them. Those cars can only appear in the rearview mirror.

Ah yes, but Pennsyltucky is almost the same as I left it, a complex five years ago, only now, more of why I left is on display everywhere. One could not help but notice under the deep blue skies and shining sun, flags as big as my entire living room whipping around passionately in the wind as fat-as-fuck natives shuffle between Wal-Mart and Eat-N-Park, their eyes dilated from constant hording.

But back to the task at hand. We made good time getting to Jasmine's small college town and without much fan fair, thank god, we actually moved her out of her dorm and into a storage space under the four-hour allotted timeframe. We even met one of her hippie chick friends (Yes, I got a photo) who was in the process of moving to California. But really the big thing for Martha was the Friday night dinner where we could talk about the "New House Rules" for the summer. All very exciting for Martha but not so much for Jasmine, who tends to get frumpy whenever ANYTHING changes. Turning Jasmine on to closed caption instead of blasting the volume on the TV is going to be hard, but I think it's a good way for her to learn to read.

Traveling in true lesbian form, we needed to stop at the grocery store twice for just an overnight stay. Ah well, there is shit you need and then there is the shit you forget to bring. Besides, who knew our hotel room had a refrigerator? And sweet Jesus, where else could I stand in line at the Bi-Lo and listen to Aerosmith's Lick and Promise while waiting to purchase fat free half-n-half and crossword puzzles. Well, maybe in Ohio, which makes sense if you think about it because those borders do touch. This explains why while I was in line, singing along with Steven, I had a flashback to the summer of 1976 when I spent a few months sniffing glue with a small group of dope fiends that I met in summer school. We would go over to the hardware store next to the Harley shop and buy a big tube of white airplane glue, always making sure to get a brown bag at checkout so we have something to squeeze the goo into. Then, we would scurry off behind the condos on Montgomery Road where the woods was thick and dark. So thick that the sun hardly passed through the trees and the forest floor was covered in cool sweet moss. It was the summer of the Bicentennial and the Seven Year Locust and those crazy bugs were everywhere in the woods, clicking away all around us as we sniffed glue and fried our brains.

Funny what a song can do, eh? It's like one big smear of the bizarre. No wonder I have a tumor.

The drive home was enchanting for about thirty minutes in that I met a friend's mom in Milton, PA where we picked up a wall clock and a bread maker. Weirder small town photo stuff is really the driving force here but Milton was quaint without the usual past religious percussion vibe that most small towns in PA seem to carry. After that, it was around three hours of nothing but studying the black crows hanging out in the barren trees of the Pocono's all along the side of interstate 80, patiently waiting for the next road kill. I guess they view the highway as a 24/7 deli. Just sit and wait, any minute now something is going to try to cross the road. Why do they do it? Only the crows know.

THE WEEKS LIST
What weekend isn't complete without a little trip up the road for some barium and meat? I have to have yet another CT scan at 8:15 Monday morning so Sunday is berry flavored Barium Sulfate Suspension day and we need to go to the grocery store. The chores of life even on Mother's Day.

I spent $700 at the dentist last Thursday where I had to get nine (9) shots of some kind of crap I need to counteract the damage that the tumor and blood pressure medicine are doing to my teeth. My stomach has been killing me for about a week, I have no idea why, probably nerves, but fuck if not one thing would do the job and make it stop. I am actually thinking of drinking whisky just to see if that still works. It was only when I was at the dentist and I accidentally swallowed a big lump of topical novocaine that it eased up for a few hours. The cramping and nausea returned for the following two days but for those few hours it was great.

Big, big week here and only two days of it are going to be spent at work. Aside from the awesome CT scan with 1 mil cuts of my pesky adrenal gland, Martha and I are traveling to NC to visit her unbelievably old but totally inspiring parents. They are both 85 and an absolute joy to be around. I cannot wait to see them. The whole deal down there is so low key that the only big thing of every day is lunch. I'm going to read, nap and laugh my ass off because they are a riot. Actually, it's the three of them, Martha and her parents, that is where the laughter and the love is crazy fun.

Wednesday is Martha's 42nd birthday. She opened her brand new digital camera on Saturday night after we came home. A good chunk of Wednesday will be spent dealing with more doctor horseshit but I hope I can at least take her out for dinner or something.

We are zooming in on the arrival of Miss Jasmine this weekend and oh, I must say the house is a flutter. Well, not really that a flutter but there is a lot of talk of flutter. Martha and I are chatting a great deal about the increase decibel level of the overall apartment and how we are going to try to combat that with teaching Jasmine this really cool thing called Close Caption. I don't think Jasmine is deaf she's just so god damn loud. But twenty-year olds are earsplitting no matter what you do. The trouble with Jasmine is that either she is on or off which means it is either noisy or blissful. There is never any gray white noise and lately, I'm living for the gray white noise, if you know what I mean.

This is the last week for her to attempt to pull good grades out of her ass. Wish her luck. Ah yes, but Jasmine, Jasmine, Jasmine is the most social of little creatures and how she came to be that way is a mystery. I guess we all try to become the exact opposite of our parents and while that idea works for a few decades, eventually it occurs to all of us (one extremely weird day) that we are just like our parents anyway. Fate and learned behavior certainly are interesting bedfellows. I may not be a republican but I am a crazy-paranoid-workaholic-fuck just like my dad. Hmm, I wonder what Jasmine will be?

This coming Friday, Martha and I will be driving across the fine state of Pennsyltucky to move the rest of Jasmine's crap into a storage unit. We have to stay an hour outside of the town she is in because it is graduation at her college, and well, we didn't plan this all very well. But at least we will be an hour closer in the morning when it comes time to leave. Yeah, right. Friday is going to SUCK. We have to pack up the Jeep, here in Jersey, with her bed and a few leftover boxes and leave before the crack of dawn just to make sure we are at Jasmine's building by noon. Martha and I then have to move her out of her 8th floor dorm room, preferably in one load, drive across town and up the hill, past the Wal-Mart to the storage space. (Keep in mind that it is graduation and the town and campus will be crawling with idiots) Then we have to be back at Jasmine's room by 4:00 (sharp) so the RA can check her out. After all that nonsense, we will then drive north for an hour to the hotel, were a room with two queen-size beds await us. Then and only then can we all stop bitching at each other and lay down.

Saturday is the long ass drive back but then by nightfall Jazz will be home for her summer run until August, unless she can't find a job here and then she goes to grandmas for roughly eight weeks. I am so not kidding here. She either works in New York/New Jersey or works it in Tennessee.

We have not ordered her bed yet because money is a little weird right now. It should ease up but not before she has to spend a few nights on the big fat red couch. She should be used to laying her ass on it anyway so I really don't see a problem. If it wouldn't drive me batty to have her out there in the living room I'd let her just spend the summer on the couch and save us all $300.

LESBIANS IN RUSSIAN WITH CAMERAS
Well enough of all that foggy thinking on to bigger issues like cameras. Miss Martha has ordered herself a brand new digital camera. She has chosen to stray away from the Canon family and will be trying a Kodak. It should be here within the week. The original idea was for the two of us to go to Willoughbys and physically buy it and then hop on the subway out to Brighton Beach. I had to shoot Brighton Beach for The Voice and we both thought it would be the perfect time for her to test out the new toy. But Willoughby's was closed for Passover so she ended up ordering it online while I forced her to watch The L Word. And just a side note here, the character Jenny, who is supposed to be this possibly brilliant young writer developing her craft (whatever) in an elitist class taught by Sandra Bernhardt, has a mouth like a Seattle truck driver hauling lumber the minute she ends up in any kind of confrontational dialogue. Isn't that an indication of an underdeveloped imagination? Gee, that's what I've always been told. You insert swear words because you lack imagination but if she is so 'fucking' imaginative in her fiction writing then what's with the "fucking, fuck, fuck" stuff? She sounds (and looks) like an idiot. Hey, at this point, no matter how stupid it gets, I am committed which I suppose makes me the bigger idiot. I keep thinking that the show might eventually have a point. Ah but I am a dreamer.

Anyway, we still had to make the hour and a half subway trek out to Brighton Beach though and both the sun and all the babushka mommas came out just as we arrived. Suddenly we were in Russia. Well, sort of. Probably the closest thing I'll ever see. Even thought Brighton Beach is just down the boardwalk from Coney Island it is a very different vibe. Almost all of the shop signs, food and a movie theater are in Russian. Martha grabbed a menu from one restaurant but the entire thing was impossible to read. At least with Spanish even an old hillbilly like myself can pick out a word or too. But Russian? Wow, no way.

The boardwalk was lovely and all the folks were out and about sunning on benches and trash talking the neighbors. I didn't need to understand Russian to know when someone is bitching about somebody else. Pretty great stuff there and the fashions were more mob boss like then the mob boss stuff I see out by the Badda Bing when Martha takes me into the bowels of Jersey. I must say I enjoyed Brighton Beach and will probably go back to shoot it on my own when there is no pressure to shoot for the paper. The people there were just too damn interesting.

Martha even bought a porcelain monkey to celebrate the day and because it's little face reminded her of Zoë our big fat monkey cat.

On Saturday, Martha drove us to Reading, PA in the pouring rain while I sat in the passenger seat and panicked. I hate the car, I do not drive and I loathe riding in the rain. I simply lose my shit when it gets bad. I other words, I am a pussy and bad for the general karma of the car. Martha and Jasmine forced me to take a second Xanax when it became apparent that the one I took before we hit the highway wasn't doing a damn thing. If I didn't calm down soon Jasmine was going to "back seat me" as she so loudly but lovingly informed me.

Twenty minutes later the tension was clearly down a few notches even if the rain was pounding the shit out of us. Somewhere near the town of Bethlehem, there was a huge accident and cars were backed up as far as we could see. At the last second, Martha got off the exit ramp and I dug out the NJ/PA map that only has about one tenth of the roads on it. What the fuck we need to head south anyway so all I had to figure out was how to get us over to Reading via the back roads of PA. I may suck in bad weather but I have wicked navigational skills and an uncanny sense of direction so this really wasn't too big of a deal. We were outside of town after a few roadside photo ops that made Jasmine piss and moan from the backseat in that cranky tone that I hate. Having become so "over our shit" hours ago, she was merely waiting to run screaming from the Jeep the second we get to Reading.

Once we drove through the fine town of Reading, we headed towards Jackie's house where we were to drop Jazz off so she could begin part two of her mad, mad, mad journey back to school. For the second part of the trip, she would be traveling in a black Mustang packed to its tinted sunroof with four college kids and all of their stinky college crap, plus a TV. But for our part of the trip, the anticipation grew those last few miles and Martha started driving erratically to the climatic point of almost launching us airborne as we entered Jackie's subdivision. Jasmine warned us of the "bump" at the entrance and sure as shit there was one. Once we cleared the hurdle, we sped up the driveway, stopped on a dime and three of the four doors flew open. Jasmine grabbed her luggage, applied hugs and kisses all around and I threw money at her. Within seconds, Martha and I were back on the road and in search of a music store and the sign for a weird stone castle that we had noticed on the way in, but were not allowed to stop at.

The stone castle thing turned out to be a restaurant that was closed for the month of January. It was still cool and reminded me of The Shining. Once I said that thought out-loud in the foggy woods Martha and I scurried back to the Jeep. It was a little spooky up there on Spooky Road. There was more strange shit at the bottom of the hill that I shot mostly with the Holga and will have to wait to remember because it isn't digital. Funny, my short-term memories are now directly tied to my digital camera. I shot two rolls of 120 film and I only remember about half of what I was aiming at. I do remember an odd stone cave with faces carved in the granite was the creepiest item on the menu that day. However, it speaks volumes that even after two Xanax I still didn't nap. Not once. But I felt as close to normal as I remember normal to be. A calmer form of neurotic.

PETS ON THE BRAIN
Martha has a hankering to learn to play the French horn. Okay, life is short and I support the whole, do what you want, thing. We found a music store outside of Reading that had a life-size rotating Elvis in the window and the cutest gray and white schnauzer named Greta. The nice man didn't have any French horns but he had a great story about Greta being the runt of the litter and how she is the best little girl ever. Every night, when dad is in his matching recliner watching TV, Greta climbs up and sleeps on his chest. Mom sits in the other matching recliner beside them and is jealous that Greta will not go up on her lap but understands the special bond between the two. Greta comes to work at the music store everyday with dad and seems pretty fucking happy about it all. I love people who adore their pets and the stories they will pass on to complete strangers when encouraged.

Speaking of pets, it seams that while Lily has become a total angel sent straight from heaven, Zoë on the other hand, is clearly out of her fucking mind and is certainly the bad kitty of the bunch. Sunday, she ran right out of the apartment the minute we came home with a cart full of groceries that we were trying to squeeze through the front door. She proceeded to run towards the elevator and the door wasn't going to stop closing because the sensor is higher up then her fat ass and by all accounts, nothing was there. The fucking thing almost decapitated her. Or, if she had gotten on the elevator, then what? I wouldn't even know what to do. This is a twenty-three story building. This whole, run out the door as soon as it opens, fascination is the latest craze in an already well-rounded Lazy Susan of nutty behavior. We live right in front of the elevators and she runs right at them. We still have the stalking of the dryer that happens every time Martha does laundry and then there is the chewing of all plant life regardless of its ability to be eaten or not. Oh yes, and of course there is the attacking of Jasmine that is quite baffling but very aggressive. Christ, I bet she would try to jump out of the window if we didn't have screens.

Now, there is talk of sending her to Aunt Jen and Uncle Rick's for the summer. (This seems to be our solution to things that misbehave.) Jen and Rick live in a nice four-bedroom house at the end of a suburban wet dream that backs up against something called "the woods". Zoë would have to fight off a raccoon or two and learn to work the kitty door but all that just might be the thing to adjust her temperament. I bet things might look pretty good with this here hi-rise living after a few months of two boy kitties, a man (!) and wild animals. Then again she just might be pretty fucking happy about it all.

READING MORE
While we were driving down the road to Daniel Boone's house, it occurred to me that Martha and I really do need to retire. "Show us anything" was Martha's thought. So it is on that vein that she and I are starting our own little weirdo book club. She and I have been talking about reading the classics together so we could talk about it and with any luck, understand it all a little better. Things like; Plato's, Republic; Tolstoy's, Anna Karenina; Miller's, Tropic of Cancer; and oh yes, Shelly's, Frankenstein. All crap that we all should have read in college but didn't for various reasons usually related to liquor, personal stupidity and retention issues or just plain laziness. Now the liquor issue is gone but the retention and lazy factors are always a struggle. But the thought is, together we just might make a good solid brain.

Did you know that you can get Cliff Notes of The Bible? I think I'm going to buy it just to see what the highlights are. Isn't The Bible already the Catholic Church's condensed version of the alleged events and general bastardization of other wordily religions? How much more can they not mention?

Saturday, I went Christmas shopping in the Village. This sounds nuts but if you know what you are doing, stay off of Broadway and only walk out to it on an "as need basis", it isn't that bad. If I could have had headphones on it would have been perfect but Martha was with me and we were trying to have fun.

The deal with shopping in New York the weekend before Christmas is that you have to know what you want and where you're going to get it otherwise, you're fucked. You simply must have a plan. If you have to have a map to walk around Manhattan then you shouldn't be Christmas shopping at the same time.

I did a very New York thing and screamed at a bunch of jerks on the subway to get out of the way. What? I did not swear at them. Look, it is real simple people, the doors open, step out of the way. Let someone off before you get on, just like at Disney, okay? If you have a stroller, do everyone a favor this holiday season and take a cab. Why should we all suffer just because you decided to breed and roll it around on a crowded subway car? Christ, I was twenty-one-years-old when I had Jasmine and even I wasn't that stupid, and I was pretty dumb. No wonder your kid was hit in the head with a backpack and is now screaming at the top of his lungs. This isn't the wide open spaces of middle America. This is lean and vertically mean New York. Merry Christmas and keep it moving.

COMING HOME OVER AND OVER AGAIN
Miss Jasmine is home and she looks fabulous. Her hair is longer, her smile is brighter and like any true sophomore in college, she brought home a suitcase full of dirty laundry and smelt like beer and all night party funk at 9:30 on a Sunday morning.

The drive up was normal and as full of holiday cheer as it was going to get. Martha and I listened to a Mojo Christmas CD that set the tone and made me actually excited to listen to it again next week while I fight the sea of ridiculous shoppers on my way to work. At least I have Friday off and I only need to buy three more presents.

Jim Thorpe was just how I remembered it, minus that whole Irish drinking thing. The main part of town was straight out of a Christmas card but there was no time for photos of that perfection because I am a fucking nut bag about driving in bad weather and it was foggy and slightly sleeting & I wanted to leave ASAP. But because there are other people to consider (imagine that) we stopped at the diner and had breakfast and then went up the hill to the castle ruins that is most likely the local make-out, hang-out and smoke a bowl place. A few more photos later of some crazy yard decorations and we were on our way back to the big bad city. Jasmine rode shotgun in the back with a gaggle of things that no long fit in our apartment. Things like a 3ft. long space heater, a set of golf clubs and a case of water. Martha now drives around in a big green mobile closet.

Of course, we couldn't go straight home after driving for six hours. Oh no, we had to stop at two grocery stores first; one for meat, kind of like that whole yuppie butcher thing that Jazz gave me well deserved shit for and the other one for normal stuff like her hair care products. By the time we actually got home I thought Jazz was going to puke. God knows I wanted to. She took a shower and a big fat nap on the red lesbian couch. After a few hours, she woke up cranky and ready to be bored. Ta da it's Christmas break.

There is some talk of some of her college friends coming here to stay for one night and also some chatter about her driving down to Reading, PA with a car load of girls to go to a house party over a three-day period between Christmas and New Year's. All stuff I'll just have to shut the fuck up about I suppose because she is "living" as she calls it. Hmm. I was much worse so I'm going to shut the fuck up about it, like I said.

More weird driving habits, Sheri and Keri are coming in for four days over New Year's and from what I understand is that Keri is actually going to commute back and forth to DC on Friday or Saturday.

Ah yes, Jasmine is home and Zoë is nervous and pissed. She immediately went behind the Christmas tree and started chomping down on the evergreens and making loud monkey barking sounds that remind me of the Wizard of Oz. She truly is the weirdest cat I have ever known.