Cabbies, Optimism & Love Stories

"A heart that has chosen it's path cannot be led in any other direction."

Walking up the concrete hill, my suitcase seemed even heavier than the normal tug of a week long clothing haul.  After throwing our bags into the back of the taxi, I found my way to the front seat. Rotund and smelly, our taxi driver was a definite cigar smoker in his late 50's with the thickest NJ accent of all time.  A few wrong turns and a laundry list of good vs bad neighborhoods in the Hoboken area later,  it was clear we were somewhat lost.  As my glittery friend Gi and her boyfriend once again recited the name and direction of their street, I couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy about the sketchy scenes of  a 1 a.m. dimly lit NJ street corner.  A corner we were currently sitting still at with the added bonus of rolled down windows.

Winding his way back to the correct destination, the stories never skipped a beat as he told us about restaurants, laundry mats and pool hall establishments which had been recently busted, confiscated or otherwise shutdown due to drug dealings or other illegal activity.  This cabbie belonged in his own sitcom I thought, or maybe a Scorsese movie?  At any rate, just as the dark stories rolled in I heard the sweetest voice chime in from the back seat...

"I just love it here! Such a great place to live."  It flowed with a positive bouncy cadence born and raised in SoCal and about as far removed from the east coast as humanly possible. That's My Gi, Never ending sunshine.  Admittedly, I did have to wonder if the view out of her back window was the same as my 1 a.m. dark corner passenger window view.  While pondering that thought, we turned the corner and there it was.  The darling street she had told me about.  Tall majestic three story homes squished side by side with enormous character and great harmony.  Tidy little yards filled with Halloween decor and family style WELCOME signs. Ok, I get it now.

"Right there, the super cute house in the middle!" she squealed.  He pulled over and hoisted out our luggage and even through his overwhelming smelly?  Ahhhh I could already feel the magic of Gi's New World.

Making our way up the stairs to their middle floor apt, I couldn't help but feel like I was in a scene of 1970's LOVE STORY.  After all, their apartment was on the 2nd floor of a very similar Boston style home and the energy, age and beautiful faces seemed very much the same.   As I imagined myself the visitor of a 70's Ali MacGraw and Ryan Oneal,  Ryan lugged my concrete suitcase up the narrow flight.  Walking through the front door, my LOVE STORY scenario was solidified.

Tall glorious ceilings with beautiful hardwood floors and majestic moldings.  Corner coves, french style doors with vintage whitewashed built in bookshelves.  They both gave me a tour of the 3 bdrm with sprawling windows and Hudson River Manhattan skyline views.  An antique Italian tea set perched upon a classic kitchen shelf and knotty pine walls surrounding a back sitting porch area. "This is our favorite room."

Picturesque to say the least and no televisions.  Only a projector affixed to the wall & a pull down screen mounted on the opposite.
"We gave up TV as we found the chatter to be disruptive."  he said as she interjected
"Ahhh and you should see the view from this window during the day, you don't need tv!"
Ok, so now I know I'm a bit character in the LOVE STORY remake.

"This is my office slash inspirational writing room"  she said it as she slid the door open to a space filled with butterflies and a stunning desk covered with fun writing utensils and notepads. Sketches, quotes and photographs.  Onward to his office space and a mirror turned white board with a bevy of jotted down algorithms and meeting dates. A much more rigid room filled with deadlines and proposals.  It was clear that two minds with different drives had found solace in a common steady ground.
"She keeps me believing in the impossible even when I like to get bogged down into reality" he smiled as she nodded in approval.   Just an understood vibe, this balancing out factor and harmonious frequency.

As we sat just in front of the huge bay windows of a perfectly beige and white living room, 1 a.m. quickly turned into 3 a.m.  Such fun re-enactments of our shop girl days as we let Ryan in on the convos we had about their first meeting and that day 3 years ago when I knew my friend had found the love of her life.  Moments of a lifetime.

We talked about his innovative, game changing business ideas and her quest to help children in need from a psychology as well as voluntary standpoint.  Such bright, life affirming and ambitious dreams. As we retired for bed I told both of them how excited I was for their new beginnings and how I was certain of their imminent success in NYC.

"Me? Well I do my thing and I know my ideas will be profitable.  I'll successfully make the wealthy even wealthier, but my girl? My girl is the most amazing, caring person I know.  My girl is gonna save the world."

Ok, so maybe it's not a movie sequel after all, but rather a true
Love
Story

Wishing you love, sunshine and irrepressible optimism today

Hepburn Hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams

xo
Birdee Bow

Dear Dad.

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."  George Santayana

Earlier this week I overheard a daughter and mother talking about Labor Day.
 "What is it anyway?" (daughter)
"Well, I don't know, just some day for people to not work and there's always big sales."  (mother)  
Sadly, it didn't surprise me much.  Most people have no clue what Labor Day is all about.  I couldn't help but think about my dad and about his constant preaching to my sister and I about the importance of fair treatment of workers in this country.  It made me reflect on all the cool things I know because of my dad...

Dear Dad,

Because of you I know that Labor Day is not just a day to mark the last day appropriate to wear white or another excuse to go shopping for sales at the mall.  I know that it's a celebration of the American Labor Movement and is dedicated to the social and economic achievements of workers. I know that the following terms would not have been possible were it not for the American Labor Movement:
 The Weekend. Overtime Pay. 8 Hour Workday. Minimum Wage. PAID Vacation. SICK Days. Safety Standards. Child Labor Laws. HEALTH Benefits. Retirement Security & Unemployment Compensation.   I know this to be true because you taught me when I was 11 and reiterated it years later when I started my first job at 17.  Thank you.

Because of you I have always known that Memorial Day is not just a BBQ holiday for hangin' out at the lake.  I know that it's a day to remember and show respect to those who fought for our country in the armed forces and lost their lives in the pursuit of the freedoms we all too often take for granted.  I know because you taught me when I when was in 2nd grade and then a few years later in junior high when you showed me through the endless rows of unmarked graves at the battle of Vicksburg. Thank you.

Through your constant reading, zest for historical knowledge and own service in the armed forces, you have taught me that war is an horrific event which should never be entered into lightly and that all of the so called facts in my school history books were pretty much full of bologna. And YES, that would begin with our own Native American heritage and fictional history book pictorials of corn, maize and happy Thanksgiving dinners with pilgrims.   I know what is true because you taught me when I was 7 and explained it again and again through many adult years of an Iraqi war, lying politicians and senseless deaths around the world.  Thank you.

Because of you I will always be a life long supporter of the underdog and a cheerleader for those whose voices might often go unheard.   You taught me that we are only as strong as our weakest link and all people deserve a fair chance in this world.  And just as importantly, you have taught me that one of the saddest realities in this life is that many people never receive their fair chance and one should never believe their circumstances could not change...literally on a dime.  To ever believe that one is better than another human being based on socioeconomic status or otherwise is not only ludicrous but wrong.  I know that and believe it with all my heart, because you taught me.  Thank you.

Because of you I have learned that good deeds unmentioned, unnoticed and unpraised are the best deeds of all. You have taught me through your actions.

Thank you.
I promise to never stop learning if you promise to never stop teaching.


Hepburn  Hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams

xoxo

Time for the Best of Times...

"Time is what we want most, but what we use worst."  WILLIAM PENN

One of  my dearest friends on the planet has a father who is gravely ill.  The kind of ill that is heart wrenching with a very pessimistic medical outlook and a very low survival rate.  But before you decide to stop reading this blog post because of it's overly sad tone, let me assure you, this is a happy story.

Over the past few months since his father's illness has become more serious, I've been unable to get in touch with my friend most days. He's extremely busy taking care of his dad, but also super busy taking time.

Last week  I called him after a long day of work and he quickly let me know that he had taken the day off to go swimming. Seems his dad decided he wanted to go swimming that morning and so they dropped everything and went for a dip. They apparently had a beautiful time and followed it up with some ice cream and a park visit with a gorgeous mountain view. TIME well taken.

They now do a lot of preparing healthy meals together and juicing. Eating together, they actually sit down and share their food and their day.  Yet another thing that was almost impossible to find the time for has now become commonplace.  Precious TIME.

Last weekend they made a journey home, but chose to take the long route. Taking every dirt road and old highway along the way, his dad showed him all the areas where he had once worked as a driller in the oil field.  They also ventured to rivers where he had camped and places he had once called home across three states.  I think the journey normally takes about 7 hours, their journey took more like 12. Beautiful, scenic TIME to share.

They have lots and lots of time for visiting.  Catching up on old stories, new stories and funny anecdotes to pass their lazy evenings away with a little laughter on the patio. Reliving and sharing moments they may have forgotten to share. The precious kinda TIME for the best of times.

Lately it seems they find a lot of time to do a lot of things there was never time to do before.  They're teaching me a lot about TAKING time.  I wonder why we don't TAKE time more often?  I mean isn't it ours for the taking?

Dear Time,
I've been waiting for you and making plans in order to have you.  I think I just figured out that you're already mine.  I'm sorry.  I've been such a fool and I know that even though you're really patient, you've still got that pesky tick tick tickin' away to do.  Just know ima be all up in your grill soon, so be ready. There will be no more ignoring you.
Love <3
Birdee

Here's hoping you TAKE all the time you want today for whatever you choose and don't you feel anything but wonderful about it.

Hepburn Hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams
Birdee Bow 

Make Yourself...

"If I hadn't made me I would have fallen apart by now.  I won't let them make me, it's more than I can allow. So when I make me I won't be paper mache.  Make yourself."   Brandon Boyd

I learned to accept the startling sound of a high pressure car wash as my early morning alarm clock. Oh the ungodly hours in which the fine citizens of LA will begin scrubbing their convertibles! ( 7 am to be exact)   No ordinary car wash, this was an extra busy trendy spotless spot right off Lincoln Blvd and just a block from Chauncy's house.

Wild sandy blond curls and surfer shorts, Chauncy was an L.A. transplant just like the rest of us. Thank god she had acquired not only a super cute beach house in Venice, but also a huge crush on my band's drummer. She was the girl who had made it possible for us to stay in LA after wrapping up a west coast tour by letting us park our huge white van and trailer in front of her beach pad.  At least three of us would sleep in the van at night while the others would crash on her floor and couch.  It was truly a rock god send and a chance for us to breath for a minute while getting jobs and a few steps closer to our dream.  Chauncy was bare feet, gypsy heart and hippie chic.  I guess it made sense that she loved our Oklahoma small town big dreams and wide eyed vibe.  All I know is I really loved being able to take a shower every day and the fact that she shared her Paul Mitchell hair products with me was a huge luxury.  Win.

Every  night I fell asleep on the back van seat just beneath the glaring corner street light. Staring up at it gave me a sense of security while at the same time a twinge of fear.  Remembering that band guys were each on the two other bench seats over (and much closer to the front doors)  made it all ok again.  I spent a lot of time envisioning all the great things ahead for us, holding tight to high hopes with talent, music and sheer will.  I was filled with optimism for all the positive things we had going.  That's how it is in life, you either choose to be a believer or you don't.  For better or worse,  I've always chosen to believe.

Mornings were a total circus show as we all tried to get ready for our different job destinations while rummaging through suitcases in our van/house.  My new job was on the Santa Monica Promenade selling LUCKY Brand jeans to soccer moms pushing designer baby carriages.  A job with a lot of flexibility for gig nights and a lot of folding.  I was the third one to be dropped off, right after the 6 am Starbucks band mates.  Ahhh the unbreakable spirit of team work.

Huge wooden ladders lined shelves of folded denim. Shelves stacked all the way up to the ceiling. While staring at the ladders one morning I suddenly heard, "this job sucks and you'll start to hate those sliding wooden ladders with all your guts.  You'll climb them fifteen times for one customer who will NOT be able to decide which style number makes her ass look smaller.  You'll hate her too." ahhhh Sara!

Sara was a total tomboy.  A Chicago native she came to LA to escape the harsh winters and the, "endless grey" as she called it. Dating a semi pro skateboarder, she looked like a walking ad for Hurley in over sized tees and baggy jeans.  On break Sara would walk me to all the hot eatery spots on the promenade while telling me about her many A -List sightings since living in Cali. One day she told me how she had once seen Brandon Boyd writing in a notebook outside of  our store on a park bench.

 "I've seen him there twice, but it's been a while. He's usually in a dark beanie and he just sits there alone."
What, Brandon Boyd?  As in the lead singer of Incubus?  As in one of my favorite lyricists of all time...the one whose artistic and passionate lyrical approach inspired me to not fear my own imagery and to trust my dream? I didn't believe her. She was definitely trippin.  Why would Brandon Boyd choose such a busy consumer style place to write and why would it be in front of a denim store without an ocean view?  He could literally write in the most beautiful hidden beach spots of  Malibu or the world for that matter.  Yeh ok great story, but whatever.

Fast forward 2 weeks later.  7 am, early morning denim meeting. Barely light outside. As I step one foot out of the van, I see him walking toward the grey metal park bench directly in front of the store. Dark beanie, simple tee and jeans and the tell tale red tattoo on his forearm.   Whoa, Sara wasn't hallucinating after all. Setting down, he opened his notepad and stared ahead.  I wondered if this had been his lucky bench? The lucky bench in front of LUCKY?  It made me giggle inside, but it was also so thrilling. I thought of his notepad as pure magic while watching his pen carve out letters of gold.   Had he written Pardon Me here? Maybe my favorite roller coaster line from Wish you were here? As my brain ran through an Iron Man worthy obstacle course of what ifs I tried to carry on with a normal denim morning. I never mentioned to one co-worker that he was outside.   I figured I owed him that much after all the great songs he had shared with me, ok and the rest of the world.
About an hour later he got up and walked away.

Ok so I'm not gonna lie.  I totally ran to the bench and sit where he had been sitting as soon as my break time rolled around.  Ooo what does it take to get from here to there,  I thought.  How do I write the words that touch another person so deeply, how do I turn my little notebook into magic too? 

As I sat there I watched the crowds go by.
Moms with strollers, babies and nannies. Parents and siblings, friends and foreigners. Grandparents and kiddos.  Husbands, wives, Lovers. Teens, talkers, singers, dancers and whistlers. Homeless people pushing shopping carts filled with garbage alongside girls drenched in jewels and designer purses. Men in three piece suits and dudes in baseball caps and khakis. Average people on their way to work in every color of the rainbow and more, doing the daily grind and carefree tourists with no deadlines on their mind.   I suddenly realized that while sitting on that bench I had a front row ticket to    L I F E.

"Sometimes I feel the fear of uncertainty stinging clear and I can't help but ask myself how much I'll let the fear take the wheel and steer.  It's driven me before, it seems to have a vague haunting mass appeal.  Lately I'm beginning to find that I should be the one behind the wheel.  Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there with open arms and open eyes."   DRIVE    Brandon Boyd

Wishing you unwavering courage to
make
yourself.

Hepburn Hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams

Birdee Bow

Dancing in the Living Room...

“You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching,
 Love like you'll never be hurt,

Sing like there's nobody listening,

And live like it's heaven on earth.” 

― William W. Purkey

I honestly believe there are underlying themes to most days.  Not all good, all bad or all anything,  just thematic.  I've often thought that dancing has an ongoing theme in most of my days, but after hearing a beautiful story this week, I couldn't help but think maybe dancing is innately linked to the greatest themes of  joy in all our lives.

Talking with a friend of mine she recounted the story of a past relationship that lasted many years but ultimately just didn't work out. It came down to "Dancing in the living room" she said.
She went on to tell me about a conversation she had with her ex that started with the question, "What does love look like to you?"  She answered, dancing in the living room.

She explained that when coming home from a party or a high school date as a teenager she would very often catch a glimpse of two silhouettes dancing inside the lighted window of her living room. Turns out, those silhouettes were her parents.  A beautiful memory that made her smile through teary eyes. His answer to the question was much more somber. His memories were of two people in different rooms who loved one another, but whose spark had lost it's flicker.  Love to him looked more like complacency, the picture of boredom and blah.  Her vision of love was an unforgettable snapshot of unwavering joy and a feeling of warmth and fun, two entirely different views.  After talking it over they had decided that dancing in the living room wasn't really how they felt about each other, they had inadvertently found themselves in a relationship of convenience.  She knew she wasn't willing to settle. I was amazed at how effortless and simple the story was, but how resounding the point came ringing through.

My own mom used to tell me about Saturday nights in their country home when growing up.  Her dad would move all of the furniture in the living room against the walls while the kids would pick out records for a stay at home dance party. All 7 children and my Granny & Papa would dance the evening away. SIX girls, so clearly my Papa and one uncle had a lot of dancing to do.  Swing was the name of the game. I love that story, such a beautiful image of fun and big family. Ahh and vinyl!

Another dancing in the living room story was shared with me by a musician friend.  His mom had loved to dance more than anything and was a dancing champ in high school winning many a jitterbug contest. Sadly, his dad hated to dance.  He recalled a very young memory watching his mom dance to George Strait while hugging to the living room drapes in lieu of a partner.  She had chosen to accept a danceless marriage, but made sure her two boys knew everything there was to know about cutting a rug.  At the ripe old age of 4 they were both already two steppin' in their socks with their dancin' mom across a slippery linoleum kitchen floor.
Oh the glorious rhythm of love.

"Life's a dance you learn as you go
Sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow
Don't worry about what you don't know
Life's a dance you learn as you go"

Wishing you den disco balls & countless dances with somebody who loves you...

Hepburn Hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams,

Birdee Bow

Friday Night Lights & Scoreboards

Living  flat dab (as we say) in the middle of a cotton field in Texas makes for a very long commute to public education.  6th grade, 6:30 am & 18 miles one way every morning on a school bus is a haul.  Not only are you combating distance, but also the winding dirt country roads leading up to every single home of the 20 or so other kids you're gonna be picking up for an hour and a half before school even begins.  I learned to do a lot of daydreaming from a school bus seat while buckling in for long,  boring rides.  That was until I met Shelly.

Shelly was a high school girl. The kind of high school girl who caused a hush of silence from the normally rowdy bunch of boys seated in the back each time she stepped foot on the bus.  I learned to look forward to fashion inspiration when pulling up to Shelly's house. One always knew she was gonna be on time, already standing at the corner and most likely dressed in some sort of pastel sweater and dark jeans looking like the cover of  TEEN.   She was Texas country, Ranch Girl Glam.

I, on the other hand, was still in my 6th grade awkward stage of long twisted braids, Mickey Mouse sweatshirts, baggy jeans and sneakers. If I was feeling fancy?  Maybe I would be wearing  a  99 cent mood ring I was endlessly conjuring up from the drugstore vending machine.   I think most every one's 6th grade motto is blend in, because at 11 standing out is a frighteningly daunting nightmare. Again, that was until Shelly.

 "Junior high boys are such idiots. I feel sorry for you having to deal with them all day.  Ignoring them won't work, it's better to just look them in the eye and tell them to knock it off or you're gonna deck'em" 

Those were the first words Shelly ever spoke to me as she turned around and single-handedly boomeranged a styrofoam cup half filled with crushed ice right back at the boys in the last few rows.  She was smart, savvy and quick witted.  I'm not sure why she took a liking to me, but I'm glad she did.  Sitting next to me every morning she would tell me about the boys who fought over her in the hallways of high school.  One of those boys was Mike Smith. 

Mike Smith's small town fame was so astronomically huge that even I had heard of him miles across town in the lowly halls of 6th grade.  My friend Katy had a photo of him from the school newspaper taped inside her gym locker that we all frequently ogled over.  He was known for an extremely expensive blue sports car, an award winning smile, much longer hair than the the other boys and a football number whose impressive running stats were mentioned even more than cotton prices during the fall season.

 Ahhhhhh Texas. 

Hearing stories of Mike and Shelly first hand was not only surreal to me, but admittedly thrilling.  I thought of them as small town royalty and the most beautiful couple of all high school couples ever.  She talked a lot about how they would most likely one day get married, have two children and own the biggest ranch in cotton county. 

How unbelievably jealous my friends would have been if they had only known one of the hippest chicks in high school was now my very own personal bus friend.  Even at 11 I was fully aware of the popularity bonus that could become reality with such information,  but  I opted instead to be Shelly's lock box.  I never shared one detail with another 6th grader or with anyone else for that matter.  After all, our friendship was the grown up kind and I wanted to be worthy of her kindness.  I wanted our bus talks to remain sacred and most importantly?  I wanted to be just as cool as Shelly one day.

Every morning as the bus would pull up to PHS, I was enamored by the scene.  Pretty girls in high heels and short skirts hanging with muscle jocks in football jerseys. All pretending to be oblivious to one another while clearly flirting on the front lawn.

And Mike Smith, always Mike Smith.  Like clockwork he would be leaning against the white pole of the WILDCAT mascot sign waiting for Shelly.  His shiny blue sports car glistening in the morning sunlight. So mysterious,  So Dreamy.

When exiting the bus Shelly always looked back and waved at me.   I thought it was immensely cool of a high schooler to publicly commiserate with a nobody 6th grader and I even remember a few times when Mike waved back too. Oooooo Yeh, I was operating at the pinnacle of cool.  How funny I must have looked to them, glued to and gawking out of that school bus window like a goldfish.  I felt like I had secretly become a member of the in crowd and it felt so good.

Most afternoons Shelly didn't ride the bus home. I assumed and often envisioned Mike Smith whisking her away in the mysterious blue sports car to some exclusive downtown hang spot where only Juniors and Seniors were allowed.  I hated it when she didn't ride the bus home, because when she did it was the best. 

Taking my braids down & brushing out my hair with her white flip brush she would explain in detail how I should be curling my hair to make it more bouncy like hers.  Straight out of her faux Gucci bag she introduced me to the scent of Calvin Klein par fum, the joys of powder from a mirrored compact and the finer techniques of mascara application while bumping down dirt roads.  My Christmas wish list that year suddenly went from a new basketball and roller skates to a burgundy Angora sweater and hot rollers.  I adored Shelly.

Some days on our rides home, Shelly didn't want to talk much as it seemed like Mike Smith kept her in a sad style turmoil.  Too much sadness for such a happy girl I thought, but I was just a kid so what did I know.

The last day I ever saw Shelly was on a Friday.  I remember the day of the week only because she told me how Mike Smith had tragically broken her heart that afternoon and how she wouldn't be attending his football game that evening because it was just too sad.  She also told me that at the beginning of summer she would be moving to live with her father in Dallas to finish her Senior year and then attend Baylor University.  Wiping her tears away she told me how it was all for the best anyway, because Mike would be going away on a football scholarship soon and having a girlfriend didn't fit into his plan.

I was devastated.  Why?  Why did Shelly have to leave? How could anyone be mean to the sweetest girl in the world? Why did the nicest, coolest high schooler I had ever met have to be so sad?   

I would miss Shelly.

Years came & went. My bus journeys ended as my family eventually moved away.  In July before my Senior year I traveled back to that small town to visit a friend for a few weeks of summer fun. We were seventeen and everything.   

One evening we decided to check out the local   rodeo dance. While dancing with my friends, a boy motioned to me while stumbling his way across a dark dance floor. I smelled his drunken breath before I heard his words, "I think you should dance with me."  Trying to adjust my eyes in the darkness, he seemed so familiar.  When the lights came up, there was no mistaking, it was the legendary  Mike Smith.  

He looked so much older than his years and much more weathered for the wear.  He stumbled toward my friends in embarrassing fashion and just like that, a sloppy hot mess  shot down six years of teenage boy idolatry in only a matter of moments.   Of course he didn't know me from Eve as I'm sure the goldfish girl in braids peering from the bus window didn't ring a bell.  He asked me to dance again.

"Uh No. Thanks anyway, but my friends & I were just leaving."

Walking across the parking lot I caught glimpse of a blue sports car.  Noway, could it be?  Faded with a crunched front bumper and a shattered windshield, it wasn't quite the same glamour mobile I had remembered.  

As we drove away I wondered a million what ifs and I couldn't help but smile as one resounding thought kept flashing in my brain like a Texas Friday night lighted scoreboard...
This one's for you Shelly, wherever you are.

Hepburn Hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams

Birdee Bow

Brick By Brick

 "Naturally, there are times when a girl likes to be flattered...to feel she is the most important thing in someone's world"                                                                                 MARILYN MONROE

I recently watched  Love, Marilyn.  A documentary style movie which featured the writings & poetry of Marilyn Monroe.  An interesting perspective from the small black school notebooks from which she shared her deepest & most intimate thoughts along with a few artistic doodles and introspective rhymes.

Riddled with insecurity and self doubt, her fragility was palpable.  Hard to believe the most powerful, successful woman in Hollywood, with the most commandeering earning potential, was also the unhappiest. Happiness was the one thing that constantly eluded Marilyn Monroe.

In my opinion, the greatest part of these writings was the tenderness in which she portrayed Joe DiMaggio.  He was her constant rock & protector even through three marriages & an oft bumpy professional roller coaster.  A love & a friendship without boundary.

The most beautiful of Joe DiMaggio recollections was the year of 1961.  Marilyn (who was still married to Arthur Miller at the time) went to visit her psychiatrist for a scheduled appointment. To her horrific dismay she was not to have a normal appointment that day, but would instead be carried away to the Payne Whitney Psychiatric Hospital against her will.  A traumatic experience per her writings which left her feeling completely exposed, imprisoned and helpless.

She tried contacting Miller as the laws of that time demanded a spouse or family member for the release of a patient from a mental facility. Miller was apparently too caught up in an affair with a female photographer whom he had met on set to be bothered.  It was Joe who inevitably came to her aid. It was Joe who rescued her, swooping in against the objections of doctors and nurses. He removed her from that ward when no one else would hear her cries.

"Immediately, DiMaggio dropped everything to go to New York. Some unfortunate person at Payne Whitney had to endure the irate Joe DiMaggio as he thunderously demanded that the hospital release Marilyn into his custody or he would take apart the building "BRICK BY BRICK" if he had to in order to retrieve her. Not surprisingly, they released her."

They had reconciled shortly before her untimely death & were to be married again, but Marilyn & Joe never got that 2nd chance at happiness.

Even in her death he was her rock. He took on every detail of her memorial service & kept it a small private affair in the exact fashion in which she had wanted.   

Marilyn had asked him for roses. She wanted him to leave roses just as William Powell had for Jean Harlow after her untimely death in 1927 at age 26. It’s funny the things you say, and the things people remember…

Joe continued to send roses to her grave every day until the day he died.

Joe went on to spend the next 47 years living without his girl. He never recovered from her death, never remarried or shared his life with another woman, he put all his energy into making money and keeping his baseball legacy alive. He focused solely on building his wealth, which at the end of the day was no substitute for living without the love of his life.

Joe never debased Marilyn's memory or sold his story.
He kept a dignified silence about the most famous & mystical Icon of modern times.


"Brick by Brick"
Legendary.
A Love.
Like That.

May you hold tightly to the someone who will be your calm in the storm today...

Hepburn hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams
xo
Birdee Bow

Follow Your Gut.

"People get a kick out of my stupidity!"    
 DOLLY PARTON

I saw his shiny bronze suit enter the hotel lobby long before I actually noticed him. Garishly dressed with a desire for style, he was anything but dapper yet everything but ordinary. I continued plunging through google maps on my phone as he strolled toward the 1940's style chaise lounge where me, my carry on bag & laptop were strewn about.

"The moment you need to prove you are worth a God Damn phone call is the moment it's over, wouldn't you agree?"  As my mind reeled from this audacious question from a complete stranger I was shocked at the lightening speed at which I replied, "Oh yes, agreed!"
 
Having been in Manhattan all of two hours, I was not at all in the mood for conversations & even less in the mood for some sort of outlandish personal encounter with a stranger in a shiny getup & Elton John glasses. I had meetings to finalize & overwhelming directions to freak out about. Yet something about his eccentricity drew me in as I took the bait...  "tough day?"
"Worst day of my life!  Dating men in this city is a joke. Just don't do it.  So, what's your story?" he inquired.

"My story?" As I forced a semi smile my thoughts began to jumble. Seriously, what was my story? Sitting there planning for another meeting with yet another record jerk (I mean exec), I pondered a long musical journey answer and opted instead for, "No story, just visiting."

He muttered back with a most unhappy grumble & definite tinge of resentment, "I live in this brick box." I couldn't imagine anyone wealthy enough to live in this glorious hotel! Even tougher was imagining anyone who WAS wealthy enough to live in this glorious hotel not being happy about it.

A stunning boutique style at 11th Avenue, INK 48 was the type of place that instantly made you feel inferior to the superior hipster crowd while all at once hopeful that you might somehow blend in. It had an air of FUN in every aspect of the word & I desperately needed some.  After all,  I was only here because a friend with fabulous hook ups had enabled me to their friends & family rate. A rate which I also could not afford, but somehow managed to make happen in lieu of the expensive madness of  daily travel from Jersey.

"A group of us are headed out later this evening to the Hudson Hotel for dinner & dancing, care to join us?"  I had been to The Hudson before & I knew how elegantly fabulous it was. Never knowing my way around any city & never fully comfortable traveling alone, I had forgotten I was even in the hot spot neighborhood of Hell's Kitchen.  I mentally flash carded through the three dresses & two pair of shoes in my carry on.  Yep, the hot pink flapper dress & gold heels would be awesome at The Hudson. Midtown, Manhattan Friday night. Why not?

"Ok, what the heck. I'm in!"

Completely unlike me,
completely out of character,
completely without hesitation.

I no more than finished my words when his entourage appeared. Apparently all dear friends of his rushing to his aid. Friends who had heard of his current breakup with a partner whom I gathered had been a long term affair.  As he introduced me to each of them he said,
"We all work together at Warner Music."

Life is Funny.
Life is Now.
Follow your Gut.

Hepburn Hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams

Birdee Bow

Dear Sweet June

  "Time was all we had until the day we said goodbye. I still remember every moment of those endless summer nights"              Richard Marx

The first days of summer are my favorite, like a long overdue time capsule exploding in my mind. Flashbacks of late night carnival rides and endless laughter. Lazy June afternoons hangin' by the pool turning into laid back evenings & bbq. The tiniest whiff of coconut oil and a flood of fabulous comes racing back to me, Texas, Kansas, L.A., NYC and every ray of sunshine in between.

Country Rodeo dances and boys in cowboy hats. Girls in sundresses and the smell of fresh cut grass.

Dancing in high heels beneath draped white lights on crowded streets in New York City and the scent of fresh baked bread in Little Italy.

Summer concerts and cut off denims, singin', screamin' and losin' yourself in the sound

Fancy wedding parties upon an August starlit veranda. Girls in sequins and boys dressed like Casablanca.

Santa Monica sunrise breakfasts, shorts, sweaters & toes in the sand.

Las Vegas Hard Rock nights and the way love lights you up when it takes your hand...

Dear Sweet June,Oh how I've missed you. Thanks for always bringing Summertime and the very BEST of times back to me.   Sincerely,  BB

Hepburn Hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams

Birdee Bow

Mustard Sandwiches And You Can Light Your Candle Off Of Mine

“If you have a candle, the light won't glow any dimmer if I light yours off of mine.” 
― Steven Tyler

Raquel was a girl who lived a few streets over and around the corner from my house.  She suddenly appeared one afternoon while I was playing in my backyard.  One short conversation over a chain length fence, fast forward a few moments later and we're both sitting crossed legged Indian style in the grass with my basset hound Mack.  Ahhhh the quick bonding of childhood!

We were both around seven years old and  I  never really knew her as Raquel, but rather by her nickname Rocky.  Even through the eyes of a child, I saw Rocky as a bit disheveled. She more often than not had dirty hair, mismatched clothing worn with long woolen socks and dress sandals. I thought it an odd footwear choice as it was summertime in Texas and I was living in my bare feet and running around like a wild banshee. I wondered how anyone could handle those Sunday School dress sandals all day and have any fun at all, the very idea of those socks looked mighty hot to me.  Rocky was cool as heck, adorable freckled face, big brown eyes, scrappy tough and always up for adventures.  I always looked forward to her visits, but the one thing I never looked forward to was her passion for mustard and bologna sandwiches.  She seemed to have a never ending supply of white bread and yellow mustard stained crumbs in her hands and a heaping excess of mustard all around her mouth. Dried mustard is a crusty, scary thing and don't even get me started on the overwhelmingly sickening vinegary smell . UGH. My stomach churns even now at the very thought of it.  A very unhinging kind of sight which created many years of my own mustard avoidance and still to this day I only use the stuff in the most sparing of fashion. I guess mustard scars run deep.  Anyway, it wasn't even really the mustard sitch, but rather a spat over sharing toys which eventually sent me marching straight into the kitchen to seek my mom's council one afternoon over Rocky.

Ok, so as with most things in life, mom's know everything and even though I thought my back yard pow-wow play dates with my new friend Rocky were mysterious and quite possibly even a secret?  Nope, ahhhh the view from a kitchen window! I told Mom about Rocky's inability to share and the overwhelmingly creepy mustard issue. She gently explained to me that Rocky was alone a lot and how she lived only with her father and he worked in the oil field all day and wasn't at home too much to spend time with her and her older sister.  I guess Rocky was left alone to make a lot of bologna sandwiches for lunch. Her sharing and wardrobe choices were also all on her own. I thought it was kinda grown up of Rocky, but it also made me feel so sad.

Mom told me that sometimes people don't know how to share because they don't feel like they've been given much in life so sharing means losing something they might never get back.  She told me we all learn at different points in life that the more we give the more we eventually get in return. Mom's resolution to my problem went something like this, "if you don't like the way she's behaving then  teach her differently by your own actions and remember to be patient"   Uhhh what?  TEACH her?  What did that even mean?  HELLO mom I'm NOT a teacher, just go out there & TELL her to SHARE. Jeeeeez.  

A few days later Rocky and I were trying to pull my unwitting basset hound around the back yard in a wagon when Mom came out with iced lemonade and cookies on a tray.  "Have as much as you like, there's more inside!" her words rang out.  As we ran toward the goodies, mom put the tray down and pulled out a warm wet washcloth,  BAM! before I even knew what was happening this lightening speed scratchy wash cloth was now suddenly all over my face in a most humiliating swiping and blinding manner as she said things like "oh sweetheart you should really mind your manners, your face is covered with dirt & your hands are just filthy, you're certainly not being very ladylike! You should always keep your face clean"  As she finished wiping my face with her supersonic wash force,  she continued cleaning my hands. Ok by now I'm thinking,  mom this is entirely uncalled for & wayyyy outta line, when suddenly she pulled out another washcloth only this one was for Rocky.
  "Oh Rocky you're just a mess too let's get that mustard off your face and those crumbs off your hands, ladies must be ladies!"   I watched in amazement as Rocky's face became mustard free for the first time in our short friendship and her smile more bright. As we stuffed our faces with cookies and lemonade, I realized at that moment something which I am constantly reminded of even to this day,
My mom is a genius
      and she looks so pretty in the sunlight.
 
Go easy on the mustard today.

Hepburn Hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams
xo

Birdee Bow

The Way She Was....

“The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.”   Eleanor Roosevelt

Having just learned to play The Way We Were on piano, my excitement of learning the song was trumped only by my ability to sing along while clinking through it on the keyboard. Yeh, I was feeling awesome in that, I might be a 4th grader but I'm already completely grown up, kinda way. As I made my way to the second verse I saw her there, standing in the doorway of my parent's formal living room. How excited I was to see her, it felt as if a dream!  I wanted to jump up, run and squeeze her tiny frame. NoNoNo she motioned with her head, "don't get up now, please keep playing. Will you start again? From the beginning!"  I did.  I would have done anything for her, my fabulous Great Aunt Loma.

 Funny how someone who had been over the age of 60 my entire life was the youngest spirited, most vibrant woman I had ever known. An exotic world traveler, she and her handsome husband had journeyed to 6 out of 7 continents and sailed most every sea.  I remember her in Japanese inspired silk dresses and brightly hued pink lipstick with flashy earrings and chic strappy sandals. She personified the type of style I had only seen in magazines and envisioned on the shelves of fancy Dallas department stores. If that truly wasn't enough to make them the most rad couple ever, they drove a vintage 1965 red Chrysler Newport (sunglasses on, top down) and they loved to dance. Yep, they were the poster kids for glamour past a certain age and a welcomed relief for me any time their travels brought them closer to the tiny dirt road towns I called home, small Texas towns where she herself had grown up as a cotton farmer's daughter and a survivor of the Great Depression.

I'm not sure why she favored my sister and I, but she did.  And oh how I loved that she spoiled us by sending trinkets, jewelry and lovely items from places like Turkey, Greece, India, France! Postcards from beach destinations and tropical isles, far away places my 10 year old mind had only read about in books and could not, for one minute, even imagine visiting. Ohhhh the stories!  Fun stories of adventures, brightly lit cities, museums, art galleries, plane, train and ship rides. Even a few nail biting re-enactments of near death experiences, including a cruise ship fire that found them swimming for their lives in The River Nile.  One thing always held true,  she was on a full fledged mission to live her life out loud without hesitation.  No matter the age, she would always create for herself a colorful existence, a colorful existence of magnetism.

 I often wonder if this is a universally shared vision of Great Depression era children. It was as if her experience of such sadness and overwhelming hardship in youth created an unrelenting determination for beauty, limitless freedom and an unstoppable charisma. I do believe that for every darkness we endure within this lifetime there is an equally bright burning flame to light our way.  Loma was a flame. She was a lovely, living, breathing flame of fearlessness.

I like to think she lit my way as I can still see the indelible colors of her as they Light up the corners of my mind
 and I am on a bumpy and oft failed quest to one day become as fearlessly fabulous.

The way she was.
The way we were.

Wishing you Adventure and Love

Hepburn Hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams
xo

Birdee Bow

Jessie's Girl & The PCH Highway

"One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter."                                                                                               James Earl Jones

Having been a friend of Rick Springfield and his insanely talented band for a few years now, I thought I had seen the whole Springfield Deal.  I've seen many of his rock shows in different venues, different cities and even shared the stage a time or two, so I expected my latest sojourn to one of his shows to be much like the others.  It wasn't.

 As I made my way into the small intimate theatre, I instantly felt a different vibe than I had known.  Total chill, as if I was headed into an old friend's downstairs den to go through their favorite dusty records and have a candle lit listening party.  As he walked out onto the stage, there was also something different about him, a calmness.  Maybe a newly refined sense of self awareness? I'm not sure, but it seemed like he had come to this place, on this night,  to share in a way he had never shared before.  Genuine sincerity filled the room and all the smoke and mirrors had been left behind.

 As he began playing the songs that make the ladies scream, the acoustic versions read as raw as the strings upon his acoustic guitar. Suddenly I was listening to the lyrics of songs I've heard a millions times, but this time I was truly hearing them.  As he relived stories of friendships, first bands and moments of his childhood, the one story that really stood out for me was the quintessential unrequited love story behind Jessie's Girl.

In his late 20's he had all but given up on the music scene and had enrolled in a stained glass class in Pasadena to learn a new trade with an idea of touring the world as a glass artisan of cathedrals and great works of architecture.  Thankfully, a beautiful woman walked into that class who not only took his breath away, but also his hopes of something more when her boyfriend walked into the class behind her.

 Day after day he watched as the cute girl sitting near to him was anything but interested in him. The constant admiration between the couple was a source of sexual angst for Springfield and that angst eventually made it's way into his songwriting.  The boyfriend was actually named Gary, but Gary didn't flow too well with the melody his heart was strumming out onto the guitar and eventually it became Jessie.   Jessie's Girl,  just another song in a struggling songwriter's repertoire.  The class ended, the friendships ended with no forwarding info and life went on.

Fast forward a few months later and Jessie's Girl is now working it's way up the charts. Soon the song would become the chart topping hit which would not only put Rick Springfield on the map, but on the road to pop stardom and international success.  Gary?  Gary Who?
And Jessie's girl?  Yep the girl has no clue that she is, was or ever would become the infamous  Jessie's Girl.

30 something years later Jessie's Girl is still oblivious to the fact that she's the girl in the most popular unrequited love song of the past 3 decades.  How fun to imagine this probably 60 something year old woman rockin' out to the song that was written with her in mind, at the karaoke bar, at her best friend's wedding, maybe even dancing in the crowd at a Rick Springfield concert. I must say, the mind reels with the possibilities.

  It makes one marvel over how oblivious we are to so many things in this life.  I mean, after all, aren't we all some body's Jessie's Girl or Jessica's Guy?  Maybe the most amazing things in life are the things which we never know, the secret pining for our attentions that will never be fully realized or the sweet things done for one another in secret.  Secret admirers and passing glances and the beauty you sometimes feel, but can't explain, that tingling feeling that makes you feel alive! The one we chalk up to the summer breeze or sunshine softly landing upon our shoulders...what if all those amazing chills are really songs? Songs somewhere being sung by someone, just for us.

  I think the mystery of life is indeed the most addictive aspect of our journey.

Then again, maybe Jessie's Girl does know, but she's just so unbelievably cool that she never really cared. Ahhh, I LOVE to think of Jessie's Girl that way!
Aviator sunglasses on, hair blowing, top down on her '81 Firebird.
She's blaring her song down the Pacific Coast Highway,
playing along with the charade.


Hepburn Hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams

xo

Birdee Bow