Angeles National Magical Forest

It's about that time of year again, for this...

and this...



but mostly this...

Ryan and Anna

My lovely friends Ryan Bingham and Anna Axter got married this summer. Here are a few shots from the day.
PS It was on the mountainside of a huge Malibu estate overlooking the Pacific Ocean, so.... ya.

Growing and Pains

"The biggest growth comes out of pain," so says my older/wiser sister, Sarah.

I hate this statement right now. It is a jerk.

And it is true.

Like when you're 8, lying in bed, writhing in pain because the sticks that you call legs are growing, one Charley Horse* at a time. And you think you'd rather be dead. Or short. Because if being big hurts this much, well then, thanks for asking, but I'm good down here in the kiddie pool with my floaties. Plus my floaties have hippos on them, and hippos, frankly, are awesome.

But then. Your sister (who has heard your pathetic whimpers) comes in the room, brings you a glass of water, and rubs your little stems until you fall back to sleep.

When you wake up in the morning, you're an inch taller.

Fucking yes.

And you go the the St Rose Carnival and get in line for the "Hammerhead," because now you're big enough.

Now you get to go on the ride.


*Where did Charley Horse come from? Anyone?

Boys

Joe is constantly reminding me of why I like having my camera with me, always.

I keep thinking of this Diane Arbus image...

Mind you, I am not comparing myself to her. At all. Like, at all.

But I think this kid and Joe would have caused some trouble together.

5.5 Hours

And I could be here.

To, Everyone

I hope you know.

1. I'm sorry.

2. I love you.

3. I'm trying.

From, Melanie

PS Maybe read this again tomorrow.

Momma

I just wanted to tell you...
I was thinking of the time we went for a road trip in the Pace Arrow motor home. To Zion National Park, I think.

We were driving through the desert,
in Arizona,
in traffic,
in a heatwave.

The motor home was overheating, so Dad was forced to turn off the air conditioning. One by one, we all began to come to the conclusion, that we were going to die. And as temperature continued to rise, we all began to come to the conclusion, that we would welcome death.

In my daze (created by a combination of heat-exhaustion and gingersnap consumption), I turned towards you for assistance. But you just were standing at the sink, and on the counter top you had all of our beach towels stacked, one on top of the other. You proceeded to soak them under the faucet.

I thought you had lost it; that you had mistaken the towels for pasta and were preparing for dinner. Then you took the stack of soaked towels, placed them in the freezer, walked back to the front of the motor home, and re-stationed yourself in the passenger's seat.

At that point, I believe I lost consciousness for about an hour. I awoke to the sensation of snowflakes engulfing my tiny head, and opened my eyes to darkness. I thought,

"So this is what death is like. How unexpected."

As my delusion began to wear off, I realized that I wasn't dead, but rather, being covered by a towel. A big frozen beach towel. It was the greatest feeling of relief that I have ever felt; and still is to this day. I peeked through from under my ice-shield of comfort, and saw the other four kids blanketed by frozen towels. And at the driver's and passenger's seats sat you and Dad, and your frozen towels/turbans.

NICE MOVE, MOM!

I still use that move. You will even see my dogs walking around with capes made of frozen towels on those hot LA days that we have been frequenting.

Ok, I just wanted to tell you I was thinking about you and all the awesome things you invent.
I love you.

Early Morning War

Yosemite
7 AM
Joe and Sofia
We play War and Uno.
I lose hard/win big.

Soon As I Let It

I'm going to be nice
To myself this time.
I'm alright, I think.
Yes, I think
I might just be.

Lots of days spent
Planning on getting back
To who I was before
The moments pushed me
Pretty far from home.

Lots of days wasted
Watching the words
While they came out,
So for to catch them
Before they get to the rest of you.

I never wanted you upset. With me.
But you get upset anyhow,
Despite my best efforts.
Despite my worst lies.
So I'll stop watching and

Listen for a while,
To what I meant to say.
Mostly because I forget
Who it was
I meant to be.

I have a vague idea, and I think it will all come rushing back in.
Soon as I let it. Be.

Mia and Salvatore

My cousins, Joe and Wendy, are producing some unbelievable progeny.
Seriously. Get. Out. Of. Here.

Two

Happy Birthday Sophia. Love Love Love.

Wiiiiiilly!

I walked into Carol's house to do the bi-monthly trimmimg of kitty cat nails....

and found this.

Her new kitten/ewok/mogwai/pirate, Willy.

I had no other choice but shoot myself in the head.

Happy Birthday?

When I wrote all my siblings and asked them to call me with their fave Dad stories, I had no idea it would basically turn into a collection of short stories entitled "How Not to Raise Your Children." Thankfully, no one can take a little heat better than Dad, so when I read my editor's version of these stories aloud on his birthday, no one laughed harder than him.

Sarah

Dad and I were driving home and I really had to pee. Bad. But I was too afraid to tell him, or them rather; Uncle Sam was with us too. So I just decided to pee. In the backseat. Of the company car. Hoping against hope that it would go unnoticed. Well, we parked in front of the house and dad took off his seatbelt, then he started to do that smelling thing that he always does, you know, "sniff, sniff." And I remember looking at the backs of his and Uncle Sam's heads and they just looked like these two mobsters and I was thinking, "Oh God, no."

So Dad immediately realized what the smell was and where it was coming from. He says,

"Honey. Oh Sarah. Look, if you had to go to the bathrrom you just gotta tell me. "

I was in awe. Like, I could tell my dad I had to pee and he not only wouldn't be mad but he would accomodate me? I was reminded of this concept a few years later when he caught me picking my nose.

"Sarah, it's ok to pick your nose, just go into the bathroom to do it."

It was great. All these things I thought were so shameful... needing to pee, picking my nose, they were ok. It was like he was telling me for the first time "It's ok to be you. It's ok to be human."

Granted this was coming from the same man who told me he was actually 100,00 years old and an alien.

Mary Lee

It's 1994 or so, and we're in Yosemite, camping. It's nighttime, we've had dinner, its been a long day, and it's time to go to sleep. I've brought my friend Andrea, aka "Dre" with me, and Ang has brought Eddie and Phil, I think. Anyways, they're still talking and trying to figure out something about a trail or who-knows-what, so I yell out the answer. Before I can even finish my sentence, Dad yells at me to go to sleep and stop talking. I try to explain that I was just answering Ang's question. But he doesn't care what I have to say.

"Mary just stop talking."

So now I'm pissed because it's such crap and I'm sitting in my tent with Dre, complaining about how stupid Dad is, etc etc. But i guess the volume of my voice raises again and suddenly...

"Mary? Mary? Is that you? I can't believe that's you!"

"But Dad, I didn't even..."

"I CAN'T believe that's you!"

I continue to get in little defenses here and there, but it's useless.

"I CAN'T believe you're still talking! SHUUUUT UP! SHUUUUUT UP! SHUUUUT UP!"

It was so embarrassing, but at the same time, I kinda understood why he got so out of control angry. I mean, I brought Dre with me who hates camping and, seriously, we stayed in the tent the entire time, listening to "The Chronic" album over and over. We didn't help with anything. All we did was sweep off our own sleeping mat and worry about breaking our ridiculously long acrylic nails; like so long that they curved. So, you know, I get it. Poor Dad.

Angelo

Dad went through this super long, weird phase where he would talk about baboons escaping from the zoo. Sometimes he would just say, "Oh man, baboon escaped," and not do anything about it. But once in a while he would really go the extra mile and pull out his baboon mask and scare the shit out of us.

My best friend Phil was over and he had never been through this whole baboon thing. Phil and I were hanging out in the dining room and it had these big long windows on the wall that looked out on to our dark backyard. Dad was watching TV with Mom in the other room, and he yells over to us,

"Oh hey, yeah, news just said that a baboon escaped from the LA Zoo. Last spotted it heading west, so they think its coming through this way."

God, he made it sound so convincing, and for Phil who had never heard it before, you know, why wouldn't he believe an adult? So I'm standing over by the couch and Phil's kinda just staring out one of the big windows. All of the sudden I hear this horrified scream and I look over and Phil is on his back and his hands are over his face and he's half-crying/half-laughing, and he's just repeating the same thing over and over again.

"Your dad's crazy. Your dad's crazy."

I look out the window, and there's Dad, hysterical. And in his hand, the gorilla mask.

Tim

Dad and I were folding laundry together and we had gotten to the part where it was time to fold the underwear. Now, this was during the time where Angelo and I had an overlap in our underwear size. So, there was size 30 worn by me, size 34 worn by Ang, and size 32, which we both wore. Problem was that tightee whitees have these tags where once they're washed so many times, you can't read the tag. It just becomes a memory of where the tag was.

So, Dad picks up some underwear, folds them then turns to me and asks,

"Tim whose are these?"

I look at the underwear, see the ghost tag, look at Dad and answer,

"I don't know Dad. There's no size on the tag."

Immediately, Dad just snaps.

"Don't get smart with me."

"Huh? No Dad, look there's no size... The tag,"

THWACK!!
He slapped me. In the face. He slapped me in my face and I couldn't believe it. I was just trying to answer the question the best I knew how. Then I thought, "This is CRAP!" ...so I slapped him. In the face. I slapped Dad in the face and I'm pretty sure I had to jump to do it. He was shocked. We both were. And we stood there staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity, but it was probably a half a second... and then Dad went nuts. He lifted me up by my waist, carried me to his room, and walloped me. Ugh, it was such BS.
Anyways, a few hours later i think he was feeling that feeling you get when you get too out of control with your kids and he comes up to me and says,
"Hey, uh, Tim you wanna get some pizza. Yeah, let's order some Little Ceasar's. How bout that, Tim?"

Me
I just remember Dad losing his mind in Mexico. The Belt Period. It was like, for everything and anything, you could possibly get the belt. If you answered him "what?" instead of "yes?" -the belt. If you ate candy in front of the poor kids -the belt. If you didn't finish your soup -the belt. If you were a totally out of control, disrespectful 13 year old brat (Sarah) -the belt. It was almost a nightly ritual.
But towards the end of our 90 day trip, Dad called us all in to the main living room and told us the most incredible and unbelievable news I had ever heard: we were going to get our chance to belt him. Each one of us. Line up and have at it. I think we each got 3 swings. The older kids kinda got the humor of the event. But man, I was excited! And I went for it! I remember standing behind him and really letting him have it. I know I was small at the time, but the centripetal* force alone! It had to hurt! But he was laughing, and I really think it's because as fun as it was for us, it was a relief for him. He was keeping it fair. When we got out of line, we got the belt. And now he had gotten out of line, and he was getting the belt. And this has been such a lesson that I have learned from my dad. As nutso as he could be, he was always fair! At least eventually. And that was not lost on any of us. Not a one.

*Is it centripetal or centrifugal? Whomever can answer this gets a prize. No, really.

Moonlight

Clair de Lune by Claude Debussy, especially as played by Van Cliburn.
The life in this song is so present that sometimes I can't listen to it.
Not tonight.
Over and over, it's playing. I have no intention to stop it.

And it makes me think of Papa.

He loved to record the most oddly random movies off of the television and onto VHS tapes.
He never wrote the actual names of the movies on the tapes. No. It was always some descriptive noun or adjective, followed by "movie," and written in all capital letters.

The titles were pretty straightforward, like


"PAVAROTTI MOVIE"

or

"CAR MOVIE"

There was this one we used to watch all the time about a few hapless bums and their racetrack dog. Papa entitled this one,

"GOOD MOVIE"

...and that's what we all called it. And it was.

A View With Some Room

The calm kept me cool
While time curled into a string
Bound tight and secure
Waiting to unwind and reveal everything

I liked being small
Invisible to the knowing
That chokes me now
And tells me I'm not possible today

Maybe I will step away
To watch people being just so
And laugh, then cry
Because I remember it all.

Now I keep time
with the rising and falling
of every single breath
And my eyes close to sleep.

Home

Let me see if I can get this out right. It feels like spinning. Spiraling, maybe. It makes my heart press against the wrong side of my chest. Panic. That part is over, but I keep forgetting. And that's not the worst part. It's the remembering that knocks me over.
There' no more carpet, just hardwood floors. Which are nice. But. Is it really over? Is it really over? No because I didn't pay close enough attention. To the way it felt, even though I still feel it and my eyes well up, I remember so well.
It was us. Me, and him, and him, and her, and her. And him and her. And down the road were the rest of us, and that's not the point. We were all there. We aren't all here.
It's too much. If I let it settle in, I start to crumble. We get to go back, though. Right? Do we get to go back? I want to go home. And be with you guys. I just want to tell you that I miss you. And I cry still. It was so good.
Maybe if I keep my eyes shut tight and ask to have it back. And mean it really hard. The we can be there. Oh gosh, but we can't, so i keep with the panic.
Until I walk into Grama's house. And it smells the same. And we cook. And it tastes the same. And we sit. And her hands are cool, and soft. And kind. The same.
And I feel better.

Image Capture

Thank you, Angelo.
It was a rough afternoon and you took this while I was telling you about how I slam doors now.
I felt better right after.
And now. Looking.
You got me down. To a tee. Or is it "T"?
How is anyone supposed to even know that?
Anyways, you got me. For now.

Of Course

Strings of words
I skip every other
So no one knows
What I want to say.

Better to have them
Smile and ask for my sleep
Than to be bright-eyed,
Than to let down.

I keep it close or
Throw far past
Ports of notice
Then. And then.

Surprise! Hello.
But you knew
I've always been this way.
For fifty-seven million years.

Chada

This is Grama Mary. She is a gold star.

When she was young, they called her Maricada ("Little Mary"), but her baby brother couldn't say it quite right, so it came out "Marichada" and soon turned into "Chada."

She used to pick up me, Tim, and Angelo everyday from St Rose Elementary.

One day after school, an orange Ford Maverick pulled up alongside of Grama Mary's old, champagne-colored Cadillac while we were driving on First Street.
The young female driver rolled down her window, turned her flat, sunburned, orthodontic-filled face to Grama Mary, and yelled,

"Bitch!"

Before we could even process what had happened or why,

"Bitch!"

Wait a second,

"Bitch!"

I started to panic. Did she realize this was Grama Mary she was talking to?! Did she realize this sweet woman was a precious angel of love?! Did she realize that if she had pulled up next to Grama Mary and asked her for fresh-baked cookies or homemade meatballs, she would have obliged?! Immediately?!

My face caught on fire as I felt my tiny mouth open and release my first sentence with a curse word.

"Hey! You are the bitch one!"

Suddenly, the same throat that had so effortlessly screamed that declaration, became paralyzed with fear. And not fear of punishment, but fear of disappointment.
I had said a bad word.
Out loud.
At somebody.

My mind flashed to a scene earlier in the month, where Grama Mary was so angry at Papa Joe, but all she could come up with was to call him a squirrel.

Sweet Jesus, what have I done?

I grasped onto the Virgin Mother necklace I had received for my services as an alterboy-girl and slowly turned towards the living saint.

But she wasn't looking back at me. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the road. The KNX-1070 AM news radio was giving the traffic report.

And Grama Mary was smiling.

Nobody Got Hurt

10pm middle lane of the 101 South at Lankersheim (Lankershiem?).

Pata

"Found duck in road. Please advise."

This is the text I got from my brother Angelo a few months ago.

It was raining and the duck was laying on the road, somewhere in the valley. Ang scooped him up, headed towards Coldwater Canyon, and honked his horn when he finally arrived at the animal hospital in Beverly Hills.

She spent the next couple months with me at the animal hospital, nursing a bum leg. She stayed in one of the indoor/outdoor dog runs that we use to board large breed canines.

During the day, she floated around in old steel cat litter trays filled with water, and slept in a dog bed that used to belong to a tiny poodle named Napoleon.

Her limp started to disappear. Slowly but surely.

The more duck bites I collected on my hands (I never knew ducks bit-but they totally do), the closer I knew she was to venturing back out into "the wild" that was the San Fernando Valley. After some careful consideration, and looking into the social patterns of female ducks, we decided that Pata was due for a promotion.

Ang re-released her at some big, beautiful duck pond in Alhambra, which he described as

"...a step up from Lake Balboa, for sure."

I hope she likes her new domicile because she was super cool. For a biting duck.

Happy Easter

God is good.

Men in Trees

Magic Bunny Princess Boy

The hard part was not finding someone who wanted to adopt Steve.
It's like asking "Who wants..."

"one million dollars?"
"a doughnut?"
"to watch Walker, Texas Ranger?"

Everyone. That's who.

The hard part was finding someone who would be as obsessively devoted to him as I have become. As well as, appreciate that Freddie Mercury overbite he displays so beautifully.

So when Rebecca, my lovely coworker from the animal hospital, said that she would be interested in having him over for what we told her fiance, Ryan, was a "temporary sleepover party," I was so so happy.

And so so sad.

How could I not be? Look...
But I have fully accepted that this could not have worked out any better. Rebecca is the best. And adores the fact that Steve enjoys lounging in dirty laundry.

And so, the last few days have been spent diagnosing Steve with as many ailments as we could think up, to further endear him to Ryan. Here is what we have come up with as of this afternoon...
Mind you, we have doctor's notes...

Lupus.
Oral deformation.
Pemphigus (look it up).
Autism.
Deafness.

We're pretty sure it's working. And if it doesn't....

Well, then we'll just have to tell him about how cute Steve was when he yawned today.
That should do it.

Oh Steve, you little Lupus Baby Shark Sweetie. I can't wait to see you next weekend.
Joint custody, ya'll.
PS Ryan, pay no mind to this blog. Seriously, its just a temporary sleepover party.

I Never Knew

I was so good at dance moves.

Thank, Tim.

So There's This Girl

I jut got back from a delicious meal of bison burger with the lovely Melissa B. It was a make-up dinner of sorts, as I had missed the absinthe-induced, pizza-scraping, private bar extravaganza that was her birthday.

We laughed as we sipped Arnold Palmers and spoke of pheromones, Martinelli's, Lil' Kim, and other top secret subjects.

The topic of cats came up, as it usually does when we are together. She gave me the updates on
Nico's diabetes
Poos' new toupee business
and, of course, Bootsie's puking schedule.

Coming from anyone else, it be equivalent to hearing about my Aunt Cecil's bunyons. But when Melissa speaks of cats, it's the most profoundly captivating information I've heard since they told me where babies come from.

"Melissa, I love all the cats in your life."

She shrugged and made her life's declaration.

"I love all the cats in the world."

Sigh.

I would just like to take a moment and publicly appreciate Melissa. My sincerest condolences if you haven't had the pleasure to spend 5 minutes with her. Because that's all it would take for you to fall madly in love with her, or at the very least, completely reexamine your horribly inadequate wardrobe.

I could write a sonata about the way she looks in a dress, and I don't even play for that team. At least, I don't think I do. Melissa will make you reexamine that, as well.

She's perfectly unaware of her perfection.

A girl's girl and any boy with half a brain's dream.

One minute she's the classiest broad you ever met, and the next she's sitting in the gutter with you sharing a taco from the truck.

If you need a murder themed cake, help putting leotards on puppies, or just someone to share buffalo with, she's your ace.

How could you not love this girl? I sure do.

1 Hour Photo

I tend to I wait a long time to turn in my disposable cameras to be developed.
Sometimes the photos are better out of context. Let's just pretend I took this last week; which is not out of the realm of possibility with my friends.
I just love my friends.

PS Tim, this is why I just cannot let go of disposable cameras.

KIDS, Inc.

Hollywood Blvd.
In the rain.
9pm.
Bry, Lain, and Joe.

This is

"Kahlea, can we call each other Peg?"

"Sure, Peg"

"Oh, thank God."

Since Kahlea and I had this important conversation, these things have happened...

1. Matching shoes were purchased (Peg Gear).

2. A little white baby puppy is being called Peg.

3. Kahlea told Melissa B that she "...pegs to differ."

4. Pegasaurus.

5. Steve says Peg.

6. "Hey, Peg. It's me, Peg."

7. Pegasus via MSpaint. *see above.

Totally Getting Ace

When you spend your days locked in a room staring at puppies and making sure they don't get smothered by their mother, things like this start to happen.

Nobody Beat Arnold.

Again... Spot On.

Pupdate

I don't know what I can really tell you all except for that the cuteness is astounding.

I mean. You guys. Look.


See what I'm talking about?

I know.

Dog Eat Dog

But seriously, they love each other. Like, hard.

Ace Bitch Photography-SHOOT!

Advocating minimal prep, Teen Witch, and long brown hair.
P.S. Top that.

Penny Girl

Penny was a stray dog who came to my animal hospital last month.
Scared was the only behavior she knew.
Usually when dogs are as frightened as Penny was, they react with aggression.
Not Penny.
She's sweet.
After a couple weeks, we realized she was pregnant.
This morning, the puppies arrived.
Penny acted like an old pro as six little bundles of white fluffy fur arrived on the blanket-covered floor of Run 13.
They will need homes.
Loving, dedicated homes.
So will Penny.... Especially Penny.
Spread the words.
Thanks friends.

Papa

Papa died.
We were all with him when he left.
It was one and one-half months ago.
I'm having trouble writing sometimes.
I miss him.
Grama misses him most.
Here they are together.
Look how happy Grama is.
Ang, Tim, and I made a slide show. There's a link below if you want to see it.
Papa played the piano.
"You'll Never Know" was our song and we sang it together.
It came on the radio while I was diving alone the night after he went away.
I'm not embarassed to cry in front of people anymore.
Papa. Joseph Bellomo. Joe. Beautiful man.

http://www.pooteeweet.com/papa/papa-show.html