30 Days of Blogging, Day 16: Top 5...Musicians

Years ago if you asked me who my top five favorite musicians or bands are, I would answer before you finished asking the question. If you asked me now, after living in the Pacific Northwest where if you didn't like someone first, you're a pleb--actually I don't think I've heard anyone use the word pleb here. Maybe the best terminology is "basic bitch"?

Whatever.

This basic bitch loves musicians and bands that lots of other people love too. They're popular for a reason people.What are you doing with your life?! Don't judge me!

Grab a pumpkin spice latte, put on your shades that you bought from Urban Outfitters at the local mall, and let's go to Sam Goody you betches!

Haaaay betches! I'm made with skim milk!

#5: Adele

I could rest my pumpkin spice latte in that gorgeous chin-dimple.

Just...come on you guys. I have two ears and a heart, don't I?

She sings all of my feelings. If you have had your heart broken by some soulless monster with gorgeous eyes and big boobs and you didn't sob uncontrollably while listening to Someone Like You while stuffing Cheetos in your face, you literally have no heart. You're probably my ex.

Favorite Song:

Just fucking sing.

#4: Coldplay

B.G.--Before Goop.

A hipster douche-bag once asked me who is in my top five. He made fun of me for liking Coldplay. 

His favorite band is Oingo Boingo. 

Fuck that guy. 

I love all of their albums, in order of release. Parachutes is far and away my favorite rainy Sunday album.

I saw them second row with my best friend at Red Rocks. Their poetic lyrics, iridescent sound, and light show that ricocheted off the rock formations was dazzling. 

Favorite Song:

  

Lullaby melody and lyrics that speak to my heart? Sign me up please.

Again, before Goop.

#3: Guster

Bringing back little-boy striped polo shirts before it was cool

I fell in love with Guster when I saw them open for my number two favorite artist. To watch them play music live is to watch someone experience joy doing what they love. 

My friend and I resolved to see them every single time they came to Denver, and we did--I also have not seen them since I left Denver because I cannot possibly imagine seeing them without her. 

I have two Guster t-shirts. Their t-shirt game is en pointe.

Their music? Joyful, thoughtful, emotional, cheeky. Even if their songs become melancholy they bring it right back around with a hidden song that they clearly improvised and cracked up while recording it.

Their drummer is my favorite drummer. Which of you Oingo Boingo loving bastards have a favorite drummer? 

They re-recorded their album Keep it Together and replaced the lyrics with simulated meows. Meows people!!!

Give joy a chance. Listen to Guster. Guster is for lovers.

Favorite Song:

This should be the first thing you listen to every single morning.

#2: John Mayer

John Mayer with some groupies he met backstage at Red Rocks. 

His life was never the same.

Before Jennifer Aniston--before Katie Perry--before that idiotic Playboy interview--I found out John Mayer was playing Red Rocks for the first time in his career. 

I saw him with my friend Casey three times already, but never at Red Rocks. I knew his shows would sell out, so to be proactive I joined his online fan club that would allow me first access to tickets. 

For $25 I got a tiny poster, a key-chain, and dibs on tickets. 

Two days before his show I got an email from his tour manager stating that as a member of his fan club I was automatically entered into a contest to meet John Mayer with one friend before his show at Red Rocks.

This excited me.

I assumed we would get a little meet and greet with dozens of his fans--maybe a picture and a handshake. His manager escorted us backstage where we stood alone.A couple other girls came and stood next to us. That was it. 

His manager introduced him to the girls; they worked with his brother Ben at Qwest. 

He came to us. I literally cannot remember a single word we exchanged. Knowing Casey she was cool. Knowing me I probably stuttered and said something odd and inappropriate. His manager said he had to be on in five minutes and he hugged us goodbye--and not a limp fish celebrity hug--our chests touched. He smelled great. 

Just as he was about to disappear I looked at the camera in my hand and sadly said to Casey that I forgot to ask for a picture. He stopped and asked, "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry guys, did you want a picture?" He was sorry. 

Look at that picture. Look at the joy on those faces. 

I love his music too.

Favorite Song:

This came out 2 years after I dropped out of high school. It spoke to me.

#1: U2

B.G.--Before Glasses.

The first time I saw U2 in concert it was such a spiritually moving experience I wrote an eight page review of the show and posted it on their fan tour website. Fifteen years later it can be read HERE. Nothing else could possibly illustrate my love for U2 more than this long gush-fest of love.

Seeing U2 live is going to church and having a spiritual awakening. 

Casey and I would show up to the general admission line early in the morning so we could get as close as Bono as possible every time we saw them.

We argued when he looked at me--she thought he looked her--he looked at me. It was during In a Little While, right at the moment he sang ...Spanish eyes...

You know it's true Casey!

I have every single album on CD. No digital downloads. 

I have bootlegs. 

I have vinyl. 

Joshua Tree was the first album I ever loved. 

Where the Streets Have No Name still makes me cry. 

The first time I listened to Beautiful Day I decided to change my life.

Seeing them live with my best friend are my most cherished memories. 

U2 everybody.

Favorite Song:

I HAVE DREAMS!

I WANT TO START AN ARTIST'S COLONY IN THE DESERT!

Your turn! Hit me in the comments. This is a no judging zone. Even if you love Oingo Boingo.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 15: Top 5...Movies

I was challenged to do a series of my favorite movies, musicians, etc. The opinions of this blog writer do not reflect the opinions of her cat. 

Movies, am I right? They have people in them. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don't talk. Sometimes they run, sometimes they don't move at all. Sometimes it's just a couple people in a room, sometimes a traveling brotherhood of representatives of varying fantasy-based races fighting against the forces of evil to destroy the One Ring.

Movies, right?

It wasn't terribly hard to pick my top three--those never change. Four and five were harder to commit to. I even considered being very lazy and just making this a top three list, but a challenge isn't a challenge if it's easy.

#firstworldproblems

Here we go gang! Drum roll please?

Who's da best widdle drummer in da world??

My top five favorite movies:

#5: Bridget Jones's Diary

I think we're all thinking the same thing here: devil's three-wayy. AmIright?

Bridget Jones: the Godfather of romantic comedies, except the sequel is not nearly as good as the first. The third...remains to be seen. 

I recall seeing the trailer for Bridget Jones... and I knew I was going to love it. When I saw it, I loved it even more than I thought I would. Like a lot of young women I think I saw a lot of myself in the heroine of the movie: dead end job, smokes too much, drinks too much, no partner, disapproving mother, and an under-appreciated full bottom. 

All the way from her serenading her answering machine with no messages to go out on a Friday night to pratfall after pratfall, I saw little bits of myself. When she pulled herself up by her stiff, British, upper-lip after being brutally dumped and she took control of her life and changed her story, she spoke to me. 

It's it silly to take life advice from an early 2000's romantic comedy? Maybe. So what? I've seen grown men cry like children when their football team loses. Shut-up. 

Favorite Scene:

Who doesn't want someone to love them just as they are? Wobbly bits and all.

#4: Waking Ned Devine

DRINK! (If you've never watched Father Ted you haven't lived)

I imagine this one is a little out of left field. Anyone I bring this movie up to has never really heard of it, but it had to go on the list. I watch it once a year with some rich food and a giant bottle of Scotch ale. 

I know it's Scotch but I hate Guinness--let's stay on track here.

Two life long friends find the winning lottery ticket of their recently deceased friend. Their tiny little Irish town is brought in to the fold and the varying characters with their own fascinating stories help make the dream come true. They are all darling and lovely and keep the story moving in their charming, small-town Irish way. There's also an abundance of old man tush. 

The overall theme of commitment and friendship touches my heart every single time I watch it, and as the final scene swells with The Parting Glass, I can't help but cry and pray I have friends I can grow old with. 

Favorite Scene:

Just...come on. Don't tell me you don't think this is all they do in Ireland--

standing on green hillsides and toasting their friends.

#3: Almost Famous

Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes...

I defy anyone who says they didn't watch Almost Famous and want to jump in a time machine and be a rock journalist in the seventies. 

There is little not to love about Almost Famous. The changing music scene of the 70's, women feeling empowered to do what they want with their bodies, the ensemble of protagonists with their own angels and demons. Nobody is perfect, and nobody is bad--they all just fucking love music--because music is to bond. 

Kate Hudson's O.G. pixie manic dream girl Penny Lane, Patrick Fugit's wide-eyed writing ingenue, and Philip Seymour Hoffman's drug-addled sage wisdom are the best pieces of this movie set to the seventies soundtrack capturing moments of humanity in a sometimes inhumane business. 

This is also the movie that motivated me to go back to school, because I wanted to get a degree in journalism and write for Rolling Stone. Two major switches later and no degree, I did manage to get in Rolling Stone: in the Letter to the Editor section in their 9/11 issue. They pulled a quote from me on one of their message boards. The day I saw my name printed in Rolling Stone Magazine remains one of the greatest days of my life. 

Favorite Scene: 

Just shut-up and sing.

#2: The Color Purple

That unmistakable silhouette.

I believe I was seven years old the first time I watched this movie with my mother. I wanted to watch it with because I loved Whoopi Goldberg from her comedy, and I loved Oprah Winfrey from after school T.V. watching. There were a few scenes that stayed with me.

Oprah Winfrey's Sofia emerging from behind stalks of corn after fighting her husband. Her face bruised, she shames Celie for telling her stepson to beat her--after fighting men her whole life she shouldn't have to fight her own husband. 

Another scene with Celie and Shug Avery after they escaped from the gin joint fight. Shug dressed Celie up and taught her how to love her smile. When Shug gingerly kissed Celie on the lips, my mother covered my eyes telling me that it was disgusting and girls don't do that--but there they were--doing that. 

Then the final scene. After a lifetime of abuse and struggle Celie stands on her own front porch of her own house looking over a field of purple wildflowers. A car pulls up and four heads emerge followed by beautiful fabric being swept up by the wind against the setting sun. Celie knows it's her sister. Just recalling her gut-wrenching cry of her sister's name brings tears to my eyes. Then meeting her children for the first time since they were born. The bond of sisterhood over years and miles never broken as they resume their clapping chant from their childhood...

And I'm crying now. 

I watch it probably twice a year and I still see things that I never noticed before. It's unbelievably quotable:

Nothing but death can keep me from it!

See daddy? Sinners have souls too.

I think it pisses God off when you walk passed the color of purple in a field and don't notice it.

Til you do right by me, everything you think about gonna fail. (The prayer of every spurned ex)

Hell. No. 

Just watch it. Bring the tissues.

Favorite Scene:

Ugly-face crying here you guys. Ugly. Face. Crying.

#1: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

Before Gollum came and fucked it up for everyone.

I'm a geek right? My favorite movie is a fantasy adventure of a bunch of fantasy characters banding together against evil to destroy the One Ring. 

If that's all you see when you watch this movie then you're clearly not watching close enough! Where's my inhaler?

Friendship. Love. Devotion. Faithfulness. Leaving the nest. Going on an adventure. Letting go. Taking a chance. Overcoming grief and fighting against the odds when the odds are so obviously stacked against you. 

Come. The freak. On. 

This is so much more than a fantasy adventure.

I saw this in the theater with my friend six times. I bought the original DVD release and the extended box set. I watched all thirteen hours of extras and my friend and I would sit in a bar and quote them. Not the movie--the extras. We even went on a road trip to California to see the third movie--which remains one of the greatest trips of my life.

I will leave you with this scene. The devotion that Sam has for Frodo wrecks me every time--and while I think about my top five, that seems to be a common theme. I guess that speaks to my values, or at the very least what I want the most: a friend who would walk with me through fire.

Favorite Scene:

30 Days of Blogging, Day 14: You Could Lose Your Mind

The summer before fifth grade. I was very proud of this shirt. Rad dude. Rad.

I think I can attribute the majority of trouble I got myself into as a child to the bad influence of Nick at Nite. Shows like Leave it to Beaver, I Love Lucy, and The Little Rascals--riddled with rascally characters getting into all kinds of shenanigans. If you were going to take life advice from any Nick at Nite show, The Patty Duke Show was not one of them.

I changed schools twice in the fifth grade--the first time was at the start of the year when my mother decided the bullying situation at my current school was untenable, and the second was when we moved towns.

Second grade through fourth grade at Centennial Elementary in Littleton was at best a waking nightmare. My walks to and from school was like playing Super Mario Brothers--you never knew was was lurking around the corner wanting to throw things at your face. Things weren't any better in the school either. The kids were pretty bold when it came to their bullying, even going so far as attacking me in class--in front of the teacher. With little change and repercussion from the principal my mother pulled me out of Centennial at the end of fourth grade.

Peabody Elementary was full of promise. The staff and my teacher knew the situation I was coming from, and they were warm and welcoming. The kids didn't really pick on me so much as they ignored me.

One day a pair of girls in my class took me aside and said they wanted to talk to me. The reason that nobody really wanted to talk to me was because my clothes weren't really cool. Up until that point it never really occurred to me that clothes were supposed to be cool--I just wore what my mother bought me: jeans, corduroys, my Simpsons t-shirt, overalls--stuff kids wear. One of the girls offered to bring in clothes for me the next day, just so I could experience what wearing cool clothes would be like.

The next day she brought me a pair of black stirrup stretch pants, push-down tube socks, a cream colored turtle neck and a beautiful green long baggy sweater. They were the nicest clothes I'd ever put on. I went to the bathroom before our first recess to change. I stepped on to the playground and was met with all-around approval from the girls who dressed me up.

"See! This is how you should dress!" She was so proud of herself.

They invited me to participate in a swing race with them. We played together again after lunch.

For a day I felt like I belonged. Why only a day? Well, I brought myself down this time, with my big imagination and my big mouth.

As we sat together on the jungle gym I had an idea. How can I make my stock go up? Make up a fantastic, improbable lie, obviously!

I told the kids I wasn't going to be in class the next day because I had a doctor appointment, but my cousin is visiting and she was going to be allowed to sit in class for me. Oh and by the way, my cousin is from England! Oh, and she's British! Also,she's--wait for it--my twin!

Any of this sound familiar? That's because it's the plot to The Patty Duke Show. 

In summary, my genius plan was to show up at school the next day posing as my own English twin cousin. Sounds pretty cool, right? The kids clearly didn't watch nearly as much Nick at Nite as I did because they seemed to believe me, they even started telling other kids in the class. It occurred to me at the end of the day as I packed up my bag that my plot had many holes in it. If I was going to pull this off, I was going to have to tell my teacher.

I was the last to leave class and she was already at her desk grading papers.

Mrs. Fleming, was sweet but no-nonsense, with a darling pixie cut and she always wore red lipstick--I even still think of her when I wear red lipstick. I approached her at her desk and she looked up at me over her reading glasses.

I stumbled through my story--her stare was killing my confidence--but I walked away assuring myself that she believed me.

As I climbed into the car with my mom I became overcome with guilt. I told a pretty big lie. The absurdity of the lie didn't occur to me, just the fact that I lied. I was still doing time in my evening prayers asking for forgiveness for stealing a lip-gloss, I should be adding lying to my list of sins.

As I buckled myself in I told my mother, "I think I did something bad."

"What did you do?" She asked. Her voice sound strained--like I was about to drop a pretty big bomb.

I felt that I needed to diffuse what could potentially be a huge problem for me. If I acted like it's not that big a deal, then she would definitely find her chill.

"Well, it's not that big a deal. I told the kids in my class that I have an English twin cousin and that she's coming to school for me tomorrow. I told Mrs. Fleming too...but it's not that big of a deal! It's silly!"

The look on her face was not at all filled with amusement the way I hoped it would be. Her mouth was just stuck in a pursed "O" shape.

"Summer Jean, this is a very big deal. That's a huge lie, and it's not funny."

Yes it is, I thought to myself.

"Yes it is!", I said--out loud. Stupid.

"You are going to turn around and go back in there and tell your teacher the truth."

It wasn't rational, but I couldn't believe she wasn't on my side. I couldn't believe she was going to make me actually face my lie so boldly. I could feel my cheeks get hot and I began to cry.

"You can't make me go back in there!" If I cried maybe she'll take pity.

"We're not leaving until you go back in there and tell your teacher the truth." She put the van in park and turned off the engine.

I sat, slack-jawed, for what felt like minutes. I felt numb. I felt stupid. The absurdity of the lie was starting to wash over me. What a genuinely stupid lie.

I climbed out of the mini-van and started what felt like a death march towards the school. I could have done the honorable thing and just fess up. I could have done that. I didn't do that.

As I slowly paced down the polished school linoleum I kicked my brain into gear. Fessing up to lies is the worst. Why should I fess up to a lie when I could just come up with another lie? I can get through this relatively unscathed if I can come up with a really good cover for myself.

Mrs. Fleming was still sitting at her desk grading papers. I approached her desk and she peered up at me over her reading glasses once more.

"Yes, Summer?" Clearly I was encroaching on her time.

"Um, Mrs. Fleming? I just wanted to let you know--" Light-bulb."--that my cousin won't be able to make it tomorrow. She never made it out here. She's sick. She has pneumonia. She actually got sick on the plane. They had to turn it around and take her back to England. I don't know if she's going to make it. A-a-a-a-ny-way...she won't be here tomorrow. I'll be here though! My doctor appointment was canceled. See you tomorrow?"

I don't know what I expected. "Oh sure, no problem! Hope your cousin makes it! See you tomorrow!" Her face registered as utterly un-amused.

She just sighed. "Fine Summer. Good night."

I said good night and left her with her papers. Half of me thought she bought it. The other half knew she didn't, but it didn't matter. I had made myself look like an idiot at my new school--it was over before it could even begin.

The fun wasn't over. My mother demanded to know if I told her the truth, and in the spirit of maintaining an honest relationship with her, I told her that I lied again. She was aghast. She couldn't believe that I had lied again. We went home and I spent the rest of the night alone in my room.

The next day at school I spouted the same lie to the kids. Whether or not they bought it didn't matter. I was relegated to the same obscurity from which I came--not because I couldn't come up with an English twin cousin, but because my clothes looked poor.

Six months later we moved to Castle Rock. My parents were tired of renting in a bad neighborhood, and Castle Rock had better schools.

I wish I could say I learned my lesson. A couple days before I started school at Rock Ridge Elementary I sneak-watched Dirty Dancing. I was obsessed with the dancing in it and practiced in my bedroom wearing my mother's leotard.

On my second day of class I found out the two most popular girls took dance lessons. I boasted to them that I taught lessons, specializing in the dancing from Dirty Dancing. 

Lindsey, the most popular of the two, sneered through her braced teeth. "Our parents would never let us watch that, and I don't need lessons from you." I noted her response and quietly went about my business, once again relegating myself to friendless obscurity.

As I walked home from school that day I noticed another girl from my class walking the same path home as me. I asked if I could walk with her. She said yes, but this doesn't mean we're friends. She also pointed out that my cowboy boots looked ridiculous. They were my dad's boots and I loved them, even if they were too big for me.

That night my mother came into my room to say good night to me. I'll never forget that night, because the room was dark but still bright from the light of a full moon.

She asked me if I wanted to pray. I began to cry.

She wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Why are you crying baby?"

I felt bereft. "I just feel like I'm never going to have a friend. I'm never going to fit in. I don't know how to make friends."

She took my hands and told me to pray about it. I looked at the full moon and squeezed my eyes tight.

"Dear God, I don't have any friends. Please let me make a friend tomorrow."

My mother kissed me good night. I fell asleep crying that night, faithless in my prayer.

The next day as I sat alone on the playground a girl came up and started talking to me. Her name was Shiloy. I told her where I was from, where I lived in the neighborhood. She actually seemed interested in me. After school she walked me to the rain run-off tunnel that I walked through to get to my house. She said we should sit together at lunch the next day.

As I walked through the tunnel I heard the sparrows flapping around, building their spring nests. I smiled as I saw my house walking out of the dark tunnel. I ran the rest of the way home and breathlessly hugged my mother.

To be honest, 25 years later I still struggle with making friends and I still struggle with relating to people. I've stopped telling lies, and I always try to be myself. There's a gap that I struggle crossing--that gap that prevents me from connecting. Maybe it's fear, Maybe I'm a little bit broken.

That day though, I didn't feel broken. I didn't need a fantastic lie. I didn't need Patty Duke or Dirty Dancing.

As I hugged my mother, I looked up at her through tears in my eyes and said, "Jesus answered my prayer. I made a friend today."

30 Days of Blogging, Day10: The Dead Naked Man

I missed my Saturday post. I'm so ashamed. There will, however, be 30 posts this month. It's gonna happen.

Littleton,Colorado is an interesting town in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Fairly normal--suburban; tons of malls, strip malls, outlet malls...malls in general; but with a rich frontier and settler's history and a long string of dark crimes.

Alfred Packer, infamous convicted cannibal.

Does this look like the face of a cannib--okay I see it.

Eugene Thompson, cocaine aficionado, went on cocaine fueled rampage with an uzi in the 80's and had his final standoff blocks from my elementary school.

Artist's rendering of Eugene Thompson's breakfast.

Columbine: You know this one.

No pictures of Columbine, just my favorite holiday lighting in the world--downtown Littleton. 

Think happy thoughts.

I could keep going, but I don't want to bum you out. For a sleepy suburb, Littleton has a dark history; so having this knowledge, why--why--would my friend Cecily and I go for a midnight walk in an abandoned Littleton park? Knowing what we know, we definitely should not have been surprised that on this midnight walk, we would stumble across what would appear to be a naked dead man.

Cecily and I grew up together in Castle Rock, Colorado. We met in the 5th grade when Cecily moved to Castle Rock from California. She had long blonde hair, wore the coolest clothes and read the Babysitter's Club, just like me--she even reminded me of Dawn from the Babysitter's Club, only not a complete bummer.

I think it's universally agreed that Dawn was the worst.

We would go through Middle School and High School together. Some of my fondest memories with Cecily were the random nights we would hop in her car with no particular destination, blasting the radio and quoting our favorite movies, mostly likely something from Monty Python. Cecily would eventually go on to college, but when she would come back to town in the summers we would hop in her go and go on our adventures.

There wasn't much to do in our hometown. There was really only one bar in town, and if we wanted to go out dancing we had to drive to Denver, which was 30 miles north of us. We'd usually settle for going to Cold Stone Creamery by the nearest mall and sitting on the steps outside and gossiping.

One particular warm summer evening Cecily and I were eating our Cold Stone, and we decided we wanted to go on an adventure and take pictures.

Now kids, back in my day, we didn't have fancy cordless telephones with magical film-less cameras; we had these devices that we put film in to take photographs that we would take to a very scientific lab called 24 Hour Photo. They would take this film and print it on paper, and low and behold 24 hours later: pictures! Those were darker days, but I digress.

I used cameras before it stopped being cool to use cameras and then started being cool to use cameras again.

A couple of weeks before I was in Ketring Park in Littleton with my family for a 4th of July picnic. Next to this park is a stunning Memorial rose garden. I suggested to Cecily we drive up to the park, wander around, take pictures, and then walk around Ketring Pond to the playground. She was nervous about going to parks late at night, not because she didn't feel safe, but because she thought we'd get in trouble.

This is the part where I should have listened to her.

I poo-pooed her fears, saying they're public parks and we'll be fine. Worse case scenario someone will just tell us to clear out and we'll be fine; so we left Cold Stone and made the drive over to Ketring Park.

At this point it was well past 11:00 pm and pitch dark. All we had was the light of the moon. It was a warm summer evening. We were young and carefree--like a Better Than Ezra song. We wandered around the rose garden taking flash photos and picking roses. We played around the gazebo, taking silly glamour shots of ourselves and attempting selfies, which were not called selfies back then.They were just called pictures.

I was born and have ever remaind in the most humble walks of life--SELFIIIIIIE!!!!

After we got bored of the rose garden I suggested we make our way to the pond and walk to the playground. Cecily--once again the ringing voice of reason--said it's probably not a good idea and she felt a little creeped out. Again, I told her there's nothing to be creeped out about, it's Littleton after all. Nobody's died in random, horrible murders in Littleton.

We started our stroll around the pond.

It was such a stunning night. Warm with a bright full moon hanging over our heads, the smell of flowers, grass, the algae in the water; I was enjoying the amazing moment with my oldest friend, but my oldest friend was freaking out. We were almost to the park, which was very well lit, but she was so scared that something bad was going to happen. I acquiesced and we starting walking back to my mom's car; I did not, however, go quietly. I kept going on about how it's just a boring suburb, nothing bad is going to happen, she's just being a wuss, we would have had so much fun at the playground, blah blah blah...

As I continued to tease my friend, I noticed something in the grass to the left of the walking trail. My eyes hadn't adjusted yet to the dark after being exposed to the lights at the playground. I stopped ribbing Cecily and started walking towards this large, white shape.

As I got closer it started taking form. At first I thought it was a blanket--then a folded up chair or stroller--but as I got just a few feet away my eyes completely adjusted, and there, lying in the green summer grass, was the white, pasty body of a completely naked man--and he was completely lifeless.

At this point time slows down. The words "Oh my God" came out in slow motion and my eyes moved from the lifeless body in the grass to my friend, who was no longer there. Time caught up with me as I looked down the path to see my friend half a football field away from me, running for her life.

She even left the cartoon trail of dust.

It's amazing what your body is capable of when it registers fear. I am not--and have never been--a runner; but in that moment my body performed running feats I have never been able to repeat.

I heard myself scream, "DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE ME!!!", and ran after Cecily. Not only was I able to catch up with her, but I grabbed her hand and dragged her behind me...probably.

We got in my mothers car and peeled my mother's station wagon out of the parking lot like we were being chased by a chainsaw wielding murderer.

As we drove away we repeatedly screamed at each other "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!"

I asked her if she saw the same thing I did. She said, "Dead naked guy in the grass?" and I confirmed: "Dead naked guy in the grass!"

Our screaming went on for several miles before we decided we need to figure out what to do with this information. Our first idea was to leave it and pretend like it never happened, but after years of watching Law & Order, all I could think about was someone might have seen us peeling out of the park. We could be implicated in his murder! We could go to jail! We could get the chair! I'll die before I get laid!

We queried if we should pull into a gas station and call anonymously from a pay phone, but--duh--they could trace where it came from and gas stations had cameras! Then implicated, jail, electric chair, die a virgin.

I asked why are we so afraid of calling the police and just saying, "Hey we were walking around the pond and found a dead naked guy" and Cecily said, "Because we weren't supposed to be there! We were breaking the rules!" Such a Girl Scout.

An aside: we were actually Scouts together too, but clearly I was a terrible scout because I so flagrantly break rules and talk my friends into breaking them too.

I'm a huge proponent of introducing racketeering into the Girl Scouts.

We decided to stop and just fess up to being in the park and finding the dead naked man. I lead the call with, "My friend and I were walking around Kreting Pond about a half hour ago--now I know we probably weren't supposed to be there, so that's our mistake and we fully accept responsibility for that --" The 911 operator sighed and asked what actually happened "--Well as we were walking we found what appeared to be a dead naked person."

I had to repeat that back to her a couple of times, and she asked me exactly what we saw. Then she asked if we stopped to take his pulse.

Bitch please.

She said that police were dispatched to the park and asked us to meet them back there to show them where we found the alleged body. We drove back to the park, the whole time Cecily I told you so-ing me...I deserved that.

We got back to the park where there were several squad cars with their lights on. We met a female officer--who was totally hot in her uniform--she said they didn't find any body. What they did find, around the area we explained over the phone, was a guy hanging out in the grass, who lived in a house on the other side of the bushes.

I asked if he was dressed and she said yep, he was wearing a black hoodie. We told her that he was definitely NOT wearing a black hoodie, He was, in fact, not wearing anything at all, and he was not moving.

She said they looked all around and found nobody, just the guy hanging out in the grass. She said maybe he had his shirt off and we mistook him for naked.

I wanted to argue with her and tell her that you cannot mistake a naked man. There was a very clear and present wiener.

Idea for a new adult film: Clear and Present Weiner...

Cecily was already done with this conversation and walked back to the car, so I said goodnight and apologized if we wasted their time. The cop was surprisingly nice about it, saying it's what they were there for, even if we weren't sure. Her niceness made her even hotter.

 I followed Cecily back to the car and we left the park and drove back to Castle Rock.

On the long drive home we theorized what the hell just happened. Was this guy laying in the grass, posing as a naked dead person to mess with people? Was there an actual dead naked man and the sweatshirted guy moved his body? Was he naked at all and were we seeing things?

In the end we concluded maybe he went for a dip in the pond and fell asleep in the grass.

The next day we went to the one hour photo to develop our pictures, hoping that maybe our dead naked man popped up somewhere in the film, which sadly he didn't. He fell into legend in our stories for us to retell when we see each other from time to time.

I think about the dead naked man now and then. I wonder if he tells stories to his friends of the warm summer night he was relaxing in the in the cool grass, and some screaming women discovered him and called the cops on him.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 8: Life of Crime

Look at this thug.

Drema and I were inseparable. The moment we were free from school we would race from our homes and find each other. We would dress up, play house in the bushes and practice kissing, and when we could scrounge up change, we would wander down to the Albertson's down the street to buy Tootsie Pops. We even shared chicken pox, we were so close.

Drema was also the first girl I ever loved.

We were also children of mothers who were very devout Christians.

We were Catholic until I was about 8. One Sunday morning my mother said we're going to be Baptist now and when we go to church I needed to stop crossing myself. I would sneak in the occasional cross while everyone's eyes were closed during prayer, thought--the early days of my rebellion. "Tell me I can't cross myself? Well screw you! Cross! May God be with you, and also with you motherfucker!"

I didn't say motherfucker when I was 8.

Religion and church was important to my mother. Everything we did went through God, and everything we had came through God. He was the Brita filter of our lives. All decisions went through God as well, but bad decisions...those came from the big D himself: El Diablo, Lucifer, The Devil...SATAN.

In the mornings and afternoons, when my mother drove me to and from school, we listened to the Focus on the Family radio program. Dr. James Dobson often used the phrase, Satan getting a foothold. "Don't let Satan get a foothold!"--as if some imaginary little red-bodied monster with a bifurcated tail was obnoxiously clinging to our ankles trying to drag us into hell.

Drema was a little more dangerous than me. She was usually the instigator in our adventures. Like the time we wanted to turn her apartment building's laundry room into a haunted house; it was her idea to dribble red nail polish all over as a great substitute for blood. She of course handed it off to me to do the dribbling, and when we got in trouble she pointed at me and said I did it. I was rarely angry when she did this--Drema was a little scared of her mother, because as devout as my mother was, her mother made my mother look like a lightweight Christmas/Easter Christian.

Neleen was a devoutly, deeply, crazy Christian. When I would go over to Drema's apartment she was always kneeling in prayer. She had a thick Texas accent, and when Drema would leave to play with me, she would place her hand on both of our heads and pray for us. When we got back she would pray over us again and interrogate us to find out if we made good decisions that was reflective of God's glory. All that being said, if the heat was ever coming down on Drema, I didn't mind taking it in her place, because the consequences were always so much worse for her than they would be for me.

One Cinco de Mayo afternoon, Drema and I were dressed up in giant ruffly dresses that belonged to her Mother--we loved strolling the neighborhood in our dress-up outfits. We wandered down the block to the Albertson's for our usual Tootsie Pop, but that day we took a diversion down the makeup aisle.

We didn't ever buy anything--we were 9 and we didn't have money. We would just faun over the products and say what we would buy that day if we did have money. This day, however, Drema picked up a tube of bubble gum flavored roller-ball lip gloss. We both wanted it so bad. We kept passing it back and forth, admiring the clear tube of gloss and the little pink bubbles on the bottle. Drema then took it back from me, pulled open the front of my dress and stuffed the lip gloss inside of it.

I immediately knew what we were doing was wrong; my older brother got in trouble for it constantly, having recently stolen Garbage Pail Kids cards from the 7-Eleven down the street. Stealing was bad. "Thou shalt not steal." We heard it in Sunday school. It was in a cross-stitch on our walls.

I heard myself ask, "Isn't this stealing?"--like I didn't know. Drema looked at me incredulously, as if I was some kind of idiot who didn't realize this was the plan all along, and said "Yes." The excitement of what was happening replaced my Christian guilt and she instructed me to walk out like nothing was wrong. As we rounded the corner we looked at each other and squealed, delighted that we got away with our first act of larceny.

Our celebration was cut short when I saw Drema's face fill with fear as our mothers drove up to us in my Mother's minivan. My mom had been looking for me; we were going to drive out to the reservoir and go for a walk with the family. I jumped into the front seat and looked at Drema as we drove away knowing I had incriminating evidence stuffed down my dress.

When we got to the reservoir I knew I had to ditch the lip gloss, but I had nowhere to throw it, so I tossed it under the passenger's seat when my mom wasn't looking--I then immediately forgot about it.

Two weeks later my mother called me into the kitchen. She was sitting at the table looking deadly serious. I sat down and she gently placed the lip gloss, still in it's package, on the table between us.

"Where did this come from?" She was so cool, like the good cop detective.

It took me literally seconds to fess up. I didn't so much fess up as I just exploded with truth.

"I STOLE IT!" I sobbed and threw my face into my arms on the table.

My mom very calmly put her hand on my hand and said, "This is a sin Summer. This is a sin that God never forgives."

So that was it for me. Nine years old and my afterlife had already been decided.

My mother told me that I would be grounded for two weeks, the first week of which I would be spending in my room by myself. She grilled me if I acted alone, and in the spirit of honesty I told her that Drema and I took it together. We marched directly over to Drema's house and sat down with Nelleen for my confession.

I will never forget to the look on Drema's face. Betrayed fury. Nelleen and Mom prayed over us; they prayed we would learn from our sin and that we would not continue to stray down Satan's path. When we left Drema hugged me and said she would never forgive me.

I spent that first week of solitude mourning the loss of my friend. Not only was I grounded for two weeks, we were grounded from each other for a month.

Every single night as I would lay myself down to sleep I would pray that God would forgive me for stealing and that Drema would be my friend again. I prayed and prayed, every time shedding tears of contrition for my God and my friend.

Exactly one month later Drema showed up on my doorstep and asked me to go roller skating. Years after that I would still pray that God would forgive me for stealing that tube of lipgloss. I'm not sure if God has yet forgiven me. Time will tell.

I started writing this story focused on God, religion and how religion fucks us up in our most vulnerable years. While I was writing I of course reminisced about Drema.

We hadn't spoken since just before I married my ex-wife, and before then we hadn't seen or spoken to each other since we were 10. We caught up while I listened to her 5 children in the background scream and I told her I was getting married. When I told her that I was marrying a woman her disappointment was clear--I didn't turn out the way she expected and, in fairness, she didn't turn out the way I expected. We never spoke again after that.

8 years later I decided to Google her name, and the first item that returned was her obituary.

Drema died 2 years ago. Cancer. I don't know how long she was sick, and I don't know a lot of the details of her life.

 I just know the following: that she had five children, she was 33, she died in the town she was born in, and I'm so glad we stole that stupid lipgloss.