Sunday, August 1, 2021

Entry 5013 The Jenna Experience


Late into the 1980s and flowing on through the early 1990s we had some laughs, my friends and I. There were times that our experiences rivaled those of characters on TV comedies (“Seinfeld”, “Friends”). It was mostly the nightlife that carried us…and, as experiences often do, these often became a part of our everyday living.

I have mentioned previously about how I did not actively seek this life, but was drawn to it and, inevitably it seems, championed it. I would have much preferred a steady relationship as I had had back home (as particularly noted in Entry 0002 Introduction; Entry 1987 Being An Allegory Of A Flooded Basement). But despite my best efforts it was not gonna happen, so—to use a well-worn cliche—when life gives you lemons you—well, you know. So it was lemonade that I had, in the form of seemingly (looking back now) endless one-night couplings with women willing to also have that same lemonade.

There seemed to be no end to the young women I could attract and do with as we both would. And, as I was funny and warm and personable I seemed to be very good at it, which wasn’t helping the argument that the tiny angel-winged me was nagging me about every time. I guess had I not had such success in this coupling, I would have sought some other way to seek companionship.

One of these young women in the early 1990s was named Jenna. No, that was not her real name,  and there are many reasons for that, but let’s just say that for the purpose of this Entry I believe she should remain anonymous.

I met Jenna through mutual friends that frequented the nightclubs and bars in Tucson, AZ, where we lived. There was a mutual attraction, conversations were had over the course of the next month and a half or so whenever we would encounter each other, all with my eventual goal to end up like nearly all of the others, naked and sweating and attempting to exhaust and extinguish our passions, satisfying our basest of curiosities. Still, that it took so long meant something I would only know later on.

(Sidebar: several years earlier I had met a girl I found attractive in a nearly-empty bar. After some conversation, it was clear that neither of us were overly ambitious to pursue a sexual encounter—until we learned that we lived a block or so apart. From my second floor apartment I could see her place, and she could see mine. Suddenly we couldn’t wait to get out of there and to her place where we had amazing sex, but that was only sustainable for one encore performance some time later. Funny how those things work out.)

So no—in a strict definition, this was not like the others. There was no drunken dancing, making out and inevitable disrobing—sometimes even just partially—over the course of the nighttime hours, the deed done, ending with a departure. This one smoldered on for weeks.

She was a bigger girl—not really full-figured but very much like Kate Upton. I am tempted to use the word “voluptuous”, except it has been overused to describe such women. She was in her mid- to late 20s, had large breasts, a slimmer waist and a nicely shaped butt, bigger but all perfectly proportioned. She drove a Jeep with a bumper sticker that said “Silly boys, Jeeps are for girls.” She had blond hair and was a tremendous flirt and could say things that made you think she couldn’t wait to get you alone.

A mutual friend noticed my interest and inquired. I said that I thought she was an interesting person and that yes, I would love to spend some time with her. I learned later on from this person that Jenna had always had bad luck with men, she was attracted to the wrong kind of men and always seemed to get hurt and/or the bad end of the relationship. I was encouraged to keep trying to win her over. I later learned that Jenna was also being encouraged to get to know me better, that I was a good person and that I would treat her well.

I don’t recall a lot of phone conversations, at least very long ones. I kept trying with little success to spend time with her outside of our group. Around this time some new music by a favorite artist leant material to this to-and-fro-ing thing that we were doing:

“Living in exile ain’t no way to go

It’s just another way of dying

A whole lot of faces that you call your own

All those faces are crying

You either run or you hide

Now you slip now you slide

You say you will, but you won’t

You either do or you don’t

Living in exile, just gotta let it go

You know that it’s true

Just like a little child, you’ve got to crawl away

It’s the last chance for you

You either run or you hide

Now you slip now you slide

You say you will, but you won’t

You either do or you don’t

Somebody’s got to see this through

All the world is laughing at you

Somebody’s got to sacrifice

If this whole thing’s gonna turn out right

You either run or you hide

Now you slip now you slide

Now you will, now you won’t

You either do or you don’t

You either do or you don’t

You either do or you don’t.”

Eventually she relented and we did have some time together, several dates I guess you could call them. There were goodnight kisses and hand-holding and, much later on, mutual groping, but for a time it seemed like it would be true what Jerry once said in “Seinfeld” about George and his expected “consummation” of a dating relationship—to paraphrase, I didn’t know if I had enough material.

One evening she came to the apartment that I shared with my close friend Thom and made us an amazing spaghetti dinner. Alone in the kitchen with her, I could not make the move I wanted. While she was standing at the stove stirring her homemade sauce I came up behind her and kissed her softly on the neck several times, she moved in a pleasured way and cooed that she liked that. More than anything else then I wanted to get my hands around for a couple of handfuls of those magnificent large breasts and some gentle massaging, but someone walked in before I could.

As for those breasts—she was quite proud of them. She said they were all natural; she claimed that they passed the “pencil test”, which I had not heard of but involved putting a pencil directly underneath each one. If they are firm enough, there will be no sag and the pencil will fall away. I was anxious to obtain my own results.

Despite how it might have appeared, she was not a bimbo, a stupid girl. She was more than capable of intelligent discourse. Our conversations, while admittedly not frequent enough for my liking, might not have been of great depth but were enough to sustain my interest, at least.

My mother and I were planning a Saturday visit to Jerome, AZ, which for me is a magical and favorite place. I asked if she wanted to come along, and she squealed with delight. It was a pleasurable day and we all had a great time, but my most vivid memory of that day was when she saw the sign for the Jerome exit—State Route 69–and she giggled and laughed at that number’s sexual meaning.

My mom was often very outspoken, and she said, “So you like that, do you?” Jenna nodded enthusiastically.

“But what I really like is sex”, she said, matter-of-factly. “Really?” I asked.

“What’s it like to have sex with you? I mean, other than the obvious reasons, what in particular makes it so great?”

“It’s like driving a Ferrari”, she said.

My mother was amused.

Eventually, as fate and whatever cosmic force you want to name would have it, one night we ended up together, just the two of us, going from bar to bar, drinking, dancing and flirting—teasing and tempting me. The sexual tension was at a particularly high pitch, and if I had anything at all to say about it, this was going to be the night when my Material would be put to the test.

At one point our lips were locked together in the front seat of my car and I was finally able to explore those wonderful globes. It was okay and they felt nice and all, but it was not quite the glorious experience I was expecting. She had bragged before that she was very sensitive to touch in her lady parts and that she could climax quite easily, and having what I considered a certain mastery of that I moved in. Soon clothes were loosened and I was at it. I was enjoying myself and she certainly was, but again there was something…missing. I pulled her together afterwards and we went into the bar where we were parked to visit a friend that worked there.

Inside, she was very touchy, very affectionate, very sexual. After a few minutes it was obvious she could not wait to get me out of there and into someplace private. So, in a manner that I can only describe now as moving with the careening force of something like a roller coaster headed for a deliberate destination, we drove to my apartment and my room.

I vaguely recall much of what happened there. I’m certain alcohol played a part, as well as my anxiety to Finally Get This Thing Done. I recall an actual demonstration of the Pencil Test, but I don’t recall having any feelings about it and even just the barest memory, which is surprising considering how much I really had wanted to see them exposed. I recall clothes coming off, and wanting to demonstrate my half of the 69 performance, but she declined because she wasn’t “fresh” (yes she said that), so instead I used my fingers to satisfy her, as before. Afterwards I asked her to get on top for sex so I could have another go at those Pencil Droppers, but she had fallen earlier in the evening whilst dancing and said she hurt her knee, so she couldn’t bend it very well.

She assumed her part of the Missionary Position and so did I, but we had a problem.

She was as dry as, well, sand. She wasn’t like that a few minutes ago, at least where my fingers were…but lower down where I really wanted to go, she was.

The Ferrari had developed an Oil Pump problem. Obviously I would have to repair it if I wanted my Test Drive.

Meanwhile, alcohol having the effect it does on men, my flag was at half-mast, so I asked if she’d perform on me to get things awake and alert again.

Now, I have had many experiences receiving oral sex, but none like this. She was sucking so hard that it was—no joke—as if she was trying to pull my insides through my urethra. While at first that was pleasurable for a bit, after awhile I honestly began to fear for my safety. AND, her head was rocketing up and down, like a mechanical bull that was on 10, broken and could not be shut off.

I didn’t want her to stop because after all this was flirtatious Jenna starting to make good on all the fantasies I had, and it did feel pretty good—especially her great and obvious enthusiasm for the task—but I recall thinking “Who was it that told her this was enjoyable?” I gently asked her to please slow down and go a little easier.

I talked to her while she was pleasuring me, told her how hot I thought she was, how pretty she was, how I really wanted her. Whatever I could think of to get her juices flowing again.

She moved her lower half up the bed toward me. My talk must have worked because I reached down to gauge the situation and VOILA! Get in the car and let’s hit the track!

Because I always practiced safe sex, I prepared myself while she got on her hands and knees. I guess the knee injury wasn’t so bad after all.

I got behind her and initiated the Dance of Love, which is really just Sex. I recall at one point almost losing consciousness, but fighting it off. I was able to close the sale.

By all indications, a splendid time was had by all.

Afterwards there is often that awkward moment when you must own up to what you’ve just done, individually and collectively. This isn’t made any easier when the individual that is the guest suddenly feels like there must be an immediate departure, as if a bank robbery has just been committed.

This was one time when I would have wanted more time…to appreciate what happened, show some tenderness, if just for a few minutes, and then we could leave if we must. But she was rapidly getting dressed and so I had to do the same.

My friend Bram was staying with us that weekend. He was aware of the Jenna situation, as he was often present when we were all out together. What he was NOT expecting was Jenna and I to emerge from my room, obvious in what had just happened.

The dawn was minutes away when we got in my car and I drove her to her Jeep, in the parking lot of one of the bars we’d visited. There was a deep kiss of good night, a mutual thank you for a great evening, and a farewell. And then she drove away and this song started playing in my mind, then just like it does now:

“Just say we’ll meet again

When the sunset spell is gone in the wind

Please say we’ll meet again

Everyone sees the tear in the seam

But talks about the weather

Everyone pays a price for these dreams

So why not dream these dreams together

Just say we’ll meet again

When the sunset spell is gone in the wind

Please say we’ll meet again

That was a dream, that was a time

But nothing lasts forever

Sooner or later we all must go blind

But we can dream these dreams together

Just say we’ll meet again

When the sunset spell is gone in the wind

Please say we’ll meet again.”

That was our last communication. Phone calls were made but not returned. Some months later I saw her driving on the street, but she did not see me.

I have spent some time thinking about this over the years for an explanation of what happened and how it affected me. There have been other girls I’ve kind of obsessed over before when I was younger, but this one was different, perhaps because it seemed mutual. Most obsessions for me aren’t—or they probably wouldn’t be obsessions.

In the retrospect of the nearly 30 years many things have occurred to me. That here were two people high on a sugar rush of sexual excitement, with no plan for what happened when that was over—instead of trying to make a foundation for a real relationship, if that’s what each really wanted.

That it was a clear case of overpromising and underdelivering, of two people trying to make something work that could not and would not exist on its own volition. It was not sustainable. Sadly: it was like trying to keep a fire in the pouring rain.

I would continue to drink the lemonade I was forced to make for about a year, when I met a girl who we will call Kasey. Again, that is not her real name. We were together for just over five years, in a relationship that too often was as sour as lemonade.

But these are stories for another time.


“You Do or You Don’t” and “Say We’ll Meet Again” from the 1992 “Out of the Cradle” release by Lindsey Buckingham.

Sunday, June 14, 2020

Entry 5000 A Deeper Understanding of What Was, and Was Not To Be

The other night I had a revelation. In this case it was more like a different way of looking at things, in a way that made great sense; like looking through a lens and suddenly have a different image come into focus.

Much has been written before about the previous Great Relationship--that started in 1984, continued until 1987 when I relocated to Arizona—and then restarted miraculously 22 years later. Entries on this very site that describe a "Flooded Basement", for example. In recollection it's as if I was sent off to "wander around in the woods" during this time, emerging just before the reuniting.

One of the experiences/relationships I had during this period was for the most part based on the belief that, for something big to happen, there had to be a good reason--i.e. something better was on the way. After all, why else would such a perfect pairing as the Great Relationship have to end, if not for something better?

Here is some necessary background: growing up in the 1960s, one of my favorite television shows was the original "Hawaii Five-O". I watched it for years. It wasn't the Hawaiian locale I enjoyed as much as it was the excellent writing and superb performances.

Fast forward to the mid-90s. Television commercial for a company that manufactures air conditioning & heating equipment features a silent pitchman. In one ad he dons a grass hula skirt and does a hula dance to a catchy traditional Hawaiian tune called "The Hukilau Song". I thought the ad was funny, but I really liked that song. So much so that I searched and found it on a 45 rpm record, which I played often. And, also in the mid 90s, there was a TV channel that offered reruns of "Hawaii Five-O", which I was able to enjoy again for the first time in years.

Fast forward now to March 1999. Online dating is in its infancy, and has a certain appeal. Like many then--and since--I met my share of odd and offbeat characters, both online and in person. Many of these possessed some socially unacceptable quality that made it easy to understand why they were still--or at least presently--Unattached.

Also, few looked like the picture they chose to upload. Some were so bad it was almost comical.

And, in the midst of all this, a girl with a smile so brilliant that it literally seemed to light up her face.

There was some back-and-forth emailing, much flirtaciousness. She was clever with her words and phrases, the banter between us was light and airy...and, most of all, FUN. I soon learned that she was Filipino/Japanese....

And, she was from Hawaii.

The start of this relationship--at least--was the most intoxicating I had ever experienced. It was the circumstances: different culture, which was new to me; the timing--it was like a breath of clean sweet air, so different than the stagnation I had felt just a few months before in my previous relationship; and she was SO physically appealing to me. It all seemed, at first, to be just so right.

And suddenly, it all appeared to make sense. Certainly, THIS was the reason the Great Relationship had to end...? This was to be the Something Better, foreshadowed 30 years before during the Walk On The Beach at Ocean City? (See Entry 0002.)

I was smitten, and I allowed myself to fall--hard. Much of the emotion that I still had from the Great Relationship was still bottled up inside. I allowed it to flow freely out and into most of the empty lonely rooms within that had been that way for so long.

Years later, when this once-magical relationship that had apparently been doomed from the start eventually fell apart, as it had to, I was devastated. How could this have happened? Wasn't this THE ONE? Didn't all signs point to it?

It was twice as hard as just suffering through a breakup. I had attached all the "junk" to it that did not belong there. Like a bad detective, I had pulled together clues that had meaning only to me to make a case, and had made the facts fit it, instead of the other way around. The Hukilau Song. The feeling that it was all leading up to This Moment. And, worst of all, my boyhood attachment to "Hawaii Five-O" in the 60s, and its reruns in the 90s.

It all HAD to mean something, I thought. It was bad enough to have the relatonship over, althought it was clear that it had run its course. The worst part was what I had built it up to be.

It took a long time to get over all of that. It's difficult to accept a reality different than the one you have custom-made. But, the years went by and as it happened, the Great Relationship returned--at least, its participants did. We were older and the world had colored and changed us, but we still loved each other, which is what really matters.

CBS All-Access offers many television shows, including some classics, like Star Trek in all its forms, and Twilight Zone in its, as well. And the original Hawaii Five-O. We often would watch those old shows, many of which I still could recall.

So much more of the show made sense, now that I had been exposed to and lived it for 5 years--the culture, the food, the language. I don't recall the word "haolie" from before, but I certainly knew what it meant now. Other words, like "pao" and "da kine" made sense now too. I watched with a sort of longing, as even though the relationship had grown to be be frequently unpleasant, the time spent with the family had been okay for the most part.

We watched episodes off and on for several months, then one night it occurred to me. It was like a flash of great insight, almost like an epiphany. Once I had it, it was quite clear, and somehow now it all made sense.

I had it all backwards. The relationship was not caused, prophesied, by "Hawaii Five-O" and all that other stuff at all.

It came to me that, thanks TO the relationship, I now had a better understanding of one of my favorite experiences growing up—enjoying the characters and dialogue and plot lines of that show. And, The Hukilau. And all the other connections.

Perhaps THAT was one of the purposes of the relationship after all, trivial as it sounds. But—had it not been for that relationship, the meaning of it all--my appreciation--my understanding--would be much much less.

So that is how I have come to see it. Like a sore tooth, my consciousness no longer prods and pokes at those memories, bitter reminders of what was—with no understanding of how it all should have been, by my reckoning. A sense of peace has settled in. The square peg fits into the square hole. I believe this is the way it was and is supposed to be.

Thursday, July 14, 2016

Entry 4077 The Milestone of Three Decades

A personal milestone is on the horizon...every day brings it closer to reality.

I've known of its approach for some time; and when it arrives, I suspect nothing will--for all attempts and purposes--be any different. Well, not in a physical, palpable sense.

It was on June 22, 1987 that I departed Western PA--the only home I had ever known--for the Great Southwest and my adopted new home of Tucson, AZ.

I arrived there on June 26, around 3 pm. This was the start of the second portion of my life, I suppose you could call it, although at the time I didn't necessarily feel that way.

However, as it has turned out, that was exactly what it was.

So the milestone that will occur in 2017--next year--presumably on June 26, will mean that I will have been relocated in Arizona for as long as I had been my entire life in Pennsylvania.

This might not mean much on the surface to many or even most people. But it gives me cause to reflect.

It will have been 30 years since I arrived here...and, I left PA when I was 30 years old.

As you can probably imagine, I have two sets of memories. One, from the first 30 years...and, one set since June 26, 1987. The two don't overlap, because even when I would return to PA to visit it was with a different mindset--it was always a place that I USED to live.

Because of the person that I am, given to reflect and re-reflect on the passage of these last 29 years...I will revisit memories, thoughts, ideas; and likely more tangible things like places, music, photographs, and so on.

I have not written much on James Anonymous these last few years. Most of my prior entries had to do with the struggle to find romance and/or some sort of contentment. Well, as I have said before, that thankfully has taken care of itself. And, in 2012 I started a more "current events" weblog called Brood Coffee Talk that I had devoted much time to. In fact, I posted something there every day for about three quarters of a year. There were posts on current news events, some on sports, my favorite music videos...and tech. There were lots and lots of posts on the then-upcoming Windows 8 release, the latest on the Android OS, and the like.

Around that time I was also ghost-writing for a tech blog and getting paid very little for it...and, someone close to me suffered a life-changing injury...and, I finally found something similar to what I used to do for work.

The end result of this is that I suddenly had a lot less free time; and going right along with that, also got kind of burned out over the whole thing. While I wrote a couple of things there in the past few years, for the most part I had largely put that aside. (I did recently add a new entry, but it's based on previous ones.)

'James Anonymous', on the other hand, has been redesigned. As I mention in the "Introduction" sidebar, Xanga has pretty much gone under. I was able to download my JA content in 2014...about a month ago I brought it here to Blogger (Brood Coffee Talk is on Wordpress). It's been restored with all its entries intact.

Of course, this all intersects with my opening premise. In the course of the next few months I'll be relating stories and recollections here of the last 30 years, if for no other reason than to preserve them.

There are memories that, despite the passage of time, are still rich and detailed. Saturday nights spent sitting having drinks with friends at the (Fabulous) Foothills pool in Tucson...early dawns spent driving in the winters of Northern Arizona...investigating new towns and locales.

I'm looking forward to sharing it all with you.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Entry 4061 More on "Exile on Main Street" (Entry 4057)

Here's a sort of validation for anyone who really needs it..."Rolling Stone" magazine just published a "Special Collector's Issue", "The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time." The Rolling Stones' "Exile on Main Street" ranks 7th in this poll.

(The albums ahead of it: 1--Sgt Pepper's; 2--Pet Sounds; 3--Revolver; 4--Highway 61 Revisited; 5--Rubber Soul; 6--What's Going On.)

(I'm a big fan of the Fab Four...still, while I certainly agree that "Pet Sounds" should be at least in the Top 5, and so should "What's Going On," I'm not certain that I'd put 3 Beatles records before "Exile.")

Anyway--open that book and right there on Page 3, the Introduction, by Elton John--he says it. "'Exile on Main Street' is the finest rock and roll album ever made."

Say what you want about Sir Elton, but there's no denying the man knows music. I'm not particularly a Stones fan, but it's been what some of us have been saying all along.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Entry 4075 Mr Scooterpants!

I mentioned--in Entry 3911 A Prior Love of Travel--that one of the reasons I did not want to be away from home any more was the new kitten we had found, on April 14, 2010, just two weeks old (and let me say that she has grown up to be quite the pretty young lady!) Sadly however, last April--within a two week span--we had to put down the two cats I had had for what was then 14 years, Lowell and Goldwater. There are pictures of them mixed in with other photos from my home in Latrobe, PA...and later on in Tucson, AZ here.

This left Miercoles with no play partners...she seemed okay with that, for a while. I soon noticed that she depended more on us for playtime, which was okay except we weren't here much during the day. So, In September of last year, we adopted a partner for her...we went to the Arizona Animal Welfare League and picked out Cashew (as he was known then), an adorable two month old male kitten whose markings were so similar, you would think he was either her brother or that she gave birth to him.

The poor little guy had a very rough start...while at first he was fine, after a day or so we noticed he was having real trouble chewing his food...and he made small whimpering noises while he slept. He had lost almost all of his energy...though we had kept the two of them separated for the first few days, they were soon playing energetically with each other. That is, until he got sick...then she kind of turned on him when he didn't feel like playing back. It turned out that he had Calicivirus, and from what we read on the Internet, he likely had it when we got him at the AAWL.

I was furious...while it cost us almost $800 (not including his adoption cost), I was more concerned that the poor kitty was suffering greatly...he had an ulcer on his tongue that must have been very painful, making it very hard for him to eat. Additionally, his system was weakened enough that he also developed a bad respiratory infection, which also attacked Miercoles, resulting in another large vet bill to treat her.

How could he have been allowed to come home with us, with this condition?

Supposedly all animals are examined before they are released...certainly there had to have been some indications that he wasn't well! I expressed my concern by a telephone call to the AAWL...which was not returned. I sent several emails, finally receiving a response that, essentially, the AAWL was not and could not be held responsible for Cashew's condition, that Calicivirus was common in shelter animals, and there was no indication that he had it when we got him. There were many stories on the Internet about entire shelters that became infected with Calicivirus, and all the animals had to be put down. This can be serious business.

I was furious...all I wanted was a simple apology: "Yes, we're very sorry that this has happened. Perhaps we need to be more careful in our screening and release procedures. Please accept our apologies." What if a little boy or girl had been given a pet like him as a gift? Imagine their disappoinment! Imagine the family who has no patience and simply returns him, which is bound to be more traumatic to him.

Eventually, after several emails in which I threatened to not only withdraw our financial support but also refuse to give them a good reference (we had already made several good-sized donations in the past few years), I got an apology...well, sort of. It was worded close to the way I had wished for...and it only took three emails back and forth to receive it!

My official position regarding this matter is as follows: in 1998 my then-girlfriend and I visited the AAWL and adopted Lowell and Maynard, a several-month-old kitten that she took with her a year or so later when we broke up. I have never had any complaints about any part of that adoption experience, and indeed went back with my fiancee last September to choose Miercoles' new companion.

Will we still support them with donations? Yes--the service they provide as a no-kill shelter is invaluable. Will we recommend them to others looking for a new pet? Yes...providing that you INSIST that the animal be THOROUGHLY examined (or, as thorough as the AAWL is in their examination). Ask many questions! Maybe, take a look at the prospective pet yourself, learn the signs and indications of possible illnesses, and choose accordingly.

Recently Cashew has gotten a new name, which was pretty hard to finally come up with. I believe that while you can name a pet whatever you want, it's their traits and characteristics that really should determine its name...and the one that finally evolved for him is R J Scooterpants.

The "R J" comes from Robert John, who scored a hit record in the 70s with "Sad Eyes". Our little guy has eyes that are never completely wide open--his eyelids droop down a bit at the top, making him appear sad. It also can stand for Running and Jumping, which he does a lot, and the reason why he got the name Scooter. (He also got it after the sick rabbit in an old Minute Maid TV commercial). The "-pants" part is because when he runs, his gait is such that he looks like he's wearing a pair of pants that are too big for him (if that were even possible!).

There are pictures of Miercoles well as those of Mr Scooterpants.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Entry 4057 Rock and Roll Like It Was (And Is)

I just finished listening to "Exile on Main Street", the total number of times which must be in the high hundreds--which doesn't sound like a lot but really is, unless it's the total number of times you've told someone who's very special to you that you love them. You can't do that nearly often enough.

This is--in my humble opinion--the finest rock and roll album ever made...and yes, believe me, I know that takes in a lot of ground (but there are some close seconds). It's got blues, soul, gospel, a bit of country--the mix of which is what started rock and roll in the first place. Not completely polished at times (or at least, that's how Jagger and Richards wanted it to sound), the urgency of the music and sheer GET OUT is one of the things that really makes this recording stand out.

The other thing can be summed up with six words: Venetta Fields, Clydie King and Sherlie Matthews. The superb blending of their voices' rich soulful and gospel tones really helps push this album to the top. The three can also be found on other recordings, such as Steely Dan's "Can't Buy A Thrill" and Graham Nash's "Songs For Beginners".

They started a singing group called The Blackberries in 1973 and recorded an unreleased album. Since then they have mostly appeared separately on many and varied recordings. For example: on a recent VH-1 retrospective on Pink Floyd, Ms. Fields talked about being a part of the first "Dark Side of the Moon" tour in 1973 and her contributions to the 1975 record "Wish You Were Here".

These three women--collectively and individually--have done much to shape the music we know and love.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Entry 3911 A Prior Love of Travel

I've said on here before about how I've it's been a huge part of my life for 20 years now. The excitement of every day being different...starting the day in one small town and often ending it in another.

A life in hotel rooms, and dinners in--and from--restaurants. While others might find it tedious or lonely, for me it was just the thing.

It's easy to have such a life when you're alone, with no family or relationship or children at home. I once worked for a boss who kept wanting me to work just in my local area...I told him that he should take advantage of my situation while I was still by myself and could travel, because once that ended so would my traveling.

And, eventually, that is what happened.

A few entries ago I wrote about the great relationship I rediscovered...unlike previous ones in which I was often gone, traveling for my work, I would not want to be away for four days at a time like I always used to be.

And, there's another thing: this adorable kitten that was found last April in the parking/carport area where we live. She was just two weeks old, eyes barely even open.

I'll write more on this later on, in more detail, and with pictures as well. For now, let's just say I have fallen completely in love with this wondrous, precious and adorable little kitty.

Beyond just missing her--if something happened to her while I was gone, I could never forgive myself for not being there. It's very different--for me, anyway. It's almost like she's our little girl, but in a kitten's body.

It's like we now have the child we always wanted--when before we didn't get that chance, and thought it was gone forever.

--Sent from my Newton MessagePad 2100