"Hangin' on to those good times, Baby!"

100.03, the Sound, is playing the greatest top 100 albums (that's vinyl to you young-un's), voted into being by their listeners.  I didn't vote--not because I couldn't narrow it down.  But the songs they've been playing have taken me from the floaty buzz of that third tequila shot--high school-ditched afternoons on the shores of Redondo Beach, when the lowering sun lined everything in gold, and the salt air seemed hypnotic.

I've thought of every family member.  "Some are gone, and some remain", as Mr. Lennon says . . . said.  No, says.  Just like all these songs speaking to me today.  My mama used to like "Teach Your Children" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.  My brother, back in the day, had a killer stereo: receiver, turntable, cassette player, three microphones and "Quad" speakers.  Family-party time, always including mama, was to get totally blind and sing.  My sister's, my brother, myself and our partners would spin C.S.N.& Y. , the Eagles, Poco and others and sing like the stars we'd suddenly become--beer in one hand, mic in other.  Rockin' It!

 We'd sing along to the LP (thank God), record it all onto the cassette and listen to it the next day.  Which was nothing less than wizz-your-pants hysterical.  Hard on a hangover.

Still. I will never forget how my mama smiled and cried whenever we sang "Teach Your Children", always requesting encores.  I loved my mama deeply, but, by her own admission, was not the greatest mother.  So, I always wondered if she'd really listened to the words of that song.   And now that I'm a mother, I think she did.  Probably hoping we'd notice that she 'got it'. For us to know that her life hadn't been easy, and that she did the best she could.

I listened, Mama.

This radio show has brought back old loves and bad ones.  My first love and first broken heart.  The first time I was "flashed".  A lot of songs (LP's) wrap around some of the best vacations I've ever taken.  Right now, they're playing "Exile on Mainstreet".  Great album, but at the time I was without a home and sleeping at a friend's  house with her sister's two kids.  Still, I was a kid myself: 17.  Not a care in the world.  Right.

Anyhow--I could go on and on, but I'm saving stuff for my NEXT BOOK!  Yes, I will finish the one I'm on.

Memorial Day is for remembering, and I enjoyed myself.    Music is my favorite way to travel. (I think that's a Moody Blues song.  Damn, thought I came up with that on my own).

Update on The Mansions.

I researched The Mansions haunted history online.  The owner's name was Richard Chambers; one of his two nieces (who did indeed hate one another) was named Claudia.  It was Claudia who died in a bloody "farm accident" which cut her body in half.

There were no pictures of the family that I could locate.  The only photo I could find of The Mansions itself is the one to the left a remodeled front-view taken by a realtor. While the listing does mention the home is haunted, it quickly goes on to describe how it's been "painstakingly reformed to its previous glory". 

But not in my eyes.  It pretty much looks like any other "new and improved", cookie-cutter Victorian home. 

The Mansions I experienced was beautiful with its peeling paint on the porch, too many indoor plants and cobwebbed corners on the vaulted ceilings.   Bald spots shined on the red velvet curtain edges, and the smells of old mahogany and sweet flowers sent goosebumps up my back.  19th Century rich folks had lived there, died and left all their gaudy "stuff" along with a few of their souls.  I'm sad it's gone, apparently along with it's amazing history.

Gonna keep looking for those pictures I took.  Keep checking here; maybe you'll get to share in a piece of Haunted San Francisco.

The Mansions Hotel, Louie's and The Sutro Baths: A Ghost Story.

More than ten years ago, my sister's husband, Bill, caught a virus which shot straight to his heart.  Within days he fell into congestive heart failure and was forced to stay in a San Francisco hospital where they kept him alive to wait for a heart transplant.  He endured this for nearly 18 months before some stranger had been beaten in the street until brain-dead--and  that night, my brother-in-law got his new heart.

My two sisters, Carol, Sandy and Carol's son, Billy and I flew to San Francisco. 
We'd been there many times before for visits and near-death nightmares, so we were well aware of the short-term apartments the hospital provided for families.  However, this one time, they were full.  As the hospital knew Bill and his family very well, they rallied and found a place called the Mansions.  There were others on the list, but the Mansions were first, so we took our chances.

Not knowing what to expect, we were all fascinated as we pulled to its curb: The Mansions Hotel was a three-story, sprawling, turn of the century home, complete with stained glass, gingerbread trim, domed rooftops and beautiful grounds.  I got out of the car, ran up the three sets of front steps to the lobby to see if there were any vacancies.  I opened the door and was shocked by the blood-red carpet, velvet drapes with gold-fringe and tie-backs.  Giant ferns in gilded pots, statues holding other plants and peacock feathers.  There were mirrors everywhere and candles, chandeliers and urns. 

At the front desk stood a man dressed in a dark jacket with a brilliant Macaw parrot on his shoulder.  I managed to ask if there were any vacancies and he said that one room had just become available on the third floor with two standard beds and a private bath (other guests had to share one on each floor).  I told him that would be great, and as he made busy, I looked to my right.  On the wall was a framed picture and article with Sylvia Brown (a famous psychic), attesting to her time spent at the Mansions, and that "Yes, it's indeed haunted."

I ran out, excited beyond words, and told my family that we could stay there.  "And guess what?" I said, "it's haunted!"  My sisters looked at each other and started laughing; Carol's son (about 17 at the time) was not thrilled.  Not wanting to show it, he went along, and all four of us were book to stay in a room called The Sutro Room.

Of course, before we were shown to our room we checked out the place, read everything we could find on the walls about who had lived there, who haunted the place and actual testimonials from previous guests.
It seems a family lived in the mansions with two sister who literally hated each other.  After years of arguing and family squabbles, the father cut the house in half.  There were two entrances, two dining areas, two staircases, etc.  Apparently, those who "walked the house" were one of the sisters, a gentleman and one of the housemaids, if I remember correctly.

The room itself couldn't have been more beautiful and quaint.  Two small windows overlooked the old fashioned fire escape near the window seat.  The two small beds were about four feet apart, piled with fluffed, flowery quilts and pillows.

Our bathroom had a gorgeous domed ceiling, black and white tile floor and an old fashioned claw foot tub with a circular shower curtain.  On the wall hung a huge diagram of The Sutro Baths that used to be "thee" place to relax if you were anybody back in the day.

So, sufficiently scared, we spent time in our room, taking pictures, making fun of Billy who sat in the window the whole time.  We all left the bathroom door open when we had to "go" because we noticed that the hanging mirror would swing just ever so.  It being a very old house, and us on the top floor, we ppfftt it off with a giggle.

Being very late in the afternoon, we went out to dinner and had a great time celebrating Bill's new heart.  We returned to the Mansions to find it very quiet and creepy, to say the least; all the guests seemed to have gone to bed.  Back in our room, we still found that the mirror swayed a bit without any of us going in there and no audible movement in the house.  But again, it was, after all, San Francisco; the place probably swayed all the time.

We spent a couple hours talking, snapping more pictures and finally went to bed about 3am.  Sandy and I took the bed beside the bathroom, Sandy near the wall.  Carol and Billy were beside us, Billy to the wall.  Teasing and giggling we finally fell quiet.  I turned on my side facing Sandy when I felt a hand tuck my covers under my ribs.
I immediately turned to give Carol hell for scaring me only to find her facing away from me, her bed four feet out of reach.

I felt no fear at all--no sense of harm, so I said nothing.  At breakfast I told everyone what happened, and Carol, always a joker, swore she fell immediately to sleep and had not touched me.  Breakfast got real quiet after that.

We went to the hospital to check on Bill: he was conscious but drugged and needed rest.  So we went to do a little sight seeing.  Around lunch, we all agreed we couldn't eat in San Francisco without trying some seafood.  We drove and drove all over the hills wanting to find a place out of the crowds.  After a long while we saw, way down at the bottom on a cliff was a place called Louie's.  Right out of a movie, right?  It was the same inside: having been there for 50 years, it was old time classy with red booths and giant windows overlooking the ocean. 

We sat at our booth, started looking at the menus and noticed a historical flyer-book: The History of The Sutro Baths.  Out our window, on the rocky beach below lay the ruins of the famous Sutro Baths--the reality of what was left of the diagram on our hotel room wall. 

We told our waitress about our experience.  She was pretty freaked out and told us that Louie's was also haunted" the ghost rattled glasses and tipped barstools over, always after closing.  And there had been reports of a Lady in a blue evening dress who walked the beach below at night.

Pretty wild, huh?  We told everyone about our experiences, but few believed us or had some explanation.  But when I developed my film, there were half-moon star bursts over the mirror in the bathroom at every angle.  No other pictures revealed anything out of the ordinary.  Still, I know a kind hand tucked me in that night.  I was wide awake and felt it as definite as a gentle handshake.  No one will ever make me believe otherwise.

The Mansions doesn't exist anymore.  It was purchased and turned into condos.  Sad, huh?  I bet you can find its history online, though.  I'm glad we stayed there.  It was a haunted step back in time, and I won't ever forget it.
Sleep tight . . .

The Sociopathic Penis or the Sleaze Gene

To begin, let me say that I do know several "faithful" guys, so I won't generalize by saying "all men".  But what the hell is up with Arnold--besides his dick?  If a man is not getting his Knob Polished like-he-likes, can't he try something other than boning the help?  Is his need so strong that he can no longer hear the voice of reason?  No.  Know why?  Because, for one thing, dicks have no ears, and for a second thing, his "Little Head" has a Sociopath personality disorder: the inability to feel guilt or conscience, acts out for its own benefit and blames other for its actions.  These dicks are also very often grandiose in their thoughts of themselves and ideas of how the world perceives them.  Believing they're bigger than life, they act accordingly. 
One would think that fame brings this out in some dicks.  Politics certainly.  Maybe they have a gazillion more opportunities than the average penis.  Or maybe it's just that we see the consequences of their behavior on the news more the "Common Joe" dicks.  But I can't rule them out; let's not forget Loreena Bobbitt and her famous slice, drive and toss treatment of her husband's afflicted member.
Then there's the Sleaze Gene--Hugh Grant picking up street whores for blow-jobs while married to a beautiful model.  Now, I agree, beauty isn't everything.  Maybe his pretty wife was an ice princess in the sack and otherwise.  I sympathize.  Still, I believe that the very idea of possibly being caught is part of the "Little Head's" sick thrill.  It's an epidemic!
My own daddy was taken down with both of these.  My mother found out he'd been doing the babysitter the day she brought me home from the hospital.  He'd be gone Friday or Saturday night, but come Sunday morning breakfast, there he was at the head of the table laughing and groaning over Mama's good cooking.  And the whole time she had to sit at that table with her five kids, knowing where he'd been, knowing what he'd been doing--all their married life. 
Are men's egos really so big that they can't stop themselves and imagine what they stand to lose?  Do they not ever look into the eyes of their children and see the adoration and think, "Am I willing to ruin that?"  Apparently not.  All the lives ruined . . .  The countless perceptions of "whole" and "good" and "safe" tarnished. 
I know we all make mistakes; men and women.  Some we can't see until the damage is done.  Still, any moron knows that if you fuck your housekeeper, have a love child while your the GOVERNOR of California should know that you can't keep that a secret.  Shame on him, her and God help the baby.  'Cause his life is gonna be one big ugly mess.  And Lord only knows what kind of man he'll turn out to be.
Hurray for Maria Shriver for NOT standing by her man.  I heard that their oldest son is changing his own last name. 
And that's all I have to say about that . . .

Nelllie Mae, RIP

Heard last night that my dog Nellie died of congestive heart failure.  Years ago, when my husband and I separated, I had to leave Nellie behind.  As soon as I got an apartment where I could have her, I brought her home to live with me again.  Nellie was a beautiful mini Aussie, tri-color.  She adored me and followed where ever I went.  At the dog park--Nellie right at my heels.  Dog beach--Nellie would only go in the water if I did (but she had to daintily step over that first line of sea foam before touching the water).  She slept curled up against my back, rested her chin on my thigh while napping. 
After some bad decisions and nasty business with my daughter's boyfriend, I had to move.  My only financial choice was a 55 and over apartment.  Pets are allowed, but under 25 pounds, plus and $500 deposit and $50 added to my rent.  Again, I had to give her up.  Some sweet, dear friends of mine took her in, even though they already had a yellow Lab.  They kept Nellie for months before a friend of theirs fell in love with her and adopted her.  From then on she became a dearly spoiled lap dog, loved as much as I loved her.
So, she's gone now, but in a better place.  That doesn't take the hurt away, for me or the kind lady who became her mama.
I love you, Nellie Mae.  I'll see  you soon.  You can go in the ocean now; it's all good up there.

Virgin Blogger

This is my first time blogging.  Funny, I was so anxious to start this.  I was bursting with rants and views, opinions and secret revelations; now I can't think of a single one.  I haven't read any other blogs, except my neice's ultra cool writings of the little girl who's haunting their home--complete with pictures from the scene of the apparition. 
For me, I suppose, I've thought of blogging as a diary that others can read, and so that's how I'm going to continue.  I live alone, and too often find I talk to myself--always followed by a frightened little, self-depreciating giggle: Yikes.  Old.  I'm getting old.  Sad that, most times, what I have to say is profound or funny--but I'm the only one who got to hear it.  Not that I'm a brilliant bundle of wisdom or anything, but I have been through a lot in my life.  I have good stuff to say, damnit!   ;) 
Shit, I just rememberd: today is my 28th wedding anniversay--or would've been.  I don't miss being married; that's a lie.  I miss having a warm somebody in my bed.  I've been alone now for 4 years and I still wake in the blue moments of morning and reach under the covers for that warm back.  And he would snuggle against me, spooning even as he slept.  I miss cooking dinner and hearing his car pull in the driveway, me feeling a little thrill and peace that he's home. 
Still, there at the end, his car in the drive made me feel like a little girl in trouble.  When daddy got home, I was gonna get a whippin'.  I didn't get a whippin', but I got silence.  A love-less brush of a kiss against my cheek, more out of habit than affection.  So, I suppose, I'm better off.  No, I know I am.
At 56, many younger people may think that people my age don't think about making love, or intimacy, tender touches and that kind of small talk that two people share at the end of the day.  But we do.  It fills a life.  And when it's gone, TV is a cold substitute.  Bedtime is something I dread, but my dreams are vivid home movies of the past; waking up makes me sad.  Another day begins.