Notes from the Red Bird House

This week, a friend told me that I should try-out for "American Ninja Warrior". In her words, "it's almost all arm work and we know you've got some guns." I'm not exactly sure what American Ninja Warrior is - I don't watch much TV and what I do watch isn't reality-based (unless you include "Law & Order, SVU") - but I'm imagining something close to American Gladiators, circa the 1980s, except maybe (hopefully) without the cheesy costumes. In reality, it doesn't matter what it is. I am more than likely the weakest strong-looking person on the face of the planet. In other words, these guns? They're all show. First of all, it'll help if you stop imagining The Rock's biceps on my body. Arguably, my friend isn't wrong. I've got "guns". Not bazookas or AKs. Let's be real. Mine are more like a couple ladies' model Saturday night specials. Petite, well proportioned, and easily stashed away in

Writing involves a lot of start and stop. I know you probably think that's just you, but I'm pretty sure it happens to every writer. You get out of the gate and you're cruising. Nothing can stop you. Until it does. Then you sit and stare at the page, check your social media accounts, shoot a couple baskets on your Nerf basketball hoop, and maybe doodle a little. A glimmer of an idea comes. Then as soon as you start typing, it vanishes. It was like that for me two weeks ago. I sat down with a great idea. Personal, sentimental, close to home, and timely. I got three paragraphs in (the first three paragraphs below) and then everything dried up. All the eloquence that existed in my head didn't translate to the page. After a few frustrating moments, I shut down the computer and went on with my day. I figured one of two things would happen, (a) I'd never come back to it. Some ideas are finite; some don't need the light of day; some are just not meant to be. I have p

Back in 1990-something, a hot, straight- ish , female co-worker announced one morning that she'd sung "Jesse's Girl" by Rick Springfield at karaoke the night before. She'd been drunk, done it on a dare, blah, blah. My mind reeled and I'm pretty sure I stopped listening. When she left the room, I turned to my (lesbian) co-worker (whose expression probably looked a lot like mine) and said (perhaps inappropriately), "How much would you pay to see that?" We both agreed that we'd pay a lot. Like A LOT a lot. We never offered (for obvious reasons) and she (sadly? thankfully?) never invited us to karaoke.  That day, in that moment, Pandora's Box opened. It's not quite Bucket List worthy, so call it a life goal. Since then, I've  dreamed  (on and off - it's not like I've spent years on it) of seeing a beautiful, hot (yes, I'm well aware that I'm shallow), straight- ish  (or straight) woman sing "Jesse's Girl"