Notes from the Red Bird House

Until I started coming to Las Vegas a couple months back, I'd only ever been there twice in forty-eight years. One of those times was for a college tennis tournament (Only memories? Getting booted out of the Circus Circus casino for being underage, the seniors buying our lesbian coach and her girlfriend blow jobs - the shot - and snow in February). The other was when I was maybe ten and I got to skip school and drive over with my dad (Only memory? Getting to ride in my dad's work van). I've now been so many times that the cattle call Zone 3 loading process at Frontier Airlines ceases to bother or amaze me. No, I don't have a gambling addiction, nor am I dating a stripper. I still have to explain that before each and every trip when someone invariably exclaims, "Wow! Don't get into too much trouble!". Whoa there. I go for family and hang out exclusively on the residential side of town (Yes, there is one). If pressed, I might play a couple hands of video pok...

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...

Me: For the zillionth year in a row, I work every other day the week of Christmas. Two days off together is apparently impossible. Friend: You are not old enough to have worked a zillion years. Me: Retail years are like dog years...only quadrupled.  ~~ I'm not a writer. Well, I write and if that was the minimum standard, I'd be a writer. To me, a writer is someone who gets paid to write. In my writing "career", I've been paid a sum total of $150. That's it. An entire decade and that's all I have to show. Thus far. I mean maybe one day I'll sell a book for more than I'll pay to produce it and actually - wait for it - make a profit. In the meantime, I work retail. I got the job in 2003 and intended to stay six months, maybe less. It was better than selling gym memberships on commission, but just barely. I took one promotion, then another. Before I could blink twice I was a manager. Then I dared to blink again and I wasn't a manager anym...

 My very first first day of school, I went alone. No mom, no dad, just me. At the time, I guess, I didn’t think myself weird or even independent. It’s just what I wanted to do. And my mom let me. With a full forty-three years of perspective since that day, I realize that it couldn’t have been easy for her. I can’t recall if I took the bus or she dropped me off. For the record, I was the only lone wolf that day. Everyone else had a mom fawning over them (maybe a few dads were fawning but we are talking the early 70s so I’m skeptical) and drying tears. It wasn’t a seamless plan on my part. Teachers don’t pay attention to kids sans parents on the first day of kindergarten. Lost in the shuffle, I sat down on my lunch box (I think it was the Partridge Family – early 70s, remember?), elbow on knee, chin on fist, and waited. Before too long, someone noticed me. Mom probably got judged pretty harshly for placating such independence in a five year old, but, man, that day was seminal ...

I met my sister for the first time when I was somewhere north of forty and she was a couple days shy of fourteen years older. We knew each other as children - there are plenty of Easter pictures to prove it - but back then I was just a tyke hugging a pink bunny and she was an awkward teen in gratuitously colored plaid bell-bottoms. Those weekends had to be trying for her. Time with her dad and his new much younger family couldn't have been much fun. Add in the drive to LA from Vegas and I know I'd have pitched a fit at sixteen. Life went on. I grew up; my sister started a family and eventually got a PhD from UNLV. Our fourteen year age difference was a big deal through most of those years. After a Southwest road trip the Spring Break I turned eight, we saw each other just one time. I happened to be in Las Vegas for a tennis tournament my sophomore year of college and Pam, my then-brother-in-law, and toddler nephew (he recently turned thirty) came to watch. After that, nothing...