Brigadoon Nights

The truth is My purse smells like cat pee The cute woven basket part The striped fabric lining Sections of strap Darkened with wiz

The truth is Since day one I knew When I smelled it close I passed a threshold To carry its weight anew

The truth is I wondered if anyone noticed If anyone cared

The truth is I don’t care

The truth is I still think it’s perfect

Mickey Mouse T-shirt

Crisp, white, new

At-home bikini wax, presumably

Checking your analog map

Husband front-carrying a pink leather backpack

Yours, presumably

He doesn’t want to sit

The car is chilly

You throw your sweater around your shoulders 

With the abandon of a Costco shopper 

In the middle of the dairy aisle 

At 9:07 AM 

On a Wednesday

That was the side of my head

Sometimes bands my husband is friends with pass through our city and need a place to rest their greasy heads. Understanding the grueling life of the touring musician, we offer our couch and floor when we can. Most of the time our guests are great, sometimes they ain’t and I often think that a list of house rules will keep me from wanting to take a shit in their backpacks while they sleep.

…….

Welcome to our home! We hope you enjoy your respite from the motorized fungus farm you have been traversing this great country in. Here are some pointers to ensure that your stay with us is as successful as your record after next will be.

1. Stop & Take Stock

What do you notice? Do your surroundings say an incredibly affable woman spent days of toil to adorn the walls with a gutsy combination of ironic and vintage art? Select throw pillows that are elegant yet comfy? Who shampoos the rugs biannually? Do you see three awesome, well adjusted cats with stellar personalities yet do not smell them? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you probably have quickly surmised that this ain’t no Ho-Jo and therefore cleanliness is next to godliness. Which brings us to our second point…

2. Take a Fucking Shower

Lord knows your matted taint hair is a rat’s nest of gas station toilet paper and pasty ball guff. I don’t care if you’re sleeping in your own rotten sleeping bag on a pillow you have had since you were 12 and have not washed in as many years. I don’t care that you like the way your hair lays after a year of not washing it. I don’t care that being on tour and looking like a time traveling 70s drifter and smelling like vomit, garlic and sriracha in your mind equates to “living the life.” The only life I am aware of that requires such low expectations is that of a goddamn transient. Wash your body. All of it. Use soap. Lots of it.

3. Don’t Leave Food Out & Clean Up

Saving that roast beef sandwich for later by leaving it on the dining table will only result in one of our three cats ripping through that meat like Katie Morgan at a blowjob contest. It’s modern times, brosefs, put that sammie in the icebox. If you decide not to eat like a barbarian and use a dish, cup or utensil, count your blessings that your hands are not broken and wash up anything you have used. Any take out bags should promptly make their way into the trash can. Yes, we recycle. No you can’t leave a soda can “draining” in the sink. If there is no one around to find out where to put the recycling, throw it in the garbage and be comforted by the fact that one dolphin getting an aluminum can stuck in its blowhole is nothing compared to the number of dolphins the Japanese round up and murder in cold blood every year.

4. Don’t Dribble

Hold your lil’ snake firmly when you go pee-pee. If you over shoot onto the toilet seat or the floor, grab a swag of toilet paper and get to wiping. It may not be until you are halfway to Philly before I notice the havoc you have wreaked, but when I do, hell hath no furry like a woman who has to wipe up dried pee from the bathroom floor. Getting urine anywhere but inside the toilet, means you are incapable of being a functioning adult let alone a traveling musician and should pack your things and catch the next Greyhound back to your parent’s house.

5. Turn Off the Television

Watching television is a great way to wind down after a long day of travel and a face-melting show in front of twenty people. Dozing off to a marathon of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives at 3AM will make that $300 guarantee that magically morphed into free drink tickets and a blank stare from the promoter seem like a distant memory. Before y’alls hunker down and start questioning your chosen career paths for the up-teenth time, be sure as a band you appoint a Remote Captain. This person has the esteemed responsibility to make sure the television volume is at an appropriate level and that it gets turned off right before ni-nights. If I wake up at 7 AM to get ready for work and the TV is still on, someone is getting kicked in the head. And by someone, I mean everyone.

6. Don’t Worry About It, Dude

If you hear this phrase, it probably came out of Matt’s mouth, and therefore should be ignored. Anything you take out, move, use, disrupt, turn on, shift, soil, messy, touch, breathe or shed on, should be “worried” about. Everything needs to be put back in proper order or I will ruin you. No longer will you be Mr. Buddy Bass Guy or Brooding Kinda Cute Socially Awkward Lead Singer. Your entire identity will be systematically erased and replaced with that of a murderous pedophile. On the lam for the rest of your days, you will ping pong between Bakersfiled and Lodi, eating and sleeping in dumpsters behind Chevrons and Taco Bells. The worms reproducing at breakneck speeds in your bowels will be your only friends. You will die one foggy February morning when you are dumped and subsequently crushed in a garbage truck compactor as you slumber in your dumpster cave. Your mangled body interred for eternity amongst bloated baby diapers and old tires in the county landfill.

All I am trying to say is real men/women handle their shit. If any of the above offended you, you should probably go suck your mom’s tit-tays. Baby.

Xoxo,

I hear a sad song, I think about my cats dying.

I hear a love song, I think about how much I love my cats.

He is too much; this cat-calling is plain offensive. How he knows my name is anyone's guess. The clapping and kissing sounds are vexing enough, but add to that the fact that he is a middle-aged dolt tottering on roller skates wearing a grammatically incorrect t-shirt that reads "Jesus Love You” and it becomes quite imperative that this man is a situation to be ignored.  Maybe instead of gripping white-knuckled to the fence and injecting himself into my day, he should improve his skating on the vast expanse of blacktop available for his maneuvering, preferably far away from me. Does he realize how many other individuals I have running up in my face?

"Cameeya! Cameeya! Come here my baby!"

Baby? I haven't been a "baby" for over six years. That kind of sugary drivel is best reserved for someone who hasn't been around the block a few hundred times. Sorry, pal, waving that weed you just pulled from a crack in the concrete isn’t going to do it. I can't just trot over, accept your whack gesture and allow you to cup my face and pat my butt like we’re old friends. I am not some Runaround Sue. I have better things to do with my life…like protect all this stuff. Milton thinks he has free rein over anything in his line of sight. If I don't keep focused I could lose this Frisbee or this ball or this stick. The stick, in particular, was hardly-won and I plan on enjoying it from tip-to-tip in the shade of my favorite bench before it's time to go bye-bye. Kicking the fence now, are we? The prig!

It was the strangest thing I have ever witnessed, Deb. I was at the dog park with Milton; it was so hot today that I thought he could use a nice cool down with his buddies. I was filling up the pool when I heard this bizarre choking/growling sound so I turned to see Frank sitting on the bench reading his paper and Camilla underneath ferociously eating a stick, which, as you know is par for the course for that one, but the noise she was making was very strange. Well, the next thing I know she is charging at this nice man on roller skates who had been cheerily observing the dogs with his kid. Frank had no chance to grab her collar and by the time he put his paper down Camilla was up on her hind legs, hackles raised reading this guy the freakin' riot act! She wasn't even using the fence for balance! Isn't that just something? You should’ve heard the language she was using. I think at one point she said something to the effect of “It's CA-MILL-AAA, you fuck.” Frank just stood there sweating he was so embarrassed. That poor man, he tried to cut in, but Camilla wasn't having it. She held up her paw and calmly said "This isn’t about you Frank," and then started pacing in front of the man.

“Do you understand? CamiLLLLLLLLaaaaa? Now I know you think I am some dummy that has nothing to do all day but sniff ass and eat garbage, but you're wrong, buddy. Dead wrong. I am the farthest thing from whatever notion you have in your twisted little brain. Your base tactics are incredibly distracting especially when you are some no-name asswipe bumbling around on roller skates – 1985 called, by the way, and they want their recreational activity back. If you want my attention why don't you start off with a real treat? You can take that weed and shove it in your dickhole. I am a serious individual with serious pursuits and if you can't step out of yourself for one cotton-picking moment to recognize that then you're a waste of space. Do you realize how grating it has been hearing my name called ad nauseum for the last 30 minutes when I am clearly trying to do shit? Do you know how hard it was for me to get that stick I just ate? I'll take your silence as a no. That pitbull over there outweighs me by 55 pounds. Fifty-five-fucking-pounds! One of my many life mottoes is "you set it, you meet it," which means that I was gonna win that stick. And do you see a stick? No, because it is now in my stomach. And that's the whole crux of this entire conversation: you don't get me. Last night I completed a month-long project cataloging Frank's record collection by genre, then year, then producer, isn't that right Frank? Frank, speak up!  And here you stand under the fallacious assumption that by calling my name I am putty in your hands. Take a goddamn flying leap. Go back to your dial-up and your Chef Boyardee. I am done with you.”

Do you know at one point she used a British accent? It was really quick so you could have missed it, but I heard it I tell you. The man was so absolutely shocked by Camilla’s bad attitude that his kid had to roll him away. It was like he had PTSD or something. He was only trying to be nice. Frank hardly did anything by way of reprimand. He gave Camilla’s collar a little tug and she sat down with a violent cough and gagged that stick she had been so proud of all over his loafers. She didn’t even care, like no response whatsoever. I kinda felt bad for the sap, but it was also a little funny considering.

“Oh Camill, you know these are new.”

Nicholas,

As we look ahead to the upcoming holiday, I write to implore you to take heart and do your duty as the forefathers of our country did over two centuries ago. You are the first of four children and as such must take on the mantle of bravery and daring. Think not of your trepidation or eventual discomfort, not of the beating sun on your sweat drenched brow, not of the dribbles of tepid water running down your chin on to your festive Wrangler short sleeve button up, not of the pasty mix of bun and saliva coating your fingers. Focus your soul upon the golden dawn of your unborn child as you raise her up as the daughter of a legend among busters. The human throat was divinely crafted to accept tubular vessels with the ease of a mallard landing on a glassy pond in the hushed summer twilight. Take comfort in this sacred truth and hoist your family name high in the cathedral of greatness. Your digestive issues will be complex and unpleasant of which tonics will do little to assuage. This fact might give you pause, but remember, dear brother, that no man from any age whose name remains on the lips of people across this vast earth has ever reached immortality without trial. You have met this all-beef foe once before and vanquished him with 32 knights of ferocious mandibular agility. Stories of this nascent battle tell of a great warrior fisting franks from folding table to novelty chalice to mouth with such speed that the collective breath of the small band of onlookers was stolen from their breasts. Should you falter during the contest, stifle your retching and cast your watery eyes to those of your son who looks to you as a great lion who needs to sack up. Your kin will be at your front, shoulder-to-shoulder, supporting your harried jaunt. Ardor will carry you.

 Fly.

Your beloved sister,

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

October 15, 2014

NEWARK - When God closes a door, she opens a window. With the shoulder-shrugging departure of the New Jersey Devils Dancers who underwhelmed Devils fans with their Spears-meets-Perry gyrations both on the ice and atop sections 3 and 14, a new spot has been blasted open on the list of Top 9 Hottest Ice Girls Squads. Meet the Brown Devils. A resilient improv dance duo clad in white leotards with brownish stains in the uh-oh places. The brains behind the duo are New Jersey native Rudy Culstone and O.G. Californian Morgan Fullletti who collaborate on what they describe as "just us dancing to music we like." When asked what's the deal with the stains, Fulletti said "we really wanted to approach our costumes as a medium through which we could get people thinking. It goes without saying that women dancing wildly in kinda see-through leotards in a sports arena with a large male contingent will whet some serious whistles, but it also can be divisive, especially among the lady hockey fans. That's why we chose white, because it's the color of purity, light and wedding gowns. It says let's share a bottle of Prosseco. White is also the best color that allows brown to show up at a distance. So as we are dancing up and down the aisles people will wonder 'Is that poop or something?'" So is it poop or something? Culstone says not necessarily. "It's whatever you want it to be. The brown represents the murky 'What if?', and it could be something as simple as 'What if I get another beer during the second intermission?' to the more mega 'What if I decided to change the world?'" 

What do Fulletti and Culstone hope Devils fans will take away from their performance? "Pictures of us on Instagram." Avant-garde? Yes. Talented? Maybe. Worth your money? Always. You can catch the Brown Devils and their thought provoking performance at the Devils home opener against the San Jose Sharks this Saturday, October 18 at the Prudential Center.