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Taken on Friday. At Big Beach, in Maui. I think this is perhaps my most favorite NakedFriday picture, ever.
Have a fabulous holiday weekend, everyone. Spend it celebrating your patriotism...however you feel you should. I also encourage every single one of you to get naked. Because a little nakedness is a VERY GOOD THING.
I'm back. Did you miss me? Har!
I had a fabulous time and promise to give you proper trip highlights very soon.
But right this minute I must take my sweet sweet puppies to the beach.
I missed them terribly! How will I ever go to Europe for a whole month? Do you think I can convince DearSweetDave to let them come along with us?
Perhaps Tom Cruise would loan us the use of his private jet (like he did those Brangelina folks) so that Stella and Buddha could enjoy the media room while traveling instead of being in crates in cargo?
Obviously I got just a tad too much sun while I was in Maui!
So, tell me, what have I missed? Tell me everything!
Gwendomama was so right. Buddha was most certainly trying to get me back for going to Maui. However, since the foxtail has been found, I'm going.
Now.
NeverNakedBeth will only turn 40 once. She has never been to the great state of Hawaii, so I will be her personal naked tour guide and make sure that she sees at least the island of Maui in a very special way.
I'm leaving the computer at home for this trip. So you'll just have to wait until I get back for all the juicy details.
But we are going to the Maui Film Festival. That part has even me just a little bit more than excited.
And NeverNakedBeth is getting lei'd when she arrives at the airport tomorrow.
That should at least start things off properly.
Should any of you lovely Internet readers happen to actually be in Maui, come and join us both at Little Beach on Sunday afternoon.
Maybe with the drumming and all those comfy naked folks, NeverNakedBeth can embrace her 40's as NakedBeth. It would be a joy for all of us to see.
Have a wonderful week. I'll be home with tales and pictures on June 22.
I have spent the last 72 hours or so in one type of emergency or another and I can honestly say that I am more than ready for this full moon to be DONE.
Please.
Sunday found me in our own Dominican Hospital's emergency room, again. This time, however, I was not the patient. I was just the one with infinite patience, because it certainly felt like an infinity between the time I arrived with my friend Gail and the time we were finally escorted back into an available room. I am not dissing Dominican. They do a very good job. Really and truly. Their care and especially their emergency room nurses are top notch. But on a Sunday when it is a full moon you should just know that in Santa Cruz every weirdo who calls this place home (and we like to keep Santa Cruz weird, you know) is going to decide that the emergency room would be a mighty fine place to hang out for a while.
It was so busy they were actually treating people in the hallways.
Anyway, Gail's diagnosis and treatment took a veryveryvery long time and I didn't get home from that little excursion until 2:00 a.m. when they finally admitted her to the actual hospital. That was a very long day, indeed.
But not quite as long as yesterday.
Buddha, dear sweet adorable Buddha, took it upon himself to inhale a foxtail into the nether regions of his nasal cavity. And then he proceeded to sneeze and achoo and sneeze some more for more than thirty minutes trying to dislodge it. Blood came out of his nose! My poor puppy.
So off to the emergency vet we went. Where they put him under and scoped him. And searched. And prodded. And tried to find it hiding in the membranes. All at 3:00 this morning. And to no avail. The doc was unsuccessful which made me really think that perhaps my gut was right. That he had actually sneezed it out with all those achoos and buddha bless you's at the dog park.
However, his regular vet thinks otherwise. So at this very moment, Buddha is having emergency rhinoplasty. With fiberoptic scopes. And more anesthesia.
I'm a major wreck. I know in my heart of hearts that he will be fine. But I'm so tired, it's hard to remember that he WILL BE FINE.
All together now, Internet.
Buddha will be fine.
As I just typed that, no joke, his vet just called. He has a foxtail for me. And a happy dog.
Buddha IS fine.
And so am I.
For those of you thinking this is a post about the state of my marriage, it's not. It is a post about the state of my membership in the Deadhead community. I think I have been officially kicked out. Turn my tie-dye in at the door. Hand over all my collected ticket stubs. Toss the bootlegs in the bin. And don't dare to whisper that I ever was a part of the traveling show.
Why? Why do you ask?
Last night DearSweetDave and I were out to dinner with our friends Matt and Lisa at the Saturn Cafe. And Matt turns to me and casually mentions that it was a sad day for him so it must have been a sad day for me since Vince Welnick had died.
I knew nothing about this. Absolutely, nothing. And was shocked to find out that he had committed suicide a WHOLE WEEK AGO. It wasn't like it just happened. An entire week had gone by and I've been so caught up in my own little world of herbs and teas and holistic health and travel that I didn't even know. How on earth can I possibly call myself a Deadhead and not know that one of our beloved band members had died? I don't think I can, quite honestly. I mean really, do you?
Now, granted, this isn't the same as when Jerry died. Or even when Brent Mydland died. Vince took over the the hot seat when Brent died of a drug overdose just before the Dead were about to embark on their European Tour back in 1990.
I actually remember Vince's very first show with the Dead. It had been a few weeks since Brent had died, but all of us were still in a bit of shock and were wondering how things would continue. The keyboard position in the band was a "dangerous" one as the men who sat there seemed to wind up dead in one fashion or another. So it wasn't that we weren't used to change in that spot. But Brent was beloved by many. Deadheads are loyal beyond measure to the band and its players, my own recent slip-ups excluded, of course.
Brent had filled his corner of the stage with multiple Hammond organs and a rich full-bodied sound and gravely voice that always provided a great counter-point to Jerry's sweet vocals and lead guitar. Though Vince had had a great career with the Tubes, there were many among us who really had no idea who he was. And while we wanted to believe we were welcoming him with open arms, I will be the first to tell you that he was bravely entering into hostile territory where manymanymany of us were just waiting for him to screw up.
Oh and how he screwed up. The poor guy. He never stood a chance on that first night. There he was in the corner with his little Casio keyboard. It looked and sounded like something straight out of Toys 'R Us. I know it wasn't. But again, remember, Deadheads see LOTS OF SHOWS. We're more than a bit critical and picky when it comes to the quality of our music.
So there he was. Barely hanging on. Plunk, plunk, plunk on his tiny keyboard. Screwing up the harmonies with Jerry, Bobby and Phil at every opportunity. I walked out of that show and cried. I was certain that my Grateful Dead experience was coming to an end.
It didn't. Not for a long, long while.
Vince came through. He never was Brent, or Keith or Pig Pen, for that matter. But he never was going to be and we shouldn't have expected that. Eventually he found his own place in that right hand corner of the stage. He even started singing his own songs and we danced our strange dances and grooved along and clapped and cheered just as much as we did when Jerry or Bobby or Phil sang, too. He kept plunk, plunk, plunking along and sang his way into our hearts. He became one of us. He was our brother.
It saddens me to think that he found himself so tormented in these last few years that he actually took his own life last Friday. I can't even begin to understand that kind of torment and depression. I do hope that he knew, at the very least, that the Deadhead community did love him for playing in our band.
Thank you, Vince. For stepping in. For playing in the band. May the four winds blow you safely home.
I know what you're thinking. That crazy Nakedjen is going to ramble on and on and on again about Buddha and Stella. You're thinking, "Enough with the dogs, already, Nakedjen! Please just write about ANYTHING else!"
Well, this isn't about the dogs. They're doing quite well, by the way, thank you for asking.
Yesterday morning I took Buddha and Stella to It's Beach for their daily romp in the surf. (Wait a minute, Nakedjen. You said this wasn't a post about the dogs! And yet you're already telling me that you took the dogs to the beach! Patience, dear Internet, patience.) It was a very clear and sunny and warm Sunday and so naturally the beach was a tad more crowded than usual. One of the guys that regularly comes to the beach and the dog park happens to be a substitute teacher who has a small dog named Chrissy. This is all I really know about him. I mean I see him nearly every day, but I don't engage in conversations with him. I smile at him when we pass one another on the path, or at the beach, but I don't even know his name. I also know that he does have a girlfriend.
Many months ago, when I first started taking the dogs to the dog park and the beach, on a Sunday, in fact, this guy seemed to have a psychotic break. Or perhaps he didn't take all the medication that he should be taking on daily basis. Or maybe he just had a REALLY GOOD Saturday night and whatever his drugs of choice had been had not fully worn off. I honestly don't know, but he roamed the dog park talking VERY LOUDLY and making all kinds of Whoops and Hollers and, yes, frightening more than a few people. Not in a sinister kind of way, but more in a "What's wrong with him?" kind of way.
On that day, according to my friend Mike, who is a regular at the dog park, he threatened Mike's life. Mike says that this guy came up to him and said, "You better watch out, when your back is turned I'm going to get you!" None of the rest of us saw this happen or heard it happen, but Mike insists that it did happen. So okay, it happened. And Mike has not forgotten it.
So yesterday we're all at the beach. Enjoying the beautiful day. And, well hell, I'll just call him CrazyMan, arrives with his dog, Chrissy. Mike turns to me and says, "I'm going to a different part of the beach, I don't trust that guy!" I say, "Okay, whatever."
Well, the CrazyMan starts acting Crazy. He's walking down the beach and every once in a while he starts waving his arms around and screaming BITCH at his dog. Over and over again. BITCH! BITCH! BITCH! Eventually, another man who is not a regular at the beach asks CrazyMan to please refrain from screaming BITCH in front of his mother and daughter. Only he says, no joke, "Listen, Motherfucker, stop fucking saying BITCH in front of my mother and daughter!" I kid you not. I was standing right there. That's exactly what he said.
CrazyMan actually takes offense at the offensive language used by this other man and says that he's yelling at his DOG, who is a BITCH, and that the beach is a public place and he can do whatever he wants.
Well at this point, about seven different people, including Mike, call the cops.
And that's when I got just a little bit sad.
I realized that all those years I spent on tour with the Grateful Dead have perhaps made me just a tad more tolerant of aberrant behavior than others. In the parking lot of Grateful Dead show, one of three things would have happened to CrazyMan:
1. His friends would have gathered around him, controlled him, talked him down and diffused the situation.
2. Those of us in the community (and he IS a member of the community, remember, he walks his dog in the park daily) with experience would have approached him in a non-confrontational manner, made sure that he was all right, talked him down, and gotten him the help that he needed.
3. Rock-Med would have checked in with him, assessed his vital conditions, made sure he was not a harm to himself or others, and gotten him the help that he needed.
The cops would not have been called unless (and this is a BIG UNLESS) he actually tried to do physical harm to someone.
But the thing is, we all know CrazyMan. Like I said, he's generally a peaceful man. We also know he is prone to these occasional episodes where he just "goes off" for whatever reason. And for these reasons, I keep wondering why all those folks had to let fear rule their hearts and felt this need to call the cops.
I talked with Mike about it this morning, since he was one of the ones who called the cops yesterday. And he basically told me I was one big naive person. That CrazyMan had threatened his life and he spends EVERY DAY looking over his back, worried that he's going to be "messed up" by CrazyMan. When I reminded Mike that CrazyMan said that to him when he was out of his mind and that he may not even remember it, Mike told me that I just don't know how it is.
But the thing is, I think I do know how it is. I don't think I'm THAT naive. I just refuse to live my life in fear. And I approach all situations with an open heart and from a place of love. I want to believe that generally people are good. Especially the ones that we already know and interact with on a daily basis.
I do understand that no one yesterday knew exactly what CrazyMan might do next. And they felt safer having the police come. The police did come and chatted with CrazyMan and then they left and CrazyMan continued his walk up and down the beach screaming BITCH at his dog. He didn't pose an immediate threat to himself or to others, so the police couldn't arrest him. He is free to scream BITCH on the beach if he wants to do so.
It's not that I'm looking for answers, really. It's just that I want to believe that we're a kinder and gentler society than we really are, I suppose.
If it were me, with Buddha and Stella, wandering up and down the beach screaming obscenities, I really hope that the people who know me at the dog park would come up and at least as me what was going on. That they'd care enough to say, "Nakedjen, is there something I can do to help?"
Which is exactly what I should have done for CrazyMan. I'm just as guilty for not doing at least that much as the folks are who called the police.
Next time, I will. I will ask him. He deserves at least that much courtesy. Every single one of us does.
The Bitch Who Blogs wrote and asked me about my lovely fairy wings. They are beautiful, aren't they? She wanted to know if I made them?
I've been asked this question a lot. Or I've also been asked, "where did you get your wings?" a lot. And my answer is always the same.
I smile mischeviously and whisper, "I sprouted them!" Because we all know that I'm a real fairy and those wings just grew right out of my very own back!
Since, however, The Bitch Who Blogs is really playing Nancy Drew and asking on the behalf of her friend Carlene who is getting married and has decided that she simply must wear wings to do so, I will share the secret of these very magical and special wings.
I wore wings when I got married, you know, so it only seems right that I tell Carlene and The Bitch Who Blogs about the veryveryvery amazing faries who made these wings for me.
Their names are Jason and Shelly Fairy. And they are, absolutely, bonafide true fairies.
I stumbled upon them and knew right away that there was no one better to help me sprout my wings. Working together, in a true collaboration, my wings slowly unfurled and came to life. The creation involved emails and telephone calls to their fairy workshop hidden in England. And then it involved Shelly and Jason infusing the wings with all their magical goodness so they could take flight and find their own way to my front porch in Santa Cruz.
Sprouting my wings has most certainly transformed my life. I have always been a fairy, I have always worn wings. But these wings, these orange and pink and purple sparkly wings, these wings are wings that only NakedJen could ever sprout.
And that has made all the fairy difference, indeed.
