Link to article

I recently published an article about a trip up Highway 1 in California, from Cambria to Santa Cruz. The title is "Traveling to a Place Called Home." The article is part of a contest on Gather, so I can't publish it here until that's over. Here's the link:
http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474976739977

The Political Debate in America

The Political Debate in America
as presented by Conservative Media Conglomerate, Inc.
(transcript by AstroGirl)

REPUBLICAN: I think marriage should be only between a man and a woman, so I'm going to introduce a constitutional amendment to stop gays from marrying.

DEMOCRAT: I also think marriage should only be between a man and woman, but I think that decision should be up to the states.

REPUBLICAN: Liberal!

DEMOCRAT: I think we should fully support the war on terror, and give law enforcement all the tools they need to arrest terrorists, even if it means that everyday Americans lose some of their civil liberties.

REPUBLICAN: I think we should do all that too, but I think we should spy on everyday Americans, just in case they are terrorists, and I think we should torture anyone we even suspect until they confess.

DEMOCRAT: But maybe, since due process is guaranteed by the Constitution and all, we ought to let suspected terrorists have lawyers and a fair trial.

REPUBLICAN: Liberal!

DEMOCRAT: Well, maybe I did just go a bit far. Thanks for calling me on that.

REPUBLICAN: I think we should stay the course in Iraq.

DEMOCRAT: I think we should stay the course in Iraq too.

REPUBLICAN: But I think we should kill and torture more people than you do, you hippie peacenik liberal. Furthermore, I think we should totally ignore health care. After all, in America, we have the best health care lots of money can buy.

DEMOCRAT: I think we should ignore health care too, but maybe the really big companies should continue to pay for health care for their employees.

REPUBLICAN: Whoa! You're getting dangerously close there to (gasp!) socialized medicine! Who's going to pay for that? Rich people like me shouldn’t have to pay any taxes!

DEMOCRAT: Rich people like me shouldn't have to pay any taxes either, but may be we should give the middle-class a bit of a break too.

REPUBLICAN: Liberal!

DEMOCRAT: I think we should give 97% of the federal budget to the Department of Defense and use the other 3% for social services, including road repair.

REPUBLICAN: 3%? A whole 3%? Don't you know there are bad guys everywhere, who would love to take America down? Some of them are even hiding under my bed! I think we should give 99% of the federal budget to the Department of Defense and give the other 1% to Wal-Mart.

DEMOCRAT: Would you like me to check under your bed for terrorists?

REPUBLICAN: Would you?

(DEMOCRAT goes and checks.)

DEMOCRAT: It's only a mouse.

REPUBLICAN: Liberal!

(previously published at astrogirl.gather.com)

Peter Tork article: the G-rated version

(previously published on my other page at astrogirl.gather.com - I wrote a g-rated version there because the first version was hidden from some users due to my own self-censorship of the naughty words.)

I previously published another, much more shocking, version of this piece, but since some poor, misguided souls think The Monkees was a kid's show, I thought I should publish a G-Rated version. You know, without all the naughty language and adult concepts. The parts I had to change to make this G-rated are in red.

"Do you remember that TV show, the Monkees?" asked the motel clerk at a small 1950s style motel in Cambria, California. We laughed and pointed at the pink guitar logo on my T-shirt. "That's why we're here," I said. Oh, if the motel clerk only knew! She was talking to two women who watch the Monkees at least once a week, as a way to keep up with current old-fashioned fashions.

Random Factor and I were in Cambria to see Peter Tork and his current band, Shoe Suede Blues, who were playing that night at Painted Sky Recording Studio. That was what the motel clerk was going to tell us, before we so rudely stole her thunder by knowing all about it. Well, we hadn't driven three hours just for the LoCarb no-fat scones in the local coffee shop, that's for sure.

Not dismayed by our impertinent knowledge, the helpful motel clerk also let us know that Shoe Suede Blues were recording an album and a video that night, and hinted that Peter and his band just might be staying somewhere, well, let's just say in Mr. Roger's neighborhood. After this conversation, Random Factor advised me to park my car so that the "got Davy?" sticker wasn't quite so visible.

We'd arrived a couple hours before the gig, just enough time to change our clothes and try to look like Barbie dolls. I'd like to say this wasn't because we had any intention of flirting with someone who already had his own TV show before we were born, so I will, because we would never do something as inadvisable and potentially hazardous as flirting. What does that mean, anyway? In any case, Random Factor certainly did not buy a new blouse for the occasion.

We were well aware that all old people are born old and you young folks have nothing to worry about. Then there was our other slightly naughty little secret, which is this: while all the Monkees were cute enough to inspire frequent comments on their hair during our Monkees TV nights (especially after some of my famous cream of root beer soup), Peter is the only one whose hair caused frequent use of the rewind button. It's embarrassing, but there you have it -- the hidden secret of the Monkees' continuing popularity –- good conditioner. (I withdraw my last comment, because it was completely unfair. The Monkees continue to be popular because of their massive talent, but then nobody else ever gave them credit for that, either.)

Once we'd achieved definite sartorial grooviness, we sauntered off to find the recording studio. You'd think that in a tiny town, something as anomalous as a recording studio would be easy to find, but by the time we located it, we were wondering if it existed in a parallel universe accessible only by jumping up and down three times, rolling a head of cabbage, and giggling.

When we did find it, it was closed and dark, but we were early. It wasn't clear if we were supposed to line up outside the front door or the side door, so we wandered around trying to catch a clue. In our tour of the side of the building, we inadvertently surprised a tall, handsome, and imposing guy who later turned out to be Arnold the bass player. "Uh-oh," he postulated, sounding very much like someone who'd been set to guard the door. We decided that meant we weren't supposed to be there and split.

By the time we came back around, two other women were waiting by the side door, having apparently decided that was the place to wait. We found out from our new friends that Steve at Painted Sky had told them that cameras were OK, so Random Factor went back to the motel to get ours. The three of us remaining by the door passed our time with Monkees quotations. It was then that I realized that the appeal of a girl doglike Mike Nesmith in a stylish outfit that would probably get him in trouble with Pat Robertson is well-nigh universal.

Eventually, in coastal California time, they let us in. I should say that Steve, who I'd talked to on the phone when I reserved the tickets, let us in. This added to the friendly, relaxed atmosphere, as Steve seemed like a swell guy.

By that time, a larger group had gathered by the front door, and of course that was the door that was opened. Later, it turned out that this had actually been good luck, since the two seats I grabbed in the second row turned out to be 10 feet away from Peter and directly in his line of sight.

The truth is, I'm very shy, and when I'm that close to a band, it makes me nervous. I feel like I'm staring inappropriately. If I'd been in the first row, the floor would've suddenly become very interesting. I once stared at my shoes throughout a whole Shawn Cassidy concert, because Shawn was about 3 feet away from me. Don't worry. I wouldn't dream of flirting with him or anyone else. What's flirting?

Let's get one thing straight. Remember all that stuff you've heard about the Monkees not being a real band? Forget it. It's the remains of a bull's lunch. Most rumors have some basis in fact, and the basis in fact of this one is that the boys were cast to be a band by TV producers. That may not be the usual way for a band to get together, but the boys worked hard at making it real, largely because they were prodded to do so by Michael, who wrote many of their best songs, and Peter, who plays multiple instruments.

Peter's current band, Shoe Suede Blues, is a sweet little 4 member blues band with some serious swing. I've never been one to keep set lists and things like that, so I can't tell you what they played, but I know it was a bunch of songs from their existing CD, "Saved by the Blues," as well as several new songs, and 4 Monkees songs. Those I remember: "Last Train to Clarksville," "I'm a Believer," "Your Auntie Grizelda," (with even funnier noises than on the record) and "(Not Your) Stepping Stone."

Among the new songs, one of the highlights was an amusing little number, the title of which might be something like "Even White Boys Get the Blues." The song was all about getting in trouble for having a lemonade stand without a city permit and things like that. Between songs, Peter kept the audience roaring with a wit undimmed by years of playing a dimwit.

During the show, he played three of his multiple instruments: guitar, banjo, and keyboards. After a ripping guitar solo by Peter, I leaned over to Random Factor and whispered, "they didn't play their own instruments, you know." Irony is, ironically, my middle name.

At some point, I'll admit I did get the opportunity to check out the famous hair. I don't think he was still using the same conditioner, but my conclusion was that the years have been relatively kind. Random Factor confessed to me later that she forgot to check. I don't know what she was thinking. After all, it was right there on his head the whole time.

It was a high-energy, fun show, and the CD they were recording that night should be a treat. If they keep any of the jokes, you'll probably hear me and Random Factor rolling uncontrollably on the floor. We tend to knock over chairs when we do that.

After the show, we stood in line to get Peter's autograph. When it was my turn, I sat down next to him and asked, rather apologetically, if he would sign my copy of "Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn, and Jones." I was being apologetic only because I was worried he might sometimes get sick of being perpetually associated with something he did 40 years ago. The man actually beamed. "I would be delighted," he claimed, and sounded like he meant it. This tended to confirm my existing suspicion that although the dummy thing on the TV show was an act, the mellow sweetness was not.

The Monkees have been an invaluable mental health tool for me during the past very stressful year of my life. I thought at least one of them ought to know it. I told Peter, very sincerely, that Random Factor and I watch the Monkees whenever we get depressed, because they always cheer us up.

Random Factor paid her compliments as well, then, to my horror, she told him about my famous cream of root beer soup, which we drink when we watch the Monkees because after that, the Monkees make total sense.

Peter expressed the belief that the Monkees and cream of root beer soup were an unusual combination. I don't know why. I didn't have the guts to ask him if that was because he thought it was a kid's show, or because in the 60s they drank a lot of tea. This was in the dark days before Starbucks.

If he thinks it's a kid's show, he should spend an hour or so listening to our philosophical and political commentary while we watch them -- whether or not Pat Paulsen would've made a better presidential candidate than John Kerry, and whether or not any Washington politicians have their feet on backwards are always popular subjects of speculation. If it was the other thing, let's say that after years of being followed by Donny and Marie Osmond, who are always very generous with their tea, I probably need a change from tea, thank you very much.

I suppose every article must come to its conclusion, and this one's conclusion is this: My quest is complete! I now have the autographs of all four of the Monkees. This makes me retroactively the coolest girl in school in 1967. Nyah nyah na na na na!

I'm sorry to report that my triumph was only slightly spoiled by the realization that Mary Sue, at our imaginary time warp rival high school, had all four of the Beatle's autographs. Female dog!

P. S. That rumor we heard from the motel clerk about the band being sort of in Mister Roger's neighborhood? We never actually confirmed it, so I'm not sure why I even mentioned it again. It's not like I was leading up to a punchline.

Why Am I Here?

(previously published on my other page at astrogirl.gather.com)

This isn't meant to be some sort of ultimate question or anything. I just thought that since I was new to blogging, I should introduce myself.

I am AstroGirl. If you suspect that probably isn't my christian name, or even my pagan name, congratulations! You're sharper than a cat's claws become when their owner suddenly decides to climb your pant leg. It is, in fact, my superhero name.

You may ask yourself, "what's a seemingly mild-mannered blogger doing with a superhero name?" What? Don't you have one? More importantly, doesn't every mild-mannered anyone have a superhero name?

In the unsung, but probably soon to be written about days of yore, all the technical writers at my former company had superhero names, whether we wanted to or not. We were what you might call a superhero collective. We called ourselves The Writers in Pink, or maybe it was the League of Letters. We were the sort of awesome team that made Directors and Vice Presidents tremble in their very expensive, but sensible shoes. We were the bane of corporate banality everywhere!

I got my superhero name because I insisted on giving everyone astrological advice, even if they covered their ears and shouted "LALA LA LA LA LA LA" at the top of their lungs. This was before I figured out that the planets don't like people giving astrological advice, because it is often right and the planets like to surprise us mere mortals. Where's the fun in dropping a 10 ton brick on someone's head if they know it's coming?

When AstroGirl talks, the planets listen, even if it's only to make catty comments behind AstroGirl's back.

With all the insane, yet somehow commendable bravery of the average person who decides to jump off the top of the Empire State Building and hope they'll learn to fly before they hit ground, I've recently decided to chuck my promising career as a writer of obtuse technical tomes and focus on WRITING. This is where you come in. "You are my guinea pigs," she said with a menacing laugh, "and you will like it."

When I'm not try to find ways to get paid for writing, I plan to publish a few things here. Some of it may be travelogues. Some of it may be tales of trying to get published. Some of it may be the unavoidable justified rantings of a liberal who still can't get over her dismay that the 48% of the voting population who almost certainly lost the last two presidential elections still somehow managed to get their favorite drugged-up "Manchurian Candidate" into the White House with the probable help of a few extra disembodied electronic "voters". Some of it may just be an outlet for the giggly teenaged fan girl who, embarrassingly enough, sometimes still inhabits my almost middle-aged body (and who I like to make fun of behind her...or my...back).

My participation here may be sporadic. Not only am I trying to reorganize my entire life at the moment, but I'm also putting the finishing touches on a book I will soon publish (one way or another). Without going into too many details, it's a corporate themed self-help book that resembles what you would get if Dilbert met Al Franken and their love child was a cross-dressing Monkee impersonator.

I guess the bottom line is, I'm here for the noble purpose of shameless self-promotion. What about you? What brings you here?

Peter Tork: I'm not an idiot. I only play one on TV.

(previously posted on my other blog at astrogirl.gather.com)

"Do you remember that TV show, the Monkees?" asked the motel clerk at a small 1950s style motel in Cambria, California. We laughed and pointed at the pink guitar logo on my T-shirt. "That's why we're here," I said. Oh, if the motel clerk only knew! She was talking to two women who watch the Monkees at least once a week, as a way to keep our insanity harnessed and in good form.

Random Factor and I were in Cambria to see Peter Tork and his current band, Shoe Suede Blues, who were playing that night at Painted Sky Recording Studio. That was what the motel clerk was going to tell us, before we so rudely stole her thunder by knowing all about it. Well, we hadn't driven three hours just for the 3 megaton sugar bomb scones in the local coffee shop, that's for sure.

Not dismayed by our impertinent knowledge, the helpful motel clerk also let us know that Shoe Suede Blues were recording an album and a video that night, and hinted that Peter and his band just might be staying somewhere, well, let's just say in the neighborhood. After this conversation, Random Factor advised me to park my car so that the "got Davy?" sticker wasn't quite so visible.

We'd arrived a couple hours before the gig, just enough time to change our clothes and get dolled up. I'd like to say this wasn't because we had any intention of flirting with someone who already had his own TV show before we were born, but I'd be lying. Random Factor even bought a new blouse for the occasion.

We were well aware that 40 years takes its toll on a person, but we were pretty sure that dimples are more or less permanent. Then there was our other dirty little secret, which is this: while all the Monkees were cute enough to provoke frequent anatomical commentary during our Monkees TV nights (especially after a few of my famous bloody Marys), Peter is the only one whose butt shots inspire frequent use of the rewind button. It's embarrassing, but there you have it -- the hidden secret of the Monkees' continuing popularity. (I withdraw my last comment, because it was completely unfair. The Monkees continue to be popular because of their massive talent, but then nobody else ever gave them credit for that, either.)

Once we'd achieved definite sartorial grooviness, we sauntered off to find the recording studio. You'd think that in a tiny town, something as anomalous as a recording studio would be easy to find, but by the time we located it, we were wondering if it existed in a parallel universe accessible only by jumping up and down three times, rolling a head of cabbage, and giggling.

When we did find it, it was closed and dark, but we were early. It wasn't clear if we were supposed to line up outside the front door or the side door, so we wandered around trying to catch a clue. In our tour of the side of the building, we inadvertently surprised a tall, handsome, and imposing guy who later turned out to be Arnold the bass player. "Uh-oh," he postulated, sounding very much like someone who'd been set to guard the door. We decided that meant we weren't supposed to be there and split.

By the time we came back around, two other women were waiting by the side door, having apparently decided that was the place to wait. We found out from our new friends that Steve at Painted Sky had told them that cameras were OK, so Random Factor went back to the motel to get ours. The three of us remaining by the door passed our time with Monkees quotations. It was then that I realized that the appeal of a bitchy Mike Nesmith in drag is well-nigh universal.

Eventually, in coastal California time, they let us in. I should say that Steve, who I'd talked to on the phone when I reserved the tickets, let us in. This added to the friendly, relaxed atmosphere, as Steve seemed like a swell guy.

By that time, a larger group had gathered by the front door, and of course that was the door that was opened. Later, it turned out that this had actually been good luck, since the two seats I grabbed in the second row turned out to be 10 feet away from Peter and directly in his line of sight.

The truth is, I'm very shy, and when I'm that close to a band, it makes me nervous. I feel like I'm staring inappropriately. If I'd been in the first row, the floor would've suddenly become very interesting. I once stared at my shoes throughout a whole Grateful Dead concert, because Bob Weir was about 3 feet away from me. Those who remember the twin bumper stickers that said "the fat man rocks" and "the thin man spits," should note that my feet were unexpectedly still dry by the end of the show. (I've shared with you my dirty little secret about the Monkees. Don't even get me started on Bob Weir.)

Let's get one thing straight. Remember all that stuff you've heard about the Monkees not being a real band? Forget it. It's bullshit. Most rumors have some basis in fact, and the basis in fact of this one is that the boys were cast to be a band by TV producers. That may not be the usual way for a band to get together, but the boys worked hard at making it real, largely because they were prodded to do so by Michael, who wrote many of their best songs, and Peter, who plays multiple instruments.

Peter's current band, Shoe Suede Blues, is a sweet little 4 member blues band with some serious swing. I've never been one to keep set lists and things like that, so I can't tell you what they played, but I know it was a bunch of songs from their existing CD, "Saved by the Blues," as well as several new songs, and 4 Monkees songs. Those I remember: "Last Train to Clarksville," "I'm a Believer," "Your Auntie Grizelda," (with even funnier noises than on the record) and "(Not Your) Stepping Stone."

Among the new songs, one of the highlights was an amusing little number, the title of which might be something like "Even White Boys Get the Blues." The song was all about getting in trouble for illegal stock trades and things like that. Between songs, Peter kept the audience roaring with a wit undimmed by years of playing a dimwit.

During the show, he played three of his multiple instruments: guitar, banjo, and keyboards. After a ripping guitar solo by Peter, I leaned over to Random Factor and whispered, "they didn't play their own instruments, you know." Irony is, ironically, my middle name.

When Peter turned around to get his banjo, I'll admit I did get the opportunity to check out the famous butt. His pants weren't as tight as those ones they used to paint on the Monkees, but my conclusion was that the years have been relatively kind. Random Factor confessed to me later that she forgot to check. I don't know what she was thinking.

It was a high-energy, fun show, and the CD they were recording that night should be a treat. If they keep any of the jokes, you'll probably hear me and Random Factor rolling uncontrollably on the floor. We tend to knock over chairs when we do that.

After the show, we stood in line to get Peter's autograph. When it was my turn, I sat down next to him and asked, rather apologetically, if he would sign my copy of "Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn, and Jones." I was being apologetic only because I was worried he might sometimes get sick of being perpetually associated with something he did 40 years ago. The man actually beamed. "I would be delighted," he claimed, and sounded like he meant it. This tended to confirm my existing suspicion that although the dummy thing on the TV show was an act, the mellow sweetness was not.

The Monkees have been an invaluable mental health tool for me during the past very stressful year of my life. I thought at least one of them ought to know it. I told Peter, very sincerely, that Random Factor and I watch the Monkees whenever we get depressed, because they always cheer us up.

Random Factor paid her complements as well, then, to my horror, she told him about my famous fantastic bloody Marys, which we drink when we watch the Monkees because after them, the Monkees make total sense.

Peter expressed the belief that the Monkees and bloody Marys were an unusual combination. I don't know why. I didn't have the guts to ask him if that was because he thought it was a kid's show, or because in the 60s they did, well, other fun things that weren't quite as legal.

If he thinks it's a kid's show, he should spend an hour or so listening to our commentary while we watch them -- the restraints on their apartment wall during the "Monkees Blow Their Minds" episode are always a popular subject of speculation. If it was the other thing, let's say that after years of being followed by the Grateful Dead, I've reached a level of weirdness that I'm very comfortable with, thank you very much.

I suppose every article must come to its conclusion, and this one's conclusion is this: My quest is complete! I now have the autographs of all four of the Monkees. This makes me retroactively the coolest girl in school in 1967. Nyah nyah na na na na!

I'm sorry to report that my triumph was only slightly spoiled by the realization that Mary Sue, at our imaginary time warp rival high school, had all four of the Beatle's autographs. Bitch!

P. S. That rumor we heard from the motel clerk about the band being sort of in the neighborhood? We never actually confirmed it, but after hours of being too uncomfortable and excited to sleep, I did hear a group of politely quiet men entering the neighboring rooms at about four o'clock in the morning. I only heard them because I couldn't sleep anyway. One of the voices sounded like Peter's. If so, being under the same roof with him may be the closest I ever get to sleeping with a rock star. Well, it wasn't like I was sleeping, but how much actual sleep do you expect to get with a rock star, anyway?