West: The People

Lindsey, the 16 year-old hippie waitress, who littered our restaurant floor with salt anytime she spilled the shaker, is only one of the unique spirits I met while living in that magical 8-block town. Then there was Charles, the trench-coat wearing, bow-staff brandishing, Shakira loving manager of the McDonald's, who had a different fiance every week and was rumored to have traveled to Phoenix just to kill a guy. And who could forget Les, proprietor of the ubiquitous bike shop/movie rental place next door to the restaurant, who always ordered one of two things: a plain sausage patty or a slice of cherry pie, and who I was lucky enough to see sans dentures one winter day at the supermarket? Brothers Courtney and Whitney (yes, I said brothers, not sisters) were perhaps the most afflicted by outside culture with their gauged ear piercings and black leather bracelets; they were always easy to spot near a bonfire of ill repute. There was Kevin: ornery, alcoholic night cook who, I'm told, had been swearing for 14 years that he'd never return to the restaurant just to appear mid-May of the next year; he must have been escaping his mulleted wife and unruly kids (I met them once) who lived 100 miles away in the nearest major town. The Swanson kids, whose parents managed the restaurant and who shacked up in the small trailer at the end of the block, were always good for a laugh. I can't remember all their names, but the youngest one never wore shoes, making my danger radar go into overdrive anytime he'd walk into the restaurant kitchen, while one of the middle ones liked to sing and would belt-out Kelly Clarkson's "Break Away" every once in a while. Our neighbor Mike aka Smokey (I'll let you guess why we called him that) had a motorcycle, which he would ride to the Food Roundup every evening to buy a TV dinner. I had a fondness for Millie, the sweetest 90-year-old church chorister you'll ever meet. And this memoir cannot be complete without a quick mention of Hot Dan with the Shakes, the dreamy fly fishing guide whose hands would shake mercilessly while paying me for his coffee at the Deli register (my second job) and whose red Toyota Four Runner I may have stalked a time or two. It has been four years since I lived amongst these colorful folk. I write this now to sear their memory to my blog forever.

When You're a Stranger

I have four, count them, four blogs. Each has its own theme and has had its own time to shine. That time has come and gone for most, and I find myself a hopeless writer. I have things to say, things to write, but seemingly nowhere to say or write them. I am a blog addict in need of another fix. So here I am embarking upon my FIFTH blog. Yikes. Am I an egocentric product of the information age, or what?

The theme of this blog: memoirs and musings. My one and only rule: no specifics. I’ve heard a lot about the anonymity of the Internet lately and how it tends to get people into trouble. Though anonymous bullies may be breaking hearts all over the country, this blog being anonymous is nothing but good for me. I can write, people can read (I have low hopes of this actually happening), and I don’t have to worry about my precious identity being compromised. And I promise, I’ll keep the hate to a minimum. Win-win-win.