Be Italian.

(originally posted on September 18, 2007 on myspace)

As I have already confessed, I have a huge amount of parking tickets. I just got another one today. It seems that parking on Sunset Blvd. in excess of two hours constitutes a $35 fine. So it seems I now owe LA county more than my car is actually worth. But I have a way out. A way out of the parking woes. A way out of fines. A way out of paying to park in huge parking structures for everything from the movies to the gym to Target. A Vespa! Ooooohhh, wouldn't I look good on a little Vespa? I could deck it out all Paul Frank....no HELLO KITTY! I could get a pink helmet to match. I would wear little sundresses and dart in and out of traffic. I would finally get to meet Kiefer, because he would be so charmed by my mode of transport that he would stop me and ask me out. It's a perfect plan. Well, near perfect. As with anything in my life I require some approval, or atleast I like to hear dissenting opinions about my ideas from two people. The first call was to Jim Davies. Me: "I am thinking about getting a Ves..." Jim: "Absolutely not." Me: "But it i..." Jim: "No."

Now, when Jim tells me no, or explains why anything is a bad idea, I call my next friend, who is more...um, free from such constraint of logic and who has a more free spirited approach to life. Stacy Melich. Me: "So I have this idea of doing something, but I don't want to say right now." Stace: "What is it?" Me: "I'm thinking of getting a Vespa." Stace: "Goddamn it Montica."

After telling another friend of mine of my plan, he simply responded: "I better get the wool suit out, I'm going to a funeral soon."

What's with all the doom and gloom on my beautiful plans of becoming Bridgette Bardot in LA? I know, I know. I'm a little clumsy. But I really want a bike. And I don't want to pay these parking tickets. I have much better use for this money. I need highlights...and a t.v

My Beautiful Brother

(originally written on April 11, 2008 and posted on myspace)

William Harold Slaughter. My brother. I called him, Skip.

I have been thinking a great deal lately about my brother. All the things I remember and treasure about him. The little details that I hold like diamonds in my mind and heart.

He had long eyelashes and big brown eyes that always smiled.

He was cool.

His hair was shoulder length and he wore bell bottoms and t-shirts with band logos. He and his friends looked like they walked off the set of Dazed and Confused. His best friend, Eddie, was my first crush. I still remember them bringing some girls home to meet my mom and I hid under bed...pining for the beautiful Eddie. I credit Eddie for the reason I still like blond men. As I credit the girl he had on his arm with the reason I detest halter tops and hair parted down the middle.

He had a mole, like a beauty mark, on his upper lip/cheek. He was beautiful too in that way that men sometimes are while still retaining their masculinity.

He loved music...rock music. Steppenwolf. Aerosmith. I hear the beginnings of Magic Carpet Ride and I can still remember my brother scooping me up and running to the car and him blasting the song at full volume while my mother beat on the window screaming something about our eardrums.

My dad's dog, Dax--a German shepard--loved my brother above everyone in the household...even my dad, to his great unacknowledged consternation.

He loved to tickle and rough house with me, saying to my alarmed mother, "I'm not gonna have any sister who's a sissy."

He was kind and protective.

He always let me tag along with him and his friends in the afternoon to go to the neighborhood store. He held my hand even though his friends didn't think that a 5 year old girl enhanced their "rep" much. He always bought me a Dr. Pepper and peanuts and sat me on the counter as he helped me put them in the bottle. It was sweet and salty and a taste I still love and consider my comfort food.

He had a talent for art. He could draw beautifully.

He had a Cherokee bracelet of my grandfather's that he wore with pride.

He had a well-worn copy of "The Happy Hooker" which did not embarass him when I asked him what it was. He just laughed, tossed it over his shoulder and lifted me upside down where we played "The Flying Montica" until I forgot the word "hooker". Until dinner time. Then I asked Mom. Then he had some explaining to do.

He was a dare devil.

He gave the best hugs I have ever known.

He died at 16 in a train versus car accident while visiting his father in Cedartown, Georgia. And not one day goes by that I don't miss him. I was so young when he died and for reasons that I think my parents thought protected me, I didn't find out he wouldn't be coming home for a year after he had died. Because of that, sometimes it is like he never died. He will always be young, but older...wiser than me.

I think sometimes people marvel at how I can remember and feel so deeply about something that happened so very long ago and when I was so little. All I can say is love matters. Any amount. Any day or minute that it is given is precious and you are amazed at what your heart holds. I wish we had had more time. I can't go on...I just wanted to talk about him because he is on my mind and I wanted to share a little of him. The magic of him