While popping from stage to stage to enjoy the phenomenal line-up of Ozzfest ‘00, which included Soulfly, Incubus, Static X, Black Label Society, Godsmack, Pantera and of course the one and only Ozzy Osbourne, I started noticing an overwhelming number (15,000?) of huge, swastika riddled, thoroughly-amped (or tweaked) white, scary skin heads—loose, like all the prisons for 500 miles gave them a day pass in Marysville (Sac valley amphitheatre). I grew up in Grass Valley, so this was not that unusual, and I was trying to enjoy the stellar live show until Pantera’s performance included a huge confederate flag hung across the entire stage and they rallied the enormous crowd to start chanting, “White Power! White Power!” Needless to say, this freaked me the [expletive] out. I’m not a racist. I’m not white, well, 55% of me isn’t, so I’m wondering, “Am I about to be lynched?” I started praying. I prayed for airplanes to fly over and drop a bomb right on top of us, to rid the world of this scary element right then, and there. I wanted to sacrifice myself to save the world from the Nazi-like mentality that I was immersed in. Because I’m writing this, my prayers were obviously not answered. But God (ess) did give me one gift at this show. Comedy relief. Stress and hatred had built up to this freaky, peak and I was just about to crawl under the seats and hide when Ozzy came out. And he came out with a fire house rigged like a water gun. The anticipation was building, and suddenly a girl riding on her boyfriend’s shoulders, near the front of the stage pulled up her shirt revealing her braless breasts and Ozzy ruthlessly shot her across the mosh pit in a torpedo of water and power and she went splat on the concrete-like dirt. The crowd went silent in amazement, until the next girl riding her boyfriend’s shoulders flashed my new hero, and wham! She went down like a kamikaze in water flames. Then another and another. They were honored to be shot 20 feet off their men into a ruthless crowd, blasted like asteroids. And it was wonderful. I realized at that moment that Ozzy had so much [expletive] and [expletive] thrown at him, and he had done so many drugs that he needed to shoot hos to get high. I felt so lucky to witness the legend in action. Thank You, Ozzy, because YOU RULE.
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James found an injured baby robin in our backyard about a month ago. He, of course, wanted to care for and keep it, but I convinced him that the mommy and daddy robin would help it (because we monitored the baby) and saw them checking in on her. I explained that nature works it self out, and wild animals are meant to be free. I went online and read about similar cases and it seemed the right thing to do. James fell in love. At the crack of dawn he was up, watching silently for hours in the cover of my garden, making sure not to imprint the baby with the sound of his voice, or communicate in any way (advise from the experts). He would report all the information he gathered each morning, the left foot was injured, the wings were fine. It could fly to the top of the small fence, but not into the tree. He named her Fantasy.
On the third or fourth day I saw the baby bird in my garden and she looked dazed and confused. Her eyes were kind of glazed with a coat of goo, and I was able to get really close to her. It was hot and I got the mommy freak out vibe and left a message for the rescue people to call me back with instructions, because I wasn’t sure if the baby was okay. After spying from my backhouse, seeing mom and dad robin visit, and Fantasy wake-up perky, I felt much better. And then the next morning I found her dead in the same spot. I considered lying to James and saying she flew away. Dan buried her. When James came home he asked if the bird rescue people had come. What an easy out. I had to tell the truth, that Timmy got her (they never even called me back). Timmy sucks! How can I teach a cat that it is okay to kill mice and rats but not birds? My new dilemma is I found a baby bird stranded at the bottom of our mulberry tree right in front of our back door. Timmy was outside sleeping on our lawn chair and I grabbed him right up and have been fighting to keep him inside all day. He will get out. This is a ruthless, relentless, buff, cat that thinks he’s a dog. I called Dan and he suggested I put the baby bird back in the tree in one of the big knuckles, which I did. But then Free (I named him!) jumped out again and hopped over to hide in some spider plants against the fence. So I used my gloves (new—no human scent on them) and built a little cave around him out of plastic with holes and rocks, and he’s in there right now. I’ve seen his mom and dad visit with things in their mouths, and I’m just hoping my structure is sound (and doesn’t smash him or his parents) and that he will make it. Timmy is our nemesis, and I will do my best, but I am very afraid. I know this is not Fantasy, and that Free living to fly away can not make Fantasy come back, but I want to do the right thing. I saw Fantasy’s mom this afternoon but she didn’t tell me anything. She just flew away. My dad was pretty handy, and he made me a nice, large sandbox when I was about 3-years old. He was very proud of it and I'm sure he pictured me, his sweet daughter, building sandcastles and playing in it for hours. It was filled with nice, clean sand and ready for play. Unfortunately, the very day that the sandbox was filled I was running loose on the property and found a bee that was sucking in his last breath. I did what any normal child would do. I prayed. I prayed for the bee—please, God let this bee live. Let her see her children progress in the world, and please let her say goodbye to the queen. When I saw that my prayers were in vain, and the bee had indeed gone to the other side I sang my song of life and death (I wish I could remember the songs I used to sing all the time), and I buried her with ceremonious glory, covering the grave with flowers and maybe even shedding a tear. The graveyard? You guessed it. My sandbox. And how could I play ever in a place of rest for the dead? Before long, alongside of Ms. Bee was Mrs. Mouse, and perhaps a bird or two. I remember my cousin coming over and her being disgusted that I had desecrated our play area with my morbid obsession with ceremonious service to the dead. The sandbox was rendered unusable, and I’m sure my dad never noticed.
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July 2023
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