Pretty sure I used to be cool.

It’s Saturday morning and my daughter is standing in the kitchen crying.  It’s one of those sloppy, snotty cries because I won’t give her cookies for breakfast.  It’s 6 am and I didn’t go to bed until 1.  I’m so tempted to give her the damned cookies so she’ll be quiet, but I don’t.

Just seven hours ago, I was at a rock show.  I went with my friend Cassie to see Jane’s Addiction.   We sat in the nose bleed section because we refused to wait in line to get better seats, preferring to wait in a warm bar down the street that had grunge music pouring from the house speakers.

We got into the show, found the beer stand and got comfy.  The opening band was this great two-piece from Brussels.  They were fantastic but I couldn’t wait to see Jane’s Addiction: the reason I left my cozy home at night to attend an event that would certainly give me a headache.

I tried to record every moment without writing it down.  Such is the burden of writers and photographers: savor the moment and stay in it.   Address it as art without taking yourself away from the present.  It’s impossible, so I bought a t-shirt.  Some dude who works at Guitar Center told me a long story in the shirt line, and I did my best to appear enthused.  It seemed like it meant a lot to him.  Then he told me to give an usher forty bucks for a better seat.  I smiled politely and went back to my crappy seat, among the other olds.

Jane’s Addiction alternated between new and old songs.  The line-up was amazing.   I could see the mosh pit from the safety of the balcony.  Perry Farrell slapped hands with crowd surfers as they were ejected from the show by giant bouncers.  His youthful energy was contagious.  The entire show was fantastic.  I would have more to say, but I took minimal  notes in order to stay in the present, blah, blah.

My seat was further away from the action then I would have tolerated fifteen years ago.   But, for a few hours, I let everything slip away to enjoy music.  MY music, not my kids’ favorite or my husband’s favorite.  Mine.  It was worth the headache and relentless fatigue that is certain to dominate my Saturday.   For a few hours, I was just me, rocking out with a friend at an awesome show.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to change a dirty diaper, make some chocolate milk, and brew a pot of coffee.  Never stop rockin’!!

Guest Invasion: Regarding Sleep

Hello. My name is Peter, and I know what you’re thinking. Why is this fiendish and quite possibly smelly person intruding on my favorite blog, sullying it with nefarious intentions?

Well, allow me, if you will, to put a few of your fears to rest. I am not here to steal your credit card information. I am not here to usurp your identity, nor to slowly build up your trust, convincing you to fall backwards into my awaiting arms, only to then run away laughing as you fall on your defenseless backside.

I am merely here to share with you a few thoughts that are stuck in my brain. The last few obstacles, it seems, before I can peacefully lay down my head to rest.

It is currently around 2:30 in the morning, and I am writing this because sleep has decided that, just for the night, it doesn’t want to be my friend. It hates me, and wants me to be sad. This, I’m slowly realizing, I can come to terms with. (Thanks in no small part to all of those Dr. Phil specials.) So rather than poke sleep in its metaphorical side and whine “Why won’t you love me like the other children!?” I’ve decided to take the rebellious route and laugh in its metaphorical face. I even considered shouting “See me awake here, not listening to you?” at one point, but decided, even that, to be playing too much into it’s hand.

I sprang from my bed like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning, slid gracefully…okay, I tripped, into the kitchen, and made a pot of coffee. There I stood, wearing my finest pink bunny slippers as the machine bubbled and snorted it’s way to eventual caffeinated goodness. I was poised on the verge of insomniatic revolution. A loose-cannon, flying in the face of natural law, laughing at danger, and at least a handful of other tired cliches that deserve to be mentioned but aren’t going to be. I found myself refreshed and inspired, ready to embrace the nightlife and go out salsa dancing. (Oh, that’s right ladies, I said it.) Only, there may be one simple problem. Actually, there are a few; enough to make this list. *unfurls a long piece of paper, which rolls down the aisle and out the door.* Actually, there aren’t nearly this many, I just wrote three of them in really big hand-writing, because I’ve always wanted to do this. Anyway…

Number one: I live in the Midwest. The term “Nightlife” here refers to owls, and the occasional Reindeer who has lost his glasses at the exact same moment he’s come to the sign that reads “<Colorado|North Pole>”.

Number two: The ground, and I’m speculating here, because I can’t actually see if the ground still exists, but if it does, is covered in roughly three feet of snow. This poses a small mobility problem.

Number three, or more appropriately, numero tres: I don’t even know how to salsa dance. *pauses for inevitable gasps of shame, betrayal, and confusion.*

This all being said, it seems the wise thing to do would be to save the pot of coffee until morning, crawl back into bed, ready my poking finger, and give sleep a ring.

About Peter: He was born in 1989 and began to write shortly afterwards. He has recieved several local awards for fiction in Colorado, where he currently lives with his gorgeous and talented wife, Kendra. Together, they plan on working hard to make ten dollars in book sales, which will then be used to buy cup noodles. Soon after that, you can find them under a freeway, scribbling away in a cardboard box, noodle-less and hopelessly in love.

He runs an interview blog for authors, which resides here:

Peter has also published several short stories that were written by his great uncle, Samuel John “Jack” Hughes, and hopes that by bringing those stories to the world, he can honor Jack and his life in some small way.