If you’re like me (and if you are, may God help you), you’ve always wanted to know what my old friend from the 90s, Miss Honey, looks like. I think we who know about her thru postings and mumbled rumors and all have our own very personal mental image of her. Mine, i think, was something like a cross between Clara Bow and the guy from The Smiths’ “William It Was Really Nothing” sleeve. But how wrong I was. How do I know? Because I’ve finally seen a picture of Miss Honey. She’ll probably never forgive me for spilling the beans like this. But if she wanted her image to remain forever shrouded in mystery, then she shouldn’t have agreed to appear on the cover of her autobiography, which I ran across at a used bookstore yesterday and possessively clutched to my chest like it was some Holy Grail as i practically ran to the check-out counter, knocking over a few innocent shoppers in the process.
She’s really much lovelier than I ever imagined. But if you’d like your mental image not erased by hard evidence, then don’t look. For all curious others, the front cover of the book (which is an excellent read, incidentally) is here:
I read it for a second time this afternoon, as the pouring dashing rain continued to pound my Santa Barbara. I shouldn’t really complain about the rain though, because it’s probably dumping snow everywhere else. But at least snow is pretty. Water really isn’t. Except at moments.
And I wrote a column a while back for our local free weekly, about what’s happening music-wise here in SB. I actually managed to name-check Belle et Sebby, if only in comparison to The Microphones (who played here recently). But I believe it was the first mention of my favorite band to appear in any local media here. Ever. I came along and blew their cover wide open. And I also managed to sneak in quotes by Bukowski and F.S. Fitzgerald, which I consider a minor personal triumph. And i mentioned Miss Honey in this article (this was probably around 2003), a veiled reference that probably only she would notice. She probably would’ve hated me for it, but it was buried so deep that she was, i’m sure, blissfully unaware. So stepping back into the present, let’s let her take a second out of her day to think about the things that we have done this year. Miss Honey, are you listening? And whatever thoughts you have on this, i second them emotions.
And i once saw a Discovery Channel show on cats. Housecats. Didja know that the width of a cat’s whiskers equals the width of their body at its widest point? So when they try to walk through a tight spot, if their whiskers touch the sides, they know they won’t fit thru.
And I sit listening to the rain outside. And my mind wanders to every girl I’ve ever loved. And I wonder where they all are now. My whiskers brushed against their sides, i guess. And i walk around in my low-ass boot-cut jeans, listening to the tinkling of ice-cubes against the glass of Maker’s Mark, trying to make drama out of no damned progress at all. But strangely optimistic, in my fashion.
“We saw the comet,
Without aplomb it
raced across the sky.”
That’s the beginning of a couplet i once wrote, and for the life of me, i can’t remember the ending couplet. My career as an archivist is, admittedly, an amateur one.
SO: this isn’t a blog, and this isn’t art. Let’s let the record reflect that. But i am nothing if not sincere.
My bicycle wheel spoke,