The Windence Doe Experience

I write this in the somewhat dubious cookie-cutter comfort of a McDonald's playroom. My cup of coffee tempts me, but I'm experienced and wise to it. I'll wait a bit, therefore keeping the skin on my lips. I spot Orion in this translucent bubble or that, high overhead. Already he's made new friends. Just that easily. Pretty little ones of all colors, so sweet, with short little vocal cords capable of ripping the tympanic membranes right out of my ears.

I'm down to 17 splinters in my hand, but those are starting to hurt, so I must get more serious about removing them. But, owww, forget my hand. My ears. My brain...

Our friend Windy's name is actually Windence. Windence Doe. How cool is that? Last night we celebrated her birthday in Palm Desert. The The Whores Of Tijuana rocked the house, bringing people in from the street to join in. Pete made his comic debut. He came away from it with sort of a laundry list of what he thought went wrong which, I would imagine, anyone walking off stage does. But I was watching the audience and really, most were laughing for most of the time, including myself, and I've heard all this stuff before.

I finally met Arthur Seay, whom I've heard much about and who is working diligently to gather a community of alternative artists. He says that, to him, these are artists who care more about substance and quality and less about decorating. I found him smart and funny and sincere. I told him I'm a little ashamed I haven't attempted to gather artists and very grateful that he's doing it.

There were many interesting and strange people there with interesting and strange ideas. The Village Lounge (also known as "The Scrounge") was friendly and comfortable and served the coldest Corona I've ever had.

I got to know Windy's best friend Shelby better, who has levels of heart and cool I never imagined.

Once the band started in on their version of "Low Rider", everyone was dancing without partners, hippie style. A woman I didn't meet, mid sixties or so, caught and held my attention. She had waist-length gray hair, and boots and skirt worn over faded jeans. She danced with both grace and joyful abandon. As I watched, forty years vanished around her and I saw golden hair woven with flowers, a smooth face glowing with love and anticipations. She is lovely in both worlds and I, spellbound, didn't give a thought to my camera. It seemed a sacred moment. Then she was gone and the Whores switched to original music and I was newly in possession of a permanent vision.

Happy Birthday, Windy. You are truly loved.

ps. The red baby did not attend the party and is actually a hint at the project Aubrey and Ben are hatching in the darkest corner of the studio. They're beginning to scare me and that, friends, should truly scare you.

Following are photos from the evening.

g'night