So...today was the day that Kimber and I made a band. It began as a pitch effort to write a song composed of three elements: outdoors, sunshine, and cleverness. The entire ordeal began in a dream I had while sleeping...I don't have dreams otherwise. I fell asleep in the end of Nacho Libre, the last moment I viewed of the movie consisted of a man in gold flailing his massive body atop Jack Black. (Not, white.) I awoke with a vision. A vision about a band. A band with Kimber.
We took our own feet to the park down the street. I thought of taking my bike- her, a longboard (not short) but that just wouldn't do. I think we needed some time to be inspired together on our walk down the street. It was chilly and grey, and the cars passed by us as if fleeing from some sort of monster - and soon we might have been considered to have "entered the belly of the beast." That beast, the song.
Together, we trekked down toward a few folks, one sitting on a picnic table, the others leaning around on each other. Other folks were gathered around, expectantly. A group of 14 year-old teensters awaited our arrival as if a gang waiting in an ally for an old woman to wander in, dropping off some trash. One of the girls approached us.
"Hey, can we listen to you guys play?" she snarled. I could see in her eyes the look of predation while her "peeps" ran away. I was sure at that time that the runaways aimed to locate backup---with loaded guns.
Kimber and I sat down- ready to chow on a meal of music-making. Suddenly, our lives changed.
A group of dogs arose from the depths of houses behind the neighborhood chain-link fence. Behind them, a lone woman, wearing tights and a fanny pack. Following behind, the most enormous dog either of us had ever seen. (I thought he resembled some sort of triceratops/rhinoceros, without those crazy flat horn things, of course.) Needless to say, we named him Curtis.
Curtis walked slow. He sometimes lay down on the wet grass, resting his bones, slowly being crushed by his perpetually engrossing skin/fat matter. Curtis breathed heavily and it became clear to us that he relied solely on the constant reassurance from the woman in the tights to continue living.
If Curtis were a man, he would smoke a pipe and eat Pork Rhines on Thursday afternoons.
In addition to Curtis was a heard of dogs, large and small. And, just one lady, with a fanny pack. The dogs answered her every movement, while still retaining their individuality in chasing balls and smelling one another.
Kimber and I could not quite understand why such a woman might own so many dogs? Small and large? Dogs? Lady with dogs? And, immediately we knew- our first song would be about her. And, her amazing hoard of pups.
Our band is called The Jortz. Look out for us on MySpace.
