Requiem for Rocket

For most, today is a day of costumes and candy, jack-o-lanterns and things that go bump in the night. For me, All Hallow’s Eve marks another occasion – one that still makes me wistful and sad a few years later. On October 31, 2005, the world said goodbye to one of the greatest musical groups to ever grace the stage: Rocket from the Crypt.

I realize that it is strange to mourn the loss of a musical group, especially one that had only minor commercial success in spite of its overwhelming critical acclaim. I fear I’ll come off like one of those slightly crazed John Lennon fans still roaming the streets of Berkeley, espousing the virtues of his music while simultaneously decrying the acts of the current political administration. To me, the end of Rocket from the Crypt signaled not only the demise of an incredibly talented group, but more broadly, the death of local music, and the loss of so many bands who – like them – were exceedingly talented but underplayed on the radio. If a band as talented as Rocket from the Crypt met its end for no reason other than having given it a good run for 16 years and never finding commercial success, it’s a sad time for music indeed.

If you have never lived in San Diego (where they are music icons), chances are Rocket from the Crypt (RFTC) is unknown to you. Their blend of high energy alt-rock and horns suffered from radio station’s constantly saying they “didn’t know how to market them.” Radio execs apparently felt that listeners couldn’t ‘get’ a band with a horn section that wasn’t ska or swing. It’s such an incredible shame, because anyone who went to one of their live shows was instantly won over by them – for life. One of the best articles written about RFTC appeared in the bible of music magazines, Rolling Stone, when they named RFTC one of the best live bands in the history of rock ‘n roll. Too bad so few people had heard about them.

Indeed, Rocket’s live shows were legendary. In addition to the rotating selection of costumes/uniforms, Rocket made sure they put on a show instead of a mere selection of songs. They encouraged people to dance, let loose, and experience the “unconditional love of Rocket from the Crypt.” At one show I attended in San Francisco shortly after 9/11, lead singer John “Speedo” Reis encouraged the crowd to take a moment, turn to the person behind them, and shake their hand or give them a hug. To my surprise, the person dancing behind me was none other than crooner Chris Isaak. For the record, he’s just as handsome and charming in person. He’s also surprisingly hairy.

In fact, over time I found out that Rocket did have its fair share of high profile fans. I remember sitting on my couch in 2002, watching music videos on VH1 (they did show some videos on VH1 and MTV then…but that’s a whole other blog post). I was sick as a dog with a mighty cold. In between videos they showed a segment where they asked famous musicians what was in their CD player. Peter Buck of REM said, “I’ve been listening to Rocket from the Crypt’s “Group Sounds.” He spent the next minute praising it, and while I started muttering “Oh my God, oh my God,” wishing someone was home for me to share this moment with, they played a video on Rocket’s. In it’s entirety. The next few minutes are a blur. I think I called Jared and Todd, since they could appreciate the enormity of this moment. But I felt such a sense of pride and joy, because the band who met so much to me had a few minutes of well-deserved fame.

Rocket from the Crypt also provided me with some of the funnier awkward moments in my life. My freshman year of college Rocket came to San Francisco to play at Bottom of the Hill, an aptly named music venue located at the – you guessed it -- bottom of a hill in the SOMA warehouse district. I went to the show with the person I was dating at the time. To the side of the venue I could see several members of the band chatting with other people, so I sucked up my courage and decided to walk over and say hi. Wait. Let me back up for a moment. During my senior year of high school, while Editor-in-Chief of the school newspaper, I received one of the best surprises of my life. Our school’s computer teacher, Joe Austin, knew I was a fan of RFTC, and he was friends with the band. He arranged for two of the band members to come and surprise me on campus and have an interview. I spent over two hours talking with them about Rocket, and needless to say, interviewing them was one of the highlights of my high school experience, and I was forever in love with Paul (aka “Apollo”) and Jason (“JC”). So back to Bottom of the Hill. Paul was leaning beside the tour bus, and I walked up to him and started to say, “Paul, I don’t know if you remember me, but --.” He interrupted me, leaned in and coyly smiled, to say, “Did we make love together?” I started laughing, and told him that we hadn’t. He replied, “Are you sure?” I looked over to my date, who clearly didn’t find this funny, and had to convince Paul that our relationship had purely been ‘professional,’ and assure my date that I wasn’t conducting late-night trysts with members of my favorite band. Paul responded with, “Bummer,” which I found a strange sort of compliment, but my date definitely didn’t appreciate it.

Fast forward to Rocket’s farewell concert at the Westin on Halloween night 2005. I was attending their final farewell with a group that included Todd, Jared, and Brenda, and being that Rocket’s Halloween bashes were known for being fabulous costume events, we donned our costumes too. The costumes of Rocket fans did not disappoint – we’re talking seriously impressive, elaborate stuff. Inspired by our recent rental of Seasons 1-3 of Alias, I decided to dress as CIA Agent Sydney Bristow, in her iconic costume of a bright red wig and head-to-toe, skin tight leather. This was the exact moment in time that Valerie Plame was ‘outed’ by Scooter Libby, so to add a sardonic twist I made a sign affixed to my back that read, “Outed by Scooter Libby.” It got a few laughs, and since I had been working out, I was feeling pretty good in this outfit.

I left the group at one point to get a drink at the bar, and I noticed among the multitude of elaborate costumes the back of a tall man dressed in an enormous banana costume. I laughed and turned away to order my drink. Once I had my drink, I turned around to go back into the ballroom. At that moment I made eye contact with the banana man. Mr. Chiquita was none other than Joe Austin, the former computers teacher at my high school, whom I had heard through the grapevine was now the Vice Principal at San Diego High School. There’s always something a little awkward about unexpectedly meeting someone you knew as a youth once you’re an adult. Factor in that he’s a former teacher and you a former student, and he’s a giant banana and you’re in skin tight leather and a red wig, and you can imagine the awkwardness of the reunion. We both sort of looked down sheepishly and laughed, and proceeded to catch up with the more ‘adult’ versions of one another.

Rocket will forever be for me the music that gets me up, gets me moving, and makes me happy. I’m grateful that I found music that I connected with so deeply in my life – some people never will. For years now I’ve even been toying with getting a tattoo of Rocket’s insignia on me and officially joining “Speedo’s Army,” the surprising large group of fans who have permanently inked themselves in support of the band. Google it sometime to check out pages and pages of Rocket tattoos (you’ll even find Joe Austin’s bicep there). In return for this act, Rocket promised fans free admission into all their shows for life. Even though the group is now disbanded and I can never utilize the perks of being a member of the Army, I still feel the urge to pay homage to them, and say thank you for giving me so many amazing memories.

I’m trying to find out more about the local music scene here in Connecticut so that I too can support local music in the place where I’m now local. And for my Rocket fix, I can still turn to KEXP (http://www.kexp.org/), whom Sarah turned me onto and for which I am forever grateful. John, the Morning Show host, is also a fan of RFTC, and I think he and I have an unspoken thing going on now, because ever since I sent an email thanking the station for playing Rocket, he’s played them more -- I like to think just for me. Because Rocket clearly made a difference in his life too.

So thank you John, Ned, Paul, Petey, JC, Adam, and Mario, and RIP RFTC. And for those of you not familiar with Rocket, Google them. Go on YouTube and type them in. Get a slice of the soulful brand of Rocket rock and roll. Hell, kick your pants off, dance around in your underwear, and feel the unconditional love of RFTC.

PS: I've fixed the settings so that anyone can post a comment to the blog -- even if you don't have a Gmail account. Google changed the settings and didn't notify me. Sorry!

The state of my heart is on fire

There are three times in my life that I have prayed to God to have my home spared from a fire. The first was in 1991, when a brush fire swept through the canyon that our home stood by. I remember Dad, Jason, and Jared, standing on the rooftop, hosing the house and yard down, doing everything they could to stop the fire from leaping across the narrow divide and onto our house. While they did this, my Mom and I packed up the valuables into the family minivan. Let me rephrase that. My Mom packed most of the 'real' household valuables, as well as the pets, and I was responsible for putting in the van what my brothers and I deemed the most important things to us. I recall packing Jared's baseball cards, and Jason's tapes and records. I can also recall the exact contents of my bag: some clothes, my photo albums, a hair brush, my stuffed rabbit Anne, and the book I had checked out from the library. Apparently even as a kid I was worried about late fees.

That day was also one of the few days I can ever recall my Mom getting really angry with a complete stranger -- in this case, the local TV news reporter who shoved a microphone in her face and said, "How does it feel to have to evacuate your family from your house because your home may burn down?" If looks could kill, that reporter would have keeled over onto her overinflated shoulder pads right there. But just as the fire came to our house and the tree in our yard caught fire, the wind changed, and our luck was our neighbor's misfortune, as is so often the case in these sorts of events. We lost a tree to that fire. They lost most of their roof.

The second time was, of course, the fires of 2003 -- the fires to end all fires, I thought., and the one to haunt my nightmares. The fires began the day of our Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walk in San Francisco, and while I should have been rejoicing in our record-setting results, Justin, Todd, Steph, and I were huddled together, frantically calling our loved ones as they were hurriedly forced to evacuate. Unlike in 1991, my mother was out of town while the fires happened, and like the current fires, the situation wasn't anything more than local news, so she hadn't heard anything. I had to be the one to tell her that the house was in real danger, and that she may not even be able to fly home early because of the fire conditions. We had nothing prepared in the house for this sort of thing -- no clearly labeled box saying, "Please take in the event of a fire." She and I could run through a mental list of things to get, but getting them was the near impossible challenge. It was the first time, though certainly not the last, that I would feel the gut-wrenching sensation of complete and total impotence.

I called my father, who though my parents are divorced agreed to try to drive to Mom's house to get the important documents out. When they blocked off the Tierrasanta exits on the freeway and he couldn't go any further, he called me with such disappointment, because he knew how much it meant to me to get there. I then called Steph's parents, asking them if they would stop at my Mom's house while they were evacuating out of Tierrasanta. They too ended up being turned away. Finally I called Jason, who in his law enforcement position could get behind barricades without a problem. For those of you who don't know my brother Jason, he's the physical embodiment of a 'tough guy' -- big muscles, tattoos, you get the picture. When I asked him what the situation was like, his voice choked as he said, "Kris, it's like Armageddon."

While Tierrasanta lost many homes in the 2003 fire, it was nothing compared to the complete and utter destruction in Todd's neighborhood of Scripps Ranch. It made the national headlines, just like this fire, but for most of the world it didn't mean much, which I guess is to be expected. It's a not a part of 'your world.' When you see the devastation of a tornado, for example, it looks just like the ruins of a home to an outsider. But to the person who lives in that community, those ruins represent the family that would go out of their way with Christmas decorations for the holidays. It's the home of the nice retired couple who could be seen out tending to their garden every morning. And now it's gone.

We drove down to San Diego immediately after the fires in 2003, and I'll never forget entering Scripps Ranch at 3:00am. There was no life. Of course there were hardly any people around, but there were no animals, no birds, not even insects. Silence. All that remained was the charred remnants of trees and bushes -- and of course ash. If you've not smelled a brush fire before, consider yourself lucky. It's the sort of smell that scars your senses, and for the rest of your life, when you smell that aroma -- a mixture of smoke, ash, and decay -- you'll get a knot in the pit of your stomach, because you fear what might be coming. Driving to Todd's house felt like entering a war zone. Entire streets were leveled, with only chimneys remaining of the homes that once stood there.

I don't think there is a single person in San Diego who didn't have a friend or loved one who lost their home in the fire. It may be why this week's fire hits such a raw cord in me. It's hard to imagine that only four years later that same sort of destruction has happened again. And for me, the feeling of helplessness I had four years ago has only magnified. I can't get in my car and drive down to help friends sift through the ashes of their home. I can't be there to make sandwiches for evacuees. Three thousand miles has never felt so far away as it does in this moment.

I feel grateful and blessed that most of my loved ones have been spared by this fire -- even if there were some close scares. Everyone is safe, which is the most important thing. I find myself wondering if there is a quota for prayers of these sort, and if one day my fire prayer will go unanswered because I've met my quota. San Diego is my roots. It is the place I grew up in, and where most of my family and so many of my friends still live. If I left my heart in San Francisco, then I left my soul in San Diego, in the good stead of those family members and friends. And this week it has felt like my soul's been ripped from me.

While walking to work yesterday I found myself inadvertently creating a San Diego playlist on my Ipod. I felt like if I was listening to Rocket from the Crypt, No Knife, or Nada Surf, I wasn't entirely disconnected from San Diego. Maybe -- just maybe -- if I just played the music loud enough and clicked my heels three times, I'd open my eyes to find myself back in my hometown. Needless to say, I'm still in Connecticut, which isn't bad, but it's not where I want to be. I heart you San Diego, and golly I wish I was home.

Adventures in Footwear (The humid, soggy weather edition)

First and foremost, I have to apologize profusely for not posting in such a long time. I started my new job almost three weeks ago, and I’ve hit the ground running, which I actually love. The downside to it is that I haven’t been able to muster up the energy to spend more time in front of the computer when I get home. It’s not a great excuse, I know. But I hope the few readers that remain will forgive me, and I’ll make more of an effort in the future – I promise.

Over the past few weeks I’ve frequently been asked by the folks back home what autumn is like in New England. The sad reality is that I can’t tell you anything about it…because it hasn’t happened yet. I can’t begin to tell you how sad this makes me, because I’ve been carrying around this picture-perfect image of fall in New Haven for months now. I pictured myself walking under a shower of crimson and golden leaves, handing out candy to little ghosts and goblins on a crisp Halloween night, and fulfilling all my Martha Stewart fantasies by pulling a fresh-baked pie from the oven, stuffed with the apples I picked myself from the orchards of Connecticut (Alice Waters would be so proud). And while I have gone apple picking in Connecticut, I did it on a mild, sunny, 73 degree day – not the sort of day I would ever complain about, but it certainly didn’t fit my image of crisp New England weather.

And so it seems that Todd and I's global warming tour of the world has continued here in New England, where today it is 76 degrees, humid, and rainy, when it should be crisp, clear, and well…fall like. Normally on a Friday a rainy or misty day isn’t such a big deal, since I can pull on a pair of jeans and more water-resistant shoes and be good to go. Unfortunately, one glaring downside to my new job is the dress code – no jeans on Friday (or ever, for that matter), and most people wear suits every single day. Needless to say when I get my first paycheck (which only comes once a month… another, albeit minor downside), I’ll be out buying more suits. But I digress. Since I can’t wear jeans today, and the air is warm and thick, I decide I’ll wear a skirt, and being my mother’s daughter, I’ve decided what shoes I want to wear first, and then I construct an outfit around them. The shoes of choice today were my red leather Steve Madden moccasin flats – a blessed relief after a week running around New Haven and Manhattan in pointy-toe boots and pumps. Plus, since they’re leather, they’ll be good to wear in the light mist, right?

Needless to say, my flats probably would have been just fine if in fact I had been walking through a light mist. Instead, the heavens decided to open – 1 minute after I stepped out our office building to run an errand on my lunch break. Since I only had three blocks to go at this point, I decided to keep walking and hope it would lighten up. It didn’t – until I reached one of the large Gothic churches that dot New Haven. Just as I walked past the church doors, a man stepped out, and began cheerfully singing “Zip a dee doo dah.” Not being a song you hear everyday, I glanced at him, and right as he got to the line “plenty of sunshine heading my way,” it stopped raining. Literally. I think to myself, “Well, if that isn’t a direct connection to God, I don’t know what is.” I continue walking behind him until I reach my destination, and the sun does indeed poke through the clouds.

After picking up what I need, I step back outside and am relieved to find that the break in the rain is still there. I begin to walk quickly back to the office, and just as I round the corner next to the church, the heavens break once again, and it pours in the sort of fierce sheets I haven’t seen since Austria. Zip a dee doo dah my ass. I don’t know whether I should take this as a personal f-you from God, or just that I’m that Care Bear who always has a rain cloud hanging over his head. At this point, my shoes are already damp, but by the time I get back to the office they are soaked through and a completely different shade of red – burgundy, almost. Once I sit back at my desk I look down and think, “Did I cut myself?” because a blotch of red is now creeping up from my shoe. I pull my shoe off and gasp, because my entire foot is covered in red dye. I pull my left foot out and see it’s fared no better.

I go into the women’s restroom (whose mere four stalls are shared by all the women on my large floor), and try to scrub the dye off with a paper towel. It’s at this point that two of my co-workers walk into the bathroom and discover me rubbing at a foot that looks like someone’s supply of fake blood has exploded all over it. Perfect. Oh, and I did mention that I’m humming Zip a Dee Doo Dah when they come in, because now the song is stuck in my head and I can’t get it out? I look like a bloody sociopath, scrubbing with a fervor that would make Lady MacBeth proud, AND I’m a walking Disney ride. Nice. I try to laugh it off and explain it to them, but I think to them I will forever be THAT girl. On top of all of this, the dye isn’t coming off. At all. Todd’s promised he’ll only make fun of me for one week, which is nice…I guess. Until then, I’ll just have to stick to closed-toed shoes – or strut my horror film feet around the block, whistling a merry tune. I’ll let you know which I decide.