Among the more interesting items my recently deceased step mother possessed was a five-CD set of Linda Ronstadt’s solo albums with each album’s original cover reproduced into five cardboard sleeves. All the albums are from the late 70s and early 80s.

When I examined these dreamy covers, particularly the one of Ronstadt in tight shorts, tube socks and roller skates, I was instantly reminded of my crush on her in junior high and high school even though I never bought one of her albums and knew only her big FM hits, almost all of them covers. And I also remembered the story of how this pop/rock pinup queen would sneak in and out of then-California Governor Jerry Brown’s mansion in Sacramento. Oh for the return of that sort of controversial behavior from the contemporary political class and pop music superstars! More Gary Hart and Wilbur Mills and less Josh Hawley and Ted Cruz.

As I perused the covers and the track lists, Linda’s voice whispered: play me. A long drive across Oregon loomed in a few days so I packed up Linda and planned to listen to all five CDs in a row in transit.

And that’s what I did.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Linda could absolutely rock Buddy Holly and shred a power ballad such as “Hurts So Bad” and has such a growl on the rockers. She wasn’t songwriter; she was a singer and when she covered a song she killed it and made it her own (e.g. Warren Zevon’s “Poor Poor Pitiful Me,” a truly odd song loosely about S & M.

All albums ran about 10 tracks, 35 or 40 minutes long, and I was intrigued by her musical changes when the 80s rolled around and she was belting out arena rockers with lots of New Wave sounds.

It occurred to me listening that I would have loved to played in a Linda Ronstadt cover band, and I once did know a female singer who could have pulled it off.

I don’t know what song it was, but Linda sang a line that went something like, “Look out neighborhood, my love is coming around.”

Gold. Gold. Gold. Linda sang it as a threat! Why not? Why shouldn’t we threaten our neighbors with love! God knows many Americans neighborhoods and their angry residents are utterly staved for love.

Well goddammit, let’s give it to them!

My step mother recently passed away. My dad is 89. My uncle is dying from cancer. Almost 450,000 Americans have died of the corona virus with many more to come.

I’ve been thinking about death and the prospect of my own and what that might look like. As I have written elsewhere, I have always wanted to end my existence by plunging into Hart’s Cove, or perhaps off Otter Point. My body would never be recovered and I would return to the ocean where all life began. To me, that isn’t a morbid idea but perfectly natural and hastens my return to the water cycle.

But how will I know is the time? Will I have the strength of body and mind to execute this plan? I can’t very well ask anyone to help me. I can’t choose someone in my will to carry it out. I have no children to assist me.

When will that final moment come when I can do it myself and then that moment passes and I can’t?

These are some of my thoughts of late. They are not really sorting out. I need some beach time to consider them.

It was 27 degrees on a weekday morning. I walked to a convenience store for a decent cup of drip coffee. Outside the store, a transient, a younger man, sorted through the garbage receptacle with one hand while he held up is bicycle laden with gear with his other hand. As I approached the entrance, the man looked toward me and said, “Hey, sir, do you have a smoke?”

“No, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s a bad habit.”

I eased his way and we struck up a conversation about bad habits, the cold, the high cost of cigarettes, and how most of his gear had recently been stolen.

“Hang in there,” I said, and I left to enter the store.

I poured a coffee and went up to the counter to pay. A thought bolted into my mind. I dashed outside. The transient was still sorting.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s your favorite brand of cigarettes?”

“Marlboro menthol 100s.”

A transient smoked menthols?

“Okay,” I said and returned to the store and bought him a pack. Around ten bucks.

Outside, I placed the cigarettes on a parking barrier and called out to him. “Here’s your menthols!”

“Thank you sir and God bless you.”

Well, I don’t know about that considering they were cigarettes.

I walked away carrying my coffee and reflected on the last time I bought a pack of cigarettes. It was for an evil and beautiful Jezebel and her brand was Marlboro light 100s.