LEILANI HERE.
As a non-member of the band I have no business writing about this, maybe. Maybe one of the guys should write about it. But none have so I'm going to.
Some of you already know that we have come to see the passing of an era in the life of Astra Heights. Little brother Timothy has officially decided to remain in the Houston area and pursue a solo career. He is now an ex-Astra Heights boy.
I have not spoken to him since I heard the news because I am so sad. I think I better wait a little bit or I'll just end up conveying how much I wish it weren't the case. When he was first planning his "leave of absence" to Houston, I told him I was mad at him: "You're leaving me!" I said, half kidding, because I have an abandonment complex and because of course what everyone does is all about me.
"No, Leilani, it's like a month and I'm coming back," he said.
"You better," I told him. Now he's not.
But I'm not mad. The man's gotta do what the man's gotta do. I get that. Still, I'm sad.
In September 2006, my husband and I separated. In February of 2007, while everything was still fresh, Mark and Timmy needed a place to stay and came to live with me for a little bit at Westgate. (Westgate is what we call the palatial manor of which I was once the Lady). I met him once one fine summer day when he was off to play soccer with his brothers, and then he was suddenly my roommate. It was with Timmy and Mark that I had the First Fun: hanging out, laughing, talking, and generally having such a good time that I first realized, "Hey! I can have fun again. Right on!" I have an especially vivid image of sitting back on the couch next to Mark while Timmy regaled us with his perfect blow-by-blow re-enactment of Michael Jackson's video for "Rock with You." I also remember struggling with a tough bag of potato chips for about 25 minutes, crinkle crankle crinkle crankle, wondering when this noise was ever going to cases, when Timmy aburptly grabbed the bag. "You need some help with that, Leilani?" he said. Smarty pants. He then proceeded to struggle with it for ten minutes of his own.
He'd only been living there for about three days--hardly knew me--when I got a terrible email that just broke me up. I was crying. Timmy was the only person in the house. Timmy plopped right down next to me like he'd known me forever and held me. I think of that impulse as very typically Timmy.
My daughters call Timmy the Tickle Monster.
Oh the things we're gonna miss.
No more of his cute twisty-shuffling-feet dance, the one that makes him look sometimes very sexy and sometimes like a chicken imitating James Brown.
No more of those death-defying sunglasses at night, on stage.
No more interactive guitar playing.
No more of the things he says to his brothers about Babes on tour that I'm not supposed to hear because I'm a lady. Old Eagle Eyes. I go, "Timmy, what did you just tell your brother about that girl?" and he goes, "Oh never you mind, young lady."
Timmy always rallied us for Apples to Apples (or "Apples and Oranges," as, to his mirth, I always used to mis-call it). Notice we haven't played Apples to Apples in a very long time?
Timmy, if you're happy, then I'm happy for you. But I'm going to miss you.



























