Hungytown

Unfortunately there is no spell check for cakes.



I loved visiting with my friends Hungrytown, aka Rebecca and Ken. I miss them already. All that is left behind is a bunch of tidy laundry and a slab of celebratory cd-release carrot cake in my fridge.

I'm drinking the rest of the wine. By myself right now. And listening to Anne Briggs.

Snif . . .

Sunrise on the Lower East Side

I took these the other morning and tried to post them, but the computer was glitchy.

*Yawn* . . .

Friday funk

I've been getting up early all this week, anxious over this or that.

Slowly I've come to realize that getting up early is the key to everything.

Watching sunrises, for example. Eating breakfast. Banking online. Having a spot of tea and calming down. Thinking through whatever was bothering me.

I've completely forgotten to mention, or send an announcement, indicating that tomorrow I will be playing a solo show opening for Rebecca and Ken, hereby christened Hungrytown. They have a new CD! Hurrah!

I'll be at Googie's Lounge at 9pm. Hungrytown goes on at 10.

Sunday scrawl

Some of you think I'm dippy for writing the previous post. Well, screw you. I know what I know.

Last night !J¡ and I escorted my nephew out for a funtastic birthday dinner on Long Island and afterward had a short, cozy visit with the family. As I was packing up to leave my (step)mom told me she had found my mom's humongous jewelry box. For various reasons, I thought this jewelry box had been lost, and I was elated to whisk it home and rummage through it again after all these years. Inside: a black jet bead bracelet; an Art Deco watch inscribed with my grandmother's initials; a NYC subway token from the 50s or 60s; a set of matching parakeet earrings and pin; a necklace of big fat orange beads; and more. Yum.

This has been the perfect afternoon to sit with a cup of tea at my desk and and notice the light changing. Gorgeous shades of gray and cornflower blue today.

Love and Cruelty

I was on the Upper West Side for an author event so I decided to stay up there for awhile and walk around and have dinner. I ended up at Niko's because the salads are so good, it's crazy.

I had a Big Salad and a glass of wine that was described on the menu as "savage and sexy." The wine came in a goblet rather than a glass. This is what you get when you order a savage and sexy wine made on Mount Olympus. Various breads arrived in a basket, tucked under a napkin with a small dish of olive tapenade hidden at the bottom. I savored a single bite from each piece of bread. A knotted whole wheat roll; a toasted baguette slice soaked in olive oil and herbs; a chewy sesame stick; a pumpernickel slice chock full of raisins. All laden with tapenade. Decadence.

I spent a long time thinking about Ben and how we had sat here together swapping real estate stories. I really enjoyed remembering him. It was like a nice visit with a friend from out of town, when you feel a surge of renewed warmth for someone you once knew well and don't see so often anymore.

After finishing the salad and wine, my bones felt warm and the light seemed to change to a deeper amber. The waiter brought complimentary dessert wine and a tiny square of almond cake. I alternated: bite of cake, bit of wine. Cake; wine. No more cake. Throw back wine.

Signing the Visa receipt I felt myself enveloped by God's love.

I left and walked to the corner and raised my arm to hail a cab. A speeding cab swerved across two lanes and came to a halt in front of me without fully pulling over. I slid in quickly and told him to take the West Side Highway, not the FDR. He cut west.

I snuggled in and texted my boyfriend hi and how much I love him, so much, so very much, and I cried a little as I typed it with my thumbs because I love him so much.

The cab slowed down because the access road was blocked. We had to do a loop and go back to Broadway. Looking up I saw we were in a slow caravan down lower Riverside Drive, with the pier where Ben died coming up on my right. It was quiet and the lights were stark white and crystalline across the river.

We cut over on 66th street and drove past Ben's apartment building. Good grief it hurt.

Back on Broadway, we went a few blocks further downtown and then cut over again. This time the street was clear. On the left I saw a sign for an emergency room. St. Luke's-Roosevelt . . .

ok Ben, I get it.

Happy birthday.

Happy. Fucking. Birthday.

Me and my plus-one

When you're high from gig night, nothing beats the ambivalence of a cat.

My plus-two, also feline, is lolling around on the bed.

Allons dormir!

Sequestering

Last night's work laid me up with a big headache. The work was wonderful but I think I ate too much sugar. Estrogen + rain + sugar + too much excitement = migraine for me. It's better now.

I'm listening to the results of last night on my big stereo.

As soon as I put it on and settled in, Saro zoomed around the apartment, blazed across my desk, crash landed in my lap, looked up at me, and screamed.

Every line I sang, she screamed again.

I think I need a second opinion . . .

Mustering

And this is my horoscope for today, no kidding:

Confrontations
This is a day of critical culminations, when many activities and projects will come to a climax in your life. It is particularly important that you have worked with complete knowledge and understanding of what you were trying to accomplish. Even under the best of circumstances, you will confront others at this time. For most people the area of greatest unconsciousness in this regard is that of close personal relationships, as with family and partner. In these relationships you are most likely to experience the negative effects of this influence in the form of arguments and conflict. If you are in such a conflict, look carefully to see what is really at stake, if anything, and try to arrive at a workable compromise.


In other news, I saw this movie last night; today I still feel drunk from it; a kind of sweet drunk that warms your soul, makes you cry and feel better, and then makes you cry more.

Mastering

Tomorrow we master the new record at The Viewing Room. I'm excited -- perhaps most excited to visit with Scott and Rebecca and kitty, and second-string excited to finish this massive art project that has been, as Billie Holiday sang, my joy and my pain.

We started this record by tracking eleven-or-so songs in June 2004. Jill took pictures at the sessions; looking back at the contact sheet, I see Alan playing bass with his headphones and Black Sabbath t-shirt on; Dave taking a break in the captain's seat at the mixing board; Dann sitting with his glasses off, rubbing his eyes. I look happy and zaftig and surrounded by wires: headphones, microphone. We went on to record another dozen songs over the next 3 years -- not a lot compared to many bands, but a lot for me. The final count on this record will be 13.

SNOWBLIND and a dozen dwarfs, har.

Just don't eat one right before you go up

I have this semi-irritating habit of telling a story here and making the whole thing a bigger deal than it really is, full of metaphor and all that blah.

But you know what? I'm tired of that.

I finally did a headstand in yoga. And that's all it was. A headstand. And I did it.

Whoopie pie = whoopie pie.

Authenticity

The book release party was completely fun last night. I spent a great deal of time speaking with a lovely letterpress artist and a cheerful couple whose featured letter turned out to be a very dirty text message. Plus I got to meet the editor, a swell chap. This all was made even more sweet by the sweetness of my escort, ¡J!, whose unilateral support made me feel extra special -- so zen and special that I was unfazed even by the possibility of having just accidentally eaten spicy crab dip.

Today I've been trying to listen to new music. I'm kind of bummed out by a lot of what the kids of today are listening to. I don't want to name names , but I must. I find that these people make achingly beautiful music, and even decent lyrics, but ruin it with inauthentic-sounding vocal delivery -- ridiculous breathiness, over-growly soul. Do you agree, or am I just being too -- um-- crabby?

Postscript: At least one possibility for explaining why I didn't get sick off of the dip -- that is, if I am still allergic to shellfish after all these years -- is that it may have been fake crab. Inauthenticity saves the day!

Available at your local bookseller!

An excerpt from this blog has been published in this book, just out.

You can see cool excerpts here.

This is the official site.

Hooray for love!

Still Crazy Shit; Smaller Ass; Further Reflections

I deleted the last entry. It Just Wasn't Right. I shouldn't talk about people so negatively, even if they occasionally terrorize me.

Also I don't think I got to the heart of the situation: How even a seemingly-supportive comment can set off feelings of inadequacy, even paranoia. This week three (3) other people (female) also commented on alleged weight loss. I accepted and appreciated their compliments but also started to feel self-conscious. Considering I'm really trying to drop more weight, and always have felt some degree of ambivalence toward my stature, the comments set off some weird thought spirals. I actually entertained the thought that they might just be fucking with my head.

It appears as if I've regressed to seeing everything through the lens of day camp circa 1982.

But this is what always happens -- a wave of insecurity, and then an upsurge of energy.

Save the date: the record will be released January 25!

Monday

Tonight I left work and walked to yoga in my python heels. I was carrying a leather tote plus two other bags––large, shiny cardboard-stiff boutique bags full of manuscript, Elle magazine, flats, yoga clothes, tupperware, and sneakers.

The brick buildings glowed in amber light. I was lulled by the easy click-clack rhythm of the heels; first gritty and stacatto, on cement; then, when I hit the West Village, drawling on slate. It was still 45 minutes till class.

I stopped at Miguelina on Bleecker and ran my fingers down the silk blouses: violet, ginger, aquamarine.

I strolled to Magnolia Bakery. I picked the cupcake with the largest icing crown: a huge helmet of lemon-colored sugarbutter with tiny pebble sprinkles, all perched on a little round of yellow cake. Two dollars, please.

I slipped 2 bags to the crook of my arm, squeezed the cupcake gingerly in a sheath of wax paper, and slowly crossed the street. I sat down on a green wood bench, my bags spreading out and nestling in on all sides. Dry leaves scudded over bricks and cement.

I peeled back the wax paper. A little icing was stuck to the paper. I combed my teeth over the spot and felt the sweetness dissolve between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

I leaned in and lopped off a chunk of icing and cake with my front teeth.

Mmmmmm.

Doubling down

This weekend I learned that in blackjack, if the first two cards you are dealt look favorable you are given the opportunity to double your bet, or double down.

The caveat is that if you decide to double down, you receive one more card only.

One decides to double down by quickly calculating that odds are favorable for reaching the ideal (that one's own hand will come close to 21 without breaking, and that the dealer's hand will break).

It's a combination of strategy, luck, and faith, with a pinch of audacity for good measure.

And if it all comes together, you hit paydirt.

Doesn't that sound lovely.

More On That Subject

But first: This ad made me burst into tears in the laundry room.



Re: the poem below: I reached for it last night without thinking of anything in particular. It means more to me now than it did when I first read it a dozen years ago.

Courage is the secret to happiness -- Courage to love, wisely and unwisely; courage to believe that others are putting forth their best intentions; courage to have compassion when others can't escape their own destructiveness; courage to pursue a dream even when it seems indulgent and silly; courage not to let the gut-wrenchingly bad things that happen freeze you solid.

The words hope, faith, and love sound so horribly trite. But when your life starts to hit the skids, they appear out of nowhere like Charlie's Angels and totally kick some ass.

Ah well -- I'll leave it to Marianne.

Apropos of nothing, I remembered that my computer has a photo booth function:



{Self-portrait with Liza-cut Hair}






{Self-portrait as Lint Roller Mummenschanz}

What Are Years?

What is our innocence,
what is our guilt? All are
naked, none is safe. And whence
is courage: the unanswered question,
the resolute doubt, -
dumbly calling, deafly listening - that
in misfortune, even death,
encourage others
and in its defeat, stirs

the soul to be strong? He
sees deep and is glad, who
accededs to mortality
and in his imprisonment rises
upon himself as
the sea in a chasm, struggling to be
free and unable to be,
in its surrendering
finds its continuing.

So he who strongly feels,
behaves. The very bird,
grown taller as he sings, steels
his form straight up. Though he is captive,
his mighty singing
says, satisfaction is a lowly
thing, how pure a thing is joy.
This is mortality,
this is eternity.

- Marianne Moore

Found!

At first I was alarmed, but then I realized that a found cat probably is better off than a lost cat.

I like the artist's rendering.







. . . To aid in animal identification, of course.

Here, There, and Everywhere

Once the alien octopus resurfaces in your consciousness, you start to see it everywhere.

Walking across the Williamsburg bridge:











And then, perhaps the mothership:

RIP WWN

"WWN avoided celeb gossip, with the exception of Elvis and politicians (for instance, Donald Rumsfeld: 'Rumsfeld Changes His Name to Rumsfeldstiltskin and Tells Rogue Nations 'Guess My New Name or We'll Invade You,''[. . . .] By those standards alone, I considered it a higher calling."

Eros in action

I've noticed something recently.

On my lunchtime walkabout, I get catcalled a lot. Walking to and from work, I never get a single hoot.

I puzzled over this. Is 9am too early for catcalling? Must one have one's morning coffee in order to issue a proper 'hey baby?' And by 6, is one just too plum tired from leering at all the foot traffic during the day?

Then it hit me: at lunchtime I'm wearing my real shoes; walking to and from work, I'm wearing sneaks.

Another compelling argument for the indelible power of fabulous shoes.

Thus ends the . . .

. . . Muppet thread. And, hark! What thread has recommenced!?!





It's the return of the alien octopus!!!!!

This is the first time in a long time I've seen one that's not on a moving object (truck) or on a stationary object (wall) at a moment in time in which I am on a moving object (train, bus).

<. . . >

Mmm, ok, one more Muppet pic.

Electric Mayhem

(Clockwise from left: John, Joe, Ross, Erica, Andy)

Please note that Plastic Sharples / Blonde Wombat / 99 cent Beef combo, aka the John Sharples Band, will be playing at Hank's Saloon on Friday. I have no idea when, or with whom.

More info as it becomes available.

I'm the backup singer, woooo!

"Mo' Muppets" Monday!

I hope this inspires your singing as it has mine!

"Classic Muppets" Sunday!

I got totally killed in boxing on Wednesday.

Defense was decent, but my offense was pitiful.

We were doing 1s and 2s only. No hooks! She take-a my hooks away, I get a-killed.

*sigh*

Isn't today a great day . . .

(1) . . . to be born?

Welcome, Jonah Klein Rogoff! Looks like you have your mom's beautiful red hair and dad's winsome smile.
















(2) . . . or, if you've already been born, to curl up under a blanky and watch the newest fabulous show on basic cable?

Bragadoon

Here’s some brag-worthy news for a Friday.

First, check out Lucid Culture’s review of our recent live show.

Next, I’m happy to report that folk supergroup the Strangelings are covering my badass arrangement of the traditional number Johnny Come Down to Hilo. They’re gonna play it when they headline Falcon Ridge tomorrow night and have recorded it on their new CD (on which I have sung a few ooh-y and aah-y harmonies).

Break a leg, kids!

Musings of a Pretentious Twat

The title of this entry is inspired by the previous entry. But I’ll let it stand.

Lyrics often look pretty dumb when written out. I think it will sound better with the music attached. Music can cover up a lot of silliness.

Does anyone remember when they had a Cole Porter lyric on a Poetry in Motion poster?

It’s very clear
Our love is here to stay.
Not for a year
But ever and a day.

Mmmmmmmmm, yummy.

Lyric

Heat, like a strong hand on my back. Suddenly the night is kissing me and I’m kissing back. I’m walking through water, I’m wading through the dark. For an hour I watch night boats pass by Corlear’s Hook Park.

Heat pressing on my skin brings calm and slight alarm. My breathing quickens when a stranger brushes my arm. Moving so slow four flights underground. A silver F train rattles in & takes me all the way downtown.

Heat makes a lonely hunter. A hot bead of sweat saunters down every down, and then in between. I know that you know I know what you mean. But I want to hear it right from your lips, with your mouth to my ear and your hands on my hips.

Heat on the sidewalk, hot grass on the lawn. Steam rises from the blacktop when the cloudburst comes. Am I going crazy, or is it all for the love of heat.

I think I have a fractured nose. This is so exciting.

I felt it when it happened: In sparring, we were instructed to go for uppercuts to the chin. Mike is so much taller than I am, his uppercut starts at right about my snoot level.

I felt one uppercut graze my headgear right under my right eye socket. I pulled back, came back in and tried to throw a hook to the body. It wasn't that strategic, but at some point over the past few months I realized that if I stay low with Mike, my punches are more likely to connect. Going for any punch to Mike's head is risky; my glove most often ends up swooshing through the air, and then for a second I'm left open.

I felt another uppercut graze under my left eye socket. And then, blam! One up and pushed my nose back. It was a quick squnch, no more painful than a slap, but unsettling.

This was the beginning of the end of the sparring session for me. I had come out strong earlier in the class, with some good defensive slips and counterpunches. But I was getting tired. And I had yet to face Kora.

Kora is the uppercut-to-the-chin queen. I found that out for the first time last week. It came out of nowhere: An eye-goggling uppercut followed by a quick hook, and suddenly I'm dumb and wandering. My instinctive comeback is not to retaliate with the punches we are supposed to do (i.e. strategic counterpunch, uppercut her in turn), but instead to throw the fastest, hardest hook combinations I can muster and effectively push her across the open space and up against the (imaginary) ropes. And then we step back and reset.

I was distracted and unstrategic and Kora kept getting my chin as if there were a bull's-eye painted on it. Why am I not getting what to do back? We will work on this question next week.

In the meantime, my nose is slightly swollen with a faint tinge of blue on the side. It feels fine. No blood or anything. Tomorrow I'll see if it blossoms into a full-fledged bruise.

Next week I'll have to do better, or else face a similar outcome.

It's all so wrong -- and yet so right.

In Case You Thought I Was Kidding

. . . when I describe the antics of a certain animal:

DISCLAIMER: Strictly for cat-loving people. All others will feel bored and superior.

Rescued

I am so completely happy to know that my favorite show is coming back in 2 weeks. This clip came on as I was watching Airplane TV, but the stewardess was yammering through it and she pre-empted the sound . . . something about oxygen masks . . . whatever. Anyway -- yay:



Here's a superbly over-the-top outtake that illustrates so much of what I love about this show.

Part 1:



Part II:

St. Elmo's: A Reconsideration

It was on tv the other night, and I couldn't resist. I remember falling in love with the characters when I was 13 or 14 and I totally, totally couldn't wait to be them.

I dug out my teen diaries to see if I wrote about it but I haven't found anything yet. I do remember how much I loved those girls. Ally Sheedy was so pretty in her pearls and lace and big sweaters and big skirts and big boots. Mare Winningham was the character I identified with most strongly at the time -- in the sense that she was kinda frumpy and plain -- and I aspired to be beloved and trusted by all, as she seemed to be. Demi Moore's character seemed kinda scary, but now she seems the most funny and real of the bunch. (That is, if "real" means doing coke in a hotel room with a bunch of Saudi Arabian playboys. But still, she was the quickest of the lot.)

I found other things in the diaries, though, which led me to new realizations:

1. I did a LOT of babysitting. I adored those kids.

2. I was depressed and dissociated much of the time, and my mom and sister were very moody, with some kind of special static between them.

3. I was prone to fits of righteous anger.

4. I watched too much television. (Should have picked up guitar - duh.)

5. My parents invested unbelievable amounts of time in their children -- running the household, going to work, running me back and forth to work, driving us around to visit colleges, doing epic amounts of food shopping, and so much more that I can't fully fathom at this moment.

My point of view in the diaries is basically dulled and distant, or when talking about my pack of girlfriends, slightly buzzed with giddiness. It's odd. The teen years are famous for oceanic depths of feeling; but for the most part, I was skimming.

Which brings me back to St. Elmo. As we know from Billy's big speech -- the intellectual high point in the film, judging by the other quotables -- the fire in question is no fire atall. It's just a phenomenon in nature. Furthermore, contrary even to Billy, sailors did not guide their journeys by St. Elmo's Fire. It just was what it was.

In a way, St. Elmo's was my St. Elmo's. (Billy version.) I couldn't wait to be young, hip, and fabulous, just like them. They didn't quite guide my journey, but they planted the seeds of an illusion.

What do you do when your illusions die?

Illusion is tricky: Necessary for the energy to continue in art, in the sense that you feel a surge of wholeness and importance when in fact only an assemblage of raw materials exist. Paint on canvas. Notes hanging in the air.

Illusion makes love possible. You don't just see your lover, you see yourself and your lover in some kind of paradigm of beautifulness.

Illusion easily becomes lethal to the soul. When enough illusions have been shattered, one can become Blance Dubois, frantically cobbling together new illusions out of shards.

Perhaps the question really is, how do you live without illusions? Is that what people mean when they say that someone Just Gave Up?

Tag 'n tell

You may be wondering who I tagged:

Everybody Loves Saturday Night,

Nipperknits,

Flowergirl,

and In the Quiet of My Heart.

I'm not sure that they all care to play such foolish games, but they always have something interesting to say regardless.

Ssssh! Let's listen now!

Reassessment

Joni Mitchell's late-70s period was never my favorite. The songs were too long, talky, and meandering for me, with hardly a discernible melody or hook. Hejira made my head hurt.

Now I understand -- it's the sound of art imitating life.

Joni's early records have a ferocious, Brandoesque quality to them that will never go out of style. What a searing sureness of emotion and appropriately stark, pared-down arrangements.

As Joni hits her 30s the timbre shifts, and she offers longer catalogs of images and impressions, doubts and recollections --

The drone of flying engines
Is a song so wild and blue
It scrambles time and seasons if it gets through to you
Then your life becomes a travelogue
Of picture-post-card-charms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

-- and appropriately wraps these lines in jazzier, more complex arrangements. Sure, she shifts toward stranger melodies; but at a certain age, life does take on a strange melody, doesn't it?

Dora says, have children!
Mama and Betsy say, find yourself a charity.
Help the needy and the crippled or put some time into ecology.
Well, there's a wide wide world of noble causes
And lovely landscapes to discover
But all I really want right now
Is to find another lover

I'm sure over the years people have explained all of this to me about Joni, but only today it arrived fully.

People will tell you where they've gone
They'll tell you where to go
But till you get there yourself you never really know

Eeep! I've been tagged!

The scoop is, I post 6 odd things about myself, and then "tag" 6 others to do the same, sending them the link to this page.

Six odd things about me:

1. I floss after I brush, not before. (Then I rinse again.)

2. I almost always write songs with the radio on. Otherwise it feels too spooky.

3. I almost always leave a little food on the plate, as if to convince myself that I didn't really eat the whole thing.

4. When I was little I made up my own daytime talk show. It had a theme song. Perhaps this is the first song I ever wrote. In addition to reporting the news and weather, I enacted recurring dramatic segments such as Batgirl Story. I often interviewed my parents; they embodied a rotating cast of characters, such as a friendly neighborhood dragon, King Kong, Barbara Walters, and a daffy mermaid who sold used cars. I recorded all of this onto cassette tapes and still have them.

5. Last week I dreamed I was visted by a sweet, amazing dog. In my dream I knew that the dog was my grandmother. Now, a week later, I believe it really was my grandmother.

Just a Note

There are about 2 months in early 2005 I hardly remember at all; they're a kaleidoscope of colors and feelings.

I think a lot now about how kind people were to me. Unbelievably kind. Calling and checking up. Inviting me out for eggs. Having a drink. Listening to me rant. God knows what I must have said.

During that black hole period I received the best piece of advice ever, thanks to my friend Alex: "Just be careful -- you're very out of it -- look both ways before you cross the street."

Sometimes I find random stuff in the apartment. Who gave me that Judee Sill record? Dan was that you? It's a blur. I'm really enjoying it.

I can only hope to show the same loving kindness to others when they need it.

Thank you -- You know who you are!

Big Entrances

I love movies that start with a clever animated sequence.

"Down With Love" is my favoritest movie right now, for that and many other reasons.

"What's New Pussycat?" is another fave.

Recommendations?

Concerning the Continuing Adventures of the Pampered Pugilist; Or, How I Learned to Take the Punches and Like It

The major development in my entanglement with boxing is that somewhere along the way I lost my fear.

I think it's probably because Maria got injured and doesn't come to sparring class anymore, so the threat of leaving with a black eye or a bruised jaw is greatly decreased. So I have started getting bold with my opponents.

At first, it was easy to keep Kora at bay; like a chipmunk, she alternately darted and halted, hungry and unfocused. I could kind of jab her around. However, Kora broke up with her boyfriend and simultaneously found her hook. When I felt that hit, I snapped to attention. Soon we will see what Kora is fully capable of inflicting onto others. She is naturally sassy and fearless, so this probably won't be pretty for me.

Mike is about six-foot-twelve, of unabashedly sweet temperament and indeterminate Scandinavian descent. When I first saw him on the bag, his arms seemed to take two full seconds to unfurl a punch, and when they made contact, the bag swung high and wild. One time, the bag spasmed, dislodged, and hit the floor.

I quickly learned that, despite Mike's enormous wingspan, you can never quite see him coming; he is a free-jazz boxer, with a rhythm all his own. So I learned to be light. He will lunge at you with a hook that could make the blind see -- using only half his power, because he is a gentleman -- and you have to sit, slip, weave, or pull your sorry ass back, and try to at least graze his chin with a right before he can fully retract his arm. And think light, light, light. After several rounds tonight, our faces were both purple-red and we were staggering. And yet I remembered: pirouette, pirouette, and mustering all my energy, I danced. That got me the hell out of that round.

Tina was there tonight. She is adorable, but every time I see her on Wednesday I have a flash thought: "Crap." She closest in line to being the second coming of Maria: tiny -- five-two tops -- and fast. And I now know for certain that fighting tiny people is far worse than fighting tall people, for when they hit, they don't hit the proverbial bull's eye on the forehead of your headgear. They hit upward toward your jaw, lip, nose. I took a few hard pops from Tina, but no bleeding or swelling resulted, so I'm grateful and high as a kite on endorphins.

And I made an appointment for a Christmas facial, courtesy of a most delightful and generous friend.

Life is sweet!

Holy Crap, It's 2007

Happy New Year. I've been sick and as of 4pm I've watched about twelve episodes of "Law and Order" back to back. I took the whole week off from work.

Random highlights of days off:

1. Painting the bathroom bright white while listening to Neko Case and Sam Phillips and singing along while pirouetting on the ladder on one foot, reaching with spongebrush to dab paint in ceiling corners.

2. Icing said foot afterward.

3. Curling up with Chinese food (steamed) and watching "Ugly Betty" marathon (but only after complaining on phone to buddies about how it was being pre-empted by Ford's funeral. "Casket, go home! We want Betty!").

4. The smell of smoke in the studio. It was just the motor on the tape machine blowing out, but still.

5. Bruce's 11th-hour determination to try loading the (intact) tape onto other machines and transferring the mix so that I could still make good on my promise to bring a song home on CD for the holidays. The other machines didn't work, but Bruce's persistence was touching.

6. Getting my first "Blowout." I had read about a place in Chinatown that gives you fantastic hair pizzazz for $15. It was fantastic and pizzazztical, and right on time for a crazy-badass haute foode lunch at Perry St.

7. My 4-year-old niece doing her impression of the Cookie Monster: "ME WANT COOOKIE! COOOKIE!!"

I'm not one for resolutions, but I do vow to strengthen my resolve, doing more of the good things and less of the bad things. You?

Hope to see you soon.