Lately I keep waking up at 4am. This happens a lot in December, now that I think about it. Usually I'm just garden-variety anxious and/or looped into some kind of solstice-related biorhythm. Tonight (this morning) I am anxious with the added bonus of feeling sick and gross, one sickness self-inflicted, one not.
About the former: Please remind me never, ever to drink before dinner. This is very bad. How did I get to be this old and not learn this lesson? ¡J! and I had toodled up to Queens for a tour of a swankaroo restaurant (in which we could get married -- warning -- more bridey-bride blog posts to come!) and we had to wait a few minutes at the bar. What the heck, bartender! I'll drink what he's drinking! A Manhattan? On a stomach full of lettuce and popcorn? No problem!
The sweet, delightful wedding expert for the restaurant gave us a tour of the appropriate rooms -- the bridal suite, the ceremony room, the cocktail hour nook, the walls that could be folded away to make a big-ass room bigger-ass. With a breathtaking view of Manhattan, this place seriously kills. But as the whiskey seeped its way into my system I started to get overly fascinated by the carpeting, the mirrors, the bunny hutch-ness of the bridal chamber, the copious artwork in Impressionist colors. (They are renovating the place for spring and it's going to be much more clean and modern. Less like Laura Ashley and more like Mitchell Gold. Whew!) I got distracted by the stall size in the ladies' room and peppered our girl with important, relevant questions (Post-reno, will it be big enough for two -- one to hold the bride's dress while she pees?). Later, we moved the party downstairs and we went over a lot of details (menus, pricing), almost none of which I can recall, having become deeply enamored of the twinkly lights and the piano player's choices (did he switch to Cole Porter to help seal the deal?), so it's a good thing ¡J! is on top of everything and our girl had a very nice packet with everything all written down.
This is all a long way of saying I got drunk off my ass on this wedding tour. We went to a really nice dinner afterward and I was still kind of drunk off my ass (salad and steak, alas, not that absorbent). It was fun while it lasted -- the car ride to dinner was inexplicably hilarious -- but I woke up feeling totally nasty.
The second illness is merely the cold that has taken hold as a result of having compromised myself thus. The only interesting thing about the cold is that it has a lot of gusto. I had a big sneeze in bed and was whiplashed by its force, volume, and trajectory. Basically, imagine being pelted in the face with a boomerang slug. This happened twice, so I'm inclined to believe it's a bonus feature of this particular strain of virus.
Stay tuned for further adventures. For now: water crackers all eaten up. One more glass of water. Beddy-bye!
11.26.2008
Happy Birthday Saro!
Today little Saro is ten years old. She is 56 in people years.
Here's my favorite pic of Saro. She was so small then. The piece in the upper left corner was the bottom of a guitar stand!
Here is Saro as many of us usually know her.
And we would be remiss without linking to the Saro Multimedia Site. The audio is especially fun!
Hugs to Annie and Dave for bringing her into my life, and to all of you who show kindness and care to the Saro.
I love you, Saro! Happy birthday!
Here's my favorite pic of Saro. She was so small then. The piece in the upper left corner was the bottom of a guitar stand!
Here is Saro as many of us usually know her.
And we would be remiss without linking to the Saro Multimedia Site. The audio is especially fun!
Hugs to Annie and Dave for bringing her into my life, and to all of you who show kindness and care to the Saro.
I love you, Saro! Happy birthday!
10.23.2008
Spirit and Flesh
The saying goes, the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. I find this baffling, for over the course of a lifetime, I have personally found my flesh to be more than willing.
If you consider it, willing can connote determination, stubbornness and focus. Because you will something to happen, will it happen?
My spirit continues to will my flesh into becoming less and less flesh. By now the process has carried over years and years. It's become a kind of hazy mandate, an outdated law that still lingers on the books. By now its obscene prejudices have simply been absorbed into the rhythm of my daily life. The thought of putting on weight sends me into a preemptive panic. I eat a lot of leaves and apples.
Not that I feel completely deprived -- waiter, more wine please -- but it is kind of sad, because I always have felt that voluptuousness of flesh connotes a certain generosity of spirit.
Let's hug.
If you consider it, willing can connote determination, stubbornness and focus. Because you will something to happen, will it happen?
My spirit continues to will my flesh into becoming less and less flesh. By now the process has carried over years and years. It's become a kind of hazy mandate, an outdated law that still lingers on the books. By now its obscene prejudices have simply been absorbed into the rhythm of my daily life. The thought of putting on weight sends me into a preemptive panic. I eat a lot of leaves and apples.
Not that I feel completely deprived -- waiter, more wine please -- but it is kind of sad, because I always have felt that voluptuousness of flesh connotes a certain generosity of spirit.
Let's hug.
10.13.2008
"For me, the greater the euds, the greater the che-launge"
I am not a fan of video tribute medleys. This is the exception.
10.10.2008
Peter Sellers on Being Himself
"Sellers appeared on The Muppet Show television series in 1977. He chose not to appear as himself, instead appearing in a variety of costumes and accents. When Kermit the Frog told Sellers he could relax and be 'himself,' Sellers (while wearing a Viking helmet, a girdle and one boxing glove, claiming to have attempted to dress as Queen Victoria), replied, 'There is no me. I do not exist. There used to be a me, but I had it surgically removed.'"
Clip here.
Clip here.
10.09.2008
Strikes Again!
I have no words lately. Nothing out of the ordinary; just quiet.
However, I did laugh my arse off the other night watching this:
I have my vague memories of my parents laughing hysterically and repeating Clouseauisms back in the 70s. It's warming to feel part of the circle of life.
In this next scene, Clouseau tries on his Quasimodo disguise, which arrived ready-made in a box sporting a specific warning not to over-inflate the hump.
"The bell! The bell!"
However, I did laugh my arse off the other night watching this:
I have my vague memories of my parents laughing hysterically and repeating Clouseauisms back in the 70s. It's warming to feel part of the circle of life.
In this next scene, Clouseau tries on his Quasimodo disguise, which arrived ready-made in a box sporting a specific warning not to over-inflate the hump.
"The bell! The bell!"
9.21.2008
Pow, pow.
It was John's last day in class; we took a bunch of photos.
I'm looking at them with mostly pride, but also with a tinge of embarrassment (see my hooks sail through the air) and annoyance (have to keep those hands up).
I've been sparring with these folks for several years now and just love knowing them, learning who they are through their punches.
We'll miss ya, John!
9.12.2008
Step On Ya, Walk On Ya, Step On Ya, Walk On Ya
This phrase keeps popping into my head (and whoops, sometimes out of my mouth) at work. Its origin is one of my favorite cartoons from childhood, "The Cat That Hated People."
Appended for your amusement. It gets pretty trippy.
Appended for your amusement. It gets pretty trippy.
9.08.2008
Today's quote
Me: "Well, I guess there's a yin for every yang."
Dan: "Well, some have more yang than others . . . "
Dan: "Well, some have more yang than others . . . "
9.04.2008
How I See It
It makes perfect sense.
The best way to revitalize any withering campaign is to trot someone out who will not only work hard to stroke the party's collective cock -- with the familiar battle cries of lowering taxes, with the words "enemies" and "evil" thrown in for good measure -- but to actually entice people of all political stripes to reach in and stroke their own.
It's fucking genius. It's essence.
The best way to revitalize any withering campaign is to trot someone out who will not only work hard to stroke the party's collective cock -- with the familiar battle cries of lowering taxes, with the words "enemies" and "evil" thrown in for good measure -- but to actually entice people of all political stripes to reach in and stroke their own.
It's fucking genius. It's essence.
8.17.2008
The Joys of Plugging In
We just got back from visiting with my brother and his lovely family, and playing at the Vanilla Bean Café in Pomfret, CT.
It was such a great weekend.
Photos and commentary here.
8.12.2008
A Taste of September
Isn't it grand? Last night was so clear and chilly. It was intoxicating to open all the windows and feel and smell that cool breeze.
The house got so quiet - no more artificial humming and buzzing. I could hear only the cars whooshing over the bridge and the occasional tha-thumping of a car radio.
I spread the pink coverlet over the bed and snuggled under. The blinds stayed open so I could feel the moonlight. The sky was that nice deep indigo, and the faraway bridge lights so turquoise and crisp.
So very, very lovely.
The house got so quiet - no more artificial humming and buzzing. I could hear only the cars whooshing over the bridge and the occasional tha-thumping of a car radio.
I spread the pink coverlet over the bed and snuggled under. The blinds stayed open so I could feel the moonlight. The sky was that nice deep indigo, and the faraway bridge lights so turquoise and crisp.
So very, very lovely.
8.10.2008
The Joys of Being Unplugged
As some of you know, we were away for a few days in the Finger Lakes area. Our cabin had no electricity (a generator powered the water pump, though).
This was the view across from our sleeping loft.
All the rest and vino inspired me to start sprucing up. New blog elements coming your way.
We're Puttin' On a Show!
Attention all Connecticut-area residents: Allez à la Vanilla Bean on Saturday! Details below.
8.03.2008
You Know Who's Got Hands?
This has been an exceptionally stressful week even by the standards of all the stressful weeks preceding it.
What better time to finally see "Walk Hard!"
The first time ¡J! and I saw it, we kept exchanging glances across the couch, witnessing one crazy-ass scene unfold after another. Ohthatissosillynoway. Ohgoodgrief.
There is a cumulative effect of such thoughts. About halfway through the movie I hit the breaking point. I pitched forward and started howling and haven't stopped since.
This is my favorite scene, I think:
I feel like like a 14-year-old who just discovered Monty Python.
Now, when things get bad, I beg ¡J! to put the movie on and play some scenes. It's the only thing that sets the world right.
What better time to finally see "Walk Hard!"
The first time ¡J! and I saw it, we kept exchanging glances across the couch, witnessing one crazy-ass scene unfold after another. Ohthatissosillynoway. Ohgoodgrief.
There is a cumulative effect of such thoughts. About halfway through the movie I hit the breaking point. I pitched forward and started howling and haven't stopped since.
This is my favorite scene, I think:
I feel like like a 14-year-old who just discovered Monty Python.
Now, when things get bad, I beg ¡J! to put the movie on and play some scenes. It's the only thing that sets the world right.
No, that's not the Squier above, because
. . . the Squier is gently tucked away in our rehearsal space. This is its fraternal twin, the Strat. Everybody say "Hi, Strat!"
7.25.2008
(Kiss my) kettleass
Some of you have heard me ranting and raving about the new weight training we've been doing in class recently using kettlebells. Months ago, when Leila first mentioned kettlebells and I asked her what they were, she replied "a form of Soviet Cold War torture." I now know that she is correct.
Kettlebell training is interesting in the sense that, in order to swing, lift, and position these very heavy weights, you must carefully orchestrate your body to work in tandem with gravity and your core muscle groups. It is completely useless to rely on your arm muscles to pick up these puppies. You have to power yourself using your breath, clench your center and gain a sense of which deep muscles to use and which to let go slack. Of course, prayer doesn't hurt, either.
Tonight was hard because we did repeated sets, which I don't think we have done before. We did sets of 20, 18, and 15 swings with the 45-pound bell. I did clean-and-presses with a 25-pound weight in each hand: 10, 8, 6. These were very hard. I know I'm getting tired when I start making ungodly umffing noises during the press. The umffing actually detracts from your power. My arms started warbling; I lost my center twice.
Kettleass class -- our pet name for it here at home -- is kind of addictive. Underneath my womanly layer of poof lie abs of steel. Hit me here. No, really, hit me.
Kettlebell training is interesting in the sense that, in order to swing, lift, and position these very heavy weights, you must carefully orchestrate your body to work in tandem with gravity and your core muscle groups. It is completely useless to rely on your arm muscles to pick up these puppies. You have to power yourself using your breath, clench your center and gain a sense of which deep muscles to use and which to let go slack. Of course, prayer doesn't hurt, either.
Tonight was hard because we did repeated sets, which I don't think we have done before. We did sets of 20, 18, and 15 swings with the 45-pound bell. I did clean-and-presses with a 25-pound weight in each hand: 10, 8, 6. These were very hard. I know I'm getting tired when I start making ungodly umffing noises during the press. The umffing actually detracts from your power. My arms started warbling; I lost my center twice.
Kettleass class -- our pet name for it here at home -- is kind of addictive. Underneath my womanly layer of poof lie abs of steel. Hit me here. No, really, hit me.
7.24.2008
. . . That's What I Said
Those of you who have visited chez Smitaplero in recent months no doubt have been forced to sit on the sofa as we fast forward through scads and scads of DVD material to find what ¡J! and I consider to be the crown jewel of Grammy performances: Curtis Mayfield 1973.
After going through a lot of technical finagling, I can now offer it to you, dear reader, to enjoy in the privacy of your own home. Have fun!
After going through a lot of technical finagling, I can now offer it to you, dear reader, to enjoy in the privacy of your own home. Have fun!
7.11.2008
Lavender flower
Two weeks ago the lavender plant we picked up in Mattituck sprouted one shoot. Today it flowered!
7.07.2008
Great Tragic Idols: Fiction Edition.
I trooped up to the Mid-Manhattan Library on a Sunday to drop off a few Marilyn DVDs (Bus Stop, Some Like It Hot) before heading out of town. It took a long time to actually get to the library, encountering at 5th Avenue a long, fantastic gay pride parade with onlookers 2 rows deep, having to walk uptown 2 blocks in order to cross the avenue, having to wait, then moving sightly closer to the crossing point, then waiting again, sweat running down my neck and legs, then crossing and walking back down 2 blocks while watching waxed Dominican men in tight white briefs dance enthusiastically to techno beats atop a huge, slow-rolling float.
The library was a perfect oasis after all that stimulation: cool, nearly empty, and of course, quiet. There was no finer moment for falling in love again with The Great Gatsby.
The library was a perfect oasis after all that stimulation: cool, nearly empty, and of course, quiet. There was no finer moment for falling in love again with The Great Gatsby.
There was music from my neighbor’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before.
Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York—every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler’s thumb.
At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby’s enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d’oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another.
By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing up-stairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors, and hair shorn in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names.
The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light.
Suddenly one of the gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray’s understudy from the FOLLIES. The party has begun.
6.18.2008
Great Tragic Idols of the Twentieth Century, Volume II
Summer is almost here: what better time to read even more biographies of beloved dead stars.
This Marilyn Monroe bio is compelling, well-researched and admirably restrained, neither sentimentalizing Marilyn nor damning her. But it feels a little cold somehow.
I think that, for all of the bio's virtues, it suffers because the author does not love her subject enough. Barbara Leaming has written so many bios it's not hard to see why she would come across as more workmanlike than passionate.
I love working writers. They write better than those of us who rely on the fickle muse Inspirato. In my former place of employment, we would hire good writers to do books on any number of topics. If we did a series on illness, for example, we would have someone write tomes on diabetes, lupus, ezcema, hyperthyroidism, and foot fungus; and the writer invariably would come back with thoroughly-researched manuscripts, delivered on time, written very very well, poetically in spots. (Poetically *on* spots would the m.o. of the Measles volume.)
I just wish the Monroe biographer had pushed through the fourth wall a bit more. Like this guy. Less like measles = more like magic.
I have been movie-stalking and You Tube-stalking Marilyn to try to fill in the gaps and illuminate some of her power. This number is interesting to me. I love the art direction. Dig the fact that she picks up giant knitting needles and knits!!!
This Marilyn Monroe bio is compelling, well-researched and admirably restrained, neither sentimentalizing Marilyn nor damning her. But it feels a little cold somehow.
I think that, for all of the bio's virtues, it suffers because the author does not love her subject enough. Barbara Leaming has written so many bios it's not hard to see why she would come across as more workmanlike than passionate.
I love working writers. They write better than those of us who rely on the fickle muse Inspirato. In my former place of employment, we would hire good writers to do books on any number of topics. If we did a series on illness, for example, we would have someone write tomes on diabetes, lupus, ezcema, hyperthyroidism, and foot fungus; and the writer invariably would come back with thoroughly-researched manuscripts, delivered on time, written very very well, poetically in spots. (Poetically *on* spots would the m.o. of the Measles volume.)
I just wish the Monroe biographer had pushed through the fourth wall a bit more. Like this guy. Less like measles = more like magic.
I have been movie-stalking and You Tube-stalking Marilyn to try to fill in the gaps and illuminate some of her power. This number is interesting to me. I love the art direction. Dig the fact that she picks up giant knitting needles and knits!!!
6.03.2008
The Continuing Adventures
I spent all weekend working on a manuscript. Done. Whew!
I just finished a huge biography of Judy Garland. I got started on it after catching her "American Masters" bio -- the episode is just searing, with more killer moments than I can possibly mention:
I got the bio from the liberry and they only had the original 1975 hardcover. The thing was 650 pages. I carried it to and from work in its own special bag. I renewed it four times. It took a month of near-daily reading to finish it.
What can I tell you.
I love you, Judy!
3.11.2008
Drainpipe Kitty!
Drainpipe Kitty was valiantly rescued by a team of dedicated professionals who schmeared cat food on rough cloth and, taking advantage of the kitten's sharp claws and tenacious nature, lured and dragged the tiny animal up a straight 5-foot vertical plane to rest safely above ground.
Unlike that kitty, I am too big for a drainpipe; I simply have tumbled down the back reaches of my mind. The new job is wonderful but I have worked some very long days. I got sick the first week on the job and now feel myself getting sick again. No!
¡J! is all moved in. Yay.
Saro is screaming she wants something, but I have no idea what.
Dottie says "hi!"
Unlike that kitty, I am too big for a drainpipe; I simply have tumbled down the back reaches of my mind. The new job is wonderful but I have worked some very long days. I got sick the first week on the job and now feel myself getting sick again. No!
¡J! is all moved in. Yay.
Saro is screaming she wants something, but I have no idea what.
Dottie says "hi!"
2.12.2008
Watching "Oprah" and Crying
That is what it's going to be this week. All week.
Everything is great; it's just the necessary catharsis.
Love that Nate Berkus.
Everything is great; it's just the necessary catharsis.
Love that Nate Berkus.
2.05.2008
It's Official
I've accepted a new job. Soon I'll be working in the building I like to think of as the Taj Mahal of American Literature, on books that have an established tradition of being fabulous.
This is a very emotional time. ¡J! and I are getting ready for his big move-in; I have to bid see-you-later to the lovely ladies at the office, and then start the getting-to-know-you with new lovely ladies. Parting and coming together . . .
This is a very emotional time. ¡J! and I are getting ready for his big move-in; I have to bid see-you-later to the lovely ladies at the office, and then start the getting-to-know-you with new lovely ladies. Parting and coming together . . .
1.31.2008
Birthday Kiss
Pam, you gave one of the most beautiful birthday speeches I've ever heard. I enjoyed reminiscing about the night we first met each other. Not only did you look like a grown-up version of one of those Precious Moments dolls with your huge brown eyes -- you had, and still have, an aura of uncommon compassion. The fact that we both lost our mothers when we were young helped form a fast bond between us. But I swear, even if our moms were alive and healthy today, I would still dig you.
You have uncommon acumen about others, voracious curiosity, and the bravery to articulate even your most private thoughts. You're a thoroughbred writer.
You always let your love flow so freely. It's as if you were off playing hopscotch the day they passed out the guard you're supposed to keep up. I treasure the pretty smudge you made when you kissed me goodnight.
Happy birthday, darling!
You have uncommon acumen about others, voracious curiosity, and the bravery to articulate even your most private thoughts. You're a thoroughbred writer.
You always let your love flow so freely. It's as if you were off playing hopscotch the day they passed out the guard you're supposed to keep up. I treasure the pretty smudge you made when you kissed me goodnight.
Happy birthday, darling!
1.23.2008
1.22.2008
Back on the Wagon
Under the auspice of recovering from violent illness, I let myself eat whatever I want.
I've had bread and cheese for three meals straight, with intermittent bananas and cookies.
It was a fear of fiber, really. Even the thought of edamame made me shudder.
But enough already. Back to normal, starting tomorrow!
I've had bread and cheese for three meals straight, with intermittent bananas and cookies.
It was a fear of fiber, really. Even the thought of edamame made me shudder.
But enough already. Back to normal, starting tomorrow!
1.20.2008
Tabled!
I started puking my guts out on Thursday morning at 3am. I'm only starting to feel normal today.
It's interesting when you feel so nauseated, you have to turn away from the food commercials on TV. And there are plenty of commercials. Deep fried pizza! Shrimp in mayonnaise sauce! O my god.
It's also interesting what you start to crave when you bounce back from illness. Usually for me it's chicken nuggets, but this time it was oatmeal cookies.
I made healthy oatmeal cookies. Yum.
Oh! And the newest member of the household, furniture category: the fabled tulip table, as conceptualized by Ikea and obtained secondhand in Bay Ridge. So lovely. So very lovely.
The old table is on its side in the living room. Before moving it, I sat on it one last time. It is a good, sturdy table, kind of an '80s country-kitchen style, butcher block with white molded legs. My dad took me to Macy's on Long Island and I bought it for my first apartment thirteen years ago. I learned to play guitar sitting on that kitchen table! For a few years it was in custody of a friend, and during that time one of the chairs was broken in a household incident. I had sex on the table only once, but it was a good one.
Bye-bye, table. You've been a good table.
It's interesting when you feel so nauseated, you have to turn away from the food commercials on TV. And there are plenty of commercials. Deep fried pizza! Shrimp in mayonnaise sauce! O my god.
It's also interesting what you start to crave when you bounce back from illness. Usually for me it's chicken nuggets, but this time it was oatmeal cookies.
I made healthy oatmeal cookies. Yum.
Oh! And the newest member of the household, furniture category: the fabled tulip table, as conceptualized by Ikea and obtained secondhand in Bay Ridge. So lovely. So very lovely.
The old table is on its side in the living room. Before moving it, I sat on it one last time. It is a good, sturdy table, kind of an '80s country-kitchen style, butcher block with white molded legs. My dad took me to Macy's on Long Island and I bought it for my first apartment thirteen years ago. I learned to play guitar sitting on that kitchen table! For a few years it was in custody of a friend, and during that time one of the chairs was broken in a household incident. I had sex on the table only once, but it was a good one.
Bye-bye, table. You've been a good table.
1.11.2008
Couched!
After years of couch stalking in stores all over NYC, couch-porn surfing on the internets, and couch daydreaming at all hours, The couch of my dreams finally has arrived!
This time yesterday, I was despairing - they couldn't fit it in the elevator. The couch had to be taken away. And that made me very sad. So today I hired my own guys to bring it up the stairs! And now it's here! YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Me on couch!
Happy feet!
Happy room!
Here comes Dottie!
There goes Dottie!
SARO!
Cat kisses!
Cats, cats!
More Dottie love!
Hurrah!
And visitors, do not worry -- it's deep enough to sleep one comfortably, and we also have an inflatable full-size mattress. So come on down!!!!
This time yesterday, I was despairing - they couldn't fit it in the elevator. The couch had to be taken away. And that made me very sad. So today I hired my own guys to bring it up the stairs! And now it's here! YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Me on couch!
Happy feet!
Happy room!
Here comes Dottie!
There goes Dottie!
SARO!
Cat kisses!
Cats, cats!
More Dottie love!
Hurrah!
And visitors, do not worry -- it's deep enough to sleep one comfortably, and we also have an inflatable full-size mattress. So come on down!!!!
12.17.2007
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 . . .
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 . . .
12.15.2007
Sunrise on the Lower East Side
I took these the other morning and tried to post them, but the computer was glitchy.
*Yawn* . . .
12.14.2007
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.
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.
12.09.2007
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.
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.
11.29.2007
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.
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!
11.20.2007
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 . . .
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 . . .
11.19.2007
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.
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.
11.18.2007
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.
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.
11.14.2007
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.
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.
11.08.2007
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!
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!
11.01.2007
Available at your local bookseller!
10.26.2007
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!
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!
9.17.2007
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.
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.
9.16.2007
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.
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.
9.11.2007
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}
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
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
9.10.2007
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.
9.02.2007
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:
Walking across the Williamsburg bridge:
And then, perhaps the mothership:
8.30.2007
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.
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.
8.29.2007
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.
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.
8.28.2007
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!
8.27.2007
8.19.2007
8.17.2007
8.10.2007
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?
7.27.2007
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!
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!
7.20.2007
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.
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.
7.19.2007
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.
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.
6.14.2007
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.
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.
6.10.2007
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.
DISCLAIMER: Strictly for cat-loving people. All others will feel bored and superior.
5.27.2007
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:
Here's a superbly over-the-top outtake that illustrates so much of what I love about this show.
Part 1:
Part II:
5.09.2007
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?
2.14.2007
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!
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!
2.11.2007
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
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.
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.
1.23.2007
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!
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!
1.12.2007
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?
"Down With Love" is my favoritest movie right now, for that and many other reasons.
"What's New Pussycat?" is another fave.
Recommendations?
1.03.2007
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!
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!
1.01.2007
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.
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.
12.10.2006
Mega Thoughts
A thought occurred to me today while browsing through DVDs at the Virgin Megastore (and the branding of anything as "Virgin Mega" is a whole discussion unto itself).
Let me preface it by saying, of course it's no secret that we live in an age of decadence and vulgarity. I have been arguing back and forth with myself for years as to whether or not this is inherently bad. In terms of art, those who, early on, are ridiculed or dismissed for being offensive or obscene, but ultimately are recognized as visionaries (Walt Whitman comes to mind, as does Picasso with Les Demoiselles d'Avignon), help create what those in academe would call a new way of seeing. In strictly personal terms, anything that at first seems too vulgar or embarrassing to do or say almost always quickly becomes to me the only thing worth doing. It is more raw and almost always more true.
But I'm not really talking about either kind of decadence here. Nor am I talking about pornography, although I guess it would qualify. Nestled deep within the womb of the Mega Virgin, i.e. browsing the lower level at Union Square, I was struck by how you could just pick anything . . . and then have it. I want to buy "Breakfast at Tiffany's." Done. Then I will go to the bakery and buy 35 croissants and eat them slowly one by one while watching the movie 35 times. Can do. I can go back and buy any other movie and then own it.
Can a movie really be owned? If you watch it hundred times and memorize it, do you own it then?
Being able to get whatever, whenever is a big big problem. I always knew it was but now I can feel why: Because when you can own whatever whenever, you remove the elemental emotion of longing, which is essential to art.
That said, every time I wach "Tiffany's" I feel deep longing . . . for a croissant, preferably chocolate. But I don't eat it.
Score one for art and my winter wool pants.
Let me preface it by saying, of course it's no secret that we live in an age of decadence and vulgarity. I have been arguing back and forth with myself for years as to whether or not this is inherently bad. In terms of art, those who, early on, are ridiculed or dismissed for being offensive or obscene, but ultimately are recognized as visionaries (Walt Whitman comes to mind, as does Picasso with Les Demoiselles d'Avignon), help create what those in academe would call a new way of seeing. In strictly personal terms, anything that at first seems too vulgar or embarrassing to do or say almost always quickly becomes to me the only thing worth doing. It is more raw and almost always more true.
But I'm not really talking about either kind of decadence here. Nor am I talking about pornography, although I guess it would qualify. Nestled deep within the womb of the Mega Virgin, i.e. browsing the lower level at Union Square, I was struck by how you could just pick anything . . . and then have it. I want to buy "Breakfast at Tiffany's." Done. Then I will go to the bakery and buy 35 croissants and eat them slowly one by one while watching the movie 35 times. Can do. I can go back and buy any other movie and then own it.
Can a movie really be owned? If you watch it hundred times and memorize it, do you own it then?
Being able to get whatever, whenever is a big big problem. I always knew it was but now I can feel why: Because when you can own whatever whenever, you remove the elemental emotion of longing, which is essential to art.
That said, every time I wach "Tiffany's" I feel deep longing . . . for a croissant, preferably chocolate. But I don't eat it.
Score one for art and my winter wool pants.
9.11.2006
8.28.2006
When I left work a small crowd was gathering on the corner. 2 guys were having some kind of scuffle.
I got closer. One guy was on the ground wearing yellow roller blades. The other guy was standing above him. The guy on the ground took a long, slow lunge at the standing guy, tried to get up, and slipped and slid. The standing guy shoved him and made him slide more.
A car was parked just a few feet away with its driver's door opened.
The standing guy didn't get taken down. The rollerblade guy couldn't stand up. He loped around on his knees throwing an occasional punch to the gut.
A woman waiting for the bus finally busted in. "STOP IT!"
The standing guy yelled at her to shut the fuck up, and pushed the other guy again.
I was rooting for the rollerblade guy to swipe the other guy's knees and bring him on the level.
A police car was parked on the opposite corner with its lights flashing, but no officer could be found.
I imagine them still there at midnight, deadlocked among the gravel and rain puddles.
I got closer. One guy was on the ground wearing yellow roller blades. The other guy was standing above him. The guy on the ground took a long, slow lunge at the standing guy, tried to get up, and slipped and slid. The standing guy shoved him and made him slide more.
A car was parked just a few feet away with its driver's door opened.
The standing guy didn't get taken down. The rollerblade guy couldn't stand up. He loped around on his knees throwing an occasional punch to the gut.
A woman waiting for the bus finally busted in. "STOP IT!"
The standing guy yelled at her to shut the fuck up, and pushed the other guy again.
I was rooting for the rollerblade guy to swipe the other guy's knees and bring him on the level.
A police car was parked on the opposite corner with its lights flashing, but no officer could be found.
I imagine them still there at midnight, deadlocked among the gravel and rain puddles.
Raining and reading
On a rainy, cool Sunday afternoon, when the house is clean and I'm buzzed from a long lavender bath, I curl up with some Bukowski. After reading for a few minutes I start to feel hopeful and light. Then I feel ashamed.
Hope comes because Bukowski reminds me that everything is strange and beautiful and even the most heartbroken soul can find grace.
Shame comes because it has been way too long since I have wandered in this field.
Next stop: Karamazov.
Hope comes because Bukowski reminds me that everything is strange and beautiful and even the most heartbroken soul can find grace.
Shame comes because it has been way too long since I have wandered in this field.
Next stop: Karamazov.
8.20.2006
Wagging the Dog
It has come to my attention that the previous post may have been unclear, or heaven forbid, unseemly.
I guess I just meant woof.
Apologies to Scott and everyone if this seems disappointing.
*********************
Other topics of the summer:
1. Faith.
Why have it. What is it. Where can I get some.
2. Firemen.
If it weren't for the macabre sense of comfort provided by this show, I'd have completely given up on item #1.
3. 'Fiddich.
I do not drink this often, but take comfort knowing it's out there if I need it.
4. Frank.
Finally, yes . . . I believe every fucking word he sings.
I guess I just meant woof.
Apologies to Scott and everyone if this seems disappointing.
*********************
Other topics of the summer:
1. Faith.
Why have it. What is it. Where can I get some.
2. Firemen.
If it weren't for the macabre sense of comfort provided by this show, I'd have completely given up on item #1.
3. 'Fiddich.
I do not drink this often, but take comfort knowing it's out there if I need it.
4. Frank.
Finally, yes . . . I believe every fucking word he sings.
7.10.2006
7.03.2006
Not Dead Yet; Just Resting
Hi. Are you having a good summer, I hope?
I'm feeling renewed after a few days of rest. Also, I bought a new computer. It occurred to me that my old computer couldn't actually open any applications except Safari, and even that was getting pretty slow and sticky. It started making a horrible grinding sound to boot. So here we go: I'm all souped up and typing like lightning on a wireless keyboard.
This new computer comes with a built-in video camera and you can use it to take snapshots. I inaugurated it by, what else:
Dottie, the shy one.
Oh Saro, perhaps we shall run away to Paris and become chorus girls!
I'm feeling renewed after a few days of rest. Also, I bought a new computer. It occurred to me that my old computer couldn't actually open any applications except Safari, and even that was getting pretty slow and sticky. It started making a horrible grinding sound to boot. So here we go: I'm all souped up and typing like lightning on a wireless keyboard.
This new computer comes with a built-in video camera and you can use it to take snapshots. I inaugurated it by, what else:
Dottie, the shy one.
Oh Saro, perhaps we shall run away to Paris and become chorus girls!
4.04.2006
Intuition
I trust the voice inside my head. In general, I trust other people.
However, at one point in life I was very disconnected, depressed, and panicky. I started to lose my trust in others. I sometimes thought people were trying to poison my food. I knew this was nuts but I couldn't stop being nervous. I'd eat a few bites, freak, spit the last bite out into a napkin, and try to hide the napkin. This got to be very embarrassing.
I went to my doctor for an EKG to see if my always-racing heart had a physical cause or was just anxiety. The office was closing early because a snowstorm had begun. Dr. Sharkey sat me down in his office after the test.
"How are you doing?"
I started falling, falling, falling down a hole in my soul. Sob, sob, sob.
"What's wrong?'
"I don't know . . . " Doctor, there's a hole in my soul . . . .
"It says here you're having panic attacks? Like, you're sitting there, and suddenly feel like you're going to lose it?"
"Uh huh."
"I get those. It happened to me at the Board of Directors meeting at NYU Hospital."
"Uh huh." The snow was splatting against the 15th-floor window.
"I'm going to prescribe an antianxiety pill for you. If there's something you have to do, and you need to calm down, just take half a pill and you'll be fine." He pulled out a prescription pad, wrote something on it, tore off a sheet and handed it to me.
"Okay." I took the paper.
"I'll tell you what." He wrote something else down. "This is my buddy. He's a great shrink. He'll fix what's bothering you. Just fix it. He doesn't want to hear about your problems, doesn't want to hear about your family. He'll patch you right up."
I took the second paper. I was still snorting and choking on sobs. However, I still knew this was bullshit. I walked out of his office, rode the elevator down, and stepped out into snowy midtown.
However, at one point in life I was very disconnected, depressed, and panicky. I started to lose my trust in others. I sometimes thought people were trying to poison my food. I knew this was nuts but I couldn't stop being nervous. I'd eat a few bites, freak, spit the last bite out into a napkin, and try to hide the napkin. This got to be very embarrassing.
I went to my doctor for an EKG to see if my always-racing heart had a physical cause or was just anxiety. The office was closing early because a snowstorm had begun. Dr. Sharkey sat me down in his office after the test.
"How are you doing?"
I started falling, falling, falling down a hole in my soul. Sob, sob, sob.
"What's wrong?'
"I don't know . . . " Doctor, there's a hole in my soul . . . .
"It says here you're having panic attacks? Like, you're sitting there, and suddenly feel like you're going to lose it?"
"Uh huh."
"I get those. It happened to me at the Board of Directors meeting at NYU Hospital."
"Uh huh." The snow was splatting against the 15th-floor window.
"I'm going to prescribe an antianxiety pill for you. If there's something you have to do, and you need to calm down, just take half a pill and you'll be fine." He pulled out a prescription pad, wrote something on it, tore off a sheet and handed it to me.
"Okay." I took the paper.
"I'll tell you what." He wrote something else down. "This is my buddy. He's a great shrink. He'll fix what's bothering you. Just fix it. He doesn't want to hear about your problems, doesn't want to hear about your family. He'll patch you right up."
I took the second paper. I was still snorting and choking on sobs. However, I still knew this was bullshit. I walked out of his office, rode the elevator down, and stepped out into snowy midtown.
3.21.2006
Spring: Day One
From my window -- the Verizon building nestled among other tall buildings with row upon row of perfect glowing windows. The buildings are crisply silhouetted against a solid black-blue sky. The wind is screeching. Occasionally a blink of light from a plane far away.
2.06.2006
I'll Take Dare
I have to come clean. In light of the recent attention shed on a certain book that has been ripped into a million tiny shreds, I have come to reconsider the writings I have written over a lifetime. Not only have I passed off certain versifications as true, but sometimes in earnest nocturnal conversation -- or even on public broadcasts -- I have confided that these ragtag couplets truly are emissions from my soul.
But no more. The truth is that I have tampered with certain events and situations to render them more conveniently squished into song. I have taken the truth, bent it like a wire hanger, and used it to whack my tiny tribe of fans square on the ass.
Thus it is with great shame that I must confess a horrible confession.
It didn't really happen on 31st Avenue.
It was Broadway, one block over.
'31st Avenue' just sounded better.
Please.
Forgive.
Me.
But no more. The truth is that I have tampered with certain events and situations to render them more conveniently squished into song. I have taken the truth, bent it like a wire hanger, and used it to whack my tiny tribe of fans square on the ass.
Thus it is with great shame that I must confess a horrible confession.
It didn't really happen on 31st Avenue.
It was Broadway, one block over.
'31st Avenue' just sounded better.
Please.
Forgive.
Me.
12.27.2005
Well Hello, Dottie
A new graceful presence in the household: Dottie arrived 3 weeks ago on the first snow. She is a big fan of food, toys, couch, and blanky.
Saro was pretty mad at first but has come to accept her fate.
Chiaroscuro in the household!
Saro was pretty mad at first but has come to accept her fate.
Chiaroscuro in the household!
12.09.2005
Chestnuts Roasting on My Ass
I am not a fan of food-inspired spa treatments.
No chocolate fudge pedicures, please.
No honey on my face.
And please, DO NOT wrap me in pumpkin pulp.
Ew.
No chocolate fudge pedicures, please.
No honey on my face.
And please, DO NOT wrap me in pumpkin pulp.
Ew.
12.01.2005
Feng Shui Me
I had some ideas for rearranging the furniture, maybe adding a small new piece or 2. But I was petrified of buying something that was wrong and being stuck with it, or picking out a wall color or wallpaper that was going to make my home look plum silly. Or moving the piano . . . and then having to move the piano back.
Obsessed with the magazine that everyone at work is obsessed with, I saw an interesting article on one-shot design consultants. For a very small fee they will advise you on the best way to arrange your home, using what you have and making suggestions for manageable additions and subtractions.
I found a nice woman with a background in interior design and, as a bonus, extensive experience in feng shui. Jennifer came by today to have a gander at my apartment.
"Nice and spacious," she said. "But we have to do something about the energy when you come in. It's one long corridor, and then your energy falls out the window."
Couldn'ta said it better myself.
She meditated on my space for a long time and asked me a lot of questions as we sipped peppermint tea. When did I move in? Why this neighborhood? Why all white? After awhile she got up from the couch and rotated one corner twenty-five degrees. She paused. I worried for a moment that was going to be it.
I stepped back a few paces and surveyed the pivot. I don't usually like furniture on an angle, but this was working. Energy crisis averted!
She took out this crazy-ass compass on a big square board with colors all around it. She said it's very hard to find this compass in English. Saro started slinking around us, interested. Jennifer said she didn't mind Saro eating all her other stuff so long as Saro didn't touch the compass. As soon as we relaxed in conversation, Saro lurched toward the compass. No, Saro!
I said I was thinking of color for the foyer. Jennifer also had a giant wad of Benjamin Moore paint chips on a binder ring. How did I feel about red? Very interesting.
I really liked this meeting. She's going to e-mail me all of her notes and suggestions tomorrow. Her recommendations for new pieces were well within my budget -- Pearl River, Home Depot. And I feel confident I'm making the right move *before* dumping out all my bookcases.
When this is all done -- party at my place.
Obsessed with the magazine that everyone at work is obsessed with, I saw an interesting article on one-shot design consultants. For a very small fee they will advise you on the best way to arrange your home, using what you have and making suggestions for manageable additions and subtractions.
I found a nice woman with a background in interior design and, as a bonus, extensive experience in feng shui. Jennifer came by today to have a gander at my apartment.
"Nice and spacious," she said. "But we have to do something about the energy when you come in. It's one long corridor, and then your energy falls out the window."
Couldn'ta said it better myself.
She meditated on my space for a long time and asked me a lot of questions as we sipped peppermint tea. When did I move in? Why this neighborhood? Why all white? After awhile she got up from the couch and rotated one corner twenty-five degrees. She paused. I worried for a moment that was going to be it.
I stepped back a few paces and surveyed the pivot. I don't usually like furniture on an angle, but this was working. Energy crisis averted!
She took out this crazy-ass compass on a big square board with colors all around it. She said it's very hard to find this compass in English. Saro started slinking around us, interested. Jennifer said she didn't mind Saro eating all her other stuff so long as Saro didn't touch the compass. As soon as we relaxed in conversation, Saro lurched toward the compass. No, Saro!
I said I was thinking of color for the foyer. Jennifer also had a giant wad of Benjamin Moore paint chips on a binder ring. How did I feel about red? Very interesting.
I really liked this meeting. She's going to e-mail me all of her notes and suggestions tomorrow. Her recommendations for new pieces were well within my budget -- Pearl River, Home Depot. And I feel confident I'm making the right move *before* dumping out all my bookcases.
When this is all done -- party at my place.
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