Bragadoon

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

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

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

Break a leg, kids!

Musings of a Pretentious Twat

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

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

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

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

Mmmmmmmmm, yummy.

Lyric

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Case You Thought I Was Kidding

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

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

Rescued

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



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

Part 1:



Part II:

St. Elmo's: A Reconsideration

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

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

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

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

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

3. I was prone to fits of righteous anger.

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

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

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

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

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

What do you do when your illusions die?

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

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

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

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

Tag 'n tell

You may be wondering who I tagged:

Everybody Loves Saturday Night,

Nipperknits,

Flowergirl,

and In the Quiet of My Heart.

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

Ssssh! Let's listen now!

Reassessment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eeep! I've been tagged!

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

Six odd things about me:

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

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

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

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

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

Just a Note

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you -- You know who you are!

Big Entrances

I love movies that start with a clever animated sequence.

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

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

Recommendations?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is sweet!

Holy Crap, It's 2007

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

Random highlights of days off:

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

2. Icing said foot afterward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope to see you soon.

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.

Light

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.

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.

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 Want the Fairytail."

Quoth the boy in his online dating profile.

That makes 2 of us.

Woof.