From now on

I will only use this blog to complain about things which I hate. Today, it's Hollywood. Again.

I know that I have already penned long diatribes about how Big Movies seem determined to destroy the things I feel strongly about by making them NEW! and IMPROVED! but I have to rant about it again. See, a couple of years ago, a little Swedish horror film called Let the Right One In made a bit of a splash amongst film buffs for being creepy, atmospheric, and heartbreaking. It is a coming of age story about having no age to come to, and an exploration of loneliness shared. One of my favorite themes that gets explored in storytelling is how we constantly strive for connection and the myriad ways we build bridges between ourselves. It stayed with me for weeks after I watched it, and I recommended it to anyone who would listen to me. Now Hollywood has gone and "remade" it so's Joe Average don't have to read and watch a movie at the same time (so taxing!) and I am wailing in protest.

All you need to know about the changes made to the story - and I have no doubt they will be endless and appallingly hamfisted - is to note the difference in the admonition offered by the original and revamped titles. Let Me In - the American version - is a plea against good sense, and the very thing we are warned against when dealing with vampires. Let the Right One In... well, there are exceptions to every rule.





I don't have to implore you to let the right one in, do I? Chose wisely.

Also, if you have yet to read the book, go ahead and do it. But not if you think every horror movie needs to be scored with angry screaming rock instead of minor key cello.

Dear Facebook,

No. Just no. But thanks anyhow.

Yours,
Stella

Happy anniversary

Ready for more relationship nonsense, kids? Mmkay, here goes.

I already talked about the stuff, how it happened. We met, and it was supposed to be all fling-y and wasn't that a terrific weekend? and then we couldn't stop talking for three hours on the phone and emailing seventeen times a day. A week after I had to ask his last name so I could feel okay about knowing the color of his underwear, he asked me if I wanted to go on An Adventure, to which I said yes, and then when I came back from it, I couldn't stop thinking about how much I didn't feel all the butterflies and woozy palpitations. My lack of crushing on him in the face of my deep seated desire to know him very well indeed concerned me. I wanted him to run like hell from my insane declarations of maybe something kind of like affection, but he refused to. So then the next five months were me pretending he was telling me the truth the whole truth and nothing but the, and him pretending that I couldn't tell the difference. And then we had a very modern kind of break-up, which was really more like a refusal of service.

And then one year ago to this very day, he drove up to the cafe in a fifteen year old car filled to the brim with brightly colored bribes and a crazy puffy blanket which I have since found I can't sleep under. I frankly wasn't sure that I would ever do so much as read a Facebook post from him again at that point, and having him walk hand in hand down the street with me was surreal.

Since then a whole lot has happened. What it all boils down to though, is that I made a bet with myself that I would never make him a birthday cake, and I lost. Last year I half-assedly made him one to share with my mom (sorry, mom. really sorry.) Now this year I have promised him not just cake, but a pie, too, because I like him that much. AND I am rehearsing again, just so's he can have the Rockabilly Birthday Barbeque Bash I promised him last year when I found out he shares his natal day with Carl Perkins. And I bought him a (whisperwhisperwhisper) and a (mumblemumble) and I'm thinking of giving him the THING, you know the one? [Z. - you didn't for a moment think it would be that easy, did you?] So now he's beholden, what with the awesome presents.

I have not woken up one morning out of the last three hundred and sixty five and thought, "This guy's a jerk. What the hell, Perez?" I haven't even thought, "What am I DOING?" (actually this is pretty much how I start every morning regardless of who I wake up next to, but it has never been in reference to my partnership) I just turn over and make sure he's still there, which he always is.

I am holding up an imaginary glass full of something delicious - right now I wish it were Prosecco and St Germain - in a toast to this marvelous year, and to the man who made it possible, and to you, dear reader, for getting this far even when there are no pretty outfits or pictures of my new tattoos to distract you. I'll see you here again, same Bat time, same Bat channel, in 2011.

Where do we go?

Of all the ridiculous, impetuous, hot-headed things I've done - and rest assured, friends, I have done a LOT of them - most of them I have regretted nearly immediately. I've gone and done it again, and it has taken me weeks to feel like perhaps I should have thought things through a teensy, tiny bit better.

I quit the band.

I quit my own band, the one I sweated and bled over. The band that practically saved my life. The band that was directly responsible for my current relationship. The band that was the reason I made friends with Eve Hell and Memphis Evil, the reason I shook Geoff Firebaugh's hand and had beers with Deke Dickerson, the reason I saw Wanda Jackson perform from backstage. The band that finally allowed me to be the woman I have always fancied myself to be.

When we first started the Sugar Shakers, I talked seriously with a Musician (like one who does it exclusively for money) and he said: bands are like families. It's all very dysfunctional, and there are expectations that never get met, and drama is unavoidable. I laughed him off, because seriously. I wasn't touring 200 dates a year, I was playing for my friends in the bars where I drink on the weekends. I should have paid better attention.

Here's what I loved: falling into the pocket, playing like breathing, knowing how's it's gonna go before it happens. I loved being clapped for, being told I was gorgeous or amazing, being asked again and again to do it some more. I loved being in the constant company of artists and musicians. I loved the insufferably geeky feeling of passing bits of music trivia back and forth. I loved the way the second whiskey went down, the ice slowly melting in my glass on top of my amp, sipping from it while bantering with the pretty girls in the audience. I loved cabling up and tearing down, jenga-ing all the gear into a vehicle, transforming into Stella.

Here's what I hated: taking sides. Not moving forward. Feeling like it was a chore for other band members. Playing who's got the biggest tiara. Being told to just be a princess. I hated those things more than I loved the other stuff for about six months, and I finally just gave up.

I miss it a whole damn parking lot. Ukulele isn't the same thing as slap bass, and I don't really write punk songs, as much as I like to think I do. I love rockabilly music, and I love to play my doghouse. I hope I can find a way to do the things I love without it devolving again into sniping and stressing out. It's only rock and roll.

Valentime's Mixtape

Dear Zac,



You make me swoon.

(P.S. all you people who have hung on this long - I KNOW. I'm SORRY. Sometimes I am less entertaining than I purport to be.)