Becoming Marie Antoinette

I'm totally counting them.

2012-02-18T10:06:00.004-09:00

So I finally figured out that weekly updates might be a bit beyond me. This is mostly due to my crippling laziness, I think. I HAVE been working on things - the very things referenced in the title of this post! - but the whole getting out the camera and shooting pictures and logging onto the Internet while avoiding the allure of adorable cats or beautiful vintage frocks or (Deity save us all) PINTEREST is waylaid by logging onto the Internet and NOT avoiding said seductions. Now you get a wrap-up post! Aren't you lucky.

I have decided to add a few rules to this self-challenge, mostly so that I spend more time creating and less time flagellating myself over how far along I'm NOT. At first I wasn't going to count baking or cooking projects, but the Valentine's Day extravaganza of four dozen sugar cookies flooded and sprinkled for the 2nd grade sugarpalooza made me change my mind. So the sugar cookies count. So does the heart shaped pizza we had for dinner, and the chocolate fondue we had for dessert. I don't have pictures of those. I was too busy trying to keep the 2nd grader in question from covering everything in the house - primarily the felines and me, her own mother - in red royal icing and/or warm ganache. But those count for my 3,4,&5 out of 52.

I also wasn't going to count finishing projects that were started before the first of the year. But I needed the embroidery hoop that was sitting on the last of this pillowcase to start a different project, and these have been 75% done since I took my children to California (ahem. in fall of 2010). It took the work of one evening to complete them. And then I decided to cut myself some slack. UFOs need love, too! 6/52.

the dude zombie is mine pillowcase, the lady is Z's

Then I thought that the cards I made for Valentine's Day for the kiddoes shouldn't count because... I don't know why really. Because I'm dumb, and this is exactly the sort of thing I am trying to stop doing. Of course they count. I only have a picture of the Cap'n's, because HRH is using hers as a bookmark. Hers is, of course, the more amusing of the two.

the other card featured a dinosaur and the poem:"roses are red, violets are blue, i'm really glad you're not a Tyrannosaurus Rex because it'd be super hard to hug you with those tiny arms." yes, i know i'm an epic poet.

Valentine's also brought a request for special headgear for the princess (An aside: I use this term derisively, because I really, really, REALLY want to not raise an awful entitled mess of a girl. She's not actually very princessy, though, to my everlasting gratitude, and as long as they stay requests instead of demands, I don't think giving in to a hair doodad now and then is a big deal.) I made her a quick headband with glitter craft foam and hot glue. I'll let the cards be one project, and that makes 7 &8.

this ffffffabulous picture is courtesy of my aforementioned crippling laziness.

The one place I'm failing MISERABLY is my February postcard project. A fatal combination of working on a day off, a holiday, and then a debilitating cold just knocked me right off track. I am planning to do last week's and this week's both today and hopefully hit the reset button.

Lastly, I have been obsessed with these pieces from Wicked Minky on Etsy. I wanted to make an homage piece out of shrink plastic, but I have been having a tough time with it. The plastic is... really shrinky. They are less chest piece sized than hidden-behind-the-ear sized. I am still going to string them up into a necklace after they finish drying because I spent a long time on them. Then I will probably just break down and buy one of the fabulous chest piece necklaces from her.

Not bad, huh? I'm better than caught up! I'm AHEAD! I can just slack off for the next two weeks!

No? Sigh. See you soon, then.

I'm better at crafting...

2012-02-04T12:02:00.004-09:00

than I am at blogging, apparently. I really have been working on projects (although finishing them is, as always, the bane of my existence), but because they were all "in-process" rather than what I like to call "done" I figured I would wait until I actually had something to show for all my hard work.

I got lots of great Christmas presents this year. Seriously, my loved ones spoiled me rotten with the types of things they knew I would adore. My sweet son, told I needed new earbuds, bought me ones emblazoned with Kermit the Frog eyes. My manfriend (there has GOT to be a better term for this. No joke.) showered me with coelocanths and new bass string and embroidery patterns and an antique banjolele. And the delightful Ms. S. got me this. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous. It need a frame worthy of it, though. S. couldn't find one she thought was suitable, and told me she'd leave it up to me. She mentioned that she thought that a Mexican folkart style one would be perfect.

So I made this one.

I got the frame at the White Elephant on a half-price day, so I think I paid $0.50 for it. I also got Dolly Parton's greatest hits on vinyl that day, but that's neither here nor there. I took the time to sand the frame, which generally I am far to impatient to do. Good thing I had a new Dolly Parton record to get me through! It also took me two Wanda Jackson records, all of Willie Nelson's Red-Headed Stranger, The Stray Cat's Rant 'n' Rave, and the first half of the first side of Kenny Rogers' The Gambler. That is a TERRIBLE album.

It took me a few days to decide what color I wanted the frame itself to be, so in the meantime, I took out my stash of glitter craft foam - an obsession begun when I was turning HRH into a comic book character for Halloween - and began cutting out a sacred heart. Well, first, I spent about seventeen gazillion hours looking at Mexican folkart online and pinning the shit out of it. THEN I cut a sacred heart of glittery craft foam. And then I decided that it looked cheese-tastic and faintly commercial, so I painstakingly drew and cut a Shure-55 style mic head to paste over it.

Once that was done I decided to match the color of the Gocco print in the paint and did the whole damn thing twice over in what my son referred to as TARDIS blue. There are a startling number of items in my house that are precisely this shade of cobalt.

The next conundrum was what to use for embellishment. I had chosen the deep frame specifically because of the possibilities of gluing weird shit on and calling it art. What weird shit, though? I loved the idea of bottlecaps, so I charged Zed with the task of bringing me home some. I found the perfect 45 record clipart on Etsy (from here)but couldn't figure out how to make my ancient and cranky Macbook resize it. So I just used the label portions covered with these awesome epoxy stickers that were made just to fit inside a bottlecap. Then I used fine black glitter glue around the edge and into the ridges. I wish I had flattened the caps first, but I didn't realize I wanted to until they were already glued to the frame. Then I liberally interspersed the bottlecaps with star-shaped and regular tiny sequins. I went back on forth on the idea of adding the flowers, but ultimately decided it seemed more finished with them. Then I hung that bitch on the wall right next to my front door. I can't stop grinning when I look at it.

Bam! Two finished! It only took me five weeks! Oy...

I did a good job working on a great project I'm excited about, though. I decided to send 28 handmade postcards in the month of February - yes, I know this is a leap year, don't judge - but instead of sending them all to one person, I went with seven friend each receiving a postcard from me that I mail every Friday this month. I put the first batch in the mail yesterday. I was too excited to mail them to take pictures, because I'm super lame. I won't count this project finished until the last seven cards reach their destinations, and I hope that the friends I chose like being a part of my year-long adventure.

That's it til next time, mes petites choux. I have a question, though. Would you rather I updated no matter the status of my various projects, or do you prefer seeing the destination rather than the journey? Also, how on EARTH did that Smilodon drag that enormous coelocanth out of the ocean's depths?

Have I mentioned how dearly I adore the man who bought these for me?

A new leaf!

2012-01-14T13:00:00.004-09:00

So I've become obsessed with reading all these sewing blogs lately. It's ridiculous - I've starting reading like twenty a week or something! I tell myself it's because I find it inspiring, but the fact is that I'm just super nosey and I love watching other people's creative processes.

The thing is, though, that right when I hit the depths of creation for Christmas this year, I realized that I have stopped documenting my own creative process, and that somehow in my mind I started valuing my own work less. I had few moments of panic in the week before the holiday when I was convinced that my gifts were somehow unworthy, that my effort in their creation devalued them. I ended up buying more presents in an attempt to offset the paltry nature of what I had made. Can you spot the problem with this, dear reader? Can you see where my reasoning went horribly awry? I spent dozens of hours stitching love into every inch of all these different project - a fez for the Cap'n, a sewing kit and new doll clothes for HRH, a bespoke amp cover for Z - and my heart was convinced that that meant less than a $25 videogame. I didn't even bother to take pictures of these things.

New Year's rolled around, and as you probably know, making resolutions is not really in my nature. This year, though, it feels like I need to give myself a chance to treat myself and my work with the respect it is due. In that spirit, I am going to start - and try to finish, though we all know the outcome of that already - a project every week for the whole year, for a total of 52 by December 31, 2012. AND - this is important - I am going to get a picture and write a little blog post so that I can't hide whatever feeble light I have under the proverbial bushel.

I have finished the first one, and I am impatient to post it, even though the person it's intended for hasn't seen it yet. Consider this a warning, La Fabulous: if you look now, you'll ruin one of your Christmas pressies. Also, this is why your package was so damn late going in the mail.

this did not photograph as well as i'd hoped

Project numero uno accomplished, friends. I used some gorgeous yarn I'd been hoarding for a long, long time. It's a Japanese silk and wool blend, originally quite expensive, but I picked it up at the White E for well, White E prices. I only had a single skein of this deep olive color, and so my choices were limited. Scarflette it is, then. I also managed to teach myself a new crochet stitch. So there's that.

I have started my second project already - another crochet scarf because it's freaking cold over here right now, and I can crochet while nestled under all the blankets on the couch while watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy again.

I have lots of things I want to make and do and sew and embroider and so on and so forth. I have a friend who is into lomography, and who wants me to pick up the Holga I've been neglecting for three years. I want to sew a Western shirt to match my sugar skull skirt. I have ideas, and I think I've made good inroads into the motivation. You guys can help by cheering me on.

Here's a not-birth story for you

2011-08-20T14:47:00.004-08:00

I consider myself a birth professional, even though I don't work in that capacity very often. The one and only time I went to a convention for birth pros, I was given a test to see what kind of advocate I was: woman centric, baby centric, pair centric.

Guess which one I am?

I chose to pursue alternative woman-led birthing (as opposed to directed, medical birthing) while I was pregnant with my son, my first child. It was my first child but not my first pregnancy. I terminated my first pregnancy in the summer after my first year of college. I was 18 years old.

That summer was a crazy blur of bad choices. I had met my boyfriend, a stage actor from L.A. in the last few weeks of the spring semester. He had come up to fish and discovered he had miserable seasickness. At that point I was woefully inexperienced and painfully self-conscious, enough so that I didn't really believe that this very handsome boy could be interested in me or anything I had to offer. When summer rolled around, I moved into a house with Actor BF and some friends and tried to make ends meet with a (very short) string of ridiculous jobs I wasn't interested in, and whatever money got sent from home. I drank a lot and hung out with some amazing friends who kept me fed and mostly out of trouble. No one thought to remind inexperienced, self-conscious, loudly feminist me that I needed to Take Care Of Business instead of letting Actor BF do it. I never went on birth control, and at some drunken point, our poorly-realized plan of condom usage failed. By the end of summer, I had Urgent Business to Take Care Of.

We ferried to Bellingham, and he gave me $300 before dropping me off at Sea-Tac, where I used $99 of it for a MarkAir flight back to Denver. I was numb and disbelieving the whole time. Apparently we visited the Ketchikan mall and had dinner at a pizza joint. I know that only because of the sentence fragments I jotted in my poetry journal. I made it to Denver with only a borrowed backpack full of dirty clothes and a sense of shame. My sister picked me up and drove me to her house. The next day she helped me call the clinic, and two days later she took me to Glenwood Springs and gave me juice to wash the Valium down with. Then she brought me back again, held my hand while tears poured down my face, and bought me lunch that I couldn't eat. She never said a word that wasn't support or love. She told her husband I had a bad case of the stomach flu, probably from food poisoning. She told our mom I was better off on her couch, where she could bring me soup. She let me cry and cry, and two weeks later, got me back to Denver so I could catch a flight all the way back to Alaska where I could finish what I started. I wrote a few poems about it, cried a little bit more, told Actor BF to fuck off, as he really wasn't good enough for me. And then I moved on.

I mention this all now because I read a blog post this morning on, of all things, a sewing blog. A 60-something hippie type told the author of that blog about her repeat abortions, the first of which was in 1969. The blog author came home and wrote about the harrowing experience of hearing these stories, and expressed her disbelief that the woman who told them could truly be at peace with her decisions. The author spoke of her sadness for this woman's "aborted babies." She wondered how this woman's life would have been different if she'd chosen to birth those children. She honestly believed that woman's life would have been better.

I know how my life would have been different. I could enumerate the ways, but suffice it to say that it would NOT have been for the better. I do not regret not having a baby at the precious age of 18, when obviously I could barely care for MYSELF. I don't regret not having a child with an alcoholic that I didn't love. Not only do I not regret it, I applaud it as one of the few truly sensible decisions I have made in my life. On the rare occasion that I dwell on it for even a moment, I think, "Thank GOD."

I have tried to write this not-birth story before, because I know that the stigma about abortion won't go away if we don't talk about it. I have found again and again that I was embarrassed to write it. But embarrassed about WHAT? I'm not ashamed that I made the choice I did. I'm not ashamed that I chose to go on and birth other children. I'm not ashamed to say I would have more if I weren't worried that this world can't hold them. Choosing to end that pregnancy gave me the strength to make other choices, ones that were crucial for me and my children. I'm not ashamed of that. The shame I mentioned earlier wasn't because of the abortion. The shame was because I prided myself on being too smarter than that. And I'm not ashamed to say that, either.

no regrets here, either

Another letter to a filmmaker who is screwing stuff up

2011-03-24T17:59:00.001-08:00

Dear Zack Snyder,

I really believe that you are a fanboy. You are camped out at 9:15 on Wednesday mornings outside your local shop to pick up the week's new issues. You bag and board anything and everything in case it might be of value some day. You know as much about obscure letterers and colorists from the '60's as baseball fanatics know about the Baltimore Orioles leftfieldsmen. I'm not doubting your geek pedigree. I know you too fucking well.

You're the sniveling little shit who disparagingly asks me upon my arrival at said comic book store if I'm "looking for something in particular - a gift for a boyfriend, maybe?" You're the one who points me firmly in the direction of the Buffy comics when I say I want horror pulp (not that there is anything wrong with the Buffy comics, but they're not exactly Hack 'n' Slash, are they?) You follow me not-terribly-covertly around convention floors making comments about the fit of my Star Trek t-shirt. You are the idiot who insists on trying to rolling to seduce my very powerful, not-at-all sexy mage in a one-off D&D adventure.

Here's the thing, Snyder. I don't much care for your movie-making. I think in your eagerness to make movies that are frame for frame reenactments of the comics they come from, you lose any desire to imbue your films with honesty or weight. It's frustrating when you do that to source material like Frank Miller's 300 and downright detrimental when it's something like Alan Moore's Watchmen. I don't know what graphic novel you were reading, but the Watchmen movie you made was NOT the Watchmen comic I read. The book was filled with fully-fleshed, complex characters with realistic motivations and emotional lives. Your movie? Not so much.

And now you bring us Sucker Punch. On the surface, there is nothing about this film that I shouldn't like. It is filled with dragons and mechas and sword-wielding lovelies and Jon Hamm. But why, for the love of Firefly, must you make the female characters look like they fell face-first into a vat of Porn Spackle(tm)? And why must the entire story be predicated on the assault - implied SEXUAL assault - of a teenager? And why do you take incredibly talented actors like Carla Gugino and Jena Malone and force them to emote with their fake eyelashes? You first remove all the power and agency from Queen Gorgo and Silk Spectres I and II, forcing them into roles where the ONLY art they wield is sexual - the sword-wielding and high kicks are merely frames for their ridiculous costumes. Now you are intent on selling us a whole two hours of this disenfranchising nonsense.

NEWSFLASH: We women live in a world that is fucking FULL of disenfranchising nonsense. We don't need it spoonfed to us in the guise of empowerment. Neither do our daughters, and just as importantly, neither do our sons. I want my budding geek son to not be the guy who chases girls out of the comic book shop, either directly with his nasty attitude or indirectly by insulting their intelligence and sensibilities with his complete ignorance of what makes a tough woman tough.

Honestly, Snyder. Your take on female power makes me feel bite-ier than the JJ Abrams Star Trek reboot. That is saying something.

Yours,
stella

P.S. In case you have forgotten what sexy AND capable looks like:

From now on

2010-07-02T11:50:00.003-08:00

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,

2010-05-13T20:23:00.000-08:00

No. Just no. But thanks anyhow.

Yours,
Stella

Happy anniversary

2010-04-07T20:24:00.003-08:00

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?

2010-02-26T18:55:00.003-09:00

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

2010-02-12T21:15:00.002-09:00

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.)

Reconstructed (and it feels so good...)

2009-11-17T15:51:00.001-09:00

Recently I have had a renewed interest in crafting and sewing. Part of it was successfully constructing the Halloween costumes for me and Miss Thing, and part of it was being in a place again that inspires me and sparks my imagination. I took the plunge recently and bought a new (brand-new!) sewing machine because it was cheap and I thought the tension on mine was shot (turns out it just need a little love and a new needle.) The new one is plastic and very lightweight - I nearly tipped it over trying it out - and it doesn't have the solid sound or feel of my 40 year old Kenmore. It is fast, however, and the tension dials all work, so I guess that is something in its favor. I decided yesterday that its inaugural project needed to be something quick and dirty that I would feel triumphant about. I went with a sweater reconstruction that I have been contemplating for months.

I had forgotten about Sweet Sassafras (her real name is Sarai) for a while. I voraciously followed her when I was addicted to Craftster about two years ago, and I read her blog religiously. Then my computer went dark for a while and I had to reconstruct my bookmarks from memory. She was one of the ones that got lost. I rediscovered her because S. sent me a link to her patterns, and in researching fit and ease of sewing, I stumbled upon her website again. I remembered how much I enjoy her sense of style and her writing, and how much I lovelovelove her reconstructions. One was a recon where she did nothing but improve the fit of a particular cardigan. It reminded me of my own sweater I had been too lazy and uninspired to improve upon. It is the softest, sweetest dove gray cashmere blend - from Fred Meyer. It was boxy and unformed, and had developed a rip at the neckline and lost a few buttons. I followed Sarai's instructions for fitting it.

here it is pinned. you can see its basic non-shape.

Because I am lazy, I did not baste. Instead, I sketched the new seam lines lightly, with a Sharpie because I couldn't find my fabric marker.

I regraded the sleeve, to your left, because it was a weird angle at first.

It was a matter of perhaps three and half minutes of sewing to make it into an article of clothing I would be happy to wear out of the house. I ran up the new seams and mended to neck tear with a little satin stitch. Then I spent about 45 minutes searching for this particular cream colored lace, which I knew I had used TWO WEEKS AGO in the creation of the costumes. I couldn't rest until I found it. When it was finally located, I went about the business of embellishing it.

remember when anthropologie made things that were delicate and feminine and vintage-y? that's what i was shooting for.

In addition to the lace, I added pearl buttons in place of the plain faux-shell ones that were there, and I finally trimmed the neck in the last of this delightful French velvet ribbon in ivory. I couldn't resist adding a tiny bow, even though my first instinct was that is was a bit twee. I might remove it later; right now I like it.

I felt so good about finishing it that I put it on immediately and wore it for the rest of the day. By the end of the night, I was feeling so creative that I broke out some jewelry making supplies and made a necklace, too. I have two more cardigans that could stand a little love, and I have a bag of vintage trims someplace that, in keeping with my philosophy, I am not longer saving for later. Well, not much later, anyway.

Are you hungry?

2009-11-15T20:44:00.003-09:00

I had a discussion with La Fabulous the other day about cooking and she expressed again that she thinks she doesn't know how to cook. This is problematic when you are attempting to woo someone via their stomach (not that I have ever done this *cough*.) I decided that it would be a travesty if she - or any of you! - was to perhaps lose a chance at the love of one's life because you were forced to go to IHOP because you couldn't whip together one quick and astonishing meal from things you can buy at the bodega across the street. So: frittata.

You will need: Eggs, about 3 per person. Potatoes. Some veggies - I always use onions, but also like bell peppers, mushrooms, spinach, zucchini... things you wouldn't hate in an omelet. Sausage, if you are a sausage eater. Cheese, if you feel like it. A touch of cream or milk or half and half or non-vanilla soy milk. Salt and pepper and cayenne if you like; garlic too, powder or minced.

First, get all your veggies ready. Chop them up into bite sized-ish pieces. Slice your potatoes into rounds thinly.

this is the minimalist version - peppers, onions, potatoes

Now choose a pan. I was making a lot of breakfast for a lot of people, and used three Russet potatoes, a whole red pepper and most of a largish onion, so I went with a giant cast iron skillet. When I make this for just me and the boy, I use an 8" square brownie pan and about 1/3 the stuff. Oil the pan generously and put your potatoes in so they form the crust.

Saute any of the fillings that require it - any meat that is raw, like sausage or bacon or the neighbor's awful cat, and any veggies that won't cook thoroughly in the time it takes to bake, like onions or mushrooms or broccoli. This is where I toss the seasonings in: salt and pepper and garlic. Softer veggies or ones that will overcook, like bell peppers and zucchini, don't need this step.

Layer your fillings on top of your potatoes.

just throw it all in. if i put cheese in, it goes on the bottom.

Now your eggs. Crack as many as you need - two or three per person - and add about a teaspoon of dairy (or soy) for each egg you use. Like I said, I was feeding lots, so I used a whole dozen eggs and a 1/4 cup of soy creamer (this was the dairy free version. I found out later it should have been meat-free, too. My bad.) Whisk them all up until they are creamy and light.
Then pour it on the top of your stuff.

this is balanced rather precariously, which was pointed out to me as I almost threw it to the floor in my frenzy to photograph it.

You should have had your oven preheating at this point, but I won't tell if you forgot. 350-ish, and closer to the bottom than the top of the oven is better. It takes about 40 minutes, until it doesn't jiggle when you shake it and the edges are a little browned. If you want cheese and didn't put it in before, it's alright to melt it on the top.

Cut this into wedges and serve it with sourdough toast and plenty of butter and marmalade. Or make muffins. Muffins are always delicious. If you're eating this for dinner, opt for a warm crusty loaf of bread and a light red wine. I prefer the sausage to be chorizo at dinner. Green bell peppers and tomato with the chorizo make it like a Spanish torta. The best thing about this is, there is the potential for lots of prep work to be shared with the person you are out to impress, while standing shoulder to shoulder in your tiny kitchen, talking about your travels and feeding each other bits of cheese. And if the person should turn out to be the sort who eats your scrumptious meal and never returns your phone calls, you can take comfort in the fact that you probably blew less than $15 on dinner, not counting the wine, and that's what you would have spent on take-out.

I started another one because no one is too busy to be pretty

2009-11-14T10:47:00.002-09:00

Okay, you guys. I need your help. I just started a new blog (I know. I KNOW.) and it can't happen without you. I have vision, and I need some people to assist me in making it come to pass. Head over to Why Are You Saving That? and read the post, then do it. I want to have lots of pictures of lots of people wearing and using their lovely things. Please? I'm not afraid to beg...

Life gets in the way

2009-11-05T15:42:00.005-09:00

I promised you all the wonderful costume creation updates, but it didn't happen. For one thing, as usual, I waited until the eleventh hour to make the darned thing (really the 11:30th hour, if the truth be told) and, as usual, I had a difficult-to-resolve issue with my computer that made it impossible to blog for a couple of weeks. So here I am back again, many many hours after my last post, and Halloween has come and gone without a peep from me on the making of the White Rabbit. It was successful, that much I know, because I got an extra Bingo! card because of it.

Bingo!? you ask? Yes, the New Orleans Bingo! S how, witnessed in full glory on Halloween itself in the city which is perhaps the love of my life. The whole reason I had to have a lightweight packable costume was so it would fit in my suitcase and be comfortable to wear for twelve hours outdoors in the company of 20,000 of my friends at Voodoo Experience. It was brilliant and beautiful and I don't regret for a moment that I forwent the dubious pleasures of the Gourds in order to watch Perry Farrell declare, "Tonight I am a superhero!" Also, I saw Gogol Bordello and the Black Keys and the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, who are as famous to me as Jane's Addiction, and a whole host of others. And I got to spend my favorite holiday in the company of two people that I couldn't love more if they were related to me by blood. I was deliriously happy that we were all together.

she was so happy to see those gypsy punks!

New Orleans is not a town for everyone. It is brimming with ghosts and legends and glitter and dirt. It is urgent and spooky and difficult like a lover. It is not full of convenience and quirk. It takes a certain darkness of spirit to adore it, and that is trait that my companions and I revel in sharing.

this was hardly even a costume

It was harder to bid the city adieu this time. Each time I visit a new place, I find myself wondering if I could slot myself into the life that is there, if I could make a place for myself in that world. Would this be my grocery store? Would I wash my clothes here? Would I fall in with these marvelous people, become their friend, have dinner parties at their houses? There is never the questioning when I am in New Orleans. I think to myself: this would be the place I would buy milk. This would be the cafe where I ate Sunday morning brunch. My children would go to this school, they would wear these uniforms gladly. These would be my people, my friends, my tribe. And I wait anxiously until the time comes to return.

a certain darkness of spirit, indeed

Jenkies!

2009-10-09T16:39:00.003-08:00

Monday outfits used to happen with regularity, but they don't anymore. As a matter of fact, I haven't worn something blog-worthy in long enough that some people (you know who you are) have expressed dismay over the lack of whimsy and quirk that is usually expressed through my sartorial choices. Well, here. It's Friday, and I almost waited until Monday to post this, but I know that I will forget.

I bought this red skirt from Plasticland. It's from Tulle, and it is a light sweater knit in rayon and polyester. I thought it was going to be jersey-ish and bias-cut, but I actually like it better this way. The tee-shirt is from Threadless' 9/9/09 sale (all the shirts on the site were $9) and might be my favorite piece of clothing I've ever owned. In case you can't see it, it is a drawing of a T. Rex on a unicycle wearing a tophat and a clown nose, juggling bowling pins and a lady's leg. I added charcoal knee socks and black ballet flats.

Later I got chilly and pulled on this stripey sweater from Old Navy that I have had for approximately one million years. It makes me look a little like Velma from Scooby Doo. The headband doesn't hurt the resemblance at all. It also seems to add about fifteen pounds to my frame, but that might just be the angle of my arms while I'm taking this picture.

Apologies for my weird faces as usual. I don't know how to do the Myspace coyface thing. I can't only make the please-God-don't-let-me-drop-my-camera-while-taking-a-photo thing.

More Halloween updates soon, my lovelies. Ta until then!

Rabbit parts

2009-10-01T15:24:00.005-08:00

I have made a little headway in my Halloween costume. As usual, the White E opened its magical portals and I found the basic pieces I needed to create most of my costume.

This is the best picture of the color of these pants, although I think in real life they a lighter cream. They are lightweight corduroy, blousy around the thigh, and I will cut them off just below knee-length to make britches. I plan on embellishing them with some lace and satin ribbons.

Here is the rest of the fabulous I hunted up out of my stash. My vision is a decrepit, fraying-about-the-edges Victorian toy, hence the creams and ivories and taupes in place of the bright whites of the Disneyfied Rabbit.

I like this linen shirt a lot. I like the frocking detail and the tiny Peter Pan collar and miniscule pearly buttons. I think it will be hard to wear a cravat with it, because the collar is so small, but perhaps I will veer from my primary inspiration - the Tenniel illustrations - and wear a ribbon tie instead. I do love the idea of a cravat, though, even if it would be a bit warm.
Finally, the E graced me with a set of rabbit ears. These are being reconstructed as well, as I find them a little bit Playboy the way they are right now. I haven't decided yet whether I want to add elements of the rest of the story to my costume; if so then the ears will be attached to a wee top hat fascinator. If not, then I plan on removing them and attaching them to a headband that is covered in cream satin or velvet, together in a V off to one side. Gratuitously, here are the shoes that I ordered, because I am insane enough to order shoes specifically for a Halloween costume.

So far I have done no actual crafting, but I have lots of inspiration and plenty of materials. I also found in the depths of my stash the prettiest black Bavarian ribbon with hot pink and red roses on it. I think it will be perfect for trimming the dirndl part of Miss Thing's Red Riding Hood costume. If I can convince her that she wants the dress in sky blue instead of red, we'll be in business soon. Otherwise, it may be a slight delay while I figure out fabric options.

The Cap'n has decided he wants to be Thriller Zombie Michael Jackson for the high holiday, so I need to lay hands on a decent makeup kit and maybe on a Jheri-curl wig.

Hopefully the next time I post I will have started on the construction of the vest. I am just awaiting brocade in the mail...

At long last!

2009-09-26T15:55:00.004-08:00

I know that you all only come here for the parts when I talk exhaustively about costuming, sewing and crafting, and that you were sorely disappointed last year when I copped out so hugely. Breathe your sighs of relief, then, because I have determined that I will NOT spend three hours desperately wiring rubber snakes together in an effort to make it seem as though I put effort into my costume choice. NO, this year, my lovelies, I am going to make a costume.

It is not as inspired as years past, but my criteria were different. It needs to be packable, longwearing, lightweight for temperature reasons, and reasonably clever. No sticky makeup, no fussy accessories, nothing I will need to constantly check or fix. This immediately disqualified my best ever costume ideas - the story of the green ribbon, and the gutshot cowgirl - and made my favorite forerunner for this year - a steampunk mermaid - seem unfeasible. I settled on something iconic, easy to put together, and yet challenging enough to make me actually want to work on it. I decided to be the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.

The elements are simpler than you are imagining. A vest, some pantaloons, a pocketwatch on a chain, some rabbit ears (fascinator style, natch), and a little pink nose. I am rather pleased with myself. I even have a pattern for a vest that I have been holding onto for years, waiting for the occasion to arise where I might need it.
Also, I might have gone ahead and bought a pocketwatch today. I need one anyway!

HRH is going to be Little Red Riding Hood, which I am also making. I bought a set of red velveteen curtains at a garage sale for $5.00 and threw them in the washing machine not long ago. I hope they survive the trip. They smelled about a thousand years old. IF so, they are going to make a really beautiful, heavy, hopefully warm cape. I want to make a pinafore trimmed with Bavarian ribbon, too, and then she can wear a white shirt and white tights and black shoes and carry a basket.

So now I have a plan, and two patterns and the fabric for one costume. Now to dust off the sewing machine and set to work. I'll post updates - hopefully with pictures, even! - as I make progress.

The reason why

2009-09-13T20:17:00.004-08:00

There was a time not so very long ago when I was utterly, entirely convinced that I was fated to be alone for the rest of my life. It had been a long painful, messy end to a long, messy, difficult relationship, and I had had my heart ground to dust and splinters. I wasn't interested in gluing the puzzle pieces of my life back together just to let another man dismantle it again. Unfortunately, I was desperately lonesome and while I knew I was perfectly capable of leading a full and fulfilled life without being in a romantic relationship, I never wanted that. One particularly low moment after a mystifying rejection, I asked La Fab if she thought I would die without ever having sex again. She laughed and said, "Are you planning on offing yourself tomorrow? Do you have a terminal illness you are hesitant to tell us about so as to spare our feelings?" Then she went on to reassure me that she believed I was lovely, intelligent, and attractive, and that I just needed to settle down and wait - something would come along. SomeONE would come along.

I thought I knew the kind of guy I would find, if I were to find anyone at all, and I thought I knew how it would go. He would be smart and verbose and rather cuttingly mean; I would feel sick to my stomach with desire and lose sleep thinking of him. The less I thought he thought of me, the more I would try to make him think of me. He would be thin and intellectual, pretend not to care about the way he looked, but really work very hard to be look so nonchalant. He would know a lot about wine and have a ridiculous dream to visit that bar in Belgium with 2500 types of beer.

Here's what I never thought would happen: that I would decide to amuse myself by flirting with a boy in the audience at a last minute bar gig and end up feeling strangely as though I had met him before. I never anticipated that he would take me up on an offhand offer to visit Sitka and see us play again. I never dreamed he would respond to my awkward overtures to befriend him, that he would email and call, that he would answer my questions and ask ones of his own. The oddest thing happened: I slept better, I felt great. There was no heart-pounding, sweaty-palmed second-guessing. He was first dozens, then hundreds, of miles away, and so having a friendship complicated and clouded by lust was an impossibility. I came to genuinely like and admire him.

Here's what I never thought would happen: that I would decide to chase away my own emptiness by filling it with meaningless encounters and find myself a year later deeply in love with my best friend.

I know everyone who reads this has spent the last year humoring me as I tried to make sense of all of this, and I know it has been a month since the last time I posted anything. The thing is, I used writing all of this stuff down as a way to keep it from swallowing my head, and now I have someone to tell it all to and process it all with, so I don't have to write it down anymore. Also, contentment is neither interesting nor funny. For the time being, it might be sparse around here. You can take it up with Z.if you really, really need to.

I don't want to live on the moon...

2009-08-04T13:03:00.003-08:00

I lost a friend this weekend. That makes it seem so melodramatic and huge, but I'd known this guy since the minute he was born. My cat died while I was gone to Haines, and everything seems a little askew.

Chester was the biggest one of the litter, and he stayed that way. Eddie was the wild one (his nickname was Psycho Dangercat), Vinnie was the slow one, and Sadie was the sweet thing adopted by Cap'n J, who was 4 at the time. Chester was big and quiet and a little boring. He didn't crawl in your lap and ask to be petted or move you to tears of laughter walking into the walls or falling off the stairs. He spent most of his time sleeping and eating his own body weight.

Vinnie was given away first, since we meant to keep Sadie. He was smallish and needy, and that appeals to a certain kind of person. They changed his name to Sundance and moved him to Colorado. Eddie's rock and roll attitude destined him for La Fab, who had the best kind of love/hate relationship with him. But Chester was a hard sell. He was a lump of raven black fur without the crazy eyes or endearing chirrup of the others. We kept him, too, because we couldn't risk him being put to sleep. We resigned ourselves to three cats: Emily, who belonged to my ex; Sadie, who belonged to J., and Chester, who belonged only to himself.

He had a feralness that was a little startling in such an inert animal. He would hiss and run at the smallest slight, never batted with sheathed claws and bit to draw blood when he thought he was cornered. All of us bore scars from the wounds he dealt, J. in particular, who will drink for years on the story of the divot in the bridge of his nose. We took to shying away from petting him or trying to pick him up; he took to sleeping in the backs of the closets and under the chairs. He was not a loving cat, except in the dark mornings when I was the only one moving in the house. He would come and join me on the couch while I read my email or the last chapter of my book, pressing himself against my leg and purring so lightly I could mistake it for snoring. If I made a move as if to touch him, he would tense and sometimes even move away. On rare occasions he would tolerate my overtures, and it always felt like a gift when he accepted my affection. I cherished that I was the only one he trusted.

Then Z. came.

It was astonishing to see two kindred spirits meeting. First Chester started coming out of the safety of the closets, and then he started joining us on the bed, and then he started coming when Z. - and only Z. - called his name. He took to curling up on my pillow next to Z. the moment I left the bed in the morning. He liked to be on something that belonged to Z. if he could, it didn't matter what it was: motorcycle jacket with stiff bits and pokey bits or cushy red robe or pile of slick magazines. You broke him, I accused. You took a wild animal and made him into just another housecat. It can't be helped, Z. replied. He likes me. And he was right. Chester loved him.

The worst part about his last hours are not thinking of his pained and terrified cries over the phone, or how he must have felt like his own body was drowning him. The worst part is that I think he came downstairs to find us, to find Z., and we were nowhere. I think he wanted us to make him feel better, to stroke his pain away, and we weren't there. In the end, I feel like we let him down. He had a merciful and dignified death, but I am filled with enormous guilt that I wasn't the one to comfort him and wrap him in a blanket that smelled like me so he wouldn't be lonely and scared.

I have had a few pets die, and it has always been swift and sudden, but I have known none of them so long or come to love none of them so well, and I have always been there before. I loathe the gaping tear in my life where he was. I know he was just a cat, but he was my friend, and I loved him.

I don't have any pictures of him because I am not the type lady who takes photos of her animal companions. The best I can do is to tell you to imagine if Aaron Neville were only two feel tall and covered in sable hair from head to foot, and only deigned to sing for you when it was the dead of night. That bulky build, that wild past, that sweet disposition, that lilting tenor voice - if Aaron Neville were a cat, Chester would have been his body double. Because I don't have any pictures of him, here's Aaron Neville instead:

Bye, buddy.

The pinnacle of civilization

2009-07-22T16:31:00.005-08:00

This past weekend my band played Homeskillet Fest, which is a four day music event put on by a local record label. We were an odd fit for the festival, which features mostly independent singer-songwriter-y types with lots of blues and folk overtones. Most of the types who attend wouldn't know a hot rod from a hole in the ground and don't even own lipgloss, much less dedicate half a drawer to organizing just various shades of red lipstick. We got a good reception anyhow, and my new favorite quirky band complimented our harmonies. I went to buy their CD and found myself with their LP in hand instead because 1) I am cool enough to own a working turntable, kind of 2) vinyl seems more authentic and DIY and 3) for the same amount of cash as the CD, I got great big HUGE album art and a poster and all the lyrics to all the songs. I am a fan of big.

this does not show the baby blue marbled vinyl, which is the best part.

Upon investigating the fine print of the liner notes (I am also a fan of liner notes), I came upon a name that was vaguely familiar, though I couldn't quite place a finger on it. It wasn't someone I knew personally, it wasn't the friend of a friend or an acquaintance or someone I met sometime... I turned to Z. and asked, "That cat who you gave a ride to New Orleans to... the Craiglist guy? Who was he again?" "A film guy," Z. said. "Yoni Goldstein."

And there it was. Sitka is magical for a lot of reasons, but its most notable trait is that it is a nexus. Sitka is the one degree of separation for so many people; it goes beyond mere coincidence. You hear stories of Sitkans who meet each other on the opposite side of the planet after not having seen each other in two and a half decades; you hear stories of folks who are recognized in the middle of the night in a grocery store in Connecticut by their t-shirts; everyone has a cousin or an aunt or a best friend who lives here, or lived here during the war, or volunteered at Sheldon Jackson when it was still a high school. And here is another such Sitka near-coincidence: my man, on his way to see me in my favorite city, picks up a rideshare in the middle of nowhere to save on gas, who turns out to be friends with this band (from Ann Arbor Michigan, thanks, La Fab) that I become a little enchanted with when I see them live while holding hands with Z. here in our sleepy village. We are never farther than a step away from anyone here. That is just the way I like it best.

Depression chic

2009-07-12T12:57:00.005-08:00

this is not a very good shot of this outfit.

I realize that it is only Sunday, and that I just updated yesterday, but here is an outfit for you, as well as another insightful posting. I decided yesterday that if it wasn't raining, I was going to wear this dress, which has a distinct Dust Bowl vibe to it. I had forgotten, though, that the last time I wore it was several summers ago, when it was wickedly hot here in Southeast, and when I was eight months pregnant. Since it was the coolest thing I owned, I clipped the elastic out of the waist in desperation. I set it aside after that steamy August and more or less forgot about it until yesterday. I put it on this morning and it looked kind of like a feedsack pillowcase. I added this handtooled belt, which is way too long for me, and my cowboy boots.

my pose seems urban outfitter-y.

You can't really tell, but I also added my necklace with the bird and the key and tiny milkglass earrings and petal pink lipstick and perfume that smells like crushed flowers. Then I was dressed for a Jenny Lewis concert. Since there wasn't one, I played the following songs on my iPod while I walked next to the harbor on my way to have coffee at my friend A.'s little cafe. While I was there I wrote some letters and ate some pancakes and read a few paragraphs of an Alice Hoffman novel - she is a guilty pleasure - and allowed myself a moment of wistfulness. It's hard to be wistful for long, though, if you are full of buttermilk and blueberries. Those are the words of wisdom I have to offer you. That, and, if you get the chance, dress like you are acting out a song. People complement you on your outfit that way.

Still no pictures

2009-07-11T14:43:00.005-08:00

Here are some things that helped to erase my truly bad attitude today:

1) S. came back from Europe with the prettiest shopping bag I have ever seen, full of marvelous little gifts wrapped in hot pink tissue paper.

2) There were still lots of cherries when I went to Chelan at 11:00 this morning. I ate the whole bag of Rainiers before noon.

3) I was asked today, "Do you ride a longboard?" No, I said, I can barely walk down a flat street without falling over. Trying to ride a skateboard is beyond me. "Oh, well, I saw a woman in a red helmet longboarding the other day, and my first thought was that it must be you. I couldn't think who else it would be." Dude. I am not that awesome, but thank you.

4) My retro styled lemon yellow bathing suit arrived in the mail. I put it on immediately. It makes me feel like a Vargas painting.

5) I am going to make beets at some point today. Sooner rather than later, hopefully.

That's it. All of it. I am better now, really. All I require is a nap, and maybe a really cold beer. Ahhh.

Not to be all maudlin, but...

2009-06-23T15:56:00.003-08:00

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to those of you reading this whom I have been neglecting or ignoring lately. I am never very good at the communication thing, and it is the very first thing to go when I am faced with difficulties in my life. The past several weeks have been a bit of an ordeal, forcing me to ask some really hard questions and face some uncomfortable truths, and I had to let something slip away. Unfortunately, that something was the connection I cling to in order to maintain my usual equilibrium. I am sorry. I cherish you and I love you, and I was not deliberately shutting you out. I just only had enough strength to do what needed to be done. Now I'm through it, and maybe things will be sort of back to normal. As normal as things ever are for me, anyway.

Sometimes the Universe gives us gifts, you know? And sometimes She gives us lessons. Occasionally, She hands us a pop quiz in order for us to appreciate what we have before us. I feel like I just came up on one of those quizzes. I have come very close in the past several weeks to ruining something glorious because I am insecure and gun shy. I keep throwing the door wide open so he can walk right out if he wants to: telling him flat out that I was keeping an open mind about what happened when I was out of town, telling him that I thought he didn't want me enough, telling him I am full of jealousy and irrationality. Then I needed him really badly and didn't know how to tell him, and somehow he knew anyway. The Universe handed me a giant platter of humility and told me to choke it down and understand that I have been graced with his love and respect. She is offering the both of us the chance to be better people with each other than we have ever been with anyone else, and it will behoove us not to fuck it up.

So thank you, ell and vee and S.F. and K.D. and Em and H. and Meemah and Roo and the other ones who read this and worry about me and love me and hold me up. The Universe is teaching me again and again and again that love is what keeps this incomprehensible rock spinning in space. Before I learned that lesson with him, I learned it with you, and I am unspeakably grateful for your presence in my life.

And thank you, Z., for standing up and standing next to me and being what I want and need. I can't believe it took something this huge and dramatic to convince me that you are being 100% honest when you tell me that you are in it to win it. I hear you. Finally. Stick around, okay? I have a feeling big things are in store for us.

Hey, there, cool people!

2009-06-22T11:28:00.003-08:00

Thanks for visiting our sleepy little town. I noticed that you were cool because of your dedication to looking ridiculous and ugly, no matter the circumstance or setting. For example, Mr. Fine Arts Camp assistant instructor, I was struck by your gigantic wire frame aviator glasses that sit crooked on your face and appear to not be prescription - or maybe just not your prescription. Also, I respect the moxie it takes to sport a hairdo that looks as though you cut it lefthanded with safety scissors and styled it by carefully holding your head out of the falling water the last time you showered. Your sweater vest/flannel shirt/slightly too short skinny pants/penny loafers combo is working for me, too. To top it all off, you went the extra mile by growing a leather daddy mustache and then refusing to maintain its integrity by going anywhere near it with a razor for the past three days - possibly since the last time you got the top of your head wet, judging by the hairdo. All in all, I must admire the effort that went into making you look ironic and effortless and INSANE. You realize that you look less rational than the clowning instructor, whose own hair is the color of a traffic cone and who has a rather detailed portrait of Red Skelton tattooed on his person? Okay, just so you know.

Oh, and hi! returning college student! You have grown up so much in the past eight months. I can tell because you are wearing a pillowcase for a dress, and even though it is a shapeless bundle of mushroom colored jersey knit, I can still tell you what color your knickers are, because it is so short that I can see them every time you take a step. Also, I think you may have forgotten that you have come home to a town whose average daily temperature in June is 60 degrees. Maybe you should think about putting on pants or a rainjacket or some socks - although I realize that it wouldn't be practical to wear them with your flipflops, which you are insisting are an appropriate footwear choice for a rainforest in Alaska.

I know I don't have much room to talk, as I have been known to wear leopard print heels with blue jeans, to match my hair dye to my lipstick, and to accessorize with a greasy-haired, leather covered tall drink of water. AT LEAST I BRUSH MY HAIR.

I hope your children mock you when they see pictures of you in your youth. Have a great day!

I am mostly kind of okay

2009-06-17T20:59:00.000-08:00

It's the end of day four of feeling really shitty, and I am pretty much over it. I am exhausted and would like to have some kind of idea when this is all going to be over - or at least taper off to a point where I feel like I am on top of it instead of being swept along with my head barely above water. I want to lean really heavily on the shoulder that is right next to me, and somehow I am still finding myself trying really hard to seem a lot stronger and cooler (in the cucumber sense, not in the jazz way) than I really am. I want people to assume I am capable of handling any kind of crisis that the Universe sees fit to bat my way. By people, I mean of course, boys. All the pertinent women in my life know my fronting is exactly that.

So, what is the lesson in all of this? Don't be afraid to take the comfort that gets offered to you? Patience is a virtue? To everything there is a season? Cupcakes are an anytime food? The lesson, I think is: Make a little birdhouse in your soul.

They Might Be Giants - New Music - More Music Videos

I know you miss me!

2009-06-09T16:25:00.002-08:00

Once upon a time I got in a little hot water for not updating this blog as often as some people would like. Then I started updating two and three times a week, and the handful of you who actually give a shit about what I am leaking from my brain were happy to peruse the endless lists of random things and the unnecessary sandwich recipes and my musings on popular culture. All that stuff is still fomenting in there, and I'd like to offer a little mea culpa to those of you who tune in just to be entertained by my weirdness. I have been slacking off of late. I know it, and I know you know it. You want more snark. You want more foibles. You want more letters to Santa Claus and Sofia Coppola (what the hell is she UP to these days, anyhow?!?) You want more Monday outfits. I will try to do better, I swear, but bear with me. I have not been spending hour upon mindless hour lolling about the Interwebz these past several weeks, and more often than not I can find more useful things to do with myself. Or so I like to tell myself, anyway.

I don't have an outfit for you today. Sorry. I can't really remember the last time I dolled up proper-like, and heaven knows it's harder to take ridiculous self-portraits of yourself when you fear the humiliation of someone walking in on you while you are practicing your best Blue Steel. I never considered this might be one of the consequences of having a boy around all the time. I suppose the most logical thing to do would be for me to press him into service as my personal photographer, but that seems oddly vain, and we all know how allergic I am to vanity (you may insert an eyerolling emoticon here, if you wish.)

I don't have any savvy commentary on pop culture or politics right now, either. Nothing is blindingly offending me or sending me into transports of delight lately, and I find it hard to wax eloquent about the middling-to-mediocre. Some of you, I know, would disagree with that, but only because you do not share my obvious good taste.

I don't have any amusing stories about the beginning of tourist season or working in a cafe or dealing with imbeciles for you. It has only been a month since the season started, and I was out of commission for more than a week, so I am still in fairly high spirits, all things considered. Give me until the Fourth of July, and we'll talk.

All in all, this is the most intensely boring and uninformative blog post I have written in a really long time, and it is mostly meant as for me, as a reminder to do this. Just for putting up with me, I have a little reward for you:

There. I hope it make you shake your ass.

Still ...ing, just not blogging about it

2009-05-25T17:55:00.007-08:00

I have mostly come to the conclusion that anything I post over on Ing and Ed gets read only by Mr. B and La Fab, which is fine, but ... well. I really like the attention I get posting over here, so I am going to update my own ...ing and ...ed over here, because I like to delude myself that more than just La Fabulous reads this (Hi, Lady L!)

Watching:

Terminator: Salvation
There were blowings-ups. And killer robots. And post-apocalyptic nonsense. And Christian Bale in a Messianic fury. And several inconsistencies which we are supposed to blithely ignore. It was fine. And noisy.

Star Trek: Rebooting a Series Which Has Seen More Reboots Than the Beta Version of Windows Vista since when was Jim a beatnik?

It was nowhere near as bad as I had feared. That is not to say that it was good. It was distinctly JJ Abrams-y. There were a few too many conversations in extreme profile close-up and a few too much cool shit for the sake of being cool. Christopher Pine is too pretty, too young, and not Kirkian enough for my tastes. There was no need for the clumsy and unnecessary love story (hmmm... have I said this before?) But Karl Urban was the epitome of the good doctor, and Zachary Quinto didn't make me want to strangle him. We will ignore the wretched plot holes and the facial tattoos on the Romulans. Also, the occasional stilted lines of dialog and stiff deliveries were easy to dismiss, as that is par for the course with Star Trek. All in all, it was not the worst of the lot. That honor, of course, belongs to Star Trek IV: The Journey Home. Neither is it the best of them - Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan and Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country tie for that in my book. It was solid, if blinding, thanks to Abrams' irritating adoration of the lens flare. I will save my gripes about the look of the bridge and the uniforms for someone who wants to tune out my ranting. I will probably watch it again on DVD, if only to point out the glaring discrepancies to my companion, who is not a Trek fan per se, and who is uncaring but patient as the day is long.

thaaaaat's more like it.

Reading:

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies
I always knew Lizzie Bennett had it in her. Any story is improved with muskets and katanas.

The Ten-Cent Plague: The Great Comic Book Scare and How It Changed America
This is an interesting examination of the cultural divide that occurred in post-war America between adults and adolescents, who for the first time were being recognized as something apart from either children or grown-ups. There were the first stirrings of the generational gap that would fully evidence itself by the late 1960's, and the outcry over true crime comics and, shortly thereafter, the newly fledged genre of music called rock and roll, presaged the unrest by more than a decade. Also, there were some cool full-color repros of old horror and true crime comic covers.

Listening:

It might be mere coincidence that Steve Earle released an album of covers of songs written by the late Townes Van Zandt just weeks after Earle's son (and Van Zandt's namesake) Justin Townes Earle released his own sophomore effort. It might just be chance that there are echoes of Van Zandt's yearning outlaw country voice in the younger Earle's writing, which also recalls Hank Williams and a pinch of Bob Wills. It might be happenstance that both these albums were recommended to me in roundabout ways - one through an independent online music subscription service, the other the daily sale offering from a huge online music merchant. But all of a sudden, I am listening to a lot of serious country and western music written earnestly and unironically, and I am loving every minute of it. Sometimes there is an honesty in country music that is unparalleled in any other type; the lyrics cut through the bullshit to the heart of the matter in short order. The chorus in this song says what I haven't been able to spit out for the last month and a half:

And my favorite Townes Van Zandt song, which is one I have known all my life, is the rest of what I would say were I less of a coward:

All the rest is just the usual stuff. Go listen to that Justin Townes Earle song again. It's real good.

You thought I was done talking about it

2009-05-17T20:42:00.007-08:00

I'm sure someone thinks this is prom-worthy.

I am not dying, although I wanted to for a few hours. A few days, really. I was too ill to even do so much as watch horrible movies. I was too weak to hold up books. Music was far too noisy. Texas kicked my sorry rock and roll ass. But I looked real pretty while I was there. Not bragging, just saying - I had the impetus to look the way I would everyday if I lived someplace where it mattered. And the time, frankly, since I stayed in my room until a leisurely 2:30 p.m. or so each day.

apparently french fries are sacrilege.

I didn't eat often while I was there, but when I did, I ate a LOT. This gravy overflowed the plate and made a huge mess of the table. Also, the edge of the cup you see was a bucket of iced tea, or nearly so. I think it was a 44 oz receptacle, which is about three times as much as I wanted or needed. And bottomless refills, too. Welcome to Texas indeed.

well, hey, sugar!

There is nothing in this world that captures my attention like a shiny room sized bullet full of frosting. This might be my favorite place in the whole damn city.

That's it, folks. Now you know nearly as much as I do about the city of Austin. Maybe next time I'll see a few more of the sights, and a little less of the inside of a beer can. HA! Funny joke, huh?

Not JUST pictures of bass players

2009-05-13T16:43:00.003-08:00

The Queen of Rockabilly still has it, bitches

I know I talked a lot about it when I returned from Viva Las Vegas last year, but I will say again: people in the rockabilly scene are the nicest, most genuine batch of folks you will ever have the good fortune of meeting. Here are some observations about Texas Rockabilly Revival that I made:

1) The musicians who come to these things do it because they, too, really, truly love this music. I shook hands with members of nearly every single band that performed; bass players were happy to chat with me about their set ups, lead guitar guys passed out hugs and autographs; drummers sat at your table and bought you beers. They talked about being on the road and about venues good (thumbs up to the Continental in Houston and Austin both) and bad (the shitty place in Houston in the strip mall without house sound.) They roamed the crowds, and stood behind the security fences, and played while feeling less than 100%, and still posed for pictures at 1:30 in the morning - because they realize that they are lucky to do what they do. They love the music, and the people who love the music.These two boys (Kevin on the bass and Walt ON the bass) can drink their own weight in Jagermeister

2) It is not very hard to make friends. By definition, the folks who show up to events like this have something in common. Aside from mile high hair and coloring books for arms and legs and backs, fans of rockabilly (as shorthand for all the 'billy genres out there, no slight intended) also love: fast cars, old shit, ladies who look like ladies, and people who can DO things, not just talk about doing things. That is how, within ten minutes of shaking their hands, Brandon and Emily took me under their wings and spent the remainder of the weekend driving me from place to place, feeding me, giving me drinks, assuring I was well away from the wrecking pit, and generally making sure I was secure. I can't thank them enough, and I am very, very grateful that we found each other. They are solid, through and through. And my dance card was filled by the fine gentlemen from Atlanta and El Paso, who on respective nights made sure I had a twirl or two on the floor.

3) Bartenders deserve every damn penny they make. This goes without saying, but I want to give a special round of applause to LindZ, who went out of her way to find my lost card, and gave me water when she saw I had had perhaps a beer too many. When I returned on Saturday, she also checked in with a huge bottle of ibuprofen and looked relieved when I asked her for a glass - JUST a glass, thank you, not a bucket - of iced tea.

4) Unlike so many other subcultures I can think of, the ladies who inhabit the world that surrounds the music have no qualms about telling each other how lovely they are. I heard compliments about dresses, hair, shoes, make-up... Mostly I saw women look each other over, and rather than deeming each other lacking in some way, admiring one another and acknowledging it. Rockabilly girls are PRETTY, there is no denying it, and every last one of us tries our hardest to look that way.

5) Unlike so many boys I can think of, the gents who frequent events where these lovelies gather have no qualms about letting their admiration be known. They say it gallantly, like Brandon to Emily when we stepped out at the car show: "Someone has to take your picture today, because you look real pretty in that dress." They say it easily and well-practiced, like Steve saying to me: "You sure are in fine form today, what ever your name is!" (he couldn't remember my name was Stella, not Sylvia.) They say it wheedlingly, like the Gretsch guy to me and Emily as we walked past the booth; "You ladies both look so beautiful! You NEED your picture taken with one of these guitars!" It was a revelation to be around men who were not afraid to tell a women he appreciated the hours of work it took her to turn his head.

The crowds never got ugly, just a little rowdy when the Rev played Ace of Spades for Lemmy, who had to cancel. Even the usual suspects were mostly respectful and subdued. Any hard feelings were soothed with a cold beer. It's weird that a rather small genre of music could restore a good deal of my faith in humanity.

I came home after three days on my own in the big city to a family who was very happy to see me, and a boy who was as well (somewhat to my surprise.) I showed them all how much I loved them by promptly passing out with a fever of 102 and an assful of penicillin first thing the next morning, courtesy of a wicked strep infection I picked up along the way. There is always a price to pay. You know what, though? I met Slim Jim Phantom, and was backstage for the last two songs of Wanda Jackson's set, so it was totally worth it.

Yep, they did. Yep, it was.

Geshundheit

2009-04-21T16:17:00.004-08:00

Does anyone else suffer as badly as I do from hayfever? You know how when your pollen allergies kick in, you don't quite believe you are congested and full of mucus, because when you try to blow your nose, nothing comes out, and you really, really want to sneeze, but it feels like the sneeze is trapped in the backside of your sinuses, crawling up behind your frontal lobe, giving you an itchy headache and making a hash of your thinking, and you spend half the day crazy with the idea of sneezing, until you think you might be going insane, and when it finally happens, there is such a feeling of relief that you nearly want to cry - and then the mucus starts and won't stop, like someone turned on a horrible, evil faucet and then the third and fourth and seventeenth sneezes make your eyes water, and you wish you could go back to just chasing it back and forth, because there is no putting the sneeze back?

I feel like I am waiting for the first sneeze to happen, only with the shit that is building up in my head. Not mucus so much as unending questions and demands, and yes, emotions. As long as I keep them safely scratching at the edges of my brain, then I am not in love, I can't get hurt, I'll just take some antihistamine and sleep like the dead for thirteen hours when I can wake up and repeat the process until allergy season is over. But I suppose that that is not how it really works. Eventually I am going to have to let the sneeze come and admit that I really do feel deeply about all this, and admit that heartbreak is inevitable. I am far too realistic - read: cynical - to believe for a second that the things I want so desperately will come to pass, to believe that he feels a tenth the way for me that I feel for him. Even if there is a chance that I could be wrong, and that the truth is that some of what I wanted has already happened. He must care for me at least a little, or he wouldn't be sitting around eating my tomato soup and washing my supper dishes.

So here he is, right in front of me, right next to me, and I still haven't said the word out loud. I keep rubbing my nose, hoping to keep this explosion contained, and he thinks the reason my voice is hoarse and quiet is because I have a burgeoning spring cold, or that I am allergic to the nascent flowers and buds. I will do nothing to disabuse him of this notion. Maybe it really is just a cold. Maybe I really am just under the weather. Maybe I can find a way to just sleepwalk my way through until this comes to a close, and blame my red eyes and sad countenance on the Benadryl hangover.

I'm hardly what I'd call HOPELESS.

2009-04-16T16:38:00.003-08:00

Quit giving me that look. I'm still just as cynical as ever.

Live with it.

It's hereditary

2009-04-02T21:08:00.002-08:00

You know how I really knew it was over with my ex-husband? When we were melting down, and I was always teetering on the precipice of irrationality, I tried to maintain a little equilibrium. I did this in a lot of ways. I wrote some poetry, I took some long walks, and I listened to a LOT of music. Of course I did. I listened to a lot of angry music very loud. One day I was blasting the Replacements' Tim while curled in the fetal position in the armchair in our living room, wondering how I would breathe my way through another day, and my ex walked into the house after a long day of work, walked straight to the stereo, and turned it down. Not a word of explanation, not a greeting in my direction, not a glance to ensure he had my permission to do so. He just turned my music down. I knew at that point that there was no going back. No amount of compromise or therapy or mutual respect could take someone who used Air Supply as the background music to our first makeout session and make him into the sort of person who understood that Bastards of Young was the only thing that was going to make me see the light of morning. You can't fight destiny.

I mention this rather sorrowful episode because Cap'n J. has chosen to put himself - and his sidekick, Miss Thing - to sleep tonight to the soothing sounds of the Ramones. He has watched Rock and Roll High School three times in two days, and when I sent him to shower this morning he was screaming about Sheena at the top of his lungs. He doesn't love them for their leather jackets or their virulently theatrical anti-theatricality. He loves them because they WRECK. He loves them because all kids are rock and roll through and through - they are noisy, don't recognize boundaries, revel in the fantastic, are sensualists in the best sense of the word. Kids are made to pogo and slam dance. Their whole existence is the altered state of reality that later in life the more reckless will try to recreate with substances. Their pulses are stronger and brighter.

You know those people who get wrist tattoos that are mantras? They read things like: Faith. or Breathe. I met a guy last weekend whose wrist read ROCK. I'm never going to counsel my children to have faith; we all lose it, and no one can TELL you how to find it. You have to discover it on your own. And I'm never going to remind them to breathe. Their autonomic nervous systems should take care of that nicely for them. But if there are two lessons I hope my kids learn from me before I set them loose in the wilds of adulthood, they are: 1) Don't be an asshole and 2) ROCK. There will come a time in their lives when they are going to want to play their music loud, and some poor sucker is gonna try to turn it down. I want them to understand that the only proper response is to turn that shit back up again.

2009-03-25T17:47:00.004-08:00

I do not have a Monday outfit for you, for several reasons. The first of these is: today is Wednesday. And the second of these is: no one wants to see pictures of me in ugly sweatpants and a filthy, decade old t-shirt, my hair 24 hours unbrushed, which is how I looked for all of Monday.

Instead I have for you the picture of the ridiculousness that was me on Saturday morning. See, I had gone out on Friday night, already all high on self-pity and indignation. I forced E. to take me out to the Pour House, which was having some kind of herring season/spring break promotional event involving Jagermeister schwag, pretty girls in tippy heels and scandalously short skirts (you know they were short if I thought so) whipping Jello shots like softballs across the bar, and challenges from random strangers that ended with: "YOU'RE the one I want to do a body shot off of!" In other words, not the sort of scene I normally enjoy. I like to drink my whiskey in PEACE, thank you. The upshot of it all was, I declined the body shot from the itinerant herring tender, I split a Jello shot that tasted of cough syrup with E., who was actually still coughing, and I scored some WICKED SWEET giveaways. On top of this, I had been making rather cruel comments earlier in the day about Supersoakers full of Jager and the type of person who enjoys them... so I was forced by my own conscience to wear this in penance:

I am pretty sure spring break does not coincide with Sturgis. Also, these are the Rock of Love scandalpants.

So then the rest of the weekend happened, and if you are reading this, you probably already know that the rest of the weekend was the shittiest 36 hours of the last three or four years for me. All the studded leather jackets and bitchface in the world couldn't keep me from the melancholy that beset me.

So, for the second time in a mere six months, I impulsively laid my money down to flee. The first time I was flying straight into someone's arms; this time I will probably have to shop around a little bit. We'll see what charms Texas Rockabilly Revival holds; I am going this one alone, and so will most likely spend my time pressed up against a monitor, making eyes at a guitarist who is busy making eyes at the 24-year old with the cut-off halter top and tattoos across her boobs. At least I will get to watch Jimbo slap his stuff again, and see the Queen of Rockabilly before she kicks off this mortal coil. I won't say that there isn't a curious weight in my chest when I think about how the one person I would dearly, dearly enjoy sharing this with can't even bring himself to look at my Facebook page, but that is neither here nor there. Rock and roll will burn the sadness right out of you.

Speaking of impulsive... um. Turns out the day H. shows up with her locks shorn into a delightful yet manageable bob is the day I ferret out a 2 year old bottle of peroxide and go all Patricia Day on my bangs:

I am only wearing half my makeup, and half my clothes. I guess it's good this is a headshot.

I went a little overboard, maybe. But I needed to do something in order to crowd out the running monologue in my head, the one that says things like this.

I am not making any outfits for RAB Revival, by the way. I am just taking those scandalpants and that Jager shirt. And the highest pair of Hey, Sailor! stiletto heels I own. Maybe the red ones.

For what it's worth

2009-03-23T21:14:00.004-08:00

Dear Z,

I don't know that you will read this; you have done a very thorough job excising me from your life, and I can't imagine that you would go subjecting yourself to a big ol' dose of my own self-aware self-promotion. On the other hand, we got pretty close, didn't we? and there was a lot of stuff I wrote on here that was more or less intended expressly for you. You always knew that. You are a smart man; I know you sussed out what was yours and yours alone. Which is why I can see that the last thing I posted could have felt like a kick in the gut.

I didn't intend for it to. I didn't intend anything by it, really, except blowing off steam the way I am most familiar with - by letting other, more talented artists (well, with the exception of the Sex Pistols, but in my defense, that's an Iggy Pop song) do my talking for me. I was so ANGRY - not at you, at myself, at my own emotions - and I was so tired of nurturing this thing, this pygmy mouse lemur, this incredibly vulnerable porcelain shell of love. I wanted nothing more than to grind the damn thing under my heel, to snap its spine and leave its bloodied carcass for the vultures, and go on being the cynical, jaded, lemur-murdering bitch I apparently long to be. I was exhausting myself waiting for someone to take it from me, and I was ready to take matters into my own hands, perhaps to drive my destiny myself for a little while.

You misconstrued my meaning, and maybe the time was ripe for that to happen - you certainly didn't flush the last seven months down the toilet over how a blog post got tagged - you ended up tagged as stupid boys more than once, remember? But I do feel bad knowing that it was the straw that brought the damned camel to its knees.

For what it's worth, the playlist from last Friday contains songs I hardly ever listen to. I have played it through, in its entirety as it exists on this blog, only twice now. I am putting up another little list for you to listen to, and I will tell you this: these are the songs I have been listening to over and over again since last fall. They are a much bigger part of the story of you and me.

Finally, I am just telling everyone (you know you are not the only one reading this) that primates are remarkably fucking resilient creatures, and they do not take kindly to mistreatment. Stupid zombie lemurs.

love,
-stella

Songs to strangle a lemur by

2009-03-20T18:59:00.003-08:00

I said it was not going to be a tiresome fashion blog. I said nothing about it being a tiresome playlist blog.

I am tired of my lemur biting the hand that feeds it, so here is a sing-a-long while I cheerfully choke the breath out of this little fucker.

I promise this won't turn into a tiresome fashion blog.

2009-03-16T17:25:00.008-08:00

I do have today's Monday outfit for you, as well as last Saturday's as well. The first of last Saturday's outfits, anyway. You know that by the time I left my house for a rendezvous with the blues, I was tarted up like a Rock of Love reject. (until I changed my scandalous pants, anyway)

Monday

I like that I look like I ought to be standing on the yellow line in the middle of a stretch of deserted highway, so I can rip off my neckscarf and flag the draggers into action.

Saturday
I think this is what Amelie wore when she was moonlighting in a wartime cabaret.

I always have that weird up and to the left headtilt because I have just been looking down at the camera screen to make sure the shot is decent. Mostly it is not, and I take several just to make sure you can see some or all of the details.

Here are a few of my most favoritest songs about cars, in honor of today's outfit. You will note these are, well. You know. Rockabilly, mostly.

Vroom.

I wish I were that girl.

2009-03-14T10:47:00.003-08:00

I have never, to my knowledge, been anyone's muse. I mean, aside from a few painful high school poems and the song H. wrote about my being chastised for asking men to bring me drinks onstage. Just like anyone, though, I have been listening to the radio or the B-side of some scratchy cassette tape, and thought to myself: that's me! This song is me! And just like anyone, sometimes instead, I thought to myself: Dammit all, why am I not this girl? The misunderstood, gorgeous genius who causes sleepless nights and hopeless devotion and a SONG, an ode to my cleverness and wit and deep brown eyes... More than anything, I wanted to leave someone so profoundly affected by my loss that the only salve for their wounded soul was a bittersweet ballad about how he would never love anyone the same way again. Or maybe to seem so unattainable that the only way to win me over would be to pen a missive that would never be sent, only played. Preferably over the airwaves, where it would be heard by millions of people. Who would consequently buy the album, making artist rich. So he would be famous, and I would read about him in a magazine, and think: That guy! I forgot about him. I should give him a call.

When I was in high school, the Replacements were on their way out, which is a shame, because this album was the one that convinced me that boys could really mean it when they said they fell just as hard as girls. Whenever I am in doubt about it, I listen to this song and I wish I were her.

she opens her mouth to speak, and what comes out's a mystery

Jack White hardly seems the knight in shining armor type, but I'd let him buy me a beer and listen to my neurotic list of slights and wrongs.

lots of girls walk around in tears, but that's not for you

I do not want to be Joey Ramone's girlfriend. But I like that he asked.

do you love me best? what can I say?

Equal opportunity swoonage. Oh, Kathleen Hanna...

rebel girl, you are the queen of my world

Cake explains how we really all feel about "let's just be friends"

I'm really only praying that the words you'll soon be saying might betray the way you feel about me.

There are thousands of others - pretty much anything Elvis Costello ever wrote, for example - but I have to leave you a few to discuss in the comments. What songs made you wish you were the singer's object of affection?

How to make a really good sandwich

2009-03-09T16:32:00.003-08:00

1) Start by preparing a batch of gorgonzola dressing. A basic buttermilk recipe with lots of black pepper and an equal amount of gorgonzola cheese blended in is perfect. If you MUST, you can go with some prefab stuff, but stay away from the plastic bottles of "blue cheese" on the non-refrigerated shelf. You will call me ugly names if you go that route.

2) Find some sturdy bread. I like mini baguettes, but a good solid sourdough would work, or pita. Just be sure that whatever you choose is going to have to integrity to withstand the filling. I would avoid regular sliced bread; it will break under the strain like your high school boyfriend did when you dropped him because he wouldn't wear a lime green silk waistcoat to prom.

3) Choose an assortment of vegetables. My last version included a perfectly ripe avocado, red pepper slices, a Roma tomato, leaf lettuce, and shredded carrots. Forget to add one of these veggies in the building process - I went with the carrots - otherwise your final result may prove unwieldy.

4) Slice some good medium cheddar cheese. I know you like other cheeses better, but you want to compliment the bleu cheese in your condiments, and something mild like Muenster is going to get lost, and something bold like a sharp cheddar is going to be too prevalent.

5) Assemble: A generous dollop of your homemade dressing on one side, a scant smear of a biting mustard (Dijon for me, but don't let it stop you from using stoneground or something) on the other. Avocado goes on the bottom, lightly mashed so it stays put. Then tomato, lettuce, cheese. The pepper slices, due to their affinity to slide around, go in the hollowed out top, where the dressing is, so they are kind of glued into place.

6) Slice in half unless you intend for the vast majority of the filling to be in your lap rather than your mouth.

7) Enjoy with a glass of fizzy water and some Kettle chips. I went with barbeque.

8) If you want, we can make these together and sit on the couch and eat them and read magazines and I will regale you with interesting tidbits out of my National Geographic about Peruvian mummies and you will finally have to tell me to stop talking about dissection while we are eating and so I will pout for a moment and then try to steal the Rolling Stone out of your hands. Then we will make a batch of cupcakes and you will try to borrow something, probably a shirt or maybe my new Chuck Klosterman book, and I will let you because I am THAT HAPPY that you came over just to eat sandwiches with me. Or we could rent a movie if you don't want to read magazines. It's up to you.

I sleep on the right side

2009-03-03T21:11:00.003-09:00

So on the left side of my bed, in the spot where someone else would lay if he were around to lay in it, there is:

-the lumpy pillow. I need to have it, just in case I have a sudden desire to completely surround myself in fluff.

-seven books: Natural Acts and The Reluctant Mr. Darwin, by David Quammen; Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman; the graphic novel of Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman; The Basic Eight by Daniel Handler; With Billie (a biography of Billie Holiday); Scar Tissue (the autobiography of Anthony Kiedis). I am in the middle of one of these and just starting another. The rest I have read at least once, but keep around to reference or read bits of before sleeping. Except the Handler - I have no idea how that even got on the bed.

-four magazines: Rolling Stone, Mental Floss, Old School Rods (don't ask), and Star (REALLY. DON'T ASK.)

-my ukulele

And on my nightstand, to my right:

-a mason jar full of pens.

-all my remotes.

-my iPod speakers.

-two candles, one orange blossom and one bergamot and lime; two lighters, one green, one lavender.

-a glass for water, currently empty.

- five books: Oliver Twist, a rhyming dictionary, 100 Poems from the Japanese, collections of Millay and Cummings.

-three different types of balm for skin: Badger Balm, Lubriderm lotion; the tattoo stuff from the place.

-four different types of balm for lips: Burt's Bees; Kiss My Face Cranberry Orange; Schweppes Tonic Water; Besame Lipglaze in Crystal.

-my empty and long neglected glasses case.

-an assortment of jewelry from the last two weeks, since getting back from Seattle, including my sparrow necklace, two pairs of black hoop earrings, and my fantastic vintage Bulova watch.

-a huge stack of CDs people have burned for me that I have not put on a spindle yet.

-my journal, which is used only for jotting down ideas and phrases - I am not much of a diarist, and my lyrics notebook, which is used for everything from lyrics and song ideas to grocery lists.

-a grocery list with a doodle of a strawberry on it.

-a tourist guide to New Orleans (yes, still. shut it.)

-a bottle of nail polish in Stroke of Midnight, a very very deep red.

-an orange crayon.

-Post-it notes in bright yellow. Like not normal Post-it yellow, but school bus yellow. Dandelion yellow.

I feel like you now know everything you need to know about me.

I am Long Play, my friends

2009-02-27T00:00:00.000-09:00

Today is my 33 1/3 birthday. For those of you who are youngsters or technophiles, the LP album, spinning at 33 1/3 rpm, was the music delivery format of choice for more than forty years. It is still beloved by many music fans - those who are aficionados, and those who are dilettantes, and those who for whatever reason feel that there is a warmth and intimacy that doesn't resonate the same digitally. In honor of my reaching this momentous age, I'd like to share with you some music that I own on vinyl.

Joni Mitchell's Blue was the first piece of vinyl I bought for myself. I had several records I had inherited from my sisters, and a few that were purchased for me as presents - mostly of the turn the page when you hear the chime variety - but I didn't buy my first piece of vinyl until my musical tastes were fairly well defined. I mostly bought cassette tapes in those days; they could be had for less than a tenner and were eminently portable. I went into a little record store and saw this and thought instantly of my mother, who had long, stick straight flaxen hair just like Joni's before she joined the army and cut it all off. I bought it, and I listened to it again and again and again on my $99 Magnavox turntable, the one without a replaceable needle. I was the only one on my dorm floor with a turntable; everyone thought it was quaint and faintly ridiculous.

One of the albums that got passed on to me when my music snob sister eschewed vinyl for CDs was Stray Cats' Rant 'n' Rave. (Yeah, you know where this is going...) Listen, the eponymous album is epic, I know, and Built For Speed has some better written material on it, but Rant 'n' Rave was what launched them into the stratosphere. Setzer, for all his rockstar posturing these days, was just plain CANDY. Before I was bequeathed it at the tender age of 13, I used to sneak this album out of my sister's collection and listen to it with headphones on... Mostly because of this song:

I don't know how I came to be in possession of the Readers Digest wartime favorites album. It is thick and brittle, the sleeve faded from the years, smelling faintly of mildew... It is scratchy, poorly mastered, and strangely put together. But it was my introduction to swing and consequently to all the other forms of jazz, and the Andrews Sisters were my gateway drug:

I have the White Album. Disc two is scratched to hell and back, and Julia is a little warped on the B side of disc one. It probably makes me a bad Beatles fan to admit this, but my favorite sonng on the white album is not Bungalow Bill or Dear Prudence. It's Ob-la-di, Ob-la-dah.

I did not realize until I was about 17 that anyone other than Nat King Cole ever sang this song. It was on another album I received from my sister in a pile that she no longer wanted when I was in middle school. For several years, there was no song in the world that could compare to the sheer romance of this one:

Finally, this album belonged to my mother first. Although I was ostensibly too old to be fascinated by such things, I coveted the paper dolls on the inner sleeve, and dreamed of a day when I could have a fringe skirt to wear with my cowboy boots. I know every word of this album, every chord change and semiquaver. It still gives me chills.

I won't object if you offer me cupcakes or cocktails or even some 45's, but what I'd really like is if you'd drop a memory about a long play record down there in the comments. I know each and every one of you has a story... My newest favorite memory involving both the vinyl AND good wishes is this: On my recent trip to New Orleans, I celebrated my birthday on the last day I was in town. It happened to be the only day that Z. and I had to really explore, because we had spent so much of our time listening to to music at Voodoo Experience. I walked him all over town, down Frenchman Street and up Burgundy, and I finally made him go to the Louisiana Music Factory with me, which is a huge music store right on Decatur that specializes in local music from in and around New Orleans. I was happily dirtying my hands with vintage records, pulling them out and putting them back again, when Z. walked up behind me, leaned very close, and said, "I forgot to wish you a happy birthday. Happy Birthday." Then he kissed my cheek and left me amid the stacks of wax, breathing in the decades. I don't know that I have ever been as perfectly content.

For your delectation, a Monday outfit

2009-02-23T13:07:00.004-09:00

I don't have much to say about this, except that I wanted to wear it with the mysteriously missing black shrug I got for New Orleans, and have not seen since unpacking that bag, and that I am also wearing black wool tights and black ballet flats. Also, I was listening to Gogol Bordello while I got dressed.

What I didn't bring home From Seattle

2009-02-23T12:05:00.005-09:00

This trip seemed quicker than most, although it really wasn't any shorter. We planned it MONTHS in advance instead of hours, though, and that might have affected my perception of it. My anticipation had nearly eclipsed the event itself. Nearly... It was wonderful to see A. again; it had been nearly three years, and I couldn't stop exclaiming, "I forgot how funny you are! I forgot how much I like hanging out with you! I forgot that you are FULL OF AWESOME!"

So V. flew in from NYC, and A. flew in from SF, and S. and I made our way down from here, and we met up in a hotel room with two smallish beds and a whole BUNCH of shoes. We got up on Saturday morning and drank coffee and ate pastries and went shopping, and went shopping, and went shopping... We shopped for HOURS. I tried on approximately nineteen gazillion pairs of Betsey Johnson heels, but settled for a new pair of boots. We bought Japanese stationery and tissues with hamsters on the packages. We took a break to have bubble tea. We laughed ourselves breathless.

We headed up to Capitol Hill because there was not a chance in Hell we were getting a fourtop at a posh place on Valentine's night. We settled for Thai, and it was a good choice. Number one, the meal was decent - pumpkin curry and a noodle dish whose name escapes me - and number two, I nearly pocketed our bartender/waiter on the way out the door.
V. kind of hated him, probably because he was all hipster-y with his tight jeans and sarcasm and affected growl, but I was curious to see what his tattoos were of, and he played some MARVELOUS music while we were there. I like to think he did it for us. Also, when we ordered our drinks, I asked for a Hendrick's and soda, easy on the soda, and he said, "So heavy on the gin, then?" And then brought it to me, exactly like I wanted. The tipping point was when he brought me another one, without me asking. He had to finish his shift, though, and we needed to go to the karoake place.

I adore karaoke. I adore gay bars. I adore greasy, snarky bartenders and pretty ones who give me free drinks. And I adore being adored, of course. So when Leo, the baby sailor, started chatting me up, I let him. He was wonderful - attentive and funny, attractive, and the tiniest bit awkward. If it were not for his weird, hand-licking, PBR-swilling fratty friend Matt, I might have kept him, just as a pet.At one point in the evening, he said, "I just have to tell you , I think you're adorable." Aww, sweetpea! Adorable was exactly the word I was going to use for you!He offered to walk us back to the hotel, and I was prepared to take him up on it (I thrive on admiration, remember?), but my girls dashed into a cab, and I left him waving sadly in them middle of an intersection. Leo, in the miniscule chance you have stumbled on this blog, thanks for the drinks. I never got the chance to say that before I disappeared.

Sunday was full of clouds, both figurative and literal. Although Saturday had been so nice that I was wandering around Westlake in nothing but a longsleeved t-shirt, Sunday was chill and blustery. I awoke to a text message saying that plans had fallen through, and that the last friend who was going to join us couldn't make it. I spent the morning on the verge of tears and sick to my stomach, and only about half of my discomfort could be attributed to the several rounds of drinks the night before. I tried my best to not let it ruin the rest of the trip, and succeeded except for the ten minutes I spent crouched on the sidewalk on Broadway, head pounding and heartsick, attempting not to weep as I failed to put on a good face for Z., whose disappointment rivaled mine. I moped for a bit, and then went and got a tattoo. It's funny how pain banishes things, and brings the world into tighter focus. The desire to give in and cry disappeared.

V. left in the wee hours, and A. departed from Pike's Place. I had to buy another bag just to bring home the newspapers and magazines and book I accumulated in the remaining few minutes of the trip. When I got home, the last vestige of my mini-break was a pistachio macaron, the first cookie I have eaten in months. It was bittersweet.

Once again the city breathed a little new life into me, and now I feel like I can hold on until the crocuses begin to struggle their way through the cold ground. Even though there were goodbyes again, the splinters off my heart were smaller this time. I miss my friends, but we are as close as we ever were. Until next time, darlings!

Whatchu got in the pot?

2009-02-04T20:43:00.003-09:00

There is some discussion about what comprises a 'billy song - rockabilly, psychobilly, punkabilly, etc. etc. It's not strictly the subject matter - Buddy Holly never sang a single tune about hot rods, for example. It sure isn't the look - while pompadours and cuffed blue jeans prevail, there are plenty of Nudie suits and rhinestone cowboy shirts in the scene, just as many pointed toe boots as crepe soled tu-tone slip-ons. It's not one particular vocal style - compare Elvis' butter smooth round tones to Carl Perkins' nasal hillbilly twang to Paul Fenech's flat Cockney growl. Dying young is no requirement, although plenty of them did. It's not even the guitar sound - Cochran rocked that big ol' Gretsch, and so does Setzer, but there were plenty of Jazzmasters and Telecasters and Les Paul Gibsons, warm tones and tight tones and wet ones and distorted ones. And even though it causes me actual physical pain to say it, it's not the click of a slapped upright bass - there are some definitive bands that never laid hands on a doghouse. Case in point? The Cramps.

Tell me with a straight face that that isn't rockabilly. Go ahead. But that clicky? Is the drummer playing the rims.

I'm thinking about the Cramps because Lux Interior died today. He wasn't exactly young anymore - he made it to 60 - but he was still writhing and wailing and deepthroating microphones with the best of them. He HATED the term psychobilly, and maintained until the bitter end that that was not what the Cramps played (although most people agree he himself coined the term), and would rather have lumped them in with the Stooges and the Ramones and probably Richard Hell and all those coked-up performance artists that shared the stage at CBGB in the Village. I can kind of see it; Lux and Iggy both had a propensity for stripping down to their pleather underthings, flaunting their emaciation, unabashedly fondling themselves, their bandmates, the audience... But that SOUND. That sound is undeniable.

The Cramps helped save American music, them and the Ramones. They reached back into history and found the still thumping heart of rock and roll and devoured it whole, infusing a scene that was becoming mired in its own cleverness with lust and nostalgia. Go listen to Stay Sick and hear the humor and passion and allegiance to the past that most 'billy bands now strive for. You might want to grab a pair of pleather hotpants or gold lame leggings, though. Just to honor a man who dressed like a woman and dated men but was married to a woman and who had more rock and roll in his left thumb than is contained in the entire combined body mass of this week's Billboard Top 40.

Stars Shining Bright Above You

2009-01-23T18:57:00.005-09:00

We woke up on Wednesday morning a changed nation. I know, I KNOW I said that I won't belabor my political favoritism on this site, but let's get this out of the way right now: we are breathing a collective sigh of relief.

I mention it not because I want to fling my virtual handful of confetti along with the rest of the self-congratulatory bleeding hearts (although I am happy enough to do so - I have bad aim, though, so if you don't want any in your eye, I'd move on back.) I bring it up because while the tenor and tone of government has changed, and while the last three days have already proven this President's commitment to restoring our country to the good graces of the rest of the civilized world, INDIVIDUALLY not much had changed.

Whatever do you mean, Ms. S? I hear you asking. Well, I have not miraculously been cured of my tiresome habit of talking over people, nor has my propensity for dairy products suddenly been voided as I guiltily realize the amount of energy it takes to sustain a herd of cattle. I have managed to make it half a week without even losing very much of my patented GenX cynicism (although the rampant goodwill of my compatriots is trying its persistence), and to top it all off, I am still a total geek. Not just a science-fiction reading, costume-wearing non-apologist, but a lover of the less than mainstream, disdainful of popular opinion. Case in point, when Z. said the other day that Obama might be Morpheus, I conjured up this:
rather than THIS, which is what I am fairly certain Z. had in mind:
Now, while I am delighted at thinking that our new Commander in Chief might have all the infinite powers of one of the Endless, I was a little confused. Dream of the Endless is an arrogant, distant tragic hero that has no understanding or concern for human foibles. Surely you can see why I might be slightly alarmed. Also, he is fairly obviously a white dude with an unfortunate haircut, who in my head speaks with Neil Gaiman's rusty London inflections. Not much in the way of resemblance, unlike Bondage Cowboy Curtis there. Boyfriend's voice is CREAMY.

Neil Gaiman, though, is a savvy man, with Ideas about how the world should be, and here is what he has to say: "... gods, religions, and national boundaries, ...are absolutely imaginary. They’re completely notional. They don’t tend to exist. As soon as you pull back half a mile and look down at the Earth there are no national boundaries. There aren’t even any national boundaries when you get down and walk around. They’re just imaginary lines we draw on maps. (...) I just get fascinated by people who assume that things that are imaginary have no relevance to their lives." I can't help but feel that the idea that we create our own limits is one that Obama understands very well indeed. Perhaps the brother of Destiny and Destruction is an apt choice, after all. And we should not forget that when asked if he is always pale, Morpheus replies, "That depends on who is watching."

I don't understand

2009-01-19T15:47:00.003-09:00

Every year, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame honors artists who have made a contribution to the genre. They do this with a big splashy ceremony, and then when you go to the RnRHoF, you can go look at the exhibit listing all their accomplishments. Or so I assume, I've never been there. I am sure that you can name the first inductees without even knowing anything else about the institution; try rattling off the ten most influential early rock and rollers you can think of, American style, and you're probably right. Did you guess Elvis, Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry? James Brown, Ray Charles, Little Richard? Jerry Lee Lewis? The Everly Brothers? Maybe Sam Cooke and Fats Domino weren't immediate choices, but they make sense in context, right? That was in 1986. It took them all of two years to add Bob Dylan. Cream and the Bee Gees and the STAPLES SINGERS have all made the list. Guess who has been nominated twice and never inducted?

That's right. Iggy and the Stooges.

Jeff Beck, while a very talented musician, is being honored as a solo musician after already being honored as a member of the Yardbirds, and Iggy Pop gets passed over for the second time? I just don't understand. I am happy for all the nominees this year - Run DMC's inclusion is particularly delightful - but the HoF's criteria confuse me. Earth Wind and Fire were added before the Ramones. Bob Seger before Black Sabbath. The Dave Clark Five have made the list, but not the B-52's.

Particularly irritating? They have a category called "early influences". It used to be reserved for the forerunners of the rock and roll sound - blues and jazz musicians, for the most part. Know who it is this year?

That's an Elvis tune she's wailing, my friends. Early influence, my ass. Wanda Jackson was, is, and always will be a rock and roller. She was a contemporary of such luminaries as the aforementioned Buddy Holly and Jerry Lee Lewis and Johnny Cash. Forerunner? Sigh.

At least Bill Black made the cut this year in the Sidemen category. Wanna know why?

WHOOOOO-EEEE. Bass slappin' doesn't get any better.

I wanted to post Walk This Way, but I can't embed it. You have to just click right here. That's fuckin' rock and roll, my friends.

I lasted one whole week.

2009-01-08T14:24:00.003-09:00

Yes, I have already broken a resolution. And it was the important one. Of course. Damn it all. Here's how it went down:

I have a tattoo. I have two, actually. They are both on my left arm, easy enough to see if I am wearing short sleeves, which more often than not I am, at least while working. I get comments on them all the time, even though a tattooed barista is about as remarkable as, say, a grilled cheese sandwich or a rainy afternoon in Seattle. Generally the things people have to say pertain to their meanings; occasionally someone will say something about the size or placement or cool factor; rarely someone will ask me why I have them. Today's comment stunned me. Then I slowly got indignant and finally mad. Mostly I was pissed because I said something NICE when I should have said something MEAN.

What got said, Stella? What lit your fuse?

"Well, that's certainly a unique tattoo for a lady!"

Now, you might be thinking to yourself, well, it's true! Not everybody goes waltzing through life with a three inch tall musical notation emblazoned in their flesh! And you'd be right. But the pertinent - and angering - portion of the statement wasn't the uniqueness. It was the outright chauvinism: FOR A LADY?

Mister, that's a unique attitude for the 21st century. Mister, how dare you assume I'm a lady? Mister, I'm not like those other girls. Mister, FUCK OFF. I DIDN'T ASK YOUR OPINION.

That's what I meant to say, except I didn't want to be mean. Instead I just said, "I'm a bass player." He said something non-committal in response, and it was then that the indignation set in. It was plain that he knew what it was and what it meant, and that THAT was the thrust of his commentary. If I had a few roses there, or a fairy in flight, or even a nice, Sailor Jerry-type sparrow, he wouldn't have said what he did. Maybe he'd've said: "Your tattoo is nice." or "That butterfly almost looks real!" He wouldn't have said anything about how unusual it was, because, let's be frank: there are lots and lots of tattooed women out there, but our society at large still only wants to accept it if our tattoos conform to the prevailing ideals of delicacy or beauty or femininity.

So, Mister? Yeah, you're right. It's an unusual piece. I play the upright bass in a rockabilly band, and I wreck. You're right. There are not a lot of women doing what I do, and even fewer who proclaim so proudly. You're right. I could have prettied this up with some floral work, or made it smaller, more ethereal, less bold. It's a tough fucking job, though, and I have to be a tough fucking person to do it, and this is a tough fucking tattoo. My ability to play the bass has nothing to do with my tits or my lipstick, and neither does my ink. Thanks for noticing. Now fuck off.

Resolute.

2009-01-01T12:59:00.004-09:00

I don't hold with New Year's resolutions. In my experience, they do nothing but make you feel bad come the beginning of February about the things you've already managed to screw up with less than 10% of the year gone. One year I promised myself I would finish all the UFOs in my craft room. HA! Fat chance. I have strata of craft projects that you could grid and chart, like an archaeological dig. I often superiorly declare that my resolution is to not make any resolutions, and along those lines, one of my resolutions for 2009 is:

Don't make promises I am not going to keep. It is rare that I do this anyway, but sometimes its easier to be nice and say yes than to hurt someone's feelings. No more. If I say I am going to do something, I am going to do it. More importantly, if I say I am NOT going to do something, then I shouldn't find myself going full steam ahead and cursing fate instead of my own cowardice.

Stop being nice when I really SHOULD be mean. When my ex and I were in the death throes of our relationship, I once caught him out with the woman he was cheating on me with. I made him come home - and bring her with - so I could read him the riot act. Before you get all indignant about the monumental unfairness of my subjecting her to our airing of grievances, let me tell you what ELSE I did: she had a cold that night, and when she came over she was miserable. So I handed her the box of tissues I had been using to mop up my own furious flood of tears, made her a cup of ginger tea, and forced her to take a multivitamin and a couple of Tylenol. Then, after the conversation (I was too solicitous to FIGHT, even though I was raring for one) I made my ex drive her home wrapped in one of our blankets. I tell this story not to garner any sympathy from you, but to illustrate how easy it is for me to subsume my own righteous rage under concern. I have to learn to harden my heart about these things, at least a little bit, so that my own brittle egg of emotion doesn't crack under the strain of someone else's sadness.

Learn to PLAY the guitar, not just hold it and strum ineffectually at random strings. Ineffectual, random plucking will now be reserved exclusively for the bass, which, as my main instrument and the love of my life, is as it should be.

Continue to not eat cookies. This is easier than learning to kickbox, and I am nothing if not lazy.i won't be eating these. no matter how much i want to.

And a final, very specific one: Say the actual word to the person it is intended for. To his face. Hopefully while looking him in the eye. Because saying words like it, or that are almost the same, is NOT THE SAME. It takes courage I don't have yet. Yet.

Et vous, mes amis? Will you be partaking of the pistachio macarons that this year offers you, or are you steadfast in your refusal on moral grounds? Leave your 2009 resolutions in the comments.

Just two or three of my favorite things ever in the whole history of the world.

2008-12-29T13:04:00.002-09:00

Debbie Harry and Kermit lift my cold, gnarled knob of a heart.

It's the most wonderful time of the year...

2008-12-26T21:54:00.006-09:00

That song is one of the most irritating holiday songs ever penned. You're welcome. I know you wanted an earworm for Christmas.

Here's what I got:

-Ironman. You knew it. I knew it. There was not a way that this movie was not turning up. It was one movie that surprised me with its goodness this year; everything else was more or less exactly what I expected. I still feigned surprise, and Cap'n Jack saw right through me.

-New knives. They are lovely, but I only use three of the ones I have already with any regularity. I think these will not be used half as much as the giver intended. I apologize.

-A sparkly purple box. I asked what was intended to go inside it, and HRH replied, "Your THINGS." Oh. Sorry. How could I have asked such a ridiculous question?

-A sweet, meandering conversation with the man I hesitate to put a label on. It was not long enough by half, but it went a long way to luring the proverbial lemur into the light. It also made me long for his face and his hand to hold, but I will take whatever crumbs the universe tosses me at this point.

- A rousing game of Zombie Beauty Shop. This consists of sitting in a tiny purple playhouse, training a fake hairdryer on a ridiculous toy purse-dog, and alternatively shouting, "BRAAAAAINSSSS!" and attempting to lick the wriggling child opposite you. It is the best game ever invented, especially if it makes your eldest child shriek, "Quit staring at my forehead! You're freaking me out!"

I hope you got the things you wanted the most off your list, and I hope that you had your own Zombie Beauty Shop moment. Someday, your loved ones will be able to look back and say, "We're not sure why we love you so much. You are a sick individual." And that is the best present you can get.

Now stop complaining I never get you a present.

2008-12-24T23:54:00.004-09:00

Stella is sorry you didn't get everything you wanted, as she did not wake up under anyone's tree with a bow on her head. Maybe next year...

Wishlist

2008-12-17T20:25:00.005-09:00

Okay, grinches, I get it. You are fed up with the crass commercialism of the holiday. You are disgusted that you feel obligated to buy the $12.98 dried fruit basket shrinkwrapped in the aisle closest to the register at Rite Aid while you're picking up antacid to see you through another soul-sucking office Christmas shindig. You don't know the person whose name you picked in the Secret Santa exchange, and you'd rather spend the $15 allotted for their present on two sophisticated cocktails at the salsa bar down the street. You hate that inane Alvin and the Chipmunks song that is playing on the radio with the same frequency as Maoist propaganda in Cold War China. You have been over it since finding out the truth about Kris Kringle when you were eleven.

Quit ruining it for the rest of us. Some of us are ready to surrender to the jingle jangle, and I don't want you pissing on my sparkle. If you are going to fly into a tirade at the mere mention of mistletoe, eggnog, or good cheer perhaps you should go someplace else for a little while, because it's time for my letter to Santa.

Dear Santa,
Remember two years ago? Because I do. I never did get the complete Sun Records Story, although I can forgive that because I have managed to cobbled together most of the most important or interesting bits. Actually, I didn't get my motorcycle jacket that year, either. OR my stereo receiver. That motorcycle jacket is still on my list.

Also on my list this year, Santa, is the Fishman ProP lat Bass Preamp. The longer I play with my set-up, the more convinced I become that I could use a little more control than I have. This would do the trick nicely. Of course, I would accept the Boss TU-2 tuner, because using a handheld tuner on a dark stage is for the birds.

While we're on the subject of my bass, I'm ready for an upgrade. I really love the vintage Kays (here's Bill Black with his) and American Standards, but I really want a King Double Bass 1/2 size Sparkleking. I thought I wanted a cherry candy coat over gold diamond flake, but lately I have been thinking about how cool it would be to have a sunburst, cherry into black or wine into black over a metal flake. That would be so pretty I would sleep with it every night. And I know it's custom work, but you and Brad at King are tight, right? I mean, you are both in the business of making people's dreams come true.

I know that it's a bit of a cliche, and that apparel with flash on it is losing its edge (thanks a million, Hot Topic!), but I still think these are the bomb. I would wear them every day. Or, you know. When the occasion warranted.

You know my favorite author is Neil Gaiman, right? I still only have the first four Sandman collections. And Mr. Punch is one I have searched for unsuccessfully: it's finally back in stock at Amazon, so that's one less thing in the elf sweatshop. Um. Factory, I mean.

I could prattle on and on about the things I want, but what I want more than anything is some lemur chow. You and I both know we're not talking about banana slices. I need enough to share; there is more than one now.

Seriously, though, Santa, I know as well as anyone that Christmas is not about the ribbons and wrappings or the presents inside. The real Grinch taught us that many years ago. No, Christmas is about staying in your pajamas all day and eating chocolate for breakfast and curling up in a huge pile under blankets on the couch to read all the books that Santa brought you while sipping hot cocoa. It's about being forced into scratchy starched shirts to take pictures and eat dinner while your cousins decimate one anothers' brand new toys. It's about believing in a palpable magic - you did come, you DID! It's about joy existing. If there is a prayer I could offer up for the season - and you must know that I am not the praying kind - I would ask: Let me be the vehicle for joy.

this was last year. I imagine this year will look much the same.

Bless us, every one.

Spooked

2008-12-09T16:22:00.005-09:00

Sometimes there are real predators. Sometimes they are shadows and rustles in the grass. A smart primate must learn to distinguish between danger which is imagined, and danger which is real. You know what helps? Someone to confer with. Thank heavens there are two of us.

-you hear something?
-no. did you?
-nope.

You know what else helps? According to A., good warm soup, a hand-knit sweater, and staying out of the rain.

I only sort of love the sushi.

2008-12-07T18:36:00.003-09:00

I have concluded that the real reason I always want to go to Little Tokyo instead of ordering in like a normal person is because of my love of craptacular music and their commitment to showcasing it while I consume my tekka maki and miso soup. What I mean to say is, the restaurant never disappoints when it comes to reaching in my head to get the scratchy FM station of my childhood and play it out loud. On Friday, HRH and I had ourselves a little lunch date, and I was treated to a guilty pleasures playlist that even I would never admit to aloud.

Doesn't it seem like playing the drums on a bar of soap might be sort of a risky proposition?

Seriously, this man claims to have slept with thousands of women. Thousands. This guy. Yeah.

This is not from my childhood, but it does play on the radio in my mind. And that hat. Oh, that hat!

Okay, this is the part where Youtube fails us by not allowing embedding. This song is a pivotal piece of instrumentation from my tender years, having formed the basis to a fifth grade talent show dance act complete with neon pink stretch pants and, if I am not not mistaken, headbands and huge sneakers. I could write a whole post just about this song and its attendant video... the sweet falsetto stylings of El DeBarge, the faux calypso keyboard work, the Jheri-curl mullets, the ballet dancers dressed as hookers dancing in front of the malt shop, the fedoras!, the unlikelihood of those boys cruising the strip in THAT CAR... And there's blue screen work at the end. Just go watch it. Go see for yourself.

This man, on the other hand, has never touched a naked woman. I know, weird, right?

Amy Winehouse WISHES.

I always wanted to steam up a man's glasses. I still do.

I had no idea this song was about roller skating.

I really had no idea what would pop up next, unlike Soft Rock Cliche Day, and I was not anxious to find out. If I had my druthers, though, maybe a little Madonna back when she was still fun instead of work?

Plus, MORE HATS!

Some of you won't get this.

2008-11-30T18:05:00.002-09:00

Here is a little more evidence that Wil Wheaton and I should totally be best friends.

I have watched this three times and I am still helpless with laughter.

Experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by.

2008-11-28T15:41:00.003-09:00

Sorry, kids. There seem to be some issues with my computer (I know, sounds familiar, huh?) and so I have been unable to entertain (or depress, depending on the day) you with the usual regularity. Rest assured that we are working to resolve the problems just as quickly as we can, and by we I mean Reber, because he is a genius and a superhero. I am building an altar for him. Or maybe a whole temple. I don't know yet.

Until things return to normal, please feel free to peruse my links bar, or just go type weird combinations of letters into Wikipedia. That's what I do when I get bored, sometimes. Or go to the Sugar Shakers' MySpace page and leave nice comments on how nice we all looked at the Grind, and how sad you are that you live across the country and are able to see us play so rarely. In any case, don't be morose. If you really miss my stellar wit so much, why the hell don't you call me more often? Or write me real letters? I love getting mail...

10 reasons why I'm awesomer than you

2008-11-22T20:34:00.005-09:00

1) I'll laugh at inappropriate jokes. Filthy ones. Disgusting ones. I don't always LIKE that I laugh, but I do. Every. Single. Time.

2) I can hold a pretty good conversation about entropy, the laws of thermodynamics, and the tendencies of systems toward equilibrium. It won't be RIGHT, but it'll be more entertaining than any other conversation you've had about the conservation of energy in a long, long time.

3) I used to play a rogue just for the backstab modifiers. This was back when it was still fun to play D&D. Thanks a lot, WotC.

4) I look like a million bucks these days. I know it must be true, because not only are the usual suspects being more effusive, I have received appreciative comments from several men - and a few women - who have no vested interest in getting into my pants. Just tonight a perfect stranger witnessed my coquetting for my companion, and felt compelled to say my new jeans fit very, very well indeed.

5) I know how to make shit. Wedding cakes. Corsets. Cozies for... umm... BOBs. Buttered turnips. Dioramas of the Nile River Valley. Good radio.

6) I am not afraid of spiders or most insects. Except centipedes, but really. Those aren't even insects. They are some kind of nightmare made flesh.

7) I don't own any pantyhose anymore. Only stockings with garters.

8) I am not a snob. I am discerning, yes, about coffee and liquor and music and fashion and books and movies and scores of other things, but I am not a snob. I just have standards.

9) I always find fantastic places to eat when I travel.

10) I play the goddamn stand-up bass in a motherfucking ROCKABILLY band.

Love is a tiny, jittery primate.

2008-11-20T18:22:00.003-09:00

I am not a great believer in destiny or kismet or what have you, but I am left stunned and wary by the depth and intensity of this thing I'm in right now, because the most worrisome thing about it is how perfectly mundane it feels. When we talk, or in the few brief hours I have had with him, there is no heart-pounding dizziness. I never feel tongue-tied or awkward or at a loss for words with him. I never wish I were lovelier or more articulate or vivacious. I am at home being myself with him, in a way I've never felt before, and all of a sudden words like fate start to ring faint alarm bells in my cerebellum. I am hesitant to bandy around words like love, but I don't have another name for this fragile egg of emotion that is rising in my chest. I'm afraid I will drop it and it will crack into a hundred thousand pieces too small to glue together. I'm afraid I will crush it by holding it too tightly in my hand. I am afraid that I will thoughtlessly leave it lying unprotected and it will be stolen, or I will forget where I put it.

I read Andrew Davis' The Gargoyle recently; I actually brought it with me on the plane to New Orleans. It touched me more deeply than I had supposed it would; since I made an offhand review of it on ing&ed, I have thought about its message of fate over and over again. Davis' metaphor makes even more sense than mine:

Love is not robust and love is not unyielding. Love can crumble under a few harsh words, or be tossed away with a handful of careless actions. Love is not a steadfast dog at all; love is more like a pygmy mouse lemur.

Yes, that's exactly what love is: a tiny, jittery primate with eyes that are permanently pulled open in fear. For those of you who cannot quite picture a pygmy mouse lemur, imagine a miniature Don Knotts or Steve Buscemi wearing a fur coat. Imagine the cutest animal you can, after it has been squeezed so hard that all its stuffing has been pushed up into an oversized head and its eyes are now popping out in overflow. The lemur looks so vulnerable that one cannot help but worry that a predator might swoop in at any instant to snatch it away.

That summarizes it very well indeed. There are predators at every turn. Even the specters of past loves can be enough to scare the skittish creature back into the safety of its dark branches. The worst part? That damn pygmy mouse lemur only lives in one forest on one island in the world. We aren't quite sure what it eats, or how it reproduces, or even how many of them there are in the world. Too few.

For those of you who, as Davis would say, cannot quite picture it, here is a pygmy mouse lemur:It's cute. And small. And very, very vulnerable.

NO.

2008-11-17T15:04:00.003-09:00

Just no.

I warned you, Abrams. There is going to be hell to pay.

If you can't figure out what's wrong with this, we're not friends anymore. Don't expect a handmade Christmas present.

Stella prefers to smell like herself, thank you.

2008-11-12T15:14:00.005-09:00

Facebook makes me feel like a stalker. I say that because I suddenly have all of this information about what is happening in my friends' lives, even friends who are not-particularly-close friends, and while I hate myself for it, I can't help checking back and back and back again to see their status updates. In the single year since I've been on Facebook, I have learned more about some of my acquaintances than I was able to in a solid decade of speaking with them face to face. I have come to sense their moods and rhythms. I know what they're eating, when they're feeling sick, what movies and songs are on their minds. The people who name such things are calling this "ambient awareness" and it is a phenomenon that is so uniquely modern that it scares me.

I am not sure that I need to know all this stuff about these people. I am fairly certain I don't want to. Some of it is heartbreaking - a friend, whom I wasn't really close to in high school, but who I liked and admired very much, is flying Blackhawks in Iraq. I hadn't thought seriously of him in fifteen years, since he attended my graduation. Now I think of him in that fucking sandbox every single day, as I look at the pictures of his gorgeous fiancee and read his tender comments. Some of it is too much responsibility - I have access to info about my nieces that I'm fairly certain their moms are better off in the dark about. Some of it is baffling - inside jokes between my friends and their college or high school or summer camp BFFs, broadcast for the world to see, but not understand. Some of it is just plain irritating - political ugliness abounded recently, and some update TOO FREQUENTLY (you know who you are.)

The thing is, though, that I can't stop myself. All these people I didn't really get along with all those years ago? We are more alike than I ever dreamed. All these people I thought I was kindred spirits with? Turns out they have abominable taste in movies, or listen to the sort of Top 40 dreck that turns my stomach. And my real friends, my good friends? Facebook is just one more way to interrupt their work and force them to send me pictures of Jonathon Rhys Meyers dressed as David Bowie. I am addicted to knowing that I am connected, to knowing that people are following my story as I follow theirs. I really write this blog for myself - well, and La Fab - and I am never sure who is reading along and smiling or crying or caring. Facebook, though... I can rest assured that no matter how silly or obscure or profound my update is, someone will see it and get it, or ask about it. Someone out there gives a shit. Kind of. In an incurious, time-killing sort of way. I'll take what I can get.

For those of you who missed my Facebook update this a.m. (or who, heaven forfend, don't Facebook), I posted it as the title of this post. It's because I broke my bottle of Dolce and Gabbana Light Blue on the tile floor in my hotel bathroom in New Orleans, and for a few days, before I could replace it, I used some other scents. This morning, when I opened my shirt drawer, the sweater I wore the other night was on top of everything else, and it smelled of some other woman's perfume. So did everything else in there. I reacted like I would if it were on a lover's coat rather than my own sweater: I reared back and wrinkled my nose in distaste. I dug something to wear from the very bottom, where it was least tainted, and shook it out before putting it on. Then I sprayed my hair with D&G Light Blue, just to maintain equilibrium.

I am obsessed with this song right now, so you have to listen, too:

Science Rules! as Bill Nye would say

2008-11-10T10:26:00.005-09:00

I attended the Sitka WhaleFest banquet a few nights ago at the behest of a friend. Normally, it is not something I would go to because 1) I have no ties to the world of marine biology other than the tenuous connection of three semesters studying it and 2) it's kind of an expensive fund raiser, and I rarely have that kind of cash laying around this time of year, having spent it on the makings for Christmas presents. However, I didn't spring for the ticket, and it was a personal invitation, so what the hell. I threw on a nice skirt and a sweater, psyched myself up for the hour-long presentation on high-tech methods of tracking marine mammals, and headed out. Before I left, I fixed a polite, I-really-am-paying-attention-to-your-insufferably-dry-Powerpoint expression on my face along with my lipstick.

The big surprise, other than the icy cold grilled scallop in my salad, was that the presentation was anything but dry. It helps that it wasn't about gadgetry. The speaker, Russ Andrews, is a biologist associated with the Alaska Sealife Center, and rather than spending an hour talking about how he invents the technologies that allow us insight into the daily lives of whales and sea lions (wiretapping for the North Pacific!), he talked about Steller, which is a subject that interests me greatly. I am a sucker for stories about how natural historians in the 19th century faced immense tribulation in order to learn something about our place on this planet. Steller has the distinction of having every animal named for him ecologically threatened in some way. Scientists call it Steller's Curse. In at least two instances, the animals have been hunted into extinction - those would be Steller's sea cow and Steller's cormorant. Bummer. Anyhow, Steller was one of those guys that accomplished more in a single year than most people manage in a whole lifetime, and modern biology owes him a huge debt.

The best thing, though,was when he showed the critter-cam stuff. Basically, they glue a camera on the heads of various kinds of pinnipeds (seals and sea-lions) to get an idea of what kind of prey they're chasing and how much of it they eat. Do you know how extraordinary it is to watch realtime video footage of a northern fur seal swallowing a luminescent squid? It trumped every single thing I've seen since Obama's acceptance speech.

I now want to read up on Steller and his work. He might join Alfred Russell Wallace as one of my all-time favorite science-y guys. It will go on the bottom of the ever-growing pile of printed matter next to my bed.

Here's some footage of a Sitka legend, Old Earl. It's no critter-cam, and he doesn't do anything spectacular in this clip, but rest assured, he's a pissy dude who's been known to grab coolers full of fish off the cleaning floats.

And now the melody haunts my reverie...

2008-11-08T07:34:00.006-09:00

It has been a whole week since the Stardust ball, which, as far as I am concerned, is the pinnacle social event of the year here in the sleepy seaside town I live in. I apologize for the lateness of this recap; instead of filling me with the usual glee, the Stardust Ball this year just helped spur the usual bout of blues that besets me each fall, only deeper, darker, and faster than ever before.

Here's the stuff that happened: My favorite boys in a band did not come back. Luckily I got the chance to see them this year when the carpet monkeys and I adventured in Seattle. I missed them anyway. La Fab and Miss E. and Mistress M. all came to town, and there was the sense that everything was just right again, although there was also the sense that something was missing. We got tarted up in our lipsticked best. La Fab wore my clothes and told everyone she was me. My costume was held on with strategically placed safety pins, a piece of gold tulle, and hope. The sum difference between the congratulatory kisses I received this year and the ones I received last year was five for birthdays and uncountable for playing. (That means many, many less this year than last year.) The band, while talented, was difficult to dance to, and I had either a drink too many or two drinks too few, as I reached a state of intoxication characterized by a bad attitude and a slight headache, rather than pleasant warmth or euphoria. Also, I broke my camera.

Perhaps my expectations run a bit high for this event. Perhaps it is just that I am finally coming to realize that the people I love the best really don't live here anymore; we have to fit a whole year's worth of each other into four surreal days. Perhaps I, too, am outgrowing this town. Perhaps it would be easier to not have them around if I weren't here, either. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, right? I am so skillful at second-guessing. Between the bittersweet experience of Stardust and the just plain perfect experience of New Orleans, I am having a hard time adjusting to the idea that I must resign myself the nonevent that is my day-to-day existence. I will drown my sorrows in rock and roll movies. It's what got me through the last two winters. If you have suggestions for good ones, leave them in the comments.

Cool! I was there!

2008-11-06T15:55:00.002-09:00

By the way, I am wearing three and a half inch platform wedges; Z. is wearing regular, no heel to speak of boots. Please note how short I actually am.

In which our heroine carries a metaphor much too far.

2008-11-05T16:48:00.005-09:00

I have cried every day for more than a week. My near and dears are rolling their eyes, because this is hardly stop-the-presses stuff, but I have to say that even I am tired of it. In Peter Pan, Peter explains to Wendy that the reason Tinkerbell is so mercurial is that her body is simply too small for more than one feeling at a time. That is how I feel about my own self right now; my emotions seem so big that they overwhelm me, and they have go somewhere - in this case being right out my tearducts. I have wept from sorrow and grief, from frustration and anger, from exhaustion, from loneliness, from jealousy, from longing, from happiness, from fear and self-doubt, from the desire to not cry, and last night, along with so many, from relief and euphoria. I wish I could say that I was done with crying, that I have gotten all the crying out of my system, and we can return now to your regularly scheduled piss and vinegar, but lately the loneliness and longing have been particularly acute. Tonight I have to say goodbye - yet again - and I am already misty. I am so very, very tired of goodbyes.

I feel sometimes that there are fragments of my heart in pockets and purses all across the world. Every time I have to say goodbye, another little splinter chips off and falls into the corners of somebody's metaphorical messenger bag. Some people I know have a whole handful of the glittering flakes of me. There are even a couple of larger pieces out there, prisms, really, that refract rainbows when you hold them to the sun. Occasionally when I think of all the pieces of me that have been passed into other hands over the years, I start to wonder if there's anything left. Certainly it feels like there is an emptiness in my chest.

The thing I need to remember is that I have my own collection of trinkets and sparkles that have been handed to me. I should keep them in my chest instead of in my head, and the hollow won't feel so big.

Just a little housekeeping

2008-11-02T16:29:00.003-09:00

Nothing very important to note. I just went back and tagged all the posts that I wrote before Blogger added tags - or possibly just before I knew how to use them - so now if you are dying to see all the ramblings I wrote about, say, corsets, you can search that tag and pretty much every single post I wrote about the MA project will pop up. Also, much to my surprise, the stupid boys tag added only a single post. I thought I was more efficient when it comes to whining about my love life or lack thereof.

I promise I will write more interesting things at some point. I didn't take pictures of my lame attempts at costume construction this Halloween, because my craft fu is not what it normally is. Plus, the time I would have spent over the optimal crafting weekend I spent tripping (literally!) the cobbled streets of the Crescent City. Sorry, all. I'll start work on a corset or something soon so you don't have to listen to my melancholy whining all through the winter months.

Easy does it

2008-10-29T19:09:00.005-08:00

I just wrote half a novel trying to describe a perfectly indescribable experience. I waxed on and on about the meticulae of it; I hadn't even finished describing the first day I was in town. I figure it's a lot like telling someone a dream you had: they can't ever see what you saw, and they don't understand the glorious hyper-reality of it all, because it's not their dream. It's your more-brilliant-than-crayons colors, your angel-voice songs, your bacchanalian indulgences. Bear with me. The shimmering memories are like fireflies - they stop glowing when you hold them in your hand. I'd rather show you a fragment of a wing preserved in amber than a lifeless body crushed by enthusiasm.

Things I hated before I got there:
-the 45 mph headwind we took off into, shaking the plane on the runway
-the guy on the 194 who invited me to sit next to him
-the expensive glass of box wine I bought to pass time in the airport
-American Airlines

Things I ate while I was there:
-Bananas Foster french toast
-quiche with sausage and portabello mushrooms
-chicken smothered in cheese
-violet candies
-whole roasted cloves of garlic in a sandwich
-beignets and more beignets and not enough perfect cafe au lait
-blackened redfish and bacon dressed greenbeans
-etoufee with shrimp and crawfish
-an almond croissant and the first ripe strawberry I'd eaten in months
-a giant ice cream cone covered in rainbow sprinkles (or shots or jimmies. pick your favorite term)

Things I heard while I was there:
-Jimbo Wallace slapping his bass with one finger
-five of the oldest men on earth singing gospel songs
-Django-style hot gypsy jazz
-an unholy and compelling fusion of ska and death metal
-a few minutes of Scott Weiland sounding dee-runk
-a hip-hop artist asking an audience to "Please... put your fist in the air!"
-a siren, trashcan lids, a megaphone, and a theremin
-NOT Nine Inch Nails, REM, or the Horrorpops (I didn't know they were playing)

Things I saw that were animals:
-two turtles sunning themselves on the detritus on the canal near the city park where Voodoo was held
-a tiny lizard on a wall, pointed out by my companion
-an abandoned plate of unidentified something that wriggled when I walked past (I'm pretty sure this was animalian in nature)
-two awesome dogs in an Irish bar

Things I drank while I was there:
-two awful espresso drinks, the first a push button affair that tasted like plastic and the second pulled on a lovely brass machine: this tasted of disaffected hipster
-an $8 shot of Jameson's poured by a friendly bartender in a Quarter bar
-a $4.25 tumbler FULL of Jameson's poured by a friendly bartender in a not-quite-the-Quarter-anymore bar. He told us where to go to buy cheap bottles of PBR.
-bottled water
-not enough perfect cafe au lait
-a lovely cafe viennois with sweetened whipped cream

Things I hated while I was there:
- hand grenades in not-yard souvenir cups with stupid straws
-most of Bourbon Street
-the giddy tourists who don't know King Oliver from a hole in the ground crowding into Preservation Hall and gawking at these amazingly talented musicians like they're in Frontierland
-the empty houses and empty streets and broken cobbles
-not remembering how to get from place to place; the map in my memory would not superimpose itself over the streets I was standing on

Things I fell in love with a little bit or a lot or all over again while I was there:
-the thin pulse of a hand-muted trumpet
-the balconies festooned with boxes of flowers and flags, and in some cases mannequins
-the years you can feel through the soles of your feet when you walk the cobbles and bricks
-that statue of the lovers reclining in the back patio of Lafitte's
-the hole in the wall Cajun place with the surly staff and homemade tasso ham in their jambalaya
-jazz tuba
-sitting on a bench in Jackson Square close enough to share the liner notes on my new CDs
-burlesque dancers
-cafe au lait
-holding hands

Things I hated on my way back:
-not buying the shiny pink parasol the second I saw it
-American Airlines charging me for checking my bag
-buying a back copy of Rolling Stone before realizing it was three weeks old
-the coffee I overpaid for in the Dallas Fort Worth airport
-the Dallas Fort Worth airport
-holding my tongue and holding my breath and not saying all the things I meant to say or wanted to say, like: please. and: thank you. and: you are on that list, the one before this one. and: goodbye. I always forget to say goodbye.
-crying from holding it all
-getting a cold from the stupid airplane

Random marvelosity that is my new obsession:

During one of their shows that I saw, they showed a little video of New Orleans being joyfully inhabited by the sort of misfits and angels that I want to make friends with, while Clint (the lead singer) crooned I Can't Give You Anything But Love.

Not a single picture exists of me in New Orleans this time. It's like I was never there at all. If it weren't for the bag full of clothes smeared with powdered sugar from the piles of beignets, I might begin to doubt it myself.

I am not terribly Zen about this

2008-10-19T14:23:00.003-08:00

I woke up this morning feeling out of sorts. This is not an entirely unfamiliar sensation of late; a kind of malaise has settled deep in my head, leaving me to wonder endlessly if I am coming down with something: the flu, perhaps, or a head cold that will linger for weeks. The most likely answer, though, is that I am simply under the weather. This is no mere turn of phrase in a climate where the precipitation can be measured in yards rather than in inches (about two and a half, for the curious among you.) If you refuse to venture into the rain, you run the risk of becoming a recluse who must order groceries online and designate a corner of the dining table as a home office. When the rain finally broke today, the clouds lifting high enough to see the peaks of the mountains, I wanted to take advantage of the situation. I went for a walk. It was a short one, the long way to the library, really, a jaunt to the entrance of the park and then back up the road. Twenty minutes. Twenty five if I was foot-dragging or listening to dreamy jazz. I hit the entrance to the park, and it began to rain. Pour, actually. Dump. In the time it took me to shield the books in my bag while I rummaged for my umbrella, the faux fur cuffs of my jacket looked like a cat who has inadvertently fallen in to a bathub. I was already wet, and so there was no harm in my continuing on to the certain refuge of the stacks. By the time I got there, my shoes were moist and the cuffs of my pants were dark halfway to my knees from the rainswept streets. I shook off my umbrella the best I could and went in, craving the quiet corners.

Every chair was filled. There was sopping raingear everywhere you turned; backpacks were shoved haphazardly under each table. The computer seats were taken up by tag-teaming teenagers from Mt. Edgecumbe High School. They were busy checking the MySpace and Facebook accounts that are blocked at the boarding school. There were bored ten year olds camped out in the aisle where the craft books reside, most likely because the children's room was full of damp, noisy toddlers and their harried looking parents. There was no peace to be found, not even in the usually deserted aisle housing the books on evolution and natural history. I grabbed the first few things that held even mild appeal for me - a graphic novelization of The Big Sleep, Boris Karloff as Frankenstein, and a collection of fairy tales by AS Byatt, about whom I am a little ambivalent - and ventured back out into what I was sure was a downpour.

It had stopped raining. I was grateful and mildly amused at this Alanis Morrisette display of irony, until I sidestepped a puddle by stepping onto wet grass and promptly skidded to my knees, coating my already wet jeans with a fresh layer of mud and grass stains and filling my already wet sneakers with water from the puddle I had been hoping to avoid. Clearly I do not understand irony, and the universe thought this would be a good time to demonstrate it.

My mood is not significantly improved. It would, though, if someone would come over here and cook some lentil soup for me...

Why I'm going back to the Big Easy

2008-10-16T16:34:00.004-08:00

Well, I was invited, of course! Specifically , I was invited to this to watch the following:

How the hell is he getting that much sound out of that Shure 55? I think it must be gutted and replaced with better components. And I thought Jimbo Wallace, the bass player, was running guts, but those sound steely to me... Sorry. Dorked out for a second.

I will also get to see these guys:

And also:

Oh, yeah, and I might see Nine Inch Nails and REM and Stone Temple Pilots. And the Buzzcocks. If I really wanted to, I could watch Panic at the Disco and some other big name acts. But I am most excited about the traditional jazz, a la Preservation Hall. Well, and some crawfish etouffee. And a dose of sunshine. And maybe a glass of whiskey or two. And some handholding.

Pop culture update!

2008-10-13T18:52:00.003-08:00

If you've been wondering why I haven't been shooting off at the mouth about the things that take up my time and headspace, it's because my list of awesome things I'm consuming has moved over to ing & ed. As a matter of fact, there'll be new stuff up over there pretty darned soon. But I had to, had to, had to talk about two things:

1) If you haven't seen Iron Man yet, we're not friends anymore until you do. I hate movies that are poorly made with lots of special effects to disguise that fact. I love movies that are laden with effects, to good... effect. You know. Where the explosions and the glowy things and the badassery support an actual plot, with actual characters who actually develop. My one beef with this movie is that it does not pass the Bechdel Rule, but I will forgive, because Pepper Potts is inoffensive. She is not a damsel in distress, and it is implied that her relationship with Tony Stark is complex and deep. And my favorite part? THIS IS A (small) SPOILER. At one point, the computer displays a solid gold (think Oscar statue) rendering. The camera pans to a (stereotypical) glossy 'rod, and Tony says, "Tell you what. Throw a little hotrod red in there." Fuck. Yeah. Jon Favreau now has a lifetime pass, between this and Swingers.

2) Star Trek trailer. I will cop to the fact that I screamed, "HELLS YEAH!" out loud. To a television screen. At 10:30 at night. I am SUCH a geek. My friends, I love the Enterprise. In my head right now, I have an overview map of the bridge. I know how to get from there to the captain's quarters, on both Kirk's ship and Picard's. I cannot wait. Can. Not. WAIT. J.J. Abrams better not fuck this up.
In case you're not as cool as me, Kirk's Enterprise is registry number NCC-1701. Picard's is NCC-1701-D.

The radio does play...

2008-10-06T21:43:00.003-08:00

That fluff filled piece of cotton candy below was the post I wrote in place of this one, because this one was hard.

The world is a quieter and less fantastic place, because Steve is gone.

It's all such a fucking cliche: hug your kids, take your chances, learn to play the guitar, go to Dallas, you never know when it'll all change. The only thing that never changes is that we all mouth these platitudes to each other to soothe our own pain.

V. has said a couple of times that the worst thing was not knowing where he was. We only know he's not here, and he's not coming back. Damn it. God damn it.

So. Take your chances. Join a band. Make some noise. Leave a mark on this world. A big, dirty, loud, imperfect stain, a Rorschach to last the ages. Shout until you don't have a voice, strum until your hands bleed, stand up and dance. Be such a cool motherfucker that the shine of you is too bright for most people to look at head on.

The only video of Steve playing his guitar I can find has really bad audio, so here's the song he played that I liked the most.

dammit.

I like the reds.

2008-10-06T11:38:00.007-08:00

Hi there, gentlemen! Are you here for salient political observations? Bittersweet childhood musings? Dry wit? You might want to peruse the links bar over there to your right, because this post is all about lipstick. You're more than welcome to stick around, of course, but I think my rather desultory wanderings today will have a significantly narrower focus - and appeal - than usual.

Obligatory disclaimer out of the way, I'll get down to business. The last time I was in Seattle I lost my favorite tube of lipstick. It was the next to last day of our trip, and God forbid I should try to go a single day without that silly tube of color. I frogmarched my poor protesting offspring to Nordstrom's, straight to the MAC counter, and requested my precious Ladybug. The woman working that morning (I always get the same lavender-eyeshadowed young 'un there, so unlike the delicious gay boy who helped me at Macy's in Midtown) asked if she could get me anything else. Yes, I said. Powder foundation, please, and another tube of lipstick: Russian Red. Oh, says she. You like the reds!

Yes. I do.
I wish I was the sort of lady who contented herself with a nice neutral toffee color, or even a peachy glaze that makes my mouth look like candy. No such luck, though. I prefer the eye-catching blaze of vermillion hues. I get a lot of askance glances here in this town, where brushing your hair before going out to dinner at a $35/plate Mediterranean restaurant is considered getting dressed up. I am pretty sure there are a few people who think I peddle more than coffee and rock and roll. Fuck them. They're just jealous.

For your viewing pleasure, close ups of my collection in situ. Ladybug
MAC
Russian Red
MAC

Viva Glam I
MAC

Grenadine
L'oreal Wine and Roses
MaybellineVintage Wine
Physician's FormulaNoir Red
Besame CosmeticsPlump My Pucker in Spike My Punch
The Balm

There was northern light from the window I was sitting next to when these pictures were taken, so the colors are not true. But you get the idea, right? The Balm lipgloss is the one I wear most, since it's work-appropriate. I have two tubes of it, one of my purse, the other for my pocket. Ladybug is my go-to for day to day; I've been sporting the true matte red of Russian Red a couple times a week. Viva Glam I is my favorite dingy bar lipstick, and I almost always wear this one on stage. The exception was our recent trip to Haines and Juneau. I had misplaced it, and so relied entirely on Ladybug for the whole trip. Grenadine was my favorite for a long time - it's pinker than it seems here. The Wine and Roses was an attempt to break out of my true red addiction; it's quite corally. Unfortunately, it is also smeary, too thick feeling, and it smells just like watermelon Bubble Yum, which I despise. If I can smell my lipstick over my perfume, it's a problem for me. It's too bad, because the color is flattering. They don't make the Physician's Formula Vintage Wine glaze anymore. I love the blood red color, but not the strangely gritty texture. And the Besame Noir makes me feel incredible and sexy, but I haven't had a chance to wear it out of the house yet. New Orleans may be its world premiere.

I was going to show off my Monday outfit, but it's actually quite boring. The skirt I am wearing is a little too big (!) and the sweater I am wearing now seems too short proportionally. Oh, well. At least I am wearing knee socks and heels.

Okay, boys, you can come back in now! I promise next time I'll talk about something less gender-specific. Although that's pretty biased of me, isn't it? There really shouldn't be a reason make-up is gendered, except our own ridiculous societal expectations. Next time I'll try to bow less to the constructs of our culture, how's that?

Comfort food for uncomfortable times

2008-09-26T20:24:00.006-08:00

So La Fab and I had a conversation recently wherein she confessed that she had written down almost every meal that I had ever made for her. I was touched in a way I didn't expect. I don't really feel like my cooking skills are anything out of the ordinary, but apparently some people beg to differ. There are a handful that stand out in the constellation of meals, ones that I can recall the flavor of even now. They are mostly colored by the circumstances of their creation: here the pumpkin ravioli that marked our first family dinner, there the batch of jambalaya V. and I made to commemorate our first year since the Big Easy, over in the corner the picnic lunch of croissant sandwiches filled with swiss cheese and ham and sweet mustard and dreams. I remarked recently to a friend that in my circle, there is no more honest or powerful way to show you care than with food. Breaking bread, sharing wine, tapping through the caramel shell of creme brulee - every bite is a bond.

Not long before she left, Princess J. and I made a meal because she was homesick. I made a batch of pierogi for her, and sauteed cabbage and kielbasa. It was a huge, butter-soaked orgy of comfort, and I haven't made it again since then. (Mostly because there was still cabbage in my fridge from the last time, and that was more than two years ago.) Until tonight, that is. The talking heads were talk-talk-talking about the debate, and I was seized by the sudden desire for potato-filled dumplings. I was also seized by the desire for a stiff drink, but that's just because McCain started talking.
So I made some. Pierogi are a bigger commitment than I would usually undertake on a Friday evening, but I couldn't bring myself to give the debate my full attention, lest it cause vessels to burst in my brain. So I buried myself elbow-deep in sourcream and eggs and potato peelings, and listened to my blood pressure rising. Pretty soon, I realized that even eating a third of the filling wasn's going to cut it, and fried up a pan of polska kielbasa and a half a head of red cabbage, with half an onion and a healthy three shakes of caraway for good measure. Somewhere along the way I had a second stiff drink; soon after that I nicked my palm with my Global chef's knife. To be fair, I think that happened when McCain accused Obama of wanting to invade Pakistan, so the first kitchen injury I have received in several years was due to the Republicans.

I finally finished up right around closing remarks, and I sat down to the post-debate analysis with a plate full of this:
and sour cream. That is onions browned in butter on top of my pierogi over there. And apple chunks in the cabbage and sausage. I feel a little sick now, because this was about a week's worth of saturated fat, and because I listened to/ watched the whole thing. I think we might not win. I pray, desperately and fervently pray, that I am wrong, but I fear that I am right. I hope there is kielbasa in New Zealand, and I hope they need baristas and/or doulas down there come the fifth of November.

La Fab, I am sorry to sully this culinary memory for you. I swear I will make it up to you with some enchiladas or something. Broccoli soup. Barbeque. Something.

Here's your hat, what's your hurry?

2008-09-24T19:27:00.006-08:00

HEP: Hip, cool, righteous, in the know.

HIP: In the know, worldly wise, clever, enlightened, sophisticated.

HIPSTER: "Someone who's in the know, grasps everything, is alert."

Cab Calloway, actual hipster

Dear Williamsburgians, and associates on college campuses and in cities coast to coast,

We would like our word back. Until you start wearing zoot suits, slicking back your hair, and smoking REEFER instead of WEED, you are unworthy. Find a new word. Also, trying brushing your hair and mustering enthusiasm for something.

Thank you,
Jazz men (aka hipsters, aka the heppest cats around)

Seriously? Maybe they'll go away if we quit paying attention to them.

Autumnal Equinox

2008-09-21T19:17:00.003-08:00

The world balances tomorrow, until the dark begins to win for a little while. In other places, the coming of fall is marked with changing leaves. Here, we know that the wheel turns when the fish are in the river, fighting to spawn and die.
When I went walking this morning, the heavy rains had cleared and a rainbow was hanging low over the mountains. Everything felt clean, including me. I could feel the melancholy that had been creeping its way into my head rinsed away. It made me feel light and new.
When I lived in Colorado, there would be fall mornings when I would awaken and the world would have turned to gold. Every aspen leaf in the state seemed to lose its verdancy at the same moment; the sunlight on the aspen stands was twice as brilliant. There is no such drama here. Just the salmonberry leaves quietly shifting to the hue of midsummer's berries.
The rocks were littered already with bones. The river was full of gulls. The air was thick with their urgency; their cries were deafening. I thought back to the first time I saw this scene. It was raining that first day. I had walked from the campus alone, the first time I had been by myself in weeks. I went to the river and listened to the screaming of the birds, and it felt so alien that I cried. I wanted the world to burst into sudden autumnal fire, I wanted snow to dust the peaks that embraced me, I wanted to be far from the smell of death and renewal. Now it is just the lullaby before winter's rest.

Soon enough I will be lamenting the snow and pining for spring's merry dance. For now, though, I will let myself drift with the light.

Athos, Porthos, Aramis

2008-09-19T15:08:00.005-08:00

I was going to make this a post about how I bagged on dressing like a pirate today, and caught some flak for it. It was going to be amusing and light-hearted; I was going to make fun of my geekish tendencies again. But when it came down to it, the real reason I didn't dress up today is because I don't have anyone around to appreciate my efforts. The two people who I would put on a corset especially for are all the way across the country. They might as well be across the planet today. Once upon a time, the three of us traveled to a magical city together, and we had some times.

This is Lafitte's. He was a pirate who retired as a blacksmith. This building is hundreds of years old, and feels it. We drank whiskey at noon here, while the heat of the day built around us. Every window and door was wide open; gleaming carriages guided by top-hatted drivers kept gliding past, the horses' tack gently jingling. The first day we went - the first day we werein town - we managed to all dress in shades of purple. This was unintentional. None of us changed, though.

Lafitte's from the inside. When I think of New Orleans, this is what I see in my head. You could feel the history when you touched these bricks; they felt alive.

This is La Fabulous trying to make a Frida Kahlo face. She made this face a lot; when we were reading ghost stories that scared her, when the primates seemed too human, when there were only hours left for all of us to be together. You can see she is wearing the saints in this picture. On our way back to Sitka, we thought she had lost them in the airport. Luckily they had only slipped down into her bag. They never leave her for long.

This is Lady L. internalizing the whole experience. She is doing that by eating pralines in the grass of Jackson Square. There was jazz playing. You can almost hear it. That might well be why she is smiling.

We look astonished because that is a mama elephant. She is pregnant, and we got to feel the baby moving. It's happening in this picture. Lady L. got to touch her, too, but I don't have that picture.

Sunburned, hungover, exhausted, and exhilarated. I don't recall buying anything at the French Market, but here is the proof we were there. Here is the proof that once, we were as inseparable as the Three Musketeers, if that cliche doesn't make you roll your eyes. Here is the proof that two of the best women in the world are my friends.

Dear Ell and Vee,
Happy birthdays, my darlings. I miss you both so much. Thank you, again and again and once again, for all that you are. No matter what, this city is ours.

Love,
Ess

P.S. - I don't know which of us is which of the musketeers, except La Fab is Porthos. Obviously.

I Came of Age in Rodeo Country

2008-09-17T19:35:00.003-08:00

And I still love a cowboy.

I learned the Texas two-step variation to this song, the George Strait version. After the Chattahoochee fiasco.

Happy Holidays!

2008-09-15T16:41:00.007-08:00

This is a festive sort of a week, unofficially speaking. Today is the First Annual International Wear-A-Dress Day. Friday is International Talk Like A Pirate Day. And La Fab's birthday is this week, and Lady L., who has just been elevated to a title by yours truly. If we were all in the same place, I would have one giant Pirates and Harlots themed party where we could all wear our favorite luscious corsets and petticoats. And there would of course be cake. Flavored with delicious things. For the last pirate party, the cake was double chocolate with a hazelnut dacquoise and Frangelico buttercream frosting. I might go white cake with berries instead this time. And Chambord, because it seems delicious. And shaped like a TORSO. (Princess Japonski, do NOT click that link. You will regret it to the end of your days.)

Instead, I will celebrate today and Friday separately, and think intensely about my partners in crime on their respective days. Today was low key: I wore a dress. I also wore my silver kitten heels for a while, and then my new platform patent black peeptoe maryjanes from Target. They are not in this picture.

On Friday I will something appropriately pirate-y. I would love to wear this:
but I think 44 stainless steel bones would fry me on pizza Friday. Not to mention the fact that B. would frown at my revealing chemise. So it will probably just be my gauchos and a t-shirt.

Here's a new thing, too: Mr. B. and I are trying out a new thing. He was moved by my watching, listening, eating posts, so he launched a new blog, and we're over there informing the world about our tastes. It's right over here. Let us know if you like it, and if you wanna put your two cents in, drop one of us a line. Well, drop Bryner a line. I'm likely to just ignore you.

Brush up on your arrrghs and ahoys, mateys! I'll be quizzing you.

Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?

2008-09-14T20:29:00.005-08:00

New Orleans was a refuge from desperation the first time I went.

Winters in Alaska are long and dark. This time of year, right before the fall equinox, we lose about five minutes of daylight every single day. That doesn't sound like much; it shouldn't even really be noticeable. Well, except that it's better than half an hour of light lost every week. Labor Day weekend, you're happily throwing brats on the grill at 7:30 knowing they'll be done before twilight; by the first week of October, you're putting on your pajamas during the evening news. It's not as severe here in Southeast as it is further north, but it's still enough to make a sensitive lady feel as though she's losing her mind. One begins to use sonnets and Leonard Cohen as crutches to make it through the shrinking days and the lengthening nights; sometimes these are supplemented with lashings of blackberry brandy in tea and far too many meals based around dairy products. The second winter that La Fab was here in Alaska, we figured out that she would leave but FAST if we didn't take steps to ensure her survival. We planned a trip to a place that was warm and far away. We planned a trip to Maui.

Well, we started to anyway. Until we realized that we couldn't afford to go to Hawaii. Undaunted, and well-motivated, we watched the travel section of the Anchorage newspaper, hoping we could score a deal with a cut-rate travel agent, but to no avail. Finally, one January weekend, as the slush was coming down in buckets, there was a tiny, almost insignificant ad: roundtrip, Seattle to New Orleans, for $199. We lunged. We made reservations to leave on Easter evening. It was the first time I had a vacation without my (then) husband since we had started dating. That in itself caused a few rows; I put my foot down.

It was... liberating. I supposed a good deal of the affection I feel for the city is due to that very fact; I associate the time I spend there with a certain sense of emancipation. With self-determination. With freedom. I love the city all the more for it being mine alone, without compromise. I can't speak for La Fab, or for L., but it looms larger in my memory than a weekend getaway ought.

In celebration of my return to the city that helped set me free, I have been listening to the following:
Louis Armstrong, Basin Street Blues
Bix Beiderbecke, Way Down Yonder In New Orleans
Kid Ory, St. James Infirmary
Preservation Hall Jazz Band, Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?
Original Dixieland Stompers, Eh! La Bas
Sister Rosetta Tharpe, Down By the Riverside (I have been listening to the George Lewis version, but damn! This woman rocks.)

And of course, although it is not about the city itself:

Good news, everyone!

2008-09-10T14:20:00.004-08:00

The Earth was not swallowed by a massive black hole created when the Hadron Supercollider was fired up! Yay! Okay, well, TECHNICALLY, no atoms were smashed. And therefore no potential dark matter was created. That is tentatively scheduled to happen in October. So there is still a chance that this ball of dirt we call home could still be sucked into another dimension. This has the potential to ruin a really great trip I'm planning. On the bright side, it is far more likely that instead of a black hole causing a dimensional rift that allows the gates of Hell to open and all manner of demons to pour forth, the collider will just produce a bunch of heretofore-hypothetical particles called strangelets, that will render our planet a lifeless lump of inert elements floating in space. Instantaneously, I mean. So we won't know it's happening. Whew! I really hope that when the end comes, it really will be painless and immediate, and before the election on November 11th. Because if the light of this world flickers and goes out, I'll be damned if it goes out with Sarah Palin as the second most powerful person in America.

Where was I... no black hole... dimensional rift... slavering hordes of demons... oh yeah!

I did something rather impulsive. I am not unknown for this; as a matter of fact I am well know for impulsively purchasing everything from candy-red T-strap maryjanes to an upright bass sight unseen. I will put almost anything into my mouth, provided I have been assured beforehand that it is edible. I speak without thinking almost every time I talk. But this is different. I'm not risking $20 on ill-fitting shoes or having a friend storm out of the bar because I thoughtlessly insulted her (admittedly rather ugly) jacket or even accidentally consuming raw mackerel. I'm risking letting myself consider things. I'm risking opening myself up to possibility. Ack. I'm risking more melodrama even than usual, apparently.

What I'm trying to get at is that I made reservations to fly across the country to spend time in my favorite city with someone I barely know. Someone I would like to know better. And stuff. I'm a little worried that I might get... how shall I put this?... stood up, just like ninth grade homecoming. I'm a little more worried that I will come home after not being stood up even more hopeless than I am already.

If nothing else, I will be spending my birthday looking at this while chewing pensively on a beignet with a candle stuck in it:

I wouldn't trade the chance to walk those streets again for anything in the world. And there is no better music for heartaches, the pleasurable and the painful both, than jazz. I intend to let the cradle of it rock me.

Flush

2008-09-07T16:59:00.002-08:00

Eating:
Figs. Fresh one are very scarce in Sitka; it has only been in the past two years or so that I have ever even seen them on the shelves here. We bought two exorbitant baskets of them from the fruit truck yesterday, and one is almost gone. The majority of the ones I have eaten were delicious, but still the close side of ripeness. There is always an exception that proves the rule. I bit into one that was precisely right: succulent, intensely sweet, musky, and complex. My knees actually weakened for a moment standing in the kitchen. I know I made a small noise of satisfaction. The smell and the texture and the layers of flavor were sharply reminiscent of... that very thing that figs are rumored to put one in mind of.

D.H. Lawrence speaks on them:

Figs

The proper way to eat a fig, in society,

Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,

And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.

Then you throw away the skin

Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,

After you have taken off the blossom, with your lips.

But the vulgar way

Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite.

Every fruit has its secret.

The fig is a very secretive fruit.

As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic :

And it seems male.

But when you come to know it better, you agree with the Romans, it is female.

The Italians vulgarly say, it stands for the female part ; the fig-fruit :

The fissure, the yoni,

The wonderful moist conductivity towards the centre.

Involved,

Inturned,

The flowering all inward and womb-fibrilled ;

And but one orifice.

The fig, the horse-shoe, the squash-blossom.

Symbols.

There was a flower that flowered inward, womb-ward ;

Now there is a fruit like a ripe womb.

It was always a secret.

That’s how it should be, the female should always be secret.

There never was any standing aloft and unfolded on a bough

Like other flowers, in a revelation of petals ;

Silver-pink peach, venetian green glass of medlars and sorb-apples,

Shallow wine-cups on short, bulging stems

Openly pledging heaven :

Here’s to the thorn in flower ! Here is to Utterance !

The brave, adventurous rosaceæ.

Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable,

And milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta,

Sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won’t taste it ;

Folded upon itself, enclosed like any Mohammedan woman,

Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen,

One small way of access only, and this close-curtained from the light ;

Fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward,

Mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness,

Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilization, and fruiting

In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see

Till it’s finished, and you’re over-ripe, and you burst to give up your ghost.

Till the drop of ripeness exudes,

And the year is over.

And then the fig has kept her secret long enough.

So it explodes, and you see through the fissure the scarlet.

And the fig is finished, the year is over.

That’s how the fig dies, showing her crimson through the purple slit

Like a wound, the exposure of her secret, on the open day.

Like a prostitute, the bursten fig, making a show of her secret.

That’s how women die too.

I do apologize if you're flushed.

Tear It Up

2008-09-05T14:34:00.002-08:00

This morning was banner when I left the house. It was fair outside for once, there were no tantrums or storms of emotion on the part of myself or my children, and I was listening to some very fine rockabilly music. I often start my morning with something that shakes or rolls; it just puts me in the right frame of mind for the perils of the day. Anymore, though, my brilliant beginning is stopped dead in its tracks when I walk into work. There are a lot of things my boss and I agree on; music doesn't always happen to be our common ground. Sometimes, like this morning, I'll have spent a good fifteen minutes feeding my head with reverb and thumping bass lines only to get to work and be subjected to electronica from Pakistan or something similarly disconcerting. This was the case this morning; I was rolling along pretty good with the boogie-woogie piano and the hot saxes, and then... Well, imagine the screeching of a tone arm yanked off a phonograph. There were ululations. And something plinky that might have been a thumb piano. And a throbbing, undulating electronic bass. It was also sort of ballad-y. It was the bb piercing the helium balloon of my mood. It ended soon enough, I suppose. There was another one a lot like it just after, and another, but it was only ten minutes or so. It was bearable. Then the CD changed.

My friends, I find reggae tolerable under very specific sets of circumstances. A very hot day, a fence or a wall that needs painting, very cold pale beer - these are acceptable reasons for reggae. Friday morning at a busy coffeeshop with customers barely treading the jagged edge of reason: not an appropriate time for reggae. And, though I may lose friends over this statement, I will stand by it: unless you are very fond of the maryjane, or are in a college dorm room, or BOTH, the Bob Marley Extended Greatest Hits, including the entirety of Legend, as well as FOUR remixed versions of songs off Legend, is never, ever, EVER acceptable. Not a single minute of its 1.5+ hour running time.

Bob Marley makes me fucking homicidal. I spent the remainder of the day fuming and snapping and glaring at people. I thought briefly about stabbing someone, but was on the wrong side of the room from the knives.

I had to come home and listen to the Sex Pistols just to clean out my brain. Now that I have had a nice punk-rock sorbet, I am going to smooth over the whole ugly incident with some Hot Club of Cowtown and possibly wash it all down with the lovely dessert wine known as the Johnny Burnette Trio. That man's shouting makes me shiver in the best way.

Last night almost broke me.

2008-09-04T18:11:00.004-08:00

I don't address my personal political viewpoints very often on this blog, for a couple of reasons. One, I am too excitable and easily angered to make salient or even humorous commentary about it. Two, there are not too many people who stumble on this blog blindly, and I'm pretty sure all of my regular readers (all seven of you!) are well familiar with my idealogical stances. Three, there are lots and lots of writers out there doing just this very thing far more eloquently and, frankly, with a good deal more civility than I ever could. I tend to degenerate into foul language and insult slinging. And foaming. Mouth foaming.

Anyway, Governor Sarah Palin's speech to the Republican National Convention and the subsequent praise lavished on her by pundits and people on the street alike has me lathered me up more thoroughly than ever before. Rather than spitting vitriol and becrying the eventual fate of this country, I want to focus on something I can speak to with some authority:

This woman has been styled.

Here is her official state portrait:This is how she often looks. A determined and not altogether pleasant smile glued on her aggressively made-up face, her hair piled up on top of her head to add height, her suit (always a skirt. ALWAYS) an eye-catching primary color, most usually bright red. She is always advancing in a frame, always coming at the viewer.
This is her Wednesday night at the Republican National Convention. Her signature hairstyle, which has cynically been called bulletproof, is softer, as is her make-up. I have never seen her wear a neutral, certainly not oatmeal. It is meant to fade, to recede. Someone has gone to great lengths to make her appear younger, softer, more approachable and less intimidatingly Tracy Flick-like. There are overtones of Jackie Kennedy her collar and pearls, in the sweep of her bangs and the tilt of her brows. This is more deliberate misdirection. She is not an icon of grace and elegance; she is a ruthless politician elevated to lofty heights beyond her abilities by a desperate and reaching GOP. For once, I can say with all honesty that I refuse to fall prey to a pretty face.

A paragon of style and grace.

2008-08-31T13:28:00.005-08:00

I would instruct you all to the Raven archive at this point to download my newest show, which is full of fluttery, violiny, songs to slow dance to, but do to some extreme misfortune, I can't say if things will be updated this week the way that they have been for the past few. I don't think it's automated. So you might just have to use your imaginations.
This picture is for La Fab, who often complains that she wants me to post pictures of my daily outfits on my blog for her pleasure. Usually they are nothing to write home about; this one, I think, warrants a little attention. I adore this skirt; it's from Anthropologie. It has a funny kangaroo pouch in the front. The top is Old Navy, and the color was what made me buy it. The shoes are eBay finds. They are painful to walk in, but I wear them anyway, because, look. If I am not the type of woman to sacrifice a little comfort for aqua patent leather, then what kind of woman am I, precisely? I thought so. And please forgive my lopsided hair. After I took this photo I fixed it, applied more lipstick, and put on black hoop earrings.

Listening:
Have you not been paying attention? Swoony big band stuff. Rosemary Clooney singing Tenderly is terrific in all sorts of ways. Also, I have played the live Bernadette Seacrest CD every night this week. And Elvis Costello's Blood and Chocolate is permitting me the peace of mind necessary to inhibit my murderous tendencies. Oh, and I am obsessed with Circus Contraption, which is an actual circus in Seattle. The music is marvelously creepy and highly addictive. I feel like a preacher, the way I've been singing their praises.

Watching:
I had a hankering to watch the first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and it was just as good as I wanted it to be. Netflix also sent me Mad Men, which is coming highly recommended from all quarters, and I rented Fight Club the other night and watched it all by myself, with a giant glass of wine. It frightens me how much I love that movie.

Reading:
Have You Found Her? a Memoir by Janice Erlbaum This book is kicking my ass. It is so painful and raw I can hardly stand to turn the pages. I've been working on it for more than a week now, because I can't read more than a couple of pages at a time. I will try my best, but I have that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that you get when you know womething bad is going to happen. I hate that.

Consuming:

I haven't had anything outsttanding recently, although L.'s adventures with beets are making me crave them something fierce again. The most discussable event involving comestibles recently was the purchase of a bottle of French Syrah a few nights ago. I went for a long walk, listened to a bunch of music, and then eagerly opened the bottle and poured a glass. It was not the pleasantest bottle of wine I've had. It was bright, raw, and fume-y, and rather too dry. I did not like it. I left it alone for a few days, and last night, as I was contemplating calling it a loss and dumping it down the sink, I gave it one more swallow. Silly me. Some reds need to breathe before you go swilling them back like Kool-Aid. I'll try to remember for next time.

Customer Service Mixtape

2008-08-27T18:22:00.007-08:00

I am so fucking over this goddamn summer. I am ready to slap the next bitchy person who peruses our menu, decides they don't like it, and asks for a recommendation to another restaurant. I am ready to punch the next marble-mouthed Southern gentleman who calls me 'miss.' I am ready to cut the snide, entitled assholes who don't carry cash, talk on their motherfucking cellphones, and leave their napkins in the bottoms of their half-full cups. I don't want to spend another minute hopped up on coffee and too much sugar, waiting to go home and drink myself down with an iced whiskey or three.

In honor of my utter disaffection with the whole situation, I would like to make a little mixtape. As always, my darlings, I need your help. I have a tiny starter list, but I need all of you coffee-slinging, phone-answering, ice-cream scooping, t-shirt gathering, ranch dressing fetching drink mixers to add your words of wisdom. Add your favorite bitter fuck yous in the comments. If I feel ambitious, I might actually get these posted on Earfarm or Facebook or something. Don't hold me to my word.

Pixie, Ani DiFranco "just buck up and be nice."
Nugget, Cake "shut the fuck up. Right. Now."
Waitress, Tori Amos "I believe in peace, bitch"
I Wanna Be Sedated, the Ramones "hurry hurry hurry before I go insane"
Pouring Water On A Drowning Man, Elvis Costello "how much more can I stand?" ( I can't find a link to this song as sung by E.C., just James Carr and Percy Sledge.)

The louder, the better, my sweets. Let's hear them.

Guess what time it is, kiddies?

2008-08-26T20:57:00.002-08:00

That's right! I have made my decision on my Halloween costume, and the research has commenced. I was determined to have a gaping wound this year, and since I figured that my original idea, the gutshot cowboy, would prove sticky over the course of an evening, I decided a smaller, more localized trauma was in order. Bust magazine had good instructions a few years ago for slit throats, and the seeds of my costume were planted.

I was inspired by this story, which I think I probably read for the first time in one of those lame urban legend books that fall into your hands, usually via Scholastic book club orders, in the formative years of your youth. I remember that the young man in the story was a noble, maybe even a prince, and that the young woman insisted she was a commoner who carried herself like an aristocrat. Or maybe that is just a few too many Georgia Heyer books in junior high.... Anyway, I have been lusting after a mid/late-Victorian bustled evening gown (1873 is the magic year) for a really long time now. That in mind, I have made the decision to set my costume and thus the story in the Victorian era, and to give her a reason for her head to fall off: it was nearly severed from her body in a cruel and gruesome crime of passion.

I am so excited.

Here is what I think I'll need:
1)a new Victorian corset, maybe with a spoon busk if I can justify the expense
2) a bustle, either stiffened lace (a la the 1870's) or "hoopwire" (otherwise known as polyethylene tubing - I LOVE the hardware store)
3) a petticoat
4) corset cover
5) skirt and bodice
6) several yards - 2 1/2? 3? - of green velvet ribbon. I am leaning toward willow or loden.
7) hair extensions
8) neck wound prosthesis
9) latex, fake blood, miscellaneous wound makeup

I like the idea of using pink to underscore the green of the ribbon and emphasize the rosy glow of my slashed neck. I still have many yards of hot pink shantung that never became a holiday dress, so it may find new life. I have to think hard about matching it with the moss green. One solution may be making the base of the dress ivory or pale gold, and just accenting with the bolder colors.

I obviously am still in the planning stages, but I know that I will need patterns for the bustle and gown, and most probably the petticoat, too. That is where I plan to start. I have spring steel still from the MA corset, but no more tips. I will require a busk and about 300" of lacing for a Victorian corset, too. Oooooh, exciting. I'll try to be better about progress pics this time around!

Les Yeux Ouverts

2008-08-25T17:20:00.006-08:00

I spent a little time this weekend doing something that I haven't done in a long, long time. That is, I got to strengthen a budding friendship by showing off the town that I love so much. I walked on a favorite beach that I hadn't been on in more than four years; I found a perfect huckleberry bush; I shared a few of my favorite quirks that would go completely unnoticed by the uninitiated. I did it because it has been a really long time since I met someone who was worthy of the information. I didn't even get to do some of the best stuff with him: stand in the record library at Raven Radio and inhale the scent of vinyl or hunt cloudberries in the muskegs on Gavan Hill or walk the docks and stare wistfully at the sailboats that have already been all the way around the world. Maybe he'll come back, and I'll finish off the list. I hope so.

In my infatuation last week with On The Street Where You Live, I downloaded Harry Connick Jr.'s 25 and now I am humming Stardust to myself and thinking about holding hands. I have long expressed my concern over the dearth of handholding in the world today. I aim to remedy that... Just as soon as our paths cross again. Until then, I am making a playlist that includes the Frank Sinatra version of One For My Baby, Tommy Dorsey's Stardust, and Louis Armstrong blowing his mournful way through Dream a Little Dream of Me. I promise that I won't grow too starry eyed, because I'm not a romantic.

Right?

Thursday, 1:53 p.m.

2008-08-21T14:58:00.003-08:00

I am filthy. I smell like stale coffee and slightly scalded milk, I have whipped cream smeared suggestively on my thigh and a sticky substance that I hope to Jeebus is chutney on the back of my arm near my elbow. Although the day is a balmy and overcast 57, I have been sweating like I live in Alabama for the better part of the day. I wish I could say I look windblown or tousled or tumbledown, but the truth is, I look sweaty and blowsy and disgruntled, because I am.

The sum of today's nutritive intake is comprised of the following: six shots of espresso, most of them liberally doused with hot whatever-milk-is-at-hand foam but at least one of them straight with no coddling, and half a boysenberry muffin. The result is that my skittering heart is far outpacing both my shaking hands and my stuttering intellect. It feels like there is a beast in my chest, poised to leap forward and consume the drink that I am mixing like an automaton. I can't remember the name of it, or who it belongs to. I plan on handing it to the hopeful patron waiting at the end of the counter, whether or not it belongs to them. It may even make them stop staring at me.

One more day of this and then blessed rest, loosed from captivity.

This, my friends, is why you tip your barista.

Admit it, you always wanted a MONKEY

2008-08-17T20:06:00.003-08:00

I freely admit that I have questionable taste at times. It is very, very rarely indefensible, but today I was embarrassed in my own home, by iTunes.

You see, I have a playlist of guilty pleasures. Everybody's got 'em. Some contain, say David Archuleta and Michael Buble, some the Spice Girls, and mine... Well, mine's got a little song by the Barenaked Ladies. They write some subversive stuff, even if they are the worst kind of earworm pop. Anyhow, I purchased If I Had A Million Dollars at 11 p.m. one lonely evening and added it to my g.p. list. And this morning, when I went to buy a song or two to flesh out my radio show, iTunes #1 recommendation for me was HOOTIE AND THE BLOWFISH. I couldn't believe how quickly I recoiled. It was like I'd been stung by a bee. Then I realized that it was a fairly accurate assumption, since my guilty pleasure playlist also contains this gem:

By the way, Huey Lewis and the News are NOT on my list of guilty pleasures, because I feel NO shame in loving that man or his music.

All the cool kids are doing it

2008-08-17T13:48:00.003-08:00

It's shameless self-promotion time, kids! Did you know that if you go to the Raven Radio website, you can listen to this week's shows? It's for true! And, coincidently, I just did my show, so if you really love early jazz and pop, or if you're missing the sound of my voice (aww...), you can go to the program schedule page, and click on Anything Goes, and there I'll be. Well, as soon as Steve turns over the archive. But tomorrow, probably. I think.

And for the radio geeks 'round these parts (yeah, I'm lookin' at you) here's the playlist:

On The Street Where You Live - the Swingin' Fireballs
Ain't Cha Glad - Benny Goodman feat. Jack Teagarden
I'm Telling the Birds, I'm Telling the Bees - Jack Smith (with piano)
Give a Little Whistle - The Victor Silvester Orchestra
Delta Bound - James Dapogny Chicago Jazz Ban
Piccolo Pete -Ted Winges Band
Goody Goody - Billy Randolph and the Highhatters
Don't Bring Lulu - Jan Garber and His Orchestra
Radio Rhythm - Fletcher Henderson Orchestra
The Cream In My Coffee - Nat King Cole Trio
Ja-Da - the Famous Castle Jazz Band
I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire - Bon Bon and his Buddies
Kansas City Kitty - The Rhythmic Eight
Glad Rag Doll - Ted Lewis
Sugar Babe, I'm Leavin' You - Blue Steele and his Orchestra
What'll I Do? - the Zzymzzy Quartet
Up A Lazy River - the All-American Jazz Band
Whoop & Holler Blues - New Orleans' Own Dukes of Dixieland
The Bell Gal's Careless Blues - Emma Barrett
City of A Million Dreams - Fidgety Feet Jazz Band
Swing It, Mr. B! - the Swingin' Fireballs
One O'Clock Jump - the Count Basie Orchestra

Here's some cool stuff to listen for: a marimba, 40's style electric guitar with a 30's style muted trumpet, weird DJ talk about mics in the studio in the 1920's, a Disney tune, me squeaking my mic by accident while talking. Well, that's not cool, but it's in there. Also, if anyone finds out anything about Thelma Terry or Mary Longfellow, please let me know. I'm kinda interested in them.This right here is Thelma Terry.

Does enchantment pour out of every door?

2008-08-15T21:48:00.006-08:00

I am in a bit of a romantic mood tonight. The weather is delightfully mild this evening, and the moon is full and low over the mountains. My street is rife with blooming honeysuckle and roses. In short, there is not really a reason in the world that I shouldn't be walking arm in arm with some handsome chap, my skirt swaying as we stroll. Perhaps if we walked long enough my shoes would begin to pinch my toes and I would take them off so I could step on the cool grass. An older couple holding hands on a bench by the water's edge would smile at us as we pass, remembering when they were newly in love.

Well, there's no reason for this scenario not to come to pass except that there's, you know, no beau and no dress and no sweet couple on a bench. It's just me, slightly beery from a drink with a friend, in the stained shirt that I wore to work, humming On The Street Where You Live.

I opened a window to let the scent of honeysuckle in, though. My mom told me that when she was growing up, no one planted honeysuckle near the windows of houses where there were growing girls, because the scent of it is supposed to induce naughty dreams. I don't know about the naughty part, but I can see why they thought it might bring on dreaming. I'm kind of in a fog of them myself, and I'm not even sleeping.

Louis, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.

2008-08-11T12:06:00.006-08:00

There is not, as you may know, a Denny's in Juneau. I find this a travesty of epic proportions, because I really needed one the other night. It probably seems strange to you, dear reader, that I might require a purveyor of sub-class breakfast platters and burned, bitter, weak urn coffee, but there is always a specific set of circumstances that necessitates such a thing. In this case, a quirk of scheduling had us leaving Juneau a scant twelve and a half hours after we arrived, lipstick and upright bass in tow. We were promised to play for a going away/birthday party for the Condom Lady, and it was exciting. What it meant in reality was that we could look forward to two hours of sleep at most. There were whispers of an afterparty (hey, if you're gonna live like a rock star, then fucking do it) but it never materialized. I would have preferred to not try to sleep at all, but that wasn't in the cards, because there was not really a place to stay awake. You know, like a Denny's.

I have never had breakfast at Denny's at breakfast time, unless you count 4:30 a.m. from the wrong side of day. I have spent plenty of time with my ass planted in a booth, drinking $0.99 coffee and making inside jokes with the closest friends I've ever known, but it has always been in those dark hours that most folks over the age of 26 or so completely eschew. There is a certain camaraderie that can only develop in the haze resulting from sleep deprivation and too much cheap caffeine on top of too much cheap booze. Things develop a humor that isn't present in the cold light of day. Why were we so insistent that we refer to C. and O.'s cats as the loincloths? How many rounds of sugar packet hockey did we play in Spokane? That guy in the scarf, did I really give him K.'s number in the vain and misplaced hope he'd call her, even though her area code was two time zones away?

It wasn't to be. After the wrapping of cables and the hauling of the Beast and her accoutrements, I regretfully smooched a few lovely cheeks and said goodbye to a new friend that I really had hoped to get to know better - you have to respect a man who schools his friends in the fine art of Murray's heavyweight - and let them disappear into the fog wrapping this town like a noir film. Stella disappeared as well, folded back into a square of satin and a handful of bobby pins, and left just me mournfully in her place. I would have given a lot for low diner lights and a pile of unidentifiable fried bits with extra salt, slightly hysterical laughter and companionably close shoulders rubbing once and again as I forged another memory without context. I would have given a lot for the chance to let a new comrade or three into my heart.

I guess this is the price of being in the limelight. People fade into and out of the shadows, and the only evidence is a blurry photograph of you smiling at one another like soulmates, if only for that impossibly small heartbeat.

I wish I Twittered, cuz this isn't really a whole post.

2008-08-08T20:40:00.002-08:00

It is sort of a live blog, though.

I love the opening ceremonies. My favorite thing so far is when they were cutting from the Marshall Islands (nice crown of spiky bits, dude!) to the Cayman Islands. The announcers says, "We got a message asking us not to cut to commercial during the Cayman Islands' march so the folks back home can see them on T.V. Even though they're not anywhere close to each other in marching order, here you go Cayman Islands. Your Olympians." Then they showed like six grinning, humble looking athletes unabashedly gawking at the crowd and waving at the cameras. They are my Olympic Pets for the 29th Olympiad.

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

2008-08-06T20:50:00.003-08:00

I remember my eleventh birthday with distinction. We had returned to the States after living overseas for more than two years, and we had moved to Kentucky. I was in utter culture shock. The kids at my middle school - an unknown entity to a child schooled by DODDS (Department of Defense Dependent Schools) - considered me so alien as to eschew talking to me at all. I was reading vampire novels and listening to punk rock and New Wave music (thanks, big sisters) while they were hoarding their meager cash for Now or Laters and the new Madonna tape. (It was True Blue, if anyone is wondering. It contains the masterwork Papa Don't Preach.) There were no kids my age at my party, because I didn't really have any friends yet, having only been living in the U.S. again for three short months. Instead, my mom's boyfriend's sister, who we called Tia Carmen, brought her two much younger kids along, Bhuj and Carmencita. Please don't ask me how Bhuj got his nickname. His real name was Diego, after Carmen's maiden name. His dad called him Boner. I am so glad I was as innocent a child as I was.

Anyhow, Tia Carmen baked me a birthday cake with a sparkly pastel unicorn on it. To a child enamored of Anne Rice novels and my eldest sister's Dire Straits albums, this was unspeakably lame. I can't remember any of my gifts, except that my mom bought me a grown-up ring, my very first piece of real jewelry. It was 10 karat gold and had the world's tiniest diamond chip striving valiantly to shimmer. It remains to this day one of the best pieces of jewelry I have ever received, much better than the opal ring I had to put on layaway in a store so my ex would know exactly which to buy, much better than the thermos he purchased the Christmas I thought I might get a gorgeous handmade silver necklace. I don't have it anymore, the ring. So much of my childhood was lost in the constant shifting that occurred in my life. I can still see it, though. The memory remains. It was a concrete token telling me very plainly that the time for letting other people rule my thoughts and emotions was done. I was a whole and separate person. It didn't sink in for a while.

Cap'n Jack won't soon forget this birthday. Flying hundreds of miles away and not being asked to eat vegetables for a whole weekend go a long way towards creating an epic in the long tunnels of reminiscence. I didn't pass on such a substantial baton for him; I am not quite ready to take the step my mother made. Perhaps next year, when he is twelve. Until then, I cling to the tiny warm ball curled in my exhausted arms eleven years and five days ago. The first night we spent holding each other was one of the sweetest I've ever known.

Oh yeah, and we saw Billy Joe and the Dusty 45's. Billy Joe told my budding pyro the secret of the flaming trumpet. Then Jerry showed him the weird sounds your hands can make after you play guitar for (mumblemumble) decades. Rock and roll has claimed my son's soul. Thank God.