Still ...ing, just not blogging about it

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 Vistasince 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.

I sleep on the right side

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.

Wishlist

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 ProPlat 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.

Love is a tiny, jittery primate.

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.

I am not terribly Zen about this

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...

A paragon of style and grace.

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.

Lamest Update EVER.

Oh, hey! Hi! Sorry, I've been... kinda busy...with stuff...

Okay, I always have stuff to say, but I haven't been saying it on this blog lately. Sorry for all you regular blog-checkers.

Watching:
Sex and the City. I went in with low expectations, and I was still disappointed. Everything was just off. The pacing was terrible, the writing was worse, for every wonderful, inspired outfit, there was a high-priced trainwreck, and there was the slight problem of Carrie being referred to as 40, after a decade with Big. If I remember correctly, they celebrated her 34th birthday in the first season, also the season she met him, so she should be...44, right? She mysteriously did not manage to age for nearly half the decade. I am sure that there is deeper meaning in that statement, but I can't be bothered. I can't because I have to talk about the happy ending bullshit. Are we still buying the myth that the path to happiness is paved with goddamn diamond rings? I call shenanigans. I don't even want to talk about it anymore.

Also featuring Sarah Jessica Parker, Ed Wood. Tim Burton is a magnificent freak.

Listening:
Lipstick pop-punk heroes The Dollyrots and Go Betty Go. Sometimes a girl just needs a hook, y'know?

Reading:
When You Are Engulfed in Flames, David Sedaris. This is self-explanatory, right? Everyone already knows? It's funny. zs

I'm also rereading the 7th Harry Potter book, but just on and off because it happens to be laying next to my bed.

Eating:
Cherries. Piles of them. Rainier ones.



Finally, I always show pictures of Miss Thing, because she is slow enough to capture with a camera. Cap'n Jack, not so much. Nearly every shot of him is blurred and out of focus. But I managed to get a pretty great one of him in Juneau. It makes me sad, though, because it's one of those pictures that shows the future.

Come Follow Me

There are a few things which you should not be able to beg, borrow, steal, or purchase. Mostly they are the sorts of things you can't touch. Love, revenge, peace. You know. And for the most part, you can still purchase them or some facsimile. One of the things that seems as though it shouldn't be available for purchase is nostalgia. It is, though, at the bargain price of two not so shiny quarters.

For anyone who doesn't know - if you have lived here in Sitka, you certainly do - there is some sort of dimensional rift in our local thrift store. In among the eleven year old t-shirts smelling faintly of litterbox and the spaghetti stained polyvinyl kitchen implements, I have found pristine 50 year old vintage dresses and brand-new Calvin Klein jeans in my size. Once, I was making a set of hoops for a costume and went in search of a length of heavy cotton. I found three yards of sailmakers' canvas, the ideal fabric for my purpose, within moments of being there. I have purchased an elderly typerwriter, several sets of hot rollers, porcelain teapots, my favorite cowboy boots, and on one memorable occasion, a sweater belonging to me that my ex gave away without my consent. Today, though, takes the cake. I went in looking for a book to while away the Saturday afternoon, and found a piece of my childhood.

My mother bought me several books about fairies and the like when I was a child. To this day she tells me of "my" obsession with them. (It's kind of like "Miss Thing's" obsession with pink.) We had the Brian Froud book, Faeries. Our version was the pop-up book. It was notable mostly because it was filled with brilliantly frightening illustrations of kelpies and pooka, and Green Jenny, who was a hag that lived in the water and had an enormous maw that consumed unwary children. We also owned Wil Huygen's Gnomes, which featured an interior view of a typical dwelling, complete with donut rack. But Come Follow me was not filled with field guide precision or tongue in cheek natural history. It was a gentle anthology of decent children's poetry and stories, with big-headed Japanese watercolor illustrations. I adored it, especially the story about the little girl who loses her red ribbon and has it returned months later by her fairy friend, who finds it tied to a wandering mouse's tail. It still holds a fair amount of pathos for me. When I read it just moments ago, I was overcome with the anxiety of my 4 year old self when Mary cries over her lost hair ribbon, and incredibly relieved when it makes its reappearance. Now to go reread the poem about how to tell an elf from a troll. I think if you can catch them young enough, it has to do with trying to eat their own feet.

Obligatory pop culture update

Listening to:
- She and Him. Zooey Deschanel is obviously a fairy tale, because without the benefit of fairy godmothers, no one can be this talented at this many things, or that enchantingly pretty. Damn her.

- Deke Dickerson. Go on, roll your eyes. I dare you.

-The Phenomenauts. Because I am still a convention-going, card-carrying, costume-wearing science-fiction non-apologist from way back. Word.

Reading:

-The Canon, by Natalie Angier
This is kind of science lite, an overview of various disciplines by a non scientist for people who are frightened by science. I still got stuck on the probability chapter. My only real beef with Angier is her tendency to insert herself into her writing. It worked well in Woman: An Intimate Geography, but only because it was her personal experiences that prompted her research. Here, I wish she had let her voice speak for her.

-Natural Acts, by David Quammen
Quammen comes right out and says what Angier will not: he is not a scientist, and he writes about natural history and the social sciences because it is the only way the world makes sense to him. This collection, which is published in its 25th anniversary edition, is more noticeably magazine articles than his later collections of essays. Still, he never fails to inspire me when he wryly makes an observation about, say, octopus eyes, or the evolutionary path of mosquitoes, and in doing so makes a larger point about our own place in the world and how frail it, and we, are.

-Louis Armstrong's New Orleans, by Thomas Brothers
This was not as well written or as insightful as I wanted it to be. I haven't finished it yet, and it has to go back to the library this afternoon. Prospects are not good for its completion.

Watching:

-Leatherheads

Whither hast thou gone, Spencer Tracy? And why the hell should we accept Renee Zellweger in place of our beloved Kate Hepburn?

-BSG
Alright, already! Okay! I give up! Look, Netflix is winging this to me as fast as is humanly possible, okay, so no revocation of my aforementioned sci-fi geek card. You people are fucking RUTHLESS.

Eating:

Nothing of value in Las Vegas. But here at home, I am very fond of dried apricots stuffed with goat cheese, and also bacon pie, which I understand is a breakfast delicacy found in New Zealand. You make it thusly: chop and fry three or four rashers of good bacon with some diced onion, and some mushrooms if you like. Line a pie plate with puff pastry. Throw in your bacon. Scramble six or eight eggs without milk. Pour that on. Toss in a handful of shredded cheese. Top with another sheet of puff pastry. Seal your edges, cut vents, egg wash. Bake at 375 for 35 or 40 minutes. Rest it for a few, then slice and enjoy.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled snark. Suggestions for this list for next time?