Still no pictures

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.

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.

10 reasons why I'm awesomer than you

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.

Easy does it

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 like the reds.

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'orealWine 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?

Customer Service Mixtape

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.

All the cool kids are doing it

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.

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?

Home sweet home. Sigh.

Well, I did not get arrested in Vegas. Neither did I get sunburned, drunk, or married. Really, it was one of the more sedate experiences I've had, considering the availability of alcohol and guitar players, both of which I harbor a certain weakness for. You'd think I would have made more of an effort towards misbehavior. I promise I will try harder next time around.

Here are some of the things I now know about Vegas:
1) There is no such thing as smoke free. Caesar's Palace, with its 900 foot ceilings (okay, a smidgen of exaggeration there) was scented with some obnoxious aromatherapy to disguise the fact that everyone there missed the last two and a half decades of research on the subject of second hand smoke.

2) I like burlesque dancers. A lot. I feel bad for strippers, and for Pussycat Dolls. Robin Antin gives real burlesque a bad name.

3) There is an inherent flaw in a town that charges $.99 for a margarita and $16.99 for a cup of gelato. No, you did not read that second price incorrectly.

4) When you compliment the bartender on the nature of his Manhattans, he upgrades all the drinks of your order to top shelf liquor and does not charge you. Also, he remembers you the next day, because out of the 25,000 drinks he made over the weekend, you were the only one who asked for an extra cherry. Or, um, something.

5) I only take pictures of bass players:




6) Deke Dickerson is one tall drink of water.

7) A 6' man in a snap brim hat is easy to find in a crowd.

Anyhow, the list of things I regrettably missed includes Ray Campi, Laura Lee Perkins, and Sonny West, and the Tiki Pool Party, which was at our hotel, but which was foregone in lieu of a couple of really great shows I was happy to have seen. Also missed: Spamalot, Fab Four Mania, and all of the free shows. I mean, the pirate ship at Treasure Island only had two shows a day, the volcano at the Mirage was down for repair, the Atlantis exhibit at Caesar's was down for repairs, we never made it to the end of the Strip to see the circus acts at Circus Circus... We were lame. What can I say? Last, but without a doubt not least: I did not eat dessert all. Fucking. Weekend.

The end. Next time I'm just going back to New Orleans.

Crimes of the heart - or gullet

I've been kiting candy out of my kids' Easter baskets for nearly a week now. Mind you, I have a basket of my own, but it was filled with candy I don't actually like. Somehow my mother has decided that Jordan almonds are my absolute favoritest, and so she gives them to me at every opportunity. Needless to say, I have a Jordan almond surplus over here. Y'know, one or two or even a handful are sorta good in a bland way every once in a while, but I have three 1/4 lb containers of these now, and I don't know what to do with them. Also, there was a plethora of fancy candy in my basket - liqueur flavored chocolates and the like - that in abundance leads to indifference. My top ten list of Easter candies (yes, it's that long. shut. up.) were sorely underrepresented. So I've been snitching.

My number ones, Cadbury Minieggs, I was smart enough to buy a huge (try two pounds!) bag of, and dumb enough to misplace in my kitchen ten minutes after I put four eggs each in the kiddos' baskets. So I have eaten six of the eight of those available within the first couple days, but I feel okay doing it, since I plan on replacing those as soon as I find the bag.

My number twos, Peeps, I have not been able to steal successfully. I limit us to to a single box per year, and there are only ten Peeps in a box. Stupidly, I forgot to parcel these out evenly, and so we opened the box and split it all at once. Now, I don't hold with any of that stupid Peeps-at-any-time-of-the-year-'ceptin'-Easter nonsense. If the sugar crusted marshmallow perfections are ANY shape except a chick, and ANY color except yellow, well, then, they are obviously evil and deserving of destruction. Not the kind involving your mouth, either. So my measly two chicks did not last the night, And the children, who are wily in their own way, hid their portion from me before I could find the stale crispy marshmallow glory.

My number threes, pastel wrapped Hershey's kisses, sadly did not make the candy cut this year. If you could buy these in little packages of twenty or so, it would be perfect, because who needs more than twenty kisses (of the Hershey's variety)? But the remaining 3,489,583 kisses in the bag go stale before you can pawn them off on anyone, and then there's the guilt about wasted kisses.

Number fours, jellybeans, I've been guzzling by the handful. At several points in my life, these have been my version of crack. I used to pull all-nighters in college fueled entirely on jellybeans and Diet Coke. I once got a box of them bigger than my head for a Christmas present. I still love them, and they would be higher on my list, but frankly, anymore you can buy jellybeans any time of the year and the candies higher up are seasonal specialties. Luckily for everyone involved, jellybeans spawn as along as they are left in Easter grass, so no one will notice or lament this particular larceny.

Five on the list, Cadbury's Creme Eggs, are there mostly for nostalgia's sake. My sister once brought me three of these concealed in her school bag the year that we were living with her father while my mom was in training while in the Army. He was a weird survivalist religious fanatic who had bizarre rules governing food, and he thought candy was evil. It was the only year in my more than three decades on earth that I have not had a Halloween costume, for example. And we were not allowed to eat meat (which we ate every single night, no exceptions) less than well done. Anyhow, my sister, who was in high school and had a boyfriend with a car, showed how much she loved me by checking out books from the town library in Madison and bringing the occasional clandestine chocolate from the grocery, a 1/2 mile down the drive, past the railroad tracks, over Rollercoaster Hill, through the poor side of town, past Cherry Lake and its resident alligators, right next door to the hair salon.


There are more candies I love, but I will stop enumerating them here. Talking about them all makes me feel sad that soon we will be down to the dregs of the baskets, all grass covered, squished lime flavored jellybeans and the just plain wrong "Bunny Corn" (again, this is OUT OF SEASON. Candy Corn belongs to Halloween, thank you. I don't see me forcing ribbon candy on you at Flag Day, so BACK OFF) in all it's insipid aqua and pale pink glory.

Another little list

Here are a few things I know something about:

• Dungeons and Dragons, first and second editions, and lots of fantasy literature pre-2000.
• cooking
• early jazz, 1917-1950. Dixieland, hot jazz, swing, big band, thanks. Be-bop confuses and frightens me.
• Crappy but fantastic science fiction television shows from the 80'd and 90's. I particularly like Quantum Leap, Star Trek: the Next Generation (mmm...Riker....), and Probe, which I only vaguely remember, but which to this day I will tell you was one of my favorite childhood TV shows. Please don't ask me to summarize a plot.
• A teensy smattering of the following scientific-type ideologies: evolutionary biology (including the utterly fascinating insular evolution), basic chemistry and it's high-falutin' cousin, analytical chemistry, microbiology, human anatomy and physiology, and just enough physics to keep me upright and mobile. I also know how to find and cite sources for these.
  
• The major design characteristics of Ceil Chapman, Emma Domb, and Elsa Schiaparelli.
• Seminal bands of our current state of American popular music including a word or two each about early rock and rollers, British Invasion mod rockers, the birth of heavy metal in the late 1960's, swamp rock, and hair metal. Also, I will state with much vehemence that that Clash are not, never were, and GOD FORBID never should be considered New Wave. They were punk, punk, punk, Rock the Casbah not withstanding.
• Just enough craftiness to glue my fingers together, sew over fingernails, and construct marvelous Halloween costumes.

Here are some things about which I remain in the dark:

• How to pluck my eyebrows into any shape other than a boring straight line.
• Post-1950 jazz. Sorry, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, and Roy Eldridge. Nice try. I don't get you.
• Why the hell they ever made Snuffy visible to anyone other than Big Bird.
• How to explain the difference between cetrifugal and centripetal force, and why centrifugal force is imaginary, like Snuffy.
• Most any popular culture except singer songwriters and a few movies from 1994-2000. I have no excuse except I was blinded by love.
• How to use bias tape on extreme curves like scalloping.

• The current system governing character creation and armor class in D&D; freakin' halflings now look like Tobey Maguire in Spiderman. THEY ARE HOBBITS, PEOPLE. They are FAT and wear wool. Yeesh.

THIS IS NOT A HALFLING:

I swear to Thor I am not an incurable geek. I can fake a conversation about independent music if I need to.

Third time's the charm

Three things I ate on my recent trip to Seattle:

- Muenster cheese, organic baguette, almost overripe but actually perfect pear from Ralph's Grocery, the gourmet grocery store across the street from our hotel

- A handful of peanut M&M's from a vending machine in the hallway of the movie theater, because you can't buy a package of them at the concession stand, while you are purchasing your medium (also known as the bucket large enough to soak your head) soda

- A trio of creme brulee: cappuccino, butterscotch, and zablagione, washed down by a shot of Amaretto DiSaronno and an espresso doppio con panna.


Three movies I have seen this week:

- Juno
My biggest beef with Juno was not the dismissive way it treated reproductive health care providers or the apparent ease with which the title character dismisses abortion as an option, but instead... the music. Juno goes on at length about her old-school punk sensibilities, and Jason Bateman's character, whose name I can't recall, loves the early 90's grunge, but the soundtrack is nothing but twee indie pop. I mean, damn. The girly tosses out names like Mott the Hoople, Iggy and the Stooges, and the Velvet Underground, and they trip convincingly off her tongue, but while they show up on the soundtrack, in the movie itself, they play as background music. The Velvets do show up singing "I'm Sticking With You" in a pivotal moment, but anything cutting ended up (sorry, I have to) on the cutting room floor.

- Sweeney Todd

It was bloody. Very, very bloody. Also, Johnny Depp listened to a little much glitter rock in his formative years, and Tim Burton needs to make a different movie, for God's sake. Not the same movie with different sets and children, a different movie, please. No more strange, misunderstood outsider. No more longing beautiful woman willing to overlook his faults. No more shredded velvet and puffy shirts and weskits. Enough.

- The Darjeeling Limited

Luggage as baggage. Subtle.

There were a few rough editing cuts in the beginning that I know were intentional, but which felt to me like poor filmmaking. Wes, please read my note to Time Burton above. Except please replace puffy shirts and weskits with bespoke suits too short in the inseam and quirk.

Three items of clothing in my closet I am anxious to wear when the weather returns to normal:

- The new red dress I bought in Seattle, which has a vibe that is a little forties (square neckline, cap sleeves, A line skirt) and a little mod (oversize black buttons arranged double breasted, a wife black belt).

- The cherry print camisole with red buttons I bought at Anthropologie last summer.

- My cowboy boots. Any of them.

And some Junior mints and a Cherry Coke, please

Since you guys declined to add anything, except of course for the marvelous Princess Japonski, I had to go and find the other rock and roll movie clips myself. There are still a few that I haven't added, most notably a clip from Purple Rain, but let these few amuse you.

It's a love song, really. This whole movie is about the price of fame, but I particularly like this delicate little piece from Spinal Tap:



Some actors have uncanny ability when it comes to mimicry. Joaquin Phoenix's Johnny Cash is more homage that imitation, but Jamie Foxx's Ray Charles is eerie. "We gotta get that on wax!"



We could talk for a really long time about how I am obsessed with boys with blond pompadours, but I think it can all be traced back to this movie, this clip in particular. Lou Diamond Phillips plays Ritchie Valens as a young man fully aware of his fate, which I never quite bought, but I paid about ten thousand dollars buying into Brian Setzer's spot-on Eddie Cochran:



Laurence Fishburn as Ike Turner was magnetic and frightening. This clip really illustrates the kind of power the man must have had. From What's Love Got To Do With It, with Angela Bassett as Tina Turner:



Who's That Girl is not a great movie. It's not even really a good movie. But Madonna is allowed to basically play herself, and the opening credits are divine, mostly because I love animation. I only wish that it was the title song instead of Causing a Commotion:

Popcorn, baby!

I got bored with the last Mixtape, so I'm divering my attention to something related, but more fun for me. I am going to list my favorite rock and roll movies, along with my favorite scenes in each, and then you can so the same. I will limit myself to a mere five, that's right, only FIVE rock and roll movies, so as to leave plenty of material for you guys. If you have any knowledge of me whatsoever, you will realize that this is a huge sacrifice on my part.

5) Great Balls of Fire, about Jerry Lee Lewis. With Dennis Quaid and Winona Ryder. My favorite scene is when Myra brings all her little friends over to see Cousin Jerry, and he terrorizes them and does something funny to her by trapping them in a corner with his piano while playing. In my head he is playing the Wild One, but I think he's actually just fooling around with a boogie woogie. Anybody able to clear this up definitively? I can't find a clip of this.

4)The Buddy Holly Story with Gary Busey. They go onstage at the Apollo Theater, the first white act to perform there ever, and they do a medley that includes Oh, Boy! and my favorite Buddy Holly tune, Rave On.




3) Walk the Line, about Johnny Cash. With Joaquin Phoenix. When he goes onstage to sing Get Rhythm. He looks out at the sea of faces and chokes out, "Hello. I'm Johnny Cash." There's a smattering of applause, and then they launch into the song. I am almost positive the bass player is actually play the bass in this clip.



2) Rock and Roll High School. Not a biopic, but I wish it was. With P.J. Soles and the Ramones. My favorite scene is when they sing I Want you Around in the dream sequence - actually a drug sequence, since she's toking when it happens - and DeeDee is playing the bass in the shower, with the water running. He's totally soaked and appears not to care. It's at the very end of the clip - watch it all the way through.



1) Jailhouse Rock. With Elvis. Obviously, the only scene worth focusing on in the movie is Jailhouse Rock. It's iconic, and he's electric. It's worth noting though, that his character in the movie is jailed for killing a man by punching him. Damn. That's rock and roll.



As a bonus, my favorite scene from a music movie that is not rock and roll: in Coal Miner's Daughter, Sissy Spacek as Loretta Lynn is too scared to sing in the studio until Doo goes and gets their kids and lines them up in front of her. He says, "Just sing to the babies, Loretta." And she does.

You'll note the conspicuous absences, my friends. Fill in the blanks!

Mixtape 2.0

Here we go, kiddies.

La Fab made a comment last time that reminded me that playing mixtape is a lot like planning a radio show, without having to read the weather. That has nothing to do with anything, but I thought I'd pass that along.

My new idea is this: a playlist/mixtape/radio show in which all the songs are about music. It might be about making music, listening to music, or musicians, but it has to be pretty blatantly about the M word. Just the usual restrictions: nothing too obscure, and I'll probbably end up making a playlist out of this, so give LOTS of suggestions so if I cut one or two, it won't hurt your feelings.

I will, of course, go first.

Beck: Where It's At
Madonna: Music (um, duh?)
Chuck Berry: Rock and Roll Music
Joan Jett: I Love Rock and Roll
AC/DC: It's a Long Way To the Top (If You Wanna Rock and Roll)
Johnny Burnette Trio: Rock-a-Billy Boogie

Okay.... GO!

In which our heroine consumes delicacies and muses on many tangential thoughts.

So I was thinking of all the stuff I wanted to say with this post. I was basically going to whine about what amounts to nothing but whining, and I was going to explain about going to the store for chocolate milk and potato chips, and realizing that I was too hungry for that, and buying a bunch of stuff I'm too tired to cook, and then wishing I had a GBF (gay best friend or gay boyfriend) to surprise me by swinging by my house with some wonton soup and a bunch of rom-coms we both swear to hate but really secretly love, and then thinking about how much I love dim sum and other assorted weird things, and then realizing that I already wrote that post and had to conjure up something else to write about, which led to me thinking about how I am for all intents and purposes white, even though I have a healthy portion of SO NOT A WHITE CHICK running through my veins and then I got on a little kick about how people always assume wherever I live that I am a member of the closest ethnic group of dark-haired, brown-skinned people, and how once for fun on a bus in Denver when a pimply Aryan type called me a greaser, I shouted, "I'm Cuban, asshole!" even though I'm not, and how not funny my friend thought it was. Oh yeah, and I was thinking that I really want to go to that great newsstand in Pikes Place Market and buy a copy of French Vogue and read it in the patisserie while eating apricot-filled croissants. But that of course is just a normal, unremarkable desire for me.

The comestibles this evening are: baked tofu basted with hoisin sauce and five spice powder, steamed vegetables, and rice, accompanied by lumpia I bought for Christmas dinner and never cooked. Don't worry, they were frozen. Oh, and instead of chocolate milk, Cherry Coke because why the hell not? It's Friday!

By the way, anyone interested in another round of mixtape? PLEASE? I promise it won't be about stupid boys this time.

I promised the Mixtape Playlist

I had a nice evening last night. K.D. and E. and I went out for sushi and then drinks and deep discussion about - among other things - eyebrow maintenance and laser hair removal. It was pretty fun, except that it's winter break, and our favorite dank, dark imbibing joints were filled with 12 year olds playing Wii. (Okay, they weren't 12. They just seemed that way to me.) That of course led to me being a little dry-throated and stiff when I woke up today, so I decided to do what I always do on mornings like these - head to the corner store, buy a magazine, a LifeWater, and crackers, and hole up until I can't stand the smell of my own hair any longer.

When I looked out, though, it was snowing heavily and relentlessly, and I figured a bit of fresh air and exercise might do as much or more for my disposition than People magazine and Triscuits. I slammed a glass of water, grabbed fleece everything and my iPod, and went for a little jaunt in the snow.




I live fairly close to a lovely National Historical Park, but sometimes I forget that, and so on when I actually do make it down, I am always awed and delighted by it. Today was no different. The waves were breaking through a thin skim of snow and a crust of ice onto the dusted shore, and the cloud cover was so heavy, I couldn't see the islands that lie barely offshore. The second I hit the entrance for the park, I dialed up the mixtape playlist, now entitled Songs For Wooing, and this is what I saw while I listened:


Mahna Mahna, Cake
Dream a Little Dream of Me, The Beautiful South
I Found a New Baby, Squirrel Nut Zippers
This Can't Be Love, The Hot Club Quintet*
Bei Mir Bist Du Shoen (how do I make the umlaut?!?), The Puppini Sisters
I Love You, The Pipettes
That Great Love Sound, the Raveonettes
Robot Love, the Phenomenauts
Please Don't Touch, the Meteors*
Tokyo Storm Warning, Elvis Costello and the Attractions*
Heart Sized Crush, Devil Doll
Lloyd, I'm Ready to Be Heartbroken, Camera Obscura
Don't Get Me Wrong, The Pretenders
Call Me, Blondie
Oh!, Sleater-Kinney*
Pop In, Pop Out!, The Plascticines*
Looking At Me, The Vesties*
Rock and Roll Girl, The Muffs
Penny, The Dollyrots
Apply Some Pressure, Maximo Park
Pistol Grip, The Blakes
Kissy Baby, Heavy Trash
She Put the Hurt on Me, The Have Nots
Act Nice and Gentle, The Black Keys
Anti Love Song, Betty Davis*
Get Up Offa That Thing, James Brown
I Can't Get Next to You, Al Green
It's a Sin To Tell a Lie, Jimmy Smith*
Hope There's Someone, Antony and the Johnsons
Ruby Warbler, Myshkin's Ruby Warblers*
Looks Just Like the Sun, Broken Social Scene*
Way Over Yonder in the Minor Key, Billy Bragg and Wilco
Everyday, Buddy Holly and the Crickets
Passionate Kisses, Lucinda Williams
She's An Angel, They Might Be Giants
So In Love, (artist unknown)*
Pitter Patter Goes My Heart, Broken Social Scene*
In The Wee Small Hours, Frank Sinatra

*These are the ones that didn't make the time cut for the mix. It screws up the pacing a little in some places, a lot in others, but overall, the final list is pretty good. I'd date me, if someone gave me these songs. Actually, these songs, in this particular order, would make me think the person was psychic, or that Kismet had a hand in, and I would immediately claim that person as my own.

There were a few songs that didn't make the cut at all, because I couldn't quite figure out how to make them seamless. I did listen to them all, and, damn. You guys have good taste in music.

Let's play a round of Mixtape!

I am trying my damnedest to make lemonade out of this box of freaking lemons Fate has handed me in the form of the unobtainable, so I am asking for your assistance, my darlings. I am making a list of all the songs I would put on a mixtape for a boy I want who is currently deeply involved with someone else. The tape is intended to woo him, possibly against his better judgment, so it has to make me appear witty, self-deprecating, and completely irresistible. THIS IS A THEORETICAL EXERCISE. I will not be making an actual tape, I will not be passing on an actual tape, I will be doing no wooing of people who have conflicting commitments. That being said, these have to be actual songs, easily obtainable by me. In case I want to make a copy of this mixtape and listen to it in the privacy of my own bedroom. Ready? Here we go:

Not Fade Away by Buddy Holly and the Crickets
Passionate Kisses by Lucinda Williams (Live at he Fillmore version)
Dream a Little Dream by the Beautiful South

Now, granted, I could make this all on my own. But I already know what I would put on here. I want to know what you think I should put on here. You know, just in case!

More self-absorbed musings!

I've been posting a lot lately, huh? I have a lot of head-junk to clear out, so just bear with me.

First of all, since lately we've been on the subject of the things I love without reservation or explanation, I want to talk about country music from the late 80's to the mid 90's or so. La Fab mentioned in a comment that she liked the mid 90's country movement, but frankly I am not in touch with what was going on after 1994 or so, until Whiskeytown and Uncle Tupelo started fetishizing Bill Monroe. (This might actually be what she's talking about). Nope, I'm actually talking not-nostalgic, non-ironic country music from that era. See, I was in my formative years, musically speaking, then, and I was living in an area of Colorado that is best described as rural. Country music surrounded me. Some of it was just plain awful, unlistenable pop. And some of it was fairly innocuous. And some of it is burned into my brain. Specifically, these songs:

1)Just Call Me Lonesome by Radney Foster. I talk a good game about loving the Cash and I can hold a conversation about Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton, or George Jones, but this is my all time favorite country and western song not recorded by Patsy Cline or Hank Williams. It's a little honky-tonk, a little Texas Swing, a lot perfect. Also on this album (DelRio, Texas, 1959, if anyone cares) is a gem called Lousiana Blue, which contains the line,"where the muddy bayous run just as black as Coca-Cola." The full phrase Coca-Cola is something you hear only in certain parts of the country, and it is way more evocative of Louisiana to me than countless other poetic turns of phrase I've heard.

2)I Feel Lucky by Mary Chapin Carpenter. This is actually a rock and roll song cleverly disguised as a country song, repackaged for a different audience. It's got a really bluesy guitar, boogie-woogie piano, and some tambourine breakdown. Plus, she name-checks Lyle Lovett and Dwight Yoakam as objects of attraction. Yes, the two goofiest dudes in music. And she talks about frozen burritos. I think I would probably like to have beers with this lady. The other winner from this album is Passionate Kisses, written by Lucinda Williams. If you don't know about her, you should. It was my favorite love song for a long time.

3)Is There Life Out There by Reba McEntire. Okay, the song leaves me a little cold, but the video features Huey Lewis as her husband. HUEY LEWIS, my friends. And I don't care what you say, Sports is a great fucking album.

4)Chattahoochee by Alan Jackson I don't know what it is about this song. I once waited until 1:00 in the morning to watch this man perform. This was the only song of his I knew, or even still know, and it was worth every minute. I learned to two step to this song.


Can we go back to Huey Lewis and the News for a minute? Organ in Hip to be Square. Pure genius.


Okay, now that that is out of the way, I want to say that I was thinking about country music in part because I had a weird little thing happen this week, and I ended up crying over a boy I couldn't have instead of one who was breaking my heart, leaving me defenseless and frustrated that I was upset over the things that never happened. It felt like high school all over again, and after spending a few hours listening to the Replacements, I moved on to the good stuff. In this case the country. Except, confessionally, I did not listen to that Reba McEntire song. I just threw that in so I could talk about Huey Lewis.

Swoon.

Skinny blond boys in pompadours and big guitars.

Mike Mascari in 10th grade English class.

Elvis Costello.

Pre-Army stint Elvis Presley.


Shaggy haired wild eyed creative types with baggy black leather jackets and sneakers.

Men significantly taller than I.

Slightly naive, sort of cornfed boys.

Jazz musicians who tilt back their porkpie hats before closing their eyes and leaning back to hit a high note.

Michael Hutchence. Never Tear Us Apart.

Gene Kelly.

Jimmy Stewart in Hitchcock.

Chris in the morning.

Lane Meyer.

Rob Gordon.

Lloyd FUCKING Dobler.


And you?