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.

You thought I was done talking about it

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

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

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.

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



Live with it.

It's hereditary

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.

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.