As in, going on vacation. Actually, I'm starting out of order, because although we got back yesterday from our big trip (as you may have read about over at Piggs' place), today is fresehest in my mind. Today two of my aunts and I went to the Ren Faire. I've actually been a number of times over the course of my lifetime. I've certainly skipped years, but overall I'd say I've been at least as many years as I've skipped. My experience was nice enough -- I basically ate and sight-saw (?) -- I had a strawberry crepe with an iced latte, cinnamon almonds, some dolmas with pita and kalamata olives for lunch, and later a chocolate dipped strawberry. I also bought an attractive pepper plant with yellow, purple and red peppers that are allegedly very spicy. I didn't try them, but my aunt Joy took a small bite and burned her mouth. All right -- curry's on the way for Pigghead. I also got to see a belly dancing troupe I really like. Laugh if you will, but they do the more traditional style of dance, not cabaret, and they're very talented. It made me miss belly dancing, which I used to do (and quite well, I'd say). Oh well, my dancin' time is pretty much taken up with ballet now.
BUT . . . what I really wanted to blog about, and made mental notes on all day, were the "costumes." See, I think there are four types of people at any Ren Faire. Allow me to classify. First are the actual Faire people -- the ones who adhere to strict rules about their clothing -- no synthetic fabrics, a mandatory number of skirts, no machine stitching that's obvious, etc. They are the ones most likely to talk to you in faire speak, too. Then there are the wannabes. These people do not actually work for the Faire, and are therefore more likely to fudge with the clothing, like wearing Birkenstocks or a polyester bodice. On the other end are the civilians (if you're familiar with the Society for Creative Anachronism, they call them "mundanes.") I was one of these today in my jack Purcell Converse, denim skirt and cabana boy t-shirt. Years ago I was a wannabe, and I still have my costume, but consider it too much of a pain in the ass to wear anymore, plus I feel stupid doing the talk. I know how, I just feel fucking dumb saying "gramercy" instead of thank you. So now I just don't bother. The fourth category are one major reason I still like going to the Faire. I love these people. These are the goofballs who wear, say, jeans, tennis shoes, and a poet shirt. Or their Gap brand prairie skirt and a peasant blouse. Or flowery palazzo pants with a shawl wrapped around their waists. Or Harley Davidson chaps and a polyester cape. Or homemade harem pants with metallic gold paisleys. Or plaids with checks. Or everything they own that has fringe. Or camoflauge shorts with black and white checked tights (this is a guy). Or tye-died knickers. Or a broomstick skirt, macrame bra and glued-on pointy ears. Or a crushed-velvet dress. Or a leopard print body suit and a moon and stars print headscarf. Or pinstriped pants and a vest. You know? They're trying. They think the event warrants some kind of dressing up. At their office Halloween party they probably make some kind of effort, too. They just suck at it. They want so badly to be part of the creative festivities, but don't know how. It's like when a group of really creative, funny people all sit around with a drink or two in them and start telling outrageous stories, and the balding guy in the corner hopefully pipes up "my sister works with the disabled." It's just so wrong and out of place that it brings the whole thing grinding to a halt, but later on, behind the guy's back, everyone repeats "MY SISTER WORKS WITH THE DISABLED! HAHAHAHA!" My longtime winner has not been replaced, but today's winner was a women at least in her late thirties who wore a polyester harlequin outfit. She was stick skinny, and this blue and grey monstrosity hung off her everywhere except where her fanny pack interrupted it. It was so not a natural fiber that it would have melted to her body if set alight. My all-time winner, of you're wondering, was a twenty-something in a homemade I Dream of Jeannie outfit that was basically pink tulle stuffed haphazardly into the leg seams of a pair of thick pink panties on permanent right-side-wedgie. She also had GIGANTIC gold curly-toe elf shoes. At one point, she came out of the privies with a long sheet of toilet paper stuck to her elf shoe.
The kids, by the way, are a different story. Today I saw a Snow White, a Beauty, several fairy princesses, a ballerina, some Bohemian/gypsies, a couple Robin Hoods, a couple Peter Pans, some pirates in varying degrees of fierceness, and I don't even know what else. But they're kids, it was cute, who cares.
On to topic #2!! Some of this will echo Piggs' post, but I don't care. Last Friday we left for Eugene, where we surprised his sister and her kids (her loquacious but very likeable husband came home later). I loved all of them, and really would have nice things to say about the two older kids if you asked me, but the littlest one was a total pistol, just a spitfire (they call her the devil child), and I was crazy about her! Some examples: When accused of calling her brother an "A-hole," she widened her big eyes and said defiantly "He IS an A-hole." When Piggs was teasing her about something, she replied "Uncle Piggs, I can't show you the middle finger, but I could write it and show you that." After he described the "Chelsea" (a skitch, the infamous skinhead girl haircut that is essentially just bangs) she almost threw a tantrum because she wanted one so badly. Of course, she was also really bummed when we left, and was using clever delaying tactics -- "Wait!! I have to make you a card!" Yeah, I'm in love. I was also especially enamored of the toddler in the family, who didn't say a word for about the first 24 hours I knew him. I assumed he was just a non-verbal kid until we were having lunch together and out of nowhere he started telling me about his "big scary dream." He went on for about ten minutes, and only about every fourth word was intelligible, but there was a big yellow truck for sure, and something bad definitely happened to "MINE EYES!" He was very expressive, and will probably be a good storyteller someday. There were hand gestures and everything.
Like almost everyone in the world, Piggs thinks his parents are by turns insane and exasperating, and although I could see traces of it, they were very nice and welcoming to me, and I really loved his family. I was sorry to leave Eugene, even though I was excited about seeing Portland. Oh, another thing people always seem to think is that their moms are good cooks, but in Piggs' case, this impression is totally justified.
Also in Eugene we saw the U of O, which was a really cool campus. It looked like pictures I've seen of fancy-schmancy colleges on the East Coast, with all the old brick buildings, columns, statues, lawns . . . it was rad. Also, I was surprised to learn that Eugene is so hilly! I'm not used to driving in hills at all (in fact, in S.F, I often just park and walk or take public transportation, or even drop my car off in Emeryville and take Amtrak in to the city). At one point near his mom's house, we were on an incline that was probably 60 degrees or more. We stayed in a motel that had non-smoking rooms. The room wasn't bad but the corridor smelled to high heaven. Ooh, another cultural shock was that it was hot in Eugene. I mean, it's hot here, but not normally there, so we kept getting accused of bringing the heat with us. What surprised me though, was that here, 103 doesn't kick my ass. I recognize it's hot and prefer to sit around and eat popsicles, but there it was an absolute killer. First of all, it's muggy and humid. And second of all, nobody has central air conditioning!!! I mean, if my house gets too hot in my town, I can always pack a book and go sit in a coffee shop for a while, or go shopping. Because, duh, they're air conditioned. But we went into this bookstore in Eugene, and I was excpecting a blast of cold air when we opened the door, but noooo . . . in fact, it was every bit as hot in there. I wondered how the books survived in the wet air. Loquacious brother in law said something at one point about getting an air conditioner. I replied "Wow, that's a big project, and expensive!" He replied "Well, they have them down at Target." Hmm, it took me a minute to register that he meant an evaporative cooler, a window unit, a swamp cooler! No, dude, air conditioning involves VENTS in your WALLS.
Okay, then we drove to Portland and saw so much cool stuff. PSU, downtown, Multnomah falls (and others whose names I don't remember), the Rose Garden, the Hawthorne (which was my favorite shopping destination), Belmont, Coffee People, Baan Thai (amazing), The Space Room (great drinks, too smoky), JB toys, Stumptown, The Stepping Stone (You eat here because we let you), Cricket Cafe, Zupan's, MB's house (and his fuggin' cool rooftop, from which you could see the whole city. Some notes --- if you really want to see the Rose Gardens, don't go with two boys, one of them ADHD. We basically ran a straight path throught the gardens, went to the bathroom and the gift shop, and then the boys said "Well, what next?" Um, guys, I haven't actually seen the gardens yet. Thought that's what we were here for. To their credit, even though they're guys and had seen the gardens before, they indulged me as I looked around.
I thought this was funny: people were very nice, and several asked me how I liked Portland so far. I generally replied "Oh, I like it! It reminds me of San Francisco, but bigger and more spread out." Well, they almost uniformly replied "Portland's not bigger than San Francisco, it's much smaller, and also it's not more spread out: We have urban growth boundaries, so we have to build up within certain boundaries." Well, I almost started to believe them. It felt like we were driving a long way from one side of the city to another, but maybe that's just because I don't know it well. I started to doubt my impression, so I looked up the info. -- S.F. is 46.7 square miles and Portland is 130. Phew, I felt better. Also, I don't need to check on whether Portland is more spread out -- look at ANY residential street in both cities. SF rarely has air space between houses, and Portland is more like my little valley town, with at least several feet of space between houses and actual front and back yards. I don't feel like looking it up, but the population per square mile is insanely different, too. SF was at something like 15 thousand, and Portland was 3-something-thousand. It was great, though. The weather was pleasant, the city itself was nice (listen to a Portlander complain about the "dirty hippies" on Hawthorne and you'd think you were heading to Haight-Ashbury rather than a rather cleaner Castro), and the food was overwhelmingly good. The best of all, though, (I like saving the best for last) was all the people we met. I won't name names, because I'm still a little nervous about giving away personal info over the web, but let's say that Chester's mommy was AWESOME, I liked her boyfriend "some-people-call-me-Maurice," and their friend J.L. I got to spend a goodly amount of time with my long lost friend Cruciferous Vegetables, we saw Toltec, one of my sweetie's best friends (whom I like very much too). We went on a scenic drive with Mr. Whittler-Sculptor, gamed with Zoombaba and Bob Dylan's biggest fan (as well as others), and had a couple meals with the Lipstick Librarian.
Oh, Powells. I maybe shouldn't be allowed in there. I had this plan where if I saw a book that appealed to me, I would write down the title, author, and maybe publisher or ISBN so I could order it later. But then I kept finding good-looking books that were also on super-mega sale. So how could I even consider buying, say, "Honeymoon in Purzdah" over Amazon, paying twice as much, and having to wait for it to be shipped? I think I came home with twelve books or so. Ooh, also -- Portland is the "City of Roses" but they might want to consider being called the "City of cool fucking stationery," since everywhere I went I found awesome, unique cards and postcards. I ended up with a bunch of that stuff, too.
All told, between the cities, the people (family and friends), the scenery, and (not to get too mushy here) the always-welcome company of my sweetie, I had an enormously good time, and I can't wait to visit again. I just don't want to drive. No, seriously, on the way home I was shaking my head at intervals to wake my brain up. I try to limit my use of nagging powers so that he doesn't become inured to them, but I may turn the energy towards getting that boy to drive.
Now I'm exhausted (again/still), so I'm going to read, since my typing skills have fallen off dramatically in the last quarter-hour.
Saturday, July 31, 2004
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Coffee is good!
Well, unless you don't have anything else in your stomach. I was dumb this morning and not really hungry for breakfast, but really wanted a cup of Naked Lounge coffee, so I went there with the thought in the back of my mind that I'd leave shortly and get lunch when I was hungry. But I kind of got distracted, went to Target and Tower Video, and by the time I got home, my hands were shaking so badly I almost couldn't prepare and eat my lunch. Duh.
At the coffee shop this morning, I saw John McCrea (of Cake fame) for the second time recently. I also saw Matt McCord, a drummer who's been in a bunch of bands around town. If you're local to Northern Cali, you might have heard of Tinfed. Anyway, it's funny, because I don't know John all that well -- I was introduced to him a couple times by mutual friends, but we never sat down and talked or anything, but I know Matt -- we used to work together, and we've attended a number of the same parties and whatnot. Still, neither of them noticed me. I have always been a very easily forgettable girl. Partly, it's that unless I'm in a group of really close friends, I tend to be a little shy and unobtrusive. Partly, though, I have also changed my appearance drastically and often over the years. My hair has been long, short, curly, straight, blond, red, purple, pink, green, "cherry cola" . . . I've had different styles of glasses frames every year, I've had a lip ring, nose ring, I've lost 40 pounds and had a breast reduction . . . I could go on, but let's just say that my driver's liscence photo looks nothing like me. Still, it's amusing, because I've always been out and about around midtown a lot, and known a lot of people that know other people, especially in the music scene. Almost anywhere we go downtown, I can point to people I know, and tell you their names and where I know them from. I just have to do it in hushed tones lest they notice the stranger pointing at them. I was excited to go to my ten-year high school reunion in September, because I was looking (I thought), pretty fucking hot. But with the exception of the friends I had stayed in touch with, hardly anyone else even recognized me.
Now I'm going to watch one or both of the videos I rented. Oh, incidentally, I made a "Butt Rock" playlist for my cousin Jame, who is exactly five years older than I am, and because I looked up to him, he really influenced my tastes early on. Well, I can remember the Iron Maiden and Ozzy Osbourne posters in his room (as he got older, he added a Heather Locklear), so I decided it would be fun to burn him a CD of music he probably no longer has. Actually, I really like it too. Here is what's on it: You Shook Me ACDC
Iron Man Black Sabbath
Cum on Feel the Noize Quiet Riot
Kickstart my heart Motley Crue
You Give Love a Bad Name Bon Jovi
Cult of Personality Living Colour
Dr. Feelgood Motley Crue
One Metallica
Welcome to the Jungle Guns N Roses
Shout At The Devil Mötley Crüe
Living on a Prayer Bon Jovi
Rock You Like a Hurricane Scorpions
Blaze of Glory Bon Jovi
Bark at the Moon Ozzy Osbourne
Girls, Girls, Girls Mötley Crüe
Sweet Leaf Black Sabbath
Breaking the Law Judas Priest
Okay, now I'm done.
At the coffee shop this morning, I saw John McCrea (of Cake fame) for the second time recently. I also saw Matt McCord, a drummer who's been in a bunch of bands around town. If you're local to Northern Cali, you might have heard of Tinfed. Anyway, it's funny, because I don't know John all that well -- I was introduced to him a couple times by mutual friends, but we never sat down and talked or anything, but I know Matt -- we used to work together, and we've attended a number of the same parties and whatnot. Still, neither of them noticed me. I have always been a very easily forgettable girl. Partly, it's that unless I'm in a group of really close friends, I tend to be a little shy and unobtrusive. Partly, though, I have also changed my appearance drastically and often over the years. My hair has been long, short, curly, straight, blond, red, purple, pink, green, "cherry cola" . . . I've had different styles of glasses frames every year, I've had a lip ring, nose ring, I've lost 40 pounds and had a breast reduction . . . I could go on, but let's just say that my driver's liscence photo looks nothing like me. Still, it's amusing, because I've always been out and about around midtown a lot, and known a lot of people that know other people, especially in the music scene. Almost anywhere we go downtown, I can point to people I know, and tell you their names and where I know them from. I just have to do it in hushed tones lest they notice the stranger pointing at them. I was excited to go to my ten-year high school reunion in September, because I was looking (I thought), pretty fucking hot. But with the exception of the friends I had stayed in touch with, hardly anyone else even recognized me.
Now I'm going to watch one or both of the videos I rented. Oh, incidentally, I made a "Butt Rock" playlist for my cousin Jame, who is exactly five years older than I am, and because I looked up to him, he really influenced my tastes early on. Well, I can remember the Iron Maiden and Ozzy Osbourne posters in his room (as he got older, he added a Heather Locklear), so I decided it would be fun to burn him a CD of music he probably no longer has. Actually, I really like it too. Here is what's on it: You Shook Me ACDC
Iron Man Black Sabbath
Cum on Feel the Noize Quiet Riot
Kickstart my heart Motley Crue
You Give Love a Bad Name Bon Jovi
Cult of Personality Living Colour
Dr. Feelgood Motley Crue
One Metallica
Welcome to the Jungle Guns N Roses
Shout At The Devil Mötley Crüe
Living on a Prayer Bon Jovi
Rock You Like a Hurricane Scorpions
Blaze of Glory Bon Jovi
Bark at the Moon Ozzy Osbourne
Girls, Girls, Girls Mötley Crüe
Sweet Leaf Black Sabbath
Breaking the Law Judas Priest
Okay, now I'm done.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Stress dreams
So, I think I've mentioned that I'm nervous about meeting all the Piggs people. Last night I had a dream that we decided to leave early just to be safe, at 6pm Thursday instead of 6am Friday. I open up my car at Piggs' place and my car is nearly empty --- just my one duffel bag. He throws his bag in, too, and then starts to lift his bike. I tell him I didn't bring my bike carrier because I didn't know we'd need it. He said that we could just throw it in the car since there was hardly anything in there. We have trouble getting it to fit, but wedge it in there. Then I ask whether I should have brought my bike, since he's got his, and he smiles at me and nods hopefully. So we decide to go back to my place and quickly grab my bike. We have a little trouble getting out of the house because my mom is cleaning like crazy for the birthday party we're having (she's scrubbing the grout), and I know I need to give birthday wishes to whoever is having a birthday, but I can't seem to remember whether it's my cousin or my aunt, so we're taking up precious time while I try to glean the information. Finally we get back on the road, and I try to take a back way to the freeway that I think will be faster. At first, it's kind of cool, because some new houses have been built, and they're all in a really interesting architechtural style, with funky colors, reminiscent of a modern set of Painted Ladies (the famous Victorians in San Fransisco). But suddenly we run into trouble. It has started to rain, which I didn't expect, and worse, the path ahead seems to be flooded. We get out of the car to assess the situation, and Piggs decides that he will walk through and meet me on the other side. I said it would be just as easy to have him in the car and have us both go around, but he insists. "Find my boots, they're near the edge of the water," he says. Sure enough, there are two pairs -- this year's pair and last year's. I initially reach for the older pair, but he indicates that he needs the newer pair. I give them to him, and he says "Okay, I'll see you on the other side." I get back in the car, but the thing about the boots reminded me that the pair of boots I have on, my grandfather's Italian black boots, are now soaking wet and disintegrating, and furthermore they are the only pair I remembered to pack, so I need to swing back by the house for another pair of shoes, and while I'm there, pick up the trip present I left in my room and forgot to bring for sweetie. It'll take him a while to get through the lake anyway.
Back in my room I start looking for shoes, trying to think of what would go with all the different things I packed -- but wait!! I can't remember what I packed! What WAS in that duffel bag in the car? Oh yeah, it was empty! I forgot to pack any clothes! So I start tearing through my closet, grabbing dresses almost at random. But there's one dress, a lavender dressy one, that I really want to wear, but the evil hanger has about 67 teeth and pointy bits, and the little straps of the dress won't seem to let go. Finally I give up on it, so I figure I've got 4 dresses already and I need a pair of jeans and a T-shirt for casual time. But although there are about 20 pairs of jeans in my closet (including some hideous acid-washed ones), I cannot find the one pair of Levis with the rolled cuffs that I want. Then I need something warm to wear, and grab for a camel-colored corduroy jacket that I realize almost instantly will not look right with most of the dresses. Soon, I have a giant pile of clothes, I'm running seriously late, and I still can't find any shoes. I run down the hall (my parents apparently own a large apartment-type building with tenants) and start shouting to the tenants (a couple really trashy looking guys) about things unrelated to shoes. About this point, the dream starts fading and I wake up.
Well, I'm going to read the paper and eat breakfast now, but I had to get that down before I forgot it.
Back in my room I start looking for shoes, trying to think of what would go with all the different things I packed -- but wait!! I can't remember what I packed! What WAS in that duffel bag in the car? Oh yeah, it was empty! I forgot to pack any clothes! So I start tearing through my closet, grabbing dresses almost at random. But there's one dress, a lavender dressy one, that I really want to wear, but the evil hanger has about 67 teeth and pointy bits, and the little straps of the dress won't seem to let go. Finally I give up on it, so I figure I've got 4 dresses already and I need a pair of jeans and a T-shirt for casual time. But although there are about 20 pairs of jeans in my closet (including some hideous acid-washed ones), I cannot find the one pair of Levis with the rolled cuffs that I want. Then I need something warm to wear, and grab for a camel-colored corduroy jacket that I realize almost instantly will not look right with most of the dresses. Soon, I have a giant pile of clothes, I'm running seriously late, and I still can't find any shoes. I run down the hall (my parents apparently own a large apartment-type building with tenants) and start shouting to the tenants (a couple really trashy looking guys) about things unrelated to shoes. About this point, the dream starts fading and I wake up.
Well, I'm going to read the paper and eat breakfast now, but I had to get that down before I forgot it.
Sunday, July 18, 2004
Pasty white girls
Oh, first a note on yesterday's post -- I actually do still flip people off, I just try to do it below the dashboard where it can't be seen. It makes me feel better, though.
We went rafting today. We go to Cache Canyon, and this was the smallest group we've ever taken. Incidentally, if you're thinking of doing it, don't go with Whitewater Tours (unless you're a brainless drunken asshole), go with Cache Canyon (cachecanyon.com). It's owner, Rick Wilson, is a really nice guy, they have reasonable prices, and they endeavor to make sure you have a good, safe time. We did have to wait a while for the bus to take us back to our cars, but I forgive them, because there were only 4 more boats out, and they were supposedly about ten minutes away. The river was greaet today -- high enough that we didn't get stuck on a bunch of rocks, but not so high that the rapids were wussy (which happened one year). No, actually, we didn't fall out of the boat or anything this time (I got knocked off my Captain's seat a couple times, but into the boat, not out of it), but it wasn't because the rapids were lame -- we just happened to be doing pretty damn well. In fact, the only bruise I'm going to have is because I'm a crazy fool -- we pulled our boats over to bodysurf, and I tried to follow Piggs way out into the river to the start of some rapids, but the current knocked me down before I could get past a rock outcropping, and I totally hit every rock on the way down. We also packed delicious junk food. Dumbass old people on the way home from Indian gaming were driving (5 of them in a row!) 15 miles below the speed limit, and I was really going insane, so the first chance I had (after I'd been following them for a good fifteen minutes) I passed all of them. It was kind of pointless, because we were almost to the point where I turned off, but I didn't care because it felt good.
Since I was on the water for like five hours today, I needed sunscreen. You see, I am a pasty white woman. For years I actively tried to get tans, and wore, like SPF 5. Now I'm all over the waterproof SPF 30. Also, I reapply. And I wear a huge hat. Seriously gigantic. I know I look like an idiot, but I've had too many friends getting skin cancers taken off lately. It's scary. But it must be working, because you would have no earthly idea how much I've been in the sun lately given my fish-belly skin tone.
I have a very busy week coming, despite the fact that I don't have to work. Monday, a very welcome dinner with sweetie. Tuesday, dinner and a musical with mom (she got tickets to the Music Circus), Wednesday, birthday cake for my cousin, Thursday, Portugese birthday dinner in Rio Vista, Friday super early, start driving to Oregon. Incidentally, I'm really nervous about meeting all of Piggs' people. I actually had a stress dream where I accidentally broke the faucet in the bathroom at his mom's house. I want to be able to have the Sally Fields moment "You like me, you really like me!"
Oh, I'm tired. I was going to write more, but I'm down for the count, I think. G'night, all.
We went rafting today. We go to Cache Canyon, and this was the smallest group we've ever taken. Incidentally, if you're thinking of doing it, don't go with Whitewater Tours (unless you're a brainless drunken asshole), go with Cache Canyon (cachecanyon.com). It's owner, Rick Wilson, is a really nice guy, they have reasonable prices, and they endeavor to make sure you have a good, safe time. We did have to wait a while for the bus to take us back to our cars, but I forgive them, because there were only 4 more boats out, and they were supposedly about ten minutes away. The river was greaet today -- high enough that we didn't get stuck on a bunch of rocks, but not so high that the rapids were wussy (which happened one year). No, actually, we didn't fall out of the boat or anything this time (I got knocked off my Captain's seat a couple times, but into the boat, not out of it), but it wasn't because the rapids were lame -- we just happened to be doing pretty damn well. In fact, the only bruise I'm going to have is because I'm a crazy fool -- we pulled our boats over to bodysurf, and I tried to follow Piggs way out into the river to the start of some rapids, but the current knocked me down before I could get past a rock outcropping, and I totally hit every rock on the way down. We also packed delicious junk food. Dumbass old people on the way home from Indian gaming were driving (5 of them in a row!) 15 miles below the speed limit, and I was really going insane, so the first chance I had (after I'd been following them for a good fifteen minutes) I passed all of them. It was kind of pointless, because we were almost to the point where I turned off, but I didn't care because it felt good.
Since I was on the water for like five hours today, I needed sunscreen. You see, I am a pasty white woman. For years I actively tried to get tans, and wore, like SPF 5. Now I'm all over the waterproof SPF 30. Also, I reapply. And I wear a huge hat. Seriously gigantic. I know I look like an idiot, but I've had too many friends getting skin cancers taken off lately. It's scary. But it must be working, because you would have no earthly idea how much I've been in the sun lately given my fish-belly skin tone.
I have a very busy week coming, despite the fact that I don't have to work. Monday, a very welcome dinner with sweetie. Tuesday, dinner and a musical with mom (she got tickets to the Music Circus), Wednesday, birthday cake for my cousin, Thursday, Portugese birthday dinner in Rio Vista, Friday super early, start driving to Oregon. Incidentally, I'm really nervous about meeting all of Piggs' people. I actually had a stress dream where I accidentally broke the faucet in the bathroom at his mom's house. I want to be able to have the Sally Fields moment "You like me, you really like me!"
Oh, I'm tired. I was going to write more, but I'm down for the count, I think. G'night, all.
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Road rage
It was only about two years ago that an ex-boyfriend finally broke me of the finger habit -- you know, flipping the bird. It comes to me so naturally. I LOVE flipping people off. I even practiced when I was in junior high so that I could use two distinctly different birds. One, the "I SO don't care enough about you to put any muscle into this" flipoff, with relaxed fingers, middle finger barely extended beyond the others. The other was a more angular representation of the cock-and-balls, with the first and ring fingers pointed sharply downward. I have been using these for years, and even learned a few of the trick varieties, as in winding up or inflating the finger via the thumb, asking (with flipoff turned upside down) if the flipee could hear it or needed it turned up, and asking the flippee to read between the lines. But the problem was I was using my well-honed gestures while driving, pretty frequently, to anyone who did anything I deemed idiotic. The ex convinced me that I was very likely to get myself killed. At first, I just laid off doing it so that he wouldn't have a heart attack, and then I grew accustomed to not doing it. Also, it saved me having to clean the interiors of my windows: when I was really enthusiastic I sometimes mashed the knuckes right up against the window, like the time I forgot I had a horn.
In any case, I had to redirect my anger somehow, so I turned to the other thing that is as natural as breathing to me -- cussing people out. However, I wasn't really saving myself from possible attacks this way, so I decided maybe I needed a new tack entirely. I decided to wish people well. Some cunt cuts me off, and I grit my teeth and think "That's okay, you probably have somewhere important to be. Good luck getting there, I hope you reach your destination safely." This actually worked for almost 24 hours. Then I realized it was a load of shit, so I have a new coping method. It's a two-parter. First, I think that the person making the bad driving choices probably has incredibly bad karma. I actually believe in karma, incidentally, spiritual wasteland that I am. In fact, this is deserving of its own tangent later. Anyway, I figure if they're a shitty, angry, aggressive or careless driver, they probably have those qualities in other areas of their lives, too, leaving them dissatisfied and lonely. This makes me feel better. It's a Great Gatsby thing -- see Jordan's diatribe on careless people. Then part two is that I allow myself to vocalize my anger, but I try to do it (especially if my windows and theirs are open) in a manner unlikely to inspire a beating, and maybe even to make them (but more often myself) laugh. For example, the truck who almost clipped me yesterday while changing lanes too quickly heard as he sped away "YOU ARE NOT MAKING WISE CHOICES!" A speeding cell phone user who whipped around me as I turned into a driveway might have heard "Wherever you're going, it can't be THAT good!" Other recent comments included such gems as "That was a ridiculous thing to do" and "Good luck with that!" All these are uttered in angry loud voice, but I think if anyone managed to hear them, they most likely would just have a funny story to tell when they got home. "Hey honey, guess what this freak said to me . . ."
Incidentally, I used to always assume that if a guy had a gi-normous truck or booming stereo system, there was only one reason -- small package. But now I'm expanding this definition to allow for guys who were shortchanged in other ways, too. But I have a hard time believing that any smart, self-assured, well-endowed dude would be driving a monster truck blasting the bass so hard you have no idea what genre of music it is.
On karma -- I actually don't believe that the universe is keeping track and saying "Hmm, helped an old lady cross the street, two points. Next year I'm giving her a refund check she wasn't expecting." I just think that if you're a good person and live a good life and try to be nice to people, you tend to get nice things back. Perfect example -- I made some zucchini bread, I walked it across the street to an elderly neighbor, and a few days later she gave me a bag of home-grown tomatoes that were delicious. Here's another one you can see practically daily in retail establishments -- some jackass walks in talking on a cellphone, ignores the clerk but to throw change at her, and walks out. Now do you think if he overpaid or something that the clerk would run out to the parking lot to hand him his change? Probably not. Whereas when I make nice to the clerks, laugh at a stupid joke, compliment somebody on their sweater or whatever, I tend to get good things out of it. Sometimes it's nothing more than a cheery smile, other times it benefits me in surprising ways -- the clerk will tell me where they got the sweater I admired and that they're on sale. Or if I'm making conversation about a book at the bookstore, the clerk will give me a recommendation for another author I might like. Think of it in the long-term, too. The dad who makes time for his kids, plays with them, checks their homework, and occasionally makes Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes, what kind of relationship do you think he'll probably have with his kids when he's old -- a fulfilling one, right? They'll feed his dog when he's on vacation and his daughters-in-law will bring over casseroles and shit. Whereas asshole spare-the-rod dad is probably more likely to end up in a convalescent home with a few pictures of the grandkids who live across the country. Is it karma in a perfectly spiritual sense? No. And does it always work every time? Nope, but still I'd say there are very appreciable benefits that come from living a good life. Be friendly, be nice, be honest. That crap comes back to you.
I've been thinking of my step-cousin Connie. Once you're an adult I don't think you even have to acknowledge step-cousins, but when you're a kid and you spend time with them, they count. Anyway, I liked Connie -- she was close to my age and fun to be with. Not the sharpest crayon in the box, but a million watts brighter than my step-siblings, so her presence was a welcome change. But what's been on my mind is Connie's eating habits -- I HATED having to eat with Connie. See, we had a rule that no-one could leave the table (or get dessert) until everyone was finished. I don't know whether Connie adhered to the "chew each bite 100 times" school of thought or what, but she was the slowest eater I have ever encountered, ever. I've seen tigers tear through entire cows in the time it took her to scoop up her Stove Top Stuffing. Dinnertime with Connie was absolutely glacial. I still have no idea why we didn't just suspend the rule about staying at the table when Connie was around: she was so obviously out of the realm of the normal that any fool could see we were going to be ready for breakfast, let alone dessert, by the time Connie had shoveled in her meatloaf. It was crazy. I mean, I understood manners, but this was ridiculous. This would be like asking us to wear our best velveteen Christmas ensembles in the Arizona desert in August. The rule was basically okay, but in an extreme situation, simply didn't work out. What frustrated me most, though, was that I had no say in the matter. No one asked "Hey, are you ready for dessert, Countess?" or "Say, Countess, when would you like pie?" No, I was ready for the pie directly after the canned french-cut green beans, but I could not eat pie until Connie was ready, too. I was ready, and I just had to wait. Pie time was not up to me. It was like when I was a really little kid, and I wanted to run around and go to the park and watch cartoons and practice cartwheels and the SUN WAS UP, so CLEARLY it was daytime, but I had to wait until my parents were awake, too. I have never been good at waiting for other people. That's why I like activities that just include me so much.
Tomorrow is rafting day, and contrary to Piggs' dire message about the state of his health, he seems fine. The thumb which was possibly disclocated and about to fall off earlier has been steering a succession of stolen cars in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City for over three hours now. I hope it's okay for gripping a paddle. Actually, strike that -- I hope it saps some of his strength, because he paddles way harder than I do, and digs in way deeper with the edge of his paddle, so that we end up veering drastically toward whatever side he's not rowing on.
It's just about beddy-bye time. See y'all.
In any case, I had to redirect my anger somehow, so I turned to the other thing that is as natural as breathing to me -- cussing people out. However, I wasn't really saving myself from possible attacks this way, so I decided maybe I needed a new tack entirely. I decided to wish people well. Some cunt cuts me off, and I grit my teeth and think "That's okay, you probably have somewhere important to be. Good luck getting there, I hope you reach your destination safely." This actually worked for almost 24 hours. Then I realized it was a load of shit, so I have a new coping method. It's a two-parter. First, I think that the person making the bad driving choices probably has incredibly bad karma. I actually believe in karma, incidentally, spiritual wasteland that I am. In fact, this is deserving of its own tangent later. Anyway, I figure if they're a shitty, angry, aggressive or careless driver, they probably have those qualities in other areas of their lives, too, leaving them dissatisfied and lonely. This makes me feel better. It's a Great Gatsby thing -- see Jordan's diatribe on careless people. Then part two is that I allow myself to vocalize my anger, but I try to do it (especially if my windows and theirs are open) in a manner unlikely to inspire a beating, and maybe even to make them (but more often myself) laugh. For example, the truck who almost clipped me yesterday while changing lanes too quickly heard as he sped away "YOU ARE NOT MAKING WISE CHOICES!" A speeding cell phone user who whipped around me as I turned into a driveway might have heard "Wherever you're going, it can't be THAT good!" Other recent comments included such gems as "That was a ridiculous thing to do" and "Good luck with that!" All these are uttered in angry loud voice, but I think if anyone managed to hear them, they most likely would just have a funny story to tell when they got home. "Hey honey, guess what this freak said to me . . ."
Incidentally, I used to always assume that if a guy had a gi-normous truck or booming stereo system, there was only one reason -- small package. But now I'm expanding this definition to allow for guys who were shortchanged in other ways, too. But I have a hard time believing that any smart, self-assured, well-endowed dude would be driving a monster truck blasting the bass so hard you have no idea what genre of music it is.
On karma -- I actually don't believe that the universe is keeping track and saying "Hmm, helped an old lady cross the street, two points. Next year I'm giving her a refund check she wasn't expecting." I just think that if you're a good person and live a good life and try to be nice to people, you tend to get nice things back. Perfect example -- I made some zucchini bread, I walked it across the street to an elderly neighbor, and a few days later she gave me a bag of home-grown tomatoes that were delicious. Here's another one you can see practically daily in retail establishments -- some jackass walks in talking on a cellphone, ignores the clerk but to throw change at her, and walks out. Now do you think if he overpaid or something that the clerk would run out to the parking lot to hand him his change? Probably not. Whereas when I make nice to the clerks, laugh at a stupid joke, compliment somebody on their sweater or whatever, I tend to get good things out of it. Sometimes it's nothing more than a cheery smile, other times it benefits me in surprising ways -- the clerk will tell me where they got the sweater I admired and that they're on sale. Or if I'm making conversation about a book at the bookstore, the clerk will give me a recommendation for another author I might like. Think of it in the long-term, too. The dad who makes time for his kids, plays with them, checks their homework, and occasionally makes Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes, what kind of relationship do you think he'll probably have with his kids when he's old -- a fulfilling one, right? They'll feed his dog when he's on vacation and his daughters-in-law will bring over casseroles and shit. Whereas asshole spare-the-rod dad is probably more likely to end up in a convalescent home with a few pictures of the grandkids who live across the country. Is it karma in a perfectly spiritual sense? No. And does it always work every time? Nope, but still I'd say there are very appreciable benefits that come from living a good life. Be friendly, be nice, be honest. That crap comes back to you.
I've been thinking of my step-cousin Connie. Once you're an adult I don't think you even have to acknowledge step-cousins, but when you're a kid and you spend time with them, they count. Anyway, I liked Connie -- she was close to my age and fun to be with. Not the sharpest crayon in the box, but a million watts brighter than my step-siblings, so her presence was a welcome change. But what's been on my mind is Connie's eating habits -- I HATED having to eat with Connie. See, we had a rule that no-one could leave the table (or get dessert) until everyone was finished. I don't know whether Connie adhered to the "chew each bite 100 times" school of thought or what, but she was the slowest eater I have ever encountered, ever. I've seen tigers tear through entire cows in the time it took her to scoop up her Stove Top Stuffing. Dinnertime with Connie was absolutely glacial. I still have no idea why we didn't just suspend the rule about staying at the table when Connie was around: she was so obviously out of the realm of the normal that any fool could see we were going to be ready for breakfast, let alone dessert, by the time Connie had shoveled in her meatloaf. It was crazy. I mean, I understood manners, but this was ridiculous. This would be like asking us to wear our best velveteen Christmas ensembles in the Arizona desert in August. The rule was basically okay, but in an extreme situation, simply didn't work out. What frustrated me most, though, was that I had no say in the matter. No one asked "Hey, are you ready for dessert, Countess?" or "Say, Countess, when would you like pie?" No, I was ready for the pie directly after the canned french-cut green beans, but I could not eat pie until Connie was ready, too. I was ready, and I just had to wait. Pie time was not up to me. It was like when I was a really little kid, and I wanted to run around and go to the park and watch cartoons and practice cartwheels and the SUN WAS UP, so CLEARLY it was daytime, but I had to wait until my parents were awake, too. I have never been good at waiting for other people. That's why I like activities that just include me so much.
Tomorrow is rafting day, and contrary to Piggs' dire message about the state of his health, he seems fine. The thumb which was possibly disclocated and about to fall off earlier has been steering a succession of stolen cars in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City for over three hours now. I hope it's okay for gripping a paddle. Actually, strike that -- I hope it saps some of his strength, because he paddles way harder than I do, and digs in way deeper with the edge of his paddle, so that we end up veering drastically toward whatever side he's not rowing on.
It's just about beddy-bye time. See y'all.
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Stuff 'n' junk
I went to Alameda today to have a photo shoot with a friend who's an awesome photographer. It was fun -- I was nervous, but I'm a nervous smiler, so it worked out okay. I hit nasty traffic in Berkeley on the way home, so I stopped and dinked around a little; I got dinner and walked around. I was on Telegraph, which is one of the main drags, and saw so many sights of interest -- crazy people, funky teens, random spangers, families. It reminds me a lot of Sac's own K St mall, but greatly compressed. Like, if you sat on Telegraph for an hour, you'd see all the interesting people you'd see on K street in a whole day. On the downside, I had to park next to Homeless Psycho Park, and on the way back to my car (wearing a cute sundress), a guy coming out of the park walked right by me and said "I tried to kill my wife, she wore a sundress like that." Hmph. That sentence, disturbing as it was already, could have really used an explanatory conjunction. It would have added clarity to say, for example "I tried to kill my wife, though she wore a sundress like that." Or "I tried to kill my wife because she wore a sundress like that." Actually, if I had not been convinced of the authenticity of Homeless Psycho Park, I might have thought it was some kind of improvisational theatre experience based on all the gesticulating and monologue delivery. Well, I got home quickly after that.
I listened to my iPod on the drive, and right on the way home, I tuned it to The Romantics' "Talking in Your Sleep." Great song, but I have a little problem with it. The basic idea, if you're unfamiliar with the song or have forgotten it in the intervening twenty years, is that a guy's girlfriend says she loves him, but he gets all-important confirmation when she reiterates this in her sleep. Now, first of all, is it creepy that he's staying up to hear what she says in her sleep and sings "Don't you know you're sleeping in the spotlight?" But second, I've known only a few people that talked in their sleep, but it was never normal conversation, like "I must pick up Triscuits at the store." Rather, (especially with my friend Tony, may he rest in peace) it was DREAM talk. Some Tony examples: "Try a fraction!" "Asians like pickles," and "Officer, of course bears and gophers can be friends. They're both mammals, they both live in the forest." He never somnambulantly said "Gee, I really like Count Mockula. My girlfriend Jen is great and I sincerely love her. G3 is my buddy."
Also on the music trip, Monkeyeinstein (formerly known as roomie, but now she's got a blog) and I laughed ourselves to tears tonight over Bob Dylan. See, I love classic rock, and I know a lot of it really well, but (much to Bowman's horror, I'm sure), I've never been all that familiar with Dylan. Never had an album, never had a friend who played a lot of Dylan, never had a boyfriend learning the guitar who started with a Dylan book, nothing. All the Dylan I've got in my head is what the classic rock stations play, and I don't listen to those all that often. But tonight as I stopped by my mom's place, I borrowed a couple CDs to rip, and one of them was Blonde on Blonde. I chose two songs I wanted, and asked Monkeygirl for suggestions as to what else I should have. I also mentioned that there was a song I liked, but couldn't remember what it was called. I started to do my Dylan voice and sang, in a hesitant manner, with many "lah lah mms" in between: "Azza azza lahh DIDN'T YOU! . . . Blahahleyhey USED TO IT! Whoaohahoh YOU USED TO . . . TALK ABOUT! Buhuummheh FIGURE OUT," and finally, triumphantly, with fist raised, "SIAMESE CAT!" She doubled over with laughter and said "I don't think 'siamese cat' is in that song! So she dug through her albums and found a greatest hits and played the first few notes of each song -- I actually knew the words to several, and shook my head over and over "No, not that one," until we got to "Like a Rolling Stone" (as Dylan fans will have already guessed). That was it! So we listened to it, and in the first verse, no cats. Second verse, I sang "siamese cat" loudly over the real lyrics, beginning to seriously wonder if I'd made it up. But by the third verse, as I was leaning in prompting Dylan to sing "something that rhymes with 'at'" he suddenly did! Triumphantly, and for the second time, I shouted "SIAMESE CAT!"
Oh, I think that's all for now. Bye all.
K
I listened to my iPod on the drive, and right on the way home, I tuned it to The Romantics' "Talking in Your Sleep." Great song, but I have a little problem with it. The basic idea, if you're unfamiliar with the song or have forgotten it in the intervening twenty years, is that a guy's girlfriend says she loves him, but he gets all-important confirmation when she reiterates this in her sleep. Now, first of all, is it creepy that he's staying up to hear what she says in her sleep and sings "Don't you know you're sleeping in the spotlight?" But second, I've known only a few people that talked in their sleep, but it was never normal conversation, like "I must pick up Triscuits at the store." Rather, (especially with my friend Tony, may he rest in peace) it was DREAM talk. Some Tony examples: "Try a fraction!" "Asians like pickles," and "Officer, of course bears and gophers can be friends. They're both mammals, they both live in the forest." He never somnambulantly said "Gee, I really like Count Mockula. My girlfriend Jen is great and I sincerely love her. G3 is my buddy."
Also on the music trip, Monkeyeinstein (formerly known as roomie, but now she's got a blog) and I laughed ourselves to tears tonight over Bob Dylan. See, I love classic rock, and I know a lot of it really well, but (much to Bowman's horror, I'm sure), I've never been all that familiar with Dylan. Never had an album, never had a friend who played a lot of Dylan, never had a boyfriend learning the guitar who started with a Dylan book, nothing. All the Dylan I've got in my head is what the classic rock stations play, and I don't listen to those all that often. But tonight as I stopped by my mom's place, I borrowed a couple CDs to rip, and one of them was Blonde on Blonde. I chose two songs I wanted, and asked Monkeygirl for suggestions as to what else I should have. I also mentioned that there was a song I liked, but couldn't remember what it was called. I started to do my Dylan voice and sang, in a hesitant manner, with many "lah lah mms" in between: "Azza azza lahh DIDN'T YOU! . . . Blahahleyhey USED TO IT! Whoaohahoh YOU USED TO . . . TALK ABOUT! Buhuummheh FIGURE OUT," and finally, triumphantly, with fist raised, "SIAMESE CAT!" She doubled over with laughter and said "I don't think 'siamese cat' is in that song! So she dug through her albums and found a greatest hits and played the first few notes of each song -- I actually knew the words to several, and shook my head over and over "No, not that one," until we got to "Like a Rolling Stone" (as Dylan fans will have already guessed). That was it! So we listened to it, and in the first verse, no cats. Second verse, I sang "siamese cat" loudly over the real lyrics, beginning to seriously wonder if I'd made it up. But by the third verse, as I was leaning in prompting Dylan to sing "something that rhymes with 'at'" he suddenly did! Triumphantly, and for the second time, I shouted "SIAMESE CAT!"
Oh, I think that's all for now. Bye all.
K
Sunday, July 11, 2004
How Green is my Valley
First of all, Happy Birthday to my roomie, who has a new blog herself which I will have to locate soon. The party was a success -- roomie found several cocktail recipes, wrote them out on cute cards and set up a drink station outside where you could mix your own. I had a lemon drop, a cosmo, two surfer girls, and a couple I made up on my own. I had hoped the band wouldn't play (since that sort of steals birthday thunder, doesn't it?), but roomie had a few requests, and an out-of-town friend was here, and he had the deliriously pleasurable experience of hearing us play in my backyard when we still weren't really clear on things like "chords" or playing in the same "key." I always think I'm an obnoxious drunk (I think I'm funny, so once I get going, I'll just tell ridiculous stories all night long), but my nearest and dearest tell me I'm not. I think I need to ask people who aren't quite so close, and might therefore admit things like "yeah, you could take the volume down a notch, and that 'rabbit in the moon' story was funnier the first five times." On band news, incidentally, I'm not as stressed about Vangyna not passing smog. The girls took the news well, and we may have a friend tune it up at the auto shop he works at. We'll see if that works.
So, my beautiful, lush green town (an Arbor Day Foundation "City of Trees") is currently hosting the Olympic track and field trials. Now, as far as the Olympics goes, I'll admit that my enthusiasm levels are on the low side. I'm not anti-Olympic (or anti-American, god bless the USA -- there, that should satisfy the Homeland Security department), but I'm not real enthused, either. Over the course of my lifetime, I have watched a few events (usually the pansy ones, like gymnastics or diving), and enjoyed them, I guess, but the Olympics can also pass almost unnoticed by my. Where I'm going with this is, if I loved the Olympics, I suppose I would be able to forgive or overlook the hordes of morons who have descended on my city, but as it is, I cannot. I'm not saying Sac is filled with thoughtful, good drivers. I get nearly killed on a regular basis. But anytime I get near CSUS (a couple times a day, since it's directly between my house and my sweetie's), the morons are out in force, driving like they've never left their Amish hamlet before. I have a tendency, when I pass drivers who have exhibited more-than-normal stupidity levels, to look at the driver very carefully to see if I can detect a trend. Is he breathing through his mouth? Is there a cell phone nearby? Are they eating? Do they have one of those giant scaffolding-like head braces? Is stupidity, basically, something that can be seen, recognized, and therefore avoided in future? Normally, when someone is driving ten or more miles below the speed limit, they are either very old (and wearing a visor or monstrous wraparound sunglasses), looking around (as though for an address), or have a map unfolded on the steering wheel. But lately it has been all middle-aged people with no obvious disability. It's just that they're foreigners. They're obviously here to check out the field trials, and don't know their way around. So I'd like to say to them, Welcome to Sacramento, now go home.
On another topic, I think I'm getting old! I have aches and pains all the freakin' time. Like, the other day, the top of my right foot just hurt, for like for hours. It felt a little like a terrible cramp, and I almost couldn't drive. I'm having a bit of an unexplained pain in my left shin right now, and my neck is sore (possibly from holding my bass guitar). My ankles crack loudly and regularly --- my right ankle being particularly testy, seizing up until I put all my weight on it and then thrust my right to the right, about twice a day. I spent eight years on pointe shoes as a teen, and now they hurt so badly I can't keep them on for half an hour, and for a day or two afterwards, if I so much as gently stub my toe it hurts like a motherfucker. My knees lock and pop. My torso suffers from unusual stabbing pains. My shoulders grow sore from carrying my purse (and in high school my backpack must've weighed 100 pounds and I wore it every day), and they click loudly when I roll them around. I also seem to have a way lower pain tolerance. For example, when we go to the river, my sweetie seems to think it's funny to wrap his legs around me to pull me underwater. But the combo of his bony thighs hitting my flexed and cold muscles is just painful as hell! I am lucky that I don't have too much going on with my organs ---asthma that is pretty easily controllable, hypoglycemic tendencies (I just have to not skip meals -- no problem), ortho-static hypotension (when I stand up I sometimes go blind for a second), and acid-reflux (who doesn't occasionally throw up into their mouth a little?). Seriously, none of these things limit my activities in the slightest, and I've never ever had a serious disease or a cancer scare or anything (yes, I am not only knocking wood right now, I'm throwing myself bodily against it, moshing wood as it were). It just worries me that at some point soon, I'm going to sound like someone is cracking an ice-cube tray when I stand up. Not to scare any porcine readers of my blog, but that's one of the reasons I want to have kids in the near future. I don't want to have to say "Mommy can't toss you the ball again because she can't lift her shoulder higher than, ow, this. Hey, I know, why don't you toss yourself the ball and I'll watch! I'll even take pictures if I can get the camera up to my eye." I am lucky to have such good health, and I know it, but geez, what happened to the teenaged body I had, when I could jump off the brick walls of the high school and not feel searing pain in my ankles? I could slide into the splits at a moment's notice. Nothing, I mean NOTHING clicked or popped unless I wanted it to. Ah well, I guess those days are gone -- but what does the future hold? Painful gusts of wind? Popping hip joints? Good lord, I'm worried.
My sweetie purchased an album for me that I have been listening to obsessively. It's a greatest hits of the Animals. If you aren't a fan, don't just go buy any album -- they recorded over a period of twenty years, and some of their "greatest hits" albums sound like aging lounge lizards doing ska. But if you manage to get the right versions -- the versions I had on vinyl as a small child and listened to, oh, once a day for fifteen years -- you will be in musical heaven. They were part of the British Invasion, and like Van Morrison's first band, Them, have a very strong American R&B and Blues influence. They cover a number of traditional American folk songs, including their biggest hit (and the only one most people would recognize), House of the Rising Sun. I was absolutely raised on this album -- if you asked me what the soundtrack to my youth was, this album would make the top five, for damn sure (the other four would almost certainly be The Beatles self-titled album, often called the White Album, Peter Paul and Mary's "Moving," The Beach Boys' "Endless Summer," and Donovan's "Barabajagal," though Don McLean's "American Pie" might fight for a spot on the list). I love hearing these songs, partly because it's comforting to hear music that you know so well you can predict the tiny little breaks in singer Eric Burdon's voice, the feedback on the guitar, the precise length of the pauses in the intro to "San Franciscan Nights . . . " But partly, I really just love this style of music. It's so passionate, so straightforward. It feels like the music inside my heart. I love lots of styles of music, but it's those artists who occasionally touch their blues and R&B roots that really get under my skin. Patti Smith uses it, Van Morrison does, the Beatles do . . . and the Animals do almost nothing else. It's fantastic. I can hardly recommend this album more. I hope it's not just nostalgia talking. I really am crazy about this album. And I also appreciate how closely my sweetie listens when I talk about shit like this and how he remembers that I wanted this album and sought it out for me. Thanks, sweets.
-K
So, my beautiful, lush green town (an Arbor Day Foundation "City of Trees") is currently hosting the Olympic track and field trials. Now, as far as the Olympics goes, I'll admit that my enthusiasm levels are on the low side. I'm not anti-Olympic (or anti-American, god bless the USA -- there, that should satisfy the Homeland Security department), but I'm not real enthused, either. Over the course of my lifetime, I have watched a few events (usually the pansy ones, like gymnastics or diving), and enjoyed them, I guess, but the Olympics can also pass almost unnoticed by my. Where I'm going with this is, if I loved the Olympics, I suppose I would be able to forgive or overlook the hordes of morons who have descended on my city, but as it is, I cannot. I'm not saying Sac is filled with thoughtful, good drivers. I get nearly killed on a regular basis. But anytime I get near CSUS (a couple times a day, since it's directly between my house and my sweetie's), the morons are out in force, driving like they've never left their Amish hamlet before. I have a tendency, when I pass drivers who have exhibited more-than-normal stupidity levels, to look at the driver very carefully to see if I can detect a trend. Is he breathing through his mouth? Is there a cell phone nearby? Are they eating? Do they have one of those giant scaffolding-like head braces? Is stupidity, basically, something that can be seen, recognized, and therefore avoided in future? Normally, when someone is driving ten or more miles below the speed limit, they are either very old (and wearing a visor or monstrous wraparound sunglasses), looking around (as though for an address), or have a map unfolded on the steering wheel. But lately it has been all middle-aged people with no obvious disability. It's just that they're foreigners. They're obviously here to check out the field trials, and don't know their way around. So I'd like to say to them, Welcome to Sacramento, now go home.
On another topic, I think I'm getting old! I have aches and pains all the freakin' time. Like, the other day, the top of my right foot just hurt, for like for hours. It felt a little like a terrible cramp, and I almost couldn't drive. I'm having a bit of an unexplained pain in my left shin right now, and my neck is sore (possibly from holding my bass guitar). My ankles crack loudly and regularly --- my right ankle being particularly testy, seizing up until I put all my weight on it and then thrust my right to the right, about twice a day. I spent eight years on pointe shoes as a teen, and now they hurt so badly I can't keep them on for half an hour, and for a day or two afterwards, if I so much as gently stub my toe it hurts like a motherfucker. My knees lock and pop. My torso suffers from unusual stabbing pains. My shoulders grow sore from carrying my purse (and in high school my backpack must've weighed 100 pounds and I wore it every day), and they click loudly when I roll them around. I also seem to have a way lower pain tolerance. For example, when we go to the river, my sweetie seems to think it's funny to wrap his legs around me to pull me underwater. But the combo of his bony thighs hitting my flexed and cold muscles is just painful as hell! I am lucky that I don't have too much going on with my organs ---asthma that is pretty easily controllable, hypoglycemic tendencies (I just have to not skip meals -- no problem), ortho-static hypotension (when I stand up I sometimes go blind for a second), and acid-reflux (who doesn't occasionally throw up into their mouth a little?). Seriously, none of these things limit my activities in the slightest, and I've never ever had a serious disease or a cancer scare or anything (yes, I am not only knocking wood right now, I'm throwing myself bodily against it, moshing wood as it were). It just worries me that at some point soon, I'm going to sound like someone is cracking an ice-cube tray when I stand up. Not to scare any porcine readers of my blog, but that's one of the reasons I want to have kids in the near future. I don't want to have to say "Mommy can't toss you the ball again because she can't lift her shoulder higher than, ow, this. Hey, I know, why don't you toss yourself the ball and I'll watch! I'll even take pictures if I can get the camera up to my eye." I am lucky to have such good health, and I know it, but geez, what happened to the teenaged body I had, when I could jump off the brick walls of the high school and not feel searing pain in my ankles? I could slide into the splits at a moment's notice. Nothing, I mean NOTHING clicked or popped unless I wanted it to. Ah well, I guess those days are gone -- but what does the future hold? Painful gusts of wind? Popping hip joints? Good lord, I'm worried.
My sweetie purchased an album for me that I have been listening to obsessively. It's a greatest hits of the Animals. If you aren't a fan, don't just go buy any album -- they recorded over a period of twenty years, and some of their "greatest hits" albums sound like aging lounge lizards doing ska. But if you manage to get the right versions -- the versions I had on vinyl as a small child and listened to, oh, once a day for fifteen years -- you will be in musical heaven. They were part of the British Invasion, and like Van Morrison's first band, Them, have a very strong American R&B and Blues influence. They cover a number of traditional American folk songs, including their biggest hit (and the only one most people would recognize), House of the Rising Sun. I was absolutely raised on this album -- if you asked me what the soundtrack to my youth was, this album would make the top five, for damn sure (the other four would almost certainly be The Beatles self-titled album, often called the White Album, Peter Paul and Mary's "Moving," The Beach Boys' "Endless Summer," and Donovan's "Barabajagal," though Don McLean's "American Pie" might fight for a spot on the list). I love hearing these songs, partly because it's comforting to hear music that you know so well you can predict the tiny little breaks in singer Eric Burdon's voice, the feedback on the guitar, the precise length of the pauses in the intro to "San Franciscan Nights . . . " But partly, I really just love this style of music. It's so passionate, so straightforward. It feels like the music inside my heart. I love lots of styles of music, but it's those artists who occasionally touch their blues and R&B roots that really get under my skin. Patti Smith uses it, Van Morrison does, the Beatles do . . . and the Animals do almost nothing else. It's fantastic. I can hardly recommend this album more. I hope it's not just nostalgia talking. I really am crazy about this album. And I also appreciate how closely my sweetie listens when I talk about shit like this and how he remembers that I wanted this album and sought it out for me. Thanks, sweets.
-K
Friday, July 09, 2004
Spiderman and other life lessons
So, I saw the new Spiderman film yesterday. Unlike many of my peers, I was never really into superheroes or comic books (TankGirl and JTHM being exceptions), but I've always liked two in particular -- Wonder Woman and Spiderman. I liked the first film and I enjoyed this one, too, but sometimes I think too much. For example, I picked up some life lessons while watching. "Sometimes you have to give up on your dream to do what's right," says Spidey to Doc Ock. I think this is an important lesson. I may add it to my daily affirmations. Incidentally, I think this may only be true for supervillains, as Spiderman ends up getting his dream in the end.
Also, Spiderman teaches us that littering in mass quantities is acceptable as long as the litter is biodegradable. This web stuff -- he uses it to locomote, and I figure he shoots a web at about every fifth building, then leaves it hanging there, probably shooting 50 yards at a time, and that doesn't even include all the web he shoots out to stop bad guys, slow down speeding trains, etc. It's thick and strong enough to hold people in it, so I imagine this is more than a little fine string of fluff -- this is some major web lying around the city. Think about it.
Also, renewable energy sources are inherently evil. if you discover one you may as well kiss your family goodbye and throw yourself in the river. Don't even try it.
Wear masks. If you happen to be near your best friend, elderly aunt, or whomever when disaster strikes, and you disappear but return seconds later in a mask, no one will ever suspect a thing. Just because you have roughly the same build as the dude in the mask, just because you return shortly after he leaves, just because your voices are identical -- these things will not arouse suspicion in your nearest and dearest. (The alternate lesson here may be to hang around oblivious people.)
I took my niece to the movie, and in the spirit of "devil-may-care" that accompanies hanging out with teenagers, I ordered our popcorn with butter. I haven't done this in ten years, and now I remember why. It's DISGUSTING. Why don't they just give you a bottle of Wesson and a straw? Blech. I'm not anti-grease, I'm just anti-things that taste only of grease and nothing else.
When watching the previews, I noticed that about three of them used the same piece of classical choral music. The "here comes some drama" one. You know, "Ah, AHH-AHH." One of the upcoming films seems to be about two scuba divers who get stranded in the ocean (Ah, AHH-AHH). The camera dips underwater to show a shark, then up to show two bobbing heads, down to a jelly fish, up to bobbing heads, down to, um, electric eels and up to bobbing heads, down to snapping turtles, bobbing heads and so on. It looks really stupid. Too bad the camera can't pan to the dangers of dehydration (Ah, AHH-AHH) since that'd probably get them first. Based on a true story about some dudes who went scuba diving one time. If there's a love story, I think we should throw rotten fruit in the theatre.
Another movie that looked stupid was one where some big actor tries to steal the Declaration of Independence because it has a secret Masonic code on the back that leads to treasure and various bad guys also want it . . . What cracks me up is that I read a summary of this film somewhere a couple weeks back and thought the review was a parody on all those conspiracy theory/DaVinci Code things out there. I laughed then, thinking "Oh, ha ha, that is indeed an over the top parody of this ridiculous fever for all things coded." Now, I'm worried.
Speaking of the DaVinci Code, I gave it to my dad for father's day, 'cause he likes the mysteries, and on Amazon they were selling it with "Angels and Demons" by the same dude. I gave Dad both books and he lent me "Angels . . ." yesterday, so I started reading it. I'm a little captivated by the mystery (although I think Umberto Eco did all this better twenty years ago), but some of the writing is just for shit. Here's an example: "The brotherhood endures," he thought, "tonight they will surface to reveal their power." As he made his way through the streets, his black eyes gleamed with foreboding. One of the most covert and feared fraternities ever to walk the earth had called on him for service. "They have chosen wisely," he thought. His reputation for secrecy was exceeded only by that of his deadliness.
My hairdresser, god bless her, is the slowest on earth. I'm not kidding when I say that it took 3 hours and 15 minutes for her to put a few highlights in and give me a trim today. She's a perfectionist, and she does a great job, so I'm not complaining, but I do kind of wish I didn't have to set aside an entire day for a haircut.
Vangyna did not pass smog. I'm not sure what to do, so I'll have to talk to the girls on Sunday. On the bright side, the guy didn't charge me, he just told me to get it fixed and come back. He also estimated that fixing it would cost "only $800 to $1200." Oh good! Let me just fish around in my couch . . . Hey wait! That's a lot of money! In fact, we only paid $1000 for the van in the first place. Bummer.
My mom is on vacation, so I'm watering her plants, and she has a stupid hose. It's coiled up like a telephone cord, and, like a phone cord, coils up on itself and tangles and gets shorter and shorter no matter how much you yank on it. Have you ever found yourself hunched over the phone, six inches from the base because the cord was too tangled to stretch out? It's like that.
I need to find a sneaky way to get all my baking supplies out of the house tomorrow so I can bake my roomie a happy 27th birthday German's Chocolate Cake. (If you're interested, it's not German at all, like from Germany. It was created by a guy whose last name was German, so when you buy the chocolate bar it's called "German's Sweet Chocolate.")
All for now, although there's always trivial shit flowing around in my brain cavity. See you soon. Oh, and I'm eleven elevenths done with summer school. Whoopee!
Also, Spiderman teaches us that littering in mass quantities is acceptable as long as the litter is biodegradable. This web stuff -- he uses it to locomote, and I figure he shoots a web at about every fifth building, then leaves it hanging there, probably shooting 50 yards at a time, and that doesn't even include all the web he shoots out to stop bad guys, slow down speeding trains, etc. It's thick and strong enough to hold people in it, so I imagine this is more than a little fine string of fluff -- this is some major web lying around the city. Think about it.
Also, renewable energy sources are inherently evil. if you discover one you may as well kiss your family goodbye and throw yourself in the river. Don't even try it.
Wear masks. If you happen to be near your best friend, elderly aunt, or whomever when disaster strikes, and you disappear but return seconds later in a mask, no one will ever suspect a thing. Just because you have roughly the same build as the dude in the mask, just because you return shortly after he leaves, just because your voices are identical -- these things will not arouse suspicion in your nearest and dearest. (The alternate lesson here may be to hang around oblivious people.)
I took my niece to the movie, and in the spirit of "devil-may-care" that accompanies hanging out with teenagers, I ordered our popcorn with butter. I haven't done this in ten years, and now I remember why. It's DISGUSTING. Why don't they just give you a bottle of Wesson and a straw? Blech. I'm not anti-grease, I'm just anti-things that taste only of grease and nothing else.
When watching the previews, I noticed that about three of them used the same piece of classical choral music. The "here comes some drama" one. You know, "Ah, AHH-AHH." One of the upcoming films seems to be about two scuba divers who get stranded in the ocean (Ah, AHH-AHH). The camera dips underwater to show a shark, then up to show two bobbing heads, down to a jelly fish, up to bobbing heads, down to, um, electric eels and up to bobbing heads, down to snapping turtles, bobbing heads and so on. It looks really stupid. Too bad the camera can't pan to the dangers of dehydration (Ah, AHH-AHH) since that'd probably get them first. Based on a true story about some dudes who went scuba diving one time. If there's a love story, I think we should throw rotten fruit in the theatre.
Another movie that looked stupid was one where some big actor tries to steal the Declaration of Independence because it has a secret Masonic code on the back that leads to treasure and various bad guys also want it . . . What cracks me up is that I read a summary of this film somewhere a couple weeks back and thought the review was a parody on all those conspiracy theory/DaVinci Code things out there. I laughed then, thinking "Oh, ha ha, that is indeed an over the top parody of this ridiculous fever for all things coded." Now, I'm worried.
Speaking of the DaVinci Code, I gave it to my dad for father's day, 'cause he likes the mysteries, and on Amazon they were selling it with "Angels and Demons" by the same dude. I gave Dad both books and he lent me "Angels . . ." yesterday, so I started reading it. I'm a little captivated by the mystery (although I think Umberto Eco did all this better twenty years ago), but some of the writing is just for shit. Here's an example: "The brotherhood endures," he thought, "tonight they will surface to reveal their power." As he made his way through the streets, his black eyes gleamed with foreboding. One of the most covert and feared fraternities ever to walk the earth had called on him for service. "They have chosen wisely," he thought. His reputation for secrecy was exceeded only by that of his deadliness.
My hairdresser, god bless her, is the slowest on earth. I'm not kidding when I say that it took 3 hours and 15 minutes for her to put a few highlights in and give me a trim today. She's a perfectionist, and she does a great job, so I'm not complaining, but I do kind of wish I didn't have to set aside an entire day for a haircut.
Vangyna did not pass smog. I'm not sure what to do, so I'll have to talk to the girls on Sunday. On the bright side, the guy didn't charge me, he just told me to get it fixed and come back. He also estimated that fixing it would cost "only $800 to $1200." Oh good! Let me just fish around in my couch . . . Hey wait! That's a lot of money! In fact, we only paid $1000 for the van in the first place. Bummer.
My mom is on vacation, so I'm watering her plants, and she has a stupid hose. It's coiled up like a telephone cord, and, like a phone cord, coils up on itself and tangles and gets shorter and shorter no matter how much you yank on it. Have you ever found yourself hunched over the phone, six inches from the base because the cord was too tangled to stretch out? It's like that.
I need to find a sneaky way to get all my baking supplies out of the house tomorrow so I can bake my roomie a happy 27th birthday German's Chocolate Cake. (If you're interested, it's not German at all, like from Germany. It was created by a guy whose last name was German, so when you buy the chocolate bar it's called "German's Sweet Chocolate.")
All for now, although there's always trivial shit flowing around in my brain cavity. See you soon. Oh, and I'm eleven elevenths done with summer school. Whoopee!
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Nothing much
I don't have a helluva lot to say, so I'll just ramble a little.
VANGYNA
I took the band van to get tires today. Now I have to smog it and register it and it will be a usable van again. I thought about trying to get the personalized license plate "VANGYNA" as a surprise for the girls, but I'm not sure how much it costs, and we're a little strapped anyway. I'll just be happy to have it working again, and I've moved it up in the driveway so my roommate can park in the driveway, too (just in time for our street resurfacing).
BOOKS
I went a little book crazy this weekend. I started with "The Autograph Man" by Zadie Smith. I really enjoyed her first book, "White Teeth," and I liked this one as well. Then I read David Sedaris' new book, "Dress Your Family in Denim and corduroy." Hilarious, as ever. Today I finished Chuck Palahniuk's "Lullaby." Of all his books, I think "Invisible Monsters" is the creepiest, but this one is lurking not far behind. And this is embarrassing, but I actually don't remember the fourth book I read. Last week was Augusten Burroughs' "Dry." Oh well, I don't even know what else I read. Maybe my sweetie will remember.
I'm done. Bye bye.
VANGYNA
I took the band van to get tires today. Now I have to smog it and register it and it will be a usable van again. I thought about trying to get the personalized license plate "VANGYNA" as a surprise for the girls, but I'm not sure how much it costs, and we're a little strapped anyway. I'll just be happy to have it working again, and I've moved it up in the driveway so my roommate can park in the driveway, too (just in time for our street resurfacing).
BOOKS
I went a little book crazy this weekend. I started with "The Autograph Man" by Zadie Smith. I really enjoyed her first book, "White Teeth," and I liked this one as well. Then I read David Sedaris' new book, "Dress Your Family in Denim and corduroy." Hilarious, as ever. Today I finished Chuck Palahniuk's "Lullaby." Of all his books, I think "Invisible Monsters" is the creepiest, but this one is lurking not far behind. And this is embarrassing, but I actually don't remember the fourth book I read. Last week was Augusten Burroughs' "Dry." Oh well, I don't even know what else I read. Maybe my sweetie will remember.
I'm done. Bye bye.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Jinxed it!
I rarely use my air conditioner, even though sweetie says we live in infernoville. My house is dark and cave-like, so it is pretty well insulated against the heat. However, when it's 100 outside all day, the house does get hot. So last night I turned on the unit and said to my roommate "The home inspector said this was 'at the end of its useful life,' but I only use it a few days a year, so I'm not worried." Well, I believe I should have knocked wood or something, because we left the damnable thing on all night, and last night when we retired, it was 80 in the house, and this morning when I woke up, it was 75 in the house. I have a lot of other expenses right now (trying to get a dent fixed in my car and two new tires on the band van as well as saving for two trips), but I hope when I do need to fix it it's just a freon issue, not a completely dead system. It was blowing air out, it was just air that was about 80 degrees. So for now I guess I have to continue to be addicted to the fans.
Also, I just got to school, and my copies aren't made, so I can't give the test I was planning for today. I think I'll go put them on overheads and just make everybody deal with it. Still, I can't complain too much, because I just had a 4-day weekend, and I only work three days this week. Hee hee.
Also, I just got to school, and my copies aren't made, so I can't give the test I was planning for today. I think I'll go put them on overheads and just make everybody deal with it. Still, I can't complain too much, because I just had a 4-day weekend, and I only work three days this week. Hee hee.
Monday, July 05, 2004
Oh, Davis, Davis, Davis
The city of Davis, California has an incredible farmer's market. Like, never mind just fresh fruits and veggies at low prices. Forget the occasional olive oil or red wine. The Davis farmer's market has baba ghanoush, homemade pesto, 8 varieties of tortillas at one stand, homemade pickles, hand-made tamales (about 6 varieties, two of them vegetarian), heirloom tomatoes in infinite varieties, golden raspberries, alcoholic beverages I've never heard of, fresh kettle corn . . . anyway, I decided to go the other day, and I got a bunch of good stuff, including a big bag of zucchini, which I used to make zucchini bread (which was delicious). But that's not the story. No, the story is about the journey.
You see, Davis has some kind of juju on it to repel and confuse travelers. Here is my evidence. ONE: There is a fork in the road right at the entrance to the city that divides into three prongs. One goes slightly left, another goes right, and another goes far right. Every person who lives in Davis, when giving you directions, tells you to go straight here. If you choose the logical direction, left (which is the fewest number of degrees off dead center) you get hopelessly lost on the campus of UC Davis. What they really mean is to go right. TWO: There is a grid (ABC, 123), but it's only about 5 blocks square, and beyond that the city is a rat maze. THREE: Most of the streets change names every two blocks or so, so that you'll be driving along, say Lindale, and all of a sudden you'll look up and realize you're on University. Just as you look up at the next street sign to see of you saw right or if the other sign was somehow fucked up, you'll find that now you're on Cornell. FOUR: The street signs are non-reflective, so that while you can see them okay during the day, at night you are shit out of luck. They are absolutely illegible. FIVE: Approximately half of the street signs are either obscured by trees or missing altogether. SIX: Much like the colon, there is only one exit to the city of Davis, and the signs that say "To 80," are located right on it, and nowhere else in town, including two blocks away. SEVEN: The signs are often (seemingly purposely) obfuscating. For example -- I missed my freeway exit and ended up on campus at UC Davis. I decided to try to get to downtown on the surface streets, because it's about a mile and perfectly parallel to the freeway. I quickly ran into a fork in the road, with a sign that said "Downtown Davis" and an arrow pointing straight up, which universally seems to mean "Go straight ahead." About a block later I hit a dead end in a parking lot. I circled back to where I started and, just on a hunch, followed the sign pointing left, which said "Arboretum," and about thirty seconds later I was in downtown.
QED.
You see, Davis has some kind of juju on it to repel and confuse travelers. Here is my evidence. ONE: There is a fork in the road right at the entrance to the city that divides into three prongs. One goes slightly left, another goes right, and another goes far right. Every person who lives in Davis, when giving you directions, tells you to go straight here. If you choose the logical direction, left (which is the fewest number of degrees off dead center) you get hopelessly lost on the campus of UC Davis. What they really mean is to go right. TWO: There is a grid (ABC, 123), but it's only about 5 blocks square, and beyond that the city is a rat maze. THREE: Most of the streets change names every two blocks or so, so that you'll be driving along, say Lindale, and all of a sudden you'll look up and realize you're on University. Just as you look up at the next street sign to see of you saw right or if the other sign was somehow fucked up, you'll find that now you're on Cornell. FOUR: The street signs are non-reflective, so that while you can see them okay during the day, at night you are shit out of luck. They are absolutely illegible. FIVE: Approximately half of the street signs are either obscured by trees or missing altogether. SIX: Much like the colon, there is only one exit to the city of Davis, and the signs that say "To 80," are located right on it, and nowhere else in town, including two blocks away. SEVEN: The signs are often (seemingly purposely) obfuscating. For example -- I missed my freeway exit and ended up on campus at UC Davis. I decided to try to get to downtown on the surface streets, because it's about a mile and perfectly parallel to the freeway. I quickly ran into a fork in the road, with a sign that said "Downtown Davis" and an arrow pointing straight up, which universally seems to mean "Go straight ahead." About a block later I hit a dead end in a parking lot. I circled back to where I started and, just on a hunch, followed the sign pointing left, which said "Arboretum," and about thirty seconds later I was in downtown.
QED.
Saturday, July 03, 2004
Buckwheat says Otay!
So, I stay about two nights a week at Piggs' pen (actually it's more like a pin, as in "neat as a . . ."), and sleep on the futon mattress on the floor. Now, never mind that a professional in his thirties should OWN A BED BY NOW, this is actually about the pillow. See, my neck and shoulders ache, and I'm super-tired because of the pillow situation. The, um, guest pillow is down, which I'm allergic to (never mind the stabby little quills). I wheeze and cough, but it's taken care of by my good old rescue inhaler most nights. On the last two nights, though, I've forgotten the inhaler, so to allow myself and the Pigglestien to sleep (meaning, no non-stop coughing) I tried switching pillows. There is one other pillow on the bed (well, usually jammed between the mattress and the wall), and it is filled with, of all things, buckwheat. Well, I don't know whose brilliant I idea it was to fill pillows with buckwheat, but my guess is the Japanese. They are, after all, the ones who came up with that paragon of discomfort, the futon, as well as the tatami mat, which basically is Japanese for "sleepin' on the floor." Anyway, this buckwheat pillow -- well, on the pillow comfort scale, with floating on a cloud in heaven being 10, Swedish tempur-pedic thermo-cushy goodness being 9, and an anvil, rock, or curb being 1, the buckwheat pillow is about a two. Once, I went camping at a hot springs in March. I'd been dipping in the springs, and my hair was wet, and I realized I'd forgotten to pack a pillow. I therefore wadded up my laundry, wet towel and all, and put my wet head on it all in the 40-something degree weather. That wad of wet laundry was significantly more comfortable than the buckwheat pillow. So several times last night, I tried to remedy the situation by switching pillows. For a while I used a stuffed plush shark. It actually would rate about a 6, but for its asymmetry. Anyway, that meant I kept waking up and scooting around to figure out how to get more comfortable. Anyway, today I took a pillow from my house over to the Pen, a nice pillow, an 8. And HE CAN"T USE IT!
On a nicer note, he bought me a present today -- Tetris! I haven't bought it for myself to this point, because I can remember being in my early teens and training myself not to blink for what seemed like hours on end, getting to levels 9, 10, 11, and even 12, where the music is so fast that I think it can cause heart palpitations. I'm a little afraid of what will happen if I am left alone with Tetris for too long.
Incidentally, I was trying to remember just when my addiction to vintage clothes came about. I have to recant something I said the other day about not having many vintage pieces, because I actually have 19 when I count them. Anyway, I have always liked the look of, say June Cleaver, and even more so the Marilyn Monroe and Rosalind Russel wardrobes, but I don't think that alone would have done it. But my grandmother has hung on to a lot of her old dresses for a while, and I used to ask to try them on when I was younger. Well, my very first vintage dress was one of hers -- an orange and brown flowered minidress from the 70s that, as it happens, my mom made. My figure is a lot like my grandma's except that I'm 6 inches taller, so her clothes generally fit me, but are shorter on me. So that dress was the start of it all. A few years later, when I was going to punk shows, I started seeing the punk rock girls in vintage dresses with lunchboxes for handbags and clunky blask shoes. I sort of hated them, because I thought if you were punk, you should dress punk, just like the boys (and I did). But there was also a part of me that really loved the dresses, and when I was 19 or 20, I moved to an old Victorian in midtown that was about two blocks from It's About Time, a vintage clothing store with great prices, a wonderful selection, and an owner who kept her eye out for plus-size dresses for me. On one occasion, they had gotten most of someone's estate, and I picked up 6 or 7 dresses at once for a bargain. At that point, I wasn't going to shows as much, and stopped caring what a real punk should dress like and started dressing to please myself. Those dresses were a big part of it. I love the feminine touches, the swingy skirts, and how I don't look anything like anyone else out there. I'm doing a photo shoot next Monday in some of my vintage dresses -- pin-up photos in the style of Gil Elvgren. I think it'll be fun. I'm rambling now. --K
On a nicer note, he bought me a present today -- Tetris! I haven't bought it for myself to this point, because I can remember being in my early teens and training myself not to blink for what seemed like hours on end, getting to levels 9, 10, 11, and even 12, where the music is so fast that I think it can cause heart palpitations. I'm a little afraid of what will happen if I am left alone with Tetris for too long.
Incidentally, I was trying to remember just when my addiction to vintage clothes came about. I have to recant something I said the other day about not having many vintage pieces, because I actually have 19 when I count them. Anyway, I have always liked the look of, say June Cleaver, and even more so the Marilyn Monroe and Rosalind Russel wardrobes, but I don't think that alone would have done it. But my grandmother has hung on to a lot of her old dresses for a while, and I used to ask to try them on when I was younger. Well, my very first vintage dress was one of hers -- an orange and brown flowered minidress from the 70s that, as it happens, my mom made. My figure is a lot like my grandma's except that I'm 6 inches taller, so her clothes generally fit me, but are shorter on me. So that dress was the start of it all. A few years later, when I was going to punk shows, I started seeing the punk rock girls in vintage dresses with lunchboxes for handbags and clunky blask shoes. I sort of hated them, because I thought if you were punk, you should dress punk, just like the boys (and I did). But there was also a part of me that really loved the dresses, and when I was 19 or 20, I moved to an old Victorian in midtown that was about two blocks from It's About Time, a vintage clothing store with great prices, a wonderful selection, and an owner who kept her eye out for plus-size dresses for me. On one occasion, they had gotten most of someone's estate, and I picked up 6 or 7 dresses at once for a bargain. At that point, I wasn't going to shows as much, and stopped caring what a real punk should dress like and started dressing to please myself. Those dresses were a big part of it. I love the feminine touches, the swingy skirts, and how I don't look anything like anyone else out there. I'm doing a photo shoot next Monday in some of my vintage dresses -- pin-up photos in the style of Gil Elvgren. I think it'll be fun. I'm rambling now. --K
Thursday, July 01, 2004
I think I had something good . . .
on my mind to blog about earlier, but now I can't remember. It's circling there under the surface . . . wait for it . . . NO! It's on the coffee table! Okay, so yesterday I'm waiting for the UPS man (another story, the bastard), and roomie says she'll be here to wait, so I decide to go shopping -- YAY! I got the cutest fucking vintage dress and two vintage nighties. Anyway, I ate dinner at one of my favorite pizza joints, Pieces. I sat down at a shady table that had a magazine laying on it, and I noticed an ad for a band on the back -- and funny, the band was R3D TAP3. The singer/guitarist (and founding member) of the band is a friend of mine. I haven't seen him for a while, but we used to be good friends (we went skydiving together, even). Well, his band has acheived some success recently, and I've known them since early on. I was happy to see this professional-looking ad on the back of a glossy magazine, so out of curiosity, I turn the magazine over to see what it is, and it turns out I know the magazine, too! It's Short Bus, which started out as a tiny zine, and grew to a much larger thing, but still on newsprint, and now it's got a glossy cover. Wow!
Short Bus actually makes me feel a little inbred -- my roommate and her best friend helped start the magazine, writing features for it. My guitarist is good friends with the editor. Another friend dated a features writer. Then the Short Bus people started covering my band, and we showed up all over the mag. Funny.
On the vintage clothes thing -- they are really my favorite things to wear. They make me feel so good. A few years ago, I had a pretty large collection of vintage dresses, but then I dropped about 8 dress sizes, and no matter how I tried to make it work, those dresses looked plain bad on me. But I haven't really built up a collection again, so I have only a few items that still fit (well, I have a bunch of 70s stuff, but the 50s stuff is what really floats my boat) and I few that I pretend fit and hang on to because of that. Anyway, I would really like to get a nice collection going again. I think I shall.
I ate at La Bou today, and there was a long line, and in the express sandwich thing was this sandwich I love with avocado, chevre cheese and apples. Unfortunately, it also has mayonnaise. So I wait out the long line to get a sandwich made for me with no mayo. But they put mayo on it anyway! GRRR!!!! Mayonnaise is yucky! Blech.
Oh, Steve and Bowman (if you read this), Piggs said I should ask you what I should do regarding my gigantic music collection. Obviously, it will not all fit on my hard drive (I have 600+ CDs), but I have trouble picking and choosing what to rip. Any suggestions?
Short Bus actually makes me feel a little inbred -- my roommate and her best friend helped start the magazine, writing features for it. My guitarist is good friends with the editor. Another friend dated a features writer. Then the Short Bus people started covering my band, and we showed up all over the mag. Funny.
On the vintage clothes thing -- they are really my favorite things to wear. They make me feel so good. A few years ago, I had a pretty large collection of vintage dresses, but then I dropped about 8 dress sizes, and no matter how I tried to make it work, those dresses looked plain bad on me. But I haven't really built up a collection again, so I have only a few items that still fit (well, I have a bunch of 70s stuff, but the 50s stuff is what really floats my boat) and I few that I pretend fit and hang on to because of that. Anyway, I would really like to get a nice collection going again. I think I shall.
I ate at La Bou today, and there was a long line, and in the express sandwich thing was this sandwich I love with avocado, chevre cheese and apples. Unfortunately, it also has mayonnaise. So I wait out the long line to get a sandwich made for me with no mayo. But they put mayo on it anyway! GRRR!!!! Mayonnaise is yucky! Blech.
Oh, Steve and Bowman (if you read this), Piggs said I should ask you what I should do regarding my gigantic music collection. Obviously, it will not all fit on my hard drive (I have 600+ CDs), but I have trouble picking and choosing what to rip. Any suggestions?
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