As I walked into work, way too goddamn early this morning, two young men walked out of the porn store on First. They stood outside the door and one of them lit up a cigarette. I'm assuming they worked there, but why an all night adult video and paraphernalia store would need two clerks was a bit of a mystery; security maybe. The smoker saw me passing and gave me a hearty "good morning" which I really wasn't expecting.
Friendly, early morning porn clerks are heartening in a way.
I had been thinking to myself on the walk home last night, passing another adult store and strip bar further up on First, closer to Pike Place Market, that these places could be facing trouble soon.
See, Seattle is like an adolescent as far as cities go. Seattle had spent a number of years as a smaller, sort of homier city, but it is now sprouting quickly; it's growing too big for its clothes just after they've been purchased, eating all the peanut butter, drinking all the milk, sprouting hair in places it didn't exist before. The problem I'm having is that the force pushing this growth seems to be greedy, suck-face property developers who have no qualms with dashing away those small things that characterize the city and are replacing them with the acne of ugly, generic and tacky condominiums. They're showing up here faster than a carton of Ben and Jerry's disappears in a room full of stoners.
Adult bookstores and strip clubs tend to be relegated to the "shabbier" parts of town, parts of town that don't necessarily attract the "respectable" folk. But, so much of the city is being "renovated" (I'm using a lot of quotation marks today), that the adult themed places are now in ritzier digs. The video store with the joyfully awake clerk is steps away from a new hotel and fancy restaurant. The old and charmingly raunchy peepshow booth palace, "The Lusty Lady", now sits next to a gaping, open lot which will soon be the home of a luxury high rise. I wonder how much pressure these places find to pack up their wares and peddle them where the buildings aren't so shiny, where there are more poorly lit corner markets specializing in selling cigarettes and Mad Dog 20/20.
Seattle's a funky city in a lot of ways though, perhaps these seemingly disparate elements can exist side by side; like Velveeta next to Brie, like Larry The Cable Guy: Health Inspector next to La Boheme, like sex toys next to Pan Asian fusion cuisine.
Zeptember song of the day: To close it out, to end it on a pounding drum beat and almost harrowing harmonica workout, the final Zeptember selection will be When The Levee Breaks. Love it.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
I Know It Wasn't The 29 Sunset
I was walking down the street the other day and was shocked out of reverie by a passing bus. Those two metal poles that connect a bus to the overhead electrical wires bounced and clanged as they tend to do, and I immediately remembered something that I had temporarily blocked out; a night that I came ridiculously close to seeing this ridiculous life flash out and end.
While many people bitched about it, I heart the public transit in San Francisco. I was taking a film class at City College and was taking Muni from work to school, and then from school back home; the K Ingleside to be exact, down to Market where I could either walk or catch a number of options back up to the Haight.
So one night after class, I was standing at the stop beneath a large pedestrian walkway on Ocean, listening to music on my headphones per usual. There was no one else there, which is interesting as there were usually at least 2 or 3 other Muni enthusiasts waiting there, usually casting furtive glances my way as if their eyes were sending shy and twitchy messengers to ask if I was going to hurt them.
So alone, on Ocean Boulevard, deaf to all but (what I'm assuming was) T. Rex strutting along in my ears, and a bus that was not meant for me comes racing through. It was probably a 49 Van Ness or a 54 Felton (that was specifically for you Mercedes), but those funny metal antennae somehow bounced wrong or something, because suddenly all hell broke loose.
I heard that movie sound effect specific sound of wires snapping with a laser-like 'ping', and watched in slow motion as the wires which provided power to the electric busses came crashing down onto Ocean Avenue, sparking. I had a moment to realize that this is probably where I'm going to die, on a shitty section of a shitty street in a fairly lame part of San Francisco. I wasn't going to stroke out on blow and rough sex as my 3rd grade teacher had predicted.
I had enough sense, by the way, to cover my head with my hands. Because apparently that's how helpful my fight or flight instincts are, stand there like a friggin' moron and cover your useless head.
Everything settled down fairly quickly, and I stood there with what I assume was a gaping mouth and the sort of eyes you see on a vet that's been in the shit. A rather rotund female driver came out of the bus that had stopped after causing all of this destruction. She saw me standing there and asked, "Did another bus come through here and do this?"
I just looked at her with those shell shocked eyes and yelled, "No! You did this! You drove through, and all of a sudden there's sparking electrical wires all around me and all over the road!" She got back in to the bus and closed the door.
For the life of me, I cannot remember how I got home that night. I must have walked down to the BART station, I don't know. But ever since then, there's been a little twitch in my system, a small urge to cover my head with my hands, when I hear those bus poles jump on the line.
Zeptember song of the day: In My Time Of Dying
While many people bitched about it, I heart the public transit in San Francisco. I was taking a film class at City College and was taking Muni from work to school, and then from school back home; the K Ingleside to be exact, down to Market where I could either walk or catch a number of options back up to the Haight.
So one night after class, I was standing at the stop beneath a large pedestrian walkway on Ocean, listening to music on my headphones per usual. There was no one else there, which is interesting as there were usually at least 2 or 3 other Muni enthusiasts waiting there, usually casting furtive glances my way as if their eyes were sending shy and twitchy messengers to ask if I was going to hurt them.
So alone, on Ocean Boulevard, deaf to all but (what I'm assuming was) T. Rex strutting along in my ears, and a bus that was not meant for me comes racing through. It was probably a 49 Van Ness or a 54 Felton (that was specifically for you Mercedes), but those funny metal antennae somehow bounced wrong or something, because suddenly all hell broke loose.
I heard that movie sound effect specific sound of wires snapping with a laser-like 'ping', and watched in slow motion as the wires which provided power to the electric busses came crashing down onto Ocean Avenue, sparking. I had a moment to realize that this is probably where I'm going to die, on a shitty section of a shitty street in a fairly lame part of San Francisco. I wasn't going to stroke out on blow and rough sex as my 3rd grade teacher had predicted.
I had enough sense, by the way, to cover my head with my hands. Because apparently that's how helpful my fight or flight instincts are, stand there like a friggin' moron and cover your useless head.
Everything settled down fairly quickly, and I stood there with what I assume was a gaping mouth and the sort of eyes you see on a vet that's been in the shit. A rather rotund female driver came out of the bus that had stopped after causing all of this destruction. She saw me standing there and asked, "Did another bus come through here and do this?"
I just looked at her with those shell shocked eyes and yelled, "No! You did this! You drove through, and all of a sudden there's sparking electrical wires all around me and all over the road!" She got back in to the bus and closed the door.
For the life of me, I cannot remember how I got home that night. I must have walked down to the BART station, I don't know. But ever since then, there's been a little twitch in my system, a small urge to cover my head with my hands, when I hear those bus poles jump on the line.
Zeptember song of the day: In My Time Of Dying
Thursday, September 28, 2006
It's All In The Slow Burn Seduction And Kisses
So, I was talking to Kelly Bean this morning about prostitutes.
Part of me wants to offer up more explanation to that sentence, but a greater part want to just let it ride. Anyway, I had asked her if I seemed like the sort of person who would go to a prostitute. She said I seemed like the sort of person who in the past had gotten a little nutty, and the possibility is always there.
I will say for the record, I have never entertained the idea of paying for a prostitute. I've never fantasized about it, nor has it occurred to me that it's something you can just do. I remember realizing that you could get Whip-Its at the "tobacco" shop up the street and sitting at home thinking, "shit, I can just go up the street and get some hippy crack to do!" It was a large moment. And while I know where there are prostitutes, I've never had that moment of, "shit, I can just go down and pay for some quick and dirty sex."
I’m certainly not a prude, my issue with it, aside from the health issues and denigration of women, is that for something to be sexy to me, for something to be erotic, the other person needs to be into it. Not faking it for money, but they want to be there, at that moment, with me. Sorry to be so frank here, but my imagination works really well and if there's a need for quick, one way sex, I've known how to masturbate for well over 20 years now, I do it well... And I guess this is why strippers bug the piss out of me, I find nothing - and let me say this isn't just a politically correct, left-leaning man talking here - I mean nothing, titillating or erotic about strippers. I've never had that typical and idiotic male fantasy of wanting to date a stripper or porn star.
And while it's on my mind, let's talk about the movie Pretty Woman for a second. What the fuck? A rich guy gets a prostitute, a pretty prostitute, and trains her and dresses her up to pretend to be a well-heeled lady. He then marries this prostitute.
Okay, seriously, read that synopsis again.
Disney released this movie; an updated Cinderella story, literally. Cinderella was an overworked younger sister (with mice for friends) though, not a whore selling sex for money. There's a moment I remember quite clearly when I moved into the house in Santa Barbara, and that's Corado thanking me for not dragging a video copy of Pretty Woman into the house. His point was that at the time, nearly everyone had a copy of this movie. And I guess the movie gives a nice ending to a hooker's story rather than what typically happens with a death on the streets due to ill health, overdose or murder.
And here comes my nicely outlined summary to this post:
1) **Obligatory Back-Peddling** If a woman (or man) wants to be a prostitute, so be it. I think it's a little sad, but then there are plenty of people who think that adjusting bogus damage claims for a corporation is a little sad - myself included. And hey, I too am selling my time for money...
2) I don't find the idea of sex with a hooker entertaining, not even for the "forbidden" factor.
3) Pretty Woman sucks ass.
Zeptember song of the day: Whole Lotta Love.
Part of me wants to offer up more explanation to that sentence, but a greater part want to just let it ride. Anyway, I had asked her if I seemed like the sort of person who would go to a prostitute. She said I seemed like the sort of person who in the past had gotten a little nutty, and the possibility is always there.
I will say for the record, I have never entertained the idea of paying for a prostitute. I've never fantasized about it, nor has it occurred to me that it's something you can just do. I remember realizing that you could get Whip-Its at the "tobacco" shop up the street and sitting at home thinking, "shit, I can just go up the street and get some hippy crack to do!" It was a large moment. And while I know where there are prostitutes, I've never had that moment of, "shit, I can just go down and pay for some quick and dirty sex."
I’m certainly not a prude, my issue with it, aside from the health issues and denigration of women, is that for something to be sexy to me, for something to be erotic, the other person needs to be into it. Not faking it for money, but they want to be there, at that moment, with me. Sorry to be so frank here, but my imagination works really well and if there's a need for quick, one way sex, I've known how to masturbate for well over 20 years now, I do it well... And I guess this is why strippers bug the piss out of me, I find nothing - and let me say this isn't just a politically correct, left-leaning man talking here - I mean nothing, titillating or erotic about strippers. I've never had that typical and idiotic male fantasy of wanting to date a stripper or porn star.
And while it's on my mind, let's talk about the movie Pretty Woman for a second. What the fuck? A rich guy gets a prostitute, a pretty prostitute, and trains her and dresses her up to pretend to be a well-heeled lady. He then marries this prostitute.
Okay, seriously, read that synopsis again.
Disney released this movie; an updated Cinderella story, literally. Cinderella was an overworked younger sister (with mice for friends) though, not a whore selling sex for money. There's a moment I remember quite clearly when I moved into the house in Santa Barbara, and that's Corado thanking me for not dragging a video copy of Pretty Woman into the house. His point was that at the time, nearly everyone had a copy of this movie. And I guess the movie gives a nice ending to a hooker's story rather than what typically happens with a death on the streets due to ill health, overdose or murder.
And here comes my nicely outlined summary to this post:
1) **Obligatory Back-Peddling** If a woman (or man) wants to be a prostitute, so be it. I think it's a little sad, but then there are plenty of people who think that adjusting bogus damage claims for a corporation is a little sad - myself included. And hey, I too am selling my time for money...
2) I don't find the idea of sex with a hooker entertaining, not even for the "forbidden" factor.
3) Pretty Woman sucks ass.
Zeptember song of the day: Whole Lotta Love.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
There Was This Girl Who Wanted To Be A Talk Show Host
Fall will probably always remind me, for the rest of my life, of going back to school; it reminds me of Chico. I don't know, there's something about fall and college campuses that just go together like whisky and my belly.
I think about Chico often. It's not that it was necessarily a great time, in fact I remember being miserable quite a lot of it, but it was a necessary time. It was that time when you're trying to figure out who you are, when you’re taking your first trembling missteps as an adult.
The one particular night that always creeps up out of the memory murk, was the night of the spontaneous party. Amy Lou had a friend up visiting for a week and she was leaving the next day. We were sitting around the bargain rate kitchen table, covered by a Mexican blanket purchased on an ill advised trip to Tijuana, having cocktails and listening to music and talking and laughing and smoking...
As it was summer and hot, the windows were open, the sliding glass door to the porch was open. Rob and Colin, who lived upstairs, came home from their shifts at the Dairy Queen and hearing us conversing, walked on in. This was par for the course, they would often come down to sit around the porch and talk or watch a movie. But soon, the apartment was filled with people milling around and drinking. I'm not sure how it happened, one minute there was six of us, the next a party.
It was good, nothing out of hand. I remember a lot of laughing, a lot of Blue Curacao colored vodka shots. I remember someone coming up with the brilliant idea of letting a very drunk Colin shave parts of people's heads with my electric razor. I remember eventually settling down with about 7 other people into my bedroom, lit only by a strand of Christmas lights, and listening to a Grateful Dead show recorded in New York. A slow and full Friend Of The Devil had everyone singing along.
Somewhere around 4, people began drifting out. Amy Lou's friend and I laid on my bed and talked for a couple of hours, about her brother, about how she was unsure of what to do with her life, until I realized that it was near 7 and I had to drive myself to Sacramento to catch a plane to Seattle and see my family.
These are the nights I remember when I think about Chico, the easy going smiling no drama times. Memory is a liar, but a sweet one that dulls the edges with the passing years. I don't need to necessarily remember to dark days and bouts of depressions so well, I guess I have the scars.
Zeptember song of the day: Celebration Day
I think about Chico often. It's not that it was necessarily a great time, in fact I remember being miserable quite a lot of it, but it was a necessary time. It was that time when you're trying to figure out who you are, when you’re taking your first trembling missteps as an adult.
The one particular night that always creeps up out of the memory murk, was the night of the spontaneous party. Amy Lou had a friend up visiting for a week and she was leaving the next day. We were sitting around the bargain rate kitchen table, covered by a Mexican blanket purchased on an ill advised trip to Tijuana, having cocktails and listening to music and talking and laughing and smoking...
As it was summer and hot, the windows were open, the sliding glass door to the porch was open. Rob and Colin, who lived upstairs, came home from their shifts at the Dairy Queen and hearing us conversing, walked on in. This was par for the course, they would often come down to sit around the porch and talk or watch a movie. But soon, the apartment was filled with people milling around and drinking. I'm not sure how it happened, one minute there was six of us, the next a party.
It was good, nothing out of hand. I remember a lot of laughing, a lot of Blue Curacao colored vodka shots. I remember someone coming up with the brilliant idea of letting a very drunk Colin shave parts of people's heads with my electric razor. I remember eventually settling down with about 7 other people into my bedroom, lit only by a strand of Christmas lights, and listening to a Grateful Dead show recorded in New York. A slow and full Friend Of The Devil had everyone singing along.
Somewhere around 4, people began drifting out. Amy Lou's friend and I laid on my bed and talked for a couple of hours, about her brother, about how she was unsure of what to do with her life, until I realized that it was near 7 and I had to drive myself to Sacramento to catch a plane to Seattle and see my family.
These are the nights I remember when I think about Chico, the easy going smiling no drama times. Memory is a liar, but a sweet one that dulls the edges with the passing years. I don't need to necessarily remember to dark days and bouts of depressions so well, I guess I have the scars.
Zeptember song of the day: Celebration Day
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Haunted By The Words 'Stone Washed'
In my walk in to work today, in the early morning and dark hours, I was inordinately paranoid about being accosted by ruffians. I was then inordinately disturbed by my choice of the word "ruffians". I was then inundated with memories of the flash of my teen years in the eighties.
It all started with looking over to watch for traffic coming off of the Alaska Way Viaduct. From 1st, looking up towards that off ramp, you can only see the sky. If you get closer, you can see Elliott Bay and West Seattle, but that road into the dark sky reminded me of roads near the Pacific in Southern California. Roads like those on the Balboa peninsula that ended at the beach, roads that seemed to end at the eternity of the ocean.
I remembered this draining culture of conspicuous consumption, some of it hot on the tails of the previous "me" generation, but I'm sure living in Orange County just exacerbated the situation. I remembered kids at school, kids who didn't have jobs, dueling out their fashion wars with Guess and Maui and Sons. I remembered a hell of a lot of day-glo. I remembered a school parking lot with BMW's and Mercedes Benz', I remember a lot of freaking IROC-Z's.
I quietly realized that it all still happens, just new names, new faces. The need for assimilation is a dragon that never gets full, fashion is a machine that will never wear down.
I decided to remember those nights where I would escape to 6th Street in Balboa to sit in the car, listening to music and staring out into stretching black of the ocean. I remembered delving into music, making a conscious decision to not only rebel against the hair metal and manufactured bands that were suffocating the wires, but to push my own comfort levels of musical tastes. I remembered that rare Southern California rain that would come in a torrent and flood the streets; as if my soul felt the drought that the move south from here had caused, I would always find a way to be outside when that brief flood would fall, letting the rain soak me through.
I remembered feeling like I had all the answers, I just didn't know at the time that they were to the wrong questions.
Remember that, I said to myself as I walked past closed store windows and under blazing neon this morning. One thing that does change, constantly, is perspective, and one day most of the things that occupy my concerns now will seem trivial. I was watching the movie Brick (which I highly recommend by the way), an old school film noir set in modern day Southern California high school. I'm sure this started the ball rolling on this little trip down memory lane, but something the director said on the commentary really struck me. He mentioned that most films about high school are done from an adult perspective, that the film makers may remember the time accurately and fondly, but they realize that the decisions and actions of high school students aren't life and death - but real high school students don't in fact realize this.
Zeptember song of the day: Today, in true FM radio format, we're doing a "Two for Tuesday" today. The first is a request from the lovely Ms. Biffy, Bron-Y-Aur Stomp. The second is Fool In The Rain.
It all started with looking over to watch for traffic coming off of the Alaska Way Viaduct. From 1st, looking up towards that off ramp, you can only see the sky. If you get closer, you can see Elliott Bay and West Seattle, but that road into the dark sky reminded me of roads near the Pacific in Southern California. Roads like those on the Balboa peninsula that ended at the beach, roads that seemed to end at the eternity of the ocean.
I remembered this draining culture of conspicuous consumption, some of it hot on the tails of the previous "me" generation, but I'm sure living in Orange County just exacerbated the situation. I remembered kids at school, kids who didn't have jobs, dueling out their fashion wars with Guess and Maui and Sons. I remembered a hell of a lot of day-glo. I remembered a school parking lot with BMW's and Mercedes Benz', I remember a lot of freaking IROC-Z's.
I quietly realized that it all still happens, just new names, new faces. The need for assimilation is a dragon that never gets full, fashion is a machine that will never wear down.
I decided to remember those nights where I would escape to 6th Street in Balboa to sit in the car, listening to music and staring out into stretching black of the ocean. I remembered delving into music, making a conscious decision to not only rebel against the hair metal and manufactured bands that were suffocating the wires, but to push my own comfort levels of musical tastes. I remembered that rare Southern California rain that would come in a torrent and flood the streets; as if my soul felt the drought that the move south from here had caused, I would always find a way to be outside when that brief flood would fall, letting the rain soak me through.
I remembered feeling like I had all the answers, I just didn't know at the time that they were to the wrong questions.
Remember that, I said to myself as I walked past closed store windows and under blazing neon this morning. One thing that does change, constantly, is perspective, and one day most of the things that occupy my concerns now will seem trivial. I was watching the movie Brick (which I highly recommend by the way), an old school film noir set in modern day Southern California high school. I'm sure this started the ball rolling on this little trip down memory lane, but something the director said on the commentary really struck me. He mentioned that most films about high school are done from an adult perspective, that the film makers may remember the time accurately and fondly, but they realize that the decisions and actions of high school students aren't life and death - but real high school students don't in fact realize this.
Zeptember song of the day: Today, in true FM radio format, we're doing a "Two for Tuesday" today. The first is a request from the lovely Ms. Biffy, Bron-Y-Aur Stomp. The second is Fool In The Rain.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Dishes And A Graham Cracker Crust Are Next
Would it make this posting awkward if I told you I was doing it from the bathroom?
Today is Monday, is housework day, it is when I get on a ‘roid rage cleaning bender and end up frustrated at losing hours of the day by trying to do too many things at one time. I’m way easily distracted sometimes
The kitty corner house was having some loud ass party action last night. At one point after midnight there was a group countdown to something that my twisted mind could only imagine as filthy. I will only say that in my imagination it involved nakedness, scone batter and various penetrations of various kinds.
I really only got on here today to update today’s Zeptember song of the day. Today’s song, if not my absolute favorite Zeppelin song, is pretty goddamn high on the list...
Zeptember song of the day: Hey Hey What Can I Do?
Today is Monday, is housework day, it is when I get on a ‘roid rage cleaning bender and end up frustrated at losing hours of the day by trying to do too many things at one time. I’m way easily distracted sometimes
The kitty corner house was having some loud ass party action last night. At one point after midnight there was a group countdown to something that my twisted mind could only imagine as filthy. I will only say that in my imagination it involved nakedness, scone batter and various penetrations of various kinds.
I really only got on here today to update today’s Zeptember song of the day. Today’s song, if not my absolute favorite Zeppelin song, is pretty goddamn high on the list...
Zeptember song of the day: Hey Hey What Can I Do?
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Possum Able
Announcement, confession, statement: I do not like possums.
I generally consider myself a fan of animals. Even animals that others find revolting to the point of making loud declarations of repulsion over, like rats and spiders, I find okay. But possums freak my happy ass out.
I had never seen one as a child or in real life. I had seen comic strip versions of them and had always assumed that they were small creatures, shrew size, maybe getting to the size of your hand.
My move to California was troubling for many reasons, not the least of which was seeing my first real life possum. The fuckers are big, medium sized dog big. And if some mutant dino-rat had survived from some long ago epoch, this was them. This thing shambling along the ice plant on the side of a darkened road seemed like an affront not only to my sensibilities, but to nature, to America.
So today, down at the public market, some middle-aged fuckhead is walking around with a goddamn possum, cat sized this go round, in his arms like a baby.
I’m already not a fan of the novelty pet thing; thinking your striking and original because you have a ferret and not a bourgeois dog. But this guy has taken that juvenile idea and is calling some mutant ugly hell spawn his pet.
Hey dickface, if at forty something you still feel like you need the sort of attention that carrying a possum around a public street as if you were suckling an infant is bound to give you, then you may need to finally get over the fact daddy never understood you. You’re not creative, you’re not eccentrically different, you’re a douche bag.
Sorry, I said from the beginning that I do not like possums. Plus I’m a tad tired from staying out until 4 last night.
Zeptember song of the day: Over The Hills And Far Away
I generally consider myself a fan of animals. Even animals that others find revolting to the point of making loud declarations of repulsion over, like rats and spiders, I find okay. But possums freak my happy ass out.
I had never seen one as a child or in real life. I had seen comic strip versions of them and had always assumed that they were small creatures, shrew size, maybe getting to the size of your hand.
My move to California was troubling for many reasons, not the least of which was seeing my first real life possum. The fuckers are big, medium sized dog big. And if some mutant dino-rat had survived from some long ago epoch, this was them. This thing shambling along the ice plant on the side of a darkened road seemed like an affront not only to my sensibilities, but to nature, to America.
So today, down at the public market, some middle-aged fuckhead is walking around with a goddamn possum, cat sized this go round, in his arms like a baby.
I’m already not a fan of the novelty pet thing; thinking your striking and original because you have a ferret and not a bourgeois dog. But this guy has taken that juvenile idea and is calling some mutant ugly hell spawn his pet.
Hey dickface, if at forty something you still feel like you need the sort of attention that carrying a possum around a public street as if you were suckling an infant is bound to give you, then you may need to finally get over the fact daddy never understood you. You’re not creative, you’re not eccentrically different, you’re a douche bag.
Sorry, I said from the beginning that I do not like possums. Plus I’m a tad tired from staying out until 4 last night.
Zeptember song of the day: Over The Hills And Far Away
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Like Baby Carrots and Airplane Liquor Bottles
Yes, I know I've mentioned my near obsessive love affair with fall. If fall were a person, I would be walking consistently ten surreptitious steps behind it on the streets, wearing sunglasses so folks wouldn't realize I'm staring at it's ass with lust glazed eyes. I would circle it’s building in hopes of "accidentally" running into it; I would shop at the same stores for the same reason. I would be continuously leaving ever more threatening voicemails asking why it wasn't calling me back. I would bide my time until the restraining order became official.
But today is that perfect early fall day, what with the pale blue and slightly hazy sky, what with the slight cold in the air and the leaves just beginning to turn. It's the sort of day that makes me wish I wasn't at work. Well let's be honest, even if it was raining flaming kerosene and blowing rancid ox farts from the southeast I would rather not be at work on a Saturday morning. But today is the perfect day for strolling through the market, drinking strong coffee and making something homey and fulfilling to eat.
The thing that I'm looking forward to the most right now is sleeping in tomorrow morning; me, Biffy and the cats being all sleep lazy and listening to Preaching the Blues on KEXP. I’m looking forward to it being just cold enough that it feels good to be covered up, but not so cold that you fear getting out of a hot shower and you end up listening to all of The Slider by T. Rex, delaying the inevitable step out onto frigid linoleum, all wrinkled and waterlogged. I'm hoping that the sky holds clear and maybe eventually taking that walk around town and laughing at our own stupid jokes.
If there is one lesson that I cannot learn enough in this life, it's that it really is the little things...
Zeptember song of the day: Sick Again.
But today is that perfect early fall day, what with the pale blue and slightly hazy sky, what with the slight cold in the air and the leaves just beginning to turn. It's the sort of day that makes me wish I wasn't at work. Well let's be honest, even if it was raining flaming kerosene and blowing rancid ox farts from the southeast I would rather not be at work on a Saturday morning. But today is the perfect day for strolling through the market, drinking strong coffee and making something homey and fulfilling to eat.
The thing that I'm looking forward to the most right now is sleeping in tomorrow morning; me, Biffy and the cats being all sleep lazy and listening to Preaching the Blues on KEXP. I’m looking forward to it being just cold enough that it feels good to be covered up, but not so cold that you fear getting out of a hot shower and you end up listening to all of The Slider by T. Rex, delaying the inevitable step out onto frigid linoleum, all wrinkled and waterlogged. I'm hoping that the sky holds clear and maybe eventually taking that walk around town and laughing at our own stupid jokes.
If there is one lesson that I cannot learn enough in this life, it's that it really is the little things...
Zeptember song of the day: Sick Again.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Was Created Below
A week ago we opened the show that has run me ragged...
![SoulPoster_copy_lores[1]](http://static.flickr.com/83/249862130_5b8fe65d17_m.jpg)
Magical words by Denis Johnson and amazing performances by a gifted group of actors that I am truly honored to be sharing a stage with. The play is dark and funny and disturbing and dense, and honestly just feels like we're doing something meaty and worthwhile. From what I can tell, we're getting the audiences totally into it, even if they don't necessarily understand everything.
Jenny and Michael came up from Portland last weekend and saw the show (well to see an exhibit of Henry Darger's work at the Frye, but the timing coincided deliciously). Oh how I love these people. Michael has this dry yet childlike sense of humor that has me enamored of him but good. And while I have written previously of the characteristics of Jen Jen, I will say that what I love about her right now, at this moment, is the way she can sit so regally moments before she completely loses her shit and laughs a small storm.
In other news, Chris and Greta got themselves their very own house in Willits. I'm feeling the excitement for them, that dizziness. I'm feeling a mad desire to get down there and christen that house in fucking style.
In further other news, it's getting more and more difficult to indulge in denial that there is a child well on its way. It's tough to ignore that growing but adorable tummy, as well as the squirming of the critter inside it whenever I lay down and put my arm around it. It's getting damn near impossible to dodge the slew of panic attacks that make me want to lock myself in a room, point with both thumbs and shout out to the fates, "Really? This guy? A father?".
But then I calm the hell down and think about the crazy, intricate solo this jazz odyssey of a life is about to take. How can you not dig that, not feel the rush?
Zeptember song of the day: Dazed and Confused.
Magical words by Denis Johnson and amazing performances by a gifted group of actors that I am truly honored to be sharing a stage with. The play is dark and funny and disturbing and dense, and honestly just feels like we're doing something meaty and worthwhile. From what I can tell, we're getting the audiences totally into it, even if they don't necessarily understand everything.
Jenny and Michael came up from Portland last weekend and saw the show (well to see an exhibit of Henry Darger's work at the Frye, but the timing coincided deliciously). Oh how I love these people. Michael has this dry yet childlike sense of humor that has me enamored of him but good. And while I have written previously of the characteristics of Jen Jen, I will say that what I love about her right now, at this moment, is the way she can sit so regally moments before she completely loses her shit and laughs a small storm.
In other news, Chris and Greta got themselves their very own house in Willits. I'm feeling the excitement for them, that dizziness. I'm feeling a mad desire to get down there and christen that house in fucking style.
In further other news, it's getting more and more difficult to indulge in denial that there is a child well on its way. It's tough to ignore that growing but adorable tummy, as well as the squirming of the critter inside it whenever I lay down and put my arm around it. It's getting damn near impossible to dodge the slew of panic attacks that make me want to lock myself in a room, point with both thumbs and shout out to the fates, "Really? This guy? A father?".
But then I calm the hell down and think about the crazy, intricate solo this jazz odyssey of a life is about to take. How can you not dig that, not feel the rush?
Zeptember song of the day: Dazed and Confused.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Barely Back
Sorry.
Sick for days.
Sinus infection equals pain and dizziness.
So backed up with work, I have no time for proper posting. I will say though:
I was so cranky sick that no movie choices were working for me. I spent a majority of the last couple of days sleeping through Simpsons episodes.
On walking into the building this morning I was taken with the early morning darkness and wet streets. I was reminded of childhood and love.
The silver lining portion of this morning brought to me by a package from New Jersey including a T Shirt and copy of Secaucus by The Wrens. One of said Wrens also handwrote a thank you on the envelope.
Zeptember songs of the day for the last couple:
Saturday – You Shook Me
Sunday – Misty Mountain Hop
Monday – D’yer Mak’er
Tuesday – In The Evening
Wednesday – Tea For One
and today? – The Ocean – hell yeah!
Sick for days.
Sinus infection equals pain and dizziness.
So backed up with work, I have no time for proper posting. I will say though:
I was so cranky sick that no movie choices were working for me. I spent a majority of the last couple of days sleeping through Simpsons episodes.
On walking into the building this morning I was taken with the early morning darkness and wet streets. I was reminded of childhood and love.
The silver lining portion of this morning brought to me by a package from New Jersey including a T Shirt and copy of Secaucus by The Wrens. One of said Wrens also handwrote a thank you on the envelope.
Zeptember songs of the day for the last couple:
Saturday – You Shook Me
Sunday – Misty Mountain Hop
Monday – D’yer Mak’er
Tuesday – In The Evening
Wednesday – Tea For One
and today? – The Ocean – hell yeah!
Friday, September 15, 2006
The Ballad Of Allen The Mechanic
Sammy was a good guy, a quiet guy. That quiet demeanor intimidated a lot of people, it was in the way he carried himself, but he was just a little shy. Sammy was loyal to his friends, subtly honest and he had a sense of humor like Everclear - quick and deadly.
Sammy and Allen had been best friends since junior high. They were naturally thrown together being two of the few children of working class parents in a more affluent part of the world. Allen's earnestness fit well with Sammy's wry smiles and the two were nearly inseparable. The two even hung on strong together when Allen began dating Cathie.
Cathie was bright and funny. Cathie was just as loyal as Sammy was, but she was bipolar to a degree that most people will never encounter. The girl could stop, turn on you and start shrieking before you even realized she had heard the comment you had made.
Sammy was a constant guest in their apartment when Allen and Cathie got engaged. When Allen moved to Phoenix for awhile, attending a trade school to become a mechanic just like his father, Sammy would chaperone Cathie anywhere she requested. When Cathie would flip that switch and start attacking with barbed and razor lined words, Sammy would just smile it off and lay out a well timed quip. Even the trio's drinking buddy Ricky could tell that Sammy clutched a torch for Cathie that rivaled the one Lady Liberty held aloft; and Ricky went blind when he was three due to a terrible accident involving paint thinner.
It wasn't a big surprise to a lot of people that when Allen came back from Phoenix to marry Cathie, that Sammy would leave town and wind up in Phoenix himself. What did surprise a lot of people was when Sammy became a bank robber par excellence, and then eventually parlayed that into super villainy. Sammy became the much heralded Mirror Man.
The Mirror Man was known throughout the Southwest for daring robberies of museums, antique dealers and even high end restaurants. The one thing that launched him out of the ranks of criminal and into that of villain was the invention of a liquid, a clever hybrid of super charged crystals, silver and paint, that could immediately cover people in a mirrored casing. Many of Mirror Man's daring escapes were accomplished through encasing his foes in this mirror.
Most people love a villain, and as Mirror Man's infamy grew he came out a little more into the spotlight. He started driving around town in a mirrored 64 Mustang. He began playing in a rock band called So Much Silver, playing lead on a mirrored Les Paul. But all this flash and attention was bringing the authorities closer and closer to him and the media was eating up the chase.
On one fateful August night, the FBI apprehended Mirror Man. When they took him in for questioning, their first question was, "why mirrors?"
"I don't know, they seemed cool."
Sammy, the real Mirror Man would have given a far more interesting answer; one filled with innuendo, puns, the nature of a criminal reflecting society's true self. But Allen the mechanic just didn't know "why mirrors", he just wanted to help a friend in trouble.
Zeptember song of the day: What Is And What Should Never Be.
Sammy and Allen had been best friends since junior high. They were naturally thrown together being two of the few children of working class parents in a more affluent part of the world. Allen's earnestness fit well with Sammy's wry smiles and the two were nearly inseparable. The two even hung on strong together when Allen began dating Cathie.
Cathie was bright and funny. Cathie was just as loyal as Sammy was, but she was bipolar to a degree that most people will never encounter. The girl could stop, turn on you and start shrieking before you even realized she had heard the comment you had made.
Sammy was a constant guest in their apartment when Allen and Cathie got engaged. When Allen moved to Phoenix for awhile, attending a trade school to become a mechanic just like his father, Sammy would chaperone Cathie anywhere she requested. When Cathie would flip that switch and start attacking with barbed and razor lined words, Sammy would just smile it off and lay out a well timed quip. Even the trio's drinking buddy Ricky could tell that Sammy clutched a torch for Cathie that rivaled the one Lady Liberty held aloft; and Ricky went blind when he was three due to a terrible accident involving paint thinner.
It wasn't a big surprise to a lot of people that when Allen came back from Phoenix to marry Cathie, that Sammy would leave town and wind up in Phoenix himself. What did surprise a lot of people was when Sammy became a bank robber par excellence, and then eventually parlayed that into super villainy. Sammy became the much heralded Mirror Man.
The Mirror Man was known throughout the Southwest for daring robberies of museums, antique dealers and even high end restaurants. The one thing that launched him out of the ranks of criminal and into that of villain was the invention of a liquid, a clever hybrid of super charged crystals, silver and paint, that could immediately cover people in a mirrored casing. Many of Mirror Man's daring escapes were accomplished through encasing his foes in this mirror.
Most people love a villain, and as Mirror Man's infamy grew he came out a little more into the spotlight. He started driving around town in a mirrored 64 Mustang. He began playing in a rock band called So Much Silver, playing lead on a mirrored Les Paul. But all this flash and attention was bringing the authorities closer and closer to him and the media was eating up the chase.
On one fateful August night, the FBI apprehended Mirror Man. When they took him in for questioning, their first question was, "why mirrors?"
"I don't know, they seemed cool."
Sammy, the real Mirror Man would have given a far more interesting answer; one filled with innuendo, puns, the nature of a criminal reflecting society's true self. But Allen the mechanic just didn't know "why mirrors", he just wanted to help a friend in trouble.
Zeptember song of the day: What Is And What Should Never Be.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
WARNING: Bambi Spoilers Ahead
The first movie that I ever saw was Bambi. Seems reasonable, a Disney movie for a kid of about 4. The things that I remember clearly from that are thinking Thumper the rabbit was funny, the scene where Bambi names the skunk Flower, and I remember crying when Bambi's mom was killed. I was apparently unable at the time to differentiate between differing time lines, because I also remember mistaking the grown Bambi at the end of the movie for Bambi's father. Mom explained it to me in the car on the way home.
I was hooked on movies right effing there. Not long after, my dad took me to see a movie that had something to do with Santa Claus. I wish I could say it was Santa Clause Conquers The Martians:
But I'm almost positive that it wasn't.
I don't remember anything about the movie except that it had Santa Claus and that dad took me. This is probably because I didn't see my dad that often and it was a rarity that we would spend time together. Stuck on this thought, I do clearly and fondly remember him also taking me and my brother to see The Jungle Book.
I'm thinking that with the ready availability of home video, that first movie experience for a kid these days just won't be such a special memory. It would just be something written in the baby book with other firsts someone would not remember without being told; first word, first pureed vegetable, first mucous extraction with a rubber bulb.
I'm almost tempted to keep the video devices hidden from view for the first few years so that I may take the critter out to see their first movie in style, with pomp and circumstance, without previous expectations for the change in their world they're about to receive.
But then again, the thought of curling up on the couch with a little one on a rainy day to watch my VHS copy of The Jungle Book sounds pretty nice.
Oh, and hey, Zeptember song of the day? Since I've Been Loving You.
I was hooked on movies right effing there. Not long after, my dad took me to see a movie that had something to do with Santa Claus. I wish I could say it was Santa Clause Conquers The Martians:
But I'm almost positive that it wasn't.
I don't remember anything about the movie except that it had Santa Claus and that dad took me. This is probably because I didn't see my dad that often and it was a rarity that we would spend time together. Stuck on this thought, I do clearly and fondly remember him also taking me and my brother to see The Jungle Book.
I'm thinking that with the ready availability of home video, that first movie experience for a kid these days just won't be such a special memory. It would just be something written in the baby book with other firsts someone would not remember without being told; first word, first pureed vegetable, first mucous extraction with a rubber bulb.
I'm almost tempted to keep the video devices hidden from view for the first few years so that I may take the critter out to see their first movie in style, with pomp and circumstance, without previous expectations for the change in their world they're about to receive.
But then again, the thought of curling up on the couch with a little one on a rainy day to watch my VHS copy of The Jungle Book sounds pretty nice.
Oh, and hey, Zeptember song of the day? Since I've Been Loving You.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Rare Air Indeed
I'm drunk tired, I'm pouty 5 year old tired and I can also feel a cold trying to get the better of me. I can feel the cold in my head, my nasal cavities have become a snot factory. I can feel it in my muscles, that cold trying to hold on with shivering vice grip claws so that I have this sort of soft, pervading soreness everywhere. I'm trying to stay positive, but honestly the people I have to talk to on the phone everyday are like a barbarian horde against my great wall of resistance; a barbarian horde with jackhammers.
And while I continue to catalogue how I feel for your non-entertainment, let me say that it's also hard to keep a happy mind frame because it's hard to keep any mind frame. Mind is breaking down. Sounds and ideas are coming in, but very little is actually sticking. My mind begins to get a little passive when I'm like this. And it also starts sloughing off ideas like decimated cells.
Rare air. This floated up from the depths today. It actually came to the front more along the lines of a sentence like:
She indeed breathed a rare air, created it around her. If you were fortunate enough to stand near, you would not only be lifted, but shocked that she didn't seem to notice the difference herself.
See this is the sort of thing that will come out of the mainspring from time to time, like a ribbon of seaweed which has somehow cut loose from the bottom of a deep channel and floats a few feet from the surface to twist in the water filtered sunlight. It's the sort of thing that pops up more frequently when I am consistently writing. It's the sort of thing I will take quick mental glance at, decide whether I want to store it for later use, or whether I want to let that just float on out to sea.
But I find that as I get older, those boxes that I store these things in are moldering in the mental warehouse, they're getting put in places that I cannot find them. There are little brain warehouse gremlins, dressed in overalls with little oval name patches (names like Al), taking boxes and putting them in dark adjoining rooms that I don't know are there.
In that magic last second of my life, that second where I imagine I am infused with all of the knowledge of the universe as a sort of cosmic F you before I shuffle off, I wonder if the warehouse will catch fire and all those lost thoughts and ideas will fall around me in a rain of debris, quickly being devoured by fire. Will I remember some long lost tasteless joke from 7th grade?
Man oh man I hope so, I want to blink out of existence chuckling softly to the 'Big Chief, No Fart' joke.
If you got to take one memory with you as you floated away to nothing, could you pick one?
I think mine would be that of hearing this morning that Britney had another baby boy. Way to go girlfriend, way to go.
Oh, I've also got a craving for Pizza and beer again. And one of those cheapie snack pies, a custard one, vanilla. Thing of it is, I'm not at all hungry.
I was told that radio station KZOK has named this month Zeptember, a month of Led Zeppelin. I wish I would have thought of this myself, but am totally willing to jump on the bandwagon. Let's make today's Zeptember song Custard Pie. Okay?
*p.s. Sending out an extra bolt of love to C&G. I don’t know what the jinx powers regarding this sort of thing are, so vague is how we’ll keep it.
And while I continue to catalogue how I feel for your non-entertainment, let me say that it's also hard to keep a happy mind frame because it's hard to keep any mind frame. Mind is breaking down. Sounds and ideas are coming in, but very little is actually sticking. My mind begins to get a little passive when I'm like this. And it also starts sloughing off ideas like decimated cells.
Rare air. This floated up from the depths today. It actually came to the front more along the lines of a sentence like:
She indeed breathed a rare air, created it around her. If you were fortunate enough to stand near, you would not only be lifted, but shocked that she didn't seem to notice the difference herself.
See this is the sort of thing that will come out of the mainspring from time to time, like a ribbon of seaweed which has somehow cut loose from the bottom of a deep channel and floats a few feet from the surface to twist in the water filtered sunlight. It's the sort of thing that pops up more frequently when I am consistently writing. It's the sort of thing I will take quick mental glance at, decide whether I want to store it for later use, or whether I want to let that just float on out to sea.
But I find that as I get older, those boxes that I store these things in are moldering in the mental warehouse, they're getting put in places that I cannot find them. There are little brain warehouse gremlins, dressed in overalls with little oval name patches (names like Al), taking boxes and putting them in dark adjoining rooms that I don't know are there.
In that magic last second of my life, that second where I imagine I am infused with all of the knowledge of the universe as a sort of cosmic F you before I shuffle off, I wonder if the warehouse will catch fire and all those lost thoughts and ideas will fall around me in a rain of debris, quickly being devoured by fire. Will I remember some long lost tasteless joke from 7th grade?
Man oh man I hope so, I want to blink out of existence chuckling softly to the 'Big Chief, No Fart' joke.
If you got to take one memory with you as you floated away to nothing, could you pick one?
I think mine would be that of hearing this morning that Britney had another baby boy. Way to go girlfriend, way to go.
Oh, I've also got a craving for Pizza and beer again. And one of those cheapie snack pies, a custard one, vanilla. Thing of it is, I'm not at all hungry.
I was told that radio station KZOK has named this month Zeptember, a month of Led Zeppelin. I wish I would have thought of this myself, but am totally willing to jump on the bandwagon. Let's make today's Zeptember song Custard Pie. Okay?
*p.s. Sending out an extra bolt of love to C&G. I don’t know what the jinx powers regarding this sort of thing are, so vague is how we’ll keep it.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Snakes In A Can
Wanna know something that entertains a handful of tiredly delirious actors more than defecation stories, but not quite as much Your Mom jokes?
Yup, a snake in a can of nuts. The can was left on the table with other snacks for the enormous tech rehearsals - cookies and grapes and trail mix and the like - and even though it says right on the can there that the nuts are "fancy" no one was a taker. We all knew what was up, no one buys a can of mixed nuts that looks like it was produced when ELO and "Summer Loving" from Grease ruled the radio.
Terri couldn't wait, she was like a coked up kid at a carnival. She pointed out to me with a glee that was bordering on hysteria that there was a can of mixed nuts on the table, and that I should have some. I picked up the can, pointed out the "fancy" and shook said can, impressed that they had thought to include a noise maker inside that made it sound like there was a couple of nuts left inside.
"They're probably the best ones, those couple nuts that are left," Aaron pointed out. "Probably cashews," I said as I opened it and let the spring snake fly forth.
We all acted surprised and yelled and laughed. I think after awhile though, that the laughter became real. Now though, the thing has gotten to the point of a gag that is done 2 or three times during the course of a rehearsal; offer someone mixed nuts, people make a big deal about there being fancy, salted mixed nuts, "victim" acting shocked when the snake leaps forth, and the rest of us laughing like loons at the pretense that we have fooled them.
Actors...
Our snake doesn't have a weird face on it like the picture above. And I don't think I'd ever opened one of these cans before, but for some reason I had the impression that like 3 spring loaded snakes jumped out. And then I thought about the bald cap.
When I was in 4th grade, our class put on a production of Annie, and yours truly played Daddy Warbucks. For those of you not familiar with what the hell I'm talking about, Daddy Warbucks is a bald war profiteer. Being eight or nine, they didn't expect me to shave my head for the role (though I probably would have), so we got to go to a novelty shop to get a bald cap. I looked ridiculous but that's not the point, the point is the novelty shop.
I believe the place was actually called Acme Novelties, and it was in this building below the Alaska Way Viaduct here in Seattle. Let me try to paint the picture for you: a waterfront warehouse building, under the shadows of an overpass, in a part of town, while close to the public market, not a lot of tourists would come to. And in this grungy downtown environment, the likes of which a forest kid like me had only known from movies and MAD Magazine, there was a novelty shop.
The place was filled with the type of crap you would find in the back of comic books: X-Ray Specs, gum that turns your mouth blue, gum that snaps your finger when you full out a piece, whoopie cushions, fake dog doo, fake vomit and those plastic ice cubes with bugs in them. This place also had magic tricks and masks and all the things that makes an eight year old boy want to quit the quiet family life and take up the way of hawking novelties.
The place is no longer there, but every time I'm in the area, down near the ferry terminal, I remember that Saturday. I still feel that dangerous excitement of walking dark city streets, the thrill that was tantamount to finding the key to Santa's workshop.
Yup, a snake in a can of nuts. The can was left on the table with other snacks for the enormous tech rehearsals - cookies and grapes and trail mix and the like - and even though it says right on the can there that the nuts are "fancy" no one was a taker. We all knew what was up, no one buys a can of mixed nuts that looks like it was produced when ELO and "Summer Loving" from Grease ruled the radio.
Terri couldn't wait, she was like a coked up kid at a carnival. She pointed out to me with a glee that was bordering on hysteria that there was a can of mixed nuts on the table, and that I should have some. I picked up the can, pointed out the "fancy" and shook said can, impressed that they had thought to include a noise maker inside that made it sound like there was a couple of nuts left inside.
"They're probably the best ones, those couple nuts that are left," Aaron pointed out. "Probably cashews," I said as I opened it and let the spring snake fly forth.
We all acted surprised and yelled and laughed. I think after awhile though, that the laughter became real. Now though, the thing has gotten to the point of a gag that is done 2 or three times during the course of a rehearsal; offer someone mixed nuts, people make a big deal about there being fancy, salted mixed nuts, "victim" acting shocked when the snake leaps forth, and the rest of us laughing like loons at the pretense that we have fooled them.
Actors...
Our snake doesn't have a weird face on it like the picture above. And I don't think I'd ever opened one of these cans before, but for some reason I had the impression that like 3 spring loaded snakes jumped out. And then I thought about the bald cap.
When I was in 4th grade, our class put on a production of Annie, and yours truly played Daddy Warbucks. For those of you not familiar with what the hell I'm talking about, Daddy Warbucks is a bald war profiteer. Being eight or nine, they didn't expect me to shave my head for the role (though I probably would have), so we got to go to a novelty shop to get a bald cap. I looked ridiculous but that's not the point, the point is the novelty shop.
I believe the place was actually called Acme Novelties, and it was in this building below the Alaska Way Viaduct here in Seattle. Let me try to paint the picture for you: a waterfront warehouse building, under the shadows of an overpass, in a part of town, while close to the public market, not a lot of tourists would come to. And in this grungy downtown environment, the likes of which a forest kid like me had only known from movies and MAD Magazine, there was a novelty shop.
The place was filled with the type of crap you would find in the back of comic books: X-Ray Specs, gum that turns your mouth blue, gum that snaps your finger when you full out a piece, whoopie cushions, fake dog doo, fake vomit and those plastic ice cubes with bugs in them. This place also had magic tricks and masks and all the things that makes an eight year old boy want to quit the quiet family life and take up the way of hawking novelties.
The place is no longer there, but every time I'm in the area, down near the ferry terminal, I remember that Saturday. I still feel that dangerous excitement of walking dark city streets, the thrill that was tantamount to finding the key to Santa's workshop.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Sleepwalking (?)
Here's somethin' awesome, I was so tired (and probably a little drunk, let's be honest) that I awoke in a room in my apartment that I shouldn't have.
Yeah, it's happened before, but this time I was so confused and out of it that I was inventing a story line that did not exist. When I first awoke, I could only think , "man I'm cold". I tried to feel around for a blanket that didn't exist and figured I better open my eyes. I was on the couch in nothing but my underwear, a cat curled up on my arm and the main menu of the DVD I was watching at 2 AM cycling over and over.
Without hesitation I tried to recall when I had gotten out of bed to come watch a movie on the couch. I was positive I had been cozy in my large bed with yet another cat curled up next to me. I was recalling getting up, apologizing to the cat for disturbing her sleep and walking into the living room to lay on the couch. I slowly realized with dismay that this had never happened.
I had sat down on the couch to watch The Simpsons and eat the sandwich to help soak up some alcohol, and I passed the fuck out right there with whisky fumes evaporating from my open and snoring mouth. I couldn't fathom why my brain was trying to trick me into being so sure that I had started out in my bed and wandered elsewhere, it wasn't like this sort of thing hadn't happened before.
I'm tired and out of it, I'm guessing that's why. As I mentioned before I had spent approximately 21 hours of my Saturday and Sunday inside of a dark theater preparing for the opening of the show this Friday. While it was productive, while I had a delirious blast doing something that I absolutely love, there's not a lot of interesting tidbits to write about.
After Saturday's 10 hours we went to the bar and had a few. It was a good and low key time talking about shit with some very funny and talented people. And I mean seriously talking about shit; I've got some good stories to share for a time when you're not eating... Plus I was getting some pretty serious ego stroking from folks in regard to the work I was doing in the show, which honestly never feels bad.
So, to go all Latin on your ass, I'm throwing out a bit of a mea culpa; I'm in dress rehearsals all week so I plan on being worn out and with not a lot of fresh ideas to post on the ol' site here. Please forgive me if things get a little weird. And if you find yourself in the greater Seattle area on a Thursday, Friday or Saturday night between September 15th and October 21st come see a show. I think it's gonna be somethin' awesome.
Yeah, it's happened before, but this time I was so confused and out of it that I was inventing a story line that did not exist. When I first awoke, I could only think , "man I'm cold". I tried to feel around for a blanket that didn't exist and figured I better open my eyes. I was on the couch in nothing but my underwear, a cat curled up on my arm and the main menu of the DVD I was watching at 2 AM cycling over and over.
Without hesitation I tried to recall when I had gotten out of bed to come watch a movie on the couch. I was positive I had been cozy in my large bed with yet another cat curled up next to me. I was recalling getting up, apologizing to the cat for disturbing her sleep and walking into the living room to lay on the couch. I slowly realized with dismay that this had never happened.
I had sat down on the couch to watch The Simpsons and eat the sandwich to help soak up some alcohol, and I passed the fuck out right there with whisky fumes evaporating from my open and snoring mouth. I couldn't fathom why my brain was trying to trick me into being so sure that I had started out in my bed and wandered elsewhere, it wasn't like this sort of thing hadn't happened before.
I'm tired and out of it, I'm guessing that's why. As I mentioned before I had spent approximately 21 hours of my Saturday and Sunday inside of a dark theater preparing for the opening of the show this Friday. While it was productive, while I had a delirious blast doing something that I absolutely love, there's not a lot of interesting tidbits to write about.
After Saturday's 10 hours we went to the bar and had a few. It was a good and low key time talking about shit with some very funny and talented people. And I mean seriously talking about shit; I've got some good stories to share for a time when you're not eating... Plus I was getting some pretty serious ego stroking from folks in regard to the work I was doing in the show, which honestly never feels bad.
So, to go all Latin on your ass, I'm throwing out a bit of a mea culpa; I'm in dress rehearsals all week so I plan on being worn out and with not a lot of fresh ideas to post on the ol' site here. Please forgive me if things get a little weird. And if you find yourself in the greater Seattle area on a Thursday, Friday or Saturday night between September 15th and October 21st come see a show. I think it's gonna be somethin' awesome.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Driving In The Dark
I have this compulsive desire to drive around the city in the dark. It’s always in the back of my mind, this desire to just get in the car and drive, but this overpowering want burst forth yesterday and has been tagging me ever since.
I awoke at 4:30 this morning as my alarm sang next to me, nudging me into the world so I could go to work. I considered jumping out of bed then and running to the car just to cruise the city with a cup of coffee and loud music. Unfortunately, sleep won over and I’m now regretting it.
Damn you, regret!
There’s something comforting for me about aimlessly driving. I’m told my parents used to put me in the car when I was young and wouldn’t stop crying. Within minutes I would be sleeping. In high school, I used to ditch class just to get in the car and drive. No destination, just the road and the music.
I remember going with Dave and his parents while they were looking for a car. Dave and I drooled over a convertible Corvette, but not for any car aficionado reasoning, we dreamed of stocking the CD changer and driving across the country. I still want to do this so damn bad.
I have driven great and hilarious ventures through dark and empty paths of Texas and Louisiana, through breathtaking and incomprehensively unpopulated roads of California, all up and down the Pacific coast. But right now, I’m craving an easy trip through the dark and empty streets of a city, Seattle to be exact. And it’s not just that Seattle happens to be where I’m at, it’s that I want those narrow streets, water reflecting all the neon and stop lights, smelling the salt and tar pilings of the Sound.
Maybe tonight, maybe…
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Always Late by Jerry Garcia. This is on The Pizza Tapes with Jerry, David Grisman and Tony Rice. It’s only about 30 seconds of the song and really just Jerry Garcia (a little bit of mandolin comes in at the end), but it just has this sort of tossed off, let’s see if I can remember this quality to it that makes me love it instantly. Also, Mr. Garcia lets loose one of these genuine and open laughs at the end that makes me smile and makes me want to cry.
I awoke at 4:30 this morning as my alarm sang next to me, nudging me into the world so I could go to work. I considered jumping out of bed then and running to the car just to cruise the city with a cup of coffee and loud music. Unfortunately, sleep won over and I’m now regretting it.
Damn you, regret!
There’s something comforting for me about aimlessly driving. I’m told my parents used to put me in the car when I was young and wouldn’t stop crying. Within minutes I would be sleeping. In high school, I used to ditch class just to get in the car and drive. No destination, just the road and the music.
I remember going with Dave and his parents while they were looking for a car. Dave and I drooled over a convertible Corvette, but not for any car aficionado reasoning, we dreamed of stocking the CD changer and driving across the country. I still want to do this so damn bad.
I have driven great and hilarious ventures through dark and empty paths of Texas and Louisiana, through breathtaking and incomprehensively unpopulated roads of California, all up and down the Pacific coast. But right now, I’m craving an easy trip through the dark and empty streets of a city, Seattle to be exact. And it’s not just that Seattle happens to be where I’m at, it’s that I want those narrow streets, water reflecting all the neon and stop lights, smelling the salt and tar pilings of the Sound.
Maybe tonight, maybe…
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Always Late by Jerry Garcia. This is on The Pizza Tapes with Jerry, David Grisman and Tony Rice. It’s only about 30 seconds of the song and really just Jerry Garcia (a little bit of mandolin comes in at the end), but it just has this sort of tossed off, let’s see if I can remember this quality to it that makes me love it instantly. Also, Mr. Garcia lets loose one of these genuine and open laughs at the end that makes me smile and makes me want to cry.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Friday Cloudy Sodo District Vent Day
Okay, can we talk here for a minute. The morning started out good, great in fact, it was all dark out when I left this morning and I was particularly digging it. Frank Black on the radio... But then a succession of things has got me steaming now a scant few hours later.
Nikki 2 K's mentioned the other night that he appreciates the fact that I don't complain. It was sweet of him to say, and I almost feel like I'm letting him down by continuing in this way, but I do complain. Sometimes I gotta get some shit out, and this is one of those days.
Things Driving Billy Particularly Bug Shit At The Moment:
1>People who do not cover their mouths when they cough.
2>Celebrity publicists ensuring some pretty, but marginally talented people are constantly in the thought stream of the public.
3>Bitchy, passive-aggressive emails from a "friend". Always awesome, always inspires me to want to seek out further contact.
4>I feel the need to reiterate that last one on the list here. Bitchy, passive-aggressiveness just really pisses me off in general. I'm only surprised this time it wasn't from my mother.
5>Credit cards, on which I have a zero balance, charging me a $98 "membership fee". And then when I call to have that fee removed, having the phone rep try to sell me on some protection plan for the card. Then having to firmly tell her 3 times that I do not want it. She starts practically yelling at me that it's a "beautiful program" and I am then forced to put on my "I'm not fucking around" voice and tell her that I have heard her explain the program and have made myself more than clear in regards to not wanting this program. This, by the way, is the same company that called for weeks and left me harassing messages about late payments on a mortgage that I do not have because they researched their customer's phone number online and apparently getting the correct last name was enough for them, never mind having the wrong first name, address and city... When I asked if this membership fee would return again next year, I was told yes. I asked to cancel the card and was then asked in a shocked tone if I was sure. "I'm absolutely, fucking sure," I replied.
Okay I feel a little better now, sorry for that. That knot of tension just below my right shoulder is subsiding a bit. I'm no longer twitching uncontrollably and fashioning small, plastic weapons.
Biffy's goin' southbound this weekend, leaving me at home to my own devices. Normally, I'm a big fan of this. My devices tend to run the gamut of a lot of whisky, pizza, video games, god awful horror movies (sometimes Led Zeppelin's Song Remains The Same) and guitar playing. This weekend however, I will be spending 10 hours a day in the theater for tech rehearsals. So no solo apartment fun, and no Biffy when I do get home...
But I still have Frank Black doing Sunny Sunday Mill Valley Groove Day on my headphones right now. It makes me goofy, hippy dance in my chair. Not everything is wrong with my world.
Nikki 2 K's mentioned the other night that he appreciates the fact that I don't complain. It was sweet of him to say, and I almost feel like I'm letting him down by continuing in this way, but I do complain. Sometimes I gotta get some shit out, and this is one of those days.
Things Driving Billy Particularly Bug Shit At The Moment:
1>People who do not cover their mouths when they cough.
2>Celebrity publicists ensuring some pretty, but marginally talented people are constantly in the thought stream of the public.
3>Bitchy, passive-aggressive emails from a "friend". Always awesome, always inspires me to want to seek out further contact.
4>I feel the need to reiterate that last one on the list here. Bitchy, passive-aggressiveness just really pisses me off in general. I'm only surprised this time it wasn't from my mother.
5>Credit cards, on which I have a zero balance, charging me a $98 "membership fee". And then when I call to have that fee removed, having the phone rep try to sell me on some protection plan for the card. Then having to firmly tell her 3 times that I do not want it. She starts practically yelling at me that it's a "beautiful program" and I am then forced to put on my "I'm not fucking around" voice and tell her that I have heard her explain the program and have made myself more than clear in regards to not wanting this program. This, by the way, is the same company that called for weeks and left me harassing messages about late payments on a mortgage that I do not have because they researched their customer's phone number online and apparently getting the correct last name was enough for them, never mind having the wrong first name, address and city... When I asked if this membership fee would return again next year, I was told yes. I asked to cancel the card and was then asked in a shocked tone if I was sure. "I'm absolutely, fucking sure," I replied.
Okay I feel a little better now, sorry for that. That knot of tension just below my right shoulder is subsiding a bit. I'm no longer twitching uncontrollably and fashioning small, plastic weapons.
Biffy's goin' southbound this weekend, leaving me at home to my own devices. Normally, I'm a big fan of this. My devices tend to run the gamut of a lot of whisky, pizza, video games, god awful horror movies (sometimes Led Zeppelin's Song Remains The Same) and guitar playing. This weekend however, I will be spending 10 hours a day in the theater for tech rehearsals. So no solo apartment fun, and no Biffy when I do get home...
But I still have Frank Black doing Sunny Sunday Mill Valley Groove Day on my headphones right now. It makes me goofy, hippy dance in my chair. Not everything is wrong with my world.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Pocket Full Of Indie Movie
We rarely go to the movies anymore. Biffy was recently told that we should go to see one while it is still possible (read: while there is not a screaming child to contend with). We busted our film celibacy on Little Miss Sunshine.
When I started writing stuff on the internet, it was to do snarky film reviews. I'm sort of battling myself today in that I want to jump into my reviewer roots, but for some reason my mind is telling me not to.
I will say that Little Miss Sunshine is absolutely worth seeing. I was a little wary in parts as some characters seemed a little too quirky. It's like screenwriters have gotten the idea that indie films need to have forced characters with odd character traits; much like every band post Nevermind discovered the distortion peddle all over again. There were also moments of jokes and payoffs that seemed a little too sitcommy at first, but somehow the movie manages to wrangle it all in and make it work. It's bittersweet, it's funny, it's filled with fantastic performances.
And, as if I needed another reason to, it makes me heart Steve Carell all the more. And Toni Collette, every time I see her in something it knocks me out.
There’s one slight problem with this movie. Ever since seeing it this weekend, I have had Little Miss Can't Be Wrong by The Spin Doctors stuck in my head.
Back when outrageous and impromptu acts of rage were all the fashion in my place of living, roommate Corado went on a rant in regards to The Spin Doctors. He hated them, he didn't need a reason, we decided to hate bands and films and types of food on a whim. To give a visual representation of his hatred, Corado picked up a Spin Doctors CD in one hand and punched it to pieces with the other. While it was a shocking bit of viciousness, it was also effing hilarious to see these plastic shards flying everywhere.
I later used the gas stovetop to melt and warp a copy of Catching Up With Depeche Mode.
When I started writing stuff on the internet, it was to do snarky film reviews. I'm sort of battling myself today in that I want to jump into my reviewer roots, but for some reason my mind is telling me not to.
I will say that Little Miss Sunshine is absolutely worth seeing. I was a little wary in parts as some characters seemed a little too quirky. It's like screenwriters have gotten the idea that indie films need to have forced characters with odd character traits; much like every band post Nevermind discovered the distortion peddle all over again. There were also moments of jokes and payoffs that seemed a little too sitcommy at first, but somehow the movie manages to wrangle it all in and make it work. It's bittersweet, it's funny, it's filled with fantastic performances.
And, as if I needed another reason to, it makes me heart Steve Carell all the more. And Toni Collette, every time I see her in something it knocks me out.
There’s one slight problem with this movie. Ever since seeing it this weekend, I have had Little Miss Can't Be Wrong by The Spin Doctors stuck in my head.
Back when outrageous and impromptu acts of rage were all the fashion in my place of living, roommate Corado went on a rant in regards to The Spin Doctors. He hated them, he didn't need a reason, we decided to hate bands and films and types of food on a whim. To give a visual representation of his hatred, Corado picked up a Spin Doctors CD in one hand and punched it to pieces with the other. While it was a shocking bit of viciousness, it was also effing hilarious to see these plastic shards flying everywhere.
I later used the gas stovetop to melt and warp a copy of Catching Up With Depeche Mode.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Farewell Little Play, We'll Miss You.
Wow, I'm having difficulty getting back into this work thing after a couple of days off. I'm having difficulty believing that the folks I'm talking to on the phone cannot hear the utter disdain I have for them coming over the phone like little, silver needles flung with force.
We closed a show Saturday night. It was episode 4 of a serialized soap opera satire that seemed to go over fairly well with audiences (the ones that were under 50 anyway. The older theater set, apparently not into 90 minutes of dick jokes) and was a blast to put on. The cast for the show were an amazing group of people. I would walk to the theater beforehand and begin to get excited about spending the evening with these people.
I heard from almost every one of them that they were sad the show was ending. That's fairly rare given the amount of time a number of people are forced to spend together during rehearsals and performances - a lot of this time in a small, back room. Oh but this cast, just great, hilarious energy. I will miss them somethin' awful.
Maybe it was because if the unwillingness to let everyone go, maybe that mixed with a fairly successful run of a show, but the closing night party got quickly out of hand. It feels as though it's one of those that will go down as legend.
While there was drinking, copious amounts of drinking, I don't think anyone was particularly drunk. Well one of them was - this time not me. What evolved was some sort of pagan dance festivity, a sacrifice to the gods of dignity.
I've said it before, I'll say it again: Dignity is way overrated.
We danced hard and steady for hours, to classic tunes the likes of Living On A Prayer, Welcome To The Jungle, Blitzkrieg Bop, and Don't Stop Believin' (and yes, I still fucking hate Journey). There was lots of beer swigging, lots of whisky sipping, lots of throat shredding scream/singing, lots of sweating. Lots of sweating. I honestly don't know when I have sweat that much.
Things remembered in a haze the next day:
I escaped for minute to put on the dress that I wore as one character and returned to the dance floor with a fury. This then caused a flurry of costume and wig changes throughout the party by the rest of the cast.
Rainier beer being poured into, and then drunk out of, the plastic vagina and anus of a blow up doll.
Lap dances given to damn near everyone in the cast and crew by yours truly.
Above mentioned blow up doll being fake abused in ways that de Sade would feel the need to look away from.
We left the theater, barely able to talk and shaking with exhaustion. A bunch of us smuggled beers into the bar up the street to finish things off, but honestly, after fifteen minutes I was beat and wandered home. I knew we had seen it off with style, we'd seen it off with love and passion. And I know personally that I was sore for three days afterwards, feet swollen and neck throbbing from headbanger whiplash.
We closed a show Saturday night. It was episode 4 of a serialized soap opera satire that seemed to go over fairly well with audiences (the ones that were under 50 anyway. The older theater set, apparently not into 90 minutes of dick jokes) and was a blast to put on. The cast for the show were an amazing group of people. I would walk to the theater beforehand and begin to get excited about spending the evening with these people.
I heard from almost every one of them that they were sad the show was ending. That's fairly rare given the amount of time a number of people are forced to spend together during rehearsals and performances - a lot of this time in a small, back room. Oh but this cast, just great, hilarious energy. I will miss them somethin' awful.
Maybe it was because if the unwillingness to let everyone go, maybe that mixed with a fairly successful run of a show, but the closing night party got quickly out of hand. It feels as though it's one of those that will go down as legend.
While there was drinking, copious amounts of drinking, I don't think anyone was particularly drunk. Well one of them was - this time not me. What evolved was some sort of pagan dance festivity, a sacrifice to the gods of dignity.
I've said it before, I'll say it again: Dignity is way overrated.
We danced hard and steady for hours, to classic tunes the likes of Living On A Prayer, Welcome To The Jungle, Blitzkrieg Bop, and Don't Stop Believin' (and yes, I still fucking hate Journey). There was lots of beer swigging, lots of whisky sipping, lots of throat shredding scream/singing, lots of sweating. Lots of sweating. I honestly don't know when I have sweat that much.
Things remembered in a haze the next day:
I escaped for minute to put on the dress that I wore as one character and returned to the dance floor with a fury. This then caused a flurry of costume and wig changes throughout the party by the rest of the cast.
Rainier beer being poured into, and then drunk out of, the plastic vagina and anus of a blow up doll.
Lap dances given to damn near everyone in the cast and crew by yours truly.
Above mentioned blow up doll being fake abused in ways that de Sade would feel the need to look away from.
We left the theater, barely able to talk and shaking with exhaustion. A bunch of us smuggled beers into the bar up the street to finish things off, but honestly, after fifteen minutes I was beat and wandered home. I knew we had seen it off with style, we'd seen it off with love and passion. And I know personally that I was sore for three days afterwards, feet swollen and neck throbbing from headbanger whiplash.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Two Worlds, One Bar
Aaron was up to the bar at The Golden Calf, down on 7th and Addison. The newly pressed white, linen suit still shone brightly in the dim light of the seedy bar. He was in one of those glorious states that was all smiles and deep south charms towards the bartender; that was until Madeline walked in.
Madeline was a head case that dogged him all around town, in a variety of different bars. They had this odd sort of antagonistic, sibling relationship and he couldn't really remember when and where they had met. Madeline constantly smelled blood when she inhaled, had an addiction to Pez. She had this strange form of tourette's where she would randomly spout off lines from the movie Grease.
She sidled up next to him at the bar with a leering grin.
"Whore," she said.
"Tramp," he replied.
"Slut."
"Jezebel."
"Burrito."
Aaron polished off his Campari and soda. "You can't just throw in nonsense words like 'burrito' Madeline. We were in the middle of a run."
"I can do whatever I want!" She sort of swayed as if the stool had been let loose on the sea.
"Madeline," he said softly and slowly as he picked his hat off the bar and left a couple dollars for a tip. "Always a pleasure."
"Sandy," Madeline said, slowly spinning. "You can't just walk out of a drive-in!"
Aaron had always hated that movie.
Madeline was a head case that dogged him all around town, in a variety of different bars. They had this odd sort of antagonistic, sibling relationship and he couldn't really remember when and where they had met. Madeline constantly smelled blood when she inhaled, had an addiction to Pez. She had this strange form of tourette's where she would randomly spout off lines from the movie Grease.
She sidled up next to him at the bar with a leering grin.
"Whore," she said.
"Tramp," he replied.
"Slut."
"Jezebel."
"Burrito."
Aaron polished off his Campari and soda. "You can't just throw in nonsense words like 'burrito' Madeline. We were in the middle of a run."
"I can do whatever I want!" She sort of swayed as if the stool had been let loose on the sea.
"Madeline," he said softly and slowly as he picked his hat off the bar and left a couple dollars for a tip. "Always a pleasure."
"Sandy," Madeline said, slowly spinning. "You can't just walk out of a drive-in!"
Aaron had always hated that movie.
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