The first apartment I inhabited in San Francisco was this freakish anomaly in the world of apartment living. It was chosen for its proximity to San Francisco State where my roommate and I were going to school, but what we didn't realize at the time was that it was essentially a hotel designed to lock away those pesky elderly folks who remind the rest of the young inhabitants of San Francisco that their time too will one day come.
Pros to the tower apartment on Font Boulevard:
1) The walls were made of concrete and the doors were metal. Tough to hang posters, but I could play my guitar in howling, feedback glory, high as a kite at 2 in the morning.
2) The apartment was ginormous by San Francisco standards.
3) There was a garbage chute in the hallway.
4) The apartment was 8 floors up, which made for many intoxicated speculations on how objects thrown from the windows, which opened wide my good people, would fare. There was even talk of jumping out on a mattress as the mattress would more than likely catch air drafts like a parachute. Of course we never did this, but we came pretty g'damn close to tossing out a broken 13" TV.
Cons to the tower apartment on Font Boulevard:
1) All of our neighbors were 75+, which would probably be fine if they didn't come calling on you to help move things. Or constantly tell you how much you reminded them of the Anthony Edwards character on ER.
2) Font Boulevard exists in the foggy area of the city. Things would tend to get a little depressing and damp.
3) Far away from everything good about living in San Francisco.
4) The constant reminder, and faint medicinal smell, of impending death.
5) Possibly haunted by former elderly resident who probably had not been discovered for some time after their death.
6) Much like a hotel, the metal front door locked itself when it closed.
This will come into play, wait for it...
My roommate and I also worked together at the time, albeit different shifts, at the Oakland International Airport. The only reason Oakland is an international airport by the way is that it had one flight to Mexico out of there every week. We handled freight. Most of you have probably heard stories of my freight handling days. If you haven't and want to, stand near an open bottle of whisky and out they'll pour.
One evening, I went to work his shift with him for a little extra cash. We also shared a car at this time, my intrepid but soon to be dead Honda Prelude. After the shift was over, Corado decided that he was going to stay late for a special plane coming in; not me, I was beat. It was decided that he would drive me down to the Coliseum BART station and drive my car home when he was done.
I remember standing on the BART platform, reading my copy of Black Spring by Henry Miller. I distinctly remember having a sudden flash of inspiration and deciding to write my idea down in the pages of the book. Something about that seemed both so sacrilegious and passionate that it sticks in my mind.
I got off at the Daly City station, and not knowing the transit system, or any other way to do so, I took the longish hike home which involved a nerve shredding few yards of walking the wrong way on a freeway off ramp. I'm sure there were a number of better ways of doing this, but honestly, when you spend more time ingesting booze and pain killers than you do food, the ol' good idea factory doesn't exactly run on greased gears.
I used the key pad to gain entry into the front door and got into the elevator to the 8th floor. It dawned on me as I was getting out of the elevator that my key, the key that would open the door to the apartment, was hanging out with a couple of other keys on a nondescript keychain - including the key to my Honda Prelude, in the pocket of my roommate in Oakland.
I was one of those kinds of tired and frustrated that you just want to cry and punch something very hard. Not knowing what else to do, I went down to the lobby and tried to sleep on a none too comfortable lobby bench and waited for my roommate to get home sometime near 3AM a scant hour and half before I had to get up and got to work and school again.
I did not sleep, and I wish I could blame it on ghosts and a howling wind blowing its way down Font Boulevard, but it was mostly trying to sleep like a vagrant. I gave my roommate a smallish guilt trip when he got home (small, as it wasn’t really his fault) and managed to get through the entirety of another day on stores of energy that you only seem to have in your early twenties.
I miss that place not at all.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Persecution Complex
I don't know, I was going to write something ridiculous that will probably morph into something else by tomorrow, something about business meetings and bubble gum and a small elephant named James, but something else cropped up.
I was thinking about how Biff and I went out to dinner and after dinner cocktails Sunday night. We were sitting at the bar, me with my Maker's neat and she with her Manhattan, when little miss prissy bitch stomped up to the bar. See, we had been sitting there when she and her boy toy came up to begin with and mentioned that instead of waiting for a table, they would go sit outside. About five minutes later she stormed up to the barmaid and in the sort of bitchy tone that only a few can truly perfect proclaimed that, "they had been waiting outside for 15 minutes and no one had taken their order."
I smirked, more for the barmaid than to make Princess McBitchyson angry (though had I accomplished that I would have been proud). The barmaid deflected the bridge and tunnel bitchiness quite deftly, informing the woman that there was only her and one waitress for the whole of the busy restaurant and she would be happy to take the woman's order.
So I was thinking about that while I was reading an article linked to Buddy's post. This quote in particular made me tense up a little bit:
"It's actually OK to hate atheists," Kelly said. "We are like the last group that people overwhelmingly agree that it's OK to hate us, because there's an absurd caricature of atheism out there."
Well, some other groups might disagree with you there Kelly. Maybe gays, or blacks, or Muslims... See Kelly, the thing about being an atheist, the thing about being "persecuted" as an atheist is that no one knows you're an atheist until you point it out - unless you're walking around with your "Hey, I'm An Atheist" T-shirt on. You're like vegetarians, no one cares until you purposefully make a big deal out of it.
And from that quote, I peg you as one of those types of people; the people who need to act persecuted to get attention.
There's enough hatred out there, enough people truly being hated and beat and killed for who they are, that idiots who manufacture persecution make a mockery out of people with real problems. It sort of feels like putting yourself in an exclusive community didn't get you enough attention, so you need to begin this childish wailing that people treat you differently because you're in this minority.
It’s like complaining that mainstream music fans just don’t get the band like you do. It's like bitching that the one bedraggled waitress hasn't come outside to get your order for five minutes.
It’s actually only sort of like those things.
There is that same sort of power in feeling like you're hated as there is in swimming around in an ocean of anger; it feels like you're doing something, striking a chord for your side, it gives you motivation... I guess. Actually, it's childish and egotistic, and it's a lesson I'm forced to learn over and over.
I was thinking about how Biff and I went out to dinner and after dinner cocktails Sunday night. We were sitting at the bar, me with my Maker's neat and she with her Manhattan, when little miss prissy bitch stomped up to the bar. See, we had been sitting there when she and her boy toy came up to begin with and mentioned that instead of waiting for a table, they would go sit outside. About five minutes later she stormed up to the barmaid and in the sort of bitchy tone that only a few can truly perfect proclaimed that, "they had been waiting outside for 15 minutes and no one had taken their order."
I smirked, more for the barmaid than to make Princess McBitchyson angry (though had I accomplished that I would have been proud). The barmaid deflected the bridge and tunnel bitchiness quite deftly, informing the woman that there was only her and one waitress for the whole of the busy restaurant and she would be happy to take the woman's order.
So I was thinking about that while I was reading an article linked to Buddy's post. This quote in particular made me tense up a little bit:
"It's actually OK to hate atheists," Kelly said. "We are like the last group that people overwhelmingly agree that it's OK to hate us, because there's an absurd caricature of atheism out there."
Well, some other groups might disagree with you there Kelly. Maybe gays, or blacks, or Muslims... See Kelly, the thing about being an atheist, the thing about being "persecuted" as an atheist is that no one knows you're an atheist until you point it out - unless you're walking around with your "Hey, I'm An Atheist" T-shirt on. You're like vegetarians, no one cares until you purposefully make a big deal out of it.
And from that quote, I peg you as one of those types of people; the people who need to act persecuted to get attention.
There's enough hatred out there, enough people truly being hated and beat and killed for who they are, that idiots who manufacture persecution make a mockery out of people with real problems. It sort of feels like putting yourself in an exclusive community didn't get you enough attention, so you need to begin this childish wailing that people treat you differently because you're in this minority.
It’s like complaining that mainstream music fans just don’t get the band like you do. It's like bitching that the one bedraggled waitress hasn't come outside to get your order for five minutes.
It’s actually only sort of like those things.
There is that same sort of power in feeling like you're hated as there is in swimming around in an ocean of anger; it feels like you're doing something, striking a chord for your side, it gives you motivation... I guess. Actually, it's childish and egotistic, and it's a lesson I'm forced to learn over and over.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Don't Give It A Name
Something about the mix of the dulled sun falling through winter haze and Califone's Michigan Girls has me dreaming of thin and dusty two lane roads when I momentarily close my eyes.
You know when a combination of things just hits you with those soft and blossoming fists that hatch memories rife with feelings? I'm remembering visits to Dos Rios as if with hurried impressionistic brush strokes of sense memories; I can feel the calm I felt, almost smell that dry grass smell that makes me think of sage and cinnamon.
I think of the hot air that could be almost stifling if you weren't too busy enjoying the moments to pay attention. I think of that arid wind blowing smells of the world a city has neglected all through the car, swaying to the music that's moving me at that minute; sometimes with the laughter of two people, sometimes four.
I remember the crush of the uninhabited, the immediate feeling of being surrounded by nature and not buildings or other people, and knowing how that feeling could crush you in this odd claustrophobic sense if you wanted it to. But I remember smiling in knowing that grip was as if being swaddled in a blanket, feeling the welcome offered rushing to unknot muscles I didn't know needed it.
I can almost feel the frosty bite of the river that became the very definition of refreshing when the heat and sweat and dust had collected while you were busy talking in tongues. I can almost feel again the cold soul of that river washing through me, replenishing me.
I can feel the bittersweet heartbreak of looking down the barrel of that winding, two lane exit out of there; sad to be leaving, but more fulfilled than you ever had a right to feel.
Thank you Califone, that was unexpected and beautiful.
Confidential to you book jugglers: Screw your lime ruse, you'll get yours.
You know when a combination of things just hits you with those soft and blossoming fists that hatch memories rife with feelings? I'm remembering visits to Dos Rios as if with hurried impressionistic brush strokes of sense memories; I can feel the calm I felt, almost smell that dry grass smell that makes me think of sage and cinnamon.
I think of the hot air that could be almost stifling if you weren't too busy enjoying the moments to pay attention. I think of that arid wind blowing smells of the world a city has neglected all through the car, swaying to the music that's moving me at that minute; sometimes with the laughter of two people, sometimes four.
I remember the crush of the uninhabited, the immediate feeling of being surrounded by nature and not buildings or other people, and knowing how that feeling could crush you in this odd claustrophobic sense if you wanted it to. But I remember smiling in knowing that grip was as if being swaddled in a blanket, feeling the welcome offered rushing to unknot muscles I didn't know needed it.
I can almost feel the frosty bite of the river that became the very definition of refreshing when the heat and sweat and dust had collected while you were busy talking in tongues. I can almost feel again the cold soul of that river washing through me, replenishing me.
I can feel the bittersweet heartbreak of looking down the barrel of that winding, two lane exit out of there; sad to be leaving, but more fulfilled than you ever had a right to feel.
Thank you Califone, that was unexpected and beautiful.
Confidential to you book jugglers: Screw your lime ruse, you'll get yours.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Gerald Visits The Red Room
Gerald, the slow rotting Easter bunny, took a stool at the end of the bar. The place was a dump in the industrial tangle south of downtown Daytonville; it was the sort of place with bars on the windows and lit only by beer company neon. There was only one other customer in the bar, a haggard and smoking mess of a woman with a waitress uniform, name tag reading Dotty, a few stools down.
The bartender stood at about the midpoint of the scarred, wooden bar. He wiped a beer mug and glanced at Gerald with the wary eye of someone who knows trouble at a glance. Gerald removed his sunglasses, rubbed his paw beneath his blood shot eyes and stared back.
"Can I set you up with something?" the bartender asked.
"You could set me up for sex with an alligator if you have contacts," Gerald said with a sigh. "Barring that, I'll take a bourbon rocks."
The bartender poured two fingers of bottom rate bar bourbon over two greasy ice cubes and brought it over. His nose wrinkled back when he came within a few feet of Gerald. Gerald wrapped his paw around the rocks glass and looked over at the waitress.
"Hey Dot, can you spare a smoke?"
The waitress turned her head slowly, blurry eyes looking out from over-processed hair became suddenly concerned about something. She seemed to shake it off as she slowly reached into her purse and slid the cigarette pack down to him. Gerald took one out, lit it with bar matches, and slid the pack back to her.
"Thanks hon," he said. "Thank God Easter bunny's got opposable thumbs huh?"
No one answered. He took a heavy drag, let it out, and sipped loudly from his drink.
The door suddenly flew open with force and a man in his fifties, hair greased back and a face full of crags that spoke of things like road work and monster truck pulls, took in a quick inventory of the place. He wore a black and turquoise vest that seemed to run counter to the stained jeans and T-shirt that he also wore.
"Gerald, you son of a bitch! Did you think Cindy wouldn't tell me?"
The man began charging the length of the bar down towards Gerald's end. Gerald sighed out a cloud of smoke and tracked his movement. When the man was about 8 feet from him, Gerald deftly flicked his cigarette right at the man's fancy vest. The man gave a slight shriek and looked down, energetically brushing away anything flaming on himself. Gerald took this moment to quickly pick up his barstool and swing it. It connected with the man's head with a decidedly bass heavy thud. The man fell to the ground and did not move.
The bartender reached for the phone. The waitress looked from the prone body on the floor to Gerald's shambling mass moving towards the door.
"Do me a favor Dotty," Gerald said. "When he comes to, tell him that Cindy started this shit."
The bartender stood at about the midpoint of the scarred, wooden bar. He wiped a beer mug and glanced at Gerald with the wary eye of someone who knows trouble at a glance. Gerald removed his sunglasses, rubbed his paw beneath his blood shot eyes and stared back.
"Can I set you up with something?" the bartender asked.
"You could set me up for sex with an alligator if you have contacts," Gerald said with a sigh. "Barring that, I'll take a bourbon rocks."
The bartender poured two fingers of bottom rate bar bourbon over two greasy ice cubes and brought it over. His nose wrinkled back when he came within a few feet of Gerald. Gerald wrapped his paw around the rocks glass and looked over at the waitress.
"Hey Dot, can you spare a smoke?"
The waitress turned her head slowly, blurry eyes looking out from over-processed hair became suddenly concerned about something. She seemed to shake it off as she slowly reached into her purse and slid the cigarette pack down to him. Gerald took one out, lit it with bar matches, and slid the pack back to her.
"Thanks hon," he said. "Thank God Easter bunny's got opposable thumbs huh?"
No one answered. He took a heavy drag, let it out, and sipped loudly from his drink.
The door suddenly flew open with force and a man in his fifties, hair greased back and a face full of crags that spoke of things like road work and monster truck pulls, took in a quick inventory of the place. He wore a black and turquoise vest that seemed to run counter to the stained jeans and T-shirt that he also wore.
"Gerald, you son of a bitch! Did you think Cindy wouldn't tell me?"
The man began charging the length of the bar down towards Gerald's end. Gerald sighed out a cloud of smoke and tracked his movement. When the man was about 8 feet from him, Gerald deftly flicked his cigarette right at the man's fancy vest. The man gave a slight shriek and looked down, energetically brushing away anything flaming on himself. Gerald took this moment to quickly pick up his barstool and swing it. It connected with the man's head with a decidedly bass heavy thud. The man fell to the ground and did not move.
The bartender reached for the phone. The waitress looked from the prone body on the floor to Gerald's shambling mass moving towards the door.
"Do me a favor Dotty," Gerald said. "When he comes to, tell him that Cindy started this shit."
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Gimme Danger
Okay, so I was leaving for work this morning, in a not horrible mood for it being morning and my having to go to work. I went to put on my boots, kiss Bif and Riley goodbye, when my subconscious picked it up and telegraphed it to the front of my brain.
Beth had one of the morning news shows on to distract her from the fussy baby, “Today” or “Good Morning Unemployed” or whatever, and they were doing a searing story of lost luggage on airlines. Gripping, honestly. But anyway, low and in the background was the unmistakable growl of Iggy Pop singing The Passenger.
Bif and I realized it at the same time and looked at each other with bemused smiles.
Couple this with the head hurting incongruity of a cruise line using his song Lust For Life in their commercials and I was agog with how cultural sensibilities shift with the years.
Here is the man that pretty much began punk rock, a man reviled by parents and guardians of good taste, a man who left shows with The Stooges cut and bleeding from crawling over broken glass. Here is a man whose name for many is synonymous with debauchery, excess and heavy heavy drugs. Here is music that was nowhere close to mass acceptance, music that was hated by many, but is now being used for softball "news" programs and to sell cruises to bloated, middle class mid-lifers with more money than sense of adventure.
To badly paraphrase Nietzsche, all great things must first wear horrifying masks. How long before Marilyn Manson's Beautiful People is the theme for Cover Girl advertising? When will video footage of executions be included on commercials for processed cheese?
And now we bring you a retrospective moment remembering good times with Iggy Pop:
On visiting Prague, we spent an evening in this absolutely charming basement bar, drinking 35 cent liters of beer and eating these toasty cheese and onion snack sandwiches. Over the speakers, hidden in dark and gothic archways in the corners, was the unmistakable sound of Iggy Pop. The album was apparently the best Best Of Iggy Pop album put together. We were already riding high on a travel bliss wave, but all this great Iggy Pop falling all over us was the best possible thing we would never have hoped for. We attempted to figure out the name of the album from the waitress, but she could only tell us in the most adorable Czech accent that it was "Iggy Pope". We spent the next couple weeks scouring record stores all over Europe trying to find this mix, but to no avail. We figure that it must have been the mixed tape of some Czech bartender with great taste.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: I'm gonna give it to Raw Power by Iggy and the Stooges.
Beth had one of the morning news shows on to distract her from the fussy baby, “Today” or “Good Morning Unemployed” or whatever, and they were doing a searing story of lost luggage on airlines. Gripping, honestly. But anyway, low and in the background was the unmistakable growl of Iggy Pop singing The Passenger.
Bif and I realized it at the same time and looked at each other with bemused smiles.
Couple this with the head hurting incongruity of a cruise line using his song Lust For Life in their commercials and I was agog with how cultural sensibilities shift with the years.
Here is the man that pretty much began punk rock, a man reviled by parents and guardians of good taste, a man who left shows with The Stooges cut and bleeding from crawling over broken glass. Here is a man whose name for many is synonymous with debauchery, excess and heavy heavy drugs. Here is music that was nowhere close to mass acceptance, music that was hated by many, but is now being used for softball "news" programs and to sell cruises to bloated, middle class mid-lifers with more money than sense of adventure.
To badly paraphrase Nietzsche, all great things must first wear horrifying masks. How long before Marilyn Manson's Beautiful People is the theme for Cover Girl advertising? When will video footage of executions be included on commercials for processed cheese?
And now we bring you a retrospective moment remembering good times with Iggy Pop:
On visiting Prague, we spent an evening in this absolutely charming basement bar, drinking 35 cent liters of beer and eating these toasty cheese and onion snack sandwiches. Over the speakers, hidden in dark and gothic archways in the corners, was the unmistakable sound of Iggy Pop. The album was apparently the best Best Of Iggy Pop album put together. We were already riding high on a travel bliss wave, but all this great Iggy Pop falling all over us was the best possible thing we would never have hoped for. We attempted to figure out the name of the album from the waitress, but she could only tell us in the most adorable Czech accent that it was "Iggy Pope". We spent the next couple weeks scouring record stores all over Europe trying to find this mix, but to no avail. We figure that it must have been the mixed tape of some Czech bartender with great taste.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: I'm gonna give it to Raw Power by Iggy and the Stooges.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Olive You
For something that contains no real sort of flavor, and I'm assuming little to no nutritional value (I mean they almost seem like a pointless food), I love me some black olives.
Okay yes, they obviously have a flavor, but it's small and not likely to be used in trying to define the flavor of something else. You're not likely to hear, "big and bold with lots of cherry and black olive."
Pepperoni and black olive was my pizza of choice as a youth. There was always plenty of chopped black olive for the 50's era casserole dishes that served as Americanized Mexican food. For big, festive, holiday meals you better, you better, you bet believe there was a big ol' bowl of colossal black olives, not far from a plate of pickle slices. Even today, I see black olives and I'm already looking for festivities of joy coming my way.
Black olives are 10 counts of finger bangin' fun. They turn a normal Thanksgiving kid's table into a nasal milk shoot kinda party. They’re fruit? They’re love personified and they’re what you need right now.
Okay yes, they obviously have a flavor, but it's small and not likely to be used in trying to define the flavor of something else. You're not likely to hear, "big and bold with lots of cherry and black olive."
Pepperoni and black olive was my pizza of choice as a youth. There was always plenty of chopped black olive for the 50's era casserole dishes that served as Americanized Mexican food. For big, festive, holiday meals you better, you better, you bet believe there was a big ol' bowl of colossal black olives, not far from a plate of pickle slices. Even today, I see black olives and I'm already looking for festivities of joy coming my way.
Black olives are 10 counts of finger bangin' fun. They turn a normal Thanksgiving kid's table into a nasal milk shoot kinda party. They’re fruit? They’re love personified and they’re what you need right now.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Audition Blues
In order to pay for the good time sins of actually doing some acting, I need to go through audition hell. It's much like having to actually write to be a writer (thank you Brandi for that fiery brand of "walk the walk" bullshit eradication), I mean not as fundamental as that, but still pretty damned necessary.
I don't tend to audition well. It's not that I get nervous, though auditioning is far, FAR more nerve wracking than actually performing, it’s that I don't cold read well. If I have a chance to look at the scene beforehand, I can get a better sense of the character and what I need to do to get it across. Better yet, if I go to an audition that involves doing a prepared monologue, I will actorate all over the place, I will kick you in the face with my acting love.
Did I telegraph that enough for you?
So, an audition for a film pretty much fell in my lap and I took Saturday off of work to go do my thang. It felt so good to be going out and doing something acting related after only a few short months of baby time off, that I really didn't let it phase me that I knew nothing about the film or the part I was reading for. I half heartedly checked my email for the audition sides that were half heartedly offered.
I got to where the audition was being held (not nearly as sick to my stomach nervous as I have been in past situations) and learned that the film dealt with janitors and hallucinogenic cookies. I should have known things would tilt when the assistant gave me script pages to read, but had that questioning look on his face that seemed to say he did not see me in the part I would be reading for.
I had about 10 minutes to go over the lines, figure out who this guy was. This was slightly impeded by short visits to other folks there for the audition that I have worked with before, hugs and falling back into improvised bits and that general feeling of being near someone who you have gone through a heavy experience with. The director came out, soul patch and hip frames, and immediately shook his head when the assistant said I was reading for OC. "Nope," he said. "I want him to read for Weird William." Well, I've got the name anyway...
Cold reading? Check. Any semblance of preparing for a reading tossed out the window? Check. My biggest audition fear coming true for my first film audition? Check and check.
I read the script page literally for the first time for the audition with the director. He asked me to do things in a different way, videotaped a run and promptly forgot my name on the way out (always a good sign).
So, I have no illusions of that videotaped audition cropping up on a 20th Anniversary edition DVD of the cookie janitor film, I would not really be at all surprised if I never heard anything at all. And I don't know if it's a defense mechanism that I've forged to keep myself from falling into precarious chasms of depression when I don't get parts, but I'm really beginning to have a pretty fatalistic view on the audition process.
"If I was meant to have the part, I will get the part."
Sounds good when you're reading over your monologue for a general audition you have in a couple weeks, but sort of sounds like bullshit when you shine a little light on it.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Interstate 8 by Modest Mouse
I don't tend to audition well. It's not that I get nervous, though auditioning is far, FAR more nerve wracking than actually performing, it’s that I don't cold read well. If I have a chance to look at the scene beforehand, I can get a better sense of the character and what I need to do to get it across. Better yet, if I go to an audition that involves doing a prepared monologue, I will actorate all over the place, I will kick you in the face with my acting love.
Did I telegraph that enough for you?
So, an audition for a film pretty much fell in my lap and I took Saturday off of work to go do my thang. It felt so good to be going out and doing something acting related after only a few short months of baby time off, that I really didn't let it phase me that I knew nothing about the film or the part I was reading for. I half heartedly checked my email for the audition sides that were half heartedly offered.
I got to where the audition was being held (not nearly as sick to my stomach nervous as I have been in past situations) and learned that the film dealt with janitors and hallucinogenic cookies. I should have known things would tilt when the assistant gave me script pages to read, but had that questioning look on his face that seemed to say he did not see me in the part I would be reading for.
I had about 10 minutes to go over the lines, figure out who this guy was. This was slightly impeded by short visits to other folks there for the audition that I have worked with before, hugs and falling back into improvised bits and that general feeling of being near someone who you have gone through a heavy experience with. The director came out, soul patch and hip frames, and immediately shook his head when the assistant said I was reading for OC. "Nope," he said. "I want him to read for Weird William." Well, I've got the name anyway...
Cold reading? Check. Any semblance of preparing for a reading tossed out the window? Check. My biggest audition fear coming true for my first film audition? Check and check.
I read the script page literally for the first time for the audition with the director. He asked me to do things in a different way, videotaped a run and promptly forgot my name on the way out (always a good sign).
So, I have no illusions of that videotaped audition cropping up on a 20th Anniversary edition DVD of the cookie janitor film, I would not really be at all surprised if I never heard anything at all. And I don't know if it's a defense mechanism that I've forged to keep myself from falling into precarious chasms of depression when I don't get parts, but I'm really beginning to have a pretty fatalistic view on the audition process.
"If I was meant to have the part, I will get the part."
Sounds good when you're reading over your monologue for a general audition you have in a couple weeks, but sort of sounds like bullshit when you shine a little light on it.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Interstate 8 by Modest Mouse
Friday, January 19, 2007
Towing Blues
I feel I should toss out a caveat before I start. I also feel like sometimes I should change the name of this blog to Billy Tosses Out A Caveat. I'm also laughing to myself knowing how much Bif doesn't like the word caveat...
I have little empathy for people who get their cars towed.
Yup, it sucks. You betcha, it costs a lot of money, money that you probably don't have and would be better spent elsewhere even if you did have it. Uh huh, uh huh, I do know that heart stopping panic of 'has my car been stolen, or just towed away'. Man don't I know it, parking is getting tougher and tougher out there. Still, I gotta say: You bend the parking rules, you run the risk of getting towed - nobody's fault but your own.
I've had vehicles towed a large number of times, most of those times in San Francisco. Every time it happened, I knew fully well that if I left vehicle in this spot past a certain amount of time, it could be towed. And parking enforcement in San Francisco seems to have a special, almost sexual, fondness for towing cars; the streets are coated with parking god jizz.
Have you really lived in San Francisco if you have not been forced to visit the urban hell box that is City Tow? It's one that's been pondered for ages.
There was, and probably still is, a stretch of parking spots in front of the DMV in San Francisco that become tow away spots at 7AM. They were always sort of last resort spots as you didn't want to run the risk of sleeping through your alarm and having to make that trek down to City Tow. Well, one morning this of course happened. I awoke at about 30 seconds to 7, threw on shorts and a shirt and ran barefoot out to the car. Sure enough, parking enforcement and a tow truck were already there. I cried out hoarsely for them to stop and after a few minutes the tow truck drove away without its intended victim. As I was getting into the car, the officer said, "the tow driver's pissed." I looked at the officer as if he asked if he could pee on my bed for five dollars and said "so what" with all the venom I could muster.
But when your car has been towed for seemingly no reason as ours was yesterday, well I'll admit there was a little rage; a little foot stomping, desire to tell complete strangers on the street to lick your balls rage. One, car was legally parked with not a towing sign in sight. Two, we hardly use the damn car.
So, I detoured my walking tour home to include the sad little mobile shack that serves as the tow truck office. I tried to remind myself that it wasn't the fault of the guy behind the desk so don't give him attitude, but the man moved at a pace that made road kill look positively kicky. I imagined him coming to work in a battered Dodge from a transient hotel where he cooked soup on a hot plate and muttered alone about "these darn compooters".
I paid, and went to retrieve the car from the pocked and puddled lot, surrounded in this sad foster home by other abused and neglected cars.
After calming down and thinking about it, while I still say that the spot was legal, it was tempting the good graces of the parking gods. And so I shall make the proper sacrifices, walk the straight and narrow for awhile, and check off 'visit to city tow yard' off of my Things I Haven't Done In Seattle Yet list.
I have little empathy for people who get their cars towed.
Yup, it sucks. You betcha, it costs a lot of money, money that you probably don't have and would be better spent elsewhere even if you did have it. Uh huh, uh huh, I do know that heart stopping panic of 'has my car been stolen, or just towed away'. Man don't I know it, parking is getting tougher and tougher out there. Still, I gotta say: You bend the parking rules, you run the risk of getting towed - nobody's fault but your own.
I've had vehicles towed a large number of times, most of those times in San Francisco. Every time it happened, I knew fully well that if I left vehicle in this spot past a certain amount of time, it could be towed. And parking enforcement in San Francisco seems to have a special, almost sexual, fondness for towing cars; the streets are coated with parking god jizz.
Have you really lived in San Francisco if you have not been forced to visit the urban hell box that is City Tow? It's one that's been pondered for ages.
There was, and probably still is, a stretch of parking spots in front of the DMV in San Francisco that become tow away spots at 7AM. They were always sort of last resort spots as you didn't want to run the risk of sleeping through your alarm and having to make that trek down to City Tow. Well, one morning this of course happened. I awoke at about 30 seconds to 7, threw on shorts and a shirt and ran barefoot out to the car. Sure enough, parking enforcement and a tow truck were already there. I cried out hoarsely for them to stop and after a few minutes the tow truck drove away without its intended victim. As I was getting into the car, the officer said, "the tow driver's pissed." I looked at the officer as if he asked if he could pee on my bed for five dollars and said "so what" with all the venom I could muster.
But when your car has been towed for seemingly no reason as ours was yesterday, well I'll admit there was a little rage; a little foot stomping, desire to tell complete strangers on the street to lick your balls rage. One, car was legally parked with not a towing sign in sight. Two, we hardly use the damn car.
So, I detoured my walking tour home to include the sad little mobile shack that serves as the tow truck office. I tried to remind myself that it wasn't the fault of the guy behind the desk so don't give him attitude, but the man moved at a pace that made road kill look positively kicky. I imagined him coming to work in a battered Dodge from a transient hotel where he cooked soup on a hot plate and muttered alone about "these darn compooters".
I paid, and went to retrieve the car from the pocked and puddled lot, surrounded in this sad foster home by other abused and neglected cars.
After calming down and thinking about it, while I still say that the spot was legal, it was tempting the good graces of the parking gods. And so I shall make the proper sacrifices, walk the straight and narrow for awhile, and check off 'visit to city tow yard' off of my Things I Haven't Done In Seattle Yet list.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Family Matters
You don't get to choose your family, they're thrust on you, or you on them. You can try to escape as far as possible, but those ties run so deep that you'll never get away. You can spend your life in a fierce haze of denial about it, but all of that socialization running through lines long with generational knowledge will eventually come calling.
It's not necessarily a bad thing, these binding blood ties. You cannot choose your family, but I believe you get the family you need. Your family either provides the lessons needed, or forces you to learn them yourself by denying the opportunity. As I get older and a little more comfortable in this skin of mine, I'm able to let slide a lot of the family aggravations that would have had me foaming in an epileptic fit of spite before. I'm able to see my family as sometimes a necessary evil, but most times a fairly comfortable haven built of my own history.
But right now, I'm particularly proud and smitten of the family I have chosen. I am feeling what unconditional love is, and how powerful you can feel when you've got that behind you. I'm loving the mad moments of ecstasy when all of our gears mesh fucking spot on, and I'm even loving those moments when the gears break down and we see one or more of us at our worst and either let it slide or gather together to bend down to pick up and dust off who has fallen.
I love that it truly is a life long journey, a little melancholy that this will never be enough time.
But damn it all, I'll take what I can get CBGB, I'll take what I can get.
It's not necessarily a bad thing, these binding blood ties. You cannot choose your family, but I believe you get the family you need. Your family either provides the lessons needed, or forces you to learn them yourself by denying the opportunity. As I get older and a little more comfortable in this skin of mine, I'm able to let slide a lot of the family aggravations that would have had me foaming in an epileptic fit of spite before. I'm able to see my family as sometimes a necessary evil, but most times a fairly comfortable haven built of my own history.
But right now, I'm particularly proud and smitten of the family I have chosen. I am feeling what unconditional love is, and how powerful you can feel when you've got that behind you. I'm loving the mad moments of ecstasy when all of our gears mesh fucking spot on, and I'm even loving those moments when the gears break down and we see one or more of us at our worst and either let it slide or gather together to bend down to pick up and dust off who has fallen.
I love that it truly is a life long journey, a little melancholy that this will never be enough time.
But damn it all, I'll take what I can get CBGB, I'll take what I can get.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Grammar Rodeo
Again, I shouldn’t necessarily be getttin’ all high and mighty on bad grammar and spelling; I push grammar rules to a point that would be an affront to proofreaders, I get positively giddy by a run on sentence that makes a 100 mile super marathon look like a ride up to 7-11 for smokes and a bag of Funyuns.
But…
There are many things that I love about people from the south, their ability to put any food item that will fit in to a deep fryer into one tops the list. But right up there is the term y’all.
Y’all tickles me. The term “y’all” tickles me, not necessarily are y’all literally tickling me. But I even find something cute about pluralizing tickles after a y’all if I did mean that y’all were literally tickling me. Okay, losing it Badgley…
In written correspondence to a major corporation, one of our delightful neighbors from the south chose this as a spelling of y’all: you’ll’s.
The sheer balls of this makes me want to stand up and slowly applaud. That bitch got crazy with the Cheeze Whiz. That’s two apostrophes thrown all up in a word that shouldn’t even exist in the first place.
Bravo.
But…
There are many things that I love about people from the south, their ability to put any food item that will fit in to a deep fryer into one tops the list. But right up there is the term y’all.
Y’all tickles me. The term “y’all” tickles me, not necessarily are y’all literally tickling me. But I even find something cute about pluralizing tickles after a y’all if I did mean that y’all were literally tickling me. Okay, losing it Badgley…
In written correspondence to a major corporation, one of our delightful neighbors from the south chose this as a spelling of y’all: you’ll’s.
The sheer balls of this makes me want to stand up and slowly applaud. That bitch got crazy with the Cheeze Whiz. That’s two apostrophes thrown all up in a word that shouldn’t even exist in the first place.
Bravo.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Donner, Party of Two...
I awoke to the snow coming down in soft, falling flurries. The streets and sidewalks were covered in luxurious white, showing me that we had received more snow last night than previously. I was in turns excited by the walk to work in and through the snow, as well as nervous about once again slipping and falling to the middle of the street like some over anxious invalid tangoing on a freshly mopped floor.
There's something about the dampening effects of snow, about that odd quiet it affords, that brings me right back to childhood. The tendrils of snow clinging to bare branches of trees seemed so beautiful that it was making the nerves of falling seem like an adequate price to pay.
There were a couple of minor slips on the snow that had been packed down by cars, and the ice lying treacherously beneath it, but thankfully no falls. I watched the flakes come down through the buildings downtown and smiled when they lightly tickled my face. The walk was going so well.
But then when I rounded the corner of 1st and headed into downtown proper, it began to come down harder, and I realized at a street corner that I was trapped.
I got in under the shelter of an awning with a few other pitiful souls. Panic began to set in with a couple of them, but I was managing to stay calm. Luckily, I was carrying to work two boxes of Nature Valley Soft Granola Bars with Yogurt. This is not an endorsement, they were 2 for $6 at Safeway. I realized with rationing, I should be able to survive for at least a week.
I was going to need to do something about the warmth situation. I had my nice, warm old man coat on, but come nightfall that wind was going to whip in from the Sound and freeze us solid. There were a number of newspaper dispensers nearby, free newspapers (thank you very much Seattle Rental Guide) that would make ready fuel for a fire, the doorway of the restaurant hopefully providing a break from the wind.
But then it happened, the panic weasel got loose. I started to sweat, thinking to myself that I was going to eventually need more protein, more sustenance than Nature Valley was going to offer. I looked around the others huddled from the falling snow and realized that something had come true that I had only joked about at slumber parties and ice cream socials; I would eat another human being if I had to.
A young sales exec, who I had in my mind named Tad, was going to be my first pick. He was lean and stupid; good eating and unaware of my advances with a Swiss Army knife.
But as suddenly as I had been trapped, I was rescued. The little white crosswalk man lit up and I made my way across Union.
There's something about the dampening effects of snow, about that odd quiet it affords, that brings me right back to childhood. The tendrils of snow clinging to bare branches of trees seemed so beautiful that it was making the nerves of falling seem like an adequate price to pay.
There were a couple of minor slips on the snow that had been packed down by cars, and the ice lying treacherously beneath it, but thankfully no falls. I watched the flakes come down through the buildings downtown and smiled when they lightly tickled my face. The walk was going so well.
But then when I rounded the corner of 1st and headed into downtown proper, it began to come down harder, and I realized at a street corner that I was trapped.
I got in under the shelter of an awning with a few other pitiful souls. Panic began to set in with a couple of them, but I was managing to stay calm. Luckily, I was carrying to work two boxes of Nature Valley Soft Granola Bars with Yogurt. This is not an endorsement, they were 2 for $6 at Safeway. I realized with rationing, I should be able to survive for at least a week.
I was going to need to do something about the warmth situation. I had my nice, warm old man coat on, but come nightfall that wind was going to whip in from the Sound and freeze us solid. There were a number of newspaper dispensers nearby, free newspapers (thank you very much Seattle Rental Guide) that would make ready fuel for a fire, the doorway of the restaurant hopefully providing a break from the wind.
But then it happened, the panic weasel got loose. I started to sweat, thinking to myself that I was going to eventually need more protein, more sustenance than Nature Valley was going to offer. I looked around the others huddled from the falling snow and realized that something had come true that I had only joked about at slumber parties and ice cream socials; I would eat another human being if I had to.
A young sales exec, who I had in my mind named Tad, was going to be my first pick. He was lean and stupid; good eating and unaware of my advances with a Swiss Army knife.
But as suddenly as I had been trapped, I was rescued. The little white crosswalk man lit up and I made my way across Union.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
The Price
What if babies know fully well where their souls have come from? What if they know how you've been linked together in the past? They slowly realize that you don't know it, and they get so excited and frustrated in wanting to tell you; in wanting to reunite and let you in on the secret.
They struggle and struggle, slowly learning to form the words and the language that we can understand, but the cost of learning that language is forgetting where their souls have come from.
They struggle and struggle, slowly learning to form the words and the language that we can understand, but the cost of learning that language is forgetting where their souls have come from.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Zorca The Great
Okay kids sit back, it has now come time to tell you the story of Zorca.
One fine weekend in the fall, I want to say September (so I will), we were having us a fine Indian Summer in California. Biff and I drove our happy asses on down to San Luis Obispo from San Fran for a little drunken revelry with Chris and Greta.
Down there in SLO town, it was uncomfortably hot. We took ourselves on down to the neighborhood drug store and stood in awe of the summer toy supplies that the store had, in what seemed bad timing indeed, marked down considerably. We walked out with an inflatable pool, snorkel, diver's mask, water wings, and an inflatable killer whale that was longer than the pool was wide, and was naturally named by us "Zorca"
What followed was an aquatic frolic the likes that Esther Williams never dared dream. And some none too careful nail painting. At some point Greta and I wandered down to the liquor store for more snacks, or beer, or both - Greta simply resplendent in her fluorescent orange water wings. When I look back at pictures of that afternoon, I get dizzy trying to figure out how four relatively upstanding citizens could possibly have gotten that drunk so quickly.
Zorca managed to survive the weekend intact and was some time later brought down to Biff's parent's boat in Long Beach for 4th of July. We were having a good enough time jumping around the marina water with Zorca, but then the stakes were raised. A kid with an outboard motor, and a desire for good graces, suggested we tow the triumphant Zorca behind his tiny boat.
Chris and I rode that inflatable bastard all over the marina, and then the stakes were raised but again. The kid decided to tow us out into the actual ocean waters.
I was game to try it first.
Now let me tell you, you envision in your mind holding on gracefully to a polyethylene killer whale, brought to life by beer tainted lungs, flailing an arm in the air like some sea cowboy and shouting out mantras to your own manhood. But in reality, the open ocean is a little choppy, a little wave filled. It is in fact no place for a man-boy to ride an inflatable killer whale being towed behind some kid's Boston Whaler.
After what seemed to be about five minutes of my triumphing against drowning, I looked up from the trough of a wave, one arm slung desperately around Zorca, to see a giant Coast Guard vessel coming my way. One of the Coast Guard guards looked down at me with an amazing amount of derision in his gaze and said over a bullhorn, "does that really seem like a good idea?"
It did at the time, yeah...
Zorca didn't survive for any further adventures, but at least he went out in a blaze of butterscotch glory!
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Burning Skies by Tones On Tail.
*by the way, I have no idea what the hell "butterscotch glory" means.
One fine weekend in the fall, I want to say September (so I will), we were having us a fine Indian Summer in California. Biff and I drove our happy asses on down to San Luis Obispo from San Fran for a little drunken revelry with Chris and Greta.
Down there in SLO town, it was uncomfortably hot. We took ourselves on down to the neighborhood drug store and stood in awe of the summer toy supplies that the store had, in what seemed bad timing indeed, marked down considerably. We walked out with an inflatable pool, snorkel, diver's mask, water wings, and an inflatable killer whale that was longer than the pool was wide, and was naturally named by us "Zorca"
What followed was an aquatic frolic the likes that Esther Williams never dared dream. And some none too careful nail painting. At some point Greta and I wandered down to the liquor store for more snacks, or beer, or both - Greta simply resplendent in her fluorescent orange water wings. When I look back at pictures of that afternoon, I get dizzy trying to figure out how four relatively upstanding citizens could possibly have gotten that drunk so quickly.
Zorca managed to survive the weekend intact and was some time later brought down to Biff's parent's boat in Long Beach for 4th of July. We were having a good enough time jumping around the marina water with Zorca, but then the stakes were raised. A kid with an outboard motor, and a desire for good graces, suggested we tow the triumphant Zorca behind his tiny boat.
Chris and I rode that inflatable bastard all over the marina, and then the stakes were raised but again. The kid decided to tow us out into the actual ocean waters.
I was game to try it first.
Now let me tell you, you envision in your mind holding on gracefully to a polyethylene killer whale, brought to life by beer tainted lungs, flailing an arm in the air like some sea cowboy and shouting out mantras to your own manhood. But in reality, the open ocean is a little choppy, a little wave filled. It is in fact no place for a man-boy to ride an inflatable killer whale being towed behind some kid's Boston Whaler.
After what seemed to be about five minutes of my triumphing against drowning, I looked up from the trough of a wave, one arm slung desperately around Zorca, to see a giant Coast Guard vessel coming my way. One of the Coast Guard guards looked down at me with an amazing amount of derision in his gaze and said over a bullhorn, "does that really seem like a good idea?"
It did at the time, yeah...
Zorca didn't survive for any further adventures, but at least he went out in a blaze of butterscotch glory!
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Burning Skies by Tones On Tail.
*by the way, I have no idea what the hell "butterscotch glory" means.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Puts You There Where Things Are Hollow
The blogging output this week has been pitiful, I apologize.
I didn't want to spin another yarn complaining about the ridiculous pain in my back - I realize that it's far less than fascinating. But sitting down in front of a computer today, having to constantly wince and shift positions, frankly it's all I can think about.
So, some things I've learned from the "Today" show in the past few debilitating days:
1) Madonna is a far from fascinating interview when she is being forced to peddle her wares for a cartoon she does a voice for.
2) That British accent thing, all coming and going... Stll annoys me.
3) Actors who have lost the shine of fame become tragically hilarious when trying to reclaim a bit of the ol' glory
4) When Matt Lauer had a fake hot flash done on him, he didn't enjoy it. And I was really on the edge of my seat seeing how that was going to turn out.
5) If you put glaze on a grilled shrimp too early in the cooking cycle, you will burn the sugar in the glaze dumbass.
In reference to number three up there, in a particularly cringe-worthy moment, a former "Moonlighting" star, waiting in the hallways for her interview spot, suddenly rushed in to greet Madonna as she was whisked through the hallways and out to the loving crowd, only to be politely brushed off. This former "Moonlighting" star was then interviewed by the weather guy about how they were trying to reinvent themselves on a show that currently has a moment of hip factor. The whole thing felt so "The Comeback"* that for a second I got confused that I was watching a "news" program.
*I have to highly recommend "The Comeback", an HBO show that was cancelled after its first season. It’s a really pretty brilliant bit about television stars and fame, with an amazing turn by Lisa Kudrow - just as cringe inducing as the original "The Office".
(And for our out of nowhere section) I have to highly NOT recommend The Black Dahlia. Awful. Truly terrible. At some other point I may go into detail about why this is such an abomination, but then again it draws more attention to a movie that should garner no more attention. Take this as my public service announcement for the week: Do not rent The Black Dahlia.
I didn't want to spin another yarn complaining about the ridiculous pain in my back - I realize that it's far less than fascinating. But sitting down in front of a computer today, having to constantly wince and shift positions, frankly it's all I can think about.
So, some things I've learned from the "Today" show in the past few debilitating days:
1) Madonna is a far from fascinating interview when she is being forced to peddle her wares for a cartoon she does a voice for.
2) That British accent thing, all coming and going... Stll annoys me.
3) Actors who have lost the shine of fame become tragically hilarious when trying to reclaim a bit of the ol' glory
4) When Matt Lauer had a fake hot flash done on him, he didn't enjoy it. And I was really on the edge of my seat seeing how that was going to turn out.
5) If you put glaze on a grilled shrimp too early in the cooking cycle, you will burn the sugar in the glaze dumbass.
In reference to number three up there, in a particularly cringe-worthy moment, a former "Moonlighting" star, waiting in the hallways for her interview spot, suddenly rushed in to greet Madonna as she was whisked through the hallways and out to the loving crowd, only to be politely brushed off. This former "Moonlighting" star was then interviewed by the weather guy about how they were trying to reinvent themselves on a show that currently has a moment of hip factor. The whole thing felt so "The Comeback"* that for a second I got confused that I was watching a "news" program.
*I have to highly recommend "The Comeback", an HBO show that was cancelled after its first season. It’s a really pretty brilliant bit about television stars and fame, with an amazing turn by Lisa Kudrow - just as cringe inducing as the original "The Office".
(And for our out of nowhere section) I have to highly NOT recommend The Black Dahlia. Awful. Truly terrible. At some other point I may go into detail about why this is such an abomination, but then again it draws more attention to a movie that should garner no more attention. Take this as my public service announcement for the week: Do not rent The Black Dahlia.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Here's Some Wisdom For Ya
It wasn’t turning 36 a couple of weeks ago.
It’s not that I was starting high school when people I know were small children.
It’s not the cracks that get thrown out about my age, ones that I honestly don’t take that seriously.
It’s throwing out your back by carrying your baby around the record store. That and the 7 minutes it was taking me to get to a standing position while my hands flail for some sort of handle to grip.
I could tell you about lower back muscle spasms that made me grit my teeth together in order to keep from yelling out loud, about having to get in the car and pick up Beth and Riley from the doctor because of the quick squall of a storm and actually crying from the pain of shifting.
But how about this one? How about slipping on the iced over crosswalk on Pine Street on the way to work this morning, feeling that white out of over bearing pain as the back gets pulled again? I hit the street, feeling the black ice digging into my hands, and realize that it’s going to hurt but a bitch to get up from the street. I realize about the same time that a car coming down Pine will slide on the same damn ice if they hit the brakes to keep from hitting me.
After a five minute lean out where I let that grinding glass pain slide away a little bit before calling work to let them know I wouldn’t make it in again, my breathing way too heavy with trying not to yell, I hit it home.
It’s that type of fall that you hear about old people taking, that slow wincing gait and the mincing steps of avoiding ice that makes me feel old.
It’s not that I was starting high school when people I know were small children.
It’s not the cracks that get thrown out about my age, ones that I honestly don’t take that seriously.
It’s throwing out your back by carrying your baby around the record store. That and the 7 minutes it was taking me to get to a standing position while my hands flail for some sort of handle to grip.
I could tell you about lower back muscle spasms that made me grit my teeth together in order to keep from yelling out loud, about having to get in the car and pick up Beth and Riley from the doctor because of the quick squall of a storm and actually crying from the pain of shifting.
But how about this one? How about slipping on the iced over crosswalk on Pine Street on the way to work this morning, feeling that white out of over bearing pain as the back gets pulled again? I hit the street, feeling the black ice digging into my hands, and realize that it’s going to hurt but a bitch to get up from the street. I realize about the same time that a car coming down Pine will slide on the same damn ice if they hit the brakes to keep from hitting me.
After a five minute lean out where I let that grinding glass pain slide away a little bit before calling work to let them know I wouldn’t make it in again, my breathing way too heavy with trying not to yell, I hit it home.
It’s that type of fall that you hear about old people taking, that slow wincing gait and the mincing steps of avoiding ice that makes me feel old.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Right Round, Baby Right Round, Like A Record Baby...
And speaking of Dead Or Alive…
P.S. Billy, no one was speaking of Dead Or Alive, no one cares about Dead Or Alive anymore outside of 80’s irony/nostalgia fits.
Okay. And in writing about Dead Or Alive yesterday, I was reminded of the few months that I was listening to them when I was in high school. And this was mostly because of a friend…
See, said friend came out of the closet in high school. Slowly at first, in fact I was the only one in our school that he told for quite awhile. He had tested the waters for a couple of weeks before hand, dropping hints that were broader than John Candy after a month long nacho binge. Still, I imagine it must have been fairly scary not really knowing how a friend is going to take the news, not knowing if a friend is still going to be a friend.
Once he was out, it was as if there was this hole in a dam. I became an outlet for his stories that he couldn’t share with anyone else. I got to hear about a lot of clubbing, was taught the finer points of cologne choices, I learned what a “fag hag” was. I’m smiling thinking about how excited he would be talking about his weekend escapades and finally feeling comfortable with himself.
I remember driving around Laguna Beach the summer that we graduated, drinking vodka and fountain 7-Up out of gas station big gulp cups, and listening to Youthquake and Mad, Bad And Dangerous To Know by Dead Or Alive. It was warm and we sang really loud. He was excited about the future tumbling his way, I was way freaked out with no idea of what the hell I was going to do. But somehow, if I could just focus on the drive along the coast and to that irresistibly danceable New Wave sound, I didn’t need to worry about it.
We pretty much went our separate ways after graduation, but I remember a lot of laughs and a lot of listening to what was apparently all the rage in the dance clubs at the time. Man that guy loved his Stephen ‘Tin Tin’ Duffy…
P.S. Billy, no one was speaking of Dead Or Alive, no one cares about Dead Or Alive anymore outside of 80’s irony/nostalgia fits.
Okay. And in writing about Dead Or Alive yesterday, I was reminded of the few months that I was listening to them when I was in high school. And this was mostly because of a friend…
See, said friend came out of the closet in high school. Slowly at first, in fact I was the only one in our school that he told for quite awhile. He had tested the waters for a couple of weeks before hand, dropping hints that were broader than John Candy after a month long nacho binge. Still, I imagine it must have been fairly scary not really knowing how a friend is going to take the news, not knowing if a friend is still going to be a friend.
Once he was out, it was as if there was this hole in a dam. I became an outlet for his stories that he couldn’t share with anyone else. I got to hear about a lot of clubbing, was taught the finer points of cologne choices, I learned what a “fag hag” was. I’m smiling thinking about how excited he would be talking about his weekend escapades and finally feeling comfortable with himself.
I remember driving around Laguna Beach the summer that we graduated, drinking vodka and fountain 7-Up out of gas station big gulp cups, and listening to Youthquake and Mad, Bad And Dangerous To Know by Dead Or Alive. It was warm and we sang really loud. He was excited about the future tumbling his way, I was way freaked out with no idea of what the hell I was going to do. But somehow, if I could just focus on the drive along the coast and to that irresistibly danceable New Wave sound, I didn’t need to worry about it.
We pretty much went our separate ways after graduation, but I remember a lot of laughs and a lot of listening to what was apparently all the rage in the dance clubs at the time. Man that guy loved his Stephen ‘Tin Tin’ Duffy…
Friday, January 05, 2007
New Wave Lies
Mercedes' post yesterday has sort of stuck with me, has opened a wound.
I'm pretty sure I know of what she is talking about when she states that she was forced to lie to numbers of people. It was a bad period of time for me and for a number of people I cared deeply for. For a lot of us, it was our first lesson in how most companies view their employees as names on payroll forms and nothing more, our first lesson in how there are people paid well to lie to your face.
It was a soul crushing and monstrously aggravating time. Thinking back on it, I was washed by rage that was still there under the surface, like lava from a volcano you think is dormant. I was lying in bed last night and working myself up with anger over it until I realized how dumb I was being and told myself to calm my happy ass down.
I will now go all Jesse Owens on your ass; watch this leap...
Ever since, I have been unable to get the song Lies by the Thompson Twins out of my head. When I first heard Lies, I believed that they were saying "Lice, lice, lice, yeah! They're gonna get you!" and I thought, "Why they hell would someone sing a song about lice?" The memory of Lies drills Hold Me Now by the same band into my head. When Hold Me Now became a popular song, I quickly filed it away with what I knew of “New Wave” at that point in my life; People Are People by Depeche Mode and You Spin Me 'Round (Like A Record) by Dead Or Alive.
And loaded for bear with these New Wave gems, I am reminded of an innocent summer in the early eighties, a summer before my move to California, before being corrupted by the world. I remember a 4th of July picnic in the yard of my mother's flight instructor. My brother went to school with his daughter, was in a puppet play with her that my father had videotaped as a matter of fact, and this somehow gave her minor celbrity status in my mind. I remember walking through the hangar which held the 4 person Cessna and hearing Hold Me Now on the radio and thinking, "why would he want someone to hold his car?"
But what really sticks out, what really puts a malicious little smile on my face, is the memory of having a ton of those little firecrackers that my brother and I would light and throw at each other - in full view of adult supervision.
They must have been SO drunk...
I'm pretty sure I know of what she is talking about when she states that she was forced to lie to numbers of people. It was a bad period of time for me and for a number of people I cared deeply for. For a lot of us, it was our first lesson in how most companies view their employees as names on payroll forms and nothing more, our first lesson in how there are people paid well to lie to your face.
It was a soul crushing and monstrously aggravating time. Thinking back on it, I was washed by rage that was still there under the surface, like lava from a volcano you think is dormant. I was lying in bed last night and working myself up with anger over it until I realized how dumb I was being and told myself to calm my happy ass down.
I will now go all Jesse Owens on your ass; watch this leap...
Ever since, I have been unable to get the song Lies by the Thompson Twins out of my head. When I first heard Lies, I believed that they were saying "Lice, lice, lice, yeah! They're gonna get you!" and I thought, "Why they hell would someone sing a song about lice?" The memory of Lies drills Hold Me Now by the same band into my head. When Hold Me Now became a popular song, I quickly filed it away with what I knew of “New Wave” at that point in my life; People Are People by Depeche Mode and You Spin Me 'Round (Like A Record) by Dead Or Alive.
And loaded for bear with these New Wave gems, I am reminded of an innocent summer in the early eighties, a summer before my move to California, before being corrupted by the world. I remember a 4th of July picnic in the yard of my mother's flight instructor. My brother went to school with his daughter, was in a puppet play with her that my father had videotaped as a matter of fact, and this somehow gave her minor celbrity status in my mind. I remember walking through the hangar which held the 4 person Cessna and hearing Hold Me Now on the radio and thinking, "why would he want someone to hold his car?"
But what really sticks out, what really puts a malicious little smile on my face, is the memory of having a ton of those little firecrackers that my brother and I would light and throw at each other - in full view of adult supervision.
They must have been SO drunk...
Thursday, January 04, 2007
For Rosier Rose Quartz
The walk home last night was such a light affair, I'm pretty sure my ipod loves me. The random selection last night was so full of pop song goodness that I was healed by music.
The cold, Sound-scented wind blew through me and I walked with one of those irrepressible smiles that a battalion of nail guns to my shins couldn't stop. I saw all of the beautiful girls with life alight in their eyes, all the beautiful boys with weary smiles and all those darn hoodies. And bless you John Darnielle for making Oceanographer's Choice that sort of song that just gets me worked up for reasons I am so not able to explain.
I finally began to believe the words that I have thrown out so willy nilly before; that things will always work out.
Later, as I attempted to latch onto some sleep, I think I invented a memory about an add in comic books regarding delivering a newspaper called Drit. So much interrupted sleep, so many dreams crippled just as they were getting interesting.
I awoke at last from a dream where I was quietly attending some sort of class full of women, but this class turned into a show ala "The View". David Duchovny entered and began to explain, without a hint of irony, how to keep your geodes safe when washing them in a dishwasher.
This, of course, involves wrapping your geode in bubble wrap and then placing all of that inside a dishwasher safe pitcher
When I gave a sort of "what the hell is David Duchovny doing here telling me how to wash my geodes in a dishwasher" sort of comment, a very annoying, middle aged woman turned to me and said, "oh, like you don't have any geodes". Except she pronounced it 'zeodes'
I don't have any geodes, or zeodes, but I didn't get the chance to tell her that because I woke up.
As I went into the bathroom and went through my morning rituals, my mind continued to try to annoy me with hateful thoughts of people who bolster their identities through brand names. I managed to fight it off though with a lingering question...
What were those housewives doing with their geodes that would get them so dirty?
The cold, Sound-scented wind blew through me and I walked with one of those irrepressible smiles that a battalion of nail guns to my shins couldn't stop. I saw all of the beautiful girls with life alight in their eyes, all the beautiful boys with weary smiles and all those darn hoodies. And bless you John Darnielle for making Oceanographer's Choice that sort of song that just gets me worked up for reasons I am so not able to explain.
I finally began to believe the words that I have thrown out so willy nilly before; that things will always work out.
Later, as I attempted to latch onto some sleep, I think I invented a memory about an add in comic books regarding delivering a newspaper called Drit. So much interrupted sleep, so many dreams crippled just as they were getting interesting.
I awoke at last from a dream where I was quietly attending some sort of class full of women, but this class turned into a show ala "The View". David Duchovny entered and began to explain, without a hint of irony, how to keep your geodes safe when washing them in a dishwasher.
This, of course, involves wrapping your geode in bubble wrap and then placing all of that inside a dishwasher safe pitcher
When I gave a sort of "what the hell is David Duchovny doing here telling me how to wash my geodes in a dishwasher" sort of comment, a very annoying, middle aged woman turned to me and said, "oh, like you don't have any geodes". Except she pronounced it 'zeodes'
I don't have any geodes, or zeodes, but I didn't get the chance to tell her that because I woke up.
As I went into the bathroom and went through my morning rituals, my mind continued to try to annoy me with hateful thoughts of people who bolster their identities through brand names. I managed to fight it off though with a lingering question...
What were those housewives doing with their geodes that would get them so dirty?
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Resolute
While not typically one for resolutions, I did make one come the morning of the first day of the New Year:
I will not drink at a party to the point that upon waking the next morning I pray for the gods of pain to quit fucking around and just finish me off already.
I'm a realist kids; well, I'm a dreamer-slash-realist, so let's say that I'll TRY not to drink that much. I don't like to set myself up for failure this quickly into a fresh year.
While I was whiling away my time in my own hangover hell, I was reminded of something that a friend with a newborn had said to me years ago. This guy had agreed to let four of us stay in his house, four very accomplished drinkers - and when I say very, I don't mean it as a plain and boring descriptive word, I mean it in the sense that if we could find a way to drink for a profession, we would have taken over the world. In many instances, we actually had come to believe we had taken over the world - and he admirably tried to keep up. Commenting on the care for his infant while hungover, he equated it to the Trainspotting junkies and the dead baby.
That comparison always felt a little melodramatic to me, but now that I have my own infant to contend with, I can say that it was definitely melodramatic.
I will say that the high pitched shrieking of an upset infant does nothing for the sort of headache that feels like there is foreign, pulsing flesh inside your brain; foreign, alcohol soaked flesh. And I did feel a little guilty at my inability to tend to the little man when it was taking a supreme act of will to not take another death march to the bathroom and view the modest leavings of what I considered "dinner" the night before.
Things settled down, as they always do, and I had a moment to reflect.
Man did I really drink that much? I don't remember drinking that much... There was some mixing, and dude, "beer before liquor, never be sicker". Oh yeah, and you didn't really eat, did you?
Then I reflected some more. I felt lucky for the people I have in my life, happy to be with a beautiful woman who loves me, ecstatic to have a gorgeous son I never expected to have. On top of the above resolution, I tacked on being more diligent about writing outside this blog; I'm hoping that writing it here for all to see and commitments to possible writing partners will nail me to this one. And try to be a good dad, that's a pretty important one.
Oh, there were also resolutions about more cold water swimming and promises to not talk all condescending to people who are really, really stupid.
I will not drink at a party to the point that upon waking the next morning I pray for the gods of pain to quit fucking around and just finish me off already.
I'm a realist kids; well, I'm a dreamer-slash-realist, so let's say that I'll TRY not to drink that much. I don't like to set myself up for failure this quickly into a fresh year.
While I was whiling away my time in my own hangover hell, I was reminded of something that a friend with a newborn had said to me years ago. This guy had agreed to let four of us stay in his house, four very accomplished drinkers - and when I say very, I don't mean it as a plain and boring descriptive word, I mean it in the sense that if we could find a way to drink for a profession, we would have taken over the world. In many instances, we actually had come to believe we had taken over the world - and he admirably tried to keep up. Commenting on the care for his infant while hungover, he equated it to the Trainspotting junkies and the dead baby.
That comparison always felt a little melodramatic to me, but now that I have my own infant to contend with, I can say that it was definitely melodramatic.
I will say that the high pitched shrieking of an upset infant does nothing for the sort of headache that feels like there is foreign, pulsing flesh inside your brain; foreign, alcohol soaked flesh. And I did feel a little guilty at my inability to tend to the little man when it was taking a supreme act of will to not take another death march to the bathroom and view the modest leavings of what I considered "dinner" the night before.
Things settled down, as they always do, and I had a moment to reflect.
Man did I really drink that much? I don't remember drinking that much... There was some mixing, and dude, "beer before liquor, never be sicker". Oh yeah, and you didn't really eat, did you?
Then I reflected some more. I felt lucky for the people I have in my life, happy to be with a beautiful woman who loves me, ecstatic to have a gorgeous son I never expected to have. On top of the above resolution, I tacked on being more diligent about writing outside this blog; I'm hoping that writing it here for all to see and commitments to possible writing partners will nail me to this one. And try to be a good dad, that's a pretty important one.
Oh, there were also resolutions about more cold water swimming and promises to not talk all condescending to people who are really, really stupid.
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