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I was in one of those giant Targets this week, the kind that is so big, they actually get congressional representation just for the store.
I kept ending up in the same aisle with this man and his son, who was about 5 or 6 maybe, and they couldn't have been more different. The father was all stoic meets somber with an added look of foreboding (probably brought on by the thought of having to buy tampons for his Love).
His boy, however, was more likely a test subject for High Octane F'Extra Strength Red Bull, as he was doing this sort of babbling mambo around his father and the shopping cart shaped walker that was passively holding him up. The kid repeatedly asked his dad if he wanted to hear him "rap", to which silence was replied, unless you count the resounding "NO" that I was screaming in my head.
He then slid up next to me and belted out the chorus of Flo Rida's "Low", which is the part of the song where they DON'T rap, but it was hilarious. When he got to the bit where it goes "she turned around and gave that big booty a smack", I sensed he was going to swat at the region I refer to as my "ass", so I swiftly jumped away leaving him naively swiping at air (then he got "low, low, low, low, low").
Heh, I guess to a little kid my posterior may resemble a "booty", but to the average adult, I barely have the makings of a hatchback, and I assure you, there is no junk in it. It's an NDN thing, having no ass. I can't remember where I read that, I think it was in one of Sherman Alexie's books (I LOVE his stuff, but mainly "Ten Little Indians", hysterical). Some say it's because we danced or laughed our asses off, but others are convinced that white people pick-pocketed 'em in one treaty or another. I'm obviously white too, but I wouldn't put it past them!
I didn't get the wonderful dark skin that my sister and dad have. Instead, I got the cliff for a behind and all the inherent health issues that NDN's get, but luckily not diabetes, whew! I got the Russian pale faced scowl from my mom, but my sister got her bulbous, Russian butt*. So it all boils down to what mix of blood you have before quality of "booty" can be determined.
Regardless of my sad excuse for a rump, I still like to shake it to Flo Rida. Most music buffs wouldn't think I'd have "Low" on my IPOD, but its right there sandwiched in between The Duke Spirit's "The Step and the Walk" (the rest of their album sadly blows) and Radiohead's "Weird Fishes/Arpeggi" on my AAA playlist.
I'm nothing if not varied.
*Russia's main export is giant bubble-shaped asses. Each is measured on the basis of whether you can set a bottle of thrice distilled vodka on these protrusions or not. If not, they get sent to the Ivan Grozhny (terrible) Booty Camp in Siberia for further "enhancement".
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I'm not feeling very inspired lately, lots of family drama going on, but also my cousin is getting married in Santa Fe at the end of May, and I'm busy trying to make that trip happen.
Sooooo…I guess you could say I just pulled this out of my ass. =)
Man, all the blogs I've read this week are like weepy tributaries of tears into beers. Too bad there is no vaccine for heartbreak, just soggy holographic band-aids arriving late to the aftermath, always muttering excuses about the overwhelming traffic under their breath. (Does anyone mutter anything OVER their breath?)
Many of my virtual friends are feeling their way through some no-fault, but very unappealing circumstances, whereas others were INTENTIONALLY sliced by some sick piece of shit that gets off on the pain they can emanate from another being. Interesting how some people think you deserve a special brand of torture if you commit that horrific crime of having once been attracted to them. It amazes me the creativity they put into their abuse as well, very original, some of these. Yeesh.
We are all creators - no exceptions. When someone can't create something cool, they either try to cop someone else's thing or they create chaos and problems for everyone, but mostly for themselves.
Creation never ceases, whether it's recognized or not. Every word out of your mouth creates a feeling in someone else. Every action you take creates a reaction. I don't say this to paralyze you into constant analysis of everything you do or say, but I do find a teensy bit of shock at how many aren't the least bit mindful of INTENTION, and maybe a shout heard here can whisper elsewhere.
I like psych books and am currently reading a book about this man who survived an upbringing that would've made even Hitler wince, and frankly, I don't know if I can finish it. I just don't understand (happily so) people that INTENTIONALLY hurt others and get off on it.
I know that whatever these blowhards have done was probably also done to them, but that makes it worse if you do it KNOWING how awful it feels. I wish I could say that mean people get what they put out there or what is coming to them, but I don't know if I really believe that. If you go with that line of thinking, then the person who was on the receiving end of their abuse is getting what? Is that what they deserved?
I don't have anything clever to say here, I'm just feeling rather reflective and thinking about INTENTIONS and control. You can't control other people, not what they think or do, or how they perceive you. What you can control is your INTENT. If you are doing or saying something with the INTENT to hurt or control someone else, you suck, especially now that you are aware of it. =)
Check yourselves.
Last weekend I was catching up with someone I hadn't seen in years, and he asked me if there was any band/singer that I was into but found too embarrassing to admit. A guilty pleasure, if you will.
I triumphantly replied that there is no such thing for me, musically, anyways. For all my faults (and there are many) and insecurities, if there is one thing I have complete, unblemished, confidence in, it is my taste in music. This area is where no doubts whatsoever reside (they prefer to hang out in the area that relates to other humans, I'm guessing).
With music, I live a philosophy that borrows from Damone's Five Point Plan in the film "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJnIWLTneKY), where he says "Wherever ya are, THAT'S the place to be." Point 3, I believe it was (the rest of his plan is fantastically retarded and obviously dated, minus the Zepplin stuff heheheh).
In my case, it's WHATEVER I LISTEN TO, THAT IS THE BEST SHIT THERE IS (without exception)! Whether it be The Carpenters, The Raconteurs, or Snoop Dogg, I fervently believe that if I'm digging it, there is nothing groovier. When it comes to the tunes, I love HARD and without restraint.
There are past male companions and some people I share DNA with that I would be red-faced upon revealing our association, but I'll proudly show the contents of my IPOD to anyone. Guilt and embarrassment may piss on other avenues of my existence, but they get no face time when it comes to my ear candy.
I'll never regret my musical choices, but I do, however, regret some things I've done because of music.
One such event involved me cranking the volume in my car and my passenger making the unpardonable mistake of assuming that what he had to say was of equal importance to what I had just boosted. Thus causing him to unthinkingly touch the controls of what was pleasuring my ears, diminishing the decibels in a bold, but very stupid, act of "shushing".
All of time as we know it came to a face slapping halt, and I suddenly lost the capacity to blink. I was shocked and overtaken with the stones this one thought he had. He was, of course, viciously banished once I regained my composure. After all, it was my car and as far as I was concerned, only threats to my health or others' in my immediate surroundings warrant the snippy shutdown of Bowie. Especially the pill-popping Bowie that handed us "Moonage Daydream", the nerve!
Ok, that was some years ago. I've mellowed a tad and would never dump someone over something so trivial these days. Besides, I keep my IPOD in a steel bear trap on my lap when I drive now - good luck trying to grab that!
In regards to the holiness we call "music", I am thoroughly unapologetic and always will be. That IS who I am, though I can't help thinking that maybe I need to spread that feeling out a little more evenly. Like to things that breathe and aren't covered in fur (the two leggeds).
In the end, they do play songs at memorial services, but what if there is no one there to hear them?
(Please read the post titled "Nast-ysics" before continuing here - just makes more sense that way.)
Nast-ysics can be fun and useful, but you really have to know when to pick your battles.
I went at someone with some purposeful CRAZY in hopes that they would get lost, but I'm off my game this week and it didn't work. There was a death in my family and my mom may be facing lung cancer (no she doesn't smoke), so I should've really tried to ignore instead of confront. It's so not advisable messing with CRAZY when things are bordering on iffy in your own life. Some people you just have to let be whatever it is that they are being, if it's within the bounds of law, of course. I certainly don't have it in me to do otherwise at present, and I just don't give a fuck.
I would also refrain from trying to out-crazy people that are what is considered "clinically" insane. With some folks, official diagnosis is yet to be determined, but this is only because these individuals have not yet sought help, or even think they need to. The internet is rife with such crackpots.
Early on, when I had first gotten a Yahoo account, I had my photo on the profile and thought nothing of it. That is, until a person who was into Cannibalism contacted me and told me I looked "tasty". He also expressed hopes that I wouldn't feel scared of him. Uhhhh…how the fuck else would one feel if someone who EATS people is licking their fingers as they leer in your direction? Most creeps undress you with their eyes, this guy probably fantasizes about what kind of dressing your eyes would best marinate in.
He didn't come right out and say he was a CANNIBAL, but I looked at his profile and there was a photo of a woman being roasted on a spit, and his "interests" showed that he belonged to a Yahoo group of CANNIBALS. Some other weird stuff was on there that my naïve ass Googled, and I wish I hadn't done so now, EW. Some things we're just better off NOT knowing.
Isn't consuming human flesh illegal and wouldn't belonging to a group of Cannibals also put yours in eminent danger? They could just as easily develop a craving for one of your knees as much as anyone else's. YUCK! Who could you really trust at the potluck dinners?
My insomnia is bad enough, imagine dating a Cannibal. You'd have to have one eye surgically altered to be kept open at all times in case your Boo was in the mood for a midnight snack. That takes "love bites" to a whole other level does it not? Ick, I just had a flashback of that movie "American Psycho". You KNOW which scene I'm thinking of, oh shivers!
It's hard enough in this world with all the ways that you can be sexually violated, but now one has to fret at the possibility of being masticated by some chubby accountant in Buttbrains, Oklahoma?
Needless to say, my yahoo profile is now about as beige and un-informing as Price Waterhouse's press secretary. (A little too Dennis Miller of me? It's an NDN thing.)
I definitely did not go head to head with this one; I simply lied and said I had a wonderful boyfriend that worked as a translator for the FBI. I don't like lying, but I like the idea of being eaten alive a lot LESS, so I ran with it.
Not all theories work on all people.
*Please use caution if you attempt to apply Nast-ysics to any of your own life situations. Deductive reasoning and sane responses are never a given, especially in a world that has online discussion groups for Cannibalism. Shame on Yahoo!
"I was crazy back when being crazy really meant something." - Charles Manson
I was once asked by someone dealing with a stalking situation on how I'd handle it, as I have, unfortunately, been bothered by a plethora of kooks - male and female.
My reply instructed her to act crazier than the stalker. This, according to my own goofball version of physics that I came up with during the years that I read books like "The Tao of Physics", "Alice in Quantumland", and saw films like "Mindwalk" (which is playing this month on Showtime and Flix if you haven't seen it), was the most satisfying way to go.
"Nast-ysics" * includes, among many, the theory that two crazies cannot occupy the same space. There is always the CRAZY and the person who enables or puts up with CRAZY, but ya rarely see two crazies together (outside of specific facilities that usually have "Haven" in their names, of course).
Even in bands, there is usually only one CRAZY and if they leave, one of the other members then assumes that role, presuming that they stay together, that is (Pink Floyd).
"I don't suffer from insanity, I enjoy every minute of it." - Angelina Jolie
When I lived in NYC, I saw CRAZY on a daily basis. I lived with it too; more than once, yeesh! One such freak show horded junk and insisted on being completely pants-less ALL of the time, and if you brushed your teeth in front of her, she recoiled like a vampire getting a crucifix enema. My teeth were never cleaner.
The streets of Manhattan are rampant with loonies, it wouldn't be the same if they left, I suppose. The religious gloom and doomers are especially entertaining (please don't take offense if you're religious, most of my friends are of some persuasion or another, but they aren't dogmatic ass holes that tell others how they should live, and I vociferously herald the same premise).
Many end-of-the-worlders in NYC have this notion that not everyone has heard of Jesus. It is quite possible that your DVR broke the night someone whispered his obscure name and told his tales, right? Maybe we've never heard of toilet paper either, fucking hell! Even my hardcore, snake handling, Baptist friends think these people have their heads up their proselytizing asses.
I was constantly accosted by this kind of batshit bonkers, but one event sticks out in my mind. I was on 42nd and 6th, when this young woman jumped in front of me all glassy-eyed, just reeking of CULT, and asked "have you heard of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior?" She tilted her head to the left almost violently, and then started to fondle her clipboard like it was made out of velvet, or money, perhaps.
I gently smiled and said (almost Phil Hartman-like), "I am Jesus".
"Well, we all have Jesus in us, but…" she laughingly began.
"No," I interrupted firmly, "I am Jesus! IIIIIII AM JEEEEEEESUS!"
My eyes widened as she slowly backed away and made for the intersection. I chased her about half way across Sixth Avenue screaming "I am the Resurrection and I am the Light", but she hauled ass in that floor length getup outrunning me as my platforms and heavy smoking did me no favors back then.
My theory worked though, I out-crazied her and have since seen mainly positive results using similar tactics. Online I've hit a few backfiring snags with one or two instances only stirring up more CRAZY, but overall it's proved to be, at the very least, amusing.
"I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs, or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me." - Hunter S. Thompson
*My first name is "Nastasya"
Almost the entire time I called NYC my home, I never went to a dance club. Given the choice, I much prefer to see live bands as I like to bounce my bones around to BASS in real time. The only thing comparable to watching someone pluck the low E and feeling it pulsate into you from the bottom of your hooves is actually being the one holding the pick.
I've played some venues where the stage had loose floor boards and every time I hit that E in close proximity to my rig, I would be catapulted into the air nearly crashing into a raging drum kit. How bizarre that would've been if I had pelted into the Ride cymbal at just the right angle and got decapitated. What a fantastic tale that would be for those who had witnessed such a thing: "Dude, she hit that low E and I caught her face! It was fucking amazing! I was hoping she'd throw me a pick, but hey man, turns out she gives head - for reals!"
This last winter (if you can call it that) I had things to get over (more than one thing, mainly I needed to get over myself), so I had to get out more. Tampa is so not NYC and it wouldn't be fair to even speak of them in the same sentence, I know, but I had to work with what is available to me. Live bands are a limited resource, good ones anyways, plus it was free in NYC and it's not here so one must invest wisely.
I like going out dancing but I bore so easily and I don't always have a drink. That seems to be key in tolerating the incessant sameness that Florida so graciously offers up. It progresses about as fast as a turtle on heroin. The dance options here play songs only if there is a video available to them, and the DJ's are about seven exits behind every city north of the Mason Dixon.
I should be a DJ, the control freak in me is certain of this. Not on the radio, I've been allowed to do so as a guest, but I don't have the nicotine soaked voice required to make a go of that. Whenever my yaps cross the airwaves, I sound like a female version of Butthead sans Beavis.
No, I want my own night at a dance club that will allow me to play tunes that one can dance to, but aren't necessarily DANCE songs. You can dance to Interpol, Vampire Weekend, and current Radiohead. Just not in Tampa, at least not that I'm aware of. Where is the NEW? Why can't you play something that isn't a "single"? Not everything the record company deems suitable for video is the best on the album dammit!
I'm not feeling the dance scene here at all, and I've not been out dancing that much in the last 2 months. I dragged myself out last night as it's nice to see friends but I was so fucking bored of the tunes that I spontaneously combusted at about 1 am - talk about self entertainment.
My charred, skeletal remains are thinking that even though I'm over things, I may need some hermit time. Maybe it's not boredom. Maybe I'm just not ready to be out there right now.
Ok, where's the chocolate?
I'm in the most heinous of moods this week, I have a lot on my mind but I don't feel like yapping about it.
In fact, I'm feeling a tad anti-social yet, I wanted to get out last night. Since no one goes to see live bands here, I knew I could go out and catch a show and not have to chat and I was right.
I went to see a couple of bands that I have never heard of, or thought that I hadn't, from NY. I so needed a different venue to be pissy in, and I really wanted so see some musicians from the Northeast. Just CUZ. I'm glad I did too.
I got there as the second band was finishing up and my lack of sleep over the last week prevents me from recalling anything about them, so nothing there. While I waited for the last band, Nightmare of You, to set up, I played Galaga (got the high score AGAIN- I'm such a geek) and then sat by myself staring into space, dreaming up some new curses. Not like gypsy shit, but stuff I think of when I'm smiling with hate at someone after they've worked my last nerve and stabbing isn't an option:
May every beauty that speaks to you have the breath of an Nicaraguan bus driver's rectum after pulling a double in a vehicle with no A/C.
May your next condom be lined with sandpaper.
May you paper cut your penis (with photo quality paper).
May you wake up with an abundance of ingrown pubic (or nose) hairs.
May you be stuck in traffic on a bridge when the onset of the most fierce diarrhea overwhelms you.
Yeah I can't always be sweetness and light. =)
Okay, Nightmare of You, I liked 'em. What I liked was they know what VARIETY means, they can maintain a style without all the songs sounding the same and even though they don't bring something enormously unique to the table, they don't sound like that whole slew of bands out there now that I refer to as "brat" rock. Semi-whiney bratty singers that all sound the same.
I didn't realize that I did know one song by this band until they played it, "My Name is Trouble". Not bad. The bass player was very, very good. I love it when someone knows how to disco up the bass but can still DRIVE it home in the same song. The guitarist clearly is a fan of The Chameleons UK, effects wise, so some props there for taste. The drummer is new for them and you can tell he has a lot to learn about volume and the singer(who was quite charming) wasn't hiding that fact at all. Overall they were a treat live, not BRILLIANT, but I wasn't expecting as much.
They had a better turnout than most of the shows I've seen in the last few months, and the fans were REALLY into it, all 25 of them. That's fucking shameful, Tampa is…oh I had better not start on that. I feel a lot of words like "pretentious" knocking on the door. Let's not answer it.
NOY closed with an instrumental of "I Want You/She's So Heavy" by The BEATLES. F'Excellent.
The singer then announced, "Hey, if you want, my brother is selling our EP back there. OR you can go fuck yourselves."
I couldn't have said it better.
Every once in a while you encounter a song that upon first listen, completely wrecks you. It's what I imagine love at first sight to be like, but with the ears.
"The Leavers Dance" by The Veils, a band from New Zealand, is the latest tune to rip me to shreds in this way. I can't turn it off.
I happened upon it because I was watching some new detective show starring this facially blessed guy from Denmark that looks a bit like a young Denis Leary. The pilot episode featured music by Death Cab For Cutie and The Decemberists, and we all know when the music is that good from the get-go, the show is bound to be cancelled. It'll probably be axed before I finish my next three thoughts and replaced with some sort of reality show starring anyone whose teeth color matches their hair.
One of the episodes featured "One Night on Earth", also by The Veils, but I couldn't find it when I went to put it on my myspace play list. Instead I found "The Leavers Dance", which I fell into repeatedly, and will continue to do so as if there is some hope of finding the answers to all my questions hidden away in those notes somehow.
I think I'd like to hear it while driving from Ann Arbor to Detroit, Michigan. I want it to be snowing and at night so it looks like you're driving through the dark bottom of the ocean.
The Veils' sophomore effort "The Runaway Found" contains the more widely known "The Tide that Left and Never Came Back", which I have somewhere, but it's not near as good as LEAVERS.
The vocals at times harken back to an even more gravelly sounding Tom Petty meets the Waterboys, which isn't adorable, but fitting. Especially for a line like "it's not for our desires but our design that we all fall apart". I'm in it for the guitars mostly, but it's all love. It really is.
I wish my name was "Berenice". =)
I wouldn't say I'm a straight up fan of Blues, I mean, I like it well enough, I just don't really seek it out. The words, of course, are relatable on many levels, but a good chunk of the vocalists sound like they're singing from the bottom of a glass of scotch that is invariably chained to an ashtray forever. Some of the songs are about as long as the State of the Union Address, so for me it works pretty much as background music to a good conversation only.
I do, however, completely flip my wig over guitarists that know how to incorporate that warm, bluesy sound with a rock wall of fury. I'm all teeth when someone gets that mix down, my cheekbones hurt at the very thought of it (in a good way).
Hendrix, obviously, mastered this. To play that well alone would be exquisite enough, but to be able to sing while playing the F'AMAZING songs he crafted…oy just picture me raving on in Italian here with my arms flailing about. Better yet, picture a young Sophia Loren doing it instead, wearing a 1960's gold lamé cat suit and a black boa. (Ok, hands back where I can see 'em.)
Unfortunately, I can count on only one hand the number of guitarists that I have seen live that wowed me into a drooling glob of appreciation. Recording-wise there are too many to list, but I will say I still want to tear my clothes off every time I hear the guitar on "Standing Here" by The Stone Roses - or at least someone's clothes.
Today my DVR and I got married, and during the reception it played Jimmy Kimmel's show from a couple of nights ago, which featured a band called "Back Door Slam" from the UK. I kept my clothes on, but I was certainly impressed with this young three piece outfit, and the singer/guitarist was phenomenal. I won't lie as I don't care for his vocal style, but that cat could play! All three are very good musicians, but I'm always doubly impressed if someone can sing AND play lead that well.
They sound a bit like if Cream were sometimes Celtic and from New Orleans, but are certainly bluesier than anything I ever purchase. I probably won't buy anything off 'em, but if they hoof it this way, I'm so there.
You can check 'em out at http://www.myspace.com/backdoorslam, they're touring the west coast this week. I don't see any dates for Florida (what's new?), but if they add Tampa, you'll be sure to see me yapping about it here.
"Im gonna tear my hair out just for you. If you dont believe what I'm singing, at three oclock in the morning, babe, wellI'm singing my song for you." I Got the Blues -The Rolling Stones
(Myspace is f'd again so I can't put what I'm listening to, but I'm sure you guessed "Sticky Fingers", and you would be right. SWAY kicks every kind of ass there is.)
