Monday, August 31, 2009

Nuh-Stah-See-Ya's Song

I can already hear your tune
Calling me across the room
When the world and his wife
Are on my back again
Not enough pleasure
Too much pain
Swamp ThingThe Chameleons UK

If you have a peek at my Blogger profile it has a teeny, tiny listy of bands that I mentally ingest. The above mentioned band is VERY there, so it was with great honor to accept an invite to play a set of Chameleon’s tunes last Wednesday, with the founder/singer/bass player of the band, Mark Burgess.

I had my friend capture some of the event on video, but the sound on those are total shit so I’ve only included a small clip of “Swamp Thing” until I receive a copy of the “professional” dvd. It also sucks in that he only taped the half of the stage that I’m on, um duh! Of course I want to be somewhat visible, but I want everyone in it! I'm in the dark far right in the clip under that EXIT sign - Yeesh.

We had two rehearsals and only one with Mark. I’m not a keyboardist in general (played on six songs though yeay), so we basically pulled this out of our asses, but it went ok. I wasn’t in charge of the gig itself so I won’t comment on booking etc (grrrrr), but it was awesome not only to play those songs with the writer, but also the other dudes that performed as well.

The bass player, Brent, I had never met (he was on SubPop – Nirvana’s first label - with Beachwood Sparks) but we played a festival together with Sebadoh ages ago. He freaked me out a little because he looks and talks so much like Stalker Hater, it’s Discovery Channel worthy; my friends couldn’t stop laughing at the freaky similarity.

Above: Brent, Me, and Paul.

Musicians from Boston, D.C., Miami, and Tallahassee flew and drove to Tampa to play with Mark. Those that know the Chameleons LOVE them. They are obscure and basically an 80’s band, but they left heavy prints on any ear they landed on. Bands today that attribute their sound to Mark’s work are The Killers, Interpol, The Editors, and White Lies. In Tampa, the press could care less, but in L.A. (a real place) the show had all kinds of tongues wagging last night ( There is rumor of me playing in a NYC show; if that happens, I'll mention beforehand =)

I yakked so much that I lost my voice, plus I got a cold. Most of the conversations were shop talk like “Hey you remember that narcoleptic guy that used to manage so & so before they hit it?” or “You know them too? I toured with them in blah blah”. Stuff civilians can’t relate to or you sound like a big old name dropper. Most of us in round about ways know the same people but at different times in our lives, it was interesting to say the least.

Doubly bizarre is now being friends with this man who was a mentor to me. It’s rare you get to meet someone from a different time that changed your life, let alone bond with them. I learned to sing and play bass at the same time because of Mark, and he also got me through one of the darkest hours of my teen years without knowing it.

I brought my 1966 Hofner Bass to rehearsal and he picked it up and played “P.S. Goodbye” on it:

I can’t tell you what that song means to me without tears forming a protest line down my cheeks, so I’ll skip it.

We started our set with “Nostalgia” at my behest, as it’s the only song I’ve ever heard that sounds sort of like my real name, and Mark said “Nuh Stah See Ya’s song”. We closed with a Door’s like version of “Second Skin” where he dedicated “this melody” to the backing members, which was cool.

Above: Mark, Omar, and me with creepy green earplugs that kept falling out.

When I dropped off Mark and his awesome girlfriend Lydia, after a wild Thursday evening of drinking and debauchery, he told me that not only was I the first female Chameleon, I was the ONLY one he ever shared the stage with.

(Sound of a feather being gently placed in my cap.)

Above: Mark, me and my cleavage yikes!

Sunday, August 30, 2009


"You say goodbye and I say hello
Hello, hello
I don't know why you say goodbye
I say hello
" Hello Goodbye - The Beatles

I was on the dance floor when some belligerent troll was being escorted out of the club in a headlock, arms flailing about. A gentle hand guided me out of the path, and this sweet guy put himself between me and the mess that was provided by Jagermeister as it gyrated by.

"I like the whole gentleman thing you just did there," I said.

"I like your face,"he replied.

(Ding Ding Ding) My brain sorted through the rolodex of compliments, and that is one I actually have not received. Eyes, smile, lips, eyebrows even, but never had anyone said they liked my face. At least not in a while.

We yakked for two hours as we danced. He's fun, interesting, a photographer, 25 (the teetering shoe is about to drop), and from Denver.

"I'm only here for a week." (Buzzer sound)

Thanks for playing, we have some nice parting gifts for you - please exit to your left.


I told a drunken group of besties that I had read a blog by this Irish chick about ingrown boob hairs (One of Those Bad Boys), and most of them were amazed that hairs even grew in these remote areas.

I declared that if I can hatch some, I'm growing a Hitler type moustache under each nipple. Then I wondered aloud if the "soul patch" was actually just a relocated Hitler moustache? Like it fell below the lip and got a new name.

At that point, I was informed about this web site that only features cats that resemble Hitler - "Kitlers".

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Key She

I was honored to play keyboards on six songs with some of the coolest people on the planet Wednesday evening. When I have more time, I'll tell you who, and you'll probably have to Google em heheh, but it meant a lot to me.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Count Smackula

The emptiest of feelings
Disappointed people clinging on to bottles
And when it comes it's so so disappointing
Let down and hanging around
Crushed like a bug in the ground
Let DownRadiohead

Wouldn’t it be awesome if people came with microchips that we could scan and were loaded with a sort of Wikipedia rundown of the person, or even like Amazon customer reviews?

“**---This girl has obvious daddy issues, but she is always well prepared and rocks in bed. She’s fun but doesn’t bathe nearly enough. She also lets her dog stick his tongue in her mouth. I gave her two stars because she is reliable, prompt, and has nice nostrils.”

Forewarned is forearmed right? It would be so nice to opt out of so much time and experiences with someone to find out the ugly side. Howz abouts some hints up front? Yes please!


I’m the type that when I say I’m going to do something, I DO IT. If for some reason I absolutely cannot, I profusely apologize and tongue kiss you until forgiven (unless we’re related).

“MAYBE” is such a fantastic word, I wish people would use it more. “Maybe I’ll show up to practice”, “Maybe if we still know each other we’ll be doing Halloween together”, or “Maybe when I come visit, I’ll take you to that restaurant.” I HATE people that say they’re going to do something and then don’t and aren’t even remotely in touch with an apology or accountability. “MAYBE” could’ve prevented a lot of ills for me.

Can anyone be counted on anymore? Culpability must be the uncoolest thing there is because humans would rather drown in oblivion than peer in the direction of this type of honesty.

In relationships, if the female early on says anything future related, dudes flip out and bail, even if the girl is just talking about next week. Girls, however, tend to think a guy really digs them if they talk in future tense, depending on what and when. I had only known one guy a few hours and he was like “I can see us living together.” I saw myself dedicating my life to Yugoslavian worm research before I could process his vision, so yeah, yikes times ten.

I had one guy actively pursue me, and when he spoke in future terms, I stupidly bought into it and oh how I hateth myself for that (not as much as I hate him though). When someone talks that way, it tricks you into thinking they’re someone you can count on – they'll be there for you, even in the future. Because of that experience, my trust levels are shakier than Michael J. Fox after a Starbucks run. Now if someone even hints “us” beyond a week, I tell them to cease, desist, and to please incorporate “MAYBES” until we are a thing, if it’s going that way.

Guys don’t talk future until you’ve been naked with a girl at least five times, please. You can get laid without such maneuvers and if you no likey afterwards, you can’t be hated for misleading the witness. Capiche?

Everyone else, if you commit to anything and can’t back it up, fucking apologize already. It’s the very least you can do. Acknowledgment of the other person’s feelings IS a big deal.


Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Emo Scarfish

How can I? How can I?
How can I make my body shed for you
How can I? How can I?
How can I make my body shed around your metal scars?
Loretta's scars, Loretta's scars, Loretta's scars

Loretta’s ScarsPavement

I was hanging out with some teenage boys a couple of weeks ago, and they were good guys, but I felt bad for them because they have an abusive, religious dad and a wicked step-Cunt that take the act of deception to the sickest of levels.

Their background story is so sad that even the folks at Lifetime would be like “Please stop, really even we can’t…just stop!”

The one is going to be 16 soon and this week he found that horrific place that we all do with someone at some point. That place where things between you and some Fuckface are beyond repair. He had tried to talk to his dad about easing up and was shut down for the last time. Now he’s sentenced to a life of listening to Staind and an unforgettable feeling of not being heard when it’s needed most (which is nearly as excruciating as being subjected to Staind).

Emotional scarring, in my opinion, happens when a Fuckface reaches in and breaks off a part of you that they don’t caress, value, or nurture. No they look at you, smile, and then shatter that part into 472,000 pieces. Poof, it’s dead. Maybe it’s your spirit that’s sapped or your humor (mine has been decimated in the last two years), but you can never go back to how it was before (if you can, then by all means please tell me how). Beyond repair.

There’s a void when parts die and we humans try our damnedest to shove squares where only circles belong. Fame, alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, food, sex, and what have you will never feel as good as the missing part did (imitation crab ya dig?). I wonder if the parts are originally stolen because the Fuckface in question had so many of their own missing that maybe they thought a part of another could make them whole again. Is it an unconscious act, or are they just plain evil?

Beyond repair?

Maybe we can pretend we’re starfish and grow our parts back?

Friday, August 14, 2009

Expensively Free

I want you to know
He's not coming back
Look into my eyes
It's the only way you'll know I'm telling the truth
So knives out
Knives OutRadiohead

The truth is like a crime scene; no entry without latex gloves or they aren’t allowed anywhere near it’s fragile state. It’s messy and few have the stomach for it. Many have to make rank and show brevity to handle truth, but even then you can only take so much, I suppose.

Everybody says they want the truth, but only in theory. When confronted with it, most often stagger and stammer as if they were just told that the word “the” was removed from all of language.

“Honest to a fault”. In some ways that’s me. I know how to compartmentalize truth, as in not revealing everything just because it’s true, but I also can’t pretend shit didn’t happen when it did.

I was willing to have a go at it, but I foresaw an outcome that didn’t benefit anyone, especially me. I let some truth slip out that I swore would never be revealed, but it was in anger and I partly regret it. I didn’t need to explain myself to the ears that heard it, but somehow there was relief in finally putting it out into the ether.

It’s been a tough year for me, I’ve not written about all my truths. Some were life changing. One felt like it was life stopping. Well, life as I knew it stopped, but when I accepted it, it resolved itself. The exit of this issue was just as harsh as the entrance, and though I’m relieved on a thousand levels, I find myself in days of grief concerning it too. I know the pain of swallowing truth before it’s properly chewed, but I feast on it anyways.

The misery of lying is something I consistently write about. Maybe I’m a little hardass when it comes to this human oddity (my cat never lies to me – the one, the other not only lies, she also specializes in extortion), but I think it’s because I know too much. I did some pre-law in college where you basically learn to lie or catch someone in one. I read scads of books on the “tells” and body language. I love shows like “Law & Order CI” where Donofrio’s character is the consummate behaviorist or “Lie To Me”, which is all about the facial expressions in liars.

I wonder if I’ll always be alone because of this as it’s fascinating till you realize how much people lie, then it jades you.

I confronted one of the worst liars ever a few hours ago. He embraced every pitfall like he was trying out for the lying Olympics. Never before have I wanted to believe someone so badly but knew it was futile. The “tells” told on him.

The truth shall set you free. You’ll be hated, but free.

Thursday, August 6, 2009


You'd say I'm putting you on
But it's no joke, it's doing me harm
You know I can't sleep, I can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks, I'm going insane
You know I'd give you everything I've got
for a little peace of mind
I’m So Tired - The Beatles

I know I should be asleep and I am tired, but when I know I have to get up, THAT’S when I definitely cannot sleep. The clock just stabbed my eyes with it’s 4 hour countdown warning.

I can’t sleep when I’m excited and I’m in anticipation mode where my brain can’t shut the fuck up. It’s odd the things that bounce through Thoughtland when one gets like this.

Tonight my thinkies are about how much I hate musicals and theatrical productions. I used to live by Times Square in NYC near the Theatre District, but would’ve considered an evening of waterboarding accompanied by some staple gun art to the tops of my feet over sitting through a Broadway production.

I would much prefer to watch someone break into my house with ill intent than witness some overly happy gaggle of dancing idiots break into song on a stage. I really just can’t fathom how people find this entertaining at all.

I don’t hate all plays, but I’m not a huge fan of those either. I love movies, so long as they aren’t musicals. Grease being the only exception, as for some reason 30 something year olds passing themselves off as high school students is way too funny to be irritating.

Performers that have back up dancers cut it too close to musicals. I wonder what it is about choreographed dancers and singers that bugs the shit out of me?

The only thing worse than sitting through one of these events is an awards show celebrating such things. I have never watched the “Tony” awards show, and I hope I never meet anyone that has.

Ouch, three and half hours and counting.