Mock duck curry, 5 shots of Jameson shared and Casiotone for the Painfully Alone in the company of BE. Not bad for a Tuesday night. Inexplicably, when I consider myself to have no money to spend, I spend more of it on ridiculous things. I bought a concert t-shirt. I bought several food items that each cost a dollar and a ring in the shape of an owl that will probably turn my finger green.
As we walked from the Continental to the Mercury Lounge for the show, I started to say that taking those shots was the last stupid thing that I was going to do. But I had to stop myself in mid-sentence. BE and I were pretty sure that there was a world of stupider out there that I am likely to embrace.
Casiotone was pretty darn delightful and I am, again, a fan of the rock show. I might just consider going to another one.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Is it all inside my head?
Songs sound different in my memory from the recording. Sometimes when I think of a song and I go to Youtube to listen to it ... the effect is not the same as I remember it.
I was trying to write a post and it started to be about too many different things at once. It became this tangle of so many things in a big ramble-y snarl. It's inspired by a recent episode from the TV show Glee about the power of Madonna. I fish out of that mess, this part:
If I had to pick a favorite passage in a pop song. It might be in the song "True Blue." The song is trite, conventional and predictable. But then, in the midst of it, there is an interlude:
At this part, the song soars up and out past the stratosphere for mere seconds and then falls back into predictability and familiarity. But for that moment alone, the whole song is redeemed. It is a transcendent pop music moment, one that can't be taken out of its damn context. Perhaps it soars, in part, because of its surroundings.
That is how it plays in my memory.
I just watched the video for "True Blue" on Youtube. I can feel where the interlude goes but it's muddled. It does not take flight in the way that it does in my mind's ear.
Perhaps my memory has built it up too much. Overhyped and analyzed it. That or, my brain's sound system is the MF bomb.
I was trying to write a post and it started to be about too many different things at once. It became this tangle of so many things in a big ramble-y snarl. It's inspired by a recent episode from the TV show Glee about the power of Madonna. I fish out of that mess, this part:
If I had to pick a favorite passage in a pop song. It might be in the song "True Blue." The song is trite, conventional and predictable. But then, in the midst of it, there is an interlude:
"No more sadness, I kiss it good-bye
The sun is bursting right out of the sky
I searched the whole world for someone like you"
At this part, the song soars up and out past the stratosphere for mere seconds and then falls back into predictability and familiarity. But for that moment alone, the whole song is redeemed. It is a transcendent pop music moment, one that can't be taken out of its damn context. Perhaps it soars, in part, because of its surroundings.
That is how it plays in my memory.
I just watched the video for "True Blue" on Youtube. I can feel where the interlude goes but it's muddled. It does not take flight in the way that it does in my mind's ear.
Perhaps my memory has built it up too much. Overhyped and analyzed it. That or, my brain's sound system is the MF bomb.
Monday, April 19, 2010
My hipster Mom
I look over at my mother and notice that she is wearing my Pearl Jam concert t-shirt from 2003. She has discovered the baby doll t-shirt. "I look skinny when I wear this," she says.
Since I was going to be here and their two shows at Mercury Lounge are sold out. I got a ticket to see Ok Go while home. (I have a whole crush post devoted to Ok Go which I have not yet finished and will post very soon.)
My parents response to this was typical. My father asked several times if I knew how to get there, made sure that I had ear plugs, washed the pollen and dirt off the car saying, "You have to drive up in a nice looking car when you go to the rock show," and pressed more food on me than usual - solemnly saying, "you will need energy for the rock show." My mother instructed me to drive carefully, asked several times when the show started, out of concern that I was running late and that I would miss it, and most importantly, asked me repeatedly not to drink.
They stayed up until I got home and we gathered around the kitchen table and had a snack. All of this was expected.
What was not was this question from my mother, "Who did you see at the show? Was it the Dead Milkmen?"
The Dead Milkmen.
THE DEAD MILKMEN!
When I was a sophomore in high school, "Bitchin' Camero" was my favorite song on the entire planet. I somehow sweet talked my mother into buying me the "Big Lizard in My Backyard" album and even more miraculously, I talked her into letting me see The Dead Milkmen in concert at Mississippi Nights. I went with StK, who was probably the most musically advanced and alternative person in our entire high school. I think I wore an enormous kelly green checked flannel shirt, purple socks and lace-up black ankle boots. I was too chicken to go down into the pit. In those days, one did not mosh. It was slam dancing in the slam pit. And if you fell in the pit there was a very real danger that someone would stomp on your head with a steel-toed boot and give you a concussion. I just kinda sat at a table in the under 21 section and marveled that the coolest of bands consisted of three regular looking dudes who seemed so down to earth. They were punk without having to wear dog collars or eyeliner or mohawks. The punk ethos was more than a hairstyle and some song lyrics. I was to learn this way later in life but it was all there staring me in the face. StK, bless his anarchist heart, got down there and grabbed some kid by the shoulders, boosted himself with a combat boot on the kid's rear, and flung himself into the pit.
The part of this story that I forgot was - the show ran later than I had told my mother that it would. (These were the days before cell phones.) She talked her way into the venue. She walked up to the door guy and said, "My daughter is in there, let me in to find her." The door guy resisted saying that the show was almost over and I would be out soon. But my mother insisted. And the door guy relented. She describes walked into an ungodly and horrible loudness, almost like hell looking for me.
Despite walking into deafening Punk Rock Hell, to fetch her silly nerdy, teenage daughter, my mother drove me to other rock shows. And on occasion let me buy a record or two. I never thought that she paid much attention to what I was doing or thinking or listening to back then.
She remembers the Dead Milkmen. She thought they were horrible. But she does remember them.
Since I was going to be here and their two shows at Mercury Lounge are sold out. I got a ticket to see Ok Go while home. (I have a whole crush post devoted to Ok Go which I have not yet finished and will post very soon.)
My parents response to this was typical. My father asked several times if I knew how to get there, made sure that I had ear plugs, washed the pollen and dirt off the car saying, "You have to drive up in a nice looking car when you go to the rock show," and pressed more food on me than usual - solemnly saying, "you will need energy for the rock show." My mother instructed me to drive carefully, asked several times when the show started, out of concern that I was running late and that I would miss it, and most importantly, asked me repeatedly not to drink.
They stayed up until I got home and we gathered around the kitchen table and had a snack. All of this was expected.
What was not was this question from my mother, "Who did you see at the show? Was it the Dead Milkmen?"
The Dead Milkmen.
THE DEAD MILKMEN!
When I was a sophomore in high school, "Bitchin' Camero" was my favorite song on the entire planet. I somehow sweet talked my mother into buying me the "Big Lizard in My Backyard" album and even more miraculously, I talked her into letting me see The Dead Milkmen in concert at Mississippi Nights. I went with StK, who was probably the most musically advanced and alternative person in our entire high school. I think I wore an enormous kelly green checked flannel shirt, purple socks and lace-up black ankle boots. I was too chicken to go down into the pit. In those days, one did not mosh. It was slam dancing in the slam pit. And if you fell in the pit there was a very real danger that someone would stomp on your head with a steel-toed boot and give you a concussion. I just kinda sat at a table in the under 21 section and marveled that the coolest of bands consisted of three regular looking dudes who seemed so down to earth. They were punk without having to wear dog collars or eyeliner or mohawks. The punk ethos was more than a hairstyle and some song lyrics. I was to learn this way later in life but it was all there staring me in the face. StK, bless his anarchist heart, got down there and grabbed some kid by the shoulders, boosted himself with a combat boot on the kid's rear, and flung himself into the pit.
The part of this story that I forgot was - the show ran later than I had told my mother that it would. (These were the days before cell phones.) She talked her way into the venue. She walked up to the door guy and said, "My daughter is in there, let me in to find her." The door guy resisted saying that the show was almost over and I would be out soon. But my mother insisted. And the door guy relented. She describes walked into an ungodly and horrible loudness, almost like hell looking for me.
Despite walking into deafening Punk Rock Hell, to fetch her silly nerdy, teenage daughter, my mother drove me to other rock shows. And on occasion let me buy a record or two. I never thought that she paid much attention to what I was doing or thinking or listening to back then.
She remembers the Dead Milkmen. She thought they were horrible. But she does remember them.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Living ungraciously
Of late, Facebook is like my mom. It keeps pointing out friends that I have not been in touch with in a long time. "Maybe you should send so and so a message. I'll bet he/she would be happy to hear from you," said in the same tone of voice that she used when she would press me to write thank you notes. (I may or may not have mentioned to you that BBFK is a beautiful thank you note writer. A card from her will make you feel like a Million Bucks.)
As an awkward person of no social graces, I ignore Facebook's suggestions and my mother's and almost never send thank you note. Bad dog! No cookie! I count myself as lucky to have friends all things considered. And such fine friends at that.
As an awkward person of no social graces, I ignore Facebook's suggestions and my mother's and almost never send thank you note. Bad dog! No cookie! I count myself as lucky to have friends all things considered. And such fine friends at that.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
When we tell the story of our lives
CK and I have been talking a lot about how wildly different two people's accounts of a situation can be. And how hard it is to reconcile yourself to the fact that the other person might never see things your way. Might never come to understand where you were coming from. Which reminded me of this Sacred Advertisement from Rob Brezny.
"SACRED ADVERTISEMENT
There was an indignant uproar after revelations in 2006 that James Frey's best-selling "memoir" A Million Little Pieces contains fabrications. He hadn't actually lived all of the experiences he depicted therein.
Hearing about it prompted me to ruminate on whether there's any such thing as a completely accurate account of any person's life. My conclusion: no.
In every autobiography and biography ever written, the author imaginatively strings together selectively chosen details to conjure up artificially coherent narratives rather than depicting the crazy-quilt ambiguity that actually characterizes everyone's journey.
If you and nine writers set out to tell your life story, you'd produce 10 wildly different tales, each rife with subjective interpretation, misplaced emphasis, unintentional distortions, and exorbitant extrapolations from insufficient data.
Celebrate the malleability of reality. Regale listeners with stories about the time you worked as a pirate in the Indian Ocean, or rode the rails through Kansas as a hobo, or gave a down-on-his-luck CIA agent sage advice in an elevator. When you call to get pizza delivered and the clerk who takes your order asks your name, say you're Brad Pitt or Paris Hilton. When someone you're meeting is annoyed because you're late, say you couldn't help it because you were smoking crack in the bus station bathroom with your mom's guru and lost track of time. If asked how much education you have, say you have three PhDs, one each in astrobiology, Russian literature, and whale songs. "
Rob Brezny
Give the cat a name
While chatting with L this evening, it came out that in my apt there are three places to sleep: the love seat, the twin bed, and a rolled up futon in the living room. He was mildly appalled by this and suggested that perhaps to sustain an adult relationship I might need to have a bed that could comfortably fit two people. And as a "grown ass woman" there were no acceptable excuses.
He does have a point. It's hard to feel comfortable in a room where there doesn't appear to be space for you. From my viewpoint, I always had the sense that this was a transient stop in my life. A visit. And a sense that, if I met someone who inspired in me the desire to buy a bed, I would buy a bed. That would be the sign.
Sort of the Holly Golightly thing: "If I could find a real-life place that'd make me feel like Tiffany's, then - then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name!"
But perhaps L has a point. Maybe Holly and I have it all backwards. Maybe you have to buy the furniture, name the cat, and put down roots. Maybe that process creates a place where you feel safe and calm and protected. Maybe I have to create "a place where me and things go together." through my own efforts. I make a place my home.
You bring in a bed and then there is space for another person to sleep in it beside you. And then you meet them.
I wonder which way it works - do you build a bed and they will come or do you wait to find the right place and then give the cat a name?
I am not sure that I have done enough traveling to say whether I've found the place. And I haven't built the bed.
It probably doesn't matter. There must be as many paths home as there are people who have homes. But I suppose it can't hurt to try.
Perhaps after three years of being here, it's time to buy a bed and give the cat a name.
Time to call it a life whether there's someone to share it with or not.
He does have a point. It's hard to feel comfortable in a room where there doesn't appear to be space for you. From my viewpoint, I always had the sense that this was a transient stop in my life. A visit. And a sense that, if I met someone who inspired in me the desire to buy a bed, I would buy a bed. That would be the sign.
Sort of the Holly Golightly thing: "If I could find a real-life place that'd make me feel like Tiffany's, then - then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name!"
But perhaps L has a point. Maybe Holly and I have it all backwards. Maybe you have to buy the furniture, name the cat, and put down roots. Maybe that process creates a place where you feel safe and calm and protected. Maybe I have to create "a place where me and things go together." through my own efforts. I make a place my home.
You bring in a bed and then there is space for another person to sleep in it beside you. And then you meet them.
I wonder which way it works - do you build a bed and they will come or do you wait to find the right place and then give the cat a name?
I am not sure that I have done enough traveling to say whether I've found the place. And I haven't built the bed.
It probably doesn't matter. There must be as many paths home as there are people who have homes. But I suppose it can't hurt to try.
Perhaps after three years of being here, it's time to buy a bed and give the cat a name.
Time to call it a life whether there's someone to share it with or not.
Monday, March 29, 2010
because it chose me
"If I had to choose a favourite [sentence], it would be because it chose me: for reasons I can't be sure of, although I am sure they go deep ..."
- Clive James, Cultural Amnesia
- Clive James, Cultural Amnesia
even the flowers
"[Benedetto] Croce was saying that all living things have a history: having a history and living are the same process. Even the flowers, he said, have a history, although only they know it."
- Clive James, Cultural Amnesia
- Clive James, Cultural Amnesia
Monday, March 22, 2010
The robe abides
I bought this very, very, cheap fleece bathrobe to wear to a "Big Lebowski" party. It's a horrible, fuzzy white thing with pale blue hearts all over it.
That party was in January, I am still wearing the dang thing while I putter around the house - usually with a ratty t-shirt and flip-flops. I have not worn it to the grocery store yet. But I fear that this and a lot of bowling might be in my near future.
That party was in January, I am still wearing the dang thing while I putter around the house - usually with a ratty t-shirt and flip-flops. I have not worn it to the grocery store yet. But I fear that this and a lot of bowling might be in my near future.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Price and worth
On a few occasions in conversation recently I've had one friend or another tell me that they don't want drama in their lives and so are avoiding a person or a situation or falling into a pattern or dynamic.
I have frequently been of this mindset. I bailed on an outing for this very reason, very recently.
But depending on the circumstances, it's worth it. Where you are, what it is, what you need, what it offers.
Some things are worth the drama associated with them. Some people are worth the drama that they cause, the drama that they bring. As JY's friend Ax once said in another context, "It's the price of admission." In some case, a part of the value of the thing itself.
In these cases, it is for you to decide what a thing is worth to you. And how long you inhabit, how long you hold. It is not for others to assess from the outside.
I have frequently been of this mindset. I bailed on an outing for this very reason, very recently.
But depending on the circumstances, it's worth it. Where you are, what it is, what you need, what it offers.
Some things are worth the drama associated with them. Some people are worth the drama that they cause, the drama that they bring. As JY's friend Ax once said in another context, "It's the price of admission." In some case, a part of the value of the thing itself.
In these cases, it is for you to decide what a thing is worth to you. And how long you inhabit, how long you hold. It is not for others to assess from the outside.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Global Darkening!!!
If I could clip videos, I would show you - 5:16-9:22 of this Daily Show episode from last week.
http://www.hulu.com/watch/127456/the-daily-show-with-jon-stewart-wed-feb-10-2010
"The sun just - went away. And this - not as bright sun came up in its place."
- Jason Jones
Freakin' hilarous.
http://www.hulu.com/watch/127456/the-daily-show-with-jon-stewart-wed-feb-10-2010
"The sun just - went away. And this - not as bright sun came up in its place."
- Jason Jones
Freakin' hilarous.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Manners in context
It's a chivalrous gesture for a gentleman to hold the door open for a lady. But somehow, when the door being held open is that of the Ladies' Room. It's a little strange.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
B-Sprout conversions
I have very recently been converted from hating to loving brussel sprouts. By BE. I was super skeptical but then I had one and it was a revelation.
What he does is:
"Cut brussel sprouts in half. drizzle on olive oil and get all liberal with some salt and pepper and garlic powder. bake @ 375 for 35 minutes. amaaaazzzzing."
They pop and sizzle in the oven. And when they get brownish/blackish, when they are super tender, they lose that horrible brussel sprout aftertaste that everyone is always trying to drown out with lemon or vinegar. With enough cooking they mellow out and are tender and a little bit sweet.
And now I am obsessed with them. They have replaced broccoli as my go-to vegetable.
This also works in a stir fry context. You slice them each into 3 or 4 rounds, throw them in a pan with a good amount of olive oil, throw plenty of salt, pepper and garlic powder on them and then cook them until there's a browning / slight blackening.
Today I baked some until they were mushy soft, put them on a nice piece of wheat bread and chowed down. Delightful.
What he does is:
"Cut brussel sprouts in half. drizzle on olive oil and get all liberal with some salt and pepper and garlic powder. bake @ 375 for 35 minutes. amaaaazzzzing."
They pop and sizzle in the oven. And when they get brownish/blackish, when they are super tender, they lose that horrible brussel sprout aftertaste that everyone is always trying to drown out with lemon or vinegar. With enough cooking they mellow out and are tender and a little bit sweet.
And now I am obsessed with them. They have replaced broccoli as my go-to vegetable.
This also works in a stir fry context. You slice them each into 3 or 4 rounds, throw them in a pan with a good amount of olive oil, throw plenty of salt, pepper and garlic powder on them and then cook them until there's a browning / slight blackening.
Today I baked some until they were mushy soft, put them on a nice piece of wheat bread and chowed down. Delightful.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Who you are / What you do
The things that you do every day shape the person that you are. And I find of late that I am on my way to becoming "nervous double/triple check that" girl. Lovable, no?
Monday, January 18, 2010
An echo in the chambers of the heart
I knocked over an empty wine bottle at the trailing tail end of brunch. Crashed to the ground, pieces everywhere. Three of us in the kitchen. None of us in shoes. All of us trying to pick up the pieces.
And I had a memory of knocking over a glass in the kitchen. Crashed to the ground, pieces everywhere. Me in the kitchen. Not in my shoes. Trying to pick up the pieces.
You wouldn't let me. You reached your arms around my waist and lifted me out of the kitchen. Went back in a cleaned it up.
Our relationship had pretty much gone south by this time. I was not happy. It didn't seem like you were either. I wondered why you stayed. Whether you cared at all. In the midst of this, you lifted me out of harms way.
It said something. More than I heard. But it didn't say everything. Or perhaps not enough. We went back to our mutual misery shortly thereafter.
I am not sure why it came to mind. Or why today, years later, I hear it so much more clearly.
And I had a memory of knocking over a glass in the kitchen. Crashed to the ground, pieces everywhere. Me in the kitchen. Not in my shoes. Trying to pick up the pieces.
You wouldn't let me. You reached your arms around my waist and lifted me out of the kitchen. Went back in a cleaned it up.
Our relationship had pretty much gone south by this time. I was not happy. It didn't seem like you were either. I wondered why you stayed. Whether you cared at all. In the midst of this, you lifted me out of harms way.
It said something. More than I heard. But it didn't say everything. Or perhaps not enough. We went back to our mutual misery shortly thereafter.
I am not sure why it came to mind. Or why today, years later, I hear it so much more clearly.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The latest love of my life
" ... art proves its value by still mattering to people who have been deprived of every other freedom: indeed instead of mattering less, it matters more." - Clive James
On the recommendation of my journalism professor I picked up "Cultural Amnesia" by Clive James. The damn thing is, like 800+ pages. And I am looking forward to reading them.
I hope that he and his publisher will forgive the liberal quoting that I am likely to be doing while he and I keep company. I was bowled over by this line in the introduction:
"Several times, in my early days, I had to sell my best books to buy food, so I never underlined anything."
and I have no doubt that I will continue to be knocked out by what I find between these covers.
*happy dance*
Saturday, December 26, 2009
We interrupt this holiday for no good reason
I am putting on an impressive layer of fat while visiting my parents for the holiday. There is a wheel of Brie in the house that we as a family of three have agreed to kill over the 8 days that I will be home.
We eat to excess and then fall asleep. Get up and do it again. I feel like a sea lion or a giant walrus lazing on a rock in the sun - minus the big rock to sun myself on, the strong sunshine, and the knowledge that there are hungry sharks and polar bears all around me looking for a fatty snack.
Beyond that it's been difficult to do much else. I came bearing my best intentions. I brought a physics textbook so that I could read ahead and do as many problems in as many chapters as there are waking hours. I brought "Middlesex" and a book of essays by Clive James, who I think I might end up liking almost as well as I like Chuck Klosterman and DFW (but in a different way.) And I brought my computer so that I could research to write the last of my assignments for my News Reporting class. A sports column.
No physics has been learned. I have been reading "Middlesex" in fits and starts and non-consecutive chapters. It's a pretty entertaining read. Though I suspect much more entertaining when read from start to finish. I have also been thumbing through "The Poisonwood Bible" in non-consecutive chapters. This also looks to be a pretty engaging read, with the same caveats. I forget how much I like Kingsolver. And then I pick up a book and am reminded again. (A young man recently said the same of my company when taking me out to dinner.) Clive James has stayed tucked in my bag and the internet has mostly been used to watch Netflix movies online.
I have been reading my parents subscription to the New Yorker. I never read it while in New York but am captivated when I am not. They have this article in the December 21, 2009 issue about stovemakers. There is a community of people who have been on a quest to design the perfect stove.
If I were a reporter, that is the story I would want to tell. GAWD, it kinda kills me that I am not the person who covered it. Such a simple problem. One that is hardly recognizable as a problem, even. And the solution is nowhere near the neighborhood of the simplicity of the problem. Hell of a story.
'Tis been the season for season's greetings by text message. I have had a good number of texts wishing me a Merry Xmas. More texts than Xmas cards. Which is a switch for me. Is this a trend or have I finally join the present day?
I have also discovered that Men's Health carries recipes. They apparently have about 476 sandwich recipes. And now I really want to devote some time to the art of sandwich making.
Up to now my only New Year's resolution has been to set a timer whenever I put tatertots in the oven. Too often I have been forgetting the tots in the oven. I really must be more careful....
Perhaps 2010 should be devoted to getting in shape and making sandwiches.
We eat to excess and then fall asleep. Get up and do it again. I feel like a sea lion or a giant walrus lazing on a rock in the sun - minus the big rock to sun myself on, the strong sunshine, and the knowledge that there are hungry sharks and polar bears all around me looking for a fatty snack.
Beyond that it's been difficult to do much else. I came bearing my best intentions. I brought a physics textbook so that I could read ahead and do as many problems in as many chapters as there are waking hours. I brought "Middlesex" and a book of essays by Clive James, who I think I might end up liking almost as well as I like Chuck Klosterman and DFW (but in a different way.) And I brought my computer so that I could research to write the last of my assignments for my News Reporting class. A sports column.
No physics has been learned. I have been reading "Middlesex" in fits and starts and non-consecutive chapters. It's a pretty entertaining read. Though I suspect much more entertaining when read from start to finish. I have also been thumbing through "The Poisonwood Bible" in non-consecutive chapters. This also looks to be a pretty engaging read, with the same caveats. I forget how much I like Kingsolver. And then I pick up a book and am reminded again. (A young man recently said the same of my company when taking me out to dinner.) Clive James has stayed tucked in my bag and the internet has mostly been used to watch Netflix movies online.
I have been reading my parents subscription to the New Yorker. I never read it while in New York but am captivated when I am not. They have this article in the December 21, 2009 issue about stovemakers. There is a community of people who have been on a quest to design the perfect stove.
"How do you build cheap, durable, clean-burning stoves for three-billion people? About half the world’s population cooks with gas, oil, or electricity, while the other half burns wood, dung, coal, or other solid fuels. As global temperatures have risen, the smoke from Third World kitchens has been upgraded from a local to a universal threat. The average cooking fire produces about as much carbon dioxide as a car, and a great deal more soot, or black carbon. Cleaning up these emissions may be the fastest, cheapest way to cool the planet."
- Burkhard Bilger
If I were a reporter, that is the story I would want to tell. GAWD, it kinda kills me that I am not the person who covered it. Such a simple problem. One that is hardly recognizable as a problem, even. And the solution is nowhere near the neighborhood of the simplicity of the problem. Hell of a story.
'Tis been the season for season's greetings by text message. I have had a good number of texts wishing me a Merry Xmas. More texts than Xmas cards. Which is a switch for me. Is this a trend or have I finally join the present day?
I have also discovered that Men's Health carries recipes. They apparently have about 476 sandwich recipes. And now I really want to devote some time to the art of sandwich making.
Up to now my only New Year's resolution has been to set a timer whenever I put tatertots in the oven. Too often I have been forgetting the tots in the oven. I really must be more careful....
Perhaps 2010 should be devoted to getting in shape and making sandwiches.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Marvelous Ms. Murphy
My girl, Brittany Murphy, died of a heart attack today at the age of 32.
She was in the movie "Uptown Girls." This was the movie that convinced me to move to New York. I was lost at the time. More than I am now. And after watching the movie, I wanted to move to the big city and start my life anew in an apartment so small that it had a Murphy bed and you could fry eggs while standing in the shower. Just like Brittany. The premise had a sense of adventure. I tell people this story when they ask me why I came to New York. I am here because I saw a movie in which Brittany Murphy picked up the pieces of her life and started again. And she did this in New York. They almost never believe me. I supposed sometimes the truth seems improbable.
In films she had an open, vulnerable, and sweet energy. She was a girl who had a lot of trouble growing up. She could be bad. She could be colossally irresponsible. She was funny. She was bratty. She was goofy. She was needy. She was ridiculous. She was a mess. She made bad choices. She found herself in humiliating and painful situations but emerged from them shining and triumphant. She learned things the hard way but she learned them well. She was resilient. She was strong. Stronger than even she could imagine. She was the girl who took a fall, got back up and rejoined the fray. And she came out of each struggle with a greater confidence, wisdom and dignity. She was the girl who knew when to tough it out and knew when to call it quits. Her characters were often lost, but when they found themselves, they found amazing determination and strength to go with that sweet cream puff demeanor. She could love. She could forgive. She could face her demons and take responsibility for her life. And in the end prevail.
I've been there. Sometimes it feels like I still live there.
Her process was worth watching. It gave me hope in my own life. In my own process of being and becoming. It gives me hope.
I don't know who she was in real life. But I will miss her onscreen.
She was in the movie "Uptown Girls." This was the movie that convinced me to move to New York. I was lost at the time. More than I am now. And after watching the movie, I wanted to move to the big city and start my life anew in an apartment so small that it had a Murphy bed and you could fry eggs while standing in the shower. Just like Brittany. The premise had a sense of adventure. I tell people this story when they ask me why I came to New York. I am here because I saw a movie in which Brittany Murphy picked up the pieces of her life and started again. And she did this in New York. They almost never believe me. I supposed sometimes the truth seems improbable.
In films she had an open, vulnerable, and sweet energy. She was a girl who had a lot of trouble growing up. She could be bad. She could be colossally irresponsible. She was funny. She was bratty. She was goofy. She was needy. She was ridiculous. She was a mess. She made bad choices. She found herself in humiliating and painful situations but emerged from them shining and triumphant. She learned things the hard way but she learned them well. She was resilient. She was strong. Stronger than even she could imagine. She was the girl who took a fall, got back up and rejoined the fray. And she came out of each struggle with a greater confidence, wisdom and dignity. She was the girl who knew when to tough it out and knew when to call it quits. Her characters were often lost, but when they found themselves, they found amazing determination and strength to go with that sweet cream puff demeanor. She could love. She could forgive. She could face her demons and take responsibility for her life. And in the end prevail.
I've been there. Sometimes it feels like I still live there.
Her process was worth watching. It gave me hope in my own life. In my own process of being and becoming. It gives me hope.
I don't know who she was in real life. But I will miss her onscreen.
Friday, December 11, 2009
So while you're here enjoy the view
Back in my formative years, I loved the show One Day at a Time. I have a great fondness for the TV show theme songs of my childhood. This one in particular, I find to be quite groovy.
The way a worthy goal reads
"These are the rewards promised you at the beginning of time: not just any old beauty, wisdom, goodness, love, freedom, and justice, but rather exhilarating beauty that incites you to be true to yourself; crazy wisdom that immunizes you against the temptation to believe your ideals are ultimate truths; outrageous goodness that inspires you to experiment with irrepressible empathy; generous freedom that keeps you alert for opportunities to share your wealth; insurrectionary love that endlessly transforms you; and a lust for justice that’s leavened with a knack for comedy, keeping you honest as you work humbly to liberate everyone in the world from ignorance and suffering."
-Rob Brezny
-Rob Brezny
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