I think I was a happier person when I didn't have television.
People on television never go to work. But when they do, the work is interesting and enviable . They hang out at record stores all day with bosses who give them prom dresses. They are paleontologists and columnists and club DJs. Television will make you believe that if you stare longingly out a bus window long enough, your whole situation will change. That people actually throw surprise parties. That people celebrate promotions, and get soup when they are sick. Television makes you believe in breakfast in bed with flower buds in tiny vases and orange juice. Lazy Sundays with newspapers and well behaved dogs.
Television has made me think it's possible for people to see me in slow motion, on the other side of a Vaseline filter. Television says I should have a lot of wide set square teeth. That there is that one perfect dress out there, and everyone I've ever known will be there cheering me on when I find it. TV lets me know that it's OK to be fat now. But not OK to be scarred or dimpled. Television says it's OK to be old-ish, but only if I am talking about grey coverage or wrinkle cream.
I don't fall for this in social media. Everyone is so shiny and happy and traveling the world. And trying hard to convince me of this. But I actually know these people. I know they are unemployed, that they don't like their wives that much, that they didn't want that baby. I've seen their whole bodies, stooping and sitting, without the smoke and mirrors of effects and angles.
I don't fall for this in magazines. The magic in magazines is flat, one dimensional. There are no feelings, no hips, no opinions on the paper. This is surface and shine. More times than not this is art, not life. There is nothing to see here.
But television is always showing me people I don't know doing things that could probably happen. But only because I don't know them. Television tells me who I should know, what I should have, how I should get it, what it should look like. Drilling me with equal parts vapid dribble and an endless barrage of rape and murder. Blaring and blinding and blending in with the furniture.
Making me question what looks back at me in the mirror. Making me afraid of my own shadow. Making me believe in magic.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Thursday, April 23, 2015
#TBT
My first friend in the world outside of my family was named Jade. Our dads were in a band together, and the nanny took care of us when they had gigs. Sometimes for a night, sometimes for a weekend, sometimes for a week or two. We danced and played and hugged and kissed on the mouth like babies do. I still have tapes of us singing somewhere-a TV blaring in the background, the white noise of cassette ribbon, and two babbling toddlers entertaining each other.
Her dad would come home and give us the change in his pockets. We kept it in a bank that looked like a soda can. I'm not sure if there was ever a plan for it, I think I was just fascinated by the metallic green label-knowing there was money in there, shaking it to make the most noise possible.
Her dad would come home and give us the change in his pockets. We kept it in a bank that looked like a soda can. I'm not sure if there was ever a plan for it, I think I was just fascinated by the metallic green label-knowing there was money in there, shaking it to make the most noise possible.
When we were both four, Jade laid down for a nap and died.
Her memorial service was held at night. The memory I have of that night is seventies brown. I remember the amber light of the lamp, sitting in the shag carpet at my grandmother's feet. In my mind now the room was so small even though children always remember things being so much bigger than themselves. I don't know how it was explained to me but I knew that my parents were going out because she was dead. I sat and stared at that coin bank all night, feeling like it was staring back at me and thinking it was somehow aware that Jade wouldn't be back.
Every broken heart I've had since then has been a quarter in a 7Up can.
Her memorial service was held at night. The memory I have of that night is seventies brown. I remember the amber light of the lamp, sitting in the shag carpet at my grandmother's feet. In my mind now the room was so small even though children always remember things being so much bigger than themselves. I don't know how it was explained to me but I knew that my parents were going out because she was dead. I sat and stared at that coin bank all night, feeling like it was staring back at me and thinking it was somehow aware that Jade wouldn't be back.
Every broken heart I've had since then has been a quarter in a 7Up can.
Saturday, April 18, 2015
Put the Needle on the Record...
I am up at 6:30 in the morning on a Saturday, not because I haven't made it to bed yet, but because I literally just opened my eyes thinking about record store day. I can't believe how little kid excited I am! Normally when things start getting more popular and ridiculous year after year, i.e. SXSW, I eventually give myself up to the heartbreak that it's over. But with record store day becoming more of a thing the special releases are amped up and blowing my mind in 2015. I give this one more year before I start to lose interest in a bunch of RayBans standing in line to buy an $80 record for a band they've never heard just because the vinyl is blue and it showed up in a TED Talks--and corporate sponsors are already happening--and Forbes even has an article on it--but let me enjoy this feeling while it lasts.
Everyone who knows me has heard me call any music-no matter the format-a record. Cassettes, CDs, MP3s. They're all records to me even though I didn't really grow up in the age of vinyl, but my Dad was in the industry so it's what I know. I had records when I was little, but about the time that I could really buy music and get interested it was all on cassette. And then CDs hit in my teen years and it was basically all over. But I was always the one in Chucks and band shirts, pouring over old vinyl and warping my cassettes with never ending rewinds.
I raged against itunes, MP3s-all things "ghost" music for the longest time. I couldn't touch them or smell them or hold the liner notes. I got shredded for carrying CDs around in my purse. In fact, there are four in my bag right now, and if I had a reason to carry LPs around I would. But I don't have a record player in my car.
It's because I have to have a full tactile experience. It's like talking on the phone with someone you're in love with. The feeling their voice puts in your gut, and then the urge that you have to touch them-talking just isn't enough. That's what I go through with every bit of music I hear. *Even that time I bought Eamon, "I Don't Want You Back".* I love peeling back the plastic, the way it clings to your skin when you try to discard it, the smell of the shiny paper and plastic and acetate. It's distinct like new car or fresh cut grass. The way your fingers leave a mark on the dark paper when you hold the liner notes too long. (But I have to know where track 4 was mastered because it was done somewhere else! And who is doing the harmonizing on track 7 because I never read Florence Welch worked on this...) How you let the vinyl just kind of rest horizontally between your palms because under no circumstances should you grip it. The white noise that happens when you put the needle down.
I finally broke and got an ipod three years ago, when the ipod "classic" was re-introduced. It was terrifying and confusing and I felt like I was somehow being disloyal to something. It was heavy in my hand and it didn't smell like anything at all. I panicked a little. So I returned it and got a shuffle instead. It's still an ipod, but at least it's minimalist in that it is only about the music and not television or podcasts or status.
Now all new vinyl releases come with a ticket to download the record via whatever digital outlet you may be using. So when I had to explain to my 7 year old niece what my turntable was, I handed her my shuffle and said, "It's this, but for cool kids." It's a smart move for the industry and a perfect compromise for me. I can have my records, and hear them too. And maybe go through a day without hearing how behind I am. Until this time in 2016 when a 22 year old acts surprised that an old lady has a record collection.
So I'm off to add to it and celebrate some neighborhood heroes. I might even wait in line for an in-store. Because next year I'll probably avoid the bandwagon and just throw a party at home.
Come on over.
Everyone who knows me has heard me call any music-no matter the format-a record. Cassettes, CDs, MP3s. They're all records to me even though I didn't really grow up in the age of vinyl, but my Dad was in the industry so it's what I know. I had records when I was little, but about the time that I could really buy music and get interested it was all on cassette. And then CDs hit in my teen years and it was basically all over. But I was always the one in Chucks and band shirts, pouring over old vinyl and warping my cassettes with never ending rewinds.
I raged against itunes, MP3s-all things "ghost" music for the longest time. I couldn't touch them or smell them or hold the liner notes. I got shredded for carrying CDs around in my purse. In fact, there are four in my bag right now, and if I had a reason to carry LPs around I would. But I don't have a record player in my car.
It's because I have to have a full tactile experience. It's like talking on the phone with someone you're in love with. The feeling their voice puts in your gut, and then the urge that you have to touch them-talking just isn't enough. That's what I go through with every bit of music I hear. *Even that time I bought Eamon, "I Don't Want You Back".* I love peeling back the plastic, the way it clings to your skin when you try to discard it, the smell of the shiny paper and plastic and acetate. It's distinct like new car or fresh cut grass. The way your fingers leave a mark on the dark paper when you hold the liner notes too long. (But I have to know where track 4 was mastered because it was done somewhere else! And who is doing the harmonizing on track 7 because I never read Florence Welch worked on this...) How you let the vinyl just kind of rest horizontally between your palms because under no circumstances should you grip it. The white noise that happens when you put the needle down.
I finally broke and got an ipod three years ago, when the ipod "classic" was re-introduced. It was terrifying and confusing and I felt like I was somehow being disloyal to something. It was heavy in my hand and it didn't smell like anything at all. I panicked a little. So I returned it and got a shuffle instead. It's still an ipod, but at least it's minimalist in that it is only about the music and not television or podcasts or status.
Now all new vinyl releases come with a ticket to download the record via whatever digital outlet you may be using. So when I had to explain to my 7 year old niece what my turntable was, I handed her my shuffle and said, "It's this, but for cool kids." It's a smart move for the industry and a perfect compromise for me. I can have my records, and hear them too. And maybe go through a day without hearing how behind I am. Until this time in 2016 when a 22 year old acts surprised that an old lady has a record collection.
So I'm off to add to it and celebrate some neighborhood heroes. I might even wait in line for an in-store. Because next year I'll probably avoid the bandwagon and just throw a party at home.
Come on over.
Monday, April 13, 2015
And I've Been Putting Out Fire With Gasoline...
I wake in the morning,
I feed, I water.
I wash, I wipe.
I open the curtains.
I put on the coffee.
I make the donuts.
I sit
and I wait.
And as soon as it opens its eyes,
I am the enemy.
This is what happens when you invite something wild into your home.
With no concept of family,
or nurturing, or partnership.
A musk rises up-
spreads thin through the space,
leaving a film of entitlement.
I walk out every day,
come back with packages
of food and drink and trinkets.
I spend every dollar I have to do it,
yet nothing is mine.
And as soon as I step through the entry,
I am the enemy.
This is what happens when you invite something wild into your home.
With no concept of gratitude,
or compromise, or empathy.
A hunter rises up-
takes over the space,
leaving bits of resentment and bone.
I lay down to sleep,
I scratch, I sniff.
I burrow, I bury.
I lick my wounds.
I sharpen my claws.
And as soon as I close my eyes...
This is what happens when you invite something wild into your home.
I feed, I water.
I wash, I wipe.
I open the curtains.
I put on the coffee.
I make the donuts.
I sit
and I wait.
And as soon as it opens its eyes,
I am the enemy.
This is what happens when you invite something wild into your home.
With no concept of family,
or nurturing, or partnership.
A musk rises up-
spreads thin through the space,
leaving a film of entitlement.
I walk out every day,
come back with packages
of food and drink and trinkets.
I spend every dollar I have to do it,
yet nothing is mine.
And as soon as I step through the entry,
I am the enemy.
This is what happens when you invite something wild into your home.
With no concept of gratitude,
or compromise, or empathy.
A hunter rises up-
takes over the space,
leaving bits of resentment and bone.
I lay down to sleep,
I scratch, I sniff.
I burrow, I bury.
I lick my wounds.
I sharpen my claws.
And as soon as I close my eyes...
This is what happens when you invite something wild into your home.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
The Weekly Walk With Me
9 Burning Questions I Need Answers to This Week
2.Why is there never a bathroom emergency until I've just finished painting my nails?
3.How is it that all people named Pat or Terry actually look like people who should be named Pat or Terry?
4.Tootsie Rolls are soft and chewy, have olden times packaging, and virtually no bells and whistles-why are they not considered old lady candy?
5.How do I only stain up a brand new shirt, and manage to practically change the oil of a car in an old holy one and not get a drop on it?
6.Why don't more people know what their local indie radio stations are?
7.How is Hillary Clinton still a thing?
8.Am I ever going to write anything worth a shit, or continue with these weekly lists and old stories?
9.Why is day drinking so much better than run of the mill drinking after dark?
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
#TBT
Originally published April, 2007
Brought to a complete standstill by a single red light, a light so far up ahead its exact state of emergency unknown. Traffic jam in the dead of night.
With a kink in my schedule and a plan thrown off course, there is blatant disregard for what could be tragedy ahead. The frustration of this sudden state of rest has me seeing red.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview and notice the brake lights ahead have washed me with color. It's quite flattering actually, and I am fabulous.
My mind wanders to a tiny red light district I'd visited once or twice. Filled with human traffic--people coming and going. Or coming, and then going. Street lamps casting light on worldly women with cherry red nails, working girls with blood red lips, dark skinned ladies in red satin. All beautiful and wicked.
It was the kind of world my mother warned me about. My mother with her ruby ring and rose petal perfume and one sided view of just about everything, who could always manage to scratch through my life manifesto with garish red ink. Lessons learned she would say.
But I wanted more. Determined to redline at every given chance to accelerate like some little red corvette. Getting attention with my tiny red tattoo. Talking to strangers as they watched the cherry at the end of my cigarette burn brighter and brighter.
But that was then. Now I heed the warning when it's red in the morning, after I've been beaten like a red headed stepchild the night before. Stumble to the mirror to rub night crust from bloodshot eyes-to clean red stains from my upper lip and promise to repent for this for the rest of my days, knowing that big red exit sign to the right is the only way out.
Red rover, red rover, send me right over. Over the edge. Ready to go--to motivate--get out of this town. Maybe head someplace insignificant like Reading, PA. Fall in love with a ginger girl with pink cheeks and freckles. Live in a red brick house in the suburbs. Trade in that corvette for a hybrid because I still need to be noticed. Look at how practical and fuel efficient I am in my little red hybrid. Live happily ever after in that world till the angels wanna wear my red shoes.
So I set this plan in motion. To go anywhere but here and go at high speeds. I hit the highway free and wrapped in the black of night. Completely invisible to the rest of the world. Until the fire engines came whirring by me with their red lights flashing and sirens screaming. But I was determined to match their speed and had no intention of making way, until just ahead 100 brake lights stood absolutely motionless and eerily quiet. As I slammed on the brakes praying I'd stop in time--visions of redrum splattered on the walls--my rose colored glasses flew from my head and I could see clearly for the first time through the glaring red haze that said simply--you've got to stop running.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
The Weekly Walk With Me
The 5 best things from this Holy week.
5. Meeting April, who drank draft beer from a straw, twerked like a woman who is about to turn 50, and wore a sequined DIVA baseball cap over a head full of new hair growth. April is beating cancer. But better than that she shared the secret to her soul food mac and cheese with me.
4. Ben & Jerry's Charoset Ice Cream is a thing! But only in Israel. Looks like I'll be pulling a Victor/Victoria for a trip to the Wailing Wall.
3. Jelly Bellies. All of them.
2. Becoming Wonder Woman.
1. The premiere of Mad Men's final episodes. I love, love, love this show! I wish I worked in a time when I could drink and smoke in the office and men called me 'sweetie'. Then I wouldn't have to be responsible for anything but my boobs, and I wouldn't even have to open my own door. My prediction: Don offs himself! And there's this:
 |
| Pretty much exactly what I'll look like Monday morning. |
Thursday, April 2, 2015
#TBT
Sometimes you have tricks up your sleeve. Sometimes you go sleeveless. There are days when it's hard to tell the difference between the fools and the fooling.
And then some days you wake up with a chihuahua in your purse.
It was 2002-ish and I had a schedule to keep. Each night of the week, yes even Sundays, I had a different place to go. My crew and I stuck to the schedule religiously, sometimes for me it actually was a job. I guess the term for it now is 'promotions', but I just considered myself a bar whore.
On Wednesdays it was "alternative" night at an otherwise obnoxious straight club. And every Wednesday there we were, getting shitfaced on 151 soaked cherries and shots of whatever--probably something with pussy in the name. One particular night we decided to get some blow, but there was some sort of shortage due to an unfortunate Ajax rumor. So my queen of the moment decided he'd get himself hooked up with a known crystal dealer.
Now, let me explain-I have a reputation to keep. Before anyone really knew what a meth lab was, or that they were usually in trailers, and that makers and users frequenting said meth labs looked like walking pustules, crystal-or glass as we called it-was always the convenient and cheaper alternative to cocaine when the more glamorous option wasn't available. As soon as word got out that it destroyed your face and your grill, the gays stopped snorting it immediately.
So...we got our rocks but it turns out my friend wasn't just looking to score drugs, he was looking to score. Unable to convince him it wasn't a good idea to go to a meth dealer's house, I somehow thought it was better if we both went.
The last thing I remember was dozing off in a chair at the house, which was beautiful by the way, with a tiny dog named Sugar in my lap. I woke up the next morning in my friend's bed, trying to recollect some things, placing exactly where I was, and hoping we were both wearing some sort of pants. My eyes wandered to my purse, a slouchy hobo that was popular then, and felt some relief when it came into focus. Until I saw it move. I thought I was still just bleary, but I sobered up pretty quickly when I saw my purse was. fucking. moving. So, weak kneed from the night before and hoping that the hangover shits wouldn't hit me when I stood up, I so very carefully made my way over to where it sat. And found Sugar inside it, looking like she was going to have the best day ever.
Turns out my friend decided she should come with us, but around 2 in the afternoon I guess her real Dad discovered she was missing. He called us first-although I'm not sure what made us look like dog thieves. There were some threats and lip smacking exchanged and in the end I headed home and left my drug buddy to take Sugar back home. I hope she had the best day ever.
And then some days you wake up with a chihuahua in your purse.
It was 2002-ish and I had a schedule to keep. Each night of the week, yes even Sundays, I had a different place to go. My crew and I stuck to the schedule religiously, sometimes for me it actually was a job. I guess the term for it now is 'promotions', but I just considered myself a bar whore.
On Wednesdays it was "alternative" night at an otherwise obnoxious straight club. And every Wednesday there we were, getting shitfaced on 151 soaked cherries and shots of whatever--probably something with pussy in the name. One particular night we decided to get some blow, but there was some sort of shortage due to an unfortunate Ajax rumor. So my queen of the moment decided he'd get himself hooked up with a known crystal dealer.
Now, let me explain-I have a reputation to keep. Before anyone really knew what a meth lab was, or that they were usually in trailers, and that makers and users frequenting said meth labs looked like walking pustules, crystal-or glass as we called it-was always the convenient and cheaper alternative to cocaine when the more glamorous option wasn't available. As soon as word got out that it destroyed your face and your grill, the gays stopped snorting it immediately.
So...we got our rocks but it turns out my friend wasn't just looking to score drugs, he was looking to score. Unable to convince him it wasn't a good idea to go to a meth dealer's house, I somehow thought it was better if we both went.
The last thing I remember was dozing off in a chair at the house, which was beautiful by the way, with a tiny dog named Sugar in my lap. I woke up the next morning in my friend's bed, trying to recollect some things, placing exactly where I was, and hoping we were both wearing some sort of pants. My eyes wandered to my purse, a slouchy hobo that was popular then, and felt some relief when it came into focus. Until I saw it move. I thought I was still just bleary, but I sobered up pretty quickly when I saw my purse was. fucking. moving. So, weak kneed from the night before and hoping that the hangover shits wouldn't hit me when I stood up, I so very carefully made my way over to where it sat. And found Sugar inside it, looking like she was going to have the best day ever.
Turns out my friend decided she should come with us, but around 2 in the afternoon I guess her real Dad discovered she was missing. He called us first-although I'm not sure what made us look like dog thieves. There were some threats and lip smacking exchanged and in the end I headed home and left my drug buddy to take Sugar back home. I hope she had the best day ever.
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