Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Frank Black Francis Sold His Fat

Our generation is the fat.
The new one is the cookie.
The cookie lives no matter what.
The fat is nothing without it.

Frank Black Francis sold his fat to the highest cookie bidder.

a big big loss.
a big big loss.
a big big loss.
a big big loss.

Monday, April 07, 2014

An executive thank-you

First thing Sunday morning I woke up and read the news.

Obama To Sign Executive Orders On Equal Pay

Now women have to be paid the same as men. It's 2014 and this was still not happening.

I learned a long time ago not to ask who was being paid what at my jobs, because I knew the answer might signal the end of that job for me.

Like the last time I asked. It was Guy. We had the same job at the same company. The year was 2004. He had been there 1 year longer than me and when he told me he was making $4 an hour more, I made an appointment with The Man to ask for equal pay. I found the gap in our wages staggering, I had to say something.

Yes, I had put in less time at the company, but I produced more and could prove it. When I asked for a raise, I was denied one. Any kind of one. I was gone a few weeks later, because who can live with that.

Now no one has to. All things being equal, no one has to.

And so with this headline I was moved to tears and Guy asked, "What's wrong?" I showed him the iPad, just turned it for him to see the headline. He then asked, taken aback, "You're crying about that?!" He wasn't being mean, he truly didn't get it.

How could he?




Thursday, April 03, 2014

Salve slave





I feel the pain and my mind searches for a salve.
I think retail. What can I buy.
there is nothing.
No clothes, toys, food, music, movie, show…
there is nothing
I can buy that is a salve.

I feel the pain and my mind searches for a medicine.
Benzos, painkillers, muscle relaxers, alcohol.
none of these will work.
There is nothing
There is nothing
There is nothing
I can take that is a salve.

I hug my husband and feel the spirit of my friend through him.
I put my face on my husband’s face and feel the spirit that lived in both of them.
I cry.
I cry again.
I cry…
And…
I have to accept that there is no salve
For this.

The pain lives and beats everything.

Two hours later, I reconsider and my mind searches again for a salve.
Retail.
Drugs.

Nope.

(Rinse. Repeat.)

Retail.
Drugs.

Nothing.

(Rinse. Repeat.)

Wednesday, April 02, 2014

Nausea on April 2





It was a year ago today when he texted me. It started out, “Hey Toots Sweet” and ended with “Teddy Bear kisses to the pretty potatohead princess.” Then he was gone. I guess 2 days later, that night, I don’t know, I don’t ask.

I felt him next to me the other day. His whole self, even his head, he turned to me. I was on his left. He jerked his head to the right to get his floppy bangs out of his face. He smiled crooked at me and then looked down. Then it happened again. Then it was over. 

I feel him sometimes when I’m hugging my daughter, reassuring her, giving her extra love energy. I feel like he watches that. Maybe I just felt that way about him. I’d hug him like he was a child who needed to be reassured that they are loved. Loved so much, and it’s all ok.

I’ll never forget that time Guy, b0b and I were waiting outside that theatre on Van Ness for our screening to start. He was late. Guy was pacing, looking right down the street, then left. Then suddenly he was there. Bouncing. His hair bounced. His feet bounced. He was happy and said something funny along with “Hi.” He looked interesting, his outfits, they always were interesting, I found the choices surprising. This one was sporty in nature. A white sweatsuit, but too big and made of polyester. A bit shiny. There were yellow sport stripes on the arms or legs. Guy said, “What’d you do, run here?”

Which was very funny because he lived in Oakland at the time.

He would tell us, “Hey Guy and Lou! I’m spinning at this warehouse party, come on sometime around 1. A will be there too.” And we’d look at each other and say, “yeah, right. Like we’re gonna go out to a warehouse where sweaty kids are swooning on X in the middle of the night. No thanks.” And I never did. I never saw him do his art, his real art. He was a legend in that world and I didn’t know it, and I didn’t see it and I just didn’t show up.

I really regret it. What the fuck was I thinking? That everything is forever?! GUESS WHAT IT ISN’T.

From PT Anderson's Magnolia, "...the fucking regret and guilt, these things, don't ever let anyone ever say to you you shouldn't regret anything. Don't do that. Don't! You regret what you fucking want! Use that. Use that. Use that regret for anything, any way you want. You can use it, OK?"

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

A most unlikely scenario: Aguilera & Lennon
























This is an older playlist of mine, the most notable track of which is "Mother." It's a song written by John Lennon in which he writes in the plainest and most painful way of being abandoned by a parent, or two, in his case. His song is heartbreaking and hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck erect, and performed with all the real stuff.

Then Christina Aguilera did a cover of it. What would I know about her, except that she's mainstream, was in the Mickey Mouse Club with Britney, and uh, plays the MOR radio game. Or whatever the modern-day version of that is.

The fact that Christina Aguilera and John Lennon should ever be mentioned together is weird enough, but then she recorded, "Mother." Buy the song and check out what she does with it. It's completely in keeping with his emotional vision, and is perhaps, most incredibly, comparable.

I'll just say it, It's beautiful.



Thursday, March 06, 2014

What, you don't shoot your movies from a skateboard?

Pretty sure Spike Jonze is the first director to do this for a shot.

It's Sunday, March 2, 2014, and they're about to announce the Oscar winner for Best Original Screenplay. My reaction is so enthusiastic, I get embarrassed, and I'm all by myself.

The envelope is opened.

I lean forward anxiously and whisper PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE!

And I feel so strongly throughout my body that I NEED Spike Jonze to win. I nearly reach prayer-level wishing.

Then they say it, "and the award goes to Spike Jonze!" I fist pump five times. Not true UFC fist pumping, more like I'm cheering on an Olympian, or Beck.

PUMP PUMP PUMP PUMP PUMP YES!

Embarrassing! Awesome. So happy.

Wednesday, March 05, 2014

What the internet looks like?

Am I ridiculous? I thought this stuff happened in the sky.

Wait, isn't it ridiculous that the internet travels via cables in the ocean? 

What's real? Who are you? What is all this under my feet and over my head? Why do I dream? Where does that come from? Where do people go when they die? What's a deju vu? What's happening there?

Shall I ask google on the internet? So the answer can travel via cable under the ocean? Who sends it? Silicon Valley guys? This doesn't look very much like a web.

Tuesday, March 04, 2014

Work is stupid times infinity

When can I stop working and start living life?

Heard something the other day, "There's only enough time in a lifetime to be really good at one thing.

Be careful what you choose to be good at."

Note to a baby: RX, choose to be good at something that doesn't happen in an office.

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

God/No-God


It was a rough morning, being awakened by whining in a non-stop toddler voice, clear and pure and sudden right next to the bed.

Up the stairs and a cup of cold coffee later, the iPad is opened to CNN.  Headlines are scrolled through until one pops out, it’s so horrible, the page is opened.

Children Raping Children in Africa, the headline reads. She’s 3 years old and she was raped by another child, the first line informs.

Tears come hot and steady, building slowly into rivulets. Then sobs, though it’s not wise to let the heart go there. Eyes rubbed, feeling the horror in this world. The horror in this world. Prayers are immediate, even “dear god,” while it is simultaneously understood that there is no god that cares about this. There is no god because this happens.

By the time they walk into the living room, the rivulets have been wiped away and the residue is drying. The pools directly beneath the lashes are gone, yet he sees and asks, “What’s wrong?”

Something horrible in the news.

“Oh.”

And then her, “Mommy why are you crying?”

(A new tab is opened on the iPad.)  I just read a sad story, but now I’m going to find happy music to feel better.

“Ok, mommy. It’s ok.”

I scroll through Dead show archives looking for a good soundboard version of an ‘80s-era show, something with my favorite songs. I feel her watching me. This is good I think, this is an opportunity to teach her that it is one’s responsibility to find a way out of the devastation of our crushing reality, and one of those ways is with music.

There is no god because this happens. There is no god because this happens.  

Great, here it is. 1982, "Bertha" opener, this will be great. Time to go.

The stairs to the car are climbed, the show is queued up on the iPhone, headphones are installed, Jerry Garcia begins to sing and the horror dissipates.

“I had a hard run
Running from your window
I was all night running, running, running
I wonder if you care?”

His voice is high and perfect and beautiful, and a deep, warm smile replaces once salty streams.

“Bertha doncha come around here anymore.”

How does this magical sweet sound happen and so does that? How can this be a sign of god when there’s that? How can that mean there’s no god, when there’s this?

“I wonder if you care…”

Monday, February 24, 2014

Opposites Attract

...and disagree a lot.

Guy and I on our way to the movies a few weeks ago: