Queer Ear

On Wednesday I saw a fantastic band. They are Von Iva, and they rock. Hard. All women; bass, keyboards, drums and vocal. Lead singer Jillian Iva has all the presence of Mick Jagger, strutting around stage with attitude, and in black pumps.

They were the second openers for a Detroit band called The Sights my partner had told me about, but in all honesty, as soon as Jillian, Elizabeth, Bex and Lay Lay left the stage, the show was over.

I had wondered about the crowd mix – there were more girls than I’d ever seen at Spaceland – it was a real bakery in there (re: lots of guys = sausage, lots of girls = buns) and I naively, and heterosexually, thought “Is this band cute?”

Well, the ladies weren’t there for The Sights, they were there for the sounds – of four bodacious chicks from San Francisco. When Jillian belted out the instruction to “put on your tight skirt and bend for me” during Not Hot To Trot, I felt strangely compelled. And when she flipped up her own black dance skirt to reveal her red ruffled panties, I couldn’t help but respond to the amped estrogen of the crowd and start shaking my groove thang.

Mark my words, Von Iva is the Visa of the music scene - everywhere you want to be.

The Week In Review -

Keeping my fingers crossed about a new housing opportunity; the landlord has to discuss with his wife if a dog is a liability or an asset.

Went out again with vasectomy guy; ended up with him sharing too much information at a strip club - apologies have included flowers, A Confederacy of Dunces, and a forthcoming New Orleans thimble (for my collection).

Had two good meetings with production companies; made potential gig contacts for later.

My partner and I went camping at Mt. Whitney; my dog successfully boulder climbed with us AND intimidated a grizzled “desert livin’” enthusiast who decided 10pm would be a good time stop by our site to introduce himself.

Had a test day with a potential nanny family; twin girls under two with a definite Jacob/Esau dynamic.

My current roommate has informed me that she is marrying an out-of-town friend for medical insurance; only the tip of the iceberg that is her insanity.

"And then..." Part Deux

I held it in (as instructed), and then started a hacking cough. While the rest of the party continued, I went into the kitchen to get some water. While in the kitchen, I started feeling “odd”. I started feeling like something was wrong, like this couldn’t be the feeling intended. I started to feel like something bad was imminent, and that these people were somehow responsible. I locked them out of the house.

Imagine their surprise when they eventually tried the door. They sent T as an emissary, and I let her in, but motioned frantically that no one else could come in. Yes, “motioned”. Did I mention that I had lost the ability to speak? Not a peep. I tried to communicate to her my fears, but struggled to write it all down – I think when the notes were found, they read “lacednot going to be Afterschool Special”.

T tried to calm me, and suggested I eat something. For some reason, we found oyster crackers. There I was, frantically shoving tiny salt bits into my already dry mouth over the kitchen sink. T quickly realized she could not handle this situation on her own, and reassured me that no one was going to hurt us, and that she was going to let the others in.

I dove behind the kitchen counter when she opened the door, and stayed there while she explained the situation as best her own altered mind could figure. The conversation was hilarious! There was discussion as to whether we could even go to the dance, could we risk exposure? My date started to panic. T’s date, a super-cool laid back guy was like “She’s just high.” I was still mute, but I was feeling less paranoid, and came out from behind the counter.

I wanted to tell them all not to worry – hearing their conversation had nullified my paranoia, but I couldn’t speak. I tried to write it down, but T’s date grabbed the pen and paper away from me, and kept ordering me to “Just say it! Just say it!”

After several attempts, I was finally able to say the one thing, the one word that would solve all our problems – “Rrrrelaxxxx”. Somehow I turned a two-syllable word into six. And the flood gates were open. I prattled on for 5 minutes about my experience. T’s date thought it was hilarious, my date worried if they took me to the dance, he wouldn’t get into Brown.

We went to the dance, we even took a group photo, which my mother placed lovingly on her mantle with typical parental pride, ignoring our bemused grins. And I didn’t touch the stuff again until sophomore year of college.

So yes, Virginia, you do get high.

"And then I got high."

I was watching Joan Of Arcadia last week and they had one of the main characters smoke marijuana for the first time, and get incredibly high and paranoid. Other loyal viewers were critical of his experience, and I was surprised to see the “you don’t get high the first time” argument was the thrust of their criticism. I would like to dispel this myth, once and for all.

I encountered pot for the first time in 11^th grade (I could, and no doubt will, write a whole other post that it wasn’t until attending a private school that I was exposed to drugs, alcohol, and sexual exploration) and I got high.

It was the night of the “Sadie Hawkins”-style dance, and my friend T* and I had invited two of the most popular boys in school (we had actually plotted out asking them down to the minute, to be the first to ensnare them – we weren’t cool, but we had balls). Luckily we had drawn in another girl, one who was privileged and unsupervised (P&U*), for a triple-date.

Dressed in our finery, we attended dinner and took pictures with Santa. We then headed to P&U’s house (parent-free for the weekend) for a little pre-dance entertainment. At this point, T’s date pulled out his secret weapon, a bong the boys affectionately called “The Twister”. The name was indicative of its shape, but in retrospect, it was a double entendre.

Not being familiar with such things, yet capable of following direction, when it came to my turn, my date gallantly lit the bowl and instructed me to “suck”, which I did. After what seemed like an eternity to my oxygen-deprived lungs, he lifted the bowl, releasing the “carb” and a torrent of thick smoke into the vacuum of my respiratory system. And that’s when the trouble started.

What trouble, you ask? Stay tuned, reader!

* names have been changed to protect the "ahem" innocent

Too many elipses...

There I go again. What the hell is my problem? I mean, sure sometimes you NEED the title to blend into the actual post, but most of the time, a single sentence would fair as well. From this point on, I will use my elipses wisely...or die trying.

The Umpire's Call...

I went out on a lunch date the other day. A blind date. I knew the guy was older, a home (and dog) -owner, and once-divorced, but when we spoke on the phone a few times, there was a comfortable, easy rapport so I thought, “what the hell? I’m off on Fridays anyway…” and I was relatively secure (through description and anecdotal evidence) that he wasn’t hideous.

So when I met him at the restaurant, I had to admit he had a certain appeal – not perhaps the person many would see me with – shaved head, goatee, tattoos; a sort of “mature punk” look. But we had a really nice time, and despite his potential baggage, I’d like to see him again.

Here’s the problem – in the course of a post-date conversation, he made an off-hand comment about not having any kids, and I said “What, did you have a vasectomy?” and he said “Yup. I answer that question proudly” [insert screeching tire sound]. He asked if that was a problem, and I said “Well, since I’m 28 and my clock will hit countdown in 2 years, instead of calling you in 36 hours to schedule a second date, it may be 72.”

My mother’s position is that 1.) Going through the hassle of a vasectomy really indicates a non-desire for children (which in terms of her “Grandma” wishes is aberrant), or 2.) Someone who has a vasectomy doesn’t like to use condoms, and therefore may be disease-ridden.

My writing partner said “We can do better.”

Both of these women know me pretty well; my 72 hours will be up soon, and I’m still trying to decide whether to see him again – I’d rather not spend any amount of my energy getting emotionally invested with someone who can’t (without an expensive, significantly more painful, operation) provide me with what I eventually want.

Strike or Foul?

Can't...resist...must...upload...

If you are reading this message, it means I am lost. Don't try to find me. Protect yourself. Be strong. "Hide out in the cellar..."

See? I can't even get through a HALish post without some song intruding...iTunes has taken over.

It doesn't help that my new employers have an even more fantastic record collection than my last - and they were a musical family. Today I spent 3 hours (my charge is a hellavu napper!) raiding their CD Collection. Nick Drake box set? Check. Every album by Beck and bis? Check. Jurassic 5, Method Man and Redman? Got it. And apparently Viggo Mortenson recorded an album...

I Party Shuffle all day long. I have a 24 hour pass to the best concert that never was. Belle & Sebastian pass the mic to Bob Dylan, who plays right before the Pretenders covering Gram Parsons on the Mainstage. The Libertines are playing with The Brian Jonestown Massacre on the second stage with special guest Edith Piaf.

It's like Amoeba Records in here...

28 going on 85...

Yes, I admit it, I romanticize the elderly. It's probably one of the more bizarre aspects of my personality, thinking how great it will be I'm old and I can go around offending people with few repercussions. A friend pointed out that the elderly are more likely to be victims, but I said "by that time, I'll deserve it."

I think it’s more about being, seeming, feeling stuck at my current age. I see people older than me with relationships, houses and/or children, and I want those things, but I’ve always sort of said “when the time is right.” My philosophy has been that life expectancies are climbing, and that really, the 20’s are a drop in the bucket. But I’ve come to realize that most of the people with those things all started at my age or younger, and I’m finally experiencing the “quarter-life crisis” I previously mocked in others.

So here it is, the formal apology. I’m sorry I didn’t come “dream shopping” with you to open houses. I’m sorry I didn’t understand the crazy rhythm of your biological clock, or that cute onesie you bought and hid away. I’m sorry that even as I consoled you after break-ups, I didn’t realize the full emotional impact not finding someone was actually having.

I apologize to all of you. All I can say is that I had no idea what it was like, trying to become an adult. It sucks. But I promise to always tell you when support socks go on sale, and which checker tolerates our stories about “back in ‘aught five”.

What does it mean...

when you're gleeful that people replied/responded to your CraigsList post?

I have avoided CL in recent times, because I knew my ex trolled there. When we first broke up, I posted a few things on there in a sort of immature, Glenn Close "I will not be ignored" sort of way, but I've let it go.

In a bizarre piece of happenstance, one of the people I'm seeing now saw one of my post-breakup post that was intended for him, but not really meant for him to see.

When we went out in a purely platonic manner, post-breakup, he asked me how it was going with my ex - I had decided on a "lie by omission" strategy, but the caveat was that direct questioning would be answered truthfully. So I told him we broke up, and he said "Did you send me a message in Missed Connections?" And I had, and he had seen it. In some ways it's made the whole "dating" thing a bit easier, because he knows exactly where I'm coming from (my post said I wasn't going to call him for a month or so, because he deserves better than being rebound guy).

Anyhoo, this weekend I replied to someone's post about a certain anti-depressant and got a response. And when I posted my Rave about iTunes (which I absolutely love 12 hours later), someone else posted on the Web site. And the reply I sent to someone's post about Ben and Jerry's Oatmeal Chocolate Chunk also garnered a response.

So basically, I'm on "Top of the World, Ma!".

Does that mean I need profeesional help?

Damn You, Legal Monsters!

Apparently one of the links in my last post is no longer available "due to legal reasons". For those of you who got that link in an email in February, remember the the hilarity of "Sweatsuit Vampire" or "The Mystery of Bea Arthur's Vagina".

For the rest of you - there was a mirth-inducing page on the Lunchboxing site that featured the covers of Choose Your Own Adventure books with new, more cover-art inspired titles. If they lose their case, you may never see them again, but rest assured, they would crack your shit up.

"The best intentions...

Are fraught with disappointment”. At least according to Grisolm on CSI. Usually I’m one of the few people that doesn’t find this ratings smash a well-written piece of hour-long drama, but for some reason his little cynical witticism stuck with me long after The Who stopped pestering me as to my identity (ie, after the credits rolled). Because I think it’s essentially true.

Now don’t panic – I haven’t lost my overall belief in human potential. Quite the opposite, actually. I have cracked the “Disappointment” code. It wasn’t easy, and I had scientists working around the clock, but if you follow me (watch the Bunsen burner) we’ve come up with something I think you’ll want to see.

It actually all started with an apology. Well, not so much an apology, but a request for one. Firstly, let’s just clarify that requesting an apology is not really about getting the apology, even if you think it is - it’s about giving the other person information. The information you give them is that something has affected you, and you aren’t happy with the result – a defensive strategy.

If you’ll take a look at the screen, you’ll see that “defensive” and “offensive” strategies are lumped together. It doesn’t matter if you’ve screamed your guts out at someone, offensively calling them every name you can think of; it doesn’t matter if you’ve purposely distanced yourself from someone, defensively closing yourself. In my formula, both these actions come from two sources.

The next slide, please -

1. Your Expectations were not met; 2. Your feelings were Hurt.

Now there are plenty of times where one source applies, but not the other. When you flip the bird at the driver that cut you off, the Expectation that they would be a courteous driver was not met. When a stranger calls you the “rudest bitch” at a bar, your feelings are Hurt. Singularly, either of the sources are easy to get around. But in those situations when both sources intertwine, you get a new emotion. Disappointment.

Disappointment is a train wreck. Disappointment makes you question everything you thought you knew about a person or a situation. Disappointment bears down on you, smothering you, masquerading as Anger, or sometimes Despair. Yup, that Disappointment is a bad mutha-

(Shutting mouth)

So here’s the thing; you feel Disappointed when your feelings are invested. And that’s great, because it means you’ve let someone or something in. Disappointment is a natural consequence of Caring. So when Grisolm said “The best intentions…” he was right – when we’re pursuing something in our lives, we’re letting that thing in a little. And Disappointment can be like a little “Choose Your Own Adventure” in your life. How you respond to it can often determine any one of countless futures.

And I say bring it on! As my bosom chum Erin sings – “Come on, and Disappoint me…”

In the Choir of Primates...

While all my Windows Media files are converting to iTunes (It's currently on an album of the above title) , I thought I’d take this moment to update my blog. My writing partner’s fiancé seems to have all sorts of great music, and when I wanted to burn a few things, he said “Why don’t we just download from my iPod?” and I said “Do it” (re: “I have no idea what that means, or how it’s accomplished”).

So now, 5 hours later, my computer is converting all my WMF to iTunes. Now I have no idea if this is a good idea, despite my previous coveting, but I was feeling adventurous. On to the update:

1. We’ve had passes on the script. Our agent basically had some sort of emotional “mea culpa” and started talking about how maybe she pitched it wrong, since most of the passes mention a single element which is integral to the plotline. I can’t disagree with her, but I think she should accept some kudos that she was able to get people to read it quickly enough to pass on it. I’ve tried to remain positive, because just as Wesley Snipes advised “Always bet on Black”, I like to “Always bet on Lazy”. I’m not looking for the response of people desperate to find a hit; I’m looking for the people that can take time to read, and possibly take a risk.

2. Remember how my roommate’s dog got stolen? Well this weekend she had the dog in-house euthanized. Her canine companion had been experiencing a sort of downward spiral since the traumatic incident, and she decided to “put her down”. She had bandied about the idea when the dog started peeing in the house. I tried to remind her of the movie Ransom, where the kid spontaneously urinates after being traumatized (one of my favorite visceral film moments). She had previously asked me to give her a ride to the vet in the morning, and I agreed. Imagine my surprise when I came home especially to take her, and she told me now she only needed me to take her and the “remains” to the vet. I took my own dog for a walk, and realized I felt completely manipulated, so when we got back I told her she was going to have to find someone else to take her. Luckily, she had reconsidered and Dr. FeelDeath could take the remains with him. We cried together later that afternoon.

3. I’ve had two disturbing dreams involving my last boyfriend. Yesh, I said boyfriend. Ingy told me she was surprised I hadn’t been more down about the situation, and led
me in a mini-dream analysis that was surprisingly accurate. She’s brilliant, in case you’re wondering. If there is the psychological/metaphysical equivalent of a modern-day Cassandra, she might just be it – the only problem is that I asked her opinion too late…which is more a function of our physical distance than anything else.

On the plus side, I got a new nanny gig with a cool couple; and my previous employer is buying me a ticket to come up to Portland to see them. I’ve started to date (even though I still don’t completely understand the process), and I’ve made a new platonic friend. I’ve discovered a new body product from Lush, and bought a rad corduroy motorcycle jacket from Out of The Closet. I’ve actually spoken to my father twice in one month, and didn’t smoke for a week (a test-run for quitting). So despite the Mercury retrograde situation, there have been some high points.

Hope all went better for you,

AK-77

A part of me, is deep down inside you...

I'm pretty sure Seals and Croft weren't thinking of anything this bizarre when they penned those lyrics.

My favorite part is "gloves that were stuffed with human hair".

Happy Thursday!

A Disturbing Dream

A disturbing dream can just about ruin your day. I tend to wake up abruptly at the point when my brain can't handle the dream any longer, the point where even my subconscious turns on itself and says "Dude, what the hell?". Then I try to get out of bed all discombobulated, with a sort of urgent non-specified anxiety.

The thing about it is that when I described the dream to a friend (she had to be at work at 7:45 anyway), I realized that the actual events were completely innocuous, it was the palpable tone that unsettled me.

That's what makes a dream "disturbing" as opposed to "scary". Scary gets your heart racing for a few minutes. Disturbing scrambles your eggs all day.

When Pope John Paul II was in Japan...

"he read a comic book there, about the life of Saint Francis of Assisi, and said the Pope 'I think there should be - a comic book about me, so let's call up Stan Lee." So goes the opening lyric of the Phranc song Caped Crusader*. It was about a limited edition comic book detailing the life of Karol Joseph Wojtyla, before and after he became Pope.

A bit odd, although if the lyrics are to be held true** a rather interesting subject. So this guy in South America has been working on the Incredible Popeman. In his comic book universe, the Pope dies and is resurrected infallible. He's been working on this since before the Pope's death, which makes it a bit more morbid, methinks.



* I couldn't find the full lyrics, but I found it referenced on the Feb 3, 2004 entry of a priest's blog about Mainstream Music.

** 1. C@ remembers a textbook using the exact same wordstring (he wrote a couple plays) as Phranc's song where she sings "he was gonna be an actor, but then he became a priest. Even after he joined the clergy he wrote a couple plays."
** 2. Phranc also mentions "64 full color pages" which appears to be the length of the one on Amazon. Personally, I want one of the original 500,000.

The Whole Day Down?

I interviewed for a new nanny gig today, and I start this week! Our script goes out tomorrow, and we already have a few solid ideas to pitch at meetings! I ran into an old ex and it wasn't awkward! My friend got her wedding dress and it's beautiful! What a Monday!

So no, Inspiral Carpets, I can't tell you why you don't like them. But I can offer you some more intriguing posits with 13 things that do not make sense.