When there were tryouts for a 7th-grade play, a crippled girl and I were up for the same part. (It would be much more meaningful if I could remember the name, or even the theme, of the play, but I can't.) My audition was better than hers, but... only very slightly. We were both in the same narrow band of "7th-grade-talent." She got the part. The teacher in charge of casting told me that the crippled girl had gotten the part I wanted, but that she wanted me to audition for something else. (Hint-hint: She'd cast me in another part so I could be in the play.)
All stubbornness, I refused. I wanted THAT part. My 13-year-old friends even talked to me about just taking any other part: "Come on! It's going to be fun!" But no. I chose to be pissed off and self-righteous instead. And "self-righteous" about NOTHING! :) Like I said, it wasn't that I was so supremely talented and the other girl was terrible but just got the part 'cause she was in a wheelchair --- I was only slightly better, but she was nearly as good, in fact, just about the same.
Just thinking about this tonight because I think I've kept up the same pattern throughout my life: "Humph! If I can't be the lead, I'm quitting the play!"
(1) I got over that idealism when it came to college (both undergrad and grad) -- finally, despite not "feeling it" and recognizing the scam of it, just getting my damn degrees so I could say I had them.
(2) NYC taught me that there are thousands and thousands of people at roughly the same level of talent all competing for the same work.
(3) The temp work I've been doing for the past 4 years since returning from NYC: Trying to be accepting of the secretarial jobs I'd always hated, not wanting to be that self-righteous (and self-destructive) 13-year-old... But still continuing to hate that type of work and finding it utterly degrading, yet still being upset when I didn't "get the part" -- i.e., hired for a job that I hated just to feel good about being hired.
I suppose being in a relationship somehow relates to all of the above: "despite not 'feeling it' and recognizing the scam of it, just getting my damn degrees so I could say I had them." I relaxed my standards with college(s). I relaxed my standards with jobs. What's to keep me from relaxing my standards when it comes to a mate... just to say I had one.
Saturday, March 08, 2014
Saturday, March 01, 2014
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Why Jimmy Fallon's "Tonight Show" Already Seems a Bit Old
Just briefly, after a week: His musical numbers and thank-you-card schtick were (on "The Late Show") / are (on "Tonight") cute and dumbly audience-friendly. A la Carson. And I HATED Carson. I'm completely of the "Letterman Generation": Weird and cranky. To me, Fallon's schmoozing with Justin Timberlake is the same as Carson's schmoozing with Buddy Rich. That "insider" wink-wink/aren't-we-hip thing was cheesy in Carson's day and it's just as cheesy now that it's been resurrected (not just by Fallon, but by the Entertainment Media as a whole).
Letterman was a talk-show groundbreaker when he debuted in 1982 because he was clearly outside of the "industry club"-- he didn't suck up, his skits were freakish. When I, as an 18-year-old, first saw him on TV, I was astounded and relieved at the anarchy and non-bullshit.
And now, with Fallon, we seem to have come full circle back to the phony-nice-guy/pseudo-hip Carson model, where every guest, however inane, is bowed to simply because of the mere fact of their celebrity. Letterman used to slyly point out such guests' inanity. Fallon, on the other hand, tries to completely disguise it -- the TV equivalent of veneers or boob jobs.
No one wants "mean-and-nasty" as they're drifting off to sleep. But I think that most of us also have an internal "The Emperor Has No Clothes" investigative impulse when it comes to the rich and famous, who almost certainly had to develop utterly false personalities in order to appeal to the powers-that-be who hired them...and to appeal to a mass audience.
Letterman's legacy was/is the tweaking of the façade. Fallon, on the other hand, sinks us right back into the "aren't celebrities great" morass so prevalent on TV prior to Letterman's psychological/intellectual breakthrough in 1982.
Letterman was a talk-show groundbreaker when he debuted in 1982 because he was clearly outside of the "industry club"-- he didn't suck up, his skits were freakish. When I, as an 18-year-old, first saw him on TV, I was astounded and relieved at the anarchy and non-bullshit.
And now, with Fallon, we seem to have come full circle back to the phony-nice-guy/pseudo-hip Carson model, where every guest, however inane, is bowed to simply because of the mere fact of their celebrity. Letterman used to slyly point out such guests' inanity. Fallon, on the other hand, tries to completely disguise it -- the TV equivalent of veneers or boob jobs.
No one wants "mean-and-nasty" as they're drifting off to sleep. But I think that most of us also have an internal "The Emperor Has No Clothes" investigative impulse when it comes to the rich and famous, who almost certainly had to develop utterly false personalities in order to appeal to the powers-that-be who hired them...and to appeal to a mass audience.
Letterman's legacy was/is the tweaking of the façade. Fallon, on the other hand, sinks us right back into the "aren't celebrities great" morass so prevalent on TV prior to Letterman's psychological/intellectual breakthrough in 1982.
love, god, learning
I know that purists have been complaining about this for centuries, but I was just thinking about it again today: Everything truly good and beautiful that exists -- love, god, learning, for instance... There have always been people who GET IT and then others who have always sought to CODIFY it. The codifiers' motives for doing so: (1) They sincerely want to enlighten others. OR (2) They don't get it but want to appear as if they do because they've heard so much about it. OR (3) They either get it or don't get it but, whichever, UNDERSTAND the concept and want to use the knowledge to control others.
"love" has nearly been subsumed by obsession with the ritual of either a church ceremony or a state sanction decreeing legitimacy.
"god" has nearly been subsumed by obsession with church rituals/attendance/social function decreeing legitimacy.
"learning" has nearly been subsumed by obsession with a university degree decreeing legitimacy.
"Nearly," I said. The true things will always exist in the ether, outside of the ridiculous societal constructs.
"love" has nearly been subsumed by obsession with the ritual of either a church ceremony or a state sanction decreeing legitimacy.
"god" has nearly been subsumed by obsession with church rituals/attendance/social function decreeing legitimacy.
"learning" has nearly been subsumed by obsession with a university degree decreeing legitimacy.
"Nearly," I said. The true things will always exist in the ether, outside of the ridiculous societal constructs.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Two Hoots and a Holler, 2011 Austin
"You can make a lot of plans
But you never know what's in store"
I feel like I've survived along with Ricky.
But you never know what's in store"
I feel like I've survived along with Ricky.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
My People
There's a bit of a difference in your workplaces when a boss at one place advises you, in all sincerity, to "Own it!"; and a boss at the other likes discussing the serial comma and pet-peeve slowpoke tourists on escalators in NYC, London, et al., who don't also WALK while they're on the escalator.
Sometimes you don't realize how shitty of a situation you've been in until you get in a GOOD one with people who LIKE talking to you instead of rolling their eyes at you and/or frowning when you ask a question (any question). If you're in the bad situation, you might tend to pretend that it's not happening because the vibe is so constantly so fucking WEIRD for no apparent reason. You're not doing anything wrong, so WHY all the creepiness??
My last boss at my last 4-month temp job. My mother. Sandra. I find myself in situations where I try to please these people, and I just can't, regardless of what I do. It's psychologically debilitating because I obviously want/need SOMETHING that they have to offer or I wouldn't be hanging around... but aside from the occasional bone, there's nothing of long-term sustenance ever thrown my way.
Being around this constantly has been draining in every way. Reminds me a whole lot of medical studies done with rats and cocaine: After the rats have triggered the cocaine-lever numerous times and learned to go straight to it, the scientists then re-rig the experiment so that the same lever now triggers electric shocks/pain instead of pleasure. It takes the rats a very long time to stop going to the same once-pleasure-giving levers, even after numerous jolts.
Which is sick? The scientist or the rat?
Sometimes you don't realize how shitty of a situation you've been in until you get in a GOOD one with people who LIKE talking to you instead of rolling their eyes at you and/or frowning when you ask a question (any question). If you're in the bad situation, you might tend to pretend that it's not happening because the vibe is so constantly so fucking WEIRD for no apparent reason. You're not doing anything wrong, so WHY all the creepiness??
My last boss at my last 4-month temp job. My mother. Sandra. I find myself in situations where I try to please these people, and I just can't, regardless of what I do. It's psychologically debilitating because I obviously want/need SOMETHING that they have to offer or I wouldn't be hanging around... but aside from the occasional bone, there's nothing of long-term sustenance ever thrown my way.
Being around this constantly has been draining in every way. Reminds me a whole lot of medical studies done with rats and cocaine: After the rats have triggered the cocaine-lever numerous times and learned to go straight to it, the scientists then re-rig the experiment so that the same lever now triggers electric shocks/pain instead of pleasure. It takes the rats a very long time to stop going to the same once-pleasure-giving levers, even after numerous jolts.
Which is sick? The scientist or the rat?
Friday, February 21, 2014
Jayjogging
Chris Quintero's blog has his photos/video of the University of Texas jogger being arrested yesterday morning for jaywalking by Austin police.
This story is also making national news, from every political angle:
New York Daily News
Daily Caller.
Infowars.com.
I first learned about the arrest this morning, reading the UT paper. My first reaction was a flashback to my 1995 San Francisco ticket for jaywalking, one of the many reasons that I was no fan of that uptight town. (As in: "Looking both ways before I cross the street was one of the first things my mama taught me. If I don't see any cars coming, I shouldn't have to wait for 'official permission' from the crosswalk-light before being able to walk of my own free will.") Like this hapless jogger, I also didn't have any ID on me, but unlike the jogger, I did see the bike cop and just took the ticket nonshriekingly. (I was about to get my grad degree and move back to Austin in a couple of months anyway, so knew I wouldn't have to bother arguing about it.)
My SF jaywalking ticket helped sour me on the town because I saw it as a ridiculous affront to my personal freedom -- SF had just passed a no-smoking-in-bars ordinance months earlier which I found stupid, and the ticket was yet another example, to me, of utterly needless bureaucracy. At the time, I remember thinking, "Thank god I'm about to go back to Texas, where you can have a damn cigarette in a damn bar and cross the street when you deem it safe!"
Of course, within a couple of years of my return, Austin had also passed a no-bar-smoking ordinance. It apparently took another 2 decades, but Austin has finally caught up with San Francisco on the jaywalking front. Congrats. (Get me out of here!)
This story is also making national news, from every political angle:
New York Daily News
Daily Caller.
Infowars.com.
I first learned about the arrest this morning, reading the UT paper. My first reaction was a flashback to my 1995 San Francisco ticket for jaywalking, one of the many reasons that I was no fan of that uptight town. (As in: "Looking both ways before I cross the street was one of the first things my mama taught me. If I don't see any cars coming, I shouldn't have to wait for 'official permission' from the crosswalk-light before being able to walk of my own free will.") Like this hapless jogger, I also didn't have any ID on me, but unlike the jogger, I did see the bike cop and just took the ticket nonshriekingly. (I was about to get my grad degree and move back to Austin in a couple of months anyway, so knew I wouldn't have to bother arguing about it.)
My SF jaywalking ticket helped sour me on the town because I saw it as a ridiculous affront to my personal freedom -- SF had just passed a no-smoking-in-bars ordinance months earlier which I found stupid, and the ticket was yet another example, to me, of utterly needless bureaucracy. At the time, I remember thinking, "Thank god I'm about to go back to Texas, where you can have a damn cigarette in a damn bar and cross the street when you deem it safe!"
Of course, within a couple of years of my return, Austin had also passed a no-bar-smoking ordinance. It apparently took another 2 decades, but Austin has finally caught up with San Francisco on the jaywalking front. Congrats. (Get me out of here!)
Thursday, February 20, 2014
"Buses can be fun! Buses...
...keep you in touch with 'The Streets' and your geography! Buses let you avoid Road Rage and enjoy reading while someone else drives..."
Unless you're on the bus for almost 2-1/2 hours a day! Mornings have been fine; a special company bus picks us up, and there are only about 10 of us on there, and there are NO stops until we get to the company. Afternoons, though: The company bus schedule is schewed for me, so I've been taking a regular city bus home... complete with all of the writhing masses of humanity. Such WMH are fine for about 15-20 minutes. Decidedly NOT FINE for over an hour, being wedged in among screeching idiots. Aside from the screechers, other pet peeves:
(1) Have your fucking bus pass (or dollar) READY when you get on the bus! Yes, if you've just run for the bus and get on huffing and puffing, I understand that you then have to search through your belongings to fish the pass out. But if you've already been standing there watching the bus approach? (I SEE you!) Get yer goddamn pass out ahead of time so you can swipe in a timely fashion!
(2) Get on in the front, get OFF IN THE BACK, ya fuckin' idiots! Do those of you unnecessarily getting off via the front door not understand that there are people necessarily getting ON at the front door? Do ya think you could avoid a logjam by exiting where you're supposed to?
(3) If the bus is crowded, then GET YER BACKPACK OFF THE SEAT NEXT TO THE WINDOW AND SCOOT YOUR ASS OVER! Jesus H. Christ. People need to sit down where your stupid backpack is.
(4) If there's not an aisle seat readily available to you, then, for fuck's sake: ASK someone with their stupid backpack in a seat if you can sit there. Just DON'T instead decide that it's a GREAT idea to stand right in front of the Exit door for miles -- where every single person leaving the bus has to squeeze past you!
(5) If the bus, because of backed-up traffic, has to stop 20 feet or so from the "official stop," then... do everybody a favor and WALK THE DAMN 20 FEET AND GET ON THE BUS! Why do you stand there like an idiot and wait for the light to change so the bus can pull up right to you, thus making everybody have to sit through yet ANOTHER light??
Why do I even have to mention these things??
Unless you're on the bus for almost 2-1/2 hours a day! Mornings have been fine; a special company bus picks us up, and there are only about 10 of us on there, and there are NO stops until we get to the company. Afternoons, though: The company bus schedule is schewed for me, so I've been taking a regular city bus home... complete with all of the writhing masses of humanity. Such WMH are fine for about 15-20 minutes. Decidedly NOT FINE for over an hour, being wedged in among screeching idiots. Aside from the screechers, other pet peeves:
(1) Have your fucking bus pass (or dollar) READY when you get on the bus! Yes, if you've just run for the bus and get on huffing and puffing, I understand that you then have to search through your belongings to fish the pass out. But if you've already been standing there watching the bus approach? (I SEE you!) Get yer goddamn pass out ahead of time so you can swipe in a timely fashion!
(2) Get on in the front, get OFF IN THE BACK, ya fuckin' idiots! Do those of you unnecessarily getting off via the front door not understand that there are people necessarily getting ON at the front door? Do ya think you could avoid a logjam by exiting where you're supposed to?
(3) If the bus is crowded, then GET YER BACKPACK OFF THE SEAT NEXT TO THE WINDOW AND SCOOT YOUR ASS OVER! Jesus H. Christ. People need to sit down where your stupid backpack is.
(4) If there's not an aisle seat readily available to you, then, for fuck's sake: ASK someone with their stupid backpack in a seat if you can sit there. Just DON'T instead decide that it's a GREAT idea to stand right in front of the Exit door for miles -- where every single person leaving the bus has to squeeze past you!
(5) If the bus, because of backed-up traffic, has to stop 20 feet or so from the "official stop," then... do everybody a favor and WALK THE DAMN 20 FEET AND GET ON THE BUS! Why do you stand there like an idiot and wait for the light to change so the bus can pull up right to you, thus making everybody have to sit through yet ANOTHER light??
Why do I even have to mention these things??
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
I never meant any harm to you
When Fleetwood Mac's "Rumours" came out in '77, I, as a 12-year-old, mocked it and all of its accompanying album-rock-station hype: Hippie stuff I'm not interested in! Since then, though... you guessed it: What a great tragic, hopeful album about love and life! Here's my favorite sequence.
Accidental Sunset
Sunset disgruntlement, unable to find the right bus-stop. (All my stops where I once switched since closed, or so they said.) Wandered around downtown for over an hour, block to block, following instructions from outdated signs. Turned out that where I initially got off was where I should have been to begin with.
An accidental sunset: The buzz of the bars -- their names, the kids' names, all changed -- the same stonework and still, for a second, as sweet and hope-filled, like me with someone to meet.
An accidental sunset: The buzz of the bars -- their names, the kids' names, all changed -- the same stonework and still, for a second, as sweet and hope-filled, like me with someone to meet.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Heaven (well, non-Purgatory) is...
...coming into work in jeans, going into a room by myself, and EDITING! Three different spellings of a professor's name -- caught 'em! Different capitalization/alignment of headlines -- caught 'em! Needing semicolons in a series instead of commas -- caught 'em! I could do this all day, and I will be through May! Whew!
Aside from sporadic freelance work, it's been nearly a year since I've been doing daily for a living what I'm very good at. Among relaxed, non-phony people in a relaxed, non-phony environment. And where what I'm doing matters, since the texts will be appearing in public and contain actual intellectual information that needs to be CORRECT. (As opposed to, say, typing up smarmy letters to donors or reconfiguring boilerplate reasons for granting already-millionaires hundreds of thousands of dollars per year to be "advisers" or fetching coffee for the grinning, sycophantic visitors of bosses who'd gotten where they were by sucking up to the powers that be throughout their careers. Ugh.)
Aside from sporadic freelance work, it's been nearly a year since I've been doing daily for a living what I'm very good at. Among relaxed, non-phony people in a relaxed, non-phony environment. And where what I'm doing matters, since the texts will be appearing in public and contain actual intellectual information that needs to be CORRECT. (As opposed to, say, typing up smarmy letters to donors or reconfiguring boilerplate reasons for granting already-millionaires hundreds of thousands of dollars per year to be "advisers" or fetching coffee for the grinning, sycophantic visitors of bosses who'd gotten where they were by sucking up to the powers that be throughout their careers. Ugh.)
Sunday, February 16, 2014
"Back Seat of My Car" (Paul McCartney)
As a former repressed teen, I find this song -- and the accompanying swarthy picture of Paul -- so sexy.
Enough, already.
Michael Dunn writing from prison after murdering Jordan Davis for playing his music too loud in a convenience store parking lot: "This may sound a bit radical, but if more people would arm themselves and kill these fucking idiots when they’re threatening you, eventually they may take the hint and change their behavior.”
Wow. I KIND OF agree with him. I don't agree with the KILLING part, but I do completely agree with the part that asks for SOMETHING to be done about changing such idiots' public behavior. I've been around such behavior (usually, in my case, on public buses) enough to know that it's extremely disturbing and threatening. 99% of the time, I've just sat there and kept quiet... all the while wishing fervently that someone, anyone, would come along and shut the bullies up. I've been on an Austin bus where young black guys were on the back talking extremely loudly and graphically about what sex acts they'd forced a woman to do that weekend; and just today on my bus, two young black women were in the back talking extremely loudly about a white woman that they'd, the night before, "knocked out" outside a club because she hadn't answered a query about directions to another club correctly.
Did I feel "threatened" by listening to either the young black guys' or the young black womens' conversations? Yes, I did. They all were extremely loud, aggressive, and talking about knocking women around (in the womens' case, about "knocking out" a white woman because, basically, she'd looked at them funny).
When people are bellowing like this in public, what are the rest of us supposed to do? For the most part, we sit there and take it. But "sitting there and taking it" gets old after a while. Something inside of you very much does want to shut these idiots up and teach them how to act in public (i.e., don't publicly yell about fucking, don't publicly brag about beating people up, don't publicly blast your music). The majority of us keep politely quiet in the face of such creepy rudeness. But every now and then, some of us snap.
The Michael Dunn verdict was announced today with, mostly, the usual PC takes on it: "OMG, no First Degree charge!" (Despite the fact that Dunn has been found guilty of 3 counts of Attempted Murder.)
Was Michael Dunn right in shooting into a car playing loud music and killing Jordan Davis? No, of course not. But...there IS something to be said for somebody doing something to get some people to "take the hint" and change their public behavior.
If said people themselves can't "self-edit," then maybe it DOES take an aggressive, psychotic outlier to correct them, for the benefit of the rest of us cowards who are content to inwardly stew, merely wishing for something to be done.
Wow. I KIND OF agree with him. I don't agree with the KILLING part, but I do completely agree with the part that asks for SOMETHING to be done about changing such idiots' public behavior. I've been around such behavior (usually, in my case, on public buses) enough to know that it's extremely disturbing and threatening. 99% of the time, I've just sat there and kept quiet... all the while wishing fervently that someone, anyone, would come along and shut the bullies up. I've been on an Austin bus where young black guys were on the back talking extremely loudly and graphically about what sex acts they'd forced a woman to do that weekend; and just today on my bus, two young black women were in the back talking extremely loudly about a white woman that they'd, the night before, "knocked out" outside a club because she hadn't answered a query about directions to another club correctly.
Did I feel "threatened" by listening to either the young black guys' or the young black womens' conversations? Yes, I did. They all were extremely loud, aggressive, and talking about knocking women around (in the womens' case, about "knocking out" a white woman because, basically, she'd looked at them funny).
When people are bellowing like this in public, what are the rest of us supposed to do? For the most part, we sit there and take it. But "sitting there and taking it" gets old after a while. Something inside of you very much does want to shut these idiots up and teach them how to act in public (i.e., don't publicly yell about fucking, don't publicly brag about beating people up, don't publicly blast your music). The majority of us keep politely quiet in the face of such creepy rudeness. But every now and then, some of us snap.
The Michael Dunn verdict was announced today with, mostly, the usual PC takes on it: "OMG, no First Degree charge!" (Despite the fact that Dunn has been found guilty of 3 counts of Attempted Murder.)
Was Michael Dunn right in shooting into a car playing loud music and killing Jordan Davis? No, of course not. But...there IS something to be said for somebody doing something to get some people to "take the hint" and change their public behavior.
If said people themselves can't "self-edit," then maybe it DOES take an aggressive, psychotic outlier to correct them, for the benefit of the rest of us cowards who are content to inwardly stew, merely wishing for something to be done.
Beware of Darkness (George Harrison)
Watch out now, take care
Beware of falling swingers
Dropping all around you
The pain that often mingles
In your fingertips, beware of darkness
Watch out now, take care
Beware of the thoughts that linger
Winding up inside your head
The hopelessness around you
In the dead of night
Beware of sadness
It can hit you, it can hurt you
Make you sore and what is more
That is not what you are here for
Watch out now, take care
Beware of soft shoe shufflers
Dancing down the sidewalks
As each unconscious sufferer
Wanders aimlessly, beware of Maya
Watch out now, take care
Beware of greedy leaders
They take you where you should not go
While weeping Atlas cedars
They just want to grow, grow and grow
Beware of darkness
Friday, February 14, 2014
Happy Valentine's Day
Joan Crawford shot by Ruth Harriet Louise, 1928. Crawford as "Valentine Winters" with Pauline Frederick in "This Modern Age," 1931.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Any Road - George Harrison
For I've been traveling on a boat and a plane
In a car on a bike with a bus on a train
Traveling there, traveling here
Everywhere in every gear
But, oh Lord, we pay the price
With the spin of the wheel with the roll of the dice
Ah yeah, you pay your fare
And if you don't know where you're going
Any road will take you there
And I've been traveling through the dirt and the grime
From the past to the future through the space and the time
Traveling deep beneath the waves
In watery grottoes and mountainous caves
But, oh Lord, we've got to fight
With the thoughts in the head with the dark and the light
No use to stop and stare
And if you don't know where you're going
Any road will take you there
You may not know where you came from
May not know who you are
May not have even wondered
How you got this far
I've been traveling on a wing and a prayer
By the skin of my teeth, by the breadth of a hair
Traveling where the four winds blow
With the sun on my face, in the ice and the snow
But, ooh wee, it's a game
Sometimes you're cool, sometimes you're lame
Ah yeah, it's somewhere
If you don't know where you're going
Any road will take you there
But, oh Lord, we pay the price
With the spin of the wheel with the roll of the dice
Ah yeah, you pay your fare
If you don't know where you're going
Any road will take you there
I keep traveling around the bend
There was no beginning, there is no end
It wasn't born and never dies
There are no edges, there is no sides
Oh yeah, you just don't win
It's so far out, the way out is in
Bow to God and call him Sir
But if you don't know where you're going
Any road will take you there
And if you don't know where you're going
Any road will take you there
If you don't know where you're going
Any road will take you there
It's a very, very small world.
Well, here's a little something I learned today... She's been over to my mother's house!!! (WHAT the fuck!)
For the past 5 months, my mother's been talking about a museum exhibit that she's contributed her father's World War I mementos to and has been meeting with museum staff about. Just days ago, I learned an exact date for the opening, which I duly marked on my calendar. Since I'm out and about town every day, Mom asked me to pick up papers that had an article quoting her about the exhibit. Which I did. And the photo accompanying the info was of "Plath Girl," who just happened to be the curator of the whole exhibit! And who I just found out has been meeting with my mother a couple of times over the past months, including coming over to her house to pick through items for the show!
Fuck! I initially thought the exhibit opening would be "interesting" for historical/familial purposes, and fun 'cause I'd get to hang out with the nephews. But now I've got to get a hairdresser's appointment squeezed in before then and actually GET DRESSED for the event! I'm about to officially meet "The Plath Girl" whom I've been looking at for years now! ;p And who, as it turns out, aside from being a museum curator, also has a PhD in literature--poetry! She wasn't just a coolly-dressed office-lady taking my bus to work!
(Mom reports that she's single and owns her own expensive car and house in my neighborhood. Woooo! :) The woman is probably straight. But what's interesting to me is the idea of being interested in someone who's actually an ACCOMPLISHED PERSON. Wow. Since 2000, I've been primarily fascinated by, first, an aging Norwegian transsexual living at home with her parents; and next, an aging Houstonian socialite kept all her life by a variety of men and unable to function when suddenly left to her own financial devices. It's been mentally stressful FOR ME trying to be understanding of these two! Being attracted to a SELF-SUFFICIENT person on my level (or in this case, above)... what a liberating, RELAXING concept! (I may be a failure as a secretary or as a helpmeet to former mental patients, but...I'm not a loser in all circles.)
February 11, 2007
On this day, 7 years ago, I flew off to New York City. To be picked up at the airport (can't remember which of the two now) by a roommate-to-be that I'd sought out on craigslist; she described herself as gay, a Barnard grad, with lots of books and "3 cats."
I'd sold my car weeks earlier. My brother was out of town when I left, so he'd lent me his car the day before, which I piled up with a last few things and my cat Gracie (whom I had to traumatically chase through the house to get her loaded into her carrier) and then drove to his nearby empty house, delivering my last belongings to his front porch, then awaiting the cab that I'd called to meet me there. It was a drizzly, upper-50s day. I had a huge hangover (unwilling to get off the computer the night before and get a good night's sleep); I attributed the low-key fear and melancholy to that.
Airport staff in Austin had to search the cat carrier. Gracie briefly escaped, caught by a gentle airport employee.
My craigslist roomie was at the airport to greet me, as promised, to my huge relief. Looking, also as she promised, like a "cross between Spanky McFarland and Linda Hunt." The room, in an apartment off of Riverside Drive, was large and worn, books lining one wall, with a gorgeous view of the Hudson, which, to my amazement, had huge ice chunks floating in it. The comforter that I slept under on my first night in New York City reeked of cat piss. (There were at least 7 other cats in the apartment -- poor Gracie.)
I'd sold my car weeks earlier. My brother was out of town when I left, so he'd lent me his car the day before, which I piled up with a last few things and my cat Gracie (whom I had to traumatically chase through the house to get her loaded into her carrier) and then drove to his nearby empty house, delivering my last belongings to his front porch, then awaiting the cab that I'd called to meet me there. It was a drizzly, upper-50s day. I had a huge hangover (unwilling to get off the computer the night before and get a good night's sleep); I attributed the low-key fear and melancholy to that.
Airport staff in Austin had to search the cat carrier. Gracie briefly escaped, caught by a gentle airport employee.
My craigslist roomie was at the airport to greet me, as promised, to my huge relief. Looking, also as she promised, like a "cross between Spanky McFarland and Linda Hunt." The room, in an apartment off of Riverside Drive, was large and worn, books lining one wall, with a gorgeous view of the Hudson, which, to my amazement, had huge ice chunks floating in it. The comforter that I slept under on my first night in New York City reeked of cat piss. (There were at least 7 other cats in the apartment -- poor Gracie.)
Saturday, February 08, 2014
"London Town"
Have been listening to Paul McCartney's 1978 album "London Town" over and over for the past 4-or-so hours. Such a great flow, I don't want to let go of.
The more I listen to Paul's '70s work, the more I get pissed off at John for dissing it. John was my early favorite, and his solo work was my early favorite. When I was 15-25. Now that I'm grown, I see how neurotic John was, how needy, and how self-centered his post-Beatles songs, sans an equal partner to work off of. I LIKE his songs, and I admire his honesty. But, honestly, everything he did post-Beatles was nothing but therapy.
The more I listen to Paul's '70s work, the more I get pissed off at John for dissing it. John was my early favorite, and his solo work was my early favorite. When I was 15-25. Now that I'm grown, I see how neurotic John was, how needy, and how self-centered his post-Beatles songs, sans an equal partner to work off of. I LIKE his songs, and I admire his honesty. But, honestly, everything he did post-Beatles was nothing but therapy.
Thursday, February 06, 2014
You know you're officially Middle-Aged when...
...you start to get irritated at all the "Snow Days" that your town has been announcing lately! In the past 2 weeks, my workplace has been completely shut down twice and partially shut down (i.e., opening at noon) twice, including tomorrow. When you're young, you're excited by the unusualness, the "getting to officially play hooky." When you're middle-aged (and a temp worker), you only (after the first time) get irritated at the lost income and the disruption of your schedule! :)
All of this bad Austin weather of late reminds me: When I lived in NY for 3 years (ages 42-45 in 2007-2010), the weather was a lot worse for a lot longer... and I loved it! My coats were plenty warm enough and I walked around outside completely exhilarated by the 30-degree-and-below cold, even when it went on for 3 or more months. I still have the exact same coats, which I've been wearing during Austin's recent cold snap, but... now I'm shivering in them! And this year I'm cranky at the cold, not at all "exhilarated." I'm guessing that it really is an aging, physiological thing -- my body's just not happy with the extreme temperatures. (I used to roll my eyes at "Snowbirds," the rich old people who lived up north but went to Florida for the winter. "What wusses!" I thought. But now I'm starting to understand that perhaps oldsters have a real physical/physiological reason for wanting to winter elsewhere! GREAT: Losing physical pleasure but gaining understanding.)
All of this bad Austin weather of late reminds me: When I lived in NY for 3 years (ages 42-45 in 2007-2010), the weather was a lot worse for a lot longer... and I loved it! My coats were plenty warm enough and I walked around outside completely exhilarated by the 30-degree-and-below cold, even when it went on for 3 or more months. I still have the exact same coats, which I've been wearing during Austin's recent cold snap, but... now I'm shivering in them! And this year I'm cranky at the cold, not at all "exhilarated." I'm guessing that it really is an aging, physiological thing -- my body's just not happy with the extreme temperatures. (I used to roll my eyes at "Snowbirds," the rich old people who lived up north but went to Florida for the winter. "What wusses!" I thought. But now I'm starting to understand that perhaps oldsters have a real physical/physiological reason for wanting to winter elsewhere! GREAT: Losing physical pleasure but gaining understanding.)
Wednesday, February 05, 2014
Love
A poem I wrote on January 26, 1986 -- over a quarter of a century ago! -- for a girl in my Wevill poetry class (I save these things):
Poem for a Water Sign
There is something left unsaid: for wounding eyes
a cut of silence bled for washing clean.
In frequent deep, voices unwed; lone
divers careless in this wet sky,
a stroke above the clouds that part their waves to meet God.
She swims to this sign: a glass-winged girl
heaven-sent, stirring sluggish soil
and flooding deaf horizons with the brook's gurgle,
a babble academy loosing its flow,
dismissing what may shatter stone.
There is no fear of drowning, no caution at the water's edge.
All is safe, she will say, in sinking to the sea below.
Poem for a Water Sign
There is something left unsaid: for wounding eyes
a cut of silence bled for washing clean.
In frequent deep, voices unwed; lone
divers careless in this wet sky,
a stroke above the clouds that part their waves to meet God.
She swims to this sign: a glass-winged girl
heaven-sent, stirring sluggish soil
and flooding deaf horizons with the brook's gurgle,
a babble academy loosing its flow,
dismissing what may shatter stone.
There is no fear of drowning, no caution at the water's edge.
All is safe, she will say, in sinking to the sea below.
Tuesday, February 04, 2014
Philip Seymour Hoffman (1967 - 2014)
I first noticed Hoffman in 1997's "Boogie Nights." Any time any artist makes you sit up and think/cringe, "Dear god, I've been EXACTLY like that"... you remember. He went on to more mainstream movies and greater acclaim, but I will always remember his utterly emotionally naked "Scotty." Nothing he did after that ever moved me as much; but after "Boogie Nights," I always paid attention whenever I saw that he was in a cast.
Relief
Have a temp assignment for "3-4 weeks." Filing and pasting labels on files. No fucking bullshit. Lunch whenever I want to take it. No answering phones and greeting people. Jeans allowed. Suggested to me that I bring an iPod to work! Thank GOD! What a perfect brief decompression from the stress of forced idiot grinning at bullshit for the past 3 months! (Best of all, my freelance contract is extended through the end of March; so while I'm not making very much at my day job, I'm nonetheless having pleasant days and then coming home and earning some money in the evening.)
p.s. Note to Self: I gotta get outta Austin. I don't care about "karma" and "30 years" and "being grateful." This ain't my town. But IS there anywhere in America where you can walk a few blocks and sit in a café/bar all day and/or night and drink and write? In San Francisco in the mid-90s, I worked on my poetry thesis for hundreds of hours in a bar on Clement Street. In Austin in the mid-80s, I sat in the Cactus Café on campus for hundreds of hours drinking and smoking and working on poetry. In Austin in the early 2000s, I wrote almost a whole screenplay in a bar (Gaby & Mo's) 2 blocks from my house on Monday nights, going in to listen to their poetry nights and staying 'til closing time. There's no such vibe anywhere around me right now.
p.s. Note to Self: I gotta get outta Austin. I don't care about "karma" and "30 years" and "being grateful." This ain't my town. But IS there anywhere in America where you can walk a few blocks and sit in a café/bar all day and/or night and drink and write? In San Francisco in the mid-90s, I worked on my poetry thesis for hundreds of hours in a bar on Clement Street. In Austin in the mid-80s, I sat in the Cactus Café on campus for hundreds of hours drinking and smoking and working on poetry. In Austin in the early 2000s, I wrote almost a whole screenplay in a bar (Gaby & Mo's) 2 blocks from my house on Monday nights, going in to listen to their poetry nights and staying 'til closing time. There's no such vibe anywhere around me right now.
Monday, February 03, 2014
The Ultimate 1970 Beatles Album
Would've come out the year after they broke up had they not broken up. Called, in lieu of the too-pretentious "The Art of Dying" -- "Another Day." Culled from the solo albums/songs released in 1970 (plus some, like "Another Day" and "Back Seat of My Car" that were first introduced during the "Let It Be" sessions in '69 that got rejected and were released solo later). Spent hours this weekend coming up with this as a Playlist for my iPod, inspired by hearing George's 1970 "All Things Must Pass" album for the first time (while already being extremely familiar with John and Paul's 1970 solo albums -- George's philosophical voice seemed to tie together what John and Paul were going through).
This album, as it turned out, is either about a boy whose mother has just died, or about a boy who's just murdered his mother and run off with his teenaged girlfriend, or about a boy whose mother has just run off with a lover and left him alone. Extremely John-issue-based, as it turned out (though I initially just picked out my favorite 1970 songs before ordering them). My favorite segue being from John's "My Mummy's Dead" to Paul's "Teddy Boy" -- Paul's kind of jokey-evil being what John needed to keep him from being maudlin, and a curb that he never got post break-up. (Indulgent wives are nice, but not good for art.)
Song list:
SIDE 1
Another Day -- Paul
It Don't Come Easy -- Ringo
The Art of Dying -- George
Working Class Hero -- John
My Mummy's Dead -- John
Teddy Boy -- Paul
Maybe I'm Amazed -- Paul
Behind That Locked Door -- George
Beaucoups of Blues [fadeout track] -- Ringo
SIDE 2
Junk -- Paul
The Back Seat of My Car -- Paul
Isolation -- John
Beware of Darkness -- George
God -- John
Ballad of Sir Frankie Crisp (Let It Roll) -- George
Early 1970 -- Ringo
This album, as it turned out, is either about a boy whose mother has just died, or about a boy who's just murdered his mother and run off with his teenaged girlfriend, or about a boy whose mother has just run off with a lover and left him alone. Extremely John-issue-based, as it turned out (though I initially just picked out my favorite 1970 songs before ordering them). My favorite segue being from John's "My Mummy's Dead" to Paul's "Teddy Boy" -- Paul's kind of jokey-evil being what John needed to keep him from being maudlin, and a curb that he never got post break-up. (Indulgent wives are nice, but not good for art.)
Song list:
SIDE 1
Another Day -- Paul
It Don't Come Easy -- Ringo
The Art of Dying -- George
Working Class Hero -- John
My Mummy's Dead -- John
Teddy Boy -- Paul
Maybe I'm Amazed -- Paul
Behind That Locked Door -- George
Beaucoups of Blues [fadeout track] -- Ringo
SIDE 2
Junk -- Paul
The Back Seat of My Car -- Paul
Isolation -- John
Beware of Darkness -- George
God -- John
Ballad of Sir Frankie Crisp (Let It Roll) -- George
Early 1970 -- Ringo
Sunday, February 02, 2014
A SuperBowl Party of One
And I didn't even open the stuff. Though I had it there. 'Cause nothing says "The Hopeful Idea of a SuperBowl Party" like RoTel and Velveeta sitting out on your counter.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
"It's going to take money..."
I'm sorry, but is there anyone with LESS charisma than George Harrison??
Crappy charisma nonetheless, and not-so-great song nonetheless... I still, while listening, kept randomly, stupidly thinking of F. Scott Fitzgerald singing this to Zelda back in the '20s. She wouldn't marry him until he had money, and he knew it, and he wrote 'til he had a novel fit for publishing, then he went and got her. I'm astounded by and admiring of his effort and ultimate success. Sure, look where it ultimately got 'em, but, hey, they didn't know that when they were kiddos.
And even in their last years, when they'd been living separately and could barely stand to look at each other during their brief meetings: “Liquor on my breath is sweet to her. I cherish her most extravagant hallucinations.” That's hard, real love, folks.
Crappy charisma nonetheless, and not-so-great song nonetheless... I still, while listening, kept randomly, stupidly thinking of F. Scott Fitzgerald singing this to Zelda back in the '20s. She wouldn't marry him until he had money, and he knew it, and he wrote 'til he had a novel fit for publishing, then he went and got her. I'm astounded by and admiring of his effort and ultimate success. Sure, look where it ultimately got 'em, but, hey, they didn't know that when they were kiddos.
And even in their last years, when they'd been living separately and could barely stand to look at each other during their brief meetings: “Liquor on my breath is sweet to her. I cherish her most extravagant hallucinations.” That's hard, real love, folks.
6:50am and I've BEEN up, not just GETTING up!
God, I hated that stupid job! And, by the way, the same stupid faces I had to see every day on the bus! The Sylvia-Plath-girl, the big fat Indian trying to look cool with his fuschia socks... at least these two were UNIQUE -- most of the rest generic "Kennedy from 90s MTV" and their generic plaid-shirted/bearded/glassesed boyfriends getting off at the front of the bus --- you get ON at the front, you get OFF at the back, you bunch-of-retards-trying-to-act-cool-yet-who-obviously-have-never-lived-in-a-big-city-and-thus-taken-public-transportation-and-know-the -etiquette-of-such!
Every one of them were irritating! That was one good thing about the "gypsy" buses that ran to/from NYC --- they came randomly every 10 minutes so you could just step out your door and get on a bus. It didn't have to be a ritual with knowing where every damn person was going to sit and who was going to stick his feet out and then pull 'em. ETC. ETC. I truly don't want to know exactly where these dipshits are going to sit and/or what they're going to wear every day.
-
I have freelance work to do today, paying $27 an hour, thank you. And I can do it at 10pm if I please. The contract not lasting long, but while it lasts... FUCK SECRETARIAL WORK AND FUCKING PEOPLE WHO RIDE THE BUS AT THE SAME TIME EVERY FUCKING DAY. Ugh. I'm sure I'll be back there soon, but in the meantime: FREEEEEEEEEEDOMMMMMMMMMMMM! Briefly, sweetly...
Every one of them were irritating! That was one good thing about the "gypsy" buses that ran to/from NYC --- they came randomly every 10 minutes so you could just step out your door and get on a bus. It didn't have to be a ritual with knowing where every damn person was going to sit and who was going to stick his feet out and then pull 'em. ETC. ETC. I truly don't want to know exactly where these dipshits are going to sit and/or what they're going to wear every day.
-
I have freelance work to do today, paying $27 an hour, thank you. And I can do it at 10pm if I please. The contract not lasting long, but while it lasts... FUCK SECRETARIAL WORK AND FUCKING PEOPLE WHO RIDE THE BUS AT THE SAME TIME EVERY FUCKING DAY. Ugh. I'm sure I'll be back there soon, but in the meantime: FREEEEEEEEEEDOMMMMMMMMMMMM! Briefly, sweetly...
Storyboard P to "While My Guitar Gently Weeps"
I've been a New Yorker subscriber for over 20 years now. As a kid, a blind admirer. As I've gotten older and gained more experience, seeing more and more the magazine's biases (while still more-than-occasionally being blown away by its actual profundities).
In the Jan. 6 issue, a story on "Storyboard P," a Brooklyn street dancer on the rise. The article's subhead "Storyboard P, the Basquiat of street dancing" completely turned me off. I absolutely hate the "Basquiat" tag. Too liberally applied by middle-aged intellectuals to any young "person of color" (in the parlance) with artistic inclinations.
But some of the quotes from/about "Storyboard P" in the article were interesting:
"I would cry when I saw Michael [Jackson]. His energy would scramble your frequency."
For a time, he developed choreography by sitting alone and staring at a wall until it came to resemble a projecting screen for strange, imagined shapes; he would then attempt to replicate what he was seeing with his body.
At home, deprivation forced him to be crafty. "Not having a lot, you're going to create... When I got a toy, I always broke it apart, put a new arm on it reinventing it....When my brother left me for his friends, it was back to not having a new toy, but knowing I can create one for myself. That's where the storytelling came from, that fantasy. Like people who play house and shit -- you're creating alternative realms to cope with where you are."
Dancers started battle by slamming a clawed palm into an opponent's chest, right above the heart, as if trying to tear it loose. "It's not 'Let's dance,' Storyboard said. "It's 'Gimme that!' He needs my energy to survive."
"We can all communicate without words, but we're asleep. We've dumbed down our clairvoyance.... So that girl there is standing. But the world is spinning, so what's really happening to her? She's not really standing, she's hovering... I'm just revealing what's really there. Revealing unseen forces -- that's what illusion is. Utilizing them unseen forces to manipulate a moment."
Wow, I thought. When I was young, I had similar freakouts/insights. I was deeply curious about where these took his dancing. I wanted to be blown away by Storyboard P's dancing based purely on his words. But when I looked him up on YouTube, this seemed to be the dancing highlight:
Nah. The New Yorker article, to me, much more profound than the subject's actual work. Not a kudo to The New Yorker; rather, a slam on its attempted false buildup. In fact, while watching this video, I soon became much more interested in what the mother and her kids behind Storyboard were doing in the sprinklers. (Oh, but where's the "Basquiat reference" in THAT story?)
In the Jan. 6 issue, a story on "Storyboard P," a Brooklyn street dancer on the rise. The article's subhead "Storyboard P, the Basquiat of street dancing" completely turned me off. I absolutely hate the "Basquiat" tag. Too liberally applied by middle-aged intellectuals to any young "person of color" (in the parlance) with artistic inclinations.
But some of the quotes from/about "Storyboard P" in the article were interesting:
"I would cry when I saw Michael [Jackson]. His energy would scramble your frequency."
For a time, he developed choreography by sitting alone and staring at a wall until it came to resemble a projecting screen for strange, imagined shapes; he would then attempt to replicate what he was seeing with his body.
At home, deprivation forced him to be crafty. "Not having a lot, you're going to create... When I got a toy, I always broke it apart, put a new arm on it reinventing it....When my brother left me for his friends, it was back to not having a new toy, but knowing I can create one for myself. That's where the storytelling came from, that fantasy. Like people who play house and shit -- you're creating alternative realms to cope with where you are."
Dancers started battle by slamming a clawed palm into an opponent's chest, right above the heart, as if trying to tear it loose. "It's not 'Let's dance,' Storyboard said. "It's 'Gimme that!' He needs my energy to survive."
"We can all communicate without words, but we're asleep. We've dumbed down our clairvoyance.... So that girl there is standing. But the world is spinning, so what's really happening to her? She's not really standing, she's hovering... I'm just revealing what's really there. Revealing unseen forces -- that's what illusion is. Utilizing them unseen forces to manipulate a moment."
Wow, I thought. When I was young, I had similar freakouts/insights. I was deeply curious about where these took his dancing. I wanted to be blown away by Storyboard P's dancing based purely on his words. But when I looked him up on YouTube, this seemed to be the dancing highlight:
Nah. The New Yorker article, to me, much more profound than the subject's actual work. Not a kudo to The New Yorker; rather, a slam on its attempted false buildup. In fact, while watching this video, I soon became much more interested in what the mother and her kids behind Storyboard were doing in the sprinklers. (Oh, but where's the "Basquiat reference" in THAT story?)
End of a Minor Chapter
My last day at my 3-month temp job was to have been Tuesday, but because Austin was AGAIN shut down for a snow day, I came in on Wednesday, which was also the first day of the new person hired permanently in "my" position. The overlapping meant that I got to train her a little bit. (Which I was hoping to avoid.)
First of all: I've been around for the 2 rounds of this hiring process and, weirdly, was put in charge of making notebooks that compiled the top 10 candidates. Which meant that I got to see all of my "competition"'s resumes, cover letters, and references. The first round before Christmas -- only open to in-house applicants -- ended up without anyone being chosen, which meant that I was all of a sudden a strong candidate. (As a temp, I wasn't considered "in-house.") The second round, with the job being reopened to the public, had about the same level of candidates. Then after the second round closure, one more resume came in late -- since I had access to all of the files, I saw that once the job had been closed the second time, it was then REopened for just one more day (by my boss)... to allow this last one to be registered. This last candidate was also one of the 3 interviewees in the second round. She's Hispanic, like my secretarial boss. She was the one who got the job.
Now, OK, in Texas there are a lot of Hispanics. Could have been a coincidence. But... today while training her, she mentioned that she'd known my boss for "a while." I asked, casually, how she knew her: Turns out they're both members of a local "Hispanic Administrative Associates" group--seriously. And that my boss told her specifically that she should apply. (Even though she was past the job-closing deadline--which my boss reopened for her.)
The woman does indeed have 20 years of secretarial experience, as opposed to my three. So of course on paper she's, in general, more qualified than I am. But just in general. While I was training her today, she didn't seem to get basic stuff: Like, how server paths worked; how to scan letters to one's e-mail and then re-name those attachments; even the old-school thing of putting a check-mark by the names on CC's in hard copies of letters... Rudimentary stuff. (Not that she was merely "disinterested" in what I, a lame-duck temp, had to say, but that, while we were doing actual letters she kept "forgetting" this and that -- stuff that was NOT specific to this particular job but rather general knowledge.)
Whatevah. Knowing the anality of my secretarial boss, and discovering the scattered-ness of my trainee today, this "hire-my-people" romance is going to be a little rocky. While I found the job depressing and dumb, it still ticks me off that I know I'm more competent, and had been on the job for 3 months...yet didn't get the job.
First of all: I've been around for the 2 rounds of this hiring process and, weirdly, was put in charge of making notebooks that compiled the top 10 candidates. Which meant that I got to see all of my "competition"'s resumes, cover letters, and references. The first round before Christmas -- only open to in-house applicants -- ended up without anyone being chosen, which meant that I was all of a sudden a strong candidate. (As a temp, I wasn't considered "in-house.") The second round, with the job being reopened to the public, had about the same level of candidates. Then after the second round closure, one more resume came in late -- since I had access to all of the files, I saw that once the job had been closed the second time, it was then REopened for just one more day (by my boss)... to allow this last one to be registered. This last candidate was also one of the 3 interviewees in the second round. She's Hispanic, like my secretarial boss. She was the one who got the job.
Now, OK, in Texas there are a lot of Hispanics. Could have been a coincidence. But... today while training her, she mentioned that she'd known my boss for "a while." I asked, casually, how she knew her: Turns out they're both members of a local "Hispanic Administrative Associates" group--seriously. And that my boss told her specifically that she should apply. (Even though she was past the job-closing deadline--which my boss reopened for her.)
The woman does indeed have 20 years of secretarial experience, as opposed to my three. So of course on paper she's, in general, more qualified than I am. But just in general. While I was training her today, she didn't seem to get basic stuff: Like, how server paths worked; how to scan letters to one's e-mail and then re-name those attachments; even the old-school thing of putting a check-mark by the names on CC's in hard copies of letters... Rudimentary stuff. (Not that she was merely "disinterested" in what I, a lame-duck temp, had to say, but that, while we were doing actual letters she kept "forgetting" this and that -- stuff that was NOT specific to this particular job but rather general knowledge.)
Whatevah. Knowing the anality of my secretarial boss, and discovering the scattered-ness of my trainee today, this "hire-my-people" romance is going to be a little rocky. While I found the job depressing and dumb, it still ticks me off that I know I'm more competent, and had been on the job for 3 months...yet didn't get the job.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Monday, January 27, 2014
Slumming?
A couple of weeks ago when my temp boss told me that they'd hired someone else for the position that I'd been doing for the past 3 months, I broke down and cried. Started slow, with some frowns and sniffles, but soon was full-out weeping, to where my "mean" boss was handing me tissues and telling me to take all the time I needed...
I did not like this job at all. But I was competent at it. And it was to pay very well. I wasn't intellectually stimulated, and I absolutely hated the constant glad-handing and smiling and "Would you like anything to drink?" involved... Not just me having to do this, but having to listen to it going on around me constantly; I was constantly inwardly cringing for both myself and for the others behaving so subserviently. (Not just the women secretaries, but every single person walking into the office --- as I mentioned before, it was a VIP's office: the sucking up and uber-joyousness EVERY person exhibited upon walking in was DRAINING in its falsity.)
But yeah, I WEPT when I found out I wasn't getting the job. I've been a job-gypsy for over 7 years now, ever since I left a regular position in Austin to move to New York in early 2007. My whole time in New York, and my whole time since coming home in 2010, has been a constant hustle, hassle of temp crap, some decent, some horrible, most draining in some way -- i.e., either nothing at all to do, or "lifer" office-lady bosses being nasty, or something... In this case, I wanted the $3800 a month salary very much, thought I could fake my way into being pleasant while jumping at every whim of the "officially retired" exec I was doing the correspondence for.
In reality, I was extremely competent at getting the letters typed and at booking appointments for the man, but... I absolutely hated his self-importance and his popping out of his office every half-hour to give me, in his words, a "special project" that wasn't "special" at all, just something minor and irritating. Like, say, a new Rolodex card. Or a third cancellation of a lunch appointment. (Which I somehow felt guilty for; just as I felt guilty for the people he sometimes kept waiting for 20 minutes out in the lobby.) This wasn't a "stressful environment" in the way that, say, a miner's job would be physically stressful. But it was, though, mentally stressful to me because I was doing a lot of extremely stupid stuff. And I'm sure the expression on my face sometimes showed my disdain for what I was doing.
At one point early on, my Executive Assistant secretary boss told me, in all seriousness: "If you want this job, you've got to OWN it." To me, "owning it" means doing the job right. It doesn't mean smiling and kowtowing (aka "shucking and jiving").
At the meeting where this woman told me I wasn't getting the job, she mentioned, first, that I hadn't really "earned" the job -- i.e., I had only 3 years of secretarial experience whereas others in the pool had 20 or more. (As an aside, I mentally calculated: At 48, I'm NEVER going to gain 20 years of secretarial experience, because I'll be retired by then -- THANK GOD.) Then she said, somewhat kindly I suppose, based on my resume that I'd handed her: "You were a WRITER! Why do you want this job?" ME: "I wasn't ever a WRITER, just a copy editor. And the publishing field dried up completely with the crash in 2008. I'm a secretary now."
I think she, as a longtime secretary, wanted to see her fellow longtime secretaries advance. No sympathy for those of us now apparently "slumming."
I did not like this job at all. But I was competent at it. And it was to pay very well. I wasn't intellectually stimulated, and I absolutely hated the constant glad-handing and smiling and "Would you like anything to drink?" involved... Not just me having to do this, but having to listen to it going on around me constantly; I was constantly inwardly cringing for both myself and for the others behaving so subserviently. (Not just the women secretaries, but every single person walking into the office --- as I mentioned before, it was a VIP's office: the sucking up and uber-joyousness EVERY person exhibited upon walking in was DRAINING in its falsity.)
But yeah, I WEPT when I found out I wasn't getting the job. I've been a job-gypsy for over 7 years now, ever since I left a regular position in Austin to move to New York in early 2007. My whole time in New York, and my whole time since coming home in 2010, has been a constant hustle, hassle of temp crap, some decent, some horrible, most draining in some way -- i.e., either nothing at all to do, or "lifer" office-lady bosses being nasty, or something... In this case, I wanted the $3800 a month salary very much, thought I could fake my way into being pleasant while jumping at every whim of the "officially retired" exec I was doing the correspondence for.
In reality, I was extremely competent at getting the letters typed and at booking appointments for the man, but... I absolutely hated his self-importance and his popping out of his office every half-hour to give me, in his words, a "special project" that wasn't "special" at all, just something minor and irritating. Like, say, a new Rolodex card. Or a third cancellation of a lunch appointment. (Which I somehow felt guilty for; just as I felt guilty for the people he sometimes kept waiting for 20 minutes out in the lobby.) This wasn't a "stressful environment" in the way that, say, a miner's job would be physically stressful. But it was, though, mentally stressful to me because I was doing a lot of extremely stupid stuff. And I'm sure the expression on my face sometimes showed my disdain for what I was doing.
At one point early on, my Executive Assistant secretary boss told me, in all seriousness: "If you want this job, you've got to OWN it." To me, "owning it" means doing the job right. It doesn't mean smiling and kowtowing (aka "shucking and jiving").
At the meeting where this woman told me I wasn't getting the job, she mentioned, first, that I hadn't really "earned" the job -- i.e., I had only 3 years of secretarial experience whereas others in the pool had 20 or more. (As an aside, I mentally calculated: At 48, I'm NEVER going to gain 20 years of secretarial experience, because I'll be retired by then -- THANK GOD.) Then she said, somewhat kindly I suppose, based on my resume that I'd handed her: "You were a WRITER! Why do you want this job?" ME: "I wasn't ever a WRITER, just a copy editor. And the publishing field dried up completely with the crash in 2008. I'm a secretary now."
I think she, as a longtime secretary, wanted to see her fellow longtime secretaries advance. No sympathy for those of us now apparently "slumming."
Schizophrenia
| Your horoscope for January 27, 2014 | ||
| Today is a fantastic day for you, STEPHANIE. Put yourself into high gear and get things done. Pursue those activities that are most meaningful for you. Work with what resonates with your true self. Express your opinions and thoughts with others. Be courageous and openhearted. Share your enthusiasm with others. If a situation doesn't spark your interest, walk away and find something that does. Life is short. Live it while you've got it. -------------------------------------------------------- The above is all very well and good. And, luckily corresponds almost exactly with what TV ads and bosses exhort. Only... In Real Life, no one wants me to "Pursue those activities that are most meaningful for you" or those that resonate with my true self. If I reveal my actual opinions and thoughts to others, I'm shunned. No one wants me to be courageous or openhearted. In the past, if a situation hasn't sparked my interest and I've walked away in order to find something that does... I've paid serious monetary and psychological consequences. Heart, mind, and soul tell me one thing. The Real World tells me another. So, which is it? | ||
Saturday, January 25, 2014
The Odyssey
Was irritated upon receiving my 2003 D.C.H. Rieu Penguin translation of "The Odyssey" to find the thing in PROSE. (Is that the "thing" now?) I hereby completely declare myself in concordance with the 1967 Richard Lattimore dactylic hexameter version! Can't stand the Rieu version I just got. Not merely a matter of "line breaks," but also the language:
Lattimore:
Tell me, Muse, of the man of many ways, who was driven
far journeys, after he had sacked Troy's sacred citadel.
Many were they whose cities he saw, whose minds he learned of,
many the pains he suffered in his spirit on the wide sea,
struggling for his own life and the homecoming of his companions.
Even so he could not save his companions, hard though
he strove to; they were destroyed by their own wild recklessness,
fools, who devoured the oxen of Helios, the Sun God,
and he took away the day of their homecoming. From some point
here, goddess, daughter of Zeus, speak, and begin our story.
Rieu:
Tell me, Muse, the story of that resourceful man who was driven to wander far and wide after he had sacked the holy citadel of Troy. He saw the cities of many people and he learnt their ways. He suffered great anguish on the high seas in his struggles to preserve his life and bring his comrades home. But he failed to save those comrades, in spite of all his efforts. It was their own transgression that brought them to their doom, for in their folly they devoured the oxen of Hyperion the Sun-god and he saw to it that they would never return. Tell us this story, goddess daughter of Zeus, beginning at whatever point you will.
More specifically:
they were destroyed by their own wild recklessness,
fools, who devoured the oxen of Helios, the Sun God,
and he took away the day of their homecoming.
vs.
It was their own transgression that brought them to their doom, for in their folly they devoured the oxen of Hyperion the Sun-god and he saw to it that they would never return.
The latter reads like a joke to me, like Steve Allen in the '60s reciting pop lyrics on television to get knowing titters from his audience.
Lattimore:
Tell me, Muse, of the man of many ways, who was driven
far journeys, after he had sacked Troy's sacred citadel.
Many were they whose cities he saw, whose minds he learned of,
many the pains he suffered in his spirit on the wide sea,
struggling for his own life and the homecoming of his companions.
Even so he could not save his companions, hard though
he strove to; they were destroyed by their own wild recklessness,
fools, who devoured the oxen of Helios, the Sun God,
and he took away the day of their homecoming. From some point
here, goddess, daughter of Zeus, speak, and begin our story.
Rieu:
Tell me, Muse, the story of that resourceful man who was driven to wander far and wide after he had sacked the holy citadel of Troy. He saw the cities of many people and he learnt their ways. He suffered great anguish on the high seas in his struggles to preserve his life and bring his comrades home. But he failed to save those comrades, in spite of all his efforts. It was their own transgression that brought them to their doom, for in their folly they devoured the oxen of Hyperion the Sun-god and he saw to it that they would never return. Tell us this story, goddess daughter of Zeus, beginning at whatever point you will.
More specifically:
they were destroyed by their own wild recklessness,
fools, who devoured the oxen of Helios, the Sun God,
and he took away the day of their homecoming.
vs.
It was their own transgression that brought them to their doom, for in their folly they devoured the oxen of Hyperion the Sun-god and he saw to it that they would never return.
The latter reads like a joke to me, like Steve Allen in the '60s reciting pop lyrics on television to get knowing titters from his audience.
"I've been uptight and made a mess"
Been beat up and battered 'round
Been sent up and I've been shot down
You're the best thing that I've ever found
Handle me with care
Been sent up and I've been shot down
You're the best thing that I've ever found
Handle me with care
Reputations changeable
Situations tolerable
But baby, you're adorable
Handle me with care
Situations tolerable
But baby, you're adorable
Handle me with care
I'm so tired of being lonely
I still have some love to give
Won't you show me
That you really care?
I still have some love to give
Won't you show me
That you really care?
Everybody's got somebody
To lean on
Put your body next to mine
And dream on
To lean on
Put your body next to mine
And dream on
I've been fobbed off and I've been fooled
I've been robbed and ridiculed
In Daycare Centers and night schools
Handle me with care
I've been robbed and ridiculed
In Daycare Centers and night schools
Handle me with care
Been stuck in airports, terrorized
Sent to meetings, hypnotized
Overexposed, commercialized
Handle me with care
Sent to meetings, hypnotized
Overexposed, commercialized
Handle me with care
I'm so tired of being lonely
I still have some love to give
Won't you show me
That you really care?
I still have some love to give
Won't you show me
That you really care?
Everybody got somebody
To lean on
Put your body next to mine
And dream on
To lean on
Put your body next to mine
And dream on
I've been uptight and made a mess
But I'll clean it up myself, I guess
Oh, the sweet smell of success
Handle me with care
But I'll clean it up myself, I guess
Oh, the sweet smell of success
Handle me with care
Behind That Locked Door (for SS)
Why are you still crying?
Your pain is now through
Please forget those teardrops
Let me take them from you
Your pain is now through
Please forget those teardrops
Let me take them from you
The love you are blessed with
This world's waiting for
So let out your heart, please, please
From behind that locked door
This world's waiting for
So let out your heart, please, please
From behind that locked door
It's time we start smiling
What else should we do?
With only this short time
I'm gonna be here with you
What else should we do?
With only this short time
I'm gonna be here with you
And the tales you have taught me
From the things that you saw
Makes me want out your heart, please, please
From behind that locked door
From the things that you saw
Makes me want out your heart, please, please
From behind that locked door
And if ever my love goes
If I'm rich or I'm poor
Please let out my heart, please, please
From behind that locked door
If I'm rich or I'm poor
Please let out my heart, please, please
From behind that locked door
The Art of Dying
Whoa!
Tonight I've been listening to "All Things Must Pass," George Harrison's first solo album post-Beatles, for the first time. After Disc 1, I was kind of bummed out after editing out 4 of the 9 songs before transferring to my iPod. (Wanted to be totally enthralled, wasn't. The 5 of 9 songs I kept: My Sweet Lord, Wah-Wah, What Is Life, If Not For You, Behind That Locked Door.)
So by Disc 2, I was kind of bored, kind of ready to be done with the "chore" of listening to the whole now-only-"supposedly" classic thing just to get the distillation. I was pleasantly surprised, though, to find that I liked every song that I was hearing on 2. Really liked "Beware of Darkness"; merely liked the rest, was grooving along... And then came "The Art of Dying"! I got goosebumps, both because of the music and the lyrics. This YouTube version doesn't do it justice (should be heard SUPER-LOUD, with headphones, IN YOUR HEAD) -- WOW!
...Nothing in this life that I've been trying
Can equal or surpass the art of dying...
Searching for the truth among the lying
And answered when you've learned
The art of dying...
But when you have it there'll be no need for it
There'll come a time
When most of us return here
Brought back by our desire to be
A perfect entity
Living through a million years of crying
Until you've realized the art of dying...
I guess this song at this moment in time for me is particularly meaningful because... I got nothin', baby! :) Not a single spiritual thing, no Love. I got plenty o' intellectual things to tide me over, see me through. But the lack of the spiritual, the lack of Love, is killin' me. (Only figuratively, but killin' me nonetheless.) There's no solution at all for my lack. George's karmic suggestion that I quit being disturbed by said lack is interesting -- unless I quit wanting, I'm going to be coming back to try the same thing over and over and over and over... I get it! :) I get it, but, as a young-soul Leo, albeit a 48-year-old one, I can't quite yet ACCEPT it. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light..." You know, THAT sort of thing. Accepting "nothingness" reminds me of accepting a subservient secretarial job and pretending with all my might to be happy with it, to be grateful for the chance to smile constantly at blowhards and clean up the kitchen. I WON'T. I WON'T. Guess, according to George, I still have a "million years of crying" (minus 80-some-odd) left to do. So be it, I suppose. I fought my asshole Father over saying "May I be excused" from the table until he fell asleep, and I'll fucking fight the Universe -- one million years if necessary -- over this.
--Woops! Just realized that this was kinda the point of the song, and about what I'd already realized for myself: "Don't waste energy on responding to assholes, be it your father or the universe. Instead, flooowwwwwwww." Yeah, OK, RIGHT! (Now does everyone see the dilemma? You see fucked-up shit and you want to rage against it -- But if you say anything, you're a "troublemaker" and, nowadays in an adroit creepy psychological turnaround, a "bully." There's no fucking way out of this.)
Tonight I've been listening to "All Things Must Pass," George Harrison's first solo album post-Beatles, for the first time. After Disc 1, I was kind of bummed out after editing out 4 of the 9 songs before transferring to my iPod. (Wanted to be totally enthralled, wasn't. The 5 of 9 songs I kept: My Sweet Lord, Wah-Wah, What Is Life, If Not For You, Behind That Locked Door.)
So by Disc 2, I was kind of bored, kind of ready to be done with the "chore" of listening to the whole now-only-"supposedly" classic thing just to get the distillation. I was pleasantly surprised, though, to find that I liked every song that I was hearing on 2. Really liked "Beware of Darkness"; merely liked the rest, was grooving along... And then came "The Art of Dying"! I got goosebumps, both because of the music and the lyrics. This YouTube version doesn't do it justice (should be heard SUPER-LOUD, with headphones, IN YOUR HEAD) -- WOW!
...Nothing in this life that I've been trying
Can equal or surpass the art of dying...
Searching for the truth among the lying
And answered when you've learned
The art of dying...
But when you have it there'll be no need for it
There'll come a time
When most of us return here
Brought back by our desire to be
A perfect entity
Living through a million years of crying
Until you've realized the art of dying...
I guess this song at this moment in time for me is particularly meaningful because... I got nothin', baby! :) Not a single spiritual thing, no Love. I got plenty o' intellectual things to tide me over, see me through. But the lack of the spiritual, the lack of Love, is killin' me. (Only figuratively, but killin' me nonetheless.) There's no solution at all for my lack. George's karmic suggestion that I quit being disturbed by said lack is interesting -- unless I quit wanting, I'm going to be coming back to try the same thing over and over and over and over... I get it! :) I get it, but, as a young-soul Leo, albeit a 48-year-old one, I can't quite yet ACCEPT it. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light..." You know, THAT sort of thing. Accepting "nothingness" reminds me of accepting a subservient secretarial job and pretending with all my might to be happy with it, to be grateful for the chance to smile constantly at blowhards and clean up the kitchen. I WON'T. I WON'T. Guess, according to George, I still have a "million years of crying" (minus 80-some-odd) left to do. So be it, I suppose. I fought my asshole Father over saying "May I be excused" from the table until he fell asleep, and I'll fucking fight the Universe -- one million years if necessary -- over this.
--Woops! Just realized that this was kinda the point of the song, and about what I'd already realized for myself: "Don't waste energy on responding to assholes, be it your father or the universe. Instead, flooowwwwwwww." Yeah, OK, RIGHT! (Now does everyone see the dilemma? You see fucked-up shit and you want to rage against it -- But if you say anything, you're a "troublemaker" and, nowadays in an adroit creepy psychological turnaround, a "bully." There's no fucking way out of this.)
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Photo taken December 30, 2013.
She gave birth to her second child, also a son, on December 31.
On January 4, 2014, she had an aneurysm and went into a coma.
This morning, January 21, she died.
How, within 3 weeks, do you go from a Christmas picture full of happiness and hopes for your newborn to being dead?
The Greatest
A friend of mine sent me the Cat Power video (below) months ago. Just a couple of days ago I came across this Joan Crawford picture (on a tour to promote Pepsi in the '60s) to accompany it.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
I've got freelance work to do tomorrow...
...but I really don't feel like going to bed now (6:36) so I can get up to do any work. Can't quit listening to Beatles '62............................................
Like Dreamers Do
Written by Paul McCartney in 1957 (when he was 16); recorded during the Beatles' unsuccessful Decca audition in 1962.
Words to live by
Graduated high school from Azle, Texas, in 1983. Just learned on Wikipedia tonight that the town's motto is:
"Come to our side if you like shin deep lake water!"
Where I come from, folks.
As an addendum, just came across this Facebook entry ("Am I awesome or what") from a boy I had a crush on in high school: "I was dumping the guts from the fish and saw the pig and luckily had my gun with me. I shot her wearing birkenstocks and gym shorts."
He and several other boys in Azle all lived in the "Timberlake Estates," and their daddies were all primarily bankers, etc. At the time, I thought these were the "rich" and "sophisticated" kids. Now, on Facebook, at least 3 of them have nothing more to brag about than what animal they just killed.
POST-SCRIPT: I just responded on Facebook to this guy pictured here saying pretty much exactly what I said above: "I used to think you 'Timberlake Estates' guys were so rich and hot and now you're just proud of killing animals" ---- and he wrote me back, first: "Fuck you. My daddy used to shit in an outhouse... And my great-grandmother got stabbed in WWI" ... or something like that. I LOVED that! 'Cause MY back-story claim to fame is that... "My daddy used to shit in an outhouse, too! And my German mother's house was bombed by the Brits in WWII!" So I threw all that in. And then he wrote back: "Your dad would have seen these pictures and told you to hook up with the dude." Me: "Huh? My dad wondered why I didn't marry a lawyer. He would NOT encourage your big ol' rural self." And then it got down to him saying how he killed all of his stuff JUST TO EAT IT, and had his own garden, to boot; and I said I admired that, as opposed to those of us, including me, who got all of our meat from a grocer's.
And then, at the end of the evening, this video from him posted to me specifically on Facebook:
Which is a pretty sexy thing to do.
Except the pictures of my old high-school crush at 275 pounds with the fish and the dead pig aren't sexy at all. I honestly DO admire the fact that he's self-sufficient and kills only to eat... and I used to think he was very laid-back and dreamy back in high school... (Aside from my making eyes at him constantly, though, our only conversation occurred once in the lunch line, about the just-released KISS solo albums: ME: "I love Gene's album!" HIM: "None of the solo albums ROCK!")
Friday, January 17, 2014
And when I touch you I feel happy inside
The Stones are the far sexier band, and even the better rockers. But there's something about watching the Beatles --- they are completely into it. They're not posing, not acting cool. They're -- Paul especially, and George -- just as spastically excited as the fans are.
I think when the Stones came on US TV a couple of months later, they taught viewers how to sit back and OBSERVE: Watch the cool guys pose, etc. Whereas the Beatles gave middle-class kids permission to be loose and crazy, because the band was just as unpretentious as the kid viewers were.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
My Bonnie
Been working as a temp for the past 3 months at a very high-powered exec's office (you'd know his name if you heard it), disliking the whole time my immediate secretary-boss but liking very much the idea of a potential $3800 a month and the powerful environment. Just got the shaft last week, but was told that maybe they'd want to keep me around to do "Girl-Friday-type" stuff because they were short-handed. Today: nah, no Gal Friday even.
Last week when I first found out I wasn't up for the $3800 a month, I went home and cried all weekend: "I'm a loser; nobody wants me." Today, a week later: I feel like a huge weight is off of me. I HATED the stuff I was doing. Well, no, it was TOLERABLE. What I hated was my secretary-boss: Here's an example: Yesterday, she handed me a letter with extraneous material, part of which was to be sent as an enclosure, part NOT to be sent. I specifically said to her, "OK -- let me mark what's NOT to be sent." She handed me the material NOT to be sent and I specifically marked it and put it aside. I went and did my scanning, etc., and e-mailed her a copy. Minutes later, she says to me: "I told you NOT to include _____. Why is that in the packet?" This kind of thing happened at least 10 times in the 3 months I've been there. At first, I thought I was just stupid and/or crazy! After a couple of weeks, though, I realized that SHE was the stupid, utterly irrational one.
So, nah, I'm not terribly depressed over losing out on $3800 a month from this particular source. It WOULD have meant the end to my wayward life since 2007, which I was kind of looking forward to... But... I honestly don't know how long I could have put up with this boss's bullshit before I snapped.
In the meantime, I've been reading Part One of Mark Lewisohn's new in-depth Beatles biography, up 'til '62. At first I took heart at the youthful Paul McCartney's giving up his day job at John Lennon's demand, but then, wait a second... these kids in the "story" were 20; I'm 48... Fuck! ;p (Still, I keep wondering, irrationally, while reading: What's going to happen? Another thing I kept reading was how random, various people in the early years kept saying how the Beatles made them "happy"-- I read the same on some of the Amazon reviews, too. EXACTLY. I was a miserable 15-year-old trapped in 1980 in a small town, then sans-Internet, isolated in the summer from my school friends, from anyone... And then came a Beatles Revival over one of the local Fort Worth rock stations, and a couple of Beatles movies shown during the afternoon on local TV... By my birthday in August 1980 I had Nicholas Schaffner's "Beatles Forever" book, and I was in love. During the fall, I'd decided on my favorite Beatle: John, based on his interviews and solo albums and lyrics to songs like "Working Class Hero" and "God." )
Point? Reading the Beatles bio kinda hearkened me back to when I was first discovering myself as a young teen. And reminded me that nothing about this job had anything to do with myself. I walked out of the office today feeling lighthearted and free. (At 48. I supposed that's kind of rare.)
Last week when I first found out I wasn't up for the $3800 a month, I went home and cried all weekend: "I'm a loser; nobody wants me." Today, a week later: I feel like a huge weight is off of me. I HATED the stuff I was doing. Well, no, it was TOLERABLE. What I hated was my secretary-boss: Here's an example: Yesterday, she handed me a letter with extraneous material, part of which was to be sent as an enclosure, part NOT to be sent. I specifically said to her, "OK -- let me mark what's NOT to be sent." She handed me the material NOT to be sent and I specifically marked it and put it aside. I went and did my scanning, etc., and e-mailed her a copy. Minutes later, she says to me: "I told you NOT to include _____. Why is that in the packet?" This kind of thing happened at least 10 times in the 3 months I've been there. At first, I thought I was just stupid and/or crazy! After a couple of weeks, though, I realized that SHE was the stupid, utterly irrational one.
So, nah, I'm not terribly depressed over losing out on $3800 a month from this particular source. It WOULD have meant the end to my wayward life since 2007, which I was kind of looking forward to... But... I honestly don't know how long I could have put up with this boss's bullshit before I snapped.
In the meantime, I've been reading Part One of Mark Lewisohn's new in-depth Beatles biography, up 'til '62. At first I took heart at the youthful Paul McCartney's giving up his day job at John Lennon's demand, but then, wait a second... these kids in the "story" were 20; I'm 48... Fuck! ;p (Still, I keep wondering, irrationally, while reading: What's going to happen? Another thing I kept reading was how random, various people in the early years kept saying how the Beatles made them "happy"-- I read the same on some of the Amazon reviews, too. EXACTLY. I was a miserable 15-year-old trapped in 1980 in a small town, then sans-Internet, isolated in the summer from my school friends, from anyone... And then came a Beatles Revival over one of the local Fort Worth rock stations, and a couple of Beatles movies shown during the afternoon on local TV... By my birthday in August 1980 I had Nicholas Schaffner's "Beatles Forever" book, and I was in love. During the fall, I'd decided on my favorite Beatle: John, based on his interviews and solo albums and lyrics to songs like "Working Class Hero" and "God." )
Point? Reading the Beatles bio kinda hearkened me back to when I was first discovering myself as a young teen. And reminded me that nothing about this job had anything to do with myself. I walked out of the office today feeling lighthearted and free. (At 48. I supposed that's kind of rare.)
Monday, January 13, 2014
In Praise of Shower Curtains and Fluffy Rugs
I haven't had a shower curtain that I liked/loved, or a fluffy rug and toilet-seat cover to go along with it, since early 2007, when I dumped (so to speak) all of my possessions to move to New York. SEVEN YEARS, man, without nice bathroom accoutrements!
I'm back, baby! ;p In the tiniest of bathrooms, but... the rug is fluffy and not a "mat" or nonexistent. And the curtain is now something I paid a lot for and meaningful to me and not a liner for $7 from a supermarket or Dollar Store. And there's a matching trashcan/tumbler/scrubber.
I'm back, baby! ;p In the tiniest of bathrooms, but... the rug is fluffy and not a "mat" or nonexistent. And the curtain is now something I paid a lot for and meaningful to me and not a liner for $7 from a supermarket or Dollar Store. And there's a matching trashcan/tumbler/scrubber.
Life's too short to have shitty (so to speak) bathroom stuff. At the rate I've been going lately -- new only every 7 years -- I'll, at 48, only have time for 3 more rounds before I die (assuming I'll die in my mid-70s): at 55, 62, and 69. Wow. That's kind of freaky to think about: Only 3 more sets of towels and shower curtains in my life...
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Pope Francis from his Apostolic Exhortation (Nov 2013)
Am I just old at 48 and thus wanting to believe? Is society making a turn? I can't quite tell. I find the below from Pope Francis extremely profound. As a baptized Lutheran, and as someone who deeply respects Martin Luther's bravery and honesty in his original Protestantism (Protest!), I'm not exactly gonna convert or anything, but still... the below is thrilling to me. What Pope Francis says below means something. As an intellectual premise --- and especially as an intellectual premise coming from the highest authority of the church with more adherents than any other in the world.
Chapter 2, I:
...Human beings are themselves considered consumer goods to be used and then discarded. We have created a “throw away” culture which is now spreading. It is no longer simply about exploitation and oppression, but something new. Exclusion ultimately has to do with what it means to be a part of the society in which we live; those excluded are no longer society’s underside or its fringes or its disenfranchised – they are no longer even a part of it. The excluded are not the “exploited” but the outcast, the “leftovers”.
54. In this context, some people continue to defend trickle-down theories which assume that economic growth, encouraged by a free market, will inevitably succeed in bringing about greater justice and inclusiveness in the world. This opinion, which has never been confirmed by the facts, expresses a crude and naïve trust in the goodness of those wielding economic power and in the sacralized workings of the prevailing economic system. Meanwhile, the excluded are still waiting. To sustain a lifestyle which excludes others, or to sustain enthusiasm for that selfish ideal, a globalization of indifference has developed. Almost without being aware of it, we end up being incapable of feeling compassion at the outcry of the poor, weeping for other people’s pain, and feeling a need to help them, as though all this were someone else’s responsibility and not our own. The culture of prosperity deadens us; we are thrilled if the market offers us something new to purchase. In the meantime all those lives stunted for lack of opportunity seem a mere spectacle; they fail to move us.
No to the new idolatry of money
55. One cause of this situation is found in our relationship with money, since we calmly accept its dominion over ourselves and our societies. The current financial crisis can make us overlook the fact that it originated in a profound human crisis: the denial of the primacy of the human person! We have created new idols. The worship of the ancient golden calf (cf. Ex 32:1-35) has returned in a new and ruthless guise in the idolatry of money and the dictatorship of an impersonal economy lacking a truly human purpose. The worldwide crisis affecting finance and the economy lays bare their imbalances and, above all, their lack of real concern for human beings; man is reduced to one of his needs alone: consumption.
Chapter 2, I:
...Human beings are themselves considered consumer goods to be used and then discarded. We have created a “throw away” culture which is now spreading. It is no longer simply about exploitation and oppression, but something new. Exclusion ultimately has to do with what it means to be a part of the society in which we live; those excluded are no longer society’s underside or its fringes or its disenfranchised – they are no longer even a part of it. The excluded are not the “exploited” but the outcast, the “leftovers”.
54. In this context, some people continue to defend trickle-down theories which assume that economic growth, encouraged by a free market, will inevitably succeed in bringing about greater justice and inclusiveness in the world. This opinion, which has never been confirmed by the facts, expresses a crude and naïve trust in the goodness of those wielding economic power and in the sacralized workings of the prevailing economic system. Meanwhile, the excluded are still waiting. To sustain a lifestyle which excludes others, or to sustain enthusiasm for that selfish ideal, a globalization of indifference has developed. Almost without being aware of it, we end up being incapable of feeling compassion at the outcry of the poor, weeping for other people’s pain, and feeling a need to help them, as though all this were someone else’s responsibility and not our own. The culture of prosperity deadens us; we are thrilled if the market offers us something new to purchase. In the meantime all those lives stunted for lack of opportunity seem a mere spectacle; they fail to move us.
No to the new idolatry of money
55. One cause of this situation is found in our relationship with money, since we calmly accept its dominion over ourselves and our societies. The current financial crisis can make us overlook the fact that it originated in a profound human crisis: the denial of the primacy of the human person! We have created new idols. The worship of the ancient golden calf (cf. Ex 32:1-35) has returned in a new and ruthless guise in the idolatry of money and the dictatorship of an impersonal economy lacking a truly human purpose. The worldwide crisis affecting finance and the economy lays bare their imbalances and, above all, their lack of real concern for human beings; man is reduced to one of his needs alone: consumption.
Friday, January 10, 2014
Facebook Deathwatch, Part 2
For the past few days, I've been reading an acquaintance's posts about his wife's aneurysm after the birth of their second child. She's now in a coma, not known whether she'll live or not.
Sorry: The post-er isn't an "acquaintance," he's the best friend of my brother, and I've known him since he was a kid in high school. When the boys were 17 and Seniors, they made a trip to Austin to visit "the cool older sister" (me at 23). This boy was mightily impressed with my garage apartment, and the fact that I knew "punks" to hang out with and bands for them to see. A few years later, this same "boy" (now a man, emotionally) hung out with me in a bar that my brother was working at; sensing my utter isolation, he invited me back to his apartment with his visiting mother to hang out and watch movies -- we all watched, and enjoyed, the very-appropriate-for-that-moment "Marty" with Ernest Borgnine! :)
In subsequent years, he eventually moved to LA and got a television job there. And now he's posting on Facebook about his wife being in a coma. Along with pictures of him painting her comatose fingernails. (He's not painting her nails for the public to be grotesque, but rather hoping that she'll get mad enough at him for messing the job up to wake up.)
Reminds me of my high-school acquaintance Patsy's public Death on Facebook a couple of years ago, in which she started posting one evening upon the taking of a potent prescription drug, then took more and more of the pills, all the while becoming less and less coherent in her posts. The next day, we on Facebook were informed by her daughter that she'd overdosed and died.
I'm pruriently fascinated by this stuff when it shows up. But I don't need to see it. It's private and personal. I'll LOOK at it, sure. But WHY is it there for ME, an acquaintance, to look at?
A person's suicide? Is Facebook really the place to "fade out"?
A person's coma? I don't want to see a Facebook photo of the comatose person's nails being done (in all good faith) by her grief-stricken husband. (Complete with a subsequent Facebook comment by a well-meaning, but extremely idiotic, friend: "When I saw her yesterday, her nails looked really great. Good job!")
"Decorum," "decency." Something. There's something missing here. STOP IT. I'll read about this kind of thing day in and day out for my own prurient interest, just because it's there and more fascinating than the day's football scores. But it's not for me to read. It's the most intimate of things -- part of who YOU are -- can't you see that? STOP IT.
Sorry: The post-er isn't an "acquaintance," he's the best friend of my brother, and I've known him since he was a kid in high school. When the boys were 17 and Seniors, they made a trip to Austin to visit "the cool older sister" (me at 23). This boy was mightily impressed with my garage apartment, and the fact that I knew "punks" to hang out with and bands for them to see. A few years later, this same "boy" (now a man, emotionally) hung out with me in a bar that my brother was working at; sensing my utter isolation, he invited me back to his apartment with his visiting mother to hang out and watch movies -- we all watched, and enjoyed, the very-appropriate-for-that-moment "Marty" with Ernest Borgnine! :)
Reminds me of my high-school acquaintance Patsy's public Death on Facebook a couple of years ago, in which she started posting one evening upon the taking of a potent prescription drug, then took more and more of the pills, all the while becoming less and less coherent in her posts. The next day, we on Facebook were informed by her daughter that she'd overdosed and died.
I'm pruriently fascinated by this stuff when it shows up. But I don't need to see it. It's private and personal. I'll LOOK at it, sure. But WHY is it there for ME, an acquaintance, to look at?
A person's suicide? Is Facebook really the place to "fade out"?
A person's coma? I don't want to see a Facebook photo of the comatose person's nails being done (in all good faith) by her grief-stricken husband. (Complete with a subsequent Facebook comment by a well-meaning, but extremely idiotic, friend: "When I saw her yesterday, her nails looked really great. Good job!")
"Decorum," "decency." Something. There's something missing here. STOP IT. I'll read about this kind of thing day in and day out for my own prurient interest, just because it's there and more fascinating than the day's football scores. But it's not for me to read. It's the most intimate of things -- part of who YOU are -- can't you see that? STOP IT.
Wednesday, January 08, 2014
Schtick und Helter Skelter
Is there an alternative?
I work in an office with an accomplished man who officially retired back in August. He's constantly worked more than full-time in the months since then. All the while making wry comments every chance he gets about how hard he's working despite the fact that he's "retired." When I first started at this office several months ago, I was told, "Now, __________ is officially retired, but, boy, he still can't seem to get a break!"
I get it. I understand. When he really retires, he's nothing; as long as he hangs around, though, making his presence known more than 40 hours a week as "someone who's retired but is obviously so needed that he can't really cut back on his hours," he's still a somebody.
I like the man. (Weirdly, he has the same Scorpio birthday of someone I still love.) But this shilly-shallying is driving me nuts. Ideally, I'd like one of two things:
(1) Announce you don't want to retire after all and officially come back to work full-time.
(2) Be retired and come into work part-time. If you happen to work more than 20 hours a week, just work your extra and shut up about it.
I just can't stand this "I'm retired but look how much I work" SCHTICK constantly.
On a personal level: My own tired SCHTICK is: "I moved to New York City for 3 years. I've seen things. And that's why I don't have a car or a job-with-benefits now." I'm bored with that, as well. Though, come to think of it, I'm also bored with: Why am I ashamed of not having a car or a job-with-benefits? Why can't I pleasantly live sans car and just LIVE with whatever job? (While I'm happy in a one-room apartment with my books, paying all bills on time, I'm also well aware that I'm smart and have a Master's degree and that I should be making at least $75,000 a year. If only I were willing to put up with multiple other people's bullshit.)
I remain uncomfortably in-between worlds. I feel that I've come to the crossroads where I should choose one, but since I hate both options (hipsters are as phony as office people), it's hard. I keep telling myself, while currently being a highly-paid secretary: "Just get the money and go home." But what I'm doing during the day, and how some people speak to me, AFFECT me. I don't just come home and automatically switch over into being an independent person --- there's still very much the residue of anger of how I was condescended to during the day.
I work in an office with an accomplished man who officially retired back in August. He's constantly worked more than full-time in the months since then. All the while making wry comments every chance he gets about how hard he's working despite the fact that he's "retired." When I first started at this office several months ago, I was told, "Now, __________ is officially retired, but, boy, he still can't seem to get a break!"
I get it. I understand. When he really retires, he's nothing; as long as he hangs around, though, making his presence known more than 40 hours a week as "someone who's retired but is obviously so needed that he can't really cut back on his hours," he's still a somebody.
I like the man. (Weirdly, he has the same Scorpio birthday of someone I still love.) But this shilly-shallying is driving me nuts. Ideally, I'd like one of two things:
(1) Announce you don't want to retire after all and officially come back to work full-time.
(2) Be retired and come into work part-time. If you happen to work more than 20 hours a week, just work your extra and shut up about it.
I just can't stand this "I'm retired but look how much I work" SCHTICK constantly.
On a personal level: My own tired SCHTICK is: "I moved to New York City for 3 years. I've seen things. And that's why I don't have a car or a job-with-benefits now." I'm bored with that, as well. Though, come to think of it, I'm also bored with: Why am I ashamed of not having a car or a job-with-benefits? Why can't I pleasantly live sans car and just LIVE with whatever job? (While I'm happy in a one-room apartment with my books, paying all bills on time, I'm also well aware that I'm smart and have a Master's degree and that I should be making at least $75,000 a year. If only I were willing to put up with multiple other people's bullshit.)
I remain uncomfortably in-between worlds. I feel that I've come to the crossroads where I should choose one, but since I hate both options (hipsters are as phony as office people), it's hard. I keep telling myself, while currently being a highly-paid secretary: "Just get the money and go home." But what I'm doing during the day, and how some people speak to me, AFFECT me. I don't just come home and automatically switch over into being an independent person --- there's still very much the residue of anger of how I was condescended to during the day.
Monday, January 06, 2014
Sunday, January 05, 2014
Paul's Memory song for John
And John has his girlfriend there and is smacking his gum. George and Ringo looking like they're on heroin. I feel bad for Paul.
"When I wake up, I'll be in Shanghai"
Lindsay Lohan via Twitter
(Three women's faces I can't get enough of: Joan Crawford's, Anne Sexton's, and Lindsay Lohan's.)
Some Revolver Songs
This segue in "Revolver" from "She Said She Said" to "Good Day Sunshine" has to be one of the most incongruous in music, and of the most realistic in relationships:
Followed directly by one of my favorite Beatles songs ever:
And then by one of Paul's prettiest/saddest/most emotionally honest songs:
I like this album a lot. If only I could delete the 3 George songs and Ringo's showcase "Yellow Submarine," which just seem obligatory rather than innate.
The last two songs, Paul's "Got to Get You Into My Life" and John's "Tomorrow Never Knows" are, per the earlier dichotomy of "She Said"/"Good Day Sunshine," what is most fascinating and poetic about the album: Two young men's differing attempts at negotiating their intimate worlds. (The contrast but equal depth unique to the forced collaborative format of popular music -- Baudelaire, for instance, had no one to play off of. For which I'm sure he was grateful, and why most band members go solo.)
Followed directly by one of my favorite Beatles songs ever:
And then by one of Paul's prettiest/saddest/most emotionally honest songs:
I like this album a lot. If only I could delete the 3 George songs and Ringo's showcase "Yellow Submarine," which just seem obligatory rather than innate.
The last two songs, Paul's "Got to Get You Into My Life" and John's "Tomorrow Never Knows" are, per the earlier dichotomy of "She Said"/"Good Day Sunshine," what is most fascinating and poetic about the album: Two young men's differing attempts at negotiating their intimate worlds. (The contrast but equal depth unique to the forced collaborative format of popular music -- Baudelaire, for instance, had no one to play off of. For which I'm sure he was grateful, and why most band members go solo.)
In Praise of Judging
I think being judgmental is underrated and unfairly maligned nowadays. I'm not talking about judging people on the color of their skin or on their gender or on their sexual orientation or what-have-you (I'm a bi white female Democrat, BTW). These "criteria" were, unfortunately, how many WERE judged until fairly recently -- thus the social upheaval beginning in the late 60s, a necessary response to the insane rigidity of American society up 'til that point.
In recent years, however, the pendulum has swung way too far in the other direction: You're now called a racist if you want to tighten criteria for being eligible for welfare/unemployment. You're anti-woman if you agree that abortions shouldn't be allowed after, say, 3 or 4 months. You're anti-gay if you criticize sleeping around for both straights and gays. You're anti-education if you're pro merit pay for teachers and testing for students. You're anti-environment if you question the concept of global warming, wondering if natural heating/cooling cycles (as geologically recorded) are not also in play. Taken scarily further: You're a bully if you intellectually criticize someone's work. (On a minor personal note RE the latter: Just days ago I was called, in an e-mail, a "cunt," a "bitch," and a "snobbish hag" for stating online that it was ridiculous for someone who had admittedly never read a single Joan Crawford biography to present themselves online as an expert on Joan Crawford.)
I think that "intellectual rigor" has in recent years been somehow unfortunately recategorized under the too-wide, negative umbrella of "judgmentalism." And I think general standards have, as a result, deteriorated mightily.
Tonight's "Let Me Be the Judge" entry is from a random "Mommy Blog" that I just came across (I was fascinated by how very different this woman's New Year's entry was from mine):
In recent years, however, the pendulum has swung way too far in the other direction: You're now called a racist if you want to tighten criteria for being eligible for welfare/unemployment. You're anti-woman if you agree that abortions shouldn't be allowed after, say, 3 or 4 months. You're anti-gay if you criticize sleeping around for both straights and gays. You're anti-education if you're pro merit pay for teachers and testing for students. You're anti-environment if you question the concept of global warming, wondering if natural heating/cooling cycles (as geologically recorded) are not also in play. Taken scarily further: You're a bully if you intellectually criticize someone's work. (On a minor personal note RE the latter: Just days ago I was called, in an e-mail, a "cunt," a "bitch," and a "snobbish hag" for stating online that it was ridiculous for someone who had admittedly never read a single Joan Crawford biography to present themselves online as an expert on Joan Crawford.)
I think that "intellectual rigor" has in recent years been somehow unfortunately recategorized under the too-wide, negative umbrella of "judgmentalism." And I think general standards have, as a result, deteriorated mightily.
Tonight's "Let Me Be the Judge" entry is from a random "Mommy Blog" that I just came across (I was fascinated by how very different this woman's New Year's entry was from mine):
Random New Year’s thoughts;
No one is perfect and this life is our opportunity to live imperfectly.
It’s the moments that count and make up a joyous life so live them to the fullest.
Life doesn’t turn out how you plan, it turns out better.
If you go see one movie in January make it The Secret Life of Walter Mitty-this is one you’ll want to see on the big screen, plus it’s very uplifting
“Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.” -The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
(1) "No one is perfect and this life is our opportunity to live imperfectly." Well, sure, obviously, "no one is perfect." And, sure, obviously, "this life is our opportunity to live imperfectly." But what's the point in stroking people for being mediocre? It's an unfortunate state to be lived with since it can't be helped, not something to be lauded with a slogan.
(2) "It's the moments that count and make up a joyous life so live them to the fullest." The "joyous life" concept is a weird modern fallacy. "Joy" is not the norm and never has been the norm throughout history. There are moments of joy, sure, but as a whole, as a constant? No way.
(3) "Life doesn't turn out how you plan, it turns out better." ARE YOU KIDDING? I don't know a single person who thinks that their life turned out better than their initial dreams.
(4) The "Walter Mitty" movie stuff: Haven't seen the 2013 movie, but from every review I've read, it has very little to do, psychologically, with the original Thurber story in the New Yorker, which has a mild-mannered man fantasizing about escaping from his overbearing wife.
Just judgin'.
Saturday, January 04, 2014
A New Year
I've spent way too much time over the past years on the Internet, and being offline New Year's Eve reading and thinking felt good and mentally/spiritually nourishing. Nothing wrong with the Internet; it can also be stimulating. It's just that the stimulation is more shallow, like eating a ton of candy or watching a Bravo "Housewives" marathon -- it feels good at the time, but afterwards you feel kind of nauseous.
I've always overdone the Internet; instead of, say, 6 hours a weeknight working on my Joan website and then trawling around on social media sites trying to find ANYTHING to stimulate me mentally/ameliorate feelings of isolation, I need to work on moderation --- I think 3 hours a night would be much more reasonable. Maybe off the Internet by 10pm, then the next couple of hours in bed with a good book? Much healthier, much less drinking/smoking, much better feelings (both physical and mental) the next day.
p.s. Turned low in the background during my New Year's Eve reading, and also on New Year's Day: A 24-hour "Twilight Zone" marathon running on the SyFy channel. When the thousands of years of Egyptian civilization got too much, I could always take a breather with the TV and still THINK a bit about the nature of existence! Plus it was fun to see so many familiar faces of TV's heyday -- Shatner, Savalas, for instance -- in early roles, as well as getting to judge the episodes from a current perspective: Did they still stand up to what I remembered from first seeing them as re-runs in the 70s? For the most part, yes. The Talking Tina doll (with its subtext of an abusive stepfather), the evil child (Billy Mumy) forcing his family/neighbors to tell him how loved he was for fear of being put "under the cornfield," the woman whose mother's murderer comes back to visit her 20 years later after a visitation by her 8-year-old self, the townspeople turning on each other with accusations of being an alien, the townspeople fighting to get into a neighbor's bomb shelter, Shatner's already emotionally disturbed man on the airplane seeing a creature on the wing and not being believed, Inger Stevens' lost motorist seemingly terrorized by a hitchhiker who keeps turning up (only to find out she is already dead)... Oh, and the funny "To Serve Mankind" episode: "It's a COOKBOOK!" I was constantly being "fed" by this excellent, psychologically astute television! (The only episode I was extremely disappointed by was one written by Earl Hamner, Jr., of "Waltons" fame, about kids of divorcing parents who kept diving through their swimming pool to find a much more pleasant world -- heavy-handedly mean parents, false writing for the usually subtle show.)
Post-Egypt/Twilight Zone: I went to the dentist on the 2nd for the first time in over 7 years! Sans insurance, I'd asked my mom for a cleaning for Christmas. Surprised to learn that what I remember costing $50 seven years ago has now ballooned to $169! And pleasantly surprised to learn that no, my teeth weren't rotting away! The "chips" falling out of my mouth 6 or so months ago (that I, freaking out, taped to a post-it note to show someone when I got the chance) weren't from TEETH, just chunks of tartar! And today, the 4th, a fresh haircut for the New Year...
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