My latest books!

Thank god for Amazon, where you can buy used books for cheap. (Even back when I HAD a car and could easily drive to used book stores, the local "Half-Price Books" had already started charging half of the CURRENT price -- even if the book was a dilapidated version from 20 years earlier-- not half of the ACTUAL COVER price, as was their initial policy. They suck. Amazon does not suck. I think the entire below batch cost me under $80, despite the Hughes and the Universe books alone being over $100 had I bought them new.)  

 

Life after Death

by Ted Hughes
from "Birthday Letters," 1998

What can I tell you that you do not know
Of the life after death?

Your son's eyes, which had unsettled us
With your Slavic Asiatic
Epicanthic fold, but would become
So perfectly your eyes,
Became wet jewels,
The hardest substance of the purest pain
As I fed him in his high white chair.
Great hands of grief were wringing and wringing
His wet cloth of face. They wrung out his tears.
But his mouth betrayed you -- it accepted
The spoon in my disembodied hand
That reached through from the life that had survived you.

Day by day his sister grew
Paler with the wound
She could not see or touch or feel, as I dressed it
Each day with her blue Breton jacket.

By night I lay awake in my body
The Hanged Man
My neck-nerve uprooted and the tendon
Which fastened the base of my skull
To my left shoulder
Torn from its shoulder-root and cramped into knots --
I fancied the pain could be explained
If I were hanging in the spirit
From a hook under my neck-muscle.

Dropped from life
We three made a deep silence
In our separate cots.

We were comforted by wolves.
Under that February moon and the moon of March
The Zoo had come close.
And in spite of the city
Wolves consoled us. Two or three times each night
For minutes on end
They sang. They had found where we lay.
And the dingos, and the Brazilian-maned wolves --
All lifted their voices together
With the grey Northern pack.

The wolves lifted us in their long voices.
They wound us and enmeshed us
In their wailing for you, their mourning for us,
They wove us into their voices. We lay in your death,
In the fallen snow, under falling snow.

As my body sank into the folk-tale
Where the wolves are singing in the forest
For two babes, who have turned, in their sleep,
Into orphans
Beside the corpse of their mother.

Jungry Like the Wolf

I'm decidedly not New Age-y (having no problem at all with the "archaic" concepts of  "competition" and "merit") and have never given much thought to "animal totems" or anything similar (except maybe when contemplating some of Ted Hughes's poetry and HIS exploration of animal totems). But early this morning I had a discomfiting dream in which a, specifically, white wolf played a part at the end.

I was in a big building where various groupings of people had supposedly separate living quarters, except there weren't any doors, and people kept milling about in other people's areas. I shared an area with 3 or so other girls and was trying to get some clothes together so I could go take a shower and get ready to go to a class (taught by, yes, Sandra). I REALLY felt the need for some privacy, but people from other rooms kept coming into mine/ours. And, worse, they kept coming up to me and telling me that they didn't like me! Which was merely annoying at first, but then I started to get panicky about it since the vibes were getting worse and worse. And I could not get any personal SPACE. I gave up on trying to find any clothes and on arguing with people, and wandered off to another, less populated part of the same building, where someone pointed out to me what was once Shakespeare's desk.  This area had hardwood floors and antique furnishings and far fewer (and older) people, but the few there were STILL giving me dirty looks! I kept thinking that I should find an area to live in THIS part of the building (since we all were free to sleep wherever we wanted), but ended up back in the crowded area, again trying to find some clothes to wear to the class...which by now I realized I had missed.

Completely stressed out, I now wandered outside, where there was maybe a foot of snow on the ground. Some people were milling around. Others were wearing dark clothes and sitting in a widely spaced circle. I remember thinking, "Well, it's slightly less hostile here; maybe I can just stand here and watch and not get hassled." Just then a small woman ran in my direction. I wasn't part of the circle that she was initially running around, but as she neared me, she veered from the circle and ran up to me and thrust a torch into my hand, basically saying, "You're it!" The woman was... Snooki. Yes, Snooki from "Jersey Shore." And the people in the circle were, apparently, playing some kind of "Duck, Duck, Goose" game. I absolutely did NOT want to be "it" -- I'd already felt singled out for unpleasant attention inside the building and didn't want any more attention at all -- but, for just a sec, I started to participate in the game by slowly jogging around the circle with the torch, wondering how I was going to get rid of it and just be a spectator again. I then came across Snooki again and, to me "jokingly," I put the lit end of the torch to her hair, which, of course, caught fire. I immediately helped her put the flames out, but I realized, "Geez. Now people are going to be mad at me for THIS, too."

Just then I spotted a white wolf making its laconic, but purposeful, way through the snow toward our group of people.  There was no great sense of panic amongst the humans, but we all did, nonetheless, eye the wolf and start to make our ways away from it. I pretended not to see it while walking in the opposite direction, but of course soon realized that it was following ME. I tossed the torch that I was holding straight at it, hoping either that it would think it was a treat or that it would simply be distracted by it. But the torch just fell in the snow as I walked on, knowing the wolf was still behind me. I went back into the earlier building, aware that I was being stalked, but still not overtly panicking or running. I walked upstairs and found a row of closets that I thought I could be safe in once I closed a door. But there were several dogs, including small Dobermans, in each closet. They weren't aggressive toward me, but I realized that I couldn't close any of the closet doors behind me with all of these dogs scrambling about. I was inside one closet, trying to figure out how to shut the door behind me for safety, when I turned and saw the white wolf standing right there at the doorway looking at me.

And then my alarm went off in real life. I woke up in an extreme state of alertness and attention/tension. Initially feeling very hunted by all from the dream, but as the morning wore on, I started thinking more about the white wolf. Like I said earlier, animal totems have meant nothing to me, really, nor have I spent time contemplating wolves, white or other. In conscious life, I've always thought cats, big and small, were cool in both a general way and a personal way (having had a couple of beloved cats that I felt spiritually connected to), but have never really been that interested in wolves, dogs, foxes, etc. The wolf in this dream was, indeed, following me and I was nervous about its presence, but it also wasn't 100% negative or "evil" or anything. And I was curious about why it showed up so strongly in a dream of mine when, on a conscious level, the symbol didn't mean anything to me. Interesting to learn online today about the wolf's importance in the subconscious of humans throughout history. After wading through dozens of shallow interpretations of "the wolf in dreams," I came upon this interesting, lengthy article: Jungian Archetype of the wolf...

Now, Jung I'm definitely interested in. I haven't read his works in-depth at all, yet I'm broadly/shallowly familiar with his theories on both the Archetype and the Shadow, mainly from reading more-intelligent astrologers, of all things! Here's a quote from the page:

The wolf reminded men of their domestication and their inner struggle with it. The wolf became also an image of remaining wild and sexuality, in a Jungian sense became men’s Shadow of undesired and unwanted.  For those of us with Western background do often not realize the depths and subtile differences and similarity of Pagan German or Norse,  Eastern or Native American stories. Especially wolf stories examine reincarnation, spiritual energy, gift exchange, the vitality of the body, and the spirit of the soul. In the old worldview everything is in flux and begins, balances out from, and ends with polarities akin to yin and yang. Even the gods are subject to this, undergo transformation, and often pay for what they gain with a corresponding loss. For indigenous people–including the indigenous Celts and Germanic--religion as such did not exist. Native views of spirituality wed it to time and place, land and sea and sky. Our forbears lived side by side with the wolves in an inspirited world, and that world abides, as do its instinctive but sacred dimensions:

Axe-time, sword-time, shields are sundered,
Wind-time, wolf-time, ere the world falls;
Nor ever shall men each other spare….
Now do I see the earth anew
Rise all green from the waves again…

 

 

Listening to LA Clippers owner Donald Sterling on the tape...

http://deadspin.com/exclusive-the-extended-donald-sterling-tape-1568291249

is exactly, for me, like watching the scene in Woody Allen's "Husbands and Wives," where newly separated Sydney Pollack's character loses it and physically drags his much-younger aerobics-instructor girlfriend out of a party because she's been so utterly inane. It's a highly uncomfortable thing to watch because it's so real. You feel bad for the young woman because she's just being her dumb self, but you also feel bad for the man because he's just been embarrassed in front of all of his friends. (Though, of course, it's ultimately his fault -- he shouldn't have invited her there, or even been seeing her, in the first place.)

Donald Sterling is 80 years old and separated from his equally ancient wife. Desperate for sex, he hooked up with Vanessa Stiviano (aka "Maria Vanessa Perez," "Monica Gallegos," "Maria Valdez" -- aka a girl on the make). He bought her stuff and took her out in public; in return, he got sex.

 

 

So far so good. All's fair...  Until the girl tapes a completely dumb-shit argument with him -- AFTER Stiviano's been hit with a lawsuit brought by Sterling's wife, who's pissed because her estranged husband has been giving his money away to a, basically, hooker.

 

I don't blame Stiviano for reacting to the lawsuit. Although the focus on racism is completely schewed. I don't really blame Sterling's wife for being pissed at the family-fortune giveaway, though it's an extremely odd thing to bring a suit against a husband's girlfriend on the basis of getting gifts from the straying husband.

 

The whole Sterling tape is so obviously petty and personal, between an ageing mogul and the hussy he's trying to sleep with and control, yet not control... Anyone who's ever been in a stupid lover's spat can hear that he's not racist, yet is most concerned with what his friends/minions think -- They've obviously been reporting to him that his girlfriend is "hanging out with black guys." For an 80-year-old white man, that makes him look bad. Why? Because in the Olden Days, it actually was true that only the lowest-class of white women would sleep with black men, ostensibly because they couldn't "find anybody else." That's not usually true today, and it hasn't been true for decades. But, as I learned upon reading his Wikipedia page, Donald Sterling was born in 1934. For a man born in 1934, yes, seeing "your woman" with a black man might indeed be discomfiting. (Note that Sterling specifically told Stiviano RE Magic Johnson that he admires the man and also that she could "feed him, fuck him, whatever..." -- Sterling just didn't want the IMAGE going out on Instagram. In 2014, that seems ludicrous. But, again, for a man born in 1934, it goes back to his not wanting to seem less-than in front of his friends, who had been notifying him about his girlfriend's doings.)

 



Just Wait and See

this girl will give you what you need
but it's not guaranteed
that she can be believed

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I've been looking for this CD, at under $20, for over a year now! Found it!

In Praise of Jacking Off

I haven't written this ode yet.

Let me just say, though, that Saturday I woke up sooooo full of hatred for someone not paying any attention to me. I was just WALLOWING in the Hate and negativity, not getting a single one of my needs met -- emotional, intellectual, physical, you name it; I was being completely ignored.

And then I "figured out" and gave myself a little lecture: "Pent-up emotional/sexual energy? No relief in sight? That's what fantasizing/jacking off is for, you idiot!"  :)

I felt so much better after. It's amazing how sometimes fantasy can fill EXACTLY the same niche, and relax you as much, as a real-life person. (Thanks, Joan.)

It's much easier...

...to define yourself by media projections than to get along with a real-life person. A real-life person is messy. And there are numerous "down times." I'm 48, and I'm just now learning this.

Letting Go (from "Venus and Mars," 1975)

One of the sexiest Paul McCartney songs.

Love in Song (from "Venus and Mars," 1975)

Name and Address (from "London Town," 1978)

The Long Island Medium

I find the "Long Island Medium" show on TLC very peaceful to watch. (I was about to provide a link to the site, but the site was such a mess of loud, intrusive, junky ads that it completely belied my "peaceful" feeling after watching Theresa Caputo in action all day today.)

Watching the show itself, though: I'm respectful of her channeling ability. She makes me feel hopeful. After watching her, I feel that things aren't so utterly random and meaningless. I feel a connection with other souls.

And I'm an intellectual hard-ass. I hate bullshit, "feel-good" stuff based on nothing other than creepy, rah-rah "let's all feel good!" stuff that the vast majority of surface society is based on. Caputo has said herself that she's not going to channel negative energy, which I think is false, but I also understand it... (In my mind, surely the family/friends that have died violently aren't all going to be hovering there giving off sweetness and light. Yet, equally logically, they're also not going to be there in ALL hatred.) Caputo channels the positive -- i.e., the spirits from the other side saying "hi," giving her signals like numbers, tattoos, specific injuries... Stuff that Caputo herself couldn't have known but that the person that she's meeting with knows about her departed.

Given that 75% of the universe is "dark matter"/"dark energy" that even the most brilliant of physicists cannot explain... I'm quite comfortable thinking that the 75% is the energy (which cannot be created or destroyed) of those passed away.

Me, personally: I wish that the dead Ginny (my high-school love when I was 18 and she was 17) still loved me and watched over me. But she was 22 when she died, and in love with someone else at the time. I'm not sure that her spirit is wise enough to be anything to me at 48. (What does a dead 22-year-old know?) My relatives: My grandmother on my father's side was always especially nice to me when I was 8-10. And I always liked my mother's middle German sister. But what do they have to do with me? They both had others, more important to them, to think about, to visit, once dead.

Psychologically, from what I've heard, my mother's German grandfather, and my father's East Texas grandfather, might be closest to my own mind-set (intellectually curious and confrontational, and geographically restless) -- but again... what do these guys care about me?

Who is watching over me? After watching Caputo, I feel that someone must be, but... who? I am 100% alone in the material world.

A Joan Crawford Primer

In the window of Paul Stuart, NYC, 2014

Madison at 45th

 

Candid on the set with cake and ax

This is the title of something brilliant. (Below is the picture that inspired it.)

Shrieking

Last Saturday night/Sunday morning, I ended up SHRIEKING at the world. This has happened ONE time in the past 4 years since I've been back in Austin (in 2011, waiting for the bus on my way to my mother's house to drop off the birthday gifts I'd bought, after she'd made it clear that she didn't want a birthday after my brother was going out of town to party with his friends; it was about 7 in the morning; I screamed out loud at the bus-stop; once I'd dropped off her fucking presents, I cried profusely all the way back home.).

Prior to these two Austin shriekings, the last time I was howling was back in my Weehawken apartment. I lived there for 2 years (2008 to 2010), and I lost it (aka "howled") maybe twice.

Why? Utter desolation at utter isolation. Ya'd think ya'd get used to it after 30 years, huh? I think what sets it off is hints at closeness (like a mom's birthday, where you think things should be nice; or Sandra in town, needing help) --- and then the kick in the face of the ones you wanted to love you not loving you at all.

The worst part of all of this: Things might be going decently (i.e., not necessarily "great," but they're "going"; the loneliness has begun to seem "pure"). But then once you start wanting, and don't receive... your nothingness, instead of being Zen-like, feels all utterly shitty again.

Even I can be soothing

From my uncle via Facebook months ago:

"I was very happy to receive your message. I carried your baby picture in my wallet for many years until I misplaced the wallet. Four and one half years in Vietnam, your picture was in my pocket. Of course, I still love you and wish our families had not been so scattered. Hope to hear so all of us could have known and been closer to each other."

Soothing, like a forgiveness phone-call

The House is Rockin' (with Domestic Problems)

My parents divorced in late fall of '78 after my father came home drunk from a bar and then tried to shoot my mother when she wouldn't go to the bedroom with him.

Hours before, I'd watched him strutting around the house, getting ready to go out, putting on his cologne and his 70s suede "going out" jacket. This show didn't happen very often, but when it did, there was always some problem afterwards. I knew that the "suede jacket" and the "cologne" were bad news.

He came home a couple of hours later, while my mother and I were still up watching TV, demanding that my mother have sex with him. She said no. I got sent to my room. Peering out from down the hall, I saw him slap her around; at some point in their arguing, she grabbed the gold chain around his neck and tore it while falling to her knees. At that point, pissed off that his gold chain was torn, he went to the hall closet for his gun. She ran out the back door. He ran out after her. I closed my bedroom door and huddled by it, my ear pressed against it to find out what was happening.

I don't know how long I waited like that, but at some point I heard my father come back into the house. Luckily, he went straight to his bed and fell into a drunken stupor. Once I heard him snore, I crept out and went to make sure he was asleep, then went outside to look for my mother. I have a fuzzy memory of seeing her huddled in the garage and her gesturing to me to go back inside, but I'm not sure about this. At any rate, I eventually went to sleep. The next day, my father was not in the house. A day or so later, my mother told me that they were divorcing.

All of this a preface to '79, after the divorce, when my father was living in a one-bedroom apartment in Fort Worth, and my 13-year-old self and my 7-year-old brother were forced to visit him on weekends for several months before my military dad got himself transferred out of town. My brother missed his dad and didn't at all mind visiting, but I hated it. Not just hated my father, but also the whole crappy apartment and being forced to spend time with someone who had been mean to me since I was about 5. I had about 10% fond memories of him as a little kid, and the other 90% of the memories were of hate and fear. And now I had to be cooped up in a tiny apartment with him to make him feel better about losing his family... (At one point, he even showed me a classified ad he'd taken out in the Fort Worth paper: "Wish we were together, 3 and me.")

I never did anything to make him feel better about losing his family. I was glad that he'd lost all of us. (I'd always seen on TV that kids were upset when told that their parents were divorcing. When my mother came to tell me, the first thing I said was, "Thank god." While thinking, "What took you so long.")

One weekend of forced visitation, I knew that a local album-rock station was going to play the entire just-released "Dream Police" album by Cheap Trick, a band I liked, at a certain time. Dad gave me "permission" to go listen to it on his clock-radio in the bedroom. Hearing it felt like something illicit and strange. Dad kept coming in the room to see what I was "doing." (This time not getting violent with me as he had with me in his/our old home -- this time, wanting desperately to get back with my mother, he had to be on his best behavior.)

Used to own the "Dream Police" album, just recently re-purchased it for cheap as a CD. Listening to it tonight flashed me back to a very strange, unpleasant place.

What Is Life (George Harrison)

Like Dreamers Do

Written by Paul in 1957 when he was 16; recorded by the Beatles in '62 for their unsuccessful Decca audition:

Toast

I "love" (sarcastically) this KFC ad, where the mom brags about how she's usually unable to feed her family, except for toast and cereal, until KFC comes along with its cheap bucket-meal.

Ads don't go on the airwaves until they're extensively vetted. Somewhere along the line, the ad folks at KFC thought that white trash unwed mothers (the ad character makes a point of mentioning her "mate" in italics) who can't fix dinner for their kids are a great target audience.

Frank!

Austin's a college town. You get so bored with dumbly sincere college kids and their tenured professors (who have no excuse for being so dumbly PC). Here's the glam, swaggering antithesis:

"I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king..."

Other people's dreams are, for sure, boring as shit. But I just wanted to record for myself about an hour's worth of lightweight horror this early morning.

My alarm is set for 6:20 every weekday morning. Last night I went to sleep around 9:30pm, woke up around 3:30am. Lay in bed flipping channels until about 5am, when I drifted back off until the alarm.

Here's what I dreamed in that last hour-and-20-minutes:

My mom finally woke me up long past the time my alarm was supposed to go off, making me very late for work. (I have longstanding anger with her for how she, in my childhood, used to wake me vs. my brother up: She'd fling open my door and say roughly, "Get up!" Then go to my brother's room and spend at least 15 minutes sitting on the edge of his bed and stroking his hair and back until he woke up. So this dream flashed me back and made me feel tense. Plus I felt tense for being late to work -- I happen to like my current temp job a lot and don't want to be late for it.)

When I sat up and looked around, I first looked at the clock and realized that it was completely out of whack and that I didn't know how to fix it. I felt stressed about future days that I would then be late. I then looked down and saw all sorts of toads writhing around between my bed and my wall. And then my dead cat Gracie and two other stranger-cats came over to me and wanted attention. Petting them was kind of relaxing, but I was still freaked out by the toads and the broken alarm.

I then found myself in a big Victorian house that had been split into a duplex. There were frat boys living next door. And they started traipsing through my half of the house, being really rowdy. I tried locking the door that separated our halves with a latch, but it didn't work. Then all the frat boys' parents started coming to visit, entering through MY side of the house to get to the other side. I kept trying to tell them, "This is MY house! Please stop coming in here!" but nobody was listening to me. I even yelled out the front door to passers-by: "Somebody make them stop!" It was a very vibrant street scene and people stopped to look at me yelling down from my front steps, but nobody did anything to help me. At one point, some friendly German exchange students came to my front door specifically to see me, but I was so angry at everyone else, I yelled at them to get away, also.

When I went back inside, some frat boys were standing at the door dividing our halves of the house, tossing cards over into my half. Which enraged me 'til I felt like killing someone. Then the comedian "Ant" came over from the frat-half of the house -- here he was tiny, about 2 inches tall. He started griping at me about how I was acting. I picked him up and started pinching his nose and flicking at his head and doing all sorts of aggressive, nasty things to hurt him, then threw him down, leaving him for dead, like a bug.

Cut to some sort of foot-race down a hill. I thought I was doing pretty well, cutting in and out of lots of car traffic, but then a random girl that I hated, with big hair and wearing a bustier, ran ahead of me. She then turned around and faced all of us still behind her, and started to belt out a song and direct all of us. I tried to talk smack about her to my fellow runners, but no one else would judge her.

Cut back to the Victorian duplex: me and 3 guys were all trying to dress up like Frank Sinatra for a costume party. I had bobbed, waved hair, with a white shirt and jacket; the guys were dressed similarly. None of us looked particularly like Sinatra. Then Sinatra himself showed up. As in real life, he was little (at least smaller than me)-- 5'7". And his bones/frame were very fragile. He started telling me that he'd take care of everything, not to worry. And I felt incredibly relieved to have someone looking out for me after everything I'd just been through. But then I saw a black sore behind his left ear and was, again, worried and nervous...

And then my real-life alarm went off.

Damn! I intentionally went to bed early sans drinking so I'd get a good start on the next day. But instead I woke up massively, emotionally drained, worse than any hangover. The bad feeling lasted all day long. But there's always Frank.

That's life
(That's life)
That's what all the people say
You're riding high in April, shot down in May
But I know I'm gonna change that tune
When I'm back on top, back on top in June

I said that's life
(That's life)
And as funny as it may seem
Some people get their kicks stomping on a dream
But I don't let it, let it get me down
'Cause this fine old world, it keeps spinnin' around

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king
I've been up and down and over and out and I know one thing
Each time I find myself flat on my face
I pick myself up and get back in the race

That's life
(That's life)
I tell you, I can't deny it
I thought of quitting, baby but my heart just ain't gonna buy it
And if I didn't think it was worth one single try
I'd jump right on a big bird and then I'd fly

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king
I've been up and down and over and out and I know one thing
Each time I find myself layin' flat on my face
I just pick myself up and get back in the race

That's life
(That's life)
That's life and I can't deny it
Many times I thought of cutting out but my heart won't buy it
But if there's nothing shaking come this here July
I'm gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die, my, my

"I'll Meet You Halfway"

Ignore Shirley Jones and her ruffled frontis-piece (as a pre-teen watching these shows, I always wondered why in the world they stuck her in there -- completely superfluous/Linda McCartney), and the dinner-theater setting, and the smarmy guy at the front table.

The song, though, is good! :)

I wonder...

...what Americans would do if sat down en masse and told definitively that there was no "God" (aka how your parents did with the "Santa" news, except probably a good, sincere friend told you).

Yes, of course, there's "energy" abounding in the Universe. This has been proven scientifically. The "stuff" that causes everything ranging from gravity to plant growth to attraction between people, etc. But this "stuff" isn't "God." There's really not a mythological all-powerful being out there listening to your pleas (or your fervent wishes for a Red Ryder BB gun).

I'm astounded that this childish, 2000-year-old cult concept is still a constant presence in America (or anywhere else, for that matter -- what? the uneducated masses in Latin America?). It would be mildly humorous were it just a trope of the counter-culture, but... it's a mainstream thing, constantly referred to by educated politicians, etc. There's an excuse for the uneducated... but when rich, educated men in power perpetuate the myth... You've got to ask why they're doing it.

Faith No More, 1990 MTV Awards

At the time, thought this was the first step in the glorious, intense future of a rock/rap fusion. Nah. The metal guys went on to do exactly what they'd been doing since 1969. The rappers continued to sing about "bitches" and their dicks and money (soon accompanied in videos by cheesy back-up dancers a la Michael Jackson, a la "West Side Story").

The Kitty Genovese Murder: March 13, 1964

The Kitty Genovese story has always horrified me, after reading about it for years while growing up, in both newsmagazines and in college textbooks. (In my younger, wannabe-punk days, I carelessly fantasized about a band I'd be in, to be called either "Trip" or "Kitty Genovese.")

As the New York Times reported days after the March 13, 1964, attack:

"For more than half an hour 38 respectable, law-abiding citizens in Queens watched a killer stalk and stab a woman in three separate attacks in Kew Gardens.

Twice their chatter and the sudden glow of their bedroom lights interrupted him and frightened him off. Each time he returned, sought her out, and stabbed her again. Not one person telephoned the police during the assault; one witness called after the woman was dead."

Pre-Internet and sans any other information, I thought of the drawn-out murder as a lovers' quarrel, taking place in the courtyard of a tenement. I damned the onlookers, damned a non-caring, misogynist society in general.

As I've just learned this week, thanks to a New Yorker article upon the 50th anniversary of Genovese's death and subsequent Internet research:

No, there weren't anywhere near "38" witnesses to the murder who all ignored the attack. A neighbor yelled out the window to "Leave that girl alone!" upon first hearing screams. The killer, a stranger to Genovese, Winston Mosely, then fled. After being stabbed the first time, Genovese then tried to make her way to the hall of her apartment, then collapsed outside of it. Which is where the psychopath Mosely found her when he came back. As Mosely was stabbing her for a second time, her neighbor, a gay guy across the hall, opened the door an inch and witnessed the attack. The neighbor then retreated and called a friend, asking what he should do. (The friend advised him to get out of there -- so the neighbor crawled out his back window and didn't call the police. When later questioned by police, this guy is the source of the now-infamous quote: "I didn't want to get involved.")

Was this a mass-sociological case of "I didn't want to get involved" as the media/textbooks claimed? Nah. It was the case of one psychopath (Winston Mosely) and one coward (the gay neighbor). Other neighbors did in fact call the police and an ambulance. Genovese died in one neighbor's arms.

Some interesting things about the case that I just learned upon reading the New Yorker article and other Internet articles: Kitty Genovese was gay. She lived in her apartment with her lover. She was a 28-year-old manager at a sports bar. Her mother had insisted that the family move from Queens to Connecticut 9 years earlier after witnessing a murder, but Kitty, raised in the city, wanted to stay in NYC.

The murderer, Winston Mosely, was married with kids, gainfully employed, had been picking his victims at random. In 1968, he escaped from prison and raped a woman before being recaptured. He's still alive, incarcerated in the NY prison system. In 1977, the NY Times published his essay "Today I'm a Man Who Wants to be an Asset."

Kitty Genovese mug shot from a bookmaking arrest

Kitty Genovese at her job at Ev's 11th Hour

Queens murder site: Austin Street 1964

Austin Street 2014

Mosely's mug shot

Mosely's arrest

Mosely in 2012

The initial New York Times article.
Crime Library account.
Murderpedia photos.

Betty Who: The Ebonics of SXSW

I normally like Andy Cohen/Bravo's "Watch What Happens," on at 10pm Sun-Thurs, and this week broadcasting live from Austin's SXSW. Last night, though, I was more than a bit puzzled by the "house band" that Andy had on-set: Betty Who. The singer was way off-key. Her dancing was merely aggressively flailing, not anywhere near "charmingly clumsy." The various songs she and the band played sounded like bad remakes from 1990 (a year that was already rife with bad remakes of good mid-80s songs).

I initially thought that Andy had found some local band and was subtly making fun of Austin (as in, "ha-ha, look what the locals have to offer"). But when I looked up "Betty Who" today, I found out that this Australian singer is supposed to be a current hot commodity! Unfortunately, I couldn't find a YouTube clip from her Bravo performance last night, but here's a nearly equally bad clip of a "hit." (I understand that this is a video reference to "Flashdance" and "Desperately Seeking Susan." But to no purpose. The song is dull, the singer's facial expressions are forced and painfully uncharming (unless you're a fan of Kim Novak's acting)... And all of the desperate references to actually good mid-80s pop don't come anywhere near salvaging it.)

This Betty Who video is nearly as embarrassing as the Bravo appearance last night.

)

Directions

SXSW-ers are in town this week, and apparently I look pleasant and motherly or something, 'cause I've been getting asked for directions a lot at bus-stops and on the bus and in the 'hood.

Maybe 10 or 15 years ago, I was annoyed at the annual influx of out-of-towners wearing their pants tucked into cowboy boots and their "ironic" straw cowboy hats. Now, though, outsiders seem to have calmed down a bit with the idiotic dress-up and condescension and recognize Austin as simply a music/film/tech center. (Though Andy Cohen's "Watch What Happens" on Bravo, live from Austin this week, still has stupid "Yee-haw!" cowboy graphics at the beginning of each show -- Austin has NEVER been a cowboy town, has always, since the '50s, been "alternative." And Jimmy Kimmel, also live from Austin this week, actually asked the audience last night if they'd heard of RuPaul!)

So anyway, since last Friday, I've had 4 people ask about where our bus was going and could it get them to [whatever South By event downtown]. And once I had to turn around and volunteer some info to a group of young guys who were yelling at one of their friends for supposedly getting them on the wrong bus: "Look, dude! We're heading the wrong way! We need to get off NOW!" I, being motherly as is my wont, had to calm them and say, "No, no, look, we're turning right and then we're heading back downtown..."

Today, though, I had a freaky experience with an out-of-towner: At the bus-stop from my workplace way up north, a young, dirty white woman with dreads and a whole suitcase (not just a backpack) literally PUSHED her way past me to get on the then-empty bus. She made her way to a window-seat near the back. And I then sat right behind her, in a spot that I usually like to sit in.

She turned around and said to me, "Do you HAVE to sit right behind me?"
Me: [puzzled] What?
Her: Do you have to sit RIGHT BEHIND ME?
Me: [still puzzled] What are you talking about?
Her: There are all of these empty seats. Do you HAVE TO SIT RIGHT BEHIND ME?
Me: It's a BUS! It's empty right now, but I promise you it's going to get filled up pretty soon, and there's going to be SOMEBODY sitting behind you!
Her: This is very weird.
Me: YOU are VERY WEIRD. What is your PARANOID PROBLEM?!
Her: [dramatically picks up all her heavy stuff and moves across the aisle]
Me: [dramatically taking out my reading glasses and opening up my "New Yorker" in the hopes of not appearing like a bus-freak who SITS BEHIND PEOPLE]

I was gratified to see that at the very next stop, someone else got on and sat down right in front of me without being freaked out, AND that someone else got on and sat down right BEHIND her new spot! I looked over at her to see if she recognized the IRONY, but... no reaction. (I was also gratified, about 15 minutes later, to hear her suddenly burst out with a stream of cursing directed at her suitcase. Gratified to know that it wasn't just ME...)

"Grave disfunctii sexuale," et al.



For the past several years, I've been spending about $56 for a carton of Marlboro Red Labels (formerly known as "Mediums"). I could deal with that, just barely, but...there's recently been a spate of bad cig news: The supermarket where I always shop just recently stopped selling cartons. You can still get individual packs, but they're over $6. And the pharmacy chain that for the past few months has had multiple $1-off specials on packs just announced that they'll no longer carry any cigarettes at all starting in October. 

 

And so I have finally been driven to shopping at places online for cheaper cartons of Marlboros, manufactured in places like the Philippines and Moldova. But my kind, "Red Labels" and "Mediums," apparently don't exist over yonder, so I gambled and ordered something called "Flavor Note" for, after taxes, about $33. At first I was horrified by the huge black-bordered warnings: 

 

 

(Death and sexual dysfunction await if I smoke these weird third-world cigarettes!) But then after some Internet research, I discovered that the EU had passed laws requiring these warnings on packs, so every smoker in Europe is walking around with these, not just me.

 

As for "Flavor Note": They're not bad at all. Turned out a lot milder than my "Red Labels" (I had not done any research beforehand into the comparative tar/nicotine content: Red Labels = 7 mg tar and 0.5 mg nicotine; Flavor Note = 3 mg tar and 0.2 mg nicotine). At first, I was disgruntled -- my body not being used to a different/lesser intake of tar/nicotine -- but I kept telling myself, "Look, just smoke 'em 'til they're gone; they're friggin' $3 a pack." Still, I bought myself a couple of expensive packs of Red Labels just in case I was craving one... For the past week or so, I've delved into my Red Labels only a couple of times; the rest of the time, Flavor Note has been fine. I HAVE been smoking more of them, but even when smoking 1-1/3 of a pack per day instead of 1 pack, I'm still saving a ton of money AND intaking less tar/nicotine overall.   

 

After this Flavor Note experimental carton is gone, I'm thinking of trying the European Marlboro Gold -- 6 mg tar and 0.5 mg nicotine, which is a lot closer in strength to my old Red Labels. Whatever I decide on, I've been forced into it, which pisses me off. Cigarettes costing over $6 a pack is insane, as is the refusal of my local supermarkets and drug-stores to sell cigs any more. I absolutely cannot stand this smug, PC, bandwagon, "slippery slope" of the past 20 or more years to "criminalize" smoking.

 

In the beginning, laws that banned smoking in restaurants, airplanes, movie theaters and the like were perfectly fair and reasonable. But then came the ridiculous "no smoking in bars" and "no smoking in the apartment you're paying rent for" and "no smoking on campus or city streets" and "if you're a smoker, you pay more for health insurance." Not to mention being taxed completely unreasonably.

 

Bars = They're bars. You're there to drink too much. And listen to too-loud music. And maybe pick up people. And stay up too late. They're not SUPPOSED TO BE health centers -- they're there as OUTLETS. They're there for FUN.

 

Rented apartments = You're paying WAY over cost for the space. You should be able to do anything legal there that you want to do. So what if the management company has to pay to repaint after you move out? You've more than contributed to the cost of a roomful of paint.

 

Campus/City streets = In public spaces, the rule should be: "Don't be a nuisance." Don't hang out on street corners drinking and harassing passers-by. Don't blow smoke in people's faces. Don't blast your music.

 

Health insurance = Smoking is bad for you. But so is a lot of stuff. Why, for instance, should I -- a smoker but also well within my weight range, walking over a mile a day and eating mainly non-meat -- pay more than, say, a grossly fat person who eats junk food almost every day and will probably require a lot more health-care over the years for heart and diabetes problems than I ever will? And what about the supremely fit thrill-seeker who eats vegan and bikes 10 miles every day but who also likes to sky-dive and bungee-jump? I'm 48, a smoker for 30 years, and thus far, I haven't cost the health-care system much of anything -- what, though, have we all been paying for Mr. Thrill's sprains and broken bones? You can't just randomly pick a group to discriminate against, when there are multitudes of other "risky" categories.

 

And an argument that I keep coming back to: Have you ever heard of someone smoking a carton of cigarettes and then (1) beating the wife and kids? (2) robbing a bank? (3) getting into a shoot-out with police? (4) driving and killing people?  Conversely, you CONSTANTLY hear in the news about people legally DRINKING and doing all of the above. And I'll wager that drinking causes a LOT more health problems (both mental and physical) than smoking. Yet you don't hear anyone calling for Prohibition again. Alcohol CLEARLY causes more societal problems than smoking. So why aren't there new Carrie Nation Societies forming every day for the PC crowd? Because people are group-thinkers and cowards. Being anti-smoking is an avenue for feeling smug and superior about yourself without much backlash. (I feel similarly about the anti-fur-wearing activists who don't hesitate to throw paint on old ladies' coats -- but would they dare do the same to a leather-clad biker?)



Almost in a Play

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.

"Here Today" / Paul McCartney 1982

"We were all in love with John." -- Paul McCartney

Dresses for Stephanie

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.

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.

Joan Crawford, 1929

I don't think I've ever seen a more interesting face.

Rick Broussard, Nothing at All

Two Hoots and a Holler, 2013 Austin

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.

Two Hoots and a Holler, '90-'91 Austin

At the Hole in the Wall on Guadalupe.

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?

Happiness is... Joan Crawford.

At the Memphis airport, 1964.

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!)

"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??

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.

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.)

"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.

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

Happy Valentine's Day

Joan Crawford shot by Ruth Harriet Louise, 1928. Crawford as "Valentine Winters" with Pauline Frederick in "This Modern Age," 1931.

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.

Regular readers here (all two of you!) might remember me mentioning someone I've kept seeing on my bus for the past couple of years -- "the Plath Girl," I've called her. Because of the resemblance, but also because she has an air about her: poetic and well-put-together (cloche hats and '30s shoes -- a la Judy Davis in "Passage to India"), but also a bit high strung (my opinion based only on seeing her sit primly on the bus reading, until meeting up with janitors that she runs into -- upon which she goes into hyper "Hi-how-are-ya!" gal-of-the-people mode). I've always found her attractive and interesting-looking...but also a bit annoyingly "precious."

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.)

"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.

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.)

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.

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.

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

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.