Early-voted in Texas today for...

 

 

The Texas primary is March 1; early voting through February 26.

 

A side-note: Back in the summer, a few weeks after Trump first announced his candidacy, I bought the above bumpersticker from eBay for a few dollars, kind of as a lark. Not being that serious about liking Trump as a candidate, remembering his first wife Ivana's calling him "The Donald" back in the '80s, etc.

 

Since then, though, this sticker has come to be a bit more representative of my ACTUAL feelings (plus an aspiration), not just a joke.

 

For one thing, I do agree with Trump that we should tighten our border to the south to prevent people from sneaking in. The way he said it at the time, I thought was a bit harsh (the "not giving us their best people" comment), but I agreed with him on principle. The aftermath of his statements re the border, though, was more shocking to me: Companies like Macy's cancelling their orders for his products; NBC and Univision cancelling his Miss Universe pageant. The man paid a great financial price for stating his opinion candidly. And he didn't back down, even in the face of losing millions.

 

Then came the "showdown" with the PC-beloved Univision host Jorge Ramos at a Trump press conference: Ramos stood up out of turn and asked his question over and over again, disrupting the conference. Trump told him he hadn't been called on. Ramos was escorted out, and later invited back in to ask his question -- when he'd been called on. Here, too, I admired Trump for standing his intellectual ground.

 

Then came silly things like "Rick Perry's wearing glasses just to try to look smart" and "Jeb is low energy." Well, I'd thought EXACTLY that that was the reason why Perry was suddenly wearing glasses. And I'd thought EXACTLY that "Jeb!" was the most enervated, believing-nothing of candidates. ("Low energy" was a mild way of putting what I felt about "Jeb!")

 

Then came my boss at work asking me why I liked Trump: "Do you really want someone like that representing our country?" After a bit of reflection... Why, yes, yes I do -- very much so! What part of standing up to Putin, making tough trade deals, re-building our infrastructure, and penalizing US companies for exporting jobs DOESN'T sound very good?

 

Still later, at the recent South Carolina debate, Trump went off on "Jeb!" for supporting brother George W. for his idiotic decision to invade Iraq (which had nothing to do with 9/11) on the false charge of harboring "weapons of mass destruction" -- and thus ensuring the destabilization of the entire region. Would ANY other Republican ever say this truth in public? Hell, no. (Even Hillary Clinton wouldn't admit as much.)

 

I admire the man's honesty and bravery completely.

 

p.s. Oh yeah, "the aspiration": Months ago, I said that if Trump got his party's nomination, I would finally buy a car again just so I could put this bumpersticker on it. I sold my car when I moved to NYC in 2007; even though I came back to Austin in 2010, I haven't had a car since. I now live on a bus line that takes me straight to work. I save a lot of money by not owning a car, etc. HOWEVER... You give up a lot of free will by not having your own car: idiotic bus drivers, idiotic passengers, idiotic Metro system not sticking to their stated schedules, etc. On the other hand, even when you have your own car, you're then stuck in idiotic traffic and have to deal with idiotic fellow drivers on the road. (But at least you can come and go when you want.) I'm still on the fence about getting a car again. I don't 100% NEED one. But I do think I WANT one on which to display my "THE DONALD" sticker in a city of what-will-be Hillary fans, 2016.

 

Plus, I think any adult should be as self-sufficient as possible. My bitching about bus drivers/passengers/system is easily avoidable if I get my own car. And, having my own car -- like having my degrees -- prohibits the easy judgment of shallow people... who judge people on whether they have cars or degrees. Reminds me of Hillary taking on the "Clinton" last name in the '90s, after being "Hillary Rodham" for so long, and of Obama finally wearing the flag pin on his lapel --- if it means so fucking much to you and so little to me... pffffft. Whatever. Here's my new name, here's my new pin, here's my new degree, here's my new car.

Trump vs. The Pope

"A person who thinks only about building walls, wherever they may be, and not building bridges, is not Christian. This is not the gospel." ---Pope Francis in Mexico today when asked about Donald Trump.

Pictured below: The wall surrounding the Vatican.

As soon as Pope Francis is willing to tear down the wall surrounding his own sanctuary, then I'll be willing to admit that a wall prohibiting economic marauders from coming into the US is a bad idea.

As Donald Trump has said: "Do we have a country, or don't we?"

The Pope is good in the abstract, but not so much when it comes to his own protective walls. I call BULLSHIT on the Pope.

 

 

Feeling Good (Julie London, 1965)

Nina Simone, Julie London, Audra Mae... All singers and interpreters of this song. Yet today a mere producer, Avicii, claims credit for Audra Mae's latest version -- it took me link after link to even find out who sang the latest version of this song featured in the current Volvo ad.

 I call BULLSHIT on Avicii.

 

Rod Stewart: "You Wear It Well" (1972)

 

"Madame Onassis got nothing on you."

 

Lucius - Turn It Around [Official Video]

I don't have a car; I can't hear new songs!

And so I must discover them via cable TV ads! This initially for Samsung Galaxy...

"She's looking through the wrong end of the telescope..."

 

She felt comatose waiting for this thing to grow
She's impatient 'cause she wants it now and so it shows
She can't be bothered by the ties that bind her
She's united when it strangles everything it holds

She's looking through the wrong end
She's looking through the wrong end
She's looking through the wrong end of the telescope
 

Turn it around, turn it around

 

She closed the door with the intention of not looking back
But missed her step because she didn't have a steady track
She can't be bothered by the mistakes she has made
She's forgetting that's what guides you to the rightful path

She's looking through the wrong end
She's looking through the wrong end
She's looking through the wrong end of the telescope

 Turn it around, turn it around

 

As suspected back at home it grew out of control
Well, that can happen when you leave things to a little girl
So now she's left without an option at hand
She better tend to it or she won't have another chance

She's looking through the wrong end
She's looking through the wrong end
She's looking through the wrong end of the telescope

 Turn it around, turn it around

 

She's looking through the wrong end
She's looking through the wrong end
She's looking through the wrong end of the telescope

 Turn it around, turn it around

Joan Crawford candid, mid-1940s.

I am amazed at how long I've found this woman extremely cool, extremely cool-looking, and, as I've recently realized, extremely meaningful to my life. Since 1987, to be exact (when I was 22 -- I'm now 50). Crawford (because she was so hot when I first saw her in 1932's "Grand Hotel") started out as a gateway drug to figuring out I was gay. Once I figured that out, she, based on her childhood and professional history, morphed into a representative for SURVIVAL despite all odds. Her stunning looks masked all of the EFFORT going on behind the scenes. The woman, as a Hollywood contemporary (Cukor? I can't find the source now) once said, "worked like a Trojan." And I think it was Cukor who also said that Joan, despite all odds, "refused to be a loser."

 

I similarly refuse.

 

When I was a kid, my father tried to bully me into being a subservient female; my mother, a much more positive influence via her stability, tried to convince me that secretarial work was the key...

 

Nah. I always knew that I was better than that. (Ironically, most parents try to build up their kids --- mine, on the other hand, tried to keep me at, or below, their level. I didn't think that was odd until I grew up and met kids at college whose parents were actually rooting for them to succeed! And -- shocker! -- actually giving them both financial and emotional support... Wow! Parents actually supporting their kids!)

 

I'm now, at 50, doing what I like on a mid-level. I like my current editing job a lot, and I'm grateful for it. I'm alone and sometimes lonely, but I am not stifled in either my personal or my professional life.

 

 

9 years ago today...

On February 11, 2007, I picked up and left for New York City. My only connection there a lady on Craig's List who said she had a room to rent.

What an experience those 3 years spent in NYC were! I've been back in Austin for 6 years now (since 2010)... I barely remember anything from these 6 years other than emotional and financial pain and crawling back amid great bland surroundings.

The 3 years in NYC (from 2007 to 2010), on the other hand--while also obviously financially painful--were simultaneously greatly beautiful and INTERESTING. I was completely, of my own volition, thrown into an utterly different environment... One that I'd experienced vicariously via movies and magazines, but never known on my own...

The result was: NYC was nothing like the movies or magazines. In fact, I was greatly dismayed by magazines like "New York" that published issues like "Reasons to Love New York City," which seemed to me more like small-town boosterism. ("You're NEW YORK! What're you so defensive about??")

What I miss most about New York: Seeing Joan Crawford movies at the Chelsea Cinema and at other cinemas around town. Getting to see the Klimt exhibit at the Neue Gallerie on the East Side (during a brutally cold November day). The walk from Joan Crawford's apartment on the East Side straight across to John Lennon's Dakota on the West Side. Hanging out reading a book on a bench one sunny afternoon at Aaron Burr's mansion in Washington Heights. Hanging out at Union Square for lunch during my 8-month tenure at a publishing company a couple of blocks away; seeing a bluegrass band at Union Square on a weekend, with a subdued Gilbert Gottfried right next to me. While taking a smoke-break on the sidewalk, seeing Elvis Costello walk by with his twins in a carriage. The utterly stunning view of the NYC skyline once I'd moved to Weehawken across the Hudson (only a 2-minute walk away), and how inspiring the view was...

So much in only 3 years... The ugly struggles with the first 3 roommates that I had in New York, then the utter relief at finally being able to get my own place, the beautiful place in Weehawken, where my Gracie-cat died April 15, 2009... I remember it so distinctly because it was "Tax Day" and because Sandra was in town, visiting her Sugar Daddy at a Cancer Center and asking me to come visit her in her hotel; I, disgustingly, internally wished for Gracie to die before Sandra arrived, so I could spend time with her in town... I fought on the phone with Sandra on the night Gracie died. When I woke up the next day, Gracie, who'd been wasting away gradually since mid-January, was dead on my kitchen mat.

That was traumatic. My first 2 years in New York were interesting. After Gracie died in early 2009, though, and after I began contact with Sandra in late 2008, things deteriorated. My heart wasn't in it. I was grieving for Gracie, who had been with me since 2000 (and who had been a good-luck charm in my life as a whole since her arrival), and I was TIRED of struggling for EVERYTHING.

Funny, what started out as a search for a New Beginning and a New Horizon with truly earnest and honest goals based on true admiration for the city and its possibilities turned into grieving for an old crush from a poetry class in 1987.

February 11, 2007, was warm and foggy. The taxi driver was curious about why I was going to New York City. It was so warm, he drove with his windows open. At the Austin airport, Gracie escaped from her carrier when an airport employee opened it to check for contraband. The same employee then chased after her and brought her back, so the trauma was lessened.

Choices

A key to happiness is having CHOICES. I think you're happiest when you know you have OPTIONS.

The Young are obviously happier because the future lies before them. Even if they're dirt poor, they still THINK they have choices. And they actually DO. The most important: Whom they're going to marry, where they're going to work, where they're going to live, etc. All lies before them. Even in the misery of a low-paying job, they still think/know that the current situation won't last forever. If they have a shitty lover -- that, too, can be changed. And they can move if they have nothing to keep them where they are.

The crappy part of growing older is that the choices start to shrink, partially because of your own self: You get tired of flitting about and understand that it might just be time to PICK someone and something. So you make your choices. And you are decidedly NOT free after that. With choices come intense consequences, the result of intermingling your own psyche with another's. You won't ever be the same again. For the lucky people, this is a GOOD thing. (I haven't been at all so lucky and so I'm cynical; but I've caught glimpses of what connecting feels like spiritually -- of course, I miss what I think that closeness simply MUST be like.)

Here's something from Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar," published in 1963, when she was 31 years old. Based on her experiences in New York City during an internship for "Mademoiselle" magazine when she was 20, only a few months before she first tried to kill herself:

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

I first read "The Bell Jar" when I was 15 or so. I didn't pick up on this passage at all. I didn't understand it until I re-read the book for perhaps the 6th time when I found it while doing laundry in the basement of my landlords' duplex in Weehawken, New Jersey, in 2008 after I'd moved to NYC a year earlier to make a new life, only later finding a haven in Jersey...

I understood the tragedy of "The Bell Jar" completely once I was in my 40s.

"Seven Bridges Road" The Eagles

 

 

EAGLES ~ "LYIN' EYES" 1977

God, I hated the Eagles as a kid. They were all I heard on FM radio growing up, and their studied "mellow" meant NOTHING to me whatsoever. (In '77, I was 12 and all hyped up for the Bay City Rollers and then KISS; a couple of years later, punk and New Wave hit, for which I was so grateful.)

 

Last weekend, though, CNN had a 2-hour special on the band, and I watched, just in honor of the air-waves of my youth. (Ended up ordering their Greatest Hits from Amazon! God, what a sucker I am! But I really did feel nostalgic...and for a time that wasn't even psychologically mine!)

 

I liked this story from the CNN program. Glenn Frey said that when he and the guys were out playing in LA clubs, they'd often see beautiful young women at tables with old rich guys. The old guys would go home, the beautiful women would stay to hang out with the rockers for a while...and then would "have to" go home because they were "kept." Frey described looking over at the interaction at such tables and judging a woman's eyes as "lying" as she talked to her Sugar Daddy.

 

Frey was boo-hooing, but I actually felt, for a second, his pain! :)  You'd think that Glenn Frey, of all people in the '70s, could have gotten any woman he wanted, but... according to the song, maybe he couldn't. I understood. And I like the Eagles better after hearing this story. I especially liked this line from the song: "I guess every form of refuge has its price."

Here's the song:

 

 

Rod Stewart - You're in My Heart

"You're the warmest thing I ever found..."

 

Cotillion Photo

These young women will last forever, posed like greyhounds,

trapped in the silver crust of the frame.

You can’t tell one from another, the breed is so pure.

They will never run. Each one aloft

on a frozen wave of white cotillion lace

to resemble marriage, to resemble fate.

I remember July sun pouring down

in a prickly meadow, and a garter-snake skin

laid out like fairy lingerie on a stone wall.

This was Connecticut, there would be a stone wall.

Crickets were scraping marrow from the day.

I was young; I’d been alone for weeks.

I painted the meadow morning and afternoon

trying to capture the crackling sound with my brush.

I was reading “Oedipus Rex.”

I understood neither the snake skin nor the play.

"Your life is one long night," said Oedipus

to the prophet, Oedipus, who saw nothing.

Oak trees rustled in drought. In saffron grass

small creatures skittered. There came a day

when I said to myself, “I should prefer to sleep.”

Small planets tasted dry and bitter on my tongue.

And two days later I woke. Alone in the creaking barn

at dusk, not knowing what day, what month, what year,

but feeling the haul of earth rolling on its way.

“It is not your fate that I should be your ruin,”

the prophet said. I moved my arms,

my legs, I unclenched my hands,

and stood up dizzy from the cot. What was to come

would come in its own good time

outside the frame. The moon was rising

above the hill, a shy wind gathered force,

and trees, in their black silhouettes, linked arms.

 

---Rosanna Warren (from the New Yorker, 2/1/16)

 

Shopping

I usually don't shop at the supermarket on Saturday evenings; in fact, I don't think I've ever, since the late '80s, when out goofing with friends. Tonight, though, stopped off on my way home from working overtime...

The crowd was different. Usually I go on Sunday mid-mornings, when there have been hosts of families and middle-aged women.

This time, Saturday eve, there were a vast number of clearly single people, mainly 30-something bearded (being Austin) guys.

I'm usually an uptight bitch wherever I go (this take on me mainly according to others), but this evening, I felt cool and relaxed, having just gotten off work, where I'd accomplished a lot...

Springlike in Austin, 70-ish, obviously people feeling their oats.

I guess I was putting off a good vibe, because I got picked up on a couple of times! The first among the frozen vegetables: I was standing there trying to pick out the best kind of frozen corn when a guy suddenly recommended the "Tuscan Broccoli." He said he didn't usually like broccoli, but he liked THIS broccoli!

Me (sneaking a look at him: 30-ish, trendily bearded, cute): "What makes broccoli TUSCAN?"

We both examined the package together: Turned out the answer was "parmesan cheese" and "peppers."

That's just cute. Thank you, cute bearded young man.

A few minutes later, I was on the frozen dinner aisle when a woman about my age approached me: "What generic dinner do you recommend?" (!!!!)

I was puzzled by this. Apparently she'd just seen a generic cheese-enchilada dinner that I'd just placed in my cart, but I couldn't recommend it because this was the first time I'd ever bought it. I felt pressed to recommend other frozen dinners, none of which I saw her put in her cart.

But thank you for asking.

Trump: Adele and Stones fade-out

 

Watching Trump's alternative "for the vets" appearance tonight on C-SPAN in lieu of his appearance at the 7th Republican debate, I was struck by the (albeit aggressively) wistful songs that accompanied the fade-out of the event, after the speeches were over: Adele's "Rolling in the Deep" ("We could have had it all...") and the Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want."

I've paid attention to Trump via interviews for the past 30 years of his American Life. He's actually a thoughtful person. His favorite film is "Citizen Kane" -- I fear that this may be his outcome; I HOPE that it will NOT be, but I nonetheless fear it (though I suppose his Marla Maples/ingénue days are over).

 

 

1954. Joan Crawford in "Johnny Guitar."

Public Enemy - Fight The Power (1989)

Elvis was a hero to most

But he never meant shit to me you see

Straight up racist that sucker was

Simple and plain

Motherfuck him and John Wayne

Cause I'm Black and I'm proud...

1989, from Public Enemy.

Back in '89, I and my white 20-something cohorts guffawed and thought NWA was so cool. Look and listen today, though, to this idiocy and see how it precluded the dumb racial politics going on today in 2016.

Quit allowing your young men to shoot each other and yourselves without consequences (other than the consequences of police reacting); quit having babies out of wedlock at a 75% rate (actually fine if you choose to do it--just don't subsequently expect the government to pay for your welfare and Medicaid); quit allowing your "representatives" to complain that you're not allowed to vote (if you're too dumb to figure out how to vote, then you don't deserve to vote). And I've had enough state jobs now to see how OVER-represented minorities are in comparison to their actual percentage of the population.

I'm sick to death of this "victim" culture, especially when the so-called "victims" are so obviously, in 2016, now responsible for the vast majority of their own sociopathy. Seems they're (and their liberal white supporters) are stuck mentally in the '50s, when blacks weren't allowed to ride at the front of buses or drink out of white water-fountains or inter-marry, etc. THAT was a worthy battle.

Today, though, "Trayvon Martin" and "Michael Brown" and "Sandra Bland" are decidedly NOT worthy battles. (Thank god for the Internet: Look up the actual FACTS about all of these cases.) I'm sick of the Crying Wolf syndrome. I'm sick of being told to feel guilty when there's nothing to feel guilty for. I'm sick of the bullshit. Fight the Power.

p.s. Elvis Presley and John Wayne were COOL, assholes. Unto themselves. Don't try to place your PC political bullshit onto them. Who gives a fuck if Elvis was racist, or if Thomas Jefferson owned slaves, for that matter. They're still of major importance to United States history and culture. Their relations to blacks were a decidedly minor part of their overall historical import, only talked about now because all of their major contributions have already been scoured over.
 

 

Elvis Presley - Blue Suede Shoes 1956 (COLOR and STEREO)

Elvis Presley - Jailhouse Rock (1957)

 

Are You Lonesome Tonight? - Elvis Presley

"Do you gaze at your forehead and wish you had hair?"
Elvis sloppily fucking around in concert. His minions sticking up for him, claiming he's being somehow clever. (He's not being clever, he's being fucked up. I do, though, understand how ludicrous the whole "selling yourself" syndrome must have been to Elvis at this point.)
 

Downtown Train-Rod Stewart

You leave me lonely.

 

There Was Someone There Looking Out For You

I just deleted a website I'd created for someone I've been in love with since 2008.

I was torn about this -- I truly loved her art, and still do and will always. Despite her constantly personally disrespectful treatment of me, I really did, on the other hand, utterly respect her art.

That said: If she disrespects me personally, I cannot be linked to her in any way. I think her art is (usually) great, I think her poetry is (usually) great. But, for my own sanity, I will not be a party to anything about her.

I'm Not There Looking Out For You (well, I am in Soul). Good Luck, Honey; meet you in the next life, if there is another.

To Move or Not To Move

RE "To Move From My Apartment Complex at the End of August":

80%: Black guy downstairs constantly yelling at his wife, or yelling on the phone, or yelling outside, or just yelling. I have to listen to him every day.

10%: Three or four families with kids live here. Two of the families have 2-3 little kids living in the apartments, who are constantly shrieking and running around in the parking lot, up-and-down the walkways in front of apartments, etc. The third/fourth families have 12/13-year-old boys who like to ride scooters and scream/play both in the walkways and in the street on the east side of my bedroom.

5%: The motorcycle guy that I have to hear come home and leave every time.

5%: The people thumping up and down the stairs next to my apartment, and the traffic on the busy North Loop.

When I first moved into my apartment a year ago, it was in response to a Craigslist ad to sublet an apartment "with no adjoining walls!" and with the deposit already paid. Sounded great. A small, funky (70s-built) complex, about 24 units, close to my work and shops. 790-sq-ft (a vast improvement over the one-room apartment I'd been living in upon my return from NYC and while temping).

I've lived in Austin since 1983 (with 2 years in San Fran and 3 years in NYC), and have lived in many different types of quarters: student housing, efficiencies, duplexes, garage apartments, mass and small apartments, a house...

I've never, ever been in a place with kids running around and screaming. Nor have I ever lived in a place with a neighbor constantly yelling. I've been in a couple of places with loud music, which were obnoxious, and which I moved from. No loud music at my current place. But the guy yelling...

I've wondered: Am I racist? The man yelling is black. The kids running around are Hispanic. While at former apartments in my younger years, I didn't like the loud music from young white guys, here the noise is specifically generated from the blacks below me and the Hispanics elsewhere in the apartment building. While white-boy-noise is obnoxious, it's also a result of living in super-cheap student apartments. At 50, and living in slightly more expensive apartments (my 2-bedroom, for instance), I was hoping for a better-behaved clientele. Not so. I'd left the obnoxious white-frat-boys but gained loud minority-family-drama on the same exact level of annoyance. Don't like either. I'm not 20 or 30 or even 40 -- don't feel like I should have to put up with any of the bullshit. Especially since I'm gainfully employed as an Editor.

There's something about it: I'm 50, a Master's degree, 17 years of experience as an editor... yet why am I still forced economically to live around a young Hispanic family of 5 stuffed into a 2-bedroom apartment, or a constantly arguing, loud black couple, for instance? (I wouldn't mind living around any type of group if they weren't so stereotypically obnoxious.)

RE "Not to Move":

It's just a pain in the ass to move. And who knows if I'll land in a better apartment. Wherever I move could have equally crappy neighbors -- it's not as if you can ask before moving in: "Um, are there any loud blacks or a bunch of screaming Hispanic kids here?"

VERDICT: Spend a couple of hundred more per month and MOVE. (This means "no car" -- and getting a car is also important to my psyche after 7 years without one upon moving to New York in 2007. But now there's a choice to be made: Either live around less riff-raff, or travel to work around less riff-raff. I can't afford both. Side-note: Why is it that I can't afford both?)

p.s. Let me present this post in another way: Say I were a black woman with a Master's degree and a job as an editor, forced to live in a primarily white trailer park with screaming white kids and a loud, abusive white man screaming next door. Most PC-folk would be horrified by this. And what black woman with a Master's degree would ever be forced to live around such boors in such an environment?

Simon & Garfunkel - Fakin' It (1967)

When she goes, she's gone
If she stays, she stays here
The girl does what she wants to do
She knows what she wants to do
And I know I'm fakin' it

I'm not really makin' it

I'm such a dubious soul
And a walk in the garden wears me down
Tangled in the fallen vines
Pickin' up the punch lines
I've just been fakin' it
Not really makin' it

Is there any danger?
No, no, not really, just lean on me
Takin' time to treat
Your friendly neighbors honestly
I've just been fakin' it, fakin' it
Not really makin' it
This feeling of fakin' it
I still haven't shaken it

Prior to this lifetime
I surely was a tailor, look at me
I own the tailor's face and hands
I am the tailor's face and hands
I know I'm fakin' it, fakin' it
I'm not really makin' it
This feeling of fakin' it
I still haven't shaken it, shaken it
I know I'm fakin' it
I'm not really makin' it

 

Simon & Garfunkel - The Only Living Boy In New York

New York Values.

 

Joan Crawford with fans, 1938

Left to Rot

Just had a horrifying thought:

Have been thinking happily recently that, had I had a computer in the home while I was growing up, I might not have felt so utterly lonely and barren.

But then the reality hit me: Even had there been a computer in my home, my mother would have forbidden me from using it. I would have been as isolated in 2016 as I was in 1982.

In the 80s, my mother forbade me from seeing even the girl my age next door. Summers, my brother was allowed to go out with the neighborhood gang. I was not.

I can't tell you how mentally crazed I was summers, trapped out in the country completely alone. A computer -- something, SOME communication with others -- would have made me feel sane. Imagine being denied computer communication after being denied everything else.

Funnily, my brother has told me in later years that, during his time with the boyz in the hood, they'd compare penises and jack off, slurping Robitussin and even doing acid.

The only thing that me and my next-door neighbor, both of us 14 or so, ever did in our spare time was listen to the "Grease" soundtrack and sunbathe topless on her trampoline and dress up/perform to KISS records.

A side-note: Summers, my mother arranged for my younger brother to participate in a Fort Worth Nature Center program. On the other hand, she left me home by myself. No group to participate in, and also not allowed to interact with the neighbor-kids.

Cracks me up that both my mother and my father left me to rot. And yet, here I am! How in the world did I survive? (power of Beatles and Plath and Joan and one's internal resources)

David Bowie - Modern Love

From the soundtrack of my freshman year in college, 1983.

 

Ziggy Stardust | David Bowie

With just a beer light to guide us...

 

Clean

For me, there is no cleaner, more powerful feeling than (a) having a day job that is intellectually challenging, and (b) simultaneously working on a creative project equally intellectually challenging.

That feeling doesn't come around very often. The last time for me was in 2004, when I was just brought on full-time for a publishing company while simultaneously about to launch my Joan Crawford website.

Nowadays, I've again been waking up excited.

KISS "Unplugged " Beth

Originally from the 1976 "Destroyer" album. Here, in 1995 on MTV's Unplugged.

 

See you tonight - Gene Simmons / Kiss MTV Unplugged

My favorite of the KISS solo albums released in '78 was Gene's, and my favorite song, "See You Tonight." Here's the 1995 Unplugged version. (Note that the song has barely any lyrics -- I still like it.)

 

 

Drop Dead, Ted

'Nuff said. Oh, wait... How 'bout your wife's employment at New York's Goldman Sachs and your $1 million loan from that company? Fucking hypocrite Cruz. Hope Trump kicks your holier-than-thou backwards ass in Texas on March 1.

State of the Union 2016

Just listened to, semi-watched, President Obama's last State of the Union speech. Uninspiring. (And, yes, I voted for Obama in 2012 -- because Romney was so ridiculously phony. And I support Trump in 2016 because he's so ridiculously real.)

 

What cracked me up most afterwards was a Fox commentator's: "A spector haunts this speech -- the spector of Donald Trump."
https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1848/communist-manifesto/ch01.htm

And of course after the speech, I had to run (type) immediately to Trump's Twitter feed:
"The ‪#‎SOTU‬ speech is really boring, slow, lethargic - very hard to watch!"

 

I love Trump.

 

Reason to Believe - Rod Stewart

If I listened long enough to you...

 

She did, in these ways.

I knew her off-and-on for a few years.

Will always love her movie-star / poet's face. Will always love her art and her writing.

Will always hate that '80s polka-dot skirt and hair.

Will always hate last June's "dizziness" excuse and her Daddy Complex.

 

 

Cate Blanchett, 2012

 

Joan Crawford, 1959



I never can get over how good-looking she is. 







"She blows his head off."

Over the past 2 days, I've already written 10 pages of a new screenplay.

(For any fools who think "writing a screenplay" is easy --- you remind me of the teenager I met in San Francisco in 1994 who claimed, after we were discussing the 49ers, that he could throw an 80-yard pass. Try it.)

Most of the story takes place in a Western bordello, circa 1890, where a madam and one of her girls have been lovers for years. One day a good-looking, Bible-toting cowboy comes into the picture and feels he must save "The Girl," having no idea at all what she and the madam have been through over the years. He initially kidnaps her, learns of her back-history, hopes to convert her to a "pure life" of marriage to an itinerant cowboy... When The Girl doesn't particularly want that and tries to escape, he resorts to quoting the Bible to her. Now, I'd made all of this story up. But when it came time to figuring out what exactly the Cowboy would be quoting, I was clueless. Thank you Internet for the "bible + whores" search, which yielded a multitude of good quotes from Ezekiel, like:

"They shall stone thee with stones, and thrust thee through with their swords. And they shall burn thine houses with fire, and execute judgment upon thee in the sight of many women; and I will cause thee to cease from playing the harlot, and thou also shalt give no hire any more. So will I make my fury toward thee to rest, and my jealousy shall depart thee, and I will be quiet, and will be no more angry..."

The above is what the Cowboy ended up preaching to the Girl in the story, all the while beating the shit out of her (while promising to be "no more angry" later).

Luckily, the godless madam was a pretty tough cookie herself.

I would like to thank the movie "Carol" for getting my creative juices flowing again, for recalibrating just about everything.

Here's a brief excerpt from how my partial screenplay ends:

 

VIV and the GIRL emerge from the shack, the GIRL now clothed and leaning heavily on VIV. The two shuffle over to where the COWBOY lies, still alive and looking up at them. BIG JOHN is bent over him.

VIV: Get out of the way, John.

BIG JOHN sees her eyes, backs off.

VIV hands the rifle to the GIRL. The GIRL can barely stand by herself, but manages to take the rifle and point it at the COWBOY's face. She can't, though, pump the rifle. VIV grabs it and pumps it for her, then hands it back to her.

GIRL (looking at the COWBOY, speaking under her breath, mouthing the words so that only he understands what she's saying—a quote from the last verse of Ezekiel 16, the chapter he'd been quoting to her earlier):

"That thou mayest remember, and be confounded, and never open thy mouth any more because of thy shame, when I am pacified toward thee for all that thou hast done…"

She blows his head off.

Riding off into a glorious sunset. VIV with GIRL clinging to her back. BIG JOHN with body of COWBOY slung across back of horse behind him.

THE END

Rodgers & Hart - "Where or When" from "Babes in Arms"

And so it seems that we have met before...

 

First movie of 2016!

"Carol," with Cate Blanchett.

I haven't had sex in so long, I forget I'm gay sometimes. And then I see Blanchett in this... and I remember! :)

 

New Year's Eve

Prepared for New Year's Eve, i.e., having champagne and food in the fridge. I don't think I've spent a New Year's Eve with a person or group since the Millennium with my friend Sherrie. That was a pleasant New Year's Eve.

I think my best, though, was the next year, when I got a computer for Christmas from my mom and spent New Year's Eve starting the first screenplay I ever wrote (and finished that spring). The worst was probably 1997, when a male apartment neighbor and I (both equally lonely) tried to act like we were having a good time together, lighting some fireworks in an empty lot next door and then making out desultorily afterwards. (Normally, shooting off fireworks and making out should be fun, but...not when you're both faking it.)

I still remember Bill Clinton's memories of New Year's Eves, as he wrote about in his autobiography "My Life." He said that, as a youth, he used to spend the evenings alone, thinking about the past year and the year to come... And, as he wrote, wasn't he an oddball for doing so... Not at all, Bill!

Christmas Canisters!

One of the gifts I got for Christmas that I especially liked was this set of glass canisters. (I didn't particularly want the Christmas ladybug oven-timer, but, as it turned out, it looks kinda cute sitting right there.)

 

I dunno -- in the past, I'd thought canisters were for housewives with huge kitchens and contained only flour and sugar and cookies and such. I liked how they looked, but I didn't think they were for me and whatever tiny kitchen came with whatever apartment. Plus, I'd always been rather poor and kitchen canisters were never even near anything that I wanted or needed for someone to get me as a gift.

 

This year, though, I have pretty much everything I want (well, except for a car), and so I asked for these. Still something that I would have thought too "extravagant" to buy for myself, but very pleasing for a gift! My spaghetti and rice used to sit in their packages in the fridge; the popcorn, in a re-used plastic container in a cabinet above my stove. I like how this looks. Makes me feel kinda homey and put-together, kitchen-wise.

 

A Boy and His 50-Year-Old Aunt

When I arrived at my brother's for Christmas, my 10-year-old nephew was alone in the backyard with football gloves on and his dog Blaze bounding around him.

After I took my gifts inside, he asked me if I would play catch with him. I said OK, then after throwing a few spirals, asked him what he'd been doing before I'd arrived:

"Was someone playing with you earlier, or were you just a 'lonely boy in his backyard' throwing up a ball to himself and his dog?!"

I was kidding, but 10-year-old nephew replied, deadpan: "Just a lonely boy in his backyard."

"DAD. I don't WANT any water."

My Christmas was pleasant, so I hate to bring up shit, but... but...

On Christmas Day, which I spent over at my brother's house, my 13-year-old nephew had been feeling sickly for a few hours, missing Christmas dinner. An hour or so later, he was up and about. At which point my brother suggested that he drink some water to help clear out his stomach. A reasonable suggestion. But my nephew felt well unto himself and didn't want any water.

The exchange went on for several go-rounds:

"Drink some water."
"I don't want any water."
"You need to drink some water."
"I don't want any water."
"Go DRINK SOME WATER."
"DAD. I don't WANT any water."

I just happened to break up the exchange at this point, asking what pill the kid had taken earlier to make him feel better, which ended it.

The whole exchange did, though, remind me of something ugly when I was 12.

My parents were watching TV in the living room, and I was watching TV in my bedroom. My dad came in to see what I was doing. I was both watching TV AND writing in my diary.

My dad told me that I couldn't both watch TV and write at the same time. "DAD, I CAN watch TV AND write," I said. "No, you can't," he said. "OK," I said. After he left, I kept the TV on and kept writing.

A few minutes later, he was back. I was still writing AND watching TV. Outraged, he grabbed me by my hair and dragged me down the hallway to the living room.

Listening to my nephew and my brother gave me a hint of this potential for humiliation. It scared me to hear. My dad constantly treated me in an ugly, sadistic way; my brother, as far as I know, has not treated his sons that way. Yet, I heard my brother tending toward that in the way he was talking to his son this time.

I'm glad my nephew stood up to his dad about not wanting any water. I'm glad that I stood up to my dad about being capable of watching TV and writing at the same time. Though being dragged down the hall by my hair afterwards was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.

My dad visits this blog every day. And so I say to you, Dad: FOR SHAME. Are you proud of how you treated a 12-year-old girl over and over again?

Elvis Presley - Trying To Get To You - Sun Recording 78

Recorded at Sun Studio, September 1954.

 

I'm Waiting For The Day (Pet Sounds, 1966)

This meant something completely different to me several years ago when I was in the throes of a new love. (I took it quite literally then.) But I just listened to it again tonight -- I still love this song, and it still makes me feel happy, even when it's not referring to anyone in particular in my life.

I especially like the triumphant fade-out:

You didn't think that I could sit around and let him work
You didn't think that I could sit around and let him take you...

 

 

"I will not let people devour me." -- Joan Crawford

Christmas With The Rat Pack

This is my idea of a GREAT Christmas soundtrack.

Nobody else that I know thinks the same. Certainly not the family that I'm about to spend Christmas around! :)

 

Skyline

Views of the NYC skyline from Weehawken, NJ.

 

 

 

All lives are valuable?

I've been having political conversations with a guy at work recently, during which he just revealed that he thinks "every life is precious." Ah...I absolutely cannot agree. Probably 99% of humans are born and die for no reason at all. (Not trying to be unnecessarily harsh, just honest.)

Me, for instance: I'm 50, and during my time on this planet, I've written some poetry and created a Joan Crawford website. The poetry has reached maybe 200 people, while the Joan information has reached several million. If I were to die today, my "legacy" would be that I helped to rescue Joan Crawford from the false "Mommie Dearest" image. (A "legacy" that would fade within 5 or so years. Every Joan Crawford photo that I've already posted on "The Best of Everything" has already been re-posted extensively on Pinterest, etc.)

At  50: All things fade away. For sure, most of my emotions and loves. But what might remain online is the intellectual, aesthetic exploration of childhood heroes such Joan Crawford...

Merry Fucking Christmas

Well, the "Fucking" is being dramatic. As is, I suppose, the "Merry."

After work today, I stopped off at the local Dollar Store to buy some cheap wrapping paper and whatever else. When I got up to check-out with 6 items, the register clerk suddenly put the "CLOSED" sign up on her conveyor belt. I looked over at the 2nd register open: Two shoppers there, with at least 40 items in their baskets, which would take a long fucking time. I called out loudly to my clerk: "'Scuse me! If you're leaving, can you ask someone else to come up and help?"

My clerk muttered to herself, then took the "Closed" sign down. So I was still in.

When I got up to the register, the clerk rang me up. I said "Thanks" when I paid... Only, the woman just rang me up and then left my 6 items lying there! And then she walked away from the register! Now, when I was 20 -- and this did happen to me once when I was 20 -- I would not have said much. This time, though, at 50, I YELLED at the woman as she walked away: "EXCUSE ME, MA'AM! You're not REALLY going to NOT bag up my stuff, are you??"

Had this mercy-hire by Dollar Store been black, she would have, indeed, left my stuff lying there without bagging it up. In this case, though, the 60-ish white woman seemed to be rather mentally ill and indecisive: As she'd re-opened the check-out when I'd first asked, she also came back and bagged up my fucking few purchases. Wordlessly.

Was I mean for yelling? God, I felt so. However, in actuality, even if you work at the Dollar Store, you don't close up a line with only one other person standing there; and you don't NOT put your customer's purchases in a bag. Fucking ridiculous.

Karma allegedly kicked me in the ass, though, once I walked home to my apartment a few minutes later. Where I discovered that my red Christmas bow purchased from the same Dollar Store a few weeks earlier and taped to my front door had been torn down. Not just "blown off by the wind" --- Some of the strong tape and the top part of the bow were still there: Someone had ripped the thing off the door! The rest of the bow nowhere to be found.

What the fuck? And I'd come home in broad daylight. Who the hell would tear off a Christmas bow from a door on a 2nd-floor apartment during the day? Oh, other than the kids now on Christmas vacation running around... (I've never lived in a Section 8 complex before, which is exactly what this feels like, what with all the screaming kids and the black guy below me yelling at all hours. It's a fucking mess.)

Joan Crawford, 1959 (age 55)

 



Christmas Decorations

Who's the Fascist?

From Wikipedia's "Fascism" entry: "Fascist states pursued policies of social indoctrination through propaganda in education and the media and regulation of the production of educational and media materials."
[Pauley, Bruce F. 2003. Hitler, Stalin, and Mussolini: Totalitarianism in the Twentieth Century, p. 117; Payne, Stanley G. 1996. A History of Fascism, 1914–1945, p. 220]

I was searching for definitions of the word because of the onslaught of media outlets calling Trump a "fascist" because he'd called for a temporary moratorium on Muslims entering the U.S. until our officials "figure out what's going on" (i.e., get some control of our extremely porous borders).

Trump was exaggerating, as usual, but--as usual--he also had an overall good point: We need to better vet those who enter our country. (Similarly, Trump's summer comments about Mexico's sending us "rapists and murderers" were in direct response to Kate Steinle's San Francisco murder by an undocumented Mexican who had been deported from the U.S. 5 TIMES already. San Francisco is a "sanctuary city," one of 31 in the U.S. which do not enforce federal immigration laws.)

I don't see anything "Fascist" about Trump's opinions. "Sloppily expressed," yes. "Fascist" or "racist" -- I don't think so.

On Chris Matthews' MSNBC show tonight, Matthews and one other guest also called Trump a fascist because he'd earlier called for the deportation of those in the country illegally. ILLEGALLY. I'm honestly puzzled by why calling for enforcement of the nation's laws is now considered "fascist."

This Wikipedia definition made me pause: "Fascist states pursued policies of social indoctrination through propaganda in education and the media and regulation of the production of educational and media materials." This didn't sound like Trump. What it sounded like, in fact, was what I've seen going on in the media recently REGARDING Trump. If someone attempts to express an opinion not endorsed by a very small, elite group, he's vilified. And not only is HE vilified, but his supporters are, as well. I don't know how many times I've heard condescendingly on various news programs that if I support Trump, I must be an "uneducated blue-collar male." (I have a Master's degree, I'm a woman and a feminist, I have a white-collar scientific editing job.)

So, who ARE these people calling Trump a fascist (while themselves "pursuing policies of social indoctrination through propaganda in education and the media")? According to FEC stats, 96% of professors at Ivy League schools who contributed to a presidential campaign in 2012 contributed to Obama. According to FEC stats, 95% of NEA members who contributed to a presidential campaign in 2012 did so to Obama. According to a 5/6/14 Washington Post article, 7% of journalists consider themselves Republicans.

Who, then, is "pursuing policies of social indoctrination through propaganda in education and the media"?

Manson Says

 

"I can't dislike you, but I will say this to you: you haven't got long before you are all going to kill yourselves, because you are all crazy. And you can project it back at me, but I am only what lives inside each and every one of you."

December 8, 1980

Every year, I remember. I was 15 on December 8, 1980; had just "discovered" Lennon's music the summer before.

My parents had always had a shitty, hate-filled relationship and I'd been forced to be around that low-level cruddiness all my life up until then...but December 8, 1980, was the first time I ever felt deeply, profoundly sad on my own. At the time, at 15, I didn't know how I would ever get over that feeling.

 

 

Junior Brown - Broke Down South Of Dallas

Holy War

When I was growing up in the '70s, I only knew intellectually, from books, about the wars between the religions. The Christian Crusades in the Middle Ages. The Muslim Jihad. I thought those days were long (and I mean LONG -- many hundreds of years) over. Not so. Aside from 9/11, which I thought was anomalous (and based purely on a left-over grievance from the creation of Israel), I haven't had to think at all about Muslims attacking me.

What with Paris and San Bernardino, though...ugh... The latter co-assassin a Middle Eastern radical Muslim state employee who'd been working among the co-workers he ultimately killed... I've never even thought of the concept of a "Holy War" before. That term formerly seemed extremely outdated and too-intense and not even applicable to anything going on today. But...but... I'm not even a practicing Christian, but I'm getting pissed off. At the constant documented random beheadings and stonings documented overseas. Which is terrible enough. But then you come HERE, to the Western world, to do your shit? ENOUGH, ALREADY. I don't give a fuck what you do or blow up in your own part of the world, but... don't come to the US and think you can pull off the same shit. SICK OF IT. You want a fucking old-school war between Christians and Muslims, like circa 1000? OK, then. Just wait. We've technologically developed just a little bit more than you have.

As a college student in the '80s, I debated intellectually over the morality of dropping The Bomb on Hiroshima... Easy to judge 40 years later. What about in the heat of the moment, though? Now is "The Heat of the Moment." I'm all for crushing the opposition. By whatever means necessary.

I just volunteered for my first Presidential campaign since 1984!

In 1984, when I was 19 and eligible to vote for the first time, I was a freshman at UT and worked excitedly for the Gary Hart campaign: Vice President of "Students with Hart" on campus, even a driver in Hart's official motorcade when he came to Austin (pollster Pat Caddell was in my back seat). I became a bit politically disillusioned upon attending the Young Democrats group meetings on the UT campus -- the majority of students in attendance that political season were for Hart, but the "lifers" finagled the campus endorsement for Mondale.

Since then, here's who I've voted for in the main Presidential election:

1984: Mondale (non-excited)
1988: Dukakis (non-excited)
1992: Clinton (excited!)
1996: Perot (protest vote against Clinton's sucking up to Defense interests; would have voted for Clinton had the election been forecast to be close)
2000: Gore (I voted for Republican McCain in the primaries)
2004: Kerry
2008: McCain (I voted for Democrat Hillary Clinton in the primaries)
2012: Obama

In 2016, I'm supporting Donald Trump. AND volunteering for him.

Why Trump?

Because illegal immigration is a problem. When Trump pointed out the problem, he was vilified by the media as being "anti-immigrant." When in fact, he'd just noted the need for border control for ILLEGAL (not "legal") immigrants. (As has also been pointed out since then: The United States immigration policy is more liberal than that of most other countries, including Mexico's.)

Because Trump blustered against corporations taking their jobs outside the USA and threatened to penalize those that did so. (I say "blustered" because it's not clear that a President could actually stem the flow of US jobs to foreign sources...but, as an editor who lost a job to outsourcing 10 years ago, I'm grateful to him for pointing out the problem.)

Because Trump is utterly independent. Candidates like Marco Rubio and Jeb Bush who stand for nothing and who are backed by corporate moguls make me sick.

Because Trump was sane enough to decry the idiocy of Bush's post 9/11 overthrow of Saddam Hussein, pointing out, correctly, that Hussein did NOT have "weapons of mass destruction" and that, had Hussein remained in power, he would have kept a lid on Islamic terrorists like ISIS now operating freely out of the country.

Because, over the summer, when I argued with my boss about Trump, she said, "Do you really want someone like that dealing with foreign leaders?" And when I thought about it for just one second, I came up with: "YES! Yes... A tough, extremely competent sonofabitch is EXACTLY who I want dealing with foreign leaders like Putin, et al. And EXACTLY who I want negotiating trade deals for our country."

Beach Boys - Never Learn Not To Love - 1968

This is the reconfiguration of the "Cease to Exist" song written by Charles Manson (see previous entry below).  Performed here on TV by the incredibly passive Dennis Wilson and the Beach Boys. (Manson initially gave the song to his friend Wilson; Wilson re-did the thing generically in an attempt to sell it commercially -- and deleted Manson's sole song-writing credit.)

 

Charles Manson "Cease to Exist" (1967)

Manson played "Cease to Exist" for Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys, who turned it into "Never Learn Not to Love" the next year. See the above for Wilson's crappier, more generic version of the song.
 

 

We'll just see about this...

Your love horoscope for December 2, 2015
	Something's going to make you a very happy person today. You have long desired that a special person in your life would make a firmer commitment to you. Now it seems that this is precisely what they intend. You will find that although they often seem very quiet and reflective, once they give their word, they will do their utmost to keep it.

Charles Manson 1967: Arkansas

 

 

Spirographs

I had a dream a few days ago that life/death cycles were like a series of loops leading back to a center. When I woke up, I saw the image that had been revealed, but I couldn't find it expressed online. The first below is a similar representation, of a Spirograph image. The main difference here is that the inner points of the loops lead out to other loops, whereas in my dream, they first led directly to the core before looping out again. The second image is probably more representative, though much cruder. The third image might be the more complicated reality, if indeed anything about the dream indicated reality.

 

 

 

 

Weird passive-aggressive shit

Just in time for the Thanksgiving holiday...

Yawn. Brother and Mother both live within a 2-mile radius of me. I don't have a car. (I sold it in 2007 when I moved to NYC; since I moved back to Austin in 2010, I haven't had enough spare income to get a new car, and am doing fine with public transportation without one.)

Where the weird shit comes in:

Let me first take you back to a Thanksgiving in the early '90s: My brother and I both lived in Austin, my mom in San Antonio, an hour away, south of Austin. My brother lived further north than me, so the initial plan was for him to pick me up so we could drive on south to San Antonio. Only, he got it into his head that I should drive north to his apt, so we could then drive south... Uhhh... No. Common sense said that he should have headed on south and picked me up and headed further south to San Antone.

Recently, a similar issue popped up: A birthday celebration this summer for my nephew at a pizza place a mile up the road. "A mile up the road" is nothing for a car. But for me walking for 15 minutes in 100-degree Texas heat? I turned up at the pizza place with my hair and face sopping wet because my brother didn't want to pick me up at my apartment a mile away.

For tomorrow's Thanksgiving, my brother has again refused to say when he'll pick me up to take me to my mom's for our meal. My mom says that the meal will be served around 4pm. And I told her that there's no way that she, since she's doing all of the work, should have to come pick me up.

My brother's waving his dick around. And there's absolutely no reason for doing so. I absolutely hate this kind of weird shit. (It's already been 100% clear to me for a while that once my mother is gone, I'll be completely alone in the world. It's creepy, though, to have my brother drive the point home ahead of time.)

Joan Crawford, 1960.