Another great-voiced vixen
with nothing interesting to do with it.
E Me
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you can keep the pentagon
keep the propaganda
keep each and every tv
that's been trying to convince me
to participate
in some prep school punk's plan to perpetuate retribution
perpetuate retribution
even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution
is still hanging in the air
and there's ash on our shoes
and there's ash in our hair...
("Self-Evident", Difranco. Read the whole thing.)
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Wednesday, August 03, 2005
So we're saddled in what ironically resembles a web of trapeze bars at the pimped out little park down the street from my house. I told him everything - before, and just now, the latest greatest chapter of my shit.
I hate secrets.
I hate having them. I have one. But I really want to share my writing about what's been going on. I think it's important. Also, wicked interesting. But really important. I don't mean to have a secret, but I've learned it's more respectful sometimes to just shut it, because the person you geyser to/at may feel really uncomfortable, regardless of how "comfortable" you are with the self-disclosure.
The rejection and judgement, there's that too.
Plus, I said, "mostly it's the fear that some ex will stumble upon my disclosures and use it against me. "
He says something that amounts to BFD. "Isn't it worth more to you than that?"
I pried my ass off the chain ladder we had been slung in, while he picked up a call on his cellphone. I guess that's that, I thought. I dont even think I remember how to get to that blog thing anymore. shit. wtf was that password? shit.
So, here's the answer to
"Where have you been?"
"What have you been up to?"
"How are you?"
"Enjoying summer(/spring/winter/fall)?"
"What did you do this weekend?"
"I heard you were out 'sick' - have fun?"
"How are you and C?"
and other questions I failed to answer honestly, if I was around at all to be asked.
No obligation to comment if we meet,
no inhibitions about asking about it, either.
It's nothing but the truth.
________________________________________
10:23 PM
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
today i am eating pasta in a red pepper sauce. it takes the place of tomato sauce, which i can't eat anymore because of the GERD. It involves TOFU. but i put it in a blender with red peppers, and forget it was ever tofu.
it also has fresh parsley and cilantro and peas in it. with a side of edamame. I'm eating well these days, cooking like it's my job. I miss junk food tho.
i pigged out on forbidden foods and drinks last weekend, and set myself back a good four months as far as my esophogus ever healing goes.
i have no will power.
and there is no place to hide from chocolate.
last night i cried, listening to our president. i cant believe he's the president of our country. "our country wudn't in war capacity then."
"mr president, why are you a nutjob? will you ever admit to all the crap you've screwed up for our country?"
"We are doing the right thing. I told you. Osama Bin Laden was a bad bad man, and he hated us. The people of Iraq are happy now. I'm not doin the work of spreading Freedom as something from the U.S.; this is the work of the Almighty. 9/11, 9/11, 9/11..."
And I have artwork about all my feelings regarding this American mess, but i'm afriad to make it. I'll be spit on. Arrested. I don't think many of the people shaking their fists, waving flags, and barking about Freedom know jack shit of the beauty of our country, compared to what I've been blessed to experience of it. How many people have lived with families from all over the US, taking little snapshots of what it means to be an American? You CAN"T do that, all experienced in the context of an international cultural organization, and not be a "patriot". Does Bill Moyers have a blog?
my website blows. i cant get online at home to change it. but now i need to get my She's Crafty site up. I'm been crafting like a motherfucker and i need to merchandise the shit. And my five fifteen friends can buy my fifteen items d'art and i can move on to my next career.
speaking of lounge singing, the Not the Poppies are gearing up for a stellar show at the Plough in May. May 6. Three hours of Variety. Bacharach to George Micheal. I'm going to be eating rice cakes and warm water till then, to put my best throat forward for the three-set punkathon.
Also, Anita is coming to town. My mother. My mom has not visited me ever, besides the time she flew up to Derry New Hampshire to see me in the Up With People show. I saw her before and after the show, we took a picture, that was that. Otherthanthat, I've been guilted into going to FLORIDA (shivers) I think five times over the past ten years. I always dragged some innocent bystander along with me. Not one positive experience to speak of. But this visit will be cool. I'm all grown up now.
And she's all old now.
And it's my turf.
And yes, Bruce is coming, too.
Tickets will be on sale one week prior.
12:57 PM
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
I have my very own christmas tree.
It is a four foot balsam pine. it's decorated completely and i swoon in it's glow.
i am thankful for this, my home. my job, my health, my friends, and for all of the teachings of this year. I hope my wishes for peace and safety to all my brothers and sisters combines with all the rest that are out there this time of year, and that it works.
Over the holidays, while many of you are enduring homophobic relatives and material bombardments, I'll light some candles for the big me/you/they/one, all that's passed and to come.
merry christmas everybody!
3:10 PM
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
The Mahoney Cultural Index indicates it is once again chic to update one's blog.
I'm a follower.
Also, a friendster.
That, THAT, is some crazy crazy shit.
Friends of yours from your current life "asking for an introduction" to people you went to college with, years ago and states away. An old friend from high school is interested in a woman I have many naked chalk drawings of, from a figure drawing class my freshman year.
I know it would be rude to send in a testimonial for her page, but she DID have a really nicely shaped ass. For drawing, anyway.
Also, David Reese is married.
I figure, howthehell long is THAT gonna last, right?
As for whatall has come to pass since last I overdisclosed, well, uh... yeah.
I stopped writing b/c the stuff i wanted to write about, all FANTASTIC stories mind you, involve members of the incestuous scene around me and would therefore be damaging all around. I could sum it up, most of it anyway, with this:
more emotional hijinx with underdeveloped boys in young mens' bodies. Musicians,of course. To them I say,
"good luck with that."
I could actually use names, since one chap rolled his eyes upon hearing i had a blog, and indicated he had no interest in reading it. Ever. "Please" endquote.
Um, neener, neener, neener - bad sign. It's not-so-secret-code for "shut up and blow me, beotch."
So , THATS cool.
Also, I am a different person from the GERD.
I no longer yell, or talk loudly, hoot n holler, belt, or really speak unless i have to.
Also, I no longer will eat all the shit everyone else at the table has leftover. No more disposal-mouth; i have a list of about three things I am supposed to be able to eat without setting my esophogus ablaze. I never saw myself as the "restricted diet" typa girl. Restricted anything, really. I mean, wtf is "resisting temptation" about, anyway? I never got that. I'll either learn, or have some sketchy surgery, if i ever wanna sing again. Till then, it's pretzels and water. Pretzels and water.
Also, I read that Freud had an intense phobia of Trains.
Also, it took me two months to find my password to post this. who the hell puts a hyphen after word? just hanging out there, like some kind of letter erection, pointing the way to devolution. or something.
1:43 PM
Thursday, March 27, 2003
I feel so old today.
I guess I have learned something from people acting like grownups around me - and their mistakes. Because today I am leaving town, leaving The Situation, even though in myhead it seems an absolute non-option. But the bigger, more animating force is that staying is not an option. I love Larry. But I am tired. And over the course of many many phone calls to friends-of-the-friend, I have heard enough "you have done enough" to get me through packing my bag at 11:30 last night.
If I stayed, I would have no more answers than i have now - I can't tell what is best, I can't tell what is true, what is lies, what is smart, what is most desireable, what is not my business. I feel so old, but not old enough to confront Larry about the contents of his glass and call the hospital.
When I get back, i hope Larry's New Life has finally really started.
Thanks to those I'm leaving this mess to - I'm very very very sorry, and I think the old-person angel (that got larry home at all the other night, that turns of the burners and blows out candles), like the teenager-miracle , will carry things through for everyone. I'm obviously hoping so.
Thanks to the folks who have surprised me with sincere support. It has taken up the bulk of the foggy, brief journalling from the last 24 hours, and that's prob all I'll take from this when it's left to memory. Thanks you guys.
11:29 AM
Monday, March 24, 2003
I was calling his best friends, who were going to pick him up from detox at the hospital, to tell them I needed a Larry Break. These two months have been really hard. I just wrote all about it - it was really long - and my big fingers hit some random key on my laptop and i was suddenly in Hotmail and it's all gone. I'm about ready to throw my computer. Anyhow, maybe it will help just to say that instead of talking to them, an overly medicated Larry picks up their phone - he took a cab from the hospital and is looking for his keys. He is making no sense, and I'm sure he can hardly see straight. I tell him to hang out till they get home. Stay over. But he's driving home as soon as he finds those keys. He hangs up, I search in vain for anyone else to call, to get over there, in Waltham. I call back. Maybe I can play tricks on him and stall him until they get home. But the machine picks up. I know if he hears me saying "dont let him drive" he'll pick up and they'll never hear it. So I try to talk fast and secretively. What if he already left? Nah, I bet they justgothome and are talking to him. They'd never let him leave. He'll never find the keys. I'm pissed. It's not that he's dumb. Larry is smarter than anyone I know. It's that he can be an asshole. Plain and simple.
I call back. Machine.
Fuck. I call my house, looking for a message from his friends, maybe i can find them. Nope.
I leave for dance class, the whole train ride getting madder at Larry. He could die. On the first fucking day of his proclaimed "new life." Detox'd, new home, and he just HAD to drive home.
And what did I do to stop him? I yelled at him, and hoped.
When I gethome at 9:30, I'm relieved to see no lights on. He stayed. I bet he fell asleep standing in their kitchen or something.
I'm feeding Clementine when I see flashing lights in front of our house. FUCK- fucking LARRY is hobbling alongside the towtruck, his car attached. No broken glass. Headlights in tact. He broke down. The radiator's bad on the car - I bet he overheated and they found him on the highway. Or maybe the cops pulled him over and put him in a tow truck home. When I saw he was fine, teetering toward the house in his beret and purple ski jacket, I got wicked pissed again. I hid in my room to calm down for a minute. I met him in the kitchen.
"Why did your car get towed, Larry?"
"It had an accident."
He proceeds to explain how someone was "crowding him" and he moved an inch too far to the left and clipped a parked mercedes.
"I'm just curious, why were you driving again? I believe I suggested you NOT GET IN THE CAR, because you were in NO SHAPE to drive..."
"I'm just a bit groggy from the medication..."
I stormed into the bathroom and abused my gums. Don't brush angry.
I opened the door. "Did you kill anyone?"
"Not that I know of."
I hugged him goodnight and said "i'm glad your ok, and I think you're an asshole."
" Thank you, and thank you."
and his head dropped back to his chest.
I stopped at the foot of the stairs. His head was still down, the kettle was boiling.
"Turn off the fucking kettle!"
"goodnight."
AHHHHHHHHHHHH.
I feel overwhelmed. We said he'd start his new life, for real, tomorrow.
But even not medicated, and off booze - old people's memory is cued visually, and new settings can really throw a person into trouble. How can I not feel responsible for him - his new place, thank god, is three blocks away. But if he's gonna be doing dumb shit like cooking at 4am and driving when he's too tired, whatthe fuck can I do? People are fucking age-ist - i've mentoined that. So they think all old people are nuts. Larry isn't nuts. He gets tired, and doesn't function well when he's tired. So I get pissed, cause I feellike he's just being a stubborn ass, making dumb decisions bacuse he doesnt "feel" like admitting he needs to be more careful. He's so in denial thathe's seventy. And I, obviously, have no more patience for it.
Since my 27th bday i have found my first grey hairs.
I realize every day, thatthere are many. I was just never looking for them before. New little ones are alfalfa sprouting in the front.
These are from Living With Larry.
I don't have kids. I could...I mean, atthis age. Maybe I should. I will. But I choose NOT to.
I thought I chose NOT to.
This feels like having a kid, only not. A kid I didn't ask for, that didn't come from my body. I just wanted a friend.
One guy in my life I never thought "geez, grow the fuck up" about.
I'm learning a lot, I guess. And I'm trying. And mind you, this is venting. I love Larry, and he is an awesome friend. And if he stays off the liquor, it will be great to have him back.
I'm just tired.
10:45 PM
last night i dreamt that i cut me some wicked short bangs, and my hair got blond and curly like a baby-dolls. then i was at a self-help workshop by Sark, and we were told to draw something illustrating the word "rocks", in the sense of something being cool/it rocks. It should represent ourselves, and a past association with this phrase. I wanted to draw either BamBam from the Flintstones, or a cartoon of a heavy-metal-type rockstar me. the last one seemed too involved, and for the first one i needed an image, and this girl had a cereal box of Fruity Pebbles she was copying Pebbles from, but BamBam's image was only in cereal flakes, so i couldnt get a good enough likeness. time was running out, and i'm supposed to be "the one who can actually draw" and i don't have shit to show. I was pretty upset, and Sark was unimpressed. i hid behind the buildings and played with these hugely fat cute bulldogs.
be glad i dont do this every day. i could. i dont.
10:07 AM
Friday, March 21, 2003
I was there, downtown, last night. And let me tell you, there were THOUSANDS, not hundreds.
And we were loving our country - not the parades and the stripes and the SUV's. The gorgeous lives.The people. The poor kids who weren't given any option but to "serve their country" if they wanted any kind of future (plus, you get to be a Hero). The better-off kids in grown-up bodies who weren't told of any option but to "defend Freedom" if they want any sense of purpose and any experience of gigantic selfless love. Patriots hoping to reach through a network camera to shake our sibling sleeping patriots. There were SO MANY of us. And SO MANY of us weren't even there...
And we were peaceful, to the point off grossness. More "excuse me, sorry" in the crowds than Filene's Basement ever heard. Angry as all hell, we were peaceful. Maybe we were scared. It seems at this point everybody knows someone who was chewing gum, holding a sign, singing a song, and had their teeth kicked in by a cop. At any rate, we were peaceful.
And the cops, godblessem, were with us. For a while, anyway. They weren't in angry moods, or they were progressives?, or they were simply not working for Fox 5 last night. Not while I was there. They shook hands with organizers. They read our signs and stood with their hands folded at ease as we snaked through the city.
And we were translating intention into huge sounds. Unison, sent out to ourselves and the universe, it seemed. And the folks watching from the fifteenth-story windows, waving, and the money people whose 20dollar plates were getting cold as they watched us from the sexy park plaza restaurants. Shifting choruses you could stand between, and hear a choral syncopation more moving than any tripped-up polyrythm. Drums. The bizarre massive moving ritual parade invigorated while soothing us with this huge warm relief - a feeling of sanity we miss in our circular hopeless rants and sarcastic diatribes over coffee and ceasar salads. There are so many of us.
And we were hoping for an effect. We were questioning the cameraboys - "dude, you should stand up here and get a shot of the crowd...why don't you get a shot of the crowd?" If we had given up on doing anything but pissing off our blinded comrades watching at home, we wanted to world out there to see our smokesignals; "maydaymayday, this isn't us. This isn't ours. We're sorry. we're sorry..."
There were 9 of them. "The American Sentiment" "the AMerican Public" was represented. 9 guys, waving little flags and wearing flag-motif bandanas outside the CVS they bought them in. Flipping the bird. At a few hundred people, just looking back at them. "USA! USA!" Anyone watch the Simpsons? I started us to chanting it right along with them (my big moment). They got confused, remembered their beers and left.
We sat in front of our TVs. We waited through WarTV. Fox5 mentions in the second half of the show, "College students took to the streets today to voice their opinions againstthe war..." A shot of a bunch of white kids looking around, shooting the shit. One interview with an effeminate Harvard student saying something really moving and thought provoking like, "We're here because we don't like the war. America is like, just, so wrong." A good shot of them taking over the bridge. No mention of the general rally, but rather that the college kids marched to downtown to protest there. NO images of the huge mass of people moving and acting as one - just fractured clips scored by that fool with the camera aimed at the ground, the back of the trailer, dispersing groups.
THe whole thing, about ten seconds.
Then , of course.
"Patriotic Bostonians made a showing at the protest to show their support for the US..."
THREE interview clips with 3 of the 10 bandana boys.
"These people aren't Americans..."
And that was it.
The whole devastating process of reality recreation right there in front of me.
Email from Chicago.
They were peaceful as all fucking hell. The police corral them, Manhattan-style, for a good shot of "riot containment", as the cops in riot gear push in from all sides on a crowd of folks, stunned and confused. My friend had never heard of this stuff - he was blindsided. First, he talked about being shoved, out of the blue, by a cops with sticks. (That failed - he's an Uppie. "I thought I told you, we're lovers, not fighters.") Just walking and singing. Then they started getting really physical, and split the crowd up as they tried to march onto another main street. "We were stuck in a group away from the rest of the protest - it was lame, and so random, after a while we figured we should just sit down - they wouldn't let us join the others, and they wouldn't let us go home. A mother with twin girls, about 8 years old, begged that they let her take them home. These cops wouldn't even say a word! They just stood there! It was so bizarre, it was almost funny. Until it wasn't. We were pissed off and tired and cold, and we just wanted to go home..." They eventually started chanting "let us go home". Much later, they started pulling people up, and arresting them. "We're following orders." People were freaking out.
That's the footage of the arrests you saw.
Then, they let them out of the handcuffs and told them if they didn't go right home, "we will really arrest you."
At least the protests "exist" according to TVland - even if the info is fucked, the numbers are halved... it's something.
But something that sounded really nuts and evoked some "OOOOkay" laughter from the crowd last night suddenly made sense to me.
"We're gonna really have to fuck things up - make this country ungovernable to see any results."
2:51 PM
Thursday, February 27, 2003
(i have been trying to post weeks. Blogger is fuct, and also, who puts a Hyphen after a word for a password??)
Fred Rogers.
1928-2003.
Born in Latrobe (no doubt a Rolling Rock man)- puppeteer, composer, and my greatest inspiration/ role model for working with children. If I had thought I were cooler, I'd call us kindred spirits.
This is My genius:
"I feel the greatest gift we can give to anybody is the gift of our honest self."
"We have to remember to whom the airwaves belong, and we must put as great an emphasis on the nurturing of the human personality as we can," he said.
"Of course, I get angry. Of course, I get sad. I have a full range of emotions. I also have a whole smorgasbord of ways of dealing with my feelings. That is what we should give children. Give them ... ways to express their rage without hurting themselves or somebody else. That's what the world needs."... "I have a very modulated way of dealing with my anger. I have always tried to understand the other person and invariably I've discovered that somebody who rubs you the wrong way has been rubbed the wrong way many times."
"The whole idea is to look into the television camera and present as much love as you possibly could to a person who might feel that he or she needs it."
That was Fred's gift, especially to children: total attention, complete respect, immediate and unconditional love.
My hero.
And that,
in addition to the fact that I can't write music or play an instrument well,
defines my calling in this life.
I'm considering a tattoo of Fred to remind me of this, for those times when I get distracted by the offers to tour with Paula Cole.
I feel a bit like I did the day I found out the Up With People organization was calling it quits.
Scared. Who's keeping our culture from spiralling into hell? Another "at least there's always ______" bites the dust. A little hopeful throw-back to when more people gave a shit about the human family.
Now we have, um, moveon.org.
That's not really fun, or kid friendly, or colorful.
When I get my own PBS daily, called "Slow the Frick Down", please send money for the spacecoaster and wig. and the Frick.
12:42 PM
Saturday, January 11, 2003
ohhh mercy. (that's the confession of BWI - blogging while intoxicated).
i KNOW it's gotten OLD....but it's YET ANOTHER tribute to visiting woman-friend that provokes the online journal-geys (verb for geysering).
JESSICA. godBLESSer. I know I've said it before, but fuck if it aint true. I have really gotten "in touch" and even comfortable with the truthful aloneness of Being lately. It's been a really powerful thing. Disappointments have really helped. Anyhow, that being said, truly my one real Goal in Life atthis juncture is to have true friends around me. Even just one. No career stuff, no stardom, certainly. Friendship. My terms for this seem to be a bit much for the ones I find around me right now. And that's ok. But when these drop-ins happen, I really start to think about location. I have made a living out of leaving-behind before being left, and now I'm thinking it's time for a Returning. I need a Jessica. Not much to ask for - a friend who gets the bouncer to bus us drinks, goes to law school, or other things I can't imagine doing. Someone who tells you shit as it is from their perspective, without apology, knowing you disagree. ("You shoulda done 'this' for your show. I mean, you looked ok, but it looked like, well, you weren't Trying. And people like to enjoy looking while listening.")(..."this" being doing something strange with my hair and thinking it's very guy-turnoffish, and wearing lipstick. For the first time ever at a bar, someone guessed my correct age right away, and the bouncer guy also said I looked my age, versus the usual, "shit, I thought you were about 17!" HUh. wtf.) ANyhow, sitting near someone who knows your history - what do I need to say about that? Don't cringe, but it IS "healing". I don't get that frantic classroom-feeling where I have so much to say but I can't even raise my hand cause what's the point. Jessica moved back to Indiana for law school as soon as I internally declared her my best-friend-to-expect-understanding-from-and-love-talking-to-about-real-shit. We met at 11 atTirNaNog. My roommate has often said something about this subway musicain, Tom Bianci. There was some cirque-du-bar-band ooompa happening in the back of the bar that would have been bizarre and irritating had it not been in a crowded bar or a subway. It was the said Tom. He had that successful subway performer way of working the crowd relentlessly, keeping everyone engaged in spite of them and their hook-up missions. We agreed it was good soundtracking. He came over and shmooozed a bit. I'll withhold the ironic banter about how musicians need to date musicinas, cause they understand, about the whole never being available and flirting drunkenly every night of the week. Quite nice, great horrid chorderoy shirt. I have no clue how to spell that. Am taking bets on whether or not he will actually unearth my card, recall the conversation, and email info about the open mic he's overseeing in Waltham. The band was good too, and the old guy (we played the Guess My AGe game - SO loaded, it's bizarre. Imean, I have NO idea. ANd whatever you say, they (I) feel some major reaction. I was STUNNED the guy in orange guessed my age right off that bat, while Jessica was insulted to be estimated to be as "old" as I am, while the bassist is having some pre-34th bday reaction to being guessed at 23, which I quickly followed with 31...like I said, I have no idea.) ANyhow, one of them was wearing my orange chrod-er-oy pants, orange shirt, and "gradiated" orange socks. Kinda had the effect of the candy necklace atthe Halloween party. Only instead Jessica and I collected all tww of their promotional stickers and headed out, second only to the band and the tolken Random after closing time. We said a warm goodbye in Union square, temp 9 degrees. She headed toward the castle and I started running toward Dane.
Hoping orange-guy-with-flair-for-creating-fonts would pull up alongside and offer me a ride. Nope. Fucking cold night dude. Butthat place isn't far at all. Must return. IWth SHirley. With.
Oh and another thing. BECKI. ANother visit. We went to middle school and high school togetehr. But as she says, in HS she regretfully went off to hang with the sporty popular people, while the Deadbeats continued their own breed of creativity-based highjinx. We met up during a back-to-hometown-drink-with-school-buddies weekend, and reconnected like we shoulda always been freinds, and have kept in touch since. Anyhow, really sitting down and talking with her, albeit over the din of Ohio State beating I think Miami in some Waterfront or something bar, I really had some intense moments of WOWEE, what a human being. I remembered my thoughts of her from the slumber parties. Over-reacting and always pulling insane attention-getting stunts bordering "dirty". I know have an entirely different understanding of that. Becky was and is intensely alive. We were stuck in this half-bakedness of thirteen. TV did it to our brains. Becky was as she is today, only without the words or perspective the last ten years have contributed. SHe was so interested. In everything. In that way that is contageous. If I could continue our conversation about what is garnered from the experience of being on Teams versus Performing, what drives both, what is common to both - we could have gone on for hours. Except there were these sports-fan guys yelling around us, and we got distracted. Anyhow, like the others, I learned a lot from Becky just in that few hours. Then I headed out into the freezing snowy oblivion and thought about it all.
Thanks to friends who came out to Passim this week. A new Voices on the Verge should happen with our little glee club of winners in that New Faces Show, and it will be called "Wicker Nut Basket". I love those people. We each had something really different to say, but I really loved everybody's stuff, and I think we all felt thatway. Well, I actually have no idea what that Phillip Bell was thinking. WHich sucks, because I am fairly tied in knots about his writing and how badly I feel I want my lyrics to come out through his musical style. After hearing my usual set of imitative whatnot, I just don't think he'd believe me if I approached him about it. In the back room, the consensus in response to my whining was "keep trying". Patty said the same. SO did Kate Pierson. "Keep singing".
mmkay.
2:53 AM
Tuesday, December 17, 2002
So after a little singer-songwriter shindig I get a call from a friend of one of the guys there, asking if I'd be interested in doing some vocals on his album. I'd heard the guy, and he was pretty good - countryish, but the consensus was that "our sounds would blend". I guess I had on my country voice that night. eesh. Anyhow, I'm immediately aware of the Double. I'm not just a musician, I'm also an "opportunity" of the lecherous sort, to male musicians. For some reason, if your a woman and you perform, you are doubly offering yourself as an object to all in the room. As if that's what you're in it for. What happens is, the guy approaches you about collaboration. You can't immediately flee out of suspicion, because %80 of the people on the scene are men. So you put your best "i'm SOOHOOOOO not interested in you" foot forward while checking out the prospects for the musical whatever - a new friend is out of the question in these situations. Forget it. You're never even in that realm of possibility. It seems super plutonic and safe enough, so you venture to the stage of the "lets meet up" email or second conversation. It is soon after this that you are through. Over. Cause the guy gets the frying pan over the head that you won't be headed to his place, EVER, and the true colors show through. Not just in an "ahhh - I thought so" way. In the pycho bastard way. In such a way that I will never give out my phone number or email. In the scared-to-walk-alone way.
My intuition was right. As I was second guessing the gig, the guy is turning weird. I email him and bail. Not lying, but not telling him to fuck off either. He's married, with kids, a millionaire, and he thinks he's god's gift to women. Also, it seems , a doglover. Here's the email he sent me. (keep in mind, the second paragraph is about his wife).
Bridget,
My neighbor has this dog that they took in from this shelter. It's a beautiful sheltie. But it is really intimitated of people. Especially people that my neighbor surmises are of similar shape to the person or persons that abused this dog prior to his new home. All I can do is try and be as kind as I would be to any animal, but it won't come close enough to engage. In some way I feel sort of slighted and left to blame for something that I don't represent or have had any responsibility for. But there you have it. The dog just runs away...
... and I don't get the chance to appreciate her.
It's horrid that the dog encountered circumstances to make her that way. It's a Fucking shame.
Now I already have a dog that wakes me up in the middle of the night and nuzzles his nose into my lap when I'm trying to play guitar or do some other activity. I couldn't give my whole heart to too many dogs cause I wouldn't be able to give them the attention they require. But I do like dogs. I like to watch them in the midst of the silly things that dogs do so well. So in some way, in those brief moments my heart does go out to other dogs. But I seriously just try to stick with my one dog. It's just a pity my dog can't sing as well as you.
Now you may say that you are partial to cats, but that's really not the issue. I do care for you, because you have this spirit that you wear on your sleave with such pride. I can see how it might have come to have been abused. You can tell me to fuck off now, but I still would think good things about you.
Peace,
Here's a hint to all you cunning wolves out there:
Steer clear of the DOG comparison. Even better, don't even THINK of women as say, pets.
While I'm at it, here's a doozy I got from a songwriter I was SURE was NO WAY thinking we were at ALL "date" material - first of all, I thought he was asexual, secondly, he's like 50. Anyhow, he says he works where I work and gets lunch where I do - we should meet up. It's a friendly scene, so I say sure, thinking how unlike me it it. Good For You, B.
He sends five emails in two days. I call off the lunch. Here's what I get:
Subject:Life
Hi Bridget: I don't mind putting off meeting you til like next week;but your suggestions on taking an "organic" "casual" route are ...well, transparent. I don't want to meet at open mics anymore, at least not for a while. I've been playing them for 7, 8 years. The suggestion about running into each other @ (said lunch joint) was downright ludicrous. If you feel challenged, if you don't wanna make any committment, I can accept that. Or maybe it's just not the right time for either of us.
(horror movie knife stab violin sound).
YEAH.
ANother musician at that party was doing some accompanyment for the main performer. We talked - he's into doing stuff like that, and would love to try playing together sometime. Perfect. I come out of the bathroom and he's already got my name on paper, pen ready for number. I gave it . ACCCK. too late. "we can talk about music..." (relief, as he gets the last digits) "...and stuff".
I've fucking had it.
5:28 PM
Sunday, December 15, 2002
I may have mentioned that on Sundays, the office is quiet. the Museum itself is pretty quiet on Sundays lately, too. I just spent fourty minutes shredding half-sheets of paper, dropping it into the blender, adding two cups of water, IceBreaker, IceBreaker,Liquify, and pour. For fourty minutes. The room is set up for papermaking, I'm just waiting for 2pm. I wander into the back room. THERE IS A BIG FREEZER, FULLY STOCKED WITH ICECREAM BACK THERE. In MY artstudiobackroom. It's like the icecream man parked his truck and tossed me the keys - snoopy pops, chipwiches, neopolitan bars...
Do YOU believe in Santa Claus???????????
It's as true as the sugary milkfat on my face. (where's that webcam?).
Holy happy, batman. I believe I'm levitating.
1:43 PM
Larry gives me rides to work on Sunday, and to Mahoney's on Fridays (back in the day - I think we just saw the last of those. Had I realized it at the time, I would have stolen a Big Red Plate, or a son or something, to remember it all by.). Anyhow, this Friday Larry's radiator fluid was spewing all over Harvard Street (guy approaches car, taps on window. "you have radiator fluid gushing out of your car". Larry: "We don't want any.") So he came into moe's while the engine cooled down. First, an exchange on old radio production. (This is when I realize how much Larry is like my boyfriend - I'd forgotten about that scene- the first time you introduce your man-cub to your male friends, and they transform - they enter this mode,and immediately start discussing cars, electronics, etc. Well, actually I don't think any of my boyfriends were alpha enough for all that, but they tried.Even funnier.) Then I showed Larry the kitchen set - forgetting the Stove entirely - this is what he's really interested in. Larry has his dream oven. He catered for a couple of decades, and he somehow scored this huge, double-oven, gas stove from the fifties. Since he's been evicted, he has to let go of it, like he has just about everything else he's lovingly collected over the last fifty years. Anyhow, Moe's set up aint too shabby. So Larry checked that out and shot the shit, kicking the tires, popping the hood... just a matter of time before he popped the question..."Joe, you need any gear? I'm sure I have some cast-iron you may be interested in..." Check it.
Larry says this morning in the car "Well, looks like I only have one nice iron griddle for JoeMontana, but it should serve him well."
He's good. Since I mentioned the nicknames yesterday, he's managed to call him Joemontgomery, joeybaloney, and during a lull in conversation, he laughs - "Zamboni. That's a good one." Larry's old habit of calling moe Montgomery has opened up the whole renaming, just when it was slowing down. Now we're really talking shaving cream on the ear.
11:38 AM
Monday, December 02, 2002
Today's Trip:
"INTERGALACTIC COLLAGE"
Giant sheet of shiny, holographic disco mylar with two-sided contact paper over the face of it, so the entire surface is tacky (also, sticky). Dumped every kind of shiny, bright or otherwise coveted paper all over the table - all the stuff kids usually find a scrap of somewhere in the heap, and have to be pulled out of the ceiling tile aferwards. (secret: we actually have rolls of it). Add wacky-edge scissors and a paper crimper and little kids eyes are rolling back in their heads, drool pooling everywhere. Spaceships, spacegrass, space cats, space couch. One kid slams a circle of gold mylar with arms and legs on and stoops down in front of it, his face inches from the paper. "It's a ALIEN with a CHRIS BODY" (his name was chris - it made a warped reflection of his face on the belly). Also, "I made a space boy with pink puffs on his feet. because we don't know what aliens are like, so we can guess whatever we want. I'm thinking puffy slippers" - sarah, age 34. I had three grown ups come into the studio to find me sitting behind a heap of tissue paper and silver streamers and glue sticks - each said "you have THE job." Even though yesterday I was close to tears in my last printmaking workshop because of a visitor lacking her Certificate of Sanity, I can't argue today. Call now for your own Intergalactic Art Adventure Kit. Beastie Boys sold seperately.
Poppies practice tonight. I don't think I can fit on the green train with my guitar AND my Arctic Warmer UberCoat (larry).
Also, Ying, my roommate, has left the last note : she's moving out Jan first.
Huh - Larry is homeless as on Jan 1st.
P A R T AY !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HEY EVERYONE (not you) come on over!!!!!
1:53 PM
Sunday, December 01, 2002
This has gotten old:
Girl-friend (with HUSBAND. ?wha?? we'll call him boyfriend so you dont get the wrong idea) comes to town for a day and I am "levitated". This time it was Carrie. So, thanks carrie. We EVEN got our hairs cut. (if you could see me, you'd squint, skeptically. then i say "i try and get 'em to make it look like i didnt get it cut. "ahhh.that makes sense.") . I shopped on Dont Buy Anything Day. I decided the Poopies, er poppies, demanded accessories. I think I had like 10 smirnoff ices between four and twoam. We got rejected by ManRay - they had a "trict" unpublicized All Black dress code that night. Carrie and I unzipped to reveal matcching all-sequin butterfly disco blouses. "no." Their loss. So we were convinced by the fool on the street outside the middle east that the corner would indeed be "happening" in an hour, and we could dance to the hip hop dj there. we tried. usually, it's our bread and butter to make asses of ourselves nefore the party gets started (the party which, in fact, WE got started). But in this case, it really hurt. I had to keep my sequins cocooned. Then Carrie chose drama over fun, and she and husband wentto the back of the club, leaving me teetering with rob's cousin and brother. "SO, HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR JOB?" we eventually gave up and left with a flourish. Good thing we walked past the sign that said "COME IN AND SHAKE WHAT YOUR MAMA GAVE YOU". it was like a sign on the yellow brick road offering a magic mushroom. we bit. it was packed, so we had no qualms freeing the butterflies. It kept the assholes off, for the most part. i didnt know any of the songs, 'cept the eminem song from the movie, and Prince, which didnt even play long enough for us to get up on the bench and throw down some synchronicity. There was broken glass under our feet and for some reason, everyone kept nudging me toward the dancing eighty year old.
Now I'm at work. I am nervous about this week. My guitar-playing finger nail is gone. i tried playing witha pick last night and ended up writing a terrible song. I have not even thought about my feature up in Natick this thursday. the poppies will be yet another memory - glory days bygone - but "my rep on the folk scene" will be waiting for me on friday morning. "put yourself in your happy place". i have to remember to try that this time. as for tuesday, i'll put myself in my whisky-doused place. Or at least i'll say i will, since i'm likely to be happy and carefree (no longer confined in a room with boys and daggers) and mobaloney will insist i'm TANKED and deLErious on PROzac, regardless. Also, I have to say I'm drunk to justify getting into another fistfight with that GRRRL. (no link).
10:59 AM
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
The other day, I spilled my whole file-case of the nov.68 photos while boarding the red line.
Old ladies in front of yard trees, anonymous babies on pea green couches, bridesmaids in day-glo blurs... one guy gets up to help me at least get clear of the closing doors and says "a laaahhhhta memories heyah." So true.
Yesterday on the train this gorgeous asian american Oberlin person steps on and recognizes me right away. We'd met at some alumni event last October, and she'd mentioned she played violin and might be interested in trying something with me if I wrote anything needing some sort of something. I lost my page of "numbers I actually need" from my planner a while a go (that was a bad idea) so I figured she was lost forever (until I ventured to Davis square again. chances are i'd run into her after a while there i guess.Ober-pit that it is). So there she was. We chatted. She's been playing with some people. I'm glad I have "gigs" next week to talk about. Total illusion of music career. Make an ass of myself trying to categorize the Poppies. She says "actually, tonight I'm going to the CanTab - it's in- " "yeah, I know. I'll see you there."
We chat about what brings us to cantab. I mention unmentionables and that thing happens where I wonder how the fuck far I have to go to escape crap I'm trying to leave in the books. Who IS ths woman? How does she know aboutthat crap? Is there ANYONE from Oberlin who doesn't cringe on my behalf at the sight of a trapeze artist? I swear Ididn't even know this woman was at Oberlin when I was. Maybe she wasn't. Maybe it made the alumni magazine. I had to laugh, anyhow. SO while we talk these young college girls are fluttering beside me, and when the Oberlin woman gets off the train,one blurts out "sorry, we were eavesdropping a bit, um " I think, oh geez, please don't. Don't be a goupie of my ex, or a roommate of guy mendilow... But she just says "WE'RE going to club passim TOO!!!!" , to see a friend who's playing for the firsttime. They ask me about my music. Of course, do I play origionals. They were sweet.
So I gethome and my one roommate we are mostly at odds with (she and my other roommate are mid note-war) has filled the house with Chinese folks. Roommate B is guzzling wine and chainsmoking in the kitchen when I come in. Smoke coming outof her ears. The Chinese crew took a cue from Roommate A (i need to get the fortune cookie that translates "bitches are back - let's blow this joint.") and they all shuffle out, giggling. I run back out the door to get Larry's car, already nervous about nothing, plus now about driving (stick) in harvard square and getting parking, plus about singing. I'm a friggin ace at the shifting business though, so that was just exciting. I feel like I did driving when I was 17. Haven't had a car since then - could be why. ANyhow, found no parking, paid big money for confusing system across from Passim. Went in and was too passive about needing to go on early,just to promote Natick feature next week, so I was late in the short list. Sat with the cite guy obsessed with the CowBoy life (his songs are 10 minutes long, with random southern accents, all mention doe-gees and dust) and Johna, this great woman I keep meeting, switches so I get to go fourth. I got super nervous and stuttered about the poppies gig in case anyone was feeling anti-folk next tuesday (noone laughed) and begged for them to come to natick. disclosed that I bombed the first/lasttime i went because i was so nervous. Played Glutton of Sympathy by the Jellyfish. Guitar sound in monitor was horrendous and distracting. "Keep going - it probably sounds great out in the house." sure. gotthe hell outta dodge after having world rocked by tara greenblatt, goddess. Gave up my cash to the parking guys and sped off to mahoneys for rehearsal. Took 25 minutes to get from harvard square to coolidge corner. I didn't stall once. Air Supply rattling the speakers. The cowboy guy and I were cussin' weather people for all their STORMWATCH hype. Now we'd never get any snow. "If I had my way, we'd wake up tomorrow, and there'd be a good four inches covering everything..." we talked about snow silence.
Practice was ok. I am wicked proud of myself for all the guitarcrap I've learned for JOe's songs. He just doesntreally give me the option not to learn it. Not that I've LEARNED it per se, but I can watch him and follow the patterns of hand movements. I'm glad I don't knoa any music theory - I think it would make it harder. Art says the great changes are counter intuitive - joe is yelling changes, transposing while he does it, then just saying "five, four, two, " or "g flat minor" while he's playing an e flat and my mind starts swirling. I am loving every minute of standing there playing that stuff, waiting for the times I'm supposed to sing. Hard not to dance around, but I think it's ok at the bar. Not in the basement. Mahoney would refuse to percieve it, and I'd knock the stack o keyboards over and Kramer myself in a pile of wires.
Anyhow, I am gonna practice my fingers off because I'm already feeling like a dartboard about this gig, and fucking up the guitar the whole time won't help any.
Then we took the cover design for the CD (nov 68) to the cantab. The band sounded pretty damn good,and were well dressed too. Good thing I know musicians egos well enough to not let that phase me. "They know." A bunch of people contributed editions of back-label text. Iliked Joe's scrawl the best. Nothing beats authenticity.Turns out Pandolfuck has a great font. but to the layman's eye, it read "joemahong". Who knows what edits zack will make at home on his gadgetry. Not the firsttime we have collaborated on cd labels he and I - same time of year, less stress now cause the favors not for me, and all i had to do was gluestick a color copy of a found photo, and scratch some letters on. No pulled down pants in snowy public. I think this cd is gonna be one of my prized posessions. Also, the same goes for the random from Indiana or wherever who overheard us popping off Crown of Jennifer downstairs and went all WHERE can i GET THAT on joe.
Then I got in a fight and put a girl in the tumorlock till she took back her nasty looks. and puked.
Then the guy made that special drink I love, and I was thinking , gee, quite a night. Right here in the lion's den. Joe and I took a few turns around the corner so as to enjoy some Air Supply,and to check out my stick shift moves. Then I sang airsupply to a wandering cop in the cantab back lot and he smelled it and gave us The Look.
Then I drove around my neighborhood in the snowiness and quiet (besides the blaring vocals of one gayhottie) for an hour looking to park larrys car in walking distance of his house. I decided I will in the future assert my right to peacefully crash (quietly, spontaneously attend) any party within three blocks of my house where almost everyone present and their mom were invited. It was like we all got into cars and the caravan was leading to my house, and then turned off a couple of blocks before. "ah. oh." I felt like I was in fifth grade again, when all my friends went hot air ballooning without me. Friggin weird and unfortunate - I REHEAAALY wanted to play in the snow. And it's 2am, and I'm up, and all these people are up, and theres all this fuckin SNOW, and you know, the great music, and I didnt want to go to bed. Also, i cant parallel park for shit. and there were two spots i could NOT swing that thing into. There was noone else in the world at that hour. 2am, and i'm getting out of the car, staring at the small empty space beside it. I finally found something that wasn't entirely illigal looking - it was just for five hours anyhow. Besides, everyones gonna be in such a great mood from the snow when they wake up, they won't tow any cars.
ANyhow, it was a great night.
But I wouldn't have minded, say, a different reality, without absurd amounts of weird bullshit circumstance taking up so many nights. When I first met pando and jrob, they were preparing to move to my hood. and i immediately looked forward to wrapping the place in contact paper-mylar in the middle of the night, or snow ambushes, etc. This morning I threw a snowball at the car of the yuppie who lives in the apartment below us. woooo. Larry's not as fun to fuck with - he's always one step ahead of me, and would enjoy it too much.
it took me like an hour to walk to harvard square. must install handrail along kirkland. it would serve drunks in summertime, too.
tomorrow, if all goes well, some place will accept my help. I may really feel like shit if no place will let me volunteer because i have not been registered with them, or trained. I worked as a volunteer in just about every setting, for five years, and I'm qualified now for everything. Except volunteering. Then I'll traditionally set myself down and give thanks till my head shrinks. I'm opting out of joing other families' gatherings things. Not sure why anyone would wanna feel out of place on any day that has special meaning to them. It's always been my thing to spend those times by myself. My friend said he was going home and his mom had been taking in "orphans" for the holidays since he flew the nest, so there was always an interesting crew. That rubbed me wrong. I will definately miss the turkey and stuffing. Man I love that meal. Send leftovers to this email address.
STAY TUNED FOR "THE BIG GIG"....
the Fleecing of Boston, film at 11.
4:18 PM
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
defeat. this "opportunity to post" when i can't really say any of the things i want to. sucks. youknow, i could go on "posting" the way i do in real life, face to face, to intimate strangers and the like, till I die. I'm beginning to think that if my brain ever gets untangled and I get my words back, and I REALLY say it - whatever it is that needs to be heard, it really won't do jack. Maybe I just want to hear things I never will. Making peace with yourself is murder - how do you stop looking to the ones who will only fail you for resolution? Maybe one day, you are ready to end the futile habit, and you just do. And the next day, it sticks. You're fixed forever.
And then you sleep on piles of cotton candy and have chocolate ice cream for breakfast and lunch.
1:54 PM
Thursday, November 21, 2002
With unfailing kindness, your life always presents
what you need to learn.
Whether you stay at home or work in an office or whatever,
the next teacher is going to pop right up.
-charlotte joko beck
In the garden of gentle sanity
May you be bombarded by coconuts of
wakefulness.
-chogyam trungpa rinpoche
1:30 PM
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
In the shadows
of tall buildings
the architecture
is slowly peeling
marble statues
in glass dividers
someone is watching
all of the outsiders
the line moves slowly
through the numbered gate
past the mosaic
of the head of state
In the Cathedrals
of New York and Rome
there is a feeling
that you should just go home
and spend a lifetime
finding out just where that is.
(jump little children)
thank you annie. thank you kathryn. thank you nat.
thank you MungWahbustours.
what an unlikely Homecoming.
Leaping over stools, tour jetes, singing the rafters to tears, drunken art/craft workshop.
Thankyouforlettinmebemyselfagain. Also, Somebody get me a tee shirt - I friggin (heart) NY.
((...There is an awful lot of travel going on for me to feel at home.
How stoidaic would THIS tshirt be: I (heart) My Friends.
maybe an iron-on st.bernard head under it.))
2:54 PM
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
Get on board.
12:47 PM
Sunday, November 10, 2002
(to pick up a conversation i was having with myself here over a week ago...)
I saw most of the memorable characters from that party (below) the other night at Shea's/shay's/shaze. Including the lecherous drunk bastard that bit me - did I mention that he had is , um, business out (dad stop reading this) by the end of the party? Even the St Pauli Girl with the laughing gas hair put down her skirt and turned away. Sooooo gross. Also, did I mention he was dressed as a priest?
Anyhow, they all swaggered by me (or served my drink, or did the "oh, sorry i had to rub up against you, it's just so darn crowded" passby) - clueless. Halloween is so cool that way. Total anonymity. Even the guy who was dressed as Squiggy, the guy I armwrestled, stood before me, unemasculated, looking tough and casual. Also, short and 4ever-Squiggy. There was this guy with an insane twenty-something curly combover and braces on his bottom teeth that stepped into our conversation and starts asking me 101 questions about whatever he can. We couldn't hear a thing, the place was so loud, but I can't believe he didn't hear the collective "dude, shut up" surrounding. It was so weird. He was kind of waving his glass around, asking things like (im guessing) "What exactly do you teach during these workshops? Don't you feel that there's a disconnect between the art making they are exposed to in public schools and the kind of art done in expressive therapy?" Across a drinking-ring of about five people. My answer was most often "what? Sorry? Come again?" He was leading up to "I do art therapy with kids. It's what I do." You know a guy is really being annoying with he says he's an art therapist, WITH an australian accent, and you still just want him to go away. Shirley and I later shifted toward the guy who was Tom Petty at the party - one of the two hosts.
I couldn't get over the fact that this guy was the same person - he had these crazy fake teeth and long blond hair and shades on all night. Now he was a shaved-headed, more-handsome-robin-williamsish guy. We were chatting with him, when Curly McTalkaboutMe comes over, grabs my pint glass and says, "What is this, cider?" and takes a swig! WTF? "Um, wow" was all I could muster. He said something we couldn't hear again. Shirley put her hand over her glass when he gestured toward it. He laughs - "I WASn't going to BUY YOU a DRINK!" I think it was at that point that I turned my back to him.
We left. I was Shirley's pre-show drinking accomplice - it was time for her to go to hear some band somewhere. I actually walked back to the bar for another cider to strike up conversation with the guy I thought looked nice, who of course seemed to have no interest in talking to me the whole night. Except when we were leaving, and we were all doing the "nice meeting you", he kinda put his hand on my shoulder,like, hey, really glad we had this time together. He hadn't even been standing in our drink ring. He was just outside it, kinda staring with everyone else when Shirley and I occassionally got to cracking ourselves up with a mini-skit about nothing. Anyhow, I of course, read this as a blatant show of interest and returned to pursue. I'm trying to learn this crappy sport, see.
So another member of this crew sees me, we go over the fact that I returned to the bar after leaving, and I know no one there, a few times. He's drunk as hell, but manages to give me the scoop on pretty much everyone there that he knows, and introduces me to them all. "What was your name again?"
We compared neck chains for a while until I sounded as tupid as he did. Then I walked up to the nice guy and said hi. We talked a long time. What do you do, etc. My job is great bar-blab. Then, I got real slick.
See, I saw that his friend seemed to be ready to leave, and I felt like maybe he was waiting for nice guy to wrap it up so they could go have fun. So I, wanting to not look UNCOOL, figure I should make my exit before that moment when theyrealize I was only back there to talk to nice guy, and will just shlep home if he's leaving. SO, I put on my hat, shake hands goodnight, give my last card to nice guy's friend, who is a jewelery maker and can help me with the exhibit i'm working on, repeat manically my generic offer for them to come to the museum, and go. Nice guy steps into my path. "Hey, I was serious about doing something sometime." I'm THINKING, hey, i got somethin for you ta do right NOW, you know waddimsaaayin?. I SAY "Yeah, well, um, I was serious about your friend having my card with my work number - get it from him. Bye."
um, WHAT?
I walked all the way home, asking myself, WHAT? It was aGORGEOUS night, it was like 12:30 or some bullshit, tha LAST thing I wanted to do was shlep home......WHAT was THAT? I have no idea what I was thinking, since at that point it didn't seem they were leaving at all. LOSER.
I can't stand letting a nice night go to waste. It kills me.
I almost had to call the candyboy, for godsakes. Instead, I grabbed my gluestick and waited for Shirley to get home.
Yesterday we ate the pumpkin pie I made, I covered a box in leather samples, we went shopping @ garment district, and Shirley "introduced me" to two new bars before we ended up at Shays again.
"you two live here or something?" the one described as an alcoholic the night before asked.
We sat outside and I enjoyed prolonged eye contact with the dog tied up out there.
Shirley and I kept singing that one Chicago song "everybody needs some time away.." to everything and everyone and defending the cool waitress who dropped a glass.
Off to printmaking workshops. I hate to overuse a word, but these prints are absolutely stoidal everytime.
Maybe we'll get some cover art for cajone's LP out of it.
1:12 PM
Tuesday, October 29, 2002
I was in full face make-up and giant fur pants. A wolf in sheeps clothing.
The other women were all St.Pauly's Girls. (That's what halloween parties are about, for thirtysomething singles, i've learned. As per usual, my fourth-grade chic was slightly out of place.)
There were drunken lunges and slurred compliments, by the time 2am and desperation rolled around.
One guy bit me. "Hey! This asshole just bit me!" I announced.
Then I challenged some beefwad to arm wrestling - me and my roommate against him.
But she just giggled and cheered for me when he finally oozed over for the match.
What is sadder: the fact that he was actually trying to beat (Scrawny McLeotard) me, or the fact that he just barely managed to do so? You know how women can lift cars off of their children - the phenom of mind over matter?
I remember thinking, wow, theres no way he's actually trying.
"wolf girl kicked your ass, you pussy."
It's two days later. I can't move my arm.
what more could I want out of an evening?
He looked about fourteen and wore a candy necklace.
He had a car. (i had no cab fare)
He was either a fan of Cats, the musical, or just that desperate.
Doom sealed. ;)
" " " "" "" """ """ """
Here's to Shirley.
Let this blog be a tribute to women with too much personality for the average male,
and to the men who have grown beyond their fear of women, and themselves. Courage and joy all over the place. We've all got traps to unlearn, they all suck.
I send love to every one inbetween survival-mode lashing-out and liberated, unconditional compassion-giving.
To the silent women and the angry men. I am, we are, all of these, right?
We are all just doing our best.
Here's to us.
(tap Vinergy bottle necks to Guiness can).
ps-
"I am not an angry girl. But It seems like I've got everyone fooled.
Everytime I say something they find hard to hear,
they chalk it up to my anger, and never to their own fear..."
it sucks.
I wish protecting ourselves didn't mean attacking others.
also,
I wish we could all dedicate ourselves to This Moment, and let the fuck go of the misery of what's past and the anxiety over what doesn't exist.
I wish I hadn't eaten all of the free desserts offered me today, and that I had a ride home.
I wish it weren't cheezy to sign off with
"peace".
I wish my dad were not reading this.
6:23 PM
Saturday, October 26, 2002
It's my day off. Instead I went to a lame conference. I was supposed to pretend it was a singles event. It was an even sadder scene. The whole thing was supposed to be for artists. Workshops on marketing, grantwriting, the exec dir of the Mass Cultural Coucil was keynote, stuff on funding for the arts, collaborations... I went cause it was payed for, and I could easily attend classes for the rest of my life, on just about anything, if given the opportunity. They meant well, but it sucked. Really sucked big time. Lunch was good though.
Then I went home, found my sleeping bag, switched my trying-to-be-saucy conferencewear for my cartoon workwear, and headed to the museum.
It's midnight, Friday, and I'm in the Children's Museum, ay my desk, in my pajamas.
There are giddy children rolling all over the floor in darkened exhibits. How could you NOT just try this out once? It's just too weird to pass up. Creepy McSpookout. I am going to at least TRY to sleep in the climbing maze. I think I'd like to sleep in a plastic tube tunnel. At home, I'm sleeping on a small patch of floor in my room, leftover from my friend Lucy's visitmania, and that's been working pretty well. Anyhow, I figure I sleep so poorly at home, it can't hurt to try the rediculous.
Tomorrow night, there's a spot off the turnpike, southbound, with my name all over it.
Man did I get some looks, walking through Harvard with my cat-in-rollerskates sleeping bag.
I wish I had more sleep overs to go to.
There aren't even any bras to freeze at this one.
The only light on this half of the third floor is my computer screen - they cut all the others for the night. Must find flashlight. The kids awake in Wonderland (now, literally - 2nd floor - T - R - I - P) at ass crack of dawn. I'm gonna slip out the back door and do a Walk Of Shame of the sadly wholesome sort.
I guess I have my whole "midlife" to be wild.
Lucy - welcome to the Savior's Club. Witness - the Mistakes, the Passimers, the Hat, my bball prowess, the mahoneyslam, constant misplacings, incestuous scene,...
(i've typed and deleted five versions of dirty things describing what happens to a woman when she hangs with boys too much.) Love you.
12:13 AM
Friday, October 25, 2002
It's my day off. Instead I went to a lame conference. I was supposed to pretend it was a singles event. It was an even sadder scene. The whole thing was supposed to be for artists. Workshops on marketing, grantwriting, the exec dir of the Mass Cultural Coucil was keynote, stuff on funding for the arts, collaborations... I went cause it was payed for, and I could easily attend classes for the rest of my life, on just about anything, if given the opportunity. They meant well, but it sucked. Really sucked big time. Lunch was good though.
Then I went home, found my sleeping bag, traded my trying-to-be-saucy conference threads for my usual cartoon workwear, and headed to the museum.
It's 11:30pm on a Friday night, and I'm at the museum, in my pajamas. There are giddy children rolling all over the floor in darkened exhibits. How could you NOT just try this out once? It's just too weird to pass up. Creepy McSpookout. I am going to at least TRY to sleep in the climbing maze. I think I'd like to sleep in a plastic tube tunnel. At home, I'm sleeping on a small patch of floor in my room, leftover from my friend Lucy's visitmania, and that's been working pretty well. Anyhow, I figure I sleep so poorly at home, it can't hurt to try the rediculous.
Tomorrow night, there's a spot off the turnpike, southbound, with my name all over it.
Man did I get some looks, walking through Harvard with my cat-in-rollerskates sleeping bag.
I wish I had more sleep overs to go to.
There aren't even any bras to freeze at this one.
The only light on this half of the third floor is my computer screen - they cut all the others for the night. Must find flashlight. The kids awake in Wonderland (now, literally - 2nd floor - T - R - I - P) at ass crack of dawn. I'm gonna slip out the back door and do a Walk Of Shame of the sadly wholesome sort.
I guess I have my whole "midlife" to be wild.
Lucy - welcome to the Savior's Club. Witness - the Mistakes, the Passimers, the Hat, my bball prowess, the mahoneyslam, constant misplacings, incestuous scene,...
(i've typed and deleted five versions of dirty things describing what happens to a woman when she hangs with boys too much.) Love you.
11:46 PM
Thursday, October 24, 2002
Larry is my friend. I met him when I was apartment hunting two weeks before my move out here, last fall. As a fun little aside from the emmensly stressful and fruitless housing spree, I decided to call whatever freak posted an ad in the paper that read :Old M looking for interesting F - will share good food, great people, and fun times. $300/mo. call 666-1313. All of these statements seemed to be a joke, and I don't think I thought the number would even ring. Turns out, it was indeed and Old Man looking for a fun roommate. We talked for almost 20 minutes - he's a "people collector". For some reason we had instantly connected, so I never once thought that meant, like, bodies. Anyhow, though I chose to instead move into a renters nightmare (that's another blog), Larry and I have been best of friends ever since. Right now he lives two blocks away from me, where he has lived for the past 35 years. But lo, real estate is more important than, say, humanity, so Larry has been evicted. the landlord died, some money-grabbing distant cousin moved in on the place and told everyone to hit the road - the days of the $300 frozen rent (for a nice sized two bedroom place - all wood floors, huge windows) were over. Although Larry had been the one to find the landlord (while delivering some homemade soup) and called the ambulance, had been at his side in the hospital, etc etc, he was shit out of luck, and was told to be out by the end of June. Larry , although smart as all hell and more than capable of taking care of business, isn't too healthy, and has no money. So he has nowhere to go. SO, he's still there, "squatting". It has been hopeless pretty often, but somehow we've gotten this far - we sold most of his stuff this summer, and he's on the huge waiting lists for public housing... Larry was a lawyer (he hates it when I tell people that - hates 'em), so he managed to hold his own with this Demolition beotch, and is allowed to stay until the end of December. (what a saint). We're waiting to see if a place comes through. If not, stay tuned for more, (daily) Dinner With Larry Transcripts like this....
(Larry was tired and really buzzed - post MegaMargheritas. I could hardly see.)
(ending a long lull in conversation, out of the clear blue - A slow, drunken address to the feasting blur that is me)
"Boxers' hands are lethal. They call them weapons. Your legs.
Fuckin legs you got.
Dangerous. No wonder you do the shit pants, baggy stuff.
You're just trying to help out.
(I'm slipping off my chair, laughing my ass off, he's staring into space thoughtfully. His hearing is off, so he talks over me like I'm not there...)
I have not met, in a long time, such an extreme wise ass, with legs. But wise ass, and legs, is how I met you!!! (he often retells our "interview" story to new friends. Hickman was there. I was wearing cut-off shorts. They were, apparently, too short. Had no idea what I was getting into.)
"I didn't dare look at the legs - I knew, this was an interview, and this had to be professional, at least for the first say ten minutes. But I knew there was a lot of legs hanging out. I said to myself, keep looking up. My god, you couldn't not see them.
I only saw them once since. And now, you put them away for the season. the Weapons.
It's a good thing you have weird feet.
Because, such a wise ass, so many wonderful things, and then you add the legs... the feet save you. They are so big. It's like...wow, you don't even need fins.
I love you, lady.
What are you doing down there? (I tell him, "You are the most rediculous thing I've ever heard, and I'm writing it all down. I can tape it to my wall, and know that I'm appreciated by a drunk old fuck with cateracts.")
Fuck off. It's not my fault you walk around in paperbags."
The facts are, I don't have great legs, and or I probably wouldn't be spending my evenings and weekends with Larry. So i guess I'm thankful for that. These "talks" often, when Larry mixes the drinks, devolve into his lengthy thank you speeches, and we drink a million toasts to our friendship. The sun goes down on his now nearly empty apartment-was-shit-museum, his portion of the shrimp and raw steak gets cold. Out comes the chocolate and ice cream. Always. All for me. I look down when he gets teary-eyed and hypersentimental until he starts again about how he's back in good health and promises to keep challenging me until I cry for mercy, and all the things we have yet to share. "I'm so lucky , friend."
"Yeah, you are."
"Shut up and finish your ice cream. Keep your face busy while I'm talking. That's fun enough, isn't it?"
The internet is a hard thing to imagine, no matter how smart you are. You duck out of the computer world for some thirty years, and forget it - lost. So he'll never "get" this blog thing,let alone see it. But I love you Larry. And now the whole damn world knows it. Or, at least joemahoney. hi joe.
2:40 PM
Sunday, October 20, 2002
My Job:
Sunday mornings I shlep to work. Gorgeous Sunday mornings like this one, I kinda float around till I get there. Although I don't sleep in and show up an hour before I have to teach, I do hit the snoozebar once or twice and take my time scrawling my dreams, talk to the cat more, and really dig on my walk from the border of Slummerville through shishi Cambridge/Hahvad. It's nice - you can pretend the students are still away. There are usually only Asian Americans and sleeping homeless people on the train that early on Sundays. Today there were geeked out tourist familes - every one of the kids looked like they were in hell, the parents looked tickled. Head of the Charles. So cool that Joe's son is out there.
Anyhow, it's a straight shot to south station, and a nice one-block walk to the Museum. Over which ever bridge over the channel looks better that morning. There's bizarre floating Art out there, that you would never notice, consciously, unless you were told about it. It's probably in the background of everyone's dreams - like the random floating parkbench on a little fake-grass covered island. Or the giant cement lips, on a package-dolly, chained to a pole. In keeping with the Dali theme, I head toward a giant milk bottle, in front of a big brick building with a gigantic little-boy aardvark sitting on the roof. Arthur.
It's not open yet when I get into the lobby and start the search for my keys - it takes me three floors to find them, usually. Past the Stoidadillo, (momo, i need an image here.), the darkened complex of the climbing cages, toward the alternately inflating souffles. Huge mushroomish things, one pink, one yellow, that go from flat flaps of canvas to big fat marshmallows about seven feet high. A couple hundred pounds of visitor can sit on the thing, and it fills up under them and pushes them to the ceiling.
People are TV heads, and don't get the fun in that, and see it as a "bouncey ride" - a WhopperHopper, if you will. So kids fall over the sides and, well, they're taking that out in a couple of months.
My office is across from that. I share it with two otherfreaks.
I have a stack of giant legos by my desk, which is absolutely covered in toys and tripped out art stuff. A new formula for gaint bubbles I volunteered to try out, colored wire art to make scultures with, a pile of sparkley t-shirt paint to test, and a can of paint that comes out like shaving cream - monday morning I'm opening up the Art studio to test that stuff out - Foam Paint Mural Time.
Today on my list - Make Head Bigger on the "me Card" - a graphic I made for public programming to go along with the new alice in wonderland exhibit. It looks like a playing card, but you can draw in your own face, symbol, and something in your hand. I drew the whole thing with POwerPoint Autoshapes. It doesn't look as bad as you would think. Make more Collage Packs - a package of wallpaperscraps and supplies that I developed for sale in the recycle shop. mmmm - retail. I don't get a cut from that.
Develop Kaleidascope. Also for the store/$. Found a recipe for making your own kaleidascope, and made one from all Recycle Shop stuff, so of course, we're bagging it and charging for it.
get Video Cam - am on team that does wacky internal stuff like runs monthly meetings - I'm sleeping over at the museum this friday and making a funny (no really. a riot, im sure) movie about one of our staff members, who runs the Overnights here.
Better buttons - for puppet workshop. the stuff we have leftover from the madd crowds sucks, and i want to find something cooler for eyes. we had these sparkley puff balls somewhere, but not enough for everyone, and that's definately a fight-item. like gems. there will be NO GEMS in my workshop.
shit- gotta go teach that.
anyhow, rough life.
1:55 PM
Thursday, October 17, 2002
ALSO, (this is Art.)
only a doggy (pronounced dough-gee)
go Muskogee!
lo! m'ca'key!
mowed baloney
moe jalopy
bone m'yoni
juju monkey
4:49 PM
Just a smattering of spins on a timeless classic: joemahoney.
Please feel free to add.
blow m'pony
mo jahoney
mo baloney
slow zamboni
boutrosboutros o'nee
mocaroni
toe knee tony (toni)
know yer homeys
grow yer owny
cold cajones
mo'honey
moe
jackie
4:00 PM
I just think if I didn't log on today and tell everyone my index finger has randomly swollen to look like a jimmy dean breakfastsausage, I wouldn't be getting the most out of this blog deal.
also,
Am going to see Lori McKenna and Tex Ritter tonight. It's a great opportunity for him, cause he really needs some older-woman action. And according to some spam I got today, there are hundreds of marriedbutlonely people out there, looking to explore their wildest desires with other adventurous lovers, like him. Concerning the urgency of his hooking up with a senior, one hour could expand his sexual vocabulary ten-fold, I says to him.
"Oh. Yeah. What?" he says.
12:26 PM
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