Zasu

I WILL EAT YOUR HEART

So for those of you not in the know, I have two cats, Zasu and lily. Zasu is a 16 year old torty who is blind, incontinent and, now, totally out of it. After watching her suffer illness and more recently the indignity of wearing puppy diapers, I had to make the difficult decision to say goodbye to Zasu. So I’ll spend the next two days feeding her delicious meat flavored baby food, watching movies, and oh what the hell, letting her pee and poop all over the house. Cleaning up is a small price to pay, I figure.

However, dear friends, this is not a sad blog, this is a blog reflecting on the life of a cat who really has had a remarkable and long life. A life filled with love, adventure and misadventure, travel, and lots of hunting.

I first met Zasu at the ASPCA in Chicago in the winter of 1993 -1994. My mother, incidentally, refers to the ASPCA as “the society for cruelty to animals”. I’ve reminded her on countless occasions that it’s ANTI cruelty, to no avail. We were attracted to Zasu because of the permanent comical-quizzical expression on her face and after we brought her home changed her name from the banal “freckles” to Zasu, after the silent film era actress Zasu Pitts. Zasu was a tiny scrawny kitten with ear mites and an attitude problem which throughout her life manifested itself in attempts to write her complaints in urine. Zasu has many complaints, starting with the lack of an opposable thumb.

At any rate, Zasu came home and met Nico, who we got from the cruelty society a few months earlier. Nico was an absolutely adorable precious tuxedo cat with a charming personality everyone adored. Zasu immediately felt threatened both by Nico’s beauty and charm, as well as her smack downs. Nico would follow Zasu to the litter box, which Zasu did not like. Zasu responded by writing “Can I Have Some Privacy When I Pee?” on the leather couch. We got Zasu her own bathroom and kitchen, in the front most bedroom of our palatial three bedroom apartment in Ravenswood. I say palatial because that apartment (which cost the big $750) is at least twice as big as my house.

We had to rig the door with a shoestring to make it open wide enough for Zasu, but not wide enough for Nico, who ate so much she was fat within six months. At this point Zasu displayed her evil streak. Once she realized that she was completely safe if she made it to the front room she would provoke all sorts of fights with Nico and then, when the going got tough, hide in the front room.

Back then I had this crazy idea that cats had to be taught about the great outdoors so in case they ever got out they could make their way back home. I used to try to take Nico and Zasu on little cat leashes on the back porch and down the stairs. Nico was pretty game for this, but Zasu was not. Zasu behaved as though I was throwing her into the belly of the inferno with each step.

In 1997 I bought a house and obviously the cats went with me to the house, which was on the west side. Since they hated being confined in carriers, I thought they would be ok for the relatively short drive to the new place during the actual move. As it turns out, it was the car they disliked more than anything. Zasu squeezed herself in the back window where she stared fearfully at the car behind us and cried. Nico tried to actually drive the car. They were not allowed in the car without carriers again.

Just a year or so later I moved to California and into an apartment. We’ll leave out the details of that whole thing. Anyway, Nico and Zasu made the trip with me. Since you can only take one cat with you on the plane, Nico went with me, and Zasu was in the carrier. Nico tried to break out of the carrier mid flight. I only caught her because her tags made a noise and woke me up. Zasu was freaked out because we had a delay.

The cats liked California. It was warm and sunny all the time. Nico made friends with people in the car courtyard by hissing at them and then, when they said she was beautiful, flopping over to show her belly. Nico was a whore. Zasu was more circumspect in her excursions. Zasu is one of these mysterious creatures that likes to move, unseen and unnoticed, wrecking havoc. Zasu once went missing for over a week, and I truly thought she was a goner. I put up color posters offering a reward (“thanks!”) but no one called. I searched. I called. I tapped cans of cat food and looked like a crazy person. Finally our landlady asked if we had a cat (which we were not supposed to have) and we admitted it. The landlady told us Zasu was hiding out in the basement which she apparently broke into when some work was being conducted. We were busted and had to pay the pet deposit.

In 2000 we moved into the house in Laurel Canyon. The cats loved the house, and the yard. They played in the sun, walked on top of the fence, brought home dead and not dead animals. Then, in 2001, Zasu made her move to acquire undisputed supremacy over the household. Zasu started a campaign of peeing on the bed, once or even twice a day. Needless to say this infuriated me because I couldn’t read what she was trying to say. I tried everything. Did she want new cat food? did she want different cat food? did she want to be petted, or not petted? I didn’t know because she just kept peeing.

After a couple weeks of this, I thought I’d try just letting them outside unsupervised. My rule up until then (and again, since then) is that they are only allowed outside when I’m home, and during daylight hours. They basically have the same curfew as a grade school kid. So I let them out one day – it was February 13, 2001, if I’m not mistaken – and left for work. Before I left I called out to Nico who came running on the fence for a final pet. Well did we know that it really would be her final pet.

Later that day Zasu made an unholy alliance with the neighborhood coyotes. In exchange for Nico, the coyotes agreed to leave Zasu alone. Zasu sold out her sister in a diabolical pact.

It was raining when we got home, but Zasu was inside and suspiciously happy and playful. In fact, deliriously so. We searched high and lo for Nico, but did not find her. A neighbor later found her collar by a tree in the next yard, and another neighbor said she heard a cat fight that afternoon. Her work done, Zasu stopped peeing in the house.

Zasu’s glorious reign as the only cat in the house was brief, as we adopted Lily from Kitten Rescue maybe a year or so later. Zasu’s attitude can only be described as basically that of Archie Bunker in All In The Family. She would walk from one end of the house, pausing briefly at the dog’s bed to glare and sometimes make guttural noises, on her way to the kitchen. Lily and the dog (Lani) got along great. Lily has a very laissez faire attitude about life. Zasu did learn how to break out of the house, which was really annoying but at least demonstrated all the security flaws. If there was any way to get out of the house, Zasu would find it. At one point I caught her digging a tunnel in one of the closets…

We lived in a tenuous equilibrium for years until in 2008 both Lani and Zasu got sick, at the same time. Worse, they had the same symptoms, which were vomiting and peeing without any regard for who has to clean it up. Then Zasu started suffering asthma attacks due to her long standing pack a day smoking habit. An asthma attack in a cat is a frightful thing, because you’re not sure if the cat is having a health problem or channeling Satan. Zasu underwent a series of steroid injections, which she disliked. Then the vet told me she couldn’t give any more steroid injections and I’d have to use an inhaler on Zasu. If you’re curious, the way you give a cat a dose from an asthma inhaler is by crafting a cone type thing from a Solo cup and cutting a hole in the bottom for the inhaler. Zasu liked this even less than injections, and peed “IF YOU STICK THAT FUCKING CUP ON MY FACE ONE MORE TIME I WILL PEE ON YOUR HEAD”. I stopped with the inhaler, but miraculously, Zasu was cured of asthma right after she got her last shot. Go figure.

Around the same time as the great asthma adventure, Lani died on Thanksgiving Day, 2008. This was very sad for me, but once Zasu figured out Lani wasn’t coming back, she peed “DING DONG THE BITCH IS DEAD” on the floor. If you think I’m kidding, you never met Zasu. One of Zasu’s most endearing traits is how she would befriend visitors and coyly convince them to pet her, only to viciously attack them a moment later. I have no idea who she learned that from.

Things were good for a time, but then Zasu got sicker and sicker and her attempts to convey in urine more and more frequent and garbled. The last thing I could make out was “I AM OLDER THAN PHYLLIS DILLER”, which, in cat years, was probably true. I mean, Zasu was alive at the same time at Kurt Cobain.

I was forced to put Zasu in diapers a few weeks ago. I felt bad about it, naturally, but I was out of options. Zasu doesn’t like diapers, and walks like Fred Sanford when she’s wearing one. A very disgusted Fred Sanford. She knows she looks ridiculous and has stopped grooming herself figuring who the hell cares anymore. Besides, she can’t see herself in the mirror because she’s blind.

Zasu’s blindness became apparent a couple months ago when I had some people over and we just looked at her bump into things all night while trying to navigate the room. At first I thought she was drunk but then I remembered she doesn’t drink, just a little cat nip now and then. It was funny, yet sad, to see her accidentally walk into the fireplace or right into a wall. At least the fireplace wasn’t lit!

So there we were, the three of us, sitting around the other night watching “Detroit Rock City” and eating dinner. Zasu came into the room looking really out of it, and just started circling around and around like a stoner trying to induce vertigo. She didn’t even notice when I yelled at her, which made that analogy even more apt. I realized, at that moment, that Zasu was really really out of it. I put her on the couch and called to her, but she didn’t even seem to know I was there. Which was curious, because she sure as hell knew the food was there a couple hours earlier.

Anyway, she’s had a good run, that cat. She’s lived in two cities, two houses, two apartments, and been with me longer than … most people. If she could talk, I’d have to kill her. As it is, she’s scrawled a long biography in urine which I’ll be reading for a long, long time.

zasu in yard

trains

some velvet morning when i'm straight

you always see the weirdest shit from trains. i’m on a train right now, and we are approaching oceanside. just south of the more architecturally mundane community is a cluster of tudor and english country houses that would be more at home in yorkshire than southern california. on a dirt road a couple skinny kids who looked like the ramones were walking towards the tracks. snapshots and snippets of lives. fenced in backyards and back porches. abandoned junker cars and industrial buildings. graffiti. walls. people walking around oblivious to the fact that someone on the passing train is looking right at them as they’re looking at the passing train. vacant yards. garbage. the detritus of life.

probably the first train i ever took was in poland when i was 12. i don’t remember exactly where we went but it was probably chelm to lublin and we were in coach class which means we were packed in with everyone taking their chickens to the market and fat old babushkas who survived more in a year than you’ll ever see in a lifetime. i remember it lurched and slowed and seemed to stop at inexplicable locations for interminable times but eventually got to where it needed to be. there are people like that, too.

i found a place full of charms

my first year of law school i lived at home with my mother and i took the train from hinsdale to downtown every day. she would drop me off and pick me up and in between i would try to camoflage the smell of cigarettes i’d been surreptitiously smoking all day. one day and i think it was a saturday i was waiting on the platform and there was one of these guys – i think he was a greek orthodox man of the cloth – on with me. he was wearing a long flowing black robe and a pillbox hat and had long grey hair and a beard. i’m actually not sure if he wore a big cross but i would imagine he must have if not visible than certainly under his hairshirt. this was my goth phase and i thought that for an old guy he was totally hot (probably in the same way that nun are hot). when we got off the train at union station i followed him for a bit until he turned a different way and i was really too lazy and undevoted to stalking him to deviate from my path to school.

you tell me i'm not not cute its truth or falsity is moot

another time i was taking the train and i heard my name called to me in polish. it was a girl i’d gone to polish school with some ten years earlier. i said how on earth did you recognize me and she said you look the same and i replied really because i’ve gone through puberty. but i guess i do. i look the same as i did when i was two and ten and seventeen.

somebody not too bright but sweet and kind who would try to get you off my mind

those were of course the commuter lines into chicago. when i moved into the city i lived off the western stop on the ravenswood. the ravenswood was my favorite train of all the cta trains because it was above ground the whole way and plus it went over the river on wells and therefore caught a glimpse of my favorite little slice of chicago. when i first started riding the ravenswood (or, “the brown line”) it was when they still had some of the old trains, with windows that cranked open and had bars except that most of the windows were broken and wouldn’t crank open at all, or maybe just an inch. the seats uncomfortably reminded you that you were a commuter. if you didn’t get a seat you held on to a pole (not a Pole) along with ten other people and were lurched helplessly. those trains seemed to always have the most trouble at the worst times. they stopped on the tracks for hours at a time when it was hot and humid the windows wouldn’t open and you wished you were dead. they wouldn’t come at all it seemed when you were standing on the elevated platform with the wind and snow whipping around you in a frenzy of sadism.

but the fact is that i preferred the old cars to the new ones with perfect climate control and more comfortable seats and more bars to grasp. i’m like that with people, too.

maybe tomorrow we can learn how to fly on these nasty little wings

anyway the train went above the river on wells, over by the merchandise mart. i liked to sit on the west side to catch a glimpse of something called onion point, although at that time i didn’t even know it was called onion point. i’m not sure why it was called onion point, exactly, although i’m going to guess it’s related to the indian word for chicago, which means smelly onion or something like that. anyway onion point is (or was) tucked under the merchandise mart on the north side of the chicago river, right where it forked into its north and south branches. it was a tiny little peninsula of land, covered in weeds and reeds and a few trees. i’d look at it and think to myself that that was what the whole city looked like, before we showed up and fucked everything up.

miracle drivel, optical sewer

the wells street bridge was always special to me. i remember walking across it with my cousin at night and the wind was tremendous and at that time i was very very skinny and i swear to god i was nearly blown right off the bridge. i held on to him and whoever it was that was with us that i don’t remember right now but even so i was so very very afraid. i confess a fear of falling off bridges.

i used to work on the north side of the river right there and i’d have to cross on the wells street bridge to get to court to do filings. once right when i got there the bridge just lifted up to let a boat go past. when it went vertical all sorts of things just flew off it and down to the ground – papers and garbage or whatever. anyway i just stood there looking at the entire bridge lifted in front of me and then when it slammed back down gracefully and really when you consider it fairly quietly i walked, cognizant of the fact that at any moment the ground i walked upon could just be upturned and go vertical on me and when i got halfway across i looked and a barge – a tremendously long barge – was under me and i saw she was the mary m.

god damn the sun

in winter in chicago you’d see more, seeing as the trees would be stripped of their leaves. everything would be black and white and shades between. the tracks would multiply and separate and become an entire yard of trains then coalesce and merge into just a few. where the mergers and separations happened, after snow, they would set the tracks on fire to keep them from freezing. little bonfires on the tracks in the snow.

why don't you smile now

on the far west side between the berwyn and first city stop you’d pass innumerable three and four flats with their backs to the tracks and the secrets of those lives on display in really a totally careless manner. you’d see laundry and junk and piles of bottles and women in slips and men in their dago t’s children toys and broken playgrounds and all the shit people think no one sees because really people passing on a train aren’t really people they’re just a train. i’m still surprised i haven’t seen a body because most of the time i think i ought to. but all i’ve ever seen is broken down desperation and maybe some trespassing.

goody goody for you

a long time ago i took the midnight train from krakow to lublin. first class. at that point first class didn’t mean a whole lot mostly just that the seats weren’t wooden. this was when i was in law school. anyway i was alone and i decided just because this is the type of thing i do that i’d share a car with four workers. at first they thought they’d fuck with me because i was clearly not from poland. after a while we got to talking. they were going to lublin for their jobs and i told them i was going to chelm to see my family. they broke out the sandwiches and cakes and vodka and pickles and we had a good time and i was proud that they called me a prosta babka. we napped and in the middle of the morning found that the train was delayed for hours outside of warsaw because it was waiting for an engine from szczecin – don’t ask me where our engine went or why this was the case but that’s how public transportation goes in a country like that. we sat and sat and were so delayed that it was clear i’d miss my connecting train to chelm. the guys were nice enough when i got to lublin to negotiate my taxi rate for me because they were worried i’d get ripped off which i undoubtedly would have been. i remember we were driving down lubelska, the cabbie and i, when i said “there’s my grandmother’s house!” and a moment later, “there’s my grandmother!” my family had waited for me at the train station and when i didn’t get off, searched the whole train, thinking maybe i didn’t know to get off at lubelska instead of chelm miasto (as if).

feeling bad, feeling good, feeling like I never could

i don’t know that there is much more to add than this moment when i’m watching the sun set over the ocean and listening to the rolling stones singing that they’re just living to be lying by your side just about a moonlight mile on down the road.. dreams just failing by the railway line.

i've got silence on my radio let the airwaves flow

i wish you were here.

i am just living to be lying by your side

getting my act together and taking it on the road

So in an effort to continue to get more and more organized, until I am finally so organized that I don’t know what to do with myself, I purchased this totally kick ass planner. Last year I also purchased a kick ass planner, but it was less kick ass so I never used it. The last entry in last year’s calendar was made in August, and I’m not even sure what it means.

Anyway so this year I am staying in control of my shit. I’m opening the mail. I’m putting the laundry away. I’m keeping a list and checking it twice. I’m pretty sure my little obsession with organization has to do with everything else being totally out of control. Whatever! At least I have a list of activities and tasks to complete every weekend! Right?

So I actually researched different types of planners so that I could get one which will Honestly And Truly organize my life. A paper planner which will act as a supplement and compliment to all of my digital planners like iProcrastinate (which I am convinced was named after me), the iPhone notes and calendar feature, and outlook. I dislike regular calendars with their boring empty boxes. What do you put in the box? Appointments? A to-do list? Stuff you want to do, as a general matter but will probably keep pushing back when more important stuff comes along? The regular calendar is just a shitty, obsolete format not in keeping with the Busy Fucked Up Like I Lead.

I finally found this planner – and since I’m not getting paid to endorse any product I’m not actually going to name it but if they do pay me I certainly will – which has multiple features. Right! Also, this is a planner which comes with a pamphlet on how to use it, as well as a DVD. I was a bit bewildered that they need to provide a DVD on how to use a calendar but the company is based in Nebraska which I really think speaks volumes.

Anyway, the thing took a solid 10 days to arrive which meant that my life had slid into utter chaos by the time I got it today. When I first opened the box and looked at it, it looked like any other desk calendar. Black plasticy cover with gold lettering identifying it as a 2010 desk planner. Calendar and the map of the USA with time zones inside. Section for personal information including my blood type (note to self: find out what blood type I am) and allergies (something in my house. Pillow? Cat?). Included is a yearly calendar so you can make a note of major events and deadlines. A warning is included on these pages that it is “NOT INTENDED AS A DAILY ACTIVITY GUIDE”. Christ, take it easy, planner people.

Then we get to the real essence of the planner. The weekly sections, which are divided as such:

WEEKLY LISTS OF ACTIVITIES BY CATEGORIES
DAILY THINGS TO-DO
APPOINTMENTS (daily and hourly)

In case you are a complete idiot, the planner comes with an actual guide to how you’re supposed to use it. Unfortunately I didn’t actually read the guide before I already fucked up the planner. You’re not supposed to cut off the corner of the page until you “clear” all the items – this helps you track your really long list of activities in the top section. You’re supposed to just write out whatever pops into your head that you want to do – things like, “figure out where That Smell is coming from”. The key, according to the Fascist Planners is that you are to “list items without regard to whether you’ll ever get them done.” Whoaaa! Really? Talk about made for me! I never get anything done! I immediately wrote “LEARN ITALIAN” in this section.

Then I screwed up and cut the corner off that page, because it was in the past. See, now I’ll never be able to keep track of whether I actually learned Italian or not. Stupid stupid stupid.

After you come up with a crazy long list of things to do, you’re supposed to prioritize them into a “daily activity plan”. You’re to select what you see as “urgent, important, or both” and assign a day for action. Rolling right along here, I’m going to assign learning Italian to some time in March. The planner urges you to “[l]eave the rest behind”, based on the assumption that now that you’ve written it down, you’ll be bound to do it sooner or later, if only out of a sense of guilt. But, you don’t have to do it today, so you are absolved for the time being. The planners then congratulate you on taking the major step of assigning a particular day to a particular task. Now don’t let them down, you slacker!

After that, you’re to record meetings and the like in the “appointments” section. Here the calendar goes from being all Fascist on your ass to being new-agey: “Don’t underestimate the power of the appointment with yourself.” I totally appreciate that but I really don’t need to pencil in a break, if you know what I mean. And I’m not sure what they mean by “prospecting” as one of the things you should do for yourself. Prospecting… for gold? I will probably need to watch the DVD to be elucidated. I’ll pencil that in for next week.

At the very end of the planner there’s a “GOALS / PROJECTS / CALENDAR” section. Hmmm. Should “Learn Italian” go here? What about things like, “totally turn your life around”? “Win lotto”? They suggest cutting items out of magazines and taping it into the GOALS section. “Become Olympic Speed Skater”? Also they keep urging me to attach index tabs to motivate me. I think I threw them out accidentally.

The only problem with this entire system is that honestly I really like to write in these calendars in pencil. That way when I don’t get anything done on say February 22, I can just erase the whole day and not feel like a slacker loser. Anyway the problem is that I can’t find my mechanical pencil or the leather case in which it, and my fancy fountain pen, go. Seriously I’ve looked everywhere and it’s making me crazy. So before I do anything I need to either

(A) find mechanical pencil and leather case; or
(B) purchase new mechanical pencil and case.

I’m going to put these down for next week, between my 19th nervous breakdown and a bread baking class at Sur La Table.

saint martha, patron saint of organization, being led away for making everyone else look like dumbasses

2009: the end of a [really shitty] era

With the year, and decade, fast drawing to an end, it seems like a good idea to take stock of things. Look back in anger, as it were. Or bitter resentment, depending on the circumstances. Most of my friends have commented that 2009 seemed like an even worse year than 2008, which we all agreed pretty much sucked ass. In fact, when I look back on the last decade, it seems like I started with a huge mistake from which I’ve been working my way back ever since. Setting technicalities aside, in just 11 days we’ll be in a new year and decade, which always means a fresh opportunity to either screw things up even more, or to turn it around in glorious fashion. Ever the optimist, I’m going with turning it around.

A while back I re-read a blog I wrote several years ago which contained a number of New Years Resolutions (this particular one was for 2006, as I recall). I was overcome with a sense of deja vous, as the list from 2000 was much the same list, with just a few modifications, as the one last year, and the year before that. Clearly there were trends in my life, which required analysis. And so, without further ado, the Year In Review, and, A New Decade Dawns:

1. Personal / Spiritual Growth

It has become obvious, in looking at my Kindergarten report card, that from the age of 4, I have lead a functional, yet somewhat chaotic, life. Mrs. Sailor noted that as a little child, I failed to put away my crayons. So what else is new, Mrs. Sailor? This year I’m going to work with my charming idiosycracies, rather than fight them.

the drunk gnome fell down! ha ha ha!!

A. I am a procrastinator

For example, every year I vow to open my mail. At first I said I was going to open it on a daily basis. When this proved grossly unrealistic, I modified this to “weekly”. In reality, any set schedule is unrealistic. What I need is a better system which accepts my inability to open mail promptly. I figure this is the best I can do: Review mail immediately and throw away all mail which is clearly junk mail. This was a fantastic suggestion from a friend and works like a charm to eliminate three quarters of my mail. However, my greatest hurdle comes when confronted with a piece of mail which requires further action, such as bill paying, a response of some kind, or filing away. At that point I am paralyzed with ennui, indecision, confusion, and the desire to do something else. In other words, I procrastinate. To the point where, instead of a regular “in” box, I have an entire large plastic storage bin, filled with papers which need some further action. I actually have a bundle of parking tickets from all over California. I keep this collection for sentimental reasons – this summer I actually paid the tickets. I like to look at them and fondly recall what I was doing in, say, Santa Monica when I got a parking ticket.

Seeing as I still don’t have a personal assistant (who would do the tasks I so dislike leaving me time to do more interesting things), I am looking for a way to incorporate the plastic box as an item of furniture, or an object d’art. If those leather box / footstools weren’t so fugly I would absolutely get one for this purpose.

When it all comes down to it, however, the ultimate fact is that I’m a terrific procrastinator. A year ago I purchased a black board to keep a list of things to do. I immediately wrote on it three things which required immediate attention: Fix roof. Check sprinklers. Buy kitty litter. Today the list reads: Fix roof. Check sprinklers. Buy kitty litter. To be fair, I have bought kitty litter many times in the last year. It’s just that whenever I look at the blackboard, I always need to buy it again, so I just never remove it from the list. This despite the fact that my 16 year old cat zasu is blind and demented and can’t find the litterbox anyway.

nothing says "happy new year" like pussies!

To further assist myself organizationally I downloaded the iProcrastinate app, which is supposed to help you finally get on top on all the shit you’re supposed to do. My task list is exactly the same as my blackboard and hasn’t changed one bit since it’s creation. The problem is that creating a list of unpleasant tasks isn’t enough to get me to do anything. I need to be gently but firmly reminded, and often. Like my mother’s nagging, but less relentless and annoying. If iProcrastinate could give a gentle nudge and say, “hey necia, why don’t you check the sprinklers today?” I would probably do it. Hey! I actually got my expenses done all year, by just remembering reminders from the past! See? I’m not hopeless!

Anyway, I think the key here is to focus on a few things which really really really need to get done, do them, and then be ok with getting the rest done when I can. I will never be the kind of person who gets everything done. I only hope to be the kind of person who gets enough done to avoid total disaster.

leave it to the germans to put out a new year's postcard featuring a pig being stabbed to death by a smiling kid

B. I never finish anything.

I also figured out that the reason my list of tasks never gets shorter is because I have serious difficulty finishing anything. I think this us because I have a strange subliminal belief that if I finally complete something, I’ll die. It’s like tribes that think their soul is stolen when a photo is taken. Tasks give me reason to get our of bed every day (especially in a weekend). As long as a bunch of things lay around half finished half clean, and only somewhat put away, my life has purpose.

Ironically, I look forward to every weekend as my great opportunity to finally paint the rest of the patio furniture. Finally plant the blueberries where they need to be. Finally clean up the back yard. Finally throw out the rest of the stuff from the construction 2 years ago. Finally figure out Where That Smell Is Coming From.

what's that kid holding behind his back? up against the wall!

The problem with having a house is that your work is never done and there are endless distractions. Like writing a blog, for example.

The impending time off for the holidays is, theoretically at least, a boon to Getting Stuff Done. Of course, that assumes I won’t be laid up for at least three days totally hung over. But here’s what I’m going to do. Instead of starting anything new, I’m going to finish something I already started. I’m going to finish painting the patio furniture. I’m not going to have any other goals for the weekend, just to finish painting the furniture. If I get that done, I’m going to drink a bottle of champagne and pass out.

C. I need to set more realistic goals.

The theme du jour is to be more realistic about what I can and cannot accomplish. I’ve always wanted to learn Italian. Year after year I would write “learn Italian!” on my list of Things To Do. I even purchased a book about learning Italian, and listened to some podcasts while in the car. To this day I can speak no Italian. I can’t even say “where’s the bathroom, I need to do some blow.” Italian has been an epic fail.

So this year / decade, I’m going to be more realistic. I’m not going to learn Italian. But, I can wear Italian shoes. I can make pasta. I can make pasta while wearing Italian shoes. I can even date an Italian, although that about as likely as learning Italian.

2. Health, Beauty and Fitness

I think it was two years ago that I said I wanted to climb Mount Whitney. This was a fantastic goal, and only moderately unrealistic. But there were two problems with this goal. I am terrified of heights, and I couldn’t get anyone to go with me. This year I’m just going to say that my goal is to someday in the future climb Mount Whitney when I can be goaded into it.

Anyway so forget about Mount Whitney, which was really more of a metaphor for overcoming life’s obstacles anyway. Yesterday I did the stairs at Runyon Canyon and that was challenging enough. I figure if I do that once a week (which means I’ll do it three times next year) I’ll be a rock and life’s obstacles will simply melt away.

Seriously, I totally have a program for 2010 to stave off inertia. First, I downloaded an app called Fitness Builder. Fitness Builder is amazing. It has hundreds of workouts you can see, all on your iPhone. I was exhausted just looking at the videos of people working out! If I actually did any of these workouts, I would put Demi Moore to shame.

hey, what's going on here?

Because I am not the kind of sick person who enjoys working out for its own sake, the key for me to maintain physical fitness is a mixture of fear, trickery, and reward. I fear things like not being able to fit in my clothes, not being able to do things I like, and looking like susan boyle. I need to be tricked to work out, by doing things like signing up for events I have to train for, because I fear looking ridiculous by being beaten at a 5k by a 75 year old. I reward myself for a job well done, with, say, a pair of Italian shoes. Or, if I’ve been really good, a pair of Italians.

3. Job Well Done!!

There are several areas where I am proud to say I have met, or even exceeded, my goals. This summer I purchased a new washer, dryer, and refrigerator. When I got the fridge, I swore it would stay clean and organized. Thanks to my mother’s visit last month, which struck fear into my heart, my fridge is immaculate.

This last weekend, instead of fixing the roof, painting the patio furniture, or checking the sprinklers, I went through my closets and drawers and got rid of four garbage bags of clothes. I was amazed by what I found. For months I had labored under the delusion that I didn’t have any white tshirts, but this was completely untrue. I found sweaters I’d last worn in college, which I was holding on to waiting for the moment when oversized cardigans made their big comeback. Band tshirts from bands I don’t even like anymore which broke up seven years ago. At least twenty tshirts which I was saving for “painting, or doing stuff like that”. I can say with absolute certainty I DON’T NEED ANY MORE TSHIRTS. Or jeans. Or black skirts. Or hoodies.

From now on, I’m going to live by the rule which this guy I’ve never met but someone mentioned as a true minimalist lives by. When something new comes in, something old goes out. If anyone knows how to say that in latin, I’d be much obliged.

I can also give myself a hearty pat on the back for leading a fiscally responsible year – thanks largely in part to bagged lunches. This last year I actually managed to be in the hole rarely, and bought my appliances cash. For 2010 I’m looking forward to saving up enough to buy a car, AND take a vacation somewhere really awsum. Like Italy!

Since I quit smoking a couple years ago, I can hardly think of any ways to be more healthy, short of going vegan or vegetarian, which I won’t do. I drink kombucha once in a while because I figure that anything that tastes like snot must be good for you. This year I’m going to eat more flax and quinoa, because anything that tastes like bird seed must be good for you as well.

My real culinary goal for next year is to learn to bake bread. I have never been able to successfully bake bread. Baking in general is not my thing. In fact, I only recently discovered the secret to successful cake baking: do not bake while drunk. This is really the only key to making a delicious and moist cake. I’m not sure what the key is, with respect to break making, as I’m pretty sure I wasn’t drunk when I made what turned into a foul smelling mass of yeasty vomit. I don’t know what would have happened had I stuck it in the oven, as I was too afraid of that and just bludgeoned the mass in the back yard and buried it.

So tops on the cooking agenda is learning to bake bread. I will learn to bake bread! Beyond that my only goal is to make at least one new thing every week. This is in an effort to stave off inertia in my cooking and to make use of the nearly one thousand cookbooks I own. My mother pointed out to me that I could easily cook recipes solely from my cookbooks the rest of my life without ever eating the same thing twice. Which is true, and so why am I still eating the same old pasta with pancetta and tomatoes? Because I’m in a rut. And it’s easy to stay in a rut, and difficult to get yourself out. So yes, I will make at least one new thing each and every week.

Finally, I will finish every single book on my nightstand which I have started to read but interrupted for something which seemed, at the time, more interesting. That means “Infinite Jest”, “Kavalier & Klay”, “Broom of the System” and some other things which are under those and therefore I have forgotten all about them. If I don’t finish them by March 2010 I will burn them. Out with the old, in with the new!

i like this picture because it looks like the moon is going to chop the head off that kid, if it makes one false move

tis the season…

Dear people.

So that season is upon us yet again. The one where everyone packs into malls and department stores in search of yet another bauble for a person who doesn’t really need anything at all, for kids who already have closets full of clothes and more toys than they could ever play with.

I personally don’t really need anything that anyone can buy in a store. I’m grateful for small thoughtful gifts but I find holiday giving really distasteful and annoying especially the implication that the amount you spend is supposed to correlate to how much you care for a person. Money does not equal love.

The other day I was driving around and there was this huge, huge line of people. We wondered what they were lining up for. Turns out, they were lining up for a clothing give-away at a shelter.

I read something the other day which really distressed me. Someone wrote on their facebook “a word to the wise, money goes from the dumb to the rich”. Ahhh really? The statement is so astoundingly offensive and wrongheaded that I can’t begin to respond to it.

Except to say that there are thousands of charities which serve the people who are really suffering this year. Homeless shelters, food pantries, social services agencies. Perhaps, rather than buying another scented candle or bathrobe, you might consider giving a gift in someone’s name. That’s what the unnamed quoter is going to get. A gift to a homeless shelter.

If you can’t think of a good organization to give to, charity navigator [http://www.charitynavigator.org] is a great tool to assist you. You can sort by type of charity, location, and their “rating” – ration of expenses to program spending.

You don’t have to give money, though. If you have nothing better to do on December 25, perhaps you can donate some of your time. Union Station Homeless Services [http://www.unionstationhs.org/dinners_in_the_park.html] is serving up dinner in Pasadena and needs help.
Food on Foot [http://www.foodonfoot.org] is going to distribute food, sleeping bags, etc., in Hollywood on the 25th. Use the power of google to find opportunities to help people in your area, if you aren’t in LA.

Sure, you could sit at home on your ass, watching movies and eating pizza all weekend. Of course no one would blame you if you splurged and got your significant otter a lovely bracelet for a grand. Who would say no to a Wii, or xbox, or one of those mechanical talking hamsters that are just so hottt this year.

Then again…

you could just be a scrooge

a guide to wasting a day

so the thanksgiving weekend started unthanksgivingly like, with car, car car trouble. however, i am ever one to refuse to despair even when my car will not start. i ended up going to this place recommended by a work compadre with the same car as me, in santa monica, as they specialize in our hunk a hunk a burning gas… and money.

while the guy who was this very earnest looking mechanic performed an autopsy on my car, i took a walk down the promenade. or should i say, promenaded down the promenade. regardless, i chanced upon the santa monica farmer’s market, which i heard a lot about but never went to. i am a hollywood farmer’s market regular, as i am fond of watching the freaks on parade. there are few freaks in santa monica. mostly chefs and moms toting their toddlers, all of which made me want to either open a restaurant or have a baby or both. i mean, what a life, hanging out on wednesday mornings at the farmer’s market.

never, ever eat a pomegranate seed!

i found jimmy and hung out with him for a while but logan wasn’t there and he’s who i like to hang with and check out the people. jimmy actually focuses on selling stuff and can’t be bothered to answer questions like “why do more white people have fros now than black people?”

seeing as i was stuck sans vehicle, i went about my thanksgiving shopping business. i needed a couple oranges and some spices. fortunately, i was at a farmer’s market and there were plenty of oranges. after that i hit up penzys for spices. i find it astounding that penzys makes any money, considering how few people actually cook and therefore need herbs and spices. after that i went to rei to see if i could find something for my nephew for xmas. i love rei except that the clothes they have available for women make me break out in hives. i really fear that if i wore these outfits i would start to want to listen to the string cheese incident or prog hippie bands and refuse to shave or shower and worst of all, i would smoke the weed. it all pops into my head like a tragic domino effect. first a pair of keens, then a bong that matches my patagonia jacket.

before the daytime nightmare went into full effect i got a call from my mechanic saying that my battery was fixed but that there was something wrong with the something that has something to do with making my car run. he went into detail at this point but all i heard was how much it would cost. since i knew my car was fucked without this repair, i said sure go right ahead… and ruin my fucking weekend.

now that i knew it would be hours and hours before i got my car back, i headed to the bookstore and got a big, thick book, which i hoped would weigh me down when i threw myself off the pier. i chose “infinite jest”, as i heard so much about david foster wallace, but found “broom of the system” really hard to get into. maybe because i associated it with that awful trip to palm springs. anyway infinite jest, even in paperback, weights 15 lbs. i headed to the pier with it tucked into a huge bag, along with fruit, spices, my sweater, and my shoes.

on the way to the pier my attention was diverted by a building which had the band name “camera obscura” written on it. i thought it was odd that some random building in santa monica would be named after a band… and i wondered, do you suppose they’re named after the california noise band, camera obscura? or the more widely known scottish pop band? i had to investigate further, being a fan of both.

scottish pop band or ca indie noise? let's check further

as it turned out, the signage was on a senior citizen center which was on the verge of serving a very mushy lunch to a room full of elderly people. they were all seated at their designated spots, their names written on their placemats, patiently waiting for lunch. they had their little cartons of milk all ready, just like i did when i was in third grade. most of them were really dressed up, like they were having lunch at a fancy restaurant, instead of in a senior citizen center. i figured they were probably all single and looking to hook up. i considered joining in but then i decided i ought to investigate this camera obscura business.

i asked the overly friendly guy about the camera obscura, and he said it’s upstairs and i needed to get a key. so i left my bag of groceries with the overly friendly lady and went upstairs. the camera obscura was in its own room, locked up, like the secret and wonderful thing that it was.

i make no pretense to being able to explain what a camera obscura is, or how it works. that’s what wikipedia is for, anyway. but the point is that you rotate this thing and you see all around you, as if it was a telescope but it’s not a telescope. and so you swing it around, and you see people walking down the street and palm trees swaying in the breeze. down by the parkway a couple was kissing. elsewhere there was traffic and there were buildings. i thought to myself that, well timed and aimed, that camera obscura thing could really see an eyeful. note to self.

spying on lovers

if this thing was just 100 feet further north...

from there i continued to the pier. i had always wanted to go on the ferris wheel as a sort of romantic ideal type of thing which sadly never happened which isn’t to say it never will, it just never has, and so with that i decided that i just ought to do it myself as you never know if it ever will. so i did. carpe diem and all that. now, i am actually terrified of heights which is why i’m so short. but i don’t know if it was the whole ferris wheel thing, the beautiful day, or the fact that i did have this nice mom with a kid and his grandad in the gondola with me, but i wasn’t afraid and really enjoyed it. i told them about the camera obscura, which the old man knew about but not the mom. the kid’s name was felix and at one point he sneezed blowing a prodigious amount of snot onto himself and his mom. she was unfazed.

wish you were here!

at one point i started to sing volare.

the ferris wheel went around until we were a little tired of it and then it stopped and we were let off. the old man said its nicer at night.

after that i dragged my bag of groceries and book down to the beach. by now it was hot, and i was sweating but really very happy. i laid down in my jeans directly on the sand and started reading.

whichever i choose it amounts to the same. absolutely nothing.

i like “infinite jest”. admittedly, i only read maybe 50 pages of it on the beach, but i can really see myself reading more of this book, and even finishing it one day. it had one of the best lines i ever read that i didn’t write myself: he had never been so anxious for the arrival of a woman he did not want to see. aside from the context in which it was written — which i won’t spoil for you — i can see that applying to a variety of situations.

at some point i looked at my phone and it was about to go dead. i figured i should head back to the mechanic shop because they wouldn’t be able to get a hold of me. so i did, after waiting at two separate intersections for some police incident to clear.

the mechanic still wasn’t done but was working on it. i saw my car hoisted into the air as i arrived so i knew this was true. i cracked open the book and sat outside on one of those hideous plastic chairs which was cracked in back so i had to be especially careful to not lean on any part of the actual chair. after a while the sun started to get to me, just like it did to clint eastwood in the good the bad and the ugly. i felt my face blister and peel, and was dying for some water. at one point i felt a sharp pain in my hip and wondered what it was and realized the sun was literally super-heating the rivets on my jeans. i was sure i would have a brand on my thigh in a little circle, which said “levis” in it. i went inside the shack where the woman sat who ran the office.

the shack was charming, if you are fond of the smell of old penzoil, auto parts catalogs and model cars. it had a calendar which hadn’t been advanced in months. i think this is normal at mechanic’s shops, as i’ve never been to one which had an accurate calendar. time stands still at the auto shop, as the saying goes.

art is pain. or sunburn.

the lady let me sit in there and recover from heat stroke, and even tossed me the new york times which i read with a sense of deja vous as i already read the entire thing online that morning. i didn’t want to spoil her good deed though and read it voraciously.

after a while my car was fixed and i was grateful because there was a container of mixed premium nuts in the back seat and i was, frankly, starving to death. i ate the nuts like no one’s business and went home.

* * * *
today kenny fixed the shelves in the living room, which had been collapsing from the weight of the records. i gave him a bunch of duplicates, some of which i really can’t believe i was dumb enough to buy twice. who buys weird war twice? most people don’t even buy it once.

anyway after he left i put away the rest of the records which now had more room to breathe and listened to a bunch which i honestly just never got around to. such as

crystal antlers tentacles this is an album which falls under the same heading, for me, as the no age album a couple years ago. a lot of buzz. some interesting elements, but really, not a great album. not annoying, just not riveting.
RIYL no age. animal collective.

which reminds me that as a homage to the great band name trends, i am going to name my japanese noise band the black wolf collective. you heard it here first.

deerhunter microcastle the cover is orange and the kid looks emo which is probably why i didn’t play it for literally months and months. not the orange bit, the emo. this is a double album, and i can honestly say i loved it. i thought it was great. it was a little collective-y at times, a little mbv or luna, but totally on the right track. deerhunter is a really depressing movie, too.
RIYL deerhunter the movie. mbv. miles davis.

mark andrews and the gents big boys mark andrews had a devils lock and looked like a guy kicked out of the misfits for being new wave. they were so right! he is new wave! this album, named after the seminal austin skate punk band the big boys (rip biscuit) sounds like it could easily be a “my aim is true” era elvis costello piece, or perhaps put out by the boomtown rats ala “it’s a rat trap judy! we’ve just been caught!!”
RIYL elvis costello when he wasn’t annoying and didn’t suck. the boomtown rats before sir bob got involved with that crazy floozy.

phil lynott solo in soho would anyone like a little more irish in them? not after this album! so for those of you not old enough to remember, back in the early 80’s there was this horrible left turn that music took, which, if you look back on it, was really rather funny. regular rock bands like the rolling stones, and even veteran art rockers like david bowie, all felt compelled to make weird “new wave” records. the stones put out “tattoo you” (which does have its moments), and david bowie did a cover of “china girl”. and mick and dave did an ego soaked version of “dancing in the streets” which is best forgotten, except for that great trenchcoat bowie wore.
at any rate, apparently everyone was sucked in by the bullshit idea that they had to put out some kind of a “new wave” record — even fucking phil lynott of thin lizzy. jesus, phil, why?? there’s the fake jamaican song, de rigeur for the era (ala Sandanista! era clash), and bizarre punk band shout outs on the last song, which totally reminded me of when marc bolan started trying to hang out with punk bands right before he died. oh i seem to see a common thread here.
RIYL you are the world’s biggest thin lizzy fan. you have “PHIL LIVES!” tattooed somewhere on your body.

the duke spirit neptune i have to say that i think the chick from the duke spirit has one of the best voices out there today, period. she has some delightfully ambiguous accent that makes you think she too may be from a foreign and exotic place. they remind me of the long blondes, except that i really love her voice more. the best song on this album is “you really wake up the love in me”.
RIYL the coral, the long blondes, camera obscura (the scottish band, not the magical telescopic device)

xmas ideas:
stay home and listen to music
go to the beach and read a book
make a wrong turn and just lose yourself

look, a command from god to marry!

How To Survive The Holidays (sober)

So I was talking to a friend of mine today about the impending doom I mean holidays. He suggested that more than anything he would like to go to a remote Scottish island for a month. Other than the Scotland part I concurred heartily. I would like nothing more than to be cryogenically frozen for a few months, like a Thanksgiving turkey, or else given a large sum of money to go somewhere where there are no holidays between now and mid-January (Borneo is a front-runner). For many of us the holidays are a time we fondly recall from childhood as being full of wonderment and joy which at some point morphed into a time of stress, anxiety and the height of seasonal affective disorder. The charges leveled against Christmas are the same year after year: it’s too commercial, it’s expensive. It feels fake, forced, and is exhausting. It seems that the only people who like Christmas are children and imbeciles.

My personal passage d’enfer starts next Thursday, when my mother arrives for Thanksgiving. My mother and step-dad are on their way to a cruise, and are visiting me en route for something like 46 hours give or take an hour but who’s counting. Like all old people, they love cruises. There are activities geared towards old people, like old timey dancing and seminars like Is Your 38 Year Old A Deadbeat Loser? Ten Signs They’re On Drugs and Moving Back Home. Of course what they really love is the fact that a cruise takes all the confusion out of traveling. You don’t need to consult a map to see where you’re going, because the ship kindly takes you there. You don’t need to worry about ordering strange foreign food because all the food is included on board and is wonderfully banal. Interactions with potentially hostile natives are limited: when the boat stops at port, they disembark for a few hours to get a taste of the foreignness of the place, and then hurry back to the mother ship in time for dinner. The truly xenophobic can just survey the foreign country via a telescope from the deck of the ship.

At any rate, back to the point of this blog, which is How To Survive The Effin’ Holidays.

I have already violated my first rule, which is the ubiquitous KISS rule. Keep It Simple, Stupid. Keeping it Simple means no guests, no parties, no gifts. But in all fairness, having guests for Thankgiving will be enjoyable for me because I do like to cook. However, if you are going to have a party, dinner, or other fete, I recommend employing the KISS rule with religious fervor. Prepare as much as possible ahead of time, keep the number of people low, make them confirm their attendance, and serve easy to make things like ham. You don’t have to do a damn thing to a ham. If you buy side dishes (which I would never do, but then I am a luddite) you can instantly create an entire dinner for six in about an hour. Also, I’ve noticed that if you increase the amount of liquor, you can pretty much serve anything – even still frozen leftovers — and people will oooo and aaahhh. Here are Mark Bittman’s simple recipes for Thanksgiving, which will work equally well for other wintertime holidays, if you insist on actually entertaining. http://bitten.blogs.nytimes.com/

I hate shopping for the holidays. As a general rule I dislike shopping, but I affirmatively hate setting foot in stores between now and February. I can’t stand listening to Christmas carols, I hate the smell of holiday incense and candles, and festive decorations and colored lights give me a headache. The thought of buying presents for everyone I have encountered in the preceding year fills me with anxiety and dread, and yet the thought of not getting presents is depressing.

Last year in a statement against capitalism and the over commercialization of the holidays I made gifts for everyone. Orange marmalade and kumquat chutney, as well as vanilla sugar, montreal steak seasoning, and, if I managed to actually give you your gift in a somewhat timely manner, rumballs and Mexican wedding cookies. Everyone who actually got them was thrilled and highly complimentary. The rule was, if you live close to me, you got your present. Your chances of getting your present decreased the further away you live. My mother, for example, will be getting her xmas ’09 gift this year.

While delightfully charming and delicious, making cauldrons of jam and chutney was a royal pain in the ass. Obviously boxing up everything and shipping it was an insurmountable hurdle as I never did it because I don’t even know where any post offices are in this city and also they are not open when I have time, which is the middle of the night.

The alternative – buying gifts for everyone you know – is insanely expensive. Fifty bucks here, twenty bucks there, a nice gift for the family, and next thing you know you’ve spent two grand on gifts and you still have to spend another grand flying home so you can drown your anxiety about debt in egg nog. Christmas should not cost as much as a car, people. This year I am truly honest to god reining it all in and limiting both how many gifts I shell out and how much they cost. I’m also buying everything on line and having it shipped. That’s because I’m terrible at wrapping and I’m also not going anywhere for the holidays.

Which brings us to what, for some, is the biggest pain in the ass: deciding where to actually go for the Big Holiday. Travel is expensive and an ordeal. No one in LA is from LA, which means we have to travel to some remote location. My mother lives in Tennessee, and had this Pollyanna notion that my sister and I would be thrilled to visit her and her three Christmas trees every year. However, getting to Chattanooga is so time consuming I could get to Paris quicker, and for less money. Of course, I would miss hanging out at the Memphis airport, which has the best food court in the United States.

Anyway, I already noticed that this year the winter holidays fall on the cusp of two weekends. This is a boon to those who want to, and can, take advantage of the days off. Would that I could, I would fly somewhere and lay on a rock contemplating the meaning of life, but I think everyone else has the same idea because you can’t get out of town cheap at all. I am considering going camping, which, now that I have acquired enough gear to live like the unibomber (who, incidentally, I am beginning to admire more and more) for months. I think new year’s eve would be preferable, because I may in fact hate new year’s even more than Christmas. While both holidays have that overriding sense that you should be with people you love, and really love the people you’re with, new year’s eve has that added depressing quality of the turning of the clock, the striking of midnight, when you get to look around and go, ahhhh, so this is it, right? That’s all there is, another year of this? So I refuse to succumb to that this year and instead I would prefer to go someplace like Death Valley and wake up in a cold sleeping bag confronting my mortality on January 1st.

Lest this sound too depressing, I do have a roster of [mostly cheap] gift ideas which you may feel free to steal or borrow as you see fit.

1. An Opinel folding picnic knife $

opinel knives - cheap and useful

2. Netflix subscription $
3. The Shadow of the Night – best book I’ve read all year $
4. A personalized mixed tape $
5. A white porcelain skull made of Nymphenburg porcelain $$$

they have less gothy things too, but cmon this is awsum

6. Bottle(s) of booze $-$$$
7. Autographed picture of yourself $
8. Drill press $$
9. Assortment of records and mints $$
10. Imported Turkish bathrobe $$

Happy holidays, everyone. And don’t forget to pack the xanax!

all i want for christmas...

things i learned

over the years i’ve discovered that if you pay attention every life lesson you’ll ever need is right there in the lyrics of blues or soul songs. sure, you could just play nazareth’s love hurts or the buzzcocks’ ever fallen in love when you’re down, but neither nazareth or the buzzcocks tell you what you’re supposed to do about it when you feel like roadkill. admittedly most old blues songs suggest getting a shotgun to resolve the problem which is why maybe soul is a better and evolved choice.

if they weren't yours, don't waste your time missing them.

this ike and tina turner song is hard to find. luckily the detroit cobras covered it on “love, life and leaving” so you can still listen to it any time you need to be reminded that . . .

you can’t miss nothing
you can’t miss nothing
that you never had

see, clearly soul singers believe in empowerment and recognize there’s no point in pining away being unhappy. at some point you have to stop your sobbing and get on with life. as the mighty sharon jones points out, it’s better to be alone than a doormat:

if what you need is a good little soldier
well i guess you better look again
well you know i ain’t nobody’s soldier
i’m a bona fide capitan
cuz i ain’t nobody’s baby
i ain’t nobody’s fool

thank you, sharon. sometimes i need to be reminded that i make a really shitty doormat.

i’ve known people in my life who, for some reason, choose to be unhappy. if only they would listen to more soul music. i never understood this and it’s not my bag. depending on how you look at it, life is either short, or very very long. i could get hit by a bus tomorrow. or, i could live to be 100. either way i’m not wasting my time being miserable. however, part of life’s majesty is the ability of everyone to choose and if they choose unhappiness that’s really up to them. perhaps they just love to fail. if the magnetic fields were a soul band i’d totally play you love to fail at this point.

you know sometimes we find ourselves chasing after someone who does not want us. and sometimes that’s not real clear but here’s the thing, ladies and gentlemen. if they want you, they want you and they choose you. it’s really very very simple. you’ll know it when you want to sing wilson pickett songs, or they sing you [if they can't sing they can always put it on a mixed tape] that otis redding song, that’s how strong my love is, or ray charles’ tell the world about you, or hallelujah i love her so! . anything less than that is half-assed bullshit and don’t accept it (unless you are one of these people who are willing to settle. if you are, i feel really sorry for you. you probably listen to lousy music, too.)

if it’s not like this, forget about it.

all is not lost if you should find yourself in love with someone who doesn’t want you. you simply need to be reminded of the basic lessons recited above, by sharon jones and ms tina turner. and you should play this marvelettes song over and over, focusing on the line i don’t want nobody that don’t want me. the marvelettes could have made a mint as therapists, because really this is the best advice i’ve heard in years. i remember when i put this record on it was like a lightning bolt (a real one, not the band) hit me. what you want with someone who don’t want you? forget about them! just around the corner is someone better!

soon enough you’ll be putting on marvin gaye’s let’s get it on. trust me.

get it on!!

dear mama,

i know you already think i have too many records, that i can’t possibly listen to all the records i already have, not even if i sat here and played them back to back non-stop for the next five years. i think you’re really missing the point, though. take last night. i was listening to this ted nugent and the amboy dukes live album, when i just said, i’m not in the mood for this. i’m more in the mood for ac/dc. and you know, i just walked over to the “A” section and picked out dirty deeds done dirt cheap, which totally hit the spot. later i played sabbath bloody sabbath which is not nearly as good as paranoid, obviously, and at times even seemed to teeter on the brink of disco.
i don’t know why i’m telling you this, except to explain to you why you can’t stay at my house when you visit. i know i said you could, but that was before i bought more records. anyway now i have so many records that there isn’t enough room in the house for house guests. there’s barely enough room for me. i’m thinking of living in the garage and devoting the entire house to records. i hope you understand. if you could sing, or even hit a tambourine, that would be one thing. but… you can’t.
rock n roll saved my soul,
xo
a

the ventures, flights of fantasy
before i picked this album up, my knowledge of the ventures (who apparently are still around and recording, amazingly enough) was pretty much limited to the reverb laden surf classic “walk don’t run”. i never bought any ventures because, of that ilk, i always preferred link wray and duane eddy. and now, i can more clearly see why.
flights of fantasy (1968) is an album of covers. crazy covers, like “mighty quinn”, “summertime blues”, and “scarborough fair”. covers which are rendered practically unrecognizable by the bizarre elevator music cum surfer psychedelic instrumental treatment they’re given. dig the hammond! more tambourine, man!
RIYL: herb alpert and the tijuana brass.
Recommended: as cheesy background music to a vintage porn shoot.

gossip music for men
dear beth ditto,
hi, you don’t know me, but i’m about six times older than you. back when i was a little girl, i really enjoyed both heavy metal and disco. because i love to rock and i love to dance. anyway so later (but still before your parents even had drunkenly groped each other for the first time), i used to go dancing at the gay bars because those were the bars that also played cool music. what i’m trying to say is that i have a long history of dancing on top of speakers to dead or alive.
anyway, beth, i really dug gossip (movement, that’s not what i heard) for the stripped down sound. and your great voice. i freely admit to dancing in my living room to “standing in the way of control” (le tigre remix).
so here’s my problem with this new record, beth. i have a shitload of records. seriously. so when i paid a full $25 for this album and brought it home and played it, i said to myself, wtf? another erasure album? don’t i already have this?
i know you’re young. that’s why i’m trying to help you. this album sounds like alison moyet fronting bronski beat. which may not be the worst thing in the world, but all i can say is, play erasure’s who needs love like that? and then play men in love. i think you’ll see what i mean.
thanks for your time,
a
RIYL: erasure. bronkski beat. tin tin.
Recommended: if you don’t know who any of those bands are.

flesh for lulu big fun city
i already had this album, but i did buy another copy when i saw it because this album is that good. i don’t understand why golden handshake girl or baby hurricane aren’t on youtube or findable anywhere. those are great songs. i didn’t care for their later stuff, and i pretty much hate their only successful song, i go crazy which suffers from shitty commercialized production and a trapped-in-the-80’s sound.
RIYL: tones on tail, gene loves jezebel
Recommended: as an entree to goth circa late 80’s

tanya tucker delta dawn
tanya tucker’s debut album! i heart old school country. tanya really rips it up (and to think she was only 13 when this came out) singing the title track. the rest is very good as well.
RIYL: old school country
Recommended: put this on instead of anything released by nashvile in the last 20 years.

van morrison featuring them here comes gloria
pop quiz time! fill in the blank:
van morrison is to them as little stevie winwood was to ____________.
listen, i have nothing again van morrison, except that i think he’s boring and every girl with brown eyes insists on playing that fucking brown eyed girl song at her wedding. VIM. but here’s something for us all to ponder. he didn’t [totally] suck when he was in them. here comes the night and gloria, in comparison to his later works, are soul shaking paint peelers. i don’t know what the explanation is, exactly, but i’m sure it will also explain why the same man who sang i’m a man later went on to record the completely asexual arc of a diver.
RIYL: nuggest I
Recommended: to play for your parents when they come over and complain that music isn’t any good anymore.

brimstone howl, we came in peace
this band needs to get the eff out of the midwest. they are way too good for that part of the country. they need to live in austin, portland, san francisco, or detroit. LA will not love them because they are not pretty hipster boys. NY will not love them because they are not poseurs who sound like interpol who sound like new order. they and their wicked fuzzed-out loudness needs to tour with the likes of the strange boys, or singapore sling. le sigh that would be a good show.
RIYL: Good Music.
Recommended: louder.

i also got this but i haven’t played it yet.

get it on!

every boy in scotland is named jimmy

it’s true.

see, at birth they’re all named ‘jimmy’, but if there’s already a jimmy in the family, they default to their middle name, which is invariably ‘ian’, or ’shaun’ or whatever was the name of the loathsome scottish guy i once [very very briefly] dated whose name i [mercifully] cannot recall.

anyway that particular jimmy was merely one of a long line of egregious errors in judgment i made [and, in what clearly must be blamed upon an astrological phenomena, such as venus being retrograde in uranus] back in 1997. the details are hazy, and to be blunt, far to embarrassing to reveal. almost as embarrassing as that time i drunkenly contemplated sending a sheep head via the post to a guy, but that’s another story. at any rate, jimmy and i had nothing in common except our mutual like for one band. when i say that, i am excluding ’speaking the same language’ and ‘resting assured that we were even of the same species’. but worse mistakes were made, and even in 1997, when i later went on to date a guy with whom i didn’t even have a single common musical interest in common.

when i first met jimmy, i was surprised at how little he looked like (1) the guy from trainspotting, and (2) his photo. which made me immediately suspicious. i would have inquired further but, after a brief attempt at communicating via the english language, i realized this was a senseless endeavor and that all further communications would have to be either written, or via sign language.

i want it to be clear that i have nothing against scotland, or the scottish people. or scotch eggs, kilts, or loch ness. i have piles and piles of scottish friends. i have even let them use my bathroom.

but this isn’t about the scottish people – who are on the whole lovely, fresh faced and easily sunburnt – no, this is about jimmy the crazy guy. or whatever his name was.

i quickly surmised that jimmy was Not Like Other Boys. meaning, that he was clinically insane. first of all, when i asked him what he wanted to eat, he rattled off things like soda and chips and candybars. i said no no no. what do you want me to cook for you? he said he didn’t like food, other than fast food. this was astonishing. how could anyone, how could any man, refuse a home cooked meal? anything you want! cooked at home! you name it, and yet all he wanted a family sized bag of doritos and a bag of ho ho’s downed with a liter of mountain dew.

for breakfast he wanted lucky charms, which i thought was ironic since of course the leprechaun is irish.

we were invited to a swank birthday party, which was surf n’ turf. in the midwest surf n’ turf is considered the height of class, as it represents to us the great span of culinary delights america has to offer. on one hand you have a lobster from maine (but just the tail!!) which represents your ivory tower ivy league types, and then you have a chunk of beef which represents the mighty gut of this country and things like shooting indians and driving them off their land – and what could be more american than that? the sprig of parsley to the side would be california, impotently looking on.

i told jimmy about the surf n’ turf menu, thinking he would be excited. what a fool. he acted as though i was trying to poison him. “i’ll nach eacht naw lobstear. ess dessguussting”, he said. well have you even tried lobster, i asked? “i donnaght haf taw eacht et taw naw ess dessgussting. whad elseya doya haff?” i said they had steak. delicious filet mignon. “i donnaght layke naw staayke. i layke hambarger.” good god. i was involved with a man who actually admitted to preferring hamburger to steak. while i’d heard about this phenomena, i’d never personally met anyone who openly acknowledged a preference for the inferior. “ess easier to cheaw” he explained. naturally. why work when you’re eating.

avoiding work was actually his entire life goal, as he actually didn’t want to do anything, except eat bags of chitos and watch tv.

later jimmy had to forage for himself while i tended to work type things. when i returned, i found the place littered with plastic bags and soda bottles. that, and the fact that i didn’t understand a goddamn thing he was saying, exponentially increased my annoyance with him.

he sensed that i waited for the day of his departure with breathless anticipation, and hoped to stave off my irritated looks as i would throw another bag of chips at him. one day i came home and found that he had bought a stuffed bear clutching a heart, to appease me. seeing as i loath stuffed animals almost as much as mylar balloons, this did not endear him to me in the slightest.

the coup de grace came when jimmy and i went to mcdonald’s, his culinary holy grail, on the day before he was thankfully leaving. as i sat eating whatever it was, i noticed that jimmy ate all his fries first. this was not that unusual. many people dislike cold fries. but what he did next was remarkable. he disassembled his hamburger, piece by piece, separating each component into an individual pile. i asked him if there was something wrong with his burger. “naw, thees ess tha way aye always ayet eet.” i stared at him, perplexed. first he ate the pickles, after scraping off all other condiments. then he ate the buns. then he ate the meat and cheese. and then he ate the ketchup and onion mix. he is going to disembowel me in my sleep. was my only thought. the insane look in his eye, coupled with the maniacal deliberation with which he separated the parts of the hamburger assured me that i was unloading myself of the next Ripper, and that i would be his next Victim.

jimmy left, of course, and left me with nothing but precious memories to remember him by. that and the stash of porn magazines he purchased while i was at work and hid in my library for me to find when i was moving out a few months later.

i guess he was doing more than watching tv and eating chips when i was out.

IF IT'S NOT SCOTTISH, IT'S CRAP