Not to sound chauvinistic, but I was ready to go to San Francisco at 7pm on a Friday night while she was hardly packed. But it really wasn't her fault: she had an unexpected visit from a friend of hers.
A tall, skinny guy named Gibby showed up out of the blue, bemoaning his lot in life: the place he'd been staying had been raided, and although his father had recently passed away and left him a sizable inheritance, he had no means to cash his check. He was also trying to kick a bad glass-smoking addiction.
Gibby looked me over jealously. He didn't know she'd been seeing me. I, in turn, sized him up and down and got a decidedly bad vibe from him. There's an old saying: "You can't con a con man." However, I didn't say anything because I knew it would sound as if I were merely jealous instead of aware of this guy's bullshit.
We finally got on the road close to midnight. I had to call Rose, my friend up north, and tell her that we would probably make it into town by the morning. This gave us time to drive at a leisurely pace, stopping every now and then to eat, use the restroom, and gaze at the night stars as we made our journey to the Bay Area, a part of California that my girl had never been to before.
We arrived around El Cerrito by the sunrise. She and I were so excited to be out of Los Angeles that when Rose gave us a bed to rest, we only slept for two hours.
*/*
Over breakfast, she and I were loopy and delirious. Rose was as accommodating as she could be but I could tell she was sort of put-off by my girl's distracted manner of conversation.
As we waited for my girl to finish up in the restroom, Rose (whom I'd had a short-lived crush on when I first met her the previous August) said to me with a brave face, "She's... nice."
"I know she seems a bit odd," I said, "but I really dig her."
"Have you two... you know... have you--"
"No, not yet. And to be honest, I'm in no hurry."
"Wow, I guess you do dig her then!"
"Absolutely."
After breakfast, we all took the BART out to the city. We had lunch near the Embarcadero at a diner named Fog City. Then Rose took us to the COIT Tower by way of The Steps, a long and circuitous stairway with quite a scenic view of the Bay. We marveled at the mural painted along the inside of the tower, and it was while I was taking photographs for posterity that I noticed Rose and my girl were getting along, having a normal conversation based on art and beauty.
We made out way to City Lights, the famed Beat bookstore formerly owned by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I was astonished that, in all my past visits to SF, I had never paid a visit to this remarkable historical monument: after all, this was the location of the first public reading of Allen Ginsberg's legendary epic poem "Howl".
I looked all over for a book by Alfred Jarry-- not a play or a biography, but a work of fiction, something very rare by my normally obscure standards. Just when I had exhausted all hope of finding one, I spied a column of books in the "Surrealism" section that I had not perused. Sure enough, there within its volumes was a slender tome by Jarry entitled The Supermale, a richly comic science-fantasy concerning Perpetual Motion Food, bicycle racing and alcohol imbibing.
To celebrate, we stopped in at Spec's, a hip bar across the way from City Lights. The atmosphere was downright "writerly": An argument between the barkeep and a patron was the first thing I noticed when we walked in; a man looking like a cross between Guns 'N' Roses guitarist Slash and Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula (top hat and all) sat by himself in the far back, nursing an ungodly concoction; an old bluesman played for tips outside the front of the establishment, hitting every note and making his axe cry with ecstatic tremolo.
I bought the ladies a round and poked my nose into the Jarry book, as Rose and my girl giggled at my boyish enthusiasm for my rather extraordinary find.
Before we ventured back to Rose's place, we stopped off in Chinatown and ate a sumptuous meal. It was a bit on the expensive side, but we were all feeling very decadent and figured that life was too short to squabble over petty monetary restrictions.
*/*
The next morning, my girl and I joined Rose for one last breakfast before we made the trip back to Los Angeles. I dropped her off in time to get to work, then I went home and slept.
The following week was filled with passion and intimacy, fueled on by the success of our SF getaway. Before the end of the week, she and I consummated our love with an evening spent at my flat. We painted on a canvas and smoked and drank and I wrote some of my novel as she washed loads of her laundry for free in my washroom.
Then she spent the night with me, and it was everything I ever hoped and expected.
*/*
Gibby, meanwhile, was trying to weasel his way back into her graces. But she had already caught him in two lies: one, his father had not really passed away; two, his former home had not been raided. By the time she figured these out, however, he absconded off with her Mac laptop computer.
This would not stand, not with me nor her roommate Mitch nor Brotherman, who immediately accompanied Mitch and I as we made a trek to retrieve the laptop from the place he was staying at in the hills of Los Feliz.
We didn't get the laptop back that night, but we put such a scare into the owner of the place that he contacted Gibby and urged him to return the computer to its rightful owner.
Within 24 hours, the laptop was back in her possession.
My girl could not thank the three of us enough. She had learned a hard lesson, but it was something she had to find out for herself. It would have made no difference had Mitch and I voiced our opinions to her, because she would've merely dismissed them as overprotective ramblings from the two most important men in her life.
I have to always remember that she is ten years younger than me, and although she possess much wisdom she is also headstrong and fiercely independent. I have to learn to be patient, and to not judge her or make her feel badly when she uses bad judgment, such as in the case of Gibby.
*/*
Last night, as I held her in my arms and watched A Clockwork Orange on DVD with her in her bed, I told my girl that I loved her and she told me that she loved me too.
We marveled at the short time we've known each other.
It is marvelous because we feel like we have known each other all of our respective lives.
I feel like I have waited for this girl to arrive ever since I was a young boy.
She said to me that I make her feel like a young girl again.
Never in my life have I felt such passion, and yet I also know that she is my best friend, and my partner in crime, and my perfect mate.
She is my girl. I am her man.
We are going to be together for as long as it takes.
I have a feeling it will be something close to forever.
Or am I just being silly?
Whatever. All I know is how she makes me feel, and how I make her feel.
That is all I want to know.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
partner in crime
We're getting out of this city for the weekend.
I proposed San Francisco a few weeks back. She asked me why and I replied, "Just for the fuck of it."
Likewise, when I asked her earlier today if there was anything in particular she wanted to see or do in SF (a city to which she, a D.C. transplant, has never been) her reply was, "Yeah. Get the fuck out of L.A. for a few days."
I nodded in agreement.
*/*
You know that annoying little thing that couples always bring up about how they finish each other's sentences and think each other's thoughts at the same time?
Well, I'm afraid that she and I are a part of that annoying club. I noticed it from the first few multi-hour phone conversations we had after we first really met and chatted. I didn't want to say anything about it at the time, but she ended up bring that fact to the light after the first phone talk anyway.
Her comment on the phenomenon was one of surprise and astonishment. It wasn't a cheesy observation but rather a stark matter of fact. We both acknowledged the weirdness of it all, but we didn't let it dictate our budding friendship.
I love talking to her. One on one, our talks are easy and simple and yet disarmingly ornate. When the two of us start talking with others, though, we tend to get more intense: we laugh too much, or skip tangents too much, or rant too much. We end up scaring people. This makes us smile at each other because we both see it in the other and instead of letting it overwhelm us we decide that it would be better if it exhilarated us.
I can see how this would seem annoying to outsiders. But I don't care. Neither does she. And that settles it.
*/*
The truck I am driving belonged to my father before it ended up in my care. It's great, except the stereo needs to be swapped out. Right now only the radio tuner works. It used to have a working tape player but that is busted.
Music is a big factor for me as a driver. Hell, the only thing that kept me attached to my old car was that, despite its age and condition, the stereo kicked ass. Towards the end, though, the speakers blew and the CD player started to skip my albums more frequently. But it was loud, and I had a choice of what to listen to, so it made up for its drawbacks in spades.
As she and I planned our upcoming trip, she asked if we were taking the truck. When I confirmed it, she stared off into space for a second then said, "I'm bringing my boombox." I nodded in agreement, as I often do in her presence.
She looked at me again and said, "Sorry, I know you're a fabulous conversationalist, but after a while we're gonna need some fresh tunes. No offense."
I grinned. "None taken. It's an excellent idea. I would've done it had you not just pointed it out. You're on top of it, kid."
She smiled. She likes it when I think her ideas are sound. And I like her ideas because most of the time they are sane and sensible.
And the times when her ideas are totally insane and nonsensical? I like those too.
*/*
She was the one who coined the phrase "partner in crime".
Obviously, I don't mean that she was the first ever person in the history of persons to use that terminology. Rather, I mean that (in regards to what it is that we have) she was the first of us to say that designation out loud.
I thought about it often, but she gave voice to it first. And once again, I'm nodding that big ol' head of mine like a worn-out Bobble Head. But that analogy paints a despairing picture, when the reality is that I'm more than happy to go along with what she says. She doesn't boss me around or force it on me. I accept it all because (as she stated a while back) I am finally ready for all of it.
So that's what we are: partners in crime. And sometimes we kiss and snuggle, but mostly we just make each other laugh and seek out adventures.
That's cool with me.
I'm nodding in agreement as I type this.
And that settles it.
I proposed San Francisco a few weeks back. She asked me why and I replied, "Just for the fuck of it."
Likewise, when I asked her earlier today if there was anything in particular she wanted to see or do in SF (a city to which she, a D.C. transplant, has never been) her reply was, "Yeah. Get the fuck out of L.A. for a few days."
I nodded in agreement.
*/*
You know that annoying little thing that couples always bring up about how they finish each other's sentences and think each other's thoughts at the same time?
Well, I'm afraid that she and I are a part of that annoying club. I noticed it from the first few multi-hour phone conversations we had after we first really met and chatted. I didn't want to say anything about it at the time, but she ended up bring that fact to the light after the first phone talk anyway.
Her comment on the phenomenon was one of surprise and astonishment. It wasn't a cheesy observation but rather a stark matter of fact. We both acknowledged the weirdness of it all, but we didn't let it dictate our budding friendship.
I love talking to her. One on one, our talks are easy and simple and yet disarmingly ornate. When the two of us start talking with others, though, we tend to get more intense: we laugh too much, or skip tangents too much, or rant too much. We end up scaring people. This makes us smile at each other because we both see it in the other and instead of letting it overwhelm us we decide that it would be better if it exhilarated us.
I can see how this would seem annoying to outsiders. But I don't care. Neither does she. And that settles it.
*/*
The truck I am driving belonged to my father before it ended up in my care. It's great, except the stereo needs to be swapped out. Right now only the radio tuner works. It used to have a working tape player but that is busted.
Music is a big factor for me as a driver. Hell, the only thing that kept me attached to my old car was that, despite its age and condition, the stereo kicked ass. Towards the end, though, the speakers blew and the CD player started to skip my albums more frequently. But it was loud, and I had a choice of what to listen to, so it made up for its drawbacks in spades.
As she and I planned our upcoming trip, she asked if we were taking the truck. When I confirmed it, she stared off into space for a second then said, "I'm bringing my boombox." I nodded in agreement, as I often do in her presence.
She looked at me again and said, "Sorry, I know you're a fabulous conversationalist, but after a while we're gonna need some fresh tunes. No offense."
I grinned. "None taken. It's an excellent idea. I would've done it had you not just pointed it out. You're on top of it, kid."
She smiled. She likes it when I think her ideas are sound. And I like her ideas because most of the time they are sane and sensible.
And the times when her ideas are totally insane and nonsensical? I like those too.
*/*
She was the one who coined the phrase "partner in crime".
Obviously, I don't mean that she was the first ever person in the history of persons to use that terminology. Rather, I mean that (in regards to what it is that we have) she was the first of us to say that designation out loud.
I thought about it often, but she gave voice to it first. And once again, I'm nodding that big ol' head of mine like a worn-out Bobble Head. But that analogy paints a despairing picture, when the reality is that I'm more than happy to go along with what she says. She doesn't boss me around or force it on me. I accept it all because (as she stated a while back) I am finally ready for all of it.
So that's what we are: partners in crime. And sometimes we kiss and snuggle, but mostly we just make each other laugh and seek out adventures.
That's cool with me.
I'm nodding in agreement as I type this.
And that settles it.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
how we met (a blurry remembrance)
The end of February. No leap year this time around-- the 28th would be the final act, not only for the second month but for the club that became a home away from home for me and my band.
Talk about a low point: Eve was gone and her memory lingered everywhere; my desperate attempts to replace her with other women sank like stones in a river; and now the establishment that let us play anytime we wanted was going the way of the do-do bird...
When remembering it, I told her that I was in a drunken haze, surveying the room, and my eyes stopped and focused on her as she sat next to me in a booth. The way she recalls it, the guitarist introduced me to her in a tone of voice that expressed a quiet urgency, as if it were vital that we meet. I don't remember the introduction, but it's just as well because we talked and we talked and we talked and we talked...
And by the time I was having to get up and drive to work, I resolved to obtain her phone number. As I asked her for the number, I told her how much I enjoyed the talk, and apologized if she was already taken by someone else but I just had to speak to her again...
Eve and the club are long gone, but the girl I met that night is still around, and I am still amazed that it happened the way it did. I will never stop marveling at it.
Talk about a low point: Eve was gone and her memory lingered everywhere; my desperate attempts to replace her with other women sank like stones in a river; and now the establishment that let us play anytime we wanted was going the way of the do-do bird...
When remembering it, I told her that I was in a drunken haze, surveying the room, and my eyes stopped and focused on her as she sat next to me in a booth. The way she recalls it, the guitarist introduced me to her in a tone of voice that expressed a quiet urgency, as if it were vital that we meet. I don't remember the introduction, but it's just as well because we talked and we talked and we talked and we talked...
And by the time I was having to get up and drive to work, I resolved to obtain her phone number. As I asked her for the number, I told her how much I enjoyed the talk, and apologized if she was already taken by someone else but I just had to speak to her again...
Eve and the club are long gone, but the girl I met that night is still around, and I am still amazed that it happened the way it did. I will never stop marveling at it.
Monday, July 16, 2007
peacock gothic chic
Grey overcast clouds
gather and form
a billowy sash pillowcase...
Shadows chase the light rays away...
A sleepy Monday buried deep
beneath the L.A. fog..
I'm trying to jog my memory
and recall if I ever felt
this way
about anyone else at all...
Too good to be true?
That's the only label
I can apply to you
since you defy all definitions
and fill me with strange premonitions
of what is meant to happen
and the reasons which madden and
sadden me...
Your style is peacock Gothic chic
chock full of locks with no keys
so low-key and with a
smoky antique vintage technique...
Where in your world is a place
for a poor boy who succumbs
to the whirlpool pearls of
every girl he surveys?
I'm tired of letting myself be
led on and tread upon
so from now on until
the dead of dawn
I won't dwell upon how long
the others have been gone
and I will get on with living
this ladyluck life of mine...
But still
I feel a chill
trilling its tendrils tenderly and
gently up and down my spine...
Is it a thrilling sign?
Or am I just killing time?
I'm diligently hoping
that it will all be fine...
--from April 2007
gather and form
a billowy sash pillowcase...
Shadows chase the light rays away...
A sleepy Monday buried deep
beneath the L.A. fog..
I'm trying to jog my memory
and recall if I ever felt
this way
about anyone else at all...
Too good to be true?
That's the only label
I can apply to you
since you defy all definitions
and fill me with strange premonitions
of what is meant to happen
and the reasons which madden and
sadden me...
Your style is peacock Gothic chic
chock full of locks with no keys
so low-key and with a
smoky antique vintage technique...
Where in your world is a place
for a poor boy who succumbs
to the whirlpool pearls of
every girl he surveys?
I'm tired of letting myself be
led on and tread upon
so from now on until
the dead of dawn
I won't dwell upon how long
the others have been gone
and I will get on with living
this ladyluck life of mine...
But still
I feel a chill
trilling its tendrils tenderly and
gently up and down my spine...
Is it a thrilling sign?
Or am I just killing time?
I'm diligently hoping
that it will all be fine...
--from April 2007
Friday, July 06, 2007
murphy lawless
Talk to the majority of working (or practicing) musicians today and 9 times out of 10 you'll hear them voice their opinion on how terrible modern music is, and how "bubble-gum" the content of mainstream Top 40 pop charts can be, and how the LCD (Lowest Common Denominator) prevails over quality and craftmanship in today's music scene.
I sometimes agree with those musicians. But then there are times when I revel in the crass kitsch, the vapid garbage and pap of an LCD culture, where only the catchiest and stupidest hooks are remembered and honored. These songs happen to be my guilty pleasures: a tune like N'Sync's "It's Gonna Be Me" or S Club 7's "Never Had A Dream Come True" are embarrassing and potentially cred-wrecking, but I know and recognize a well-written pop confection when I hear it.
Maybe nowadays such songs are completely lacking in meaning and purpose, but the test of time is the ultimate arbiter of how long their impact will last... which is why I find myself reveling even more in the pop cultural trash of yesteryear.
Tommy James and the Shondells' "Monie Monie" was pop bubblegum crap. So was The Toys' "Lover's Concerto" and half of The Supremes' (and all of Phil Spector's) output. But in my opinion, the greatest of all of these teeny-bopper phenoms was from a band that didn't even exist when their first-- and best known --single was released.
The band was eventually called Steam, and they hit the top of the charts with a little ditty you might recognize as "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye".
*/*
Another thing that musicians will tell you is that the song the band hates the most or views as having the least potential is usually the one that will bring said band its greatest success and longest lasting rewards.
Every band I've been in had that one song that none of us could really stomach. Of course, because of my compassionate nature I often was the only person in a group who'd even give a certain tune a chance, to which the others responded by accusing me of having a crack habit or having no real mental capacity of my own.
The irony of this situation was that no one had a problem with the song when it was first composed and rehearsed. The resentment towards any given song was acquired through repeated performances.
We'd go out on stage and play, and various members of the crowd familiar with our music (calling them fans is grossly inaccurate) would request the very song or songs that we found to be laughable. And if we were in a good mood and feeling adventurous, we'd comply... and the crowd would go nuts every time.
Seriously. I ain't bullshittin'.
*/*
Anyway, back to a band called Steam for a minute:
There was once a group called The Chateaus who were signed for a hot minute to Warner Bros in the early '60s. Their album sunk like a stone and none of their singles made a dent in the Top 100, so they were unceremoniously dropped from the label.
Years passed, and one of the guys from The Chateaus, Paul Leka, made it semi-big while working as a producer for a subsidiary of Mercury Records. As a favor to his old friend Gary De Carlo, The Chateau's old singer, Leka landed DeCarlo a contract with Mercury and soon the two recruited a third holdover from the Chateau days, session musician Dale Frashuer, to work on some singles for DeCarlo, who changed his name to Garrett Scott.
(Personally, I think Gary DeCarlo is a better stage name than Garrett Scott, but then again what did these guys know in the first place? But before I get ahead of myself...)
To make a long story short, after the singles were cut the trio felt they needed some B-side material. They didn't want to create more songs of equal caliber to the A-sides; they didn't want the throwaways competing with the songs they worked hardest on, so they pulled an all-nighter, put some coffee on the burner, and dug up a song from their days as The Chateaus called "Kiss Him Goodbye".
The production was slapdash and lacking in any real artistic intention, the product of considerable neglect: the drum track was lifted from a completely different song on a separate master tape; no other musicians were brought in to freshen up the song other than Paul Leka and Dale Frashuer's musical contributions, Garrett Scott's vocals, and group handclaps/chanting; due to a paucity of lyrics, the now-legendary "na na na na, hey hey, good-bye" was tacked on as an afterthought because they needed the song to be longer; and basically the three men made every conscious effort to make it as "inferior" to the proposed A-side single as possible, going so far as to call themselves Steam in order to distance themselves from their Frankenstein monster/redheaded stepchild of a song... Funny, though, how their names were clearly listed on the songwriting credits-- they weren't that stupid...
The three ex-Chateaus truly felt that the four songs they crafted for Garrett Scott were far superior to "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye". Imagine their shock and chagrin when the A&R guys at Mercury chose it to be the lead single. And also imagine how crazy it must've seemed when the single went to Number One in December of 1969, at the height of the hippie Flower Power movement.
Eventually, Garrett Scott bailed on plans to create a real band named Steam that would tour the world in support of this fluke of a hit record; most likely he was disgusted at the fact that the other four tracks they'd concocted under his stage name didn't even chart. Still, those royalty payments must've made some difference, because he contributed to a full-length Steam album to capitalize on the success of "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye". It was the type of album where every other song has "na na na na hey hey" automatically written into its hook somewhere.
*/*
I read about this story online recently, and it made me laugh to no end. I love stories like this, which is why I was such a sucker for VH1's Behind The Music series. And as much as I am all for artistic integrity, at the same time you have to hand it to the business end of the music industry: while it is true that there is no real formula for repeated hit-making success, the moneymen usually have a great ear for what's going to sell and not necessarily what is great art.
We must learn to forgive the schlockmeisters when they have the gall and hubris to tell the Bob Dylans and Bruce Springsteens and Peter Gabriels of the world how to market and record their records-- these men (and many others like them) need no interference from A&R people to make both their fans happy and their money back at the same time. However, let's not forget that the schlockmeisters also manage to get at least one hit out of it all, and that's plenty enough for some people... especially if your old band failed and you received a second chance to find glory and riches like Paul Leka and company.
After all, as much as I enjoy quality music and artists with great talent and skill, I also enjoy mindless pop songs like "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye" because they aren't pretentious in the slightest. When I'm at a sporting event or in a crowd of people, who wants to chant "Like A Rolling Stone"? Hell, how many people other than me even know all the words to that one?
I've got the Steam song on an endless loop on my computer as I write this. I will never tire of it. It's a classic tune, and those three guys from Bridgeport, Connecticut who pulled it out their asses one night in 1969 should be proud of themselves.
Indeed, if I ever got the chance to meet them, I'd love to shake their hands and buy them each a beer.
Monday, July 02, 2007
fondness
Friday night: She accompanied me to my friend's home studio, where she was inspired by my slap-happy rapping over sinister-sounding hip-hop beats to write a rap of her own. It was a cute and sincere gesture. She ended up on the chorus of the song before the upstairs neighbor complained about the noise, promptly ending the session at 3 AM. She and I ended up at Sitton's in North Hollywood, talking over coffee and breakfast.
Saturday morning: We had plans to visit Griffith Observatory, leftover form the date date two weeks ago. I didn't sleep at all, catching a catnap here and there before making my way out her. We ate Fruity Pebbles cereal, watched Chappelle's Show on DVD, and caught the Metro Rail from Santa Monica & Vermont to Hollywood & Highland where the Observatory Shuttle Depot was located. Once we made the arduous, winding trek up the mountains to the top of the hill where the Observatory resided lazily like a bloated king teetering on his dilapidated throne, we bought tickets for the Planetarium show and smoked our cigarettes with style.
The docent narrating the Planetarium show was unintentionally funny, her radio-savvy voice lacing the properly enunciated program text with not-so-subtle passages of melodramatic overacting. This caused us to laugh mischievously, like disobedient children snickering in church.
But the show was marvelous. We left shortly afterward.
Saturday afternoon: We returned to her house. I napped some more as she draped fabrics over a mannequin. Then, she asked me if I wanted to go to Goodwill and shop for vintage/used clothing. I consented. It turned out that there was a three-day sale on all clothing items: $3 each, a price you couldn't beat even at Goodwill. Neither of us had known about the sale in advance, so it was a pleasant surprise. She chose jeans for me to try on, and I trusted her taste (being that she works in the fashion industry) and what's more: I did not resent her for it. Later on she told me that the reason why I listened to her was because I was finally ready for what she had to offer, which made me wonder how she knew that I was not ready in the past, well before I ever met her.
As the day began to fade, she took me to an Indian restaurant on Melrose. She had a coupon for a two-for-the-price-of-one dinner. Over the chicken and lamb entrees, I told her about my novel. She knows me primarily as a musician and an artist, but not really as a writer (raps notwithstanding). I discovered that she used to write when she was younger. From past experiences with other girls I could tell that she wanted to ask me if she could read my work but was too shy or afraid to ask. Instead, she approached it in her charming, direct-yet-indirect manner by demanding a chapter all about her... to which I replied, "I'll write an entire book about you..."
Smooth, eh? I suppose, but I meant it with every square inch of my soul and being.
Saturday evening: We drove out to see the Wolf Man, a fitting visit to make considering there was a full moon in the sky. The both of us were also aware that Mercury has been in retrograde for some time, but what was truly amazing was how perfect our Saturday was turning out for us. Everything we did worked out the way it was supposed to work out, and it was not lost on us.
Wolfie had some Salvia divinorum on him. I consented to give it a shot but warned him that a previous attempt on my part to try the legal hallucinogen was bunk. She and I both partook of it shortly after Wolf had showed us the method, and within seconds I felt slanted, angular, my imagination burning and my eyes pulsating with psychedelic purpose. The TV stand morphed with the coffee table, and she and Wolf seemed to morph into both the coffee table and my cigarette smoke.
Then, after five minutes, the trip wore off. For the rest of the night I felt brain-boggled. She told me that (in her trip) she forgot who we were, and only snapped out of it after she remembered that we'd done it also. Meanwhile, Wolf Man was baked, having done it every night after work for an entire week. To cool down, I produced a joint, and we all laughed and drank wine and talked into the late night, on to the early morning, her banshee laughter trickling up and down my spine, in behind my ears and echoing in my heart...
I dropped her off at home, and left only after kissing her and holding her in my arms for as long as I could muster. But I knew I had to go home-- I could not stay. I needed to sleep in my own bed. I needed to unwind on my own. She needed to get rested apart from me.
That way, when I saw her the next evening, the fondness we feel for each other would blossom in the wake of our respective absences...
Last Saturday was one of the best Saturdays I've ever spent in my life. I pray that it was not the peak, but merely the beginning of something I cannot predict nor imagine.
Saturday morning: We had plans to visit Griffith Observatory, leftover form the date date two weeks ago. I didn't sleep at all, catching a catnap here and there before making my way out her. We ate Fruity Pebbles cereal, watched Chappelle's Show on DVD, and caught the Metro Rail from Santa Monica & Vermont to Hollywood & Highland where the Observatory Shuttle Depot was located. Once we made the arduous, winding trek up the mountains to the top of the hill where the Observatory resided lazily like a bloated king teetering on his dilapidated throne, we bought tickets for the Planetarium show and smoked our cigarettes with style.
The docent narrating the Planetarium show was unintentionally funny, her radio-savvy voice lacing the properly enunciated program text with not-so-subtle passages of melodramatic overacting. This caused us to laugh mischievously, like disobedient children snickering in church.
But the show was marvelous. We left shortly afterward.
Saturday afternoon: We returned to her house. I napped some more as she draped fabrics over a mannequin. Then, she asked me if I wanted to go to Goodwill and shop for vintage/used clothing. I consented. It turned out that there was a three-day sale on all clothing items: $3 each, a price you couldn't beat even at Goodwill. Neither of us had known about the sale in advance, so it was a pleasant surprise. She chose jeans for me to try on, and I trusted her taste (being that she works in the fashion industry) and what's more: I did not resent her for it. Later on she told me that the reason why I listened to her was because I was finally ready for what she had to offer, which made me wonder how she knew that I was not ready in the past, well before I ever met her.
As the day began to fade, she took me to an Indian restaurant on Melrose. She had a coupon for a two-for-the-price-of-one dinner. Over the chicken and lamb entrees, I told her about my novel. She knows me primarily as a musician and an artist, but not really as a writer (raps notwithstanding). I discovered that she used to write when she was younger. From past experiences with other girls I could tell that she wanted to ask me if she could read my work but was too shy or afraid to ask. Instead, she approached it in her charming, direct-yet-indirect manner by demanding a chapter all about her... to which I replied, "I'll write an entire book about you..."
Smooth, eh? I suppose, but I meant it with every square inch of my soul and being.
Saturday evening: We drove out to see the Wolf Man, a fitting visit to make considering there was a full moon in the sky. The both of us were also aware that Mercury has been in retrograde for some time, but what was truly amazing was how perfect our Saturday was turning out for us. Everything we did worked out the way it was supposed to work out, and it was not lost on us.
Wolfie had some Salvia divinorum on him. I consented to give it a shot but warned him that a previous attempt on my part to try the legal hallucinogen was bunk. She and I both partook of it shortly after Wolf had showed us the method, and within seconds I felt slanted, angular, my imagination burning and my eyes pulsating with psychedelic purpose. The TV stand morphed with the coffee table, and she and Wolf seemed to morph into both the coffee table and my cigarette smoke.
Then, after five minutes, the trip wore off. For the rest of the night I felt brain-boggled. She told me that (in her trip) she forgot who we were, and only snapped out of it after she remembered that we'd done it also. Meanwhile, Wolf Man was baked, having done it every night after work for an entire week. To cool down, I produced a joint, and we all laughed and drank wine and talked into the late night, on to the early morning, her banshee laughter trickling up and down my spine, in behind my ears and echoing in my heart...
I dropped her off at home, and left only after kissing her and holding her in my arms for as long as I could muster. But I knew I had to go home-- I could not stay. I needed to sleep in my own bed. I needed to unwind on my own. She needed to get rested apart from me.
That way, when I saw her the next evening, the fondness we feel for each other would blossom in the wake of our respective absences...
Last Saturday was one of the best Saturdays I've ever spent in my life. I pray that it was not the peak, but merely the beginning of something I cannot predict nor imagine.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
karma's a bitch
On my way to my friend Xalox B's pad to make some music I had to stop and take a leak.
I saw a Carl's Jr. and I pulled in. I know that Carl's Jr. restaurants have open bathrooms where you don't have to pay to use them or buy something in order to be buzzed in... I'm sure that in the seedier parts of town where homeless people abound and use the men's room as their personal grooming spot there might be some protective measures, but this was the Valley and I'd used the john at this particular fast-food joint before.
I did my business and got inside my new truck. Technically, it's not new: my dad gave it to me as a gift when he bought himself a newer truck. But he kept it in great condition, and even though it's a '99 it runs fine. It sure beats the hell out of the junker I was driving a month ago!
I was about to start the engine and back out and resume my drive when I noticed an empty soda can in my cup holder. I wanted to get rid of it and put my brand new pre-paid cel phone in its place.
Normally, I would just open the door and let the can drop on the ground and drive away without a care in the world. Yes, I'm a litterbug. I know this about myself. As far as I'm concerned, any place where there's cement and pavement and concrete and blacktop is already ruined, so unless I'm in the woods close to nature and one with Mother Earth, I really don't care about throwing my trash anywehre I want.
Anyway, as I was about to sin against the environment I noticed a trash can only a few feet away. For some reason, I told myself that this time I should not be lazy and just get up, walk over to the trash and drop the soda can in like a good boy. I mean, it was only a few feet, right?
So I did the deed, but when I tried to get back into the truck I discovered I'd locked myself out, with my cel phone and wallet on the inside.
You see, I have this compulsion with locking the doors to any vehicle I drive. I am constantly reminding any passengers that accompany me to lock their doors. I guess in this day and age, where most cars have automatic door locks and such, most people have forgotten how to lock the door when they exit a vehicle. I say this because I have to remind nearly everyone who is with me to do this one simple task. It's not asking a lot, is it?
Unfortunately, my compulsion backfired on me. I found myself wondering how I was going to get into my truck in the parking lot. I asked some people if they had Slim Jims or change so I could use the phone and maybe call someone to pick me up and take me back to my place, where the spare key was buried beneath oodles of knick-knacks in my coffee table drawer. No one helped out, and I started to panic a little.
I decided to try and see if I could somehow force the lock on the cab's sliding glass rear window to open. I pushed on it with my right hand. I didn't want to break the glass-- I just wanted to put enough pressure to cause the plastic lock to burst open, therefore allowing me to enter the truck and open the door.
Instead, I hit it a tad too hard. The glass from one of the sliding panels broke, and before I knew it my right forearm was bleeding.
My first thought was, "Well, at least it's open!" I unlocked the passenger side door. Then I entered the cab and grabbed the keys. I took out some fast-food napkins I had stored in the glove compartment and applied them to my wound. It wasn't a big cut, but it went deeper than I desired. I could see the white meat underneath my skin as I tried to stop the bleeding.
I surveyed the mess inside the cab: Glass was on the dashboard, the seat, the floor... everywhere. I pulled the ugly seat cover that my dad had left (the one I'd been intending to remove for some time now) and pulled the part that covered the back over the seat. I had no time to clean up the mess, and besides I was going to take it to a car wash later this week. They can vacuum it up for me. I just needed to be able to drive without tiny shards of glass poking at my bottom.
The bleeding hadn't stopped, and I contemplated just going straight home to see if I could clean the mess up and bandage my wound. But I figured that once it was all over, I'd get depressed and angry and not want to do anything, and just stew in my idiocy and regret until it was time to go to work. So instead I drove over to Xalox B's place like I had planned, but not before stopping at a liquor store and buying some Band-Aids and a garbage bag for the gaping hole in my rear window.
The music-making did make me feel better, but I went outside every now and then to check up on the truck, to make sure it wasn't stolen. I'd taken all of the valuables inside it and jammed them into my briefcase, which I took with me. Still, I wanted to be certain that no one would get a bright idea and break into the ride for any reason.
So now I'm here at work, going outside every hour to see if the truck is still there. I have enough cash saved up to find a place in the morning that'll fix up the window for cheap, and then I'll get the car washed and have all the glass removed.
But I definitely feel like this is karma for my littering ways. The one time I decided to be a Good Samaritan turned into a total disaster. I joked to Xalox that I was never going to throw trash in the proper receptacles ever again, but really it seems to me that if I'd made it a habit of doing that in the first place this might've been prevented.
Or maybe it was inevitable. Since I started driving this truck, I've wondered what I would do if my keys got locked inside. I was too lazy to pull out the spare key and get one of those key magnets that you can attach to the underside of a car in case something like this occurs. Plus, I now know how easy it is to break into my truck-- maybe an alarm is in order, at least as a deterrent?
Either way, I still feel dumb about the whole thing. I can laugh about it later on, but for now I can't help but beat myself up over it. I guess that's how karma is, eh? Sometimes we need to learn things the hard way before it turns into a more expensive lesson further on down the road.
OK, so I'm done venting. I got work to do, and then when my shift is done I've got more work to do. I suppose it could've been worse, but then again an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, or so the saying goes.
The moral of the story: Don't litter.
I saw a Carl's Jr. and I pulled in. I know that Carl's Jr. restaurants have open bathrooms where you don't have to pay to use them or buy something in order to be buzzed in... I'm sure that in the seedier parts of town where homeless people abound and use the men's room as their personal grooming spot there might be some protective measures, but this was the Valley and I'd used the john at this particular fast-food joint before.
I did my business and got inside my new truck. Technically, it's not new: my dad gave it to me as a gift when he bought himself a newer truck. But he kept it in great condition, and even though it's a '99 it runs fine. It sure beats the hell out of the junker I was driving a month ago!
I was about to start the engine and back out and resume my drive when I noticed an empty soda can in my cup holder. I wanted to get rid of it and put my brand new pre-paid cel phone in its place.
Normally, I would just open the door and let the can drop on the ground and drive away without a care in the world. Yes, I'm a litterbug. I know this about myself. As far as I'm concerned, any place where there's cement and pavement and concrete and blacktop is already ruined, so unless I'm in the woods close to nature and one with Mother Earth, I really don't care about throwing my trash anywehre I want.
Anyway, as I was about to sin against the environment I noticed a trash can only a few feet away. For some reason, I told myself that this time I should not be lazy and just get up, walk over to the trash and drop the soda can in like a good boy. I mean, it was only a few feet, right?
So I did the deed, but when I tried to get back into the truck I discovered I'd locked myself out, with my cel phone and wallet on the inside.
You see, I have this compulsion with locking the doors to any vehicle I drive. I am constantly reminding any passengers that accompany me to lock their doors. I guess in this day and age, where most cars have automatic door locks and such, most people have forgotten how to lock the door when they exit a vehicle. I say this because I have to remind nearly everyone who is with me to do this one simple task. It's not asking a lot, is it?
Unfortunately, my compulsion backfired on me. I found myself wondering how I was going to get into my truck in the parking lot. I asked some people if they had Slim Jims or change so I could use the phone and maybe call someone to pick me up and take me back to my place, where the spare key was buried beneath oodles of knick-knacks in my coffee table drawer. No one helped out, and I started to panic a little.
I decided to try and see if I could somehow force the lock on the cab's sliding glass rear window to open. I pushed on it with my right hand. I didn't want to break the glass-- I just wanted to put enough pressure to cause the plastic lock to burst open, therefore allowing me to enter the truck and open the door.
Instead, I hit it a tad too hard. The glass from one of the sliding panels broke, and before I knew it my right forearm was bleeding.
My first thought was, "Well, at least it's open!" I unlocked the passenger side door. Then I entered the cab and grabbed the keys. I took out some fast-food napkins I had stored in the glove compartment and applied them to my wound. It wasn't a big cut, but it went deeper than I desired. I could see the white meat underneath my skin as I tried to stop the bleeding.
I surveyed the mess inside the cab: Glass was on the dashboard, the seat, the floor... everywhere. I pulled the ugly seat cover that my dad had left (the one I'd been intending to remove for some time now) and pulled the part that covered the back over the seat. I had no time to clean up the mess, and besides I was going to take it to a car wash later this week. They can vacuum it up for me. I just needed to be able to drive without tiny shards of glass poking at my bottom.
The bleeding hadn't stopped, and I contemplated just going straight home to see if I could clean the mess up and bandage my wound. But I figured that once it was all over, I'd get depressed and angry and not want to do anything, and just stew in my idiocy and regret until it was time to go to work. So instead I drove over to Xalox B's place like I had planned, but not before stopping at a liquor store and buying some Band-Aids and a garbage bag for the gaping hole in my rear window.
The music-making did make me feel better, but I went outside every now and then to check up on the truck, to make sure it wasn't stolen. I'd taken all of the valuables inside it and jammed them into my briefcase, which I took with me. Still, I wanted to be certain that no one would get a bright idea and break into the ride for any reason.
So now I'm here at work, going outside every hour to see if the truck is still there. I have enough cash saved up to find a place in the morning that'll fix up the window for cheap, and then I'll get the car washed and have all the glass removed.
But I definitely feel like this is karma for my littering ways. The one time I decided to be a Good Samaritan turned into a total disaster. I joked to Xalox that I was never going to throw trash in the proper receptacles ever again, but really it seems to me that if I'd made it a habit of doing that in the first place this might've been prevented.
Or maybe it was inevitable. Since I started driving this truck, I've wondered what I would do if my keys got locked inside. I was too lazy to pull out the spare key and get one of those key magnets that you can attach to the underside of a car in case something like this occurs. Plus, I now know how easy it is to break into my truck-- maybe an alarm is in order, at least as a deterrent?
Either way, I still feel dumb about the whole thing. I can laugh about it later on, but for now I can't help but beat myself up over it. I guess that's how karma is, eh? Sometimes we need to learn things the hard way before it turns into a more expensive lesson further on down the road.
OK, so I'm done venting. I got work to do, and then when my shift is done I've got more work to do. I suppose it could've been worse, but then again an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, or so the saying goes.
The moral of the story: Don't litter.
Monday, June 18, 2007
date date
The date date turned out to be less formal than I anticipated, which was good because that was the whole reason why I never asked her out on a date date to begin with-- I am the type of guy who starts off hanging out with a girl and by the end of the night it has become a date date. Likewise, I have gone out on what I thought were date dates only to discover (to my chagrin) that the girl brought a friend along, thus invalidating the whole notion of a romantic night out. (For those who think life is all about threesomes, please bear in mind that I never have and never will have a threesome of ANY kind with anyone)
I put my best foot forward: I made plans for us to go to the newly-refurbished Griffith Observatory, and then later on to dinner at a nice restaurant. By mid-week, however, she had amended the plans as follows: watching a movie at the Hollywood Cemetery, and then a quick trip downtown for a friend's birthday bash at the Blue Star Cafe, where various loud punk bands were slated to play.
I was cool with the last-minute changes. It meant less money for me to spend and a more casual atmosphere. But it would still be a date date.
*/*
She likes drugs just as much as I do.
I scored some Ecstasy from one of my connections-- two Blue Boys, laced with smack and mild when taken in single doses.
It's probably not wise to center a relationship around illicit drug use, but we understand each other: she is just as fucked in the head as I am. We make no excuses-- we both like being high on chemicals. We are not out of control with it, and we both have had past loves who made a huge issue out of our casual indifference to the side effects of such mind-altering benders.
Friday night, she was upset: an argument with her roommate over money. She called me up and asked me to whisk her away. I told her I was making hip-hop beats with my homeboys in the Valley. We gave her directions and she drove out from Hollywood to hang out with the posse.
The fellas took to her instantly. She fit right in with the boy's club element. She's a rap fan, and she was impressed by my rapping skills. She made fair critiques and encouraging comments. She even went with me on a drug run in the thick of the night.
She's my partner in crime... what can I say?
*/*
I was a little stressed out over making the movie on time. I'd tried twice in the past two years to attend a screening at the Hollywood Cemetery and both times I was shut down because we arrived too late or things got too complicated. I was hoping that the third time would be the charm.
She teased me about my impatience. "You were all worried," she said to me as I parked the truck a block away from the line that was forming quickly. "'It's ten past five!' We made it OK, didn't we?"
Norally, I would get upset at this. But she had a point. "Hey, if it weren't for me pushing things along, it might've taken longer."
"Well, I am known for being late a lot. Still, I knew we'd be OK."
"I know... Believe me, I showed a lot of restraint. I'm way more impatient than that!"
"You worry too much," she said as she smiled, waiting for my reply.
"Maybe it was a perfect mix of my timeliness and your relaxed nature... it balanced itself out."
"Maybe."
Like me, she had been trying to get out to Santa Monica and Bronson for many years, but when she first arrived in Los Angeles her job schedule had her working on Saturdays. This was the first time she was able to actually come out and see what the fuss was all about. We brought a blanket, a picnic basket filled with wine and cheese and biscuits and chocolates and other snacks... and the Blue Boys.
I was happy. She was happy. We were both happy.
*/*
We kept laughing throughout the entire screening. Rebel Without A Cause, James Dean and Natalie Wood. A classic. Hays Code hilarity ensued: Sal Mineo as Plato, all but prancing and screaming and proclaiming his gaiety; Wood's strange affection for her father (who calls her "glamour puss" at one point); Jim Backus as Mr. Stark, the father of troubled rebel Jim, wearing an apron and cowering before his ball-busting wife...
We cheered as the scene set at the Griffith Observatory appeared on the screen. Both of us knew we would be there together very soon, and the thought excited us beyond belief.
A couple sitting in front of us sat down as the movie started. The woman threw her fake fur coat on the ground, landing on one of my boots.
We looked at each other, wondering where this woman got the nerve to do such a thing. I began to mash my boots into her coat while paraphrasing (under my breath) a line from the infamous Rick James episode of Chappelle's Show.
"Fuck your coat, bitch! Fuck your coat!"
We were in hysterics. The woman did not notice my subterfuge... but she did notice the piece of moldy cheese that I threw onto her coat shortly after I muddied her fur with my boots.
Rebel Without A Cause indeed...
*/*
We threw the picnic basket in the bed of my truck and drove out to Downtown, where the Blue Star Cafe was located. The Blue Boys had us amped but not batty, and the drive was elegant and easy.
We arrived just in time to see a punk band called Soccer Mom take to the stage. They were the last band to play that night. We greeted Andy, the birthday boy and bash organizer, who'd turned 25 and felt old but not too old.
One of her former boyfriends was there. He is a great guy, and he did not trip out on me and her. He has respect for women and respect for their choices. I always thought he was a cool guy when he was a regular at the Lava Lounge, and he proved it again that evening.
The singer was out-of-control, downing brews and spitting out lyrics with mad-banshee intensity. Her band was tighter than an accountant on Tax Day. They covered a Prince song-- one of my all-time favorites --and I sang along. The singer handed me the mike on the chorus,and I did not disappoint.
The beers we drank had no real effect on us. After the show, we drove back to her place where she fell asleep on the couch and I draped her over my shoulder once again (this has become a ritual for us) and tucked her into bed. I joined in for a little spooning and fell asleep pretty fast.
*/*
The morning lights came, and Marvin the cat (my gift to her) was resting on my chest, purring ebulliently as I glanced over at the clock to see what time it was before rising and gathering my affects. It was now Father's Day, and I had to go make the rounds and pay my respects.
I kissed her before I left, and promised her I would stop by the coffeehouse before I went in to work later on. We both admitted that we had a wonderful time, and we are looking forward to Griffith Observatory at the end of the month.
I know this doesn't sound like the typical date that most people go on, but for people like us it was magical and romantic and joyous. It had all the intimacy and elements of a proper date, but skewed beyond recognition by our respective hang-ups and vices.
In short, it was perfect, and I'd do it all again if given the chance.
I put my best foot forward: I made plans for us to go to the newly-refurbished Griffith Observatory, and then later on to dinner at a nice restaurant. By mid-week, however, she had amended the plans as follows: watching a movie at the Hollywood Cemetery, and then a quick trip downtown for a friend's birthday bash at the Blue Star Cafe, where various loud punk bands were slated to play.
I was cool with the last-minute changes. It meant less money for me to spend and a more casual atmosphere. But it would still be a date date.
*/*
She likes drugs just as much as I do.
I scored some Ecstasy from one of my connections-- two Blue Boys, laced with smack and mild when taken in single doses.
It's probably not wise to center a relationship around illicit drug use, but we understand each other: she is just as fucked in the head as I am. We make no excuses-- we both like being high on chemicals. We are not out of control with it, and we both have had past loves who made a huge issue out of our casual indifference to the side effects of such mind-altering benders.
Friday night, she was upset: an argument with her roommate over money. She called me up and asked me to whisk her away. I told her I was making hip-hop beats with my homeboys in the Valley. We gave her directions and she drove out from Hollywood to hang out with the posse.
The fellas took to her instantly. She fit right in with the boy's club element. She's a rap fan, and she was impressed by my rapping skills. She made fair critiques and encouraging comments. She even went with me on a drug run in the thick of the night.
She's my partner in crime... what can I say?
*/*
I was a little stressed out over making the movie on time. I'd tried twice in the past two years to attend a screening at the Hollywood Cemetery and both times I was shut down because we arrived too late or things got too complicated. I was hoping that the third time would be the charm.
She teased me about my impatience. "You were all worried," she said to me as I parked the truck a block away from the line that was forming quickly. "'It's ten past five!' We made it OK, didn't we?"
Norally, I would get upset at this. But she had a point. "Hey, if it weren't for me pushing things along, it might've taken longer."
"Well, I am known for being late a lot. Still, I knew we'd be OK."
"I know... Believe me, I showed a lot of restraint. I'm way more impatient than that!"
"You worry too much," she said as she smiled, waiting for my reply.
"Maybe it was a perfect mix of my timeliness and your relaxed nature... it balanced itself out."
"Maybe."
Like me, she had been trying to get out to Santa Monica and Bronson for many years, but when she first arrived in Los Angeles her job schedule had her working on Saturdays. This was the first time she was able to actually come out and see what the fuss was all about. We brought a blanket, a picnic basket filled with wine and cheese and biscuits and chocolates and other snacks... and the Blue Boys.
I was happy. She was happy. We were both happy.
*/*
We kept laughing throughout the entire screening. Rebel Without A Cause, James Dean and Natalie Wood. A classic. Hays Code hilarity ensued: Sal Mineo as Plato, all but prancing and screaming and proclaiming his gaiety; Wood's strange affection for her father (who calls her "glamour puss" at one point); Jim Backus as Mr. Stark, the father of troubled rebel Jim, wearing an apron and cowering before his ball-busting wife...
We cheered as the scene set at the Griffith Observatory appeared on the screen. Both of us knew we would be there together very soon, and the thought excited us beyond belief.
A couple sitting in front of us sat down as the movie started. The woman threw her fake fur coat on the ground, landing on one of my boots.
We looked at each other, wondering where this woman got the nerve to do such a thing. I began to mash my boots into her coat while paraphrasing (under my breath) a line from the infamous Rick James episode of Chappelle's Show.
"Fuck your coat, bitch! Fuck your coat!"
We were in hysterics. The woman did not notice my subterfuge... but she did notice the piece of moldy cheese that I threw onto her coat shortly after I muddied her fur with my boots.
Rebel Without A Cause indeed...
*/*
We threw the picnic basket in the bed of my truck and drove out to Downtown, where the Blue Star Cafe was located. The Blue Boys had us amped but not batty, and the drive was elegant and easy.
We arrived just in time to see a punk band called Soccer Mom take to the stage. They were the last band to play that night. We greeted Andy, the birthday boy and bash organizer, who'd turned 25 and felt old but not too old.
One of her former boyfriends was there. He is a great guy, and he did not trip out on me and her. He has respect for women and respect for their choices. I always thought he was a cool guy when he was a regular at the Lava Lounge, and he proved it again that evening.
The singer was out-of-control, downing brews and spitting out lyrics with mad-banshee intensity. Her band was tighter than an accountant on Tax Day. They covered a Prince song-- one of my all-time favorites --and I sang along. The singer handed me the mike on the chorus,and I did not disappoint.
The beers we drank had no real effect on us. After the show, we drove back to her place where she fell asleep on the couch and I draped her over my shoulder once again (this has become a ritual for us) and tucked her into bed. I joined in for a little spooning and fell asleep pretty fast.
*/*
The morning lights came, and Marvin the cat (my gift to her) was resting on my chest, purring ebulliently as I glanced over at the clock to see what time it was before rising and gathering my affects. It was now Father's Day, and I had to go make the rounds and pay my respects.
I kissed her before I left, and promised her I would stop by the coffeehouse before I went in to work later on. We both admitted that we had a wonderful time, and we are looking forward to Griffith Observatory at the end of the month.
I know this doesn't sound like the typical date that most people go on, but for people like us it was magical and romantic and joyous. It had all the intimacy and elements of a proper date, but skewed beyond recognition by our respective hang-ups and vices.
In short, it was perfect, and I'd do it all again if given the chance.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
feline
Sometimes she looks like Louise Brooks. I think it is intentional on her part.
I am completely enamored by everything she has to offer, but one of the top things I find adorable is her sense of style. She transforms her wardrobe into a malleable canvas that expresses and articulates her feelings and emotions.
She is an artist when it comes to fashion.
Her taste is not to everyone's liking, but I find it impeccable and intelligent.
Her job has her springing about town, looking for vintage materials from which to fashion and forge new creations. In the course of her travels she will find something that she personally likes, and she will keep it for herself or give it to someone she thinks might be able to use it.
She found two shirts for me, both of them to be worn on stage when I play a show. I would have never picked these shirts out myself, because my fashion sense is muted and limited. I am comfortable with blacks and greys and blue-collar jackets and scruffy boots and baggy pants.
But she knows what looks good, and I absolutely love the shirts she found for me.
I think I like the fact that she was thinking of me more than the actual shirts, but truth be told: those shirts are mighty dandy.
*/*
The Wolf Man's 30th birthday was last week. Of course we were prepared to beak it up with some fine Bolivian marching powder, because that's what Wolfie likes to do above all.
I invited her along. She and I have been spending a lot of time together and I figured she would make great company for me, Wolf and Down Low.
She brought out a playful vibe in my two friends. If she had not tagged along, I would've undoubtedly spent most of the evening dealing with their respective pathological neuroses. Instead, we all had a blast as we drank heartily and sang karaoke at a bar & grill in Burbank.
Yes, we did karaoke. She loves it, even though her voice is abysmal. She knows how bad her singing voice is, but it doesn't stop her from trying.
And I love that about her.
When I finished my song ("Little Red Corvette" by Prince) she jumped up at me and wrapped her legs around me as I walked off the stage. She flattered me as she giggled, and the sight of her Cheshire Cat grin as she beamed at me intoxicated me with pure wonder and romantic awe.
When I told her that her karaoke song was great, she sneered and said, "You don't have to say that. I know I suck."
To which I replied, "I'm not talking about being in key. I'm talking about having guts. You go up there and you give it all you got. That's incredible."
She smiled and batted her eyelashes like Louise Brooks. Then she straightened her face and said, "I have terrible stage fright. That's why I go up and do karaoke."
I gave her a kiss on the mouth-- a gentle peck, no tongue or anything like that... not that I am averse to French kisses... it's just that the moment called for a subtle caress of her lips against mine, and that's what I delivered.
*/*
By the morning, I had already dropped her off at home and headed back to my empty apartment, where Wolfie was passed out on the last piece of furniture still inside my soon-to-be-vacated abode.
He had a great time the night before. He went on about her, how cool she was and how lucky I was to have her.
I silently recalled that Wolf had actually met her a year ago, when he was playing in the band with me. She approached him after a show and complimented him on his drumming. Then he came up to me and relayed the news to me.
I remember telling him to go find her and talk to her. He didn't.
Then a year later I bumped into her at the old hang-out, and we began to chat, and I threw all caution to the wind and asked for her number so I could continue talking to her.
As much as I am glad she and I are having fun together, I wonder what would have happened had Wolf Man listened to me when I advised him to talk to her. Part of me wishes he would've had the courage to follow through on his initial impulse.
But part of me is glad that I didn't hesitate when it was my turn to approach her. The night I talked to her for the first time I knew I had to do something or spend the rest of my night kicking myself for not taking any action.
Not a day goes by when I don't pat myself on the back for showing a little backbone.
I am still planning our date date. She is looking forward to it, and so am I. It will be a chance for me to show her more than ever how far I have fallen for her.
I gave her my cat Marvin when I moved out. Seems that he fell in love with her too! Marvin is a shy but loving cat, and when she first arrived at my house he was smitten by her. He meowed loudly and sniffed her hair and stared at her with his mandarin eyes, going so far as to sit on the top of the couch so that he could ogle her up close.
She in turn found Marvin to be irresistible. She asked me if she could have him and at first I refused, but after seeing Marvin's reaction to her I decided that it would be healthy for him to be with her. Yes, I would miss him, but I don't feel so bad knowing that he is being loved... and that he is loving his new home just as well.
It's the best thing for him, really.
I am completely enamored by everything she has to offer, but one of the top things I find adorable is her sense of style. She transforms her wardrobe into a malleable canvas that expresses and articulates her feelings and emotions.
She is an artist when it comes to fashion.
Her taste is not to everyone's liking, but I find it impeccable and intelligent.
Her job has her springing about town, looking for vintage materials from which to fashion and forge new creations. In the course of her travels she will find something that she personally likes, and she will keep it for herself or give it to someone she thinks might be able to use it.
She found two shirts for me, both of them to be worn on stage when I play a show. I would have never picked these shirts out myself, because my fashion sense is muted and limited. I am comfortable with blacks and greys and blue-collar jackets and scruffy boots and baggy pants.
But she knows what looks good, and I absolutely love the shirts she found for me.
I think I like the fact that she was thinking of me more than the actual shirts, but truth be told: those shirts are mighty dandy.
*/*
The Wolf Man's 30th birthday was last week. Of course we were prepared to beak it up with some fine Bolivian marching powder, because that's what Wolfie likes to do above all.
I invited her along. She and I have been spending a lot of time together and I figured she would make great company for me, Wolf and Down Low.
She brought out a playful vibe in my two friends. If she had not tagged along, I would've undoubtedly spent most of the evening dealing with their respective pathological neuroses. Instead, we all had a blast as we drank heartily and sang karaoke at a bar & grill in Burbank.
Yes, we did karaoke. She loves it, even though her voice is abysmal. She knows how bad her singing voice is, but it doesn't stop her from trying.
And I love that about her.
When I finished my song ("Little Red Corvette" by Prince) she jumped up at me and wrapped her legs around me as I walked off the stage. She flattered me as she giggled, and the sight of her Cheshire Cat grin as she beamed at me intoxicated me with pure wonder and romantic awe.
When I told her that her karaoke song was great, she sneered and said, "You don't have to say that. I know I suck."
To which I replied, "I'm not talking about being in key. I'm talking about having guts. You go up there and you give it all you got. That's incredible."
She smiled and batted her eyelashes like Louise Brooks. Then she straightened her face and said, "I have terrible stage fright. That's why I go up and do karaoke."
I gave her a kiss on the mouth-- a gentle peck, no tongue or anything like that... not that I am averse to French kisses... it's just that the moment called for a subtle caress of her lips against mine, and that's what I delivered.
*/*
By the morning, I had already dropped her off at home and headed back to my empty apartment, where Wolfie was passed out on the last piece of furniture still inside my soon-to-be-vacated abode.
He had a great time the night before. He went on about her, how cool she was and how lucky I was to have her.
I silently recalled that Wolf had actually met her a year ago, when he was playing in the band with me. She approached him after a show and complimented him on his drumming. Then he came up to me and relayed the news to me.
I remember telling him to go find her and talk to her. He didn't.
Then a year later I bumped into her at the old hang-out, and we began to chat, and I threw all caution to the wind and asked for her number so I could continue talking to her.
As much as I am glad she and I are having fun together, I wonder what would have happened had Wolf Man listened to me when I advised him to talk to her. Part of me wishes he would've had the courage to follow through on his initial impulse.
But part of me is glad that I didn't hesitate when it was my turn to approach her. The night I talked to her for the first time I knew I had to do something or spend the rest of my night kicking myself for not taking any action.
Not a day goes by when I don't pat myself on the back for showing a little backbone.
I am still planning our date date. She is looking forward to it, and so am I. It will be a chance for me to show her more than ever how far I have fallen for her.
I gave her my cat Marvin when I moved out. Seems that he fell in love with her too! Marvin is a shy but loving cat, and when she first arrived at my house he was smitten by her. He meowed loudly and sniffed her hair and stared at her with his mandarin eyes, going so far as to sit on the top of the couch so that he could ogle her up close.
She in turn found Marvin to be irresistible. She asked me if she could have him and at first I refused, but after seeing Marvin's reaction to her I decided that it would be healthy for him to be with her. Yes, I would miss him, but I don't feel so bad knowing that he is being loved... and that he is loving his new home just as well.
It's the best thing for him, really.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
three-day weekend
May started off with an ultimatum that turned into a countdown, for my landlady'd had enough of me paying my rent either in installments or on the 15th instead of the 1st and decided that, although she would not evict me outright, she would not renew my lease for another year either.
This sent me scrambling for direction. Two weeks passed with lightning acuity and my despair began to assemble itself like a small but vicious army.
Then, shortly after my show in Arizona, I put out an ad online describing what I wanted in a room instead of answering ads for rooms described to me. I received only one response to my ad, and the same day I checked out the room and started moving into it. The room is separate from the main residence, which is good for me and my craving for privacy.
This was not done out of desperation. Rather, it was done knowing that this was the way it was meant to happen. All of my needs were met: in the ad I stipulated that I wanted a month-to-month lease in a place that allowed cats and tolerated my graveyard hours. I mentioned being a musician and a smoker as well.
The lady renting the room knows all of this and more, and yet didn't require a security deposit or a background/credit check on me.
The lady's house is in the center of the San Fernando Valley (right around Reseda) and situated on an entire acre of land. In her enormous backyard, she has a farm. Not much livestock: just some iguanas, turtles, bunny rabbits and two pot-bellied pigs in addition to ten cats, four dogs, three children and two boarders other than myself.
Looks like I'm headed for the country this summer...
*/*
While we were waiting in line at the Roxy to see a concert, the mystery girl I've been seeing told me she had a "date" coming up.
"A date date?"
"Yeah... it's weird," she said. "I never go out on date dates."
"Who are you going out on this date with?" I asked, my voice cracking a bit.
"A guy from the coffee shop. He's real nice."
"I see..."
"Yeah. We'll see how it goes."
This was Jealousy 101. She wanted to see me get mad, or sad, or envious.
And it was working.
I don't begrudge her the tactic. I have been playing hard-to-get, after all.
"I gotta admit," I said after a slight pause, "I don't go out on a lot of date dates myself. I never really make an effort. I just kind of end up going on dates with girls who like me through no fault of my own."
"I personally think," she replied, choosing her words carefully, "that if you did ask a girl out on a date date, she would probably find it endearing, and cute, and she would probably have a good time with you."
"You think so?"
"Yes." She smiled.
"If I asked you out on a date date, would you go out with me?"
The doorman asked us for our IDs.
Her answer was "Yes I would" but her face screamed out, "I thought you were never going to ask..."
The security guard patted me down as she pranced into the waiting hands of a man who inspected her purse for anything illegal.
*/*
My plans to join my family at Lake Mead were impacted by my moving schedule, so I opted to spend my holiday time with her instead. I practically lived there for the entire three-day weekend, retiring to her bedroom as out-of-town friends of her roommate stayed on couches and in sleeping bags.
On the first night she passed out on the couch while watching a DVD and I had to carry her upstairs over my shoulder. Somehow I mustered the strength: she was not heavy but I was drunk and probably shouldn't have even attempted to lift her... but I did, and I made it to the top where I gently slammed her onto her bed.
She mumbled something about taking a rest, and so I did.
I fell asleep with my arms around her, spooning as it were.
The next night I was the one to pass out first. She made her way into the bed an hour after I had shuffled off to Dreamland.
In the morning I was awakened by the sound of doves on her window sill cooing in such a manner as to suggest an old man having sex and wheezing his decrepit way to orgasm.
After the initial absurdity of the doves, she and I talked and laughed and rolled around like lazy savages searching to avoid the sun and its daylight.
Such is the way of the classic courtship. For a lack of better words, it is traditional and ritualistic.
*/*
I arrived with enough salmon to feed a moderately-sized Second World country. It came in various forms: sliced, smoked, skewered on kebabs, and even with Cajun seasoning.
I was cleaning out my fridge as part of the move, but it was also a token of my respect and affection. It wasn't just for her-- everyone who was there that weekend got a chance to partake in the eating of the salmon.
Dave, her Hindi friend from Modesto, joked that in his country a gift such as mine would qualify me to take two of his daughters into marriage.
I wore my Zankou Chicken T-shirt, and she revealed to me as I was preparing sauce for some pasta that she liked my shirt and wanted one for her own.
"I'll steal yours if I have to," she chuckled.
"You won't have to. I'll buy you one. They're cheap. I'll get you two, in fact. You ever eaten at Zankou?"
"No. What is it?"
"Middle Eastern rotisserie-style chicken. Comes with garlic paste and pita bread. Very delicious. An entire chicken meal costs less than ten dollars."
"Hmmmm... sounds good. Maybe we can go there on our date date."
I smiled. I may have even blushed in the presence of all the people who overheard our conversation, as we prepared the fish for dinner.
The revelers mostly imbibed cheap beer but she was slipping me sips of Bacardi every now and then. Sometimes she and I would separate from the crowd and huddle together in her room, being silly and laughing and making off-color jokes about horrible subjects too gruesome to reprint here.
By Monday end, she had forgotten about her other date date. She called him back to reschedule, an action that didn't seem to bother me at all in light of all the time I spent with her in the past 72 hours.
As for our very own date date, I have no idea right now where it will be or when but I do know that it will most likely bring us closer than ever.
I don't even know why we are still resisting each other at all by this point. Who are we trying to impress anyway?
This sent me scrambling for direction. Two weeks passed with lightning acuity and my despair began to assemble itself like a small but vicious army.
Then, shortly after my show in Arizona, I put out an ad online describing what I wanted in a room instead of answering ads for rooms described to me. I received only one response to my ad, and the same day I checked out the room and started moving into it. The room is separate from the main residence, which is good for me and my craving for privacy.
This was not done out of desperation. Rather, it was done knowing that this was the way it was meant to happen. All of my needs were met: in the ad I stipulated that I wanted a month-to-month lease in a place that allowed cats and tolerated my graveyard hours. I mentioned being a musician and a smoker as well.
The lady renting the room knows all of this and more, and yet didn't require a security deposit or a background/credit check on me.
The lady's house is in the center of the San Fernando Valley (right around Reseda) and situated on an entire acre of land. In her enormous backyard, she has a farm. Not much livestock: just some iguanas, turtles, bunny rabbits and two pot-bellied pigs in addition to ten cats, four dogs, three children and two boarders other than myself.
Looks like I'm headed for the country this summer...
*/*
While we were waiting in line at the Roxy to see a concert, the mystery girl I've been seeing told me she had a "date" coming up.
"A date date?"
"Yeah... it's weird," she said. "I never go out on date dates."
"Who are you going out on this date with?" I asked, my voice cracking a bit.
"A guy from the coffee shop. He's real nice."
"I see..."
"Yeah. We'll see how it goes."
This was Jealousy 101. She wanted to see me get mad, or sad, or envious.
And it was working.
I don't begrudge her the tactic. I have been playing hard-to-get, after all.
"I gotta admit," I said after a slight pause, "I don't go out on a lot of date dates myself. I never really make an effort. I just kind of end up going on dates with girls who like me through no fault of my own."
"I personally think," she replied, choosing her words carefully, "that if you did ask a girl out on a date date, she would probably find it endearing, and cute, and she would probably have a good time with you."
"You think so?"
"Yes." She smiled.
"If I asked you out on a date date, would you go out with me?"
The doorman asked us for our IDs.
Her answer was "Yes I would" but her face screamed out, "I thought you were never going to ask..."
The security guard patted me down as she pranced into the waiting hands of a man who inspected her purse for anything illegal.
*/*
My plans to join my family at Lake Mead were impacted by my moving schedule, so I opted to spend my holiday time with her instead. I practically lived there for the entire three-day weekend, retiring to her bedroom as out-of-town friends of her roommate stayed on couches and in sleeping bags.
On the first night she passed out on the couch while watching a DVD and I had to carry her upstairs over my shoulder. Somehow I mustered the strength: she was not heavy but I was drunk and probably shouldn't have even attempted to lift her... but I did, and I made it to the top where I gently slammed her onto her bed.
She mumbled something about taking a rest, and so I did.
I fell asleep with my arms around her, spooning as it were.
The next night I was the one to pass out first. She made her way into the bed an hour after I had shuffled off to Dreamland.
In the morning I was awakened by the sound of doves on her window sill cooing in such a manner as to suggest an old man having sex and wheezing his decrepit way to orgasm.
After the initial absurdity of the doves, she and I talked and laughed and rolled around like lazy savages searching to avoid the sun and its daylight.
Such is the way of the classic courtship. For a lack of better words, it is traditional and ritualistic.
*/*
I arrived with enough salmon to feed a moderately-sized Second World country. It came in various forms: sliced, smoked, skewered on kebabs, and even with Cajun seasoning.
I was cleaning out my fridge as part of the move, but it was also a token of my respect and affection. It wasn't just for her-- everyone who was there that weekend got a chance to partake in the eating of the salmon.
Dave, her Hindi friend from Modesto, joked that in his country a gift such as mine would qualify me to take two of his daughters into marriage.
I wore my Zankou Chicken T-shirt, and she revealed to me as I was preparing sauce for some pasta that she liked my shirt and wanted one for her own.
"I'll steal yours if I have to," she chuckled.
"You won't have to. I'll buy you one. They're cheap. I'll get you two, in fact. You ever eaten at Zankou?"
"No. What is it?"
"Middle Eastern rotisserie-style chicken. Comes with garlic paste and pita bread. Very delicious. An entire chicken meal costs less than ten dollars."
"Hmmmm... sounds good. Maybe we can go there on our date date."
I smiled. I may have even blushed in the presence of all the people who overheard our conversation, as we prepared the fish for dinner.
The revelers mostly imbibed cheap beer but she was slipping me sips of Bacardi every now and then. Sometimes she and I would separate from the crowd and huddle together in her room, being silly and laughing and making off-color jokes about horrible subjects too gruesome to reprint here.
By Monday end, she had forgotten about her other date date. She called him back to reschedule, an action that didn't seem to bother me at all in light of all the time I spent with her in the past 72 hours.
As for our very own date date, I have no idea right now where it will be or when but I do know that it will most likely bring us closer than ever.
I don't even know why we are still resisting each other at all by this point. Who are we trying to impress anyway?
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
arizona
Maybe it was the desert heat, or the long overnight drive into town, or the giddy anticipation that had building up in me for weeks... or maybe it was just the alcohol I'd been drinking in quantities far beyond my own tolerance, or the intense energy emanating from the crowd of people that slowly but surely filled the venue...
Or maybe it was the fact we played an extra long set, stretching out to over an hour... or maybe it was just a good old-fashioned case of nerves... then again, maybe it was the accidental fall that almost knocked me out cold as I tripped over my guitar case and landed on my ass against the back wall of the stage, still playing my bass part on time and in key but deliriously drunk and hallucinating from the unexpected impact...
At any rate, I was overwhelmed on stage with the band last Saturday night, to the point where I left the stage immediately after what I thought was our last song of the evening. I ran out without saying a word, and made a beeline for the street before anyone could walk up to me and say, "Hey! You guys rocked!" or congratulate us for what had to have been the best show we ever played.
It wasn't Stage Fright. It was Off-Stage Fright.
It was knowing that once this moment was over and done with, the return to reality would be a hard one to negotiate. After the last song's final note sustained itself for as long as it could, there was the rest of the night and then the long drive home and then... back to a home that I don't really have, or back to the job which isn't really a job, or back to my life which hasn't felt like my own life for some time now.
How could I smile and accept praise from audience members or accept accolades for the show when I knew it was all going to dissipate and fade away? How could I stick around knowing that when the night was done and I was back at my hotel, I'd be basically getting ready to make the trip home again?
Even if I'd stayed up all night and had a blast and partied until I was blue in the face, I knew deep inside that it was only going to make me feel down when I stopped being a rock star and went back to being little ol' Me.
Something about my unrehearsed pratfall jarred the fear in me awake. I have stated before that I'm never nervous when I play with Ninefinger, and I was doing fine until I fell. It was shocking to me because normally I plan my falls and tumbles. I choreograph them so that there is no real danger to me unless I lose control or miscalculate my position.
Maybe there was some embarrassment involved. Even though I still played on, and even though the people in the audience couldn't tell that fall apart from the other antics that the band and I engaged in throughout our set, I felt slightly foolish. But more importantly, I felt afraid.
It was a good kind of fear. It was the kind that impels you to scale new heights and throw all caution to the wind. It was a desperate high, a soaring crest of a wave that we were all riding at that moment.
I had never felt that with this band until last Saturday night.
It scared me. I ran out of there so quickly after nearly demolishing my bass guitar in the wake of the drum solo. I lit up a cigarette and hid behind a bush, hoping that no one saw me escape. My own sense of self-loathing and anxiety did not wish to hear compliments or positive feedback. I just wanted to be by myself for five minutes.
And then, I heard the drums.
The band was playing another song... without me!
What the fuck, I thought. We got an encore? Holy shit-- Who's playing bass?
I ran back in a hurry, trying to hear which song of ours the band was playing. I could make out someone playing a droning D on my bass guitar. I entered the club and pushed through the crowd, and when I jumped on stage and grabbed my bass back the crowd cheered.
I finished the song with the rest of the guys, and afterwards I bought the fill-in bass player a beer. He was a friend of the singer, and I thanked him for stepping up to the plate.
Apparently, in the short time I was gone a search party had been dispatched by the band. The crowd at the club started chanting my name, as the band kept calling out to me in the hopes that I would heed the call and return to the stage for at least one more number.
It was quite simply the most intense live experience I have ever had. It was what I have been seeking for so long, and yet the minute I finally got what I wanted it almost enveloped and devoured me whole.
I don't know if I will ever have an experience like that again, but I'm glad that it happened, and I'm glad that I made it through, because I needed it.
I feel closer to the guys in the band, closer than I have ever felt with any other band. Saturday night in Scottsdale, Arizona opened my eyes to new and infinite possibilities far beyond what I could ever imagine.
I am still shaken from it. I don't know if I will ever get it out of my system. It changed me and touched me to the core. I felt like I'd been struck by lightning.
I played it off and lied to everyone and said I was vomiting when I left the stage. Somehow, that story seemed to be more plausible than what really happened. Everyone could accept that I might have been sick but I didn't think they would buy it if I'd told them that I was touched on the shoulder by the hand of God and it left me frenzied and emotional.
It was real. It was so real. It was the realest I'd ever felt in my entire life.
And that's what made it scary. All of it was really happening. The crowd, the reaction, our performance, the setting... all of it was undeniably concrete and tangible.
Now that I've had a taste of that, I wonder what future shows will have in store for us. Only time will tell.
Until then, I am still recuperating from it. It's like shell-shock. I'm not sure what else to do. Is it possible that I can truly die happy now? Or is this merely the first step in a whole new direction?
I can't wait to find out.
Or maybe it was the fact we played an extra long set, stretching out to over an hour... or maybe it was just a good old-fashioned case of nerves... then again, maybe it was the accidental fall that almost knocked me out cold as I tripped over my guitar case and landed on my ass against the back wall of the stage, still playing my bass part on time and in key but deliriously drunk and hallucinating from the unexpected impact...
At any rate, I was overwhelmed on stage with the band last Saturday night, to the point where I left the stage immediately after what I thought was our last song of the evening. I ran out without saying a word, and made a beeline for the street before anyone could walk up to me and say, "Hey! You guys rocked!" or congratulate us for what had to have been the best show we ever played.
It wasn't Stage Fright. It was Off-Stage Fright.
It was knowing that once this moment was over and done with, the return to reality would be a hard one to negotiate. After the last song's final note sustained itself for as long as it could, there was the rest of the night and then the long drive home and then... back to a home that I don't really have, or back to the job which isn't really a job, or back to my life which hasn't felt like my own life for some time now.
How could I smile and accept praise from audience members or accept accolades for the show when I knew it was all going to dissipate and fade away? How could I stick around knowing that when the night was done and I was back at my hotel, I'd be basically getting ready to make the trip home again?
Even if I'd stayed up all night and had a blast and partied until I was blue in the face, I knew deep inside that it was only going to make me feel down when I stopped being a rock star and went back to being little ol' Me.
Something about my unrehearsed pratfall jarred the fear in me awake. I have stated before that I'm never nervous when I play with Ninefinger, and I was doing fine until I fell. It was shocking to me because normally I plan my falls and tumbles. I choreograph them so that there is no real danger to me unless I lose control or miscalculate my position.
Maybe there was some embarrassment involved. Even though I still played on, and even though the people in the audience couldn't tell that fall apart from the other antics that the band and I engaged in throughout our set, I felt slightly foolish. But more importantly, I felt afraid.
It was a good kind of fear. It was the kind that impels you to scale new heights and throw all caution to the wind. It was a desperate high, a soaring crest of a wave that we were all riding at that moment.
I had never felt that with this band until last Saturday night.
It scared me. I ran out of there so quickly after nearly demolishing my bass guitar in the wake of the drum solo. I lit up a cigarette and hid behind a bush, hoping that no one saw me escape. My own sense of self-loathing and anxiety did not wish to hear compliments or positive feedback. I just wanted to be by myself for five minutes.
And then, I heard the drums.
The band was playing another song... without me!
What the fuck, I thought. We got an encore? Holy shit-- Who's playing bass?
I ran back in a hurry, trying to hear which song of ours the band was playing. I could make out someone playing a droning D on my bass guitar. I entered the club and pushed through the crowd, and when I jumped on stage and grabbed my bass back the crowd cheered.
I finished the song with the rest of the guys, and afterwards I bought the fill-in bass player a beer. He was a friend of the singer, and I thanked him for stepping up to the plate.
Apparently, in the short time I was gone a search party had been dispatched by the band. The crowd at the club started chanting my name, as the band kept calling out to me in the hopes that I would heed the call and return to the stage for at least one more number.
It was quite simply the most intense live experience I have ever had. It was what I have been seeking for so long, and yet the minute I finally got what I wanted it almost enveloped and devoured me whole.
I don't know if I will ever have an experience like that again, but I'm glad that it happened, and I'm glad that I made it through, because I needed it.
I feel closer to the guys in the band, closer than I have ever felt with any other band. Saturday night in Scottsdale, Arizona opened my eyes to new and infinite possibilities far beyond what I could ever imagine.
I am still shaken from it. I don't know if I will ever get it out of my system. It changed me and touched me to the core. I felt like I'd been struck by lightning.
I played it off and lied to everyone and said I was vomiting when I left the stage. Somehow, that story seemed to be more plausible than what really happened. Everyone could accept that I might have been sick but I didn't think they would buy it if I'd told them that I was touched on the shoulder by the hand of God and it left me frenzied and emotional.
It was real. It was so real. It was the realest I'd ever felt in my entire life.
And that's what made it scary. All of it was really happening. The crowd, the reaction, our performance, the setting... all of it was undeniably concrete and tangible.
Now that I've had a taste of that, I wonder what future shows will have in store for us. Only time will tell.
Until then, I am still recuperating from it. It's like shell-shock. I'm not sure what else to do. Is it possible that I can truly die happy now? Or is this merely the first step in a whole new direction?
I can't wait to find out.
Monday, May 07, 2007
May is Sweeps Month so arm yourself with ammo
When you've had all you can take from the sickening political media spin that overwhelms us day in and day out, click on this link and read something refreshing and (surprise!) factual for a change.
I went to high school with this guy, and although we never hung out together I've always respected his point-of-view. He is just as passionate now about politics as he was back then, if not more so.
Show some support and forward his columns to your friends and family... as well as the ignorant neocons you're bound to run into online or in the workplace.
I went to high school with this guy, and although we never hung out together I've always respected his point-of-view. He is just as passionate now about politics as he was back then, if not more so.
Show some support and forward his columns to your friends and family... as well as the ignorant neocons you're bound to run into online or in the workplace.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
show and tell
My apologies to anyone who has tried to comment on my blog only to face the prospect of being moderated. I revamped a few links here and there recently, and I thought I had rendered my comments section open to all, as it had been in the very beginning... but instead I think I just made it worse. After a while I began to wonder if I was just being paranoid, but when I retooled my blog settings I figured out what I had done and rectified the situation.
I am hoping that this is the reason why I haven't received any comments lately. If it turns out that the real reason I haven't had any comments is because I suck, then that's just how it is I guess.
The comments section is wide open again. My stalkers have been away for quite a while, and I believe they have learned their lesson: Never mess with someone like me, who has too much time on their hands and a natural affinity for mischief and prank-pulling.
I never intend to take it that far-- it just happens. Somehow, the universe manages to hand me the keys to the ignition of Trouble, and I start the engine and rev it up and take it for a test spin... and before you know it I'm doing donuts on your front lawn.
Over the years, I've mellowed out a bit but not by much. I'm hoping that by the time I'm 40 I won't have the urge to be so gleefully anarchic and trickster-esque.
Then again, maybe I'm hoping for too much.
*/*
I have been forced by my landlady to move out by the end of the month. My lease was up and she elected to not renew it, mostly because I was late with paying my rent for the past three months. I could blame it on the paucity of work at my current job but even though entertainment jobs are inconsistent like that (jam-packed for three months and then three more months of nothing) I have to admit that, way in the back of my mind, I wanted to get out of this place and start anew. Otherwise I would've made more of an effort to reassure my landlady that I wanted to stay.
I then realized, after kindly discussing the terms of my departure with her, that my stubborn nature never allows me to give up unless it is absolutely necessary. Rather, I tend to stick it out until another party is forced to take action, which motivates me to get up off my ass and do what I should've done long ago.
In the past 365 days, I've lost a girlfriend, a well-paying job, and this apartment. In each case, I'd overstayed my welcome or ran the course as much as I could, and in each case I didn't have the good sense to know when enough was enough. Only when drastic measures were taken did I make any moves on my own.
Instead of breaking up with Eve, she had to be the one to call it quits. Instead of just quitting my job, I pushed it until they were left no choice but to lay me off. And now, with this apartment, I have done the same. I knew the rent increase in March and the neighbors vacating their homes was a foreshadowing of things to come, but I stuck around and tested the limits, as I always do.
Doing things that way seemingly absolves me of any guilt or regret. I can blame others for my misfortunes instead of taking any real responsibility. Then, when I "overcome" the odds in the end, I can point the finger and say, "Ha ha, you didn't beat me. I'm still standing!"
Such ego gratification...
I'm not worried about finding another place, though, because the slogans written underneath my blog title say it all about me these days: "Everything happens for a reason. There is no such thing as luck. Timing is everything."
I'm not just saying that to make myself feel better either. I firmly believe in those three sentences and what they constitute. I have always felt like that, but I never articulated it that way until I met someone a few months ago who put it into perspective for me.
You may know her as the mystery girl whom I have blogged about recently.
*/*
I don't want to divulge her identity in any way, nor will I supply her with a pseudonym for blogging purposes. To be honest, I didn't even want to blog about her at first, because it tends to wreak havoc on my interpersonal perceptions of the opposite sex. But I couldn't hold it back. I just had to testify about her.
However, I've set some rules up for me to abide by:
1) She will remain anonymous.
2) Although our status as friends or lovers is not nebulous or vague, I will not assign a label or category to her in these blog pages.
3) I will not go into explicit detail about anything we've done or plan to do.
4) I will leave out the events and occurrences that only serve to confuse me and addle my decision-making abilities. There has been plenty to write about concerning this girl, and I've selected only the things that matter the most to me to lay out for any readers I have left.
You all know that I am capable of baring my soul and showing off my vulnerability in my writing... thus, I feel like I have nothing more to prove in that regard. I would instead like to focus on the moments I share with her and how they make me feel, as opposed to ramifications and consequences and other various ponderings.
In short, if I write about her too much I fear I will jinx it, as I've done with others. Therefore, I'm keeping it on a comfortable level and I'm surprised at how cool I am with that notion.
It's not Show And Tell time anymore.
*/*
Well, what time is it then?
It's time to wax poetic. It's time to carry out imaginary agendas and formulate honorable schemes. It's time to take off the kid gloves and put on the Man Hands. It's time to piss caution into the wind while wearing nothing but a raincoat.
It's time to hesitate when a kiss is ready to plant itself on her lips, only to find itself nestled in the nape of her neck and burrowing deep into the well of her soul.
It's time to dig up all the buried hatchets and take them out to the shore and throw them wholesale into the briny sea, where they will rust and rot and disintegrate without a trace.
It's time to admit that I am scared and afraid, and that I love feeling that way because it reminds me of everything I have to lose vs. everything I have to gain.
It's time to fulfill prophecies and follow through on convictions and cast more predictions and topple all the follies and the sophistries concocted to swallow me up in their diversionary riptide.
It is time for all these things and more, and I have a feeling I'm going to be writing in this blog more often. I don't know if I'll ever match the pace of when I first started, but I'm not going to rule out that possibility either.
It's time to move, literally and figuratively.
Let's go.
I am hoping that this is the reason why I haven't received any comments lately. If it turns out that the real reason I haven't had any comments is because I suck, then that's just how it is I guess.
The comments section is wide open again. My stalkers have been away for quite a while, and I believe they have learned their lesson: Never mess with someone like me, who has too much time on their hands and a natural affinity for mischief and prank-pulling.
I never intend to take it that far-- it just happens. Somehow, the universe manages to hand me the keys to the ignition of Trouble, and I start the engine and rev it up and take it for a test spin... and before you know it I'm doing donuts on your front lawn.
Over the years, I've mellowed out a bit but not by much. I'm hoping that by the time I'm 40 I won't have the urge to be so gleefully anarchic and trickster-esque.
Then again, maybe I'm hoping for too much.
*/*
I have been forced by my landlady to move out by the end of the month. My lease was up and she elected to not renew it, mostly because I was late with paying my rent for the past three months. I could blame it on the paucity of work at my current job but even though entertainment jobs are inconsistent like that (jam-packed for three months and then three more months of nothing) I have to admit that, way in the back of my mind, I wanted to get out of this place and start anew. Otherwise I would've made more of an effort to reassure my landlady that I wanted to stay.
I then realized, after kindly discussing the terms of my departure with her, that my stubborn nature never allows me to give up unless it is absolutely necessary. Rather, I tend to stick it out until another party is forced to take action, which motivates me to get up off my ass and do what I should've done long ago.
In the past 365 days, I've lost a girlfriend, a well-paying job, and this apartment. In each case, I'd overstayed my welcome or ran the course as much as I could, and in each case I didn't have the good sense to know when enough was enough. Only when drastic measures were taken did I make any moves on my own.
Instead of breaking up with Eve, she had to be the one to call it quits. Instead of just quitting my job, I pushed it until they were left no choice but to lay me off. And now, with this apartment, I have done the same. I knew the rent increase in March and the neighbors vacating their homes was a foreshadowing of things to come, but I stuck around and tested the limits, as I always do.
Doing things that way seemingly absolves me of any guilt or regret. I can blame others for my misfortunes instead of taking any real responsibility. Then, when I "overcome" the odds in the end, I can point the finger and say, "Ha ha, you didn't beat me. I'm still standing!"
Such ego gratification...
I'm not worried about finding another place, though, because the slogans written underneath my blog title say it all about me these days: "Everything happens for a reason. There is no such thing as luck. Timing is everything."
I'm not just saying that to make myself feel better either. I firmly believe in those three sentences and what they constitute. I have always felt like that, but I never articulated it that way until I met someone a few months ago who put it into perspective for me.
You may know her as the mystery girl whom I have blogged about recently.
*/*
I don't want to divulge her identity in any way, nor will I supply her with a pseudonym for blogging purposes. To be honest, I didn't even want to blog about her at first, because it tends to wreak havoc on my interpersonal perceptions of the opposite sex. But I couldn't hold it back. I just had to testify about her.
However, I've set some rules up for me to abide by:
1) She will remain anonymous.
2) Although our status as friends or lovers is not nebulous or vague, I will not assign a label or category to her in these blog pages.
3) I will not go into explicit detail about anything we've done or plan to do.
4) I will leave out the events and occurrences that only serve to confuse me and addle my decision-making abilities. There has been plenty to write about concerning this girl, and I've selected only the things that matter the most to me to lay out for any readers I have left.
You all know that I am capable of baring my soul and showing off my vulnerability in my writing... thus, I feel like I have nothing more to prove in that regard. I would instead like to focus on the moments I share with her and how they make me feel, as opposed to ramifications and consequences and other various ponderings.
In short, if I write about her too much I fear I will jinx it, as I've done with others. Therefore, I'm keeping it on a comfortable level and I'm surprised at how cool I am with that notion.
It's not Show And Tell time anymore.
*/*
Well, what time is it then?
It's time to wax poetic. It's time to carry out imaginary agendas and formulate honorable schemes. It's time to take off the kid gloves and put on the Man Hands. It's time to piss caution into the wind while wearing nothing but a raincoat.
It's time to hesitate when a kiss is ready to plant itself on her lips, only to find itself nestled in the nape of her neck and burrowing deep into the well of her soul.
It's time to dig up all the buried hatchets and take them out to the shore and throw them wholesale into the briny sea, where they will rust and rot and disintegrate without a trace.
It's time to admit that I am scared and afraid, and that I love feeling that way because it reminds me of everything I have to lose vs. everything I have to gain.
It's time to fulfill prophecies and follow through on convictions and cast more predictions and topple all the follies and the sophistries concocted to swallow me up in their diversionary riptide.
It is time for all these things and more, and I have a feeling I'm going to be writing in this blog more often. I don't know if I'll ever match the pace of when I first started, but I'm not going to rule out that possibility either.
It's time to move, literally and figuratively.
Let's go.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Monday, April 30, 2007
the rat and the ox
She's a Rat and I'm an Ox.
Let me tell you the story of the Rat and the Ox.
"According to legend, the Lord Buddha summoned all the animals to come to him before he departed from Earth. Only 12 animals came to bid him farewell. As a reward he named a year after each one in the order that they arrived. First came the Rat, then the Ox, the Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake, Horse, Sheep, Monkey, Rooster, Dog and Boar. Thus we have twelve signs today."
-- excerpted from "Twilight Zone's Chinese Horoscope"
The Ox was leading the race across the river bank to reach the Lord Buddha's bed. Unbeknownst to him, the Rat was riding on his back. As the Ox neared the bank, the enterprising Rat jumped off the Ox's back and made it to the Buddha's bedside first.
Thus, the Rat became the first sign of the Chinese astrological table, with the Ox coming in second.
No mention is made of whether or not the Ox was upset about this. I'm sure, however, that if the Ox had gotten upset he would've squashed the Rat in an instant. This would have probably upset the dying Buddha and led to the immediate disqualification of both the Rat and the Ox from the Chinese horoscope.
I don't think the Ox minded at all. The Ox was used to being employed for hard work, carrying loads far heavier than the Rat on his strong back. He probably admired the Rat's ingenuity and craftiness, and maybe deep down inside he was content knowing that he did all the hard work while the Rat basked in the glory.
And if the Ox was in love with the Rat, then he wouldn't be mad in the slightest if the Rat found some sort of glory, even at the Ox's expense.
Rats are reviled and despised, even though they are highly intelligent creatures with exceptional survival instincts. Western civilization in particular has no love for the Rat, most likely due to the bubonic plague epidemic that wiped out a third of Europe's population in the Middle Ages.
But like pigeons in relation to doves, Rats are not too far removed from mice, their cuter and more cuddly cousins. The bias stems from misunderstanding the true natures of all creatures great and small.
I think the Rat knows deep down inside that she owes her cardinal place in the Chinese horoscope to the Ox. Whether or not she appreciates it or not is up to each individual to decide. And if someone is not fond of Rats, they will decide negatively.
*/*
We shared a cigarette and drank coffee and made up names for our own Chinese horoscope.
"How about the Year of the Platypus?" I asked.
"No, the Year of the Wombat," she giggled.
"Does the Wombat even exist?"
"I dunno... how about the Year of the Chinchilla?"
"I kind of like the Year of the Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker."
"They're endangered, you know..."
"Oh... well, then they definitely need to be included."
"What about the Year of the Mongoose?"
"I know, let's cross-breed the existing ones. You know, like the Horsepig, or the Ratdog, or the Oxrabbit..."
"I like that."
"You do?"
"Yes, I do."
We laughed. We smoked. She poured me another cup of coffee and didn't charge me. I left a tip anyway.
When it was time to count the money in the register, she thanked me for making an otherwise dead night somewhat tolerable. I thanked her for the free coffee and walked her to her car.
As I drove to work, I couldn't stop smiling.
I just hope she made it to the Buddha's bedside.
Let me tell you the story of the Rat and the Ox.
"According to legend, the Lord Buddha summoned all the animals to come to him before he departed from Earth. Only 12 animals came to bid him farewell. As a reward he named a year after each one in the order that they arrived. First came the Rat, then the Ox, the Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake, Horse, Sheep, Monkey, Rooster, Dog and Boar. Thus we have twelve signs today."
-- excerpted from "Twilight Zone's Chinese Horoscope"
The Ox was leading the race across the river bank to reach the Lord Buddha's bed. Unbeknownst to him, the Rat was riding on his back. As the Ox neared the bank, the enterprising Rat jumped off the Ox's back and made it to the Buddha's bedside first.
Thus, the Rat became the first sign of the Chinese astrological table, with the Ox coming in second.
No mention is made of whether or not the Ox was upset about this. I'm sure, however, that if the Ox had gotten upset he would've squashed the Rat in an instant. This would have probably upset the dying Buddha and led to the immediate disqualification of both the Rat and the Ox from the Chinese horoscope.
I don't think the Ox minded at all. The Ox was used to being employed for hard work, carrying loads far heavier than the Rat on his strong back. He probably admired the Rat's ingenuity and craftiness, and maybe deep down inside he was content knowing that he did all the hard work while the Rat basked in the glory.
And if the Ox was in love with the Rat, then he wouldn't be mad in the slightest if the Rat found some sort of glory, even at the Ox's expense.
Rats are reviled and despised, even though they are highly intelligent creatures with exceptional survival instincts. Western civilization in particular has no love for the Rat, most likely due to the bubonic plague epidemic that wiped out a third of Europe's population in the Middle Ages.
But like pigeons in relation to doves, Rats are not too far removed from mice, their cuter and more cuddly cousins. The bias stems from misunderstanding the true natures of all creatures great and small.
I think the Rat knows deep down inside that she owes her cardinal place in the Chinese horoscope to the Ox. Whether or not she appreciates it or not is up to each individual to decide. And if someone is not fond of Rats, they will decide negatively.
*/*
We shared a cigarette and drank coffee and made up names for our own Chinese horoscope.
"How about the Year of the Platypus?" I asked.
"No, the Year of the Wombat," she giggled.
"Does the Wombat even exist?"
"I dunno... how about the Year of the Chinchilla?"
"I kind of like the Year of the Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker."
"They're endangered, you know..."
"Oh... well, then they definitely need to be included."
"What about the Year of the Mongoose?"
"I know, let's cross-breed the existing ones. You know, like the Horsepig, or the Ratdog, or the Oxrabbit..."
"I like that."
"You do?"
"Yes, I do."
We laughed. We smoked. She poured me another cup of coffee and didn't charge me. I left a tip anyway.
When it was time to count the money in the register, she thanked me for making an otherwise dead night somewhat tolerable. I thanked her for the free coffee and walked her to her car.
As I drove to work, I couldn't stop smiling.
I just hope she made it to the Buddha's bedside.
Friday, April 27, 2007
terrifying
I played my solo acoustic set last Tuesday.
It was terrifying.
I was so nervous. I've never been that nervous.
Ever.
I think that's what's been missing from my life in recent years.
I play shows with bands, and I'm not scared. I think this is a good thing, but I am beginning to see that sometimes you need to be afraid-- it reminds you that you are still alive.
Being unafraid is brave and noble, especially if trying to help others feel relaxed and less edgy... but when I was up on that stage, all by myself, with no one to fall back on, there was an exhilaration running through me that I haven't felt in ages.
I want that edginess back in my life. I've become too complacent. Without risking it all, anything I do on stage is an empty and wasted gesture.
And it translates to other mediums as well: after my show on Tuesday, I went to work and finished off what was left of the first half of my novel. I was still running off of the momentum of that nervous energy, and it propelled me forward with unparalleled vigor.
And throughout all of this, I was dead sober.
I've been born again hard, and this time I'm going to make full use of this new found power. I'm going to get things done and take care of business.
And I owe it all to Fear.
It was terrifying.
I was so nervous. I've never been that nervous.
Ever.
I think that's what's been missing from my life in recent years.
I play shows with bands, and I'm not scared. I think this is a good thing, but I am beginning to see that sometimes you need to be afraid-- it reminds you that you are still alive.
Being unafraid is brave and noble, especially if trying to help others feel relaxed and less edgy... but when I was up on that stage, all by myself, with no one to fall back on, there was an exhilaration running through me that I haven't felt in ages.
I want that edginess back in my life. I've become too complacent. Without risking it all, anything I do on stage is an empty and wasted gesture.
And it translates to other mediums as well: after my show on Tuesday, I went to work and finished off what was left of the first half of my novel. I was still running off of the momentum of that nervous energy, and it propelled me forward with unparalleled vigor.
And throughout all of this, I was dead sober.
I've been born again hard, and this time I'm going to make full use of this new found power. I'm going to get things done and take care of business.
And I owe it all to Fear.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
smudged impressions of last friday
After attending a gallery opening that left us befuddled and dinner in Chinatown with friends, she and I accompanied her roommate to a trendy Hollywood bar to play darts and get sauced.
In between horrific dart rounds, she and I would sneak out back to smoke cigarettes and talk.
I was getting progressively more drunk as she told me that she thought my karaoke last week was good, and that she knew she couldn't sing a lick but she liked doing it anyway, and that we must come back again and sing some more.
I told her that I knew she was singing from the heart, and that one of these days she and I would have to go on some road trip to get away from this big, bad city.
She told me about New York, and how her visit was not impeded by inclement weather and the shortness of her stay. She planned that we should both go out there soon. I agreed, telling her that I had planned to go last year but the plans fell through.
She asked me why. I started to explain but stopped, and said I would rather not talk about it. But she knew the reason why without my having to elaborate.
Eventually I was so plastered that when it was time to walk back to the car, I made the trip backwards while flinging a Chinese yo-yo I'd bought in Chinatown at passersby.
They drove me to my car at the Metro station, and then she drove my car to my apartment because I was too hammered to give it a go. Her roommate followed behind-- I'd promised him some weed back at my place.
Her roommate played with my cats as she dragged me to my bed and tried to tuck me in. I was almost gone but still alert enough to pull her down with me and wrap my arms around her.
She did not resist.
And the kisses were slow and sweet, and they were punctuated with small talk and wistful nothings, and she tasted wonderful and smelled like subtle perfume.
Sensing that her roommate was getting restless in the other room, she bid me farewell with three kisses on my face, as she tucked me in and made her way out my door.
I slept like a newborn baby, and when I woke up the next morning I could not help but smile.
I hadn't felt like that in a long time.
In between horrific dart rounds, she and I would sneak out back to smoke cigarettes and talk.
I was getting progressively more drunk as she told me that she thought my karaoke last week was good, and that she knew she couldn't sing a lick but she liked doing it anyway, and that we must come back again and sing some more.
I told her that I knew she was singing from the heart, and that one of these days she and I would have to go on some road trip to get away from this big, bad city.
She told me about New York, and how her visit was not impeded by inclement weather and the shortness of her stay. She planned that we should both go out there soon. I agreed, telling her that I had planned to go last year but the plans fell through.
She asked me why. I started to explain but stopped, and said I would rather not talk about it. But she knew the reason why without my having to elaborate.
Eventually I was so plastered that when it was time to walk back to the car, I made the trip backwards while flinging a Chinese yo-yo I'd bought in Chinatown at passersby.
They drove me to my car at the Metro station, and then she drove my car to my apartment because I was too hammered to give it a go. Her roommate followed behind-- I'd promised him some weed back at my place.
Her roommate played with my cats as she dragged me to my bed and tried to tuck me in. I was almost gone but still alert enough to pull her down with me and wrap my arms around her.
She did not resist.
And the kisses were slow and sweet, and they were punctuated with small talk and wistful nothings, and she tasted wonderful and smelled like subtle perfume.
Sensing that her roommate was getting restless in the other room, she bid me farewell with three kisses on my face, as she tucked me in and made her way out my door.
I slept like a newborn baby, and when I woke up the next morning I could not help but smile.
I hadn't felt like that in a long time.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
the song, the dance and the embrace
Damn, the blog-o-sphere is a barren wasteland these days.
There was a time when I'd get pissed off at the lack of comments on my blog and go into a rant or tirade about how everyone sucks and this and that and fuck you and the whole nine yards... but over the years and in the short time that I've been blogging I have accepted the virtual cyber-silence for what it is.
However, I'm not quite sure what it is I am accepting. There's no label for it, and yet I now know that it's nothing personal.
Once upon a time, this blog had lots of readers and they all had something to say, but reality sets in and people tend to their lives and their online pursuits get narrower as things progress. Even I have lessened my blog output, if only to re-channel my boundless writing energy into finishing my damn novel.
And when I do get a chance to blog, I am allowed to be more cryptic. I don't have to explain everything or detail every facet of my life like I used to, and within that limited boundary there is a wide, expansive freedom.
I guess you can say I have grown. Matured, perhaps.
*/*
The place was a dive, a typical hole in the wall.
Not a lot of people were at the bar when we entered but by the time we left it was packed. This is nothing significant, seeing as the place was smaller than my apartment, or so it seemed.
Her roommate said she looked like a sunflower in her bright yellow sleeveless dress, billowing and pleated and pretty with Sunday written all over it. She thought he was kidding her, but I recognized the heartfelt (if slightly cracked) compliment.
A strange and drunk fellow greeted us with leers as we hunkered down onto our stools, his face grimacing with outrage and fear. She knew him, he knew her, they had a connection once but he fouled it up and now here she was with two tough-looking hombres and his mind began to spin so fast that it was as visible on his mug as his eyeglasses or his neatly-trimmed pencil mustache.
He exchanged words with her. All I could hear was the last part of their exchange:
"You think you're pretty clever, don't you?"
"Fuck you."
"Fuck who?"
I turned my head and said loudly, "You."
Her roommate glared in the fellow's direction, not needing to say a word. The fellow got the hint and left, leaving his companions at the bar to nurse their own wounds without the benefit of his charming company.
We ordered our drinks and decided to play darts.
*/*
She insisted that I sing karaoke with her, but I needed no prodding or cajoling.
She picked the song and I agreed. It was a song I knew by heart, save for one vague lyric that I always interpreted in some weird, absurd manner. Fortunately for us, every self-respecting karaoke hostess has the proper lyrics on a TV monitor above the bar so that the singers won't lose face.
Her voice was dreadful, toneless and flat. It didn't bother me at all-- in fact it made me like her even more. Of course I was on key, but you wouldn't be able to discern it by the way our voices entangled themselves through the poorly-equalized sound system and the low-rent microphones.
The line in question appeared above me and I smiled as I read it:
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue.
"Aha," I thought, "That's what it is... I always thought it was about green seagulls... Why have I never bothered to check online or inside the liner notes? Oh well..."
People clapped when we were done. I don't know if they were clapping out of respect or out of relief.
*/*
There were others there singing karaoke that night who made us seem like Sonny & Cher in comparison.
As one such performance went on, she asked me to dance with her.
"But I don't know how."
"Neither do I."
She grabbed my hands and I tried to lead as best as I could. It was a spastic imitation of swing dancing. She flailed and stepped on my boots and (at one point) hit her elbow on the wall next to us. Bystanders laughed and pointed at us, drinks in hand. Her roommate was somewhat embarrassed but also not in the least bit surprised. I spun her around and caught her hands awkwardly, trying not to fall to the ground due to my inebriated motor skills.
The only thing we did right was the dip. I anticipated it, she fell into it, and I did not let her fall.
Then we danced close and slow. It felt natural, fluid, uncontrived.
*/*
Three more drinks and another near-bar brawl later, her roommate decided to walk home and we drove to a liquor store to purchase cigarettes. Then we arrived back at their place, where they engaged in a petty fight over something inexplicable. She stormed off to her room and I followed suit, shrugging my shoulders at him and shaking my head.
She and I chatted at length about everything and nothing, as we are wont to do when we get together and talk. Then I realized the lateness of the hour and plus she was waking up early to catch a flight and I should've been at work hours ago, so I stood up to say farewell.
We embraced. I kept my arms around her and did not let go. She did not try to pry herself from me. We just kept looking at each other, making small talk and shooting curious glances into each other's bloodshot eyes. Every time the urge to plant a soft kiss on her lips swelled up in me, I deflected its power by burying my face into her shoulder and squeezing my arms tighter, and she would reciprocate in kind.
Not yet.
Not just yet.
Sometimes the moment needs to breathe. I act too swiftly, I often move in for the kill with no relenting. No, this was about as far as it could go at the moment, especially considering how foolish it would be for the both of us to shirk our respective responsibilities when we can wait until the next occasion, when there's more privacy, when there's more time, when there's less to risk.
We bandied compliments about and made funny faces. Then I created an out for the both of us by remembering the CD I promised to burn for her.
After I made copies for the both of them, I said my goodbyes and let myself out. I drove back into the suburbs with quick ease, because of the time of night and the absence of traffic.
*/*
I have been filling my time well, but every now and then I think about three things: the song, the dance and the embrace. I think about how they made me feel and what it all means and what there is to be done about it.
It reminds me of scenes from some short stories I wrote years ago, and I wonder if these were manifestations of my fiction or actual events that transpired. I realize, though, that it doesn't make any difference: We all remember things in different ways, from different perspectives and angles.
What is important is not the details, but what actually occurred. And that's why of all the things that happened that night, it is the song, the dance and the embrace that stand out for me.
There was a time when I'd get pissed off at the lack of comments on my blog and go into a rant or tirade about how everyone sucks and this and that and fuck you and the whole nine yards... but over the years and in the short time that I've been blogging I have accepted the virtual cyber-silence for what it is.
However, I'm not quite sure what it is I am accepting. There's no label for it, and yet I now know that it's nothing personal.
Once upon a time, this blog had lots of readers and they all had something to say, but reality sets in and people tend to their lives and their online pursuits get narrower as things progress. Even I have lessened my blog output, if only to re-channel my boundless writing energy into finishing my damn novel.
And when I do get a chance to blog, I am allowed to be more cryptic. I don't have to explain everything or detail every facet of my life like I used to, and within that limited boundary there is a wide, expansive freedom.
I guess you can say I have grown. Matured, perhaps.
*/*
The place was a dive, a typical hole in the wall.
Not a lot of people were at the bar when we entered but by the time we left it was packed. This is nothing significant, seeing as the place was smaller than my apartment, or so it seemed.
Her roommate said she looked like a sunflower in her bright yellow sleeveless dress, billowing and pleated and pretty with Sunday written all over it. She thought he was kidding her, but I recognized the heartfelt (if slightly cracked) compliment.
A strange and drunk fellow greeted us with leers as we hunkered down onto our stools, his face grimacing with outrage and fear. She knew him, he knew her, they had a connection once but he fouled it up and now here she was with two tough-looking hombres and his mind began to spin so fast that it was as visible on his mug as his eyeglasses or his neatly-trimmed pencil mustache.
He exchanged words with her. All I could hear was the last part of their exchange:
"You think you're pretty clever, don't you?"
"Fuck you."
"Fuck who?"
I turned my head and said loudly, "You."
Her roommate glared in the fellow's direction, not needing to say a word. The fellow got the hint and left, leaving his companions at the bar to nurse their own wounds without the benefit of his charming company.
We ordered our drinks and decided to play darts.
*/*
She insisted that I sing karaoke with her, but I needed no prodding or cajoling.
She picked the song and I agreed. It was a song I knew by heart, save for one vague lyric that I always interpreted in some weird, absurd manner. Fortunately for us, every self-respecting karaoke hostess has the proper lyrics on a TV monitor above the bar so that the singers won't lose face.
Her voice was dreadful, toneless and flat. It didn't bother me at all-- in fact it made me like her even more. Of course I was on key, but you wouldn't be able to discern it by the way our voices entangled themselves through the poorly-equalized sound system and the low-rent microphones.
The line in question appeared above me and I smiled as I read it:
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue.
"Aha," I thought, "That's what it is... I always thought it was about green seagulls... Why have I never bothered to check online or inside the liner notes? Oh well..."
People clapped when we were done. I don't know if they were clapping out of respect or out of relief.
*/*
There were others there singing karaoke that night who made us seem like Sonny & Cher in comparison.
As one such performance went on, she asked me to dance with her.
"But I don't know how."
"Neither do I."
She grabbed my hands and I tried to lead as best as I could. It was a spastic imitation of swing dancing. She flailed and stepped on my boots and (at one point) hit her elbow on the wall next to us. Bystanders laughed and pointed at us, drinks in hand. Her roommate was somewhat embarrassed but also not in the least bit surprised. I spun her around and caught her hands awkwardly, trying not to fall to the ground due to my inebriated motor skills.
The only thing we did right was the dip. I anticipated it, she fell into it, and I did not let her fall.
Then we danced close and slow. It felt natural, fluid, uncontrived.
*/*
Three more drinks and another near-bar brawl later, her roommate decided to walk home and we drove to a liquor store to purchase cigarettes. Then we arrived back at their place, where they engaged in a petty fight over something inexplicable. She stormed off to her room and I followed suit, shrugging my shoulders at him and shaking my head.
She and I chatted at length about everything and nothing, as we are wont to do when we get together and talk. Then I realized the lateness of the hour and plus she was waking up early to catch a flight and I should've been at work hours ago, so I stood up to say farewell.
We embraced. I kept my arms around her and did not let go. She did not try to pry herself from me. We just kept looking at each other, making small talk and shooting curious glances into each other's bloodshot eyes. Every time the urge to plant a soft kiss on her lips swelled up in me, I deflected its power by burying my face into her shoulder and squeezing my arms tighter, and she would reciprocate in kind.
Not yet.
Not just yet.
Sometimes the moment needs to breathe. I act too swiftly, I often move in for the kill with no relenting. No, this was about as far as it could go at the moment, especially considering how foolish it would be for the both of us to shirk our respective responsibilities when we can wait until the next occasion, when there's more privacy, when there's more time, when there's less to risk.
We bandied compliments about and made funny faces. Then I created an out for the both of us by remembering the CD I promised to burn for her.
After I made copies for the both of them, I said my goodbyes and let myself out. I drove back into the suburbs with quick ease, because of the time of night and the absence of traffic.
*/*
I have been filling my time well, but every now and then I think about three things: the song, the dance and the embrace. I think about how they made me feel and what it all means and what there is to be done about it.
It reminds me of scenes from some short stories I wrote years ago, and I wonder if these were manifestations of my fiction or actual events that transpired. I realize, though, that it doesn't make any difference: We all remember things in different ways, from different perspectives and angles.
What is important is not the details, but what actually occurred. And that's why of all the things that happened that night, it is the song, the dance and the embrace that stand out for me.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
and so on
"When I think about my own death, I don't console myself with the idea that my descendants and my books and all that will live on. Anybody with any sense knows that the whole solar system will go up like a celluloid collar by-and-by. I honestly believe, though, that we are wrong to think that moments go away, never to be seen again. This moment and every moment lasts forever."
--from the book Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons, "Reflections On My Own Death", 1972
*/*
Listen:
Kurt Vonnegut is dead.
His book Breakfast Of Champions saved my life. I was ready to kill myself before I read it. I'd already tried once before to commit suicide, and I was set on doing it again when I read the book at age 16.
After reading it and laughing hysterically through tears, I made up my mind to never try and take my own life again.
Oddly enough, I feel no sorrow for his passing. He should have been dead a long time ago, when he was hunkered down in an underground bunker enduring the above-ground bombing of Dresden in 1945. Instead, he survived, and began writing, and became famous for his unique point-of-view, and his books and their collective messages somehow fell into my hands, and few things in my life changed me like his prose.
Of all the authors I ever read who inspired me, Vonnegut was the most invigorating. I learned to laugh in self-defense, and treat the negative on an equal measure with the positive. I haven't always been successful at it, but it's an ongoing process that will know no end until I am buried.
One day, maybe I'll get it right.
In the meantime, his passing is yet another sign that I am most likely reading too much into but nevertheless accepting for what it is: a signal for me to finish my own novel, ten years in the making and largely influenced by Vonnegut's style. In a way, he has always been my literary model: he didn't get famous until his later years, and by then he'd accumulated a definite outlook and voice that no one could ever duplicate, despite their best efforts.
Vonnegut made me slow down my pace. He made it okay for me to not be in a hurry to achieve fame and accolades for writing. His life was an example for me of how to let life wash over you as you take notes. Every time I ever got depressed and thought I'd never amount to anything except a frustrated writer living in abject poverty, I always thought of Kilgore Trout, Vonnegut's alter ego and favorite protagonist. Trout took his time and was deemed crazy by his peers, but he never stopped writing. He just kept on doing it, and it was Vonnegut's way of saying that a writer should not only love what he/she does, but that practice makes perfect, and being prolific is not the same as being rich and famous and well-known.
I learned that a writer should amass experiences worth writing about before even contemplating putting them down on paper. Vonnegut's traumatic life was the template for his entire public persona, even as he insisted that things like Dresden or his mother's suicide or the indignities of mankind had nothing to do with his writing.
As a tribute, this weekend I'm going to re-read one of his novels. Unfortunately, I don't have a copy of Champions on me-- that one got stolen or lost somewhere down the road years ago, like most great works of art.
Maybe I'll rent Champions from the library, but I also have Slaughterhouse Five and several other volumes of his work in my possession. But even if I don't read any of his books again in the near future, it's alright because I feel like every day I am re-reading his works in some way, shape or form.
Vonnegut's fiction (and later non-fiction) gave birth to me. It made me. It created me. It shaped me. It possessed me. It runs in my veins as surely and steadily as blood.
I owe him big. And if I ever meet him in the afterlife or on the astral plane or wherever it is that our souls go when we eventually perish, I'll be sure to let him know what he meant to me.
But for now, I think the best way to do that is to just finish the novel. Even though he's not around to appreciate it, by finishing the book I will have given back to him what he gave to me so long ago.
And what did he give me? Just for the record, he gave me back to me. Though we never met, he told me that it was okay to be me, and to like writing, and to pursue it no matter what happens or comes my way.
It won't be necessary to dedicate my first novel to him, because every word that I write is an implicit dedication to him already.
God bless your soul, Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
And thanks again for the laughter, the tears, and the inspiration.
--from the book Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons, "Reflections On My Own Death", 1972
*/*
Listen:
Kurt Vonnegut is dead.
His book Breakfast Of Champions saved my life. I was ready to kill myself before I read it. I'd already tried once before to commit suicide, and I was set on doing it again when I read the book at age 16.
After reading it and laughing hysterically through tears, I made up my mind to never try and take my own life again.
Oddly enough, I feel no sorrow for his passing. He should have been dead a long time ago, when he was hunkered down in an underground bunker enduring the above-ground bombing of Dresden in 1945. Instead, he survived, and began writing, and became famous for his unique point-of-view, and his books and their collective messages somehow fell into my hands, and few things in my life changed me like his prose.
Of all the authors I ever read who inspired me, Vonnegut was the most invigorating. I learned to laugh in self-defense, and treat the negative on an equal measure with the positive. I haven't always been successful at it, but it's an ongoing process that will know no end until I am buried.
One day, maybe I'll get it right.
In the meantime, his passing is yet another sign that I am most likely reading too much into but nevertheless accepting for what it is: a signal for me to finish my own novel, ten years in the making and largely influenced by Vonnegut's style. In a way, he has always been my literary model: he didn't get famous until his later years, and by then he'd accumulated a definite outlook and voice that no one could ever duplicate, despite their best efforts.
Vonnegut made me slow down my pace. He made it okay for me to not be in a hurry to achieve fame and accolades for writing. His life was an example for me of how to let life wash over you as you take notes. Every time I ever got depressed and thought I'd never amount to anything except a frustrated writer living in abject poverty, I always thought of Kilgore Trout, Vonnegut's alter ego and favorite protagonist. Trout took his time and was deemed crazy by his peers, but he never stopped writing. He just kept on doing it, and it was Vonnegut's way of saying that a writer should not only love what he/she does, but that practice makes perfect, and being prolific is not the same as being rich and famous and well-known.
I learned that a writer should amass experiences worth writing about before even contemplating putting them down on paper. Vonnegut's traumatic life was the template for his entire public persona, even as he insisted that things like Dresden or his mother's suicide or the indignities of mankind had nothing to do with his writing.
As a tribute, this weekend I'm going to re-read one of his novels. Unfortunately, I don't have a copy of Champions on me-- that one got stolen or lost somewhere down the road years ago, like most great works of art.
Maybe I'll rent Champions from the library, but I also have Slaughterhouse Five and several other volumes of his work in my possession. But even if I don't read any of his books again in the near future, it's alright because I feel like every day I am re-reading his works in some way, shape or form.
Vonnegut's fiction (and later non-fiction) gave birth to me. It made me. It created me. It shaped me. It possessed me. It runs in my veins as surely and steadily as blood.
I owe him big. And if I ever meet him in the afterlife or on the astral plane or wherever it is that our souls go when we eventually perish, I'll be sure to let him know what he meant to me.
But for now, I think the best way to do that is to just finish the novel. Even though he's not around to appreciate it, by finishing the book I will have given back to him what he gave to me so long ago.
And what did he give me? Just for the record, he gave me back to me. Though we never met, he told me that it was okay to be me, and to like writing, and to pursue it no matter what happens or comes my way.
It won't be necessary to dedicate my first novel to him, because every word that I write is an implicit dedication to him already.
God bless your soul, Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
And thanks again for the laughter, the tears, and the inspiration.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
love is sexy
It was a great disappointment considering all the hype that surrounded it.
First came the whispers: the next joint was going to be his return to grace, his unofficial comeback. No more Beatle-esque psychedelia or baroque orchestrations or French-infused jazz noodling, no more pat Top 40 pop designed to skyrocket to the top of the dance charts...
No, Prince's next album after Sign O' The Times was supposed to be the Death Blow to all the haters and naysayers out there who claimed he'd gone soft.
It was going to be released without a title or any cover or sleeve art. It was tentatively known as "The Black Album", perhaps a hyper-parody of the memorable gag from This Is Spinal Tap. Certainly, with all the interference Warner Bros. was creating in conjunction with his releases, Prince may have been making a sly joke, one that poked fun at the absurdity of the music industry in general.
Then, a few months before its slated release date, the word got out that Warner Bros. shelved the album and another one was slated to be put out in its stead. Fans were taken aback but not disdainful-- after all, this was Prince: a bona-fide musical genius with a proven track record for penning successful hits and selling millions of funky albums worldwide. They figured that if the album was getting 86'ed, there was probably a good reason.
We all awaited the coming of the next album. I was in the 8th grade and my parents were on the verge of splitting up. I needed this album.
A single dropped from out of the sky: "Alphabet St". Catchy, yes, and it went on to be a hit... but it seemed like a bad omen. Soon the fans were wondering if maybe shelving "The Black Album" was such a good idea.
I bought a copy of Lovesexy when it came out. I still own the vinyl, with its garish cover art portraying Prince in the airbrushed nude sitting on a flower, posing demurely. It was embarrassing to look at-- I would've felt more comfortable carrying home an S.O.D. album or a Skrewdriver cassette than Lovesexy.
I gave it a listen. It was good, but it wasn't "The Black Album"... it wasn't even Around The World In A Day.
It became my least favorite Prince album, and also the least listened-to album of his in my collection. With the sole exception of one song, "When 2 R In Love" (the lone holdover from the aborted "Black Album" sessions) there was very little for me to gush over, even as I went out and bought all the accompanying singles on 45 (I was hoping the B-sides would be better, and they were).
My verdict: Lovesexy was a dud. Oh well, maybe he'll come to his senses and release "The Black Album" after all. Perhaps the next album will be better.
I was 14 years old at the time.
*/*
I'm 33 now.
In the time between Lovesexy's release and today, much has happened to me, the rest of the world, and Prince in particular. Contract disputes, name changes, ups and downs, and even Super Bowl appearances have overshadowed the substance of his music. Still, the man has undergone a genuine revival, heralded as a pop icon, a living legend and an accomplished musician in his own right.
The Black Album eventually saw the light of day, if only to help Prince get out of his seven-album contract with Warner Bros., and even then it was released as a limited edition CD... not that any self-respecting fan didn't already own a bootleg copy of their own.
When I finally heard The Black Album (around the time that he was doing the soundtrack for the first Tim Burton-directed Batman movie) I thought it was spectacular. "How could he release Lovesexy in lieu of this?" I asked myself. Granted, The Black Album didn't quite live up to its storied hype itself, but it was definitely funkier and harder than Lovesexy.
And speaking of stories, there were several to speak of that haunted Prince's reputation: Warner Bros. thought The Black Album was too risque; Prince was the one who pulled The Black Album because he had a vision from God; Prince was hooked on drugs and Lovesexy was his rehab effort...
The only way I could ever really listen to Lovesexy was to dub it onto one side of a blank cassette with The Black Album on the other side; this way, it served as an exotic double-concept album.
As the years passed by, Metallica released their own Black Album, thereby imploding the Spinal Tap joke on itself. Life was now imitating art twice over, and by the time Jay-Z released his own Black Album I'd had enough of the whole notion.
Meanwhile, Prince was free from the WB and became a Jehovah's Witness, and began to retool his public persona. He went from appearing as an out-of-touch rich recluse to a pop visionary who had been so far ahead of his time that only now were people beginning to catch up.
His music got better. It sounded more soulful, more passionate. He seemed at peace with his dual nature, that impulse torn between God and Satan, a theme that has permeated nearly all of his work.
And with that, I began to look back on the classic albums and reevaluate them. Some of them needed no reappraisal (1999, Parade) and some of them were surprisingly revealing when I revisited them (Purple Rain, Dirty Mind, Controversy).
And in the latter category, Lovesexy stands alone.
*/*
Looking for cover tunes for my upcoming solo acoustic show, I thought about "When 2 R In Love" and sought it out. Unfortunately, my older brother has all of the Prince vinyl in his possession. Luckily, I still had that dubbed cassette of Lovesexy/The Black Album in my archives.
Since both albums contained the song in question, it didn't matter which one I'd put on first. However, the tape was wound somewhere in the middle. I put the Black Album side in first and found that it would take considerable winding before I could cue up the track; when I flipped the cassette onto the Lovesexy side, lo and behold "When 2 R In Love" was playing.
So I listened, and I learned the song, and a chill came over me, and I cried.
I'd forgotten how beautiful a love song it was, and I replayed it over and over until I got it down.
Then, I let the rest of the album play. Since it was technically Side Two of the album (the vinyl version anyway) I figured there would only be two more songs before it got to the end; then I could pop the cassette out and put on the other side.
By the end of Lovesexy, though, I realized that I hadn't heard this album in a long time. Moreover, I realized that I never really gave it a chance either.
Chalk it up to being (much) older and (not much) wiser, but I am listening to the album right now as I blog this, and let me tell you: Lovesexy is severely underrated. It's better than the majority of Prince's work after 1988. In fact, it may be the last great Prince album of his classic era (I always felt that Sign O' The Times was the end of that line, but I have since reassessed this opinion).
First of all, never has the God/Satan dichotomy been more transparent and obvious than with Lovesexy. Prince went so far as to divide his soul up into two different personas on this album: Camille (the feminine, positive side) and Spooky Electric (the masculine, negative side). With Gemini as his astrological Sun sign, Prince has always explored the duality of mankind (vice and virtue, good and evil, love and hate) but never in such a manner as in this collection of songs.
Then, there's the recent light shed upon the whole album release controversy, provided by longtime friend and collaborator Matt Fink, aka "Dr. Fink" (you know, the keyboard player who wore doctor's scrubs in the videos):
[I]n 2001, his long time keyboard player Dr. Fink told then-Internet radio host Ernest L Sewell IV of The Ernest Experience Radio Show that Prince said he saw the devil. He was paranoid due to drugs, and instead of the popular story of him seeing God, he in fact had thought he saw Satan. He told his bodyguard Gilbert Davison this, and Gilbert in turn related it to Fink and possibly other band members. It was this hallucination that had Prince running scared and decided to ditch releasing the album. He even asked for the cassettes of the album back from the band members that are routinely given to them to learn the songs by ear. Fink had later expressed discontent in that he wished he hadn't given it back, or at least made a copy of it for his own personal use.
Whether it's a true story or merely apocryphal, it fits in with the sincere nuttiness that hovers mysteriously around Prince, that of the sensitive artist who teeters on the brink of genius and madness. Others merely come off as completely wacko due to their peccadilloes, but Prince always manages to emerge unscathed mostly because he doesn't do anything to hide his eccentricity. If anything, he plays with it. Unlike R. Kelly or Michael Jackson, whose alleged perversions are held separate from their work, Prince's perversions and passions (which are tame in comparison to the likes of Kelly and Jacko) are intrinsically tied in with his lyrics and music.
I doubt R. Kelly would ever write a song about his scandal other than rebuking those who accused him, and likewise with MJ; Prince, however, aired his dirty laundry from the get-go, and just kept pushing the envelope as time elapsed. Every Prince album from Dirty Mind on contained at least one line or song that made me blush, causing me and my brother to adjust the volume so that my mother would not get angry. And yet, as embarrassing and inappropriate as those naughty sentiments were to me then, they are nothing if not honest, and the true fans always appreciated that... even if, like me, they sometimes didn't get it until much later on in life.
I think Lovesexy was the album where the once-adoring masses first started to resent Prince, and the backlash that nearly derailed his credibility in the music world began to rear its head. But I think now, almost two decades later, the album should be listened to again. You'd be surprised at how well it holds up. What sounded weird and unusual now sounds relevant and contemporary (all those strange electro-blips and synth-squiggles are commonplace in music today, especially in the work of Pharrell Williams and The Neptunes), and the lyrics are spiritual on an almost Gospel-like level.
And of course, there's "When 2 R In Love", an amazing ballad that captures the torrid passion of romance and the animalistic undercurrent of that very same eroticism, balancing both extremes precariously as a gorgeous backdrop of musical swells and crescendos undulates behind it. It gets my vote for the best love song of all time, because you can listen to it with a lover as well as fuck to it.
Maybe that's why it ended up on both Lovesexy and The Black Album. Maybe Prince recognized that he'd written the perfect slow jam, a Gemini of a track that could do double duty as both lascivious mood music and exhortation to true love.
As His Royal Badness sang in that very tune: Nothing's forbidden/ nothing's taboo...
I think that's the way it should be, don't you?
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