For Your Entertainment, and My Vapid Validation

Moving On UP

2011-06-22T15:33:00.000-07:00

I've decided to focus on writing about music; so obvious it's escaped me as a calling until just recently. To follow my progress, please visit www.tunemusing.tumblr.com regularly....

Bubble Gum Boom Bash

2011-05-27T15:42:00.000-07:00

I have been devouring Raphael Saadiq's new album, Stone Rolling for almost a week now. Upon reading an article in Wax Poetics, and discovering that Earth, Wind, & Fire's Gratitude-era keyboardist, Larry Dunn was included on the album, I snapped it up immediately.

I'll never forget getting my first Tony! Toni! Tone! cassette from my pal, Anitra Belle on my 12th birthday, and bumping "Feels Good" in the car with my mom on the way to 7th grade classes at St. Ignatius. But other than catching the big radio hits and that one hot ass video and tune with D'Angelo, I had only marginally monitored Saadiq's progress. I was well aware of his multi-instrumental talent, and generally regarded him as an artist of note, but still bailed on seeing his recent performance at Yoshi's for nonspecific reasons. I am kicking the shit out of myself after getting wrecked by this new album.

I say "bubble gum boom bash" in that wistful, youthful, dawn-of-rock feeling this album conveys with lots of cymbals and juggy, jangly guitars. Several other eras of R&B/Rock make appearances as well: fantastic strings, woodwinds, and horn arrangements layer over one another translucently to create a deeply saturated snapshot of several decades at once.

Among my favorites, "Go To Hell" opens up the album as its second track and pretty much lifts its skirt at you and shows you what it's got. So many elements, such a natural progression. Apex presents as a hopeful and joyous chorus of "let love bring us together" while horns and strings swell over a synthy woodwind tune that reminds me of those old, sped-up, time-lapse filmstrip soundtracks of seeds sprouting. Not what you anticipate from the title of the tune.

"Over You" just grabs my little high school heart strings and yanks the shit out them. Short and brooding, and deliciously desperate. The title track is quickly becoming my inner anthem. But it's two particular tracks in sequence that really seal the deal for me.

"Moving down the Line" opens with a yearning exclamation, then cuts directly to one of the steadiest rolls on record. Simple in pattern and phrasing, keeping to blues roots, but punctuated gradually with shining vocal, horn, and string parts. The 40s through the late 70s incorporate themselves as matter-of-factly as the birds and the bees. For such combined elements to come off this organically, and carefully dodging trite while paying homage, one must have a well-articulated perspective of the way humans respond to music. It is a common, continuous pursuit for many artists to spin nostalgia into a current context. Outkast accomplished this similarly with the Speakerboxx/The Love Below albums.

The next track, "Just Don't" also builds layer by layer, really sitting on that ride cymbal. A very Jackson 5-sounding bass and guitar coupling drops into sitar. Then the filmstrip soundtrack sounds fall in again, as I realize that it's Larry Dunn of Earth, Wind, & Fire. He takes the bubble gum, the boom, and the bash to the outro on a damn magic carpet. I suddenly thought that Saadiq was pretty much the brightest guy on the planet. (You will learn that I am easily one of the world's most intense EWF fans.)

Saadiq mentions in the Wax Poetics article growing up in Oakland, CA and learning how to play pretty much everything (as he does on much of the album), because everyone played something where he grew up. They'd trade off and screw around. Also learned from this article that Saadiq toured with Prince right out of high school, and about his primary attraction to guitar. Stating things like, not knowing how to do Ernie Isley's "Voyage to Atlantis" disqualified you from being included in any bands of merit.

I'm still chewing on this album, but what I believe to be resolute about is that this is not "just another retro record." While process is a large part of this album that may be lost on many, Saadiq is managing to stay poignantly relevant with his content and arrangement. A few tracks fall a little short, resembling more of a caricature of an era, but his ratio isn't bad for successes and thus these tracks are forgivable ("Radio," "Daydreams"). The real winner for me lies in the density of the arrangements, which is kind of the irony in the album. Much of the production is roughly pared down, but we have this symphonic quality happening in the sheer number of parts folding in and out of one another. This was nearly impossible during many of the eras represented with the level of technologies then available, but points to rare exceptions such as Brian Wilson's masterpiece, Pet Sounds. I'm very excited by this, as I do react to Stone Rolling in similar ways as I have to Pet Sounds: rapid heart beat, swelling nostalgia, and a vaguely dark sense of yearning. These combined represent for me some of the greatest pleasures of living and breathing.

More Thoughts on Rose, etcetera...

2011-05-19T11:52:00.000-07:00

As I continue to conduct research about San Francisco, I have now discovered that my initial hypothesis need be refined a bit. I had begun this mission with the assumption that most establishments would offer but one still rose, at times with a sparkling variety as well, but could potentially represent themselves with that one selection. Well damn if some of these folks offer two! A delightful discovery.

One afternoon I found myself wandering down Union Street again, needing distraction until a spot opened up in my nail salon (V.W. Nails at Gough-- LOVE this woman!). It was around 4:30, and I was surprised to find that most cafes and restaurants on this stretch of Union were not yet open for the evening. (Surprised meaning I was cursing and indignant.) I finally found an open door and super breezy open layout at Unwind on Union. This space is really attractive; from open windows across the front, to a sunken level with a wide, L-shaped bar. Windows near the ceiling dumped loads of moving afternoon sun into the place, and there's even a bar out back.

The first bartender out of about three was kind enough to listen to my short tantrum, just before informing me that he had, in fact, two rose offerings. He was kind enough to jot their names down on a napkin for me, but I have since misplaced it. I'll be doing the best I can with memory, please forgive.

The first was an Argentinian rose, which I found to be exotic in concept but not as exciting on the palate. The color was lovely, a light peach. While it had a decent amount of acidity, it lacked bite. Not much on the nose but heat, either. As I learn about wine, I find that I struggle with this part. Getting past the alcohol scent into more delicate notes is something I'm working on. It way have had some unripe strawberry, but not enough wood or mineral to make that more interesting or balanced. All in all, very light and drinkable, but not particularly interesting.

The other offering was a much bigger California rose. Completely disparate options make me very pleased, and I much preferred this selection. A lovely, deep, translucent cranberry color and medium body finished crisply. The only other concrete info I can give you on this one is that I liked it so much I had another glass while thumbing through my mother's Mother's Day present* from Chronicle Books, a serious one-stop-shop for finding a gift for damn near anyone. It's my new go-to. I think I have scored on maybe three gifts in total for my mother, and this last one was a home run.

*Nests: Fifty Nests and the Birds that Built Them snatched my attention in the store, and I almost kept it for myself. A stunning visual account of all sorts of birds' nests and short, concise commentary of their different habits and formation actually held my attention through half of the book in one sitting.

Moving back to the real mission at hand, I met with a good friend at Palomino for lunch the other day, and discovered again two rose offerings. The approach was similar, two very different roses, but in this case a more obvious contrast of New and Old Worlds in the form of a California rose and a French rose. (I swear I'll get it together and get the names included again, but I failed to grab these before I rushed out the door as we yammered to the furthest extent of our schedules.) While I have often admitted to my naivete in preferring many New World wines, I have to concur that the French kind of have this rose thing down. Its salmon colored presence at the table complemented all of our dishes effortlessly. From awkward but tasty crab & artichoke dip to truffle deviled eggs, sausage and mushroom flatbread with tangy tomato sauce to wild roasted mushroom salad with gorgonzola, it held up and contributed both flavor and in some cases, relief to the palate. One lovely formula I've learned: acid plus acid in food & wine equals pleasure, and the anise quality of the sausage with subtle cheese application set up the tomato sauce for a love match with my rose. Who knew?

So as I continue my research, I can say that this new level of rose/restaurant representation will certainly continue to be explored. Rather than the individual personalities of the rose selections reflecting the personality of the venue, the breadth of range between two selections can convey the span of aesthetic and target customer demographic. Two New World roses, with one from South America, definitely tells me these guys are probably into Jimmy Buffet (not necessarily a bad thing in this context). New World and Old World selections, in the same price range as well, are definitely evidence of a particularly accommodating aesthetic.

In this popular era of disdain for pretense, menus trend towards uber-accessible items like mac and cheese and fancy sliders. But the wine list and bar program is where restauranteurs are flossing their arcane brilliance. I predict a flourish in rose selections, as this one varietal bridges the gap between the two.

The Hippie Shake Revised

2011-04-21T11:34:00.000-07:00

When pal George Sluppick invited me to see his new band the other night, I jumped. Having been a Black Crowes fan in the past, I was very interested to see what one of my favorite contemporary (blues) drummers was going to add to The Chris Robinson Brotherhood.

Sluppick has been one of my favorite drummers to follow over the last decade or so, and watch his presence, or lack thereof, completely change the projects in which he's participated (i.e. Robert Walter's 20th Congress, Mofro; both of which fail to move me without him). Of course, the drums are fundamental and this could be expected, but I venture to say that George contributes far more than just a solid backbone. In his meticulous rock steady, there's a patina that many his age have yet to acquire. He brings a seriously old soul with adolescent energy, and an intuition for swing and subtlety that can only come from experience with the dirty.

So to Chris Robinson's new project, this beat comes, and it makes perfect sense. While it's relatively early in the tour, the chemistry is definitely honing along at a steady clip. Keyboard player and moog lover, Adam MacDougall (Black Crowes) and bassist, Mark "Muddy Stardust" Dutton fall in on Sluppick's framework with flourish and ease alike. While perhaps a bit gratuitous with the spacey swoops, the moog was well utilized; I want to say I heard a lot of doubling with the bass, which is a big fave of mine. Not sure if I'm projecting, though.

And along with this solid rhythm section, we get a super delightful surprise: this "Muddy" Dutton has an amazing vocal reach. I found his top parts of the vocal harmonies to be the perfect finish, adding some slicker rock and roll to the mix. It was surprising, but made perfect sense, to find out that Dutton has been associated with both LA Guns and Dwight Yoakam.

Overall the band reeks of bearded, laid back aesthetic, as well as the crowd at Cafe Du Nord that night. Lovers of the Dead, the Band, Neil Young, and dare I say a sprinkle of Steely Dan (I swear I heard "Reeling in the Years" somewhere in there), will enjoy a bit of departure into the likes of the Headhunters. My love for the low end left me a little disappointed with the guitar tones, but upon more objective thought I suppose they were an appropriate complement for the rhythm section. Drums, keys and bass effectively stole the show for me, and the vocal harmonies were an unexpected bonus. I recall a chorus of "be well, take care" that haunts me still. The details on the rest trail away....

Hi-De-Hi

2011-04-15T12:39:00.000-07:00

I knew I'd get a naughty surprise last night. Pals Shotgun Wedding Quintet could not disappoint when given the task of finding their interpretation on the music of Cab Calloway. As with many of the collections of tunes for the SF Jazz Hotplate Series, local musicians often choose a mix of straight-forward tribute and contemporary spin. While I'm not intimately familiar with the bulk of Cab Calloway's catalog, I have a definite grasp of his thing. So when sax/keys player Joe Cohen opened with some freaky, red-lacquered synth my eyebrows went up and stayed there. SWQ frontman, Dublin took his usual position as crooning auctioneer and matched Cab in charisma and cinematic appeal, if only a little less physical. A fun little call-and-response incorporated the listeners on "Reefer Man," and vocalist Crystal Monee Hall laid down the well known "Hi-De-Hi." Blistering grooves and tenuous bass riffs patterned the entire performance, but the essence of Calloway was never lost; particularly when Shock G of Digital Underground fame approached the stage in a white, windowpane plaid suit and perfectly coiffed afro.

It couldn't have been planned, it's literally how planets just freaking align sometimes. SWQ had been doing a little work with Shock G this past week, and damn if it didn't just make sense. His humor and physicality echoed Cab all the way, and the tiny club lit up like a Christmas tree at a New Year's bonfire when breaking into "Freaks of the Industry." When it couldn't get anymore germane, Ray Love of 2Pac's crew and grandson of Cab Calloway himself took the stage and humored the crowd with a little "California Love." Take a second to wrap your head around that. I'll be here all day.

So all of this musty, nostalgic vision was getting manhandled into hip hop on a Thursday for about 100 people, in a club so small I had to take a leak with Shock G's ass against the bathroom door, isn't even that unusual for what's going on in the Bay right now. This area is steadily churning out some of the most progressive music available, and is only honing its form. As eclecticism becomes more and more popular and genres fade into looser descriptors, the Bay area, and particularly Jazz Mafia, is leading the pack and mastering the delivery.

The Bay being a bit smoother overall than the New York scene, much of the material Jazz Mafia produces emerges from a general posit another writer captured about bandleader Adam Theis, "wouldn't it be rad if...." The maturation of the core members of the collective is upon us, and the chemistry is at that boiling point. It's thrilling to watch it all come together and gain momentum, as these folks have been working, living, and creating at an exhausting pace with one another for a decade or so. The Shotgun Wedding Quintet drops a new album soon, and the Jazz Mafia Symphony premieres its 2nd work, The Emperor Norton Suite at Stern Grove this June. Gonna be a hot summer, even in the Bay.

Rose of the Day

2011-04-14T17:18:00.000-07:00

While I may not be able to manage one a day, I am on some kind of rose mission. Most places only carry a single still rose, and I believe each choice can be used as a representative analogy for each establishment's understated personality or agenda. I'm still debating on how to approach the brut roses, but let's test the hypothesis starting with the stills.

I have two with which to begin:

I have stopped on occasion by The Brickyard on Union on the way home from work, both times to gather my senses after some spontaneous shopping nearby. The bartenders have both been super knowledgable and accessible women, if dressed a bit too casually. Torn denim minis, t shirts, bra straps. Not for me, really. But beyond that they've provided excellent service. Particularly the young lady that poured me an extra "halfie" at no charge.

The Sedna Rose of Syrah from Kate's Vineyard in Napa has stolen my heart. I am a complete wine dilettante, but have been exposed since I was a teen to better wines through my sommelier sister. As I develop my palate and vernacular, I'm understanding that I'm very comfortably and predictably lodged in the New World. I'm okay with this, I have no agenda for pretense. I like "soccer mom chardonnays" just fine, but prefer them on the more complex side such as the 2008 Dutton Goldfield Chardonnay. That said, the Sedna's dark, ripe fruit and vanilla wrapped me in a warm blankie despite the condensation on the glass. So far, this is my winner. But what does it say about The Brickyard?

From my short involvement, this would give me the impression that this poshly sparse and rustic sports bar with healthier food would understand its clientele. The surrounding Marina folks are most likely about on par with me as far as wine knowledge, and I noted the healthy stock of Miller Lite in the can in addition to the city's usual PBR and Tecate fare. This actually raised my opinion, as I am from Mobile, AL and have a deep appreciation for beers meant for high volume consumption.

My next rose of note I tried today in my neighborhood gem, Local Mission Eatery. As I reveled in my baby arugula and grapefruit salad, and downright cried over the stupidity of my open faced asparagus and poached egg sandwich on house made brioche with brown butter hollandaise, I enjoyed a fine rose. My allergies are interfering today, as spring has sprung like an MF up in here, but my overall palate said YES to the 2010 Donkey & Goat Grenache Rose from Mendocino. I'm going to venture that the main nose was all about strawberries, and the perfect medium acidity made it very versatile. Killing with the grapefruit as well as the asparagus-- not an easy feat with this much flavor. I may have to revisit with a clearer nose one day, though.

And what does this say about Local Mission Eatery? That they know a lot about simple food with fine ingredients, duh. With the local trend of comfort food with a flair being the most prominent, finding the balance of familiarity and slightly obscure is where everyone is aiming. In the land of the smug and full-circle uberhip-to-unhip-to-hip-again, I am delighted to test the waters.

Notes on Previous Evening

2011-04-14T11:58:00.000-07:00

Note: While it seems just far too obvious and almost boring to me, I'm going to just go on with it and write about my musical experiences here in San Francisco. Perhaps a pattern for spinning will emerge from these little exercises; thus the point of making them public, I suppose.

When my buddy, Alex suggested we go see Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears I immediately agreed. Having heard a bit of their first album, Tell 'Em What Your Name Is, I knew enough about their sound to know it'd be a good enough time. My expectations were low, recalling them to have a bit more shtick than I believe to be necessary. I write now, as I listen to both the debut and the recent release, Scandalous because after the show last night I bought both of them.

The energy of this show was jiggling all over your face from the get-go. They're an incredibly tight little number with a delightfully animated horn section. Comprised of some bazooka-lookin' baritone sax, trumpet, and tenor sax/tambourine/flamethrower. I need to talk about this guy, David McKnight. I have never, ever, seen a more scorching performance out of a tambourine. Thanks for that, bro. An otherwise visually misleading, uniformed crew, the horn section dances sincerely while awaiting their parts. Eduardo Ramirez (bari) and Darren Sluyter (trumpet) give it.

Joe Lewis appears in a baseball cap and dashiki, almost exactly like that one on my Dad, above. Sorta like Darius Rucker's cousin from the actual country. His undeterminable belting is only slightly reminiscent of Eddie Murphy's take on Buckwheat's Greatest Hits, and charming as all get out. I suppose I am struggling, however, with the level of caricature. I still haven't decided how contrived it is, and if it isn't, whether people/I appreciate the sincerity or find it amusing. It makes me want to hear something a little more raw out of them. To straddle that fence of bringing something unfettered to the table while keeping it all meticulously tight is possibly a level of maturity that's yet to be reached here. I would really like to see them get there, though.

"Booty City," a track off of the new album pays precise homage (or rips off, however you feel about that sort of thing) to Mandrill, and the title track "She's So Scandalous" vaguely whispers the bass movement of 2Pac's song by basically the same name. I feel a little bit of Johnny Guitar Watson from these guys, in that it's super slick and shamelessly assimilating from other tunes they love. I always appreciated how Johnny could pull that off and wondered how much criticism he got for doing so, if any. (Essentially, these are also the fundamental elements of hip hop.)

At points in the show Lewis used this jarring vocal effect on his mic that took me to the revival, and at other times the groove was so steady it took me to warm, clean sheets on a sleeping porch. Hailing from Austin, these guys are bringing the Southern elements of big, deep, guitars and funky delta swang. It was a super sexy party, but I have to take off points for lazy between-set tunes. While the compilation album they played is one of my favorites, Chains & Black Exhaust, and features the exact vibe they're striving for, a live DJ would have been more appropriate in my opinion.

Post show we headed down the street to catch friends, Shotgun Wedding Quintet chopping it up in preparation for tonight's edition of the SF Jazz Hotplate series, a tribute to the music of Cab Calloway. Word is, there will be a special guest from local Bay Area hip hop legendary lore. I have a feeling I'll be writing about this one tomorrow....

The Resurrection

2011-04-12T14:22:00.000-07:00

So I've been prodded and prompted my several of my peers to do the writing. I suppose I'll start here with demands for my vapid validation and see what type of theme emerges. Current interests: Anita O'Day, the San Francisco Giants, and shopping. That's right, shopping. Like baseball, it's America's favorite pastime, and I'm late to the party.

More to come. Get comfy.

Mike and me.

2009-06-26T09:23:00.000-07:00

So my mother calls me and leaves this message on my voicemail, "Your youth is officially over. Michael Jackson is dead. Wondering if you'd heard."

Of course, I'd not been able to answer her call because I was fielding millions of phone calls and text messages and emails and facebook poignance. It's an understatement to say that our generation is taking this kinda rough. We all have a lot to share about our relationship with Mike.

When I was six years old, the only thing on my list to Santa was Thriller. I cared about nothing else, and talked about it incessantly at school. When the flat, roughly 12" x 12" square appeared in tacky paper beneath the tree, I swore it was something else. I had built it up in my mind to be as big as my entire torso, enough to actually wrap my arms around. My sister, Louise had worked at Camelot Music in Bel-Air Mall and brought it home for me. To tell you the truth, I actually spotted it in a bag hanging on her bedroom doorknob prior to the Big Day, but couldn't really believe it was actually about to be mine to behold.

I learned to use our multiple record players at around four years old, having been taught how to lay the needle down ever-so-gingerly on the smooth line in between songs. Albums were something to be handled like china, and respected. I remember learning to hold them between my finger tips on the edges, fearing for my life if I dropped one. Already in heavy rotation at this age were Earth, Wind & Fire's Greatest Hits Vol. 1, Sergio Mendes & Brasil '66 Fool on the Hill, and Prince Controversy. I spent countless hours alone in my room listening to these and learning every little bit of the space between notes and the scant breath here and there. But these were my family's records, and Thriller was mine. All mine.

I gazed at Michael with the big kitty and fell in love with him. Spending so much time alone in my room with this record at such a young age, he was literally one of my friends. Thriller always scared me a little, but I did huge can-can girl kicks to the bit he ripped off from Manu Di Bango in Wanna Be Startin Somethin. I dreamed over he and Paul McCartney (as my sister had taught me all of the Beatles' names and their reverence not long ago), and wished I was the girl they fought over. Human Nature cultivated my first fantasies of a big city, and Lady In My Life just made be feel warm. I honestly felt I knew him. I decided he was my boyfriend, and when I announced it to my mother she discouraged me. So I decided he was my cousin, and I told everyone at school.

Whenever someone's sister or brother would buy the album, I was notified. The kids in first grade at St. Ignatius in Mobile, AL were mystified. I received them graciously. And today I heard from schoolmates that I haven't spoken to in years.

Yeah, we shared a last name. But the intimacy I had with this first album of my very own can only describe the void a child can fill spending countless hours alone in her room, gazing out of the window and petting her Doberman, waiting to go play in the graveyard.

My Christmas Gift.

2009-01-02T12:24:00.000-08:00

This year I had a big schedule. I was to make an appearance in Tuscaloosa, AL for a friend's family gatherings, and then immediately depart Mobile to Charleston, SC to join my sisters, mother, father and his wife. We weren't too sure how this was going to go over, as it hadn't yet been tried with this particular wife of Dad's. As it turns out, I have no good material to report. Everyone behaved, and it was a total disappointment. We all ate well and laughed and drank and were merry as shit. I haven't had that functional of a family Christmas maybe ever, and it made me nervous.

But the fun part of the story is this small nugget of humor: prior to departing for Tuscaloosa I happened to experience the mad breaking of a months-old levy with a rather fetching young gentleman, and it left a visible toll on my face. Unfortunately I am a delicate flower. The skin on my chin could not bear to stay around to watch all of that crude sucking any longer, and simply left. My lips were indignant to the abandonment and swelled to a bright red anger, the one closest to my chin even throbbing with fury. So I wake to depart to meet my friend's family for the first time, and I have a nickel-sized patch of skin missing from my chin, and a mouth more opulent than a baboon's swollen, beckoning vagina. I do what I can for the chin, which is moisturize and apply concealer (the effect is something like wet tissue paper on silly putty), and liberally apply lip-plumping gloss. Because I just had to see what would happen. And what happened was massive, shiny, porn lips that I wished would stay forever (they returned to normal size by the next morning).

So I'm in a great mood, it's a beautiful day, and I'm thoroughly enjoying the drive. I'm just outside of Tuscaloosa, and it dawns on me that I have a ton of crap on my floor board. Not wanting to embarrass myself in front of my friend and her family, I stop at a gas station to throw all of the junk out. It's a glorious day in the mid-seventies, and I'm comfortable in jeans and a tailored t-shirt. I gather a full armload of junk into my chest, as I don't want to make more than one trip to the trash bin 7 feet away, and step out of the car to drop it in. Wanting to make this as expeditious as possible, I leave the car running and don't have any hands to close the door behind me. I drop the trash in the basin, wind blowing my hair into my thick coat of lip gloss. As I pivot around, trying to delicately remove the strands of hair from the sap on my lips without breaking the hair or leaving lines of color across my cheek, I watch the car door shut. I'm frozen. Please, don't be locked. Oh, please. But sure enough, that bad boy is barely engaged, but firmly locked. My cell phone and purse inside, and engine purring like a fat cat in the sunshine.

Some bystanders watch as I go through the first several stages of loss; anger, bargaining, depression, yadayada. I finally hit acceptance and walk inside to call Rape-A-Lock. I ask the girls behind the counter if they know anyone who might have a slim jim, because it is the kind of town where Billy might have one in his truck or something. They look at me blankly and shake their heads. But then the blood starts to flow, and the one one wearing large, plastic, vintage floral earrings with her BP golf shirt suggests that I ask the gentlemen at the car wash next door. The light goes off with all of us, and I burst out of the glass doors. I'm bounding across the parking lot with lips shining like-- I have to use this one again-- a baboon's swollen, flushed vulva, my giant hooters grazing my chin every other step, and smiling my ass off at the knights in shining chrome before me. As I slowly become aware of their probable perception of this, I stop the jogging. In fact, as I came to a stop, I found myself standing in the dirt surrounded by about seven men that you might not want to be surrounded by, say, alone at night. I've already called to them about the slim jim, suddenly realizing I was running at them begging for a freaking SLIM JIM. Merry Christmas, fellas.

Two of them take to the task, and they produce very quickly several objects with which to break into a car. This was not to my surprise. They had it open in seconds, and refused to take a dime from me. They saved me from losing $50 and an hour or so to Rape-A-Lock. Merry Christmas to me. The most meaningful gift by far this year.

KJ

Why not?

2008-11-02T20:16:00.000-08:00

Okay, I finally have something to say about this election. That's right, two days before I need to actually make up my mind, I finally made up my mind. And it hasn't been easy.

Before this historically massive crux of an election, I have to bashfully admit that I have not been the most politically informed cat. In college I dated this completely crazy but of course, as it always seems to be, brilliant (this is my type in a nutshell) freak of a political science major. As he won academic bowl after academic bowl for the local community college (on Dexadrine), I casually blew off his passions in the interest of his feedback on my then-perfect floating orbs of golden light-- you may call them breasts. Anyway, he about dumped me when election day passed (Clinton vs. who?) and I had no idea. But I had the orbs, so we worked it out.

So now I feel the guilt and embarrassment of this memory (which I have never shared, by the way) as well as the shame when exposed to my father's immense and staggering sense of patriotism. I am the youngest daughter of a WWII veteran; very lucky to have this perspective. He actually lied about his age to go to war as a Marine-- or his parents signed for him, one of the two. Either way, who the fuck would do that today? What are we missing? We are a nation of spoiled asshole brats. It's disgusting, and I am reminded of this every time I watch FOX news with my 81 year old father. It's no rant of his, it's all mine. But to just simply observe the ever-so-slight swell in his chest while casually observing the state of the nation... it's more reverence than you'll get from any half-hearted pledge of allegiance in school or at a ballgame.

I also remember with some embarrassment but mostly as a major turning point, an incident at a party in college where I found myself getting pretty hammered with some fetching Marines. I had already decided I was really conflicted with my deficit in patriotism or even nationalism at this point, and I figured these guys should be able to help me figure it out. Plus, they might be tempted to rescue me from my frightful plight of cluelessness. I asked them point blank: why do I not feel it? What do you feel about our country that makes you do what you do? What am I missing? And the answer was so simple, and it resonates in my head to this day. He said, "We make it so you can say what you just said."

So in effect, we are so freaking spoiled as a nation that we not only are allowed to question our loyalty, our freedom (Michelle?), but even publicly humiliate our leader in wartime. I have a real problem with this. I don't care how much the man might deserve it, but what do we say about ourselves to the world when we mock our President? We may as well mock ourselves, and we do. I'm sorry, it's just tacky as hell. I dare anyone to call President Bush an idiot in front of someone just home from Iraq. I dare you. Not so funny anymore is it? You think he thinks it's funny? Fuck Bill Maher. Fuck John Stewart. Fuck all that Comedy Central bullshit. It's in seriously poor taste. But that's Hollywood for you.

This said, I have searched high and low for answers with both of our presidential candidates. I subscribe to both of their newsletters, I read all of the mud-slinging propaganda on both of them, and have checked all of the facts (myself, not from their own "fact-checker" sections on their websites). And I was still clueless in this age of information. I have leaned to both sides, and ultimately resided in between, wringing my hands and biting my nails. Then I had a moment of quiet, whispering clarity last night.

I was in Blockbuster, cause I'm an idiot and don't do the Netflix thing. (As with most media purchasing or borrowing, I want to touch it-- another post.) Right in front when you enter the rows of jackets, there was a display with previously viewed DVDs. It had several copies of Barack Obama: Who Is This Guy? (or something to that effect) on it, and I briefly thought to pick one up. But I had kept walking to review the other selections first. As I was scanning the jackets on the New Releases wall, I hear behind me this child's voice, a whisper of wonder, like glimpsing Santa Claus on a Coca Cola commercial-- it couldn't have sounded more utterly American,

"(gasp!) Barack Obama!"

And I could hear him pointing to a buddy or sibling, I didn't turn around. Then,

"I love you, Barack Obama."

I froze right there as tears came to my eyes. And a million romantic thoughts tumbled through my brain that ultimately asked, is it just too awful and naive to look up to someone this way? Can there really, actually be Hope? Is it not just clever campaigning? Could we actually have reverence as a nation, as this child does? Is it just too scary to posit such a thing?

It may be romantic. But no media could replicate the voice of that baby. And he surely learned it from Momma and Daddy (or maybe just Momma?), but I've never heard that kind of wonder out of anyone's mouth in regards to one of our nation's recent leaders. Why not go for it?

KJ

Huh.

2008-11-02T17:47:00.000-08:00

Holy shit, that WAS vacuous.

KJ

The unbearableness of not being very light.

2008-10-30T16:10:00.000-07:00

I have been really searching for something vacuous to expound upon, but just can't quite pull it off. So screw y'all. You have to hear me cry.

I have this friend that I've literally known my whole life; we were thrown in the crib together. Our mothers both had us a little later in life, so we got stuck together often. Our lifelong story has been tenuous at times, but I have never really stopped worshipping him. And now he's getting married.

It's the most unexplainable feeling. I've only felt it maybe once, when my sister got married 12 years ago. But I'm actually closer to this person than I am to my sister, if only because of our age difference. She's twelve years older, and we didn't really "grow up" together. Anyway, it's this ridiculous pain that you can't admit to because it means you're a selfish asshole. While my icy little heart leaps to see him so happy, I feel like I'm losing my appendix or something. And we don't even talk all that much anymore. I'm so puzzled. But it makes me feel very small. As in, character-wise. Hopefully I'll feel a wee absolved by your vapid validation.

So I'll recount fond memories of my pal. We used to put makeup on each other under my parents' big dining room table. We would fight over whether it was "yellow" or "lellow." He colored a tulip he drew with markers, cut it out, and scotch-taped it to a balloon for me when we had chicken pox. He led me by the hand out over the water, balancing on the side planks of the wharf his family was building when we were four years old. We spent endless hours on the "trolley" in the back yard of his house. We inspected dead lizards. We always went trick-or-treating together. We always did Mardi Gras together. Consequently we spent a lot of time on the floor sorting candy together. We launched just about anything we could find over his roof in a super-strength water balloon launcher. We got in trouble.

Somewhere around high school he started rolling his eyes at me and decided I was not cool. I was devastated.

Somewhere around college we started hanging out again. Felt better. We always call each other on our birthdays.

And now we're here. I try to control the involuntary asshole rays that pour from my eyeballs whenever his fiancee is around, to what level of success, I'm not sure. I do try, though. Didn't help that no less than five people at their engagement party thought I was his fiancee. Only a little awkward.

Anyway. Hopefully I'm done with all this now. Because now I have to worry about the "spot" on Dad's liver.

KJ

All that is good is nastay...

2008-10-17T11:06:00.001-07:00

but all that is nasty is not necessarily good. I'm way behind on new music, but I just heard the cop car song by Lil Wayne yesterday and am completely crazy about it. While familiar with Lil Wayne as a figure from New Orleans and aware of his general schtick, I had only heard some mutated children's version of "Lollipop" (don't ask) as far as his actual tunes were concerned. I've read great things about his latest album, The Carter III, but nothing prepared me for the brilliance of this song.

I hesitate to say brilliant every time because the lyrics are pure trash, but damn they're clever. His homage to NWA somewhere before the first chorus, I think, made me squeal with absolute delight. While I thought to myself, come on, it's not that smart I realized that the cleverness wasn't the appeal, or even that unique. NWA was kinda clever, but its trail-blazing dirtiness was what drew me in as an adolescent. But why did I like it better than 2 Live Crew? And then it hit me: it's the triumph of the underdog.

Think about it. There are all of these super dirty rap songs with angry, growling, grunting rappers. They're dark. You feel dirty just listening to them, and can almost hear poor little teenage girls crying among the sounds of ass-slapping and dog fighting. It's disgusting. It's not fun. Listening to guys like Eazy E and Lil Wayne talk about getting busy-- now that's fun. Just the sheer tones of their voices brings a lighter vibe, and you can't help but enjoy the fact that these guys have made it into the baller club because otherwise-- well, I won't say it out loud. It ain't right.

So now for the hypothesis busters: first, Big Pun. I love Pun, but sometimes he gets pretty dark. I almost wrecked my car in an effort to clap my hands over my ears when I heard him say something about knocking a fetus out of place. But really, if this guy didn't rap, he would never-- well, you know.

Next buster, but not a rapper: Morris Day. Now anyone that knows me knows that I am crazy about Morris and give the creation of his persona far more credit than it really merits. I do honestly think the song Chile Sauce is truly brilliant. It's hysterical. Totally tongue in cheek, definitive clownin. But have you seen Morris close up? Dude's got mad freckles all over his nose and cheeks. Too adorable. Like, puppy adorable. If he hadn't ridden on the purple coattails, he would never have gotten so much-- yeah. Well, maybe. That band is damn tight. But for all of the light and funny lady killin, I had another tire-screeching, ear-clapping moment of absolute horror while listening to their second album, What Time Is It? The tune is called The Walk, and it describes a dance move named as such. (To be later referenced in their next album Ice Cream Castles, during the aforementioned epic, Chili Sauce: "Say, do you know how to do The Walk?" "Why certainly! Everyone can do The Walk!" "Well why don't you just Walk yo ass to the other side of the room!") But back to the horror-- as Morris explains why he wears baggy pants, "...zip, snap, and drop! Easy access baby, before they get a chance to holler stop!" I swear I almost died to hear such violence. The whole line is even spoken with an entirely different air. It's angry, dark, and scary; there's even an ominous-sounding echo on the word "stop." It makes me uneasy to the extent that I don't even listen to that album anymore. When I do its only for 777-9311, and Gigolos Get Lonely Too.

So my point isn't bulletproof, but it works in general: Dirty lyrics coming from someone that typically wouldn't have the repertoire to reference for such things kinda warms one's heart in a way. Like Eazy E's Christmas album....

(We'll save the topic of misogyny in black music for another day.)

KJ

Gotta get more gold leaf.

2008-10-09T14:07:00.000-07:00

My mental shopping list for on the way home from work today. Can't have enough gold leaf.

The urgency on this particular day is because I'm desperately trying to finish a painting to some meager standard of okayness so I can hang it at the gallery tomorrow. I'd started it in August sometime, and the concept was well laid out. I was pretty excited. Then I, of course, procrastinated and went to try and develop it last night but it was a disaster. Which brings me to the ultimate artist's cliche-- you really just can't force it.

The analytical side of me has fought this for decades, insisting that really that was just a load of crap. Real artists worked, dammit, and they suffered through whatever decontruction and reconstruction that was called for until that simultaneous orgasmic-denouement moment, so blessedly called completion. That other shit was a copout. But I'm starting to come full circle to my adolescent attitudes and think it just can't be pushed, man. I suppose these cycles mean something, but I'll think about that later.

What's inadvertently being illustrated here, as I write, is my horrific placement at the dead center of the spectrum between so-called left-brainers and right-brainers. I am telling you-- it's torture. I'm constantly drawn and quartered between guilt, carelessness, curiosity, and rationale. I can barely tolerate the artsy fartsy types, but I'm clearly no type A. It motivates me not to work harder or be more disciplined at either school, but to stagnate and whine. It really is pathetic. I'm not even the type whose self-loathing results in some brilliant creation, I'm too stuck in how I'll market my work to really let go. I don't even think I have anything to let go of. My work is rather superficial. I call them condo paintings. Nice to look at, but not quite good enough for your primary home. I hope that last statement isn't too telling....

So yeah, more gold leaf. And liquid adhesive. Hope I can bang this out.

KJ

Big sigh.

2008-10-05T13:44:00.000-07:00

It's still a beautiful weekend, I'm still bangin' out the jams from my balcony for the whole street, and once again I saw some incredible R&B in October.

My loser friends tried their mightiest to drag me to see Kid Rock, but I held fast and planted at the Miller Lite stage because no one was going to interfere in my date with Eddie Levert last night. That's right, kids, the O'Jays graced our fair city. It was a pretty good performance although not world-view changing. I also caught the tail end of the Whispers, too, which was a bonus. Eddie's face looked as if it might burst a couple of times; he sang his ass off.

I found myself getting super nostalgic again while parked among huge crowds of really good-smelling people. I'll never forget seeing the Gap Band at that very same spot 10 years or so ago, when the crowds were much smaller. I was squished up in this crowd and it WAS one of those world-view changing experiences. I swear, I've only participated in this kind of phenomena once or twice, but it was literally as if the crowd moved as one being. Sounds totally trite, but I swear to you when you feel the kind of sway that's so intuitive and uninterrupted, and about a thousand or so people strong, you will kinda find some new religion. Charlie was getting everyone going on some crowd participation singing; some row-your-boat shit to that tune "Yearnin for Your Love." I swear it was so beautiful (and actually in tune) that I tear up right this damned minute recalling it.

But I found a comfy spot and some folks to hang with, and was soon asked by some fella if I knew who the Beatles were. I struggled to try and decipher what this guy's logic was in asking me such an inane question. He was understandably all eyebrows when I referenced some older music, but really. Did he think I was that young? I decided to be flattered. Then there was a woman who was very interested in everything I had to say, in the spirit of fascination with the novel white girl among all these black people. I guess it doesn't happen so much in those proportions so often. There's lots of heterogeneity around, but I do have to admit I was a small whitehead on the big black ass this particular evening. She was hungry and I told her I was a fan of the turkey legs. She got pretty excited, but I couldn't tell her exactly where they were. But last year they were really on time, and just extend your enthusiasm so perfectly when you thrust one in the air after a great tune.

(Another nifty anecdote from the evening-- our cab driver let us in on a little wink, wink, nudge, nudge about Kid Rock. Evidently he supposed to be Hank Williams, Jr.'s illegitimate son. Might be common knowledge, but I sure had never heard that. Supposedly this guy's a buddy of Hank's brother or something. Hm.)

I friggin love October.

2008-10-03T19:49:00.000-07:00

I really do. I always get some retarded-heavy crush in October. It's the weather, SEC football (even when I was on the west coast this was a factor), the consequent bourbon, hormones blazing from nearby college campuses. It's all in the air. And then there's Halloween, of course. As a kid I was like, screw Santa Claus. I wanna look like a skeleton. Or Cyndi Lauper. But the best part was roaming the streets, something I still cherish but can never do in this damn place that's made me fat as all get out.

Anyway. All of my windows are open and there's a music festival going on just a few blocks away. I totally feel like making out with somebody. But instead I'll blare all of the live R&B I have, which is lots. That's another fall/October association-- outdoor R&B concerts....

In Alabama the fall brings this festival season that is like a goldmine for 70s-late 90s R&B enthusiasts. Groups that have long had their day in the sun, or even 1-2 hit wonders will abound in these things. I have always been insane to catch these acts while my friends scratched their heads in wonder, but somehow I'd get someone to go with me. There's nothing like those first few steps into an R&B show: you feel the bass tickling your chest from outside the doors or gates, and when you start to weave your way through the crowd you are hit with about 17 different varieties of cologne and perfume. And I LOVE IT. Everyone is dressed and in a romantic mood, and let me tell you-- er'body gone be gettin some tonight.

I have seen some of my favorite R&B performances in these random Alabama fall music festivals. The Derelict (see previous post for past fella nickname reference) actually took me to see Earth, Wind, And Fire for the first time in 1997 in Birmingham. If you've ever spoken to me for even 10 minutes you know that this is my ALL TIME FAVORITE GROUP OF GOD-SENT PROPHETS POSING AS MUSICIANS. They played with Teena Marie and Larry Graham with Graham Central Station. My poor little unsuspecting mind was blown about into pieces like so many paper confetti leaves that school teachers decorate the picnic tables with during these blessed fall months. To add to the list: The Time, Ohio Players, The Gap Band, Brick, Dazz Band. Then I saw damned Chaka Khan reunited with Rufus opening for EWF one special last day in September, and that just about ruined me.

KJ

Lucky Y'all

2008-10-03T12:06:00.000-07:00

So while I'm only imagining I have an audience, this next post is the perfect foil. I share an office with one absolutely ebullient woman, one whom I am eternally grateful for having to spend so many hours a day in such close proximity. She is eternally positive and easy to laugh from the gut. My life would surely be different were it anyone else with whom I had to share this tiny room.

But the real beauty of this situation is that we are almost exactly the same brand of crazy. I can mutter and throw inappropriate dialect all day long, self-deprecate, gloat, and obsess-- and she thinks it's hysterical. In turn, she yammers about food and giggles and shares intimate details about her children that they'd kill her over, and I think it's all positively brilliant. We have a subtle body language that tells one another to shut up, and have never gotten irritated with one another in two years. Which reminds me of one of my favorite expressions of hers-- "making pearls" as meaning extreme irritation. Hilarious.

So the perfection in this sequence of posts is that unfortunately for her-- she is my captive audience. I am certain that it is God itself that grants her the perception of entertainment when I day after day expound upon my uneventful life. Which is, by the way, much "faster" than hers. She's Southern Baptist. I try to edit, but sometimes I don't just to shake it up. She finds quiet pleasure in it, I'm convinced. So I never hesitate to let her in on the zillions of men in my past, present, and future.

While I can't always tell her when I've received the most stingingly delicious spanking in a few years, or why he I really think he's gay, I do give some riveting accounts. Some dating as far back as grade school. I am completely amused at her ability to keep most of them straight, as I am famous for having several of these men enter and exit multiple times, sometimes years apart. (I believe I get this from my father who "recycles" old girlfriends into wives now that he's in his eighties, circumventing the cost of 24-hour care.) She can usually name them as I bring them up, sometimes by our own exclusive nickname she and I have given them and sometimes by their proper names. It's absolutely fascinating. Occasionally she'll flub, mistaking Captain Stubing for Asberger, but really it's understandable.

But the real endearment came when she starts to tell me the other day, a little embarrassed that she's taken our yammerings home with her, that she was struggling to recall how I had first met Young Thing as she was falling asleep the night before. We laughed until near tears at this dilemma. It was only a few minutes later that I busted her on counting my men in the proverbial manner of sheep.

Launch

2008-10-02T13:35:00.000-07:00

Oh, Lord. Like so many others I've done it, and feel just as self-conscious or more. I now no longer have to actually choose an audience to suffer through my attempts at humor and brilliance. Welcome to my poorly developed and spontaneously created blog.