Sonic Youth irrelevant

D. and I are there at the GAMH (gamha) taking in the scene, deciding what to do when suddenly he is there next to us, then behind us, all 6'6" of his rock star frame. Thurston. We know not to stare, we don't stare but we're having heart attacks anyway, silent ones, even though we've been in this same spot countless times. He's just so Thurston.

I am intent on being aloof. I am disciplined at this. D. pushes engagement. She's got her iPhone out and attempts to photograph me with him in the background. I'm dodging it, like, "no! no! don't do that! no way!"

Someone, an Asian guy, is chatting him up in front of the merch table. I do half turns, each time taking in a quarter percent of the vision. Then the Asian guy's camera is out and he's shooting pictures of Thurston and his girlfriend, HER.

Her, the girl who ruined Sonic Youth. HER.

"It's HER." I whisper to D.

We watch Thurston pose, something so odd. We've never seen anything like this, not in 25 years of shows and backstage passes. He's just too cool. And then Her swoops in next to him and he smiles a sexy smile. A really sexy smile, and he grabs Her, and I look at Her in a flash, just a flash, super super fast and she's pretty. Really pretty, and then I'm done. I am now listening and watching Sebadoh again and unstuck from the beautiful train wreck behind me.

"Phew," I tell D., taking a breath like the teenage kid of divorced parents, "that was a bit hard on the eyes."

After the photo-taking, Thurston stands in the audience awhile watching Sebadoh, me 5 feet away from him, remembering 1996. It's been 18 years since I last stood next to Thurston Moore, watching a band.

Then he gets onstage and tears it up so hard, he turns Sonic Youth irrelevant. I know. I can't even believe that's possible. But Thurston plays so hard and so happy, so fucking good...building rooms upon rooms upon rooms of sound...and like it's nothin'...just nothin', "just shredding here for a moment, excuse me, just shredding your eyes out of your head and turning your toes into basketballs. Don't mind me, I'm just Thurston, shredding the shit out of everything and it's nothin."

Peeps couldn't believe it. This Jones is satisfied.  

(Thurston has a muse.) 

Artifact

"I like punk rock. I like girls with weird eyes. I like drugs. I like passion. I like things that are built well. I like innocence. I like and am grateful for the blue collar worker whose existence allows artists to not have to work at menial jobs. I like killing gluttony. I like playing my cards wrong. I like various styles of music. I like making fun of musicians who I feel plagiarize or offend music as art by exploiting their embarrassingly pathetic versions of their work. I like to write poetry. I like to ignore others' poetry. I like vinyl. I like nature and animals. I like to be by myself. I like to feel guilty for being a white American male."

Fake Leather, Don't Do It

 

"Rx, what do you think of me getting one of these fake leather jackets?"

Today Rx and I are in Target (trigger: thank god nobody says, "tar-jayyy" anymore)...and I see a wall of fake leather jackets, which I'm seriously considering possibly wearing. There's one woman nearby, and as I speak loudly to Rx, I get that she's listening, yet go with it anyway. Who cares. It's fun and entertaining to ask a 3.5 year old questions probably beyond their understanding.

Without missing a second of a second of a beat, Rx replies: "Don't do it."

She's riding her Skuut around Target, and she's so cool, she doesn't even look up.

Woman next to us says, "I need to take her shopping with me."

Painting Teacher

Teaching painting has a hidden element to it, something I never imagined. It's hard. There are conflicting rules/non-rules. Sorting through those ideas brings in theory and philosophy and thinking—something one should never do when making paintings—which adds another confusing and strange layer to teaching it.

I have told my daughter, age 3.5, "you shouldn't do that." And that's true, you don't want to paint with water on a canvas already soaked in acrylics, but what am I doing telling her that? Because there aren't any rules. By making rules, you block out possible miracles and masterpieces. But...I told her..."No one paints with water." UGH. WRONG.

Then I realize I'm getting uptight, so very bad when teaching painting. Then I see her bangs dip right into the puddle of acrylic. UM.

I have told my daughter, "Don't push on the brush. Only pull. You have to respect your brushes." And that's ok, right? Respect the tools, right? I don't know...Kurt Cobain didn't respect his guitars very much and he made miraculous music. HMMM.

For a long time today we painted together and it was wonderful. When she wasn't going nuts, I was more calm than I ever am. Eventually, I told my daughter I was wrong to instruct her not to put more and more and more (and more and more and more) paint on the canvas, that there aren't any rules in art. Except for a couple (that ok?).

Like respect your brushes.
And don't mix your paint in the paint bucket. Mix it on the canvas or on a palette.
And no dipping hair or body parts in a bucket of paint.

The best part of the "class" today was watching her discover splatter art. Somebody probably told Pollack he couldn't do that and now we see what beautiful things happened there.

"Mommy! Look! Lookit this!!"

Amazing.

Bad Day

Had a pretty bad day yesterday. Pretty bad. Talked to a friend about it, then got around to dealing with it.

Scheduled to die

Call me crazy, but this is sounds wrong for a reason. Then again, people can now schedule a birth.

Frank Black Francis Sold His Fat

Our generation is the fat.
The new one is the cookie.
The cookie lives no matter what.
The fat is nothing without it.

Frank Black Francis sold his fat to the highest cookie bidder.

a big big loss.
a big big loss.
a big big loss.
a big big loss.

An executive thank-you

First thing Sunday morning I woke up and read the news.

Obama To Sign Executive Orders On Equal Pay

Now women have to be paid the same as men. It's 2014 and this was still not happening.

I learned a long time ago not to ask who was being paid what at my jobs, because I knew the answer might signal the end of that job for me.

Like the last time I asked. It was Guy. We had the same job at the same company. The year was 2004. He had been there 1 year longer than me and when he told me he was making $4 an hour more, I made an appointment with The Man to ask for equal pay. I found the gap in our wages staggering, I had to say something.

Yes, I had put in less time at the company, but I produced more and could prove it. When I asked for a raise, I was denied one. Any kind of one. I was gone a few weeks later, because who can live with that.

Now no one has to. All things being equal, no one has to.

And so with this headline I was moved to tears and Guy asked, "What's wrong?" I showed him the iPad, just turned it for him to see the headline. He then asked, taken aback, "You're crying about that?!" He wasn't being mean, he truly didn't get it.

How could he?

Salve slave

I feel the pain and my mind searches for a salve.

I think retail. What can I buy.

…

…

…

there is nothing.

No clothes, toys, food, music, movie, show…

there is nothing

I can buy that is a salve.

I feel the pain and my mind searches for a medicine.

Benzos, painkillers, muscle relaxers, alcohol.

…

…

…

none of these will work.

There is nothing

There is nothing

There is nothing

I can take that is a salve.

I hug my husband and feel the spirit of my friend through him.

I put my face on my husband’s face and feel the spirit that lived in both of them.

I have to accept that there is no salve

For this.

The pain lives and beats everything.

Two hours later, I reconsider and my mind searches again for a salve.

Retail.

Drugs.

Nope.

(Rinse. Repeat.)

Retail.

Drugs.

Nothing.

(Rinse. Repeat.)

Nausea on April 2

It was a year ago today when he texted me. It started out, “Hey Toots Sweet” and ended with “Teddy Bear kisses to the pretty potatohead princess.” Then he was gone. I guess 2 days later, that night, I don’t know, I don’t ask.

I felt him next to me the other day. His whole self, even his head, he turned to me. I was on his left. He jerked his head to the right to get his floppy bangs out of his face. He smiled crooked at me and then looked down. Then it happened again. Then it was over. 

I feel him sometimes when I’m hugging my daughter, reassuring her, giving her extra love energy. I feel like he watches that. Maybe I just felt that way about him. I’d hug him like he was a child who needed to be reassured that they are loved. Loved so much, and it’s all ok.

I’ll never forget that time Guy, b0b and I were waiting outside that theatre on Van Ness for our screening to start. He was late. Guy was pacing, looking right down the street, then left. Then suddenly he was there. Bouncing. His hair bounced. His feet bounced. He was happy and said something funny along with “Hi.” He looked interesting, his outfits, they always were interesting, I found the choices surprising. This one was sporty in nature. A white sweatsuit, but too big and made of polyester. A bit shiny. There were yellow sport stripes on the arms or legs. Guy said, “What’d you do, run here?”

Which was very funny because he lived in Oakland at the time.

He would tell us, “Hey Guy and Lou! I’m spinning at this warehouse party, come on sometime around 1. A will be there too.” And we’d look at each other and say, “yeah, right. Like we’re gonna go out to a warehouse where sweaty kids are swooning on X in the middle of the night. No thanks.” And I never did. I never saw him do his art, his real art. He was a legend in that world and I didn’t know it, and I didn’t see it and I just didn’t show up.

I really regret it. What the fuck was I thinking? That everything is forever?! GUESS WHAT IT ISN’T.

From PT Anderson's Magnolia, "...the fucking regret and guilt, these things, don't ever let anyone ever say to you you shouldn't regret anything. Don't do that. Don't! You regret what you fucking want! Use that. Use that. Use that regret for anything, any way you want. You can use it, OK?"

A most unlikely scenario: Aguilera & Lennon

This is an older playlist of mine, the most notable track of which is "Mother." It's a song written by John Lennon in which he writes in the plainest and most painful way of being abandoned by a parent, or two, in his case. His song is heartbreaking and hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck erect, and performed with all the real stuff.

Then Christina Aguilera did a cover of it. What would I know about her, except that she's mainstream, was in the Mickey Mouse Club with Britney, and uh, plays the MOR radio game. Or whatever the modern-day version of that is.

The fact that Christina Aguilera and John Lennon should ever be mentioned together is weird enough, but then she recorded, "Mother." Buy the song and check out what she does with it. It's completely in keeping with his emotional vision, and is perhaps, most incredibly, comparable.

I'll just say it, It's beautiful.

What, you don't shoot your movies from a skateboard?

Pretty sure Spike Jonze is the first director to do this for a shot.

It's Sunday, March 2, 2014, and they're about to announce the Oscar winner for Best Original Screenplay. My reaction is so enthusiastic, I get embarrassed, and I'm all by myself.

The envelope is opened.

I lean forward anxiously and whisper PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE!

And I feel so strongly throughout my body that I NEED Spike Jonze to win. I nearly reach prayer-level wishing.

Then they say it, "and the award goes to Spike Jonze!" I fist pump five times. Not true UFC fist pumping, more like I'm cheering on an Olympian, or Beck.

PUMP PUMP PUMP PUMP PUMP YES!

Embarrassing! Awesome. So happy.

What the internet looks like?

Am I ridiculous? I thought this stuff happened in the sky.

Wait, isn't it ridiculous that the internet travels via cables in the ocean? 

What's real? Who are you? What is all this under my feet and over my head? Why do I dream? Where does that come from? Where do people go when they die? What's a deju vu? What's happening there?

Shall I ask google on the internet? So the answer can travel via cable under the ocean? Who sends it? Silicon Valley guys? This doesn't look very much like a web.

Work is stupid times infinity

When can I stop working and start living life?

Heard something the other day, "There's only enough time in a lifetime to be really good at one thing.

Be careful what you choose to be good at."

Note to a baby: RX, choose to be good at something that doesn't happen in an office.

God/No-God

It was a rough morning, being awakened by whining in a non-stop toddler voice, clear and pure and sudden right next to the bed.

Up the stairs and a cup of cold coffee later, the iPad is opened to CNN.  Headlines are scrolled through until one pops out, it’s so horrible, the page is opened.

Children Raping Children in Africa, the headline reads. She’s 3 years old and she was raped by another child, the first line informs.

Tears come hot and steady, building slowly into rivulets. Then sobs, though it’s not wise to let the heart go there. Eyes rubbed, feeling the horror in this world. The horror in this world. Prayers are immediate, even “dear god,” while it is simultaneously understood that there is no god that cares about this. There is no god because this happens.

By the time they walk into the living room, the rivulets have been wiped away and the residue is drying. The pools directly beneath the lashes are gone, yet he sees and asks, “What’s wrong?”

Something horrible in the news.

“Oh.”

And then her, “Mommy why are you crying?”

(A new tab is opened on the iPad.)  I just read a sad story, but now I’m going to find happy music to feel better.

“Ok, mommy. It’s ok.”

I scroll through Dead show archives looking for a good soundboard version of an ‘80s-era show, something with my favorite songs. I feel her watching me. This is good I think, this is an opportunity to teach her that it is one’s responsibility to find a way out of the devastation of our crushing reality, and one of those ways is with music.

There is no god because this happens. There is no god because this happens.  

Great, here it is. 1982, "Bertha" opener, this will be great. Time to go.

The stairs to the car are climbed, the show is queued up on the iPhone, headphones are installed, Jerry Garcia begins to sing and the horror dissipates.

“I had a hard run
Running from your window
I was all night running, running, running
I wonder if you care?”

His voice is high and perfect and beautiful, and a deep, warm smile replaces once salty streams.

“Bertha doncha come around here anymore.”

How does this magical sweet sound happen and so does that? How can this be a sign of god when there’s that? How can that mean there’s no god, when there’s this?

“I wonder if you care…”

Opposites Attract

...and disagree a lot.

Guy and I on our way to the movies a few weeks ago:

On Being Brave by Augusten Burroughs

First of all, bravery is something other people see in you. It's a way of being seen. If you want to appear brave, you don't have to add anything to your personality, you have to take away. You have to take away enough to say, "I don't give a fuck." Then you'll do anything without thinking and people will think you're brave.

Pixies! Live! Sold Out!

Seeing the Pixies tonight minus Kim Deal, or any other Kim. Will it be the same? No. Will I still rock out super hard? Yes.

The last time I heard TAME, I left the show feeling like a new person.

Scream therapy. No one does it better than Frank Black Francis.

UPDATE: this show insanely rocked. loud, my god, it was beautiful. he hit it all right. the band was tight. we couldn't believe it was so good, but it was, it was beyond.

PSH

4 Redneck Republicans

click to enlarge Redneck Republican safe zone detail

She sent me an email from Baltimore City, she tells me her brother and three friends are headed to San Francisco for, "A boys' weekend," and to be prepared because, "Four redneck republicans are headed your way."

She thinks they should probably stay in Union Square, and asks me if I know of a place.

I sent her this.

A Shoe Thing

My cousin texts me this picture, saying, "I went to school all day with the wrong shoes on and didn't realize until about 45 minutes ago!!!!"

We are family.