7.20.2011
Dear Material Obsession: So Many Shoes
My mom used to call me "Imelda Marcos". I thought that was only someone an old person knew about. She owned a lot of shoes, you guys. I don't spend a lot of money on shoes but I acquire them frequently. It's kind of a thing. When I left Brooklyn I had to get rid of almost 50 pairs. It's been a few years now. The reserves are slowly being filled again. Can't stop don't stop won't stop.
I am too cheap to buy real mukluks. So I found these spirit boots for hellllla cheap on ye olde interweb. Gets the job done.
I debated for days about which pair of these Jeffrey Campbell 99's to buy. They're all so bomb (dotcom). Even though wounded foot prevents me from wearing heels very often, these special homies make a nice treat for times with lots of sitting involved.
After cleaning out our foyer I discovered how many shoes were being harbored there. All but 2 pairs were mine. There are, I think, 27 pairs here. This is only half, maybe, of my shoe collection.
Clogs?! Well, kind of clogs. Cool clogs. Pretty real.
I waited years for these boots. They came to me in a free pile when I graduated. I am bad to shoes, so these are almost RIP. I'll wear these trusty steeds until they disintegrate. Try as I might (and I do) no replacement can be found.
7.19.2011
Dear Sleep
We've been around and around about this. I don't see why we can't just get along.
When we force ourselves to get along you just give me shitty dreams. You used to make me late for things by staying too long, and you'd make me mad all day by showing up late.
Look. It's been almost 30 years. I want us to have a normal relationship. Tell your partner Tired to start coming around more when it's supposed to and maybe we can start working this thing out.
Mama
7.05.2011
Dear Old People, I Get It Now.
To all the Old People Across America,
Let me take this moment to apologize, sincerely, from the bottom of my weepy heart, for the loudness I've inflicted upon you. I'm sorry for any hooting I've done under lamplights, any parties I've been a party in, any street jamz I've encouraged the bumping of, any unfortunate shouting matches I've incited--any of it, all of it. Also, this one goes out to all the people in the quiet houses at college, whom I tormented with my late night plucky antics and banshee behavior--you were way ahead of me on the curve into adulthood. So sorry. Because, you guys, I get it now. Being loud around places other people are trying to sleep is FUCKING RUDE.
I am like an angry old man, shaking a veiny fist from my sealy posturpedic bed at all the haters. I am livid at what happened on our Independence Day, because I was trying so hard (so hard, you guys) to sleep. Now, I am not an unreasonable man. Let me explain.
It's the fourth of July: the bi-annual amateurs night (right behind New Years Eve), and there are three kinds of people who participate in this celebration. The party people who want to get wasted and party, the square most-of-the-time-well-behaved normal people who have NO idea how to drink or behave themselves when they do so, and the crazy people who delight in a night they can indulge in their naturally crazy behavior and finally blend in. I don't know who's the worst here. Something about Fireworks makes everyone in America feel they have the license to go fucking craaayzaay. I get it: mob mentality is a really powerful thing and being granted an excuse to be irresponsible can feel relieving. But a cause for celebration should be handled responsibly--controlled chaos, you know what I'm saying?
Right now the Giraffe, Little Boo and I are housesitting in a fancy neighborhood where the lawns are manicured and the windows have views people pay good money for. Grown up land. Were we sleeping in the ghetto of our own house I probably would not feel angry nor surprised. But here we are, in a quiet area, watching over this big house and the hyper-anxious dog who lives there. This dog is nuts. I love all dogs. You know this to be true. But this girl, she has huge nails, which she nervously scrapes all over the hardwood floors all night, she obsessively drinks all the water she can find (even if it's pee from the toilet), and then she has to urinate every 3 hours. Also, her favorite activity is to pace around the bed with her giant nails and whimper. Sleeping has already been a challenge. Last night was enough for me wrap myself up in a straight jacket and hurl my tired body down into the dark of a potato cellar.
While I understand that America needs to let off steam and pretend it's all about our country's independence, I certainly didn't think they would do it in this neighborhood. Everyone shot their wads during the big fireworks display, I get that. We watched it, too. When we drove home it took us over an hour to go half a mile. I get that. Teenage girls walked down the street flipping everyone off because they felt so cool. I get that. We pulled into the quiet of the grown up neighborhood after midnight, and all was calm. That made sense to me. The nervous dog had peed all over the place (probably due to the freaky sound of fireworks and drinking all the toilet water she could find). I cleaned it up, and we took her for a walk. By the time I got into bed it was 1:20. I was supposed to wake up at 6am to start a day full of meetings and work. "5 1/2 hours of sleep? Not ideal, but I've functioned on worse," I thought. Then I set my alarm and tried to go to sleep. TRIED. The next thing I know the dog is circling the bed, scraping her godforsaken nails like some cruel morris code. (*circling the bed, yes. The bed in this house is in the middle of the room. I don't even know how to explain that choice.) Up the stairs, down the stairs. Pacing the front door, circling the bed. Whimpering. Digging trails of anxiety as she goes. Eventually I get up, pissed by the pressure of attempting to get 4 hours of sleep, and let her out. I'm so mad I refuse to look at the clock because seeing how much time has passed without sleep will only make me more enraged. I get back in bed.
The next thing I know the sonic sounds of booming, and the cheap flashing of lights rock the house. SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE is lighting off goddamned fireworks. Again and again and again. Much like the gunshots in the ghetto, the sound ricochets off the walls of the bedroom. Where is it coming from? It sounds like it's coming from right outside the window on the corner, but it could be anywhere. All I know is it's CLOSE. It's after 2 in the morning, and someone is setting off gigantic fireworks in the peaceful, rich person neighborhood. Two in the morning!!!!! The dog goes crazy. Between the constant light and sound show coming from the street and the insane behavior of the poor dog, it is maybe a minute before my melt-down button is pushed and I start to lose my fucking mind. I can't call the cops. Everyone is calling the cops tonight. What am I supposed to say? "Hey, I'm trying to be a responsible adult and people are being really rude with their fireworks. Please stop fighting crime and come make them stop"?!??! No. I can't say that. The cops won't do shit. I try to wait it out, thrashing around the bed like a whiny child. Maybe someone else will call the cops. No one does. Bam bam bam. The dog is losing her mind. So am I. The Giraffe gets up and goes outside. "Be authoritative, honey," I think, "tell those assholes to quiet the fuck down". He doesn't. I don't blame him. Then inconsiderates lighting their shit off would just laugh if some square in pajamas told them to quiet down. It just goes on and on and on. Eventually I wonder, who spent all this money on fireworks? Why did they wait until everyone in the world was trying to sleep to set that shit off? How am I going to function on 3 1/2 hours of sleep? Life is so unfair!!! The world is so cruel!!! Woe is me!!! Pretty literally, that's what I was thinking. Somewhere, in all of that mess, my alarm got turned off. I missed my first meeting. No babies died, no bombs were set off, it wasn't the worst thing in the world--but it fucking pissed me off. Now I'm tired and behind schedule.
So here's the deal. When I was laying there in agony, like I was passing a kidney stone or something, I realized exactly how other people must have felt as a result of my behavior. That really sucks. I am almost 30 years old, and sleeping and being responsible feels pretty fucking good, and when people mess that up at totally insane times of the night I get so upset. It's not ok. I was that guy once or twice! THAT GUY, you guys! And you know what? It's so fun to be crazy and irresponsible. Totally fun sometimes. I get it. But wouldn't it be best to have your unbridled fun in a place where it's not at the expense of others? Go nuts and also be respectful? Is that so much to ask? Or take your rioting inside at a reasonable time? See, I still love the insanity. I think that's great every now and then. But the world goes on. People get up and go to work. Tasks have to get accomplished. Things must be done. Getting in the way of that for others when there are perfectly reasonable other places to do your woot-ing and loot-ing is just so disrespectful.
Maybe the rage I felt last night was some sort of payback for all the running around neighborhoods I've done when others were being responsible. Point taken, world. I also see how clearly I do not want to identify that kind of disrespectful behavior with myself anymore. That's what music festivals and camping trips and crowded city blocks are for. Everything has a place. It's important, I think, to be a conscious person in the world, and do things in the right places, at the right times.
We all have to live here.
Now I'm tired, grouchy, and opinionated as ever. But I'm also sorry to all the old people I've ever kept awake. That shit was not cool. Ugh. I'm going to stay in a retirement community for New Years Eve.
Mama.
Let me take this moment to apologize, sincerely, from the bottom of my weepy heart, for the loudness I've inflicted upon you. I'm sorry for any hooting I've done under lamplights, any parties I've been a party in, any street jamz I've encouraged the bumping of, any unfortunate shouting matches I've incited--any of it, all of it. Also, this one goes out to all the people in the quiet houses at college, whom I tormented with my late night plucky antics and banshee behavior--you were way ahead of me on the curve into adulthood. So sorry. Because, you guys, I get it now. Being loud around places other people are trying to sleep is FUCKING RUDE.
I am like an angry old man, shaking a veiny fist from my sealy posturpedic bed at all the haters. I am livid at what happened on our Independence Day, because I was trying so hard (so hard, you guys) to sleep. Now, I am not an unreasonable man. Let me explain.
It's the fourth of July: the bi-annual amateurs night (right behind New Years Eve), and there are three kinds of people who participate in this celebration. The party people who want to get wasted and party, the square most-of-the-time-well-behaved normal people who have NO idea how to drink or behave themselves when they do so, and the crazy people who delight in a night they can indulge in their naturally crazy behavior and finally blend in. I don't know who's the worst here. Something about Fireworks makes everyone in America feel they have the license to go fucking craaayzaay. I get it: mob mentality is a really powerful thing and being granted an excuse to be irresponsible can feel relieving. But a cause for celebration should be handled responsibly--controlled chaos, you know what I'm saying?
Right now the Giraffe, Little Boo and I are housesitting in a fancy neighborhood where the lawns are manicured and the windows have views people pay good money for. Grown up land. Were we sleeping in the ghetto of our own house I probably would not feel angry nor surprised. But here we are, in a quiet area, watching over this big house and the hyper-anxious dog who lives there. This dog is nuts. I love all dogs. You know this to be true. But this girl, she has huge nails, which she nervously scrapes all over the hardwood floors all night, she obsessively drinks all the water she can find (even if it's pee from the toilet), and then she has to urinate every 3 hours. Also, her favorite activity is to pace around the bed with her giant nails and whimper. Sleeping has already been a challenge. Last night was enough for me wrap myself up in a straight jacket and hurl my tired body down into the dark of a potato cellar.
While I understand that America needs to let off steam and pretend it's all about our country's independence, I certainly didn't think they would do it in this neighborhood. Everyone shot their wads during the big fireworks display, I get that. We watched it, too. When we drove home it took us over an hour to go half a mile. I get that. Teenage girls walked down the street flipping everyone off because they felt so cool. I get that. We pulled into the quiet of the grown up neighborhood after midnight, and all was calm. That made sense to me. The nervous dog had peed all over the place (probably due to the freaky sound of fireworks and drinking all the toilet water she could find). I cleaned it up, and we took her for a walk. By the time I got into bed it was 1:20. I was supposed to wake up at 6am to start a day full of meetings and work. "5 1/2 hours of sleep? Not ideal, but I've functioned on worse," I thought. Then I set my alarm and tried to go to sleep. TRIED. The next thing I know the dog is circling the bed, scraping her godforsaken nails like some cruel morris code. (*circling the bed, yes. The bed in this house is in the middle of the room. I don't even know how to explain that choice.) Up the stairs, down the stairs. Pacing the front door, circling the bed. Whimpering. Digging trails of anxiety as she goes. Eventually I get up, pissed by the pressure of attempting to get 4 hours of sleep, and let her out. I'm so mad I refuse to look at the clock because seeing how much time has passed without sleep will only make me more enraged. I get back in bed.
The next thing I know the sonic sounds of booming, and the cheap flashing of lights rock the house. SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE is lighting off goddamned fireworks. Again and again and again. Much like the gunshots in the ghetto, the sound ricochets off the walls of the bedroom. Where is it coming from? It sounds like it's coming from right outside the window on the corner, but it could be anywhere. All I know is it's CLOSE. It's after 2 in the morning, and someone is setting off gigantic fireworks in the peaceful, rich person neighborhood. Two in the morning!!!!! The dog goes crazy. Between the constant light and sound show coming from the street and the insane behavior of the poor dog, it is maybe a minute before my melt-down button is pushed and I start to lose my fucking mind. I can't call the cops. Everyone is calling the cops tonight. What am I supposed to say? "Hey, I'm trying to be a responsible adult and people are being really rude with their fireworks. Please stop fighting crime and come make them stop"?!??! No. I can't say that. The cops won't do shit. I try to wait it out, thrashing around the bed like a whiny child. Maybe someone else will call the cops. No one does. Bam bam bam. The dog is losing her mind. So am I. The Giraffe gets up and goes outside. "Be authoritative, honey," I think, "tell those assholes to quiet the fuck down". He doesn't. I don't blame him. Then inconsiderates lighting their shit off would just laugh if some square in pajamas told them to quiet down. It just goes on and on and on. Eventually I wonder, who spent all this money on fireworks? Why did they wait until everyone in the world was trying to sleep to set that shit off? How am I going to function on 3 1/2 hours of sleep? Life is so unfair!!! The world is so cruel!!! Woe is me!!! Pretty literally, that's what I was thinking. Somewhere, in all of that mess, my alarm got turned off. I missed my first meeting. No babies died, no bombs were set off, it wasn't the worst thing in the world--but it fucking pissed me off. Now I'm tired and behind schedule.
So here's the deal. When I was laying there in agony, like I was passing a kidney stone or something, I realized exactly how other people must have felt as a result of my behavior. That really sucks. I am almost 30 years old, and sleeping and being responsible feels pretty fucking good, and when people mess that up at totally insane times of the night I get so upset. It's not ok. I was that guy once or twice! THAT GUY, you guys! And you know what? It's so fun to be crazy and irresponsible. Totally fun sometimes. I get it. But wouldn't it be best to have your unbridled fun in a place where it's not at the expense of others? Go nuts and also be respectful? Is that so much to ask? Or take your rioting inside at a reasonable time? See, I still love the insanity. I think that's great every now and then. But the world goes on. People get up and go to work. Tasks have to get accomplished. Things must be done. Getting in the way of that for others when there are perfectly reasonable other places to do your woot-ing and loot-ing is just so disrespectful.
Maybe the rage I felt last night was some sort of payback for all the running around neighborhoods I've done when others were being responsible. Point taken, world. I also see how clearly I do not want to identify that kind of disrespectful behavior with myself anymore. That's what music festivals and camping trips and crowded city blocks are for. Everything has a place. It's important, I think, to be a conscious person in the world, and do things in the right places, at the right times.
We all have to live here.
Now I'm tired, grouchy, and opinionated as ever. But I'm also sorry to all the old people I've ever kept awake. That shit was not cool. Ugh. I'm going to stay in a retirement community for New Years Eve.
Mama.
6.25.2011
A Little Help From My Friends
Sometimes you need a little help from your friends. And sometimes you need to shout and rejoice about it like a grizzly bear on a love + magic overdose.
Joe Cocker does it right
These are strange days, and getting old is weird. Sometimes things are sad. But it's also great and unpredictable, and the best part is having people to share it with. (that's the first time you've ever heard such unique and profound words, so just take a moment to really let that sink in. My insight is groundbreaking.) (whatever. It's all true.)
Joe Cocker does it right
These are strange days, and getting old is weird. Sometimes things are sad. But it's also great and unpredictable, and the best part is having people to share it with. (that's the first time you've ever heard such unique and profound words, so just take a moment to really let that sink in. My insight is groundbreaking.) (whatever. It's all true.)
2.25.2011
Dear Manners and..and...and everything else PT 1
America,
I am in the business of people. By that I mean, as an "actor/writer/blahblahblah" to know people is my job.
As a human on the planet, to understand people is my duty. Why? Because I have elected to be someone who gives a shit. And that comes with a price. And that price is respect, consideration, empathy, and understanding. I meet all people with inherent respect and the belief that they should be understood. I follow that path until I am proven otherwise.
AND FOR THE RECORD, I do no think it is so hard to like our peers, if we all take a second to pay attention to one another.
BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I DON'T THINK IS ACCEPTABLE???? These things:
I work in the service industry. And I see some unsightly things. Just last week:
"3.30 for a coke from Mexico? NO, that's too much. I won't pay that. We give them too much money already."
--HM. Yes, we do. In the Disneyland of your retarded mind. I am supposed to welcome you and say that you should sit in this restaurant for as long as you like, but you know what, ASSHOLE? Your closed-minded, rude ideals are not welcome here. What I think you should do is go the fuck somewhere else where it acceptable to say such hateful things so openly. This place for lovers is CLEARLY not for you.
AND when you, person, who doesn't eat out very often, asks the price of something and then looks me in the eye and says "No, that doesn't seem like a fair price. I would NEVER pay that". Well, then perhaps you are better suited eating at another establishment, where price reflects quality, and that quality is significantly lower than what we will agree to serve here. We are not gouging you with prices just to get our rocks off. We are buying the best ingredients possible, and we are trying our damnedest to make a marginal profit off of it. You want shitty food, go pay for it someplace where your bill reflects the quality of goods. Want poop? Eat poop. Want quality meat? Eat this meat.
ON THAT NOTE: Are you vegan? Gluten free? Lactose intloerant? Allergic to peanuts? Don't come to this restaurant. Don't be angry when you do come and there aren't enough choices to accommodate your discerning character slash diet. The people designing this restaurant and menu did not have your single best interest in mind. CLEARLY. They had a vision. Just like the people who make a pizza place think about pizza. The vision of this restaurant is WHAT IT IS. You don't go to a pizza place and ask for a pot pie, so coming to where I work and getting angry that we don't have your dietary options is as retarded. This restaurantis a specific place. AS IN ALL RESTAURANTS, it has a vision. If you don't like it, GOSOMEWHREELSE>>> Be a grown up. Do not complain like a baby.
And you know what you can say when someone graciously helps you out? You can say thank you. Because you know what? If you didn't want the experience of eating out, YOU COULD EAT AT HOME. Clearly you have the resources to do so. Otherwise you would not be here in the first place. People who have no resources are sitting on the corners of out cities, neglected. Not you.
And you know what else you can do, while I'm at it? You can leave a goddamned tip. If you can AFFORD TO EAT OUT, you can afford to show those of us in the industry some respect. That's right, I said it. In some states, we don't get paid an hourly wage at all. We live entirely off of tips. In other states, like Washington, we DO get paid something. It is minimum wage. It is NOT a livable wage. And while I don't want to complain, seeing as I DID choose this for myself (being an artist and all) I think it is a fairly implied rule that when you are going out to eat, you take care of the people that take care of you. Or, you fairly decide not to pay for anyone's time and you eat at home. This is not McDonalds.
If you don't want to do that no one is putting a gun to your head to cook something for yourself. That act is rewarding and I suggest it to everyone. I would also suggest that to an asshole on a tight budget, the grocery store around the corner makes pre-made sandwiches and salads. It is never going to be the quality and experience of where I work, but then, maybe that's not what you want. Clearly.
AND ON A FINAL NOTE, all of you people with shitty babies: stay home. Go to Olive Garden. Go to Red Robin. Don't think your kid is shitty? You're probably wrong. Your kid, if they ever scream and cry in public like a mad man, is shitty. You are truly the shitty one (SEE PREVIOUS POSTS ABOUT SHITTY PARENTING) because you set the precedent for that behavior. You do it in your attention and you do it in your neglect. Our restaurant is not the place for your kid to ruin everyone else's time while you socialize with friends. It is a place for EVERYONE to enjoy themselves. The sad reality is most people don't give a shit about the long week you've had. They just don't want to be bothered by your terrible children while they try to enjoy breakfast. And they outweigh you in numbers as well as good choice making. SO, have the decency to stay home, or practice present parenting when you are in this restaurant. Just out of respect.
Those of you that have wonderful families, you are vital to our community and I thank you for your attentive parenting. Please come ANY ANY ANY time. Also, I am available to cool-baby-sit. Future humans of our world need considerate people like you to guide them, and I would like to foster that growth.
I just. I just do not accept the rudeness. I do not accept the ignorance. I do not accept the disrespect. And I think it is possible for us to live better together.
If I am wrong, consider this my letter of intent to start a commune. I do not accept the shitty haters.
Mama
I am in the business of people. By that I mean, as an "actor/writer/blahblahblah" to know people is my job.
As a human on the planet, to understand people is my duty. Why? Because I have elected to be someone who gives a shit. And that comes with a price. And that price is respect, consideration, empathy, and understanding. I meet all people with inherent respect and the belief that they should be understood. I follow that path until I am proven otherwise.
AND FOR THE RECORD, I do no think it is so hard to like our peers, if we all take a second to pay attention to one another.
BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I DON'T THINK IS ACCEPTABLE???? These things:
I work in the service industry. And I see some unsightly things. Just last week:
"3.30 for a coke from Mexico? NO, that's too much. I won't pay that. We give them too much money already."
--HM. Yes, we do. In the Disneyland of your retarded mind. I am supposed to welcome you and say that you should sit in this restaurant for as long as you like, but you know what, ASSHOLE? Your closed-minded, rude ideals are not welcome here. What I think you should do is go the fuck somewhere else where it acceptable to say such hateful things so openly. This place for lovers is CLEARLY not for you.
AND when you, person, who doesn't eat out very often, asks the price of something and then looks me in the eye and says "No, that doesn't seem like a fair price. I would NEVER pay that". Well, then perhaps you are better suited eating at another establishment, where price reflects quality, and that quality is significantly lower than what we will agree to serve here. We are not gouging you with prices just to get our rocks off. We are buying the best ingredients possible, and we are trying our damnedest to make a marginal profit off of it. You want shitty food, go pay for it someplace where your bill reflects the quality of goods. Want poop? Eat poop. Want quality meat? Eat this meat.
ON THAT NOTE: Are you vegan? Gluten free? Lactose intloerant? Allergic to peanuts? Don't come to this restaurant. Don't be angry when you do come and there aren't enough choices to accommodate your discerning character slash diet. The people designing this restaurant and menu did not have your single best interest in mind. CLEARLY. They had a vision. Just like the people who make a pizza place think about pizza. The vision of this restaurant is WHAT IT IS. You don't go to a pizza place and ask for a pot pie, so coming to where I work and getting angry that we don't have your dietary options is as retarded. This restaurantis a specific place. AS IN ALL RESTAURANTS, it has a vision. If you don't like it, GOSOMEWHREELSE>>> Be a grown up. Do not complain like a baby.
And you know what you can say when someone graciously helps you out? You can say thank you. Because you know what? If you didn't want the experience of eating out, YOU COULD EAT AT HOME. Clearly you have the resources to do so. Otherwise you would not be here in the first place. People who have no resources are sitting on the corners of out cities, neglected. Not you.
And you know what else you can do, while I'm at it? You can leave a goddamned tip. If you can AFFORD TO EAT OUT, you can afford to show those of us in the industry some respect. That's right, I said it. In some states, we don't get paid an hourly wage at all. We live entirely off of tips. In other states, like Washington, we DO get paid something. It is minimum wage. It is NOT a livable wage. And while I don't want to complain, seeing as I DID choose this for myself (being an artist and all) I think it is a fairly implied rule that when you are going out to eat, you take care of the people that take care of you. Or, you fairly decide not to pay for anyone's time and you eat at home. This is not McDonalds.
If you don't want to do that no one is putting a gun to your head to cook something for yourself. That act is rewarding and I suggest it to everyone. I would also suggest that to an asshole on a tight budget, the grocery store around the corner makes pre-made sandwiches and salads. It is never going to be the quality and experience of where I work, but then, maybe that's not what you want. Clearly.
AND ON A FINAL NOTE, all of you people with shitty babies: stay home. Go to Olive Garden. Go to Red Robin. Don't think your kid is shitty? You're probably wrong. Your kid, if they ever scream and cry in public like a mad man, is shitty. You are truly the shitty one (SEE PREVIOUS POSTS ABOUT SHITTY PARENTING) because you set the precedent for that behavior. You do it in your attention and you do it in your neglect. Our restaurant is not the place for your kid to ruin everyone else's time while you socialize with friends. It is a place for EVERYONE to enjoy themselves. The sad reality is most people don't give a shit about the long week you've had. They just don't want to be bothered by your terrible children while they try to enjoy breakfast. And they outweigh you in numbers as well as good choice making. SO, have the decency to stay home, or practice present parenting when you are in this restaurant. Just out of respect.
Those of you that have wonderful families, you are vital to our community and I thank you for your attentive parenting. Please come ANY ANY ANY time. Also, I am available to cool-baby-sit. Future humans of our world need considerate people like you to guide them, and I would like to foster that growth.
I just. I just do not accept the rudeness. I do not accept the ignorance. I do not accept the disrespect. And I think it is possible for us to live better together.
If I am wrong, consider this my letter of intent to start a commune. I do not accept the shitty haters.
Mama
2.17.2011
Dear Seattle Community
This happened
So now. A barrage of angry (and rightfully so) Facebook posts. Leading to arguments on both sides. And comments about people wanting to kill cops.
Does anyone care what I think? Well, here's what I think.
I have a hard time with this issue because I am not someone who works as a legal agent of safety for our community, and I am not a disadvantaged person with mental health issues or substance abuse problems.
It has been an extremely hard couple of years for officers in this state, and especially after an officer-in-training watched her superior get shot to death in my neighborhood last Halloween I CANNOT imagine the fear that is built into the daily work for a police officer. I also CANNOT imagine the way it truly feels to live in a system that underfunds services to help people who need help when you are one of those people.
While throughout history police officers have done things to tarnish their reputation for many of us, and homeless people have done things to sully the way some view human rights and privileges, none of us can argue that life is precious and fleeting. We all have a respect for our own lives, and we should have that same respect for other's.
It seems the real problem (because John T. Williams is already dead) lies within the structure of the society we all live in. Can't there be some way we can use this awful event as an example to learn from, and move forward with the way we train our officers, aid our homeless, and construct our governmental system?
What mayor McGinn is suggesting is on the right track, but still perhaps a tall order for a system that:
A. Let John T. Williams live on the streets
B. Allowed officer Kirk to feel he had to pull a weapon on a suspect prematurely
and C. Let him off the hook even AFTER the police chief Diaz said officer Kirk was in the wrong in is action.
This problem is bigger than weather Officer Ian Kirk was in the wrong or not.
People have strong opinions surrounding issues like this (as they should) and I think that says something. If we are all willing to argue with one another on our social networking devices, then we also need to be willing to have the larger discussion when it matters. And where it matters. About WHAT matters.
Officer Kirk resigned, and please, if you see him serving you a subway sandwich, don't throw things at him. His life is already ruined. Be angry at the system that essentially turned away from him instead of helping him learn from his actions. And when you see the activist groups with signs for John T. Williams, please don't snicker or chide them. They are mourning a person some consider a valuable part of our community.
In fact, please don't do anything at all, unless you are willing to have a voice in fixing the bigger issue. Our community is small, and could easily be one where support, understanding, services, and rules are all reasonable and accessable. This isn't New York City and this isn't Law & Order.
Let's look at the mess, and do the right thing to never let it happen again.
Mama
So now. A barrage of angry (and rightfully so) Facebook posts. Leading to arguments on both sides. And comments about people wanting to kill cops.
Does anyone care what I think? Well, here's what I think.
I have a hard time with this issue because I am not someone who works as a legal agent of safety for our community, and I am not a disadvantaged person with mental health issues or substance abuse problems.
It has been an extremely hard couple of years for officers in this state, and especially after an officer-in-training watched her superior get shot to death in my neighborhood last Halloween I CANNOT imagine the fear that is built into the daily work for a police officer. I also CANNOT imagine the way it truly feels to live in a system that underfunds services to help people who need help when you are one of those people.
While throughout history police officers have done things to tarnish their reputation for many of us, and homeless people have done things to sully the way some view human rights and privileges, none of us can argue that life is precious and fleeting. We all have a respect for our own lives, and we should have that same respect for other's.
It seems the real problem (because John T. Williams is already dead) lies within the structure of the society we all live in. Can't there be some way we can use this awful event as an example to learn from, and move forward with the way we train our officers, aid our homeless, and construct our governmental system?
What mayor McGinn is suggesting is on the right track, but still perhaps a tall order for a system that:
A. Let John T. Williams live on the streets
B. Allowed officer Kirk to feel he had to pull a weapon on a suspect prematurely
and C. Let him off the hook even AFTER the police chief Diaz said officer Kirk was in the wrong in is action.
This problem is bigger than weather Officer Ian Kirk was in the wrong or not.
People have strong opinions surrounding issues like this (as they should) and I think that says something. If we are all willing to argue with one another on our social networking devices, then we also need to be willing to have the larger discussion when it matters. And where it matters. About WHAT matters.
Officer Kirk resigned, and please, if you see him serving you a subway sandwich, don't throw things at him. His life is already ruined. Be angry at the system that essentially turned away from him instead of helping him learn from his actions. And when you see the activist groups with signs for John T. Williams, please don't snicker or chide them. They are mourning a person some consider a valuable part of our community.
In fact, please don't do anything at all, unless you are willing to have a voice in fixing the bigger issue. Our community is small, and could easily be one where support, understanding, services, and rules are all reasonable and accessable. This isn't New York City and this isn't Law & Order.
Let's look at the mess, and do the right thing to never let it happen again.
Mama
1.04.2011
Dear America, I Did Something
YOU GUYS.
Over the last year(it was a big one, right?) Bill McCool, Mike Strati & I created a show that is now on the miracle that is the internet.
The first episode is up now.
Melinda & Clyde: Ep 1
"Check it out!"...is what I think the people say when they want you to look at something they did.
Please do.
PROOF that it's not all about complaining about how you wish you did something.
Over the last year(it was a big one, right?) Bill McCool, Mike Strati & I created a show that is now on the miracle that is the internet.
The first episode is up now.
Melinda & Clyde: Ep 1
"Check it out!"...is what I think the people say when they want you to look at something they did.
Please do.
PROOF that it's not all about complaining about how you wish you did something.
12.29.2010
Dear "eventual I told you so's" pt 2
--third eye blind
--fairuza balk
--hooded sweaters
--wholesome coming of age dramas (monogamy! Poetry! Deep family connections!)
AND on that note
--monogamy (it's so cool to be committed, you guys. SO COOL.)
--slam poetry
--sweater vests over short sleeved button ups
--that eifel 65 song "blue" (but, you know, in an ironic way. Because irony, like Keith Richards, will never die.)
--saggy boobs (we have to rebel against the plastic sometime, right? Right?)
happy 2010 everyone. It's been a ride.
M
--fairuza balk
--hooded sweaters
--wholesome coming of age dramas (monogamy! Poetry! Deep family connections!)
AND on that note
--monogamy (it's so cool to be committed, you guys. SO COOL.)
--slam poetry
--sweater vests over short sleeved button ups
--that eifel 65 song "blue" (but, you know, in an ironic way. Because irony, like Keith Richards, will never die.)
--saggy boobs (we have to rebel against the plastic sometime, right? Right?)
happy 2010 everyone. It's been a ride.
M
11.08.2010
This is Why I Don't Read Things
Every time I want to start a new project, I research it. The further into research I get, the more the project dies.
That story's been told a hundred times.
That exact story has been told five times in the last ten years.
No one takes that kind of story seriously anymore because it was done so much 15 years ago.
You have no point to your story, truthfully.
You see things in a poignant light but they are actually inane and entirely uninteresting.
No one would watch your movie but you.
The only answer you have to any question about a choice you want to make is "because".
You don't actually know enough about the subject matter.
To know enough about the subject matter will involve enough research that it will KILL any interest you have in continuing to write about it any longer.
You are going to be a waiter for the rest of your life because your ideas are so bad.
Your ideas are so OLD.
Fuck being informed. Thanks, but no thanks internet, movies, and books.
M
That story's been told a hundred times.
That exact story has been told five times in the last ten years.
No one takes that kind of story seriously anymore because it was done so much 15 years ago.
You have no point to your story, truthfully.
You see things in a poignant light but they are actually inane and entirely uninteresting.
No one would watch your movie but you.
The only answer you have to any question about a choice you want to make is "because".
You don't actually know enough about the subject matter.
To know enough about the subject matter will involve enough research that it will KILL any interest you have in continuing to write about it any longer.
You are going to be a waiter for the rest of your life because your ideas are so bad.
Your ideas are so OLD.
Fuck being informed. Thanks, but no thanks internet, movies, and books.
M
11.05.2010
Dear Eventual "I Told You So" pt 1
You know what I'm tired of? I'm tired of making predictions about things and being right, and never getting any credit for it.
That's right. I said it.
I predict trends, recycled trends, social trends, and trends no one but me cares enough to think about--and I'm almost always right. But rarely, IF EVER, does anyone turn to me and say "you're right, mama. you said it would happen, and it happened". Rarely if ever does anyone even believe me that I knew it was going to happen.
+ Scream 4? Predicted that.
+ Hipsters turning into hippies? Predicted that.
+ Supreme snobs and assholes deciding it is now cool to be nice and believe in love? Predicted that big time.
+ Flannel? Child, please.
+ People other than Japanese chicks making peace signs in photographs? No one believed that would be cool again, but I KNEW IT WAS GOING TO BE.
+ Photobooths and Mason jars being freaking everywhere? Who has two thumbs and fucking saw that one coming. Me.
+ Jumpers AKA playsuits AKA rompers AKA cameltoe shorts? Yep.
And those are just a few of the great many things I have predicted would make their way (back) into society that I was right about. And I want some credit.
So now I'm realizing that if I put it out there on the internet (aka series of tubes), there can be more accountability. NOW, when something I know is going to become popular again annoyingly and inevitably DOES, I can point to this blog and say "see???? I predicted that one coming!!! SEE?! I am a cultural prodigy!!!". And then you will be like "Wow, she really does get more annoying over time." And then I will say something about wanting to eat some beans. Cuz that's pretty much how that goes.
Without further adieu, so begins my genius foretelling of shit that's coming back.
+ Snapple & Arizona iced tea (and while we're at it, ALL iced tea. Like, tea, as a "thing". The old favorites will come back with financial avengance, and new, hip teas will appear. Then you will see hipsters drinking cans of tea like it's 1993, and then everyone will do it. Teavolution.)
+ Political Correctness (America is going to love getting touchy feely about labels again)
+ Mary Janes & Creepers & Airwalk shoes
+ Ska & Big Band music (this invites the inevitable rise in popularity of zoot suits and swing dancing. This is still pretty uncool, but it won't be for long)
+ Mix Tapes (and cassettes in general)
+ Music videos on television.
+ Chokers
+ RL Stine
+ Bodysuits and Jeans
+ Hair parted down the middle
+ Roller activities (blade, sk8, sk8board)
+ Being straight edge (black x's. It's a lifestyle, man).
+ Goth revolution!
+ PLAYDATES. This is just an inevitability since everyone our age is starting to crank out their own collection of tiny humans. Having babies plus being a social person means parent-child group dates. I'm sure everyone will be drinking a lot of juice or something lame like that. Maybe iced tea -- see above.
I'm going to go buy a lemon Snapple now,
Mama
This blog should be called
lookatmyfeelings.blogspot.com
cryingonmykeyboardlisteningtoindigogirls.blogspot.com
laughatmyjokes.blogspot.com
sendingvibestopeoplewhocanmakemefamous.blogspot.com
iwenttoartschoolandnowimaprofessionalfoodserver.blogspot.com
criticalofshittyparenting.blogspot.com
hyperopinionatedaboutparenting.blogspot.com
ihaveababyitsnameiscareer.blogspot.com
beingkindisntafadyouhipsterdickwads.blogspot.com
sugarkillsamericansandamericanskillamericans.blogspot.com
ithinkiknoweverythingandithinkiknowabsolutelynothing.blogspot.com
thisiswhyimsoconfused.blogspot.com
cryingonmykeyboardlisteningtoindigogirls.blogspot.com
laughatmyjokes.blogspot.com
sendingvibestopeoplewhocanmakemefamous.blogspot.com
iwenttoartschoolandnowimaprofessionalfoodserver.blogspot.com
criticalofshittyparenting.blogspot.com
hyperopinionatedaboutparenting.blogspot.com
ihaveababyitsnameiscareer.blogspot.com
beingkindisntafadyouhipsterdickwads.blogspot.com
sugarkillsamericansandamericanskillamericans.blogspot.com
ithinkiknoweverythingandithinkiknowabsolutelynothing.blogspot.com
thisiswhyimsoconfused.blogspot.com
9.25.2010
Dear Inspiration and Follow Through
I realized something important this morning. It's only 6:45 so bear with me, but--
***I wrote this over two months ago, and that's as far as I got. Obviously I was pretty inspired. Obviously I do great at following through.***
***I wrote this over two months ago, and that's as far as I got. Obviously I was pretty inspired. Obviously I do great at following through.***
8.18.2010
Why are these boobs so complicated?
If you didn't know this already, here's the deal.
Big boobs are painful.
And apparently, no one in the brassiere industry has ever had big boobs. Especially not real ones. I'm looking at you "Victoria's Secret". Huuuh! What? Was that an innuendo about plastic surgery?! Gasp! What? Whaaaat? Huuuuh! She's the first person to have ever made that joke! Ever! Everrrrrrrrr! Ack!
Whatever. Anyway, big bras are hard to find. That is, if you are an identifying bio-female who doesn't want to look like a rayon banana slug when she takes off her flowy-peasant-top or XL-Pearl Jam-t-shirt. A female who wants to have a crack in her stack that isn't melting all the way to her belly button. A female who also wants her shit to stay in place when she walks down the street, and not bouncing around 180 degrees until they are bruised. Yes, bruised.
America, this bra doesn't exist.
I've only been a top heavy member of society for a couple of years, as my body blessed me with a disgusting last-minute growth spurt in my mid 20's. Yay. Thanks. So maybe I'm still waiting to get the secret catalog for sexy and practical giant titties. Maybe. More likely, the helmet sized black and tan safety gear I find around town is about all you can get, unless you want to go the other route and get some fake-lace-nipple-chaffing-hooker-reject-gear from bargain basements near your local strip mall. I want neither! I'm a fairly normal person and I want to feel like my breasts sit where all the normally-chested people's breasts sit. And I want it to look cute. But I guess I want it all!!!!!!
What I'm saying is, at last I found a tit harness that does the following:
--keeps that shit in place
--helps make proper posture possible
--does not encourage unsightly bulging or creasing
--makes me forget I'm wearing a bra
Alas, alack! What a find, America! What a fucking find! But you know what the catch is?
A. It is ugly. I look like a burn victim in recovery with this thing on.
B. It is big. To be so supportive and comfortable, it takes up most of the land mass known as my breast bone/collar bone/shoulders. Tank tops have ceased to be an option.
AND C. someHOW, this shit does the worst thing a big bra can do--it makes the boobs look small.
I was willing to live with A and B of the con category for the comfort and mobility this apparatus allows, but visible decrease in cup size?!?! Here it goes:
**I was blessed (for argument's sake) with naturally huge jugs, and you want to take that away from me?!?!
**You think it's somehow more comfortable for identifying bio-women to look like they're trying to bind their chests?! Hear. Me. If I wanted to bind my breasts I would do it, and I would do it without the help of a "ladies brassiere", thank you very much.
**Being a top heavy person, I am not just huge jug-ed. I am also large arm-ed, puffy chin-ed, thick waist-ed, and fully muffin top-ed. I kind of need the boobs to make the rest make sense. I don't want to draw attention to my rack, I just want to seem proportionate. Like a stalky apple on toothpicks. A bag of whipped potatoes on homemade candlesticks. A lumpy shape on a hairy skinny shape.
But let's at least make the lumps make sense. The thing is when you take the boobs and make them small boobs then the rest of the body looks swollen and odd. Small boobs are another thing. But compressing bigger ones into rectangular blobs is an odd stoplight between neck avenue and rib street.
So here we are, America. A search I thought had finally ended still blazes on. Big boobs can not truly have it all. Not to mention how time is not on their side. In the world of undergarments; asthetic, flattery, and comfort aren't either.
The question remains:
Why are these boobs so complicated?
Big boobs are painful.
And apparently, no one in the brassiere industry has ever had big boobs. Especially not real ones. I'm looking at you "Victoria's Secret". Huuuh! What? Was that an innuendo about plastic surgery?! Gasp! What? Whaaaat? Huuuuh! She's the first person to have ever made that joke! Ever! Everrrrrrrrr! Ack!
Whatever. Anyway, big bras are hard to find. That is, if you are an identifying bio-female who doesn't want to look like a rayon banana slug when she takes off her flowy-peasant-top or XL-Pearl Jam-t-shirt. A female who wants to have a crack in her stack that isn't melting all the way to her belly button. A female who also wants her shit to stay in place when she walks down the street, and not bouncing around 180 degrees until they are bruised. Yes, bruised.
America, this bra doesn't exist.
I've only been a top heavy member of society for a couple of years, as my body blessed me with a disgusting last-minute growth spurt in my mid 20's. Yay. Thanks. So maybe I'm still waiting to get the secret catalog for sexy and practical giant titties. Maybe. More likely, the helmet sized black and tan safety gear I find around town is about all you can get, unless you want to go the other route and get some fake-lace-nipple-chaffing-hooker-reject-gear from bargain basements near your local strip mall. I want neither! I'm a fairly normal person and I want to feel like my breasts sit where all the normally-chested people's breasts sit. And I want it to look cute. But I guess I want it all!!!!!!
What I'm saying is, at last I found a tit harness that does the following:
--keeps that shit in place
--helps make proper posture possible
--does not encourage unsightly bulging or creasing
--makes me forget I'm wearing a bra
Alas, alack! What a find, America! What a fucking find! But you know what the catch is?
A. It is ugly. I look like a burn victim in recovery with this thing on.
B. It is big. To be so supportive and comfortable, it takes up most of the land mass known as my breast bone/collar bone/shoulders. Tank tops have ceased to be an option.
AND C. someHOW, this shit does the worst thing a big bra can do--it makes the boobs look small.
I was willing to live with A and B of the con category for the comfort and mobility this apparatus allows, but visible decrease in cup size?!?! Here it goes:
**I was blessed (for argument's sake) with naturally huge jugs, and you want to take that away from me?!?!
**You think it's somehow more comfortable for identifying bio-women to look like they're trying to bind their chests?! Hear. Me. If I wanted to bind my breasts I would do it, and I would do it without the help of a "ladies brassiere", thank you very much.
**Being a top heavy person, I am not just huge jug-ed. I am also large arm-ed, puffy chin-ed, thick waist-ed, and fully muffin top-ed. I kind of need the boobs to make the rest make sense. I don't want to draw attention to my rack, I just want to seem proportionate. Like a stalky apple on toothpicks. A bag of whipped potatoes on homemade candlesticks. A lumpy shape on a hairy skinny shape.
But let's at least make the lumps make sense. The thing is when you take the boobs and make them small boobs then the rest of the body looks swollen and odd. Small boobs are another thing. But compressing bigger ones into rectangular blobs is an odd stoplight between neck avenue and rib street.
So here we are, America. A search I thought had finally ended still blazes on. Big boobs can not truly have it all. Not to mention how time is not on their side. In the world of undergarments; asthetic, flattery, and comfort aren't either.
The question remains:
Why are these boobs so complicated?
8.14.2010
to tweet or not to tweet
I need your help.
About a lot of things. (see: probably every conversation I've ever had with any of you)
But right now I have this twitter issue.
I have a lot of issues with twitter. My main issue is that it is stupid. No one is so important that the world should be updated on how tired they are at work, or how good their McNuggets taste. just put that shit on your facebook. It's like having a mini facebook. Tweeting barely even allows enough space to make jokes. And even if you did tell jokes on twitter, I would still say it's stupid. It's like a tiny blog, but the blog is about your favorite color m & m, or the consistency of your morning poops.
That being said, I got this thing going on. I'm starting to sell the stuff I make online. Not that it's good, not that everyone needs it--but I keep sewing shit onto shit and people keep being like "oh woah, mama, that shit's cute" so I was like "well, eff it then. I'ma be brave." Bam. Internet.
It seems like everyone who sells stuff they make has a twitter for it. Even when I made a facebook page, facebook keeps wanting me to link it to a twitter. Is a twitter helpful? If barely anyone cares now about what I make, would they care more if I had a twitter?
Should I make a twitter for goods and services (apparel)?
Help me, America. Help me hard.
mama
About a lot of things. (see: probably every conversation I've ever had with any of you)
But right now I have this twitter issue.
I have a lot of issues with twitter. My main issue is that it is stupid. No one is so important that the world should be updated on how tired they are at work, or how good their McNuggets taste. just put that shit on your facebook. It's like having a mini facebook. Tweeting barely even allows enough space to make jokes. And even if you did tell jokes on twitter, I would still say it's stupid. It's like a tiny blog, but the blog is about your favorite color m & m, or the consistency of your morning poops.
That being said, I got this thing going on. I'm starting to sell the stuff I make online. Not that it's good, not that everyone needs it--but I keep sewing shit onto shit and people keep being like "oh woah, mama, that shit's cute" so I was like "well, eff it then. I'ma be brave." Bam. Internet.
It seems like everyone who sells stuff they make has a twitter for it. Even when I made a facebook page, facebook keeps wanting me to link it to a twitter. Is a twitter helpful? If barely anyone cares now about what I make, would they care more if I had a twitter?
Should I make a twitter for goods and services (apparel)?
Help me, America. Help me hard.
mama
6.21.2010
Dear, what is a life? Gene edition
What is a life? We have it, and we call it being alive. And then we don't have it, and we call that being dead.
I spend most of my life thinking about all of the things I want to do, plan to do, need to do, and feeling lazy/nervous/like a loser that it's not all happening quicker, and more clearly. To be honest, I have spent much of my young time questioning if I am already too old to achieve my goals, and if I am perhaps a person destined for a life of mediocrity. It has
not been until the last couple of years that I have started to
understand that personal happiness is a part of life goals that shows itself in the form of many things. It's the job you keep day to day, the relationship you have with your partner, the relationships you have with the people you let into your life, the sweet playtime with your awesome dog, buying a home, going on a trip, building something, having a goddamned hobby, being brave minute to minute, payig millions of bills on time, getting up early, sleeping well, nutrition, vitamins, books, blah blah blah. So many little fucking things that are JUST AS important as being a fucking revolutionary in your art. Needless to say it has been amazing to open up to all of these thugs. These little facets. These parts of a larger body we attribute to being a "life".
Well, it's almost my birthday. By this age I was certain i would be famous, influential, or at least not still working in a restaraunt. But this isn't about my life. And I can whine about that later.
Someone special died today. (no, not minute bol, though I am sure he was quite special). My best friends dad left the world with the memory of his humor, tenacity, stoicness, wisdom, and sweet energy this afternoon. And people die, I know. I am starting to get that by now. Like a sad hammer hitting me over the head again and again andagainandagain. But each time I have to think about life and death
and what the fuck this all is all over again. This person was so great. And not the way I ask myself to be great. He had tangible goals, enjoyed things as they happened, and ate a hot dog when he felt like it. He did not sit around telling himself thathis life was this untangiable thing. He grabbed it by the throat and did it. In a sweet and respectable way of course. He was a father to me
in many times that I needed one. And even when I didn't, and just stayed on his couch, made His son drive me to doctor's appointments, and watch marathons on his extended cable tv, he was still there for me. Infalliable. The man had a lot to give. And he did, without expectation or acknowledgement. A truely great man.
So I don't mean to go on and on, or wax blasé sentimental about someone who can't even see it, but it is makingme think. HE is making me think. What is a life? I guess I don't really know yet. If a life is what I've defined it as for myself it is an untangiable, unsatisfied machine. And maybe it should be something you hold onto while you have
it. Something you appreciate, for whatever it is. And that doesn't mean you have to get too comfortable in it and stop
reaching for more, but you can really embrace the reality of what's happening, the people you're with, and how you show gratitude.
Beacuse we are not owed this life.
We get it for a time, and then it's gone. Nothing waits for us to be ready to dive into it.
So, excused, if I sound like something oprah says or something you read in "new christian's monthly", but I am thankful that this man is making the question relevant.
What is a life? It's the only thing you have, and everything else is a part of it's one, big, short thing.
Thank you, Gene.
I spend most of my life thinking about all of the things I want to do, plan to do, need to do, and feeling lazy/nervous/like a loser that it's not all happening quicker, and more clearly. To be honest, I have spent much of my young time questioning if I am already too old to achieve my goals, and if I am perhaps a person destined for a life of mediocrity. It has
not been until the last couple of years that I have started to
understand that personal happiness is a part of life goals that shows itself in the form of many things. It's the job you keep day to day, the relationship you have with your partner, the relationships you have with the people you let into your life, the sweet playtime with your awesome dog, buying a home, going on a trip, building something, having a goddamned hobby, being brave minute to minute, payig millions of bills on time, getting up early, sleeping well, nutrition, vitamins, books, blah blah blah. So many little fucking things that are JUST AS important as being a fucking revolutionary in your art. Needless to say it has been amazing to open up to all of these thugs. These little facets. These parts of a larger body we attribute to being a "life".
Well, it's almost my birthday. By this age I was certain i would be famous, influential, or at least not still working in a restaraunt. But this isn't about my life. And I can whine about that later.
Someone special died today. (no, not minute bol, though I am sure he was quite special). My best friends dad left the world with the memory of his humor, tenacity, stoicness, wisdom, and sweet energy this afternoon. And people die, I know. I am starting to get that by now. Like a sad hammer hitting me over the head again and again andagainandagain. But each time I have to think about life and death
and what the fuck this all is all over again. This person was so great. And not the way I ask myself to be great. He had tangible goals, enjoyed things as they happened, and ate a hot dog when he felt like it. He did not sit around telling himself thathis life was this untangiable thing. He grabbed it by the throat and did it. In a sweet and respectable way of course. He was a father to me
in many times that I needed one. And even when I didn't, and just stayed on his couch, made His son drive me to doctor's appointments, and watch marathons on his extended cable tv, he was still there for me. Infalliable. The man had a lot to give. And he did, without expectation or acknowledgement. A truely great man.
So I don't mean to go on and on, or wax blasé sentimental about someone who can't even see it, but it is makingme think. HE is making me think. What is a life? I guess I don't really know yet. If a life is what I've defined it as for myself it is an untangiable, unsatisfied machine. And maybe it should be something you hold onto while you have
it. Something you appreciate, for whatever it is. And that doesn't mean you have to get too comfortable in it and stop
reaching for more, but you can really embrace the reality of what's happening, the people you're with, and how you show gratitude.
Beacuse we are not owed this life.
We get it for a time, and then it's gone. Nothing waits for us to be ready to dive into it.
So, excused, if I sound like something oprah says or something you read in "new christian's monthly", but I am thankful that this man is making the question relevant.
What is a life? It's the only thing you have, and everything else is a part of it's one, big, short thing.
Thank you, Gene.
5.21.2010
Dear, Things I Don't Get ep. 1
I mean, there are just so many things I don't get.
Why do I spend all day at my (OLD!) job thinking about all of the things I'm going to write about when I get home, all of the grown-up housely duities I am going to perform, all of the things I will put away and clean and make orderly, all of the career-forwarding emails I will write numbers I will phone call and moves I will make, all of the friends I will reconnect with, all of the things I have made that I will put on the internet for people to look at and buy--why do I spend ten hours thinking about these things, and then get home and sit like a lump on my bed, staring off foggy-eyed, letting my dog lick my nose, trying to remember a single one of those things, but coming up only with the looming loser-inducing issues like "I still have to do my taxes" and "If I'm this tired everyday I will never get anything done and will be a barista for the rest of my life". I don't get it. I don't get where all of those thoughts and ideas and motivations went. I don't get why at 11:00 life feels possible, but by 6:30 I can peel myself off the bed long enough to shuttle dog food from the fridge to the bowl. I.DON'T.GET.IT.
I don't get why people walk into restaraunts and cafes and think it's ok to just put their dirty pedestrian hands all over whatever they want. Instead of first paying for it and waiting for someone who works there to give it to them. ExfuckingSCUSE me? You see a plate of cookies for sale on a counter. You dig through them to find the one you want while waiting in line to order your food? You see a pie of quiche. You scoop your hands into that pie of quiche to find a slice you like, while you wait in line to order your food? Who the fuck do you think you are, buddy? You disgusting clueless moron. Not even a sneeze guard keeps people away. I have seen people reach OVER the sneeze guard to try and get at a muffin or tart that they just can't POSSIBLY wait to be served because their very important and entitled and gluttonous and EMBARASSING. Some people don't understand logic about dining out, and I don't get it. I don't get that. You can make six and a half / seven figures a year, and yet you have no common sense. DON'T.GET.IT.
I don't get why you know more as you get older, but things also become harder. Shouldn't I be able to know more about how finance works AND be able to do the splits? Shouldn't I be capable of excelling at personal and professional relationships AND be able to stay up all night without crying and/or puking? Don't get it. I don't get that one, and it's a real bummer.
Also, what I don't get is why I don't have the energy to finish this list of things that I don't get (aka generally things that bug me). I've been up since 5 and it's 11:00, which, is, like, the middle of the day almost. Hey, desk job, buddy: Let's go brew a pot! of coffee. fyi.
3.11.2010
Dear you started slow, you got what you wanted
So you expected nothing...and you got all this. What an experience to try something and come out the other side with so many tickets open. So many people listening. So many avenues to drive your new thing through. It's been a while now. Some years. Seems like it's still going for you. What an amazing case of "right place:right time" plus "right stuff". Your story is somewhat of a dream. And I love you and am inspired by you and want to see what you are ever to create in the future, but you must know: sometimes my ideas mean nothing because we are so much alike. And you got there first so I sound like I'm imitating. And I frankly don't know how to do anything else besides what I am inclined/know how to do, so I am at a bit of a loss. You told the story of the people I wanted to tell a story about. Back to one. You wrote the tone I wanted to share. Back to square one. I don't know what you want for yourself. Maybe you feel you're at one. Maybe you don't feel like you're anywhere at all. When to me it is so clear you are on a party boat off of Miami waiving "fuck you" to the rest of us not-so-goods in gold lamae. My standards aren't super high for success. But to me, you are doing it. And it seems your travels lead to experience and greatness.
Not the most eloquent, but for truth and in virtue the most honest
Mama
Not the most eloquent, but for truth and in virtue the most honest
Mama
12.22.2009
The Past and Where you Put it
Dear Past,
I can see why people want to forget you. I can see why people don't want to talk about you or look at your documentations. I thought I was up to it. Now I have to get drunk. Thanks so much. I mean, truthfully it's not your fault. It is NOT your fault. I'm being melodramatic, I know. It would be better to say "it is what it is" and have a good laugh and move on. But you know, Past, I have a rash on my face. An unexplained rash that has been here for weeks. It continues to spread and grow and it is not an allergic reaction to anything. It is just here. Just hanging out on my dry, patchy face. And while sometimes I can ignore it or put some medicine on it and keep going, after spending some time with you tonight, Past, I am looking at this rash thinking "how apt". I mean really, what a great symbol of it all.
I do recognize that sometimes when I hang out with you, Past, I leave thinking "thank god" and "hooray for time passing". Mostly I probably think that, no offense, but tonight--paired with a foot injury that keeps me in orthopedic shoes, a moc-turtleneck I thought was comfortable, and a red patchy rash extending across my face--I found myself really missing you.
I mean, the thing is, Past, we had some good times. And above the good times, what I'm reflecting upon tonight, is how OLD I am. How sadly, insufferably old I have become. There was this person, this "me" that you were sharing with me, and that person looks so different than what I am now. I am having a hard time over here. And I know you're not trying to get me down, you're just presenting the facts. But the facts are hurtful. I mean, I wish you would have TOLD me, Past--I wish you would have told me what was going to happen. How everything was going to spread out and sag and swell and then sag even more. How my hair was going to get thin and limp and my freckles would fade and my chins would flow over one another like an American waterfall if I ever moved my head and my eyes would get foggy and my expressions would become more unsightly than they are creative. I wish you would have told me. Yes, I know if you had I couldn't have believed it, but Past, I have to say, I wish I could have found a way.
Nostalgia is a funny feeling. Sometimes it's laced with regret and remembering, and sometimes it's bookended by laughter and greatfulness. Tonight it's confusing. I love those things I saw pictures of. I love those times and the way I can remember them. But hey, how did that person experiencing all those things in the pictures become so different? That person does not seem like this person with an awful rash and broken feet. I don't even remember I smiled like that.
I don't remember I could smile like that. Do you know what that means? I looked at myself, and I didn't remember I could be like that. I don't remember. It's not even that long ago, and I don't remember it. I don't remember how to do it anymore. I know how to be happy, and I smile truly, but that thing--those faces--you showed to me tonight? I don't remember them.
I am smarter now, that much we can agree on. I am kinder, clearer, calmer. All of that is good. for all of that I am grateful, and for all of that I would not go back. But to look sweet and alive and excited and enraptured and consumed and hopeful and charged? Well, I might feel those things still, but I don't look them. The proof is in you, Past, you know that. To look them again, what a feeling. The cheese, the burritos, the late nights, the lack of fruit, the cigarettes, the worry, the poor time management, the brown food diet, the beer. It's all gotten part of me.
The question is, Past, can I turn this into something we look at together and laugh about and say we learned from and move on? Or is this just who I am now?
Is it? Or is it?
Mamma
I can see why people want to forget you. I can see why people don't want to talk about you or look at your documentations. I thought I was up to it. Now I have to get drunk. Thanks so much. I mean, truthfully it's not your fault. It is NOT your fault. I'm being melodramatic, I know. It would be better to say "it is what it is" and have a good laugh and move on. But you know, Past, I have a rash on my face. An unexplained rash that has been here for weeks. It continues to spread and grow and it is not an allergic reaction to anything. It is just here. Just hanging out on my dry, patchy face. And while sometimes I can ignore it or put some medicine on it and keep going, after spending some time with you tonight, Past, I am looking at this rash thinking "how apt". I mean really, what a great symbol of it all.
I do recognize that sometimes when I hang out with you, Past, I leave thinking "thank god" and "hooray for time passing". Mostly I probably think that, no offense, but tonight--paired with a foot injury that keeps me in orthopedic shoes, a moc-turtleneck I thought was comfortable, and a red patchy rash extending across my face--I found myself really missing you.
I mean, the thing is, Past, we had some good times. And above the good times, what I'm reflecting upon tonight, is how OLD I am. How sadly, insufferably old I have become. There was this person, this "me" that you were sharing with me, and that person looks so different than what I am now. I am having a hard time over here. And I know you're not trying to get me down, you're just presenting the facts. But the facts are hurtful. I mean, I wish you would have TOLD me, Past--I wish you would have told me what was going to happen. How everything was going to spread out and sag and swell and then sag even more. How my hair was going to get thin and limp and my freckles would fade and my chins would flow over one another like an American waterfall if I ever moved my head and my eyes would get foggy and my expressions would become more unsightly than they are creative. I wish you would have told me. Yes, I know if you had I couldn't have believed it, but Past, I have to say, I wish I could have found a way.
Nostalgia is a funny feeling. Sometimes it's laced with regret and remembering, and sometimes it's bookended by laughter and greatfulness. Tonight it's confusing. I love those things I saw pictures of. I love those times and the way I can remember them. But hey, how did that person experiencing all those things in the pictures become so different? That person does not seem like this person with an awful rash and broken feet. I don't even remember I smiled like that.
I don't remember I could smile like that. Do you know what that means? I looked at myself, and I didn't remember I could be like that. I don't remember. It's not even that long ago, and I don't remember it. I don't remember how to do it anymore. I know how to be happy, and I smile truly, but that thing--those faces--you showed to me tonight? I don't remember them.
I am smarter now, that much we can agree on. I am kinder, clearer, calmer. All of that is good. for all of that I am grateful, and for all of that I would not go back. But to look sweet and alive and excited and enraptured and consumed and hopeful and charged? Well, I might feel those things still, but I don't look them. The proof is in you, Past, you know that. To look them again, what a feeling. The cheese, the burritos, the late nights, the lack of fruit, the cigarettes, the worry, the poor time management, the brown food diet, the beer. It's all gotten part of me.
The question is, Past, can I turn this into something we look at together and laugh about and say we learned from and move on? Or is this just who I am now?
Is it? Or is it?
Mamma
12.01.2009
Dear Worry and Mice
The mice have been in my shoes. Can't wear the old ones like I used to, they won't close, 13 black ones, 4 reds, a little note at the bottom of each. You waste too much you want too much you weren't paying attention. Everything seemed clearer a bit ago but slowing down slows it all down, which seems like a feat considering that at any time before now it would have seemed slow. Slowest. This is the slowest. This is the slowest of the right now in memory. The memory has a way of being against me.
I used to stay up late, young, with a fever to keep going and an angst to get farther: all the "you'll see"s and "just wait until"s. Now it's sitting staring at the lamp with yellow light that flickers behind the dirty screen that's not mine with a worry and a far away sickness: the "what is this" and "what if not". Not doing so well with the Wide Open Spaces bit of the Rest of my Life; the long long path of nothing but what I make of it. I knew this was coming but I didn't know how it would feel and it feels old--no I feel old--and it feels like it knows and it's laughing at me, challenging me. The Everything about Right Now which is the same as Tomorrow is challenging me and I could take it, hard, if it didn't take long. But I know it takes long. It takes until I die. How do I not get tired. How do I not turn the volume of the show up and stare off, far away. How do I not tune out to something someone else already did when it's most comforting to see a final product--any final product. Do the dishes again, you know where they go. Pick out an outfit from the clothes that don't fit anymore, they're the only ones you own. Make a list on the back of an old receipt, making a list is almost like actually doing something.
That thing people think when they're safe inside an educational construct, that "maybe you're not good enough"--that thing you quiet with the praise of your peers and the looming deadline of something you wouldn't complete on your own? That thing is true. MAYBE YOU'RE NOT. MAYBE YOU'RE REALLY NOT. A lot of people aren't. Maybe you're one of them. Could be. Truly, very well could be. Your own abstract ideas about how good you are and what you can accomplish and the stars you're going to reach for and the star you're going to be don't mean anything. What you're doing right now means something. And what you're doing right now is dishes and staring at an old cheap lamp and watching the mice shit in your shoes that don't have soles anymore, and the part about the soles is not a metaphor. Your shoes don't have soles anymore. And they're filled with mouse shit. And you can't kill the mice. That's not a metaphor either. You can't kill them. You can't. And on your off days you would say that also you are unable to get your life into high gear--the highest of moving gears--and don't even know what they look like. What do the gears look like. What do any of the gears look like?
Someone else has made them. While you were thinking about what your life looks like and feels like, someone else has already made an interactive diagram about what YOUR EXACT LIFE looks like and feels like. The people who made these things were not waiting for anything. They just went forward and made programs for you to feel and think the things that you, as yourself, were not ready or able to think or feel, but TO ANYONE ELSE would provide a window into the deeper emotional psyche of you. Someone smarter has created a project for people to know you better, and you don't even know yourself. Enjoy that.
Not that it's bad. It's not terrible, is it. No. But sometimes it mounts on itself.
I used to stay up late, young, with a fever to keep going and an angst to get farther: all the "you'll see"s and "just wait until"s. Now it's sitting staring at the lamp with yellow light that flickers behind the dirty screen that's not mine with a worry and a far away sickness: the "what is this" and "what if not". Not doing so well with the Wide Open Spaces bit of the Rest of my Life; the long long path of nothing but what I make of it. I knew this was coming but I didn't know how it would feel and it feels old--no I feel old--and it feels like it knows and it's laughing at me, challenging me. The Everything about Right Now which is the same as Tomorrow is challenging me and I could take it, hard, if it didn't take long. But I know it takes long. It takes until I die. How do I not get tired. How do I not turn the volume of the show up and stare off, far away. How do I not tune out to something someone else already did when it's most comforting to see a final product--any final product. Do the dishes again, you know where they go. Pick out an outfit from the clothes that don't fit anymore, they're the only ones you own. Make a list on the back of an old receipt, making a list is almost like actually doing something.
That thing people think when they're safe inside an educational construct, that "maybe you're not good enough"--that thing you quiet with the praise of your peers and the looming deadline of something you wouldn't complete on your own? That thing is true. MAYBE YOU'RE NOT. MAYBE YOU'RE REALLY NOT. A lot of people aren't. Maybe you're one of them. Could be. Truly, very well could be. Your own abstract ideas about how good you are and what you can accomplish and the stars you're going to reach for and the star you're going to be don't mean anything. What you're doing right now means something. And what you're doing right now is dishes and staring at an old cheap lamp and watching the mice shit in your shoes that don't have soles anymore, and the part about the soles is not a metaphor. Your shoes don't have soles anymore. And they're filled with mouse shit. And you can't kill the mice. That's not a metaphor either. You can't kill them. You can't. And on your off days you would say that also you are unable to get your life into high gear--the highest of moving gears--and don't even know what they look like. What do the gears look like. What do any of the gears look like?
Someone else has made them. While you were thinking about what your life looks like and feels like, someone else has already made an interactive diagram about what YOUR EXACT LIFE looks like and feels like. The people who made these things were not waiting for anything. They just went forward and made programs for you to feel and think the things that you, as yourself, were not ready or able to think or feel, but TO ANYONE ELSE would provide a window into the deeper emotional psyche of you. Someone smarter has created a project for people to know you better, and you don't even know yourself. Enjoy that.
Not that it's bad. It's not terrible, is it. No. But sometimes it mounts on itself.
7.23.2009
Dear Work, #1?
Dear,
Been working. It feels good to work again. It feels good to be doing the work I have aimed at making my life about. It feels good to not be lazy; to not be satisfied with the unhappiness of just making coffee, and just thinking about it all. It feels good to be with friends the way I want and need and haven't been able to get to for the longest of times. Internal, it feels good to be swimming through that.
It feels good to think about working my whole life if I can be doing this work. Isn't the goal to make your life's work one that you can embrace with pride and honesty, and not one that happens to you while you're trying not to stare the reality of it in the face? Ten years from now I want to look back on this and know that for those ten years, I really tried. And that "really trying" meant that I finally let go of some of the burdens of fear and just trudged forward, and just believed I was worthy of the dreams I have always had. That "really trying" meant being shitty a lot of time, but that I wanted to keep doing it, and that I wanted to learn.
That is where we're at right now. The time to cry about your lack of "just deserves" has passed now. You are a grown up. You can chase your dream down, or you can be miserable into adulthood, and push that misery onto your following generations. And I'm sitting right now, feeling like this will be easy because I want it so bad. I haven't felt the next round of stumbling blocks yet. But just being gifted the tenacity to get to this point--right here--right now--maybe that one push means you can have others. I can have others. WE can have others.
Maybe my point is that when you want your life to be about something, you should make your life about that thing. And stop waiting for it TO HAPPEN TO YOU.
Because a couple months ago I had this thought: You have all these ideas of things to create, and make happen. YOU are the only person who can do that. No one else can take the internal and actualize it besides you. If you don't, it will go to waste.
So let's not waste. Let's at least just try.
Realizing the obvious, in hard hitting ways,
MAMA
Seems, so obvious and simple, I know. But still, thinking it was like waking up. Remembering I am the only person who can have my own ideas--and that they're mine for a reason. That feels good to remember.
SO I'm working on it now. And it's amazing. I hope everyone is working on it. Carol Burnett, I'm channeling you. Let's do this life. It's the only one I can do.
Been working. It feels good to work again. It feels good to be doing the work I have aimed at making my life about. It feels good to not be lazy; to not be satisfied with the unhappiness of just making coffee, and just thinking about it all. It feels good to be with friends the way I want and need and haven't been able to get to for the longest of times. Internal, it feels good to be swimming through that.
It feels good to think about working my whole life if I can be doing this work. Isn't the goal to make your life's work one that you can embrace with pride and honesty, and not one that happens to you while you're trying not to stare the reality of it in the face? Ten years from now I want to look back on this and know that for those ten years, I really tried. And that "really trying" meant that I finally let go of some of the burdens of fear and just trudged forward, and just believed I was worthy of the dreams I have always had. That "really trying" meant being shitty a lot of time, but that I wanted to keep doing it, and that I wanted to learn.
That is where we're at right now. The time to cry about your lack of "just deserves" has passed now. You are a grown up. You can chase your dream down, or you can be miserable into adulthood, and push that misery onto your following generations. And I'm sitting right now, feeling like this will be easy because I want it so bad. I haven't felt the next round of stumbling blocks yet. But just being gifted the tenacity to get to this point--right here--right now--maybe that one push means you can have others. I can have others. WE can have others.
Maybe my point is that when you want your life to be about something, you should make your life about that thing. And stop waiting for it TO HAPPEN TO YOU.
Because a couple months ago I had this thought: You have all these ideas of things to create, and make happen. YOU are the only person who can do that. No one else can take the internal and actualize it besides you. If you don't, it will go to waste.
So let's not waste. Let's at least just try.
Realizing the obvious, in hard hitting ways,
MAMA
Seems, so obvious and simple, I know. But still, thinking it was like waking up. Remembering I am the only person who can have my own ideas--and that they're mine for a reason. That feels good to remember.
SO I'm working on it now. And it's amazing. I hope everyone is working on it. Carol Burnett, I'm channeling you. Let's do this life. It's the only one I can do.
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