The first anniversary of my father's death has come and gone.
One of the most seminal and heartbreaking things I've ever experienced in my life still resonates. I haven't been able to write anything about my father not couched in pseudonyms and teenage vampiric fluff. Which probably doesn't count.
And I don't think tonight is going to break that strange spell.
So I sigh and offer this:
There's nothing I can say.
There's nothing we can do now.
There's nothing I can say.
There's nothing we can do now.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Dedicated to the One I Love: Jack the Plucky Hybrid
This is my ode to transportation - or lack thereof. Read to the accompaniment of the Shirelles (and not the Mamas and Papa's version in deference to the very squicky Mackenzie Phillips allegations of late):
My beloved hybrid, known colloquially as "Jack" (yes, my car is male), which I have been waivering between selling or keeping has been held hostage by Bay Ridge Honda now for 1.75 weeks.
This has been a mixed blessing.
On one hand, its a reprieve from the constant threat of the New York Parking Syndicate (something my tow-truck driver, Shawn, agreed with me about) and the strange passive aggressive notes that are occasionally pasted on my windows. But on the otherhand, there is the more sanitary issue of laundry (thankfully I own more pairs of pants than Imelda Marcos had shoes) and the need to transport el gato to her weekend sanctuary while I'm in Detroit this weekend.
Let me tell you that New York MTA does not make traveling 30 blocks in Brooklyn very easy. Although thankfully, it only took a little over an hour to get there and back. The plan was simple: a livery driver there (with the cat), a ten minute walk to the subway from Kensington and the X8 from 18th Avenue to the general vicinity of my pad.
The livery driver was a check - and drop dead gorgeous. I've never had that happen before as they're usually secreting nicotine and missing teeth (case in point, I once was in the backseat of a livery driver who admitted to being on Methadone mid-route. Yeah.) With Kai deposited, I walked to the F (which is now, apparently, also routing the G) where the simple act of buying a MetroCard (necessary for riding mass transit in the City) became a study in human folly.
You have the option in buying MetroCards of using either exact change or a debit/credit card. I tried my card first... and none of the unmanned card stations were accepting cards. I only had a $20 and there was no way of making change on that end of the station. Going to the manned end would not have been an issue - except they've been working on "improving" the throughway at Church Avenue for years with no end in sight. No admittance. So I return to the friendly junkies outside the station (who had tried to hit me up for a ciggarette or cash with a very bad rap) and walked down to the other end of the station, a block away where I discovered that none of the six card machines on that end were taking cards either and the station agent's computer was down, so she couldn't pretend to be facile in mathematics. No change. So out of the station again - this time for Walgreen's - where my change making was held up when two Indian women with strollers were accosted for shoplifting. Seriously people, when you're asked for a receipt if all you do is give a slow, stupid smile in response you should just give up criminal enterprises altogether.
Back to the station. This time with exact change. Missed the F by seconds - the conductor actually waved at me, but wouldn't open the doors. Thankfully the next F was express to 18th Avenue, where I caught the x8 with little issue (outside of the walking ciggarette who sat next to me after 50th - can you NOT smell yourself?) I did rediscover Newton's First Law, however, when I was catapulted past three rows of seats, across a metal bar and almost into the driver. Apparently my Docs need to be resoled, since they usually grip really well.
And then I was home.
I really miss Jack the Plucky Hybrid. Did I seriously think I could sell him to thwart the New York Parking Syndicate? After my strange, battery sucking alien flyover the Monday before last (my car and my cell phone completely lost power - thankfully I had thought to pull off the road when the steering suddenly went powerless), I am a little worried about him. The dealership is going to put in a new Hybrid battery (thankfully under warranty) to see if this third suggestion of woe is the culprit. So hopefully, we'll be reunited next week. When I'll have warrant to sing this:
In other news, I just finished Chapter 14 of my increasingly salacious remaking of Twilight. Which brought me just over 45k words. I KNOW I can do NaNoWriMo this year. If my upstairs neighbors stop having incredibly noisy bouts of sex interspersed with Gran Turismo, clearly subscribing to the "Life of International Luxury." (I have to add the caveat that I don't know any of the aforementioned for sure, but have extrapolated through repeated evenings worth of unwholesome goings-on drowned out only by Amaretto and Ryan Adams).
Fortunately, I'm off to Detroit tomorrow so they can subscribe to the old "Click and Dick" to their heart's content.
My beloved hybrid, known colloquially as "Jack" (yes, my car is male), which I have been waivering between selling or keeping has been held hostage by Bay Ridge Honda now for 1.75 weeks.
This has been a mixed blessing.
On one hand, its a reprieve from the constant threat of the New York Parking Syndicate (something my tow-truck driver, Shawn, agreed with me about) and the strange passive aggressive notes that are occasionally pasted on my windows. But on the otherhand, there is the more sanitary issue of laundry (thankfully I own more pairs of pants than Imelda Marcos had shoes) and the need to transport el gato to her weekend sanctuary while I'm in Detroit this weekend.
Let me tell you that New York MTA does not make traveling 30 blocks in Brooklyn very easy. Although thankfully, it only took a little over an hour to get there and back. The plan was simple: a livery driver there (with the cat), a ten minute walk to the subway from Kensington and the X8 from 18th Avenue to the general vicinity of my pad.
The livery driver was a check - and drop dead gorgeous. I've never had that happen before as they're usually secreting nicotine and missing teeth (case in point, I once was in the backseat of a livery driver who admitted to being on Methadone mid-route. Yeah.) With Kai deposited, I walked to the F (which is now, apparently, also routing the G) where the simple act of buying a MetroCard (necessary for riding mass transit in the City) became a study in human folly.
You have the option in buying MetroCards of using either exact change or a debit/credit card. I tried my card first... and none of the unmanned card stations were accepting cards. I only had a $20 and there was no way of making change on that end of the station. Going to the manned end would not have been an issue - except they've been working on "improving" the throughway at Church Avenue for years with no end in sight. No admittance. So I return to the friendly junkies outside the station (who had tried to hit me up for a ciggarette or cash with a very bad rap) and walked down to the other end of the station, a block away where I discovered that none of the six card machines on that end were taking cards either and the station agent's computer was down, so she couldn't pretend to be facile in mathematics. No change. So out of the station again - this time for Walgreen's - where my change making was held up when two Indian women with strollers were accosted for shoplifting. Seriously people, when you're asked for a receipt if all you do is give a slow, stupid smile in response you should just give up criminal enterprises altogether.
Back to the station. This time with exact change. Missed the F by seconds - the conductor actually waved at me, but wouldn't open the doors. Thankfully the next F was express to 18th Avenue, where I caught the x8 with little issue (outside of the walking ciggarette who sat next to me after 50th - can you NOT smell yourself?) I did rediscover Newton's First Law, however, when I was catapulted past three rows of seats, across a metal bar and almost into the driver. Apparently my Docs need to be resoled, since they usually grip really well.
And then I was home.
I really miss Jack the Plucky Hybrid. Did I seriously think I could sell him to thwart the New York Parking Syndicate? After my strange, battery sucking alien flyover the Monday before last (my car and my cell phone completely lost power - thankfully I had thought to pull off the road when the steering suddenly went powerless), I am a little worried about him. The dealership is going to put in a new Hybrid battery (thankfully under warranty) to see if this third suggestion of woe is the culprit. So hopefully, we'll be reunited next week. When I'll have warrant to sing this:
In other news, I just finished Chapter 14 of my increasingly salacious remaking of Twilight. Which brought me just over 45k words. I KNOW I can do NaNoWriMo this year. If my upstairs neighbors stop having incredibly noisy bouts of sex interspersed with Gran Turismo, clearly subscribing to the "Life of International Luxury." (I have to add the caveat that I don't know any of the aforementioned for sure, but have extrapolated through repeated evenings worth of unwholesome goings-on drowned out only by Amaretto and Ryan Adams).
Fortunately, I'm off to Detroit tomorrow so they can subscribe to the old "Click and Dick" to their heart's content.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
A blog, by definition requires actually... I don't know... blogging?
In honor of September - the gateway to my favorite month of October - I thought I would update on my social whirl of the roach-that-wasn't, the Bensonhurst street fair that never ends, midnight run-ins with the DEA, the lost virginity of my Cleric and other random things of note.
Firstly: today was an auspicious day. For the first time since I have been gaming (not counting my unrequited love for Gurth Bigbottom's daughter) I have finally had a character that fell in love with - and consummated that love - with an NPC. Apparently, I was just waiting for a Druid with a CHA 25 with thighs of adamanite. Thankfully, despite positing Orla's similarities with Solitaire, I am not losing my religious powers with the demise of my maidenhead. Which is a good thing since I'm the only PC in the group with a positive Strength modifier.
Secondly: a musical interlude from the former folk supergroup Cry, Cry, Cry (Richard Shindell, Dar Williams and Lucy Kaplansky) -->
Thirdly: a tale of shame. So... one evening while I was penning the increasingly salacious pulp fiction (apparently plot is irrelevant if there's lots of skin on skin action, *sigh*) I have been spending far too many brain cells on, I happened to notice an ENORMOUS bug in my light fixture. It was immune to incredibly high pitched screaming. It was immune to the amazingly high jumps of el gato - who lives here to kill sentient beings that enter the apartment that are not me. And it FLEW. I blasted it with Lysol Disenfectant (it was the only aerosol I have in the house), but while destroying the colony of paint bacteria on my Ikea bookshelves the damned bug was immune. (Bug=Bug?)
Suffice it to say, after a panel of witnesses were involved (my 70+ year old landlady and her crew of variously cancerated porch friends) - the consensus was that it was either a (1) waterbug, (2) moth or (3) a figment of my imagination. I tore the apartment down to its base components the following day and found nothing. There aren't even spiders in my apartment. I would like to add that saying: "How can you sleep knowing its there??" is not helpful in abating bug paranoia. But it did get me thinking. I need to hire someone to come over and kill bugs for me. Do you think there's a Craigslist category for that? The ten-thousand-limbed-pedes that occasionally amble through aren't an issue. But bugs that crunch... *shiver*
Fourthly: I am reading Elric of Melnibone. I hate him. I hate him and wish that Stormbringer would just behead him and get things over with. What a whiny, melodramatic, self-absorbed albino. Seriously. I hate that despite his frailty when not actively possessing Stormbringer (who for a demonic soul-drinking sword is pretty awesome, actually) he is apparently a sexual dynamo for whom whole plots are resolved by the sheathing of his other sword - the white one.
I think at heart, he is a proto-Elf archetype. My rancor for elves in general (seconded only by vampires) probably make me less than neutral. ET assures me that Elric is intended as a 1960s era foil to the Conan-type Hero. And apparently a hero to the Blue Oyster Cult. But I can't help but believe that if Moorcock had been a better writer (like Pat Rothfuss caliber) it would all come off less contrived. Anyway...
In closing: There is a street fair in Bensonhurst - a feast in honor of Saint Rosalia - that is the fair that never ends. It has been going on for nearly three weeks now. How much church sponsored elephant ears and merry-go-rounds can you have? Apparently more than three weeks worth in Brooklyn.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
[Not Quite New Music] Lanegan, Toadies and Wylde
I have such a voice crush on Mark Lanegan. That's just an FYI.
I can't embed this vid, but listen HERE.
In what sort of amazingly sweet world could I listen to the Toadies, be directed to the Screaming Trees "Sweet Oblivion" and from there Zakk Wylde's "Sweet Jesus" ??
There are people out in the world like me. It's kind of awe inspiring and makes me giddy.
Thwarted by copyright. Fuck. Well, here's the Toadies.
I stumble in the hallway
Outside her bedroom door.
I hear her call out to me.
I hear the fear in her voice.
She pulls the covers tighter.
I press against the door.
I will be with her tonight.
I can't embed this vid, but listen HERE.
In what sort of amazingly sweet world could I listen to the Toadies, be directed to the Screaming Trees "Sweet Oblivion" and from there Zakk Wylde's "Sweet Jesus" ??
There are people out in the world like me. It's kind of awe inspiring and makes me giddy.
Thwarted by copyright. Fuck. Well, here's the Toadies.
I stumble in the hallway
Outside her bedroom door.
I hear her call out to me.
I hear the fear in her voice.
She pulls the covers tighter.
I press against the door.
I will be with her tonight.
Monday, August 10, 2009
[New Music] Greg Laswell & Aqualung
In between the joyous news of Blitzen Trapper touring NYC in October - I am so there - and the triumphant return of the Great Lake Swimmers in September - I found two new solo acts that have won over my jaded ear.
Firstly, Aqualung. A British man and his piano venture (not to be confused with Jethro Tull's ode to pervs of the same name) - that for a moment during Strange and Beautiful was almost a solo version of the Postal Service or Air and channeling Radiohead on When I finally get my own place. From Strange and Beautiful:
I'll put a spell on you,
You'll fall asleep and I'll put a spell on you.
And when I wake you,
I'll be the first thing you see,
And you'll realize that you love me.
Some of the songs got a little too television background musicky for my tastes - but worth a listen. In all, my biggest amusement of the evening was a "friend" note from "Annie", querying Aqualung with whether he liked her - by checking Yes or No. This completely reminded me of something I read over at Daytrotter recently, liner notes from a live version of Shilpa Ray and her Happy Hookers' Erotolepsy / Hookers Of Myspace. Whether or not it was true, I could well imagine "Annie" agonizing over posting to Aqualung's site with such an audacious declaration at 11:03 on a Monday morning. Anyway,
Secondly, I stumbled upon Greg Laswell. Insomnia Radio's Daily dose for August 10. I really, really, really like The One I Love. In fact, Three flights from alta nido (2009) is in serious consideration for the purchase pile. One of the things about becoming a gold prospector out West is the potential for extra lucre to appear... allowing me to spend it on music without having to have long discourses with myself about spending money on non-essential items. Especially with third parties involving themselves in my savings.
Firstly, Aqualung. A British man and his piano venture (not to be confused with Jethro Tull's ode to pervs of the same name) - that for a moment during Strange and Beautiful was almost a solo version of the Postal Service or Air and channeling Radiohead on When I finally get my own place. From Strange and Beautiful:
I'll put a spell on you,
You'll fall asleep and I'll put a spell on you.
And when I wake you,
I'll be the first thing you see,
And you'll realize that you love me.
Some of the songs got a little too television background musicky for my tastes - but worth a listen. In all, my biggest amusement of the evening was a "friend" note from "Annie", querying Aqualung with whether he liked her - by checking Yes or No. This completely reminded me of something I read over at Daytrotter recently, liner notes from a live version of Shilpa Ray and her Happy Hookers' Erotolepsy / Hookers Of Myspace. Whether or not it was true, I could well imagine "Annie" agonizing over posting to Aqualung's site with such an audacious declaration at 11:03 on a Monday morning. Anyway,
Secondly, I stumbled upon Greg Laswell. Insomnia Radio's Daily dose for August 10. I really, really, really like The One I Love. In fact, Three flights from alta nido (2009) is in serious consideration for the purchase pile. One of the things about becoming a gold prospector out West is the potential for extra lucre to appear... allowing me to spend it on music without having to have long discourses with myself about spending money on non-essential items. Especially with third parties involving themselves in my savings.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
[Not Quite New Music] Keelaghan, Irvine, Brady
Because I hate cleaning with a passion I didn't know I was capable of until I moved out of my folk's pad - I cheated a little and spent a goodly portion of the day finding old folk vids on Youtube.
Yes, Mom, I did get my apt cleaned. It's always a treat chasing my cat around the place with the vacuum cleaner, of course...
It started with James Keelaghan, who while admittedly not technically old, has a surname that I deserve a ribbon for spelling right ;) Keelaghan is the author of one of the best Japanese-interment camp-based songs ever penned, the heartwrenching Kiri's Piano:
I remembered that I had once owned his A Recent Future (1995), prior to the Great CD Robbery of 2003 (orchestrated by a wily Canadian I was dating at the time) while listening to WUMB this morning and catching Cold Missouri Waters - another amazing, amazing song about the Mann Gulch fire (1949). Found RICHARD SHINDELL (swoon!) covering the song here:
This led - eventually - into the best find of the day. Vintage Andy Irvine vids circa 1977-79, featuring his collaboration with Paul Brady. Irvine and Brady (briefly) were members of the periodically defunct Planxty --> responsible for one of the greatest albums (in my opinion) of all time: 1980's The Woman I loved so well. The album that introduced me to Child's ballads #114 and #81. Johnny of Brady's Lea is the only song that is probably in my head 85% of every moment of every day:
For one small drop of your heart's blood they would ride to the gates of Hell...
As for Little Musgrave, well, love is never easy. And disregarding the sound of your lover's husband's ARMY arriving on the scene is not in one's best interest. But you live, you learn. And sometimes you get run through with a sword.
As for the Irvine/Brady sweetness, I leave off my random thoughts with the following:
The hair! The glasses! The bells! Fiona Ritchie's interview with Irvine at Perthshire (2005) can be found, archived, here.
Yes, Mom, I did get my apt cleaned. It's always a treat chasing my cat around the place with the vacuum cleaner, of course...
It started with James Keelaghan, who while admittedly not technically old, has a surname that I deserve a ribbon for spelling right ;) Keelaghan is the author of one of the best Japanese-interment camp-based songs ever penned, the heartwrenching Kiri's Piano:
I remembered that I had once owned his A Recent Future (1995), prior to the Great CD Robbery of 2003 (orchestrated by a wily Canadian I was dating at the time) while listening to WUMB this morning and catching Cold Missouri Waters - another amazing, amazing song about the Mann Gulch fire (1949). Found RICHARD SHINDELL (swoon!) covering the song here:
This led - eventually - into the best find of the day. Vintage Andy Irvine vids circa 1977-79, featuring his collaboration with Paul Brady. Irvine and Brady (briefly) were members of the periodically defunct Planxty --> responsible for one of the greatest albums (in my opinion) of all time: 1980's The Woman I loved so well. The album that introduced me to Child's ballads #114 and #81. Johnny of Brady's Lea is the only song that is probably in my head 85% of every moment of every day:
For one small drop of your heart's blood they would ride to the gates of Hell...
As for Little Musgrave, well, love is never easy. And disregarding the sound of your lover's husband's ARMY arriving on the scene is not in one's best interest. But you live, you learn. And sometimes you get run through with a sword.
As for the Irvine/Brady sweetness, I leave off my random thoughts with the following:
The hair! The glasses! The bells! Fiona Ritchie's interview with Irvine at Perthshire (2005) can be found, archived, here.
Friday, August 7, 2009
[WFOTM] Bosom
ed. note: this installment, dedicated to my diminishing tracks of land, comes courtesy of Mark Morton's The Lover's Tongue (2003), a book that has supplied many a fine euphemism in my stories. And which, if I remember correctly, was purchased for the princely sum of $1 from a Xtian book store. Without further ado...
Bosom.
Denotes the breast of a human, male or female, not the breasts of a woman; a man for example, can hold a child to his bosom. This is good for Thomas Jefferson, who otherwise might have been arrested for saying,
The happiest moments of my life have been the few which I have passed at home in the bosom of my family.
For centuries the phrase Abraham's bosom has denoted the heavenly place into which the souls of the righteous are gathered [ed. perhaps bringing further elucidation to the lyrical musing of Cornershop's everyone needs a bosom for a pillow].
It has been used since the early twentieth century to denote a woman's breasts. James Bond, for example, gets "a quick glimpse of fine bosoms" in 1965's The Man with the Golden Gun. This use of bosoms is undoubtedly the source of the slang term bazooms, which emerged in the 1920s.
Morton goes on to quote the Good Book: 'bazumbas begat bazongas, which begat gazongas, which begat kazongas, which began kajoobies, which begat jaboos' [ed. Possibly Revelations? Perhaps a rereading is in order...]
Bosom.
Denotes the breast of a human, male or female, not the breasts of a woman; a man for example, can hold a child to his bosom. This is good for Thomas Jefferson, who otherwise might have been arrested for saying,
The happiest moments of my life have been the few which I have passed at home in the bosom of my family.
For centuries the phrase Abraham's bosom has denoted the heavenly place into which the souls of the righteous are gathered [ed. perhaps bringing further elucidation to the lyrical musing of Cornershop's everyone needs a bosom for a pillow].
It has been used since the early twentieth century to denote a woman's breasts. James Bond, for example, gets "a quick glimpse of fine bosoms" in 1965's The Man with the Golden Gun. This use of bosoms is undoubtedly the source of the slang term bazooms, which emerged in the 1920s.
Morton goes on to quote the Good Book: 'bazumbas begat bazongas, which begat gazongas, which begat kazongas, which began kajoobies, which begat jaboos' [ed. Possibly Revelations? Perhaps a rereading is in order...]
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