shampoo girl

something queer happened to me on Friday.

i went for a haircut to my regular stylist. nothing strange about that aside from maybe how long it took me to get an appointment.

anyway, i get there exactly on time and wait only a few minutes before some petite hispanic girl dressed entirely in black (dress code) calls my name and intoduces herself as Jennifer's assistant (Jennifer is my gal). i felt a fleeting sense of discomfort because i'd been eyeing this girl's lipstick job and secretly thinking that she could use some lessons. i hoped she didn't notice my stares. from her smile it seemed as if she had not.

still, this is nothing extraordinary; every now and then there will be a separate shampoo girl that preps me for Jennifer's chair.

she has a quiet voice and is very delicate as she covers my neck with a towel and gathers my hair into the sink. her delicacy remains as she begins my shampoo.

"is the water ok?"

"yep!"

i start to feel slightly odd when i notice that she's taking a bit long to finish the shampoo. she started it off in a typical manner, equally sudsing and scratching, but then she began to slow down. she took her three middle fingers and traced them firmly around my hairline, starting at my ears and ending in the center of my forehead. i'm feeling relaxed but still slightly curious. i've never had a head massage and i'd yet to realize that this is exactly what i was recieving.

she fingers my scalp a few more times before rinsing the soap, again asking if the water temperature is to my liking.

now she applies the conditioner. this part of the hairwashing is usually fairly quick. the stylist or shampoo girl doesn't wait for the conditioners to "soak in" as i typically do; just a thorough application and quick rinse.

but the shampoo girl wasn't quite done with my head.

she began this stage of the massage by firmly and slowly kneading my head in circular motions with her fingertips. initially i tense up. i am now fully aware that this head massage is erotic and i am trying to supress any further stimulation of my libido. i'm certain she is hitting on me, but then remember that Jennifer had another customer in her chair as i was being lead back to the sinks. ok, so she's just stalling. i can handle this.

she stops the kneading and then plants her thumbs toward the back of my head's crown, moving her other fingertips both toward and away from the stationary fingers.

as the tingling in my crotch continues, i feel panicky and blurt out the only thing i can think of saying. i figure conversation is called for when a female is turning you on. or at least something is called for so that i don't start full-on squirming in the fucking chair.

"i could fall asleep!" i say awkwardly. maybe my voice even cracked a little. i may have let out a little laugh. i'm not fully sure.

she responds with an exhaled laugh. though i can't see her face, i picture her smiling down on my head.

christ.

i certainly didn't want to go to sleep. i wanted to have sex--with a male, of course--but sex nonetheless. i was ready to go and i could only hope that shampoo girl couldn't tell. i think i pulled it off. i managed to get through the rest of the shampoo without any heaving breathing, twitching, or hip rocking.

after a few more finger traces and circular temple rubs, i was finally in Jennifer's chair. i say hello and mention, with casual and inquisitive laughter, that her shampoo girl gives amazing head massages. Jennifer laughs it off and explains that she'd had to squeeze in another client and apologized for my wait.

"oh no...it was great."

i still feel a little weird about this but will feel much, much better when i get a *male* version of this lovely massage. i'll have to work it into my study...which has fallen by the wayside evidently...

Bishop Allen

here's the official interview that i'd posted earlier. it's been chopped a bit, but not too much has changed. if anyone reading this is currently a rockstar, let me know so i can interview you next.

Wheelkick Records

100% Stickler

my new best friend Jennifer sent me this link. it's a quiz on commas and apostrophes. i, naturally, scored a 100%. i think the quiz used the word "stickler."

Eats, shoots, and leaves

how'd you do, punk?

might i also suggest the Hall of Shame? i'm not sure whether to roll my eyes and smirk in condescending arrogance or cringe with an air of elite longing for worldwide literacy.

old school

i think i mentioned having recently found lots of childhood paraphernalia.

let's see...there was the elementary school report on pollution. it was crudely constructed in alternating red and black crayon, clipped newspaper and magazine photos, and the occasional sticker--all held together in a flimsy booklet i'd created by folding some thin paper in half.

there was also an old, quite disgusting looking, yellowish sling that i'd earned after falling off my brother's bike while totally tearing it up on our make-shift obstacle course. i remember this set of trees that were so very perfect for weaving in and out of. i think i lost it after the third one on some wet grass. i guess i kept it because i'd really wanted a cast but unfortunately my arm wasn't broken, just sprained. but i had my friends sign it anyway.

countless book reports in those old school report folders took up most of the box, along with some notebooks and artwork from middle school. there was this dictonary i made in one of my enrichment classes full of words that my group and i had created where we saw the need for verbiage. it's so awful. about 80% of the terms end in -itis.

oh yes, and my writing! one day i'll have to try to photgraph or post the laminated edition of my original work, "The Kingdom of the Blabbing Birds." i'm not going to lie; it's a thrilling story, captivating, and full of tangible characters and talking animals. oh, and it's *so* illustrated with colored pencils and printed out on one of those old dot-matrix printers.

of course, there were also the yearbooks. in that musty, thinly dusted cardboard box were my two elementary school (marking the meeting of my mother and stepfather, and subsequent move to another town, a bigger town), one junior high and one senior high school yearbook.

and while i know it's certainly the best to reminisce in your own yearbooks, i'm going to share a few of the things that were written in mine by my former classmates. I promise not to list any of the "remember"s. i will, however, share them in their original, unedited form.

today, we'll take a trip back to my middle school years...

1994

Hey baby,
Had a fun year with you, hope to see you next year in NFA. Stay away from naughty little boys this summer. Stay out of jail. --Adam

i must add that Adam was a boy that i totally crushed on, but who also tormented me when i wore ugly clothes--which was fairly often.

2: Kristine
Hey hunny! Whats up? Well, this year went by very fas and your a good friend. I really don't know what to say so Im going to go! Bye [heart] Lena

i have no idea who Lena is. and yeah, it was written with pink ink.

Kristine,
What's up? This year, I had fun picking on you. I don't think I would have pass at least half of my classes without you. You always got mad at me when Jamie did it all. Your a good friend and I hope to see you next year. But I'll see you over the summer because Chris and me are coming to your house. Goodbye, have fun.
Nick

Nick wrote his in script. I actually still see this boy, occasionally, at the gym. We have yet to acknowledge each other. the teachers he and I tormented in junior high also belong to the gym. I've already posted about my long-overdue apology to them.

...we'll pick up where we left off tomorrow kids...

are you on the list?

i'm a little choked up at the moment, but in true Kristine spirit, i have decided to name names; when things go badly, i like to blame others.

so, i hold the following individuals personally responsible (in part) for Bo's loss to Carrie Underwood (aka "wet napkin" or the default "skank ho"):

1. Joanne
2. Lisa
3. Jeremy
4. Wade
5. Gina (and her mom)
6. my brother
7. my FBI co-worker
8. my chef co-worker
9. Mr. Married Man
10. George W. Bush (for good measure...like there's any doubt in your mind who he voted for?!)

and, as if my plea last night wasn't enough! these tainted ten teabaggers are not guilty of poor musical taste. they are guilty...of...apathy...

(i mean, who doesn't do a little coke these days. well, i mean, there's me...and well, most or all of my friends and family, but still...let's not get CARRIED away here.)

ok, i'm done.

i hope you all give me, Bo, and your great nation, a sincere apology.

(oh, and if you're not on the list, i probably don't like you to begin with...and if you didn't vote, i certainly strongly disagree with most of your principles. so consider yourself listed anyway. you disgust me. friggin' filthy animal. well, that is, unless you're really big and mean. then what i'm really saying is that i want you to love me. i talk a lot of shit. seriously.)

friends, countrymen...lend me your ear

i'm sure you're all wondering why i've gathered you here this evening.

well, the truth is that there is a special horizon before us. this is a time when we must take our American-given right to speak loudly, clearly, and as often as possible via touch-tone phone or text messaging.

but before i get into that, i want to take just a moment to reflect upon what it means to live in this great country...

ever since i was a little girl, i looked to the sky and dreamt of what the future might hold for me. i was born into a simple world, one devoid of many materialistic things.

but as i grew, the flag of our great nation would flap in the winds of change, reminding me that there is always tomorrow--that, here, in The United States of America, dreams really can come true.

please. hold your applause...
...yes, here...pass a Kleenex to that young man in uniform, would you?

now, friends, family, co-workers, fellow citizens. let us remember this glorious country at a time when it needs us most. i can hear the canyons echo, the mighty eagle screech, the oceans whisper, the dolphins making that weird sound they make, the forests calling, and the birds chirping:

use your voice! use the tool that you have been blessed with in your great country! rise up! show the nation that we will not be melded into one homogenous mass of celebrity! we are individuals! we have touchtone phones!

and we vote BO as our next American Idol!



shit, no...this Bo:

this is your moment to shine. may god (God, G-D, goddess, etc) bless you, Bo, the United States of America, and no place else.

bastards.

today was rough. the kids broke me. the bastards won.

even Joe! and Joe is supposed to be one of the good ones. *sigh*

and when that happens, i always look at what i'd done. what did i do that made them behave in such a way? how did i let them get to me? how can i get them back without breaking the law?

so bear (or is it bare? i need to look that up in my cliche dictionary...remind me, Lisa) with me as i recall and assess the morning's downward spiral:

1. my skirt was uncomfortable and i was wearing a pair of those hotshort underwear. one was hiking up as the other crept down; the combination resulted in way too much fidgeting and self-doubt.

2. i was trying to figure out this new palm pilot that our Academy got from administration. i don't usually try to concentrate too hard while supervising children. this may have been a problem.

3. Mr. Married Man was out for the morning and absence among teachers leads to resentment. i would imagine it's similar in most places of employment.

4. my team-teaching partner for the morning disappeared about 40 minutes into the session (which is about 2.5 hours in length). i assumed he was on the phone (still) because that was the last place i'd seen him. so, i began secretly hating him in my mind.

5. my students were disregarding my rules for music in the computer lab. before "yelling" i offered a reminder (in the form of a question...maybe with a *twinge* of attitude--it is almost June for fuck's sake. this is not a new rule!), which was recieved with undue hostility and defensiveness. several students (even Joe) told me to "chill out!" and to "relax! damn!"

6. there was a Code Blue Shout announced over the PA system (this means that a medical emergency is taking place on school grounds. when it is announced, i grab my AED and First Aid bag and sprint to the announced location). since my co-teacher was MIA (and no one else knew he was gone), i had to leave my 25 kids unsupervised in the lab.

7. en route to said Code Blue, i run past some other students of mine who proceeded to coagulate, point, heckle, and laugh about my ability to run. i, naturally, think that i was/am/can run very well.

8. upon arrival to the scene, i am informed (as i gasp for breath...i totally had the furthest to run) that it was a false alarm. great.

9. i conceed to my grumpiness and return to the classroom to try to talk more civily with my children, hoping they'll see that they've made me sad, thus feeling badly about their behavior. it will be a blissful reconcilation that falls short of a group hug.

10. however, my students have heard from the others that i cannot run very well and inquire about my membership to any kind of track and field team in college.

i suppose it was just a day when the meek inherited the earth. or something. fuckers. i'm so going to grade them harshly on their Porfolios.

or maybe even just slip this in with some of their final assessment reports:

do you know Spanish?

because i'd really like to know what this says. (i got the "jajaja" part, thanks)

Deconstructing porn
Classificat a:

* General

@ 4:56 pm

De tant en tant, algun mail d’aquests que arriba amb el FW davant del títol, té gràcia. Copypastejo una anàlisi científica i rigurosa del què es pot observar empíricament a partir de l’observació de pel·lícules porno:

1. Las mujeres llevan zapatos de tacon alto incluso en la cama.
2. Los hombres NUNCA son impotentes ni tienen problemas
para mantener una ereccion casi eternamente.
3. Diez segundos de cunnilingus son mas que suficientes.
4. Si un extraño descubre a una mujer masturbandose,ella no se pone a gritar sino que insiste en tener sexo con él.
5. Las mujeres sonrien con gracia cuando los hombres les llenan la cara de esperma(vosotras también no????jurrrrrrrr).
6. A las mujeres les encanta practicar el sexo con hombres feos y de mediana edad.
7. Las mujeres gimen de modo incontrolable cuando la chupan(ja,como q puedes).
8. Una mamada salva siempre a una mujer de una multa por exceso de velocidad(será en el resto de comunidades,pq creo q en zgz no).
9. Las mujeres se corren siempre en el mismo instante que los hombres(si,claro).
10.Todas las mujeres hacen ruido cuando follan.

11.Esos pechos son de verdad.
12.Una practica comun y muy satisfactoria para un hombre es coger su propio pene semierecto y restregarselo repetidamente por el culo a una mujer.
13.Los hombres siempre dicen “oh, si” cuando se corren.
14.La doble penetracion hace sonreir a las mujeres.
15.Los hombres asiaticos no existen.
16.Si encuentras a un chico y su novia dandose el lote,el no te parte la cara cuando le metes la polla en la boca a su novia.
17.Existe una cosa que se llama trama.
18.Cuando penetras a una mujer por detras, puedes excitarla de verdad dandole cachetes en el culo.
19.Las enfermeras le hacen mamadas a los pacientes(jajaj).
20.Los hombres siempre se corren fuera.
21.Cuando la chica le pilla follando con su mejor amiga,se enfada un poco, pero acaba en la cama con los dos.
22.Las mujeres nunca tienen dolor de cabeza o la regla.
23.Cuando una mujer esta haciendote una mamada, es importante recordarle que chupe.
24.Los culos estan siempre limpios y no tienen pelos.
25.Cuando se les hace una mamada de pie, los hombres siempre ponen una mano en la cabeza de la chica y la otra, orgullosamente,en su cadera( a modo de jotero).
26.Los hombres no deben pedir, nunca. Ya estan ahi las mujeres para ofrecerse amablemente a lo que sea.
27.Las mujeres siempre parecen agradablemente sorprendidas cuando desabrochan los pantalones de un hombre y encuentran (oh, sorpresa!!) una polla!! (y yo me pregunto q narices esperan????)

in fact, much of the blog i found this on (this one) seems like it would be humorous, and those online translation tools just don't work.

tenure

i was going to post about how i'd cancelled a hot date (really, it's just an adjurnment) to instead bake brownies, eat some batter, and become pensive about my need for alonetime and romantic love.

but i'd only accomplished 3/4 of my list when my brother handed me some mail. today, i got my tenure letter. woo-hoo!

"On behalf of the entire [insert my school's name here--i'm still paranoid, even with tenure] I want to extend our congratulations on your recent tenure appointment as Teacher of English."

(though, i do still need my Masters and i'm not sure if i can swing it. let's hope NYS is lenient with those extensions.)

note: if you are one of those people that is not a fan of tenure, that's fine; but please don't vent on my blog. it will get you nowhere. voting between a giant douche and a turd sandwich, however, most certainly will.

some things on my mind

back to lists:

1. cherries are my favorite fruit but i'm annoyed that they're associated with sexuality, often sported by virginal adolescent females.

2. what the hell, exactly, is Bollywood? i don't get it.

3. since when is India considered part of Asia? did i miss that much of my global studies classes? am i that ethnocentric? nationalistic?

4. i wish i had an excuse to shave my head because i want to, but don't have the courage to do so.

5. i also want a Brazilian Wax, but i don't want to look like a porn star. well, in that area anyway.

6. i need to be a nicer person.

7. i miss romance. i miss it more than anything in the world.

8. i haven't been to the gym in what feels like 3 weeks. and i've been eating really unhealthy foods. that makes me feel really flabby.

9. i'm not sure how much i weigh.

10.i just found out through some other students that the boys in my class like to talk about my ass. i find this terribly troublesome.

11.while the rumors were sustained about me and Mr. Married Man, one perk was that it kept another pervy co-worker at bay. but now he's getting quite inappropriate and i'm not sure how to handle it. i'll likely do nothing.

12.whenever i throw out a number in an effort to exaggerate something, i consistenly use the number twelve. even if the result is not an exaggeration at all.

13.i have no money and likely won't have any until this coming September. dealing with living paycheck-to-paycheck made me cry twice this week.

14.i cannot wait for the summertime. i need something new and fresh, even if it is ultimately more of the same. (i will travel, if only a few hours away. that's what i used to do. i don't want that part of me to dissipate any further. i fear i am losing myself sometimes.)

interview with a rockstar, part two

I did this interview for my friend's site. It's not posted yet, so I'm cutting and pasting. When it's posted, you should check out the site: Wheelkick Records. You should also listen to this band: Bishop Allen. And finally, you should leave comments on my blog on a daily basis because I get lonely.

*****



I first heard of Bishop Allen about a year and a half ago when I went to visit a friend in Boston. Within an hour of my arrival, Gina had loaded Charm School into the CD player and was bopping around her apartment telling me each one was her favorite song. I was pleased enough with their melodies to join her in bopping. Bopping progressed to full-on dancing when we managed to see Bishop Allen twice during my five-day stay in Beantown. It was during those live performances that I fully appreciated their energy, sound, and musicality. They’re great on CD, but they’re nothing short of spectacular live. (And I’ll throw in an apology to Jack, the scorchingly hot drummer for being his token sexual harasser for the evening—I imagine he doesn’t remember, but I certainly recall drunkenly stumbling as I offered to help him lug his gear to their van. He declined.)

A few weeks ago, I saw them for the third time at their April gig at CBGB’s. There has been talk of the much-awaited live album and I was pleased to hear some of these new tunes, maybe even catch some rumors on when to expect Clementines on the streets. Their velocity and vibrancy was as I’d expected, so after a few beers and a sustained excitement for their music, I approached Justin Rice, front man of the group, and asked for an interview. I lingered creepily beside him as he was in the midst of a conversation with who must have been another eager fan. Quickly realizing that this method of indiscreet stalking wouldn’t pay off, I aborted my hovering and tapped him on the shoulder. Maybe I interrupted the closing deal of his new record label or maybe I saved him from a creepy chatter. I like to think it was the latter because, remarkably, he complied. And here’s what Justin, singer and guitar player of Bishop Allen (not to mention his new acting appearances), had to say:

I was told your band name came from the location of an old apartment. True? Did you really toss furniture off the roof there?

Central Square. Cambridge. We crowded in there for a while. We lived on the top floor, and walked up four flights of stairs every day to get there. There was a back stairway we'd take up to the roof. We threw ice after a party. Then fish sauce. And, eventually, furniture. A busted
chair we'd picked up from the alley below, a desk that was missing a leg. There was an empty parking lot behind. It belonged to Genzyme. There were all kinds of weird biotech companies in Central Square, and they all maintained empty parking lots.


And now you're in NYC. What brought about the move? Do you miss Beantown or are you completely and utterly thrilled with The City That Never Sleeps?

Almost everyone we knew lived in NYC. It draws people like nowhere else. If you're not going home (say, like me, you were born and raised in Dallas, and you can't really imagine heading back), it's easy to end up somewhere where no one is really at home. I miss Boston. I miss the
bookstores. And I know so many great people there. And it's great during daylight hours. But when I go back, it seems small and cold and dark. Hell, even New York starts to seem small after a while.


You all toured relentlessly last year and, from my strategically placed informants across the globe, I hear you gave it your all at every gig. How do you keep your energy up?

Spend five hours every day in the car, and you'll understand. The best thing about being on tour is playing. The rest of the time you're just getting somewhere. When you finally get to play, it's amazing. When that ceases to be true, it's time to give tour a rest.


When I'm trying to explain your sound to virgin fans, I'll often describe you, roughly, as having a Modest Mouse or Pixies sound. Do you get that a lot? Do you ever find it annoying?

I've heard those comparisons. But people rarely say things like that to me. They rarely try to describe our music to me at all. It's not annoying. I like Modest Mouse. I'd cite the Pixies as an influence.


Christian [guitar, vocals] has claimed himself to be more of a songwriter than guitarist, yet he has a distinct sound. How did he decide on, or come upon, the tone he uses? It's distinct, yet simple and defines quite a bit of the band's sound.

Christian plays a Gretsch Nashville Junior through a custom Fender Deluxe. The amp has a Jensen blue back speaker and lacquered maple instead of tolex. That's all I can tell you.


I know at least Christian is a fan of the Strokes. Other fans? What are your thoughts on their newest album?

Truth is, we all like the Strokes. They're an easy band to hate. Or at least they were. I don't know how often people think about them these days. But their songs are good. Catchy as hell. Interesting guitar parts. At times even gutsy. I like the second album better than the first. It goes a bit further. There's rarely a moment that shouldn't be there or an instrument that's doing something gratuitous.


What are you listening to right now; what gets your groove on?

Working on a record makes it hard to listen to music. I only listen to things I know right now. Otis Redding. CCR. The Yummy Fur. The Velvet Underground. When we were on tour, we listened to the Fiery Furnaces non-stop. And, of course, We Are Scientists, who are about to truly take the world by storm.

Have you ever heard of Newburgh, NY? How about Poughkeepsie? (Did you know that Newburgh has a higher crime rate, per capita, than NYC? My local high school has sweatshirts dubbing it the 6th Borough. Do you want one? If so, what size and color?)

Last week, someone told me Poughkeepsie has the highest murder rate in the country. I used to know people who went to Newburgh Free Academy. Is that in Newburgh? I think so. Yes, please on the sweatshirts. One extra small, two mediums, one large. Pink, pink, pink, and black respectively.

After most of your gigs, you all can typically be found hanging out with fans in the bar. I'd like to know how you deal with awkward situations that may arise when you're stuck with someone that's kind of creeping you out.

"Kind of creeping you out" isn't the problem. It's when someone's *really* creeping you out. Owens is likely the most susceptible to this. But there are four of us. And finding the others is always an excuse. And finding the others always solves the problem. Running for cover, circling the wagons. Mostly it's nice to talk to people who like our music. It's exciting to hear that somebody cares about what we're doing.


So is the due date for Clementines still somewhat up-in-the-air? Have you chosen a label yet? Are there any still groveling at your feet?

We've been chatted up by a few folks, and we'll figure it out as soon as we have to. Today we recorded more. So even if someone wanted to put out the record, they couldn't. It's not done. There's nothing to put out. The details of negotiatons are top secret. Negotiations.


Does the name of the album have anything to do with that movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?

No. It's from a line from one of our new songs: "Though the years have been unkind, like a winter clementine, we can only come of age in the cold." I believe that clementines are in season in the winter. Little, tiny, sweet, orange, happy moments in the midst of the grim, horrible,
freezing doldrums. If that's not true, and they're not in season in winter, I'm just going to say they are. Oh, my darling, oh, my darling, oh, my darling . . .

Sad part is, we prolly started working on the record when that movie was still a glint in Charlie Kaufman's eye.


Where was the album recorded? Will there be any hidden sounds (rain? trucks?) we should try to listen for when we're stoned?

Car alarms, burglar alarms, cursing and spitting, "Learn to Speak English" tapes. Most of it we recorded at home or at the practice space. A band called Longwave practices next door. We're doing our damndest to keep them off the album. They determine our recording schedule. Gotta get in whatever we can before two in the afternoon.


Any plans for videos in the near future?

Yes, yes. Hold your horses. I promise there will be at least one. Prolly several. As many as we have time to make. Maybe even one for every song. I want to shoot something at the horse races. And in outer space.


I've heard there's going to be piano, some horns, and other new and exciting things on the new record. And a lot of time has passed since Charm School. Would you say that your sound has changed much?

We make songs that have more energy. Charm School was recorded by Christian and me, and we didn't have a drummer or a bass player, and we'd never played live, and nothing sounded right that required a drummer or a bass player. Now that we've got songs with more energy, we want to muck with them, figure out what they sound like with this and that thrown in just for the hell of it. My, how we've grown ambitious.


Who are your top three most annoying celebrities? Musicians?

Dave Matthews, Anthony Keidis, Perry Ferrell. George W. Bush.

If Oprah ran for President, would you vote for her? (I totally wouldn't; in case you were wondering)

Ugh. On the way to a show, we stopped off at a Manhattan polling booth so that someone in our band could vote in the presidential election. We were running late. That person voted for the communist candidate. Why? I don't know. Not because we're communists. I guess that person wanted to prove a point at the polls. An anonymous point. If Oprah ran against George W. Bush -- or his ilk -- I'd vote for her without blinking.

How'd your spot on the flick Saved come about? Is one of you secretly working in big Hollywood, and, in a strange series of events, lead to the major rift between Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie?

The phone rang, and it was someone from the movie. They said they'd had a hard time tracking us down. I was in Hollywood last week. I think I just missed Paris. Christian Owens is friends with her, I think. She seems to know everybody.

Also, our friend, Andrew Bujalski (who lived with us on Bishop Allen Drive) just released his movie, Funny Ha Ha. It's playing in theaters in selected cities. New York, LA, Dallas, Houston, Austin, etc . . .

Christian Rudder is one of the stars. I'm in it. Briefly. Covered in dirt.


It's obvious that you all work very hard to maintain a kickass band. Are you happy with results you've seen?

We're in limbo at the moment. I think I remember when we were playing show after show, and people came to see us, and they were happy, and we were happy. For the past six months, we've been wrestling with a record that just won't seem to give in. I like the way the songs are sounding. And tomorrow I will wake up and take some small comfort in the fact that I like the way that the songs are sounding. And I will wrestle some more with those same songs. But results? It's hard to see around what's consuming us right now. It's hard to imagine that anyone will ever hear what we work so hard on. It's easy to get lost, and to forget that there is any such thing as "results." We're like 3 weeks into a 3 month diet.

When I was in LA, I saw some friends play to an audience of 10,000 people. You stand in front of that many people, and it's something. It's : "HOLY SHIT." Everything that happens to us happens so slowly. Every time you look in the mirror, you're a little older. But do you notice?


How will you maintain continuous forward movement?

It's time for a frantic push. When we're done with this record, we're going to play in every damn city in the world. Three times. And again. And again. The whole time working on new songs. The pace will only increase until we fall down dead. And then we will take a nap and start again.


What do you do on your down time? (assuming, of course, that you have occasional down time)

Frequent naps. Summer barbeques with all of our friends. We still have friends, though we don't see them as often as we like. Wednesday night poker games. There's a bar in Brooklyn where, when you order a beer, you get a free pizza. I walked across the Williamsburg Bridge yesterday.

Have you caught any good shows lately? Baseball games? Movies? Amateur strip clubs?

I'm going to the Metropolitan Opera tomorrow night. I like to go once a year. To prove to myself that I can. That, yes, I live in New York, and yes, there is culture here. And yes, I can sit through something that comes from another century and that I don't really and truly understand. It's a test. Of patience. Also like a sweat lodge.

Movies: note the above about Funny Ha Ha. Not bad at all. Not bad at all.


Do you enjoy the smell of Windex (or similar cleansing products)?

Amonia smells like cat piss. I like dryer sheets. Now that's fresh.


My other job, besides interviewing rockstars for incredibly prestigious and prolific Internet publications, is educating high school students. Often, they will use "hip" terms that I am not familiar with. As a rockstar, are there any "hip" terms you can share with me that I can use
to impress or even baffle my students with during tomorrow's grammar lesson? I'd appreciate it if you included definitions.

raff: lackluster, listless, characterized by tongue thrust
bunk: bored out of your fucking skull
steve: anyone or anything, used with disdain
deked: decoyed, as in shang-haied
Rough Rider: I don't know, but the kids on the street used to call us that
in Cambridge

Those are the real deal. All I can think of for now.

Ok, let's end with a bang, people. I want to hear a funny story (preferably involving all four of you) that happened recently. Us fans get fulfillment from feeling like one of the gang, and if I ask for all of them, then you only have one stalker instead of thousands.

The story I'll work on and send you soon . . .

i (don't heart) Ryan Adams

so, i'm about to tell you that i saw Ryan Adams and Rachel Yamagata in concert. ok, so i just told you. what i'm actually about to tell is that they are the type of people that should refrain from putting on a live show. don't assume that i have much to support my views other than having been a participant in the audience. music was never a part of my collegiate studies, nor is it really a hobby of mine aside from listening to it and going to, primarily, good shows. i happen to be feeling cynical at the moment and i'm simply telling you about my evening--an evening which happened to include going to a bad concert.

Rachel had a cold. now, maybe this adds to her voice. it is a husky one, very sultry. it's a lovely, widely ranging set of vocal chords she has and i presume, maybe foolishly, that this is something that can be sustained without an upper-respiratory infection. you see, all of this became the focus of my attentions when Rachel performed. after each song, she timidly and huskily approached the microphone and proceeded to sniffle through some petty diaglogue, even admitting that she was not doing well at her attempts to relate to the crowd. now, i'm not completely unfeeling. i can understand the little annoyances that come with a runny nose. but sniffling *sniff* after *sniff* every *sniff* word *sniff*? that's *sniff* just *sniff* annoying *sniff* and fucking *sniff* gross. *sniff*

she was embarrassed and awkward and hid behind her bushy hair for much of the performance. call me crazy, but if you have stage fright, you may want to reconsider your calling as a musical performer. it kinda takes away from the show. and at the very fucking least, blow your nose prior to your arrival on stage.

in the end, she was the highlight of the two performances.

and then there was ryan. fucking ryan adams. i'll get his praises out of the way first. live, his voice is flawless as is his guitar and piano playing. it's difficult to argue that the man is not talented musically, vocally, and lyrically. so, i won't. i don't like difficult things.

when he first came on stage i was reminded that he'd decided to get into facial hair recently. i'd seen a picture but was somehow still holding onto the idea that he was really hot. i mean, he may still be, but his face didn't make much of an appearance throughout the evening. in a pinch, his head could be severed and used as a body-double for one of those Popple creatures i used to play with as a child.

he didn't speak much, but between songs, he'd fumble about the stage. i didn't find the lack of conversation bothersome, but his dilly-dallying was. eventually, the dilly-dallying became talking among the band members. in time, this too progressed to ryan yelling at his amplifyer. yelling at the amp gave way to shaking his fist to the ceiling, and the culmination of his crack-head behavior was when he began to speak in phrases that seemed to make no sense whatsoever. my only recollection, specifically, of his brief steam of verbiage was "e-lower-case-cummings" and then a mention of Sylvia Plath weighing herself, but being unable to separate her actual body weight from the weight of the oven gas she had swallowed. when the crowd reacted with mixed murmers and laughs of disbelief, he childishly shouted, "but he started it!"

i left the show before he finished his second set. i was too angry to stay. short of a full personal apology and $45 in cash or comparable sexual favors, there was nothing he could do to make me happy to be there. he was awkward. he was rude. he was abrasive. he was annoying the shit out of me. oh, and he was wearing cowboy boots. pfft.

i'm not sure if he was on drugs during the performance, or if he was in need of them. i'm thinking the latter. i mean, no sane rockstar can think that a mop of hair, long beard, and the occasional glimpse of eye-glasses is attractive, right?

though, i mean, in a pinch, i guess i'd do a Popple.

nevermind

eh, fuck it. i couldn't decide what to edit. everything started to look completely damning.

i'm completely paranoid at the moment about someone finding me.

there's nothing to see here.

i'm still excited, just not so publicly.

cough, sniffle (me)

i am very sick, my friends. i fear my day of reckoning is just over the hill, around the corner, about to ring my bell. *ting*

so, please, if you will, leave a few words below so that the angels of mercy will have, umm...mercy on me when i approach their (ok, i was actually going to write "supple bosom" there) ...

and, after that, watch this funny video: America! Fuck Yeah!

but if you watch the video and don't leave me some kind words (they can be about how sexy i am or about how fucking hilarious...the blinking cursor taunts you, begs you, lures you...) then you will most certainly miss out on any supple, merciful bosoms of any kind.

[the highlight of my week was hearing a funny story about my goofy co-workers running from bees and thinking they'd been electrocuted. id' post the picture of them, but if you're clever, you'll find it anyway. the rock bottom was hearing my giddy friend talk about suspicions she has that her dickhead boyfriend is going to propose. my mind is still exploring the art of fallatio. i'd settle just for a memory of good sex at this point.)

strangers welcome!

i set my purse and denim jacket on the kitchen table and peered out the window. i knew my dad was home, as i saw his truck parked on our freshly sealed driveway. what i didn't expect was to see him climbing our 9 ft. ladder to gain access to our roof.

"uh, whattya doin'?"

"i'm feelin' motivated, Teen! [he calls me Teen] i have to fix that piece of siding that blew off in that storm last year. just listen in case you hear me screaming!" he said with a chuckle.

if you're screaming, there's not much i can do for ya, big guy, i think to myself.

you should know that my father (technically "step father" but that's just a formality) is a large man. as his 350 pound frame mounted our roof, i flinched at the creaking sounds that marked his progress across the shingles toward the missing piece of siding. if he was falling, i most certainly wouldn't be able to help him. i was actually nervous.

within moments, i heard him talking to someone. this was a good sign. it was likely our saintly neighbor. now, my dad is not exactly the type of man-of-the-house that does the physical labor. really, my mom does everything. and our neighbor (yes, the father--again, technically "step"--of the arsonist) takes it upon himself to help out when my mother is sweating through her clothes as she edges our driveway or rakes stray branches or fertilizes the lawn. hearing his voice was equivical to a helping hand fixing what was wrong. at least in the public aspect of our family.

when the mumbled voices were accompanied by a car door clapping shut, i peered out the front window to see exactly who my father was talking to. someone had just pulled up and my dog was yapping. it wasn't our saintly neighbor: it was some stranger. he was kind of chubby and fresh looking, but must have been around my age. he was certainly talking to my father but i couldn't figure out why. so, when the mumbling halted for a few moments and i heard a faint rapping on our garage door, i kind of froze, considered, then pretended i heard nothing.

i leashed up my mutt for a quick walk around the neighborhood about fifteen minutes later. i needed some reason to make sure my dad hadn't somehow Tim-Allened himself on our roof.

he startled me when i opened the garage door.

"you're not going to believe what just happened!"

initially, i envisioned the entire side of the house having been ripped of all the siding in some freak misjudgement of my father. "what?"

to spare you the details of my father's lack of observation and utter naivetee, i'll summarize here.

the fair-skinned boy was a friend of the arsonist.
the arsonist's first name is Chris.
the boy mistook my house for his pyro-friend's.
he saw my dad and asked if Chris was home.
my dad, assuming (as he explains, without much reasoning that i could deduce) that it was a friend of mine from work, points the foreign arsonist-befriender toward the door and into my dwelling as he is perched, precariously and vulnerably, on our roof.

(i mean, i'm not exactly paranoid, but i feel as if this is foolish behavior, no?)

thanks dad.
this blog just may be full of arson-boy stories. i have a feeling that this summer is going to be a breeding ground for living fiction.

nooooooo...

so, yeah. this is my favorite aisle at the grocery store. big surprise, i know.



but something made me pause with horror the other day at my local ghetto-fabulous ShopRite as i purused the cleansing products for sale.



LavANDA?

what in the name of anything holy?! really, i post this with the hopes that someone out there can explain to me why my Windex people have blasphemed the English language this way. please. you must not understand what Windex means to me. yes, it's that weird.

and for a good kick to the abdomen while i writhe on the ground, i spot this on my way home (and nearly kill myself taking the picture):



it has been a sad day for the English language. let us have a moment of silence.

the momma-dukes

i love my mother more than anything or anyone on this planet. and the best thing is that i think she knows that.



Happy Mother's Day!

note: for some reason, she refuses to take any picture with her glasses on. so this really isn't what she looks like. either way, she is beautiful.

you're not doing it right

Tugging all day at perverse life:
The indignity of it!

--Weed Puller, Theodore Roethke

(money)

when something is taken from you--and i mean really taken away, never to return--it's a terribly agonizing emotion that begins to develop in response. like a nasty rash that is merely a vague itch at first, but by the end, has you so enraged that you are considering self-amputation.

on Tuesday, i drove homeward on 84 with my gas light on for almost the duration of the 25 minute trip. my anxiety and slight excitement of possibly running out of fuel without an immediate means of assistance must have given me a headache, so after spending over $30 to fill the tank i walked into the store to buy some coffee.

about an hour later, i am home waiting for a friend to call. we're supposed to meet up because she's in town. the time has been moved back a few times because of unforseen circumstances, so i keep busy by unpacking some summer clothes. so, when the phone rang, i assumed it was her.

this was certainly not her, notably because it was a male.

"hello?"

"this is Officer [somethingorother] from the Town Police. i believe we have some property of yours."

immediately i think of my purse, which had been stolen from the kitchen of a bar i worked at last summer.

"yeah, i don't think it's that. it was just turned in today. i'll have it at the desk so you can come pick it up."

"uh, ok, yeah. i'll be right there."

confused, i run to my purse. moments later i realize that the man in blue is correct. it was my wallet. i drove over to the station (making a few wrong turns along the way) and asked the morbidly obese clerk for my wallet. he summoned an officer, who came out and presented it to me. everything was there. minus about $50. my money for the week.

the manner in which all this unfolded is really the point of interest. i must hae lost my wallet during the gas-getting stop. the station was right off the exit ramp of 84. evidently, the wallet, my wallet, was discovered in Chestnut Road which is less than one minute from where i live. literally. by deduction, either i carried my wallet nearly to my house, was compelled to toss it through the window, and then promptly developed memory loss to forget both the tossing and the initial compulsion. i suppose the more realistic option is that the wallet rode with me, almost entirely, somewhere on the exterior of my car, finally leaping to freedom as we rounded the bend toward my house. sadly, it saw very little freedom. to keep with the timeline, it must have been found within 30 minutes. the finder then drove the wallet to the other side of town, a drive of about 10-15 minutes, taking the money somewhere along the way. i just cannot concede that my wayward billfold was stumbled upon twice, by chance, in such a small window of time.

so, i grab the wallet from the short officer asking him to give me a call if anyone turns in $50.

he laughs.

*****

(mutual consideration)

in the midst, my friend keeps me waiting for the remainder of the evening, only to cancel on her ride home, citing shitting problems. i tell her i'm angry and hang up very abruptly.

about an hour later she leaves me a very diplomatic, assuaging apology. she even mentioned it would be understandable if i just needed to be pissed for a few days. but that, definitely, we'd hang out and party this weekend. on her.

*****

(time & tears)

today, i saw the culmination of these petty disturbances. Mr. Married Man initiated the old game of "returning gifts." i complied, with ardor.

how this started, today, is vague even to myself, but it did lead to more discussion between the two of us than there has been in months.

"i'm sorry."

"get the fuck out of my room."

"i just didn't realize we were heading in that direction..."

"wait." my sniffles cease and my brow tightens. "you didn't KNOW? you, are the one that came to me with all this "i have feelings" crap last year! you didn't KNOW? bullshit!"

silence. "i'm just trying to smooth things over."

"fuck you. i'm done with this. go away. now."

more sniffles from me, even more tightened brows, and mostly vulgar language followed.

he's sorry.

but there wasn't enough there for me to latch onto. an apology needs substance. it cannot be airy and clandestine. it must be--inherently!--passionate, painful, and full of anguish. you must prove the amount of suffering is at least equal to that which you caused.

i believe it should be something like this:

it might start straightfaced, but it won't remain that way.
your fingers may tremble, and shortly after so will your voice.
if you are a man, it will even crack for a moment, notching down your pride a tad more.
if you are a woman, your voice will revert to a childhood pitch.
you will let out a deep sigh that sends spittle to your lips.
your eyes will narrow, inward i think, because it hurts to keep them open.
eventually there will either be intense reddening in your cheeks or your tears will break from your eyes suddenly. the crying will never beome full, but it will begin.
you will recite to me all the small details that i want to hear as i continue to sit on my anger.
you will allow me to remain in possession of my dignity, my pain, my time, my paper-cut frustration.
you will take the blurry vision away from my brain with the concrete resolution of your selfish ways.
you will take that grey cloud that has covered me, banished me, underscored my presence. you will take it and make me proud it was there. it will be warmer here as you talk.
you will break it all down, break yourself in so many pieces that i am almost sick with the drama--almost, but not quite. for each piece, i will know you are hurting. i will know you are sad. i will know you are determined enough to show me that you just might spin the globe.
and then, you will slowly build me back up again, as i allow you to do the same.

that is how you apologize, my friend.

:/

just wanted to let you know...

i came home to the arsonist helping my mother with yard work. and, i shit you not, i think his parole officer just pulled up in front of my house.

the vagina dialogues

we'd just sat down in a booth at the diner. it's a diner that everyone in this county, and most that have passed through, have heard of. it's the one that had to change its name because of the lawsuit with the car company. but we all still call it the Lexis, or just Lex.

with the name change was a complete revamping of the diner's interior. before it was standard mauves, blacks, greys, and other forgettable colors that covered the vinyl and linoleum. the renovations brought lots more neon lights and a vibrant interior with wall murals that cover the major walls. our view depicted some sort of ancient town with lots of water and men in tights.



all the waitresses wear vibrant colored shirts instead of the former white shirts with black bowties. i mean, it's nice, but it's just a diner.

my mother and i were seated next to one of the muraled walls, so when she started making a funny face, i had a feeling what she'd noticed.

"what are you looking at?" and i turned to confirm what i thought she'd answer.

"doesn't it look like a V?"

apparently, "V" was her codename for "vagina."

she had spotted this:



"yeah, well, there's a term for that, mom."

"yeah?"

i cleared my throat and adjusted my glasses for effect. "yes. when you can see it like that through someone's pants, it's referred to as a camel toe."

she was amused, if only for the conversion of her V to my explicit term.

this brought to mind the previous visit we'd had to this diner, when we were seated next to a section of the mural which was home to a very well endowed elderly man.

we reminisced briefly and dicussed the likelihood of the artist's homosexuality. i looked over and saw him at the far end of the wall next to which we were seated. there was an older couple seated next to our subject. they didn't seem to notice his bulging crotch. i kept my eye on them, hoping they were close to finishing their meal. when the booth was finally free, i scooted over and took a shot:



has no one else noticed this? we did some further sudy of the mural, noting the absence of many females, but those seemed to be the only two suggestive subjects. of course, that is only one wall of our mighty diner...

there's an expose in here just waiting to be discovered, don't you think?

today

today:

i woke up late.
i cleaned up years of clutter.
i found my old school report cards, elementary school yearbooks, and pictures from abroad.
i smelled the papers that were damp with mildew.
i sneezed.
i downloaded wallpaper for my cellphone.
i went shopping.
i made plans.
i had my plans revoked.
i let myself get sad.
i learned my ex uncle has come out of the closet. and i felt the pressure of keeping it from my cousin who has yet to hear the news. i listened to my aunt describe her son's eventual condemnation of his father.
i thought of calling a boy i like, but rememberd my horoscope advised me to play "hard to get."
i used that as an excuse not to call.

i had a great talk with my mother. it was simple and human. she told me what she thinks about when she rides in cars. what she looks at when she's in a group of strangers. and what she listens for when i'm quiet.

i gave myself a pedicure.

(and now i'm here, seeing my day take form. it's full of small circles. and though i'm not sure if i can see through them, i know that the spaces between are dark and solid.)

i ate nothing healthy today.