Rufus the Dog. Money Is a Bitch.

A lump was discovered on Rufus. It probably would've gone unnoticed much longer had a foreign hand hadn't rubbed his belly for an introductory, "Hello." Rufus and I mostly focus on head scratching.

Apparently I went into shock. Didn't really notice how much until I was alone with Rufus and I started diagnosing his condition on my own.

"We're up at 4AM every day for food and door. Feisty. Cuddly. Drinking. Eating. So much eating. I'm calling the vet…" There was never any question. We were always going to the vet. That was just to keep me calm in the interim while waiting till we got to the vet.

Rufus has always done everything for me and he runs like an Ever Ready Battery. He doesn't seem to mind any of it. Takes the pills when they come and looks at me funny when he gets hit by a car. The neighbors love him and his demands are made humbly when he visits their homes. He cuddles and he snores.

I decided whatever the deal, I owe him whatever they ask.

But the shock.

It seems so often that I might have a range of three emotions: Love, Joy and Fear. Fear then tapers into anger when fingered inappropriately, which then dovetails into rage. Or rather: Fear irrationally crescendos into rage whenever fucking picked on. But at least it's a crescendo and of course it's irrational. It's fear. And it always feels picked on. It's fear. Yeah, yeah, yeah…it's fear. It was easy to bargain with myself when I got to the vet.

There are dogs there. Rufus is a cat. I walk in and my brain starts up at me, "Fucking DOGS!" " And his BOYCHILD BRAT!" "Don't they have cages for that shit?!" "No crying." So dramatic. And my eyes are welling, so the Aviators stay. "Rufus has a lump…But he seems fine," and I give them the checklist from my Armchair Doctory. Usually I'm just picking up his special cat food. But I feel the ire, "HELLO?! YOU AGREE, RIGHT?! HE'S FINE?!!" And I ignore it.

I look at the photos of gargantuan furry bellies instead.

Relief arrives. Partially feeling welcomed by my own efforts to smile at my patrons rather than scream the bloody murder that was icing its way over my terrain. It's the resident senior citizen with his dutiful cat and wife. They're in today and they've turned Rufus towards them. Thank Fucking God. Me and Rufus really, really needed a little tenderness right, right then. I wanted that sweetness. I was absolutely terrified. The delicacy that protects an event by such selflessness…understanding and compassion. When you're depleted it's pretty grand when the Calvary arrives. And in such cute uniforms. Just smiling and being nice. Just tell me that my old cat's going to be fine and I can take him home and continue to feed him his way too expensive special cat food that he and Myrna eat way too much of which then turns them into the aptly titled, "Dinosaur Cats," that they are.

$533. Whatever.

“Fame!”

1982
The television show, "Fame." I was 11. Myself - I too went to a couple of schools that worked around, "Theatre." One element of what this might represent is I was a young girl enamored with song, show and therefore a hook.

"Fame," had several songs in an episode. I was so stricken by one (or two) of this shows hit TV songs, that I rode my Schwinn to the local library, hoping I'd find a copy of it there. I just had to hear the song again.

Collector Selector that you bitches!

:)

2007
Song in my head in the shower this morning.
Wow. That wasn't just any song. More like one of those "mash-ups" so popular these days. In this case, it was a mash-up if perhaps Michel Gondry were the DJ.

Anyhoo…This morning sounded like a Moondog composition performed by Giorgio Moroder, with lyrics and accompaniment by Laurie Anderson singing, "O Superman."

Yep. All that while I deep conditioned.

That is precisely how it is.

See? Michael Gondry.

So my big news? Of course...

Here it is!!!
Yeah. I have no fucking idea what is so wrong with me either:


"It's not the machine..." Sigh.

Bill Callahan / Sir Richard Bishop show at The Echoplex

I went to the Bill Callahan / Sir Richard Bishop show at The Echoplex in Echo Park, CA on Friday, October 5, 2007.

Here is my review:

The concert-goers were all adults. It was refreshing for me. I came in on the last song of Sir Richard Bishop. What the fuck? That sucked. Seeing him live is a good journey. He sounded awesome. People were saying, however, that he told a horrible joke, pulled a comedy routine and it wasn't any good. That actually was residual Sun City Girls behavior.

Someone kept shouting, "Chosen One!" Really? You're an ass. But I can't decide if it would've been worse if the fellow was shouting, "Star Wars!" Bill was good about it. As the show began to wrap up he finally replied, "Not tonight. I mean no insult." Or some kind of, "I'm not saying you're an idiot in front of all these people but somebody's got to shut you up, you idiot, and since you think I'm really going to consider your cat call, I'll have to tell you, 'No. Shut up.' But all nice-like because I'm wearing a suit."

I was tired. He was great. He played beautiful music. But it was a sit down show. It was. When music is performed that's better to intellectually consider rather than rock out to, it's better if you're sitting down because nothing is moving you. Rather, nothing is holding you up. Your mind's just wandering along with the songs. Better also if it's a Friday night and you're just tired. But I was able to sit at the end. Found an ottoman in the back. I literally lied down. And like I was saying, this was bliss. The venue has speakers all over so you can enjoy from any spot.

Then I really heard him and he was great. He really made me smile and gave me hope with his poetry. I love that with so little orchestration and so little traditional construction, you can really feel like you're witnessing a life in art. He's also a character. Facial expressions that made him look like the words were being pinched out from all over his face. It made me think of listening to Nashville Skyline for the first time. "Why're you doing that? I think I like it." When you hear him sing on the record, it doesn't sound like that's what's happening. When you see it live, you want to love him. And think, "Is that because of Joanna?" When I would see him in the early '90s and it was Cindy Doll, I kinda just remember a guy that I wished were my boyfriend but since I was no Cindy Doll, that would never happen. Ah...the esteem of our 20s. But I don't remember facial mechanations. And then I missed my early '90s boyfriend.

Friends that I met at the show said he looks like he got a little botox. You know...they were actually right. They said it's very popular with the indie crowd now. I thought that was really funny.

The indie-lovers were a little annoying. The couples just bugged. So much tender touching. Uh. No. I totally don't want to see that. It makes you think about the indie-penis of that guy, and you just don't want to. "Look at me. I'm so deep, loving my alt-signifgant other at the Bill Callahan / Sir Richard Bishop show. I work at a record label."

Love,

L

Whip It Out.

For those of you who already know, please, don’t ruin the story.

So at work, I’m interviewing for a new coordinator. And today, we met with Gabe.

Gabe’s cute. We like that. We don’t have many of those at work. And since I really only called those I thought were qualified, we know he’s got what it takes. And with the way the interview went…

We’re reviewing marketing and researching and the like. I honestly don’t know how he came to say what he did. I imagine it was regarding my tits. I’m joking. But seriously. It was funny…

“….whip it out…”

Cute little dude with nice chops just said, “Whip it out,” to me.

Hired!

And the woman that I am just started to giggle. Looked away. Stared at Beth. She was fine. But not me. Whip it out was all I could hear. Or see.

I think he actually said, “I have taken Christ the Lord to my bosom and am now free,” but I heard, “whip it out.”

1000 points to my friend Gage (not Gabe) for his response to the story: “I’ve seen that movie.”

Me too Gage. Me too.

The American Way

No WAY!

A line wrapped around the building and a guy in a Spiderman Speedo and black wig was interviewing this group.

I was going to my gym - Gold's Gym in Venice, CA. It's a very well known gym as being the Mecca of Body Building. Honestly, it is the best gym I've ever been to (in my long line of 3 gyms, I can say this). But it's a magnificent blend of neighborhood workout / health enthusiasts and overgrown / overtanned body builders (both male and female).

It's inspiring.

This line? The interviews? The speedo? They're bringing back the "classic" competition network show: American Gladiator.

I watched a little of the auditions - the mini obstacle athletic course they built. There must be a twist about the Everyday Man competing because they were. I pondered the possible twist of this spectacle. Um...former wrestling champions come in to encourage or take down the contestants? Spontaneous doping tests? Hot dog eating competition?

I Play, While You Balloon.

Saturday night at Trader Joe's, I watched a sweet two-year-old girl playing with two green balloons. She was tied up in the string with the two balloons bouncing around her. It wasn't the image of a child dancing in glee like a commercial that's played during daytime soaps. She was more matter-of-fact about hanging out with her two toys. There was a give-and-take she seemed to understand. "I play, while you balloon." She was satisfied.

Then one floated to the supermarket ceiling.

She stood transfixed. Her dad tried to get her attention so they could leave. It was a balloon, the physics won out and the balloon floated away. He could handle this and knew she would too. But there wasn't really anything to handle. Actually, the situation became that she was hypnotized by the balloon bouncing around the ceiling. It did seem like she was a bit bummed, "But...you were just here. It was fun. How am I supposed to go on without my balloon?" I too became hypnotized. I wondered if driving home she'd think about her balloon and what it might be doing...or maybe on a family picnic, she'd get a flash – a memory – about that time at Trader Joe's when she had two green balloons and they were all tied up around her and how perfect everything felt. Nothing else mattered except for the balloons.

I thought about it. "I bet she does miss that balloon. I feel for her, but it's just a balloon. I wish I could explain to her about her predicament." It is ultimately insignificant. Loss.

And self-centered as I am, I thought about me.

Me and my contenting balloons. Playing and hanging with my own green rubbery toys, generally filled with hot circulating air. Or not. Whatever. I have my toys and my toys float away and I feel such anguish when they do. Such a betrayal when toytime is over, so unexpected and unwelcomed. With a seemingly ineffable morbid grief, I watch my pulsing heart as it lies beating its last measures on my bedroom (living room / kitchen / supermarket) floor. "Oh, how will I ever play again? Will there be another balloon? Wait?! Worse - Who's playing with my balloon now?" I'm staring at the ceiling, transfixed by grief - and now fear too. Over balloons.

Aye. But I have only lost a balloon. It is ultimately insignificant. Loss.

I am certainly not saying that the balloon is nothing. I am saying the loss is.

Let Me See You Smile

I am absolutely exhausted. Another twelve hour day. Truly, it's not really so bad - these don't happen too often for me. And I'm in charge! But I do dislike how I adapt to them. I'd like to be cool 100%. Instead I'm processing often and when too much math is thrown in (ed note: Excel formulas), I don't deal well.

The girl who replaced me at work when I left for 5 months, is still at my work. She's great. She's very bright and does her present job very well. It's her given profession and talent. She also did our common job very well. Thing is, so do I. However, even though she only had the luck to enjoy our common role for one "semester," she constantly tells me that I'm "doing a great job and that I just need to keep going, it's hard work but keep it up!"

I really don't want to hear it from her. Today I let her know.

I was surrounded by Excel formulas and they weren't about to end.

I apologized. Pretty much immediately.

Apparently, my heart isn't in it though. She just looked up at me and said, "I was only trying to help." And I just wanted to slap her. Wow. We both don't appear to give a shit. She totally didn't hear me and I totally wanted to connect my fist with her KXXWlovin' teeth.

I'm including a picture from the movie Heathers. That is because she and I, this is pretty much where we're operating from right now. Dissecting. CutCutCut. Bang Bang. Shoot Shoot. Happiness Is A Warm Gun...

Fortune Cookie - A Bedtime Story

You know how the game works. The idea is that fortune cookies are truly the legends to one's bedtime style and prowess. What you do is take your cookie's fortune, add, "...in bed," to the end of the incantation and WHAM BAM THANK YOU MA'AM, you're one wondrous sex machine.

For your entertainment (OK...really my entertainment), I'd like to share some of the cookies I've recently encountered. I'm including a translation after the adding of, "in bed," or if you will, post-coitus. (And you better believe it! I keep a whole carafe full of these things. I think it's actually because I have one of those brain chemical imbalances that makes people hold on to things that have no real purpose in the universe, but for some reason we can't throw out the trash).

FORTUNE: Your mind is creative, original and alert. (in bed.)
TRANSLATION: Positions. Surprise! And ahem ;).

FORTUNE: An admirer finds you charming. (in bed.)
TRANSLATION: The admirer brings out the charm.

FORTUNE: You will soon receive an unusual gift. (in bed.)
TRANSLATION: Awesome.

Whatever Happens. Don't Forget To Breath.

Nothing is outside.

Nothing comes in.

Something on the inside has got to get out.

Sophmoric Irony.

Music Makes The World Go 'Round.

Sonny Rollins.

Next up, dublab Give Up compilation.

Perfect timing.

Like finding a 10er in your pocket when your $5 away from $0 in your account.

And next up after the penny royalties, Stars of the Lid.

I think I'm excited. That's kinda funny. SOTL aren't necessarily exciting. But when you're blue and there's a tone that meets the fuzz on the TV, it's understandable how you can feel excited.

More perfect timing.

The Fallen In Love

Trust gone awry...

Sweet selfishness and greed.

Bitter tastes that turn good times bad.

Walking away, they aren't angels because it's over.

They aren't angels.
They don't know Love.

They aren't angels just because they're singing.

They aren't angels just because they're children.
Children are innocent.

Trust gone awry...

Simply just the fallen in love.

Consistent. RepetitionAh, RepetitionAh, RepetitionAh...

(THE FOLLOWING POST WAS ORIGINALLY WRITTEN MARCH 18, 2006)

I want to be so artistically advanced that I can appreciate Lou Reed during a present day live concert. But I don't. I just don't. I listen to Rock N' Roll Animal's musical technicians carefully rocking their jams to new versions of some Oldies But Goodies, and I want to see Lou do this and not the other. Precision Rock usually harshes my mellow but when there's cocaine up the nostrils of an avant-garde junkie and it's 1974 and we're still gonna try to do this rock thing people! - THAT show is where I wanna be. I listen to his first solo and fantasize of singing backing vocals like one of those glam ladies, "I can't stand it any more, more!" Yeah! Tears welling up, "You're right and I'm wrong" Can I play that? Can I smoke it? I listen to VU Live and while pondering the formative sex of the ass on the cover, I feel like I'm hearing them for the first time and oh how wonderful that was. Our first date and I was already asking, "Where have you been all my life? I'm so glad you finally found me." I was 13. I began my obsession with heroin. And I get it. I really do. Heroin is crap. It all is but he really nailed it when he wrote Heroin. He really did.

So what's tonight's point? We're melancholy. The Bush administration is setting up another scene to play for the purpose of forwarding their goals - Iran wants to talk about Iraq only to not talk about their nuclear ambitions. Fuck You. Fuck Bush. Like I've said before, said phrase loses its sweet sentiment there. In other news, I'm surrounded by a chronic ennui after listening to so many broken records today. I should go and forget and leave them in the sun. I'm grateful for what I got, I see where you're coming from, I know to go won't take the blues away but the thought of burning cigarettes shooting to the center of my head seems so much more reliable than Plenty Fortune but not much more than tiny kittens.

You're Simply Too Delicious.

Delusional and gracious while fat and punitive. I swear small conversation has never reflected such truth, made me so bored or taught me so much.

We never sleep, never leave, never arrive. Neither of us. So if there’s safety in numbers, why am I so scared of you? Such big talk for such small minds. It must be that the focus of our discussions just isn’t sincere. So, it isn’t love after all. Is it? It’s fear. You won’t leave if you never arrive. And we’ll never sleep if I the boogey man in my closet is keeping me up.

Change is so hard. Correct. Evolution has taught us such. Usually that’s saved for an object leaving your life. Not behavior. Right? We’re all set and warriors when our faithful icons have worn out their effect and we have to put them away forever. “I can no longer go there, wear that, call them…,” ad infinitum. It makes my hair too frizzy and my butt big. But what about when the icon turns out to be how we pass the salt? Are we then even able to see that? I must, must, must now ask myself, does passing to the left really satisfy me? Or do I know deep down in my soul that it’s to the right? Or can it be that sometimes I can just nudge it in your direction? Can the direction sometimes change too? For so long I skipped the salt and went au natural. I felt safe. My heart beat a little longer without all that extra sodium. But Oh Salt – you Curious Bitch…

Excuse me, but please - don’t take away the salt. Can’t you see? It’s all I know now. All I know is all I have. I believe in the salt. Anything else just isn’t fair game. Anything else just seems black as pepper.

After enjoying a little flavor, I finally see that it isn’t love, it’s fear. My focus has been so insincere. I didn’t know. I thought I knew. It was only that I believed it. Now my hair’s totally frizzy and my butt’s getting bigger. We cannot have that. Ah, Sweet Vanity, you are my Eskimo. But my faith has become ingrained and the palate is so rich now.

The Church Of Rock N' Roll.

So I continue my work replacing precious lost records burned and destroyed by the great fires of 2000 - 2002. Last month eBay ate my homework. I've been nothing but reaping the rewards of this too. I gladly feed the hungry beast.

But today - so weird. My Orchids / Epicurean double LP arrived with the usual, "Thanks for the business!" card inside. But this time the card offered a free video to a better family life courtesy of The Church of Later-Day Saints.

Huh?

Since when do the Later-Day Saints collect Sarah records? It's this LP that even features the sweet little quote, "the philosophy of Epicureans taught that the highest good is temporal happiness which is to be achieved by the practise [sic] of virtues." Or am I missing something? Is this card part of a collectible piece complementing the Epicurean philosophy and I'm just not hip to it? I'm cool with that. Just let me know.

But I don't think so.

So also please tell me what part of, "Pristine Christine," is conjuring Beelzebub? Is it those FIERCE opening guitar licks? They do make me scream... What about songs like, "Say Yes to Everything"? Whenever I hear it I think, "Why not?!" Isn't that the point? And it's always about love too. Yes. Yes it is. It's always soft, there's always sunshine, you're always walking in it and when you're not, it's the music's sanguine melody - I'm thinking Field Mice here - that'll grant you any necessary salvation anyway. There's no harm from tremendous reverb, poppy snares and infinite optimism. Not since I last checked. The free video seems completely unnecessary. I get a better family simply by just placing the needle on the record.

Wait a minute! WOW! That could be a great campaign! These guys are totally missing it:

"Put the needle on the record, not your arm!"

Who's with me?

But I should say before I continue to hastily mock this group of anti-masturbatory zealots a.k.a. The Mormons - absolutely no relation to The Monks - I must acknowledge and give praise to at least one of their flock for capturing an unforeseen amazing story of Rock N' Roll with the film, "New York Doll." [Tell it to us Tracy!] If you haven't seen it, you're only hurting yourself. This movie is absolutely overwhelming and will utterly destroy you. It's a sweet salve featuring fabulous true tales of glam all over it. It also features David Johansen with a little spittle in the corner of his mouth sometimes. You don't want to miss that. Out on DVD soon.

Further disproving my point, the sweet, peculiar gent who took me up and furthered my education for all of this pretty music is presently enjoying a lockdown rehab plan, nursing the psychotic wounds of a real nice speed addiction. So I'll admit, my theory is not fact. This poppy little music collector is certainly no saint as my philosophy of the music might try to insist. And me? I'll just say pretty pop's not my only vice. Still, with this mean caffeine addiction of mine and love of broccoli issues, I think perhaps my eBay seller was thinking more about my friend instead of me. I'll be sure to forward the card.

Sincerely, The

Fawning over bears
Gets you mauled

Kindling young wood
Leaves splinters

Running with scissors
Can poke an eye out

Feeding the tadpoles
Can take a lifetime

Do you have a lifetime? Can you afford to lose your head? Scar your body? Poke an eye out?

Staring at stars
Can blind you

Living in the stars
May asphyxiate

Dreaming too much
Wrinkles your linens

Sleeping with the enemy
Gets you killed

There’s no room for a doe-eyed lumberjack whittling logs into paper mâché milky ways.

Match your shoes with your dress, young lady.
Your path needs to be sensible.

Ah. Tonight.

Heavy. Gold. I go. Diamond. I fall. Drip. Emotion. Paint. Involved.