Archive for the ‘Light Phases’ Category

Summer is now almost over, at least as far as my children are concerned.  My oldest begins 10th grade on Monday, August 17th, while my youngest will be stuck hanging around the house with  me until August, 26th.   I am loath to use the word “epic”, but epic is the only way to describe my summer.    From a really fabulous show at Winter’s Tavern with Debora Iyall and Girls with Guns, to a month-long vacation in Europe, it’s really been a once in a life time kind of summer and I feel so amazingly grateful and blessed to have experience it.

While I will not bore you with my vacation photos, I will give you a quick excerpt from my journal.  Now I must warn you that while traveling through Europe I read Keith Richard’s autobiography Life, and as I tend to take on the voice of the book I am reading, this excerpt is written in the style of – well, Keith Richards.  So here is a bit of my summer vacation retold to you as filtered through the literary work of Keith Richards:

VACATION

In which my family and I take a trip through Europe,  Hunter Something requests a great deal of sweets, and Fat Daddy seeks out only the best.

There were the four of us then: Zed, Fat Daddy, myself and Hunter Something, Hunter S. for short.  Hunter S. was a complete snack-head at the time, couldn’t go more than a few hours without a hit, even though we kept trying to get him to take to regular meals.  It was the sugar.  He’d go completely bonkers for it.  We tried to keep the whole thing under wraps.  No meat, dairy, or any opened foods when crossing borders, but the tour bus rides were long and we learned to put the choco granola bars at the bottom of our bags just to get past customs.

Fat Daddy was useful for keeping him in check too; he was good at playing the heavy, so to speak.  Fat Daddy had his own taste in sweets, much more refined than any of ours at the time.  He was used to the creme de la creme of dessert and wasn’t settling for the likes of what you get off of your typical food trolley.  Of course we made it through London just fine with the sticky toffee and Amsterdam with its stroopwafel  worked out quite well.  But we got a bad batch of marzipan in Estonia and that took a couple of days to shake off . . .

IMG_4610

Estonian marzipan – purely decorative.

Enjoy the rest of your summer.  I leave you with a couple of videos of my band at Winter’s Tavern.

 

A long time ago, 1996 or so, I wanted to be Kate Bush fronting Marillion; a winning combination certain to win the hearts and minds of middle America.  Unfortunately I had neither the voice of Kate Bush nor the enigmatic charm of Fish and so every project to which I brought this vision floundered for a bit, hemorrhaged drummers, and then died a slow, whiny death.  I’ve gotten over that now.  It took me almost 20 years but I have  finally come to realize I cannot sing and perhaps more importantly, prog really is the fine china of the music world- it should only be used on special occasions under certain circumstances.

Despite all this, I believe I came closest to my dream in this song.  Inspired by a binge of both watching and reading Dune,  “Little Death” is performed by a short lived band tentatively named , Make Way for Ducklings.   My poorly drawn husband is killing it on piano, and Glen Douglas  plays lead guitar;  I think Russel Pickett is on  bass, but that may also be a midi controlled keyboard bass.  The drums are programmed, because just like my vibrator, programmed drummers do exactly want I want them to do for exactly as long as I want them to do it, and don’t expect me to make a sandwich for them afterwards.

The video was filmed in Second Life in Forgotten City.

 

Welcome, Little Death

Black wings flutter in a flag of surrender

My dreams like vultures pick the corpse bare and fly off to another

Welcome, Little One

The world in your head is immense and you cross it with a step

Reluctance conquers and rules with innocence

She was never pretty, she was not the best,

She had expectations just like all the rest

She was not the brightest, she was never blessed

She held out for more, and ended up with less

Welcome, Little Fear

You sense your time has come, you jump the gun and march

on your own country

Compromise the borders and find

There’s nothing left of me

Welcome, Little Death

We always knew you’d come our sole excuse

and all forgiving friend

So kiss this demon dream goodnight

And let it end

She was never pretty, she was not the best

She had expectations just like all the rest

She was not the brightest, she was never blessed

She held out for more

And ended up with nothing

Unforgivable, the things we do sometimes

The posture we take in a room and the way we hold our eyes

The stares we never meet and the things we never say

We think we’re holding out but we’re giving it all away

 

 

womans' land army

 

In honor of the study of how unemployed men versus unemployed women spend their days, as presented by Jezebel. com (one of my favorite news filters), I present lyrics to a song I wrote for an all-mom punk band, circa 2002.   Now the gist of the current study is that unemployed men are more likely to spend their time watching television, while unemployed women spend more time caring for others or doing housework.  They did a study on this?  Did the government spend money on it?  They should ask me the next time they think they might spend tax payer dollars on such a study,  because I could have told them . . . and I would have estimated some mighty believable numbers for a whole lot less than they spent on the staff who made the calls/entered the data, etc.  Just wanted to get that out there.

I will admit my song is a bit proto-feminist, but I’m not ashamed.  The cultural references are also a bit dated, but if you’re over 25 you probably remember these things.

Housewife Army

 

I’m going to start the revolution right now, gonna raise up a housewife army

Sisters, rise up, lace your Keds on tight, we’re gonna march on the patriarchy

Pack a snack for the kids if you can’t get a sitter; making history’s at hand

Leave your dishes and your laundry undone, and take to you minivan

Housewife Army, Housewife Army, It’s a Housewife Army

Changing the world’s on my To-Do List today

The man can’t keep us down here in the ‘burbs watching Trading Spaces all day

We’ll clean your house, we’ll cook the meals, but now we’re gonna do it for pay

We’re gonna mobilize, we might just unionize, don’t talk down to me anymore

Not you auto mechanics, not you health care professionals, we mean it – this is war!

Housewife Army, Housewife Army, It’s a Housewife Army

Changing the world’s on my To-Do List today

First pull QVC off the air, quit selling crap that we don’t need

Shut down Cosmo and Woman’s Day, no one needs that kind of trash to read

Fuck Jenny Craig, fuck Dexatrim, we know a chocolate shake from SlimFast

And the designer who brought us those low-rise jeans can kiss my cellulite-covered ass

Housewife Army, Housewife Army, It’s a Housewife Army

Changing the world’s on my To-Do List today

We demand to be identified by more than what we buy and where

We want a choice, a political voice, a party beyond Tupperware

Housewife Army, Housewife Army, It’s a Housewife Army

Changing the world’s on my To-Do List today

 

 

 

 

So here it is, the second day of 2015. Last year around this time I was resolving not to tread down the well beaten path of self-improvement as New Year’s Resolution, but instead take a more noble and genteel resolve to learn a rather lengthy poem and in doing so become closer to art, beauty and poetry.   I had set my sights on memorizing the entirety of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot. I figured it would be difficult but not impossible. After all I had almost memorized all of the “Midnight Ride of Paul Revere” in fifth grade (almost).

Prufrock-1

I blazed through the first stanza within a week, worked my way through the second stanza, often mixing up “fog” and “smoke” (deciding the fog is a cat, therefore “rubs its back upon the window panes”, and smoke is a dog rubbing its “muzzle on the window panes”) and then I got to “And indeed there will be time . . .”

Time to learn the rest of this poem later in the great big year ahead of me. Yep.

Prufrock-2

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

 

In my defense I did read through it from time to time and would often remember fleeting lines here or there, filtering my life in 2014 through the poem. For instance, while vacationing with my family this summer I retooled the opening to make it:

 

 

 

 

The Love Song of P. Anna Barr

Let us go then, you and me

When the evening is spread out like spilled coffee

Dribbling off a dirty fast food table

Let’s get through security, to certain departing gates

Though flight delays will make us wait

For restless nights in overpriced 3 star hotels

Family vacations that end in ridiculous arguments

Of unspecified intent

That lead you to an overwhelming question

Oh do not ask what is it

There’s a placard right there. Read something for a change!

In the room the children come and go fighting over who gets to play Nintendo

 

When I first read this poem in my teens I felt a strong bond with its voice, but as I worked through it as a 46 year old woman I became very aware of how masculine it is.

Untitled-3

 

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I’m definitely not Prince Hamlet, but in an entirely different way than the narrator implies.   A great deal of Prufrock involves the narrator attempting to unravel the mysteries of women. Being a woman, I haven’t had much cause to unravel the mysteries of myself (that’s why I have a therapist), or men for that matter as their voices and viewpoints are everywhere. I learned early on to identify with male protagonists in movies and literature, and my love of this poem is a perfect example of this. However, as a middle aged woman I feel I have less latitude in identifying with men, or perhaps less inclination. I’m probably just making excuses for myself, but it ultimately colored my enthusiasm for the poem and at times I considered searching for a poem of equal epic proportions by a female author.   Obviously my feminist impulse was not great enough to move me to action.

 

When November finally rolled around and it occurred to me I was not going to fulfill my resolution, I panicked. I tried cramming, but the holiday season was already creeping into my schedule. Both of the bands I play in had shows scheduled, my family had a road trip on the books, and immediately after the road trip I flew to New York City to catch Hedwig and the Angry Inch with Michael C. Hall. Who needs Prufrock when you can have Dexter in drag?

Untitled-4

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker

And I have heard the eternal Customer Service rep take my call and snicker

“Sorry, your warranty has expired. I can sell you a refurbished moment of greatness if you like”

“No thanks. I’ll get used to the flickering. “

~ Love Song of P. Anna Barr

 

In short, my lofty goal of learning this poem absolutely failed. Perhaps I should have resolved to gain and lose the same 5 pounds in a 3 months cycle over the course of the year. I probably could have done that (heck I think I did do that. Can these resolution things be retroactive?)

Untitled-5

I grow old, I grow old

I shall wear the bottoms of my cargo pants rolled

Do I dare to eat gluten? Should I be dairy-free?

May I sip a glass of wine when dining with friends

In recovery?

I have heard the mermaids singing each to each

Those amphibious bitches have never once given me the time of day

Chambers by the sea

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Shut the f@#& up, you scaly tarts!

 

For 2015 I resolve to read more, write more, drink less and see every new Tom Hiddleston movie in the theater. I’ll let you know how that works out.

To get my New Year off to a happy start, here is Tom Hiddleston reciting the first part of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”. (For the record, I can recite slightly more than he does here!)

 

Christmas-Cards-05I remember my mother writing out her Christmas cards each year; she was so organized. Her address list was neatly handwritten on a legal pad, updated each year to ensure the addressees received her holiday greeting. Everyone on her list received a short personal note jotted out on Five and Dime Store bought stationery which was then smartly folded and inserted in a tasteful card that was hand addressed and posted with an official Christmas stamp. Also included in was the latest school picture of me in wallet size – my name, age, grade and the current year printed on the back.

My mother also received many such pictures in Christmas cards, some of children I recognized, but many I did not. For instance, my mother had a cousin Stanley who lived in Texas and as far as I could tell Stanley and his wife had about 15 kids. I think I met part of clan once when Stanley put the younger ones and the missus in a RV and drove to Pennsylvania, but if I recall correctly (and I’m not sure I do) by then even the younger ones were much older than me.

Because the Christmas card was such a solid, time-honored institution to my mother, never to be questioned or taken lightly, she continued to sign my name to her cards for a couple of years after I had moved out of the house. She would not have such an impertinent daughter who cared not one whit for a tradition that, in my mind, seemed to only favor the post office and card companies. When I married she began passing along addresses of people to whom I was obliged to send Christmas cards. I bristled at the rigorous act of sending so card to so many – aunts, great aunts, cousins, second cousins and lifelong friends of my mother. Also I was horribly lazy and disorganized and after a few moves, the final one being to San Francisco, I lost many of the addresses. I also patently refused to address the cards properly. It seemed too patriarchal to include only the husband’s first name, so instead I included everyone’s first name and left off the titles that denoted matrimony.

Once in San Francisco I realized that I did not have to send out traditional Christmas cards at all. The card itself could be a hint at my feelings towards this ridiculous tradition. Haight Street, my neighborhood, was full of kitschy shops that stocked cards that ranged from traditional to downright raunchy. I never had the gall to offend my relatives, who without reservation celebrated Christmas as a Christian holiday, but I did seek out and cards that were completely non-committal to the spirit in which the card was sent. Also I had acquired some Jewish and Pagan friends so it just made sense to be as inclusive as possible with my season’s greetings.

When my first son was born it became clear that a portion of my Christmas card list wanted photos. I confess to being pretty inconsistent with sending out photos through the years. Usually I would grossly misjudge the number of people who should be receiving photos and order what I thought was a reasonable amount. Plus I’m pretty cheap when it comes to buying anything other than musical equipment, and photos cost money.

My mother died on December 17, 2007, just four months after my second son was born. She never had a chance to reprimand me for not sending a photo of my new son to Mrs. So-and-So. She never had a chance to tell me Aunt So-and-So thought her second grandson was the most adorable baby ever. She spent her last holiday season in hospice in a nursing home and I don’t recall many Christmas cards my mother would have loved to see, reaching her. I don’t doubt that the idea of getting her cards out was on her mind when she had a lucid moment.

This year. This year I got it together. I thought about who would get school photos in their Christmas cards and I ordered generously. Then I sat down with my Christmas list spreadsheet, not updated since 2012 and began to edit. I have but one aunt left. One of my favorite aunt’s passed away just a month ago. I hadn’t been in touch with her in the past few years other than our yearly Christmas card exchange, although I had been meaning to call or write. . . My mother’s lifelong friend, who I had continued to correspond with out of a sense of a shared connection with my mother, has been moved to a nursing home. The great aunts all long gone, the addresses of the second cousins long lost, but I do wonder where they are and what has become of them. I have enough pictures of my kids,  but there are fewer people to receive the photos. And when it comes to addressing the cards I find myself reverting back to the traditional Mr. & Mrs. Still Married Couple, because when I get to the friends on my list who are separated or divorced or never took their husband’s name in the first place, I’m a little stymied. Did she go back to her maiden name? Did the children keep their father’s last name? Frankly I’m back to writing just the first names on the envelope. If I have the extended zip code I know it will get there.

When I moved my mother out of her house for good I came across a nightstand that appeared to have every greeting card she had ever received crammed in its drawers. Clearly those cards meant something to her. They were proof of a connection, somewhere someone cared. It was a brief, brightly colored nod and wave across distance and time that said “We share history. I know you and remember you even if we don’t see each other very often. I want you to know I still think of you and I want you to have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. (Because who knows how many years any of us have left.)”

Finally I get it, mom.

As the fall television line up makes its debut,  it’s time to be grateful for the creative and original stories represented on the small screen.   Without networks taking chances on new premises and characters we would be stuck watching the same old bad television I was subjected to as a child. Of course they would probably have to be updated a bit and so, in case the networks do run out of original ideas, I offer this:

Horrible Reboots of Bad TV Shows

(That should never happen)

my_mother_the_car_logo

My Mother the Car

Original Bad Premise (as explained by Wikipedia)

The show follows the exploits of attorney David Crabtree (played by Jerry Van Dyke), who, while shopping at a used car lot for a station wagon to serve as a second family car, instead purchases a dilapidated 1928 “Porter” touring car. Crabtree heard the car call his name in a woman’s voice, which later turned out to be that of his deceased mother, Gladys (voiced by Ann Sothern). The car, a valuable antique, is a reincarnation of his mother who talks (only to Crabtree) through the car’s radio. The dial light flashed in sync with “Mother’s” voice. In an effort to get his family to accept the old, tired car, Crabtree brings it to a custom body shop for a full restoration. The car was originally coveted by a collector named Captain Manzini even before its restoration, but Crabtree purchases and restores the car before Manzini can acquire it. For the rest of the series, Crabtree is pursued by the avaricious Captain Manzini, who is determined to acquire the valuable automobile by hook or crook.

 

The Horrible Reboot –

My Mother the Smart Phonemy-mother-the-smart-phone

Follow the exploits of programmer Diane Crabtree, who while trying to create a new smartphone OS, discovers the personal assistant portion of her prototype has stopped being functional and instead criticizes her requests and offers a lot of unsolicited advice.   The voice also sounds very familiar. When the phone, without any prompting, asks Diane “You’re not really going to wear that outside, are you?”, Diane puts it all together and realizes her smart phone prototype is the reincarnation of her deceased mother, Gladys. The ensuing argument between Crabtree and her mother/phone is overheard by a competitor; the rival programmer is blown away by the intricacies of the AI and vows to steal the prototype to reverse-engineer it.

Meanwhile, Crabtree is dismayed to find her prototype is just as dysfunctional as her relationship with her mother;   because even though she is the phone, Gladys confounded by technology, cannot figure out how to make herself work.

 

The Mothers-in-Law

mother in law_Original bad premise (synopsis from IMDB)

Roger and Kaye live next door to Eve and Herb. Eve and Herb’s daughter Suzie marries Roger and Kaye’s son, Jerry. This forces the families to be a bit closer than they would prefer, particularly since Jerry and Suzie live in the garage.

The Horrible Reboot –

The Mothers-In-Law Apartment

Mohters-in-law-apartmentRoger and Kaye have been lifelong neighbors to Eve and Herb. Eve and Herb’s son, Steve, marries Roger and Kaye’s son, Jerry. This forces the families to be a bit closer than they would prefer, particularly since the housing boom in San Francisco has caused Roger and Kaye and Eve and Herb to lose their apartments and now they must share the single in-law apartment in Steve and Jerry’s Noe Valley Victorian.

 

My Favorite Martian

Original bad premise (synopsis from Wikipedia)My_Favorite_Martian_title

A human-looking extraterrestrial in a one-man spaceship crash-lands near Los Angeles. The ship’s pilot is, in fact, an anthropologist from Mars and is now stranded on Earth. Tim O’Hara, a young newspaper reporter for The Los Angeles Sun, is on his way home from Edwards Air Force Base (where he had gone to report on the flight of the X-15) back to Los Angeles when he spots the spaceship coming down. The X-15 nearly hit the martian’s spaceship and caused it to crash.

Tim takes the Martian in as his roommate and passes him off as his Uncle Martin

The Horrible Reboot –

My Favorite MartinezMy-favorite-martinez

When Carlos Martinez, a young journalist for the LA Times, has his Uncle Ramon move in with him, his landlady suspects Ramon is an undocumented immigrant. Little does she know how right she is. Ramon is an illegal alien – from Mars.

On his way home from covering a story on SpaceX’s latest launch, Carlos encounters Ramon’s downed craft, which has been damaged by space junk in Earth’s orbit. Ramon moves in with Carlos while he repairs his space ship.   Staying one step ahead of Elon Musk, NASA and US Immigration, Ramon keeps up a snarky commentary on humanity’s foibles, including how easy it is to mess with the Mars Rover and the misguided notion that all humanoid extraterrestrials are blue, green or Caucasian.

 

Gilligan’s Island

The Premise

The Horrible Reboot

Gilligan’s Server

Skip and Gil invite five random people to check out their new Minecraft server. Everything is going well until they discover they can’t log off. Also none of their mods work. Even worse, the five random users turn out to be noobs who ask the same inane questions over and over again in chat. Hilarity ensues.Gilligan's-server-title

 

 

A blood thirsty horde has invaded my home, attacking any living thing they can sink their epipharynx in to. The mere thought of how many there are makes my skin crawl . . . and itch. No wait, that itching is from the bites. It’s been a bad year for fleas at my house.

Currently I’m treating the situation with as many natural, non-toxic solutions I can find; diatomaceous earth on the cats, floors and furniture, cedar oil to protect us humans. Just when I think I’ve got it under control and let up a bit with the vacuuming and laundering, a new wave hits. I’ve read that fleas can pupate, or stay in their cocoon before emerging as an adult, for weeks or months until they get the signal in the form of vibrations, heat, or carbon dioxide, that tells them a host is near, and only then will they emerge. That’s pretty amazing.

Cat-fle-Cthulu

Proportions of cat flea may have been altered slightly to prove my point.

They’re also rather scary looking close up. My youngest son pointed out that they bear a slight resemblance to Cthulu.  I find this makes the situation slightly more bearable, because rather than fighting off several generations of pests, I’m now fighting off a legion of tiny, multi-dimensional old gods. That’s way more exciting than trying to simply rid my house of fleas. Which brings me to the question – why are there no giant flea horror movies?

 

 

Four Reasons Giant Fleas Would Be the Ultimate Summer Blockbuster Menace

1.) Fleas can jump up to 80 times their own body length, so if the giant fleas were just 6 ft tall they would be capable of scaling the Empire State Building in just a few bounds. They would also look spectacular downing low flying aircraft trying to annihilate them with missiles and bullets which would be ineffectual because . . .

2.) Like most insects, fleas have hard exoskeletons. Anyone who has tried to squish a flea with her fingers knows it’s nearly impossible. If small fleas are difficult to kill, just think how indestructible  their giant counterparts would be.

3.) Fleas feed on blood, but not in the seductive, sexy way vampires do.   Fleas have weird mouth parts which include combs and spikes for piercing and sucking not to mention skin-dissolving saliva. The potential gross out factor in the first feeding scene is mind-boggling.

4.) Finally, a single adult female flea can lay up to 40 eggs a day.  Combine an army of giant fleas laying eggs all over the world  with the flea’s ability to stay in the pupae stage until favorable conditions arise, and you’ve got yourself almost as many sequels as my cats have fleas.

Personally I would love to shoot this film myself, but I’m too busy trying to contain the flea invasion of my home. If you know of an actual giant killer flea movie (it seems so obvious, one must exist) let me know.

flea-filmstrip