I have just finished making the annual birthday mix for Dr. Awesome, the awesome doctor. He turned 33 today (yesterday, technically) and I had to miss his soiree at the home of the Moody Blues Bros. due to packing. That is sad. But my guess is that they had a great time, even without me.
I'm not totally happy with this mix. In spite of the fact that Dr. A and Mikey J. were just making fun of me for including a Frank Black song on every mix I've ever made (and this is not strictly true--those of you who got a copy of the 2007 mix know that I didn't include any Frank Black), there is, in fact, a song from Show Me Your Tears on this mix. There are also three covers. That wasn't on purpose either. But one of them is particularly good--the Future Bible Heroes covering "Don't You Want Me." But I'm sure that I'm losing my touch and that is sad.
Anyway, happy birthday to my favorite partner in crime. I'm glad that we got to spend some time together before I have to return to Austin (yuck) and you get swallowed up by Long Island.
And yes, I did say packing. Tomorrow (today, really) I leave the sunny, breezy 80 degree perfection of the PDX summer for Austin, where the weather is less than desirable.
Once I'm there, I'll write a little about what comes next. And I'll finally post Rose Festival pictures. I know you want to see some Rose Festival pictures!
25 June 2008
21 June 2008
It's My Problem, Not Yours
I have what I know to be an irrational intolerance for male grooming. I don't want to see it happening, I don't want to hear about it happening. I don't even want to see the results if they are sort of obvious. I get embarrassed, for example, by a guy getting a radically new 'do, or doing something new with his facial hair. I don't ever want to comment on it--because I don't really want to have to acknowledge that a) the dude did something that required thought and effort on his part and that b) I have noticed it.*
Male vanity seems really unmanly to me. It isn't that I don't appreciate general male grooming--I just really don't want to know about it. I know that this is weird and unrealistic and sort of broadly messed up. There are all sorts of complicated reasons that I feel this way, but I won't go into it here, because it won't help my cause at all.
The reason I bring this up is to explain how I have to sort of suck it up when I go to Bishop's to get my hair cut. Given my distaste, it makes more sense for me to go to a really girly salon so that I am less likely to have to deal with men being groomed, or talking about grooming. But I like the bottle of beer and the loud punk rock and my stylist with the big Hebrew tattoo, so I make the sacrifice.
Sometimes it isn't worth it.
Like Wednesday. I signed in and then sat down with my book--Michel Faber's The Crimson Petal and the White. This was sort of a bad choice. It is neither light enough to read without much attention, nor engrossing enough to make deep concentration in a public space easy. I found myself drifting often--staring off into space, or accidentally listening to the conversations between the stylists and their clients. To make matters worse, an older woman came in and, I think feeling that I was less rock n' roll than the other waiters and therefore more safe, sat down directly next to me when there were more than enough seats for everyone waiting to have at least a seat in between. (Lest you think that I am being too sensitive about my personal space--when I sat down my stylist asked me if I had come with the woman and when I said no, she gave me a that's-weird-huh? kind of look.) Anyway, my awareness of the woman's closeness, coupled with my awareness of the fact that there were plenty of other seats she could have chosen, made me too nervous and self-conscious to read.
All of this led me to outright eavesdropping. The male stylist in front of me drew a young, blond, sporty rock n' roller. I had already noticed this guy, because he was silly. The stylist asked the guy what he was thinking about doing with his hair and the guy answered:
"I was kind of thinking about that thing that all the European soccer players are doing now. You know, parted to the side, a little long in back, lots off the sides and a little length on top. Sort of like a fauxhawk with a mullet." The stylist nodded like this was totally reasonable request and like he knew exactly what the guy wanted and he pulled out his razor and started cutting away.
Readers, I wanted to laugh aloud and cry at the same time. I wanted to crawl under my chair. I wanted to be anywhere else. I started thinking about my "happy place" (the same place I think about when I am trying not to cry at a funeral, or when I feel an anxiety attack coming on).
Is this a "thing"? Does everyone know about this 'do except for me? Who are these guys that they are on the same wavelength about some fad among European soccer players? How do dudes get this kind of information? Is this some kind of conscious thing among said athletes? Or is it a manifestation of the collective unconscious? Do women know about this phenomenon? Do they like it? Am I supposed to like it? (Because I DON'T.) Ahhhhhh!!!
See what I mean?
*The exception to this is if the grooming is done as a goof. An obviously ironic 'stache is funny, and not embarrassing. This may seem counterintuitive, but I already conceded that this is an irrational quirk.
Male vanity seems really unmanly to me. It isn't that I don't appreciate general male grooming--I just really don't want to know about it. I know that this is weird and unrealistic and sort of broadly messed up. There are all sorts of complicated reasons that I feel this way, but I won't go into it here, because it won't help my cause at all.
The reason I bring this up is to explain how I have to sort of suck it up when I go to Bishop's to get my hair cut. Given my distaste, it makes more sense for me to go to a really girly salon so that I am less likely to have to deal with men being groomed, or talking about grooming. But I like the bottle of beer and the loud punk rock and my stylist with the big Hebrew tattoo, so I make the sacrifice.
Sometimes it isn't worth it.
Like Wednesday. I signed in and then sat down with my book--Michel Faber's The Crimson Petal and the White. This was sort of a bad choice. It is neither light enough to read without much attention, nor engrossing enough to make deep concentration in a public space easy. I found myself drifting often--staring off into space, or accidentally listening to the conversations between the stylists and their clients. To make matters worse, an older woman came in and, I think feeling that I was less rock n' roll than the other waiters and therefore more safe, sat down directly next to me when there were more than enough seats for everyone waiting to have at least a seat in between. (Lest you think that I am being too sensitive about my personal space--when I sat down my stylist asked me if I had come with the woman and when I said no, she gave me a that's-weird-huh? kind of look.) Anyway, my awareness of the woman's closeness, coupled with my awareness of the fact that there were plenty of other seats she could have chosen, made me too nervous and self-conscious to read.
All of this led me to outright eavesdropping. The male stylist in front of me drew a young, blond, sporty rock n' roller. I had already noticed this guy, because he was silly. The stylist asked the guy what he was thinking about doing with his hair and the guy answered:
"I was kind of thinking about that thing that all the European soccer players are doing now. You know, parted to the side, a little long in back, lots off the sides and a little length on top. Sort of like a fauxhawk with a mullet." The stylist nodded like this was totally reasonable request and like he knew exactly what the guy wanted and he pulled out his razor and started cutting away.
Readers, I wanted to laugh aloud and cry at the same time. I wanted to crawl under my chair. I wanted to be anywhere else. I started thinking about my "happy place" (the same place I think about when I am trying not to cry at a funeral, or when I feel an anxiety attack coming on).
Is this a "thing"? Does everyone know about this 'do except for me? Who are these guys that they are on the same wavelength about some fad among European soccer players? How do dudes get this kind of information? Is this some kind of conscious thing among said athletes? Or is it a manifestation of the collective unconscious? Do women know about this phenomenon? Do they like it? Am I supposed to like it? (Because I DON'T.) Ahhhhhh!!!
See what I mean?
*The exception to this is if the grooming is done as a goof. An obviously ironic 'stache is funny, and not embarrassing. This may seem counterintuitive, but I already conceded that this is an irrational quirk.
17 June 2008
Newsiness
I woke up at 7:30 on Sunday morning feeling as if someone had beat me up mercilessly, and without missing any part of my body. Everything from my fingers to ankles to cheeks to elbows--everything-- was completely sore. And things went from bad to worse. Within a few hours I was alternately shaking and sweating and had a temperature and I spent all of Sunday on the couch, feeling, and I am sure, looking, pathetic.
I'm still not feeling great, but today I was able to eat something other than coffee ice cream (it's weird what you can tolerate eating when you have no appetite), so I must be on the mend.
But really, who gets the flu in the middle of June? I mean, I haven't even been around anyone or anywhere where that would make sense.
The bright spots in the last couple of days were 1) a funny text message joke from Dr. Awesome and 2) a fabulous Glenn Danzig you tube video sent to me by Mikey J. Thank you, gentlemen.
Lest this become nothing but a post bitching about my not-so-interesting illness--
***
An apology to J-Bro, since I forgot to mention her in my post about Acapulco's Gold. I am especially remiss because that 21st birthday celebration was sort of memorable. And to Qwanty: I wonder--am I using the term "cognitive dissonance" at all correctly? Because I almost didn't do it, knowing that you were reading. I have a feeling it is one of those terms that gets misused by the masses--you know, like "irony".
***
Did you hear that Tommy Lee and Pammy have moved back in together? I'm really pulling for those crazy kids. And, let's face it, they are both so disgusting and filthy at this point that they really aren't fit for anyone else (particularly now that Pam has already had a Kid Rock phase).
***
FSK visited from New York at the end of last week, and it was really, really fun to see her, and to see the other PSU crew that turned out for her visit. Also, she wanted to eat at the exact places that I have been wanting to eat since I've been here: Dots and the Delta. Come to think of it, maybe I was susceptible to the last of the flu virus because of the comfort food diet last week.
***
Good things come in threes, you know. My parents celebrated their 38th (!) wedding anniversary on Friday. That's cute, right? Blake celebrated his last birthday as a 20-something on Saturday. We had a family BBQ at the compound. Sunday, of course, was Father's Day. I'm afraid that it was a bit of a disappointment for Bruce (as you already know, I wasn't much for a celebration). It's too bad, because as most of you know, he's one of the best dads out there.
I'm still not feeling great, but today I was able to eat something other than coffee ice cream (it's weird what you can tolerate eating when you have no appetite), so I must be on the mend.
But really, who gets the flu in the middle of June? I mean, I haven't even been around anyone or anywhere where that would make sense.
The bright spots in the last couple of days were 1) a funny text message joke from Dr. Awesome and 2) a fabulous Glenn Danzig you tube video sent to me by Mikey J. Thank you, gentlemen.
Lest this become nothing but a post bitching about my not-so-interesting illness--
***
An apology to J-Bro, since I forgot to mention her in my post about Acapulco's Gold. I am especially remiss because that 21st birthday celebration was sort of memorable. And to Qwanty: I wonder--am I using the term "cognitive dissonance" at all correctly? Because I almost didn't do it, knowing that you were reading. I have a feeling it is one of those terms that gets misused by the masses--you know, like "irony".
***
Did you hear that Tommy Lee and Pammy have moved back in together? I'm really pulling for those crazy kids. And, let's face it, they are both so disgusting and filthy at this point that they really aren't fit for anyone else (particularly now that Pam has already had a Kid Rock phase).
***
FSK visited from New York at the end of last week, and it was really, really fun to see her, and to see the other PSU crew that turned out for her visit. Also, she wanted to eat at the exact places that I have been wanting to eat since I've been here: Dots and the Delta. Come to think of it, maybe I was susceptible to the last of the flu virus because of the comfort food diet last week.
***
Good things come in threes, you know. My parents celebrated their 38th (!) wedding anniversary on Friday. That's cute, right? Blake celebrated his last birthday as a 20-something on Saturday. We had a family BBQ at the compound. Sunday, of course, was Father's Day. I'm afraid that it was a bit of a disappointment for Bruce (as you already know, I wasn't much for a celebration). It's too bad, because as most of you know, he's one of the best dads out there.
11 June 2008
Word Made Flesh
OK, so I'm not some kind of hippie or anything--I'm as much of a skeptic as anyone you are likely to meet--but sometimes I do have to admit that there does seem to be a relationship between speaking something and having it come to pass. That is--sometimes it does feel that you can talk something into being.
Just a few mere hours ago, I spoke of the legendary and mighty Space Room, and lo! That is where I spent the last 3 hours, quite happily. For those of you who have enjoyed the pleasures of the Space Room, I invite you to lean back and recollect the wonderful times that you have had there. For those of you who have not been initiated, I say to you, come visit me here tout de suite so that you can begin making memories of your own. I will pick you up at the airport and deliver you immediately to the Space Room.
I've been frequenting the Space Room since I turned 21. The last time I was there was about a year ago. I'm always afraid that it will not be as good when I go back. But tonight I went with my cousin, and his lovely boyfriend Sean (who is also a colleague of mine) and it was everything that I remembered: the drinks were strong and cheap, the waitresses sassy, the jukebox filled with Neil Diamond, Patsy Cline, Elton John, Johnny Cash and the Beatles. My Bloody Mary glass was filled with the inexplicable sesame seeds. We were bathed in black light and surrounded by florescent paintings of Mt. Hood, downtown Portland, and Haystack Rock.
In a word, the Space Room is always, always reliable. And that reliability provides the backdrop for great conversation, memorable occasions, and all-around good times. And lest you think that I am just (once again) being biased in favor of PDX, let me tell you what Sean said about it: a) that as soon as he walked in he felt like he was on the set of a movie and b) by the time he left, the Space Room was his new favorite bar ever.
God bless Sean, and God bless the Space Room.
Just a few mere hours ago, I spoke of the legendary and mighty Space Room, and lo! That is where I spent the last 3 hours, quite happily. For those of you who have enjoyed the pleasures of the Space Room, I invite you to lean back and recollect the wonderful times that you have had there. For those of you who have not been initiated, I say to you, come visit me here tout de suite so that you can begin making memories of your own. I will pick you up at the airport and deliver you immediately to the Space Room.
I've been frequenting the Space Room since I turned 21. The last time I was there was about a year ago. I'm always afraid that it will not be as good when I go back. But tonight I went with my cousin, and his lovely boyfriend Sean (who is also a colleague of mine) and it was everything that I remembered: the drinks were strong and cheap, the waitresses sassy, the jukebox filled with Neil Diamond, Patsy Cline, Elton John, Johnny Cash and the Beatles. My Bloody Mary glass was filled with the inexplicable sesame seeds. We were bathed in black light and surrounded by florescent paintings of Mt. Hood, downtown Portland, and Haystack Rock.
In a word, the Space Room is always, always reliable. And that reliability provides the backdrop for great conversation, memorable occasions, and all-around good times. And lest you think that I am just (once again) being biased in favor of PDX, let me tell you what Sean said about it: a) that as soon as he walked in he felt like he was on the set of a movie and b) by the time he left, the Space Room was his new favorite bar ever.
God bless Sean, and God bless the Space Room.
10 June 2008
Golden Evenings
Friday night I was out working at a coffee shop and my parents called me and asked me to meet them at Acapulco's Gold for dinner. Which was awesome.
My parents love Acapulco's Gold, which is sort of weird, because it isn't really a "parents" kind of place. But they have (according to my mother) great chicken nachos and the strongest, cheapest, and most easily drinkable margaritas I've ever had. The margaritas taste sort of like lemon-lime crystal lite, but with a kick. That sounds disgusting, but it is actually sort of marvelous.
Further, all the servers are heavily tattooed and pierced, there are always a couple of tables of gay boys, and the restaurant is all the way over in deep NW--a long drive from the Happy Valley compound.
But Bruce and the Kare Bear love it.
There are two strange consequences of this for me:
1. Many of my adult family memories actually take place at the Gold. My parents have taken all my out-of-town guests there (Laura has an especially good story about the night that we went there). We've celebrated family birthdays there. Dr. Awesome and I took our parents there together. AND, the Gold is where my brother and sister-in-law told us that they were having a baby. (Not just any baby, it turns out, but rather the lovely Lady E.)
2. Because so many of my family memories take place at the Gold, but also so many of my 20-something memories happened there too, I have some serious cognitive dissonance about the place. After all, I also have memories of going there with Anita and Katie (Katie got so drunk BEFORE dinner that she spent most of the meal outside throwing up). And of the time that I walked there with Emily after work at the pharm and we split 2 pitchers of margaritas (which could easily kill a horse) and then walked back to the pharm and, because I was still drunk, I had to take the # 15 bus down Belmont and call my dad to pick me up. And there have been lots of nights there with Qwanty (when she dated the bun-wearing guy) and Dr. Awesome and my brother and who knows who else.
I don't mind Acapulco's Gold as a crossroads for my youthful memories and my family memories, but shoot me if I ever start hanging out at the Space Room or BOG with my parents--it'll be all over then.
My parents love Acapulco's Gold, which is sort of weird, because it isn't really a "parents" kind of place. But they have (according to my mother) great chicken nachos and the strongest, cheapest, and most easily drinkable margaritas I've ever had. The margaritas taste sort of like lemon-lime crystal lite, but with a kick. That sounds disgusting, but it is actually sort of marvelous.
Further, all the servers are heavily tattooed and pierced, there are always a couple of tables of gay boys, and the restaurant is all the way over in deep NW--a long drive from the Happy Valley compound.
But Bruce and the Kare Bear love it.
There are two strange consequences of this for me:
1. Many of my adult family memories actually take place at the Gold. My parents have taken all my out-of-town guests there (Laura has an especially good story about the night that we went there). We've celebrated family birthdays there. Dr. Awesome and I took our parents there together. AND, the Gold is where my brother and sister-in-law told us that they were having a baby. (Not just any baby, it turns out, but rather the lovely Lady E.)
2. Because so many of my family memories take place at the Gold, but also so many of my 20-something memories happened there too, I have some serious cognitive dissonance about the place. After all, I also have memories of going there with Anita and Katie (Katie got so drunk BEFORE dinner that she spent most of the meal outside throwing up). And of the time that I walked there with Emily after work at the pharm and we split 2 pitchers of margaritas (which could easily kill a horse) and then walked back to the pharm and, because I was still drunk, I had to take the # 15 bus down Belmont and call my dad to pick me up. And there have been lots of nights there with Qwanty (when she dated the bun-wearing guy) and Dr. Awesome and my brother and who knows who else.
I don't mind Acapulco's Gold as a crossroads for my youthful memories and my family memories, but shoot me if I ever start hanging out at the Space Room or BOG with my parents--it'll be all over then.
02 June 2008
This One Goes Out to the One--
QWANTY! I do believe that today is your special day. You are officially "older than Jesus". Congratulations.
Qwanty and I haven't spent either of our birthdays together in a long, long time, but we already had made a lifetime's worth of birthday memories in our youth.
Like the time that we rode around in a limo listening to the audio tape of the Singing Nun she bought me for my 16th birthday.
Or the time we went to Who Song and Larry's with her parents and her lame boyfriend Ryan and I walked out of the bathroom with toilet paper on my shoe (god bless Rick, he was the thing that MOST redeemed that night).
Or the time that Qwanty and her ex-hubbie took me out to her brother-in-law's restaurant and she got so drunk on gin from Eric's flask that she slid under the table before we even ate.
Ahhhh. Good times.
Qwanty and I haven't spent either of our birthdays together in a long, long time, but we already had made a lifetime's worth of birthday memories in our youth.
Like the time that we rode around in a limo listening to the audio tape of the Singing Nun she bought me for my 16th birthday.
Or the time we went to Who Song and Larry's with her parents and her lame boyfriend Ryan and I walked out of the bathroom with toilet paper on my shoe (god bless Rick, he was the thing that MOST redeemed that night).
Or the time that Qwanty and her ex-hubbie took me out to her brother-in-law's restaurant and she got so drunk on gin from Eric's flask that she slid under the table before we even ate.
Ahhhh. Good times.
Rules to Sing By
Late-ish last night I got back from spending the weekend at the chalet (or as Dr. Awesome calls it, the "shallot") with Jane. Spending time with Jane always convinces me that I want to sing karaoke. This is because Jane has a deep political and philosophical fondness for karaoke since it is, according to her, the most democratic of all leisure activities. (Everyone gets a moment on the stage, other singers understand that it is important to be a good audience, it is less about talent and more about heart, so on and so on.)
The problem is that I'm not built right for karaoke. Sadly, I do care about sounding decent. I am not a "performer," so I don't have the option of pleasing a crowd by being purely entertaining. (Whatever that means. For instance, I can't jump on a table and belt out "Sweet Caroline" like Andy Z.) As a result, I'm really uptight about picking the right song, and then I get honestly nervous until I get called. So, I'm not really much fun.
This is completely exacerbated by the fact that (and try to hold in your surprise about this one, readers) I am sort of a control freak, so I can't get drunk as a way to enjoy the karaoke experience and calm the nerves. In fact, I tend to only engage in karaoke when completely sober.
Let's be honest, people, I'm just not that much fun.
But I do (and I say this very, very self-consciously) love to sing. So I can't NOT sing karaoke, if it is offered to me.
As a result, I have developed a set of strict rules for choosing karaoke songs for myself. Here, for the first time in print (well, not print, but you know what I mean) are:
Kristin's Rules for Karaoke Song Selection:
1. The song must be under 4 minutes. No one wants me up there for the whole of "Carry on Wayward Son" or the long version of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" or anything by Meat Loaf. It's too long. I don't need that much stage time.
2. The song must not have an intro, outro or bridge that lasts more than about 4 measures. I get nervous. So I don't want time to wonder what to do with myself (and particularly my hands) while I am up there. I want it to be all singing, all the time, if possible. You do too. No one wants to watch me wring my hands onstage during a guitar solo.
3. The song must be in my range. No struggling to make high or low notes. That's a bad scene.
4. The song must not have any potentially embarrassing lyrics. Hey, I know that my brother once won a karaoke contest by doing a ripping version of the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself", but I couldn't get through it in front of strangers. Or people I know. I just couldn't get through it. I am a lady, after all.
5. No power ballads. This one breaks my heart, because no one wants to bust out some "Angel" or "What About Love" or (the king of all power ballads) "Still Lovin' You" as I do. But power ballads usually break 3 or 4 out of the other criteria, and so I have had to ban them as a class. These are songs that, sadly, are relegated to my car.
6. The song must have lyrics that are already completely known to me. I'm going to watch the words the whole time that I'm singing, but it isn't because I don't already know them. It is because I don't want to make eye contact with anyone watching me. I don't want to screw up, and the best way not to screw up is to already know the words.
These are some songs that meet all the criteria above, and that I have thus approved for possible karaoke choices: "Manic Monday", "Johnny Angel", "Teenager in Love" (which becomes somewhat more inappropriate the older I get), "Love is all Around", and, occasionally, "Ramblin' Man". I have also recently come around to thinking that I should add the Violent Femmes song "American Music"--there are lots of fun uh-uh-ohs in that one . . .
The problem is that I'm not built right for karaoke. Sadly, I do care about sounding decent. I am not a "performer," so I don't have the option of pleasing a crowd by being purely entertaining. (Whatever that means. For instance, I can't jump on a table and belt out "Sweet Caroline" like Andy Z.) As a result, I'm really uptight about picking the right song, and then I get honestly nervous until I get called. So, I'm not really much fun.
This is completely exacerbated by the fact that (and try to hold in your surprise about this one, readers) I am sort of a control freak, so I can't get drunk as a way to enjoy the karaoke experience and calm the nerves. In fact, I tend to only engage in karaoke when completely sober.
Let's be honest, people, I'm just not that much fun.
But I do (and I say this very, very self-consciously) love to sing. So I can't NOT sing karaoke, if it is offered to me.
As a result, I have developed a set of strict rules for choosing karaoke songs for myself. Here, for the first time in print (well, not print, but you know what I mean) are:
Kristin's Rules for Karaoke Song Selection:
1. The song must be under 4 minutes. No one wants me up there for the whole of "Carry on Wayward Son" or the long version of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" or anything by Meat Loaf. It's too long. I don't need that much stage time.
2. The song must not have an intro, outro or bridge that lasts more than about 4 measures. I get nervous. So I don't want time to wonder what to do with myself (and particularly my hands) while I am up there. I want it to be all singing, all the time, if possible. You do too. No one wants to watch me wring my hands onstage during a guitar solo.
3. The song must be in my range. No struggling to make high or low notes. That's a bad scene.
4. The song must not have any potentially embarrassing lyrics. Hey, I know that my brother once won a karaoke contest by doing a ripping version of the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself", but I couldn't get through it in front of strangers. Or people I know. I just couldn't get through it. I am a lady, after all.
5. No power ballads. This one breaks my heart, because no one wants to bust out some "Angel" or "What About Love" or (the king of all power ballads) "Still Lovin' You" as I do. But power ballads usually break 3 or 4 out of the other criteria, and so I have had to ban them as a class. These are songs that, sadly, are relegated to my car.
6. The song must have lyrics that are already completely known to me. I'm going to watch the words the whole time that I'm singing, but it isn't because I don't already know them. It is because I don't want to make eye contact with anyone watching me. I don't want to screw up, and the best way not to screw up is to already know the words.
These are some songs that meet all the criteria above, and that I have thus approved for possible karaoke choices: "Manic Monday", "Johnny Angel", "Teenager in Love" (which becomes somewhat more inappropriate the older I get), "Love is all Around", and, occasionally, "Ramblin' Man". I have also recently come around to thinking that I should add the Violent Femmes song "American Music"--there are lots of fun uh-uh-ohs in that one . . .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)