simple distractions

Golly, where to start? Arsenal finished third in the league, by the skin of our teeth, but it means that the summer won't be quite as horrendous as it might have been. I'm sad that Bacary is injured again, and that there seems to be more of an issue with Jack's ankle, but still, hopefully both of them sitting out the Euros will mean they are in far better shape for the start of the season.
To be honest though, football is taking a backseat to my real life right now. Go figure. This new job? Holy shit, I'm really pretty damn good. Now, I did scorch some candied hazlenuts today, but on the flip, I fucking rocked a ridiculous meatball recipe (seriously, it was dictated to me in handfulls and "some" of ingredients) and then the coupe de gras: I fucking trimmed and portioned out a tenderloin mid-service, on the fly. Which means, I had no warning when chef looks across the line and says "YOU, you know how to trim a tenderloin?"
I say "It's been a really long time."
He says "Can you do it now?"
I say, of course, because it's ingrained in me via CG: yes chef.
He says set up a station: there are two in there, but I need one now. NOW.
Let me just take a moment and say that the only times I have ever trimmed a fucking tenderloin of beef (one of the most expensive items a restaurant can buy, it's where your filet steaks come from) has been at 2pm, hours before service, when I've got no other prep and the line needs an extra pair of hands.
However, the fucking crazy ass intensity of a certain ChefGuy clearly made and impression. It literally has been over 6 years since I'd done this job, but dammit, it came back. And, given the remarks made by Garrett, I did pretty fucking ok. Then he asked me to portion it. Now, see, here's the thing about portioning a piece of meat: it's about a foot and a half long, it is about 4 inches wide at it's widest and then tapers gradually to the tail. When cutting it into 8oz pieces the first cut is crucial, and I should have started from the back. Oh well. Ultimately, I only wasted one, and we can do a tartare with it, but not fucking bad for a pastry chef. I was over the fucking moon. When Garrett came back and said, it looked fine, no more trimming (he did give me shit about using my chef's knife, but fuck, I didn't have my filet and didn't see a house one) and asked point blank:
"When was the last time you did that?" I said, probably about 2006 or so (probably earlier, but i don't need him to know that) and he was like "Really nice work."
They let me cut out early because it was slow, which is ok for now. The plan is for me to solo on Monday. I fucking cannot wait. Seriously. I love my work. It is so nice to be genuinely good at something, and to be among people who are on the same page. There are little things, but it is so amazingly similar to Upstairs that I can barely contain myself most moments. The waitsaff is actually better, but it's so amazingly good.
Oh. I forgot, there was one thing today: Seattle drivers suck. A lot. I had no idea how spoiled I was living in California. Sweet mother of kevin seconds, what a mess. Almost got squashed like a bug in a pileup today, but luckily guided the trusty Punk Rock soccer mom car to the edge of the road and around the idiot in the BMW.

Also, really, really miss Hopey right now. 

It's a done deal, I have a new culinary home with a lot of potential. I also got a job way sooner than anticipated, which means I should be able to move out of the brother's space way sooner than expected as well. Already have my eye on a place that lives in my personal history and is within walking distance of the job. That would be cool. Let's just hope the building isn't crawling with skinheads anymore. Beyond that, lots of connecting with pals who know me. Who love me. Who genuinely care about how I feel, what I'm interested in, and what I'm passionate about. I like knowing people, and I like people knowing me, which is a huge emotional shift in my personal being, but a welcome one. I want to share with smrge, but he is choosing not to be involved now, and so, I go on, doing what I do, following the path I've chosen, and waiting to discover where it will lead me. Talked to Karen today, and as always, a good, grounding conversation, and soon, K2 will be here and visit my new place. I can't wait for them to be sitting in my home restaurant again, and to send them food and to introduce them to the house. I am so amazingly grateful to have them in my life. I really love Seattle so much. Being down in Pioneer Square last night, was fantastic, seeing my friend's business come to life, hanging out with people I have decades of history with. This city is in my bloodstream and I can't wait for next season and to watch footy here, to meet new Gooners, to live this life I have, no matter what the rollercoaster brings. Ya gotta love 'em, your fucking friends....

back of the house

...there are few things that have been more satisfying in my life than walking into a new kitchen and killing it. I'm still waiting for the final job offer, but going in on Saturday to Branzino, a small high-end rustic Italian place that does a lot of seafood and seasonal pizzas I was full on nervous. It's been four years since I was on a real line of any kind, and I had told Chef Garrett that from the get-go. He appreciated the honesty, and invited me in that evening to trail (also known as a "stage"). I got a raft of good wishes from pals, even CG told me I'd do fine, and I did. Sure, I noticed every frigging thing I dropped (a hunk of cheese, my sharpie, whipped cream....) and when I scorched the side of a pizza (I have never used an actual open hearth pizza oven, it was crazy intense, but fun) I wanted to die. It's a small kitchen, in both in space and in staff. What it reminded me most of was that First Kitchen I was in with CG, where we had a lot more space, but the same amount of staff, and the same passion for the food, and the best quality product as well. Additionally, one of my goals this time around was to get back in a kitchen where the actual chef is there every night cooking. The station I would work would be right beside him, and when I missed an element (I forgot the lemon wedge on a ceasar) he was completely matter of fact, not rude, not condescending. His rapport with his team seems friendly, but respectful, and they all are committed to turning out great stuff.
The big challenge was the pizzas, which is ironic, since it's something I actually do on my own time frequently. He had asked if I had experience and I said doing small lunch-pizzas, but never with an oven, but was pretty sure my comfort level with working with dough and knowing how elements work together, it would simply be a matter of getting the muscle memory of pulling the dough and the timing of the cooking. I sweated it, but at the end of the night, when we sat to discuss, and he told me that he was impressed with how well I did with the pizzas in particular, I was flying. So frigging happy. Because of course, I had focused on every little thing I didn't get right...I really do love this job and it's immediacy. I like that it's like a performance every night when you work in a live restaurant, and it felt so good to be in a position that was familiar to me: pastry and pantry, starting the people off, and being the finale as well - it's where I am most comfortable, and this spot is probably as close to perfect as I could walk into after being so long out of the kitchen.
On top of the comfort level of the kitchen, and affinity for the food (I had the beet salad locked in after one go, because, after all, it was beaten into me by David and Sharon years ago: respect the beets) there was the front of the house. It's always a sketchy thing in a small kitchen, but all the waitstaff seemed smart, confident, and interested in the food and wine they were presenting. It's huge for me, after being spoiled with fantastic servers at 5 and Lantana, and then dealing with college student hacks at Pangea. They were all really welcoming as well, and one of the owners was even bartending that night (though I didn't know he was an owner until the chef told me later, which speaks volumes. You never find owners who aren't chefs working in their restaurants, and certainly to find one who doesn't immediately point himself out to you as "owner" is even more rare). When I sat to have my shift meal (a pasta carbonara with duck - chefs choice, and Garrett also sent me a seared scallop, perfectly cooked) and realized I should order wine, but was confounded with the enormous wine list - I was ably guided by one of the lead waitstaff through tasting 4 different white wines - something I would have never thought to do, and honestly quite enjoyed. I knew i liked the odd pinot grigio, but to be able to sample so many, with such a great dish of food - so wonderful and reflects their overall approach to dining.
I also was pleasantly surprised by how, even though I had butterflies, once I put on that jacket and stepped on the line, my head went into the Zone. I have never known that sort of focus in any other facet of my life, and to immediately know what to look for and that the mental notes of what I would tweak in the station once it was mine was like putting on your favorite hoodie. I have yet to find words to describe how happy and proud I am when I am in a good kitchen, where ultimately what I do, how I work, and how much care I take matter more than my haircut, my makeup, my shoes.
Don't get me wrong: my shoes matter. I'm glad I had my prized Birkis again, Crocs reek of newbie.
Anyway, I left that night on Cloud 9, and even if for some reason the gig doesn't happen (though he even said that he was happy to get me "before anyone else hired you") because he was going to talk to one other person, the feeling of being offered the job, of having them recognize my dedication, and of being able to step into a kitchen and at least do a couple of plates without flinching and step up to a new task (pizza oven!) was worth it. It's why you do a stage. Sure, I only got paid in food and attagirls, but for me, its what I love - if I didn't have to pay for things like rent and cars and the like, I'd gladly do this job for free, just to be doing what I love.
Yeah. Additionally, it keeps my aching heart from overwhelming me....

setting the bar

sweet baby jesus Grant.

not hard science

However in a limited sample survey, Tom & Jerry and Bugs Bunny still elicit more genuine laughs from a 3.75-year old than Thundercats, Octonauts, Micky Mouse & Donald Duck, Max 10 and all those weird, poorly drawn cartoons on Nick Jr. Just saying. Mel Blanc, Carl Stalling, Mr. Hanna and Mr.Barbera, you created cartoons for not just all ages, but for THE Ages.

so, yeah.

Oh. the Life, it is a neverending source of amazement. Possibly time to up medication. Don't really know. I once again find myself redefining words I thought I understood, finally. Ultimately, the lesson seems to be: you know nothing. At all. Ever. I am as close to I have ever been to just giving up. I didn't even really have any grandiose plans, just simple hopes to share moments.
Fuck. Performance art indeed. No Minchin will cure this pain. For this it'll take Khyan .

admittedly avoiding writing here...

just saying...

Namaste MCA

Another passing...this circle of life thing is a bear sometimes. The Beastie Boys were a constant in my college days, and have always been one of those generational touchstones - I mentioned them a little while ago in a post about rap, and they were the subject of an initial blog post I wrote that unleashed a daily torrent for several years. I'm posting it again, because it is a favorite, and the emotions they inspired continue to this day.
beastie love
Right, so I get home last night in time to catch the last 45 minutes or so of the SNL 25th anniversary show. I mention this mostly because it turned out to be perfect timing - I missed the gratuitous Belushi salute, which it turns out was accompanied by a lot of Bill Murray (he usually doesn't get much play at these sort of events).At least that's what they tell me this morning here in cubicleland. Now, don't get me wrong, I dig both comedians, and their shtick. Especially in eighth grade, as the only female member of the audio-visual staff at Canyon Park Jr. High (oooh, the truth rears it's ugly head...) when being able to recite the latest episode of SNL verbatim put you on the fast track to cool.
However, over the years I get tired of seeing the same clips trotted out. So I was happy to have missed that, and quite thrilled to catch young David Spade choke on his "tribute" to Chris Farley. A disclaimer: I can't watch Spade without remembering a piece of gossip I picked up from a hippie who owned a recording studio in Grant's Pass Oregon. The hippie claims to have worked with Spade in a bong-building enterprise in Northern California. Now, this is pure gossip, but one look at that whiny little burner-monkey and it doesn't take much imagination to picture him gluing stems on pvc pipe.
Oh, wait. Before I get too carried away, let me get to the real reason I was stoked to have landed at the SNL show at all - the Beastie Boys backing Elvis Costello on "Radio, Radio". It was great on so many levels. First and foremost, because the Beasties were playing instruments. And I, for one, am of the, uh, demographic that was around for "Pollywog Stew" and all that early, really horrible punkrock noise they made. I love them for that stuff as much as I love "Paul's Boutique". Last night though, watching them fully dig playing (it was clearly evident that they were digging it. HRH Elvis didn't seem to be digging it quite as much, but still played hard, which was all that needed to happen)provided a couple minutes of joy for me. I really found it almost exciting to watch them not be the Mac Daddy Beasties but to be a band. To not be dressed in costumes, to be playing with some passion, instead of performing "the gig". It was punk rock. I mean that in the purest, non-commercial way too. Yes, I realize it's on national t.v. and all that, but I'm talking about the spirit, the passion, of playing live even though you're not the most gifted musician in the world. I love that.
12:40:47 - 1999-09-27

life, the universe, and everything.

Karen and I met in 5th grade - we were ten. Both of us had just moved to this little podunk town in the Sierra Pelona Mountains, north of LA and west of the Mojave desert and Palmdale. We were geeky, wore glasses, and hit it off immediately, even though we lived at opposite ends of a rural valley that translated into a 40 minute school bus ride. Hanging out at her house after school was amazing, because both of her parents worked, and not only did it mean that I would ride the school bus to the very end of the route (her house was the second to last stop) and get to hear our very odd bus driver (Clifford, his name was Clifford) do his impression of an old time radio announcers (he would do the intro of the Lone Ranger and stuff, it was so great) over the bus speaker, but we'd arrive at their house, which her parents had designed and had built (something I had never seen done before - I have a crazy recollection of crawling around in the crawlspace underneath the house before they put the insulation in, and running around through walls that were only framed out). Karen's mom; Liz, worked in a lab. She was a scientist. In a lab. It didn't hit until later how unique it really was, but it certainly made an impression. In fifth grade, when we did our science projects, Liz brought clean Petri dishes home, and Karen and I dosed them with various liquids and stuff and then tracked the growth. I remember going to the house every day and racing to their kitchen to check on our progress. Plus, since Karen and I were such responsible kids (she has an older brother, who was a teenager and rarely around, and a younger sister; who, like my middle brother, was busy setting fire to the surrounding area with discarded cigarettes and shoplifting) we were allowed to be at Home Alone. Karen's Mom trusted her. Not that my mother didn't, but, my mom was at home. To drive us to the hospital, or animal shelter, or whatever was needed given the situation. But going over to Karen's was such a treat. They had a piano. Horses. A back 40 that was yet to be discovered, full of poison oak and manzanita, and, yes, baby rabbits.
The Saltwater Taffy Debacle (wherein we made saltwater taffy with no real idea of temperature or plan for storage. hilarity ensued, unless you were her mom, who cam home to find shards of green "taffy" all over the place). The Day Karen Built a Harness For The Baby Rabbit and we took it for a walk. The Investigation of The House That Had Burned Down. The Secret Bookcases Storage System Next to Our Desks. The Comic Strips she drew and I wrote, the creation of Fuzzies, and the entire construction paper and cardboard city we built in the multi-purpose room during the MGM program where they herded the "gifted kids" once a week at a central location. We had a connection and a way of communicating even then, that was so immediate, so natural. I had no idea it would last 35 years, and am thankful every day that it did. My family moved away to Seattle when I was 13, so our actual bonding time was only three years, but it was a crucial time in any kid's life, that time when you start sorting out what you think, what you are interested in, how to navigate the world around you - and when you are a sensitive, creative, loner with a family that isn't especially emotional (we shared that as well) finding someone who you can talk to, share secrets with and laugh with is so important.
We were housemates in college, which I probably wouldn't have even bothered with (as my parents weren't pushing it) but she encouraged me to apply, and blammo, there I was, a journalism student at Humboldt State University. Had a radio show. We rode horses on the beaches of Arcata, and I wond my punk rock wings in Agent 86. Karen left, in a mess of romantic chaos and professional indecision, but we remained close, always writing, calling, always communicating. Much angst, much laughter. We criss-crossed the country, and always touched base about our family. Her mom, the professional, the constant, the breadwinner in her family. It registered, even if I hadn't noticed it at the time. Over so many years, and seeing her mom and family much more in the years I lived in Fresno, it became very much a surrogate family for me. And by that I mean, I came to understand their dysfunction, and much as my own family's. But it was ok, because, once again, as we move through this period of our lives, it only brings Karen and I closer. She is the most constant thing in my life, and through good and bad (yep, there's been bad) we have withstood all challenges. My life without her - I can't even imagine. So, it was with much sorrow that she told me her mom, Liz, died on Monday morning. It's a strange thing when constants from your life start vanishing.
Especially lately, when I was away from my family, Karen's Mom and brother (and for a while stepdad) stood in - they always included me in family gatherings (even if i couldn't make it 'cause of work) and her mom of course was part of our daily conversations when i lived with Karen. I can't state enough though, how much Liz influenced me as far as a woman who had a job outside the home. My mom was like her in other ways (not a dress wearer, an outdoor worker and gardener, not afraid to get in with the animals, all of that) but there was this thing about Liz, a distance that she held, a sort of bearing that she had, that might have been a call back to her South Carolina roots, or the fact that she attended a formal university in the early fifties, but there was a carriage about her, a poise that I will always remember. Sure i also know her faults given my closeness to Karen, but overall, Liz was a woman who encouraged her girls to explore, to develop, to try things and to be strong and smart, and for that, I will always remember her.
Also for her affection for sun images, yellow, and bees. But more about that later. Good luck Liz, hope our paths cross again.

it's funny because it's true...

Minchin ftw, again.

affirmation

sounds

So, this just came across my radar - and here's what I think - if this is how some fucking feeling gets back into music, then I'll take it. Right now, it's nice to hear, as I am totally submerging myself in what has come before:

Because, it's so very, very easy to forget that music can move you, can evoke passion, heartbreak, angst and joy. The pablum that is fed through the machine that sells things is dumbing us down. Music is passionate expression, it's emotion, it's performance, it's a way for people to tell a story. We need more of that. More stories from real people who feel real things. Less of the hurry-up and wait for what's gonna be cool. What's cool is what is real, what is created by people who can't do anything else but make that music. Right then. Right now.
Recently, listening to an interview with Dick Cavett, he talked about art and about its relationship to crazy (passion) and talent. There are a lot of people with plenty of talent out in the world trying to make money. Then, there are the people who are passionate, with a bit of ability, who rise above because their sheer joy and intensity bring a performance to a whole other level. And there are, of course, wonderful, skilled craftspeople who can woo you with their understanding of time, measure and the beauty of sound they create beautiful sounds of wonder. Then, there is that lightening bolt. Where talent and passion collide, and you see it transform into something else, an experience, a message even. Performance that makes you walk away feeling that people are good, that humans are gifted, that we all understand that innate need to communicate and feel. Best of all, I think, is if you walk away wanting to create something of your own to share.
You get that occasionally. I've been lucky a few times to find bands and performers that move me like that. Currently, Ms. O'Day is rocking my world much like John Coltrane did almost 15 years ago. As Juno and the Gits have so many times. She's classic, but also transcendental. The layers of beauty and the voice communicating with instruments and sound....it sounds almost trite to say, but it's about hearing all of it, about that moment. Jazz, baby, jazz. That idea that it's in the playing, the listening, it's a conversation players are having and you listen to it actively, passionately.
Not Kenny fucking G.
What I always loved, in my brief moment as a musician, was the performance (although, with that one, sterling lineup, sometimes practice would be pretty sweet too) - in the moment, when the song sounded right, when the energy was in sync, when we were all, literally, playing as one. That was what I loved most, it's what I crave in my life today. I find it, sometimes, when in a restaurant, during service in the higher end ones. When you are plating a complicated composed plate, with many elements, and you want it to be balanced, to look right, to taste, just right, and you set it up for the server and they whisk it away, and you hope that the person who experiences loves it and is as happy as you are in that moment of creating it.
Yeah. There are parallels all around. More to come.

down to the wire

In the home stretch with organizing and getting moved, lots of ideas floating around, looking to getting those down shortly, but for now, this.

that thing you do.

I have an odd history with rap and hip hop. As a rule, I find it boring, repetitive and to be honest, somewhat retarded. Retarded in the literal sense: held back. I find most rap songs (music wise) to sound exactly the same. Most lyrics follow suit. I'm not proud of it, and will even allow that it's my lack of an urban upbringing that makes this all true to me. I can admit I might not understand the context. But the sheer un-musical aspect of it? Well, that just seems obvious.
How. Ever. There is some rap/hip hop stuff that has spoken to the suburban malcontent in me. The disaffected intellectual. I like the Beastie Boys, from Cookie Puss on through to Paul's Boutique. The stuff I've heard off the most recent one is fantastic as well, and my first online diaryland entry is a breakdown of a performance they did on Letterman, which blew my doors off for the sheer punk rock joy of the happening.  Of once again, watching people genuinely enjoying what they were doing.
It's not just white boy rap. In fact, most times the white kids bug me even more.
That Eminem kid - never got that, though I read reviews and theoretically get it, it doesn't speak to me the way Adam and the boys do. Perhaps it's my age - I am, of course, of the Beastie generation, of their mindset, that particular Reagan-era pissed off middle class white kid; it's like Eminem had no sense of irony, or wit, heavy on the trash part of his whiteness.
I loved everything I read about Public Enemy and IceT. I heard, growing up on the west coast, enough LLCoolJ to be wooed by the interplay of samples into a rap. However, it was moving to Washington DC that really educated me.
Shocking, right? Moving to DC in 1989: in punk rock, it was Revolution Summer, in the rest of the District it was about GoGo, and as much NYC rap as you could possibly hear. I waltzed into a job (like I tended to do back then) at a record store called "Nobody Beats The Wiz".
I know, crazy. How much more NYC could it be? Not much. The location was in Georgetown (interestingly for later in my life, directly across the street from a french bistro called Au Pied A Cochon, "the foot of the pig" - it was the first time I'd ever heard of cappuccino, which I quickly learned to hate just because I had to fetch it for the owner's harpy of a wife every morning after counting out the tills).
At any rate, working at the Wiz was a massive education - we had a small punk rock section of cds, but it was the guys I worked with, a couple of students at Howard University who schooled me in hip hop, who in hooked me up with De la Soul. I already knew of Fishbone, with their West Coast punk rock roots; and would later work with a close friend of theirs at my next job at a bookstore in Dupont Circle called Common Concerns. Of course, Run-DMC, you couldn't have been breathing and miss that. But right then, there was Boogie Down Productions to be reckoned with, Erik B & Rakim, A Tribe Called Quest, Jungle Brothers,KMD, 3rd Bass, even, god help them, DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. There were movies to watch: School Daze and Do The Right Thing, there was Public Enemy, Easy E; West Coast stuff from Tupac, NWA and Dr Dre, all of which was the fodder for long debates around the cash register as they broke down all of those early guys. Of course, De La Soul, with their sampling and their verbal interplay, got me most stoked, but I appreciated the political motivations of all of the major players, and even knew about Sir Mix A Lot from my hometown of Seattle.There were local guys DC too - Vince D, and the go-go of Chuck Brown and his All Stars would have never even hit my radar if I hadn't worked there.
Anyway, I bring all this up, because recently, there's another white kid who does rap and hiphop and he's from Seattle, and there is a song that he wrote, one that I heard in the purest form there is to discover a song (for me anyway) - on the radio, in the car. The station was KEXP, which was KCMU when I grew up - and the first place I heard Suicidal Tendancies, the band that literally, changed the way I thought about music. About what it could do, about what it could mean. Sounds odd, right? When I heard Macklemore's song, "The Town" - the melody drew me in first. Sure it had that basic hip hop beat, but it was layered with interesting melodies, interesting riffs. Vocals cut with samples of people talking about growing up in the hip hop scene in Seattle. A scene I wasn't part of, but that was running parallel to the punk rock scene that I was a part of. We all played many of the same clubs - it turns out. Sit & Spin, RKCNDY, Paradox, all of them were places he name checks and that immediately brought back such vivid, intense memories of night after night in those places. Of the community - and that's what the song speaks to, and he mentions the city government. In Seattle, in the late 80's and then through the 90's there was a concerted effort by the city managers to pen kids in. It was a very, very unfriendly city for a teenager to grow up in. Poster bans, curfews, constant harassment of underage dance clubs...places like the Monastery, Skootchies, and the Vogue, the Graven Image, all scenes of police raids on kids who were just trying to see some music. When you live through a city trying to legislate your scene out of existence under the guise of "protection" and then, in spite of that, watch it explode when national attention focuses on the bands that become so good by persisting through all that bullshit (and that's what I believe made our scene so vibrant for a time, was that understanding that it kept going in spite of the pressure, in that classic sense of wanting to piss off the folks so much, you just kept playing shows, kept practicing, kept recording, kept living in group houses with a basement where 4 bands practiced, just because you loved it, loved being a part of a community that was creating a place you wanted to live in). Sure, now that the city fathers have (supposedly) embraced the music scene (because of the revenue it brings, not because they give a shit about the people, that will never change) I understand there is a difference in the city I love. There's a difference in me, too - I'm not twentysomething (or thirtysomething, even) and in a band anymore. I haven't, if I'm honest, been to a show in well more than a year (events I've worked at like Outside Lands excluded, of course), so I don't necessarily expect it to be the same. What I do expect though, is some of the more lyrical things in Macklemore's song - that skyline that is etched in my veins too, to travel those streets that I know so well, to see those vistas that have so many memories attached. He lists all these neighborhoods, places so familiar and plain to me, that it gets me homesick in the best ways. And yet, as he says "So much has changed here, so much has not." Police brutality, oppressive local ordinances, materialistic developers exploiting the downtown and surrounding areas. I get that. All cities have their bullshit. In SF they are legislating against Happy Meals at McDonalds. Not that I'm a fan of childhood obesity, but for crying out loud, is that really the best work of the city representatives? Really?
I digressed. Again.
The memories, for a long time, were why I left (ok, there was the divorce thing, but that's all part of it) I grew weary of feeling I knew everyone. The familiar became tedious. It's only recently that I realize a lack of familiarity, or the constant infusion of a new place and new people also breeds a certain dissatisfaction in general within me. I've always loved Seattle, warts and all. Recently, my mother told me that my older (of the two) brother and his wife were at some bar on the eastside and the piano player mentioned he had attended Bothell High School (where I went, as did my brothers and his wife, and one would assume probably a good percentage in a suburban piano bar on the Eastside, just saying) it turned out he was a guy I knew from school that I was pretty friendly with (particularly in junior high, when he did this amazing multimedia presentation about the Beatles, that still probably is the single most informative thing I've ever seen about them) - he is now, and has been for a while (I do remember having a conversation about this at our 10 year reunion, about he and I being the two playing musicians in the room. Not that either of us would have ever expected it when we were in school) and when my brother mentioned me, apparently he lit up and said, "Oh, yeah, I always dug her, she's great" or something along those lines. Stuff like that, for whatever reason, used to drive me batshit - like why can't I just be rid of this? Now though, I crave a bit of history. Of not having to explain who I am anymore. Of just being me. I think it might be part of being comfortable in my own skin - which apparently has taken 4 decades to do. Comfortable enough to say that I'm totally impressed with a white kid from Seattle who writes some interesting lyrics and works with a dj (Ryan Lewis) and producer (Lewis also does the videos, which are also much higher quality and more cinematic than the usual pool party rap trash) that allows him to transcend, at least in my mind, the barriers I have to a certain type of music. I can see how you could think of it as a form of blues or poetry, if it's written like that - and I always thought bands like Public Enemy and Run-DMC and others hit that, and that I just wasn't familiar enough with what they were talking about to be able to really appreciate it as the art form it was always referred to. Now, I finally have a touchstone. Not that I'm going out and buying new stuff, or gonna hang at hiphop shows, but an appreciation for different styles and understanding is something I value, and I'm happy to be able to have a little sliver of that from his stuff. Here's another, creative spin on an old story, "Irish Celebration". Cheers kiddo.

Buzzcocks. appreciation post. here. soon. referencing a crazy show at Hammerjacks in Baltimore, and this amazing footage fromCoachella today. Seriously. Aside from Joey Shithead, there is no one I know at this...uh, vintage, doing it with this much fun and passion. Seriously. How much fun are these guys having? I love that. I love to see people doing what makes them happy. Yay. Apparently they played on the mainstage before the Black Keys. Oh, Universe, you are magnificent.

yes, please.

circus lion

I'm struggling.Which is why I'm so happy this exists....Minchin is marvelous. xo.
                                           

         - Sometimes when I do this thing—this blogging about my life—and I'm grasping for words to write, I start to get anxious or feel guilty or a combination of both. Today is one of those days, so instead of uselessly kicking at those feelings I'm just going to let it be and admit that I'm having a bad day. Tomorrow could be different or more of the same, but I'll deal with it when it happens.                            

From yesterday's game, poor Hot Robot.