older, wiser, but what does it matter when the world is imploding around me?

Seattle had a mass shooting downtown last night a half an hour after I left 3rd & pine. Literally exactly where I was. Luckily, my compulsive desire to get home to my dog saved me from potential bullet holes. whee. The tide has not just turned but has washed a ton of shells away too. President is still not removed. Impeached means nothing. Who cares if you have an asterisk next to your name. The bastard and his thugs are still continually tearing apart what little democracy exists, so who cares what history will say? Small comfort for those of us who are living through this fucking class war. Not sure if I'm gonna make rent this month, again. At work was my first full day of being a union shop steward and it was ok. By turns entertaining and irritating, but I definitely can cultivate some of the hellos I've been delivering since day one. Maybe. The new pastry exec, Sara, appears to be like me without the narcissist tendencies, so that's awesome. She's also maybe 45? So that's also helpful. My entire physical being is a mess of pain though, and sleep has become problematic. Except for when I take a Benedryl, which allows me to double my sleep state to a whopping 4 hours, and only wake up with a mild headache. I suspect that my sleep apnea is slowly killing me every night. With any luck instead of Dad-style heart attack, I will just suffocate in bed one night. However - I had a rare dream last night that wrapped up (don't ever remember how these things start) with KC and I having a super long walk along a fremont/ballard -ish canal needing to meet up with Karen and some other people. We were running late and saw a boat with a woman who was showing kids along the canal via the boat and when I walked by and just jumped in, they were so stoked with the dog (so typical) that we were allowed to stay in the boat. When the boatride ended we jumped out and met up with Karen and some other peeps, and began to walk in a Frelard sort of quasi-light industrial area (shades of doorknocking, to be honest) and then KC became a goat (and not by magic, she was just suddenly a goat, but still somehow KC? Too much Milk Barn Farm Insta ((and cbd)) before bed) who had eaten something bad from the side of the road (which I am constantly telling her not to do IRL) and she started puking and swelling up, so I looked around to find her water, and there was a porch of a hippy house that had pots and a faucet, so I jumped up on the porch grabbing a pot to get KC the goat water, while the others stood by and watched. A dude came from out of the house (hot, but not specifically - just a hirsute manly Jason Mamoa sort of guy; and there was a woman still in the house too, maybe? He said it was ok, put his hands on my shoulders and told me to relax and then got behind me so my head was cradled in his crouching lap and he gave me this bong (oh shit, a chillum?) to smoke - saying I needed to come in and relax after we get the goat out of trouble(I kept telling him she was my goat). He put some sort of scarf over my head, but I could hear Karen & the others getting worried, and one of the guys with her leaned in my ear and said "You don't have to do this" and then I realized (decided?) I didn't want to get that high, and told the guy no thanks. I hugged my goat, started to stand up from the guy's lap (which was warm, and supporting) and then I woke up. My subconscious is NOT SUBTLE. Momma needs to get fucking laid. But momma has no desire to get involved with anyone. Ah well. Also, Karen and Ken are going to Cracked Pepper's debut brunch and I am very jealous.

feliz cumpleanos.

For my birthday this year, I got myself a new job. I hadn't planned to get myself anything (hours have been minimal in the last few months, so just getting the power bill paid would be gift enough), but an opportunity presented itself, and so I went for it. Generally, when I take a broad look at my working life - me just jumping into stuff rarely works out, and sometimes (say in the rotisserie chicken-related scenarios) they lead to nervous breakdowns and panic attacks. This year though, on the completion of my 53rd trip around the sun I was moved to say "fuck this boring, tedious life I have allowed myself to settle into, and let's spin the dial again" and accepted an offer to become a paid political operative. Ok, actually I'm going to be a canvasser for the city council race in my home district. I am going to get involved on the ground. Something I should have done 30 years ago, like most politically-minded college kids, but the punk-rock band got in the way, then the debauchery, and then the grief and depression that comes from unexpected loss. Much like my foray into cooking professionally, I want to give being part of a campaign a try. I want to see how it works. Most of all, I want to see if I mesh into the world, see if its something I might be good at. If I can find another opportunity to follow this one, I will be fine ending my time in the kitchen. I have done what I wanted to really do, to feel, to understand about that world and that life. To be completely honest - its time to move on to a new sort of compulsive world. We'll see if I sink or swim. The best news is that my old job will remain for me (I am officially taking a leave of absence) should I decide to go back.

On and On.

"What a bunch of shit." - Jesse, former babysittee, bartender, and one of my oldest friends from Seattle.

That could have easily been the title for this entry, to be honest. It could well be the title for the next one if I decide to delve into the insanity that has become urban growth in Seattle currently (though, that being said, while I'm fond of many of the changes happening, it is in direct proportion to the destruction of Seattle's unique character that breaks my heart). Today though completes the first entire week of the post-Briggs/Agent86 world we now live in. I say that knowing that for the vast majority of people this is not an issue. For me though, it is a much bigger deal than I expected. Not only because it eliminates an ongoing feature in my strange excuse for a life, but it also removes a real-life talisman from the world at large. While I need to promise myself right now that I won't continue to count the days, there is grief, and if I know anything it is that the grief needs to be processed. Even if it is finally me growing the fuck up and out of my tortured memory of a life once lived. So a couple things that I also want to remind myself happened in the deluge of this nonsense. I watched my ex-husband launch himself into Mike's personal life online, and it was in equal measure excruciating, hilarious, and vindicating. The self-righteous nature in the guise of compassion and intelligence that so effectively pulled the rug out from under me TWICE led him to pontificate, and step in a big, stupid, slutty mess of shit. Which in turn allowed me to commiserate with my favorite DC drummer who immediately had reached out to me when he watched the shitshow unfold on the social media of choice. Beyond that, (as he often did with both Mike and I) he appropriated my words, specifically the remembrance I posted. Oh? You can't imagine a world without Mike? Really? Seems to me you can not only imagine a world without anyone you choose, you manifest it on a constant basis. Further, because I know he's a lurker: having the unbelievable nerve to message ME and ask if he's gone, and then fucking say "Sorry"? Oh, you're sorry for THAT? Let me be clear, jackass: you have a lot of things to say sorry to me for, but the loss of one of the most influential people in my life? Fuck right off. You don't know what you are talking about, even though I'm quite sure you THINK you do. The fact that you reached out was bad enough, but to try and equate MY loss to anything you might feel about Mike's passing? Flat out garbage. This constant and apparently ongoing appropriation of MY life experiences is very possibly the most regrettable part of ever sharing anything with him. Fucking bloodsucking ghoul. I will not make that mistake a third time. The good news is it was fodder for some belly laughs in telling the story to the some of the people I spoke with over the weekend (which has been really nice, even given the circumstances), and culminating yesterday speaking to the mother of Mike's kid. I never met her in person, though we had exchanged texts and spoken on the phone a couple times over the decade plus she was with him. Because the divorce situation with Mike had been bitter and the new "wife" was clearly some sort of vulture/attention whore, I did feel some compassion for her, a kinship to anyone who puts in that kind of time with Mike even after their relationship blew up like a bomb. I guess I always feel compassion for those that followed me into the Agent86 abyss (except for my ex-husband, because he manipulated me out of the band and then went back to claim it as his own. Horseshit of the highest order). The kid is 12, and that is a hell of an age to lose a parent, especially one who had been as sick as he was in the last couple of years. I had been sitting on a batch of photos from when he and I were in college, and in DC for a while, and so finally I sent a package Tuesday and it arrived on Thursday and the Mom called to thank me - and to be honest, I wasn't sure if I'd ever hear from either of them. But she was nice, and even mentioned the photos from our Jamaican trip - apparently, he had never mentioned that to her (I am surprised that he didn't to be honest, seems like bragging about going to Montego Bay would have been something he would have shared all the time) so even she learned something new about him, and saw sides she had never seen. It was a great chat, and while we won't ever be pals, it was really nice closure. I'm glad I put it together and sent it. I wish I had done it sooner so he could have told his daughter some of the stories behind the pictures himself, but at least she has something of her dad's earlier days. In more woo-woo sort of stuff, on Sunday night I had an experience I have only had one other time. My delightful, super-snuggly dog was on pins and needles all into the night. Nothing weird was going on in the neighborhood, or next door. But she would not relax, and when I finally climbed into bed, she sat, stock-still, at the foot of the bed, staring past the sliding doors into the hall, as if someone was standing there speaking to her. The last time this happened, was 25 years ago, the first night I moved into Mia's old room at the Hiawatha House. My heeler, Hopey, spent our first night staring into the closet where Mia had kept her bed, and it was that same look, the intense stare of a dog trying to understand what was being asked of it. I told KC, my current pup, that if the ghost was Mike, it was cool. He would definitely watch over us, and was probably just checking to see if I was shitfaced yet. Also, had a weird interaction with a guy in Occidental Park while walking the puggle - he was live FBing, something about "Do People from Seattle Even Like Grunge?" and he asked if he could talk to me. The pup was taking her time finding a spot to do business so I chatted with him, and he asked me "So, do you like grunge?" And I replied that I did, as a matter of fact. However, I told him I was a biased sample, as I had been an active musician at the time. He lit up like a Christmas tree and started peppering me with questions, and babbling about how I was "legendary". Dude, I am not joking when I say it was a lot of the stuff Mike used to say to me about how proud I should be of that time and what we did. The timing though - it was like Mike was standing right there, just giving me a shit-eating grin. Ultimately the guy wanted me to jam with him, so I had to break it to him that I didn't play anymore, and that I am a much better pastry chef than I was a bass player. But, for a hot minute, it was a trip, and I can't help but think it was a little pat on the head from Mike. I don't feel like I have a tangible tie to any of it - and yet I do. I talked to so many people who reached out and asked me if there would be services, about how sick he'd been, about who the crazy bitch who took over his page referring to herself as his "wife" was. They still came to me for info about him. He had made an impact on a lot of people, and interestingly, you can tell by the language they all used who really knew him, and when. The pseudo-anthropologist in me is loving this aspect of the whole experience, as I haven't had anyone in this sort of relation to me die before. Definitely learning a lot in just one week. All of it actually very good, and super useful.

Oh, and in other news: I am still rehoming my LP collection and last month saw me say goodbye to two gems: the vinyl versions of both Juno albums, and they fetched HUGE prices. I still adore the music, but I have toted them around far too long, and they should be being played by some cool girls with banging stereos, and that is exactly where they went. I could not be prouder to be able to enable some more Juno enjoyment. I still have the cds, and since those are primarily how I listened to the music anyway, it will be fine going forward.

The Era to End All Eras.

It has been five days since Mike died, and I have been in direct touch with four of our drummers, the mother of his child, and his last and current psychotic wife. There hasn't been anything to prepare me for Mike's departure from Life, at all. It's only in the last couple days that I can admit it's a bigger deal than it probably should be for me, and that is my own damn fault. There are people who told me to just cut him off years ago. I couldn't do it. To me he was always that amazing guy who just careening downhill, at sometimes breakneck speed. Yet, in many ways, to many people, he didn't. The outpouring of emotion online (for whatever that's worth, and we probably won't know until I'm long past dead how little the internet and social media will actually mean when all is said and done) has been interesting to me. The perception of him as a social justice fighter, of being true hardcore punk, is really something to behold. I've got plenty of skeletons in my closet, and he was really the only one that lived a life that I would view from afar and think "Wow, I'm glad I don't have to deal with that anymore" but then inside my heart wonder would it be different if I had stayed the course, could I have fixed it? Now, I'm well aware, that is my damage, my "bag of rocks" as Chris mentioned last night on the phone. It's hard though not to think of all the crazy fucked up shit that we did, all the love we had for each other, all the fights we had, and just the plain truth that we stayed in touch. I continued to help when I could and when I felt like it wouldn't damage me or would, in fact, be in my interest (when I would retrieve shit from storage spaces for him - Chris reminded me that I did that for him, too. I don't remember that, but it also doesn't surprise me. My daddy issues are clear now, and my need to be the person my mom was is also apparent). Recently, as more people keep dying, and others I know have kids that are getting older, and my not having children brings into focus that I have a ton of keepsakes that will mean nothing to anyone but me when I'm gone. I've started to try and get photos to people, to give them bits of memories that I have been sitting on like a fucking broody hen for well over 20 years now. Creating a package for Mike's daughter was way more disappointing than I thought it would be. I thought I had more stuff. She's only 12, so there are still things I can't give her until she asks for them (because...well...her mom might not appreciate it). I still wish I could talk to my father's first wife, or people he was in the police force with, or people he worked with at IBM in the late 60's with, just to get a sense of who he was, because I never knew much about what made my dad tick except on the most superficial level. I wonder if Mike's daughter will wonder about what Young Mike was about. Additionally, trying to decide which photos I wanted to keep has been something I've been avoiding for more than a couple years now. I have for years had this series I took while I was deep in photojournalism mode, all in b&w, of young, vital Mike when I first fell for him. They are now on their way to his daughter - and I am faced with not having that touchstone for the rest of (spoiler: I suspect I am going to be part of the Orgill curse, so if I make it past 57, huzzah. I honestly don't think I will) my life. It's good though right? I mean, as much adventure and fun that we had: he hurt me a lot. He was tough to live with, a lot. I was the peacekeeper in the band A LOT. He couldn't/wouldn't climb out of his bong after 1993, and he was so fixated on the band and his legacy that it became almost comical (then tragic, as it does in Shakespeare). It became an ongoing thing like the swallows coming back to Capistrano: when would I get the call to re-join Agent86 again because he'd found a new drummer and had some shows booked. The Saturday I found out he'd died, via Facebook, not only was I bummed that his run was over, but it hit me that probably the only way I would know is because there is a Facebook to tell me. He had divorced the mother of the child and it wasn't amicable, so she wasn't around when it happened, and he had a new girlfriend that had clearly signed on as a vulture, who I didn't know. If there were no social media, neither of them would have called me, surely. Would they have even have had a number to call? I could have gone for years not knowing he was dead. Instead, I knew almost immediately. People were very kind, especially those who knew him when we were together, and not ever after. I'm still grasping at how to feel though. All I know is: this is now a world where I will never, ever get a call, text, message, postcard, letter, anything from Mike Briggs ever again. And, after almost 35 years, that is crazy to imagine. I have fallen hard for a few other people since him, but never in the way I did when I was 19 and everything was possible. He made me a better consumer of media, a better defender of opinion, a better lover, a better person even when he showed me what I didn't want to be. When I left him in Eugene in 1993, I remember feeling so unhappy, so deeply sad that the relationship and the band just hadn't become what I'd hoped it would. It pushed me to venture out on my own. Until then I hadn't lived alone before. It was a battle to establish my personality outside the construct of Being in The Band with Mike. I did it but slid back a few times. Even when my marriage caved in years later, I bounced back and set new goals for myself much easier than I ever would have if I hadn't had to grow so much after leaving Mike and then being able to remain friends with him and play in the band for another almost ten years, plus go on to stay in contact when I jettisoned music altogether and moved into cooking professionally. This week has had me feeling the same weird waves of "who am I?" that I had then, in an oddly similar way I felt after putting my dog Hopey down and suddenly was faced after sixteen years with the question: who am I if I am not Hopey's person anymore? This is all to say that I am still struggling. Struggling with who I am, what I want. I recognize that we all have choices to make, and that the choices I made led here. Here, five days out from Mike's death, realizing that the band is finally done. He can rest now, and maybe now so can I. "

stuff and things

What to do? Give up following any sort of news? The world is upside down and backward. Even I, the closet anarchist (sometimes not-so-closeted) am losing my tenacious grip on how this world works. This Trump bullshit has taken on a level of idiocy that is hard to deal with, even on the quiet days (wait, are there "quiet" days anymore?). Add to that, favorite public figures deciding to check out, literally one after another (for me, Robin Williams giving up was the canary in the coalmine) with Bourdain leaving us last weekend has me more than bummed. On my best days I have never been one to plan ahead. I do not save money, I do not plan vacations, I do not have a "5 Year Plan" for my career. I have been somewhat jokingly anticipating the decline of the USA for most of my life (that 8-year Obama hiatus was merely a drunken binge wherein I had to put my canine pal down and have my heart stomped a couple more times in order to make sure I don't make the mistake of trusting anyone on a romantic level ever again) but to watch it ACTUALLY FALL TO SHIT is not as satisfying as 24-year-old me dreamed of. It is heartbreaking to watch it unravel. To watch the rich become richer, the poor become desperate, the sick die, the wise defeated. How do you fight this? I had a hard time thinking the average American was not a tv-addicted zombie. Now, the ignorance, even among our "leaders" is rampant. I can't vote nearly enough, and even if I could - who controls that shit now? How do you trust elections? Ugh, even writing about it aches - it used to be a venting mechanism, but now it just feels like listing the things that I see wrong just makes it that much harder to understand. However, walking the dog still provides some solace. A couple days ago on the bus, while wearing my PSA shirt (which I had forgotten I was sporting) a girl walked past and looked me in the eye and said "Friend of the Pod?" with a smile, and at first I said "Wha?" and she smiled more and said "Your shirt! I'm a friend too" it seriously made my day. I told her "Right on" and returned the smile. She moved on to find a seat. It has come to that point - it used to be seeing a fellow punk rocker, and now, it's about coded t-shirts. Also, the Bourdain thing. I don't mention how much influence his book had on me, how much I enjoyed his journey, how inspiring someone finding success so late in life meant to me when I started so late in the kitchen, because, well, everyone seems to have felt that way. But I followed him. I wondered. I was not a fan of his immediate adoration of his new girlfriend. It seemed so much like that blind worship and dedication that so many of us fall into around people, and now, as more information comes to light, his depression may have been feeding on that. Pisses me off in so many ways. But mostly - a man who travelled so often and clearly saw the devolution of things - for him to check out (I used to say it was giving up, but now, in my 51st year on this rock hurtling through space, I'm not so sure it's giving up as just making a choice not to be a part of it anymore) after people like Robin Williams, Chris Cornell, and even Prince (accidental overdose my ass) - what is the point? Why ARE we here? People have posted mostly the same quotes from him, and sure, they all resonate. The one that speaks to me though, the one that speaks truth to me and how I have lived is this one: "Anyone who's a chef, who loves food, ultimately knows that all that matters is: 'Is it good? Does it give pleasure?' Beyond that I'm not sure what else there is to give. Maybe it is about realizing so many dreams that there is nothing left to aspire to? I have always been one to remind myself that while the bulk of life is tedious and painful; every now and then a moment, a day, an hour happens that is so exhilerating, so pleasurable, so lovely that you thank yourself for participating. Being grateful to be around, to experience that feeling. It is heartbreaking to think that people who give so much inspiration and pleasure cannot see past the pain anymore.

walking

Today we walked on the waterfront, ostensibly to check out the Norwegian Bliss, the biggest, dumbest cruise ship yet. It has a two-level go-kart track! An outdoor laser tag course! Pools, and waterslides off the side of the ship! Ugh. But I still wanted to lay eyes on this man-made fiasco on the sea, but alas, it has already set out for Alaska. We'll catchit on the way back, if it makes it back. Those boats look so damn top heavy, it is a wonder they sail at all. Anyway, the highlight of the day was passing by a guy who was standing on the street taking a selfie in front of traffic holding his newly-purchased weed in his hand. I couldn't tell at first, but as we got closer and he saw me smiling, he grinned and told me "I had to do it, I'm from Connecticut, and here I am out here on the street with it in broad daylight!!" He was so tickled with himself. I told him to have fun and we continued on our way up to the Market.

Post walk bits.

Today, taking the puggle for a run to the park because we hadn't been to a real offleash (that shitty Belltown concrete jungle gym will do in a soggy pinch, but she really needs the big parks with dirt and space to chase the ball) in a week (I am a bad mom who has been both full-on ill for a couple weeks and then the beginning and ending couple of cruddy weeks tacked to the ends) we ran into an old pal of mine. We were catching the bus on the UW campus (puggle was saying the second hello to a couple of girls who she had charmed in the light rail tunnel) and I hear a guy next to me ask "Is your name Michelle?" and son of a monkey's uncle if it wasn't Justin, one of my favorite food runners/busboy of all time from Branzino. Of course I could not remember his name (all I could think of was the other major J name I'd been involved within the last few years, though he and I did go on a sorta awkward date once)...though I did remember his sister's name. We chatted (and he hugged me like a fucking stuffed animal he had as a kid - it was super warm and genuine, two things he pretty much embodies) until our bus came and then it was over. This city is definitely my favorite place. I love the fact that I run into people I know from all different places I've been in my life all the time. Last week, we were headed home from the stadium on a walk and this girl runs across the street up to me and it was Whitney, who worked at Market Hall with me and who I loved to work with, just a super quirky girl, funny & sweet. She was with someone else who she didn't introduce and I was just over the flu, so we just said hi & bye, but again, it was so nice to see her. It is nice to randomly be reminded of good feelings and experiences. Having the puggle, and getting out every day around the city has been really helpful in keeping the horrible black cloud of doom at bay as the US continues to disgust and depress me. As I have always said though: you can't give up, because you never know what is going to happen next and it is worth finding out what that thing is going to be.

Update/state of disunion

Hi. So, last Saturday marked me being on this planet for 51 years. It also marked the day I found out an old friend from DC was stabbed to death in a small park in San Fernando, Ca. (RIP Fred.) It was also a day protesting Nazis inspired a member of their ranks to drive his car into counter protesters, killing a person. Killing a person. Killing a person for demonstrating how she feels. As with most terrorist killings, like so many before, people died doing simply what they believed they were allowed to do without fearing death: fly home from a city, go to school, go to church, go to a nightclub, go to work, go to a demonstration. I have reached my limit with this bullshit, and honestly, am paralyzed by what to do about it. I live paycheck-to-paycheck in a world I care less and less about. My great fear is that the terrorists (all of them) are winning. I find myself among humans who I care less and less about (which in and of itself is terrifying), even in this "liberal bubble" of Seattle. It's liberal if you work at a technology firm. Or provide professional service to technology firms. But you are out of luck if you are a craftsperson, a tradesperson, or, heaven forbid; a service worker. The evil work of dividing us and fomenting hatred is devious and insidious and I feel like it's a toothache of the soul - you keep seeing this crap, hearing the hate. I hate the hate, and all it does is shrink my heart. I feel like the goddamn Grinch, except everyday is Xmas eve now. The inequality has reached a point in this country where clearly something is going to give. Will it be a second civil war? What does civil war look like in 2017? Our first civil war killed more Americans than any other war in our history - how many will die this time? And for what? Plenty of other countries with longer histories than ours, built on much more stringent rules than ours, faced these questions. Now is our time. I can't even motivate myself to do my daily journaling anymore - so many people now are screaming into the internet, that it doesn't feel like my voice makes a dent here. Perhaps that is the point: stop screaming (or rambling on) into the void, and start communicating with people about things you care about. I find that when I do talk to actual humans in my life, the thoughts come tumbling out, sometimes random, sometimes flooding with rage and frustration. I am unsure how to use these emotions - which is depressing, because once upon a time writing gave me solace, and strength. Now, solace comes from hours in the park with my dog. Literally, that is the only time I feel at ease. Even now, writing this I can't even find the words to explain how disgusted I am by the racism displayed by people who call themselves American. It is simply not ok. The Confederacy lost. The Nazis lost. The same people who scream about how the "libtards" need to "shut up and accept that they lost the election" are screaming (and have been for years) about stupid status erected under false pretenses (who fucking builds monuments to failure? those status represent one thing: messaging to people that racists will not go quietly into the void. It's that simple) to begin with. See, I have been uneasy with the confederate flag my entire life, and I was born and raised in California. Lived on the West Coast - except for a brief 5-year stint in WDC; and because of my chosen lifestyle (DIY punk rock, working in kitchens) I have always been surrounded by a melting pot of people; where there were certainly old racist folks (my grandparents were full of slanderous terms for Latinos and Asians) there was still an understanding that America was the Land of the Free, and ultimately, even if you disagree with someone's lifestyle, you let them go ahead and do what they do: AS LONG AS THEY DON'T HURT OR KILL ANYONE WHILE DOING IT. Remember the show "Dukes of Hazard"? God I hated that show. Even at nine years old, I knew to be embarrassed by those stupid backward hicks. Everyone bitches and moans about how "good ol' boys" are a solid piece of our history. Are they? I thought we fought a war about smashing those ass-backward ideas y'all. My parents were blue-collar raised, and though my dad ended up in a white collar job, he loved and cherished the country ranch lifestyle. My mother adored Glen Campbell and John Denver...and somehow I nurtured a seed of distaste for any of that "southern yahoo" bullshit. I believed all the hillbilly archetypes growing up - it wasn't until I moved back East where the Confederacy's legacy was palpable that I realized: the racism isn't in the accent, or the zipcode. It's in the idea that a small clutch of people (mostly White males, but plenty of the white females who mate with them) feel, to paraphrase Jon Stewart a few months ago: that they own America, that they know what's right, that they are the defenders of the country. Why are there Confederate monuments in Washington State? Why are schools named after failed Confederate Generals? The civil war was fought over slavery - it says so in the secession documents. The Union Army won. We are the United States of America. How about this, racists? How about YOU leave the country if you don't like it. Get on a goddamn boat or plane or whatever, just like your religious nutball forefathers did, and go find somewhere else to be - because America is THE melting pot. It's not easy to get along with people you disagree with, but it's part of the agreement you make being an American. I may not like you, but I'm not gonna kill you. I don't care if there is a Washington Monument, or a Lincoln or Jefferson one, to be honest. All I want are museums so that we can warehouse the relics from our past and marvel at how far we've come. Not live today whining about the "good ol' days". I have always been uncomfortable being reminded that White people held Black people as property, that White people killed the Native tribes who lived on this continent long before their pox-ridden ships showed up, that White people abused Chinese people and used them as indentured workers to build the railroad system that built fortunes for the rich White families who began to run this country of ours. White legislators interred Japanese Americans. What is "White" anyway? Italian, German, French, Irish, Scandinavian, Serbian, Spanish? White is a skin tone, it is not a damn heritage. Where you are from, regional differences are important, they are defining of your personality. They do not, however, entitle you to success, or superiority. I have found some rays of hope though. Thanks to the internet, one of my favorite persons is helpfully weaning my intolerance for that shitty southern dialect:

Liberal Redneck - Virginia is for Lovers, Not Nazis#Charlottesville #LoveYall pic.twitter.com/TsNrRVjyS3

— Trae Crowder (@traecrowder) August 13, 2017

(I encourage you to check out all his stuff, he's funny, smart, and a voice you don't hear much in this current state of America.) I will work to stay focused on the difference between political beliefs versus human values/morals. The unfortunate fact is that while both sides are not equal in their tendency to violence (actual statistics prove this to be true - even a quick survey of the POTUS rallies, where people of color were beaten to cheers (from the president elect in most cases); while rallies featuring the "antifa" usually result in property damage and thrown bottles rather than hospital visits. Yes, yes, I know: what about the attack on those poor legislators in DC? It was a poorly planned attack, obviously. And to be blunt, for a change the targets weren't innocent people. They were people who have literally passed (or aided passing) laws that restrict civil rights for certain Americans, but that being said, they should be able to conduct practice for their annual baseball game without fear of gunfire. Though maybe, since the rest of us apparently have to go about our daily lives worrying about being killed by a random angry white guy with a gun ((again more often than not the bad guy is a single, white male)) maybe they should know how that feels as well). Trump is not my president. He is THE president, however, so he is accountable to all of us. He represents all of us. Pence too. The govenrment is made up of three branches for a reason, and we are seeing that reason in full color right now. Participate. Listen to people, think before you type, before you like, before you call names. Then, if you are sure of your beliefs, say it loud, say it proud. Racism is not ok. We are all created equal, the founding fathers had the theory right, even if they hadn't perfected it yet. Let's be the democratic experiment that fucking works. Not another chapter of xenophobic paranoia. Please. I have a puggle to raise in this world, and I want her to keep trusting humans

I am not gonna lie. I have thought a half million times ways to start writing here, documenting my rage and honest disbelief in the failure of the American public as a whole to act in a humane caring way for JUST 24 HOURS. But it appears all IS lost. I cannot with this fucked up country anymore that literally is allowing police officers to shoot black people WHO ARE FOLLOWING THE RULES. I don't know where to start with anyone; family, friend or foe, who somehow thinks they can justify any of this. At all. It's ridiculous and I cannot help but wonder if the people who watched the Nazis take power felt the way I do now. It is not ok to behave in this way. It is not ok to treat fellow Americans this way. It is not ok to allow elected officials to misrepresent us this way. WHAT DO WE DO? People will start doing random violent shit now. They have nothing to lose. Or very little to lose. Or worse, if they go to jail, they will at least have a dry place to sleep at night and a toilet to use. Yes, I am serious. This is a crisis. People are giving up. The next step is suicide bombers here. You know why? Because people who do not believe they have anything to live for, will die for any idea that gives them hope. Or worse, comfort. People don't blow themselves up just because they hope for a better afterlife - they do it because their current life is horrific, or desolate, or painful. So. As you watch the Republicans tear healthcare (and I didn't have it for a decade before the ACA) away from people, give tax breaks to big business and real estate moguls, and allow the 1% to crush its foot on our necks just a little bit more, people will start losing their shit. Because it's all that's left. They will lose their minds because they have nothing else. Not because of the opioid crisis, you idiots, because of the futility of being an American.

again with the punk rock

For better or worse I feel I have to note this crazy dream my 50-year-old-self had last night. Or at least the part I remember before waking up. I was living in a group house (though an amazingly well-lit and located one, with views of an ocean cliff from one side of the bathroom, and a house next door that apparently contained all the old Dischord/Positive Force geriatrics out the windows on the other side of the room. I mention the windows, because apparently, in a hurry to shower and get to college (YEP, APPARENTLY MY SUBCONSCIOUS IS PISSED I DIDN'T FINISH SCHOOL)I managed to knock over what was a very layered and punk rock shower curtain and rod. As I scrambled to fix it, I yelled for my old pal Hillary (one of the few female housemates I ever had back in the punk rock days) whose voice emanated from the hallway to help me rebuild it. At the same time, a group of punk rock people, who were outfitted in costumes like you'd see at a new orleans funeral, started gathering outside the window in front of the door to the house next door. In ran my current puggle puppy, who immediately headed for all the people outside, and when I went to get her to come back, I overheard that the reason they were there was because Brian Baker (of Minor Threat) had died. This led me to wake up and immediately search the internet to find out if he indeed was dead. My life has taken a weird turn.

....aannnnnnnd, I'm between gigs again.

Luckily, I've got this to keep me busy. For only the second time in my life, I have been released unceremoniously from my position at a place I genuinely thought for a hot minute was gonna be my home for a while. However, much like my marriage, we were together for all the wrong reasons, and I sadly ignored red flags...again. Anyway.

and, this.

So this is what is cool right now. #puggleoverlord

*sigh*

Here's what I know: when you type my name, preceded with the word "chef" you get a shit-ton (yes, that's a fucking technical term, I am at wit's end here) of hits. when you hit the name of my replacement, who has ONE hot restaurant under her belt on her resume (and then a bunch of whatever PDX places AS IF ANYONE CARES) but nothing else. No community involvement (oh, look, not only did I work in some awesome restaurants in Fresno, but I worked with the farmers, participated in events, etc, etc, etc) nothing but gloss. But, oddly, I got demoted for not being creative enough, not firing someone, and near as I can tell: for not being a big enough synchophant. Whatever. I am at the end of my tether with this restaurant, and like ALL the others, it is at the 7 month mark. I have tried all that I know, and now spend my days being treated as if the decade I've spent in kitchens; not to mention the decade+ I've spent IN OTHER REAL LIFE JOBS AND LIFE EXPERIENCES NEVER EXISTED. I have literally been told how to tell if a cake is done by using a metal cake tester. I have watched a coworker (who graduated pastry school, a feat I did not accomplish) be told that a syrup "needs to boil to reduce" (it was citrus, generally, people who respect citrus let it go low and slow to avoid a horrible metallic finish) I have been treated AS IF I haven't had the honor to work with some of California's finest chefs (including serving fucking Alice Waters, etc) I am grinding my teeth currently, because I am mature enough to recognize what is going on: this is a high school-esque social strata thing - that is, I don't know enough "name" people here. The reality is that I have worked with some of the best people, here and in other, real life cities. Even when I didn't know I was into food, I was learning (points won starving on tour in Europe). But whatever. I will not cave. I will not quit. I will demand they let me go, if they thing I don't have the ability. I grant them: I don't want to work 12-hour days, I have a puppy I love and am sick of games. I like to learn, but refuse to be patronized. So we'll see what happens next. Will they have the nerve to actually fire me, after they've asked me to stay after bringing in a new pastry chef. in the words of the immortal Schmidt: "I can do this ALL DAY" The reality is: this isn't my first, second, or even third job. This is my second career, eighth job, fourth lead position, so....uh...as Bill Wallby would sing:" B_L_O_W_M_E" ("beeeee/elllllllllll/ohhhhhhhh/dubbbbleyooooooooooo/emmmmmmmmm/eeeeeeee :blowme!") (yes edited)

this, now.

Hello world. I have, as usual, made a huge life change that has kept me away from the keyboard (also, there was a bit of the whole "lack of keyboard" as well) - but I am now, once again the guardian of a canine. This is a Puggle, a beagle-pug mix that my mother had adopted before realizing 2 weeks in that an 8-week old puppy is a a pretty steep hill for a 70-year-old to climb, even if she is a self-proclaimed "dog lady". I couldn't bear the idea of having this pup go to the shelter, so I went ahead and fast-tracked my returning to Puppytown plans. It's been a much rougher ride this time around. Previously, I had the single smartest and compassionate (towards me, at least) dog ever. I was also 20 years younger, and much more socially active and had a job that mostly had me staring at a computer or standing in front of a machine. Not anymore. I spend 8-10 hours a day mixing doughs, shaping bread, doing intricate dessert prep, etc. I am a lot more jaded. This Puggle, on the other hand is the single happiest dog i've ever encountered. She loves everything. Everything is a game, except sleeping. Sleeping is for sissies, apparently. Anyway, today is the first morning I've had with her that she hasn't been camped in my lap, or demanding attention and that i could write a little. it's been good to have a dog in my life again, and the wealth of people who i've encountered has been amazing already. Previously dog-parks were pointless, the previous Grey Overlord merely needed open space where we could play frisbee, or miles of places to walk. The Puggle Overlord likes to meet her minions, will play with all dogs (even, god help her, Corgies) loves attention from passersby (we had one woman cross a street against traffic squeeing "ohmigod, she's so cute i HAD to come over - can i pet her??) and thus is a whole other dog handling experience. Also, as we inhabit an apartment on the 12th floor, trips outside are a bit more involved (including dodging the neighborhood ephemera) and that has thrown a bit of a twist into the narrative. Anyway, just a quick note to myself to maybe get back on track again here - there's much to dissect, and the job is approaching month six without much trauma, so i'm hoping to get back on track....right after i finish this New Girl binge....

Mamnoon. Welcome.

I havn't posted in a while for several real reasons (as opposed to the paranoid nonsense that has previously kept me from documenting my life, as it rolls along). The first is a technical thing: the band-aid laptop SG gave me for cheap finally died - the fan went belly-up, followed shortly by the screen. Its fine, but watching netflix on the iphone4 is making my head hurt. Additionally, typing blogposts on the crappy typepad is irritating. Many a witty post is lost to the ether because i gave up the big-thumb battle.

That said; the other reason is that i genuinely like where i work. I'd say love, but i don't want to jinx it. As i reiterated to Chef today, it is an amazing pleasure to be working with people who are CONSTANTLY trying to improve. How can this taste better? How can the production be better, simpler, more consistant? What if we do this? How about this? This didn't work, what should we do next? This is an issue, how will we deal with it? What is this? Who is taking this on? All these questions get answered. I've never been a part of a team so willing to solve problems. My first 4 weeks, I'm now realizing I was in a state of shock. Now, everyday I thank these owners for givng me the chance to do awesome stuff every day, for the challenge of a cuisine I am unfamiliar with, for a team that is supportive, but not enabling. For a place to go every day that is welcoming, challenging and creative. And, it should be said, on the surface, I never expected this to be a good fit, and oddly, it turns out to be the best fit ever. I really, very much enjoy working for these owners, and with this chef. Long road travelled, but SO well worth it.

sprung

So, it's been a minute. I've let this venue go quiet - as I am want to do these days. It's been a couple of months of introspection, of trying to regain some interest, passion, and most of all, focus. Hasn't completely worked, but I've definitely set myself a bar. A while ago, while visiting SG, he mentioned how "proud" he was of me, walking away from a tech-y, graphics-y "career" (and I use that term as loosely as it is draped over that ramshackle debacle that was my life back "in the day") and choosing to go into cooking. That he didn't know if he'd have the courage to do something like that. I was flattered, and it set me to thinking. Why was/am I doing this? The pay is uniformly crap for someone who started as late as I did, and isn't in a management or corporate setting. There are no real vacations. It's physically taxing almost in every instance, (I have taken forearm scarification to a whole new level) and I am in my less-than-physical-prime-of-life. On that note, there's rarely health insurance, though I suppose the one upshot of TV chefs inspiring more people into the industry is that it is being offered more often after a certain amount of time of service. The list of challenges goes on: inflated chef egos, demanding customers, deluded owners, a marketplace that demands constant change and patrol.... So why do I do this? My plan was to spend my working hours doing what I enjoy. To be paid to work with food. I did as much due diligence as I could in the beginning, trying to make sure that I understood the repetition, the cleaning, the pressure, the schedule, the most mudnane parts of working in a kitchen. I wasn't a silly high-school kid with visions of Nigella Lawson in her head. Nope, I was much more a disgruntled thirty-something looking for a place to call home. That's how this thing started, me just wanting to find the place that I had read about so many talented people finding their calling at. I listened to people speak about why they cooked; was inspired by working with people who were starting new restaurants, who were becoming executive chefs for the first time; with people who had years of hard-core line-cook experience, who all still did it because of a certain jolt it gives you, a certain feeling you get feeding people. Which is why when I landed at 'zino after returning to Seattle it seemed aalmost perfect, the pantry-pastry gig, which morphed into a sous role. For a good year, it offered all I needed, but ultimately, the ownership, and inevitable sale of the business took it's toll. I floundered: do I go back to baking full-time? Am I too old for working 6 nights a week, arriving at 1pm, closing at midnight, and quelling the noise in my head for the next few hours with booze, only to get back on the treadmill again the next afternoon? Were the accolades of in-person guests a couple times a week enough to compensate for a wage that left me at basically poverty-level? Is this what I had envisioned? I decided baking has always been more profitable, more manageable, and thus my strength. I can't return to general managing anything, because to be honest, I am not one to wrangle someone else's cats anymore. So, I took a job with an old pal, thinking I'd learn more about breadmaking. I ended up working the fry station at brunch. Too old to waste precious more days of my life making fries, sauerkraut, and pancakes, I left and took a job at what seemed to be an adorable, successful, quirky cafe-restaurant-bar to lead their baking and pastry department. That ended up with me being told, more than ever in my career, that my shit isn't good enough. And by shit, I mean muffins, cookies, cakes and scones. I am good at that stuff. Hell, I'm great at scones especially.I dealt with a completely unorganized kitchen, an owner whose vanity exceeded everything I'd ever seen before (and I've seen some shit), and watched amounts of just not my food, but the executive chef and other cooks being trashed (not just verbally, literally, thrown in the garbage) on a whim. Cookies "too crisp" sandwiches where the mustard was "too spicy" it went on and on, and the staff was clearly weaned on dysfunction. I let my moral compass tarnish. Badly. I found myself saying "If they don't care, neither do i" and "Well that's how they want it" - things that made me feel bad inside. Made me feel like a failure. Made me forget all the postive feedback I have had over the years. I was convinced that I didn't have the skills I thought I did. Over fricking muffins and coffee cake and biscuits. Ridiculous. So, I, even though it was well under the six month line that i try to hold with new jobs, started sniffing around for new ones. It happened. At the risk of jinxing it (and I'm writing this in late-mid-may, but may not post it for a bit longer just in case): I found a home. One I would have never seen coming. A beautiful kitchen, amazingly humane owners, seasoned professionals with the highest levels of ethics, a walk-in with a floor you could eat off of, an executive chef who was once an exec pastry guy, so he doesn't discriminate his baking team...all of the things I had let go of dreaming about. I go in there, and I am back in the zone: what is the correct thing to do? Everyone cleans as they go. They all taste things, they talk to each other. There are hijinks, but it's in relation to getting stuff done. The chef freaks out about the right things, not perceived personal affronts. He doesn't spend hours arguing about a salad with the owners. There is a level of trust in this endeavor that I have always wanted. Granted - I work baking hours (a very sweet gig, now) and don't have to deal with service, which can be stressful - but overall, I am reinvigorated with the love I have for fine dining, for giving people the very best food they can have, and in this instance, because it is a cuisine that is new to me - it is exciting to taste and grow and create. Plus, I am working with an executive chef that can give me the pastry/baking guidance I have pretty much had to provide for myself, whether it was from my own research, or paying close attention to talented people around me and taking notes. This is the first time in a long while I have had someone hand me a bit of paper with the bones of a recipe on it, talk me through the method, and let me have at it: and be thrilled with the results. Twice in the last week, actually. The Namoura cake and a Mahlab-chocolate ice cream. The moral of this story, and one I hope not to forget by noting it here is: if you are unhappy, change something. Do not settle for less-than. Certainly, I could and should apply this to all aspects of my life - but for now, in this instance, this will do.

It always comes back to this for me.

"Your work is to discover your work and then with all your heart to give yourself to it." - Buddha .

marketing your emotions

Well, that'll teach me to be all posi-emo and see things as half-full. 'Tis the season for remembering how happy everyone seems to be with their post-me partners. I'm furious, even though i know that it's a waste of percious moments of my life - but kyle being a luthier, being happy in love - that was all via me. i enabled that shit, and it pisses me off. meanwhile, i'm wrangling Jared who goes back and forth about digging me, then it's purely lust based. lately he seemed to be making  more of an effort, but of course then i'm sick, and then bleeding. argh. and soooo fat. unbelievably so. plus new job, though hip, is still a bit of a challenge, but i try to remember how hard branzino seemed at times. yeah. and then the delightful (and by delightful i mean not at all amusing lately) uriel is pushing all my buttons - because he's easier in bed than jared, likes to snuggle, but is a 25-year-old partying player who is literally a foot shorter than me...and this week he bailed on hanging out with me, and i....care only in the most abstract of ways for the same reason i can't go hang with Jared, i'm coughing up phlegm all the time, constantly blowing my nose, and need to not drink. (after two consecutive bottles of evan williams after no hard booze most of last month) - but fuck. i need to find a doctor. i need to get new contacts. i need to pay for parking. i need to pay my cali debt (am a month behind on that) plus my license is suspended, my tabs are expired - i need to get an id, but as usual am broke. i am skating on thin ice every time i get behind the wheel. to be honest, the least of my problems is my lack of a companion, and yet it's all i can think about: mike, kyle, graham, smitty, darren (dorothy), spencer, tom, fuck it seems like each and every male i've been involved with in the last 10 years is totally hooked up and happy. and me? i am, as always, adrift. whatever. fuck it. i'm gonna die soon anyway, dunno if it's a brain tumor, or cancer, or MS, but it's something, and it's happening. i guess i just wait until the catastrophic issue presents itself. i dunno. this is tedious. whining is tedious. i just wish someone would fucking show just a little appreciation occasionally. but i guess it's cause i don't? dunno.

Friday the 14th.

'tis the season, and all that.