Thursday, September 29
Sadly I only have a vague memory of meeting the Gits, and honestly I only remember meeting Mia. I was probably underage and couldn't attend the show, and I'd never listened to them at the time, so I didn't HiLite the meeting in my memory.
When Mia Zapata was murdered it came up that she had stayed with us. I'd listened to them by this time and her death hit me pretty hard. To this day every time it comes to mind or I come across something that reminds me of it I feel that sense of tragic loss. I can't imagine how people that knew her must have felt, when I, who had only a faint, indefinite memory and a connection by music was floored.
I did not feel like repeating my Sufjan embarassment.
Now I have to decide how much I'd like to see Built To Spill. Last time they played here, the only time, they were very underwhelming, not bad, just not fabulous. Anyone ever seen a righteous show by them? Should I go?
I saw The Treepeople play 13 years ago at Mother's Pub (now the B-Side) and that still stands out as one of the best shows I've ever seen. Mr. Martsch is certainly capable of supplying The Rock.
Ok. Too funny. I was looking over the C/Z Records website, which has some good history, and came across this bit about Hammerbox. They were a great live band and their self-titled album rocks. Here ya go:
1992 - MC Hammer threatens C/Z artist, Hammerbox with a lawsuit over their name. Eventually the suit is dropped. Hammerbox signs with A&M, tours extensively, and finally breaks up. Carrie goes on to start Goodness.A.Ho
I got the pic to the left in an html mail from a club in Houston that I somehow managed to get on their VIP list. Normally, I think, "Oh, good. Glad to see Opus is still keeping the Beautiful People scene alive." But today, they offered me something totally different. I had my fucking mind blown by today's email. They introduced me to a band called The Reds. Embiggen the picture to chickety chickety check it out.
About goddamned time. Finally. Finally! An alternative band that plays hip-hop. I never thought I'd see the day.
Next thing you know, we'll be having hip-hop bands playing alternative music! Will my mind ever cease to being blown?
Wednesday, September 28
Bloggin My Noggin (which started as Mental Illin), established in August of 2003, was denied a timely observation of said establishment.
It's been two years going now. I need to thank Dan for keeping it going when I was unable to and I need to thank Messy Texan for her presence. And to the people who actually read this, we're glad to have you. To my knowledge that amounts to Kris and Fuz. Nato is probably poking his head in here every now and again as well.
p.s. I think Liz hangs around a bit too. High-five, keep the spirit alive.
Tuesday, September 27
Walking home from work today I was fortunate enough to run into him again, at the freeway on-ramp near my apartment, backpack in tow, nicely dressed and shaven, thumbing for a ride and waving and smiling as cars passed him by.
This got me to thinking as I walked the rest of the way home about two things that I've never done ,and will probably never do, as my Mom put the fear into me about them when I was a kid. Number one is hitchiking and number two is ski-jogging.
So, a shout out to Eli, a brave and kind soul, I wish you well and look forward to hearing about your travels. Godspeed.
Friday, September 23
Wednesday, September 21
But you know what sucks more? Galveston Island happens to be probably my favorite place in the whole universe. And, if it takes a direct hit, it'll be underwater. To me, personally, that will be either a total disaster or very nearly a total disaster.
Galveson's beaches are crummy. Most of the population is hovering just above the poverty line, teetering on it, or has fallen below it. Crime's pretty high for such a small population . Mostly its hot as hell and humid. Every direction you look are reminders of the faded glitterati from its days as a booming port-of-call in the late 1800's, like the curled edges of a yellowed photograph. It's prosperity was cut short and its human arrogance humbled by Isaac's Storm. Most people hate Galveston. But this place is a special place to me.
A long time ago, I lived in Houston. I didn't like Houston. In fact, when I lived there, it would be fair to say that I hated Houston. Objectively, its pretty gross. But I harbored resentment towards Clutch City.
See, believe it or not, at one point in my life, the potential energy inside me was palpable. I was a very lucky girl in high school. I was smart, but not too smart. I was pretty but not intimidatingly so. I came from a family with money and I lived in the old money part of town but I was as suspicious of money then as I am now. I sailed through high school. Glided like an ice skater. I was a star. And then the mascara tears came. I fell in love with a boy who would quietly root for my failure for many years. I wanted this boy to really know that he was loved because I had a nagging suspicion that it would be his first time to have been loved. I wanted him to see the things in me that I love about myself and love them, too. And, if we were to shrink me a bit more, I believe that we would undoubtedly find that these urges result from a basically abortive and absent workaholic neurologist for a dad. So, when I was accepted to Vanderbilt, Pepperdine, and Mount Holyoke, I smiled weakly, put the acceptance letters in a box inside a box inside an old piece of luggage in my closet and I never told anyone until a year ago. Because he was going to Houston, and so was I. I suppose this sounds too very 'poor little rich girl'. I suppose I am leaving out important parts to the story. Oh, well.
So, we went to Houston. I lost interest in my long time dream of becoming a physician within a few months. I remembered that I don't like touching sick people. How ironic.
My second semester, I moved out of the dorm and I got my own apartment. I felt like a new woman. I decided to become an archeologist. And within two weeks, he moved himself in. Within a two more weeks he had started calling me names pretty regularly. Within two more weeks he had started throwing things when he was angry. It escalated at this rate until the end of my summer semester, when I went numb. I had so much love, you know? So so much love to give. And he didn't want it. In fact, when I gave it, he would punish me in one way or another for it. I didn't understand that and it seemed I would never find anyone who wanted it.
I developed an untestable hypothesis: The quickest way to get someone to develop an unmitigated hatred towards you would be to offer them the potential of limitless undying love.
I would drive to Galveston every night, about half an hour before he would be home from school/work, and go to this one spot on the west side, near San Luis Pass and LaFitte's Cove. I had to get away from him, I had to get away from my apartment that smacked of him and I had to get away from the city that had lured me away from my dreams with promises of love.
You had to take a crookedy side road to get to my spot but it was mostly desolate most of the time. There was no beach. Just the elevated seawall and sea. And I would sit in my shiny new Mustang convertible and cry and cry and cry and smoke and smoke and smoke. I would look out to the ocean and let the feeling of inconsequence that it evoked carry me through those sleepless hours. I felt mostly dead but I kept hoping.
But I didn't want to believe my own hypothesis because I'm a guilt-harboring romantic idealist. I kept hoping, you know? And then, one day, I just stopped feeling. Sort of. The groaning from some unspecified place in my gut was loud. And one day it deafened me. I decided that I might prefer to die. So, I drove to my spot to think it over. I cringe that because I am here writing this you will be able to write off the absolute seriousness with which I considered suicide. I offer you my most resolute assurances that having love pent up inside, to the point of suffocation, because unleashing the love was like unleashing annihilation, made me wish for death.
So, I got out of my car and I looked out over the ocean. I smoked my Marlboro but I didn't cry. Then the wind whipped my hair around my neck. You know that feeling? That shivery, goosebumpy feeling that happens when the wind whips you hair on your unsuspecting skin? That feeling can't last longer than two seconds. But its a good feeling. Its a feeling of aliveness. Its a stimulus and response.
And I decided then that I had to be brave for love. For loves unknown and loves undiscovered and loves unrequited and maybe even loves that would always be unrealized. And being brave for them meant not dying. And I decided that, in the meantime, I would rely on those sporadic moments of visceral experience - of wind whipping your hair and rain making your skin wet in that way that only rain can - that I would rely on those things to remind me that I was still a human. I decided that, maybe, that's what being human was all about. Deciding to live when dying was much easier.
And I decided to live on that typically mild, but windy, night sometime in December 1999 in Galveston, Texas. And I had wanted to take my current boyfriend there. We had almost gone over Labor Day. I wanted to take him to my spot. Wish I had. Hope its still there when I can go next.
Monday, September 19
Found out today that filming is supposed to start near the end of September, maybe early October. And I also found out that one Salma Hayek may also be showing her hot self around town.
Friday, September 16
I may be cast as a photo-double for a movie to be filmed here in the near future, though I may not be tall enough (bummer). It would make sense that this could also include stand-in work. Anybody want to venture a guess as to who the actor is?
Think 80s teen-flicks.
PS I was drunk when I made the 2nd comment. Red wine. One bottle. Me. Who will conquer!?
It's times like that, though, that make me wish I didn't live far away from you people.
I need a nap, maybe even now.
/will trade oral for nap
Thursday, September 15
Thought you should know.
...oh, and by combination I mean one or another, not blended. Scared you huh?
...oh, again, I watched the third episode of Oz yesterday. I'm still not sure what to make of this show. Meanwhile The Wire continues to be satisfactory, and oddly elegant.
Wednesday, September 14
Tuesday, September 13
Instinct, that sometimes miniscule voice I fail to listen to. Such was the case when I folded my hand before the flop and then flopped what would've been a Full House. Ugh.
Sunday, September 11
I would consider most of the music I own and listen to to be in the top third of all music ever. Not everyone will think so but I don't care. Within that tiny collection one-third will be superior, and probably more listened to, than the other two-thirds, and so forth.
This post made me think about that.
Thursday, September 8
Wednesday, September 7
Sunday, September 4
Saturday, September 3
Friday, September 2
I've my own personal volume of the first season of the new Battlestar Galactica now as well. I have three more episodes of that to watch. Love it.
Son Volt is playing at Riverfront Park tonight as part of the glorious Pig Out In The Park. It's the first time they've ever had a band I wanted to see. I'm not going. I was going to go but I drank a bit much last night and I'm staying home. And it's not really a good venue anyway, at least to me. I'd have to go down early and stake out a place on the hill amongst all the porked out masses, and wait. No thanks.
I won't be attending the Spokane Idol semifinals either.
I guess thats all.