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Must this happen the one week I happen to be in town (armed with clothing appropriate for the mild spring weather I expected)? It's April, for the love of Christ, not August. Someone please alert the weather gods. Obviously, they've not been notified.
Working today, insanely busy week, back on the road tomorrow, lots to report. Meanwhile, I'm fighting intense cravings for Ben & Jerry's and attempting to avoid sweating like someone who just double-crossed Tony Soprano.
Hope the weather is far more tolerable wherever you may be...
Been traveling these past few days and will be away until Tuesday; hence the miserable lack of entries of late. Nine hours in the car led to two magnificent (though emotional) days in stunning Yosemite, followed by several more hours in the car leading to a busy L.A. visit and most welcome (though brief) freelance assignment. Premiere Radio Networks to my rescue once again!
I do hope to write a great deal more when I have a few minutes of quiet time to sift through the many thoughts and emotions swirling around in the ol' noggin. Meanwhile, just sit tight. Read a good book. Listen to some tunes. Call your mother. Or just pour a glass of wine and wait. I shall return.
Oh, and one more thing. If you have a minute, scroll down to the comments attached to my last entry and read the comment made by "Dr. Sex," aka my friend James (who hopefully won't mind me blowing his cover). While I'm undecided as to whether or not he's "right on," his analysis regarding my Bloomberg dream is quite the eye-opening read (at least for me).
Last night I dreamt I was married to NYC Mayor Mike Bloomberg. We were at some sort of dinner party with his family in an enormous, magnificent mansion and it just felt so... natural. He was sweet and affectionate and funny, though his children (all around my age) were not exactly thrilled with our union, which made me rather uneasy. At some point during the party, I suddenly remembered how extensively wealthy my husband was and was overtaken with euphoria.
What's odd about the dream is that I've never been attracted to men so much older than myself (+/-20 years). In fact, I tend to be repulsed by the idea, often making it very difficult to appreciate movies in which a woman close to my age falls for a man in his sixties. No matter how strong the chemistry, I just don't buy it. Helen Hunt and Jack Nicholson in As Good As it Gets? I don't buy it for a second. Gwyneth Paltrow and Michael Douglas in A Perfect Murder? Bleccch. Even real-life couples can't convince me that a young woman would want to marry (let alone sleep with) an artifact. Catherine-Zeta Jones = my age. Michael Douglas = my father's age. Yuck. True, we all know 60 is the new 40 and I'm sure Viagra -- along with his boatload of cash -- helps the matter tremendously. And hey, maybe she really does love the man. I just have a hard time imagining a young, beautiful woman waking up next to someone two decades older. Bright morning sunlight on the face can be exceptionally harsh (as Rod Stewart pointed out in Maggie May).
Still, last night's dream has forced me to rethink some things about myself. I don't recall feeling a strong sexual or physical attraction to my "husband," but I did have a sense of security I've rarely felt more than ephemerally in a romantic relationship. They say women look for men like their daddies; maybe this dream was trying to tell me I've spent too much time with men who act like my child instead of my father. As a husband, Bloomberg made me feel safe and protected, and not just for his billions (I'm sure he'd have had me sign a pre-nup). I can't quite put my finger on why the dream seems to resonate so deeply with me.
I'll consult some Freudian theories and get back to you.
Somehow my silly little ramblings seem entirely inconsequential when I take a moment to read about how my friend Adam is spending his April 15.
Therefore, I'll spare you my frivolity and instead just say my thoughts are with Adam (and also my friend Christina, dealing with her own medical matter today). You're both on my mind.
I'm not usually one for nighttime entries, but it's quiet here and I just feel like ridding myself of some of the clutter that threatens to overtake the precious space between my ears. Grey matter, as Danny Elfman called it all those years ago. Oh, how I loved him and that band of his. Oingo Boingo were never quite as big on the east coast but we California kids dug them. They played an annual Halloween concert that Michele and I greatly anticipated each year and attended at least half a dozen times. There was truly nothing like it: thousands of people showing up in costume for a macabre parade accompanied by Boingo's matchless sound. Now Elfman's married to Bridget Fonda and scoring movies like Big Fish. I guess we all grow up sometimes, right?
Music is on my mind these days, after spending several hours recently updating my MP3 player so that all album titles and release dates are accurate. (Hey, I never denied being a certifiable music geek.) What I found more difficult was trying to assign a specific genre to certain artists, something the MP3 player insists you do, or does for you (calling Beck "alternative folk"... huh?). Some artists are no-brainers. Stevie Wonder = R&B. Yo La Tengo = Indie. Depeche Mode = New Wave. The Beatles = Classic Rock. The categories may not seem that straightforward to you, but I classified the artists in my player based on where I'd think to look for them, should I choose to search by genre.
Other artists proved more difficult to categorize. For example, His Royal Highness, Prince. Do I put him under Funk? R&B? Pop? And what about bands typically classified as punk that I nevertheless do not consider punk (i.e. The Clash or Police) or the use of the term "goth" (which I hate) to describe any band whose members have dyed their hair black and wear matching lipstick (i.e. The Cure)? How can I allow my MP3 player to categorize Morcheeba as trip-hop when I'm not even exactly certain what the term means? What about bands my MP3, in its infinite wisdom, horribly miscategorizes? For example, refering to Radiohead as Dream Pop or R.E.M. as Folk Rock? Again, the player is programmed to be as specific as possible, but while those genre classifications might be perfectly fine for some, they just didn't sit right with me. Not that I could always do a better job of categorization than my little computerized songster.
So, the categorization process -- employed as a lighthearted means of taking my mind off the bigger issues in my own life and in the world as a whole -- turned into something of a beast, keeping me up until all hours, taunting me to beat it at its little game of genre-defining. Which I'm not sure I did.
My categorization of rock bands from the 60s and 70s (Beatles, Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Stones, et al) places them under the rather broad umbrella of "Classic Rock," which I consider perfectly appropriate. But then I began thinking of the playlist on our local classic rock station, which -- along with the requisite Beatles, Dead and so forth -- throws in songs by artists like Pearl Jam and Nirvana. On a station calling itself "The Classic Rock Experience?" Most classic rock stations' entire catalogs stretch just far enough to include 1979, but rarely delve into the Decade of Excess, let alone the 90s. I can understand placing current recording artists in the classic rock cluster if they happened to start their careers way back when (i.e. Tom Petty, Peter Gabriel, Aerosmith, etc.). But have I gotten so old that bands first emerging while I was in college are now considered classic rock? Judge for yourself. Here a few songs played regularly on 93.1, Humboldt's Classic Rock Experience:
Red Hot Chili Peppers - "Under the Bridge"
Pearl Jam - "Jeremy"
Nirvana - "Come as You Are"
U2 - "With or Without You"
Soundgarden - "Black Hole Sun"
Stone Temple Pilots - "Plush"
R.E.M. - "Losing My Religion" (now, if you're including R.E.M. in a classic rock lineup, shouldn't you reach further back in their catalog than 1991?)
I suppose the station could be applying the word "classic" to mean "memorable" or "unforgettable," but I always perceived the term "classic rock" as signifying something "enduring" or "ageless," thus pertaining to songs that have been around a hell of a lot longer than "Smells Like Teen Spirit." But I suppose the use of the term for newer artists is apropos, if you consider the actual meaning of the word. It just gets my knickers in a twist, for some reason.
At any rate, for those concerned over whether or not I can successfully manage to keep the disconcerting news of the world in the back of my mind while allowing the minutiae of my own life to dance to the forefront, fear not! It's quite obvious I've achieved just that.
A brilliantly sunny Saturday so deftly tricked us into thinking Spring was here that I decided to pack away my winter jacket and a handful of heavy sweaters. Then Sunday came along and abruptly rescinded spring's arrival with a grey, wintry wrath. Today, more of the same. April tends to be the rainiest month here on the north coast, so I'm not expecting any reliable amount of sunshine for at least a few weeks longer.
And, adding to the dreary weather, listening to NPR coverage this morning about the events in Iraq over the weekend has cast a horribly grey pall over the day. As I wrote earlier, I can't remember a time in my life when I was so steadily, consistently upset and disturbed by the news, talking back to the radio and hoping that each piece of bad news will bring us one step closer to the removal of this president from office.
That said, I'm glad to be occupied today with a last-minute freelance assignment from Premiere. I consider myself very fortunate to have remained on the payroll with Premiere Radio fairly consistently since leaving my Writer/Editor job to move to New York in 1998. First, a six-month freelance project in 2000, then full-time as Senior Writer for Carson Daly Most Requested in 2001 and most recently last month (I hit the jackpot when two writers were summoned for jury duty, meaning a whole week's worth of fill-in work for me).
Today's assignment has me writing material for country music stations, a rather humbling experience for one who knows close to nothing about the world of twang (despite my six-month tour of duty writing strictly for country stations). How quickly we learn, though! I'm pleased to inform you all that Reba McEntire will receive the Johnny Cash Visionary Award for groundbreaking music videos and that The Jenkins spent last weekend shooting their first music video. Exactly what you always wanted to know, right?
Subject lines of two separate emails in my Junk Mail folder today:
"cocksure illiteracy diagrammatic perfect force embeddable bronx anagram grid saline freud impressive stress cognac chandelier brother haifa loudspeaker omega cyclopean sleepwalk"
and
"batavia earphone languish backwood rhea immaterial discoid abstruse frantic dissociate lobule chantilly origin what're carriage ethos megavolt signboard totalitarian"
Both trying to sell Viagra, of course. (You mean you couldn't guess from the subject line?) What baffles me most is why I'm so bent on figuring out if there's some hidden meaning behind these particular word groupings. What could the Viagra sellers possibly hope to accomplish by throwing together a seemingly non-related series words, none of which have a bloody thing to do with Viagra? I mean, "Haifa?" "Cyclopean?" "Discoid?" What gives, Viagra hawkers? Inquiring minds simply must know.
I've been known to gripe about the rampant overuse of words like "heroic" and "mega" (as in megastar, megahit, etc.), so it shouldn't surprise you how bemused I was to hear Anne Litt (filling in for Nic Harcourt this morning on KCRW) refer to quirky '70s-'80s art-pop band Sparks as "legendary." True, their bassist James Mankey later co-founded one of my favorite groups, Concrete Blonde. And hey, I always loved the song "Eaten by the Monster of Love," but legendary? Methinks that's pushing it.
Riding my bike around town recently, I got to thinking about something my friend Jackie said a few months ago regarding an entry I'd written about some peculiar characters I'd encountered on the streets and subways of New York. She questioned whether I'd find characters worthy of mention in the "sticks" of northern California?
Well, Jackie, lucky for me (and my readers), nutjobs are everywhere! Like San Francisco and NYC, Arcata has its fair share of homeless people, though here, most are content to loiter on the Plaza, which is Arcata's version of Washington Square Park. A number of Arcata's down-and-out are dreadlock-sporting, Birkenstock-wearing, hacky-sack playing youth who ask passersby not for spare change, but for vegan foods or help paying for medical visits or to care for their various pets. On a visit here last summer, my sister and I took boxes of leftover food from a brunch the morning after our brother's wedding and distributed muffins, croissants and bagels to a hungry and incredibly grateful crowd. In turn, we were ensured we'd be blessed, that Buddha would shine down on us, that our karma and chakra and chai and feng shui were all secure.
A sometimes fiesty but typically affable Vietnam veteran by the name of Alfred holds court on a busy Northtown corner, holding up ragged pieces of cardboard scrawled with black marker, a different message each day, ranging from simple ("Peace" or "Help Me") to more thought-provoking anti-war or authority-questioning messages. Al has apparently been in town for a number of years and is notorious among residents for occasionally flipping off and/or shouting at passing drivers. Though he ostensibly has no known place of residence, Al tends to show restraint when it comes to handouts. My sister-in-law recently had lunch in a sandwich shop nearby and bought some extra food for Al, who politely declined, saying something to the effect of "No thanks, I've already eaten today" and then, sensing Erin's disappointment and not wanting to let her down, pointed out that his birthday was a few days away and he'd fancy a treat then.
Another popular local is an upbeat, dreadlocked brother who goes by the name Positive (which comes out of his mouth sounding like pohs-ee-teeev). Positive walks around town with a mangy, friendly mutt and boombox, grinning like a Cheshire cat, sporting as colorful a get-up as humanly possible (Missoni would be jealous), accepting food and requests to pet his dog, all the while loudly reminding everyone he encounters to "Stay pohseeteev, mon!"
Those are just the a few of the local characters I've happened upon in my brief time here. There are countless others, each of whom I'd be delighted to profile here once I've made their acquaintance. Not counting, of course, the arrogant owner of a local record store or the woman who allowed her puny little daschund to bite my right leg twice. In my fervent effort to bar evil from my life, I elect not to make the acquaintance of people who are on my shit list despite not having formally made their acquaintance.
Lastly, speaking of keeping pohseeteev, I've taken to swimming several days a week and one of the instructors at the local pool encourages swimmers, myself included, to utter quiet affirmations, such as "I love myself. I accept myself exactly as I am at this moment. I accept myself completely." While I certainly appreciate her efforts, I can't help but snicker to myself when makes her way round the pool, conducting one of her affirmation-eliciting endeavors. I suppose that's just the kindergartener in me. Will I ever silence her completely?
Hmmm... I certainly hope not.
There is something very wrong with the world when millionaires win more millions.
The rich keep getting richer, indeed.
First things first, my annual argument for ending the unnecessary practice known as Daylight Savings Time is summed up quite nicely here.
Transitions have never been easy for me, no matter how many times I find myself in the midst of a major one. These days, I'm struggling with acute MWS (Manhattan Withdrawal Syndrome). While I do not, so far, regret my decision to move, the long-term benefits of life here remain to be seen. The short-term benefits, however, are already in place. For example, more than one friend has told me I seem "calmer" and less stressed since leaving New York. True, there is a certain peace of mind that living close to nature and in quiet surroundings has elicited in me, a sense of peace I'd not felt in my last few years in New York (and, come to think of it, may not have felt in any lasting sense since childhood). Yes, there is a sense of satisfaction at knowing so many locals in such a short time and being greeted by name wherever I go. On the flip side, for someone hailing from a megalopolis, there's something unnerving about fellow small-town resident recognition as well. Still, even as I miss the anonymity of life in Manhattan, I suppose the novelty of kindliness hasn't worn off on me quite yet.
Waiting to hear whether or not I got into graduate school is more punishing than it sounds. I have lists in my head, filed separately under "What to do if I get in to graduate school" and "What to do if I don't get in to graduate school." The first entry on the latter list, added just a few days ago, reads "Move back to New York." Yes, after only two months away I'm already browsing Manhattan apartment listings on Craigslist, considering the trek back across the continental U.S., long-suffering feline in tow, returning to the place I still consider home. Crazy, maybe. But somehow, it haunts me. When speaking to my aunt Miriam earlier today, her remark that she keeps accidentally including me in her count for this week's Passover seder made the already-present lump in my throat threaten to choke me and tears well up in my eyes. I can't remember the last time I did not have Passover seder with my family in New York. Of course I plan to partake in my favorite Jewish holiday with family and friends here, but somehow it's not the same.
Is this simply a manifestation of "Grass is always greener" syndrome? After several years in New York, I felt stifled and craved tranquility. But after only two months of serenity, I long for the clamor of the city streets. I believe, to some extent, this is simply human nature. We have something we're not sure we want, we want what we don't have, then once we have it, we wonder why we didn't want what we used to have and whether we are insane to long for it again. I am sure the drugs will help me sort through this. I think I'll go take some now.