everything's zen

So, the other day, I went to a shooting range (it was not the old timey/Old West saloon vision I had in my head). I can see why people can enjoy shooting…there is a moment, when you need to shut down everything else – all noise (and yeah, it's a noisy place when crowded), the other people, whatever is going on for you outside the range – to zone out and focus on hitting the target. There are a lot of things, typically menial things, like repetitive tasks, that can give you that zoned out, not thinking about anything moment (zen?). And while my moment will not come from shooting, I need to find more tasks that will help me zone out like that on a daily basis...

one thing leads to another

This Saturday (tomorrow!!) – Odd Duck Bazaar in Hollywood, FL from 12 PM to 6 PM.

Awhile back, I self published a collection of short stories and poems (called Never a Shout Out). I created a modified “sampling” version of that for this next project…

I’m a sponsor with Odd Duck and the first 100 people in get a swag bag with something from me…the sample of Never a Shout Out…a ‘zine like, low (almost no) budget D.I.Y. publication…yea!

invalid robots (un-sci-fi)

I have not read or seen Hunger Games yet. Since it’s everywhere, and sounds relatively interesting (both book and film), I was curious to check it out, but I get more hesitate each time I read a review. Not because of the violence or the stuff the movie left out…but because of the names. The names are just too odd for me to not completely throw me off the story. I think that is a reason why I never got into sci-fi…the unusual names of characters and places. I know, it adds to the imaginative, different landscape – for the reader (or viewer) to escape into a different world… Clearly, I need to stick to the movie because if I was reading this, I think the spell check in my head would just make the names all pop up in bold red.

pictures of me on your bedroom door (review of All Over Me)

I don’t enjoy much 1990s nostalgia. Maybe it’s too soon (for me). Maybe it’s that I was (relatively) alert and paying attention in that time period that I don’t long for the clothes, the hair, the pre-Facebook ignorance. I do, however, have a soft spot in my heart for 1990s music.

All Over Me (1997) is set in the mid to late ‘90s, in (a very, very white, minus Ricky from My So Called Life) Hell’s Kitchen, NYC. This movie starts with credits. I do not enjoy this. I like to forget that I am watching a movie. I like the action to, wham, start immediately, Showing a long list of credits and who did what, movie wise, distracts me from this.

Claude and Ellen are best friends. They’re in high school, like music and have nonexistent/uncaring or sometimes present/obvious parents. Claude has a crush on Ellen (I think you could draw parallels between Ellen and Claude’s mom - she has to ‘take care’ of both, both are man obsessed). Ellen, however is is all wrapped up in a rock ‘em, sock ‘em drug slinging thug. One of my (other) problems is the character of Ellen. Sure, this is a Claude-driven movie. It’s about her. It’s about her discovering herself, her sexuality at a time of the burgeoning angsty grrl power movement (by the way, where did that movement go?). All other characters are but shadows to play off Claude, but you think Ellen would be a little more developed. She starts the film as a ‘normal’ boy crazy moody teen. Suddenly, she becomes a Lifetime movie-esque drug addict (tries to run away with strangers: check, almost ODs in the bathroom: check) rather quickly, seemingly in minutes, in between scenes.

Claude is Claude. She’s oblivious at times, but I suppose, she is a teenager. We’ve all been mind numbingly dumb, in hindsight. But, then, there was a scene set to a large portion of a Geraldine Fibbers song (and this was shortly after a Sleater-Kinney song! Imagine!). And that alone upped this movie for me. I would highly recommend this movie if 1990s nostalgia, or, specifically, Riot Grrl culture, makes you smile and/or you dig the music.

Similar and, in my opinion, better movies (though light on the grrl power thing) Girl (1998) and Thirteen (2003).

time spent in

I know my attention span is rapidly shrinking. I'm losing patience in people, in television, in books, in movies.

In an attempt to reverse this, I am trying to only watch slow, drawn out (and hopefully good) movies. Watch them all the way through, without skipping scenes. So far, I did this the other night with two movies (back to back - imagine my attention span just crying and freaking out) - The Science of Sleep (2005) which is drawn out and slow in a dreamy sort of delicate way and An Unmarried Woman (1978) which is unhurried because...well, I'm assuming because it was a 1970s movie and weren't most movies of that time, particularly dramas, kind of slow moving, to draw you in to the narrative?

on a hillside desolate

I am not thrilled with my job, but I know it could be worse. I could be in a position where I can't listen to late 1970s punk/rock and/or work on my blog...but, still.

A round of congrats went around today and it praised someone who had nothing to do with it and resulted in a ton of back patting obnoxiousness. Was it good news? Eh, it was ok. We are slightly better but not quite at the top yet. But, so, praise for doing your job, doing it good, maybe even better, but not quite the best. Alright.

I question my work ethic lately - as it seems everyone else is milking the system, getting stuff paid for by work when it has nothing to do with their actual jobs, it seems that everyone else is creatively fixing their time when they are not really here. It's just frustrating, to try and do your job, to actually try and do it above and beyond, to stick with the rules (as much as possible) and get squat. Nothing. No praise. No rewards. And that sounds so whiny, so self-entitled, so 'where is my gold star sticker for doing what is expected of me?'

Bah. Donzo.

macho

Eep...it's been how long since a post from me? I admit, I've been distracted. Plus, I'm off from work and, for some reason, I hate being on the computer when I'm at home, not at work.

Since I know I won't be back on here before then, Happy New Year. The New Year is one of my favorite times of year - just for the promise it holds (and sometimes the alcohol). More in 2012.

to the nth degree

I watched Chinatown (1974) yesterday...but it left me with questions.

Questions I wish I could debate with someone, with a group of people. And that is what tends to happen after I see a movie I liked or loved (and sometimes, that I hated). I want to discuss it with someone, analyze it.

But, you say, you have a blog! Just post your analysis on that.

Yes, because that's not like talking to myself, just in print form.

I think I do see, however, where my love of 1920s-1940s came from. Chinatown was a very good 1970s treatment of 1930s-1940s Art Deco style (yes, I was paying more attention to the architecture, furniture and clothing than the dialogue). I think there was a revival of that style in the '70s which I was probably exposed to (particularly all my television watching as a child). When you can pinpoint an influence, a reason why you like something, that's a bit scary, a bit enlightening.

catch on, catch up

There's an email running around a few sites...a particularly long and cringey kind of email...from a guy who went out with a lady and said lady ignored him and he wrote off huge cringey email. And as amusing and sad as the email was to read, I'm sure there are two sides to this story and geez, how awful (for the sender and the receiver) to 'leak' that email around the internet.

But, if one incorporates the people that they meet (when they're walking down the street) into her blog posts or fiction (or emo-centric poetry), isn't that similar? I would never (ok, almost never) use real names, but I have used real events (frequently), more as a reaction, more of a "I can't believe that happened!" and less of a "look at the freak and what dumb stuff he did!" Is that fair to the other person(s)? Should a writer, upon first meeting someone, warn that anything the person may do or say might eventually end up in a lyric or a short story? Or is that just simply poetic license, taking liberties with stuff that happens and the people around us (and hopefully changing names to protect the innocent)? Or have I just been watching too many reruns of Dragnet?

Hi there, Odd Duck supporters and new Facebook fans...

So, if you are visiting from an Odd Duck link and/or from my Facebook page...welcome and thanks for clicking through!

I'm a former music journalist, now fiction writer, trying to get her act together to get some stuff e-published and self-published. For now, though, please read on through....this site is some old blog posts of mine as well as some new, random stuff. It's usually entertaining...

eye in the sky

Even though I swore it off in the past, I am slightly, oh-so-tiny-bit, considering re-joining an online dating site, just for the potential material...

poetry in cars

What's it been - almost a full week of almost daily posts? Go me!

Two thoughts (I ought to split these for two posts...but...no).

I just finished watching Off the Charts: the Song-Poem Story (2003). It's a great little documentary about music and kitsch and the pursuit of fame...I remember the ads that used to run (do they still?) about music producers wanting your poems, to turn into chart topping songs. I was always tempted but never submitted anything. Apparently, regardless how bad a poem you sent in, you would get back an offer to record your song (you pay a fee, of course). The film covers the hopefuls that mail poems in (including one kind of sad story with a man who tries to go out on tour and doesn't do very well) as well as the people who 'produce' them. Really, they (for the most part) give some care to what they are recording, as off the wall as some of it is. One of the poem writers was a kung-fu, guns and Jesus enthusiast (reminiscent of Napoleon Dynamite, minus the Jesus stuff). He's sent in several poems to be turned into songs, including one explaining his love for the late Annie Oakley (technically, he loves her spirit, he explains). As goofy as he is, he is actually sweet and...I can't laugh because he's doing creative stuff and actually getting it produced and now he was in a film. So, there you go.

And next thought - I hate driving now. Dread it almost. I used to love a road trip...love to take aimless drives to where ever...there's a show an hour away? I'll drive! But, lately, my weekly 45 minute trip to and 45 minute trip back to campus for a class just...argh...I hate it...I hate the traffic (there's not much), I hate the distance (it's only 45 minutes, really not that awful), I hate the bumpy roads (they are pretty bad). So, this time, I made myself listen to the '70s station on XM and not turn it (as, typically, I would tend to flip stations, carefully, after every song). And that made it not so terrible.

blam

Feeling under the weather and uninspired but must keep the daily/at least frequent postings up...

I found some of my old diaries/journals (more on that later) and, yes, they are the guide for the teenage girl - no one understands me, everything is horrible, etc etc...but, I was also under the impression that my writing was not just good, but grand - world stoppingly wonderful...that it would be studied (and not fully understood) by scholars years and years from now. I'd like to get that back - that cocky sense, that inflated sense of self (or at least talent), that swagger...

fresh as...

I love/hate being in tune with the weather. I'm sneezy and slow moving, which means it's raining...it's raining so I don't want to get out of bed or go to work. Big ol' circle.

Love in a sense that 'gee, the human body is awesome!' sort of way.

I alone

[originally posted on myspace on July 27, 2009]

- my apologies for the stripy-ness of this...I don't know how to correct it -

I will call her “Julie,” named after Love Boat Cruise Director Julie McCoy. You’ll see why in a second (depending on your rate of reading).

As a background, I met Julie one time before seeing her again the other night. That first time I met her, eh, I just found her to be very forcibly nice. Like if she was a character in a Lifetime movie, she’d start out super nice and just a bit off-puttingly too friendly and by the end of the movie, she’d steal your husband, poison your dog, kidnap your kids, somehow get you fired from your job, torch your car, etc.

But, really, I don’t know her well enough to cast her into a movie. She seems nice.

So, the other night, she comes over to me and re-introduces herself (thankfully, as her hair was different, so I probably would not have recognized her otherwise). She reintroduces herself, still the same forced friendly, “You’re Jen, right? Hi, I’m Julie, we’ve met a few times, I think.” (unless she has been showing up at my apartment during my Daisy of Love viewings, then, no, we’ve met once).

I am standing away from the stage because, 1) the older I get, the further away I want to stand from the speakers and 2) the show was in a record store and man, did I want to rummage through the room full of vinyl. She, again, being nice, invited me to join “the rest of us,” the group of assorted band member significant others and supporters who were directly in front of the stage. I said no, thanks and she flitted away. It reminded me of a time in 8^th grade…I had made one of the ‘popular’ girls laugh and she suddenly realized I was cool and invited me to move over to the ‘cool’ section of our mutual math class (yes, our math class had a ‘cool’ section, the two rows closest to the door which was filled with all the popular kids of the class and apparently, was a by invitation only sort of seating arrangement). Anyway, it was a nice thought, but, really, I was happy roaming the store on my own. I didn’t really feel the urge to sit with others I didn’t know/didn’t really want to know and drum up conversations. There was vinyl to pillage! So much for my networking skills, eh?

Here’s where she earns the name Julie. She was working the event, like a social event coordinator, like it was her job. She was making sure the video camera was set up, she was mingling with the people. And then, she repeatedly came over to me through out the night to check on me (like a waitress, I almost asked for a refill of my nonexistent drink, but I don’t think she would have taken it as a joke). Not in a ‘do you like the music?’ or ‘what do think of the store?’ kind of way, but in a ‘are you having fun?’ and ‘are you ok?’ kind of way. Because, obviously, a person cannot possibly be happy standing by herself in a record store, watching bands play (had there been alcohol, it would have been my dream setting).

I assume she’s just working the room, repeatedly assure her I am fine, even go talk to some people to get her to back off. At the end of the night, when I normally would have slipped out quietly, as I had someplace else to be, I made it a point to go and say a kind farewell to her. I get a big old hug (expected) and again, she asks me if I had a good time, to which I, again, assure her yes (and besides, if I didn’t have a good time, that’d be on me, not the activity director). Then she says something along the lines of: “I just worry about you because EVERY TIME I see you, you’re alone.” (or it might have been “you’re by yourself”)

I can’t pinpoint why her sentence surprised me (and has burrowed a little hole in my brain and made me post a blog about it). Worry? Because we are not friends and you don’t know me enough to make an assumption about worrisome behavior (granted, if you met someone twice and both times, they were extremely trashed, you might want to worry over the state of their liver, sure).

Every time? The total of 2 (including that evening) times she has seen me equals “every time.” Yes, mathematically, that is correct. 2 out of 2 is 100%. But 2 out of 2 may also be too soon to judge, Sunshine.

Yes, the TWO times I have seen her, I have been at a show alone. Is that a horrible thing? Is that something that needs to bring on the old Jewish mother with an aged, unmarried, wallflower daughter high level of concern? It went from being friendly to feeling more like she was the camp counselor adopting woeful, anti-social me as her special project (complete with 1980s movie make over montage and my emerging out of my cocoon to rise to social butterfly stature with crimped blonde hair in time for the big end of summer dance).

Sure, there were 2 (or 3) people that, had they come along (had they been available or had I asked), it would have been a fun night. But, shocker, I had a good time by myself. And I’m sure it’s harder to believe because I know I tend to have a frown (or I’d rather think of it, I don’t have a plastic fake perma-smile stuck on my face), but when you go to shows alone, you adopt that look, that don’t bother me, please, drunk man, don’t hit on me, look (a look that drunks are oblivious to, apparently).

Or, I could see some concern if, every time, I showed up alone and went home with some random guy, or started throwing barstools at strangers for looking at me funny or defaced property. Nope. I show up, usually late, enjoy and leave, usually quietly.

untitled melodrama of 1989

[originally posted on myspace on June 1, 2010]

So, I had an oddly introspective weekend (odd in that I went out of town to a show, which you wouldn't expect to be an introspective sort of trip). I'm reading Kelly Cutrone's book (titled something like If You Have to Cry, Go Outside...I left it at work today by mistake) and damn, wow, it's crazy. It's pretty much saying, don't buy into things, know yourself. And it got me thinking, about lots, but mostly, for years, I thought I wanted to be the little rocker chick...but maybe that's not me anymore, if it was ever me. Hard to explain.

But, I will say this (in a long, roundabout way): my tire blew up leaving Melbourne Saturday morning. I think it was the tire that was previously patched. I left the motel earlier than planned (see above paragraph and after a whole introspective evening, and not much sleeping, I was ready to head home) and leaving the gas station, my car kind of started pulling to one side and then shaking. Me, I get onto 95 anyway, figure it's the gas or something and it'll stop. The car starts violently shaking and I think, ok, I'll get off at the next exit. No such luck. The tire just blew and I (after freaking out for a few second) pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. More panic for a few more seconds and then called Triple A...got out of my car (when it was clear) to check the damage. The tire was shredded. I waited around 20 minutes for the Triple A guy to show...andd standing there, with countless cars speeding by (and most of them not getting over to the other lane, like they should do and I now faithfully do) at over 70 miles an hour...it felt so very lonely. I don't know what I expected to happen...someone to pull over and ask if everything was ok, for a prince to come riding through...don't know. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted a nap.

But the whole thing (the waiting and the later going to find a replacement tire in a brand new town I knew nothing about and being rewarded with Starbucks...'cause there's always a Starbucks)...it reinforced stuff mentioned in Cutrone's book, in what I know already, what I've learned a million times. Things could be worse. It could ahve been raining and/or late at scary night. Bad things are (usually) temporary. I could have sat on the side of the road and cried...but I probably still would be now sitting on the side of the road, with red eyes and a still flat, shredded tire...so, with everything, with every uncertain moment, I just need to be my awesome, kick ass self, trust in that, dow what needs to be done, see the awesome, positive, experience/life lesson in things (or at least, get a latte) and move on to the next.

Also, Friday and Saturday, the number '89' (as in the number and the year 1989) kept coming up. Weird, huh?

venti

[originally posted on myspace on August 15, 2008, Friday]

Maybe it's the lack of food mixed with espresso, or growing older, or the Ryan Cabrera song that's on right now…but I'm starting to realize that venting has no purpose.

If something bugs me or I need to document something, I will blog and get it off my chest (or blog until it is) and then, I'm pretty good. I no longer need the marathon vent session, recounting and replaying for anyone that will listen that I used to need. I post, I feel better (to some extent), the end.

I just started reading a book last night that essentially says (most) women buy into fairy tales as young girls and wait to find the perfect guy to rescue them/save them/protect them rather than that help themselves. And (for me) I think venting is the same thing. I vent so someone else will tell me what to do or so someone else can feel bad for me. But, by blogging, I can re-read my own thoughts and think, geez, that's a dumb concern or well, shut up and do something about it already.

I can appreciate that if you vent about something to someone else, maybe they will see things you don't, offer solutions that you could not come up with, but I don't need someone outside me to tell me what to do. I know me (somewhat) and I know what will work, what won't (for the most part), what I will do and won't do, and, most importantly, (cliché warning) change is growth and pain is inevitable but sometimes short lived and almost always teaching you something. And to quote NOFX: I ain't waiting on no prince to save me.

To vent excessively, especially to dwell on the bad, is to throw up your hands and say I have no control over this or anything and to get dangerously close to getting stuck in a rut, mulling around in your own negative thoughts, to give into pessimistic tendencies with the thought that someday, someone else will fix this.

I think venting (in the long winded sense) plays into the procrastination and negative energy that I've been trying to avoid/change (texting Kym about boy weirdness during late hours doesn't count as venting).

And, I don't mind if someone needs to vent to me (as they usually don't blog), but lately I've been thinking, why are they telling me? Because I listen/am easy to talk to? Because they want someone to feel bad with them? Do they want my advice or do they just want me to smile and nod?

There is something to silence, there is good logic behind keeping your mouth shut.

Note to retail: I do not want your email (unless it has coupons attached)

[originally posted on myspace on August 27, 2007]

If you totaled up all the money I've spent on, let's say, shoes over the course of my life, the total would be…oh, who knows, enough to buy some crazy imported sports car. But I care deeply about all my shoes (past, present and future purchases). And doesn't short term happiness count for something?

Oh no, it certainly does not, according to the New York Times (this message, a tiny little one page, wrapped up in a glossy, thick magazine devoted to style and all things pricey and covetable).

In yesterday's New York Times, there was a special insert entitled Eye Candy (Women's Fashion Fall 2007) and flipping through its a little over 300 pages was just like Christmas morning.

While looking at all the pretty, shiny pictures, I'd occasionally stop on some of the few pages that had actual articles. Page 118, New Balance: the point of the piece was that while shopping is more fun than saving, money put towards what you buy today could be saved into bigger materialistic purchases or goals. As it brilliantlystated: "[investment] alternatives so you don't wind up the best-dressed person in the shelter."

The piece takes five different ages and five different expensive purchases. It explains how the money could be saved (over the course of many, many years) to net you a "better" investment. Some of it was good. A brief run down:

A 25 year old could save $359 a month for five years and be able to afford to purchase an apartment by the time she hits 30, instead of buying those shoes and kind of ugly purse right now.

A 35 year old could save $842 a month for eighteen years and get her baby into some obnoxious Ivy League, instead of buying that Cartier watch now. Yawn. Get the watch. The kid probably will run off to backpack in Europe by then anyway.

A 40 year old could save $2083 a month for two years (instead of that really cute bag) tp save up enough money for a kitchen renovation. Geez, isn't that was Home Depot credit cards are for? Boring goal.

A 45 year old could save $1000 for twenty years instead of some cheap looking ring now. Result: enough money to pay for nine years in a private nursing home. Of course, that is probably figuring in today's rates. In twenty years, that'll probably be enough to land you a bed in some constantly raided by the news and investigators crappy nursing home. If you had bought that ugly ring, you could hold the inheritance of it over your child(ren)'s head and at least live out your retirement in her house instead.

Anyway, all pretty good suggestions (if not a tad depressing, um, saving for a nursing home?). But I was most interested in the 30 year old. After all, that's me. What should I be saving for?

A 30 year old can achieve becoming a millionaire by the age of 40! Instead of buying a fur coat (sure), I can save…$6,657 a month (cough) for ten years. Oh, save almost $7000 a month? Is that all? I'd just have to take on, oh, two or three more jobs…but then I'd be a millionaire and I could blow all my money on crap I didn't buy for ten years.

Yeah, I didn't really learn much from the article. Except that, at 30, I am expected to save the most out of all the other ages in the article. And, wow, NY Times must have a rich reading audience, if it thinks nothing of telling a 30 year old to save 7K for a few years.

P.S.: pale skin is back in fashion. I predict a return to coke head chic. Enjoy.

(New Guy just popped into my office and his nasty cologne is still lingering, gag).

under the moonlight, the serious moonlight (interlude)

[originally posted on myspace on July 26. 2007]

I was watching old videos last night (I love the Tube Network) and memories came rushing back.

Earliest (sorta) music-related memories:

First video ever saw (I believe both on HBO):

One for Culture Club, possibly "Karma Chameleon." My mom loved Boy George's voice on the radio, and this video was the first time we both saw him. She was in shock. I was amused.I more vividly remember David Bowie's "Let Dance." Maybe because it had dancing, maybe I thought he was cute. I saw it last night (after years of not seeing it) and ohmigod the shoes in the video: sort of pointy (though not as extreme pointy as I like) red shoes. Maybe that's where the shoe thing comes from.

My first official concert:

The Jackson 5 Victory Reunion tour. I just remember that the entire family (plus one friend per kid) went and I brought a Cabbage Patch doll with me. And I think the group came in via a helicopter.

The concert I wanted to go to:

Madonna, possibly the Like A Virgin tour. I was not allowed to go (too young), but my best friend at the time and I tried to win many times through the local radio station. No luck. Beastie Boys were the opening act. Too funny.

My earliest crushes:

George Michael (I was so upset when Wham! broke up) and Prince (I really wanted to grow up and be an actress so I could star in a movie with him – ala Purple Rain, which I was not allowed to see).

Song-related thoughts:

I remember being in a Showbiz Pizza (I think, it was the earlier version of Chuck E Cheese) and we were in the dining room, having pizza, listening to the animatronic animals singing. They performed "867-5309 (Jenny)" by Tommy Tutone (in retrospect, what the hell were those family friendly animals singing that for, but in the 1980s, no one heard lyrics apparently). I loved the song at the time (and had no concept of what it was about) because it had my name in it. At the time, I remember pointing out to my mom that, although it had my name in it, it had the wrong telephone number (as if I was the only Jen in the world, little did I know).

I also remember hearing Rick Springfield's "Jesse's Girl" on the radio (constantly). I liked it but didn't get it. To me, at the time, Jesse was a girl's name and girls couldn't have girlfriends (I was a naïve youth). Then later, I discovered Uncle Jesse on Full House and it all made sense.

Finally, my earliest muck raking:

I used to print a newsletter/pre-zine called the JB Report for my pen pals and friends. For some reason, I hated everything my best friend liked (the movie Dirty Dancing and Paula Abdul). One feature of my newsletter was a sort of gossip column (though I didn't know it at the time). I would just reprint news from my mom's magazines. And any time I found something negative about Paula, I would write about it. This same friend later liked Bon Jovi (this was fifth grade, maybe) and I distinctly remember knocking her for her crush on John Bon Jovi because he looked like a girl (the hair, the earrings)…this was just a few years before my glam period.