Comradery in the Chaos

Oh-oh, oh, oh!! What a wonderful weekend!! So good, so good!! Started out excellent with a Dave Eggers meet 'n greet (maybe write about later), then wandered into the beautiful chaotic scene of a King Khan and the Shrines show at the Bottom Lounge with fun friends and sweaty strangers. This was my second time seeing them - my first was at Pitchfork '08 and I was heavily imbibing on libations of whiskey and beer, beer, beer and I didn't know much about them and I don't remember much except that it was hot and King Khan was in a loin cloth. I love them; I'm obsessed with them, and seeing them live only furthered my lust.


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Erin and I walked to the BL from our apartment, in the drizzle, holding hands, skipping and singing what we could remember of "Bohemian Rhapsody" all the way there... we missed the bus. We arrived, met up with friends, sat in a booth waiting for more friends, Werskeroonie and I stayed inside and talked insects while our loser friends smoked their loser cigs, we made comments about the BBQ Show bandmates that sat next to us in all their hip band-digs and gold coated finery, met up with our latecomers and proceeded into the concert area. The first opener (I forget who) was finishing up, they rocked and we rolled to the front left of the stage to catch a close showing of BBQ Show rambling and rockin' - it was good, but I was giddy for King Khan to take the stage. Soon enough, my dreams came true. Erin, Ty and I crowded the front center of the stage as the horn section set up on the left a little behind the keyboardist, while the guitars and drummer went to the right with the center stage reserved for the man himself, the Khan.The lights dimmed, glared red and the horns blared as the crowd went wild. HERE HE COMES!!! Chieftain headdress, cape and all his glory, the show began with "Land of the Freak" and freak we did.It got moshy in T-2 milliseconds and I thought, "Oh shit. I cannot handle this." and so I retreated to the sidelines, only to look back in and think of all the fun I was missing - so I dove right back, shimmy-ing and shaking with the rest of the freaks, young and old, fat and bony-elbows thin. What a crowd! It was loud. And while it was moshy and pushy and seemingly violent, it was not; everyone had huge smiles on their faces while the were throwing their bodies forward and back, side to side, flinging body parts and sticking to each others' skin. Pretty soon everyone was drenched in sweat; your sweat, my sweat, his sweat, her sweat. The stage presence the whole band emitted was incredible. There was a foxy little cheerleader with black pom poms and fantastic moves dancing out the songs, sprinkling glitter and getting the crowd going. It was pure insanity, and I loved it! Guitarists dove into the crowd to be lifted up and played loud; the keyboardist died at the end of most songs, covering himself in his board and stand; and I had a chubbs for the trumpet player who looked like a guy named "Chuck" that came straight out of a 80s porn flick (so commented Wersk) - he had a fro and mustache, what more can you ask?They played everything I wanted to hear and more; they knew when to slow down and when to speed up, they played like a lover who knew what they were doing. Half-way into the show, after a particularly hearty man belly bumped me almost to the floor I realized I had a race on Sunday and wasn't sure it was such a good idea to be in the midst of the moshing madness, but I decided I couldn't leave my concert comrades and made plans to seriously stretch after the show. Good decision indeed. There was one crazy part where the lights dimmed and King Khan took us on an adventure describing a time he climbed inside a woman, part by part - pretty crazy, and when he was fully inside her he had the audience close our eyes and imagine the complete and total darkness with him, then he started making jungle noises and eventually emerged from her, which may've made her his mother and things couldn't be the same after that, then she told him about the back door and he sang us a song.

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Erin, Ty and I retrieved our bags and moved to the back side for the encore (King Khan came back out with a awesome old-timey gladiator helmet, and the cape[!], on)and we danced danced danced! It was so nice to have space to move around in and get a whole view of the stage, but I wouldn't have changed being up front for the majority of the show for anything in the world. The music took on a whole new meaning for me after that concert experience and sharing it with all those strangers who, while we were dancing, became friends. Cheeseball corny, I know, but there was something there and it was great... except for that lame hipster couple in the very front and center with the tall chick who got up on stage to dance and had totally lame moves and her short douchey boyfriend who was trying to look French with his skinny black and white striped shirt. Laaaaaaaame! but whatev's. Whatev's.
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The walk to the Ashland bus was a little chilly as we were all drenched, but we sat close and laughed about everything that happened to warm up... from the crazy, large, hairy-chested man who barreled into everyone and tried to pick up Ty after I egged him on to elbow him to Erin getting knocked down and scooped back up in a matter of seconds to the long-haired girls who made bad decisions about wearing their hair down - good times, good times. Pictures from the bus stop follow....

We're just happy we're friends... though Ty seems to be questioning our craziness.

This is what we would look like if we got pulled up on stage.And this is what we would look like if we didn't get asked on stage. We took more pics, as it took the bus a while to come, but I'll save those for myself.

Now to talk about the race real quickly (Yeah right! you're probably thinking, and you're right, I'll ramble...). I did stretch after the concert Friday night, but Saturday day my left hip started bothering me and I thought, Oh, this is just great! I took it easy that night, hitting the hay errrlay and woke up 5:15a Sunday morning. I put on my ADIDAS jumpsuit and pedaled towards downtown and the lakefront; I got my bib, checked my bag, and warmed up to the sounds of the crowd and the cheesy DJ on the loud speaker, aka, running without music - oh man! Haven't done it since the Chicago marathon and we all know how well that worked. Oh, but they did play the Star Wars theme song on repeat, so that was fun and engine-revving. Anyway, so the race began right at 7am and I started my stop watch as my right foot hit the first timing plate and I ran. Run-ning. The weather was beautiful with blue skies and barely a cloud visible, with a nice light breeze. We rounded the park loop and headed under Lakeshore Dr. to the lakefront path -- you don't care about all these details... 13.1 miles in two 6.5ish mile loops - ewww, loops!! The 10Kers only did one. I was feeling real good and my first mile was around 8:30, just under actually - no, no, no I thought because I don't usually run that fast, so I tried to slow down, but I was sticking with the 9min pace group, so I just kept doing that. At mile 7 I was right on the hour mark and thinking, crap, I know I'm going to slow down and I'm not going to make my time (I just wanted sub-2, didn't care if it was 1:59:59, I just wanted that time). I was happy that I didn't wear my iPod so I could focus on my stride and breath and hear the pounding of the pavement from all the other runners - we sounded like horses and it made me smile to think of the student film I made with my friends about Penny "Horsemeat" Sumner (me), an Olympic runner who was wrongly convicted of taking steroids. The film is shots of me running and going into my "downward spiral" drinking in a bathtub with my guitar woven into an interview where I explain my story and how when I was 6 my father would take me out to the ranch in Arizona and I would have to run and wrangle in the horses, and how if I didn't keep up I would be turned into horsemeat, hence the nickname... I also explained that he got in trouble for that in later years, but that's another story... turns out the urine was switched, so mine was clean and I was able to run in the NYC marathon and that just made me so happy.

Then I sang songs to myself, in my head, listened to other runners, thought about how I was going to finish on time, tried not to cry because I was proud, then I thought of that movie "Seven" and how Kevin Spacey might kill me because of my pride and then we came to mile 12 and I started cheering on the other runners and I sprinted to the finish and my stop watch said my time was 1 hour, 52 minutes and 28 seconds!!! YAY!! So, I have faith that maybe I can make my sub-4 marathon time... we'll see, we'll see. But, before all that rambling, I was going to say there's comradery in the chaos of running, as well, and while it is individualistic it is inspiring to see other runners do well and you want for everyone to do well, because you know how good it feels to do well and how bad it feels to not... yeah. So, there's that for you. Confusing food for thought. MMM!! Hey, anyone in Chicago want to be my running buddy? 'Cause while I like running without my iPod, sometimes my intrinsic motivation isn't at its best and I need a little outside help. C'MONA!!!

MEET MY NEW KITTY!!!

I've wanted a cat for a while now, I think I've thought seriously about getting one since September or something... and then a month ago I had a cab driver named, Maurice, who said that dogs are nice, but cats are the greatest because they know when you're sad and then they come over so you don't feel so bad. Anyway, yesterday my roommate/sister bestie, Erin, and I went to the Anti-Cruelty Society and picked up this little precious kitty cat (she's actually 2, so unless she gets fat she'll stay this small and snuggly!!!):Meet Li'l Mama (though she was named, "Bashful" at the shelter, we thought about "Bessie" for a hot second, or at least I did because I thought she looked like a cow and my Mom had a cow named Bessie when she was growing up in Nebraska, this was around the time they also still used an outhouse and she'd be afraid to go out at night because when the wind blew the door she thought it sounded like there was a gorilla inside. And I just now thought of the name, "Cecilia Meriweather Foxtrot" and we could call her "CMF" or "Cute Mother-fucker" for short)!! Welcome, lady face. She's just a precious treasure and I love her so, so much already - though I can't quite say "with all of my heart" just yet because she likes scratching the furniture and not her post, and we bought her some toys and she was disinterested in ALL of them - EVEN THE LASER!! Seriously, cat!? Seriously? But this morning I was able to get her to play with a feather on a string attached to a stick. Silly kitty. She's so cute! When we were driving her home, the ACS put her in a cat carrier box for us, and she kept sticking her cute lil black and white nose out of the holes. Awwww! Kitty, kitty. Also, I'd love her with all of my heart if she learned how to use a broom to sweep up her kitty litter mess that she flings out of her box - note: not my favorite thing to walk on. Buuuuuuut, I think Erin and I underestimated her playfulness at the shelter, which is a good thing. She sure is snuggly and cuddly, and boy does she purr (sounds like a freaking motorboat - nonstop, I kid you not. I'm getting used to it, but it was kind of distracting last night) and she loves to snuggle under covers; I just took a nap with her on the couch. LIL MAMA!!! Hey kitty, kitty!! And I'm starting to develop a crazy cat voice, a little higher than my creepy dog voice that sounds like the Buffalo Bill in "Silence of the Lambs" ("Is she that great big fat lady?" - E and I love saying that to each other and just laughing and laughing, and probably scaring anyone within hearing range).

OOOOOOOOOOH! She's licking her paw right now, sitting at the edge of the sofa. I took some other pictures of her (of course, why not) but she kind of looks retarded in them, like her eyes aren't open all the way. She makes me laugh, a lot, and I almost don't want to get a job so I can play with her all the time. Yesterday, Erin and I brought her home and then we had to go get her things at Pet Smart, when we came home she was hiding between the couch and the wall and we thought, "Oh great. We got a hider, wonderful." But then she came out and started rubbing her catness all over everything. Marking her territory - apparently cats spray pheromones outta their butts, or something. Strange creatures. She has a cute little meow, too. I'm in love, love, love with my kitty!! Okay, I'm sure I'll write more about her later as I'm soooooooo crazy about her already.

I'mma Gross You Out!

Yep. It's that time. I have things I should be doing (script reviewin') so I'm blogging instead. Oh, procrastination, you're such a good friend. For some reason I was just reminded of my last round of finals at MU, the last one I took was my financial planning class. I hadn't slept in close to 2 days and I'm not very good at math to begin with... I think I studied the wrong formulas, or didn't study one that was really important, and that coupled with the lack of sleep equalled freak-out. The freak-out consisted of me looking over the pages thinking, "Oh. My. God. I don't know how to do any of these. I'm never going to graduate. I'm going to have to stay in Columbia another semester. I'm never going to get a job. I'm never going to survive. I'm going to have to live with my parents until I'm 25." and then I started to cry. I didn't mean to, I couldn't help it; I was scared - it was silent, but the tears were streaming down my face, I was in the front row (awesome, right?) and I didn't have a tissue, though one of the TAs brought me one which propelled my crying even more (I was tired! Give me a break or a piece of a cake! Err... sorry). I usually cry during math finals, or just don't show up (calculus - sophomore year was the year of baaaaaad decisions). The first time I cried was freshman year, Spring Quarter at DePaul. My math teacher was amazing, I forgot his name, but he was an older Greek man, and he just had such passion and zest for life that I almost started to love math because he was so wonderful. So, I'm taking the final and I'm freaking out because I'm a retard when it comes to math no matter how much I study, teach gives me his beads... a rosary? Greek thing? I don't know... and I'm clutching them, trying to figure out the problems and I start crying - embarrassing, right? Very delicately (because he knew he was dealing with a crazy fragile girl) he told me to go home, study and then take the test in a couple of days when he was conducting another final. I thanked him so much and went back to my dorm. When it came to take it again I flew through the questions, attempting, but knowing that it wasn't looking good for me. I took the test up to him, completed, but sad-faced. He asked me what was wrong and I told him that I didn't think I passed. Then he told me to write on the backs of the pages a reason as to why he should pass me. Oh! My heart sang a song and I happily went back to scribble out a rambling reasoning of my strengths lying elsewhere outside of applied numbers voodoo and how I attempted, but that part of my brain just doesn't want to grasp those concepts. I passed, got a C+ for the course. Sa-weeeeet! But, oh! how I've digressed from the initial subject, like what I just wrote has ab-so-lute-ly nothing to do with what I want to talk about.

It's embarrassing story time. Eyah! You're excited, right? Are you nervous to read on for my lack of good taste and censoring abilities? You should be. Yes. Yes, you should be.

So, this is the story that I wrote for the reality show application, they asked, I wrote. (It was between the following story or the aftermath of my first marathon - in training I didn't run more than 12 miles [which is dumb because I've since trained better and that race is still my best time], so 26.2 came as a shock to my body and the next day I could barely walk and was so convinced that my feet were covered in hairline fractures and about to break that I went and got x-rays and crutches from the doc... those crutches lasted about 12 minutes until I was like, "Fuck this shit! I'm hobbling to class, I don't care!" yeah, more stupid than embarrassing.)

Here's how I began: Alright, the number one, honest to goodness, most humiliating, mortifying, awful experience of my life came one year at summer camp (oh! I loved this camp, best summers of my life!)... I'm 80% sure I had just turned 11; summer after 5th grade. Normally it was just day camp, but one week a year it would become sleepaway and either the older boys or girls would stay - obviously in my case it was the girls who stayed behind after all the buses departed and camp grounds were basically deserted. Each night held a different activity (movie, Sports World, campfire/midnight hike - first two were basically rainy day activities so they were kinda lame), and this particular night we were going to take a dinner cruise on the Hudson.

Before we left, everyone went to their respective bunks, took out our overnight things from the shed, unrolled our sleeping bags, got ready, watched our counselors put on make-up and asked them about their boyfriends and giggled, and then we loaded the buses. I got my very first period the month before and was on my second go around during sleep week (talk about lame!). Come to think of it, I could've just turned 12, which makes this story unbearably embarrassing. Anyway, so we're on the bus, headed to the city and I feel the urge, sensation really of needing to go to the bathroom right away - you know the feeling, that, "Oh, shit! Toilet." and that's all you can think. We hit traffic. Are you fucking kidding me!?! (yeah, swear words were in full usage at this point in life, that same sleep week I was at breakfast with my two besties, Kat and Mishy [Kathleen and Michelle], and Mishy wasn't feeling or looking particularly well, so Kat and I asked her what was up over a breakfast of Frosted Flakes and bananas, her eloquent and shocking response was, "I'm fucking sick, damnit!" - yeah, we quoted that the rest of the summer.) So, I'm freaking out at this point, my stomach is in turmoil and I'm convinced that I'm dying. The traffic is horrendous, and we're at the point of the highway where you're basically in a tunnel, but not, because there are roads crossing above you - so aka, I'm feeling trapped like a rat in a cage, with digestive issues. There is nothing I can do at this point, but shuffle to the front, tell my counselor, go back to my seat, hold and pray.

By the time we reach the parking lot all counselors and staff are aware of my situation. I get off the bus first, with an entourage of 4-5 counselors and we haul ass to the boat as soon as the bus stops. I swear to God that bus parked at the furthest edge of the lot, away from the boat. OH, we are run-ning and I'm going to lose it - running like I have a stick up my ass. At this point I am crying and truly, truly convinced that I am dying, that this is the end of my life. We make it on the boat and are running down the narrow stairs to the bathroom - so close - when I lose it. My bowels explode and I sob. I now wish that I was dead. My bottom half is entirely covered and I'm standing in the middle of the smallest bathroom known to man with my entourage of counselors trying to calm me down and peeling the clothes off my body which is shaking with each sob. I think they poured pitchers of water on me to clean off my legs, but honestly, my memory has blocked some parts out to save face in my head.

I can remember very vividly sitting in the stall, still crying, and fashioning myself underwear out of toilet paper. By this point other girls need to use the bathroom and they're asking questions. The counselors respond that I got sick, but will be okay. I'm given an over-sized denim shirt (it was the 90s) to wrap around my waist, and I ascended the stairs, shoeless. Once on the main level, I learned that I pretty much had to stay put all night, because I had no shoes it would be a safety hazard for me to be on deck, or some BS like that. I sat, miserably, cramps twisting and turning my already torn insides, for the majority of the night. Friends and strangers stopped by to make sure everything was alright, and when I lied and sadly said yes, they would feel their duty done and run away to have fun. On the bus ride home I sat with Kat and laid my head in her lap, falling sleep trying to wish the evening away. My soiled clothes were put in a black trash bag and sat at the front of the bus. Ew.

So, that was that. It took me 10 years to tell some of my best friends that story (it happened one night, one the way to the bars, with my two Katies - all of us telling our traumatizing poop stories, one after another - oh! There's only one more for me, and it was a quiet shame, on a road in Maine... I was running, that'll be another post, I think you've had your fill today), and then I recounted it to Kat, and she said she had no idea that was the case! She thought I threw up! Everyone did! God bless those counselors and the children who didn't pry.

**Oh, yeah. And I told this story and the marathon story to my co-workers for input on which to use, obvi they said this one, and Erin said she wanted to start calling me: Kate "Shit Pants" - how sweet! I had to laugh.

Hmm. Hmm. Well, Alright.

Well, let's decompress here. Let's sort it all out. Because my mind is racing and second guessing itself right now.

I just had an interview for a reality television show to compete for a position as a personal assistant to a very powerful business mogul. I really would like this opportunity and I think I expressed that very clearly, mostly in the application I wrote (that turned out to be about book length - who'd've guessed, I'm a rambler). I fear I wasn't sassy enough. Some sassiness was needed when the interviewer told me that I was the whitest girl, ever, and wouldn't be able to hold my own in a VIP club setting, brushing elbows with big wigs and celebrities. I take offense, sir! I was also very taken aback and don't think I responded as I should've. I should've (look at me, shoulda, coulda, woulda - shit!) said, "Hey! Fuck you, dude. I had to fight my way into school in fifth grade, because I was the minority. And you're really white! And wearing sunglasses, inside." But I didn't. I didn't tell him about the time I had to fight Nicole Hicks behind the music room during recess because girl wouldn't stop talking shit. She slapped me, and I flared my nostrils and took off my glasses, giving them to Tisheya to hold, thereafter proceeding to push, kick and hit Nicky into the fence. Man. Bitch didn't bother me after that. Also, I watched "Friday" when I was 10, with Cherrelle, and I made Mac and Cheese and she brought over funyons. Yo. My first boyfriend was black, and apparently the only reason he dated me was because I was the only girl in sixth grade with boobs. Too bad they stopped growing after that, and then I found out he cheated on me with Kerri G. (who later turned out to get preggers in seventh grade, and got in a cat fight on the staircase with the other preggers 7th grader, Sarah) -- goodbye! That sucked. Maybe I should've told dude that I always wished I was black and beautiful. I loved how on "30 Rock" this week Tina and Jack discussed how they can't tell the age of black people. What?! Samuel L. Jackson isn't 27? 61!! Whoa! Yeah. Beautiful people, aging so gracefully. White people just get all wrinkley and liver spotty and shit. FUCK! Man! I'm so good on paper and I fail in person is how I'm feeling right now. And I hate how everyone I know is like, "OH MY GOD! You are the only one of my friends who I would love to watch on TV." And it's not like I have boring friends, I'm just crazy. And shit! Just give me a fucking chance. I was only trying to keep myself composed for the "job interview" aspect, but they probably wanted somebody crazier. Damnit, I'm so crazy. And... oh well, nothing to lose and everything to gain, right? I didn't walk in there already having something, so whatever. Things are supposed to happen for a reason, right? I'm not sure if I actually believe that, but a lot of people say it... and so far, life's turned out alright-ish. I shoulda shook him like Adam Sandler's Billy Madison did to that fat third grader, telling him to never grow up. I shoulda said, "Give me this fucking job, motherfucker!" But, guess what? I didn't. Alright, so we pick up, we move on. We put this experience in our pocket as experience gained. And now I've got to go put a band-aid on my heel because I wore stupid pumps for nothin'. And shit, I shared with 'em my most embarrassing experience ever! Like, ever ever. Terrible. I might write about that later.

Man, how to convey to strangers that I rock? Dude was dissing me the whole time, and I think I gave boring answers. SHIT! I'm done thinking about this online, with you. It's just a waste of time.

In other news: Diego Luna came into my pub last Friday, probs in town for the Latino Film Festival. I didn't really know it was him until after, and it turns out I've never seen anything he was in and I just thought he was some dirty, handsome hipster with a lot of Mexican male friends - totally his entourage. But we made eye contact and it was sultry. Then, my coworker, the sassiest tranny of them all, Rubes (I call him), said, "Oh girl, he is married to one of the most beautiful women in the world." (I guess she's cute - whatever.)

MOOOOOLE MAN!!

Okay, so Thursday morning my alarm went off a little after 6am and I hit the 'snooze' button. The next thing I know it's quarter after and I'm still in bed. Shit! I pop out, throw on clothes, don't even bother to re-up my hair, hop on my bike and groggily pedal towards the gym and yoga class.

As I'm approaching Wicker Park, there is a man walking across the street in the same direction I am going. He calls out to me, "Stuart is no longer a mole man!" At first my brain didn't recognize what he said because he said it with such confidence and enthusiasm, as if a street were finally re-opened, or this was the happiest day of his life because a friend finally re-surfaced. Then he wished me a great day and I pedaled onward, very confused. It could have been Simon or Sherman, but I think it was Stuart because it sounds more like a street than the other two. And it also could have been "merman." (Sherman, merman?) Regardless, I sure do love the crazy homeless people in Chicago.

Later that day I was recounting the story to my roommate on a walk up to DQ and we just happened to be passing the same area when a homeless woman jokingly said, "Oooh! I'm gonna tell him! I'm gonna tell him you were talking about him!" and I turned around, laughing, and said, "You better not!" Her and her pals loved that.

We got dipped cones; I got twist dipped in chocolate. It was delicious.

Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto

You might (or might not) be familiar with my rational fear of robots... they are out to destroy, therefore my fear is rational. Yes, rational. Judge me not, sir or madam! Judge me not. Recently I had the opportunity to work on lessening this fear of mine by attending a prom full of robots, myself included. Baby steps, people. Baby steps. Seeing as how we were all a bunch of people in robots' clothing, my fear came to a hold for the night. Here are pictures to show how much fun robot-people are. I suppose robot-people would be otherwise known as cyborgs, which may actually be worse than real robots because they think they are humans (I believe this is the premise to the new Terminator movie with Hottie McHotstein Christian Bale) and duh(!) they're not! Potentially the reason I did not enjoy AI, in addition to the unnecessary length, was because of all the cyborgs.

Speaking of cyborgs, this weekend I was talking with my bartender (boss at my work, not like my alcohol supplier who I pretend is my 'friend') about technology and how our society is becoming grossly attached. Talk soon went from children who are constantly plugged into their PS player-thingies and will grow up having horrible interpersonal skills outside of their 'IDK's and 'LOL's (with pale skin and poor eyes) to becoming cyborgs ourselves by inserting chips and disks and other sorts of devices into ourselves to make life a little bit easier... I was all about the intellectual debate until he went into chip insertion. Yeah, the idea of knowing and understanding the language of a foreign country is really awesome, but the icky-weirdness of machine parts in our bodies is not. Then, dude patron at the bar brought up the good point of that taking away the joy of learning and life experience. Bartender commented that dude was in the minority and that made me sad to hear and hoped/wished that bartender was wrong about that. I don't want to be a robot, ever. Even partially. No thanks. So I'll probably be one of the first to die in the robot v. human war. Oh God! I'm scaring myself! Hopefully this won't happen in my lifetime, and my children will be technologically equipped enough to successfully deal with the problem themselves.

PS - in terms of the pictures, proof that I like dancing; look terrible in really bright lighting; need to not attend open bar functions for a while (I was convinced I wasn't going to make it through Sunday and have not touched, nor felt the urge to consume, alcohol since... new goal: see how long I can make this last as Mother says alcoholism runs in the fam, guess some ancestor literally lost the farm due to a alcoholic-gambling binge way back when. Week 1 = success! I win!); look really great in leggings; can only wear high heels for a limited amount of time; am sassy.

It's a Musical Thing

"If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph:

THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED

FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD

WAS MUSIC"

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Kurt Vonnegut knew what was up. Apparently he would always mail things like that to his son, Kurt Jr., and in response his son would call and make sure everything was alright, which it usually was, until the last time - as always seems to be the case in life. I read about that in KV's "Armageddon in Retrospect," which was absolutely fantastic. But, as usual, I digress.

The reason I write tonight is to share a little food for thought from Alan Watts. Gave you chills, right? It should've. If it didn't, well then, I'm sorry for you, and think maybe you have a little more life lovin' to do.

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I love dancing, and singing.

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Thank God for music. Seriously. I love all forms of art and creative expression, but I think music is the most accessible for day-to-day situations. For example: without music, last week would've been hell in a file room. I had a temp gig, filing. I have the paper cuts to prove it - they're gnarly. My iPod helped me keep my sanity, and improved my efficiency. I often found myself dancing/bopping and singing or humming along, then realized that since I could hear the people on the outside of the 8x10 windowless room, they could probably hear me too. Oops! Work, running, driving, writing (only classical - usually), showering (with or without the help of the radio DJ), other things, all activity results improve tenfold with the assistance of rhythm and bass... it helps dancing too, duh!

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This song makes my heart swell. And Sufjan Stevens' "Chicago", and Alan Silvestri's "Forrest Gump Suite" -- all three are good songs to run to, to really run - to just let go and fly and let your heart pump blood through your veins and capillaries; to help in the realization of the fact that life is a musical thing the whole way through, with dynamic and dramatic crescendos and decrescendos before the final note. And also, this one (it's "Sitting Still Moving Still Staring Outlooking" by His Name is Alive in case the link doesn't work; fun time flashback: over Christmas break-ish, I was at one of my bestie's, Lauren's, in Kansas City, and she had this video on her computer that she filmed with her digital camera from the back seat of my car in which I'm forcing her, and our other HS besties Lisa and Alli, to listen to the beauty of the song while I'm driving up to the highest point in St. Joe one summer night way back when we were collegian babies and being nostalgic about our HS years that were months in the past... the video is just the song and mostly blackness with the occasional blue glow of dashboard light, until about 3/4 the way through when I say something like, "Oh crap!" and we all scream or yell because I swerved, and someone says, "Was that a raccoon?" or something, and the silence was lost, but the perfection of our friendship was captured. That made me happy... that specific moment itself, and then that Ms. L had captured it, though it was blind on film, it played brilliantly in my memory... PS: Tobes, if you're reading this, I do remember a-one specific promise to send that from your fancy Mac, hmmm!? Hmm!?) is pretty great, too. Totally unrelated (but what isn't here?) is that how you're supposed to write "too" with the statement then "," then "too"? Is that right; sometimes; all the time; none of the time? I'm not good with grammar (duh)! I use it like glitter. What? That didn't even make sense.

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Also, unrelated: when I opened up the Silvestri song, Castaway music was also suggested and it triggered a neuron from a dream the other night in which I was watching the movie and then all of a sudden in it, and I was like, "Shit! Seriously! Of all the Tom Hanks movies I have to get stuck in, it has to be this one?! Why not 'The Money Pit'!?!?" because I was on the island... y'know, it sucked. And speaking of dreams, I've been having some seriously messed up ones lately. Like super duper messed up. A bird flew, and got stuck, in my hair in one. I spoke Spanish, or something in another one while hiding in some basement of a desert house-mansion with other people hiding from Saddam Hussein, like Anne Frank-ish style. Seriously? What's that about!? It makes going to bed kind of exciting and scary all at once.

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Speaking of which, I need to... So yeah, music. It's good. Life. It's wonderful. Sing. Dance. Smell the flowers. If this isn't nice, I don't know what is. I'm gonna make my Momma's lasagna recipe this week and listen to Yves Montand's "Bella Ciao!" on repeat.