The Grocer.

I cannot reiterate how good it is to be back in Detroit. Certainly the fruits of Los Angeles are many, some worth picking, but overall, not the place for me to call home. While the weather had a blissful calm to it, it didn’t suit me. They tell me I am Dutch, quite often I feel my roots may be from farther north. I align myself with the Nordic people. I don’t need the sun to be happy, snow and cold don’t really bother me, it just is. Sure, life can be lacking in color when you take the Bergman path…and Almodovar films always look enticing, but who can live will all that vibrant color and sun all the time. The darkness merely makes us confront that which is in our hearts, why sun it away?

However this particular post has nothing to do with darkness, but with joy. The joy that my local grocery store the Honey Bee,  is a glorious place to shop.  Keep in mind, it was always a fine option – with incredibly affordable prices on both meats and vegetables. Granted, those prices have gone up a bit, but each time I go, I see new and delightful things.  In the past, I have primarily relied on a Royal Oak supermarket for my staples, as it caters to my dietary proclivities. That place is fabulous don’t get me wrong, but at about $40 a bag upon departure, it can be a tad over the top when one is on a budget.  Thus too, the Trader Joes option, which usually ranges around $30 per bag.  That brings me back to Honey Bee, which is generally $20 a bag, which, if you play your cards right and don’t fall into the deadly sin that is gluttony, you can stretch through the week.  That simply cannot be beat, and it’s in walking distance. (though in Detroit that just means you COULD walk, however, walking is frowned upon as sport here)  The Honey Bee pays strong attention to it’s demographics and adds different foods it seems almost weekly. Each time I go something new pops up, lately they have added wine and flowers, what could be better?  Today I splurged on decaf Nescafe as I was annoyed that I had thrown out all my Nescafe in a rash and bold move to rid my house of caffeinated products.  Decaf Nescafe, 59 cent cilantro, and pretty much a whole chicken for $4? Why not grab some tamales on the way to the cash register, and a case of Tecate? It is a delight, and it pleases me to no end that it is in my neighborhood.

This delight maybe over exalted today, but keep in mind I started the day at Costco, a place in which I hope never to go again. Not that I didn’t need a case of canned mushrooms but still, I am frustrated by the largeness of it all. Costco kind of blows that way. Big ass carts, big ass people – who I might point out wield their carts like a fight to the death bumper car game. It’s enough to send one over the dark edges, oh but for the 48 pack of toilet paper with the coupon. It’s almost a pilgrimage of sorts, going to Costco. One must first prepare by reading the flyer and tearing out the coupons. Then, one must get in the mindset to go, for instance, today I went early as it is a Saturday which means unruly and wretched crowds. Then, one must turn off all emotion during the drive to Madison Heights, I recommend local radio for this, it is passion and joy free. Once arriving, you will not get anywhere near the door in the parking lot so you must settle for something far away from the door. If there is anything Costco customers love more than bulk food at bargain prices, it is not to have to walk. Once inside past the top notch ’security’ the onslaught begins. The electronics department calls to you, and you begin to think that you just might need 6 iTunes giftcards and a jumbo pack of batteries. Reality sets in though as you start to compare the prices with the amounts. Yes, this 48 ounce tub of Mayonnaise is $7.49, but when you take into account the fact that I don’t go through 4 ounces of Mayo in six months, well, then it just starts to seem excessive.  At that point, everything becomes a battle. First of comparative quantity/price shopping, then it turns into an ugly battle of wills. I will admit, I was lured to Costco by the $30 off coupon on Strivectin, but when confronted with the $134 price tag, I sort of felt like maybe I should test out a sample of that shit first before shelling out a phone bill’s worth of cash on some snake oil. I don’t balk however at the price of the Nyquil three-pack. We all have our addictions.

Even worse, is the sticker shock whenever you cash out at Costco. Today, I had 12 items in my cart which came to $171. Somehow, when looking at said contents, the total didn’t make sense. How could this be? I noticed one of the coupons didn’t take, so I headed to customer service to straighten it out and it turned out to be another trick advertising ploy. They have a habit of doing that, lumping baby wipes in with diapers to get a discount, so too their razors with shaving gel.  It’s evil and designed to get you to spend $40 when you could spend $12 on some new blades and call it a day. Yes, I am talking about you, Venus Embrace. So I returned it, I won’t be talked into this bulk shaving gel, not when I just bought 14 bars of Dove. You choose your battles at Costco.

For my parents, a trip to Costco is a delight, complete with footlong hotdogs and churros. It’s like an amusement park for the Seniors. They are the last generation to know the value of a dollar and how to save, so surely they are doing something right. I on the other hand, just bought 14 pork chops which will take me months to go through, unless everyone I know comes over for dinner. For me, a trip to Costco is like a glimpse into hell, and it sends me back to the neighborhood market every time. Maybe it’s because I don’t stop for the churro.

Persona.

I been out of my mind for years, most will agree. It can be difficult operating on different levels of society all at the same time. For instance, I have long bided my daytime hours in the corporate work world, surfing in and out on the freelance wave. Stepping into meetings with top executives of automotive companies, then later that evening mellowing out in the cool waters of indie rock. There is the person I am with my parents, my friends and my public, and while fragments of this person stay the same, large parts are different. All of this is exhausting, but more important than the exhaustion, is the fact that multiple personas play havoc with my wardrobe. Simply put, I have either forgotten how to dress or who I am.

When you have a lot of facets to your social life, sometimes theme dressing is in order. In the business world of the past, you needed a suit for the corporate meetings, though creative dress is more allowed as of late. My last job, albeit corporate in all the horrible senses of corporate – nepotism, boy’s club, hostile work environment,  irrational hours and irrational ‘clients’, required slovenly attire, more or less layer upon layer in the cold, and tank tops and jeans in the heat. None of it really felt like me, just the wardrobe I put on for the part of the day. Like a theatrical wardrobe, my closet beckons, and regardless of the mood, usually has something to offer. Wacky spinstery 70’s dress? I’ve got it. Floor length hippie patchwork skirt? Yep. Overpriced business suit ala boring? Oh my yes. Sequined pumps and Betsey Johnson hoochie dresses? Naturally. Makeup suitable for a makeup artist kit? Why yes. Wigs aplenty? Certainly. But none of these things take us any closer to defining the self.

Some people have a definitive look or style, and while their closets may be as plentiful as mine, they stay on theme. One theme, and it works for them in spades. They always look put together, while it seems I always lack one crucial element in making my outfit complete. Anthropologie is a treacherous store for one like me, for unless you buy the complete outfit, you are never going to look complete. That’s how they get your money, creating a lifestyle that you think you can buy into. Unless you are that 1% of the population that can rock that look 100% of the time, it’s a complete waste. You can buy a top, or a skirt – but nine times out of ten it’s in the thrift pile two years later. Sure, that blue satin, red striped sailor skirt is awesome – and I wore it once because newsflash, I am not a sailor. Duly noted. Yo ho ho. At least that is one thing I am not, despite a disturbing desire to wear nautical attire, or navy and white themed clothing every spring.

Taking into account the fifty different people I could be because of what is in my closet – and still having little clue of the person I want to be, I am going to embark on an experiment.  Starting by dividing my closet into sections based on character/persona. I will pick five of the most revisited ones and then move the clothes that fit that particular genre.  I will track and tally the sections of which I source from the most, then poof – problem solved. One persona wins out above all the others. Or does it?

It’s All Over, a memory of Z-pack.

I am bored. Yep, it’s official. Day 8 of being a shut in, no visitors, nary any contact with the outside. I could tell Rilke a thing or two about solitude, save for the fact I am sure he didn’t take cable TV into account when waxing on about solitude.  Sure I could read books, apply for grants, but why? when I can watch the Libertine? Thank you IFC. I have learned a lot of things during my sickness, so many small and worthless things.

First and foremost, All-Clad stainless is not easy to clean, even with a half can of Barkeeper’s Friend. It’s total bullshit, they make that shit look like it never gets dirty, but God forbid you let the pan scorch. Teflon may kill you but it certainly is easier to clean. Secondly, I won’t change a light bulb unless really really compelled to do so. The fact that it would take ten seconds, walking from stove to cupboard, bending over and getting out said light bulb, walking back to the stove and screwing it in. We are looking at ten seconds here, yet I waited five days to do it, I think because the replacement bulbs are $7.50 each and I am getting frugal in my old age. Anyway, it’s done now, but it was a battle. Point Three – it’s best not to eat pizza, if you have been living on fruit, yogurt and soup for a week. I will leave it at that, and back to fruit and yogurt it is.  Point Four, Z-pack seems to be a magical drug, since I can breathe right now. So much with point after point, here are other things I have learned… Trader Joe’s makes the best turkey bacon, granted it’s like ham, but still. However, Trader Joe’s does not make the best Orange Juice.  I don’t have a lot of ambition, either that or I am chemically depressed, let’s blame ambition. Z-pack doesn’t make me hallucinate, real life does, go figure. I think that David Duchovny is not acting in Californication, but merely re-enacting his day. I have learned that red carpets are boring because no one has any taste, save for the stylists who all want to keep their jobs so they attire people in the same fricken outfit over and over. I need to take a vacation somewhere soon, the only thing is, I seem to want to go to places where I have already been like London or Paris, which seems wasteful since there is so much of the world yet to discover. Marie Osmond lost a lot of weight on Nutrisystems. Joan Rivers is back on E and it seems to be a balmy 35 degrees outside, which I haven’t felt as I don’t leave the house.  I have learned people just disappear, and sometimes are never found.

Z-pack Day Three.

Sadly I am neither hallucinating nor dehydrated from massive weightloss due to this glorious thing called a Z-pack.  After all, it is day three which means I have taken a total of four pills. Decongesting at a snail’s pace, but relief happened by the next day. It is easy to see why people get hooked on this shit.  Granted, I didn’t get the hallucinations so touted by many reviling the drug to be the devil.  But, I still have a week to go, for they say it stays in your system for a week after you stop taking it, like gum, which allegedly stays in your system for years or so they tell you.  Sure, I am a bit moody, dare we say weepy?  Things like my health and my mortgage issue have me in tears when normally I would accept things stoically.  My mortgage has turned into a fucking fiasco, and while I am currently not in the dreaded state that so many are in these days, it is still pissing me off.  To put it mildly I got hornswaggled.  That is probably why I am so pissed, because I was a dumb ass.  I believed what people told me, instead of going with my instinct. In my defense, refinancing can be tricky when you are working 80 hours a week,  and often you look for the easy way out. In this case, all I signed and agreed to up front was a far cry different to what happened, and my gracious and helpful mortgage assistant all but disappeared when the deal was done.  Needless to say, money is going into escrow for taxes that I pay in person, and no one really gives a shit. So, instead of putting 125 more a month towards principal, it goes into redundancy. Horseshit. I will have the last laugh though my mortgage friend, for I waited to fill out the comment form until the situation was resolved. Sucks to be you.

Point being, Z-pack day three has enabled me to feel rage once again, where once was only a hacking cough and ennui. So it can’t be all downhill, despite killing all the bacteria in my body, both good and bad.  I keep waiting for something horrible to happen, but that is pretty much how I live day to day anyhow. So I take my little pink pill at the same time every day, just after my stories. Once I am caught up on the tragic love triangle that is Nicholas, Rebecca and Lucky I am up for fighting disease. It is fascinating how fast this shit works compared to my old school method of ‘riding it out’ or my previous trick of refusing to get sick. Taking a pill that blights all bacteria in your body or eating raw garlic for 4 days straight.  Have I been converted over to the dark side?

Z-pack.

I have lead a relatively healthy life. Physically healthy I should clarify, not always socially or mentally healthy but no one gets it all.  I abhor sickness and generally talk myself out of it at the first sign of trouble. There are all kinds of voodoo tricks one can perform, from eating raw garlic to hitting the Zicam, and steady diet of Nyquil never hurts. This time, the sickness crept up on my like a Ninja, assaulting my respiratory system with what feels like a fierce rage. Fierce enough for me to go to the doctor, another thing of which I am not fond.  Especially when you get the joy of sitting in the examination room for over an hour without even the comfort of a Highlights Magazine to entertain. But sit I did, and at the end of my time of waiting I was given a prescription for something known only as a Z-pack.

A few hours later, after a drive across town to my pharmacy (my desire for a small town pharmacy experience vs the torture of Walgreens sends me to the East Side, horrors!) I was popping the first two of five pills that I will take in this escalated healing regimen.  Note, I took said first two pills in the car, eager for this pain to leave my throat and lungs.  Shocking, considering my deep seated fear of antibiotics and weakening my immune system in the coming apocalyptic days.  Normally I would take the hard way out, but, as I don’t enjoy a hacking ‘productive’ cough I jumped with both feet in to the wonderful world of Z-pack.

Once I arrived home I began my internet research on said Z-pack, and based on the feedback I have found via the world wide web I can expect loss of bowel control, depression, hallucinations and panic attacks. So I guess that I can expect tomorrow to be the same as every day and I can’t wait. The potential death of all the ‘healthy’ bacteria in my body is rather ominous, and no doubt not unlike having a giant milkshake. Let the good times roll. The only question is, what happens, hallucination wise if Z-pack is combined with Nyquil. Stay tuned.

The Show of Auto.

For the first time in thirteen years, I am not working at the auto show. My first auto show was marked by my move to my beloved Detroit, and I had a gig PA’ing for one of the big three. A novice PA to be sure, I delighted the stagehands with my ‘greeness’ and reference to finishing gear as ‘the fishing uniform’. Despite much chiding, I survived and thus a career in the production arts was born. The PA gigs were brief as my desire to make more money spurred me on to greatness, that, and the lucky fate of working for a producer who mentored me to an extent and fueled my fire with the advice, ‘raise your rate’.  Those were heady times, full of monstrous budgets and shows that were actually allowed three months preparation.  Gradually, as the business wore on and economics took a turn for the worse prep time was reduced to an almost impossible level, and I recall one of my last press events having three weeks lead time. Naturally this was all still pulled off, to the detriment of all involved, though we were salved a bit by our paychecks.  In my career, I have watched the auto industry rise, slip, rise and fall again, and it has been fascinating. Especially since I never cared about cars in my youth, nor did I own one until I moved to Detroit. Instead using public transportation during my time in Chicago. It is quite possible I may have stayed in Chicago had I owned a car, for getting around via bus and El grew tiresome.  When I up and moved to Detroit on no more than a whim and a need for change, I was forced to purchase my first automobile, from my friend Bob. An 89 Geo Metro with about 28,000 miles on it. It was christened Maud and driven about town with a Mr. T air freshener, one I forgot to take out of the car upon trade in after the production way of life afforded me a more reliable means of transport.

It has been interesting to watch the industry change over the years, and at times heartbreaking. During my tenure as a producer one of the events was a corporate award night, the winners being the one’s that could trim the most fat off their budgets. I knew that meant downsizing and ultimately the loss of work, yet here were the company reps, graciously accepting their prize, and expensive statue, for no doubt firing workers or moving plants to more economic countries. It was depressing to say the least.

The automobile took me many places, both behind the wheel and for work, logging time at national shows, and even to my delight international ones. All the while I wondered when the bottom would fall out, knowing one is only as good as their last job.  Then, I jumped companies and had a solid two years of just about every auto show you could imagine, from Tampa to Phoenix to Boston.  Each one packing it in with senior citizens still clinging to a time when there was promise of cars in every garage, or father’s and son’s honoring a family tradition.  I suppose if I were a glass half full kind of girl I would have been pleased to see the tradition continue, but I am not. Many times I can only see the sadness in something which is no doubt a chemical imbalance which I don’t intend to alter with happy pills.  So instead of lauding the great American tradition of the auto show, I would head to my hotel room for some cheap per diem covered room service and iChat with people that were that somewhere I would have rather been. Allowing the sadness of a dying way of life to take me over for a time, until I had to worry about catching a plane the next morning to the next town.

This all leads me to this year. When I hung up my auto show hat in the spring.  Instead of stickting to the circuit I opted to try a different career path to see if I liked that any better. Still automotive to an extent, this time, reality television replaced the traditional auto show medium.  So this year, when the international press descends on our fair city, for the first time in thirteen years I will not be there. Not be there to hear the booming techno of the German car reveal, or to play which foreign country are they from based on the suits, the Germans, Swedes, Italians and Brits all duking it out for best dressed. No drunk Germans demanding to hear Metallica. No stagehand theater to amuse me, and no donut runs to appease the Colonel. No Millionaire in a golf cart lording over the VW booth, or hidden office space under the risers where production goes to lament and stay away from the client. No client to speak of, no kissing ass. It’s unsettling, yet it was time. It’s better to burn out than fade away, right?

So instead, I bide my time in slacker land. Paying bills, catching up on sleep and saying goodbye to my own tradition. One that afforded me far too long an adolescence. Is it the end of a dual life, or merely the beginning of something far worse?

New Year’s Resonations.

It is clear I have been remiss to blog as of late. There was a trip by plane that neglected to get a “Reflections on Air Travel”, despite me getting the upgrade and spending it seated next to an impressively behaved seven year old. There were several other desert inspired Christmas ramblings to divulge and yet I chose to read books and play my Nintendo DS like a sullen Tween. It’s not that I haven’t had things to bitch and or blather on about, it’s just, well, I lack a certain discipline.  Unfortunate too as surely I would be a State Senator by now if only I had the ability to follow through and a love of the ladysuit. As it stands I despise the ladysuit, and I lack a certain follow through in matters of things that are good for me. Don’t get me wrong, I have follow through when it comes to going to rock shows, meeting people for drinks and callbacks or textbacks. The follow through I lack comes in completing tasks which would positively benefit me and or my future. I must admit I find this a tad distressing and have always admired people that can focus on getting things completed despite the endless temptation to stop what you are doing for something less satisfying and or less important.   I mean, I could blog, or I could play Burger Shop 2 and master my ability to deliver fictitious food products to unhappy customers. I already know I have this ability in real non computer life, but it is the repetition and desire to one up myself that brings me back to the stinking Burger Shop. A place, I shall admit, that I would never work in if it existed in the real world.  What about Burger Shop is more compelling that writing my thoughts down in a cohesive albeit surly blog?

The thing is, I haven’t really been feeling surly these days. I have bouts of rage yes, and almost did a long missive on grocery shopping in Royal Oak just last week. But that rage passed, almost as quickly as the teenager’s middle finger as I was exiting the parking lot. Am I losing my ‘edge’?  Does dallying in spiteful humor constitute an ‘edge’? Why say something nice which is ultimately a lie, when you can say something funny that is the truth? My lack of rage seems to have been replaced by a certain melancholy, exacerbated by the fact that I must replace an 80 hour work week with an 80 hour sleep week. Though the 80 hour sleep week seems to be working out for me right now, plus it will save me on the Botox. Botox was one of my prior New Year’s Resolutions, but as the decade changed and the Blue Moon revealed certain things to me, it suddenly seems less necessary.

It’s interesting to begin a new decade on top of a new year. In the past I’ve logged my years by my own quickly passing decades, but maybe a better way to look at aging is by lumping it into the collective measuring of time. Is it possible that a new decade could bring a new way of looking at things? Granted a cross country move was an eye opening experience as was a great many of the things that have happened since. My final year and a half of the last decade were loaded down with too much change, it became overwhelming. Despite it, not enough about me as a person changed, just my surroundings and relationships. Though I walked by the beach 3 – 5 times a week, I didn’t adopt a subsequent love of nature and the outdoors and no yoga classes were taken after the first ones so long ago in Redondo. I appreciated  the southern Cali fowl from a pedestrian vantage point, and looking into the water was always nice despite my constant fear of tsunami or giant tidal wave. My life was solitary in California, calm and completely doable, but a little bit boring. When you are alone, truly alone you have a lot of time to think and from my personal vantage point, too much thinking gets you into trouble. At some point you just have to act or do. People fill their lives with many things, like thinking, or predictable relationships to avoid actually living. Being the best that they can be and surrounding themselves with the types of folks that can aid in bringing that to fruition. I have witnessed lots of folks who get in relationships and stick with them, patting themselves on the back for hanging tough, when the two people are slowing destroying what is good about either of them. So is it more selfish to end a relationship to save yourself? Or save a relationship and lose yourself? These questions are far too deep for me to do anything other than skim the surface, please, discuss amongst yourselves, and when you figure it out let me know.

So, in lieu of a fucking Top Ten list (God love the record store cats and and DJ types that keep this shit alive) and in lieu of pointless resolutions which I will never even bother to open the packaging on (Thighmaster that means you). I am gonna make some Resonations, things I hope will echo through the next ten years of my life. I wanna feel good, and if something makes me feel bad and it’s out of my control to change that feeling – well then it can go fuck itself, hard. Other people aren’t going to dictate how I feel about myself anymore, I got all the answers I have ever been looking for in a New Year’s Eve text message that somehow righted all that has been wrong for so long. I don’t want any answers anymore, I like the questions better, especially the impossible ones, replacing why with why not?

I am going to drink Champagne whenever possible. Live in a foreign country. Overthrow a left wing government. Revisit the danse. Punch someone in the face. Learn how to use my computer. And yes, I am going to start my all female Monster Magnet cover band, Wyndorf – after all, I have been talking about it for 15 years, clearly it is time to act – like the slow food cooking movement of rock, or dare we say, the Orson Welles touted Masson wine, ‘we will sell no wine before it’s time’. Well, it’s time.

Christmas Ramblings Part 1.

Tis the holiday season, which means a great many things. People are nicer than they normally are most of the year. Much decorating is done, be it with glowing lights, or garland outside – or the ever popular indoor decorations ie: the tree, the stairwell, stockings being hung by the proverbial fire. It’s all standard holiday fare. With so much buildup to Christmas,  I find it hard to refrain from childlike glee at it’s approach. I wish it could be Christmas year around. Reason one, I love the lights.  Why can’t we decorate our houses with lights and shiny things the whole year through? Must it be just one day a year? Granted, with Valentine’s Day, Easter, the Fourth of July and Halloween, becoming more and more prominent as holidays, decorations have been increasingly bigger.  Halloween especially, has gone from the jack-o-lanterns on the porch of my youth, to big giant displays involving witches, and black cats and spectacular lighting in one’s front yard. My love of holiday lighting has manifested itself with me  partaking in what I guess I can call a half assed tradition, that of cruising around looking at Holiday Lights. It all started back in high school, on what may or may not have been a date.  Me and Troop cruised around town, and the town next to ours appreciating the efforts folks went to decorate their homes and yards whilst snow was falling. High School, being an awkward time left me with an appreciation for lighted displays, and a lack of appreciation for the confusion of the courtship ritual.  So, I cling to one thing from that night – driving around looking at peoples lights.  It is highly entertaining, I recommend it. Someone’s light display says a lot about their personality as well as their commitment to holiday excellence.  There are the very tasteful displays, including the solitary candle in the window, which was the decor of choice at my family’s estate. One candle in each window, with an amber bulb, and a wreath on the door, that was it.  I secretly longed for more bling, but father was a traditionalist. Then, there are the not so tasteful displays, which are indeed a highlight. I like my lights like I like my drunks, the messier the better.

Reason two for holiday joy, are the series of rituals one must partake in for solely for the sake of repetition, it is simple what one does. Each family has their own set of rituals, which profoundly affect their offspring.  As I got older I realized that very few families had the same holiday rituals as my own. Oh, I know what you are thinking, the slaying of the traditional goat and drinking of it’s blood, surely that was a family tradition… no, that was not one of the original family rituals.  The obtaining of the holiday tree was. I hope that aging does not destroy my holiday glee. I have noticed, that my parents generation will eschew tree shopping and are content to sit around with a 1 foot table top decoration that signifies some sort of tree. Tis very distressing, with the increasing eco madness that has us in it’s grips -  will going to the tree lot be a thing of the past someday? When I was a kid, we went and cut down our own tree which was always a challenge to agree on in a family of six. Father’s preference always won out and a six or seven foot blue spruce would be hauled home and placed in the living room. Christmas was usually the only time of year we used the living room.  Granted, there were some dark years in the seventies when the silver tree was put up in the sunroom and the parents opted out of a real tree. Then the dark days when I was in college when my parents insisted on purchasing an artificial tree. Decorations came out the day after Thanksgiving, and would be put away December 26th. Now that I have my own house, I put up the decorations whenever I feel like it, and leave them up well into the new year. I demand a live tree as well, staying fast to the ritual. The only exclusion are in times of travel, which are a fairly new occurrence.  Last year I was stuck in the cesspool known as Los Angeles for the holidays, and this year I again find myself west in Arizona. Last year’s real tree procured from meth cookers in the South Bay. This year’s, disappointingly procured from what I can only assume is China, thanks to Target. I did not know what kind of trees were available in Arizona, and opted artificial over sagebrush. I may have made a mistake.

I think the rituals just may be more evidence of my OCD, but who can stop at just one. Everyone has something they like to do for Christmas, or they should as evidenced by Reason #3. My family went to church  and when we were old enough we got to go to the 11pm service. The Candlelight Service is one of the best of the year in my opinion, quite moving and beautiful, and always, no matter the denomination, ending with “Silent Night” being sung as the lights are turned off and the church illuminated in candlelight. Believer or non-believer, it’s quite a fantastic ritual, and I always wondered what families that didn’t go to church did on Christmas Eve.  I created an offshoot of the family tradition by adding my own edge post Christmas Eve service. Upon returning home, I would flip on NBC and check out what the Pope was doing in a pre-recorded St Peter’s Christmas Eve Mass, much to the chagrin and amusement of my Protestant parents. Each year I would check the elevation of the Pope’s head to determine his overall health and likelihood of making it to the next year, scan the seats for well heeled Italians, and listen to the dulcet tones of some American Cardinal, forever denied Popedom, explaining just what was going on. After mass  I would go to the kitchen and pick out a couple of cookies for Santa, leaving them and along with note.

Ritual and reason number four, my continued belief in Santa Claus. Yeah, I still believe in Santa, why the hell not? There is someone out there who knows when you are sleeping and when you are awake and whether or not you have been bad or good, I choose to think it is Santa, as opposed to a serial killer outside my window monitoring my waking and sleeping hours as research for when the best time to sneak in and dismember me. Somehow, Santa makes me feel better, like magic exists as opposed to life ending slaughter. Every year, save for one, I have left Santa cookies, and occasionally a drink in the event that he gets thirsty.  I figure he is owed it for the extra work it takes getting into houses without fireplaces. Santa even occasionally leaves a thank you note, though his handwriting is disturbingly like my mother’s. I am sure, that is one of his Santa like tricks to keep hope alive.

Growing up is horseshit, and it ruins everything, it even chips away at the joy of Christmas.  When you are a kid, everyone goes out of their way to make Christmas magical and awesome, then you get older, and you have to do stuff like eat breakfast before you tear open your gifts. Not cool. However that in itself is a ritual. Seriously, why can’t everyone have good will in their hearts year around? Being helpful, happy and polite shouldn’t be ascribed to a certain holiday, just because ’tis the season’. Every day we should have lights, and trees, and presents, and jolly fat men with filthy beards. Well, thanks to the Portlanding of the music scene a few years back, we had the filthy beards, but still..

Dreamy.

The prospect of unemployment is slowly seeping in. It is always like this between freelance jobs, however we are not always at the crest of swapping out career choices as we are at this juncture.  Granted, the heavy work weeks have fried my brain so it is easy to see why slumber trumped the alarm this AM, though it does make me nervous. I could be tired, or the darkness could be setting in, it’s too soon to tell. What I do know is, when faced with the option of getting up this morning, I did not. I stayed in bed. Now, I believe it is important to stay productive and I have many things I need to do prior to year’s end. However, the satanic voice spoke this AM and said, ‘you can do it tomorrow’. This is the most troubling thing about being freelance, that you can do it tomorrow, so why do it today, when today you can slumber?

Falling back asleep was a total accident, and certainly not my intention.  It’s just, the covers were warm, and the air above them cold, what else was I to do? So, it seems, I fell into a dream laden sleep, and what then transpired cannot completely be explained, other than the highlights. It was in the work garage, but it wasn’t the work garage, and we were filming PSA’s, but they also included people on old NBC lineups, hence, we were waiting for David Schwimmer. Waiting for Schwimmer, in my dream was nothing like Waiting for Godot and for that I am thankful. I am not thankful however, for a dream visit from Marky Mark.  There is no worthy sub conscious reason for such an appearance, by such and actor/entertainer. I am not Calvin Klein, my nocturnal thoughts are rarely filled with visions of physically fit young street hoods in need of hoisting up their pants.  No! My dreams are filled with endless searching, and items lost and never found. So you can imagine my horror at an appearance by one Mark Wahlberg, even more disturbing is that Marky Mark was calling the shots.

Thankfully, I woke up, remembering much of this morning haunting.  It has scared me back to work. No longer will I hit ’snooze’ just for another 5 minutes. No longer will I “do it tomorrow”. If anything, this has taught me one must seize the day and take matters into their own hands. I have looked into the face of darkness, and while it seems to be loving and physically fit, I will use it as my impetus for change. Clearly I must stay motivated or be haunted by the spectre of Marky Mark, and his notorious funky bunch.

The Phonograph.

I’ve created a parlor of sorts in my home, converting what should be a front dining room into a ‘vintage’ media room. By vintage I mean that it is a place to sit and read books without the temptation of the television to convince me that the Kardashian’s are more interesting than finishing Lords of Chaos.  Is Khloe Kardashian’s contribution to society any less menacing than that of Varg Vikernes? Is not the destruction of decency and propriety at the hands of celebrity just as disturbing as black metal inspired church burnings and murder? Each destroys life, the latter just quicker than the former.  However, I am not focusing on either today, and instead I am focusing on what I like to call my Parlor.  Back in the day, parlor’s were sitting rooms, or formal rooms for receiving guests.  So too is my parlor, a smattering of art on the walls, paintings, and vintage photographs of my parents looking out over the proceedings. Father, in his 70’s formal Masonic portrait, shot once reaching Master Mason status. Mother, smiles sweetly in her senior college portrait, engagement ring on finger, and cheeks colored by 50’s retouching.  They are on either side of “The Night Golden Boy Lost His Soul”, a painting I purchased some time ago from a talented friend moving to Brooklyn.  Then there is the console, moved from my living room and full of books I’ve yet to read, the current 80 hour work week discouraging me from completing that task. The good news is, once the work stops, I’ve got plenty of books to keep me busy so I shan’t need to purchase any for some time, thereby saving me coin.  Also on this console is my grandmother’s jewelry box which I cannot open, nor can I move it. It sits there untouched, along with my final horrific memory of her, it has no where to go.  The console currently  houses this year’s Christmas tree , a magenta foil number, erected as I shan’t be here for the holidays. My usual winter ritual of going to market and getting a tree will be foregone this year. Getting older means not always getting to do exactly what it is you want to do, and this year sacrifices must be made at the holiday, leaving many of my favorite rituals undone.  On the upside, I actually will have time off, and won’t be hostage to the Detroit Auto Show as I have for the last ten years. Trade offs can be promising.

The piece de resitance of the console is a phonograph I acquired a few years back. I will say no more of said acquisition other than I am grateful for the phonograph. I have mentioned on this very page before my disgust at giving away my singles collection. Alas, I did not give away my album collection, which is minimal at best, but laden with childhood favorites, records that were my sister’s or brother’s or parents, as well as a handful of music I bought during my college radio DJ days, a brief respite from my cassette collection of the time, as certain things were only available on vinyl.  There are also random vintage LP’s picked up at Salvation Army stores, things like Goulet’s Christmas record.  We all need Goulet, and that is something that can never be replaced. I feel  lucky to have seen him drunkenly slurring through Camelot a few years back, it’s moments like that the kids will never be able to appreciate nor participate in. The good ones are all gone. So if your asking the ‘what three people dead or alive would you like to have dinner with’ question, sure as shit you know that Goulet is gonna be at that table. Sitting there next to Foster Brooks and Phyllis Diller, and at the end of dinner they pass me the torch.

My LP collection is curious, it contains the first LP I was ever given by my older brother, back when I was in elementary school – Michael Jackson’s “Off The Wall”. I remember being confused by it at first, wondering what possessed him to purchase this record. I liked it though because my big brother bought it for me, and therefore it was worth listening to.  I have often lamented over my older siblings taste in music doing nothing for me the young impressionable music listener, disappointed at their lack of punk rock and heavy metal records, instead having things like Fleetwood Mac and Steely Dan (my brother) and Barbra Streisand (my sister). I always felt this left me behind, once I entered college and had friends who’s siblings gave them the gifts of Led Zeppelin and The Ramones and The Stooges. I felt cheated to a point over having to learn about music history on my own, I now see this as lucky, having the choice to develop my own musical tastes, which border on the curious to be certain. Without Off the Wall would I still have gotten into Soul Train and early rap and R&B? Without the unsettling cover of Frankenstein featuring a picture of the first Albino I had ever seen, would I ever have gone down the path of Dio? None of these questions can ever be answered because who knows why you like what you like? I sure as shit do not.

So this afternoon, while I catch up on work pulling things together for the final days of job related chaos, I listen to Mono, over and over. It helps me focus, it is calming to listen to the side of a record play then to flip it over. More soothing than the iPod where you can cycle through different genres with a mere “Shuffle”. Instead in my parlor I can play records that remind me of places and times – The Muppet Movie,  there is nothing as forlorn as Kermit’s Rainbow Connection. House of Freaks, of which I was obsessed, a record I found in the collection at the campus radio station, and one that I played over and over.  I was doing some cooking a few weeks ago and listening to the record for the first time in years and it prompted me to look up where they are now. A bad idea, finding quite tragic and horrible news, which ultimately had me put the record away and gave me nightmares.  There are records that have been gifts from others not unlike that album from my brother so many years ago, guessing as to what I might like, a task which as I learn more about myself, might not be that simple for those around me. Each one a reminder of a place, or time. You can’t really have that kind of nostalgia with an iPod. There is no “I downloaded this with the giftcard I got from so and so”.  Your big brother can’t give you iTunes for Christmas and have it make an impact on you some thirty years later. So for that, we have the phonograph. Which doesn’t just play music, but memories as well. Occasionally with a skip, but always cued up for another listen.