LaurieWrites

The first step is admitting it.

I keep saying I'm going to stop taking pictures while I'm shopping, because I'm convinced that one of these times I'm going to get busted and accused of doing some kind of underground surveillance. I'm just the fool to get busted in Target for taking pictures of some random product that happens to be the target of a terrorist cell. I still half expect the Mimi Maternity people to track me down for the Preggie Pops thing.

So I stop for a while, and it goes okay. But then I see something that just weirds me out like this:

and there I go, snapping away...a junkie with a jones only a cameraphone can fix.

Body resurfacing cream? With attachments? Body refill? What?

I have no idea what that little triangle could be for, but it seems like all roads should conceivably end in pain where it's concerned. But apparently I should try it, because it seems to solve a plethora of problems, including "Crepey skin," which I hope I never need to embrace as a personal issue, even though I'm not exactly sure what it is.

Who couldn't use a body solution or two, honestly, although I'm in no need whatsoever of a refill. And as far as solutions go, I'm not sure resurfacing is it,  and it occurs to me that the ones that come with attachments generally aren't found in grocery stores.

Another one where I babble on about people whose music really has changed my life

I was late for two concerts this weekend and that really pissed me off. Time management has been an issue in general lately, just because I've got so much stuff to do and keep track of and I'm too busy trying not to drown to really do anything productive. It's awful, actually, and I'd go into it more if I didn't need to stop and hyperventilate if I allow myself to think or speak of it, so I won't.

Rosanne Cash played downtown at George Washington University on Friday. The space is terrible acoustically, and I couldn't believe the number of empty seats. She is such a good performer, though, and her band so solid, that they overcame it with no problems.

I've been a fan of hers for a long time...way before I had any solid knowledge of her father. This can be attributed to my mother's thing for country and popular music when I was growing up, and the fact that it was always on in our house and in the car, where I spent way too much time even then. "Seven Year Ache" was released when I was ten years old, and it's stayed with me for 25 years. I think it's one of the best country pop songs ever written and performed. "You act like you were just born tonight/Face down in a memory but feelin' alright" has always created such a cool image in my mind, and has resonated more since I experienced that feeling myself.

She put this show together for "Black Cadillac", which she wrote and recorded in homage to her parents - Johnny Cash, of course, and her mother, Vivian Liberto...plus her stepmother June Carter Cash. They all three died within a two-year span, and this record was her response to this experience, which was obviously life-altering. She played her older popular stuff, lots of songs from the new record, some songs she said Johnny Cash gave her on a list of the "Top 100 Country Songs" and made her learn, and other cool stuff, like a beautiful cover of a Rita Coolidge song that I think is called "A Diamond in Your Eyes". Sometimes between the songs the stage would go dark, and video and photo montages played on a screen, with recordings of her speaking, reminiscing in what sounded like prose poetry. It was quite effective, and could have been hokey in less competent, heartfelt hands, but it wasn't. She's an author and essayist as well as a musician, so it all fit together.

It seems like time has helped to heal her a little bit, because this show seemed pretty fun for her. Her husband, John Leventhal, is also her producer and guitarist, and he's really, really good. Once we finally got there (25 minutes late, and no opener. Shoot me.) I was actually able to relax enough to realize that I was happy I slogged it out on 16th Street to make it for most of the show. Some Rosanne is better than none, apparently. She's got some nice music, book and film recommendations on her homepage, and one of the most enjoyable for me was her story in her June '04 archives about how Tift Merritt approached her after a show and gave her a cd when "Tambourine" first came out. (You have to click around in the archives a bit, but her recommendations are interesting, and worth the time, I think.) 

Anyway...love Rosanne. She's an awesomely talented, very interesting person, who seems dedicated to putting out even better music now than she ever has, which seems appropriate considering her father's approach to his own work later in life.

Yesterday I saw Hem in Annapolis (Here's a nice story on them from my old pal WYSO in Yellow Springs, Ohio.) Late again, yes, and left in plenty of time for an oddly scheduled matinee. The Ram's Head at noon, hello. I spoke with Sally Ellison from Hem later and she said, "Never again" to the matinee concept, which apparently was a tour router's bright idea that didn't go over so well. Like I said, left in plenty of time in a normally functioning universe, but add the Maryland Renaissance Festival, the Annapolis Boat Show, and a Navy vs. Rutgers football game, and what you've got is a perfect storm of state capital traffic. It sucked. Annapolis is accessed by only a couple of roads, and if you want to take an alternate route, you have to know about a half hour out that you need it. I didn't, and once it was clear that 50.7 bajillion people were crammed into the two lanes that take you downtown, I was screwed. I made it, but had missed most of the opening act, Ollabelle, which was sad but completely unavoidable. They'd come highly recommended and I was looking forward to seeing them. I did see about six of their songs and they're definitely worth checking out. Seem like a nice bunch of folks, too...in addition to putting out some good and interesting music. Their cd was priced at 22.50, though, which seemed extreme to me, as much as I like supporting indie music. I need to check into it and see what the deal is on that.

I took away one main impression from the Hem show, although I've seen them before and listened to their cds countless times: I want to hear Sally Ellison's voice when I die. I mean, I want it to be the last thing I hear on this Earth besides the sounds of whatever lucky family members or friends still happen to be around telling me what a profound impact I've had on their lives and please don't go and oh how we love you what a tremendously wonderful person you have been! ; ) (Eek. I wonder who that'll be? I hope there's at least ONE person saying nice things while I LEAVE THE PLANET ON WHICH I HAVE TOILED AND SNARED. Blech, that thought just freaked me out. Do allow me a second to eat more cake until it passes. Thanks.)

Seriously, though...this woman's voice is from heaven. It may have even been intelligently designed. It sure as hell puts its chocolate in the peanut butter that is the rest of the people on the stage, to continue the cake metaphor, and turns it into the musical equivalent of dessert, that's for sure. Not a lame dessert, like...Oh, dear. I'm such a food freak that I honestly can't even think of a lame dessert under this kind of pressure. It's kind of an oxymoron for me. Lord...Anyway, whatever your personal lame dessert would be, it's not at all like that. It's like homemade apple crumble, or melted chocolate volcano cake, or this perfect red velvet cake I had once, even. Dan Messe is a genius of a songwriter, and gets off on assembling a true ensemble of kickass players to make these songs come to life on stage, which they really, really do. And yes, he's very cute, and occasionally I notice these things while being artistically responsible. Whatever. He based "Not California" on the fact that his wife loves crap shows like Laguna Beach and the O.C., which makes him hotter, in that very married sort of way, which is nice.

I've talked about crying a lot lately, which might make me come off as even more of a wreck in print than I am in the flesh, but this is another situation where the band starts playing and I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin because it's just. SO. BEAUTIFUL!!!!! So of course I start to cry. This tour they have a violinist, a clarinetist and a harpist along, from the Gowanus Radio Orchestra (for whom I cannot find a link, but Claudia Chopek is the violinist and she's all over the web), plus the pedal steel that I love, the two guitars, and a drummer...and Dan on keyboards. Sally Ellison is pregnant, which makes it a total of 11 people on stage this time out. It never seems like too many, though, because they all play so well together and the songs are so beautifully arranged. (Here's a crappy cell phone photo. I get a phone trade-in in November and yes, photo quality will be an issue. What a geek.)

And now I'll shut up. Here are some streams from the new record.   It's definitely laid back music, to a point, but this is the perfect time of year to discover it - and I'd definitely go back and get "Rabbit Songs" without passing "go"...and try to get to a show, because it'll make even more sense then.

Put Those Patent Leather Pants in the Circular File

Note to dude outside of my building who was blasting "Everything I Do I Do It For You," by Bryan Adams, on the stereo in his lowrider:

"Dear sir, This song does not make me want to have sex with you. Maybe if it was "The Only Thing That Looks Good on Me Is You," or "(I wanna be your) Underwear," cause you know those are really hot and classy songs."

As I walked up, I thought at first that the song was coming from the car of the friend who was picking me up to go to a photo exhibition.

Me: God, I thought that was you blasting "Everything I Do I Do It For You", perhaps to ironically entertain me.

A: What's that?

Me: The Bryan Adams song from the Robin Hood movie

A: Oh, right. Yeah...that would've been...hot.

Me: Actually, I can't think of anything less erotic than Bryan Adams at this moment.

A: I wonder if he knows that. "Excuse me, you're the least erotic person in the universe." (significant amounts of laughter)

Me: I do love me some "Straight From the Heart," though. Yeah.

Your two-step makes my chest pound

Annie Leibovitz is coming to the Corcoran for a talk and a signing on Sunday, and by the time I found out about it today, it was sold out.

When I learned this news, and that I was one of several poor souls posting plaintively for "wanted" tickets on craigslist, I felt like this:

Actually, that's a lie. I made myself look like I felt like this while I was waiting for my doctor, because I had to ask him for something, and I thought that maybe if I practiced gazing up at him like this before he got into the room, I'd get better at it and he'd do whatever I said. But all I really learned when I looked at the photo on my phone was not only how stupid I looked while looking up like that, (so I wouldn't give my ass ANYthing) but that my hair was working. And although I was going to delete this shot off of my phone immediately, it made me laugh so hard that not only could I not do that, but I felt compelled to post it on the Internet for you to laugh at too. I know...I'm a gem. Hence, here are some other links for you to wile away those potentially productive minutes:

Six drummers, one apartment. (I really need to step away from the Youtube. This is from Dooce.)

Baby wigs,   and more baby wigs. Please note that the expression on the Rasta baby in particular is something from which I cannot look away. (And this is from Tracey.)

In other news, if you need a good tune, check out "I Don't Feel Like Dancin'" by the Scissor Sisters. Yes, it's a single, which predisposes me to dislike it because I'm that much of a snob. However, it's got a hook that won't quit and has me dancing in my seat repeatedly, which can't be bad. The lyrics don't match the music, since he screams "I don't feel like dancin" over and over in a song that's made for it. Is that irony? Satire? I have no idea...So tired!

Weekend Update

Last weekend was fun. I've got much photographic evidence (DUH!) on flickr, so you should really go there and see, because you won't want to miss a single iota of the hilarity and wonder- dogs in poodle skirts, Moroccan men pouring tea from such great heights, a hot blonde bellydancer in an African restaurant (right?), cool reflections in a bar surface, raspberry ice cubes...You know, random stuff like that.

Friday I went down to see Dawn Avery play at the National Museum of the American Indian, which is one of my favorite spots in DC, in spite of my belief that the space is underutilized and the exhibitions not as well displayed as they could be. (Right, like I'm a curator? And an architect? No...But I can't help it.) The museum is notable amongst other things for a truly excellent cafeteria, which features foods traditional to tribes throughout North and South America. That was closed by the time we got there, unfortunately, but I'd definitely for lunch if I were in the city during the day. I highly recommend it if you're anywhere near the Mall.

Dawn is very talented, incredibly prolific, and clearly shows her sense of responsibility to her people and to her art. She is of the Mohawk tribe, and performed several of her compositions, which she primarily vocalized and performed on cello, with help from her friends on strings and percussion. One of her most interesting pieces is "Decolonization," which cobbles together native and post-colonized "patriotic" songs, so it's a statement (I'm guessing) on the destruction of the Native Americans and their way of life by the settlers. It includes a distorted version of the Star-Spangled Banner on her cello that expresses anger and sadness in a way that words couldn't.

Later we ate at Ray's the Classics, which is a new restaurant in Silver Spring. I interviewed "Ray" (aka Mike someone or the other) years ago for a magazine I used to edit, and I reminded him of that, but he didn't remember and in fact said some choice things about that publication and another that I used to write for. I already knew them, but I was surprised by how embarrassed I was even though I'm no longer a part of either one. He still brought me his special homemade hot chocolate which kicked every ass in the joint, collectively. So good. Homemade whipped cream. AAAAHHHH. I had almost forgotten that quirky "chef" personality, which isn't common to every single member of the species, but let's just say it's close. I always loved working in this industry for the sheer fact that people are off-the-wall, so it is never at all boring. Photography has been a close runner-up, but there still must be a void of some sort, as I felt a sort of nostalgic, indulgent annoyance when I was talking to him, and ignored the bartender's irritated stares whilst taking artsy photos in the restaurant. The food was really good, which is the point, I guess.

My girl Susan is getting married soon. Her shower was Saturday. We are so different on so many levels, i.e., she's a Eucharistic minister and I'm a non-church-going cradle-Catholic heathen...She's more organized than Martha Stewart pre-incarceration, and I am so not...She's a cat person, I'm a dog person. Still, opposites attracted in this case (either that or she just wanted to save my soul), and for the past year and a half, she's had my back like few other people I've known in my life.   She is one of the most genuine and lovely people I know, and I truly admire her character and her outlook on life. She also happened to meet a great guy, who clearly adores her and takes care of her, and supports the accomplished and amazing woman she is. Ray rocks. This is a situation for which the term "mazel tov" was invented, so I'll borrow it.

Saturday night was Celia's birthday, and a bunch of us went to Marrakesh, where the mint tea flows like wine, and there's bellydancing. You don't get forks at a Moroccan restaurant, which threw off some members of our group who weren't used to that sort of thing, but the food was actually pretty good. Moroccan wine didn't thrill me so much, but the chicken was awesome and so was dessert.

Sunday, I helped Annie with Captain, Harley and Raven at the Boston Terrier show in Crownsville. I was so tired, and it was so sunny and breezy out, so I kind of sat there and tried not to fall asleep with leashes in my hand. The PUPPIES woke me up though. I was like fucking Cruella DeVille with "The PUPPIES! PUPPIES! Must have the PUPPIES!!!!" There were so many of them there. I haven't had a baby dog in 11 years (unbelievable, truly) and I've more or less made up my mind that I never will again, because I get too emotionally involved, and if there's one thing that the past few years have taught me, it's that I need BALANCE. My love is like a seesaw, baby, and I need some kind of brick on the center of it to keep it from flipping me over. So in the absence of my own, these gatherings are a great place to get my fix of these little guys. It turned out that "the kids" won "most original" in the costume contest, which amounts more or less to a Boston Terrier walk of shame, but good God is it a hoot. Annie did a great job with their outfits. Herewith, the "Three Musketerriers," who were such great sports about it, considering my dog would have eaten his hat before we even got in the ring. Long may they reign.

Local Books and Music

Sometimes I dislike my neighborhood, it's true. Although I chirp on about the "bloom where you're planted" philosophy, and indeed I believe that, sometimes...only sometimes...I wish I was planted in Brooklyn, or Maui, or maybe even Charlotte? Wide swath, yes. My problem isn't with Maryland. I'm very fond of my small but mighty state, and think it's a great place to call your home, and I'm not foolin'. I travel around it with relative ease, and the reality is that I'm not stopped from going anywhere I want to go at this point. If anything, I'm in a good spot to tool around wherever I want, since we're close to most major sources of transportation and two large metro areas that provide me with more entertainment than I can even consume. My problem is mostly with my very immediate vicinity, and what I perceive as a lack of character, both in its architecture and its commerce. You know...there's the Coldstone Creamery, and the Hallmark Store, and the Blockbuster. Woohoo! We have small stores, but they're mostly boutiques and carry nothing that really interests me. I'm just not ready for Brighton yet, and have a suspicion that I will never be.

One thing we do have here is food. There are two completely awesome restaurants - one is Italian complete with a great house Chianti, and the other is South American/Mexican. This makes me extremely happy, because I really believe that restaurants can be the soul of a community, and by that I don't mean Applebees (which I heard described by a person from Scotland once as a "dodgy steak place," and that never fails to make me smile.)

The other night I went to Sol Azteca - the Mexican place - to get a carne asada dinner on my way home. As you imagine my entrance into the parking lot, please try for a moment to channel a moment of absolute joy, combined with total shock, if you can. You can, can't you? Are you there? Don't lie to me. For God's SAKE, you MUST have had a moment of joy at some point, no? Even without the shock? Can't conjure one up? GOSH! Put down the damned mouse and go out and find one. What are you wasting your time at this ridiculous keyboard for? Live it up! Time's a 'wastin'.

Hmmm. Anyway...was it good for you? (Haha! Sorry.) Anyway, yes, joy and shock, even a little bit of awe, when I pulled into the parking lot to get my AWESOME STEAK AND GUACAMOLE AND CHIPS AND HOMEMADE SALSA and saw this:

It was dark, but you get the drift. Just imagine a bookstore at night, awash in the aura of the streetlamps. And if you channeled that joy and shock properly while ago, you'll perhaps come close to knowing how happy I was to see a bookstore in my little, tiny, overcrowded town that wasn't a liquidation sale. You'll know a little better when I tell you that I've forgiven the proprietors (of a BOOKSTORE NO LESS!) for having a typo on their banner. Couldn't do it myself, but that's me - annoying, punctilious, spelling demon me.

Once inside and past the typo, I was jazzed to find that it was not just books! It's a used cd store too! And an independent cafe of sorts! In my little corner of the world! (that's pretty much how those thoughts were sputtering in my brain at the time, too.) It's called Second Edition Books, also something I might have chosen to put a little more prominently on the storefront, but hey...not my shingle.

I can't tell you how cool this was - so I told the guy working there instead, and he confirmed that everyone had been "so supportive." But what do you expect, when something useful and interesting opens up around here? I really hope they make it.

Part of the shock and joy was the addition of a bookstore to a suburban Maryland strip mall that already included a music store three storefronts down: Rocketeria, baby! Yes, not only does my little town have an independent bookstore now, but it also has an independent music store, where an extremely affable guy named Dave runs the show. My guitar teacher had encouraged me not to take my guitar to a big corporate store, because it's a good idea to support independent music retailers, and he was right. The night I stopped in, the nice woman working there told me to bring it back the next day for Dave to take a look at, which I did. He looked like Jack Black's older brother, with no apparent flair for slapstick comedy, but I bet he does has a screaming guitar solo in his repertoire. He won me over because not only did he not ask me if the guitar work was for my son or my little brother, which is how most of the guys at Guitar Center approach me (in a benign fashion - not hostile or anything, but still.), but he also fixed the neck partially for me right there on the spot, and told me that he needed more time to check it out and might have to send it out, because he didn't want to break it. And he also explained the problems with the neck to me like he expected me to understand, which is really nice. Now, my guitar was not expensive as guitars go. It hasn't been played a whole lot and I'm just getting back into it now, so it was cool of him to treat it like a thousand dollar instrument.

I love that these independent businesses are in my town, more than I can clearly say. It makes me feel good to support them, the exact opposite of how I feel when I throw my money into the gaping maw of corporate monsters like CVS. Plus, the people in both of these stores talked to me - really. Like, in full sentences, which also included questions about how they could meet my needs. This is unusual in the suburban marketplace - in fact, so unusual, that this is all it takes to get a loyal customer for life out of me.

Can I just stop eating now? Please? God, I wish I could, but not because of fear of contamination and death from PRODUCE, for God's sake. I thought we only had to worry about the e.coli from the cows. I haven't eaten a hamburger at McDonald's for probably three years in the service of this belief (besides the fact that my stomach rages at me like David Hasselhoff on a three-day bender when I eat there) and I never even saw "Fast Food Nation". Just the thought of it was enough to make me sick. And now, you can cross off the good old lettuce also. Next thing we know, a pack of M&Ms will be infected with e.coli that'll be traced back to a rogue rainforest cacao bean, and there go the holiday mini-paks, and Halloween will be deSTROYED! And then restaurants are going to come equipped with little personal deep fryers at each table so you can fry away any possible bacteria that might be lurking in your pasta. MMMMMMMMM...fried PASTA! That sounds...awesome.

Not eating would help in my mission to be in the best shape of my life by July, if only I didn't enjoy so damned much.

"And why this mission, Laurie, considering how overwhelmingly catwalk-ready you are?" you say, because you are a rockstar of the highest order. Well....first, it ain't that kind of catwalk. And second, I'm quite sick of being out of shape. This outgrowth of two yers of misdirected loathing has become an unacceptable state of affairs. Third (I don't know when I started counting everything off like I'm about to put myself in time out. It's a sickness), I appear to have set this as a kamikaze life goal. Read: I am lifting real weights, even when I'm working out alone and have no reason to feel virtuous, so I'm giving myself over to it. And fourth - and shallowly, sorry - my sister is getting married then, and if I must look at myself forever after in what are sure to be eight million photos wearing potentially cupcake-like attire, it will not help if I personally am the shape of a cupcake as well. The fact that I'm sweet notwithstanding...uh-huh, that's right, I said it...

By the way, and apropos of nothing, if I hear that "How to Save a Life" Gray's Anatomy song one more time, I'm going to cry real tears. It is totally not my jam.

Mmmm. Jam.

Overheard at the Dog Show

"Is your boyfriend here?"

"Oh, no. It's Talladega, so he's home. He's a white trash redneck."

Iraq

The headline story on the Washington Post's early Sunday edition looks even worse in big red font on the home page. I can't stand it, and I don't really know what to do about it, except to say that over and over again. I'm lucky to live in peace and comfort, but is that acceptable when other people are dying in ditches? It's been bothering me more and more lately, and the fact that it's become background noise bothers me more than I can say. It's not even really discussed in terms of the upcoming elections. People would rather obsess about some loser's dirty IMs or sexual orientation, because it suits their reality tv-driven ethos. It's ridiculous.

I started reading The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien again, because my friend reminded me of it, and I decided that I wanted to remember what truth about war sounded like, at least through one man's fictional recount. It's also a great book, and if you haven't read it, I recommend that you do. It goes fast, actually, and I think it's nice common reading for most of us who have been conscious during the last part of the 20th century and the pathetic beginning of this one. 

Here are some of the people who have died, according to the Post. And I know countless more have been wounded short of death, but still in life-altering ways, both physical and psychological. I go to the movies or out to dinner down in Silver Spring now and it seems I see so many guys from Walter Reed (I'm assuming) in various states of disarray - limbs blown off, bandages on their heads, wheelchair-bound. Their families take them out I guess, when they visit, and I know they're returned military. And some of them are really messed up. It's so sad. I see the pride and there's every attempt on my part not to stare at them because really, I'm assuming so much about them, because that's what the human inclination is - assumption. Maybe they were in an accident? Maybe they just happen to look like Army? I don't know...It's hard, and it's touchy, and every time I see one of them I think that I should just be glad he made it home alive, but then I see what bad shape he's usually in physically and it makes me sick. Because here was a strong, healthy person and now he has to go through life in a wheelchair. But I really don't question anyone's right to stand up for whatever it is they want to stand up for. There's a chance that that guy might have a real problem with me and my lefty politics, and consider himself better off than me on some level. It's hard to tell.

I have to admit that when I heard the politicians offering condolences to the families of the kids who died in the recent school shootings, I had a moment where I thought, "You mindfully send young people off to die every day. Where is your compunction for that? No, a crazy person should NEVER go into a school and harm innocent people, but neither should we be bankrolling death and fueling murderous rage towards our own citizens or anyone else." And I retracted it in my head at the time because it sounded harsh, and because I didn't want to confuse the very sad and important issue about these kids who died here, but it keeps echoing for some reason. Idealist and pacifist that I am, I don't want any kids to die. I don't want community college kids to get sucked in by recruiters who are always on campus, when maybe they're on the track to be the first kid in their family to work straight through and graduate without a debt to pay to the U.S. military that is NOT currently compulsory. That's not for me to decide, though, and it's not something that I think will change anytime soon. It's just sad, and seems more than a little pointless at this juncture, and I'm not sure what anyone is interested in doing to stop it or change it at a level where that might still be able to occur.

I do believe that there is still a lot of great and wonderful good in the world, but I just wish that these foreboding red headlines weren't necessary, and that we lived in a world where we could talk openly about just what a shame that not only has this turned out to be, but always was.

I went to a concert at the National Museum of the Native American tonight, because a friend was debuting some new compositions as part of a native classical composer weekend. It was nice, and there was also a hot flute player.

Exhibit Q (Conversation while walking from the Metro...)

R: We're almost there. What's your tribal name? You know, in case they ask for it at the door?

Me: Okay. Princess Works Too Much. Wait, Sister Needs a Life? Think that'll get me in?   

R: That works.