"...where de trash at, baby? Show me where de trash at!"-- Garbage collector, speaking to the neighbor's dog.
For anyone who hasn't already figured this out.
FOUND! + PostSecret = Fabulous
The Golden West Cafe on The Avenue was packed, just packed. Great food, for though I didn't manage to get near any of , everybody who did seemed impressed. Well, as impressed as hip urbanites get. If you make it "downee avnuue" for Honfest, check it out.
Davy was amazingly warm and sweet. Frank was reserved, but genuine. Peter was funny, and autographed something cute on the CD I was compelled to buy for Hawk. I mean, really, "The Booty Don't Stop" outlines pretty accurately our early romance. I'm trying to be only a tiny bit peeved that I have to wait for the next album (oops, showing my age) for "Bus or Beer?"
Both these projects are about stuff taken out of context, and the stories that go with them. The ones that you, the viewer, have to invent. Sort of the same thing that Gavin is doing with snippets of conversation over at DialogBlog. It's a more interactive form of media than the usual pap.
One big surprise that I wasn't expecting: I recognized no one. NOT ONE PERSON. I would have thought that with all of the supposedly hip people I know, there would have been someone with a familiar face- you know, one person? I mean, I know three people who showed up to the recent Trixie Little show, right? Okay, maybe not even someone I know personally, but, like, the guy with the dreadlocks from the bookstore? Or somebody from Red Emma's coffehouse? Somebody from CityPaper or the Baltimore School for the Arts? Actually, there might've been a CityPaper rep there; there are only three people who contribute whose faces I would recognize- no, four; sorry, Joab, almost missed you. (Speaking of which, check out The Animal. It's last week's, but still good.) So I guess the only logical conclusion is that my friends are not, in fact, hip. They're dorks who have grown up to be cool, which is different from hip.
I guess.
24 May, 2006
22 May, 2006
Poor Excuse
...Ruby lips above the water/Blowing bubbles, soft and fine/But, alas, I was no swimmer/So I lost my Clementine.....
"I can't swim" has got to be about the lamest thing I've ever heard. Okay, if you live in a desert and the largest body of water is a raindrop, maybe I would consider letting it pass. But on a shoreline state? In a neighborhood where there are pools? What the hell are you thinking?
Close behind are "I don't know CPR" and "I can't drive a stickshift."
Learn, damn you. It might be important.
(Oh My Darling Clementine; Percy Montrose or Barker Bradford, 1884)
"I can't swim" has got to be about the lamest thing I've ever heard. Okay, if you live in a desert and the largest body of water is a raindrop, maybe I would consider letting it pass. But on a shoreline state? In a neighborhood where there are pools? What the hell are you thinking?
Close behind are "I don't know CPR" and "I can't drive a stickshift."
Learn, damn you. It might be important.
(Oh My Darling Clementine; Percy Montrose or Barker Bradford, 1884)
19 May, 2006
You Asked
...now I'm dead, now I'm dead, now I'm dead....
In deference to those who occasionally e-mail me wanting to know when I will next appear, and as what, I post this. I am not, by nature, particularly self-promotional, as my writer friends will testify.
I'll perform as a gunslinging gal on Saturday evening in a show Hawk wrote, Murder At The Oh! No! Corral, presented in the Studio Theatre of the Chesapeake Arts Center. Showtime is 8 PM.
Sunday, at our new dinner-inclusive murder mystery venue, Whispers, you can see me as ultra-chipper Dana Friendly, in Death Warmed Over. Buffet starts at 5 PM, show at 6 PM.
For those who are interested in a more Renaissance venue, some of my friends will be at the opening weekend of the Virginia Renaissance Festival, or VARF.
I recently was in a room with a bunch of boaty Annapolitans, i.e.; people from Annapolis, MD who own boats. It's not that they weren't friendly; they were. They were very, very nice. I felt kind of out of place, though, as I had little to contribute to the redecorating/stockmarket/private school/sailing conversations they were having.
It occurred to me that someone very much at home with a gang of freaks who comfortably murder one another for the dining entertainment of others will by definition probably not be at ease elsewhere.
(God's Comic; Elvis Costello)
In deference to those who occasionally e-mail me wanting to know when I will next appear, and as what, I post this. I am not, by nature, particularly self-promotional, as my writer friends will testify.
I'll perform as a gunslinging gal on Saturday evening in a show Hawk wrote, Murder At The Oh! No! Corral, presented in the Studio Theatre of the Chesapeake Arts Center. Showtime is 8 PM.
Sunday, at our new dinner-inclusive murder mystery venue, Whispers, you can see me as ultra-chipper Dana Friendly, in Death Warmed Over. Buffet starts at 5 PM, show at 6 PM.
For those who are interested in a more Renaissance venue, some of my friends will be at the opening weekend of the Virginia Renaissance Festival, or VARF.
I recently was in a room with a bunch of boaty Annapolitans, i.e.; people from Annapolis, MD who own boats. It's not that they weren't friendly; they were. They were very, very nice. I felt kind of out of place, though, as I had little to contribute to the redecorating/stockmarket/private school/sailing conversations they were having.
It occurred to me that someone very much at home with a gang of freaks who comfortably murder one another for the dining entertainment of others will by definition probably not be at ease elsewhere.
(God's Comic; Elvis Costello)
16 May, 2006
Laugh, Goddamnit.
....if there's a smile on my face/ It's only there trying to fool the public...
Darwin vs the Bible? No, this is the Evolution Of Dance. Wonder how many of those moves I can do on stilts.
Not your brothers, not my brothers. No, says Fuzzy, they're Mark's brothers.
(With a big thank you to Patrick Cashin for sharing these clips.)
A surprise: since nobody's ever heard of I'll Say She Is, check it out. Of course, these days, who's heard of Chevalier? But look, Harpo's doing the move that my family always referred to as 'giving a leg', and when I went forth into the world, no one knew what the hell that meant. Idiots.
You've gotta love a site with the disclaimer "some material may offend".
The weather has returned to Pure Evil, but I am stubborn and refuse to put on socks. Thus, I am saddled with a sore throat and a severe case of the grouchies. This situation is only very slightly alleviated by my Fluffy shouting, at random intervals, "Fewer soup! DVDs with an apostrophe!* TWELVE ITEMS OR LESS!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAH!"
Oh, yes, very funny.
(Tears of a Clown; Smokey Robinson and the Miracles)
*And the goddam spellchecker wanted to replace my "DVDs" with "DVD's". Just kill me now.
Darwin vs the Bible? No, this is the Evolution Of Dance. Wonder how many of those moves I can do on stilts.
Not your brothers, not my brothers. No, says Fuzzy, they're Mark's brothers.
(With a big thank you to Patrick Cashin for sharing these clips.)
A surprise: since nobody's ever heard of I'll Say She Is, check it out. Of course, these days, who's heard of Chevalier? But look, Harpo's doing the move that my family always referred to as 'giving a leg', and when I went forth into the world, no one knew what the hell that meant. Idiots.
You've gotta love a site with the disclaimer "some material may offend".
The weather has returned to Pure Evil, but I am stubborn and refuse to put on socks. Thus, I am saddled with a sore throat and a severe case of the grouchies. This situation is only very slightly alleviated by my Fluffy shouting, at random intervals, "Fewer soup! DVDs with an apostrophe!* TWELVE ITEMS OR LESS!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAH!"
Oh, yes, very funny.
(Tears of a Clown; Smokey Robinson and the Miracles)
*And the goddam spellchecker wanted to replace my "DVDs" with "DVD's". Just kill me now.
13 May, 2006
Quirky? Me?
...some kind of demon messing in the glue/ If you don’t watch out it’ll stick to you.....
Here it is, an urban quirk: there is a parking lot in my neighborhood, on which is built, on a near-daily basis, an impromptu skatepark. While I've never been a skaterat (too old, I think; too terrified of perils to my skin, I suspect may be more accurate) but I admire the devotion to the activity, the cobbled-together nature of found objects -cum- obstacle course and the fact that it disappears EVERY DAY.
There are plans to evacuate the two or three sad tenants of the strip shop surrounding that parking lot, and turn the whole area into a 300-home development. Though I know the skaterats are resourceful enough to find another place, or may be too old to be skating by the time this happens, the thought of not having that concrete evidence of the temporary nature of things makes me a little sad.
Here it is, I am officially quirky.
Here it is, on a blog by a guy named Phil, Korea's answer to England's RatherGood.com, by way of the blog of James Lileks, author of such classics as Interior Desecrations and Mommie Knows Worst. If my stepmother doesn't already have it, I'm buying her The Gallery of Regrettable Food for Mother's Day.
Speaking of which, since most of you have mothers, if you're stumped for gifts, do visit Archie McPhee. They're quirkier than most.
(Strange Brew; Cream)
Here it is, an urban quirk: there is a parking lot in my neighborhood, on which is built, on a near-daily basis, an impromptu skatepark. While I've never been a skaterat (too old, I think; too terrified of perils to my skin, I suspect may be more accurate) but I admire the devotion to the activity, the cobbled-together nature of found objects -cum- obstacle course and the fact that it disappears EVERY DAY.
There are plans to evacuate the two or three sad tenants of the strip shop surrounding that parking lot, and turn the whole area into a 300-home development. Though I know the skaterats are resourceful enough to find another place, or may be too old to be skating by the time this happens, the thought of not having that concrete evidence of the temporary nature of things makes me a little sad.
Here it is, I am officially quirky.
| Your Quirk Factor: 80% |
 You're so quirky, it's hard for you to tell the difference between quirky and normal. No doubt about it, there's little about you that's "normal" or "average." |
Here it is, on a blog by a guy named Phil, Korea's answer to England's RatherGood.com, by way of the blog of James Lileks, author of such classics as Interior Desecrations and Mommie Knows Worst. If my stepmother doesn't already have it, I'm buying her The Gallery of Regrettable Food for Mother's Day.
Speaking of which, since most of you have mothers, if you're stumped for gifts, do visit Archie McPhee. They're quirkier than most.
(Strange Brew; Cream)
12 May, 2006
Sports Trivia:
...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....
What is the proper spelling ofJaelodie Gnada Jellodey Knotta Hellodie Nada the Ravens' new hire?
What is the proper spelling of
09 May, 2006
Busy. You?
...some folks say it’s too big and uses too much gas/ Some folks say it’s too old and that it goes too fast/ But my love is bigger than a Honda, it’s bigger than a Subaru....
***************
Would you rather ride to the train station in a convertible?
He looks up from the phone book, finger still poised over the name of a taxi service.
He needs to get to the station for a six o'clock train. It's fifteen minutes from here, certainly not worth nearly fifty dollars in cab fare. Besides, I have a soft spot for men with three-letter names. Jon. Wil. Tim. This tall rugged fellow with Midwestern skin, 'seventies hair and a tiny gap between his teeth sports a nametag that dubs him 'Wes'.
"Well, sure," he answers after a moment of slack-jawed silence.
Friday, I dug a creation out of the bodacious basement (and no, this time I'm not talking about my ass, but about the actual basement, the one beneath the house) that I wore when Fluffy and I had our first gig together. He and assorted other children wore bright colors and carried a butterfly on a stick. I led the parade of children as a spring fairy, or garden sprite, or some other impractical nonsense in the middle of January five or more years ago. Today, I'll wear it to the Fairie Festival at Sproutwood Farms in Glen Rock, PA. Fuzzy gets a glimpse of the gown and nothing will do but that she has one, too. Ten minutes and a handful of notions later, she has a scarf- and ribbon-bedecked knit tank dress. If only all wishes were this simple to grant. The boys wear tie-dyed tee shirts and try hard to not be bored. I think we fit in.
We've seen a lot of theatre lately: Damn Yankees! at Mt. St. Joe high school, and The Phantom Tollbooth at Severna Park . Upcoming events include the MWA Poetry Cafe at the CAC, a guest appearance at the Coffee Beanery Cafe in Annapolis with the Green Moon Poets' Society (of which, I have been informed, I am now a lifetime member- if only everything was this embracing) and the kids' dance recital on Saturday on the Mainstage of CAC.
Sunday, the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival allows us to touch sheep and llamas and rabbits and goats, while offering yarns and garments and wool roving for our purchase. A woman spins thread on a wooden wheel, pulling fur from the rabbit on her lap in tiny bunches. Woolen-clad 4-H kids lead animals before a group of judges, hoping for a ribbon. "The sweater was made oversized, so that Emily can continue to wear it as she grows. It was designed and created by her aunt, from Shadow's first shearing. Notice that the back of the sweater matches the pattern on Shadow's back, and the front of it mirrors his belly." The 2005 Wool Queen reads the bios of the competitors. I guess the 2006 Queen has yet to be chosen.
But Saturday, the day of the MWA Annual Writer's Conference, Saturday is glorious. I hesitate to wax too poetical, knowing that other parts of the country are dismal, realizing that a day like this is a gift, a treasure, a treat. Tomorrow will be cloudy and cool, but today is topless weather. Perfect.
Someone I was friendly with in high school has arrived. The Professor holds no surprises for me. He is like he was then, only moreso. What surprises me is me. I like him even better now. He's finished a novel, and wants an agent. This is a good place to look.
"I tried going to one of those local author signings. I'd never heard of the author, but I bought the book, waited at the back of the line, feeling totally cheesy, and told her I'd finished a book and wondered how she'd gotten her agent. She just shut down.. I felt so slimy."
Mmm. Sounds like you need to listen to Running Bear Loved Little White Dove a couple of times in a row. Embrace your inner cheeseball.
"I love that song!"
And Teen Angel?
"That, too. No, I think I'm pretty comfortable with my inner cheeseball. It's the outer one I'm having trouble with."
Right. You have to be the cheese. Own the cheese. Display your cheese.
Wes and I ride in perfect topless weather to the train station. He chats about his kid, his fiancee. No, baby, I'm not hitting on you. When I offer a ride, a ride is all I'm offering.
He offers compensation.
"Can I give you gas money? Anything?"
Think of me kindly. Do a favor for a stranger.
"Well, let me give you a story." He digs through, selects one. "This is the one the agent asked to see," he tells me.
If only all exchanges were so casual and so kind.
(Pink Cadillac; Bruce Springsteen)
***************
Would you rather ride to the train station in a convertible?
He looks up from the phone book, finger still poised over the name of a taxi service.
He needs to get to the station for a six o'clock train. It's fifteen minutes from here, certainly not worth nearly fifty dollars in cab fare. Besides, I have a soft spot for men with three-letter names. Jon. Wil. Tim. This tall rugged fellow with Midwestern skin, 'seventies hair and a tiny gap between his teeth sports a nametag that dubs him 'Wes'.
"Well, sure," he answers after a moment of slack-jawed silence.
Friday, I dug a creation out of the bodacious basement (and no, this time I'm not talking about my ass, but about the actual basement, the one beneath the house) that I wore when Fluffy and I had our first gig together. He and assorted other children wore bright colors and carried a butterfly on a stick. I led the parade of children as a spring fairy, or garden sprite, or some other impractical nonsense in the middle of January five or more years ago. Today, I'll wear it to the Fairie Festival at Sproutwood Farms in Glen Rock, PA. Fuzzy gets a glimpse of the gown and nothing will do but that she has one, too. Ten minutes and a handful of notions later, she has a scarf- and ribbon-bedecked knit tank dress. If only all wishes were this simple to grant. The boys wear tie-dyed tee shirts and try hard to not be bored. I think we fit in.
We've seen a lot of theatre lately: Damn Yankees! at Mt. St. Joe high school, and The Phantom Tollbooth at Severna Park . Upcoming events include the MWA Poetry Cafe at the CAC, a guest appearance at the Coffee Beanery Cafe in Annapolis with the Green Moon Poets' Society (of which, I have been informed, I am now a lifetime member- if only everything was this embracing) and the kids' dance recital on Saturday on the Mainstage of CAC.
Sunday, the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival allows us to touch sheep and llamas and rabbits and goats, while offering yarns and garments and wool roving for our purchase. A woman spins thread on a wooden wheel, pulling fur from the rabbit on her lap in tiny bunches. Woolen-clad 4-H kids lead animals before a group of judges, hoping for a ribbon. "The sweater was made oversized, so that Emily can continue to wear it as she grows. It was designed and created by her aunt, from Shadow's first shearing. Notice that the back of the sweater matches the pattern on Shadow's back, and the front of it mirrors his belly." The 2005 Wool Queen reads the bios of the competitors. I guess the 2006 Queen has yet to be chosen.
But Saturday, the day of the MWA Annual Writer's Conference, Saturday is glorious. I hesitate to wax too poetical, knowing that other parts of the country are dismal, realizing that a day like this is a gift, a treasure, a treat. Tomorrow will be cloudy and cool, but today is topless weather. Perfect.
Someone I was friendly with in high school has arrived. The Professor holds no surprises for me. He is like he was then, only moreso. What surprises me is me. I like him even better now. He's finished a novel, and wants an agent. This is a good place to look.
"I tried going to one of those local author signings. I'd never heard of the author, but I bought the book, waited at the back of the line, feeling totally cheesy, and told her I'd finished a book and wondered how she'd gotten her agent. She just shut down.. I felt so slimy."
Mmm. Sounds like you need to listen to Running Bear Loved Little White Dove a couple of times in a row. Embrace your inner cheeseball.
"I love that song!"
And Teen Angel?
"That, too. No, I think I'm pretty comfortable with my inner cheeseball. It's the outer one I'm having trouble with."
Right. You have to be the cheese. Own the cheese. Display your cheese.
Wes and I ride in perfect topless weather to the train station. He chats about his kid, his fiancee. No, baby, I'm not hitting on you. When I offer a ride, a ride is all I'm offering.
He offers compensation.
"Can I give you gas money? Anything?"
Think of me kindly. Do a favor for a stranger.
"Well, let me give you a story." He digs through, selects one. "This is the one the agent asked to see," he tells me.
If only all exchanges were so casual and so kind.
(Pink Cadillac; Bruce Springsteen)