Guilty Pleasures: In Defense of Bubble Baths September 26, 2008

You know, I’m not even going to call this a guilty pleasure. I have no feelings of remorse about it, because after a long day – and there have been a few of those lately – the only fool-proof way of setting my mood straight when I get home is a long, hot bath. And I’m talking loooong. Like, soaking long enough to get my fingers and toes all pruny and then adding more hot water.

Some days I’ll drink hot tea during, sometimes wine, sometimes a cocktail. Sometimes I’ll burn a candle, or add bubbles, or salts, or oils. Or maybe all of them.

Some days I’ll listen to music during, and sometimes all I want to hear is the rushing of the water. When I like accompaniment, it’s usually something light-hearted and girlie, like Life by the Cardigans or Youth Novels by Lykke Li (a new favorite).

And sometimes – embarrassing though it may sound – it’s the soundtrack to Something’s Gotta Give. Sounds horribly campy, and maybe it is, but it’s a fantastic mix of late 50s/early 60s pop and old French standards. And honestly, does it get any better than Louis Armstrong singing La Vie En Rose?

(There’s an unfortunate cover of the same song by Jack Nicholson at the end of the album. I generally try to forget that one).

For the most part I read during baths – my books and magazines are notoriously crinkly and water-marked as a result. But sometimes all I want to do is completely submerge my head in the hot water and hide from everything.

I’m not sure what it is that makes baths so comforting. Is it the sounds? The smells? All sensations combined? Enveloping oneself in such warmth is rather womb-like, I suppose.

But no matter the combination of accessories or additives, a long bath is an instant cureall to whatever ails me. Maybe that’s why the boy doesn’t complain when I disappear for hours at a time …

And Stop Calling Me Shirley… August 8, 2008

My Jeep, Shirley, learned a new trick the other day. She’s typically a pretty quirky girl, but this one took the cake. The boy and I were sitting in the living room, chatting about our respective days (and hadn’t been near Shirley in about an hour), when she began sounding her alarm. Understandably worried, the boy went outside to check the situation. No one was near the car. Hmmm.

We went back inside, and about five minutes later she did it again. This happened two or three more times, all the while we were scouring online forums looking for people who may have had similar problems. We found a temporary fix (so it seemed), and after a good ten minutes or so, I felt confident I could drive her to the gym without incident.

After about an hour-long workout I emerged, keys in hand, half expecting Shirley to have resumed her screaming fit in the LA Fitness parking lot with a dead battery as an end result.

Oh, how simple that would have been.

As I walked out of the gym and slowly approached the car, I noticed a weird sound. Upon further inspection, I saw it. Shirley, In all her glory. Lights on, A/C blasting, M.I.A. chanting about paper airplanes on the radio. As I stood there, wide-eyed, WITH MY KEYS IN MY HAND.

I’m sure there’s some sort of explanation. Perhaps she was bored and needed some music. Whatever the reason, she actually TURNED HERSELF ON. Anyone know of a good car exorcist?

She cranked up and drove fine, thank god, but when I stopped to get gas on the way home I learned that she also would not turn off, like an obstinate child refusing to go to sleep. I took the keys out of the ignition, yet she still sat there, singing along and shining on. Now, every time we get out of the car we have to disconnect her battery.

My old Infiniti, Yoko, was a cranky broad too – but her antics weren’t quite as dramatic. She’d spontaneously roll her windows down while I was driving, randomly choose when I would be allowed to view the dashboard at night, and announce herself with a dramatic growl from a 1/4 mile out. But she never TURNED ON by herself. Shirley, you have a talent.

I guess this is the tradeoff for having no car payment. A nearly 15 year-old car (what is that in car years, like 150?) with no warranty and cute little quirks like coming alive unprovoked and scaring the ever-lovin’ sh*t out of her owner.

I’m thinking it may be time for a scooter. I could rock the moped look.

(Shirley, if you’re reading this–as I’m sure you will, with your pseudo-Kit super intelligence and all–I mean no offense. And sorry about the name. It just fit at the time.)

Why I Love Decatur, Part 1 July 15, 2008

Part of the beauty of working on the Decatur Square is the entertainment. Not only from the town crazies, as that is another blog post entirely. No, today I speak of the eccentric street corner musicians and performing artists livening up our lives on a daily basis.

Right now for instance, a man outside my window is playing a saxophone. A second ago he was playing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” and I can’t be entirely sure, but I think he’s just transitioned into a rousing renition of the “the Muppet Show” theme. It’s oddly and pleasantly calming background music at lunch time.

At other times you’re apt to find one of a handful of local guitar players who regularly serenade shoppers and patrons of the Brick Store Pub – one of which I consider the official town troubadour of Decatur – or as of late a lone drummer who has been playing the bongos up on the plaza, joined by someone from a local dance company performing with a bow staff.

There’s also a preacher out on the bandstand, usually on Thursdays, whose booming, echoing voice can be heard across the square to our office. Whether he is trying to save lost souls passing by or practicing for a sermon I’ve never been able to figure out. Some days he draws a crowd. Some days he just paces back and forth, preaching to the empty park benches. Either way, his enthusiasm never wanes.

Then there are the self-professed 21st century beatniks who gather for open mic nights on Sundays, their spoken word performances broadcast loudly from Java Monkey, a coffee house on Church Street. (The boy and I had our first date at one of these poetry slams.) It’s interesting to hear someone bare their soul to a full crowd at night, then see them doing odd jobs around town or slinging pizza orders at Mellow Mushroom during the day. It makes one feel like a bit of a voyeur.

Guess that’s what you get when you’re surrounded by music venues, playhouses, and dance studios. Performers. We’ve got ourselves quite a little cast of characters. God, I love it here.

[We] Need a Hero June 28, 2008

The boy introduced me to the band Dispatch when we first started dating. The music is something else, you should give it a listen. The song “Out Loud” sends chills up my spine and quickly became one of my favorites, but that’s for another post.

Last night, after driving home from dinner, their song “The General” came on, and the its lyrics affected me in a much different way that they had ever before. No surprise, but I got a lump in my throat listening to it. It is my understanding that the song was written before the war in Iraq, and by some accounts on the internet was actually written about child warfare, which makes it even more poignant and chilling.

But last night, singing along, I was struck with the thought that the figure in this song might be what we need in this moment in time. A leader who will step up, take responsibility, and send our boys and girls home, without shame.

I’ve posted a live clip of Dispatch singing this song, but because these boys’ frenetic tongues can be hard to decipher on first listening, I’ve also copied the lyrics below.

“General”

there was a decorated general with
a heart of gold, that likened him to
all the stories he told
of past battles, won and lost, and
legends of old a seasoned veteran in
his own time

on the battlefield, he gained
respectful fame with many medals
of bravery and stripes to his name
he grew a beard as soon as he could
to cover the scars on his face
and always urged his men on

but on the eve of a great battle
with the infantry in dream
the old general tossed in his sleep
and wrestled with its meaning
he awoke from the night
just to tell what he had seen
and walked slowly out of his tent

all the men held tall with their
chests in the air, with courage in
their blood and a fire in their stare
it was a grey morning and they all
wondered how they would fare
till the old general told them to go home

I have seen the others
and I have discovered
that this fight is not worth fighting
I have seen their mothers
and I will no other
to follow me where I’m going

Take a shower, shine your shoes
you got no time to lose
you are young men you must be living
go now you are forgiven

but the men stood fast with their
guns on their shoulders not knowing
what to do with the contradicting orders
the general said he would do his own
duty bout would not extend it not further
the men could go as they pleased

but not a man moved, their eyes gazed straight ahead
till one by one
they stepped back and not a word was said
and the old general was left with his
own words echoing in his head
he then prepared to fight

go now you are forgiven

Who will be our general?

Righteous Babe May 2, 2008

There are certain conclusions that can be made about a girl living in Decatur who freely admits she is an Ani Difranco fan. Suffice to say I have never been, and never will be, happier than I am in my relationship with the boy.

That said, I’m freely admitting it. I love Ani.

I love her ability to make a single guitar sound like three or four. I love how gutsy she is in her presence and in her art; she’s a soul completely exposed for all to see – no pretenses, no walls. I love how strong and passionate her voice is – possibly the strongest I’ve heard from a female vocalist. I love that you can hear the joy in her voice during a live performance, like she was born to be on stage.

And I love the way her lyrics – GOD, those lyrics – can make my heart drop to my toes and plant a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit. One of the best examples of this is in “Both Hands,” a song I have yet to listen to without tears stinging the back of my eyes.

and both hands
now use both hands
oh, no don’t close your eyes
I am writing
graffiti on your body
I am drawing the story of
how hard we tried

[tear ...]

I am watching your chest rise and fall
like the tides of my life,
and the rest of it all
and your bones have been my bed frame
and your flesh has been my pillow
I am waiting for sleep
to offer up the deep
with both hands

[sniff ...]

in each other’s shadows we grew less and less tall
and eventually our theories couldn’t explain it all
and I’m recording our history now on the bedroom wall
and eventually the landlord will come
and paint over it all

[sob ...]

Makes me hug the boy just a little tighter, just thinking of the pain that inspired such words. Though her music is hardly always melancholic. Much of it is political; most is irreverent. I have yet to catch the live show, and that sucks because every time she comes through I say I’m going to go. I just want to be in the crowd when she sings this:

I broke down in Louisiana
and I had to thumb a ride
got in the first car that pulled over
you can’t be picky in the middle of the night
he said
baby, do you like to fool around
baby, do you like to be touched
I said
maybe some other time
fuck you very much

I wanna be brave. GOD, I envy that.

Strictly for Daydreaming. April 22, 2008

I want to be at home.
I want to be with my boy.
I want to talk with my friends.
I want to host a party.
I want to write a blog.
I want to write a column.
I want to write a book.
I want to work from home.
I want to travel.
I want to see Morocco.
I want to see the Eiffel Tower.
I want to see the Seven Wonders of the World.
I want to live on the Square.
I want to live in Canada.
I want to live in Paris.
I want to be a wife and mother.
I want to raise my family in Decatur.
I want to open a brewery.
I want to take improv classes.
I want to be in a production.
I want to sing.
I want to sing on stage.
I want to sing in a band.
I want to sing on Broadway.
I want Fantine’s death scene.
I want to be Tina Fey.
I want to be Hollis Gillespie.
I want to be recognized.
I want to make an impression.
I want to make a difference.
I want to retire to a chateau on a vineyard.
I want a glass of wine.
I want to be at home.

Wanderlust. April 11, 2008

I lost a trip to Paris.

Ok, so it wasn’t a trip to Paris. THAT I would have cried over. But I let an absolutely amazing door prize – a vacation package with lodging and airfare included – slip through my fingers at a recent benefit dinner for a client.

I bought a raffle ticket. I actually bought one. I never buy those things. I don’t like them. I can’t really explain why. Some sort of sense of dread – maybe of getting my hopes up and then having my dreams dashed to pieces before my eyes all because of chance. Because of a number.

I’ve never been good with numbers.

Still, I bought the thing. Only ten bucks! It’s for a good cause! What’s there to lose?

Honestly, I’d had a few drinks and had completely forgotten about the ticket when a coworker rushed out of the auditorium – to where I was situated next to the doors – yelling, “The winning number ended in 47!”

That’s me!

“They called it out five times and then drew the next number!”

WHAT?!?!

And there you go. Hopes built. Dreams dashed. And numbers? Evil.

“You have to be in the room when they call it to claim the prize … blah, blah, blah”

I never win these things. This is how I rationalize. I don’t win stuff like this. If I had been in the room, they would have called another number.

Truth be told, it all just seemed too nice anyway. A little above our heads, the boy’s and mine (though he was just as upset when he heard of my simultaneous win and loss later that night). Who knows? It may have been a lovely trip. But it also may have been a little stiff, a little forced. When the two of us talk of traveling together, I generally have a different image in mind.

I’m fairly certain, in my own experience at least, that these sorts of all-inclusive, “we’ll take care of all the details” sort of vacations actually hinder the experience of traveling to a new place. Not that comfort isn’t a welcome part of any trip. But when the travel, lodging, entertainment, dining, and every other detail has been decided for you, how can you really feel anything other than being shuttled around like cattle?

When I think of travel, I think of writing my own itinerary. Deciding to go see something at a moment’s notice with nothing holding me back. Packing belongings in a car and taking off in whatever direction sounds good at the time. Making a scrapbook along the way of photos and postcards and words describing who and what we saw. Planning a soundtrack that later will transport us back to that time and place instantly. Wandering aimlessly between the historic and the odd; between the Grand Canyon and the largest ball of yarn west of the Mississippi.

Or maybe Mt. Rushmore. That seems it would be a perfect combination of the revered and the weird.

Yep. Paris would have been completely sterile compared to the trip I’m planning in my own head.

Right?

Yes We Can February 11, 2008

 So this made me cry. Which meant I had to post it.

Yeah, I’m a sap. But that’s damn inspiring.

Guilty Pleasures: In Defense of Dancing Around to Justin Timberlake February 10, 2008

That’s right. I said it. Don’t act like you don’t do the same thing when you hear it.

That’s Why They Call Them Business Socks February 5, 2008

The boy brought to my attention that I had neglected to mention one of my very favorite shiny, happy songs – performed by an equally happy and shiny duo. For anyone who has seen Flight of the Conchords on HBO, you know how goofy and hilarious they are. But in my opinion, their older live stuff is SO much better.

Please watch this. You’ll thank me later.

And this.

Last one. For now.