When Jackson was five we moved to Vancouver, Washington, the stateside suburb of Portland, Oregon. Portland has a HUGE music scene; a ridiculously musical town, Portland. Their commercial alterna-rock station, 94.7, plays the roster of whatever's deemed acceptable hit-wise, but they have their quirky favorites that they rotate endlessly. While we were driving around, usually in the rain, to some indoor activity, Jackson would call out from the back seat, "I LIKE THIS SONG," and we would be advised to crank it up.
I'm sort of a thoughtless insomniac-zombie today, so I'm just going to post a few of Jackson's favorites, deemed acceptable by Portland as multi-play throughout the day. Sorry for the dated selection. San Francisco's alt-rock station can't be bothered with anything too melodic or quirky, so busy are they catering to the 12- to 14-year-old boy demographic. Hopefully when Jackson's in that age range, he'll be selectively choosy about his music, because the Bay Area commercial radio situation is pretty dire.
Bonus: Since Jackson's now obsessed with 80% of Yo La Tengo's great album, "Fakebook"it's hard to pick out any one song, but I'm going with Griselda because it's the tune that inspired him to ask me, "Why do they have to get married if they're caught in the woods at night?"
I've now watched exactly two episodes of Real Housewives (of Beverly Hills) (shoot me--shoot me now) solely for one reason: Kim Richards. WHO? Kim Richards, you dolts. I grew up watching her work it on television and film. As a tiny child she starred Nanny and the Professor where she was cute and earnestly charismatic. Disney recognized this and cast her in multiple projects throughout the years. She then went on to make regular appearances on numerous 70s-era shows until semi-retirement from acting.
So, while I'm not a Kim Richards freak by any means (I'm a Tatum O'Neal girl and always will be--love ya, Tatum!), I had to watch her latest performance on "Real Housewives." It's been a long time and Kim looks a little tired. She has four teen and grown children that she seems to be lax to let go of. She has a younger sister, Kyle, also a former child actress, who alternately helps her and denigrates her. That kind of sister. But especially she has her memories. Memories of child stardom and how it kept her from making friends easily, or doing much of anything easily it seems. Her strange and off-putting story about being snapped by paparazzi while hanging out with her niece Paris Hilton (yes, God help her, Paris Hilton) made me cringe and feel for her. According to Richards, Paris was staring at her and saying, "WHO are YOU?" while the paparazzi clicked away, screaming, "Kim's an icon too!" "Yeah!" explains Kim while yelling at her niece. "I was an icon FIRST!"
But was she? Well, if you count her somehat haunted personification of Tia Malone, an orphan with psychic powers, in Disney's Escape to Witch Mountain (1978), sure. Lots of us kids growing up in the 70s really liked this film combining psychic powers with science fiction. We didn't know she would grow up to be on a shitty Bravo franchise where everyone looks vastly insecure as they attempt to move their Botox'd features into grimaces of fake California-dreamin' pleasure. We just thought this film, and by extension, Kim Richards, were cool.
But it was Tuff Turf that sealed the deal. It's a god-awful 80s teen film, yes. But it's got James Spader as a formerly wealthy badass and Robert Downey Jr. as his seemingly gay rock-drummer cohort--that's heavenly casting right there. Spader must win the love of bad-girl Richards while fending off her psychotically thuggish boyfriend from the bad side of town. Richards looks like a 12-year-old with a switchblade. It's awesome. And this makes Richards a former icon. Because no matter how much annoying crap Paris Hilton flings our way, she'll never be able to say James Spader serenaded her with a love song whilst perched atop grand-piano accompaniment during a crashed yacht-club festivity. Well, maybe she can say that or something close to it, but it wasn't caught on film. "Tuff Turf" was.
Here Richards shows off her dancin' moves and excellent hair, accompanied by Jack Mack and the Heart Attack. It pretty much doesn't get any more 80s than this.
Rock on, Jim Carroll Band. RDJ on the drums, shirtless with bow tie. The combination of moussed hair/garage rock/neon-colored clothing within a warehouse ambiance might be more 80s than the above clip.
What did Carroll make of all this, besides taking home a hefty sum? It's surreal to this day.
We went to Golf N Games in Antioch, California today to take in some miniature golf. We haven't done so since we moved back to California over a year ago and I tell you--it was good to be back. There aren't a lot of outdoor activities where little kids and adults can truly hang out, play and socialize on a somewhat balanced level. Miniature golf is the great leveler. Some kids are killer players. Some can barely keep the ball on the carpet. Some adults can get the ball up the ramp and into the barn-like structure every time (ahem). Others might have trouble making that final putt to make par (ahem, ahem). It all tends to even out.
And next door, there's always an arcade. I got a little fascinated with the modernity of the games. It's very casino-like these days. They even have those token-pusher games with the little shovels sliding the tokens almost but not quite toward you. A little scary. A group of gamers worked very hard to make these as appealing to children as possible, yet somewhat mysterious, like a Star Trek apparatus, waiting to be decoded. I have trouble figuring out games. I just don't have the will. I tend to be the person over in the corner playing pinball. See if you can decipher the secret codes of these games from the photos. Next time we visit, we'll make time for go karts. Of course, it wouldn't be much of an arcade without people. And electricity.
Frankly, I'm shocked that these costumes didn't sell better. I thought EVERYONE wanted to be sexy for Halloween these days. True, it was my first attempt at cracking the highly competitive sexy Halloween costume market, but I thought these were pretty damn sexy for a debut effort. Well, there's always next year. Shop early for the best deals, I always say. And you can wear these around the house any time of the year, especially during National Sexy Costume Month!
Sadly, Sexy Moe--the costume, did not fly out the door and onto the mean Trick-or-Treat streets of Halloween as I thought it would. I actually think Shemp was the sexiest Stooge, but I was going for a broader marketing base and was hoping slapstick sadism would be an added draw on this one.
What is sexier than a glazed doughnut, I ask you? So round, firm, sweet and tempting! Forbidden fried foods are always desirable. C'mon people! What will it take? Sprinkles?
"Going green" is all the rage! Garbage cans and recycling containers are very attractive, and not just to environmentalists. They're no longer just trash receptacles--they're saving the world. So lure those tricks and treats with this timely get-up. Then recycle it next year as a base for a robot, or a giant pill capsule (prescription drugs are very trendy and desirable!), or a futuristic birth-control device. The possibilities are endlessly ecology-minded. And sexy!
Did you know Beach Boy legend Brian Wilson recorded an entire record of Gershwin tunes? Neither did I! But he did and here's some samples. I love the Gershwin brothers. Their music still does it for me. Hail, Brian Wilson for paying tribute.
Did you know there's a Gershwin Archive in San Francisco? Neither did I! But if you're planning on studying there, make it quick, because it's all permanently heading to the Library of Congress at the end of this year.
It starts out as goofball call-and-response, then becomes a pleasantly groovin' jam that turns into full-on raging crazy-ass guitar solo at 3:35. I don't even know how he's doing this. I know it's partially a trick of the lighting and the limitations of a digital video upload, but at one point it looks like he's strumming it. But he's not. Am I just addled from all the recent Halloween / World Series / post-election apocalypse hoopla? Probably.
They did it. They hit. They defended. And as predicted, they pitched. Everything somehow came together and they played a great series. Congratulations San Francisco--you finally have a championship baseball team. Fans, in your excitement, please do not trash the beautiful city by the bay. Thank you.
The following ridiculousness is courtesy of gossip-site ONTD. Skimming the comments, it looks like Buster Posey and Brian Wilson are considered the top team "hotties" with Tim Lincecum following close behind. Freddy Sanchez gets a few nods for cuteness. And Pablo Sandoval provides a fantastic "Gif of the Month" that had me laughing for almost a minute.
My family (immediate and extended) has been Giants fans for decades. They all live in or around San Francisco and never gave up on this often incredibly frustrating team. Whereas I tuned out a lot of the past few seasons, other than receiving full reports from Keith for most every game. I just didn't want to have to turn to drugs to numb the pain any more. It was getting that bad. So I'm very happy for them all--true baseball fanatics.
I'm also glad Bruce Bochy put this roster together and let the best players do their best. Perhaps the era of mega-salaried divas will give way to actual team play and management. Naaah... Anyway, what a team! Cheers.
Dave Flemming's delightful Renteria home run call.
Fans watch the final game live in front of City Hall.
Tim Lincecum--despite his arrest for marijuana possession earlier this year (shout out to our former home-town Vancouver, WA highway patrol--yo) what a breath of fresh air he is. It's like Nirvana won the World Series.
Posey and Wilson - that's hawt.
The post-series emitting of fluids is doubly hawt.
Ooh.
Lincecum moves like a kitty cat.
Bonuses for all!
You shall have cake, Sandoval. Just one piece, please.
Increasingly I am feeling middle class. So I made a checklist to make sure I'm not getting too settled. Are you becoming too middle class? Start checking and find out!
_ Competitive block parties
_ Competitive exotic wedding locales
_ Determination that progeny will be bilingual, athletic, musically inclined and top-tier mathematicians by age 10.
_ Secret hoarding of “As Seen on TV” product line
_ Tempur-Pedic pillow (Tempur-Pedic mattress is for upper middle class)
_ Bluetooth discussion during power walk about possible future vacation home
_ Bite guard
_ Fear of cable customer service
_ Love/hate relationship with Costco
_ Hypoallergenic pet
_ Toppings OK as long as it’s on frozen yogurt
_ Move back to the city? And give up the garage?
_ Soaker tub was only put in for resale value
_ Granite countertops a MUST have
_ Saving up for a visit to the pet acupuncturist
_ Can't wash the top of your vehicle without a stepladder
I don't have a prescription for medical marijuana. I believe it costs between $99 and $200 to track down the correct doctor who will write you a script. It used to cost more but now there's so much competition out there, the doctors had to price accordingly. I think some are offering a rewards card, like Safeway. Just type in your phone number for prescription discounts. I am kidding. I think.
Anyhoo, there's an abundance of marijuana dispensaries in the Bay Area and even though a win for Proposition 19 would make it legal for Californians to finally just grow our own, no one's writing haiku about the illustrious medical Mary Jane. Perhaps one day medical research will receive the funding to try and find out just how medicinal pot can be. Since I can't just waltz in and check out the situation myself, I'll have to go by the colorful ads keeping the SFWeekly afloat. The selection is dizzying!
Northstone Organics
Super Silver Haze
Blue Cheese or Blue Dream on sale
Farm to door service
Making fun of hipsters is like shooting a bunch of American Appareled fish in a micro-brewery barrel. Nonetheless, this song does a good job dealing with the scourge of youth who will inherit our polluted war-torn world. Good luck, kids.
I don't actually want to knock my healthcare provider. I'm eternally grateful that my husband's job helps us every month by providing a big chunk of our healthcare. We need it on a regular basis. And for the most part it's worked out very well for all of us, especially for Jackson.
But when it's is bad--it's very very bad. To the point of my mental and physical detriment. Overworked, understaffed and disorganized are generally the three culprits. Sometimes an evil incompetent comes along to destroy all health in its path. But that's rare (though certainly a possibility, no matter where you get your coverage).
Today, I simultaneously feel like the Three Stooges and also like I'm dealing with the Three Stooges when it comes to healthcare. It's enough to make me ZOINK! Why I oughta... Plink! Blump! Bonk--OH!
Celebrity rehab: everybody's doing it. Not really--I just wanted a grabby topic sentence. If you are a celebrity and you are in rehab, you'll need good downloads for your iPod as you hasten your way towards sobriety. Why so many musicians gravitate toward drugs and alcohol is a study unto itself. Let us heed their been-there/done-that wisdom as we open our eyes to a clear-headed view of the world.
"When Uncle Bill Quit Dope" - There's no question that Johnny Cash is one of the coolest cats in the universe. Even in the after-life, he is no doubt wowing his peers with his marvelous story-telling through song. Here's a surprisingly cheerful rendition of the werewolf-like horrors of withdrawal.
In 1971 Black Sabbath wrote a classic love song to marijuana called "Sweet Leaf" that I would argue was the birthplace of grunge. By 1987, The Butthole Surfers were the perfect band to cover this song and make it their own. I'm including their version here, entitled "Sweat Loaf," because it's massively strange and it rocks. But also because it's a little scary, like the paranoid feeling when you can't find your keys after smoking a doobie. Or like when you fear you're turning into your friend's ugly plaid couch and the REO Speedwagon video on the TV isn't as bad as you remembered it when sober. Not that I have any experience with either of those scenarios.
"Sunshine Superman" - Did Donovan write any songs in the 60s that weren't about drugs? Pick any of his hits--they all sound druggy (in a good way). He's underrated among composers and songwriters. They tend to dismiss him as a light-weight. But his songs hold up; they're unique and interesting ditties. It didn't last though. He had his moment--a color-drenched, swirly moment in time...
"Purple Haze" - Hey, what's going on there in that purple haze? Jimi Hendrix was the Mozart of rock and had the rare experience of being ahead of his time just before everyone was completely ready for his sound. Imagine if he was happening just five years before his breakthrough in the late 60s. They would have called him undisciplined, pointlessly loud, a sub-par singer. In fact, they did call him that, when he was touring as a hired guitarist with Little Richard and other performers. But after he heard Bob Dylan and found his voice as a soloist, the world fell right into step. Then the abundance of drugs ruined everything.
"My Drug Buddy" - Gee, The Lemonheads were a great 90s band until singer/songwriter Evan Dando spiraled down into his black hole of darkness. He's back now and touring again but he seems burned out. With his Andy Warhol-superstar looks, clever lyrics and excellent melodies, he should have been HUGE. Much bigger than his one-time cohort Courtney Love. Nobody said life was fair. "Drug Buddy" is sad and real. It depresses me and sounds achingly familiar at the same time.
"There's a Tear in my Beer" - Hank Williams (Sr.) was a drinker and a drug taker, which is too bad because his addictions ruined his health and he died before he reached 30. A singular talent.
"Good Morning Heartache" - Billie Holiday's life was very tragic. Growing up she went through every kind of misery imaginable and you can hear it in her beautiful, unique voice. Her addictions eventually affected her voice and prematurely ended her life at 44. I try to focus on her work, which was her gift to the world.
Another season of Mad Men has come and gone. The baffling and existential antics of 60s-era ad men and women will be put on hold until time unforseen. Meanwhile, here's a word search puzzle to tide you over. I know it's not stylish, tortured or timely, but Word Search, like well-fitted brightly colored wool suits, will never go out of style.
Look how cute Will and Jada Pinkett Smith's progeny turned out! She's only nine but she is determined to add 80s-inspired new-wave color to a cold-app world. I don't know officially what a cold-app world is. But doesn't this set look like one? Until the hair whipping commences, of course.
Once you hit the 40s, birthdays become kind of annoying. That's 40 years of cake and ice cream. Sometimes you want a change. I found myself making cake yesterday for Keith's birthday, ruminating that he doesn't like cake or frosting and would have one piece out of politeness and then leave the whole thing for me to deal with (not as enticing as it seems since my body is in "hoarding middle-age" mode--no doubt an evolutionary response to getting older and trying not to starve to death when the younger more robust villagers start neglecting to feed me).
We do cake yearly because Jackson LOVES the ritual of the candles and the singing and the wishing. He doesn't like eating it otherwise. Lately he doesn't like most every food other than Corn Flakes. But the ritual he loves. So I make the cake and stare at it balefully every day afterward before throwing most of it away. My mom had the brilliant idea of cupcakes, which can be stored briefly or frozen (or given away to grateful neighbors and school chums), so I went with that this year. Keith still didn't have one because someone at work gave him a humongous M&M-encrusted brownie for lunch. But the ritual remains charming. So anyway, cupcakes.
I share because sometimes (most times) I find myself wondering and questioning all the ritual things we do out of obligation. Especially when they're kind of pointless, like making cake for people who don't like cake. Jackson's brilliant preschool teacher taught me that ritual is really important for families and friends. It gives continuity to otherwise uncontrollable life events, and establishes close ties and bonding. Plus they're (in theory) fun. And I admit, singing "Happy Birthday"(TM) and blowing out candles in a darkened room while camera bulbs flash, is fun. Happy birthday, Keith. Happy birthday to you.
Joel Burns breaks down while encouraging gay teens to live. This is over ten minutes long but it's very touching and worth watching all the way through.
The recent suicides of so many young people due to bullying has been very much on my mind. One of the bravest people I ever met was a student at my East Bay suburban high school in 1979. He came out the year before and went through his senior year dealing with barbed jokes, icy stares and exclusion.
I didn't know him well enough to find out what else he had to go through. He regularly escaped to San Francisco and that probably helped him immensely. Although our suburb was only 35 minutes away by speeding car, it was hicksville compared to the city. There was literally a clique of guys at my school who called themselves hicks.
Since I had met this guy in drama class, I witnessed the straight guys of theater freeze him out of every group activity. This guy was wicked funny, but they refused to laugh at his improv jokes. I just didn't get it. They should have admired him for his bravery and honesty. He was really handsome too--he could have been in films or television. We should have been fawning all over him. Instead, he was treated like dirt and I was too shy to tell him how cool I thought he was.
The following year after he graduated, I became friends with a new kid my age who after several weeks of rehearsing together for a Neil Simon play, invited me to his house and showed me his GQ magazines. He told me he liked reading them and let me deduce the rest. After thumbing through and seeing they were full of cute guy models, I figured this was some kind of message. I think I just loved him more after that. I felt like he trusted me and that we had a special bond. I know he had to deal with teasing even though he wasn't officially out. His family moved to Texas the following year and I missed him immensely. He was so funny and nice and talented. I admired him and we had lots of laughs. He went on to great things, as I always knew he would. I am so glad I met him. He made high school so much better for me.
Years later, he located me through email and wrote that he was glad he met me in high school because I was kind to him. My question: how could anyone NOT have been kind to him?--a completely lovable boy.
I want gay teens to know: there are people who love you very much. And there will be more, so stay here. We want you around.
If you're over 40 and grew up in front of a television like me, you probably caught War of the Gargantuas on the afternoon movie-show multiple times (especially during the much anticipated "monster week" that seemed to come up every few months).
If not, well, I'm sorry. I'm not sure I ever sat through an entire viewing of Gargantuas. I always seemed to turn it on somewhere in the middle of the show. Or I'd lose interest halfway through and go outside and play. Even within the parameters of giant city-destroying Japanese monsters, Gargantuas were pretty weird. Mutant-looking with those weird flubby things hanging off their bodies, covered with matted hair. They were like tremendous crystal-meth addicts. I never found the charm in them, unlike Mothra, who was an oversized ecology-minded moth featuring tiny twin girls singing in tree branches for perplexing, mostly unsolved reasons.
Gargantuas were vaguely based on Frankenstein monsters and they were brothers. The green one liked to eat people. He's bad. The reddish brown one is nicer and has it out with greenie in the aforementioned war. Here's a pretty creepy scene involving airport havoc and human-eating (no clothes-eating though--ptooey!)
This excellent and unforgettable night-club scene features the worst chorus sung by a chanteuse in movie history. Yes, even worse than "That's how you stuff a wild bikini." This scenario instilled a high-camp aesthetic in me at a very early age.
it's hard to pick out any one song, but I'm going with Griselda because it's the tune that inspired him to ask me, "Why do they have to get married if they're caught in the woods at night?"
