Why not?

Okay, I finally have something to say about this election. That's right, two days before I need to actually make up my mind, I finally made up my mind. And it hasn't been easy.

Before this historically massive crux of an election, I have to bashfully admit that I have not been the most politically informed cat. In college I dated this completely crazy but of course, as it always seems to be, brilliant (this is my type in a nutshell) freak of a political science major. As he won academic bowl after academic bowl for the local community college (on Dexadrine), I casually blew off his passions in the interest of his feedback on my then-perfect floating orbs of golden light-- you may call them breasts. Anyway, he about dumped me when election day passed (Clinton vs. who?) and I had no idea. But I had the orbs, so we worked it out.

So now I feel the guilt and embarrassment of this memory (which I have never shared, by the way) as well as the shame when exposed to my father's immense and staggering sense of patriotism. I am the youngest daughter of a WWII veteran; very lucky to have this perspective. He actually lied about his age to go to war as a Marine-- or his parents signed for him, one of the two. Either way, who the fuck would do that today? What are we missing? We are a nation of spoiled asshole brats. It's disgusting, and I am reminded of this every time I watch FOX news with my 81 year old father. It's no rant of his, it's all mine. But to just simply observe the ever-so-slight swell in his chest while casually observing the state of the nation... it's more reverence than you'll get from any half-hearted pledge of allegiance in school or at a ballgame.

I also remember with some embarrassment but mostly as a major turning point, an incident at a party in college where I found myself getting pretty hammered with some fetching Marines. I had already decided I was really conflicted with my deficit in patriotism or even nationalism at this point, and I figured these guys should be able to help me figure it out. Plus, they might be tempted to rescue me from my frightful plight of cluelessness. I asked them point blank: why do I not feel it? What do you feel about our country that makes you do what you do? What am I missing? And the answer was so simple, and it resonates in my head to this day. He said, "We make it so you can say what you just said."

So in effect, we are so freaking spoiled as a nation that we not only are allowed to question our loyalty, our freedom (Michelle?), but even publicly humiliate our leader in wartime. I have a real problem with this. I don't care how much the man might deserve it, but what do we say about ourselves to the world when we mock our President? We may as well mock ourselves, and we do. I'm sorry, it's just tacky as hell. I dare anyone to call President Bush an idiot in front of someone just home from Iraq. I dare you. Not so funny anymore is it? You think he thinks it's funny? Fuck Bill Maher. Fuck John Stewart. Fuck all that Comedy Central bullshit. It's in seriously poor taste. But that's Hollywood for you.

This said, I have searched high and low for answers with both of our presidential candidates. I subscribe to both of their newsletters, I read all of the mud-slinging propaganda on both of them, and have checked all of the facts (myself, not from their own "fact-checker" sections on their websites). And I was still clueless in this age of information. I have leaned to both sides, and ultimately resided in between, wringing my hands and biting my nails. Then I had a moment of quiet, whispering clarity last night.

I was in Blockbuster, cause I'm an idiot and don't do the Netflix thing. (As with most media purchasing or borrowing, I want to touch it-- another post.) Right in front when you enter the rows of jackets, there was a display with previously viewed DVDs. It had several copies of Barack Obama: Who Is This Guy? (or something to that effect) on it, and I briefly thought to pick one up. But I had kept walking to review the other selections first. As I was scanning the jackets on the New Releases wall, I hear behind me this child's voice, a whisper of wonder, like glimpsing Santa Claus on a Coca Cola commercial-- it couldn't have sounded more utterly American,

"(gasp!) Barack Obama!"

And I could hear him pointing to a buddy or sibling, I didn't turn around. Then,

"I love you, Barack Obama."

I froze right there as tears came to my eyes. And a million romantic thoughts tumbled through my brain that ultimately asked, is it just too awful and naive to look up to someone this way? Can there really, actually be Hope? Is it not just clever campaigning? Could we actually have reverence as a nation, as this child does? Is it just too scary to posit such a thing?

It may be romantic. But no media could replicate the voice of that baby. And he surely learned it from Momma and Daddy (or maybe just Momma?), but I've never heard that kind of wonder out of anyone's mouth in regards to one of our nation's recent leaders. Why not go for it?

KJ

Huh.

Holy shit, that WAS vacuous.

KJ

The unbearableness of not being very light.

I have been really searching for something vacuous to expound upon, but just can't quite pull it off. So screw y'all. You have to hear me cry.

I have this friend that I've literally known my whole life; we were thrown in the crib together. Our mothers both had us a little later in life, so we got stuck together often. Our lifelong story has been tenuous at times, but I have never really stopped worshipping him. And now he's getting married.

It's the most unexplainable feeling. I've only felt it maybe once, when my sister got married 12 years ago. But I'm actually closer to this person than I am to my sister, if only because of our age difference. She's twelve years older, and we didn't really "grow up" together. Anyway, it's this ridiculous pain that you can't admit to because it means you're a selfish asshole. While my icy little heart leaps to see him so happy, I feel like I'm losing my appendix or something. And we don't even talk all that much anymore. I'm so puzzled. But it makes me feel very small. As in, character-wise. Hopefully I'll feel a wee absolved by your vapid validation.

So I'll recount fond memories of my pal. We used to put makeup on each other under my parents' big dining room table. We would fight over whether it was "yellow" or "lellow." He colored a tulip he drew with markers, cut it out, and scotch-taped it to a balloon for me when we had chicken pox. He led me by the hand out over the water, balancing on the side planks of the wharf his family was building when we were four years old. We spent endless hours on the "trolley" in the back yard of his house. We inspected dead lizards. We always went trick-or-treating together. We always did Mardi Gras together. Consequently we spent a lot of time on the floor sorting candy together. We launched just about anything we could find over his roof in a super-strength water balloon launcher. We got in trouble.

Somewhere around high school he started rolling his eyes at me and decided I was not cool. I was devastated.

Somewhere around college we started hanging out again. Felt better. We always call each other on our birthdays.

And now we're here. I try to control the involuntary asshole rays that pour from my eyeballs whenever his fiancee is around, to what level of success, I'm not sure. I do try, though. Didn't help that no less than five people at their engagement party thought I was his fiancee. Only a little awkward.

Anyway. Hopefully I'm done with all this now. Because now I have to worry about the "spot" on Dad's liver.

KJ

All that is good is nastay...

but all that is nasty is not necessarily good. I'm way behind on new music, but I just heard the cop car song by Lil Wayne yesterday and am completely crazy about it. While familiar with Lil Wayne as a figure from New Orleans and aware of his general schtick, I had only heard some mutated children's version of "Lollipop" (don't ask) as far as his actual tunes were concerned. I've read great things about his latest album, The Carter III, but nothing prepared me for the brilliance of this song.

I hesitate to say brilliant every time because the lyrics are pure trash, but damn they're clever. His homage to NWA somewhere before the first chorus, I think, made me squeal with absolute delight. While I thought to myself, come on, it's not that smart I realized that the cleverness wasn't the appeal, or even that unique. NWA was kinda clever, but its trail-blazing dirtiness was what drew me in as an adolescent. But why did I like it better than 2 Live Crew? And then it hit me: it's the triumph of the underdog.

Think about it. There are all of these super dirty rap songs with angry, growling, grunting rappers. They're dark. You feel dirty just listening to them, and can almost hear poor little teenage girls crying among the sounds of ass-slapping and dog fighting. It's disgusting. It's not fun. Listening to guys like Eazy E and Lil Wayne talk about getting busy-- now that's fun. Just the sheer tones of their voices brings a lighter vibe, and you can't help but enjoy the fact that these guys have made it into the baller club because otherwise-- well, I won't say it out loud. It ain't right.

So now for the hypothesis busters: first, Big Pun. I love Pun, but sometimes he gets pretty dark. I almost wrecked my car in an effort to clap my hands over my ears when I heard him say something about knocking a fetus out of place. But really, if this guy didn't rap, he would never-- well, you know.

Next buster, but not a rapper: Morris Day. Now anyone that knows me knows that I am crazy about Morris and give the creation of his persona far more credit than it really merits. I do honestly think the song Chile Sauce is truly brilliant. It's hysterical. Totally tongue in cheek, definitive clownin. But have you seen Morris close up? Dude's got mad freckles all over his nose and cheeks. Too adorable. Like, puppy adorable. If he hadn't ridden on the purple coattails, he would never have gotten so much-- yeah. Well, maybe. That band is damn tight. But for all of the light and funny lady killin, I had another tire-screeching, ear-clapping moment of absolute horror while listening to their second album, What Time Is It? The tune is called The Walk, and it describes a dance move named as such. (To be later referenced in their next album Ice Cream Castles, during the aforementioned epic, Chili Sauce: "Say, do you know how to do The Walk?" "Why certainly! Everyone can do The Walk!" "Well why don't you just Walk yo ass to the other side of the room!") But back to the horror-- as Morris explains why he wears baggy pants, "...zip, snap, and drop! Easy access baby, before they get a chance to holler stop!" I swear I almost died to hear such violence. The whole line is even spoken with an entirely different air. It's angry, dark, and scary; there's even an ominous-sounding echo on the word "stop." It makes me uneasy to the extent that I don't even listen to that album anymore. When I do its only for 777-9311, and Gigolos Get Lonely Too.

So my point isn't bulletproof, but it works in general: Dirty lyrics coming from someone that typically wouldn't have the repertoire to reference for such things kinda warms one's heart in a way. Like Eazy E's Christmas album....

(We'll save the topic of misogyny in black music for another day.)

KJ

Gotta get more gold leaf.

My mental shopping list for on the way home from work today. Can't have enough gold leaf.

The urgency on this particular day is because I'm desperately trying to finish a painting to some meager standard of okayness so I can hang it at the gallery tomorrow. I'd started it in August sometime, and the concept was well laid out. I was pretty excited. Then I, of course, procrastinated and went to try and develop it last night but it was a disaster. Which brings me to the ultimate artist's cliche-- you really just can't force it.

The analytical side of me has fought this for decades, insisting that really that was just a load of crap. Real artists worked, dammit, and they suffered through whatever decontruction and reconstruction that was called for until that simultaneous orgasmic-denouement moment, so blessedly called completion. That other shit was a copout. But I'm starting to come full circle to my adolescent attitudes and think it just can't be pushed, man. I suppose these cycles mean something, but I'll think about that later.

What's inadvertently being illustrated here, as I write, is my horrific placement at the dead center of the spectrum between so-called left-brainers and right-brainers. I am telling you-- it's torture. I'm constantly drawn and quartered between guilt, carelessness, curiosity, and rationale. I can barely tolerate the artsy fartsy types, but I'm clearly no type A. It motivates me not to work harder or be more disciplined at either school, but to stagnate and whine. It really is pathetic. I'm not even the type whose self-loathing results in some brilliant creation, I'm too stuck in how I'll market my work to really let go. I don't even think I have anything to let go of. My work is rather superficial. I call them condo paintings. Nice to look at, but not quite good enough for your primary home. I hope that last statement isn't too telling....

So yeah, more gold leaf. And liquid adhesive. Hope I can bang this out.

KJ

Big sigh.

It's still a beautiful weekend, I'm still bangin' out the jams from my balcony for the whole street, and once again I saw some incredible R&B in October.

My loser friends tried their mightiest to drag me to see Kid Rock, but I held fast and planted at the Miller Lite stage because no one was going to interfere in my date with Eddie Levert last night. That's right, kids, the O'Jays graced our fair city. It was a pretty good performance although not world-view changing. I also caught the tail end of the Whispers, too, which was a bonus. Eddie's face looked as if it might burst a couple of times; he sang his ass off.

I found myself getting super nostalgic again while parked among huge crowds of really good-smelling people. I'll never forget seeing the Gap Band at that very same spot 10 years or so ago, when the crowds were much smaller. I was squished up in this crowd and it WAS one of those world-view changing experiences. I swear, I've only participated in this kind of phenomena once or twice, but it was literally as if the crowd moved as one being. Sounds totally trite, but I swear to you when you feel the kind of sway that's so intuitive and uninterrupted, and about a thousand or so people strong, you will kinda find some new religion. Charlie was getting everyone going on some crowd participation singing; some row-your-boat shit to that tune "Yearnin for Your Love." I swear it was so beautiful (and actually in tune) that I tear up right this damned minute recalling it.

But I found a comfy spot and some folks to hang with, and was soon asked by some fella if I knew who the Beatles were. I struggled to try and decipher what this guy's logic was in asking me such an inane question. He was understandably all eyebrows when I referenced some older music, but really. Did he think I was that young? I decided to be flattered. Then there was a woman who was very interested in everything I had to say, in the spirit of fascination with the novel white girl among all these black people. I guess it doesn't happen so much in those proportions so often. There's lots of heterogeneity around, but I do have to admit I was a small whitehead on the big black ass this particular evening. She was hungry and I told her I was a fan of the turkey legs. She got pretty excited, but I couldn't tell her exactly where they were. But last year they were really on time, and just extend your enthusiasm so perfectly when you thrust one in the air after a great tune.

(Another nifty anecdote from the evening-- our cab driver let us in on a little wink, wink, nudge, nudge about Kid Rock. Evidently he supposed to be Hank Williams, Jr.'s illegitimate son. Might be common knowledge, but I sure had never heard that. Supposedly this guy's a buddy of Hank's brother or something. Hm.)

I friggin love October.

I really do. I always get some retarded-heavy crush in October. It's the weather, SEC football (even when I was on the west coast this was a factor), the consequent bourbon, hormones blazing from nearby college campuses. It's all in the air. And then there's Halloween, of course. As a kid I was like, screw Santa Claus. I wanna look like a skeleton. Or Cyndi Lauper. But the best part was roaming the streets, something I still cherish but can never do in this damn place that's made me fat as all get out.

Anyway. All of my windows are open and there's a music festival going on just a few blocks away. I totally feel like making out with somebody. But instead I'll blare all of the live R&B I have, which is lots. That's another fall/October association-- outdoor R&B concerts....

In Alabama the fall brings this festival season that is like a goldmine for 70s-late 90s R&B enthusiasts. Groups that have long had their day in the sun, or even 1-2 hit wonders will abound in these things. I have always been insane to catch these acts while my friends scratched their heads in wonder, but somehow I'd get someone to go with me. There's nothing like those first few steps into an R&B show: you feel the bass tickling your chest from outside the doors or gates, and when you start to weave your way through the crowd you are hit with about 17 different varieties of cologne and perfume. And I LOVE IT. Everyone is dressed and in a romantic mood, and let me tell you-- er'body gone be gettin some tonight.

I have seen some of my favorite R&B performances in these random Alabama fall music festivals. The Derelict (see previous post for past fella nickname reference) actually took me to see Earth, Wind, And Fire for the first time in 1997 in Birmingham. If you've ever spoken to me for even 10 minutes you know that this is my ALL TIME FAVORITE GROUP OF GOD-SENT PROPHETS POSING AS MUSICIANS. They played with Teena Marie and Larry Graham with Graham Central Station. My poor little unsuspecting mind was blown about into pieces like so many paper confetti leaves that school teachers decorate the picnic tables with during these blessed fall months. To add to the list: The Time, Ohio Players, The Gap Band, Brick, Dazz Band. Then I saw damned Chaka Khan reunited with Rufus opening for EWF one special last day in September, and that just about ruined me.

KJ

Lucky Y'all

So while I'm only imagining I have an audience, this next post is the perfect foil. I share an office with one absolutely ebullient woman, one whom I am eternally grateful for having to spend so many hours a day in such close proximity. She is eternally positive and easy to laugh from the gut. My life would surely be different were it anyone else with whom I had to share this tiny room.

But the real beauty of this situation is that we are almost exactly the same brand of crazy. I can mutter and throw inappropriate dialect all day long, self-deprecate, gloat, and obsess-- and she thinks it's hysterical. In turn, she yammers about food and giggles and shares intimate details about her children that they'd kill her over, and I think it's all positively brilliant. We have a subtle body language that tells one another to shut up, and have never gotten irritated with one another in two years. Which reminds me of one of my favorite expressions of hers-- "making pearls" as meaning extreme irritation. Hilarious.

So the perfection in this sequence of posts is that unfortunately for her-- she is my captive audience. I am certain that it is God itself that grants her the perception of entertainment when I day after day expound upon my uneventful life. Which is, by the way, much "faster" than hers. She's Southern Baptist. I try to edit, but sometimes I don't just to shake it up. She finds quiet pleasure in it, I'm convinced. So I never hesitate to let her in on the zillions of men in my past, present, and future.

While I can't always tell her when I've received the most stingingly delicious spanking in a few years, or why he I really think he's gay, I do give some riveting accounts. Some dating as far back as grade school. I am completely amused at her ability to keep most of them straight, as I am famous for having several of these men enter and exit multiple times, sometimes years apart. (I believe I get this from my father who "recycles" old girlfriends into wives now that he's in his eighties, circumventing the cost of 24-hour care.) She can usually name them as I bring them up, sometimes by our own exclusive nickname she and I have given them and sometimes by their proper names. It's absolutely fascinating. Occasionally she'll flub, mistaking Captain Stubing for Asberger, but really it's understandable.

But the real endearment came when she starts to tell me the other day, a little embarrassed that she's taken our yammerings home with her, that she was struggling to recall how I had first met Young Thing as she was falling asleep the night before. We laughed until near tears at this dilemma. It was only a few minutes later that I busted her on counting my men in the proverbial manner of sheep.

Launch

Oh, Lord. Like so many others I've done it, and feel just as self-conscious or more. I now no longer have to actually choose an audience to suffer through my attempts at humor and brilliance. Welcome to my poorly developed and spontaneously created blog.