Brilliant Idea Up for Grabs!

It's hip-hop week on Fresh Air. I'm addicted to Fresh Air. It's my favorite thing to listen to on the radio. It airs at 1pm and repeats at 7pm, and often I'll listen to parts (if not all) of each broadcast. I truly believe that Terri Gross loves hip hop in a sort of futzy musicoligist way--she's a big jazz fan, and I think her husband is a jazz critic. So far this week they've rebroadcast interviews with Jam Master Jay, DMC, Russell Simmons, L.L. Cool J., and some other guys whose names I'm not cool enough to remeber or recognize. Ice T., Ice Cube, and lord knows who else are coming up. I wish they'd interview Rick Rubin, but his ouvre is beyond hip hop.

In the meantime, I'm still plowing through DVDs of the Ken Burns Jazz documentary that's like 1000 hours long. The swing era itself consumes about 5 hours. It's fun, though--I'm learning and remembering a lot. I used to listen to a lot of Billie Holiday, but back then I never knew it was Lester Young on all of those 30s recordings.

These two cultural erichments in my life have sparked an idea that I'll happily hand over to anyone with skills and ambition. I think someone should do a hip hop documentary series that's about 10 episodes long--kinda Burns-esque, but not so esoteric. And obviuously with more live footage. One hour for the origins or rap, one episode for Curtis Blow and Sugarhill and those really early guys, one for Run-DMC and that era, one for Public Enemy, one (or two) for late 80s/early 90s underground hip hop like EPMD, Tribe Called Quest, Ultramagnetic MCs, De La Soul...you see where this is going. It could end with whatever the hell is happening now: white trust fund chicks rapping, Kanye West, Crunk, Grime, Spanish stuff...it's a brilliant idea. I hope someone's working on it right now.

Health Is a Sham

I just applied for an individual health insurance plan through my current HMO. What a drag. I thought me and Joe getting hitched would bring an end to my self-employed woes of living on the uninsured edge, but his work's health plan for dependents and spouses is a rip-off: $158 per pay period! What kind of malarkey is that? That's over $300 a month! Dude, I could get cheaper health coverage by calling an ambulence for house calls.

But it is important to be insured. When did health insurance begin, anyway? What are its origins? It's such a first-world concept: pay money to stay healthy. Well, I'm in pretty tip-top shape, physically, but I do like to get my girl parts checked out once a year just for peace of mind. Plus you never know what might happen...a car wreck, cancer, whatever. What I think about is how someday I'll get pregnant, and how expensive that will be. Maybe there will be a good midwife where we are by then.

Empty Stomach, Empty Mind

Yesterday afternoon/evening Joe and I went to a BBQ/party hosted by my very kind ex-workmate Debbie and her almost-husband John. I'd made a very pretty blueberry pie that afternoon to bring, and there was savory food galore there--salads, pork ribs, veggie kebabs, cheeses, olives, crackers, pate...oh, and beers. I think I had three: not too much. But we all ate so much, and once we got home I collapsed in bed with my book, eventually passing out at 10pm or so. Pathetic.

I've heard that eating too much before bed actually makes you hungry the next morning, because your stomach is all stretched out from the night before and tricked into feeling the need for even more food to fill its newfound elasticity. That's how I feel at the moment. The plan for today is to eat a light coffee/brekfast at Barnes & Noble Strarbucks (oh, it's so quaint and sweet there! haha!), work on the novel, write some thank-you notes, and research a bit for upcoming articles I have deadlines for. What a great plan, huh? I think so, too. But I'm groggy and hungry, all for no good reason other than I was a glutton last night. Yay.

Lighting Up "Red Hash"

"Red Hash" is my favorite moody morning album of the moment. It's displaced Jim Croce, who is, granted, way more upbeat. I still ove the Croce, but "Red Hash" is, to me, 100% new. It was released in 1973 by this dude named Gary Higgins--a real ginger hippy, with this scraggly long red beard and an imposhly stoned-looking countenence.

I read about "Red Hash" in Kid Millions' blog. He's the drummer for Oneida, my favorite "now" band. All members of Oneida have blogs on the band's website, but Kid updates his the most, and it's the most irreverent. He listens to all kinda stuff, including Third Eye Blind. I'm no Third Eye Blind lover, but I do likes me some pretty uncool stuff, like OMD and Heart. In fact, I LOVE OMD and Heart. To me, music is good if it sounds good. Coolness has nothing to do with it, which is perhaps why most new music these days--Pitchfork-cool music--leaves me either retching or, much more often, very underwhelmed.

So one day I red KM's blog entry about Gary Higgins, this long-lost trippy-hippy folksinger whose supposed underground classic album "Red Hash" was just re-released by Drag City records. The words "psychedelic folk" caught my eye. I'm a sucker for that kind of stuff, which I think (somewhat bizzarely) is the doing of my parents' early '70s musical tastes. My folks were straight shooters and only messed around with legal vices like alcohol and cigs (my Dad, mainly), but they had lots of Simon & Garfunkel and Mamas & Papas LPs--sort of mainstreamy psychedelic stuff, sure, but as a kid I loved to listen to it.

I finally found the CD when Joe and I were in Portland. I'd been looking for it for a few weeks, stupidly searching for "Red Hash" and not "Higgins, Gary." My curiosity was burning: would I be treated to a masterpiece, or disappointed with a bunch of overhyped, wet junk? Well, once I got the CD home I dicovered that it's full of subtle, soporificially soothing moments. There's a little bit of "Meddle"-era Pink Floyd in its atmospherics and even some barky, gravely vocals that pre-date Tom Waits' rough growl. I don't think it's a rediscovered masterpiece (masterpiece is a very overused term), but it's a damn good record and I enjoy it a lot.

Higgins spent 2 years in jail on a marijuana possesion charge directly after the album's release. That stinks, but I do wonder if the album's title refers to reefer. To me, it is reminiscent of the term red flannel hash, which I think is corned beef hash made with beets. I always think in terms of food, not of drugs.

Jontue Notes

About four years ago, when I was still working at the library, my friend and then co-worker Bryan gave me a little notebook he had found in the bin where the Friends of the Library dump rejected donated books. Some of the coolest donations came from there, and they never saw the light of day unless you rescued them. Bryan and I both got brand-new 1000-plus page Scientology Handbooks, and Bryan also found me a copy of Iggy Pop's photo-autobiography "I Need More." I guess those Friends of the Library cats aren't up on the up enough to recognize greatness in glam rock and proto-punk when they see it.

So anyhow, Bryan was usually the one who scored the best finds in the discards. But this little notebook that he gave me wasn't too special or crazy or anything--just a slender notebook, about 4" x 6", with a navy blue cover decoraterd with flowers. It said "Jontue Notes" on the front. I started carrying it around in my backpack so I could record my brilliant thoughts at any possible moment. Here are a few (and remember, this is circa 2001/2002).

-I was at the bank. The teller called me Mrs. Bir. He called me Mrs. Bir.

-Every time I walk byt the Eddie Bauer store in the mall, I am overcome with sensation I will spy Tom Waits shopping there.

-This morning I ate applesauce and two tuna fish sandwiches on hamburger buns...the queerest breakfast ever.

-The Gideons had a Mercedes with a trunkfull of Bibles.

-How often is something okay when you say it is? Hardly ever. I hardly ever mean it.

-I walked to the library to put a video in the bookdrop. It was 6:07 and some smoke-stinky alcoholic woman was pawing at the door, trying to get in. I was going to tell her that the library was closed, but then I smelled a strange smell, a rotten floral small that was intense like ammonia. It disgusted me so that I could then not even look or speak to her. What would she have heard, anyway? She gave up with the door and walked away. So did I. I realized I was walking through a small puddle, and wondered if something above was leaking. But it was her. As she scuffled off, a stream of hot piss cascaded from the leg of her jeans. I realized that was what I was walking through, and I thought to myself, "I hate homeless people."

Rediscovered Backpack

Some assmunch posted a comment on my blog that's actually an ad for some rip-off scheme--at least I figure, as I didn't read the whole 500-word-long comment. Yo, creeps, stay off my blog. Maybe I'll start posting mad comments on strangers' blogs or even the blogs of good friends, pretending to be some made-up ignoramous...oh, wait, I have too much of a fulfilling life to do that. Well, no blog hoaxes or spam ad campaigns for me!

I found my favorite backpack recently. The day before Joe and I left for our trip I was ripping apart the big closet, looking for our air mattress. Our big closet is deep, with lots of wasted space and few shelves. Instead of trying to put in some organizational system, we just throw crap in the closet and pile more crap on top of that. There's one shelf real close to the ceiling that goes back maybe five feet--you really have to reach to get back there. I couldn't find the air mattress, so I started poking around on that impossible shelf when I caught a glimpse of cobalt blue canvass way in the back back. My precious backpack!

Right before going to college, I got my first backpack in years (in high school, I just carried my books around with a little purse on top because for some reason I thought backpacks were not cool). Mom ordered it from the L.L. Bean catalog for me. It was deep and wide, with generous storage space for thick collegiate texts. The backpack easily outlasted my collegiate carreer, whereupon I dropped out and undertook a few summers of working low-paying jobs in Wyoming and Colorado. Pretty much ever second of daylight I had off, me and the backpack were hiking up some mountain or down into a sage-lined gully. I hiked by myself a lot, and I always made sure to include my cobalt blue backpack in the panoramic photos I took at summits. The backpack even made it to the top of the Grand Teton and back.

It's not the most ideal backpack for day hikes; it hulks and bulges out like Quasimodo's hump. But I could carry a fleece jacket, gloves, a fat canteen of water, sunscreen, a hiking guide, pens and pencils, and a warm hat in it, no problem. I always felt prepared and protected with that backpack on.

A few years ago, I lost track of the backpack. It drove me nuts--how could I just loose it? I hadn't been using it much, as strolling to work with this huge, scuffed-up bulge of a backpack didn't seem very professional. But I still loved it and never wanted to get rid of it. Eventually I figured it was lost to me forever.

But no! It was crammed in the very back of the closet all along. There was a tiny notebook in this one slender zipper-pocket that I'd forgotten all about, a notebook that I used to write passiong thoughts and observations in. Maybe tomorrow you'll get to read some of them.

Honeymooners

I'm married now. So is Joe. That accounts for the two-week gap in posts; first there was wedding prep, then the wedding, then a honeymoon to go on. You'd have to be really nuts or lame to post during any of these consuming and thrilling events. In fact, you'd have to be such a loser that getting married would probably never happen to you in the first place.

It's been a fun and exhausting several weeks. I'm glad they are over now, and just memories that will either sharpen or blur through the lense of time. They are good memories and I am happy to have them to call on when life is dull or discouraging.

Our wedding day was freezing--well, not literally freezing, because no liquids became solids that I know of. But it was very overcast and windy and grey. Erin (my Maid of Honor) and I had goosebumps in our short, sleeveless dresses. Joe looked extremely handsome in his new charcoal suit, and up at our little makeshift altar I was happy to have his warm hands to hold for emotional and physical support. He was warm! I was turning white! Just like a good bride, I suppose.

It was a great day. All of the work and worrying and planning and drama (which, in the case of our wedding, was thankfully low) suddenly seems so worth it--and so behind you. The day slides by like the first grand pitch of a roller coaster, whooshing past with a momentum all its own.

So that's all I'll say about that. We needed the honeymoon to help unwind; I hardly slept the night before and several nights following the wedding, and it was wonderful to abandon the undonw wrapping paper and piles of post-wedding trash littering our apartment. For revity, I'll just post highlights:
-campfires on 3 nights of car camping in lovely natural settings
-Dinosaur Jr. reunion, especially J. Mascis' extra-large Nature Company t-shirt silkscreened with images of snow-shite wolf cubs
-the boat rde around Crater Lake
-visiting Joe's sister and her family in Portland, Oregon

We did heaps of laundry last night and we so burnt for sensory overload that we couldn't even focus enough to decide on a place or thiing to eat. After 8pm we wound up walking to the Sizzler down the street; the anything-goes thought of an endless salad bar appealed to me. So we ate at the depressing Sizzler, and I ate too much, though I do fancy that I got my fill of vegetables and fresh fruits. Joe had Malibu chicken and steak. We split everything like a good married couple does.

Gender Confusion

This afternoon I went to Target. They built a new one in my town just a few months ago, only five minutes away by car. Target on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I went--of course--for wedding junk. We needed an big cooler jug to put iced tea in, and all possible outlets for borrowing one were dried up.

I get lost and confused in Target. It took me a while to find the cooler jug, which was in Sporting Goods. What's sport without cool beverages, after all? I should have guessed. After getting lost in the electronics area, took the escalator downstairs and joined the shortest checkout line.

The checkout girl turned her light off about thrity seconds after I got in line. I guess this meant she was closing the aisle, but she never said so. I asked, "M'am," (I had a good ten years on this girl, I bet) "is this aisle closed?"

She nodded lazily. Gee, thanks for the noticed. I went over to the next checkout. "Hello, sir," the checkout clerk said to me.

Now, on this particular afternoon, there were at least a few very apparent visible indicators of my gender.
1. Chin-length hair held back with barrettes.
2. Cat-eye glasses frames decorated with rhinestones.
3. Boobs (small boobs, granted, but not invisible).
4. A skirt.

I said nothing. But on my way out, I felt that I should have said the the clerk, "Do I look like a man to you? Please apologize." These Target clerks must get paid squat, if they can't even be bothered to announce that a line is closed or to take that extra tenth of a second to discern a customer's sex. Well, I guess that's it for me and Target. From now on, I'm only shopping at stores where the staff knows I am a woman.

Chocolate Cinema

Damn, I'm getting restless. I want this wedding to happen already so I can get on with the rest of my life. Last night when Joe was at practice I saw "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" at the movie theatre. It was fine, pretty much as I exprected it to be. Tim Burton kind of bugs me with his Gothic style-over-substance hangups, but come on--the movie is not about substance.

As a former chocolate factory employee, I had an ex-professional interest in the movie. People have some weird ideas about chocolate. This actually supplies a bit of resentment towards Dahl's creation: multiple times daily, folks in the store or on the chocolate factory tour would mention Oompa-Loompas and fancy themselves all clever and cute. Come on, folks--it's a movie, fiction! The only similarity turns out that a real-life chocolate factory can be just as messed up as a fictional one, only in much less visually scintillating ways. I speak from experience.

Too Clumsy

Yesterday I bashed my pinkie toe very badly against the feet of the desk chair. My pinkie toe is tiny--almost obsolete, in fact; it looks like an underdeveloped digit, the stunted finger of a parasite twin. The toenail of my pinkie to is only about a centimeter wide and a few millimeters tall.

But it still hurt like the dickens after I rammed it into the chair. The skin above the toenail split and began to bleed. I didn't do it on purpose. I'm clumsy, always have been, but lately I've been especially clumsy. I'm a walking threat to breakable things. How does a person become less clumsy? Maybe I can move slower--I jerk around a lot--but I'm not sure if that's possible. That's like telling a turtle to step on it. I wonder what the next clumsy thing I do will be? I give myself five minutes, because it's time to go find a little breakfast in the kitchen, and that's where clumsiness strikes the most.