Procrastinating from the work and submissions that await me, I remembered my 12th grade English teacher. She’d instruct the class to take a blank sheet of paper and freely write for five to ten minutes to clear our mind of the clutter it keeps. My random clutter this day:
I’ve spent my twenties searching for a secret power, a jewel of strength contained within men and realized what my grandmother knew all along. Women just may be stronger. No, we actually are.
Letterman, oh Letterman. I’d considered writing an entire blog on my conflicting emotions regarding his wandering ways. After all, I did declare in my high school yearbook that I would someday marry what I considered to be the hottest man on late night television. His photo, tattered and wrinkled, was taped along the inside of my locker throughout middle and high school. My sister, years ago, bartended on the Upper West Side and met a few of his young female staffers. Upon telling them of my vested interested in seducing the man, they insisted he would love me. There was a sinister laugh behind their words and my sister clued me in. So here I sit torn between my mixed emotions… there could be a real possibility had I just interned for Letterman instead of Streisand, I could have played out my adolescent fantasy in the flesh. Yet that opportunity is also a bucket of water atop my flaming desire, unaligned with my old fashioned views on fidelity. Not to mention the questions that arise as an adult that I may have otherwise overlooked at 14. Like what if he isn’t circumsized? Likewise, it’s no surprise to reflect on some of the formers I’ve endured in this life if this man, this Cassanova, was my first big crush. My string of affairs actually makes more sense to me these days. So, thanks for coming out with it all, Dave.
After many in depth articles about Neko Case, I’ve matched her tunes with the quirky tales of her recordings and murky past. She’s the woman with the voice who reminds me of the unique character found in Stevie Nicks’ voice in 1974 (every time I’ve been in some fast food chain and her song comes over the airwaves, I think, “This sounds like Stevie!”) I enjoy it so.
Diane Birch, another amazing singer-songwriter, who I finally got to see live at a Svedka-sponsored gala at the Hudson Hotel. These liquor-sponsored boozefests should be better regulated. Four hours of open bar and cocktails replacing cocktails in my unaware hands led to a debauchery not felt since three years ago when I attended a backyard BBQ and nursed a bottomless red plastic cup that overflowed with Greygoose until I stumbled home. Vodka, you are no longer my friend. The irony is that I don’t think Svedka wanted to leave such a bad brand impression in my mind. I recommend checking out www.livefromdarylshouse.com to catch Diane’s live set with Daryl Hall at his house upstate. I think it’s one of the best episodes yet.
For some it’s tequila, for others it’s vodka, and for me it’s both. I have to rewind to the debauchery for a moment as it very rarely causes reaching out to people who don’t deserve my time of day. Oh… you know… formers. I typically have a system for dealing with them. See, I memorize only the first 3-5 numbers of their phone numbers before deleting. That way I have no access to contact them when under the influence and have enough awareness to not pick up when they call. This is an entirely effective strategy except for the times when the former goes nuts, sends a few dozen texts that I would otherwise have to painfully delete one by one or risk deleting all my text messages so as to not go through them. Mistakenly I had left these few dozen unread messages and slipped up by reaching out with said debaucherous texts sent to an otherwise deleted phone number. My policy has been modified. I don’t save a single text and clean out that trash on a bi-weekly basis. And life is much clearer.
My EP is done, I have the little cds in my hands after receiving a shipment a few days late because UPS is run by the biggest morons of all delivery services. In spite of notes on my door, arrows pointing to my buzzer, implicit instructions dictated from me to the call center to the delivery man, they still managed to fuck up. Twice. But I received my shipment of “Sweet Clarity” in all its glory in a single solid box that weighed eighty pounds that I then lugged up five flights of stairs. Oh, the life of an indie artist. And I expect each and every one of you to buy a copy for yourself and all your friends. Just five bucks for over twenty minutes of bliss. Cheaper than twenty minutes of parking or a massage at an Asian parlor in New York City. It just doesn’t come with a happy ending. Bittersweet, more appropriately.
I caught Michael Jackson’s “This Is It” last night. Though also bittersweet, I think I had a better understanding of him as a performer and was captivated by the budget they had to pull of such an amazing show. Arenas, stadiums, and amphitheaters have always been my churches of choice.
Carly Simon has a new album. I think the cover is hideous. I thought it was a joke, but apparently it’s what she found to be fitting. I love her and think the reworking of her masterpieces is a brilliant idea (I, like many others, didn’t love her last album no matter how much Starbucks is blamed for their marketing of it. I actually wanted to be on the Starbucks label at one point and her release party at the Starbucks on Astor was a blast). She’s still hot and I hope this makes her the fortune she seeks.
It’s Halloween this weekend, my favourite holiday of the year and I will be heading upstate. My parents live on “Haunted Circle,” so what could really be more fitting? Enjoy your festivities, everyone. I’ve got to sift through the collection of costumes in my closet accumulated from a year of unusual gigs.