Dear hippies—

You know I appreciate the way you helped to shift things around earlier this century, but listen, here:

Demonstations nowadays are not the place to let your freak-flag fly.

Puh-lease, people! You know I’m steadfast about not compromising what we really believe in to turn into Republicrats here, but there’s a time and a place for a clown wig and bubbles, and this particular anti-war march is Not it.

Thank you.

Your Weekend in Analogies


I
Last night, we saw Shannon Wright.

This afternoon, I saw a flamenco dancer on t.v.

A flamenco dancer isn't just a well, dancer—but a full-bodied visceral expression, right?.

Well, that's Shannon Wright. A singer/songwriter who is not. Just. That. Onstage, she writhes snakelike and contorts her face and voice into expressions of pure passion and anguish.

So she’s a flamenco dancer with a guitar. Also a piano.

This is why just listening to Spanish flamenco or Shannon Wright’s music on your stereo just isn’t what it’s about, there, folks.

In case you were wondering about either.


I like analogies. They're among my favorite things, right up there with dark chocolate.


II
So, now think: the group changing room at Loe*hmann's.
That drab orange-and-brown room with mirrors on the walls.


You’re there with your Aunt Sydney, right? She’s trying clothes on her 53-year-old frame. You always sorta admired her, because she was buxom whereas clothes just always kind of hung on you, right?

And there are nine or ten other completely average women there, too.

Now, let’s say what you’re trying on is actually a sparkly silver bustier – and hey, look! Your aunt is trying on a vinyl nurse’s uniform! And that woman over there, the one who looks like your best-friend’s mom? She’s lolling around the dressing-room in a tangerine g-string! She looks bored.

It’s neither particularly titillating nor particularly disturbing.

And you find yourself wanting a P.B.R., because this is not actually Loe*hmanns of course, but a strip-club.

A very well-known Atlanta lounge known as The Clermont. Where I went for the very first time on Friday, for m’friend’s birthday.

The Clermont is a dive. And it has a rep as an incredibly sleazy place with ugly, old strippers. Now though, it garnered a new rep as The Place for Slumming.

It does have old strippers, but here’s the low-down: they’re not grotesque. Just freakin’ normal older women who aren’t all plastic-surgeried to hell.

I guess the basic depressing aspect of any strip club is the idea of women making themselves sexual objects for others, to make money. And that can be taken in different directions, depending on the actual physicality of the women’s bodies, especially as compared to the men they’re leaning all over.

On Friday, as Blondie swatted her aging breasts in some Buckhead guy’s face, you knew there were two dialogues:

1. Buckhead guy + friends: God, this chick’s nasty!
Buckhead girl #1 (making out with boyfriend across table): I sure am prettier than her!

2. Stripper: Time stops for no man! In not so many years you too, will look like me, girlie, and ain’t nothing you can do about it. Twenty bucks, please.

Open book.
I was interviewing someone last week for Small Publication. His house was right down the street from the place I’m taking a class this semester. And when I got there, making conversation, I mentioned this. He said, “Oh yeah, what class?” I said, with wave-of-hand, “Creative Writing. It’s just for fun.” Then we talked about books while I set up the interview.

So we went on and did the interview, and on the way out, he says to me by way of goodbye, “Write the Great American Novel.” And I laughed.

But here’s the thing. He saw right the fuck through me, because: It's only in high school that you take creative writing classes just for fun. But he knew, that when you’re an adult, if you take such a class, it’s Never for fun. It’s for a Goal; it’s because you do secretly fancy yourself the Next Great American novelist and you fear you're running out of time, whoever it is you really are.


P.S – And it’s good he called me out on it. Because you can’t downplay that aspect of yourself and then write even the Middling American Novel. You have to lay it out there, so everyone knows. It’s either part of you or not.

Not a real parent; I just play one with my dog.
Sometimes.
Like a true Atlantan, I spent much of yesterday afternoon in my car – picking up my dog, Otis (see entry below); driving to the woods so he could romp, driving back home, running several errands, getting Otis and driving him back across town to the friend who’s keeping him.

On my final trip home from dropping Otis off and having a beer with friends, I listened to no music. By then it was nearly ten o’clock and I was slightly addled, although a pint of Hoegarden had dulled this sensation some. I drove in silence. If I could have napped, I would have. If I could have driven far, far away, I would have.

I continue to feel like a bad dog-mama. Otis has been ruminating in his crate at our friend’s house and not eating much. When I pick him up in the afternoons, he prances around me like it’s Christmas morning and he’s Tiny Tim and I’ve just handed him a sliver of Roast Beast for his day’s rations.

He’s forgotten a lot of the good manners we taught him. When he visits us, he chases the cat. He runs around inside, tail pumping manically. I follow after him, trying to remember some scrap of what-you’re-supposed to do to stop this, but I am tired. I have been up since before five. I drive him back to our friend’s house.
So many changes for a pup. Good intentions mean nothing in any kind of parenthood.



Like, whoa.
While driving along in the silence last night, I got an old tune in my head – You know, that “doo-lang, doo-lang, doo-lang” song. The song’s actually called “He’s So Fine.”

So I’m sitting at a light, my mind singing to me, “He’s so fiiine...” And then: “Hare Krishnaa...”
Wha-? That’s that Beatles song from Let It Be. Huh?
And then I realized that they’re actually the same song. Same tune. You could splice them together into one pop song/Dark Side of the Moon-style. (Sort of.)

And then, this morning, I was trying to find the name of the Beatles song on ye olde Information Superhighway, (It’s “My Sweet Lord”), and found this.
Who’dathunk.

This week's Observations

Rock off with socks off – or, is it “out”? Well, something.
1. Last night, my housemate and I stayed up drinking coffee and then went to The Earl to see my friend’s band, the Selmanaires. It was extreme fun. If you’re in the Atlanta area and are looking for a source of Gang of Four + Talking Heads + um, The Selmanaires, go see this band, I say.


Inquiring Minds.
2. Sometimes as part of my job at Small Publication, I get the chance to attend that Ultimate Thrill of events, the press conference. Which, as you know, is that occasion in which a representative from Thing X talks about some new development –or answers questions about some controversy. (Apologies for any intentional vagueness that follows. You get the gist.)

The conference I went to this week was the former. Let’s call it a Rah-Rah Conference, for the sake of pithiness.

Rah-Rah Conferences are promoted as some wonderful outgrowth of democracy itself – a chance for The People to get the truth straight from the source. For the laymen in the crowd, I’ll edify: First, a press release is emailed or faxed. And no matter how it’s actually written, what it really says is:

"Here’s this wonderful new thing that folks across the metro area are celebrating! And-! At 11:00 o’clock today, they will get to hear all about it!!
!!!!"

It’s written as if whole throngs of citizenry will be there. And marching bands.

Only it’s always more press than People who actually show. Because the press were the only ones who got the release.

At the conference earlier this week, that was so much the case that the podium was set up in this little room facing the gang o’ press, who went on about their merry camera-rolling, photo-snapping business. And took up all the space, so that the actual attendees (a few madly clapping city officials) were shoved off, into a side room. In effect, providing the necessary sound effects for that night’s news-spots.

And in other words, the ultimate in Anthropology.


Thought for the day:
“Space music”- Is this a genre, now? Have I missed something?

Little boy blue and the man in the moon
A good mutual friend of Hunter’s and mine offered to keep our dog while Hunter finds a place and gets settled down in Wisconsin. The understanding is that it’ll be about a month, and that I’ll come by as often as possible to take Otis on walks and see how he’s doing.

This week though, it’s worked out so that I have not been able to go get Otis once. It’s been five days now. Every day after work, some pain-in-the-ass thing has come up where I just haven’t been able to go over there—and I feel terrible. All this being a sure sign that my life is just too hectic for a dog, so it’s good that I’m not getting custody of him.

Still, I feel bad. Sorry towards our friend who’s keeping him – who’s also Hunter’s best friend here in Atlanta, and so some perverted part of me really wants to make a good Dog-Mama impression on him. And a good overall impression on him, to override any impressions he got from Hunter in the waning months of our relationship. Both of which make for some really natural and easy-going repartee between us, let me tell you.

And mainly I miss my dog – and I want to build up those good moments with him while I still can, before he follows Hunter to the wintery north. I love that dog so much. Seriously, it's like I'm singing “Cat’s in the Cradle” to him.
We’ll have a good time then, Otis.

Otis-Goatis

Otis: Extreme Close-up
Originally uploaded by alice deaver.

That's Otis, dog of my heart.

Saw Hotel Rwanda last night and am left without much to articulate about it, except that it was staggering.

There’s one scene, though:
An American cameraman has gotten footage of the atrocities taking place (not graphically illustrated in the film, by the way). The protagonist, a Rwandan man, is thanking him, saying that surely that footage will make the world see that the West must intervene. The cameraman (Joaquin Phoenix), shakes his head and says that more likely, people will look up form their dinners, say, “That’s terrible,” and then forget about it.

Which is what proceeded to happen, large-scale.
See it, okay?

Holy in the eyes of the dollar.
Another sign that capitalism is the state religion: Apparently, (and I just found this out, unworldly straw-chewer that I am) if you set foot anywhere near the NY Stock Exchange, you have to be wearing a suit and tie. Must. Even if you’re a reporter.

This may be old news to many, but it makes me think of the fact that this is how church used to be: You dressed up. Women wore hats, period. Now --and I am speaking quite generally-- church is more of a free-for-all in terms of dress-code. But the stock market-! We’re talking sacred, kids.

A Life of Extremes.
I like living in my house. Yesterday afternoon was all cool and quiet, with housemates dropping off to sleep on various household surfaces. Luckily, the cause was not a gas leak, just an enduring calm. –And on my part, the mean end of a virus that would Not leave without a good fight. So I slept for two and a half hours with strange dreams and Buddy Holly Dangercat by my side, waking occasionally to think sorta vaguely about maybe getting up, and then falling asleep again.

It was good.

Now it’s morning, and how! I’m in the clenches of an alacrity I haven’t felt in weeks – one that stems from one thing only: yes, glorious caffeine.

I cut the coffee last week, in hopes of getting better faster. While coffee is the true inspirator (Causing one to make up words like “inspirator,”) it also rasps at my insides like a parmesan grater when I’m sick. I can feel it stripping the nutrients away, replacing them with its empty clamoring jitter. So anyhoo, I’ve been drinking the green tea handily provided by my workplace.

And green tea has caffeine, though less than black tea, so I thought I’d be fine. But I’ve been feeling like complete nastiness anyway.

And then this morning I realized why: I looked at the green-tea box before putting the teabag in my mug, and whatddaya know: It was decaf.

So I found the other box of green tea – the caffeinated variety, and it’s put me back on top of the planet with all the heart-racing inspirational promise of that rare gift—The First Caffeine after weeks without.

It makes me seriously consider a trip to Mexico this morning. It makes me want to invite my friend who works at the Smoothie Shop down the road, along with my sisters. I’m even thinking about what to pack this time. And we’ll travel on-! Guatemala! El Salvador! Yes! Why be boxed in by the four-walls of my everyday existence when I have a kinship with all I meet? And, further, why stop at one cup of green tea when the world keeps making more? Excuse me, now. I have a world to take on -- but first, a cup to refill.

End-of-Year Meme .
Happy 2005.
All right. Never done one of these here, and I won’t start making it a regular thing, but it’s the end of the year.
It’s the start of the year, too. So let’s mark it.

1. What did you do in 2004 that you'd never done before?
I ate tasty pickled Russian vegetables. I published my first single-handed, full-length features in Small Publication.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Don’t think I made any. Or did I. Maybe they were of the overly ambitious variety that had no ways or means attached. As is. So frequently. The case. I’m just gonna move on, now, before I analyze this into a ditch.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Yes. DaVida has the cutest baby ever.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
No, gracias a Dios.

5. What countries did you visit?
None, unless you count New Hampshire – and some might.

6. What would you like to have in 2005 that you lacked in 2004?
Oh, now see, this is just another version of that “Resolution” question. ~Sneaky~! Okay, okay. On the surface, I’ll say this: Better organization, a better social network since whole bunches of friends moved away this year and an AirPort card for my laptop.

7. What dates from 2004 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
Hm. Not really a date-etcher. Still, I’ll remember reaching Tuckerman’s Ravine on Mt. Washington with Hunter after a full morning’s hike. And then of course, breaking up with Hunter a couple weeks ago.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Publishing several features with Small Publication felt nice.

9. What was your biggest failure?
I didn’t get an internship I wanted with my favorite radio show. Sometimes my break-up with Hunter seems like a failure, but I know it was the right thing to do.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No. I have some kind of bleckyvirus now, but that’s not a Capital-S Sickness.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
Happiness. Then I misplaced it in the move.
Har. No, actually, my globe, from the Lakewood Antiques Mart.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
My friend who quit her crummy PR job she hated, scoring a really great job with a foundation.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
People I consider friends who voted Republican.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Because of said lack of financial organization this year, I hate to say: To Crescent Moon Diner, Noodle, Aurora Coffee and the restaurant at Whole Check.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
My trip to New Hampshire this summer.
16. What song will always remind you of 2004?
“Sadie” by Joanna Newsome. Her whole album, Milk-Eyed Mender, really. The latest Distillers album.
“Calistan” by Frank Black, even though it came out years ago.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Happier, actually.
b) thinner or fatter? A bit fatter, though not extraordinarily so.
c) richer or poorer? Doing slightly better, financially.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Wish I’d written more. Spent more time doing creative things. That’s what 2005’s for, I guess. And I guess there’s my resolution.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Freaking out over my relationship.

20. Did you fall in love in 2004?
Didn’t fall in love, no. Loved, yeah.

21. How many one-night stands?
None. Not my bag.

22. What was your favorite TV program?
Err. Oh-! Regency House! Was that from 2004? Dunno, but I watched it this year.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Heck, no.

24. What was the best book you read?
The Watchmen by Alan Moore.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Joanna Newsom. Shall I say it some more?

26. What did you want and get?
An All-Clad stockpot. A job with health insurance. Kudos from professional cohorts about my work.

27. What did you want and not get?
A functional primary relationship.

28. What was your favorite film of this year?
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
It was March. I was 26. Big group o’ friends went to one restaurant that turned out to be too pricey, and so we moved things to another place and had a pretty good time.

30.What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
To have figured out absolutely—at least for now--what the right thing to do with my life is.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2004?
Possibly Problematic.
As in:
My Dresser/Closet Doth Overflow but that Salvation Army skirt is Just Too Damn Cute to Pass Up.

33. What kept you sane?
Walking my dog in the woods.

34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Oh, god. This band makes me go all Beatlemania every time they come to play here in Atlanta. (Bad photos of this band, I should say.)
(I’m silly.)
(Jesusfrickinchrist.)

35. What political issue stirred you the most?
The election.

36. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2004.
Honesty >Ego
I think I learned it. I think so. Really, this time.

37. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
God, I’m bad at this. Well, the lyrics that popped into my head most often this year came from a song by the Silver Jews. And here are some of those lyrics:

“Punk rock died when the first kid said,
‘Punk’s not dead.
Punk’s not dead!’
You know Louisville is death;
You gotta up and move
Because the dead do not improve.”