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June 23, 2003
Buy Japanese Goods
If you’re lucky, you have someone in Japan to send you goodie packages. If you’re really lucky, you have a Karla in Japan to send you packages. Today when I was working in the yard, my favorite postal carrier (we have at least three different ones, possibly more) drove up in her big USPS truck and came bounding out with a giant package. I hurried inside to open it up.
Oh my God! So much craziness to enjoy for a box of its size! Inside I found Virtua Fighter washcloths (Karla and I used to sneak off to the arcade and play that game a whole lot. It’s very healthy for a friendship, I think)! An Animal Crossing model house, complete with two gyroids (Karla, don’t worry, I’m keeping your house as cockroach-free as I can. And now you have a second floor!)! A letter on goofy, goofy stationery. Two pairs of chopsticks, one with ninjas and the other with spaceships. We ate our dinner with them tonight. But, the real treat was discovering all the wacky candy. A package purporting to be “great tasting crispy twigs of chocolate for everyone who wants a quick & light treat,” when I opened it up turned out to be some green tea flavored something. There are “coffee beans” that turn out to be chocolate when you bite them. She sent the most sour grape candy I’ve ever endured in my life. There are tiny strawberry bubble gums in a package with an adorable cartoon Shinkansen on the package. But the best so far has been a mystery package that I predicted would hold some gummy treat. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I opened it up and said, “Oh, this looks like cotton candy. Mixed with insulation. Blue insulation.” Yum. I bit. “Tropical punch flavored cotton candy… It’s full of Pop Rocks! Pop Rocks, Jacob!” I shouted across the room.
Oh, sweet Karla. Such a good friend, and much missed. Now, I have a terrible tummy ache, but a huge grin and a warm feeling in my heart cockles.
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June 19, 2003
It’s Juneteenth
At my last job, one day I was talking to one of the security guards and he made mention of the fact that he wasn’t going to be at work one day later in the week. I asked if everything was ok. He said, “Yes. I never go to work on June 19.” And that was all he said, but I liked him a whole lot more starting right then.
“Words Like Freedom”
There are words like Freedom
Sweet and wonderful to say.
On my heartstrings freedom sings
All day everyday.
There are words like Liberty
That almost make me cry.
If you had known what I know
You would know why.
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June 16, 2003
Good Bloomsday to the Lot of You
from Ulysses by James Joyce:
Bloom was talking and talking with John Wyse and he quite excited with his dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling about.
—Persecution, says he, all the history of the world is full of it. Perpetuating national hatred among nations.
—But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse.
—Yes, says Bloom. —What is it? says John Wyse.
—A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the same place.
—By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that’s so I’m a nation for I’m living in the same place for the past five years.
So of course everyone had the laugh at Bloom and says he, trying to
muck out of it:
—Or also living in different places.
—That covers my case, says Joe.
—What is your nation if I may ask? says the citizen.
—Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland.
The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and, gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner…
… —I’m talking about injustice, says Bloom.
—Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men. That’s an almanac picture for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Old lardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Gob, he’d adorn a sweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse’s apron on him. And then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a wet rag.
—But it’s no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That’s not life for
men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it’s the very
opposite of that that is really life.
—What? says Alf.
—Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now, says he
to John Wyse.
***
I love the way Joyce crafts words. Maybe one day I’ll be able to make it past chapter 3. Unfortunately, I went ahead and read the last chapter when, on the first go-round, I knew I wasn’t going to finish. I’m pretty sure it’s the best one. So, no surprise wooshes for me.
The term “sugarstickygirl” comes from “Ulysses” and it’s one of the best things anyone ever said.
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June 13, 2003
Bubbles In My Beer
Last night Randall, one half of the proprietary team of Beerland, was in a high-flying, gregarious mood. We had a short chat at the bar, and I mentioned something about his friendly, overkind demeanor, only because it seemed a huge turnabout from his tendency toward dourness. I’m not being critical; I like grumpy people. I’m terribly grumpy myself.
He told me a funny story about his grandparents. It seems Beerland had been getting some press and they had seen something on the news. The gist of the story was that Beerland has good bands and good beers (natch) but that the worker bees were not very genial. This didn’t sit right with Granddaddy Randall who called him up, reproaching, “You be good to those people! They are your customers!” At that point, Grandmama Randall grabbed the phone from her husband and gave her grandson a harsh tongue-lashing, up one side and down the other.
I love old people.
In other news, the Manikin played yet another fantastic set, rife with brand-spanking-new songs. And the best pun of the night went to Tom Kodiak, for mentioning that the second band, hailing from Madison, sounded a little Wisconstipated.
Posted by pogo at 01:22 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
June 12, 2003
That’s A More
I worked in the kitchen at Whole Foods for what seemed like a really long time. I liked my job cooking and, for the most part, I liked the people I worked with. I even maintain friendships with a handful of them. However, working there was a pretty wretched experience. It’s a very unorganized, terribly dehumanizing company to work for, and the owner/founder, John Mackey, an evil motherfucker if ever there was one, is super anti-union, stating once that “unions are like herpes.” He is a bad, bad man. It was a place run by Big Men Upstairs who would attend company getaways in Oaxaca, explaining to us that we’d have to get by with a few cutbacks on their way out the door. Inevitably, this meant less ingredients and less fresh things to cook with. I remember one instance while all the corporate bigwigs were in Mexico and the kitchen was out of… salt. Not asafetida or sumac or something that is hardly ever used and can be done without once in awhile. Salt. Oaxaca. Fuckers.
So, Whole Foods was owned by bad people, but the thing that really wore a worker down were the patrons. There were all types, but generally the worst were a subgroup we wage slaves in the kitchen termed “spelties.” They always insisted on having spelt tortillas and spelt bread, even though, when asked about it, not one of them was ever able to sufficiently explain why using spelt was more beneficial than using wheat or anything else. [Note for anyone who is interested: It is not necessarily a better grain, but it is a good source of protein, niacin, thiamin and iron, as well as fiber and B vitamins and is easily broken down by the body. Mainly it’s good for people with wheat allergies. But truly the most interesting thing about spelt is that the German word for it is “dinkle.”] Spelties differ from your average vegan in that they are even more high-maintenance, high-income assholes with subscriptions to Vegetarian Times who are more condescending than even John Mackey with his unions = herpes analogies. Bad, bad people.
I learned a lot working there about people’s relationships to food. Food is really personal, and oftentimes, political. I try to have a live and let-live attitude about food, but there was one thing I never could figure out for the life of me. Why the hell don’t certain vegans eat yeast? I still don’t know, though I suspect it has something baffling to do with the fact that it is “alive.” Anyway, I never cared until last night.
I don’t usually like vegan substitutes for foods I normally enjoy. While I appreciate their commitment and their ingenuity, I just can’t convince myself or my palate that substituting a ton of vegetable oil in the place of butter, eggs and milk is going to give you the same wonderful results. I’m sure people are going to be quick to point out here that there’s no substitute for brisket, either and who am I to talk?
Fortunately, I don’t like brisket.
But last night I was in trouble. I had planned all day to make a delicious pizza for dinner. I thought I had better get started on the dough, headed to the pantry and cussed and howled when I discovered that I didn’t have the packet of yeast in there that I had planned on. What to do? Then I remembered those freaky vegans who always asked if there was yeast in what they were about to eat. I checked out a couple of vegan websites and found a recipe for a yeast-free pizza crust. “Hmm,” I thought. “This looks like any old quick bread, utilizing baking powder. That should work.”
And that’s how I ended up making a pizza on a giant biscuit.
Posted by pogo at 04:14 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
June 11, 2003
The Other Tiger
by Jorge Luis Borges
A tiger comes to mind. The twilight here
Exalts the vast and busy Library
And seems to set the bookshelves back in gloom;
Innocent, ruthless, bloodstained, sleek
It wanders through its forest and its day
Printing a track along the muddy banks
Of sluggish streams whose names it does not know
(In its world there are no names or past
Or time to come, only the vivid now)
And makes its way across wild distances
Sniffing the braided labyrinth of smells
And in the wind picking the smell of dawn
And tantalizing scent of grazing deer;
Among the bamboo’s slanting stripes I glimpse
The tiger’s stripes and sense the bony frame
Under the splendid, quivering cover of skin.
Curving oceans and the planet’s wastes keep us
Apart in vain; from here in a house far off
In South America I dream of you,
Track you, O tiger of the Ganges’ banks.
It strikes me now as evening fills my soul
That the tiger addressed in my poem
Is a shadowy beast, a tiger of symbols
And scraps picked up at random out of books,
A string of labored tropes that have no life,
And not the fated tiger, the deadly jewel
That under sun or stars or changing moon
Goes on in Bengal or Sumatra fulfilling
Its rounds of love and indolence and death.
To the tiger of symbols I hold opposed
The one that’s real, the one whose blood runs hot
As it cuts down a herd of buffaloes,
And that today, this August third, nineteen
Fifty-nine, throws its shadow on the grass;
But by the act of giving it a name,
By trying to fix the limits of its world,
It becomes a fiction not a living beast,
Not a tiger out roaming the wilds of earth.
We’ll hunt for a third tiger now, but like
The others this one too will be a form
Of what I dream, a structure of words, and not
The flesh and one tiger that beyond all myths
Paces the earth. I know these things quite well,
Yet nonetheless some force keeps driving me
In this vague, unreasonable, and ancient quest,
And I go on pursuing through the hours
Another tiger, the beast not found in verse.
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June 10, 2003
Make the Secretaries Feel Better
Howard Dean spoke at Saltillo Plaza in Austin last night, and it was pretty damn cool. As I weaved my way along the railroad tracks I was chided by a young boy in a bright green t-shirt, who wanted to warn me that a train could come along any second and smash me. There were a couple thousand people there, and a very welcome paleta man selling treats. It was a busy night for him, because by the time I made it over, he was out of pineapple, mango and coconut already. I had to settle for strawberry, and it was cold, pink, drippy and delicious.
Dean delivered a remarkably refreshing speech, simply because I think it’s the first time that I can recall hearing a candidate’s spiel without there being at least one thing in it that I didn’t agree with to make me squirm. Dean seems pretty right on. Health insurance, education and equal rights for men, women, folks of color as well as gays and lesbians (he said it loud and proud, too.) Too bad that Jacob is probably right when he says that he has about a snowball’s chance in hell of getting elected.
***
Truly, I apologize for this boring and pointless entry. I was all poised to write about the fantastic interview I had this morning and how I hit it off with the interviewer and was feeling very hopeful and as I sat down to write, I got that phone call that begins, “I’m sorry to tell you…” At least he had the courtesy to call. And so. I’m not feeling very forthcoming or sharing or fun right now.
Posted by pogo at 02:42 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
June 06, 2003
More Fun in the New World
Sadly, I didn’t get one decent shot of DJ Bonebreak.
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June 04, 2003
Brilliant Shining and Nasty
Last night X were transcendent. I think they played the entirety of their first three records, as well as “Devil Doll” and “True Love” from the fourth, which was a nice surprise. Everyone in the place was sweaty and dancing and happy, exuberant even. The band played three encores, which is some rock and roll bullshit I usually don’t have any truck with, but last night I was just happy to be there, happy they kept playing. X is, after all, the best band ever. And last night they were just plain brilliant.
In a thrillingly unanticipated maneuver, one that sparked a serious bout of super self consciousness in your humble narrator, when the band came out for the first encore, Billy Zoom came out and walked past the left side of the stage where he had been playing all night. He crossed all the way over down to the right side where I had been giddily watching the band and snapping pictures for the last few hours. He came and stopped right in front of me, flashed that inimitable grin and then pulled a camera out of I-don’t-know-where and took my picture. He reached down and shook my hand as I suddenly turned a million shades of red and then ambled over and picked up that beautiful, sparkly guitar as the band went into the opening chords of “White Girl.”
And then I died a thousand times. And grinned like a maniac for the next 24 hours. And perhaps week.
Posted by pogo at 08:04 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
June 01, 2003
Totally From the Heart
Ok, all I can say is that the Buzzcocks are one of the greatest bands of all-time and that they still have everything that made them so great way back in the day. Pete Shelley writes songs so good that when you first hear them you wish you wrote them yourself. I was a little apprehensive to go see them since I heard a song off of their new record this week and hated it, but when I saw them last night all the new stuff sounded fantastic. And it goes without saying that they played a ton of their brilliant singles. It was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen and I can’t believe they were there in my shitty little club in Austin. Words cannot say how great they were or how happy I was to be there hearing them, seeing them.
Now that my gushing is out of the way, I’d like to get a few things off my chest.
Dear loud-mouthed tall guy with the impossibly loud voice and indecorous soul patch, continually screaming into my ear while standing behind me before the show,
You talk too much and you say dumb stuff and wrong stuff and you say it really loudly, and it doesn’t impress anyone or make you look anything but dumb, dumb, dumb. First of all, just so you know, the Briefs have not been around for 25 years. I mean, yes, they’re that old, they’re old guys, but as a band they’ve only existed since 1999. The next time you go loudly spouting off nonsense in someone’s ear in a bar, do your fucking research and make sure you know what you’re talking about. And you might want to occasionally stop talking and let your conversational partner get in a word or two once in awhile. And just stop being such a know-it-all in general, particularly since you proved that you don’t really know very much at all. This is my business because you were constantly yelling so loud that everyone in the place could hear you, over clanging bottles, other conversation and the music playing in the club. This loutish behavior is discourteous anywhere, but especially in a very crowded, very hot space.
Also, I wonder if you could be the one to tell me what exactly makes the Buzzcocks so great, since in your estimation, most people “don’t get it.” What I noticed though, is that you didn’t seem to know any songs or have any fun when you weren’t able to blather on at the top of your lungs about shit you don’t know fuck-all about. Nothing could make me unhappy while I’m seeing the Buzzcocks, but you deserve a cockpunch for being a loudmouthed poser moron who kept putting his hand on my ass.
Dear pasty-faced, skinny-assed, huffy girl standing next to Aforementioned Ass Mouth,
When you go to a punk rock show and stand down next to the pit, you should expect to be jostled a bit. When it’s the Buzzcocks, you should expect that I’m going to jump around, holler, shake my ass and sweat like a whore in church. You should also expect that just in front of me will be at least twenty or thirty shirtless, sweaty boys acting out and shoving each other around and, in turn, shoving folks like me and you who are standing just behind them. If this is unappealing to you, the simple solution is to go stand somewhere further back. It is not a good idea to start pushing me everytime someone gets in your personal space. If you take it upon yourself to knuckle-shove me in the kidneys everytime you get pushed or stepped on, I’m going to turn around and confront you and spit and cuss. If you continue to do it, I’m going to punch you in your dumb pasty-face. I’m really glad you cut it out when I told you to. Other girls might not be so easy-going. It might behoove you to remember that.
Dear Punk Kids Who Are Younger Than Me But Only Go to See Touring Shows,
I shouldn’t have to say this. I hate it when people say it. Obviously, you’ve not thought about it enough, so I have to say it anyway. Your scene is what you make it. Why aren’t you ever at any local shows? You live in Austin, where we’re positively blessed with so many good bands. If you care enough about music to pay upwards of ten bucks and crowd up the joint when I go to see road shows at Emo’s, you should check out Beerland, 710, La Cucaracha’s, the Parlour when they have shows. You might find something you like in your own backyard. And there ain’t nothing better than that.
Frogs and Kittens,
Miss Tamara L. Fartywhump
Posted by pogo at 02:40 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack