Superinky Fixations

We enjoyed the Dandies the other night. Why is it, I wonder, that Courtney ends his set bitching about how badly his voice is trashed and then slinks off the stage? It’s a little bratty if you ask me. Dude! I feel you! You’ve been singing for an hour and your sexy baritone needs some TLC. But geez, is that the impression you want to leave on your audience every time you play? Oh, but the acoustics blow at the Roseland and frankly, from upstairs in the bar, I could barely hear a word that came out of your mouth. What is it with that place? I really can’t think of a time where we’ve totally enjoyed the sound except for when The Rapture and BRMC (they do an excellent remake of "Wisdom" by BJM, but it doesn’t surprise me considering one of the guys used to play with them) played on the downstairs stage, but, come on, that’s a different venue entirely.

Anyway, I’m not complaining about the show, exactly. I enjoyed every song, jam and drone and would have gladly stuck around for more. Courtney, do you need a volunteer to massage your larynx? So we’re sitting in front of this dude who’s out to impress his date (a TDW virgin obviously) and his running commentary throughout the duration of the show was something to the effect of ‘are you bored yet?’, ‘they’ll pick up, I promise’, and the piece de resistance, ‘I’ve never heard this song in my life’. You dodo, it was "Genius", from their 1st album, dimwit. Player, please! This is a Dandy Warhols show, not Sum 41.They are rocking out in their own psychedelic way.Last Friday’s show was a ho-down compared to some of the shows we’ve experienced. Once Brett & I watched them jam for 30 mintues on the same 7-note riff, and that was just the introduction. I guess they’re not for everyone.

By the way, the Tsunami Relief Concert raised over $25,000!!

I had no idea of the hot, thriving folk scene here in Portland. …I’m more a rocker I guess, but may need to rethink my genre of choice, since apparently I’m missing out on a huge movement… So Brett wins these tix to see Hem at the Doug Fir Saturday night. We go because, well, it’s free and we love to see live music. And I’m thinking it’ll be this mellow, quiet show where we’ll sit at a table near the stage and sip white wine and chill out. Oh, but the place is packed. It’s sold out in fact. And the opening act is this guy, David Mead, who, though he’s got the whole audience sitting on the dance floor, is getting the audience primed for the headliners. I really had no idea alt/folk/country was so big in Portland. Shows you what I know. We left about half way through Hem. What can I say? It was nice & melodic & all the people around us were paired off or grouped together singing along. But it didn’t really blow my skirt up.

And then I end up watching "Irreversible" by myself yesterday. I didn’t think Brett would appreciate the sheeshee cinematography and subtitles. I wish I’d made him watch it with me, because I’m still emotionally shattered from the experience. I have a hard time saying I liked the movie. It was brutally violent and achingly bleak. Yet, to say it was violent & bleak describes movies I usually enjoy. Is it too much information to say that the murder scene reminded me of the only horrifically dead person I’ve ever seen in real life on the side of a highway in Crete? And that the climax of this backwards moving movie was a devastingly ugly assault that, for reasons beyond my comprehension I could not take my eyes off of; I can only surmise it was because I just couldn’t conceive of how it could get any worse. Yet, I can’t say it was a terrible movie. It’s stuck with me now for over 24 hours. I cared about the characters and understood the point the director was trying to make. Just wish I didn’t feel like I got the crap beat out of me. Figuratively of course.

Today’s favorite song: "The Devil May Care (Mom and Dad Don’t)" by guess who? I’m almost embarrassed to admit. I mean, this is kind of ridiculous, isn’t it? When am I going to get over my Brian Jonestown Massacre phase? Ever? And really, is that so bad? Oddly, I’m at this point where I find Anton’s unkempt-hippy-outrageous-mutton- choppy-druggy-and-completely-knit-together-eyebrows sexy. Visions of cruising down endlessly dry American highways and imaginary road trips in beat up imaginary RVs snuggling with my Chihuahuas while listening every single BJM cd ever recorded consecutively fill my head. I’m plotting to name one of my as-yet-unpurchased hermit crabs- Anton. And honestly, am I proud that these are thoughts that get me through the day? Hmmm…

It’s better than dwelling on my job dissatisfaction and feeling undervalued and way underpaid yet too tired to search for a new job. And staring at hookers on 82nd and Division and what looks to me like a crummy way to make a living, you know, picking up johns in the parking lot of Taboo Video.

And I think it’s better than dwelling on the fact that I only took 2,352 steps by 5pm this evening when I left my little cubicle. I had to dance my ass off for nearly two hours to get past 10k steps. Oh, but you better believe I did . Now, if only I could get my diet under control. Oh yeah, and the binge drinking, too. I heard some where the other day that addicts, they cover their addictions by either joking about them (as I just did) or keeping them completely under wraps. GEEZ. I’m feeling like I’m going into some uncomfortable territory here… best nip it in the bud before I overthink myself into a frenzy…

At least I’ve got The O.C. to look forward to tonight and Marissa’s slow, meandering journey into lesbianism. Oh, haters, PLEASE! The O.C. is top notch, Grade A entertainment of the Fox variety. It’s right up there with Lost (except Matthew Fox is a stone cold BABE and I love the whole stranded-on-a mysterious-and-scary-island-with-polar-bears-and-monsters and stuff) and I kid you not, I look forward to it with as great an anticipation. Ryan is such a cutie. So much so that I’ve slowly convinced my husband to fully embrace Ryan’s floppy blond locks. In fact, I actually think Brett’s hair looks better than Ryan’s now and dare any of you to say otherwise.

And is it weird that I sort of find comfort in the theory that Jesus could have actually married Mary Magdeline and had a kid and lived life in this totally groovy way that makes him real and grounded and completely accessible? I mean, where is this coming from? Does this make me a Christian? Am I religious now?

We got tickets to the tsunami relief benefit at the Roseland so we could see The Dandy Warhols, among others. The Dandys, who I ultimately have to thank for my obsession with BJM and now, after all these years of loving them and praising their music and DEFENDING them (Courtney, are you listening?) and putting up with haters who hate in the most bitter way, I’ve actually surpassed them in my appreciation/obsession with BJM - well, I’m seeing you guys again for the umpteenth time and do you hear me complaining? NO. Because The Dandys Rule OK. And unless you love the Dandys, you will think I have terrible disjointed grammar, but judge not, k?

And Brett, he won tickets to see this band, Hem, at the Doug Fir on Saturday. I checked out their website. They sound pretty and orchestral and full of emotion. Honestly, though, I’m 35, I don’t know how much live music/staying up late on the weekend I can handle…. Sad, yet truthful. Brett has got to be one the luckiest people I know. I think we need to seriously take up Powerball.

Anton, would you mind terribly if I quote this weeks’ favorite song lyrics? I’ll give you total credit you mad genius, you.

Miss June 1975 by Anton Newcombe

"… I just can’t hide the way I feel
she makes me real
she makes me feel
she and I are going to live forever
and be the two brightest starts up in heaven"

and then there’s that whole sexy, aching part where he describes his girlfriend’s orgasm. It’s actually really beautiful. Gosh. Really beautiful. I’d like to think someone felt/feels that way about me.

Up at dawn this gorgeous winter day. I can’t get over the skies these days. And the warm, still air. Is this Portland? Is this mid January? Did I fall into some paralell universe where winter really isn’t winter, but just sort of a gentle, swirling Fall-ish season followed by a mild and quiet prelude to spring? Is it just me, or have the winters, for the most part, been tremendously mild over the last few years? Oh, of course, as I’m writing this I’m reminded of the ice storm that kept me inside and unable to walk down the front porch of my own house for nearly a week just over a year ago. But besides that, winters are pretty mild now it seems to me, you know, just broadly generalizing as I like to do.

The sunsets aren’t bad either. Tonight’s: dark glowing pinkish red, stripped with greyish-black contrails. Is it nature that makes the sky so pretty or good ole human pollution? And don’t some people believe aliens travel in the jet stream contrails or something?

I’m so fried I can’t think of much else. I don’t want to face what I know must’ve been a mess yesterday at PCC, all because of my overworked and highly stressed forgetful mind. I keep imagining 2 big classes converging into one room, the students looking at each other suspiciously because they don’t recognize each other; the two instructors beginning to set up at the same time and maybe getting a little crappy with each other; the two of them realizing it’s me they have to blame for the botch and well, I can only hope that the smaller of the two classes found an appropriate room on their own. No doubt I’ll hear about it tomorrow, first thing. Well, as much as I say I don’t want to face it, I’m oddly detached from it. I feel somewhat removed from my own mistakes. Not because I don’t want to take responsibility for them or not recognize them as my own errors. But because I am literally at the end of my wits.

The details of my tedious job sometimes start to eat me up from the inside out. I don’t like this person I’ve become because of the job I do. I AM NOT MY JOB. Yet, its under my skin. It’s changed me on a fundamental, physiological level that I sometimes feel I am helpless to change. I feel ugly and resentful and heavy and gross and yucky inside most days. I find myself chanting this mantra that goes something like "I hate this job, no one respects me, I am overworked and underpaid. I can’t believe all the things I do for this place, get me out of here. I feel so stuck, lost and alone" and pretty much repeats itself in one form or another just about all day long during the work week. For Christ’s sake, is it just me, or is it weird that the girl who had my job before me killed herself AND we shared the same name? Freaky coincidence? Hmmm, something’s wrong with this picture.

Who are these people who have never eaten sushi and never heard of The Brian Jonestown Massacre and think tattoos and piercings are something only freaky people do and would never in a million years consider? Who are these people who have no idea how to burn a cd and don’t ever buy anything on eBay and have never been inside a strip club, or tipped a stripper or took someone home once or twice or three times that they didn’t know and never spoke to them again or maybe had a three way? Or drank to excess more than once or smoked pot or heaven fobid dropped acid or taken mushrooms (thank you Evergreen State College, for apparently corrupting my youth with temptations of the flesh and copious amounts of drugs; and stoney hippy drugs at, that damn you!). Oh yeah, I think I work with most of them in some form or another.

I’m sensitive about living outside the norm I guess. Isn’t it just a human impulse to want to feel that sense of belonging? And shit, I think for so long I fashioned my work persona in such a way that I would feel connected to the people I work with. And now, after nearly 4 years at my job, there’s only 2 people from work I feel I can actually reveal my Real Self to and not feel like a complete and utter outsider. It gives me pain and makes me feel unsure of the person I am on the inside. I know that early on in my life I chose to be different and on some level I think I’ve always known there would be consequences to face. It’s painful to be reminded of the different path in life I’ve chosen I guess.

I’m feeling vulnerable and exposed and to a great degree misunderstood. I get the feeling sometimes that I’m this source of amusement to my peers at work. It’s not like I’m fresh out of college, single and living on the couch of a one bedroom apartment I share with 3 other girls. I’m married. I own a house. I drive a nice, newer car. I dress well and have a very pleasant demeanor. But I don’t have children, nor do I want them. I eat sushi & apparently listen to music that "no one has ever heard of". I like to look at guys in dresses and frequently enjoy my wine and what my friends-in-the-know and I refer to as muffins or baked goods (or the one I just created today "wood screws". Is it really important how we came up with these terms after all? And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, fair reader, then please bear with me and judge not).

So I’m trying, desperately actually (remember when your college professor told you to never use words like "actually" when writing because it amounts to no more than filler and the written equivalent to "um"? Well, I FLAUNT my usage of actually and words of it’s nature and affirm to always bog my prose down with useless filler should I care to do so!!), to come to terms with who I’ve become. I won’t be defined by the music I listen to or the fact that I adore Chihuahuas more than any human should or that I get so grounded into my values that sometimes I feel like I’m dragging myself through mud.

Does it really amount to anything after all? This whole sum of experiences I’ve put together and call my Life? Tedious, profound, fraught with sadness, elation, hope, despair, cheetos, sushi, Brian Jonestown Massacre…

Oh, but do I love Death from Above 1979. Straight up ROCK, raw ripping beats. Check this out… DFA1979 Strangely, they remind me of this band we saw last night, RTX, the incarnation of Royal Trux. The lead singer, she’s only 32 - younger than me, so obviously hardened by years in the scene; skinny, fucked up (not that I have a big problem with that, really), wailing, rocking and, through the cigarettes and shots of Jaeger and PBR cans and laying face up on the stage, she smiled alot and looked ultimately blissful.

At least last night I had a kinky dream about Eddie Izzard. It helps that he calls himself a straight transvestite and I’m wildly attracted to his wit and intellect. It obviously opened up my subconscious mind to ALL KINDS of possibilities. It wasn’t sex in the traditional sense of the word, but then again, would one expect to have a traditional sex dream about a transvestite? Mmm mmm kinky kinky kinky. I’m kind of embarrassed just thinking about it. Wait a minute, no I’m not! I’m proud of my twisted sexual fixations. Sort of…

Currently fixating on:

• Eddie Izzard. What is it with men in drag?
• Arcade Fire. Can’t stop listening to their cd "Funeral". Who are they? What are they about? I have absolutely no clue. But I love their music.
• "Lost". Cheesy ass, dorky Gilligan’s-Island-meets-The-Twilight-Zone show on TONIGHT so I can geek out to my hearts’ content and lust madly over the hot doctor.

Now if only I could swing it and not have to work so hard. I’m feeling so drained these days it makes it difficult to muster up the energy to do much else. God, I am such a bore sometimes.

Rest in peace, Anna Blegen. I didn’t know you very well, but we shared a name and a job. May your family treasure your memory through this difficult time.

There are those that love my snuggly little Chihuahuas with a beautiful and innocent undying love that’s sweet and touching and heartfelt to the core. And then there are those that HATE with a hate so unsheathed and deep that it hurts just looking at them. Don’t think I don’t see and hear you, sour Haters; scoffing and guffawing and snorting and chortling with your ‘little-rats-on-a-leash’ comments and snarled up lips & a puffed-up overly dramatic sighs of disgust. It’s an ugly prejudice that seems to come out uncontrollably in people. A gut reaction… an instinct perhaps? Just what are you afraid of, Little Dog Haters? If all my years of therapy serve me correctly, isn’t every thing and every one that bugs and annoys you just a reflection of something inside you you despise?…

I’m far too sensitive I suppose. In the same way that I have a major hang-up when it comes to people looking at me blankly and introducing themselves to me when I’ve met them before and we’ve spoke at length and even had what I would consider a ‘moment’ or something & they have absolutely no clue who I am or that we ever spoke at all, I have a big beef with Haters of Little Dogs. And so what is it, exactly, that I hate so much about myself I wonder?…

Today I experienced the HATE in a way that I hadn’t before. It felt like I was outside of my body, or watching a movie. Either way I felt powerless to stop what was unfolding before my eyes. It started out pleasant enough. Since I’m currently obsessed with getting my 10,000 steps in every day, compulsively checking my pedometer at every opportunity and frequently falling asleep with it clipped to my pajamas, a 3 mile (roundtrip) walk to Best Friends Bath & More on Killingsworth seemed a good way to get in some steps and get the dogs’ nails clipped all in one fell swoop. The owner loves Franka, Phoebe and Frodo, and just about drops everything when we come in to help us. Big ups to Best Friends!

Like I said, I hear you, Haters, with the comments about my tiny dogs. Today on the way home from the groomers was no different. ‘Look, there’s 3 of them’… Hello, I’m 8 feet away from you! I can hear you! I saw the smirks, the knowing glances between the Haters. I’m just going to keep walking right past your house… until I happen to glance behind me and see a 120+lbs Rotty bounding towards my dogs. Then it all unfolds in slow motion. I yank little Franka by her leash up into my arms. I hear the Haters behind me laughing. Rocky the Rotty, as I came to know him, apparently mistook my dogs for squirrels. We somehow managed to get our dogs into our arms, all the while the Haters giggling ‘Rocky! Rocky! Come here boy.’ You can believe, dear readers, that peppery language was hurled once my dogs rested safely in my arms. A short phone call to Animal Control confirmed that, yes, the actions (or inactions) of the Haters were illegal. Bottom line: an owner must have control over ones’ possessions.

Oh, but I’m so tired of careless dog owners. They totally blow… and seem to transcend every socio-economic niche. I’m tired of hearing myself bitch about them. Plus, I’m just tired anyway.

I don’t get how some people think it’s ok to be rude. I understand about having a bad day. I have bad days ALL THE TIME. God, I hope that when I’m flustered and in a bad mood I don’t treat people as badly as I was just treated a while ago. I’m comforted by the concept of karma, however.

Maybe it’s just being here on 82nd and SE Division 40+ hours a week. Geez. Just seeing it in print kind of gives me the shudders. Yesterday a tweaker lost control of her car and crashed into the sidewalk, taking out the two trees right in front of my cubicle before touching her brakes. It startled me, really, so I ran out to the PCC parking lot to see what was left of her car. She appeared fine, though twitchy, perhaps from the adrenaline, I don’t know. I maintain she was a tweaker.

There’s never a dull moment out here. Some days the hos work the strip. And if you don’t think Portland has prostitutes then, well, obviously, I’m hanging out in some funky places because I’m telling you, I see them with alarming regularity. Come to think of it, I’ve been propositioned by a john while walking to the little Mexican restaurant 3 blocks away from here. Sadly, it was not the first time that’s happened to me in Portland. Or the 2nd. Geez, let’s not go there right now…

A co-worker who recently transferred to the cube next to mine after several years in a homogenized PCC office didn’t believe me about all the girls walking the street at first. One day we walked down to the Karma Cafe to get some bubble tea (well, to be precise, a non-fat iced latte with bubbles YUMMY) and a girl (and by girl I mean 18 to 25, crap, I’m getting worse and worse at guessing prople’s ages the older I get…) fully decked out from head to toe as a cheerleader walked past us. I told my co-worker that the cheerleader really wasn’t a cheerleader. She immediately dismissed me. By the time we got our coffees and walked back to the office the "cheerleader" passed us walking in the opposite direction. Then, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes later, we saw her emerge quickly from a car and start the creepy walk down 82nd again. Then my co-worker believed me. Or maybe it was her ass hanging out of her spankies that gave it away.

Being on street level at a window, well, let’s just say that the hos, they recognize me. And funny thing is, the prostitutes on 82nd aren’t as nasty as one would think. I mean, there are nasty hos and I do see them. But lately the girls walking out here are not ugly. They’re mostly young with nice figures and fairly attractive. Some days I feel sad and scared for them. I wonder why and HOW they could subject themselves to the yuckiness that is 82nd Avenue prostitution.

Oh, and maybe you’ve seen girls hooking too, and you don’t even know it. Over my years here in Portland I seem to always live and/or work in neighborhoods where prostitution thrives. Gosh, I’m taking a moment for self-reflection… why is it I’m always living and working around hotbeds of prostitutions, drugs and ill-repute?… And so I’ve noticed a pattern and a consistancy of behavior of the girls, no matter if it’s the one-legged prostitute who lives in my neighborhood, or the girls out here in their cheerleading outfits and ass-revealing short shorts. It’s the slow walk and the subtle hand gestures. Or hell, the not-so-subtle "I’m-just-hitching-a-ride-and-will-jump-into-the-first-car-that-slows-down" thumbing. And it happens fast. I used to call the police back in the day when I thought I could do something about it. But, really, the police must catch them in the act to bust them, so there’s really no point in trying to stop it. And I’m not about to participate in some sting operation from my cubicle window.

Honestly, I don’t really have a big problem with prostitution. Or stripping. Or escorts, or peep shows or pornography or what have you. I worry that it messes with people’s esteem and sexuality, but shit, who am I to judge? I think prostitution should be legal and these girls given some type of protection. That’s why mostly I feel sad when I see them.

My cubicle faces Taboo Video and 82nd and Division and that parking lot tends to serve as a hub of activity. A lot of picking up and dropping off of girls goes on right before my eyes. I hope they are ok.

At least tonight I can cozy up with the doggies and watch me some O.C.

So liberating, in fact, having my own blog, that I’m at a loss as to what to say. I want to sound cool and impress my readers. Though, to be honest, right now, I have no readers but my own self, so, really, who am I trying to impress?

My perfectionism has succeeded in preventing me from attacking many a golden opportunity, had I been willing to put myself out there and be vulnerable. See, right now, all I can hear is my professor from my 1st year of college criticizing my writing, pointing out my errors, my passive voice, my inability to put two words together and make sense to the average reader. Never mind that I had no interest in studying, let alone writing during my first year of college when, my god, I was much more distracted by being in my FIRST YEAR OF COLLEGE in grown-up situations with other almost grown-up young adults and DAMN YOU David Powell if I’m remembering your name correctly! Actually, I should say thank you. Look at me now. All grown up and writing my own blog! And using that damn passive voice I’m apparently so famous for…

Welcome, then, to fixxxation. If you’re expecting hot, steamy x-rated raunch, you may wish to look elsewhere. Though I’m certain I’ll swear and speak in a manner which will (hopefully) amuse and frequently shock my many readers. Or at the very least, serve as a dumping ground for my twisted, sad psyche to purge.

The first entry. It’s always been my most difficult. What my professor neglected to realize about me all those years ago is that I’ve kept a journal since the 6th grade, which, if I’m doing my math correctly, would mean I’ve kept some kind of solid account of my life (usually during depressed and particularly stressful points) for the last 23 years. GEEZ. How can that be possible? I deal with people on a daily basis now that weren’t even alive 23 years ago, let alone writing in journals. But I digress…

Actually, the aim of this blog is all about digression. Obsession, compulsion and delusion feature highly. And fixation of course. Or should I say fixxxation, since Fixation was already taken, and so was Fixxation. And FixNation seemed awkwardly politically active/drug positive, not that I’m particularly for or against either slant. And though I run the risk of being lumped in with the porn sites, I may at the very least gets some hits, don’t you think?

Currently fixxxated on:

• Brian Jonestown Massacre
• Matthew McCounnaughey’s taught abdominals and recent apparent hair plug surgery.
• Alchemy, the computer game, not actual alchemy. Though I’m so good at the computer game Alchemy that I’d like to think I’d also be a Master Alchemist in real life.
• Jesus Christ as portrayed by Christian Bale in the made-for-tv-movie "Jesus Christ" or something, I can’t remember exactly. Actually, I think I’m more fixxxated on Christian Bale and gosh, I read some where that JC actually had a really good sense of humor and if that’s the case I think he’d be laughing now.
• Tiny, itty-bitty, little, cute & snuggly Chihuahuas, particularly my very own Chis; Phoebe, Franka and Frodo. Weighing in, soaking wet, all 3 together, at just under 20lbs.

Oh, and so much more, but I’m so burnt out and ready to go home and what in the hell am I still doing at work when I could be home in my slippers having dinner prepared for me?