Mo money, mo pop: or Why Zoe Keating is a new favorite artist of mine, despite spreadsheets.

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Many years ago Sherrill Milnes, the famous operatic baritone, remarked something to the effect of, “At any given time, 10 people in the entire world are lucky enough to make the whole of their living by only singing opera.  For everyone else, there’s always teaching.”  I’m probably not quoting this exactly right as it was relayed to me by my voice teacher at the time.  We had a “come to tenor Jesus” conversation about my career path where she laid it all out very starkly.   She explained to me that the bad training I had gotten had severely hurt my voice and that my first hurdle would be overcoming that and learning to unleash my voice as an adult instead of beefing it up to sound impressive as a child.  Then, she delivered that quote and told me that there are no guarantees in the business of opera, and that I could work diligently and still never have more than a minor career due to factors beyond my control.  Even if I did manage to carve out a  career, there would be very little stability and life would be a constant hustle for the next gig.

Then we addressed my fundamental dislike of opera.

I took all this away and thought about it long and hard, doing spreadsheets and trying to figure out what was my floor and ceiling in terms of money made versus career satisfaction versus creative enjoyment.  I then emerged from my room, back when I was still living with my parents, and said, “I have an announcement.”  ”What is it,” asked my parents who had always been pushing me to go into pop instead of opera if I must into music.”

“I have decided to give up opera,” I proclaimed.  Their spirits lifted and their fingers crossed, they said, “Then what WILL you do?”

“I,” I paused dramatically, “I shall be a JAZZ musician!”

The stunned silence that ensued is what I use for reference whenever someone throws out the term “Negative Space”.

In the end, the joke was on all of us, as I went into biology and chemistry and now work mostly with computers.

But Milnes had a very definite point, one that really doesn’t seem to get a lot of consideration in these days of shrinking artist royalties, RIAA lawsuits and micropayments from Pandora and Spottify:  Music, on the whole, sucks ass for making a decent living and always has.

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Corpsing.

For some reason that is beyond me, I woke this morning feeling hung-over.  Now, as it’s New Year’s Day, this wouldn’t be too surprising, except for the fact that I haven’t had a tipple since Christmas Day as I was ill and then it snowed on New Year’s Eve, so I stayed in.  I’m a chicken in the snow.

I knew this wasn’t a true hangover, of course, because instead of being at the mercy of my body’s whims and lying around feeling sorry for myself, I powered through and got the dishwasher going, the laundry machine going, the Roomba going and even made a half-assed attempt at cleaning one of my bathrooms.

It is, perhaps, a comment on one’s housekeeping skills when the act of cleaning freaks your dog out because he doesn’t respond well to change.

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2013: Tits or GTFO!

Each year, Lake Superior State University comes up with a list of banished words.  Words and phrases that, over the course of the past year, have been used, overused, misused and cruelly used to the point where we just need to put two in their brains so that they stay down.  This year’s list includes such gems as “fiscal cliff” (although apparently “fiscal Norm” is still fine…), “double down” (I guess Blackjack players now have to “increase the original bet by up to 100% and guarantee to stay in after taking one more card”…not terribly catchy, but then Blackjack players aren’t exactly known for their…well, anything), and “spoiler alert” (to be fair, I never saw that one coming, so I’m not sure what all the fuss is about).

The one I have mixed feelings about is “YOLO”.  Acronyms are generally overused and “You Only Live Once” has definitely reached the end of its one life.  YOLO has become the linguistic province of bros (and I bet I know what word is going on the 2013 list) near and far  attempting to inject some carpe diem into their usual carpe zythum.  Consequently it has been used to justify everything from cryptic gang signs to serious research on the afterlife.  While the YOLO meme is totally played out weak sauce, still one rather hopes the notion behind it doesn’t go away.

So tonight, as I sit at home, alone, on New Year’s Eve, after one of the shittiest Christmases on record due to the worst flu I’ve had in years, with ice forming on the roads, I’m thinking about a motto for 2013 and some big resolutions.  Something better than YOLO, but just as inspiring.

Some of this is due to a post on a Facebook group I belong to, Unfundamentalist Christians.  They ran a story of a group of folks standing up to homophobia at a food truck after the clubs closed.  A commentor, though, went off on a tangent about how she saw the food truck offered a “slut” sauce for their pizza and so she had to unlike the food truck’s page because slut shaming or something along those lines. Now, don’t get me wrong.  I’m not a fan of slut shaming.  If a woman wants to dress sexy and enjoys having sex then I see nothing wrong with that.  I also don’t necessarily think “slut” applies only to women anymore.  What I object to is the moral superiority of the bleeding Left getting in the fucking way all the damn time.  See, if it were me, I would do something other than posting a pissy little note explaining how I liked the page but then unliked it because I saw a bad word!  I would like the page and then write a note to the business owner or maybe post on their Facebook wall, saying that I thought what they did in defense of the gay men was inspiring, but I did notice that they had a “slut” sauce and, as they’re obviously really into making their customers feel wanted and equal, that word might be offensive to many of their female customers and is there any way they could change it?

That’s doing something.

Posting pissy little passive-aggressive paragraphs on a completely different Facebook page is a pure example of liberal whining.

Mind you, I posted on the same comment thread something to the effect that we should also not “like” any Italian restaurant that serves a “puttanesca” anything and that the commentor may be overthinking things, so I indulged in a bit of passive-aggressive sniping myself.  I haven’t checked back in that thread yet, but the page now has some sort of “Just because people disagree with you, doesn’t make them an idiot,” picture so I dunno if that’s directed at me or if shit got real after I tossed that golden apple into the room.  Truth be told, I would feel a little guilty if I thought I had sowed discord in a site named “Unfundamentalist Christians”.

It did inspire me, though, to come up with my new motto for 2013.  Now that YOLO is gone, and I’ve been irked by General Leftist Whining as much as I have been annoyed by General Right-Wing Whining, I need something to take up the standard.  Something to help me accomplish the following in 2013:

  • Write more.  Novels, essays, plays, blogs, postcards, whatever.  I’m happiest writing and I need to quit denying it to myself out of some weird notion that I’m a career gal now.
  • Shoot more.  No, not guns, although I REALLY want to go to a gun range.  And no, not manjuice, although they say a jerk a day keeps the prostate cancer away.  I mean photographs.  A new project at Hipstabear is going to help me accomplish that, so stay tuned.
  • Audition more.  I need to get back into theater.  I just do.  I really would like to start my own company this year and produce at least one play.  Specifically, I want to start a company that specializes in classics and plays with a social message.  Sort of “All Odets, All The Time!”
  • Be open more.  I’ve got someone special in my life now and I’m excited to see where it goes, but I need to learn how to have someone in my life again and that’s going to be as big a journey as anything.
  • Work Out more.  I am staring at the business end of 40 and I want to be a DILF.   Boxing.  Personal Trainer.  Running a 5K and a marathon.  All of it.  Maybe not biking because I’ve never really understood what you’re supposed to do with your penis on long bike rides.  I’ve only done drag one time in my life and, while I make a very homely lady, I also hated the tucking.  Combine that with being on a bike and wtf?
That’s a lot of stuff, so I need a motto that reflects that get up and take action because you’re only promised today attitude.  So, without further ado, and in thanks to that silly little bitch who can’t get over the word “slut”, I present to you my motto for 2013:
TITS OR GET THE FUCK OUT!
Has a nice ring to it, right?

I would need to see the shoes…

Back in the late 70s, when I was but a wee small slip of a thing, back when trappers were keepers and stickers were puffy, fashion was very…iffy.  Choices were made.  Choices which would color entire lives, color them in a pale avocado-and-goldenrod shade of regret.  I made my share of these questionable choices.

One year, I had set my sights on being a wizard for Halloween.  I was going through some sort of rebellious/A Fascination With The Occult Is As Good As A Personality phase and had just convinced my mother to buy me a staff at the local Renaissance Festival.  It had a carved wooden unicorn head on it.

Even then, there were signs…

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Don’t pop your cork just yet…

This morning, many woke to a much needed chuckle.  Apparently choosing to crowdsource his Veep pick, Mittens turned Micah Sifry into a latter-day seer of the future, by choosing Paul “Ferret in the Chicken Coop” Ryan.  Sifry drank a big pot of Wikipedia tea and, in the number of editing leaves, found a spike to Paul Ryan’s page four days ago.  It wasn’t a mortal lock, but it looked good.

Hey, I was one of those cracking up as well…to begin with.

Then I had to slam on the credulity breaks.  Despite gaffes, and missteps, mysterious tax records and a lack of party enthusiasm that seemed almost French in its level of ennui, Mittens keeps coming.  It’s really tempting to throw Ryan on this stumbling pyre of accidental success, but then, maybe that’s exactly what we’re supposed to think.

Maybe Mittens is playing a bit of a deeper game after all.

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Cobwebs

So, last night, I was enjoying a smart cocktail with my even smarter friend Mandy at the smartest place I know, Boozefish. When I say sharing, I really mean I was enjoying my second Negroni (cause I like my drinks like I like my men, red and bitter) while Mandy was drinking a demure water for some reason.

Mandy mentioned that she had been reading some of my back entries over here, and that got me thinking about writing again and, specifically, blogging and essays. i mean, now that Gore Vidal has taken the big dirt nap, SOMEONE has to step in to fill the void, right?

So here I am, pulling this old thing out of the mothballs, or backing it out of the garage, or whatever other metaphor you prefer…or simile…I never know, like, which one uses like, right?

It’s always interesting looking back in my drafts folder and seeing these little aborted snapshots of my past mental states. There’s the post titled “The John Problem” all about my inability to sustain a relationship due to commitment issues and getting bored and wandering off from my one true love (blah, blah, blah). I think I was going to try to end this on an up note about how I’m now big enough, and smart enough, and strong enough to not need a relationship and that’s probably the best choice for me…but I apparently got bored and wandered off before I brought it on home.

There’s the post about clubbing in my 30s with friends and realizing somethings are (rather thankfully) over with.  I’ve now entered the portion of my life where me having a good time with friends resembles sexual predatorhood or something, inspiring mild-mannered Amberzombies to turn into “Super Fag”, flying to my lady friend’s side and declaiming, “Is this man bothering you?”  To which, said lady friend responds, “He’s with us,” which, I can’t help but note, didn’t really answer his question.

There’s the strangely sad draft entitled “Time Enough” which is inexplicably blank.

There’s the draft about how I confused Broccoli Rabe with Broccoli Rape and hilarity ensued.

There was even a single comment in moderation from a post I wrote five years ago.  I finally approved it, so you can read it for yourself, but after reading it, I’m sort of not surprised he daughter gulped down magnets.  We’re not really dealing with the brightest flood in the track lighting fixture here.

But then there were the actual finished posts.  Some of these I’m still proud of to this day.  Maybe proud isn’t the right term.  Simpatico with?  I recognize bits of myself in them.  I’m not that person anymore, but I’m not a stranger to my past and that’s vaguely comforting.

In any event, it looks like I have more to say and, as I have this domain for at least another year and am paying a few, perhaps I should say it here?  So let’s see what it looks like this time, shall we?

Also, if anyone knows any way to somehow link a WordPress blog (hosted not on the WordPress site, but on Dreamhost) to a Facebook account, I would be ever so grateful if you could share this cyber-witchery with me.

PS:  For anyone who cares, a Negroni is equal parts Campari, gin and vermouth rosso (red vermouth to those of you who don’t speak drunk).  Mix it with ice, throw it in a tumbler on the rocks, plop in an orange twist and enjoy the attractive bitterness.  I personally like throwing in a splash of orange bitters, but that’s not canon.   Next I shall try a Sazerac (thanks for the tip, Billi Jo!)  if possible, with rye whisky, Peychaud’s Bitters, a bit of simple syrup (yeah, I know, carbs, whatever), and just a wee splash of Absinthe, now that it’s apparently legal over here again.  I don’t know if I’ll like the cocktail, but I like the name because it sounds like I’m drinking a Vulcan.

Against All Odds (of a good, hot meal)

So it appears that Senator Scott Brown from Massachusetts was sexually abused as a child.

Twice.

Attempted.

Once at camp by a dirty, smelly hippie and once by another boy.

This is just one of many tales of woe and misfortune he talks about in his new autobiography, entitled “Against All Odds“.

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Gosh Jeff Bridges was a stone cold fox.

Anyway, much as Jeff Bridges was the best thing in that terrible movie, Brown would have us believe that his indomitable personal will and movie-star good looks are the best thing about his book.  Personally, I think it’s his rampant hypocrisy and “I gots mine so fuck you, hungry kids” attitude.

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