to go forward I must look back

I had thought about a jaunty year-in-review video for busysmartypants, much like the one I produced in 2017. I don't feel quite as accomplished twelve months hence. I certainly lack the jauntiness. It's been tough and I know I'm not alone in feeling more than ready to slam the door on 2018's sorry saggy dumpster fire of an ass.
*
But, to go forward I must look back. How did I spend my creative time this past year?

• I did create 11 videos in 12 months--find busysmartypants on Youtube!
• I learned how to make gifs (SO. FUN.)--find busysmartypants on Giphy!
• I checked out 76 books from the Seattle Public Library (and read nearly all of them).
• I submitted one particular short story that I truly love 21 times. It's been flat out rejected nearly 2 dozen times so far, with a couple of non-replies and 3 "no but send us something else please" rejections, which are the very best kind of no's. I'm still revising and still sending it out. You don't get to yes without a lot of no's.
• And I started at least 4 new story drafts, all in progress and getting better with each edit.

*
As for today: I slept in. I made coffee and did some yoga and then I cleaned my apartment. I vacuumed and dusted and scrubbed. I took out the lint from the vacuum cleaner and emptied the compost and the little bathroom trash can. I mended a torn shirt and put away some random bits.
*
Happy new year to everyone.
Let's make 2019 a better, kinder, more equitable place for people, animals, and the planet.
To be human is to have hope.

je t'aime moi non plus

via GIPHY

if I don't

If I don't publish a story in calendar year 2018, am I still a writer?
Of course yes and of course this is absurd to even ask but also of course this is the dialogue in my brain.
*
Especially during the three-ay-ems, the middle-of-the-night freight train of worry that hurtles around my anxious mind.
*
I've written a lot this year, new stories and refined stories, I've made videos, created gifs, taken on a professional communications gig, gotten more than a few "send us more" rejections, but no YES, no publication on my own creative merits, no whoop-de-do for busysmartypants. This is where I struggle.
*
Do I stop?
Do I change things up?
Do I re-direct?
*
I don't have answers.
Only questions.

work werq is

via GIPHY

it me

Graphic courtesy of Lauri Johnston

The deep deep

I don't recall ever feeling so deeply and completely tired.
I've reached exhaustion, and have gone past it.
My sleep is interrupted. Most nights I pass out and then a few hours later, awake in the dark. I get up and wrap myself in a blanket and read or do puzzles until I can rest again, even for a few minutes. The deepest sleep comes right before my alarm, when I can hardly rouse myself to slap at my phone and lie still, trying to summon up enough energy to step into the cold morning.
My days are like walking through a cold swimming pool, each step more tedious than the last.
I must keep moving or I may not ever move again.
The brain though--the brain perseveres.
Catastrophizing, imagining, worrying, spinning.
Each day, a year.
Each night, a decade.
Rest is a fruitless pursuit.

shame

Today I'm sharing an excerpt from a post, from Ask Polly on thecut.com, which is ultimately about shame and its usefulness in art.

I read this on a lunch break earlier this week, and it was one of those moments where everything else fell away, and I felt that the writer was talking directly to me.
I've been contemplating existential questions lately. Why do I write and create? Does it matter? Why does it even matter?
This is why.
Facing shame with an open heart, on a path to art.

they say i say

do the thing

Twitter this week has been inspiring, particularly Jenny Bhatt, Chuck Wendig and Quiara Hudes.
Now let's do the things!
And by "let us" I mean "ME."

more giphy

I'm continuing to play with video and gifs, with a focus right now on the topic of misophonia.


via GIPHY

new video what it is

the motivation

I'm always always always thinking about how I'm spending my time.
Self care is of primary importance these days, n'est pas?
But creating is part of the way I care for my self, and I seem to never have enough time to create.
*
See what I wrote there? "I seem to never have enough time."
*
Why is that?
I have the same 24 hours a day as everybody else.
Deduct work (9.5 hours/day), commute (1 hour), sleep (8ish) and getting out of bed/getting into bed (1ish) and that equals about 19.5 hours of a 24 hour day.
How do I account for the other 4.5 hours per day?
Good question.
*
I'm also working a part time job (4 to 5 hours a week) and a couple of volunteer jobs (4 to 5 hours a month) which eat up some of those hours.
FOMO is real and I have a hard time saying no to happy hours, art walks, friend hangouts, shows, and so on and so such.
Not to mention, the fella in my life and the time I get to spend with family.
These things are important though and contribute overall to my happiness and my fulfillment as a creative person and functioning human being, so they must be allowed, or even encouraged.
*
I'm thinking I need to reduce some of the working hours. I'm a half-hearted capitalist at best. Why should I waste more and more years toiling for the Man (even if my employer is led by a lesbian immigrant) when I could be spending time on me, mine, and my imagination?
*
This article about women writers over forty inspires me today.

via GIPHY

placeholders

Something has been on my mind for awhile. I'm suddenly in a phase where a lot of my friends are in serious relationships and have disappeared. Gone, down the s.o. wormhole.
No more aimless roaming around town.
No more $5 shows, a quick smoke in the parking lot on the corner, and a loud dirty band in a dive bar.
*
Where I invite a pal to hang out and they have to check with the s.o.
Where I invite a pal to hang out and they show up with the s.o.
Where I feel like a third wheel.
Where even if the s.o. doesn't come with, all I hear about is the s.o.
*
Where I get "we'd."
"We're in."
"Oh, we love that."
"We had a busy weekend, better not."
*
I am happy that my pals are getting loved up.
I really like most of the s.o.'s. Not the mean ones, or the ones that pick fights. But most of them are rad people!
It makes me feel like somewhat of a placeholder. When they were single and had free time it was fine to hang out.
But now they're busy.
Now they hang out with other couples, maybe go to brunch.
*
They'll be back, I guess. Once the shine's off the apple.
Maybe?
If there's kids though, then it's over. See ya in 18 years, losers.

feelings af

who whom whomst

via GIPHY

women in flight

You might remember from my last video, that I was bemoaning the dearth of female travel writers.
Well, I did some homework, made up a list for my Seattle Public Library account, and started reading. Today I review 2 books by women travelers in Yemen and in the Congo, both in the 1930's:
Freya Stark's A Winter in Arabia, and Emily Hahn's Congo Solo.
At a time when the world was gearing up for war and women had only recently gotten the vote in the US and were still viewed as inferior beings, these women traveled far, oftentimes alone, and stayed for months, learning a culture and shedding some of their assumptions and biases. Hahn in particular is a vivacious writer (and indeed wrote for the New Yorker for many years).
Bon voyage!

the look back

I was looking around on an old device and came across a couple of years' worth of photos.
What a trip down the memory hole! So many good times and sad times and meh times.
Vacations and odd sightings around town, family and dogs and my fella and friend gatherings.
Every few months there's a photo like this one -- probably at a club, probably watching a band, probably after a couple of whisky drinnks. Who knows when or where this was, but I do know I was likely having a great time.

puppers

It was a weekend of family. Our matriarch turned 97 and her health is failing.
She is a magnificent lady and despite her physical ailments, retains a sharp wit and keen memory.
While my sisters paid her a visit, I hung out with younger fam and 2 delightful pups.
One has my heart completely. She is the alpha, a worrier, a champ, and an absolute sweetheart.
She too is getting creaky in her elder years but still has a way of laying her chin on your knee, or flashing you a look, and you feel dog love.

fifi a wah wah

via GIPHY

the view from the 785

Been thinking about my Kansas fam the past few weeks. This is a shot taken shortly after landing in Wichita last fall. The pilot barely managed to set us down on the edge of a thunderstorm and I feared it was the end of busysmartypants. Instead, we rented a sedan and sped through the dusk to an outdoor country music show, complete with fires in oil drums and one dollar Coors Light.
I've never lived in this part of the world but something about it feels so familiar.
And lovely.

presshuh

Boy this past week has tested me. World events notwithstanding--I moved apartments, dealing with surly landlords and malfunctioning doors and a moody elevator. Who needs a gym membership when you spend days schlepping boxes and art and all the freezer stuff down five flights of stairs, hustle it all into a Zipcar, then schlep it all back up 2 more flights of stairs. Then hurry to return the car on time. But, I've cleaned and Goodwilled and the moving boxes were picked up and c'est finis--I'm out of the old and into the new!
Add to this the happy circumstance of 2 different sets of visiting friends plus a 206 friend's birthday celebration, and stick a fork in me, I'm happy but dunzo.
*
Speaking of pressure, here's a delightful throwback: Flight of the Conchords' "Inner City Pressure."

wander lust: travel book reviews

Check out me new video, reviewing the travel books of Paul Theroux, Redmond O'Hanlon and Jeffrey Tayler--yes white Western males, all of them, I'll address that in a future vid--and also intrepid characters who have the resources and the nerve to set out for faraway places--across the African continent or Siberia or Borneo, and roll with whatever happens. The whatever including leeches, surly border guards, extremes of heat and cold and strange food and great kindnesses and excitement and boredom. In a word: travel!

outsidr

So much recently has served to remind me that I do not belong.
Just now, a text from a friend, referencing a DJ I've never heard of.
"He's famous," friend writes, implying "DUH," and I feel sick with shame.
Likely the DJ is someone I would have known about, had I grown up going to school and having friends and been cool, and not been shut away in an uber-religious household, not been un-cool.
*
This same conversation came up a few weeks ago at a casual drinks hangout. I mentioned homeschooling, thinking belatedly that it was a terrible idea (I rarely do so) and was promptly reminded why, when one of my companions rhapsodized about how strong I was and how had I ever survived. Have I survived? I honestly don't know sometimes. I might still be there, and only imagining my future, my now. It was such a lonely and sad and painful growing-up. During the rhapsodies I dissociated, feeling as though I were in a tunnel. I could not stop the hot tears from coming. My companions chattered on, not seeming to notice, not even after I fled the table to sob in the bathroom, and calm myself (I'm good at this, I know how to do this) and dry my tears and take a deep breath and return. Not even then did they acknowledge my pain and suffering. So. Now you know why it's a terrible idea to bring up homeschooling. It identifies you most certainly as "other."
*
At work I feel alien and misfit, slapped down today for requesting funding (a meager two grand) and slapped down last week for asking for relief from misophonia (my co-facilitator didn't want to hurt our trainees' feelings, nevermind mine).
*
What to do? What I have always done. Cope, Deal. Hide away inside myself. My shrink asks me if I want to be known by my friends, and I say no. Absolutely no.

fresh yes uh-huh

via GIPHY

I'm no fan of Drake but wait, now I might be? This video for "In My Feelings" has humor, mad cameos and some uncontestably sweet beats.

u r invited

via GIPHY

heat dazed

We are apparently at that time of the 206 summer where it is going to be 85 to 95 degrees every day. We've gone beyond hot to crispy.
The lack of air conditioning means my apartment is uninhabitable from 2pm to 8pm daily.
And it's still only July.
*
So, I've been socializing a lot.
Friends' birthday gathering on Monday (not super veg friendly so I ate 2 orders of potatoes).
Tuesday night BBQ.
Wednesday trivia with pals.
Thursday hh in air conditioned comfort.
Friday a random Clinton Fearon sighting and ramble through Volunteer Park.
Today a block party and hopefully some shade.
*
First though, writing, creating, contemplating.

shhh they said be quiet they said no i said

via GIPHY 
oh my gif

silly weekend music

Three words summing up the past three days.
A buddy and I volunteered at CHBP on Friday in order to earn a free Saturday pass. We showed up around 7.30, and after seven or so minutes of training/"shadowing," we spent the next three hours scanning tickets and handing out wristbands. The line stretched all the way around the block, past Molly Moon and quite possibly out to Broadway, until nearly 10.30pm. The crowd was mostly cheerful, save for the occasional scammer and two very drunk people, and I must say the people-watching and eavesdropping were stellar: enough booty shorts and bra tops to populate the rest of 2018's rap videos, and lots of excited young cuties. Pro tip for the guys--stop clenching your hand into a fist while I try to slide on the wrist-band. It's weird and wastes everybody's time.
*
Saturday we showed up with our free (sorta) wristbands, feeling zero pressure to get our moneys' worth, but also feeling about two decades too old for most of the bands. Holing up at Cha Cha and the other 21-and-over venues seemed like a good bet, although I did get to check out Parisalexa at Vera. Other highlights: a bluesy kind of artist (Kylie Nelson) at Barboza (her band was toight!) and punk rockers Pink Parts -- I managed to hear about three of their songs and def want to see them again.
*
Today I enjoyed this video: Can I Get a Box? Lordy.

giffin it

via GIPHY

i've been watching

I've been watching episodes of Queer Eye--the original Queer Eye--from the very first season, aired on Bravo in 2003 (most of season one is on Youtube). Besides all of the cringe-worthy aughties' hair--razor cut highlights, anyone?--and Carson Kressley zingers (I used to have hair just like yours. But I also used to be named Louise and I lived in Germany)--besides all of this, the thing I've noticed most is how unbelievably fragile a lot of the makeover candidate dudes are.
What is it with this disconnection between fiction (men are big/tough/strong/pillars of emotionless steel) and reality: VJ/Lost Boy Steven Smith petulantly refusing to tuck his big boy shirt into his pants? The war veteran who couldn't find his own kitchen if the path was tattooed on one of his gym-wrought biceps.
I know I know, toxic masculinity, male fragility and all that.
I'm just tres tired of maintaining the fiction.
Dang-a-langs aside (and they should be), some guys are good at life, some aren't.
Some women are, a few aren't.
Most women though, I have to say, are ballers. Tough as tanned bark, accomplished, smart, and quick learners, and they look great and smell nice and do 75% of the housework.
Shout out to my girls.
Stay cool, everyone.

where i find peace (new video!)

My new video highlights some of the beautiful things in my life.
Things I retreat to/gaze on/try on when I feel most stressed*.
(*not including chocolate or whiskey)
 Enjoi!

good trouble

Congressman John Lewis: "Get in the way, get in good trouble."

werk

I've been spending a lot of time doing drywall work lately. The only skills I have in this area, I learned from volunteer work with St. Bernard Project and Habitat for Humanity. It's a man's world, especially at the hardware store--snide comments, the assumption that the little lady doesn't know what she's doing, elaborate explanations of simple concepts--with the exception of Dunn Lumber, where a very nice woman helped me buy a bucket of joint compound and discussed mesh versus paper tape, without any implication that my vagina might hold me back.
That said, once I have all my supplies and tools ready to go (including this gem), I truly enjoy the work. Measuring, cutting, fitting, sanding, drilling, taping, mudding and eventually priming and painting.
You get sweaty and dirty.
Maybe a blister or two.
You can see your progress.
You curse your mistakes and then figure out how to fix them.
You give yourself one-on-one motivational speeches.
You finish, legs and back aching, take a step back, and see how far you've come.

my inheritance

Thanks in part to my shrink I have been thinking about what my parents passed along to me.
In addition to the keen intellect and sparkling personality.
Anyway.
Last night I dreamt that I was packing for a trip and doing the whole dream-anxiety thing of running around a house with a dozen rooms, trying to find things, getting frustrated, and then my parents handed me a huge slithery stack of junk mail, scraps, old pictures, letters--a slippery mess that I couldn't fit into my bag and that I had no use for.
Dang.
The old subconscious is working overtime while I zzzzzz.

the joy before the Krach

New video alert!
I have a few things to say about "Blood Beneath the Skin," a biography by Andrew Wilson, about the wildly talented Alexander McQueen.
With a few comments about how fashion gave me life.

with all the devastating reports

We have lost luminaries these past few days.
Kate Spade.
Anthony Bourdain.
*
After the shock, the (predictable) post-mortems begin to roll in.
The statistics about middle-aged white folk and suicide.
The posting and re-posting of hotline numbers to call.
The admonishments. 
I find none of it convincing and most of it ghoulish and/or pointless.
Again and again I go back to William Styron's powerful 1989 essay in Vanity Fair about his own nearly-fatal descent into despair.
Rest in Peace, KS and AB.

the letdown

I'm reminded of this Gunshow cartoon daily. Not least when I listen to NPR news most mornings. I should turn it off as soon as "Bird Note" is over.
The daily betrayals enrage me.
This is journalism? The "both-sides" fallacy, allowing practiced media reps to spout talking points without so much as an interruption, a fact check, a "scuse me?"
I cancelled my NY Times subscription not long ago. It was costing a lot and I wondered at the bend-over-backwards kind of journalism I kept seeing. About how to understand racists.
About the "real America."
This trope reminds me of the "beach body" fallacy. Women's magazines are forever coaching us on how to get that beach body.
Well here's something. I have a body, and I can go to the beach. Et voila.
I'm American and last time I checked I'm real.
Just because I live in the PNW and happen to believe that Nazis are bad and systematic racism is bad and the government should keep the hell away from my body and my rights, doesn't suddenly negate any of the previous sentence.
I'm thinking of getting a New Yorker subscription. Ronan Farrow has been killing it.

style-ish

I'm thinking about starting a sometimes blog feature called Style Icon.
Beautiful objects have saved me, so many times.
I exaggerate not.
Now, the city in which I live is not known for style, as such. But some of us do have steez, style, lewks, whatever you want to call it. Oftentimes it's an unpredictable mix of thrift store finds. Or a particular genre, strictly adhered to. Or a passion for color.  Or maybe just an irrepressible sense of fun.
I know folkx who rock the oddest ensembles and the best part is, especially in my neighborhood, no one blinks an eye, unless it's an admiring one.
So, I'm thinking about ?'s to ask--influences, likes and dislikes, most and least spent, etc--and how to make it visual and I'm excited already.
*
As the ever-irrepressible Santino Rice sang, "Lighten up, it's just fashion."

this is we are

It's at 123, 000, 000 views and counting. I've seen it at least a half dozen times, once with the sound off. I've read opinion pieces and analysis, raves and rips. Childish Gambino's "This is America" is art, political commentary, opinion, a provocation, a brave, belligerent, intelligent poke at all of us smug assholes patting ourselves on the back for electing a black president and then acting like the sins of the past are over and forgiven.

vogue was my escape hatch

Same.
*
Check out this interview in the Guardian with the great Andre Leon Talley.
I've enjoyed his editorial missives in the pages of American Vogue and astute, loving, judging-slash-mentoring on ANTM ("it's gauche, darling").
Read about him finding his place in the fashion world:
"It didn’t occur to him to question whether he would belong in this crowd. 'I felt like I was included, because there were people I wanted to be like – eccentric, original, people who were artists, writers: Truman Capote, I so identified with him.'"
*
Growing up homeschooled, religious and poor in the PNW, growing up before internet and cell phones and almost never allowed to watch TV, I relied on the public library as my peephole to the secular world. I wasn't allowed to bring home fashion magazines, so I'd plant myself in Periodicals with a stack. Vogue was my favorite; I loved the fantasy and aspirational nature of the ads and the fashion spreads. The beautiful ridiculous breath-taking clothes and shoes and jewels. Of course I couldn't wear Christian Lacroix, there was no place within 100 miles that would ever remotely even carry the label, but I could look at the glossy photos, the glaring models, the airbrushed oddities, and dream.

buddhism and open mics

Reading this interview with Charles Johnson inspired me.
I've been attempting to go to open mic's but fear often gets in the way.
Here, he talks about not just reading--performing!
The video gives more examples of his thoughtful, humanistic approach.

bsp videos don't sleep on 'em

fine good fine totally fine

Do your ear holes a favor and listen to this album. Detroit rap duo Jean Grae and Quelle Chris on Everything's Fine. Gahtdamb I hope they swing through the PNW soon.

the thing of it is

As a published but mostly unknown writer, no one is clamoring for my work.
I get zero e-mails asking when my next piece will be coming out.
No tweets begging for content.
Occasionally a friend will hire me for a project, but mostly I'm on the hustle, sending pieces out, filing the rejections, revising and sending them out again.
I sit down in my writing space a few times a week, and work on short stories, blog posts, videos, bits of a memoir and I wonder--yes sometimes I do wonder--
why.
*
It's for myself, broadly. I write to understand.
To noodle through things.
To find some truth.
It's because I have something to say--
that only I can say.
*
Today though, I question--
why.

my true love (one of them)

Here's a new video featuring one of my truest loves, detective novels.


It's a light-hearted chat about British detectives, glamour, and a review of two mysteries I recently read: Linda Fairstein's "Terminal City," and Ridley Pearson's "Middle of Nowhere."
Also, apparently I can't decide how to pronounce Fairstein.
Happy reading.

smug alert

It feels like a daily battle not to be smug.
I have a lot going for me, you know.
I'm a white American.
Educated.
Relatively well-nourished.
I have decent housing and enough food and access to all kinds of culture--music, movies, performances.
In a world of mostly have-nots, I'm a have. I have the stars upon thars (or was it the other way around?).
It's easy to get comfortable, to laze into the routine of work, home, boyfren time, me time, play time Netflix, a good book, sleep--it's easy to forget to remember to create.
How do I remind myself to push myself, to think different, read differently, try to learn to see differently and experience the world fresh and unarmored?
*
I must add, big big ups to one of my favorite artists, Kendrick Lamar, on his Pulitzer win this week.
Here's a video and song I think about often.

state of confusion

I've been feeling confused lately, and as much as I like to think I embrace it (hi George Saunders), the truth is--sometimes all the confusion is tiring.
I may have to move house, due to arson.
My job is meh, made more so daily by petty tyrants.
My city has somehow morphed from a rainy, arty backwater into a hot property. No more Ballard drivers. Now you dive out of the way of whatever sporty BMW needs to roar past you (only to screech to a halt at the next traffic jam).
And my country...this wonderfully delusional cesspool hijacked by criminal grifters and lowlifes--what more is there to say?
Confusion into creativity, straw into gold.
I know it can happen, I just need to take the time.
Make the time.

guardians of the groove

On occasion I tune in to WWOZ in New Orleans for their in-station concerts.
Check out the ever-chill Treme Brass Band performing in March.

gasping

I headed out of town to visit the fam almost two weeks ago, not knowing that while I was gone, my living space would be attacked by an arsonist. The fire was extinguished thanks to a quick-thinking neighbor but the charred first-floor wreckage and toxic air throughout the building are a daily reminder of some person's reckless violence. The cleanup has begun, but this is how I come and go now, just to be on the safe(r) side.

3 memoirs: a review

I've been reading quite a few memoirs, courtesy of the Seattle Public Library. I want to write one, as you know, so I've been absolutely housing through them. Check out my take:

new muzik

My Youtube searches yesterday brought me to Kenyan hiphop, and Dandora Music, and this song, Back in the Day, with Noni Mugera. It's good stuff--sweet beats and even though my Kiswahili is limited, the rhymes have a smooth vibe. Peep it!

The same group also produced an anti-domestic violence video, Unbreakable. Powerful. Hard to watch, but watch we must.

dog:trix

Boyeee--I been learning some thangs.
(Not spelling or grammar, apparently.)
(Hi, Mom.)
Priorities!
New ways of playing with numbers and visualizations (Tableau). Analyzing complicated spreadsheets packed with data. Trying new things with WeVideo (robot voice). Memoir as told in short-short chapters (a la Roxane Gay). Brainstorming new projects with pals.
*
Magical words: what if we---? Or maybe we could--?
The more I learn, the more there is to learn.
*
Today's soundtrack--relaxation for my troubled brain.

fashun

Style is on my mind a lot these days.
I don't know why.
The world is a raging dumpster fire and I'm intrigued by a sparkly bracelet?
And yet.
There is an undeniable power in clothing, particularly women's clothes.
And I've gotten a lot of mileage out of provoking, with my attire.
Not in a sexualized sense.
More in testing the boundaries of appropriateness.
One of my earliest successes was when I was a teenager. My father arrived at the Bellingham Public Library to pick me up, took one look at my fedora and tan corduroy skirt and plaid madras shirt, and send me right back out to the sidewalk. You look so--seedy. He drove off in whatever secondhand sedan we possessed at the time, and I was left to walk the 1.5 miles back to the house.
I felt bad, for the first few blocks.
And then I realized: I hadn't had to say anything. My look had said it for me. And my know-it-all abusive father hadn't liked it one bit.

animated

I checked out a couple of animated movies recently. Some friends shared a copy of Daft Punk's 2003 Interstella 5555. The animation/anime was sufficiently trippy and fun, but the story dragged a bit, especially at the end (which the soundtrack "Too Long" underscored for me). Still, reviewers love it and it was a fun hour reminiscing the French band's greatest hits.


Another trip down memory lane: Sita Sings the Blues, a 2008 triumph of animation that layers several doomed romances, one illustrated in wobbly line, the other, The Ramayana told "Drunk History" style, and all of it featuring the beautifully haunting 1920's songs of Annette Hanshaw.

It's Oscar's Sunday--and do I care? I'll be turning these two offerings over in my head for a few days to come. Although I am eagerly anticipating Wes Anderson's Isle of Dogs, forthcoming soon, I hope.

city lyfe

It's been an odd forty-eight hours.
I caught a bus to West Seattle Wednesday evening during a cold winter downpour. The bus smelled like ass and was maybe 3/4 full. It cleared out downtown, and some of the swamp crotch smell departed with one de-busing guy at 3rd and Pine. Down towards Main Street, a guy got on and cracked a PBR at the other end of our bench seat. Against the law, Metro frowns on it, but who am I to judge? He wasn't bothering anyone. Two more guys got on by the stadiums, with bulky bags, from which they proceeded to withdraw knives. A dozen at least, most in store packaging, with menacing blades. By the time we hit the West Seattle Bridge I was in full-on panic. The guy nearest me, still wearing sunglasses at 7pm, was demonstrating his best stabbing motions, with a knife in each hand. I tried to breathe and stay calm. Around me, other passengers were casting wary glances. When my stop came, I got up and walked between the two knuckleheads, who very politely said "Excuse us," and temporarily stopped with the stabby-stabby.
*
Later that evening I somehow grabbed a buddy's debit card, as we were settling up after Talarico's trivia. Unfortunately, I didn't discover the error til the next morning, when the ATM I was at kept asking me to re-enter my PIN. As a bonus, my buddy didn't notice it either. He even bought coffee with my card. I hope he didn't leave an exorbitant tip. We realized the error and made a swap yesterday afternoon.
*
While I waited for my bus Thursday morning near Seattle Center, the sweetest little robin perched at a tree outside Agave restaurant and tweeted its heart out. What a delightful sound.
*
And speaking of non-delightful sounds, I went for a massage after work. The massage therapist was great--the jaw massage changed my life--but her sound machine crapped out about 10 minutes in. Instead of restful gongs and birdsong, we spent the next 40 minutes listening to the hustle and bustle of east Pine Street--bro's congregating and talking on the corner, car engines revving, clomping boot-steps, a crying child. I tried to summon some mental white noise and tune out, just for a few moments, the late afternoon aural gyrations.

the making of

A couple of weeks ago I collaborated with the indubitable thad wenatchee and others to write a radio play. See more on how it went:

video genius and that may be an understatement

Check out this don hertzfeldt contribution to The Simpsons couch gag. I can't stop watching. Check out more of his work here.

zomg veg

With winter's advent I've been enjoying vegetable mash. Today I chopped up potatoes--red, purple, yellow--and carrots of similar hues. J'adore the vibrant colors. I can't wait to nom on this delicious vegetable mash with a side of sauerkraut. A salute to my German foremothers!

3 in 1 (night)

Some friends gave me and a pal tickets to see Gramatik at the Showbox. I'd seen him once before in Austin (opening for STS9). This show was all-ages and completely sold out, and the crowd ranged from baby-ravers to head-nodding bro's to all-out-dancing super fans. The light show was fun, and the beats solid but a little herky jerky. I left longing for more of a groove.
However, this being Seattle, the show was book-ended by two more random but no less entertaining musical experiences.
Beforehand, over PBRs at the Blarney Stone, we enjoyed checking out an energetic guy with a guitar, keyboard and some kind of auto-tune, throwing himself body and soul into covers from Kool and the Gang to Daft Punk.
Afterward, we tried to get into the Baltic Room (still a $10 cover at 12.30am--c'mon), then Sugar Hill (only $5 but looked lame), finally landing at the Crescent. No cover and karaoke in full swing, hosted by Vivien Gabor in full-on lemon yellow drag finery.

riffing

Twice this past week I found myself seated in a Capitol Hill establishment, riffing on a creative piece with a good friend. Trading puns, bad jokes, playing with words until we hit on something that makes everyone's faces light up.
That's it. 
Ooh, put that in.
Did you get that?
One piece is finished--in the can, a two-act radio play presented on Sunday on Hollow Earth Radio. It was a group effort, predictably sloppy in some parts, and surprisingly sharp in others, and in the end, a lovingly-Frankensteined production.
The other piece is just beginning, a much bigger work.
All this plus my own writing and video tinkering equals a tired but satisfied creative brain.

lil peep

How do you separate the artist from the art?
Can you? Should you?
It's very much a topic these days.
I struggle.
I swore off Woody Allen movies long ago but lemme tell you, if MJ comes on in the club, I'm going to be dancing, as will everyone else.
I didn't know much about Lil Peep before he passed of a fentanyl overdose a couple of months ago (and maybe a month after he performed in Seattle).
Then I read a gushing, rather hysterical remembrance piece in GQ and I went back and listened to the one song I was familiar with, witchblades.
It's dark material and a translation of an even darker, more desperate life.
There's no denying his charisma, his talent.
Be forewarned, if you listen to this song, it'll linger in your memory.
He burned bright. He's gone.
The conundrum persists.

what's up bsp 2018

What's up with BSP so far in 2018?

gloriousness

 BSP is back after a week away. I took a few days to jet down to southern California. I'm no sun-worshiper (am I?) but it was an idyllic few days.

• The fun started in Riverside with lovely friends, their adorable mini-schnauzer, and delicious Mexican food at El Corral--chile relleno and heaps of spicy rice, and a dessert of Mexican cookies and cake
• Saturday brunch was at Simple Simon's. I inhaled a cinnamon-sugar donut muffin, and part of a bear claw. And about a gallon of coffee.
• We strolled around the farmer's market, cheered on Women's Marchers and admired their signs, bought cara cara oranges and sweet limes (delish! how did I not know about these before?), browsed a used bookstore, then repaired to my friends' comfy house for hot tubbing, games, and general lazing around.
• Next was dinner at Casa Mota, a beloved Mexican restaurant re-opening that very day, after being closed for over a year. The wait was predictably long, but people watching kept us going, and we were finally shown to a booth, handed 32-oz beers and plates of hot, spicy, deliciousness.
• We capped off the night with a drag show at VIP Nightclub. $5 Long Island Iced Teas, a fun crowd and a gamut of glam performers.
• Sunday started a little rocky, but we roused ourselves for brunch at Brandon's, and zomg if this wasn't the best Mexican food yet. Chilaquiles doused in a tangy green sauce, and a side of cinnamon roll French toast. And strong dark coffee. YES please. We ambled around the swap meet for a bit, unfortunately got stuck in a traffic jam, then back to the house to relax a bit before catching a cab to the Ontario airport to pick up a rental car.
• Next stop: Venice Beach! After a stop at Ralph's to stock up on snacks, vodka and tonic water, we walked down to the beach and randomly caught some music at The Terrace Cafe. The food was meh and the beer even more meh but the reggae band was energetic, Jah Faith sang the classics with a degree of authority, and my pal swooned into a cannabis-infused gin gimlet.
• Monday started with a need for coffee, so we made our way past the lush canals to Cafe Menotti, where the gorgeous baristas were gentle and helpful and even threw a few hangout recommendations my way. Also, the chocolate chunk cookies with sea salt changed my world. So. Delicious.
• Fortified, we made our way along the beach. enjoying sun and sand and 70-something temps. On the way back to our airbnb, we hiked up Abbot Kinney, window shopping, smirking at hipsters, and making a quick pitstop in Blue Star Donuts where we threw down cash (the register was down) for a key lime filled doughnut. OMG. Again, YES. 
• After an afternoon rest and a vodka tonic on the deck, we headed out for a quick burger (at a chain that shall remain nameless) and met up with a pal. Next stop, Townhouse, a loungey spot with a tall, florid, white-haired bartender who whipped up a Manhattan, a Shirley Temple and a G&T tout suite. We hung by the pool table, aimlessly playing and chatting, until a young guy and girl came over and chatted us all up. They bought a round of tequila shots (I abstained) and the silliness increased. An older couple (swingers? we wondered. Tourists? Both?) came over and we eventually peaced out, hugging our young friends good-bye. (We later saw the guy on his ass, having just fallen off his skateboard, laughing.) Last stop, up Abbot Kinney to The Brig. The beer was good and the clientele was weird. Many statement moustaches. A gorgeous couple joined us on the couch by the window, the woman lithe and blond and distraught--she'd lost her keys. Her handsome companion whispered "I have two sets." By the end of the evening we were hugging good-bye.
• Tuesday--last full day in Venice. After a restorative breakfast at Cafe Buna--my omelet had plantain, avocado and black beans--we rented bikes and rode up to Santa Monica. It's a flat, carless, pleasant ride. We had an iced coffee and some watermelon juice midway, then pedaled back. The afternoon was beach time--books, sand, snacks, sun, the waves crashing, surfers bobbing. So, so pleasant. Then we hopped the 733 bus back to Santa Monica, grabbed an unbelievable vegetable juice at Urth Caffe--beets, celery, carrot, ginger--then worked our way back to Venice along Main St, stopping in at thrift stores along the way.
• Dinner was at the Firestone Walker brewery. Delicious beer and buffalo cauliflower--yum. Early to bed, as we were completely pooped.
• Our last morning was back to Cafe Menotti, with a quick stop for a breakfast sandwich, and then up to the beach to enjoy the waves and watch the skateboarders. The flight back was quick and uneventful (and only $69). Exiting Seatac into 45 degrees and rain felt a little sad, but also right. Time to get back to life.

on this Dr. King weekend

surprise fun

I'm a bit of a nonconformist when it comes to watching TV and movies. I don't really get the national Zeitgeist most of the time--until I do. There were two movies that I watched recently that were so surprisingly good that I wished I'd listened to the hype and watched them earlier. Both rocky non-traditional relationship movies. Am I a softy after all?
Lordy.

First: The Incredible Jessica James:


Second, The Big Sick:


B

fangurl

As an early birthday present for myself, I invited a few friends to a hip hop show last night.
Y'all know my deep love for PNW hip hop and it's been awhile since I caught a full show.
I was super excited to see Gifted Gab again (who was sweet enough to take a photo with a few of us and wish me a happy bday).


Another treat was the saucy, confident Dadabassed.
My music world in 2018 is off to a fresh start. 

the whirliest whirl

This may be the whirliest bunch of holidaze I've experienced in awhile.
2018 est arrivé and I am grateful and yes, a little pooped.
I had a slight pause after the Hannukah l'chaims, for a medical milestone (everything came out okay).
Then the aforementioned dog-sitting (and bonus days of cat-sitting).
Christmas Eve and--snow! And whiskey with good friends.
Christmas morning and--more snow! I fed the kitty and nervously watched the skies.
Fortunately, the roads cooperated and the fam was able to gather and celebrate for a few hours. Small gifts, a board game, some snowballs, a ton of food and some cranberry-garnished sangria.
Another happy hour over craft cocktails. And yes another happy hour two days later at a favorite spot with good pals, over nachos and frosty beers.
Finally, New Year's Eve, and a cold ferry ride up to Whidbey Island, to a friend's cabin for more whiskey, laughs and cheers for the new year.
Yesterday dawned cold and sunny. Gradually stirring from my cozy sleeping bag, I watched a woodpecker hop from tree to tree. A cute little pup cuddled in my lap. I drank hot coffee and hit the road and took in a sweeping, glorious vista.
It's a new year, calendar-wise, and I feel a hint of optimism.