Training Bra Burner

Al Gore's elementary teacher ridiculed a student for thinking the seven continents used to fit together.

Janice Duff and I chatted incessantly in 2nd grade.

For the better part of my grade school years, I was raised by a former homecoming queen and an ex-hippie.

A couple friends and I were recently talking about our experiences in elementary school.  We found that we all were at some point either shunned for talking too much, or found ourselves separated from the group on a field trip due to our lack of listening skills. 

If I came home with a "C" in math, my mom would drill my multiplication tables, quiz me with flash cards, and play number games with me.  When I got a "C" for talking in class too much, she said, "So, you're social."

Laura Ward.  She ate so slowly.  At Zia Elementary, as well as other schools, I'm sure, lunch ran in shifts.  As the first graders were finishing up, the second graders were filing in to get started.  If you were a slow fourth grader, you could kinda blend in with the older kids until you were done.  Fifth graders had no grace period.  In fifth grade, I would patiently wait for my best friend Laura to finish before hitting the monkey bars.  The head custodian, Joe, would tell us to hurry up.  Some days he was meaner than others.  But Laura, the B type personality to my A, would continue to dine at her tortoise-like pace until she was done.  We were always the last two to leave. 

I talked to my mom about Laura, frustrated that she was so slow.  My mom listened, and asked me how long it took her to eat.  I told her Laura couldn't finish in the ten minutes we were given.  Mom, concerned, made an appointment to meet with our principal to negotiate a few more minutes for fifth grade lunch.  I got to go to this meeting with my mom.  The principal gave me a chance to plead my case.  She was very friendly and granted us five more minutes at lunch.  I felt proud of my efforts, and supported by my mom.

I walked tall, all the way down the hall, and into Mrs. Southard's classroom.  I was a hero to the whole class!  Everyone knew that I was resposible for getting a more leisurely lunch break.  After afternoon recess Mrs. Southard had a talk with our class.  Unfortunately, I can't remember her exact words.  She basically said that a student, who would remain anoymous, hassled the administration for extra lunch time.  This student had no respect for Joe and the hard work he does.  The actions this student took were unnecessary and thoughtless.  And now, on to our geography lesson. 

I could barely breathe.  I was so mortified.  I had stood up for what I thought was right, and she crushed me.  In front of everybody.  We did get five more minutes for lunch for the rest of the year, though. 

I guess the lesson was that there is nothing more important to a child than for her parents to believe in her.  Also, true friendship means more than a "C" on your report card.  And Mrs. Southard was having an affair with Joe the custodian.  OK, that last one is a lie, but wouldn't that be funny?

He Makes The Best F*$%in’ Films

Although I am not a long-time Martin Scorsese student, I really liked watching The Departed tonight.  You may want to skip this blog until you see it.  Now, go see it. Get!

I know I need to brush up on my Goodfellas and what have you, but geez, what a movie.  Originally I got excited because of Marky Mark and Matty Boy.  Come on.  I always pay top dollar to see either of them.  I know Nicholson is a box office guarantee, but I wasn't prepared for the brand of sinister comedy he would bring to the role.  I thought it would be pretty straight up.  I want to like Leo less.  I want to be resistant to his movie star qualities.  He is a MOVIE STAR.  His ability to appear physically larger is amazing.  Not to mention I could gaze at him for hours on end. 

One good thing about being a Scorsese novice is the element of surprise.  I began to relax 5 minutes from the end of the movie, thinking that someone would get some sort of happy ending.  Nope.  It's kinda the same big thrill I get out of scary movies.  I've seen, like, five of them.  Even a crappy horror movie scares the shit out of me. 

Oh!  And Alec Baldwin.  What a winner.  I saw him a couple nights ago on Conan, and it was one of the funniest interviews I have ever seen on Late Night.  He plugged Departed a bit, but he was there more for 30 Rock.  He also brought beautiful human comedy to an otherwise intensely serious movie. 

Try as I may to revolt against guy-stuff (X-Box, bad monster movies, double cheeseburgers, and the like) I got a huge boner for this guy flick.  Yay Marty!

Doc Head

Time Saver:  If you want to save yourself from my rant, skip directly to the final paragraph.  You won't be sorry. 

Marky and I are doc heads.  We will watch any documentary about anything.  I suppose we gravitate more toward biographies, but we are usually up for anything.  Last night we watched "The Devil and Daniel Johnston."  We had looked forward to it for several days, only knowing that this god among men was adored by the likes of Kurt Cobain, Sonic Youth, The Flaming Lips, etc.  Seemed like an important figure in music history we ought to know more about. 

Watching that movie reminded me of the first and last time I hung out in Wicker Park (other than the Double Door--that's an oasis).  The people at this bar were so uppity and ridiculous, I could hardly breathe.  Lincoln Park gets a bad rap, but at least it's predictable.  I just can't get with the so-uncool-it's-cool thing.  I paraphrase Rieckelman when she said "Sometimes, you can just be TOO cool." 

We watched to the end, even some extra features.  Pros: There was a ton of footage (audio, photo, drawings, Super-8) from the very beginning of Daniel Johnston's life.  Daniel Johnston's descent into massive mental illness was fascinating to watch.  Cons: He did not deserve the title of "greatest singer/songwriter of all time" as the faceless emcee announced in the opening credits.  I patiently waited for his childish rhymes and clunky piano and guitar style to improve as the movie progressed.  I looked forward to hearing clips from covers of his songs by more likable artists.  Neither came to pass.  I'm all for simplicity.  But Daniel Johnston didn't have the ability to achieve any stylistic dynamics.  Gotta have a little light with the dark. 

If you have already seen "The Devil and Daniel Johnston," I would love to talk to you about it.  If you haven't seen it, and you trust my opinion, skip this movie and see "New York Doll" instead.  It is the biography of bassist Arthur "Killer" Kane of the New York Dolls.  Alcoholism, Recovery, Mormonism, Reunion.  Please watch it.

Captain Obvious

Thriller.  Eurythmics.  Martha Quinn. 

John Belushi.  Gilda Radner.  Chevy Chase all hopped up on painkillers.

I think it is time that the United States has a big party sending the memory of the good old days of MTV and SNL into the universe.  Let's get together, people.  Can we do it today? Because if I have to listen to one more person kvetch about how good they used to be and how shitty they are now, selfishly imagining that they are the first person to come up with this notion, I will throw myself off a balcony into a Christmas tree, or kill a radio star. 

I'm not saying I don't agree.  I miss 24 hours of nonstop videos.  Unfortunately, I wasn't a sentient TV watcher when Saturday nights were edgy and funny.  However, as a child, I often thought how cool it would be to be able to request videos as easily as requesting a song on the radio.  We can do that now.  If you haven't realized that music videos are 300 times easier to come by these days, you need to get your head out of your ass.  And if you are bitching about how unfunny SNL is, that means you are watching it, sitting home on Saturday night, subjecting yourself to pain and misery rather than supporting live theater, or your local pub. 

If you need to get it out of your system, please do it now.  Or shout it into your pillow in the privacy of your home.  But don't tell me.  I seriously don't think I can handle hearing it again.

iamsoashamedsounds

Confession: I am a fan of High Fidelity and Dharma and Greg. I suppose the former is not as embarassing as the latter.  Needless to say, creating Top Five Lists is one of my favorite activities.  But we'll get to that later. 

In preparation for the wedding, Marky and I have decided to drink copious amounts of wine and indulge in guilty pleasures.  A couple of nights ago, we rented Season 1 of Dharma and Greg.  This is not one of TV's greatest hits, admittedly, but we know just about every episode from late night network reruns.  Irony: We are only familiar with the show because we were too broke for cable a couple years ago, yet we are paying to watch it now.  When Dharma and Greg got taken off the late night roster, we worried that nothing could fill the void that Dharma, Greg, Abby, Larry, Kitty and Edward left behind.  Enter Malcolm in the Middle... but that's another blog. 

At the close of the third episode we indulged in last night, the Chuck Lorre vanity card popped up.  For anyone (including two-days-ago me) who doesn't know what a vanity card is, it's that screen that comes up at the end of a show like Oprah's HARPO thing, or Rosie O'Donnell's Kid Ro cartoon.  The Chuck Lorre vanity card is a page long diatribe that we were never able to read because it is only on the screen for a second.  After watching the show for something like a year, we never thought to tape the bastard and pause to read it.  We paused it on the DVD last night!  Chuck Lorre isn't necessarily a great comedian or philosopher, but he talks about his dog, and beer, and people who have screwed him in the business.  It's a good laugh. 

Back to Top Five Lists and guilty pleasures... I bought the new Justin Timberlake album.  If I were to list the Top Five Album Opening Songs, "FUTURESEX/LOVESOUND" would certainly place. 

Voodoo Pee-conomics Part Deux

I am not crazy. 

Many Chicagoans say thay can make it through the summer without air conditioning.  Call me spoiled, but we keep those little window units blowing constantly.  I also overuse my car A/C.  Hear me, all you window openers out there?  I'm not ashamed to admit it.  I am not an animal--I am a human being!!!  On my day off, midmorning, I sat at my computer, mindlessly surfing the web.  The A/C was off, for the first time in quite a long and hot Chicago summer.  Marky was at work, so the TV was off, as well.  I could hear the cicadas buzzing, I could hear the tap-tap-tap of my not-so-nimble fingers typing away.  I heard something else.  A rogue faucet?  Maybe a glass had shifted in our dish drainer?  Tinkle?  The sound was coming from the bathroom.  I gingerly walked to the door, grabbing my digital camera on the way.  Being sure to shut off the flash so as not to provoke a negative response...

The photo is a little Sasquatch-esque.  Believe it if you will.  The resolution is a little fuzzy.

Little Roger indeed taught himself. 

Voodoo Pee-conomics

If you are offended by urination references, this is not the blog for you.  If you like pee-pee talk, read on!

I live with a boy.  He lives with me.  We are not the neatest people in the world.  We have lives, etc.  Cleaning just isn't very high on our totem pole of household duties.  Once we finally get done paying the bills, we are so drunk from celebrating that we are just too sluggish to get up and vacuum.  I'm getting off on a tangent, here. 

As lazy as we are about general cleanliness, never do we forget to flush the toilet.  We would have to be pretty ripped up from a bill-paying party to forget that.  And the whole process of flushing in a vintage walkup in Chicago is a big deal.  They can be tough little customers.  My point is, flushing is not one of those forgettable rituals for us.  Get to the point, Bree.

Roger.  He is our little rescued forest cat.  Just a shade below feral.  It took a long time to penetrate Roger's inner sanctum.  Marky and I have made the mistake of not socializing Roger quite enough.  We just aren't the party animals we used to be.  Murray, our old kitty, had his own tiny lampshade he would don for all the crazy soirées of old.  OK, not really, but he would head-butt a few ankles other than our own, and certainly sit on some foreign laps.  Not our Roger.  We had some houseguests recently, and he not only acted the snob, but started peeing in corners.  I understand that he felt his territory had been invaded, but once the houseguests left, he continued down this pee-pee path. 

In Roger's defense, we did recently change his clumping litter to a more flushable, pine sawdust version.  Marky sometimes channels Roger, voicing that he is mildly alarmed that the new voodoo litter will invade his pee-hole, and therefore prefers to relieve himself on hardwood floors or possibly a nice soft pillow.  We invested in the "Spray-No-More" stuff that encourages pets not to whiz on your couch, and the problem has died.  The weird thing is...  We don't know where he is whizzing.  Seriously, weve searched high and low, sniffing every corner, and can't find any offensive spots.  He certainly has written off the cat box. 

Back to the aforementioned flushing:  I have witnessed 4 occasions where the toilet has been left unflushed (pee only).  Could it be, that in his efforts to mark his territory, Roger has begun to mark the one place in our house that we want him to?  The potty bowl?  The first time I was incredulous.  The second, doubtful.  The third, intrigued.  And the fourth, almost convinced.  Am I dreaming?  Have we unwittingly trained our cat to use the toilet?!!

Lucy In The Sky With Purls

I have officially been knitting for 9 days.  Ask me how it feels.  Okay, I'll tell you.  It feels great. 

I vowed not to hustle my knitting instructor.  I have hustled many a karaoke night, tetris battle, and domino table, but not Lucy.  That's the name of my Danish/Swedish/Hungarian knittista.  The accent escapes me, but it is relaxing as all get out.  And her hands!  They are petite and smooth.  Lucy has the hands of a teenager.  J'adore Lucy.  When I found out CloseKnit offered private knitting lessons, I just about peed myself.  Suffering from a case of acute schedulitis, a group class just wasn't going to happen.  $25 for an hour of individualized instruction was exactly what I needed. 

After admitting that I am an avid crocheter, and that I have struggled with knitting, we were off.  Lucy had me show her what I could do.  Since I vowed not to hustle, I had not reviewed any of my "moves" before the class.  When she asked me to cast on, I faltered, laughed, and moved on.  The whole experience reminded me of teaching kids how to sing.  There are a hundred things you can learn about a kid by watching them sing for 15 seconds.  After only seeing me make a big mess of my yarn, my instructor had my number.  Lucy had me make a couple of tiny style modifications, and my knitting instantly improved.

As our lesson sadly drew to an close, Lucy summed up my progress: I am quite efficient and I have very little motion.  I am halfway thorugh a manly scarf at this time.  Hopefully more of the men in my life can move to a cooler climate so that I can finally get away with 100% cheap Christmas gifts!!!

Bless the Buckleys

Tonight, some friends got together and talked about a lot.  We talked mostly about music, though.  Studio recordings. Live performances.  Recordings of live performances.  What do they tell you about a performer's ability, soul, connection with an audience, etc.  Which is better?

I am still reading Dream Brother, and although I am a slow reader, I could have finished it by now.  I am lingering because it is overwhelmingly inspiring to think that these two men who for all intents and purposes, didn't know each other, lived such inspired parallel lives.  Just twenty some years apart.  Oh yeah, and they were father and son.   

The two of them practiced such musical defiance, that neither became the mainstream giant he could have been.  I get a little fed up with musical masturbators, in live performances, especially.  Apparently, both Tim and Jeff were prone to this behavior.  I can't focus on one crazy cadenza/solo/jerk-off for more than 30 seconds.  That's my personal problem.  I know. 

Jeff was also a system-bucker because he refused to let his lyrics be printed on the inside of the album cover.  This struck me as I read it, because I don't remember ever looking for the words inside the cover.  The album has always been one big play-through for me. 

Here comes the hearsay:  Jeff reportedly wanted people just to listen.  I look back and realize I don't know the words to all the songs, but it is a super musical experience for me every time I listen to Grace.  An experience that usually teaches me something new I missed last time around.  He also had a problem laying down tracks because he was afraid of the permanence of it all.  Having not only to sing the song the same way thirty times in the studio, but having to live with the final product forever.  He really liked the idea of letting a moment come and go in concert.  As much as I want to record the wonderful things I have experienced watching, listening, or performing, I can't take it with me.  I can encapsulate one aspect of it, but never the whole picture.  That's what memory is for, and the truth is in the remembering.  Live in the moment and enjoy. 

Maybe I'm feeling a little emotional about musical interpretation after an argument I was involved in last night.  Maybe it's the wine.  Mabe I should stop treating these blogs like they are some essay with an Intro, Expo and Conclusion.  I'm sure I'll be onto the next cute boy singer soon.  The Buckleys will pass. 

Seven Stages of Cell Phone Grief

Well, I'm sure the last stage has got to be forgiveness.  Someday I will forgive myself for this. 

Not never, but rarely do I forget my cell phone.  Especially when I go to a gig.  Stuck downtown for hours on end, I get bored between sets and find it a lovely distraction to check in with my peeps.  Last night, I remember picking up my cell phone, but with no pockets in my dress, I accidentally set it down instead of putting it in my purse. 

Driving to the gig, I realized the phone wasn't with me, but I decided it might be a nice test of strength to go phone-less.  I had a novel with me.  Rather than taking a 2-minute trip back to the apartment, I drove on.  We proceeded to have one of those musical experiences that is akin to great sex. 

I got home around 1:45am.  My phone was sitting on the coffee table, and there were a few messages. Five, in fact.  The boyfriend, calling to check in.  Christine, letting me know she had a 45-minute layover in a Chicago airport.  Christine, saying the layover was now over an hour.  Christine, reporting her next flight as cancelled, forcing her to stay the night in Chicago.  Christine, calling from the hotel room in Elk Grove, about to retire for the night.  Shit.  Shit. 

Hoping to not disturb her, but halfway hoping she would pick up, I dialed.  Christine answered.  We talked.  What can you say at that point? 

This morning I met with the morning crew outside work.   KJ likened it to missing your alarm in the morning.  What can you do?  The moment has passed. 

Did I forget to mention that Chris also left a message this morning?  Her rescheduled flight today got delayed.  Hmpf 

Old Guys Are The Best

At the risk of sounding terribly conceited, I just had to comment on a compliment I received last night at Chambers.

I was feeling a little nervous about singing Orange-Colored Sky because not only is it well known, but I have been overtly plagiarizing Natalie Cole's version. The five bazillion people who bought that album will soon be on to me. So, I get through the song, and trudged through the other 3 songs in the set. I am doubly worried that our repeat audience members are 'on to me' because I have yet to really hone my vocal improv skills. The songs sound the same every time. I am getting sick of hearing those sounds come out of my mouth.

Anycrap, I walk swiftly to my seat after finishing, and this old guy walks up to my table. Leaning in as if to whisper, "We're on to you, honey, the exit is that way," the old guy throws me for a loop:

"You're a knockout." Huh? "You're singin' all my favorite songs and you're doin' a hell of a job, honey."

Who says "knockout" anymore? It is a compliment that really has some weight. I had to giggle. Dammit, I love old guys.

Testosterone Tour of Tennessee

Sad.

Happy.

Happy.

Sad.

Trying to remember happy.

So, I have a lot of gigs right now. That is a good thing. I am singing in Chicago on real stages with real jazz fans in the audience. Great. We even performed seven nights in a row. I am missing out on my so-called social life, though. A necessary sacrifice it is, saving money for travel and such.

Bob Schneider. Sexy. Talented. Not-so-sexy name, but trust me ladies and gentlemen, whatever your preference is, chances are, you wouldn't kick him out of your bed. Okay, so his band came to town last Monday, and I had a gig. Ticket-holding friends at work were excited and I was jealous. I went to Eatzi's for sushi to console myself. Sitting at the bar, alone, I chomped an unagi and heard a familiar voice behind me. I looked to the right, and there was Bob Schneider, walking to the sandwich counter, talking on his cell phone. After a phone consultation from Ashlee, I craned my neck to speak to the god among men atop my handmade pedestal. I can barely remember what words passed between us, but I felt about 14 when I walked out.

Tom Jones. Sunday. Ravinia. I swear to God, when Tom Jones walked onto the stage, the sweltering temperature that had finally subsided with the setting of the sun rose at least 7 degrees. What a great concert.

Back to the gigs. There are a ton of them. I know being in a band is about sacrifice. But I am missing out on Kelly's free tickets to see Jonny Lang to play with my rock and roll band which will soon (midnight Friday) be defunct. This is the second time I have missed The Blessed One to play a rock gig. Urrrggghhhh!!

Try not to be jealous. Try to remember that you met Bob. And you only had a little seaweed in your teeth.