A Writer Writes.

So I like, love, to visit one of these sites listed on the right, here. I won't name which one. And I comment, because the writing is provocative, hilarious, incredibly well done, and uh, yeah it's like one of my favorites. And so I read this one comment and I'm already all "brevity. soul of wit, dude. loooook at how loooooong this post is! we don't care. we don't have time to read your 1,000 word [essay] comment. Keep it simple stupid, KISS." But it was this successful lawyer, and he sometimes thinks, on his way home or maybe his lunch hour or whenever, that he would like to be a writer, because reading the primary blogger is a fucking LAFF factory, so he wonders should he be thinking about becoming a writer?

NO.

YOU SHOULD NOT BE THINKING OF BECOMING A WRITER.

And here it begins.

You don't 'think' about becoming an artist. One writes because one has a voice, hopefully, and something they want to say with that voice. The painter paints because s/he sees something that needs to be put out there, the musician hears a song. The artist expresses their Self, because they have to. If they do not have these outputs, these expressions, they go crazy and a lot of the time very well do anyway.

You 'want' to write?

Then. Write.

I'm serious. I'm not trying to shoot this dude's dreams down, and I won't even discuss the sheer lunacy of thinking about quitting a job that took years of school and thousands of dollars and that made you successful and that you, actually, quite like. And in this economy. But here's the thing. You don't 'think' about 'wanting' to 'write.'

A writer writes. Period.

Go! Do it! Live the dream. Write away! Learn the guitar, then. Do it, and I mean that. Because then you will see how fucking diffcult it is. Because the reason this guy thinks this blogger has such a great life is because this blogger is a sheer fucking genius with words, but if you were to even attempt to put out the amount of content with that level of quality, thoughtfulness, and hilarity, every day, you will see how fucking difficult it becomes. Rock stars. They really have the life, huh. Sex, drugs, rock n roll. Don't have to do a thing. Well you too, my friend, can learn an instrument and get a band together and starve on the road for years to get on stage and just fucking hope that one person likes you, and likes your music, and maybe, maybe if you get lucky, that band will stay together and you might cut a few albums. And if you're really, truly meant to do it, and you're really fucking lucky? Maybe you're John Bonham. But there is maybe one of those every couple of decades and even then, pretty much nobody can take on Bonzo.

Because, here's the thing. For as long as I can remember, my life has been devoted to art in one form or another. I have always loved the written word. I have always been silenced by the power of, and sheer infinity of possibilities in, photography. I can't even begin to express what music means to me, to all of us, and I try every time I write about it. Everybody that does not write or paint or sculpt or act or play music thinks doesn't it look fun and wouldn't that be nice, and what a cute little fucking thing you do, and sit on the fucking sidelines and say you like it or don't, or, even better, it's good. Or it's not. And what does [insert movie star here] do? They get to be rich and gorgeous and famous and all the award shows...you know what? You, too, can learn the craft of acting for a giant price both financially and emotionally and you too can go on audition after audition for years and years and years, and maybe if you're lucky? You are another DeNiro. But you have to work reeeeeeally fucking hard to be that.

But you don't write. You haven't. You might have tried. Maybe that post was your one attempt. And again, I'm not shooting it down. I'm saying: it is fucking hard. And the people that choose to express themselves creatively, the good ones, the ones worth their salt, learn their skill and they work their asses off and they barely make any money and they do it anyway because a writer. Writes. Period.

The fear from someone who hasn't tried anything creative is that they don't have any talent. My sense is that if you're even asking the question, the answer is no, you don't. But hey. Maybe you do, maybe you don't. A lot of very untalented people make their money in creative pursuits. Lots. But even the truly exceptionally gifted ones? They don't know if they're any good either. Because why? Because. It's. Fucking. Hard.

So you wanna write? Then go do it.

I'm a writer, it's what I do. And as the wondrously talented writer and director Billy Wilder wrote, "I'm a writer. But then again, nobody's perfect."

The Economistress

I just explained, successfully, what Purchasing Power Parity means in Economics.

I am almost like a Dr. of Economics today!

Wikipedia.

Sunset Rubdown, Echoplex

Ahhhhh I can die a happy woman if I never live another day. But I will, I will be living another day (many many many more, unfortunately for me. I kid. Sort of). Every once in a while, you can catch a glimpse of sunlight peeking through the grey clouds of your inner life, you hear the music and feel connected again, alive. This is what music does best, when it's done well: it reconnects you to life, to feeling alive, to feeling human, all that that entails, and maybe, just for the night, or the drive down the freeway, or the ride on the train, you're going to be okay. Sunset Rubdown at Echoplex was simply perfect, the sound was amazing (special shout-out to my tight bro from way back Scott Cornish who works sound there), the band was tight, and Spencer seemed to have come out of his shell a bit to enjoy being a frontman, interacting with the audience and joking. They've added a live projection of themselves behind them on a screen, and I think the visuals really added to the experience. I love this band so much, I love Spencer's genius, and for that night, they made me feel okay, and alive. For a little bit. So, you know, Namaste.

I danced my ass off in my own world of ecstasy (I was not on ecstasy) and had a blast.

My writeup for LA Record here.

Iran

If you don't follow politics, what the fuck is wrong with you? Read, for Christ's sake. Nah, I kid. A little. I know y'all watch Daily Show, and truthfully, that'll keep you informed for the most part.


If you haven't heard anything about the recent election in Iran, it was fucking rigged, mates. In Tehran and elsewhere, journalists, students, workers, noticed that their internet mysteriously got bogged throughout most of the day, preventing emails or photos from getting out. Before the polls had closed and definitely before all the votes had been counted - especially from the remote, rural areas, Ahmadinejad had declared a 62.5% victory. Riiiiiiight. Convenient.


Sound familiar?

But the people of Iran have been protesting for days against the rigged election, with hundreds of thousands of people coming out, risking police beatings, some sustaining gunshot wounds, others have died in the melee. Foreign media is banned (all of it. BBC, NPR, WSJ, everyone), but the Iranians have been taking their own videos to put online, taking photos, and Twittering the event to spread the word to the world. And just when I thought Twitter was completely and totally useless and ridiculous. Guess not. If you want to read an excellent analysis from one of the best experts we have right now on Muslim and Iranian-U.S. Relations, go read Reza Aslan here.

I love this man. Reza, I want to kiss you all ovvahh! Look, see. I have indicated my lurve for him below. That is why I have put the airbrush hot pink heart around him, that is what that is indicating. That I heart him. Reza, please wake the fuck up and come find me so that we can have funny jokez times and discuss ancient Persia and laff at idiots. Kthxbai! (PS Reza, I am also available to wait for you in the greenroom as you do all these interviews with CNN and Chris Matthews because waiting can be boring so I will totally keep you entertained while you are waiting to school the fuck outta the uninformed).

Update: Iran's Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei blamed “media belonging to Zionists, evil media” for playing up Iran's divisions, and declared the election an "absolute victory, [a] difinitive victory." Ohhhh yet another round of Blame the Jews. Not that the Israeli government isn't crazy, but c'mon dude. Zionist media? You've blocked all foreign media, so how does that work?

That guy is a LAFF riot! He is a very good Muslim though, very studious. He seems to have kept copious notes from our 2000 'election' ripoff.

love, Mochi

I love Mochi. Do y'all know Mochi? If you don't, you should. She's stunning.

Christine Hale aka Mochi is an artist first and foremost. She works for LA Record and makes band posters and her shit is banzanaz cute and awesome. You can see for yourself here. http://www.lovechristine.com. She makes art, she does band posters, she puts out her own mini comic, she is a legit designer, she is a writer and photographer, and created a brilliantly conceived music project using the poems of one of my all time favorites, ee cummings. Yeah. Girl is leGIT.

But it's her music I'm here talkin about, cus it's terrif. Obviously, I'm a fan and love the girl to death, as do many. She recently sent me an mp3 which was a short sweet mere :41 but a total joy to listen to, saying in the email that she wrote it after receiving an email from Jens Lenkman. I'm like 'how the fuck do you know Jens Lenkman?' but then you just sort of come to expect those things to come from her. Completely objectively though, as someone who sees a lot (repeat: lot.) of shows and acts, listens to quite a bit of (diverse, I'd say) music, and writes about music, she really is the shit. I've been listening to a lot of She & Him, Bat for Lashes (so good! I know you all know this but I'm just now discovering how awesome she is after seeing the video for Daniel), Feist, Kate Nash, The Finches, Emily Jane White, Lykke Li stuff lately. The girls. The adorable, usually booted and skirted and banged and highly (well) accessorized girls with the lovely voices, and she is definitely among those shimmering stars in the night sky.

You can listen here.

What you won't see from listening to her music or watching her videos is how insanely hilarious she is. Girl makes me fuckin giggle. Moch, we'll always have that road trip to Lompoc. Shout out to ELO. Sorry your psilocybic teeth fell out in that motel.

Here is a video from one of her sinfully short lived projects, Mini Love, at the soon to be tragically torn down Acres of Books in Long Beach. You can hear a girl giggling in back. That would be moi. I'm gay.

Someone, seriously, give her a record deal. I'd give her a record deal. But I no haz any rekkird dealz to gib! (that was for you, Moch.)

Cubbies

This story is so old...I'm trying to place just when I might have written it and seriously can't. I was trying to place old boyfriends, former long term jobs...nothing. It seems to have sort of been before any of that, but you remember so well your first ____ that you ___ and this one just was. About 3 months? I think I might have been around 21? Maybe? Which makes me think this little ditty should be better, but it isn't. It is what it is. And I still like it, really. I think I've come to love it the way I've learned to laugh internally at my day job. It's funny when you watch it on The Office being played out by one of the funniest and most talented guys in the world - not so very when it's real and he IS your boss and he's the furthest thing from funny. I had an assignment working in finance at some huge corporation, and the CFO, I just remember he looked like a rat. Full anthropomorphic shit, or whatever it is in the opposite, a human looking like a giant rat. The man was about a full foot shorter than I am. I towered over him. They hate that. He would pull me into his office and hope to capture my...god only knows. Attention? Adoration? Respect? He couldn't possibly have hoped for my respect. Or maybe more just to stare at me and see himself reflected in someone young, female, beautiful. For. Hours. I had the instinct very early on that if this guy caught so much as a whiff that I was about ten times smarter than he was, he would make my life miserable. So I took it on as another kind of assignment. I was going to play dumb. Really dumb. Playfully, endearingly dumb. I adopted a higher voice and a giggle, I played it off for him, for all my co-workers, the whole act. I would widen my eyes and go "noooooo!" as if everything entertained me the way a mobile entertains a baby. Years later I ran into one of the co-workers at another job at a restaurant and had to slip back into the voice hoping none of my current co-workers would overhear and ask what the fuck was wrong with my voice. But I played it off, to the hilt, took home a paycheck and avoided the onslaught of misogyny that surely would have been headed my way if I was just me, and laughed all the way home. And in the in-between moments, I wrote this.

Cubbies

Cubicles. Standard issue gray burlap-covered cubby dividers. In Kindergarten, in Pre-School, even, we had cubbies remember. Now she was sitting in one, calling it her desk. You can come by my desk later. I should go back to my desk soon. Yes, I have that waiting for your signature on my desk. Fuck off and leave me alone at my desk.

She arrives at 8:37. Enough minutes to make them think but not enough minutes to make them think twice. Enough time to assure she wouldn’t be taken for granted. Enough time, just enough, to drink a second cup of coffee on her way in. She sits down, she logs on, she gets up and she gets Cup #3. She tips the Non-Dairy imitation-style cream-flavored substance in a canister upside down for a five-count and adds seven packets of Sweet-N-Low because she is trying to cut back on calories. She adjusts her pantyhose at the waist where they are rolling and attempting to separate her legs from the rest of her body (and who isn’t these days) once again and heads back to her desk/cubbie to hide until somebody makes her turn around and pay attention to them.

The intercom goes off. She picks it up but there is a grotesque echo because her boss, who is invariably trying to intercom her before she’s even had Sip #1 from Cup #3, her boss is right over the little cubby wall from her, sitting behind his ersatz replica imitation style desk, and his voice ain’t no Mickey fuckin Mouse. It’s the real deal with hems and guffaws and throat clearing and long drawn-out guttural ahs. She is trying to decide which voice to listen to, the one that sounds like it’s coming from inside an old coffee can or the one coming over around and through her alleged wall. She chooses neither, gets up, leaving the intercom on, and goes click click clicking her heels into his office. Janice is sitting there on the other side of his desk, waiting with that vapid subservient look in her blue-eyelined, tarantula-lashed eyes. Dark blue eyeliner. Circa 1984 when she was probably a rollin mama in her Jordache jeans and frosty feathered hair driving to drill-team practice.

With that look in her eyes that flashes like a neon light going on! Going off! Going on! Prozac! Prozac! Prozac!
“Yes.”
“Oh. Grace. I tried to intercom you.”

Grace does not respond because she is trying to avoid saying the obvious I know you idiot why do you think I got up and came in here.
“What we’re trying to do here. You see this document. We’re trying. How are you this morning.”
“Whatcha need.” If she kept her eyes bright and attentive he could sometimes actually finish a thought before the hour was up. But don’t stare too long, she knows, because his eyes will only wander to that third button all the ladies know what she means. That button they’re always looking to undo or question or ponder or challenge or beg, “Why? Why you gotta stand in my way?”

And Janice wants to bond. “Morning, Grace!”
“You have lipstick on your teeth.”
“Oh!”
“See, this document here...”
“You need a copy.”
“Well -”

Because if he concedes that even she can give herself orders better than he can, then, well, he shouldn’t be the Vice President and she shouldn’t be the secretary, right? “Well what we need is for Janice - I’m just trying to clarify here - Janice needs to see these, O.K.? What I’m trying to say is. Do you think - “

And she snatches the paper out of his hand anyway, knowing that she’ll have to pay for it later. Just like playground.

She has a coaster that says: Dow Jones Delivers. She has a travel-sized tube of hand lotion on her desk. She has voice mail, e-mail, a fax number and a printer and still nobody ever calls her on Friday nights. She works for two men and one woman. And what a woman. If wrestling wouldn’t be seen as totally out of line and completely professionally arresting she would love to take her on, red leather 4.5” pumps and all. Full body slams. How you like that, Mary Anne. Maybe not so very funny how a woman will abuse another woman shamelessly in the face of so much ordinary quotidian misogyny. It’s an eat or get eaten world, right. Kill or be killed. Fuck the cause. I didn’t burn any bra, I don’t owe you courtesy, even. You’re my hired servant and don’t I love it. I’ll abuse you just so I feel as big, bigger even, than the Big Boys. Just like playground. She belongs to an e-mail group that sends out low-fat, high-protein recipes to her e-mail address. She goes to lunch and wanders the mall and comes back and does the whole routine over, except it’s closer to the 5 o’clock hour, which means everything. She contributes two dollars a week to the ladies’ lottery pool. She wants to win that money and wave buh-bye to all these nasty slavedrivers. Just working for a living, what else can she do.

When she returns from lunch she has a pile on her chair about a mile high, she will say to herself, about a mile high that she scoops up and puts into her FIFO in-box. First In, First Out. If I feel like it, she should add. It should be her FIFO, IFIFEELIKEIT box. Show ‘em who’s boss, which of course she is. She checks her six voice-mail messages and 4.5 e-mails. Some have attachments. And Mary Anne comes around the corner, all 105 tightly-wound up Southern pounds of her. She can feel Mary Anne over her shoulder, just over her shoulder, as Mary Anne is just pushing five two even in those pumps she tinkers around in, feel her menacing darkness like a pure force of evil in her presence.
“You’re back.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I came by your desk earlier. You weren’t here.”
“Whatcha need.”
“This form here.”

Mary Anne, she thinks, just leave the god damn form. I’ve seen the god damn form forty thousand times and just because you have no idea what it is or what to do with it doesn’t mean I don’t I know what this god damn form does from beginning to end Mary Anne, just leave the form and I’ll deal with it as usual.

They go around and around. Phrases like: just to clarify and, so, to reiterate, are flying over the cubicle walls. Lil’ ol’ Gracie is losin it. She is analyzing every atom of Mary Anne under her searing gaze. And then it happens. She says it and it’s too late to take it back.
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Mary Anne, just leave the god damn form.”

The look is utterly how should she say. Mary Anne looks just exactly like a chubby toddler whose fifth Twinkie for the day has just been snatched away by their military-disciplinarian father. Shocked, horrified, indignant, humiliated. Now she’s ready.

Gracie attempts a syllable. It is all she is willing to offer.
“Don’t.”
“It’s been a really hectic -”
“Even.”
“I’ve been working on -”
“START. With me.” A look of threat. Pure blood threat.
“Sorry.”
“I’ll bet you are.”

But she isn’t. Grace is sorry about one thing, and that is that she didn’t have a camera handy for the occasion, to snatch a shot of lil old Mary Anne in a fit. She’s screwed for good now; the least she could do was capture the occasion for posterity’s sake. Something to show her children being raised on the welfare of the state.