the i in we

Making Nice (Music)
It was pointed out to me – rightly so – that the last couple days’ blog posts have me spitting venom. Today, I will make nice.

I have been a culture sponge lately. Lots o’ movies and music. I saw Shaun of the Dead last week and I do recommend it! I am not a fan of horror (read: I’m a scardy- cat) nor movies touted as comedies (see: Adam Sandler), but somehow this movie works. Perhaps because it’s British? Call it the Bridget Jones effect. Anyhoo, if you want a goofy way to spend 90 minutes and a chance to cheer on Dawn from “The Office,” pony up to Shaun.

A couple weeks ago I went with Sheraton to see The Fiery Furnaces play at the 400 Bar. (Holy Hipness, Batman!) It was, in a word, intense. They are a garage-rock-electronic-dance band from Pennsylvania made up of a brother, sister, and 2 other guys. Holy cow, they went all out! They played for 45 minutes straight – no breaks, no banter– then said, “We’re the Fiery Furnaces. Thank you.” and left the stage. They did a measly encore that ended when Eleanor (LV/sister) said she wasn’t feeling it and walked off the stage. (Sheraton hearts Eleanor, whereas she bugged the crap out of me. She cracked 1 smile total, kept pushing her bangs down on her head, and had that awful Williamsburg-Dorothy-Hamill-of-the- new-millenium haircut.) I have never seen anything like the concert as a whole. Oh, I try to be hip but I know I don’t cut it. (I buy my jeans at Old Navy. Any possibility of Hip surrenders in the face of that.) It was like my definition of music was stolen from my chest (think of the heart-snatchers in Raiders of the Lost Ark), flipped, kidnapped, was declared missing, and then replaced with something that makes music, but doesn’t look like music. ((Some of you) Think of, a few years ago, when Brett played a child’s telephone as percussion and it worked.) That’s the same delight,wonder, bewilderment I felt.

I have also been listening to Ray Lamontagne (thanks to LT Smith), the soundtrack to Garden State, My Morning Jacket, The Postal Service, Loretta Lynn’s Van Lear Rose, and very little radio.

In the spirit of letting you in on all of this, can I point you towards a few mp3 blogs? Have fun downloading.
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And now, your zeitgeist. Here’s some advice for tonight’s debates from The New Yorker:
Paragraph Six: Hand gestures. “Italian,” “French,” “Latino,” “Bulgarian,” or other ethnic-style gestures intended to demean, impugn, or otherwise derogate opponent by casting suspesions on opponent’s manhood, abilities as lover, or cuckold status are prohibited. Standard “American”-style gestures meant to convey honest bewilderment, doubt, etc., shall be permitted. Candidates shall not point rotating index fingers at their own temples to imply that opponent is mentally deranged. Candidates shall at no time insert fingers in their own throats to signify urge to vomit. Candidates shall under no circumstances insert fingers into opponent’s throat.

Paragraph Forty-two: Language.Candidates shall address each other in terms of mutual respect (“Mr. President,” “Senator,” etc.). Use of endearing modifiers (“my distinguished opponent,” “the honorable gentleman,” “Pookie,” “Diddums,” etc.) is permitted. The following terms are specifically forbidden and may not be used until after each debate is formally concluded: “girlie-man,” “draft dodger,” “drunk,” “ignoramus,” “Jesus- freak,” “frog,” “bozo,” “wimp,” “toad,” “lickspittle,” “rat bastard,” “polluting bastard,” “lying bastard,” “demon spawn,” “archfiend,” or compound nouns ending in “-hole” or “-ucker.”

Little Green Zen
Those of you who know me well know that I have a few people – okay, mostly authors – for which I harbor a great deal of jealousy. Mostly because of age (similar to mine) and level of accomplishment (greatly greater than mine). I do not feel comfortable posting the name of the receiver of my latest ire but if you like, you can peruse her catalog here.

Today I was in the car, waiting to make a left turn, and looked at the list of contributors to my new book from the library. She was on there without me knowing; I let loose, out loud, a “F***ing (her)First Name (her)Last Name.” That would be OUT LOUD. SWEARING. About a book including writings on GOD. Yeah, I suck.

I am not a blazingly jealous person, but I do compare myself to people all the time. (Envy…comparisons…banana…platain?) Call it being female, call it societal pressure, call it depression…poo, I don’t care. I just know it happens, it’s easy to do, and it’s not any fun.

The first time – for real – I was truly cognizant of my envy (as an adult) was when I was away in Guatemala. I read an email about a conference some people from Solomon’s Porch attended and it made my stomach hurt. I couldn’t figure out my inner discomfort for a while; it had been so long since anyone had something I wanted. I was stunned when I realized that it was a forgotten emotion that manifested itself so physically. For three months, I was the one living the high simple life – that email lured me back into thinking about the life I was missing in the USA.

So where am I now? Comparisons still happen; right now, I weigh more than I ever have, but my life has more good things going on than I’ve had all year. I might even have a book contract signed by the end of October…next fall, I’ll be asking you who the winner is now.