I need a corner-shelf for all my mind's knicknacks.

On Yahoo! "News" earlier today, there was an article on a possible link between impulsiveness and procrastination. What I want to know is, how did they find me?

FOUR(4). That's the number of (jokingly) accusatory emails I received from random people who don't live in Texas. They all wanted to know what I did to the poor birds down here. Kind of funny how they all each thought they were funny. It's a prime example of an inverse relationship with humor: The first email was rather funny, but a second person with the same joke is less funny...and it's a downward spiral from there as the number increases. Plus today on the South 1st bridge I got dive-bombed by what appeared to be 700 or so birds. No joke. I tried to take a picture to prove my innocence, but the light turned green.

THREE (3). The number of times Justin has tried to contact me in the last two days. In my first answer, told him that I refused to give him my number, and then I didn't respond to his other "I'm single now" email. The last one asked me to go run around with him, "honky-tonkin'." I started to write back with a sentence that said "Ummm--don't see that happening," but I don't want to be mean. I just want to be left alone. I wonder if he thinks from my Myspace profile since it says "single", that I'm waiting for him or something. God, but I hope not.

THIRTY-TWO(32). The number of items I had on my list for all the things to take care of this week. Started the list (of tasks both big and small) on Sunday evening.


FOURTEEN (14). The number of items I have left to complete. This is wonderful news. Can I do anything? Just maybe, I can....

My room is clean, so that means I'm now free to mess it up again with all manner of projects. Which I plan to do shortly.

My desk is cleaned off save for the dozen of books currently being read, or about to be read. Maybe I should get off the computer and go read one? Mayhap.

My (ex?)stepmother sent me a check for $25.00 today for a small portion Jonny Pop's quarterly check from Weber. My plan is to send it back to her with a polite paragraph or two, thanking her. I refuse to get into the myriad of complex emotions that merely interacting with her creates. I'm going to simply say that I think she needs the money more than I do right now, and write about some unrelated, cheerful stuff. She won't know my true thoughts on the disjointed, assumptive, pseudo-factual, and "mired in the bitter past" words of her enclosed letter...that they made me tired, frustrated, helpless, and sad. I'm going to be sweet to her and still get my point across, because to do or imply anything else would just be hurtful. I *kind of* want to tell her never to write me a check again, but that would sound much more condescending or indignant than I mean it to sound. I'll also send her a copy of my demo.

So, then...David Beckham is joining L.A. Galaxy. Since my little "hooligan" days, soccer is the only sport which I semi-follow. I saw L.A. Galaxy play many a time back when MLS started in 1996 and I went to every Kansas City Wiz game. Truly sad, the state of American soccer. It's always been a bit of a bummer to me that major-league soccer had to completely start over from scratch in this country. That's what they get for paying more attention to Joe Namath (and, increasingly, WWF and UFC stars). Of course MLS is going to be a joke after all those years. I'd like to see them play Chelsea or Juventus. Could mean the end of American major-league soccer as we know it. Anyhow, the stuff I read today interested me. Beckham and his wee Spice-wife are the perfect "Hollywood-style" additions for a deal of this sort. Guess who's a goin' to be in picktchahs? Little Vicki, that's who. But at the same time, I'm sort of hoping his addition will lend some credibility to the U.S. soccer league. He has to know how much they suck...there's no question. He's taking a very advantageous step--basically getting into a league that he could conceivably end up running someday. Plus Little Vicki can be in picktchahs.


I'm ready to relax. I think it's reading time now.

This weekend I hope to see: Laura--she's back from Chicago and I miss her. Steve--because I almost always want to see him.

That's about it.

All my ex-somethings are rising....

WOW.

I just sent two "leave me the hell alone" emails in five minutes.

One of my exes just emailed me and asked for my number again. Consider this: the last time I had contact with him over the phone, he called me (drunk and I think high) at 4:00am, and after telling me he was being chased by his (forgive my crassness) baby-mama with a knife, SHE then started calling my number. At 4:00am. On a Monday night.

Good lord.



It's amazing how fast the "leave me the hell alone" email flew from my hands after briefly considering the most direct, yet least vicious way to get the point across.

So I reply:

Hey ______,

Not to make you mad, but I'm afraid I am not going to give you my number. The drama in your life, and mainly your relationship with ________, is nothing I want to contend with. So pretty much you shouldn't be messing with talking to me, even as a friend.

Hope your family and your new son are all doing well, in any case.

And I am doing fairly "awesome," thank you for asking. :^)


~Caroline



And then there's the other guy. While an extremely intelligent, talented and all-around pretty nifty feller, he sometimes acts a bit unbalanced and somewhat snappy--or at least, towards me.

I told him I don't really want to hang out with him, because he made me feel shitty last time I ran into him. Soooo, I guess that's that. I hope he doesn't want to "discuss" it, because frankly I just don't have the energy anymore.


When did I become so blunt? I don't regret writing either email, but still I feel guilty. Sigh.

I guess I'm just tired of interacting with people who make me feel like I'm screwed up when I am doing nothing to deserve it.

The last few days for me have been...well, what have they been like? I guess I feel like I've been trying to climb a mountain made of satin.


Projects, ideas, good things, bad things--they've been coming and going with alarming speed. I've got a weekly to-do list at my work that is running about twenty-five items long, and my personal one is running about a third longer than that. And it's not that I'm not being productive--I definitely am. It's just that the small things keep piling, fortified by the occasionally seemingly un-doable task.

I'll pat myself on the back, though. Not counting all accomplished at work (not enough but I already worked 45 minutes of overtime today and them sinuses is draggin' me, baby, draggin' me!), between yesterday and today I have:

Read a book
Practiced my Spanish a lot
Made copies of all my published writings
Sent a thank-you package to my step-grandfather.
Mailed a packet of clips to O. Rios at Rockabilly Magazine.
Watched a movie
Wrote two pages for a Swedish magazine who wanted to interview us.


...and now, on to the completion of that list.

I'm tired, and I just want to be petted. Guess I'll go pet my cats.

Digby go buh-bye.

I've made a final decision to sell my 1964 Plymouth Valiant, Digby. Sigh. I don't really want to, but I have to face the fact that I'm not going to work on him--ever, not with all the other stuff I have going on. Better to take the money I get from him and sink it into some of that, anyhow.

I had a cozy and fantastic New Year's, one of the best ever...chock-full of old videos and new belongings, which with the usual fluid conversation, added immeasurably to the sparkle of numerous hazelnut-citrus spritzers, red wine, and champagne. And yes, I *did* have a headache this morning.

So--it's 2007. I'm hoping this year will unfurl slowly and then at some point burst forth, with riotous color, the fruit of all my labors. And then I savor, and savor, and digest...and then the process, I am sure, will begin again. Such is my particular cycle of creativity.

July 29, 1972

In Maryville, Missouri, I was born at 5:06pm. In Burbank, California, Wil Wheaton's mom was in labor, too.

Some other people also born on July 29th are:

Benito Mussolini
Clara Bow
Johannes Schmidt
Stephen Dorff
William Powell
Diana Vreeland
Elizabeth Short (the Black Dahlia)
Peter Jennings
Alexis de Tocqueville
Charlie Christian
Ken Burns


I still feel ucky, but a whole bunch better than I did yesterday. If I get ten hours of sleep tonight, I might just be good as new for when I see Steve again tomorrow. I'm completely looking forward to it, and to spending my New Year's Eve with him.

Blecch.

I awoke this morning with a swollen throat, at least a up of phlegm roiling within, an excruciating headache, and a ridiulous level of body aches. Nothing feels feverish or I'd worry it's the flu, but I don't feel good nonetheless. I went to work for a few hours this morning--cranky, in no mood to deal with the madcap minutae that so regularly arrives in my Outlook email. Normally I enjoy tackling this, but today? All I could do was stare bleary-eyed while I trried to make some sense of the boxes and binders I needed to send to different sites today, and not thinking clearly enough to do it properly. Oh, they went on their way, but I'm sure I made mistakes. I'll find out on Tuesday.

I stopped by CM on the way home for provisions--soup, chicken, rolls, good ol' greens; I even got a little container of chocolate-dipped macaroons, and a small serving of mac & cheese. Hey, I'm sick! I need this stuff. At least, that's how I justifed it. Bleary-eyed and aching, I ate it and watched a forgettable movie starring Luke Wilson and slept for hours.

Headhache has lessened as have the body aches, but we'll see where I can go from here.

Christmas, for me.

It was a fun, festive evening at Kevin & Justine's new place in the country. I made Christmas ornaments with their kids Dixon and Delia. Delia is two and has an insatiable urge for Hershey's Kisses and her ornaments reflected this. Dixon is five can count to 100 by tens and spell "w-h-i-t-e." I ate green cornflake cookies, drank hot apple cider, talked for a long time about history and Native Americans with Gary Claxton and Brendan Ryan. I sat on a fat leather couch in a big old farmhouse with transoms above every door and 14-foot ceilings. I drank a glass of wine and talked about memories and the startling smallness of this global world with Jim and Dana Stringer. On the way out to their house, I talked to my little brother; on the way home, I talked to my mother.

Once I got home,I started thinking about friends I hadn't seen or heard from in ten or more years. I found a couple of them through internet searches and attempted contact. We'll see how that turns out. Then before I knew it, I was plopped down on the floor by my bed in slippers and sweater with a kitty beside me, opening envelope after envelope of old letters, love letters, postcards, vintage magazines, collages. I remembered Christopher James Wilson, and hoped he got his PhD and started that blues band he always wanted to do. I re-read affectionately disjointed letters from Aaron Brizendine and hoped that he had overcome some of his mental issues. I wondered what became of Dave Moyer. I remembered which girlfriend sent me that unsigned postcard. For all of these, I tried to find them on the internet...because to me, finding an article or a site or SOMETHING on there usually means that the person has evolved up and out in the world and not folded within themselves into a small, small world.

Small worlds are sad to me, and always have been. It's one thing to live in a simple world with carefully chosen people--but an isolated mind that chooses not to seek out the expansiveness of education and inspiration, well...that's the saddest place I know of. Another example is someone who lives in a fantasy world of their own potential--where their dreams and wishes flourish in their heads but still go unvoiced. We all do this to some extent, but there are more serious cases. I know them--I have even been in love with them. They do not know how to allow anyone into their lives close enough to even share these dreams. It's too scary for them, or they are afraid they'll "jinx" it. Whatever. As we all know, our mind is our own worst enemy when it comes to tearing us down. So these people may have a brilliant idea that they know would make them happy, but they don't share it with others and eventually the mind breaks it down with something like "You'll never achive that--in a world of black tuxedoes, you're just a pair of brown shoes." With no one else to bolster, the ideas drown in infancy, bogged down by the mind's negative sludge, never to rise again.

I digress.

I went for a midnight drive after reading these bittersweet old letters. I bought a tin of those old-fashioned Christmas candies which I have always loved. You the kind--all manner of bright colors with almost indistinguishable flavors?

The kid in the checkout said, "Yeah, my grandfather still always eats those. They stick together in a big lump and you hafta break them up with a fork to separate them. I wouldn't touch 'em." This put a Cheshire cat-like grin across my face. I thanked him and took my "grandpa candies" with me. Hooray for grandpa candies!

Here's a picture...they had stuck together in one big lump and I had to separate them with a fork. Yep.




I slept well last night. I dreamt of travel and people and places, as usual. I dreamed of being sought after--both negative and positive, and a common dream for me. This morning, Christmas morning, I am alone. Am I sad? Not really. Wishing for more? Definitely. I would enjoy spending my Christmas with loved ones. I need them around me, and I'm not going to say I don't or that I don't feel a bit lonely today. However this "separated" feeling is something I'm used to, so instead I just try to enjoy my solitude, recognize and ackowledge those sucky little feelings, and be thankful for those whom I hold dear. I could use some hugs, some kisses and generally cherished feelings...I could use some "sit down at the table and talk" times, but I shall have them. So what if it's not on December 25? Hollow as it may sound to even my own ears today, I shall eat my grandpa candies and watch movies and read books and work on creating a better environment for my own inner world.

Caroline Casey attacks a Yahoo! media writer....

Hehehe...before you read this, please know that I myself am highly amused and somewhat ashamed of myself for even being ired enough to write such a passionate response to today's shining example of the drivel that makes headline news on the Yahoo! front page.

But anyway, I'll place it here just so you too can make fun of me and my "righteous" anger. Ha!

***************************************
THE ARTICLE on Yahoo! front page--Sat Dec 23, 2006:

End of a Childhood Ritual
Posted by Cheryl Koch, M.S., R.D.
on Thu, Dec 07, 2006, 9:30 am PST

One of my fondest childhood memories is licking the bowl clean of batter when my grandmother or mother baked cookies and cakes. As far as I was concerned, the best part of any baked dessert was the raw batter before it was placed in the oven.

Today, as the mother of a young child, I'm the one who's busy trying out new recipes for the holidays, and my son is my kitchen helper. But I now find myself hesitating to pass on that bowl I once savored so much.

I'm a nutritionist, after all, so I'm more aware than most people of the warnings about raw batter, homemade mayonnaise, and egg-laden sauces like Caesar dressing and Hollandaise sauce. The reason is a type of bacteria called salmonella enteritidis that's found in raw eggs. It was once thought that salmonella only infected eggs whose shells were cracked. Now experts have determined that all eggs carry the risk of salmonella.

To avoid the risks associated with salmonella and raw eggs, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention suggests the following recommendations:

-Keep eggs refrigerated and promptly refrigerate unused or leftover foods that contain eggs both cooked and raw.
-Discard cracked or dirty eggs.
-Follow basic food safety rules, such as proper hand-washing and cleaning cooking utensils with soap and water after contact with raw eggs.
-Eat eggs promptly after cooking. Do not keep eggs warm or at room temperature for longer than 2 hours.
-Avoid eating raw eggs in homemade ice cream or eggnog. Commercially manufactured ice cream and eggnog are made with pasteurized eggs and have not been linked with salmonella enteritidis infections.
-Avoid restaurant dishes made with raw or undercooked, unpasteurized eggs. Restaurants should use pasteurized eggs in any recipe that calls for raw eggs, such as Hollandaise sauce or Caesar salad dressing. If you have concerns, ask your server if pasteurized eggs are used at that establishment.
-An estimated one in 10,000 eggs carries salmonella bacteria that may cause serious problems in children, the elderly, and people with weak immune systems. So take heed. Just because the egg looks clean and the shell is intact, it still isn't safe to lick the bowl.




MY COMMENT:

I guess it's your job to warn the public on such a "health risk." Thank you, Cheryl, for letting us know about your own neurotic decision to end a time-honored tradition in your family, as a result of your own overprotectiveness. And thank you for attempting to present us with these facts without "officially" advising the public to do the same. The slant of your article is obvious--you're just HINTING that we should do the same. I get it...to do anything otherwise would just make us bad parents.

Frankly, you'd hold more journalistic credibility if you presented in your article a recorded example of even one case of a child dying from salmonella caught from "licking the bowl." Even that would be enough to satisfy me, as I'm sure other people would too. I can just see it now...scads of rolls of raw cookie dough yanked from refrigerator aisles in supermarkets coast to coast; front-page news of the latest salmonella outbreaks; tearful mothers being interviewed on "60 Minutes", sobbingly lamenting, "Oh, if ONLY I hadn't fed little Jimmy the cookie dough. But I thought it was SAFE! They told me it was SAFE!"...and so on.

This article is of exactly the same ilk as the myriad of other alarmist viewpoints the mainstream media feeds the general public. The world's already faced The Black Death, and cookie dough just isn't a second coming. Yahoo! is really reaching, as usual. Please understand, it's not that I'm holding you personally responsible--your article is typical of Yahoo!'s pseudo-factual journalism...publishing opinion pieces by random "experts", carefully crafted to appear as hard news. I only hope they paid you a pretty penny.


'Tis the season, I suppose.

Busy with bizarrilarities.

The other day, I baked cookies. I have to say, although I bake fairly often, I'm pretty happy with how these turned out. I made chocolate/vanilla, vanilla/peppermint, chocolate/peppermint varieties.

Then earlier this week, I watched "ladies who lunch" having lunch. We're talking four-pound diamond rings, and glitzy shoes and fur purses. They were awesome and I had a difficult time not staring (and, obviously, taking pictures) whilst stabbing my shrimp pasta with a fork.



THE WORD ON THE STREETS:



Tonight some kid who works at Target made me feel like Julia Roberts in that scene of "Pretty Woman" where she gets shooed out of the store because she's not classy enough. He even had other customers giving me dirty looks. Now THAT was an odd experience.

Steve is one super-duper person--he amazes me constantly.

A certain business I know asked me to play their Christmas Party this year, but said they were too broke to pay me to play. Needless to say, I couldn't do it for free. I just looked at the bill and I have to admit that I concluded that what money they *could* spend was probably going to a certain Austin rockabilly band (and probably after that, right up the nose of its lead singer).

I love my newest nerdy little computer game. I also plan to play board games if at all possible while I'm off work for four days.

I feel good.

I always feel like I give Monica short shrift and so this year, while I was able, I decided to go all out for her. Sometimes I feel like she doesn't look to me for the same kind of friendship as I look to her, but then again she's a supremely independent sort who while in tough times is MORE than there for her friends, she doesn't lean on them in kind when things are tough in her world. So I shouldn't feel too hurt by that, I guess.

Anyway, warm fuzzies have ensued as this email was waiting for me today when I checked it.

********************
Hey sweetie,

Thanks so much for the cake, the massive stash of goodies, cool basket,
gift card, and for being a good friend. The Reece's and red vines are
almost gone and the cake made for a delicious late night snack and
yummy breakfast. You outdone yourself on this bday present!!! Thanks so
much I love it and appreciate the effort you made to make my bday
special. The tres leches cake is the best I've had and makes La
Mexicana's seem like crap.

You are a good friend and a kick ass chick! I feel very fortunate to
have such cool peeps in my friendship posse. I love you! Thanks again
for everything! If you are hankerin' for some cake today give me a
holler.

Kisses,
Mon

***********************************************

Not so bad after all....

Julie pointed out that I've done a lot this year. I suppose it's true.

1) Moved to a new home
2) Started a new temp job
3) Got hired permanently at said job
4) Lived for a month off of one week's pay
5) Paid off the IRS monies owed since 1997
6) Got my student loan out of default
7) Booked some great California dates
8) Fell for someone
9) Totalled one car
10) Negotiated way over the car's worth and got the money
11) Paid $3000.00 down on a new car
12) Got a loan to buy a 2006 Kia Rio5 Hatchback
13) Put on several giant shows
14) Got in two car accidents
15) Learned the value of a chiropractor
16) Improved my credit noticeably (as in, I'm now approved more often)
17) Gone on more than one solo camping trip
18) Drank a lot
19) Ate a lot--I put on fifteen pounds
18) Recorded and mixed down a demo
19) Wrote ten new songs
20) Climbed a mountain
21) Got all my money stolen out of my bank account
22) Got a new, local bank account


Now, 2007? Let's see:

1) Start back to school (in production)
2) Visit Uncle Sam
3) Record/release Casey Sisters CD/DVD package (in production--they went for it!)
4) Play in Europe once more (in production)
5) Record with Don Cavalli
6) Get a raise
7) Visit my mom
8) Finish my solo album (in production)
9) HOPEFULLY no more car wrecks
10) Meet someone who falls for ME in return (in production?)
11) Drink less
12) Eat less--LOSE fifteen pounds (SHOULD BE in production)
13) Take a trip to Big Bend
14) Jaunt off to Mexico for a few
15) Refinance car
16) Start 401K at new employer
17) Start savings account (in production)
18) Get a little Schnauzer (okay, so maybe he'll be more 2008 or 2009)
19) Buy a powerbook
20) Buy a nice guitar
21) Buy a decent bed

O me, that melancholy martyr.

Today I am experiencing a very odd mix of feeling both sentimental and cynical. I want to cherish, and be cherished by, those who are in my life. I want them to call me, I want them to say they care about me and that I make their lives wonderful. I want to hear words like "I value you" or "I miss you," or "I admire you," and yes, even "I love you." Lip-service may not pay much in the long run, but I'm pretty broke right now. I could use some.

This mood is probably hormonal, in all honesty...but just the same, sometimes a person such as I gets tired of being the one who usually reaches out. It happens so naturally for me. I love to love people. Then occasionally, on days like today, I may just be doing myself a disservice. Because truth be told, if I look at myself harshly as I am wont to do, it's almost like I'm "lying in wait", expecting the ones I love to do something for me in return. I want a "gesture", if you will. Grand it need not be...small ones please me on the same scale as a great one. But even the fact that I want that or need that is hard for me to accept.

As I said, this is probably a hormonal thing, but it's still valid. I just usually don't need it so strongly, or feel the need to voice it.

I feel a lot lonely, and a little sad today.

Well, I have moved over to this site to satisfy my bloggeristic tendencies. Don't mind if I do. I'm sick to death of Myspace, plus this site's better for older blog archives, and I also know more than a few people whose blogs reside on this site.

This Saturday is "road-trip" night. I'm going to San Antonio, hopefully with at least one other warm body, and I'm going to see Barbara Lynn play at Sam's Burger Joint.

Barbara Lynn rocks the funky beat. I'm hoping to talk to her and schmoozle her and hug her and thank her for doing what she does. 'Cause I'm a nerd like that.

Good god.

Sigh...

Back in Chicago and I fly home this evening. My feet seem to have been surgically removed and replaced with two burning tender stumps of pulpy flesh. Remind me not to wear high heels for about three years.

Each night has been a tour of liquor-ish flavors what with margaritas, whiskey drinks, gin and tonics. Spent much time running around with the WEFM, (wee elusive Frenchmen) including Mr. Don Cavalli. That rocked. He's a feisty one...and so wee! Oui.

I am proud to announce several things regarding music.

1) Jerry Lee Lewis showed up and played his heart and soul and guts out. He really is a killer-diller, despite being about four-hundred and seventy-three.

2) I met Ike Turner and he was awesome. He was looking at me so I walked up to him and mumbled something akin to, "I-I-I- wanna mettchou." He was muscular and compact, wearing an expensive track suit and possibly the bling-iest Star of David necklace I've ever seen. I asked him if people recognize him a lot and he gruffed, "Yeh." He offered to get his picture taken with me and so there is now one with me, Ike Turner, Brad Fordham, Lisa Pankratz, and Marti Brom. When I get it I'll post it.

3) Barbara Lynn, soul chanteuse and ass-kicking thumb-picking left-handed funk guitarist, played this festival and I about died when she tore into "You'll Lose a Good Thing." Hot damn, but I love that song. She talked non-stop patter withthe audience, drawing them willingly into her personality until we all stood transfixed, temporarily rendered helpless by an urge to either scream out, "A-MEN, sistah!" or plunge headlong into background vocals, doo-wop hands, shiny costumes, and fake hair.

Whoops! Already got the fake hair bit covered. In fact, I'm already there.

Anyhow, I decided Barbara Lynn is the compendium of bad-ass women musicians. She really TRULY rocks that funky beat...plus she lives in Beaumont and I'm gonna find her and sit down and have a chat.

More highlights later. Mostly I just want to go home and see my kitties, my bed, my cell phone which I lost, and a couple of my friends. Yay.

Nappie time.

The man is my weak spot, sho' nuff.

Drum roll please....my soul search at this weekend's Austin Record Convention is a Ruth Johnson recording for the Stax Records subdivision, Volt Records.

Specifically: Volt 133--Ruth Johnson's I'll Run Your Hurt Away/Weak Spot.
Produced by Isaac Hayes and David Porter, 1965.

I must own it. With lyrics like the following, how could I not?
******************************
WEAK SPOT
There he is
Standin' in the crowd
Whenever I see him
I wanna scream " I love you" out loud
The man is my weak spot!
Sho' nuff, he's my weak spot
I said the man is my weak spot
(Oooh, I'm gonna love him
Oh, I'm gonna love him right now)

I look so silly
To see what he wants
My heart says to grab him
But the pride, the pride says don't

I tell you he's my weak spot
So glad he's my weak spot
I said the man is my weak spot
I can't help it, I can't help it
The man can't help it, the man, the man, the man
The man is my weak spot!


I see him
And things jump up in my mind
My love stays warm for him
All of the time
I can't help it, he's my weak spot!
Sho' nuff, he's my weak spot
So take your hands off my weak spot
Don't mess with my weak spot
Cause I love, I love my weak spot
And I need, I need my weak spot

****************************

The last time I went on a search like this, it was an obscure song by Julie Driscoll & Brian Auger, from a 1964-1968 UK mod/R&B compilation.

I found it, too. Anyone want to come with me?

Engaging in A Solemn Pheromoney.

Here's a good article. Read before you read farther:

http://www.sfn.org/content/Publications/BrainBriefings/pheromones.html

**************************
Okay, Now we can get started.

The other night I hung out with Monica and was catching her up on all my latest exploits, what with the SXSW Film and music festival. Which included (but was not limited to) the oft-bawdy stories of the "Single SXSW'er." And this year, BOY, did I have a lot to tell her!

Basically it boiled down to me spilling out my general befuddlement regarding an increase in male attention that I have been getting recently. It's not necessarily a good or a bad thing...it just feels odd. Not that it matters or affects my personal life...every night when I go home, it's to my own two kitty-girls, by my choice. But I'm just frickin' perplexed.

I mean, I'm still the same person I was, so why? Is it just because I've decided to genuinely stay single? Or is the mystery of a more physical nature?

Monica seemed to think it's due to a combination of a rise in self-confidence, and my emission of personal pheromones. This theory compounded into a long and involved discussion of every possible factor of my sexuality and current emotional status. The question I never thought I'd have to ask: Am I in heat?

A smidge of disconcertion is beginning to settle upon me. I've met many people over the past couple of weeks. What's been happening is that I meet someone and they act as if they are drawn, SO drawn to me, that it doesn't feel real. It's like I slipped 'em a Mickey. And we're talking about people I know as well as those I don't. Am I projecting this or inviting this in some manner?

For instance, at Beerland last Sunday while I was talking to a certain person who happens to be male (and an interest of mine), ANOTHER guy I know (a very casual acquaintance) came up to me and gave me a hug...and then he looked at me with this funny little "noticing" look in his eye and started in on how I smelled of sunshine and green apples. What??? I mean, COME ON! Haha.

Of course I'd been go-go dancing all night so I was pretty sensitive that I was a bit on the odiferous side...but perhaps that was the attractor? I just don't know. Basically at that moment, it was a combination of girly sweat and hastily sprayed Mary Kay perfume. Huh.

Anyhow, the look in his eyes caught me off guard. I did a double take on his stare, even. He hovered there uncertianly, as if waiting for me to do something more, like maybe chat him up? I might have, I suppose, had I not been in mid chat-up with someone else.

That's just one example, but it really has been like that for the past month or two. Why? I can't figure it out. I mean, I'm the same person as I always was. I've put on a little more weight lately and frankly, haven't felt all that attractive the past few weeks due to said weight gain and overindulgence in blatantly supine activities. But that's just me, apparently.

Last night, I met what appears to be a stellar young man (who I actually DO hope to get to know better), but again I was faced with the pheromones dilemma. It was actually pretty humorous.

I'm sitting on the couch with him, pretending to read a newspaper but actually quite distracted by his presence, and he says all close in my ear, "You have an intriguing smell." Now, don't get me wrong, I think this young man is really unique and I don't think that what he said was pithy or inappropriate. But, given my 45-minute conversation with Monica on Friday night concerning my overactive pheromones, it was all I could do to keep a few chortles from bubbling out.

Not wanting to put him off or discount his statement, I lowered the paper and asked the air in front of me, "Would you say it's my pheromones?" An eager assent.

I nodded my head, knowingly.

*must not laugh out loud.* *must not laugh out loud.* *must not laugh out loud.* *must not laugh out loud.*

Perhaps I need to bottle up my secretions and send them to one of the numerous websites for one of those 'human pheromones' perfumes?

Ewwwwww. Never mind.

*********
By the way, what is WITH the pheromone-perfume thing? It's utterly laughable. To me it smacks of falseness akin to 'natural' breast enhancement, toupees, and water-bras. What happens when you run out of perfume? Do your minions hit the road? Are you forever enslaved to the pheromone perfume-maker? Immortal words, those: "It's not nice to fool with Mother Nature."

Pfffft. Spreading a liquid containing "human pheromones" on your upper lip. Like drops of acid for the lonely, desperate, and probably now-broke.

Indeed.

A moment in your life...and mine.

There's a question I thought of a few months back and I just remembered it again. Not that it could be answered in a larger sense, but still...many people, if they have had this experience, remember the moment with perfect clarity.

When was the exact moment you lost your innocence?

By this I mean a moment of clarity, a real comprehension of the harshness of life, followed by the inevitable depressing feeling that there is NOTHING you can do about it. Life will never be exactly what you want it to be.

Mine was sitting on my bed at age 11, staring my wall. It was marred with dirty fingerprints from many lonely patty-cake games, and the bottom half was scuffed with the marks from my stomping, frustrated feet. My mother had locked me in my room to pray. I remember feeling overwhelming despair, both at the situation and the realization that I had been fighting this very epiphany for almost three years.

Planning an adventure can really work! Part Two

Veering, screeching, careening, lurching, cursing, and leching brought me to the Alamo Drafthouse South at 1:45pm. I was in a hurry because I sure as hell wasn't about to pay for a SXSW filmpass and I wanted to make sure I could catch Rusty's short doc on the Ramones...and the Bob Wills one, too!

When I arrived, my poor car was begging for mercy and I was all business as I stepped out into the sunshine. Turns out the attendance was light and I saw hide nor hair of Rusty or Jason. Why weren't they there? It was Rusty's show, damn it! I went in and asked, and gave them his description should he walk in under my radar. I went into the new theater which still smelled like paint. I didn't know what to make of the comfortable seats and new method of ordering food (you stuck your order into a magnetic strip instead of on the little pole thingie).

I waited anxiously for their arrival and then finally realized, what the hell do I care if they're there or not? I was planning to come alone all that time anyway, so why was I being so anxious to find Rusty and Jason?

I sat back and watched the show. Rusty's film was the first. Was he there to see it? I couldn't waste my time looking around to find out. I watched as images of a teenage Rusty filled the screen, especially a particularly poignant moment where his buddy sniffs his armpit. I enjoyed Rusty's voiceover monologue a lot. The whole concept was so simple: I LOVE THE RAMONES.

With such a simple concept, one might surmise that the creator himself was simple as well. But I found the movie a lot like the person, from what I had observed in the past 24 hours. No frills, no pretentions. Purveyor of a simple idea with a sardonic, idiosyncratic quality and boyish intensity. Underneath, less obvious but equally important layers of softness and sentiment. Without those, the movie would have been total bullshit. Bravo, old chap! Bravo!

Following that was a tribute to Blue Rodeo, which was a well illustrated (literally) depiction of one fan's love for this band. Nicely done...but in the end, the band he spoke of was SO god-awful!!! It honestly ruined the entire short for me. For crying out loud, get some taste, man!

A short doc on jam sessions occurred after that which was interesting in theory, but way too scattered...followed by a documentary on a piano factory. I was interested in this at first as it was extremely well done...but soon I drifted off into a nap, and when I came to some guy was talking about piano auras and other existential theories which in my cranky waking state ruined the whole thing for me. I went back to sleep.

But then as the opening notes of "Faded Love" hit my ears, I sat up straight with eyes and ears wide open. The documentary on Bob Wills contained TONS of footage I had never seen, including the McKinney Sisters! I sat transfixed and teary-eyed throughout. It was wonderful.

After the lights came on they did a Q&A session and lo and behold! Rusty & Jason had made it in without my noticing. Rusty did a great Q&A job complete with an embarrassing moment for me, when he pointed to me and told people to go check out my band. Ay-yi-yi. Floor, swallow me now.

Having an adventurous mindset with no real objectives, I spent the rest of the day with those guys. We went to grab a bite at Casino and then Rusty did what I now know is "his thing" which is to sneak me into a party to which I am not invited. All of a sudden I am in a Directors' Guild of America party with a whiskey and coke in my hand and having an intense conversation with some cute producer fellow from Tucson. I told him the story of the human ear and we worked out a basic outline for the most effective telling.

On the whole, I found the hair in the affair to be a little too carefully feathered and tousled. I saw a few too many drunk skinny chicks hanging on the arms of guys wearing cool t-shirts under blazers, with jeans. What a larf. Oh, did I say "larf?" I meant "lark."

To top it all off I am talking with the fellow from Tucson when my Phoenix-based costume designer of a brother calls me to tell me he's passing through town. I give him directions to the party and he pulls up and for five minutes, he hobnobs with the Tucson producer. I give him a hug, and off he went. I probably won't see him again for yet another year.

By this point, my adventures had reached the pinnacle of surreal and things began to wind down. I had come to terms with my M.O. for the day, which was to adopt an uncharacteristic "lamb-who-follows-unquestioningly" approach to my night with the Film Dudes (which is the name I gave them in my cell phone).

This brought me to the Paramount theater and the premier of "Drop Dead Sexy" starring Jason Lee and Crispin Glover (reference a few blogs back for other projects of Crispie's). Unfortunately I couldn't hang when the guys tried to sneak me in, so I left...but then I realized I could *gasp!* PAY for a ticket to see the movie. I did, and I laughed and laughed all the way through....a guilty laugh, for what I heard in the murmers surrounding me, those in the film industry apparently thought it was "obvious." That's cool...they're about their films like I'm about roots music. I'll gladly make fun of any band with a big orange Gretsch as being "too obvious" any day.

Afterward we traipsed down to the Dicks reunion part 2, where I gradually realized my adventures had gotten the best of me. I took my leave of everybody, went home and passed out. Adventures complete!

ADVENTURES OF A DIFFERENT ILK
When I woke up yesterday I found out poor Emily's car had gotten broken into, wrecked and her stereo stolen. Our plumbing has a leak that has slowly but THOROUGHLY mildewed both of our closets, and I learned that we have an untameable hornet/mosquito/wasp issue, and that our bathroom window fell out out of the frame.

Nonplussed, I took the dog and escaped to Town Lake. It was an amazing day outside; warm and sunny with a strong, cool breeze. We happened upon a kite festival and so I lay down, staring in silence at all the kites in the sky above me. Roxy sat quietly next to me, nose pointed upward, doing the same. I got pegged in the side with a kite, too. Awesome. :)

What a fantastic weekend.

Planning an adventure can sometimes really work! Part One

I got off work on Friday evening with no plans in sight, and I felt strangely comfortable with this. Unfortunately this means I started off my weekend with a comfy nap, so I didn't make my braised artichoke stuffed with sun-dried tomato and ricotta as I had planned....BUT I WILL! Never fear.

Around 8:30 I hit Noel Waggener's art opening at Little City. He's a really amazing poster artist, in my opinion. It's a highbrow approach to lowbrow culture, and cool as all hell. I met some good people, too; a girl named Erin, and a few visiting from out of town who were very pleasant young men indeed.

Around 11 after a couple of plastic cups of wine and as yet no food, I made my exit and drove on down the road in search of something yet to be discovered. Somehow I ended up at the Dicks reunion show which I hadn't previously considered , because it cost too danged much.

But, my mood was propelling me and so I paid twelve bucks to get in....and promptly left, in search of I know not what (except maybe my freebie drink from my favorite Casino bartendress). On the way to Casino I unexpectedly ran into the wee clairvoyant yellow-ascot-wearing Austrian filmmaker (reference blog from early last week, and hereby to be referred to as the WCYAWAF). He was sitting with another fairly lost-looking filmmaker guy...but they were sitting all close and intimate which made me feel odd, so what do I do? I insensitively drag them both to Casino with me to sit at the bar while they drink water and watch me watch my ex-boyfriend and down whiskey and cokes...until at some point I realized that THIS was no adventure whatsoever. It was just pathetic.

So, I bid the WCYAWAF and his ambiguous buddy farewell, and tottered off back to Room 710 to get my goddamned money's worth. On the way I ate an al pastor taco. As I munched I idly wondered why I paid 12 bucks to get into the Dicks not even knowing if I would stay, but by then I had already paid and already left and come back to 710, so too little thought too late. Shrug.

I went in and Frankie's band was playing furiously and he looked adorable. That guy is the compendium of adorable anyway. He really is one of the gentlest and sweetest souls I know in this town.

I love his stage presence. He got all bloody and so I got all mama on him and warshed his wounds and chided him even though I know when I play and get blood all over my guitar I never EVER give a shit. I watched the Dicks reunion and all the people watching the Dicks reunion and it was a pretty damned good show.

Afterwards I whisked Frankie off to my house to make him sandwiches because as I said, I got all mama on his ass. I grilled up a feta-mozzerella-red-pepper-spinach-sundried tomato sandwich just for him and we sat in the living room hanging out with Cary and Emily for a while.

Then I took him back to his house and found out two fabulous things: 1) Frankie now lives in a house on the street behind me; and 2) his great roommate had a fellow staying with her that I had kind of wanted to meet even a couple of weeks ago, when I first heard about the 'Ramones and I" short documentary which was to be aired this week at the SXSW filmfest. So I went over to Frankie's and met Rusty Nails and his friend 'Tall Guy' Jason (who has obviously never met Westen, who is 7 foot 2). I really loved meeting them both; they were interested and interesting, friendly, dynamic people.

I talked with them for a while, getting all geeky and playing them the Casey Sisters and talking about loads of music and movies. I drove home (I don't know why I was driving, my house was a three-minute walk from there) and slept well with my girls by my side.

I slept well in part because I had NO idea what I was going to do today (Saturday). I figured that my evening's solo adventures could be considered a rousing success and more fun than I would have thought imaginable for planning jack-shit...so as I drifted off to sleep I resolved that the next day I would have yet MORE adventures.

And what do you know? I awoke this morning and DID have more adventures! I'll tell you about them in the morning. I've got to get some rest because tomorrow is going to be another adventure-filled day. I'm learning this because 1) I have no set plans, and 2) even if I just end up cleaning my room, I am quickly re-learning that "adventure" is merely a state of mind.

But then again, so's "drunk."
*hic*

The WCYAWAF.

So I met a wee, clarivoyant Austrian man over the weekend.

He was hip and droll....but mainly just wee. He stills sticks in my mind today because he was such a character. He wore a yellow scarf as an ascot and talked about reflexology and other odd, mystic beliefs. He's a filmmaker who moved from Vienna to Austin only 3 weeks ago. He was charming, but DEFINITELY a weirdie. I was strangely drawn to him, the way one can occasionally be to weirdies. It's not "Can I touch you?", but
Can I watch you?"

I even think he said something about having been involved with a cult, too. Maybe he's here to start the Austin chapter of "cult of the yellow-scarf-as-ascot". Not that we don't have enough of those here...they just stay indoors except for the Eeyore festival is all.

It's not every day one meets an ascot-wearing wee clairvoyant Austrian man, so I felt I should make note of it.

He told me the Austrian word for "mullet," too. Wahoo! (Uh, NO. It's not "wahoo.")

Oh, yes! One more thing. True to form, my inbox this morning had yet another apropo "Word of the Day." How do they do it?
**************************************
Word of the Day for Monday March 7, 2005

fey \FAY\, adjective:
1. Possessing or displaying a strange and otherworldly aspect
or quality; magical or fairylike; elfin.
2. Having power to see into the future; visionary;
clairvoyant.
3. Appearing slightly crazy, as if under a spell; touched.
4. (Scots.) Fated to die; doomed.
5. (Scots.) Marked by a sense of approaching death.