My housemate, Amy, has a problem. She’s obsessed with spoons. Bowls too, but that one I can let slide because really, between cereal, ramen and ravioli, I can use a LOT of bowls. However, the spoon thing is becoming an issue. Of course with the cereal, ramen and ravioli I’m using a lot of spoons and all the ladies who put stuff in their coffee use spoons for THAT, and there’s a lot of ice cream ingested straight from the carton (guilty!) – we also butter a lot of bread, put cream cheese on a lot of bagels, eat a lot of peanut butter and ALSO jelly (and in extreme situations banana) and in general, have a need for other types of silverware. My theory is that the spoons have ganged up on the knives. We only have six knives and 14 forks but we have 36 spoons and a spork!
I went back later in the day to double check on the spork. I had niggling concerns that I’ve merely caught one of the forks in the midst of metamorphosis, on its way towards becoming one of the spoons. Or perhaps that it’s an infiltrator on BEHALF of the spoon army.
In short, there is war going on in the silverware drawer. I’m trying to keep them evenly balanced in the dishwasher lest this too become another battleground, as under the water is a cold, horrible place to die. The depths… the pressure… the solitude.
Art Isaacs running sound at the Seventh Heaven Stage at the Takoma Park Folk Festival.
Amy claims that she can explain: “ I collected all the pieces I could locate of Dad’s old silverware set and brought them home, to alleviate the drawer crowding that so upsets you 🙂 Unfortunately, this seems to have decimated our knife population. I could bring home a new breeding pair… ?”
Austin Stahl performing at my first Trax on Wax open mic. I was really surprised by the number of people that turned out. I was expecting it to be underpopulated but people were already there trying to sign up the moment I walked in the door. I guess the idea that Catonsville is in desparate need of something like this is dead on. Brennan Kuhns playing at my open mic at Trax on Wax in Catonsville, MD. Yes – that’s a Takoma Baritone guitar and it’s HUGE – Brennan has NOT shrunk. Meep! I have not at ALL learned how to control an open mic with a drumkit present. I’ll have to practice that. In general it’s a lot of fun to be doing something completely DIFFERENT, but I’m not entirely sure how to own the space, where to PUT stuff without it being in the way, and I CLEARLY need a new extension cord + another powerstrip. Sigh. Shopping, shopping, shopping. But the owner DID give me a copy of the original Battlestar Galactica Soundtrack. It’s a record and I’ll probably never touch it to a needle (I’ve got it on mp3 anywho), but an mp3 icon will never get CLOSE to the beauty of that album cover hanging above my desk. Oooooohhh Athena. How I coveted thee.
But she didn’t. Even though the forking could’ve brought more forks, apparently spooning brings about just as much procreation, whereas knifing is inherently negative to the population. We’re screwed unless we import something from an outside reserve, and I’ve got a shopping list at which knives fall right at the bottom.
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Kristen says everything’s just hunky-dory: “That’s OK, we’ll just continue to use the cats’ tails to spread cream cheese on our bagels (they’re self-cleaning so we don’t have to put them in the dishwasher).” But no – if we continue to ignore the problem and just make do, it’s going to get worse.
How do I know?
Because the fucking spork’s gone missing!
Today was a long, long zombie of a day. Dead but still moving, grey and sluggish. Obviously a Romero-zombie of a day. It passed with no urgency, but you knew it was going to get you in the end, and every time I thought I had it beat, I rounded the corner and lo! (and also behold!) more of this same damned day.
My brother George, his wife Del and their dog Pica have moved back to the United States! They’ve got a new place in DC and we all went for a walk to get dinner the other night. Zorba’s! What a mediocre place! And contrary to what they say on the phone, no dogs are ACTUALLY allowed on their patio!
Oh Monday, today was one of the most Monday of Mondays that I’ve ever fought my way through. Perhaps it was the beauty of the weekend compared with the drabness of today. Perhaps it was the threat but never-quite-the-reality of the rain. Perhaps it was breaking down all the sodden, squishing, beetle-infested cardboard for recycling day… perhaps it’s the way my fingers just don’t want to cooperate with me.
Had some new faces at my open mic at Trax on Wax in Catonsville, MD. Above is Just Say Hello. Great vocals and a good combination of piano and drums. A good new find. And familiar faces too – Transcendent Third at Trax on Wax being streamed Live. Hannah Munch
Last night I couldn’t sleep. That’s hardly anything new. I usually can’t. It seems that my DESIRE for 9 hours has fallen afoul of my ABILITY to get four hours, and my desires aren’t ever going to be able to get a foothold again. I’m too warm, too moist, too hyper, too tired to fall asleep. The humidity in my lair takes its toll, or the shapes in the dark prey on my imagination. Perhaps I start thinking about my future, or perhaps it’s the haunting of my past. Sometimes I miss my father, and sometimes I worry about my mother. Sometimes I’m too busy thinking about tomorrow and all too often I’m just unable to stop the buzzing of my brain, pummel my pillow into something palatable, and simply drift away. These insomnia-laden nights come in herds, so I can expect more of the same tonight.
Last night, I finally slipped asleep around 5 only to be awoken by the rain. There are worse ways to gain consciousness. Of course, it kind of made me wanna pee, but once that was perpetrated the sound lulled me back to somnolence. I was just settling into a dream where I was plugging in to play with White Rose Confession when I was snapped back out of it by my alarm. I’d unpacked my stand, tuned my guitar, placed my amplifier up on the rack, plugged in the distortion pedal to the 9V power supply… I was JUST about to plug my new purple guitar cord into the amp as Jay lay down the rhythm behind me and I lost the thread. It was agonizing.
I’ve been thinking about playing electric all day. I daydreamed about it while I tried to focus on other things. I worked out the order of my effects pedals on the drive home, sometimes losing track of where I was. Silence reigned in the car as I visualized plugging one thing into the next, trying to remember if I had enough little connectors. I’d recently found an old compressor and my old bass wah. I’ve borrowed a tremolo from Kate Maguire of Beggar’s Ride. I haven’t plugged in my Micro Metal Muff in weeks and my Bad Horsey was just begging to wah. And I was craving to wah it.
I frightened away the zombies and the doldrums. I’ve played with whines of feedback, throbbing vibrato sounds, screaming wah noises and digital delay pulses. It’s been very satisfying.
Then I made the mistake of sitting upstairs watching Glee with my housemates for five minutes. It reminded me that I’ll never have the voice. I’ll never have the abs. I’ll never by 20 again. I’ll never have a willing audience of millions not caring that we’re using autotune in a bathroom duet, playing music that’s written for people who are known mostly for their bodies and their sexual antics, with their words being a sad fifth place behind whatever beat was set up by their producer. Suddenly I feel like I’m dead but still moving, grey, and really fucking sluggish.
