Sigur Ros tickets are on sale. Get them before the scalpers do.
I will be at the Avalon show and the Copley show. I got presale tickets for the Copley show, and have no idea where my seats are. Guess I will be surprised when I get there… but since I’ll be close enough for shoe-licking at the Avalon, it won’t matter so much if the seats at Copley aren’t so great. The sound will be good.
It’s going to be awesome.
July has been a crappy month. Rent hikes and pay cuts, sickness and what seemed like a decade of fog. Every high must be balanced by a low, and June was so much fun I guess I had to pay for it somehow.
Last week I got the flu on the first really hot day of the summer. I was flattened on my couch with a fan blowing on me, too tired to even watch TV. It was the kind of heat where sweat drips on the backside of your knees. With a fever, well, let’s just say that was kind of knarly.
Whenever I get sick I get really freaked out about my mortality. I don’t know why because I believe in reincarnation and I am not so much scared of death as I am of my body failing. The day after the worst of it, when I was able to sit up again, I spent the whole day angsting out about all the horrible things that could be inside of me waiting to come out. It’s so hard to live in these times, when there are so many physical things to be frightened of. I thought myself into a corner, convinced I had a really scary disease. Sickness does bizarre shit to my brain. Especially when it happens in the middle of the summer when you aren’t suppose to get the flu. It must be something worse, but just SEEMS like the flu…
But of course it was not something worse and it was just the flu (I think.) It’s strange how being physically unbalanced can make your mind go a little batty.
During my temporary insanity, while I was looking for symptoms of all my new diseases, I found the Death Clock. According to the Death Clock, I will live until 2044. I have a lifetime subscription to Rolling Stone magazine, and they seem to think I am going to be around until 2054. While I’m not sure that is possible, it’s nice to know statistics are on my side.
It’s almost August, and believe me, I’d rather be writing about shows at the Hollywood Bowl with drag queens dressed as cheerleaders and quaking walls of sound. August, though it won’t be the killerfest June was, will definitely be better. Already, as I pet my new iPod my brother gave me today, things seem a little better. And for the moment, all thoughts of dying have gone into the fog at the back of my head, until the next time I can’t get off the couch.
When I was in the 7th grade, I had a big crush on a boy named Alex. He was blond and had the face of an angel. If I’d known Botticelli paintings in the 7th grade, I’d say Alex resembled something out of one. But I didn’t know Botticelli, yet.
In the perfect 7th grade world of 1977/1978, if you liked a boy, you would go to the dance and slow-dance to “Stairway to Heaven” with him. This was the be-all end-all of the romantic junior high school mind. I spent way too much time obsessing on this in the Fall of 1977. Me, Alex, colored lights and “Stairway to Heaven.” If only it would Really Happen.
But the 7th grade is a hotbed of gossip and scandal. And there was another girl after Alex. Her name was Toni. Neither of us was particularly pretty, so the fight for Alex was fairly even, except that Toni had one thing I lacked – claws.
I don’t even know how it came about that the whole school, it seemed, knew about me, Toni, and Alex. How did they know? I certainly wasn’t talking about it. It was a whisper, then a shout – who will dance “Stairway to Heaven” with Alex? Then, the day of the dance, during gym, Toni came with her friends and starting yelling at me. I yelled back, though I was absolutely terrified. It almost came to blows. I can still see her Filippino face, turning all pink and twisted as she yelled. It was pretty fucking scary. Then she walked away.
Shortly after, still shaking a little, I was approached by my own set of best friends. Their faces were grim. They led me solemnly to the girl’s bathroom, where, they told me, Toni had left a little something for me.
I entered the bathroom and almost died. All over the walls, doors, and mirrors, Toni had written every possible slur she could think of, with a thick, blue marker. My name and a thousand cliches swam at me from all directions. It was a brutal and heartless thing to do, and for no real reason, because Alex would choose who he would choose with no help from us. You’d think only a 7th grader could be so brutal, but then you grow up.
Though the ink was permanent, I don’t think it remained on the walls very long. I never went to the principal, because that was just not done. I spent the rest of the day with my stomach in knots. Then me and my friends got dressed and went to the dance.
I wish I could tell you it was romantic, that the scorned child got her revenge through love, but it didn’t happen that way. An 8th grader named Michelle swooped in like a hawk and Alex was history. I watched her dance to “Stairway to Heaven” with him from the sidelines, barely able to control my angst. I am sure Toni was doing the same, from another part of the room.
The youthful heart recovers quickly, and I learned a great lesson from Michelle that night. Within a couple of weeks I had a cute, blond, 6th grade boyfriend named Kregg. And in the 8th grade, I had a 7th grade boyfriend (though, as my brother will tell you, this one was the biggest, scariest guy in the school. Take that, Toni.)
I guess that these incidents from our youth are necessary to give you the defenses you need to survive as an adult. It would seem that way, since though they might slip to the back of your mind, you never really forget about them. They pop in to your mind when you need them. Yeah, today I want to die. But tomorrow I’ll wake up and it’ll be better, and maybe I’ll have a cute blond boyfriend. Tomorrow, is another day.
Sorry for the lack of posts… sometimes it’s just not there.
Full moon tomorrow, and of course today was full of bizarreness and angst. The freaks always come out at the full moon. You know what I’m saying?
On a more pleasant note, I heard from my dear friend Prentiss Smithson today. I have mentioned him a couple of times on my blog, but we did not have contact for a couple of years. Guess how he found me? That’s right, The Blog! Maybe I can also search for my 4th grade boyfriend this way (Richie Arambula, where are you?)
Just kidding.
It was so great to talk to Prentiss. There are some friends you meet in life that, no matter what happens, will always be like family.
Prentiss told me a couple of other friends I haven’t talked to in a long time also read Poptarticus. Sneaky devils! Hi Bill, hi David, maybe I can come to Portland, Maine and Palm Beach or wherever and visit you sometime!
Today, out of nowhere, it rained. With the freaks comes the earthquake weather. No sweat, when one hooks up with a lost friend, all else can be forgotten.
“I like to order a lot of food because, I got different tastebuds.” – Bobby Brown in a fancy London restaurant.
I hardly ever watch TV except for movies from Netflix. There is the occasional Saturday when I will watch Turner Movie Classics all day, but for that occasion I think I am paying about $90 in cable fees. I usually just watch movies from Netflix.
But Netflix is, all of a sudden, really slow. They used to ship and receive everything lightening fast. I don’t know what happened, but now there are times when I just don’t have a movie to watch, or if I have one I want to save it for the weekend.
So last night I turned on Bravo to watch Being Bobby Brown. OH MY GOD. Do you want to watch two whacked out ex-popstar ghetto freaks say some of the most bizarre shit you’ve ever heard? Then turn on Bravo this week because they are showing the first few episodes over, and over, and over.
It’s sort of hard for me to believe, but Whitney Houston is only two years older than me. I can still see her, dancing around in those bad 80’s clothes in the early days of MTV. She was squeaky clean when she was in movies like “The Preacher’s Wife.” But then she swan dived into crackdom. Everyone said it was because of her husband, but after watching this show, I think she was just a freak the whole time. Even alcohol, cocaine, and an endless supply of downs can’t make you THAT freaky. You’ve got to have acid, peyote, and maybe some ‘ludes unless you’ve got that freak gene going on from the get-go.
I guess Whitney just got out of rehab, but she still exhibits many of the signs of ex-crackdom. In one episode they are at the bar of a Chinese restaurant and she looks like she is about to start convulsing from withdrawals, but one minute later she is all happy and joking. I mean, the woman looked positively strung-out and then she is all of a sudden all happy. Hmmm… rehab, or did someone get her a little something to take the edge off?
I guess it must be hard for her, since Bobby Brown drinks heavily and constantly on the show. At one restaurant, when the entourage is leaving, he pounds a vodka on ice, and then puts down a beer, in about 45 seconds. How the hell is she suppose to kick her demons when he is still totally into his? That man would make me insane without some substance to ingest. I am serious.
The first episodes are Bobby getting out of jail and then going to court for hitting Whitney. Whitney is standin’ by her man. Bobby takes Whitney to a spa. There is a whole bizarre exchange between Bobby, Whitney, and the people massaging them (he gets a girl, she gets a guy, he don’t like that, but then they are in the same room getting massaged and it is just really, really weird). Half the time you can’t understand what they are saying, but Bravo has provided subtitles. This way, we get to know lines like “don’t smother my food with your boogies” and “can I impregnate you tonight?” Without those subtitles, those words would be lost forever.
In the third episode, Bobby and Whitney and a couple of their kids go to England. Bobby and Whitney love England “for the culture and shit” and they arrive screaming “ENGLAAAANNNDDD! ENGLAANNNDDD!” They go to Harrods and spend buttloads of money. Bobby has a fit when Whitney drags him to the children’s section to buy their daughter some clothes. “These ain’t gonna fit me!” he complains. When Whitney picks up a pair of tiny pants for their plump daughter, he says “they ain’t gonna fit her! Baby’s got BODY. Baby’s got BODY.” That kid is going to be scarred for life. She looked so sad and messed up…
Later Bobby runs into the Dalai Lama in front of their hotel. “Mr. Lama! I’m Bobby Brown!” The viewer sort of sits there and thinks, “he did not just call him Mr. Lama.” But he did!
I managed, when Netflix was operating a little better, to avoid Britney Spears reality show, and a lot of other bad TV. But I must admit that I was somewhat riveted watching Being Bobby Brown. One thing I can’t figure out though – how do they still have so much money?
After that Queer Eye for the Straight Guy came on and the straight guy was a NUDIST. Seriously that was some of the most hilarious shit I have ever seen. Carson decides to be nude too and runs around the guy’s house with him, one hand on his crotch and one hand on his breast. Then when of the other guys says, “you see, James, Carson does it right. His hair is good and he has an accessory!” Later the nudist can’t wait to strip out of his tuxedo at a party with a lot of other nudists. They all get naked and dance and the Carson and the guys are practically doubled over from revulsion/laughter. It was a good night not to have a Netflick. Seriously, if you can stomach it, turn on Bravo and you’ll be bound to see at least one episode of Being Bobby Brown.
Foggy, foggy, foggy. I watched a family of tourists walk to the beach today. Poor tourists! They come for a beach vacation and get THIS.
I am stoked though. At the Ocean Beach Street Fair I bought some raffle tickets and I WON SOMETHING. I never win anything! I won a cool necklace with a silver pendant that says OB. The O is a peace sign. It’s hella cool. I got so excited I went and bought two lottery tickets. I really need to win the lottery. So let’s keep the streak going, please. And if I don’t win the lottery, can you please send a couple of visible sunsets my way? Thank you.
The checks and balances of the universe and of each and every person and thing that inhabits the universe work in a cycle. I, being a creature of said universe, am no exception. And today I am seeing the upswing, the light at the end of the tunnel, the fat purple lollipop after a somewhat scary few days of agony.
Damn, I am such a Woos. But I am sorry, that fucking HURT.
I am out of it now. But it is a wake up call to be so messed up. Gotta start taking better care of myself, drink less wine and take Omega three gel caps and shit. It is a wonder that I am in the somewhat decent condition I am in, after all this abuse.
In my early years in San Francisco, I knew a photographer who I had worked with, had an affair with (in Boston during Hurricane Gloria) and eventually just ran into, from time to time. The guy had been in a motorcycle accident and fucked up his knee, and the constant pain CHANGED who he was. He ceased being the cool, fun photographer guy and became the guy who whenever-you-were-around-him-bad-thoughts-would-happen guy. The pain permeated him and everything around him. I remember sitting in his bedroom with him once, coming down off a crazy weekend of ingesting who-knows-what, and Patsy Cline was playing on the turntable. He went on and on about his pain and how he was drinking a pint or quart of vodka or whatever a day to kill it and before you knew it, I was crying hysterically (maybe that was his game). One time I sat in his kitchen and he rolled the I Ching for me. The I Ching told me “there is no relief or hope in sight.” Hmmm.
After a while I stopped hanging with the photographer so much (otherwise I might have hung myself. Seriously) but I ran into him from time to time, mostly at the Rainbow Grocery, when it was still on Mission Street. Every time, I would say hey Paul, whaddup? And he would answer something horrible about his knee, and how he was taking this or that or doing this or that. It was a fucking broken record, man. Eventually, after maybe a year of not running into him, I did again and he immediately went into the pain. And I just started laughing. I couldn’t stop. All the people looking at the index cards advertising room rentals or Spanish lessons in the foyer of Rainbow Grocery looked at me with furrowed brows, but I could not stop. The photographer yelled “it’s not FUNNY!” but fuck, after all those years of hearing about it, it WAS.
I guess my point is, I never want to be like that. After a few days of major discomfort, I see how it would be easy to kill everyone with your pain. And a pain that is there for always? Deadly for the bearer, deadly for everyone else.
Yes, the last week has been pretty awful. But today the sun is out, I managed to sleep until 9:00, and it is time to move on.
One good thing did happen last week – I got a ticket to the secret Sigur Ros show at the Avalon in Hollywood next month. Then I got two tickets to see them in October at Copley Symphony Hall here in San Diego. I have been waiting to see them for a long time, and I can’t believe I will be one of the lucky ones who gets to see them in the tiny Avalon.
If there is any band who manages to sound like where they are from, it is Sigur Ros. I have never been to Iceland, but if I lay on the couch and listen to the dreamy, lush, and totally original Ágætis Byrjun 
Anyhow you get the jist of it.
So when I got an email saying tickets would go on sale for this intimate secret show the next morning, I spent a nervous and sleepless night. 550 tickets sold out in one minute. And I have one of them. This will be one of those shows of a lifetime.
The presales are all finished, but regular tickets are starting to go on-sale. Italian readers, there will be shows in Milan and Rome at the end of the month. North American readers, whether you like classical, jazz, opera, or rock, if you like music at all, try to go see this band. They are insanely good and totally unique.
Now, blue sky and the beach, and thoughts of the future.
I got some email about my apocalypse entry today. Seems I’m not the only one I know with intense dreams/thoughts about the end of the world. Tanks rolling down Newport Street. Cities nuked one by one. The rest of the world choking.
I’m in an in-between place. Half of me thinks there is no way to change the course. But half of me thinks, if we can change the energy, we can change the world. It’s kind of bizarre that I have this half totally morbid and half new-age way of thinking. Or is it? Maybe I am just one of katrillions that have this same half and half thing going on. I wouldn’t want to be all morbid (or I’d be dead, for sure) and I certainly wouldn’t want to be smelling like patchouli, either. There has got to be a balance. And the same goes for the earth, and for the universe. There has got to be a balance, and there is not.
Sadly I am just one of most who do absolutely fuck-all about this.
Most people – me included – will do nothing until their own well-being or the well-being of their families is threatened. Well, maybe we’ll all send a check. Whatever. It’s not enough. And even if we were to all actually DO something to change the course of the world, would it work? Maybe the course is already plotted by forces way bigger than us and there is nothing we can do. Or maybe it is all a big game of karma and we are all failing miserably.
Twenty years ago I thought I’d be a leader of the new age. What shit is that? That’s youth, I guess. The only way I’ll be a leader is if someone blows up a bomb in my ‘hood and I’m forced to. And the morbid half (borderlining on nihilism) says, that’s what it will come down to, so just fucking wait.
This morning I had a very intense dream about the end of the world as we know it. Basically we had two weeks left, and then, poof. I ran around trying to figure out what to do. Get in the car and drive to the mountains? Stock up on food? I got mad at my mom because she wouldn’t let me come to Santa Fe. Everything was crumbling, falling apart. It was so colorful and real. Two weeks left until the end of the world.
I woke up thinking, exactly how much time do we have? Is everything going to go down in this lifetime? And my answer to myself was, like it has been since I was eighteen years old, yes. It is.
Then I turned on the computer to the news that there are bombs and sirens and mass confusion and people dead and wounded in London. It’s all so sad and fucked up and scary. People just going to work.
I’ve never believed much in the future, but on days like this it really sinks in. I am totally bummed.
