Hobby Lobby vs. Sarah Palin

Posted in Jesus and L. Ron Hubbard and Buddha walk into a bar..., political schmolitical with tags , , , , , , , , on July 5, 2009 by Kristan

Harvey Lacey shared his views regarding that fabulous Sarah Palin with us today on Alexandria: “I think this lady has become a victim of her own advertising,” he wrote in conclusion. 

Indeed.

sarah_palin

I added my own take. (The Palin bait is too easy to refuse on a lazy, Sunday morning.)

“The other day I was secretly enjoying my unintended, three-hour shopping trip at the ultra-conservative and Blue Law-adamant Hobby Lobby. Please tell no one. I SWEAR that I ran in for a frame and got sucked into some kind of black hole of Jesus Christ and half-priced mantle pieces and crazy, little candies called ‘Testamints.’ It could have happened to any of us.

“ANYway, in the clearance aisle, there was just a ton of crap, but in AMAZING abundance there was one item: the pit bull/hockey mom quote mounted on cheesy polyresin. Those things were ALL over the place just begging to be purchased by Stepford soccer moms peeking down the sale aisle (after already finding the fake fruit and flowers and seasonal patio furniture they came for).

“This really reinforces a couple of very basic, fundamental things for me: (a) the hard right wing definitely put too much stock into being able to sell this woman to its target voters — quite literally, even; (b) months later, the people aren’t buying Palin’s trite poo at severely reduced, closeout prices.

“Look, when my elementary school-aged daughter watches the news to crack up at Palin’s ‘jokes,’ that’s an indication Miz Sarah ain’t near the best this Republican party has to offer. In fact, Palin is an insult to true politicians on all sides of the fence — period.”

Neil DeGrasse Tyson mentioned a significant point in a lecture I attended this past February. He explained the correlation of avoidable disasters to our lack of qualified scientists and mathematicians. NDT believes that without properly analyzed funding and public interest, great minds of the future will choose other careers. Perhaps, this theory also applies to qualified public servants and elected officials. 

We seem to be gambling more than anything else. It’s all about picking a team and throwing your support and money down one tube, hoping you’ll hit some kind of political bonanza. At least, that’s the message I’m getting. The last Presidential election was akin to watching the Superbowl. When Obama won, we jumped out of our seats and chest-bumped ourselves into tomorrow with popcorn flying all over the couch and horns honking from the neighborhood beyond our windows. 

I meant it when I called Palin an insult to politicians. She is. Let’s vest ourselves into serious politics again with our feet firmly planted in the soil of society rather than private interests and divided parties. 

If Palin gets a cable show, then I’ll probably watch the hell out of it. She belongs on TV programming, not in my government.

I’ll even buy her bobble head. (Anna Nicole, R.I.P.)

The Quickest Way to Mom’s Laser of Death

Posted in Meet My Mother, The Bell with tags , , , , , , on June 14, 2009 by Kristan

 

photo by russell turns

photo by russell turns

My mother will be furious when she discovers I have posted this here. She’s under the delusion this story paints her in poor lighting, but I think we can all agree it just makes her seem like an extreme badass — or at the very least a heroine to all who’ve paid ten bucks to see a movie only to have it ruined by some holier-than-thou prick and his cell phone. In fact, when I originally wrote this bit, which appeared in a local print version for a handful of readers, Mom wrote an angry letter to the editor, in which she referred to me not as her daughter but as “Ms. Austin.” I’m not immune to the corrective, quirky wrath of Mom, most certainly, but it’s my sincere privilege to admire it at such close range as her understudy.

Now, with that said, behold my fantastic mother:

I have seen my daughter anxious to leave her Nana’s house, but I’ve never seen her sprint to the truck before. As Bella closed the door, she locked it, and said, “Mom, drive. Hurry.”

I knew it was gonna be a great story – something for my feisty mother’s five-hour, future eulogistic outline, even.

“Nana was so embarrassing at the theater.”

“Like, embarrassing for real or embarrassing for cool fifth graders like you?”

“I mean it, Mom. This time she went over the edge.” 

She explained: Mom and Bella decided to attend a matinee. During the previews, a man in the front of the theater began a text marathon. I could see exactly where this was headed. Poor Bella.

“…then the movie started, and he didn’t stop.”

Oh, no.

…so Nana stood up and yelled, ‘Quit texting! It’s distracting! Stop it!’ ”

“Excellent. Really?”

“YES. She REALLY did that, Mom, but it gets better because…”

The guy had the audacity to tell my mother to sit down. MY mother. Then he foolishly entered Mom’s No Man’s Land when he added, “Just watch the movie and quit looking at my phone, Lady!”

Bella and I shared a moment of fearful silence. I was worried this all was going to end at the police station or something, but, nah. As Bella promised, it got better.

“Mom, Nana pulled a laser out of her purse and beamed it onto the screen of that guy’s phone so he couldn’t text anymore.”

“She pulled out a what?!”

“A laser! Like, on one of those key chain things. You know.”

“Oh, ok! What did the guy do?!”

“He stood up and screamed at her [in Bella's best screaming guy voice], What do you think you’re doing?! Stop it! NOW! And then Nana screamed back [awesome Nana voice here], Stop texting! And then he yelled, No! And she shot the laser again, and it hit him in the eyes!”

Speechlessness.

“Yeah, and he put his hands on his face and totally was yelling, Are you crazy? You could blind me with that! You could blind somebody. And Nana said, Well, then turn around and watch the screen and quit looking at me!

"It was so embarrassing."

"It was so embarrassing."

I was sooo incredibly glad I wasn’t there. Kind of. 

“Anyway, Mom, then he ran out of the theater to tell on her. I was so embarrassed. The guy’s wife was also very embarrassed. When the manager came back, the guy was angry because he was told not to text anymore.”

That was not really what Mom’s ego needed at that point, especially while she was brandishing a sci-fi, sight-stealing laser.

“And then twenty minutes later, we decided to leave because the movie was really not very entertaining.” She paused. “And that was it. How was your day?”

There you have it. No texting during the movie. You never know; the theater might have an anti-SMS plant in the form of my mother. She is armed and unafraid to punish.

Maintaining testicular fortitude: a referential reminder for heroes on the verge of giving up

Posted in beloved, political schmolitical with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 1, 2009 by Kristan

To Whom It May Concern, Heroes, and Otherwise:

Illustration by Jon Keegan

Illustration by Jon Keegan

Tyranny. My beloved F12’s word bible widget defines that as “cruel, unreasonable, or arbitrary use of power or control.” Sometimes, when we fear something for so long, we just accept it. That doesn’t work for me. Tyranny has no success rate, so why bother?

With the heaviest of hearts and knowing I’d be forever blacklisted, I begged you to examine the plight of one laid off employee: a worker who performed her duties to the extreme satisfaction of the “shareholders,” someone who willingly worked incredibly long hours at a severely reduced rate in comparison to that of her male counterparts, someone who was two months away from being vested in her pension, a full time worker who was replaced by a less skilled junior employee who was hired to work part time hours. On a personal level, I noted the laid off employee faced grave financial prospects should she, her three children, and husband, who is a stay-at-home parent, be forced into foreclosure — something totally avoidable should the employee receive entitled benefits and payment from vacation time earned. 

It was overwhelming. 

“I am so angry, so affected by this decision. It seems like a vindictive step backward. It is not supposed to be like this,” I told you right before I broke down and cried out of desperation and frustration and panic at the reality of what the company in question had executed. 

I believe you were sincere when you said: “In life, things don’t always happen the ways they should or the ways we would like for them to be, but that’s just how it is,” but I disagree. A lot. Here’s why:

I belong to a labor union, and what you’re placating violates every basic tenet of unionism. My brain is wired to instantly alert me to this kind of weird, Montgomery Burns, corporate bullshit because it would never fly with any decent union representative. Laying off good employees in order to fulfill personal vendettas is akin to cutting off your nose to spite your face. Or drowning kittens because they’re too cute. Or something like that. It just doesn’t add up to anything logical, and therein lies my concern.

tyrannyjef

It shouldn’t have to be like that, and it won’t, so I gave you my Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., soapbox speech. As everybody who is not living under a rock in a remote cave knows, King believed in and preached “character rather than color” during a volatile time in American history when people were afraid to speak against racist tyranny. Maybe that’s why he had a Nobel Peace Prize under his belt by the time he was my age. I am willing to bet both arms that MLK was sick of hearing people tell him that “things weren’t the way they should be, but that’s just how it is.” Imagine how fucked up this country would be today if he hadn’t been born with that set of steel cojones. 

In 1920, how many women were heckled as they waited in voting lines to practice their newly acquired 19th Amendment Right?

tyrannyvote

Oppressed by the gender-based tyranny of some, these women bravely fought and died in more than a handful of instances so that I could waltz into the voting booth like it was MINE  (and with my daughter by my side). This didn’t happen forever ago, might I remind you. When my grandmother was born, she wasn’t eligible to vote by default of that nasty double X chromosome problem, which apparently was believed to hinder one’s ability to mark a ballot. These days, my daughter regards stories about women’s suffrage as if they’re cast from the bowels of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. The prior discrimination is that unbelievably wrong. All the same, I’m sure someone must have mentioned at one point before that 19th Amendment passed that “it wasn’t supposed to be like that, but that’s just how it is, ladies.”

Yeah.

Tyrannical witness

witness

One of the worst examples of passive acceptance to tyranny was when the United States along with the United Nations stood by as an estimated one million Tutsis were killed in Rwanda by their Hutu rivals, whose sole intent was nothing short of genocide. As if that wasn’t enough, the Hutus raped an estimated 500,000 women and girls routinely as part of an encouraged, public war ritual as they emerged from schools, churches, etc. This wasn’t 500 years ago; it happened in the last decade, people. When did we step forward to answer their repeated pleas for help? When it was too late, that’s when. You know why? Because what was going on over in Rwanda “wasn’t the way it should be, but that’s just how it was.” Furthermore, when the RUF rose to power in Sierra Leone shortly thereafter, did we take heed? Nah, we bought African blood diamonds in record numbers and felt sorry for the terrible situation going on over there, far away on the African continent. We knew it shouldn’t have been that way, but “that was just the way it was.” Luckily, courageous souls came forth and reminded the world, again, that it shouldn’t have to be like that and won’t. It’s not enough — not yet, but is it worth the trouble? It is. Everyday.

I hope your diamond was worth it.

I hope your diamond was worth it.

More candidates for “Shouldn’t Have Been Like That and Aren’t Anymore”:  Salem, Massachusetts; the Holocaust; Integration in Little Rock; American child labor; slavery; lead paint; my marriage. Heh.

Look, all I’m saying is that in the grand scheme of things, refuting the specifics of this layoff? Giving in to what’s right vs. what’s easy? Pfft, small beans in comparison to everything else others before you have been brave enough to battle. Don’t let the insignificance of tyranny drag the genre down for us all. There is a way, but you’ll have to will it. 

It shouldn’t be this way. And it won’t.

 

With respect, support and much optimism, 

Kristan

 

 


While looking for Gerhard Richter

Posted in Museum Day, people i'd call at three am with tags , , , , , on May 22, 2009 by Kristan

Warning: Graphic illustrations.

I love search engines. They always lead me exactly where I never knew I needed to be — like straight to this masterpiece on Etsy.

poppyseed

Perhaps, it was so unexpected because I’d been executing a “Gerhard Richter” search when I discovered this treasure. Really, two things here: (a) What is going on? and (b) What does this have to do with Richter? Luckily, the artist included the most specific caption ever:

Shihonage depicts an eleven year old girl who has complete control over a man with a knife who attacked her in a poppy field. She is using the Aikido technique and this work of art is a tribute to Aikido; a way of harmony, japanese martial art, and author’s wish: May all weak in the right win over strong who comes with violence and delict!!! Girl Power!

This man fucked with the wrong fifth grader. Bonus: It’s only eight-hundred and something dollars! I’ll have to pick this up for Bella right away. Every eleven-year-old girl should have one of these hanging on her bedroom wall.

(You’d think any poppy field attacker worth his weight in salt would at least don a pair of socks with those work boots. Sheesh.)

Further examination yielded the kind of results that force you into retrieving back-up opinions/support. I blew instant messenger up with my pal Heather.

“Is that Bella’s new Etsy site?”

After explaining this was not the work of my twisted child’s mind, Heather was relieved, “Wow, looks like she’s tickling her attacker.”

For one reason or another, the whole thing became even funnier when we learned the painter was male instead of female, as I’d assumed by the profile photo of what appeared to be an old woman. Heather corrected: “Sorry…at the bottom of the page it says that ’she’ is a male.” And he’s a young guy to boot. Armed with the additional knowledge, Heather and I browsed the rest of the site with further confusion.

euw

At least he’s got a low sperm count to go with that frighteningly large penis. And maybe a C.S.I. file, perhaps?

moreeuw

There is a definite theme here. And a woman with a blue face. Note the “handle” on the upper right hand side. This must be a lunch box.

elephant

The figure in the window has the right idea.

pee

In case you have ever wondered the travel path of your urine after it’s been flushed, the mystery is revealed. Here, I believe this man’s urine has waged some type of reverse assault. Obviously.

antlers

I fear what might happen to me if I speak ill will regarding this. At any rate, Kidrobot should put these guys out as a designer vinyl toy line. The horse/T-rex with the antlers is worth wading through blind boxes galore. And that orange penis guy! Yowsa! What a hottie. I’ll bet he eats people in rural Czech Republic.

Alas, the tour de force is still the poppy field attacker guy for me. The others? As Heather so eloquently put it: “I’m laughing so hard I’m gonna pee myself!”

Maybe you’re still wondering about the Gerhard Richter part, though. Oh, gawsh. Ain’t it apparent? Gerhard’s work is a “huge influence in all that I do.” Someone should notify Mr. Richter so he can die a happy man.

I love stuff like this. Maybe I don’t like these paintings enough to shell out nearly a thousand dollars apiece, BUT I think the art definitely serves its mighty purpose — respectfully, something different to each of us. That’s what expression’s about anyway. Props to this guy for believing in himself enough to brave the mean waters of a million lurking bloggers. I’m doing it, too, buddy.

If you’re interested in purchasing anything I’ve coldly trashed above, I’ll gladly send you links to the artist and any other information which might expedite the delivery of this colorful penis and animal madness. Otherwise, feel free to add your own interpretations below.

Behold This

Posted in Museum Day, The Bell, at russell's house, beloved with tags , , , , , , , , on May 21, 2009 by Kristan

A few years ago, I realized I started off an awful lot of sentences like this: “Oh, I have always wanted to [insert whatever it was I'd always wanted to do here].”

You know. You’ve heard people chatter like that, too.

“Oh, I have always wanted to visit Japan.”

“I have always wanted to learn how to play the tuba.”

“I have ALWAYS wanted to change genders.”

Alright, well, I have never really wanted to play tuba or have a penis, BUT I have caught myself wanting to do a lot of other stuff in my life — stuff that wasn’t unrealistic, but for one reason or another kept getting put on hold. Indefinitely.

Until now. 

I haven’t managed to figure out some kind of grand solution for ensuring world peace or ending genocide or anything along those lines, but I did pony up and take chess lessons with Bella last year. It’s a step. 

bwchessbellcraig

My good friend and polar opposite twin, Craig Von Hutson, agreed to teach us chess history as well as basic techniques as long as Bella didn’t rattle on too much about Hannah Montana. Since she couldn’t manage to keep her end of the deal — spewing random Hannah schtuffs right and left, I just made sure Craig got all the free lattes he needed in order to get through the undesired Disney tween mania. It worked. Bella pulled checkmate within the first few weeks. 

It took me a bit longer, but, hey, I got there. 

I’d always wanted to. 

Since then, I’ve crossed other activities off the To Do list — some successful, some comically unsuccessful. Last week, I was particularly psyched about conquering item #31: The Wire Crochet Necklace. (Yes, I realize how cool that sounds. Heh.)

The Modern Art Museum in Ft. Worth has some amazing jewelry…for people with much fatter wallets than mine. I’d been pining for the wire crochet necklace that’s been on display there forever and decided to attempt to figure out how to make my own, rather than forking over a week’s salary to the gift shop at the museum. After having spent the hours learning how to crochet wire and attach beads into the form, I gotta admit: it would have been a lot easier to have handed over that week’s salary.

Still, victory is mine. Take that.

NECKLACE

I think I’m almost ready to learn how to boil water now. Almost.

“The voicemail you are trying to reach is full.”

Posted in Meet My Mother, The Bell, at russell's house, beloved, people i'd call at three am with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 17, 2009 by Kristan

 

Robot scavenger hunt for Russell's birthday

Robot scavenger hunt for Russell's birthday

 

Two reasons for failing to return/answer calls and chronic lateness:

  1. I got rid of my purses two months ago, keep forgetting to buy a new one, and am toting around a record bag that looks more like a diaper bag than anything a normal person might use. Thus, I can’t hear or find my phone inside that enormous thing;
  2. There’s been an extra amount of ass-wiping going on at work recently — both good and bad varieties;
  3. I’ve been slammed with an awful lot of What I Always Wanted.

I guess that’s more than two excuses. Cut me some slack. Let’s time travel.

April 1st:

Russell turned really old, and Tyson Summers was cool enough to crank out a super-fast commission even though he was moving at the time. I was expecting something really simple because of his circumstances, but within the first twenty-four hours, Tyson wrote:

I’m almost finished. It’s a risque piece based on deep ellum / fair park. I love the statue at fair park of the lady and cactus. I’ve used a very pretty nude model in halftone dots standing in the middle of a cartoon cactus. The two big characters of the cactus are landlord / property owners fighting. On the cactus will be 4-icze and a boarded up tunnel. Shazam, I think I’m almost done. The background is pink with my stars looking on. I added a halftone dot Uni looking after the lady as well.

T

Tyson's Cactus Lady of Deep Ellum

Russell loved it.

First Weekend of April:

The Bell and I met Madre in Austin to celebrate this year’s ATPE awards; she was one of the top three contenders for Texas State Teacher of the Year. While Mom tried staying awake during boring meetings, Bella and I toured the Capitol, the Austin Museum of Art, and T O Y  J O Y. 

Texas State Capitol

Texas State Capitol

Bella took this one. What a fantastic weekend.

Bella took this one. What a fantastic weekend.

April Never Ending:

The Bell needed a new bed, so we punished her with hours of IKEA. Sometimes, IKEA can be so sad. Luckily, Russell had a plan.

sadbedbed2bed3bed4bed5Alas, another case of IKEA blues was defeated.

Ongoing Family Bidness with the KLG (is gonna rock you…):

Grace asked me to quit calling her “Gracie.” Sniffle, sniffle. 

"Hey, Grace, do your Dio rock hand."

"Hey, Grace, do your Dio rock hand."

Here, Ken and Lindsay reenact a scene from 'Jacob's Ladder'.

Here, Ken and Lindsay reenact a scene from 'Jacob's Ladder'.

With a side order of May:

Isata and her family deserve more than just Honorable Mention; she’s a great kiddo with great parents and an incredible back story.

I loved Isata about five minutes after I first saw her as she handed my very sad Bella Monster a toy and patted her on the back. It was 1999, and I’d just dropped Bella off for her first Mother’s Day Out, which — for neurotic moms like me — was more like Mother’s Day to Freak Out. 

Isata came with a bonus prize — her parents. Idrissa and Ada left their native country of Sierra Leone in the early nineties. Recently popularized by the film Blood Diamond, Sierra Leone was amongst one of the world’s most unstable regions at that time due to, perhaps, the cruelest gang warfare and rebel fighting in modern history — fueled entirely by our greed for diamonds and Sierra Leone’s corrupt leadership and shaky relationships with its Liberian neighbors. Isata’s folks tell incredibly sad stories coupled with extreme optimism. They understand what matters in life in a way that isn’t as humbling or demoralizing as much as it is liberating for me. Truly, their spirits set me free.

Last week, I drove Bella over to Ada’s braid shop in Irving. (Ada has superhero fast braiding fingers.) Idrissa ordered pizza for us while we chatted about the girls and foreign affairs and how Bella had been handling the divorce all this time later. We talked about their African Muslim wedding in which Bella stood in Isata’s place of honor when they were four years old. I listened intently as Idrissa shared stories about his sister still living in Johannesburg, South Africa: “They asked me to come, but I cannot. The region, it is too dangerous even for someone like myself.”

Bella and Isata talked on the other side of the salon about the Black-eyed Peas and Hannah Montana and Paramore and The Jonas Brothers, though. That part of the world was far away.

There is so much more to add, but for the sake of sacrificing another five million in text, I’ll wrap it up with Isata’s most recent parting words: “Kristan, I love you. You are my second mother.”

I needed that an awful lot this past week. I love my families and am immensely grateful.

kristan and ada

kristan and ada

the bell and my other daughter, isata

the bell and my other daughter, isata

You can’t stop this party:

On Friday, I accompanied Bella’s honor choir to the yearly competition at Sandy Lake Amusement Park. (I need some coffee and a pretend cigarette already, and I haven’t even gotten but one sentence into this excuse for not being able to return your calls.)

O.

K.

One parent. One grandparent. One teacher who is retiring next week and can’t walk. Twenty-six fourth and fifth grade WIIIILD and CARAZAY KIDS. When I think “Last Friday,” I also think “Xanax.” 

To the four parents who canceled at the LAST MINUTE: you lost out, but there was no fun lost (except for the little guy who threw up all day, but you know…poor kiddo).

bellabumper

First Place Division!

First Place Division!

Is there a collection somewhere of past gum trees from other years? Hm.

Is there a collection somewhere of past gum trees from other years? Hm.

scrambler

Saturday, Saturday, yes, Saturday, oh, Saturday, Saturday:

I wrote all about the whale scarf Julie made in L.A. via her Spiderbot Etsy store. Well, Russ and I managed to make it through the morning rain to the Etsy Dallas convention at Southside Lamar, and it was something else. I didn’t see anything I liked more than the whale scarf, which I wore like a medal, but I did find some interesting items for our jewelry-making endeavors. Russell stopped to investigate a funny doll.

Etsy treasure by Deb at anklebiter.etsy.com

Etsy treasure by Deb at anklebiter.etsy.com

I tried to be sneaky, but Russell knew I’d gotten the monster for him before we even got home.

“Let me see if I can find those snacks in your purse.” [Grin]

“Russell, why are you smiling like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” [Grin]

“Ugh, here’s your monster.”

“Thank you.”

Later that afternoon at the Grapevine bead convention (yes, you read that correctly), we found loads of cool stuff for projects. I bought black, bead wiring for jewelry crocheting, so if you receive something that looks like a bird’s nest, well, just humor me. I’m trying. I have to do something besides bitch and moan about politics, you know. After waging war on the Vote Yes campaign for the past two months, I’m ready for something less controversial — like wire crocheting the Big Bang Theory. Wait…

Don't call it "crafting." It's a scientific experiment, cough, cough.

Don't call it "crafting." It's a scientific experiment, cough, cough.

There were so many booths at the bead convention that we lost track of time and spent four hours inside that thing. I call it the “IKEA Phenomenon”. At one point, I stopped to admire a woman’s wire coiling and button bracelet, and she was kind enough to demonstrate her technique. Everything was fine until she added, “…and if you will recall [insert famous beading guy's name here, unknown to non-fanatics]’s 2002 cover for Bead and Glass Magazine, there was, I believe, an instructional guide to this method in that issue.” That was when I realized I was way out of my league, thanked her, and quickly turned around to giggle with Russell as we made our way into a different room of the exhibit.

“Russell, I think I know what I sound like now when I talk about stuff like, ehhhh, I dunno…4AD record cover art around people who aren’t V23 fans.”

“Yes, that’s exactly how crazy you sound.”

Luckily, I spotted a ring artisan in the next area and quickly forget about my plaguing new revelation.

Last Night:

Lori is thirty-seven this week. I don’t know how that happened so quickly. Russell and I attended her anniversary dinner with Xtos, so I could present her with trinkets appropriate for an old lady, heh. I explained to Lors that my company recognized my ten years of service this past week, so I’d decided to give her a similar token celebrating her twenty years of service as my girl. There was sushi. A glass of wine. Oh, god, there was creme brulee. Then we both fell asleep during the movie while X-tos and Russell laughed at us (but not before Lori’s top semi-fell down at the restaurant). Hurray for pocket cams times ten thousand.

Birthdays come but once each year.

Birthdays come but once each year.

As dinner ended, Russell passed a napkin across the table.

“I love you!”

I got out my pen and scribbled, “I love you more!”

That’s when he dug around in his pocket for a moment, tucked something into the napkin, and passed both back across the table toward me. He said, “You don’t love me more than I love you.”

Wrapped inside the dinner napkin, was a beautiful new ring:

xo, totoro.

xo, totoro.

 

Maybe you guessed it: from the aforementioned ring artisan at the bead convention. He’s a sneaky guy, that Russell.

Right now:

I think I’ve covered much of the “What I Always Wanted” portion of my excuses for not checking voicemail and returning many calls. One of the great lessons Idrissa (and Ada) taught me goes something like this:

“In America and in no other country in the world, there is a sense of nothing but work, work, and work. It’s 24/7, this working. There is no time for family or happiness because so much emphasis is put upon job and career. Here, you are only about your job; it is who you are, and people think they must achieve success in that way only. In Africa, my father was surrounded always by his council and many bodyguards, yet from the time the sun came up until the time the sun went down, I was by his side. He made the time for me because I was important to him; I meant more to him than his duties. He made sure everybody knew this, too. In America, we must remember to love each other and to care for one another as if we are also family.”

I have time left for Now. I’ll call you back later.

Dan Deacon and the Temple of Dayum

Posted in Museum Day, Reeeaaallly?, people i'd call at three am with tags , , , , , , on May 1, 2009 by Kristan

 

Dan Deacon (on screen) with Teeth Mountain

Dan Deacon (on screen) with Teeth Mountain

This is about Dan Deacon. But, first, you have to meet my friend Sam Ward.

About Sam:

  • used terms like “sustainable” before concerned and emaciated Emo kids were here to save us from ourselves;
  • crafts objects from wood —  like complete drum kits;
  • responsible for any mixtapes I own from 1988 featuring both Slayer AND Laurie Anderson;
  • grandson of heavily quoted American writer William Arthur Ward;
  • has dated Virgos almost exclusively for over twenty years.
Yes, he really made these.

Yes, he really made these.

Ok, now I can begin.

A couple of weeks ago, I woke up my quirky, drummer pal, Sam, with important news: “Hey.”

[clunk, clunk, clunk] “hey.” (Nothing in Sam’s life includes capital letters or exclamation marks or urgency.)

“Something is happening at The Modern Art Museum next week. You probably have to go.”

silence. Sam detests large museums because “they never hang art by regular people.” I love the irony of this because Sam and The Modern have pieces of art by the same artists.

“Sam, seriously.”

“okay. what’s happening?”

Dan Deacon is playing there after hours. Russell will be out-of-town with some band, and I really want you to go with me because you’ll dig it, plus I don’t want to see it by myself because [running out of air] that’d be like witnessing a UFO alone even though I’ll have my camera — it’s just not the same. Have you heard any of the Dan Deacon stuff?”

“no. what’s it like?”

I scrambled for a relevant descriptive that might pull Sam out of his cave.

“It’s Flaming Lips — like Flaming Lips-15-years-ago-Flaming Lips — and Tortoise and Crash Worship.”

pause. “the cool flaming lips?”

“Yes.”

“i opened up for tortoise once.”

He was gonna do it. I could tell. 

“it’s at the modern?”

“Yeah. It’ll be real…percussive.”

“okay. if i’m not in austin. fun, yeah.” The part about Austin was unnecessary as it’s always an implied stipulation with Sam: Austin first, puppet show last. The end.

Sam, rambler of random facts about Nikola Tesla and general badass

Sam, rambler of random facts about Nikola Tesla and general badass

So Dan Deacon is an electronic music nerd from Baltimore. This is a compliment. Right now, with backing help from fellow Maryland musicians Teeth Mountain, he’s touring the sort of show you’d pay to see twice — on consecutive nights, even. 

img_3697

Lost shoe by the Warhol self-portrait sums the evening up.

Within the span of one hour, Dan Deacon and TM managed to turn the west lawn of The Modern into an unexpected abyss of unity for the complete gamut of total strangers. It was like being in a cult for people who hate cults. Except for a few nanoseconds here and there, Dan played the entire show enveloped by the crowd while Teeth Mountain, wearing Dharma Initiative-esque jumpsuits, plowed through the set on a stage rigged with epilepsy-inducing lights. Dan might be the best new-music Jesus I’ve seen in forever, dividing the fans as well as the haphazard, gallery stragglers into groups, who eagerly ran relay races and formed human tunnels. My face hurt from laughing so hard.

With people I’d never met before.

Out of joy. Real, total, absolute joy. I know “joy” is silly, but, man, that is the right word for it.

(At about 5:20 or so I get dragged into the relay, cackling like a friggin’ loon.)

The whole sixty minutes was as close as I’ll ever get to being a cast member of “The Electric Company”. Sam pointed out: “yeah, russell is going to wonder what the hell he missed when he sees the pictures you took.”

“It’s like Crash Worship without the red and blue-painted naked people.”

“minus the danger.”

“Right.”

“yeah, i’m real glad i came, k.” 

 

Henry Moore is shitting bricks in the netherworld, I'm sure.

Henry Moore is shitting bricks in the netherworld, I'm sure.

Good, Sam liked it. That meant Dan and his TM orchestra weren’t pretentious. They were tight enough not to bug Sam’s pissy ears. 

Two hours later, I sat on my sofa and watched the video directly from my camera. I couldn’t even wait a few minutes to upload the movie files to my laptop, so I just sat there holding the tiny viewfinder up to my eyeballs. And I laughed all over again. 

When Bella got home the next afternoon from her overnight visit with Nana, I threw the laptop in front of her. She watched the footage — all of it — with the biggest grin on her eleven-year-old face.

“Mom, I want you to take me next time, ok?”

I promised I would.

When we got to the part of the video where I was dragged into the relay race, Bella keeled over in a fit, “PROMISE you will take me. Promise!”

“I did!”

“Promise again.”

“I promise. I promise I’ll take you the next time Dan Deacon plays nearby.”

“And can I do the part with the relay race, Mom?”

“I insist.”

So attend. Drag your wooden drum-making, curmudgeon-y friends. Take your kid. Kidnap your mother! Catch Dan Deacon while you can.

Spiderbot’s Narwhal and Otherness

Posted in beloved, people i'd call at three am with tags , , , , , on April 28, 2009 by Kristan

iusb_760x1006082853

I know a word or two, but I couldn’t cook to save my life. Or sew. Or anything else associated with Basic Survival 101. I think this is why I love my friend Julie Carpenter. She’s sickeningly talented at everything and hiply so. 

This Christmas, I received a box from Julie and Company. Contents:

  • Turkish Star Wars
  • Scented ball of something dusty that I am supposed to put in my bath water
  • Miyazaki related items for Bella’s collection
  • Sparklehorse T-shirt from London
  • Coolest scarf ever

The note inside the box confirmed Julie had created the aforementioned coolest scarf ever. I was proud to have a friend who loved me enough to make something, and even though the rest of the stuff inside our holiday parcel was pretty awesome, my red scarf was instantly revered. 

People stopped me: “I like your scarf.”

“Thank you. My friend Julie made it for me.”

I got a little snobby about it. You know, like, implying my friend was better than yours

Anyway, Julie has created lots of other items, and I’d like to own all of them without having to wait for Christmas to roll back around. Of course, I’d be happy if you’d buy them for yourselves and your families and your friends or anybody else who embarrasses you with consistently subpar accessorizing (It could happen; cut me some slack while I’m shilling for my beloved homegirl).

Look, where else will you ever find a cuff labeled “Oceanographers vs. Cowgirls”? 

il_fullxfull67398850

Seahorse Cuff. It exists.

Julie has also come up with devices to repel vampires — well, at least of the beginner level varieties. 

 

Team Jacob

Team Jacob

Perhaps, you’re more of the Fennec Fox type? Okay. Here, then.

il_430xn68073461

Fox included. Hot chick is extra.

You get the idea. Find the rest here at Spiderbot. I get nothing free for posting this, only minimal loss of guilt for not having sent Julie the Creationism plate I got her for Christmas. 

P.S. Russell, don’t you think my wrist would look a lot better with a tad of narwhal? You know, they say narwhals ward off nagging and whining. 

1987 Debunked by Its Own Panflute Playing Monkey

Posted in Reeeaaallly?, The Bell with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 26, 2009 by Kristan
Team Awkward

Team Awkward

 

Recently, Bella, along with every other boobie-budding tweenager, has been obsessed with Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight book series. It’s kind of like the Duran Duran of my generation in that this Twilight thing is a big gateway into much cooler stuff.

“Mom, can I download the Moose CD?”

Moose? Really? Where did you hear about them?”

“The Twilight soundtrack. You know.”

Muse?”

“Yeah, is that how you say it?”

I instantly okayed Muse, a vast improvement over Miley Cyrus and the rest of Bella’s musical library riddled with phase vocoder this-and-that.

A week later, The Bell was reading in her room. Brief trappings of classical composer Claude Debussy emanated through the walls.

“Russell? Do you hear that?”

“Yeah, is that from Bella’s room?”

“Yes! She’s listening to Debussy in there, and I think it’s on repeat.”

We pressed our ears to her door. Holy cow, it was really happening.

Knock, knock. “Bella?”

“Reading.”

“Hey, are you listening to Debussy?”

“Yes, I am.”

“When did you get into that?”

“Twilight soundtrack. Moooom, I’m reading right now, ok?”

“Sorry.”

Booty dance. Take THAT, Miley.

After Muse and Debussy, Bella asked for a copy of Wuthering Heights. I know the Twilight phenom isn’t real hip amongst the holier than thou Philip K. Dick set, but, hey, STEPHANIE MEYER BRAINWASHED MY KID INTO BEGGING FOR A COPY OF WUTHERING HEIGHTS. Praise her.

Yesterday, Bella made the most important discovery of her lifetime: “MOM! Uncle Dain’s old band Marjorie Fair is a huge inspiration for Stephanie Meyer. Look, she has listed them as required listening for New Moon readers.”  

Reads Philip K. Dick

Reads Philip K. Dick

 

There were about eight different layers of Excellent to this news — the best being Uncle Dain’s incredible hatred for those books. We texted him immediately. I pointed out how all of Bella’s friends were dying for an autograph and downloading music videos of his fake-playing keyboards in some faraway field. As members of the massive Stephanie Meyer Army, I’m sure eleven-year-olds everywhere are dreamily batting their eyelashes and cooing, “Oooooh, Dain.”  (Dain is super Tiger Beat at 3:09)

Going back to my earlier analogy, though, of Duran Duran and Twilight being gateway drugs into Cool, this means Dain equals Nick Rhodes. Score, that’s great. 

Nick Rhodes, move over. Dain is here.

Nick Rhodes, move over. Dain is here.

But anyway, all of this vampire stuff and the frequent trips to Hot Topic for Twilight trinket shopping has opened the door to: “Mom, I’ve been thinking a lot about my goth phase.”

“Your goth phase? You’re eleven.”

“Not now, but when I’m a teenager, Mom. I’m kind of liking that.”

“The music or the image thing?”

“The music.”

Russell and I began singing Peter Murphy’s “Strange Kind of Love” to Bella as she looked back at us in disgust. In California, we used to joke about how his voice was haunted.

“You guys are weird.”

“You’re not ready for goth if you think that’s weird.”

We YouTubed Peter Murphy, and Bella was not impressed. “It’s very vampire-y, though.” Realizing I should have eased Peter Murphy into the mix by starting with Love and Rockets and working backward, I pulled up “No New Tale to Tell.” I was sure she’d dig that.

Bella was quick to identify this music as “not goth.” Clearly, I was no competition for the musical prowess of Stephanie Meyer. About two minutes and ten seconds into the video, Bella rolled her eyes, “Mom? How can you say your music is cooler than the stuff I’m listening to?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Look at that. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but that’s a monkey playing a panflute with men dancing behind him dressed like bees.”

She was right. There was nothing cool going on with the L&R video. Why did it take an eleven-year-old twenty-two years later to point this out for me? I’m going to cut her some slack for being ahead of the curve from here on out.

This whole experience has really debunked my myth that 1987 was a badass year. It’s like when I made fun of my mom for her weird, white-woman fro and bell bottoms. What happened? I thought I was gonna break that cycle. Eh, it’s like the old adage: “You cannot go against nature because when you do go against nature, that’s part of nature, too.”

Wait, nevermind.

Stephanie Meyer, you’re ok. Apparently, you’re much cooler than Duran Duran. Sorry for being snotty about that.

And…thanks for real.

Ivy Was Here.

Posted in beloved with tags , , , , , , , on April 16, 2009 by Kristan

I have just typed about thirty opening sentences for what I’m about to tell you. At this point, I think it’s only fair for me to just admit I don’t know where to begin so that I can get on with things and share this story in whichever way it chooses to unfold itself. Stick with me.

Ivy and I were doing some teenaged catching up via long distance (on Mom’s unsuspecting dime). It was incredibly important stuff: “Well, I’ve started getting out of my Duran Duran phase and am really into The Cure now,” she alerted. 

“Oh, I saw them in July. Their bass player is SO cute.” Sigh.

“He’s my favorite! Do you like Sigue Sigue Sputnik? And Strawberry Switchblade?”

I guess the only thing that separated our conversation from any of my other highly productive, marathon giggle fests from 1987 was that it would be the last time we’d ever speak before Ivy Sunshine Lee took off and disappeared to wherever she went.

Seemingly unrelated, in January of this year, Anahata wrote an incredible story on Alexandria about her childhood friend, Susie, and how they’d recently reconnected online. I thought about all of the times I’d searched for Ivy Lee on every one of those places and got zip…until, miraculously, a woman named Amy stumbled upon Anahata’s post. Full of dread, I opened the email with Ivy’s name in the subject line: 

“Hey – I was looking for some info on a girl I used to know named Ivy Sunshine Lee and your comment to someone else’s blog post came up. I’m originally from Commerce, TX, which is where I knew her from. I was wondering if she’s the same Ivy you are looking for. Her mom’s name was Donna. Don’t know about her dad. Were you ever in Commerce? Do you think this is the same girl you are looking for? Please let me know, I may have some info for you.”

I responded immediately. While I waited for Amy’s reply, I remembered things about Ivy I hadn’t visited in a long time.

We met when we were six. Nervous and in a new school, I was a goody-goody, book nerd while Ivy was a spritely, freckled fairy straight out of Mark Twain’s imagination. She asked right off if it would be alright if she called me “KK,” which is what my family had nicknamed me. Later, I came to understand that Ivy seemed to know things beyond mere coincidence and intuition. Whatever the case, I was instantly impressed. And intrigued.

She had super creamy white skin dabbled with those faint freckles and very long, dark, daaaaark hair. I always wanted to be as beautiful as Ivy. Sundresses EVERY single day in bright colors and high heels! Her mother let her wear those little Candies heels to school even, can you believe that?! Oh, Ivy: the luckiest girl alive.

The next year, I wrote my very first essay ever; Ivy proofread it. She would have been the worst fact checker in the world.

“KK, this is boring. You should put something scary in here, like, ‘Sharks eat thousands of people who swim in the ocean every year.’ “

“But, Ivy, I don’t think that’s true.”

“Well, you know sharks eat people. Ugh, I don’t know, how about saying just 40 or 50 people?”

And so it was. The infamous line was born. I penciled in: “Sharks only eat about 40 or 50 people every year.” There was no point in minimizing Ivy’s suggestions. She knew storytelling was much more fun than reporting before I even knew I was a writer. The accompanying illustration was a heavy fare, depicting a shark’s fin amongst body parts and blood. To be clear, I was a little sketchy about turning it in, but was really pleased when Ivy later gloated, “See? I TOLD you you’d get an A.” Thanks, Ivy. [Thanks, Jaws.]

We argued about lip gloss and whether or not it was okay to share the same tube. We argued about church. We argued about who got to play the role of Pat Benetar when we lip-synced “Hit Me With Your Best Shot.” I never won any of those arguments, and, thus, always ended up relegated to playing air guitar on her tennis racket while she silently belted out Pat’s song over and over and OVER again. 

During the community center’s summer screening of “Grease,” I broke the bad news.

“Ivy, we’re moving.”

She cried through the rest of the movie, and so did I. We were the best of pals during that great time in life when it was still okay to hold your best friend’s hand everywhere you went together. 

Years passed, and we kept in touch. Ivy always sent crazy cards and drawings in the mail in random spurts. Through the terrible inconvenience of distance and parents who disliked one another, Ivy and I eventually lost touch and traveled life in separate paths. 

“…and so then he kissed me. Kristan Ka, it was so intense.”

“Oh, I hope I can meet him soon. Hey, we never got to go to Six Flags like we’d planned. Maybe we can get together before summer’s over, and you can bring him!”

(In that year, I think all of my sentences ended in exclamation points.)

“Toooootally. I have to go. I’ll call you soon. Love you.”

“Love you, Ivy.”

With incredible sorrow, I read Amy’s thoughtful response this afternoon:

 

“Well, I’m afraid it’s terrible news. Ivy drowned in Lake Travis in Austin in 2001. I believe she would have been 28 years old. I was searching online actually for her obituary to send to my brother for something his HS class is working on, when I saw your post. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this but when I saw that you’d been looking for her, I figured you’d want to know. She definitely was a character… I didn’t know her that well but from what I did know, she was just a light and lots of fun.     

Anyway, I know this isn’t the news you wanted to hear and again, I’m sorry… ((((hugs))))”

 

As it turned out, Amy’s brother was the boy Ivy had the crush on decades ago. Say it: It’s a small world.

When I closed Amy’s email, I became very upset knowing I’d never get to introduce Ivy to my little girl. I thought it’d be a pretty cool thing to take Bella and her best friend with us to Six Flags. Finally.

So it goes on without her. Ivy Sunshine Lee was one part firecracker, two parts raw sugar, a dash of trouble, a sprinkle of chance, three tablespoons Olivia Newton John-slash- Pat Benetar, and a priceless, last, long distance phone call made without permission.

And, Anahata, the next time you see Susie, if for no other reason, hug her just because you can.