Sarcomical

Rain On the Pretty Ones

i'm the actor who's scared to perform
i'm the sunshine that hides in the clouds
i'm the father that couldn't be found
i'm the cuckoo that never flew south
i'm the christian that cannot forgive
i'm the dreamer that jumps off the bridge
i'm the sinner who hates how he lives...
i'm the liar who gets what he gives.
-Ed Harcourt, Rain On the Pretty Ones

There are moments, still. Moments when I am hit with a swell of certainty that I have abandoned myself. I pause, overwhelmed by the chasm that separates me from the quiet, patient shadow that I some days am barely aware exists. What's worse is when I go days or weeks without even thinking about the fact that I miss her.

She tells me to remember how hard I've worked to make impossible things happen in my past.
She wishes I would not stuff down my desire to become a traveler because of fear.
She'd like to kick me in the ass for pretending this is enough.
She reminds me how much participating in the comaraderie of musicians meant to me.
She challenges me to take risks in my art.
She wonders if I'll allow myself to fail.
She asks if I've forgotten the exhilaration of performance.
She urges me to become fully passionate with the wreckless abandon of a child.
She can't comprehend giving so much power to my own critical voice.
She wants me to stop lying to myself about me.

*Feed reader folks, there's a video in this post. This song makes my soul ache and swirl. Please give it a listen.

Fancypants Teatime

Sis-in-law Polina & I had "high tea" today at local eatery Serendipity. (We were [SO VERY this close] to donning our fake British accents.) They served us three different teas, the hands-down favorite being the dessert tea...a mind-numbing chocolate flavor. The adventure began with a cranberry spritzer "to cleanse your palates", touted our hostess, and included an evil Tower of Treats atop a tray of wee sandwiches. I can now  say I have fully lived, having tasted the stacked concoction comprised of blueberry toast and cheese. WHAT? Yes.

Target

I. Got. Bangs.

oh, dear...

As it became clear I needed a trim desperately, I had to take on the task of finding a stylist to start fresh with again (my last cut being during our vacation in New York, and not quite yet jet-setty enough to whisk off whenever I please and all). I got Twitter input, consulted a few of my hair goddess friends (ahem Sarah ahem), decided to be brave, and then two hours before my appointment got a staggering case of The Bok Bok Boks (that's chicken language, my friends). I decided I'd just get my layers shaped up and sidle off quietly hoping everyone I'd bothered and pleaded with for hair opinions would maybe just not notice.

BUT.

Turns out, this new stylist I found...he's not afraid. In fact, he kind of took one look at me and the candy-ass photos of mediocrity I brought with me and suggested I go for it. He had a sample photo of his own from his recent training session with Nick Arrojo (oops, did you drop a name, there?) which was much more brave than what I was prepared for by the time I came in. He said, "let's try this, but a little longer and less bold, and see how you like it". And also, "can we curl it?" Um, yes. And, yes. Thank you, Greg, of g.michael Salon. Thank you for making the transition quite painless and, might I even say, not sucktastic in the least.

SarcomiDoggeh Translations

Oh, you mean THAT friend...how silly of me.

Whilst intensely watching a football game at our home last night with his brother, Mr. S. was, for reasons far too convoluted to explain yet quite innocent I assure you, trying in vain to come up with the word 'burlesque'.

"You know...no no no, not a strip club, what is that word?"

"Hooters?" his brother chimed unhelpfully.

"No! Not like that, you know, it's not...you know, there's a stage..."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said.

*frustrated arrgh* "No, yes you do! Our...friend has some, he owns one, you know that guy...Chuck! You know Chuck, he owns them! uh...come on!"

"Who the hell is Chuck?"

"CHUCK!!! ahh, Chuck, oh crap what's his name...we know him, our friend...I mean that guy...Chuck...Chuck..." *beseeching eyes*

"I did not know we HAD a friend named Chuck, where am I supposed to go with this?"

"CHUCK! FROM THE SHOW! I know you know this...CHUCK!"

"Oh my God, are you talking about Chuck BASS?!?"

*beat of silence*

I DIE. I DIE WITH TEARS SEEPING FROM MY EYEBALLS. I DIE LAUGHING SO HARD I HAVE DEPLETED ALL OXYGEN FROM MY CELLS.

While I am laying there dead, the husband has to explain to his brother that Chuck Bass is from Gossip Girl, that he watches Gossip Girl, and apparently a fictional character who owns a burlesque club and posesses questionable moral qualities is our friend.

Rocco's Pastry Shop & Espresso Café, Bleecker Street

participation.

It's been a really long while since I put thoughts down in a notebook, and I'm convinced this practice is a vital way to connect your internal dialogue with your physical life. I know that for myself, getting things in my headspace down tangibly lends so much clarity to what I need to do next.

True, there are our blogs, on which we can choose to sift through some things. Yet...there is something uniquely satisfying about letting thoughts spill out of a pen, filling a page with images, words, colors...that simply cannot be duplicated with text on a flat screen. I ponder and halter far less when physically writing. For me, it's vastly more cathartic, more action-spurning, more idea-churning and honestly much more spiritually fulfilling to give myself permission to scribble, scratch and earn an ink-stained wrist bone (fellow left-handed comrades, you feeling me on that one?) than to labor over a few paragraphs for an hour while staring into a lightbox that I am quite sure will eventually be the annihilation of my eyesight.

All of that being said, along the lines of fostering creativity and productive thought, I'm going to share with you some excerpts from what I wrote yesterday in my new giant red notebook, after wrestling through a creative block and doubts as an evolving creative professional:

"It's difficult for me to accept that I can or should expect or even ask for any sort of compensation for the assumption that what I do would be considered a talent. The fact that I continue to fight, battling myself over the idea that this is all too personal to risk being rejected in the light of the rules of commerce, that I must be willing to separate myself from my fears enough to demand even half a living at it...it's a stifling thought. ... ... This is the time for renewal :: and participation. ... ... There is no reason you cannot produce SOMETHING every day. ... ... Regret less each day."

Ogle My Stuff: A Bit of the Christmas Intake '09

a few things not pictured: the motorized Swiffer Sweeper which made me weep over the kitchen floor's state of non-hairiness, a cozy hoodie, gorgeous comfy shirts, a Flight of the Conchords tee which is rad but sadly way way way too long and big to keep but I shall try to replace, THIGH HIGH SOCKS!!! WITH STRIPES!!!, 4 packets of Armour turkey pepperoni (neither a lie NOR an exaggeration), a bag of Jolly Ranchers, various gift cards, my stocking stash of gossip magazines, a new coffee tumbler, and a few other lovely things that escape me at the moment.

What I Didn't Do in 2009

Oh yes, it's time to revisit the old tradition around here fondly known as The Listing of the Anti-Resolutions. While personally I always have an evolving list of actions and changes big and small that I strive toward in my life, I am less fond of the idea of making sweeping grandiose lists at the beginning of a new year simply because of the date on the calendar. HOWEVER, the new year seems a perfect time to list a few things I DON'T want to do in the coming four seasons. Why, do you ask? Well, come on, surely you can imagine how great my satisfaction is when I can look back and confidently say I successfully did not do one solitary thing on the list of things I didn't want to do in 2009. Remember this list?

Things I Didn't Do in 2009

1. Grow a handlebar moustache.
2. Trip a waiter. On purpose.
3. Purchase underwear from Craigslist.
4. Knit some earrings.
5. Try to have small children screaming in public arrested.
6. Incorporate more sly winking into my conversations.
7. Join the teenage neighbors when they sunbathe on their front lawn.
8. Eat only things that are purple. Or striped.
9. Enter the female wrestling circuit under the name "Bam-Bam DeVille".
10. Give up walking altogether and transport solely via Hippity Hop bouncy ball.
11. Master the fine art of de-lousing.
    
12. Wear one of those personal fans on a necklace string and turn it on during social gatherings to get "that Beyoncé Effect"
13. Start biting my toenails.
14. Ditch everything in my closet and re-populate it only with apparel from the Disney store.
15. Become a hibachi chef at Benihana.

It would be a lie to say I'm not proud of myself, especially for not doing number 7. Well, also number 1...though that would have been quite a conversation-starter. But enough chest-pounding over my success, it's time to set the groundwork for the next twelve months. Oh, let's see...what do I NOT want to do in 2010? What can I feel proud of not accomplishing this time next year. Hmm...how about this?

My Anti-Resolutions for 2010:

1. Gain 12 pounds in one meal.
2. Get rid of my cell phone and communicate solely via telegram.
3. Ship myself to the White House in a crate full of hope.
4. Single-handedly resurrect the Dorothy Hamill haircut.
5. Become a roadie for a traveling production of Jersey Shore: The Musical.
6. Bring a pie to the gym once a week and eat it on the recumbent bicycle.
7. Take up professional Etch-a-Sketching.
8. Write iCarly fan fiction.
9. Design a bra made out of safety pins.
10. Slowly and subversively train my husband to bring me a cheese platter every time the neighbor's dog barks.
11. Become President of a local Jon Gosselin fan club.
12. Build a fire pit in the bathroom.
13. Throw a botox party.
14. Write a play about the perils of toe socks.
15. Create a candle that smells like rotisserie chicken.

...think I can manage it?