Working on a longer entry at the moment, but thought you might like a real-time update of the sometimes fantastic and sometimes awful 80's playlist at the café where I'm currently writing. Look for updates over the next hour or two!
So. Central Rain by R.E.M. (when this wonderful old R.E.M. song was playing in the café, I thought it a good sign. Little did I know I'd have to be assaulted by infuriatingly catchy Billy Joel and Hall and Oates tunes for the remainder of my stay.)
Jeopardy by Greg Kihn
It's a Mistake by Men At Work
Family Man by Hall and Oates
People Are People by Depeche Mode
some godawful George Thoroughgood song
Pulling Mussels (From the Shell) by Squeeze! (pretty obscure, right?)
Don't Be Cruel, as peformed by Cheap Trick
King of Pain by the Police
Our House by Madness
Tell Her About it by Billy Joel (ugh!)
Manic Monday by...um...the Bangles (did I get it right?)
A Million Miles Away by the Plimsouls (sounding very Replacementsy)
Come Dancing by the Kinks (was this released in the 80's? maybe...)
Saved By Zero by The Fixx
I Know Tonight by the Cars
Let's Go Crazy by Prince
Mayor of Simpleton by XTC (nice to hear this one! Been a long time.)
Show Me by the Pretenders (Yay!! I have to say, I think the Pretenders and Chrissie Hynde are really underrated by retro-appropriating hipsters everywhere. They quite rock, IMHO)
Express Yourself by Madonna
Don't Dream It's Over by Crowded House
Freedom by Wham! (not to be confused with "Freedom 90" by George Michael, solo, songs of the same title and quite different in theme. Very self-aware, George.)
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Dispatch from the Cruz
Hello one and all,
I'm spending the weekend with my pals Exene and Oliver here in my erstwhile hometown of Santa Cruz. Once E & O's friend S. gets here, we will sup downtown at a new Pakistani restaurant, new since I last lived in this town some eight years ago. Astrid is on a teaching gig in Oklahoma, and I miss her. There's so much to tell, and I'm working on an epic blog entry about some of the thrilling updates in our lives. Mainly, I'm referring to the whole polyamory thing, blown wide open since L.'s visit from Germany. Suddenly I have tangible glimmers of life as I've ideally wanted to live it my entire adult existence: to be very committed and still head-over-ass in love with Astrid, and to experience the incredible joy and titillation, and also the struggle of owning all my own authentic fears about sharing the woman I love with other people who she might grow to love as well. There is something both altruistic and keenly selfish about cultivating my polyness: I get to support Astrid in her loving adventures with other people, and of course, I get to have some of m'own.
Goddamn, I'm hungry. Pakistani food sounds just right.
xo
Bree
I'm spending the weekend with my pals Exene and Oliver here in my erstwhile hometown of Santa Cruz. Once E & O's friend S. gets here, we will sup downtown at a new Pakistani restaurant, new since I last lived in this town some eight years ago. Astrid is on a teaching gig in Oklahoma, and I miss her. There's so much to tell, and I'm working on an epic blog entry about some of the thrilling updates in our lives. Mainly, I'm referring to the whole polyamory thing, blown wide open since L.'s visit from Germany. Suddenly I have tangible glimmers of life as I've ideally wanted to live it my entire adult existence: to be very committed and still head-over-ass in love with Astrid, and to experience the incredible joy and titillation, and also the struggle of owning all my own authentic fears about sharing the woman I love with other people who she might grow to love as well. There is something both altruistic and keenly selfish about cultivating my polyness: I get to support Astrid in her loving adventures with other people, and of course, I get to have some of m'own.
Goddamn, I'm hungry. Pakistani food sounds just right.
xo
Bree
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Vagina Dentata!
Saturday, September 13, 2008
The Germans!
Four lovely German dykes are staying with the us this week - a friend and former make-outy person of Astrid's, L., and her three traveling pals. We had a grand night out on the town with them last night which consisted of Indian food at Pakwan and much alcohol at the local dyke watering hole. Then I walked back to the apartment with some of the ladies and Astrid and L. continued to catch up at the bar, and it seems that L. is quickly becoming a current make-outy pal of Astrid's, too! This is really hot and fun for me to hear about and I'm definitely experiencing some nice compersion, picturing Astrid and L. getting down and wondering about how the group dynamics around it will unfold during the week.
Today, the girls are off exploring the Golden Gate Bridge, and Astrid and I are lunching and taking a bike ride. And then later, we'll all convene to watch Astrid perform some smutty poetry at her very first public literary reading! Yay sex! Yay creativity! Yay Germans!
Today, the girls are off exploring the Golden Gate Bridge, and Astrid and I are lunching and taking a bike ride. And then later, we'll all convene to watch Astrid perform some smutty poetry at her very first public literary reading! Yay sex! Yay creativity! Yay Germans!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
September 11 - how many dead?
It's the seventh anniversary of the terrorist attacks that leveled the World Trade Center and hit the Pentagon on September 11, 2001. Bush, Rumsfeld and crew held a "somber" ceremony at Ground Zero this morning, lamenting the 3,000 American deaths from the attacks. And these deaths surely should be remembered, but no national tragedy can justify the violence we have returned in kind.
Why aren't our elected officials, and the presidential candidates, and the mainstream media mentioning the more than 20,000 Afghan deaths and the more than 1.2 million Iraqi deaths in the wake of the comparatively minor suffering we've endured on U.S. soil?
Why aren't our elected officials, and the presidential candidates, and the mainstream media mentioning the more than 20,000 Afghan deaths and the more than 1.2 million Iraqi deaths in the wake of the comparatively minor suffering we've endured on U.S. soil?
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Where Fat Meets Butch
I've always hated shopping for clothes. Even now that I really enjoy dressing up and looking all hot and shit, finding clothes that fit me, particularly button-down shirts, the staple for all my biz casual and dressy wardrobe needs, is elusive and irksome. The experience of finding a great shirt at a vintage store, a western style collar shirt, in worn cotton with mother-of-pearl buttons, say, is more often than not completely demoralizing, as I slide into the sleeves, noticing that the fit of the shoulders and collar and tits are perfect, but the lower two buttons, the ones situated over my distended belly, will not, no matter how I strain, fasten or stay closed. This happens over and over and over again.
My hatred of shopping is perhaps more deeply rooted in my gender nonconformity than it is in my fatness. When my mom and I went to the department store together, I loathed every moment of getting into the changing room with her to try on blouses and dresses and cute little girly shorts with matching flowery tank tops. "Butch" is a shorthand, and not a label I strongly identify with, but it gives you an idea. I've always been a tomboy, ever since before I can remember. I rode bikes on the creek path, played with Star Wars action figures, dug in the dirt, eschewed Barbie and make up and all things pink and purple. My favorite article of clothing when I was a kid was my precious Zoom shirt.
A handsomely androgynous striped rugby, I wore it practically every day of my fourth and fifth years. At right, I am receiving the Zoom shirt on my fourth birthday. The eyes in the photo say it all: "I can't wait to get outta this cutsie sundress and into that shirt!"
My mom had a theory about why I didn't like to wear pretty clothes, which she didn't hesitate to share with me during my adolescence. She said she thought I would like wearing dresses if I lost weight. I told her to shove it, but politely. The theory doesn't wash, considering I was a tomboy before I became fat, but it fits nicely into my mom's ideas about my sexuality, and into her self-hating narrative about her own fatness. So much precious life could be lived if fat women could love their bodies instead of being eaten alive by self-hatred.
But being fat certainly contributes to my dread about shopping, my anger that "plus-sized" clothing for women is usually feminine, and often so fucking ugly besides. And the problem with shopping in the men's department is that the cuts are not tailored for womanly curves, not to mention the big ol' belly. There is a fucking gold mine awaiting the clothing designer who will create an inexpensive butch clothing line, with ample size options, and there are rumblings about this online, but scarce proof of anything out there yet. The cutest plus-sized clothes I've seen online are from Torrid, but the products are still overwhelmingly girlie. I have no problem shopping in the men's department, and feel pretty safe and unharassed about it since I live in the Bay Area. But the belly conspires to keep me wearing stretchy polyester for the long haul.
My hatred of shopping is perhaps more deeply rooted in my gender nonconformity than it is in my fatness. When my mom and I went to the department store together, I loathed every moment of getting into the changing room with her to try on blouses and dresses and cute little girly shorts with matching flowery tank tops. "Butch" is a shorthand, and not a label I strongly identify with, but it gives you an idea. I've always been a tomboy, ever since before I can remember. I rode bikes on the creek path, played with Star Wars action figures, dug in the dirt, eschewed Barbie and make up and all things pink and purple. My favorite article of clothing when I was a kid was my precious Zoom shirt.
A handsomely androgynous striped rugby, I wore it practically every day of my fourth and fifth years. At right, I am receiving the Zoom shirt on my fourth birthday. The eyes in the photo say it all: "I can't wait to get outta this cutsie sundress and into that shirt!"
My mom had a theory about why I didn't like to wear pretty clothes, which she didn't hesitate to share with me during my adolescence. She said she thought I would like wearing dresses if I lost weight. I told her to shove it, but politely. The theory doesn't wash, considering I was a tomboy before I became fat, but it fits nicely into my mom's ideas about my sexuality, and into her self-hating narrative about her own fatness. So much precious life could be lived if fat women could love their bodies instead of being eaten alive by self-hatred.
But being fat certainly contributes to my dread about shopping, my anger that "plus-sized" clothing for women is usually feminine, and often so fucking ugly besides. And the problem with shopping in the men's department is that the cuts are not tailored for womanly curves, not to mention the big ol' belly. There is a fucking gold mine awaiting the clothing designer who will create an inexpensive butch clothing line, with ample size options, and there are rumblings about this online, but scarce proof of anything out there yet. The cutest plus-sized clothes I've seen online are from Torrid, but the products are still overwhelmingly girlie. I have no problem shopping in the men's department, and feel pretty safe and unharassed about it since I live in the Bay Area. But the belly conspires to keep me wearing stretchy polyester for the long haul.
Vintage Bree: Who Killed Roy Orbison?
It is early December, 1988. I am in my high school chemistry class, junior year, chatting with my lab partners as we mix some concoction of stuff in order to make a polymer or some shit that I didn't understand then and certainly don't understand now. We are chatting about this new supergroup called the Traveling Wilburys, and all of us agree we really dig their single Handle With Care, which has been ubiquitous on the radio lately.
Then I chime in that although I really like the song, I can't stand Roy Orbison's vocals and wished he wasn't in the band. Most of us are in agreement about this as well.
The next day we all come running into class, shocked at the news of Orbison's death. All eyes are on me as the group collectively charges "You killed Roy Orbison!" And while the news was unfortunate, indeed, given the '60s crooner's renewed fame with the Wilburys, this becomes a running joke for the rest of my high school days.
Jump to the year 2000, my ten-year high school reunion. I'm having pre-reunion cocktails at my good friend Gabe's apartment in San Jose with a few other high school pals that Gabe has kept in touch with. Of these friends is one of my former chem lab partners, Tom, who somewhere between high school and adulthood has grown to a towering 6'4 from his 1988 height of about 5'6. Tom was one of the truly sweet guys in high school in a field of obnoxious rich jocks and stoner wasteoids that made up the major portion of the dudes I went to high school with. So as we get to reminiscing, Tom and I both start telling the story about that fateful conversation in chemistry class. We take turns telling pieces of the narrative, and then Tom claims that he is the one who had wished Roy Orbison's departure from the band: by his own account, Tom was the one who killed Roy Orbison!
I sit there blinking as everyone laughs at the story. Over the course of the last dozen years, Tom and I, and our selective memories, have taken credit for the uncanny wish that coincided with Roy Orbison's fatal heart attack on December 6, 1988. I decide not to correct Tom's version of events, and take another sip of gin and tonic. Wouldn't want to be Petty about it.
Then I chime in that although I really like the song, I can't stand Roy Orbison's vocals and wished he wasn't in the band. Most of us are in agreement about this as well.
The next day we all come running into class, shocked at the news of Orbison's death. All eyes are on me as the group collectively charges "You killed Roy Orbison!" And while the news was unfortunate, indeed, given the '60s crooner's renewed fame with the Wilburys, this becomes a running joke for the rest of my high school days.
Jump to the year 2000, my ten-year high school reunion. I'm having pre-reunion cocktails at my good friend Gabe's apartment in San Jose with a few other high school pals that Gabe has kept in touch with. Of these friends is one of my former chem lab partners, Tom, who somewhere between high school and adulthood has grown to a towering 6'4 from his 1988 height of about 5'6. Tom was one of the truly sweet guys in high school in a field of obnoxious rich jocks and stoner wasteoids that made up the major portion of the dudes I went to high school with. So as we get to reminiscing, Tom and I both start telling the story about that fateful conversation in chemistry class. We take turns telling pieces of the narrative, and then Tom claims that he is the one who had wished Roy Orbison's departure from the band: by his own account, Tom was the one who killed Roy Orbison!
I sit there blinking as everyone laughs at the story. Over the course of the last dozen years, Tom and I, and our selective memories, have taken credit for the uncanny wish that coincided with Roy Orbison's fatal heart attack on December 6, 1988. I decide not to correct Tom's version of events, and take another sip of gin and tonic. Wouldn't want to be Petty about it.
Monday, September 08, 2008
The Grind
The job search has been kinda depressing. Usually, I'm able to get a bookkeeping gig within a week or two of looking, but it's pretty competative out there right now. Got a very humane rejection email from a nonprofit that got over 200 applications! And this is just for a tiny 10 hour/week gig. So I might have to adjust my rates to get more responses on my résumés.
It looks like I did land a short-term job with a small home-based company starting tomorrow. It's not what I ultimately want, but I'm grateful to have some money potentially coming in during the next couple weeks. I'm actually at the point of not being able to come up with rent if I don't start earning something, so this is a life saver. As much as she'd like, Astrid just can't be my sugar mamma for long. Sigh.
It looks like I did land a short-term job with a small home-based company starting tomorrow. It's not what I ultimately want, but I'm grateful to have some money potentially coming in during the next couple weeks. I'm actually at the point of not being able to come up with rent if I don't start earning something, so this is a life saver. As much as she'd like, Astrid just can't be my sugar mamma for long. Sigh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)