The Monkey

Bailey and I were driving home from Disney yesterday and, as usual, she had the iPod and was selecting our playlist for the drive. Her song selections were amazing. I'm not sure where to start with all my thoughts for this. She played Paul Simon's 'The Obvious Child' and Harry Belafonte and the Muppet's 'Turn The World Around' to start. Even if you don't listen to them, read the lyrics.

What were you listening to at 16? I know I was listening to Tori and NIN mostly. The music I clung to was angry, bitter, anguished shit. Mostly angry. Music of rebellion and angst. You know - teenager music.

Bailey's music is, if not all happy, thoughtful and hopeful. I was amazed to realize as we drove - not a single song she loves is mean or tragic or angsty. She likes a few popular tripe songs (and recognizes them as such), but that's fine; I like that she's not totally alienated from her peer culture.

Her favorite song right now is Billy Joel's 'River of Dreams' . I think it really resonates with her. She sings along with it with such investment. It's not a happy song; it's a song about being lost. BUT, unlike songs about being lost that talk about how fucked up it is to be so, or how they'll never find they're way out of the mess they're in and are giving up, this song talks about being lost as a journey rather than a finality. It's actually a pretty spot-on song for adolescence.

I dunno where I'm going with this post. Maybe just to articulate how I love that the songs she connects the most to aren't angry or sad; they're wise and hopeful. That makes me happy.

Frou Frou Gamer Girl

Just read this article and found it spot-on. On another level, I think it's why I champion avant-garde games. I totally understand I am a pretentious piece of shit with my love of artsy fartsy games. I know it's pretty insufferable, and I do try to keep my blathering about it to a minimum. But the article resonates with me and links in with how I love experimental games.

I truly believe games can be art, just like films or music. I don't think many of them are, but they have the ability to cross over into that designation. I consider Tale of Tales to have made games that are art. There needs to be intention there - the devs need to consciously route their game toward art rather than simply entertainment. I'll also risk pissing off both the art community and the gaming community by suggesting that even some mainstream games like Spec Ops: The Line can at least dip a toe into the 'art' category.

I think that art, generally, needs to be an expression or reflection of the artist's mind or soul. Reading interviews with game developers, that criteria is sometimes very much met. And it's why I'll checkmark Spec Ops, but not BioShock. Both have 'deeper' messages and both take you on an emotional journey, but the former was a deliberate expression of the creator's beliefs, and the latter was just very cool storytelling. Not all of Tale of Tales' games send a message (The Path certainly does though), but all of them showcase the creator's self in some regard.

And so I get super excited when a game that revolves around sitting and waiting for your dinner date to arrive is released; not because I think it will be amazing, or fun, but because it's another attempt to make a game as a legitimate piece of art. The devs even suggest a specific wine to drink while you play the game. I love that. And I realize that makes me a sorta gamer beatnik and that's so obnoxious, but I can't help it.

Feeling Good

I was on jury selection for three bloody days, so I had a lot of time on my hands. I realized that my Google Drive app had stored all my Buzz posts, so I went back and re-read them.

Let me tell you something: I cannot even measure how much better LARP is out of the Cam and out of Therapy now that I'm doing Dreams.

I lost count of all the angry, frustrated, helpless posts I made. I cannot believe I stayed so long in groups that allowed bullies, assholes and creepsters to play, even after the vast majority of people continually complained about them. I posted, way back, something along the lines of 'Yes, I'd rather have a benevolent dictatorship than a terrible democracy'. At the time, I was referring to the fact that I'd prefer two of the Big Gamers, Jake and Lana, to have control of the Domain (because they made it awesome and worked their butts off) than to have 'plebians' control it en masse  and not do a lick of work and tie everything up in red tape. It now applies beautifully to Dreams.

The games now are wonderful. They're cooperative. They're fun. They're full of drama and/or wackiness, and people care about other folks' characters' stories. We had one dude who was continually PvPing for no reason whatsoever, constantly disrupting scenes, trying to steal all the plot for himself and creeping on the female players. We talked to him OOC. We offered to help him make a character that wouldn't always be an asshole. We asked all the players to air their grievances against him - right out in the open, on the SAME NIGHT it happened. We gave him several games to change. We did all of that, and when nothing changed, we told him this was not the right group for him and he left. It was such a reversal of everything I'd experienced, I nearly broke down into tears when I realized I never again would have to tolerate that sort of crap in a game I played in.

People in Dreams are honest about ST input, and often give very solid criticism, which our ST accepts and thanks them for. Our ST never puts his 'vision' of game before the PCs' stories. We all want the other characters to get Extra Special Cool Stuff, because we don't have to worry it'll be used to kill our PCs, and can actually help us, since we're all in it together. Not everyone is in love with everyone OOC, but we're all responsible players and can still get together and have a good game.

And it will stay this way, because I and the other staff/STs are committed to ensuring it does, and we have to power to back that commitment. The group is not for everyone. It's way low on mechanics, it often spits in the face of canon for the sake of story, and it has zero PvP. But for those people who want this kind of experience, we can guarantee giving it to them.

I've had this for iLARPs (man, did I have it - so good), but I was skeptical it could ever be achieved in a regular game. I am very happy my doubts weren't proved true.

I had some wonderful times in the Cam and Therapy; I really did. And without them, I'd never have the chops to run my own troupe, not in a million years. There were people in both that I thought ran/played in the games superbly. There were some incredibly good game nights. But there were also horrible moments, when there shouldn't have been. Not in a LARP group. It could have been all good and no bad - I know this now because I'm experiencing it.

And we're just getting started, so there's so much more to try.

Dreams, I ruv you.

Supper Club at 'Kesh

Tonight I had the amazing pleasure of dining at 'Kesh's new supper club event. It was unreal. I have not had a dining experience at that level, food-wise, since Victoria & Albert's and, unlike V&A's, it was comfortable, unpretentious and relaxed.

Bailey and I went, and we were greeted by the waitstaff with a glass of champagne (me) and a glass of sparkling cherry-cranberry (Bailey). The restaurant looked lovely, definitely a change from the usual casualness.

As we mingled with the other diners, nine of us total, we were served canapes. (You can click to enlarge any of the photos.)

Roast whole fig with Gorgonzola, candied bacon and dehydrated honey crumbles.

We also had a hand-made pork shumai which was killer, and prosciutto-wrapped chorizo with jalapeno. 

When we were seated, the waitstaff exchanged mine and Bailey's white napkins for black, as we were wearing black pants and this would ensure no white lint got on them (so classy). It was time for first course.

·         Chinese Red Rice Crusted Sea Scallop

·         Truffled edamame broth

This was paired with a white wine. The scallop was medium-rare and the garnish was organic Thai basil. Absolutely delicious. The broth was my favorite, though. The bit of red is a touch of chili. So good.

Second course:

·         Pan Grilled Farmers Cheese with Crispy Pork Belly

·         Baby greens salad with cured olive vinaigrette

Jerry said, "Believe it or not, this IS your salad course. There's some greens on the plate." The pork was fantastic. Our pairing for this course was a small glass of Indian coriander ale. I've never had beer like that before and, honestly, it was the first time I felt a true 'pairing' with the food and alcohol. Taking a sip of the ale after a bite of the port was transcendental. The coriander was perfect. 

Third course:

·         Fire & Ice 

·         Watermelon and Ahi tuna ice cubes, white Balsamic-jalapeno syrup

This was the fun course! The plate was set down in front of me and I could immediately hear something that sounded like sizzling, like water on a hot stone. See those little specks on the plate? Those are watermelon Pop Rocks. It made the whole dish come alive and really turned it into Fire & Ice. The tuna was ice-cold and fresh and delicious. 

Fourth course:

·         Moroccan Lollipop Lamb Chops

·         Inside-out couscous roll, spiced tomato chutney

You can't go wrong with lamb chops. These were done to perfection, medium-rare, and marinated in this unbelievable blend of Moroccan spices. The couscous' texture was spot on. Normally I hate the grittiness of couscous, but this was delicious. The chutney's sweetness actually went beautifully with the lamb. We had a nice red with this course.

Dessert:

·         Goat Cheese Fritters

·         Jicama-pear shot and raspberry coulis

This was...there are no words. Every single one of us let out a noise of utter ecstasy when we had the first bite, then cracked up at each other. Jerry told us that the word 'jicama' literally translated means 'vendor's choice'. The markets (souqs) in Morocco have spice vendors and you can ask them for their choice, and they'll put together a blend for you with anywhere from 20 to 30 different herbs and spices. The blend added to this pear shot had 22, I believe, and he got it on his last trip to Morocco. The fritters were like nothing I have ever eaten. The cheese was mild and not salty, almost like a thicker, chewier blintz. Holy mother. It was insane.

What a wonderful, wonderful night. I am absolutely going to the next one I can. Jerry is running them every other Saturday. If you are local, you MUST DO THIS. Book fast, word is already spreading and seats are limited.

I Will Never Be On Facebook

Skipping about from passiveaggressivenotes.com, I found a site called STFUParents, showcasing all the annoying shit parents foist on people via (I assume at least majorly) social media. There was an excerpt:

Over the years, and especially since Unbaby.me came along, more parents have tried to limit the number of pictures they post of their kids on Facebook. I’ve had friends post baby pictures with captions like “Last one!” or with disclaimers like “Warning: Huge family vacation album!” that sound almost apologetic.

This makes me sad. First, there's an actual website that replaces photos of your FB friends' babies with pictures of bacon. It has 107,000 likes on Facebook. Do you know why over a hundred-thousand folks support the idea of changing your family photos to pictures of bacon? Because your Facebook friends are not really friends of yours.

I hate Facebook for so many reasons, not the least of which is this nonsense. Why on Earth would you keep in contact with someone whose life you don't give a crap about, to the point where you'll willfully download an install a program to change the pictures they post into something you find more interesting (like bacon)? Why be 'friends' with someone whose child you don't want to look at? And why on Earth would you be on a social media site where you feel you have to apologize for posting pictures of the most important people in your existence, because you're aware some of your 'friends' are going to be bored/annoyed?

I can't do it. I can't pretend I care about someone's daily life when I don't, and I can't manage the audacity to believe anyone but my family and actual, daily-interactions friends care or want to hear about MY life. I have three friggin' people subscribed to this blog, and one of them I'm pretty sure did it accidentally. I don't want someone to replace a picture of Bailey with some bacon. I don't want to get into an argument about gay marriage with my sister's friend's boyfriend that I've never laid eyes on, or have some random ex find me.

On the downside is the fact that I am notoriously bad about 'staying in touch'. I think it's because I disagree with the notion that if you stop talking to someone every day, you must hate them. I've fallen out of touch with many, many people because of moves or schedules or they or I leaving the hobby/workplace where we got most of our interaction. I don't hate them; I'm just as fond of them as I ever was and it's a treat to see them or hear from them. I just don't get personally offended when they don't call or visit. I don't think it means they hate me, or they're not my friend. And I guess I always am a little baffled when they do get offended or upset when I don't keep in touch. I realize I'm in the minority on this, and it may screw me more than I know.

But, yeah. Babies into bacon. Fuck Facebook.

HC

My girl, you can not hope to marry
For the things that you want, you don't need
And the things you're afraid of aren't scary
And those those cuts on your skin, they don't bleed.

Wow.

I am just overwhelmed right now, and I want to hammer into 'net posterity my gratitude for this evening. So many wonderful people with so much astounding talent, and I hope to God tonight was adequate thanks for all they have done for N1Z. Film-making has been my greatest love since I was seven and earnestly telling my Dad he 'was gonna wanna tape THIS', and tonight, that little girl was legitimized as best I could manage.

Collaborative art is my favorite kind of art. Tonight was the most incredible celebration of it. I wish everyone who was invited, all the people who put their heart and souls into Lots Caste, could have managed to be there, because I wanted to show them how valuable and awesome I think they are. But we had a fabulous crowd, delicious food, and joy, joy, joy for the work we had made together.

Also, Gogas gave me a pink director's chair. WUT WUT!

4-Hour Chef, Part 1

Kyle and I are about the begin the 4-Hour Chef program. Dad got me the book, and although I pretty much wanna kick Tim Feriss in the teeth (rich, white, male, blonde, thin and good-looking - HOW DO YOU MANAGE TO BE A SUCCESS, TIM, WITH SO MANY CHIPS STACKED AGAINST YOU?!), I like the idea a whole lot. There has always been the idea that true food-lovers have to eat unhealthily. I think that's true to some degree. But I've never explored getting INTO healthy food. Cooking it, appreciating it, arranging it, just like it was a cultural/ethnic type of cooking in and of itself.

Kyle will be learning to cook. Seriously cook. And we'll both learn to not just prepare, but understand and appreciate the healthy meals we make.

I'll keep this updated as we progress. We start Monday. Bon appetit.

Janus

Something terrible has been happening in the past few weeks. The Barbadian woman has come back. And, for the first time, I don't have Cliff anymore to fend her off.

I have nothing to keep her at bay, and I don't really know what's going to happen.

'Time sliding irrevocably into the past.'

There are moments in these last days I can actually see the Dunraven house's interior in the mirrors of this one. It's insane. But it's interesting the juxtaposition of the two places, and how I can very firmly assert myself as the owner here; this is my house, and there is no space here over which I do not have some measure of influence. I am the mother, the adult. This is Gillywimpis, instead of a space in which I merely existed.

But there are instants where I can't determine which place I'm at. It passes almost immediately, but it's still jarring. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be recalling something significant, if it's a by-product of getting another year older, or if I'm just losing a little more of my mind.

Resist

I've had a few opportunities in my life to Go Somewhere With My Writing. Nothing Cinderellish, nothing huge but avenues that, were I to pursue down them with serious dedication, might've yielded some recognition, if not fame. Recently, someone offered to give me some advice and assistance should I choose to try it again, and I found myself extremely grateful, but balking hardcore. I always balk hardcore.

The more I experience of that particular end zone, and the more stories I hear, the less I want it. I do not belong there. I'm not saying I'm above it; actually, I'm very aware how inferior I am to that kind of social/career circle. I don't like the people; I don't like the atmosphere. I don't understand it. I was miserable sitting in uncomfortable VIP white couches on the rooftop of the Amway Center drinking awful Stella Artois delivered to me gratis by a bimbo in spandex, surrounded by 60-something men with ponytails and their golden-prune wives as they sent up greetings to Chucks-wearing hipster filmmakers with fake exuberance. I was miserable in that stupid saccharine writer's group hosted by Connie May Fowler where everyone was jerking each other off and waiting to talk rather than listening.

I'm not comparing my writing to Ray, but I feel like he was the same way as far as social preferences or whatnot. He didn't even have a driver's license. I can't imagine he enjoyed the nonsense. Maybe he did. But, either way, he was so involved with cinema and literature and was happy. How did he do it? How do I do it?

I want dear friends to come over and to read me their stories and read mine for pleasure, not so we can write back-cover quotes for one another. I want to make movies and have the same kind of feeling on the first morning of principal photography that I felt when I woke up at Gogas' to shoot 'The Boys'. I want peace in my life, and humility, and magic. I don't want to be famous because people will admire or love me. I want to be famous because that's all the more people I can invite to see and meet and experience all the things I create that make me happy and get me excited.

I'm not unique in this. I see movies and read things all the time created by people who are just so excited and honest about what they're doing. Watching Duncan Jones bouncing all around at BAFTA or BIFA, can't remember which, just through-the-roof with excitement and joy - I loved seeing that. I loved seeing a filmmaker who was just hyper about people seeing his movie. It made me feel better about being a total goober about my own creative efforts. That's where I wanna be. That's my ultimate goal. I would gladly trade every chance at walking a red carpet or wearing a Bob Mackie gown or being on Oprah just to never have to schmooze or network or spend an evening in a club with The Beautiful People, and still make movies. I'd trade every chance for book-signings and a Barnes & Noble display of my books for never having a splash page of some other author's obviously fluffed up tit-for-tat review of something I wrote.

And there's another constant problem: I don't want to submit something that's less than my best, but my best gouges out so much of me and it's so much who I am that part of me is very afraid to let anyone other than people I actually know read it. My book of sonnets is there on Blurb, but I know damn well no-one other than family or friends will buy it. I have recurring nightmares where I'm sitting in this green room for either a talk show or a weird PBS roundtable or Inside the Actors Studio or something - some occasion where I'll be asked about my writing in front of an audience or a broadcase - and I flip out. I'll dream I crawl under a table, or start lying about why I can't leave the green room, or I'll lucidly have a hurricane hit and take out the power or something. It's this awful paradox where I want people to read or watch what I create, but I don't want to discuss it, or there's certain aspects I wouldn't be able to discuss.

We're going to do commentary for 'The Boys'. I'm excited for it, but I know there will be things I won't talk about - motivations for writing each of the characters, what I went through while writing the script, etc. Because it'll come out so stupidly pretentious, blathering on about a short film no one's even seen and maybe six people care about. I dunno. I think I'm just not cut out for being a legitimate writer. I wouldn't care, except that I'd like to earn my living with it and make enough so Kyle and I could make decent films.

Palisades

The pulpy emissaries arrived

And made themselves comfortable

Until they were not comfortable, and called

For me. I came, and met their demands

By chipping flecks from the settees, the fibers

Of the furniture

Going as mulchy as their occupants.

I was an adept hostess, covering all bases

Swirling through the kitchenette to coax canapés

From the tiny ovens

My guests rolled in concert to tour my estate

Liking the banners

Disliking the silence

Leaving their slopped castoffs in pools

For the heels of my Bergdorf-Goodman slingbacks

To drown in.

But I, ever confident, pursued the trend

Of whitewashing moments for company

And these unbaked ambassadors seemed to appreciate

The effort, if not the effect.

I knew not to be effusive

I knew to temper my sashays

They were traditional; they were ancient

So much depended on their conclusions

And collecting their runoff from the grooves

In my walls, on my floors.

I cultivated my carriage until they, at last, departed

Then my knees struck the ground, timed

With the shutting of my front gate

And I bent to begin licking up their refuse.

Ante

Now, once upon a time, there was a card
With tattered edges, marred by fold and crease
And, in a brand-new deck it wasn't hard
To spot, so folks knew not to draw the piece

But Jack came strolling up and eyed the deck
Held out and fanned by one just known as 'Fate'
He saw the battered card. He rubbed his neck
And stood there for a bit to contemplate

No one had ever thought about the 'why'
That made the poor torn card so sad and bruised
It's shabbiness served well to turn their eye
And pick a shiny card less frayed and used

But Jack saw every crease and fold and tear
A journey, an adventure or a tale
They seemed better instead of worse for wear
Those marrings called to him and cinched the sale

He drew the card; its face now matters not
He was the first to love the card he got.

Oh, Hello

I've always sort of made fun of Tori for humanizing her songs, calling them her 'girls' and giving them this odd sort of free will. And I don't think the things I write - poems or stories - are people. But they do talk to me. Some of them are insistent, some further themselves only when I'm about to fall asleep, etc.. But they all have different ways of making me write them, and all of them vex me in different ways.

This one is annoying, because it's not the one I wanted to spend my time on. I had other ideas, but this is the one I'm now thinking about constantly. It's not about any of my passions, it's not The Great American Novel. But it's the one that I'm writing and the one that won't let me be until I finish it.

Ah, well. Sometimes your Muse is an angry bitch goddess, sometimes it's a quiet, insinuating little shit.

Please Stop

Please, please stop.

Please.

PLEASE GOD PLEASE STOP.

It's time to disassociate from this, adult men. I don't care how good the show is. I don't care how many times you say The Humor Is Actually Aimed At Adults As Well As Kids and The Story Is Actually Really Cohesive and If You Actually Watched It, You'd Understand.

Son, sometimes good things get ruined by awful people. Sometimes, there's something awesome, but people take it over and turn it into something terrible. Sometimes an ancient symbol of good fortune turns into one of the most recognizable and reviled icons in human history. And it sucks, but you're never gonna get it back, and if you wear a T-shirt with it on it, no matter how many times you say The American Indians Used It Way Before Hitler Did, people are still going to want to punch you in the face. For good reason.

My Little Pony is now awful. Awful men have done things to it and made it awful. The show could be penned by the duo writing team of Shakespeare and Jesus, and voiced by Sinatra and Crosby, and it would still be awful because these awful people have done awful things with it. And it's such a damn shame, because there are so many little girls out there who love it and have every right to do so. It breaks my heart that my four-year-old niece is gonna grow up and learn what awful men did to her beloved childhood show. Fuck you guys. Leave it alone. Just leave it ALONE.

It's time to cut your losses and take your leave while you still have some integrity and decency intact, gentlemen-who-don't-fuck-or-fake-marry-ponies. I know several of you, and none of you are awful, but you are being associated with truly awful people. There are forty billion and seven awesome shows out there with clever writing and cohesive plot, and don't make you look like a pedo creepster. Go watch one of them. Leave the ponies to my niece and her friends and help it to stay appropriate and innocent.

Gilt

Prep for surgery
Oh, my darlin' clemency
Two breaths, here we go.

Weren't We Just Discussing This?

Met up with friends at a local lounge last night. I was the only girl in the group and I was seated on the couch between Kyle and another fellow. At one point, I got up to use the restroom and when I came out, I saw some drunk older woman sitting where I'd been. And the guys were all sitting very still, looking a little tense. I had no clue what the heck was going on. The drunk lady got up, babbled a bit to me, I shook her hand and babbled back and then she wandered off and I sat back down.

Turns out, she came and sat and immediately put her hand on Kyle's thigh. And Kyle picked her hand off him and told her not to touch him. She laughed it off and said something like 'Don't get mean'. But Kyle was pissed. And the other lads began to have a concern that things might get ugly quickly. They didn't, I came back and there you have it.

Kyle kept talking about it on the way home. Short comments like 'I can't believe that bitch touched me', over and over. And I realized - he was genuinely upset by it. And I also realized that I was an idiot for being surprised about that fact.

Kyle said 'I can't imagine being a girl'. We talked about it some more, and he was pretty amazed at how awful it would be if some drunk old man sat down next to a girl and groped her thigh. If the genders had been reversed, it would've been so bad. But, I think it was bad regardless of gender.

He didn't break down and sob, and there was no lasting trauma or whatever. But he didn't like a stranger touching him with familiarity and he didn't like her playing it off like he was the bad one for not accepting or reciprocating it. And both of us seemed preconditioned to laugh and forget about it or not care that it happened, and when Kyle kept mentioning it because it was genuinely bothering him, we both realized that such preconditioning doesn't hold water.

So, now that's two instances of women forcing their shit onto people who didn't ask for it. The one from yesterday pisses me off on a higher level because she's doing what she's protesting against. But both are gross.

Fuck You Whore

I saw this on a friend's Facebook.

THIS PISSES ME OFF.

When a guy exposes himself to strangers, it's a traumatizing, reprehensible, vile thing.

When this whore does it, it's Feminism and Anti-Body Shaming and A Fierce Statement About Rape.

Fuck you. You don't speak for me. You aren't all women. I refuse to be represented by someone who feels it's okay to force her naked stupid gross exhibitionist crap on the public. I don't want to see a random guy's dick; I don't want to see your nasty taped titties and your smug little smirk. Put some goddamn clothes on and have the same respect for those who don't want you to force your tits on them that you supposedly do for the women you think you know who don't want to be sexually harassed.

Nobody around you, unless you fucking polled each person in whatever downtown you're skanky ass is in, asked to see your tit-diatribe. You just did EXACTLY what you're protesting.

Stop being a whore. I am ashamed to share a gender with you.