Things I miss in Seattle (ongoing).

1. the possibility of seeing the grandes dames of Pho Bang: Ursula Android and/or Jackie Hell
2. Pho
3. walking down the sidewalk with coffee
4. my Grace Jones poster(s)
5. listening to music through a stereo rather than bad computer speakers or headphones
6. Presse/Baguette Box
7. talking to Miss Kiana
8. karaoke
9. Bambi Parties
10. Happy Toast
11. receiving disturbing films through the mail and watching them when I get home from work
12. the fact that the entire city of Seattle does not shut down on Sundays
    

Illegal actions for Facebook #1 and 2.

• Make a false Facebook profile with your real name. Find people who share your name and invite them all to be your friend. See how many multiples of you you can collect. Share your successes and failures. Accept all the application requests they send you. They may know better than you do.

• Make a false Facebook profile. Invite people who share names with your 'real' friends on Facebook to be your friends. In this way, create an alternate, potential you. Post comments about your potential life with your potential friends.
  

I saw birds in Paris.

representation of crow . illegally installed art


conceptual and real vulture eating entrails of golden silk


in a tiny, fresh restaurant . large scale photograph


conceptual obscenity high on a building


actual dead bird . body mostly missing


actual small birds in actual wax . concepts of freedom versus stillness

Ask Me

about my conceptual trip to Paris. It went swimmingly. I even have pictures.

A tiny photoessay on British loneliness in the Malaga airport (feeding/lost balloon)

Confidential for M. ______. #2.

'I haven't seen you since I was a kid . . .

Basically! Jennifer Louise, you don't know me and we're not friends . . . I was just w-w-w-w-w-w-wonderin' 'bout you, wonderin' if you ever think-think-thinka-think about me . . .'

So I have been listening to some playlists (#19-25 On-the-Go out of 147 in total) lately, most of which were composed in transit to work, walking to the bus stop while drinking coffee, reading and spinning the conceptual 'wheel' on my most presh-us Butter Moon and pushing down my thumb to add a highlighted song to my list, swerving to avoid someone else walking then looking down and spinning the wheel again. While passing the Crescent (a bartender invariably cleaning the floor mats, invariably one to two older queens having their first beers [one presumes] and squinting at the bright or dim light filtering into their not currently smoky but smelling like it cave), pausing to pick up an orange or tangerine juice at the corner market, reapplying the earcovering headphones all while adding, adding song to the playlist. I would put the finishing touches on as I waited for the bus, but was generally finished when I mounted the bus and would go (preferably) to the seat just behind the back door and listen to my newly amalgamated list of 'singles of the week' as I called them when I got to the restaurant and pumped it through the 'CD Cruiser', a silver and red Corvette-ish mini boom box which slowly turned the color of grease. 'This is my new favorite song!' I would proclaim every ten minutes.

Listening to these playlists, 3ish years old or maybe more?? I was ever-so-pleased to run up against one of Of Montreal's hidden gems off of what was probably their worst album, or their most forgettable (a feat for Mr. Barnes, to be forgettable, the worst dream of a dandy). The song is called "Jennifer Louise" and it runs a very to-the-point 2 minutes, 1 second. The song is about a cousin that the singer is wondering after, whom he hasn't seen in a long, long time. He can't even imagine what she was like, but hears about her 'good' standing in life from his mother. He remembers good things that her father did for him when he was a child. He admits that he will probably never make the effort to contact her, via a letter or phone, let alone actually speak to her in person. But he wonders about her and wonders if she wonders about him.

I remember being so enthralled with how this song cut to the chase and the range of complex thought and emotion expressed-- no time for bullshit in a song that is about as long as most Ramones' songs. It's a difficult thing to create something minimal and connect emotionally at the same time. The sentiment in this song is so delicate, yet very succintly put together and sad and all. I wonder if Kevin Barnes is on Facebook and if so if he sent a friend request to Jennifer Louise, assuming she exists and if she accepted.

It made me think about what Facebook is becoming and is. How it allows you to spy, sort of, on those people that helped make you you. To recognize that they were part of your daily life at the very least. I am still unsure if those old meanings can be rekindled and put into use again, but you don't have to wonder the same way anymore. It's easy to search for people nowadays. I wonder how this will change the fascination, repulsion and ultimate dynamic of high school reunions?

In time for my birthday

New Of Montreal! Called 'Skeletal Lamping.' Bated breath, eyes lifted. Yum Yum. This is good news as their last album was probably the album of the year for me. It neatly contained my obsessions for several months and has mass classics. I heart Kevin Barnes.

On every occasion, I'm waiting for a funeral.

On the event of my 30th birthday, or 29th.

Put to death, or put to rest: the pegged blue jeans; David Hockney swimming pool colored pegged jeans; and ancient polyster pin-striped pants that I use as my 'nice' pants. I no longer fit into these. (goodbye 28 waist.)

(Do not hope to 'lose' the weight. Do not ignore who you are and who you have become. Idea that your body is essentially you.)

Put to death by live burial, death by shooting, burning, drowning.

Put to rest, set sail in the sound Valhalla bound; bury in a casket; cremate and throw burned fragments into a river for turtles to eat. Consume (probably not possible). Document everything.
Take out large ad in the obituaries for jeans. Do this un-ironically.

Imagine that the shed parts of you are no longer you. The wolf that gnaws off its paw to escape a trap does not consider the part its anymore. Is hindered by.

Public humiliation. Subsuming humiliation.

Document everything.

Haunted, not ghosts, but by fragments in what we say

It has been a strange few days. My lil sis had her first babe after a very long and difficult labor. I had dreamed that the baby would be born via c-section and lo, it happened that way. This is the latest in a string of weirdly premonitonal dreams that I would be happiest not reading into. Perhaps that is a lie.

In any case, something that I have been doing with all the too much sleep I have been the happy recipient of is putting my sleep to work. I have always had pretty vivid dreams, and thankfully generally nightmare free. In several of my dreams, when they aren't restaurant related I have begun actively thinking about things I think about when I am awake and taking them in different directions, pulling out possibilites.

This includes: ideas for new dishes, things to paint, ways to twist a scene in the eternally unfinished but close to feeling more complete play, and lines of text. The text fragments lately have taken the form of short groups of words that remain at the front of my thoughts when I wake up. The first of these fragments seemed like the title of something when I woke. The words were 'Dog Lesson' and it seemed like an interesting title. The lingering feeling from those words was that of someone in a small house in the woods who had to walk through the trees to get to a pond. Along the way he is attacked and killed by a pack of dogs. He is expecting this because it happens every day. This happens forever until he can get to the pond. It is uncertain if he ever gets to the pond. The story was written out before I started which is rare for me, though upon writing it, there were a few twists in the path getting there.

So far there are 4 stories or short little word pieces. I sense more to come. I have a title for the little collection, but I am bashful about writing it down just yet, even though I love it. I don't want the dreams to stop.

I hate my body. I hate my children.

IN Barcelona, I saw Jamie Stewart of XIU XIU electrocute himself on the microphone. It was very sad. Then he beat his drum furiously and tossed a drumstick over his shoulder without care. The crowd was rude and talking all through the whispery parts which pissed me off.

In BCN I also bought a t-shirt with a deer grown gigantic and rampaging through a metropolis.

The Yellow Linen Suit, Pt 2. (Prequel and expansion, or The Objects)

A long while back, Harry and I were in Portland, on 21st avenue looking through thrift stores. I think this is when I had much blazer love, but had yet to paint one. We stopped in a little shop called (and I just figured this out, because I just looked it up) Keep 'Em Flying and I was picking through a circular rack of Wrangler pearl-snap conboy shirts. Harry recognized one of the two people working as being one half of a punk-ish, cabaret-ish act, a twist on Boris and Natasha called Max and (Madame??) that was a semi-regular at the sadly, sadly defunct Pho Bang. In the end the Madame would always kill off Max and here was Max, chatting quietly with the store owner, an extravagantly draped and bejeweled Grande Dame with powerful hand gestures and dramatic upswept hair. Harry asked Max (not his real name) if he was indeed a Pho Bang regular and the store owner, Pamela Springfield, broke in and said something to the effect of, "oh you know [Max]? Did you all sleep together? He has slept with so many people I thought that must be how you know each other. In the future I imagine that we all will have slept with each other. Except for the Chinese. They are so xenophobic."

She dropped several other gems like that. She seemed like a character from Dickens, or maybe a Tennessee Williams play, sprung to life saying things like, "Where are you from? Oh Seattle? They are just cannibals up there, cannibals! I am referring to the art world of course. Although perhaps they are in other ways too." Then she did something that I had never had happen to me, she looked at me and asked me what I was looking for. I replied jackets and she nodded sagely. They she asked what size I was and I said I don't know. She held up one finger and declared that she had something perfect, but it was in the back. She returned with a suit on a couple hangers, a canary or pale lemon colored suit of a very light wool. And I said something like, it's very nice. She demanded that I try it on, to at least take off my jacket and try on the yellow jacket and I did. She said, "see, I knew it would be perfect, just your size." And it was, or at least it fit just the way that I like blazers to fit, slightly tight across the chest and shoulders, buttoned high up, narrow lapels, sleeves a little too short. Again, like some of my favorite things in life, it was as it sprang from my imagination and my obsessions and into the world just for me. Like Deerhoof or The Happiness of the Katakuris, it was perfect, almost too perfect. The suit was 100 dollars which at that time and place seemed a little too rich for my blood, too much for an old suit, even if it was in perfect condition, even if it was vintage and nearly glowing with rightness. Even if, when I put it on there was a sensation of a CLICK like putting a round peg through a round hole after you been trying to fit it through the star-shaped hole. I told her no, a little bit sadly. She raised her dramatic eyebrows slowly and paused as if to give me another chance before hanging the yellow suit up behind the counter.

I told myself I would think about it and if I still wanted it as I knew I did I would come back before we went back to cannabalistic Seattle and buy it. I didn't, of course. It is sort of funny, there are few things that I've done that I really regret, especially regarding things but it really felt like this suit was supposed to be mine. It, the object of the suit is lodged in my head as a regret. A little sadness that I didn't collect that object.

When I painted the white linen suit yellow, it was a sort of apology to the other suit out there, an acknowledgement that I was wrong in not collecting it and taking care of it. There are other issues at stake. I have always been fascinated with the idea that clothing or other objects that we habitually use are somehow an extension of one's body. And conversely that our body is just another object that we use, something that is very close to the thing that is US at the core, but is ultimately a tool that we have attached much value to (with good cause, obviously). But all objects can be modified to clarify purpose. And I have been thinking alot about the desire or indeed need, to modify clothing. That driving force behind marking a thing-- what else is fashion but accumulating a series of marked objects to construct an identity or great object that is more that what the body is by itself? And why not make that construction more explicit, more outrageously there? I think also about some artworks by artists that I admire most: Tapies, or Kiefer, or Fontana, and the idea that those canvases are sort of bodies by extension to transform, mark, harm and to make explicit the fact that they CAN be transformed. The idea that an object of one's own creation is possessed by the spirit of its maker, and belongs (totally) to its owner, to be made better, modified or destroyed, like the myth of the Golem. The objects also take on indpendent lives.

So even with all my jokes about conceptual art. The Yellow Linen Suit was really a conceptual piece. I needed to bring that suit back from the dead. So I did.

Piggy Peaches

Jus Cuz.

(Not so) Breaking News.

I have a job. I will be helping Jerry Traunfeld open Poppy. After 5 years of bussing it out across the lake I am rather elated to be able to walk from my front door to my workplace in, what? 5-7 minutes max at a leisurely stroll. What decadence.

In other news, Harry and I just got back from a mini trip to the Pais Vasco/Pays Basque.



We went to Bilbao and San Sebastián. The Guggenheim was pretty amazing. In the ground floor gallery, which is giant, there are 7 or 8 Richard Serra sculptures similar to 'Wake' at the Olympic Sculpture Garden in Seattle. Many of them are these spiral forms that you can walk into. The oxidized walls completely tower over you and as you walk around and around getting closer to the center the walls alternate from leaning out to sloping in. Solemn, claustrophobic and joyful. You find yourself leaning as you walk, like in a fun house. I felt immense pleasure from the whole experience. I was giggling like a little kid. There was a certain feeling of accomplishment and peaceful elation when one arrived at the center of each sculpture. Great, great work.

I also have a new favorite restaurant. As in all time favorite in the universe. Harry and I had made plans to eat at the Guggenheim restaurant. I read they were serving some amazing food. Indeed they were. I was absolutely floored. Our first course of white aspargus came with a broth that was so intensely floral, with notes of bitter herbs and citrus. It was sort of like perfume, but very palatable and pleasurable. Alongside, they served the peel fried as a tempura, which appealed to my sensibilites of serving the whole beast. It was so simple and so effing good, a complete surprise that they had packed so much flavor in such a seemingly spare dish.



Every other dish was likewise stunning, apart from a pasta that we sent back twice for being undercooked (something I have never done, was semi-mortified by, but got over) though it was marvelously sauced. Everything was so delightful that midway through the meal I looked at Harry and said that we had to make reservations for lunch the next day immediately, something I haven't done since the first time that we went to Lumiere, back when I was just a wee thing. Also, Richard Serra (yes, he of the awesome metal sculptures) was dining with the director of the museum right next to us, which was pretty heart-fluttery:



Let's see, pintxos were total fun also. Just grabbing what looked good at the time, or ordering things that sounded tast-ay.



Bilbao seems to really shut down early (after 11 everyone disappears and the metal shutters start to roll down over the entrances to bars and restaurants) which is very odd coming from Andalucía where often people don't even sit down for dinner until 11pm. The second night in Bilbao we ended up in a little pintxo bar that as it turned out was a clandestine homo-bar. They started playing some rocking 80s Spanish New Wave and cute boys were getting touchy feely. We asked the bartenders for a good place for a nightcap once we sensed that they were about to close. At first they looked somewhat evasive. Then the bartender asked what kind of music we liked. I said 'everything' at the same time that Harry pointed up at the speaker and said 'this.' Then he added, maybe something 'ambientoso' which means with (homo-) ambiance. Then she totally transformed and was all smiley. She took us out to the street and gave us directions to this fun little dyke bar called 'La Marina' filled with ladies and their puppies. It was a riot, they played mass ABBA and also a little La Lupe. During that hour and a half I nearly believed in intelligent design.

What else? We saw a bullfight here in Granada. More on that later. Probably.

Also, this appeared to me on a concrete bench at the Guggenheim. It will soon be on a blazer:

Yellow Linen Suit Part I.

This was originally white linen. I painted the suit by hand.

When I put it on it was like putting on something made of paper. This made me very happy because I always wanted to wear a paper shirt or jacket. I love heavily starched shirts. The pant legs had what looked like fins running down the sides of my legs at first until I separated the fabric. You can see this on the bottom outside of the left pant leg.

Awesome Lyric? (if you don't make his breakfast youse a sideline ho)

Harry used Sideline Ho to illustrate a point about a play by Garcia Lorca in his class the other day.

As I used to be obsessed about reading lyrics when I was a teen and I still find it rather amusing and pleasurable I will post the lyrics here, much as Harry did in class.

We just build off each other's weirdness, don't we.

P.S. this is in my top 5 in songs for female self-degradation if I ever get around to creating the list. Other notables, 'stand by yr man' (an obvious one), 'jolene' and 'cater 2 u'

SIDELINEHO:

Ho, Ho, Sideline Ho, Youse a ho, youse a ho, sideline ho

[Verse 1:]
When you called his phone, did he pick it up?
No, 'cause we was making love.
Did you meet his moms, have you met his kids? No, oh, did you know my kid was his?
No, oh.

[Chorus:]
Get your shit together you're making a fool of yourself,
it don't matter if he spends the night, his home is somewhere else
Ain't you tired of being on the side line, tired of getting yours after I get mine baby?
second place don't get a prize when you gone realize
you're wasting your time baby
Ain't you're tired of him getting, hitting real quick, then rolling and
Ain't you're tired of when you need a little change and he lies about what he holding?
Ain't you're tired of spending all the holidays alone, tired of being his little sideline ho?

Do he take you out, do he foot your bills, no oh, 'cause I know what his balance is
have you been to his church,
do he ask you to pray, no oh 'cause Sunday's Family day

[Chorus]

[Bridge x2:]
Do you got benefits, no, credit cards, no, house keys, no, then youse a sideline ho,
do you get pillow talk, no, held at night, no,
if you don't make his breakfast then youse a sideline ho

[Chorus]

[x3:]
Youse a ho, Youse a ho, sideline ho

Dark Lady

So I am now obsessed with another Cher song. I recommend it heartily! A tale of passion and betrayal and evil fortune tellers. I thought the last line read, "dark lady would never turn a collar red no more" which cracked me up. It is still pretty funny. I don't quite understand why a Gypsy fortune teller would have a limo with a driver, but I definitely like the image of her brushing her cat (!) in the backseat. It gives the song a certain Prince-ish fantasy woman quality. So I sort of imagine it's Sheila E. or Lisa or Apollonia.

She also looks like a total drag queen in the video, with the limp wrist and all.




The lyrics are:

The fortune queen of New Orleans
Was brushing her cat in her black limousine
On the back seat were scratches
From the marks of men her fortune she had won
Couldn't see through the tinted glass
She said, "Home James" and he hit the gas
I followed her to some darkened room
She took my money, she said, "I'll be with you soon"

CHORUS:
Dark lady laughed and danced
And lit the candles one by one
Danced to her gypsy music
Till her brew was done
Dark lady played black magic
Till the clock struck on the twelve
She told me more about me
Than I knew myself

She dealt two cards, a queen and a three
And mumbled some words
That were so strange to me
Then she turned up a two-eyed jack
My eyes saw red but the card
Still stayed black
She said the man you love is secretly true
To someone else who is very close to you
My advice is that you leave this place
Never come back and forget you ever saw my face

Chorus

So I ran home and crawled in my bed
I couldn't sleep because of all the things she said
Then I remembered her strange perfume
And how I smelled it once in my own room
So I sneaked back and caught her with my man
Laughing and kissing till they saw the gun in my hand
The next thing I knew they were dead on the floor
Dark lady would never turn a card up anymore

Chorus

Also, for kicks, check out this Bowie&Cher cocaine tripout:

Kathi

I just read that Kathi Goertzen is going in for brian surgery again to remove part of a tumor which has grown back. I have grown up with Kathi and this news affected me oddly; I felt tenderly and protective toward her all at once. Who cares if she shoplifts? That's just more hardcore.

I remember once when I was probably 11 I spotted Kathi down at the Pike Place Market strolling a stroller (presumably with her kid inside it). I pointed this amazing sight out to my older sister who wouldn't believe me that it was her. We sort of followed K. through the people for awhile, me saying, "yuh-huh," my sister saying "nuh uh, don't lie." She finally yelled out "Kathi!" in the huge, obnoxious bellow that only to a certain age of teenager can produce. Of course, K. turned around, rather startled. My sister and I ran.

Cherish you Kathi.

Pictures of stuff I've been cooking

Feast at La Oliva

The night before last Harry and I had dinner with a few people at Francisco's shop. We had:

regañas (little sesame crackers)

wafers with hemp seed (tortas de cañamones)

oil cured black olives

gazpacho with garnishes

tortilla de patatas (slightly runny on the interior)

chorizo blanca in Montilla wine

cogollas with white anchovies in vinegar

gambas al pil pil - shrimp in garlic sauce

hake roe with lemon oil

jamon serrano with baby fava beans

asparagus en ajopollo (this is in a sauce made of bread, garlic, vinegar, oil and pimenton)

chicken al ajillo

rice with artichokes, peas, peppers and pork ribs

cheese: aged sheep; blended cow n' goat; Aged goat; soft goat cheese with peppercorn (this is the best goat cheese I have ever had, literally. A lovely lady named Luz makes it nearby. Fransisco took Harry and I to visit her farm and cheesemaking facility a few weeks ago.)

torrija with rosemary honey (like delicious french toast, but eaten chilled. A typical treat served during Semana Santa.)

palitos de leche (little hard cinnamon cookies)

empanaditas de boniato (turnovers stuffed with sweetened sweet potato)

rosco de vino (A thick donut)

It was a good time.