Secret Pop

Nov 8, 2004


Musicals are risky. Sometimes the songs are good, but the singers aren't. Sometimes the singers are good, but the songs aren't. Sometimes none of it's good, but everyone in the world loves it anyway. Sometimes it's Andrew Lloyd Webber. I was watching the musical Tom Sawyer yesterday while I was getting dressed. I think it's the formermost case that applies.

After that, I took Martín to the Griddle Cafe for more stretching on of his birthday celebrating. I like to celebrate people's birthdays until they tire of hearing me wish them well. I like overdoing it. Last week, I took him to Disneyland. Our annual birthday tradition as of last year. It was the best possible way to spend the day after Election Day. I was grim and disillusioned, and I didn't want to even accidentally hear what the pundits had to say. There are no newspapers to worry about in Disneyland. At my most vitriolic, I took a picture in congratulations of the Republican victory.

That's about as partisan as I get.

I have been asked by a number of people why I haven't written anything about the election results yet. And I don't really have an answer. I had a lot to say on the listserv for my comedy group. And I've certainly waxed on in conversations with friends. But I've been reluctant to seal the capsule. I don't know if I really know what I think. And very little comes of announcing how I feel. It was a difficult day. I drove a lot, waited a lot, worked a lot, sighed a lot. I felt the world coming up around me as if I was sitting still on a spot that became the epicenter of a sink hole. I felt like I was in the shadows. And I ate McDonald's.

"I don't think I can enjoy candy. Not after what's happened in my life."

So it's been a spot of dismal on an otherwise shimmery terrain, I suppose. If I'm honest and fair about things. I have nothing to complain about. But there are plenty of things I'd like to fix. And there are plenty of things that still make me feel itchy or sad or vulnerable or stupid. As much as there are things that make me feel dopey or sheepish or sparkly or breathless. I got the variety pack this time around. It's always been my preference.

On the side of industry, I've finally sorted through photos that are owing. There are documents of my Halloween weekend, my day at the races, my inspection of Disneyland, and my Saturday. And there is a little story with me as a blossom of snow in it. I am welcoming winter. Everything dies. And the cold makes my cheeks pink. If you ride a roller coaster on a cold, windy day, it will make tears come to your eyes. No matter how happy you are.

"And to think I let you kiss the air next to my cheek."

My note-taking is fragmented. Dreams I've been having with people in them I don't actually know. Things I notice that make me ashamed. Meanness. I think about how easy it has always been, picking up where we left off. And then I notice how we have this habit of leaving off in the nastiest of places. I favor a change of venue. Affectionate messages. Affectionate and undeserved. Affectionate messages from all the people you don't deserve. And I waste my time passing judgment in the dark. In complete ignorance. I waste more of my time than anyone would ever believe.

I have a very short memory for good feelings. There's this greediness. As soon as the curtain falls on one act, I forget that it happened. I look for the next one to begin. I'm rushing toward it at all times. Having something to look forward to is my fuel. My only fuel. I have abandoned sleep and food and sustenance of all kinds. It's only anticipation that makes me go. And that's the sort of go that never gets you anywhere. It's all carrot-chasing. Despite my preference for hot dogs.

"Forgive me. I am new to sarcasm."

My dad's blood type changed in the middle of his life. One day he was one type. And he was giving blood all the time. And then one other day, he went to give blood to a friend who was having surgery, and they told him they couldn't use his blood because it wasn't the right type. Just like that. When he was in his 40s. He gives a supernatural and spiritual explanation for it. I don't have anything to counter that.

Cinema-style plates of spaghetti and meatballs look uncannily appealing to me. Even though I would never order such a plate from any actual restaurant. Maybe because of my certainty that I would only ever be disappointed. How could such a thing live up to my expectations? And frankly, I prefer the short varieties of pasta. Spaghetti swings around and splashes sauce on your clothing. And nothing makes you look like more of a fatso than spots of marinara sauce on your turtleneck. Except maybe spots of chocolate milk.

Still beautiful after all these years.

Isabella Rossellini is so pretty. I used to tear pictures of her out of fashion magazines, when I was in junior high school and preparing to cut my very long hair into a short 'do. I would look at her face and envy it. And when I saw her in movies, I would swoon a little bit. Especially in Cousins, when she shows up wearing the spitefully-bought hat and says, "Hi," in the cutest possible way. The theme song from that movie (Angelo Badalamenti) makes me feel like it's summertime. I will avoid listening to it until I've had a chance to soak up more of the wintry feeling I'm soaking in. But when I listen to it again, I'm sure I will be capable of flying.

I fall behind all the time. But I like to catch up all at once. Sometimes it seems sort of spectacular. Sometimes it just seems like a lot of puff. Either way, it lets me get back out in front of the train, where I must run very fast.

No comments: