Got A Machinehead Better Than The Rest, Or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Play The Drums.

Last night I dreamt that I had tickets to see Bush. I'm not talking about the corrupt asshole who shit all over the world for eight years -- I'm talking about the post-grunge band. The post-grunge band formed by those guys from London. The post-grunge band formed by those guys from London who gave us "Glycerine," a beautiful song of poetic proportions...

It must be your skin I'm sinking in

Must be for real 'cause now I can feel

And I didn't mind, it's not my kind

It's not my time to wonder why...

...and "Comedown," a song rich in symbolism, and...rhymes...

No one knows never will

Mostly me but mostly you

What do you say do you do

When it all comes down

...and "Swallowed," a beautiful song about...something...

Warm sun feed me up And I'm leery loaded up Loathing for a change And I slip some boil away

All right, so lyrics were never Gavin Rossdale's strong suit. The question of "Nirvana or Pearl Jam?" will never expand to become "Nirvana or Pearl Jam or Bush?" Never. Likewise, the question of "Kurt Cobain or Eddie Vedder" will never expand to become "Kurt Cobain or Eddie Vedder or Gavin Rossdale?" However, if the question were, "Would you rather spend the night with Kurt Cobain or Eddie Vedder or Gavin Rossdale," I gotta say, plenty of people would answer....

"Wait, who's the last person? His name sounds familiar."

"The lead singer of Bush."

"BUSH! Oh my God, I remember them! That guy was hot! So wait, what was the question?"

In my dream last night, Bush was playing in someone's backyard. (Perhaps that was my unconscious' attempt at wit?) A couple hundred people were in attendance. There was some BBQ action goin' on and everyone was really laid back and cool. I think I was there by myself, actually, which is odd, because I don't know how the Hell anyone could say, "No" to, "Hey, wanna come with me to see Bush perform at a backyard BBQ?"

I was hangin' out against a white picket fence, eating and drinking and chatting, when the beautiful Englishman himself approached me. He said, "We need someone to play drums for us tonight. You wanna play?" I said, "I don't know how." He said, "It doesn't matter. I like your vibe."

The sound check started, and Gavin Rossdale and I got to talking. He was very nice, and as our conversation went on, I began to develop a bonafide crush on the guy. Gwen Stefani was nowhere to be seen, and, figuring she could have very well played drums that night, I jumped to the dream conclusion that she and her hubby were no longer together.

Sound check ended and Gavin Rossdale went to get some food. He said, "I'll be right back." Ya know, to reassure me that he wanted to continue our conversation. I sat down on the ground and leaned against the white picket fence and waited for him to return. Suddenly, a tall man in a white suit approached me. I looked up, and Holy Shit, it was Michael Jordan. He said, "Hello, there." I said, "Hi...Michael Jordan...". Suddenly, all the Bush fans became quiet and turned to watch the interaction between Michael Jordan and me. Also, the backyard was no longer a backyard, but a gymnasium.

Man, that Michael Jordan has a filthy mouth!

Michael Jordan wanted me bad -- so bad he was willing to say the dirtiest, freakiest things to me to persuade me to ditch Gavin Rossdale. Now, in real life my dad once told me that the golfer Phil Mickelson and his wife were swingers, and that Michael Jordan had once had a playful evening with Phil's wife. When I heard this, I wasn't sure if my dad was referring to the basketball legend or a golfer by the same name. I said, "Wait, Michael Jordan? As in...". My mom, God bless her, chimed in and said, "Michael Jordan. The basketball player from the Bugs Bunny." Yes. She literally said, "From the Bugs Bunny," implying that my only exposure to Michael Jordan had been through the movie Space Jam.

Anyway, in the dream I remembered the bit about swinging, and I got very nervous. I thought, "Shit, if he's really into that stuff then he'll stop at nothing!" I did my best to hide my nervousness and stuck to saying things like, "I'm flattered, but I'm having a great time here and I don't feel like leaving just yet," and, "Ya know, I can't ditch these guys just yet -- I have to play drums."

I don't remember exactly how I got Michael Jordan to leave me alone. He did, eventually, walk away, and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. Everyone asked about what Michael Jordan said to me, but I didn't want to repeat any of it. T'was too nasty.

I waited around for Gavin Rossdale to return. I waited. And waited. And waited. And that bastard never came back to me. I didn't get to play the drums, I didn't get to have my night with Gavin Rossdale, and I didn't even get to hear "Machinehead."

Oh well. In the end, I'd say it was an interesting evening.

DON'T Hang The DJ!

Where are we going, Jim Morrison?

The Doors close in an hour.

Which way does your beer point tonight?

About a month before I moved back down to Southern California after living in Santa Cruz for five ridiculous years, I experienced an unexpected life-affirming moment while shopping in a local hippy-dippy grocery store. To my great displeasure, my favorite brand of Kombucha (go ahead, laugh at me) was still contraband at the time, and as I was scouring the tea aisle for a worthy substitute, “Riders on the Storm” came on over the speakers. I smiled, thankful that someone had the good sense to spin a Jim Jam on a hot summer’s day. I danced by myself in the aisle for a few minutes, and, quite suddenly, the hippy-dippy grocery store looked a lot different. Everything was special: the Kombucha drought, the rows of Guayaki Yerba Mate promising health and vitality, the sound of a seven-minute-long Doors song about “a killer on the road” oozing through the store while happy families shopped for baby bok-choy and slabs of seasoned tempeh; the realization that this was a good moment, which is all a person can really hope for.

Harmonious coincidences like these make me wonder how difficult it must be to be a music supervisor. The Graduate is an undeniably great bit of movie-making, but can you imagine it without “The Sound of Silence”? Or Harold and Maude without Cat Stevens’ silky baritone? And would Uma Thurman's overdose in Pulp Fiction be as jarring if it weren't preceded by a dance to Urge Overkill's cover of "Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon"? When a music supervisor’s work is done, he has helped transform a few measly minutes of film into something deeply moving. When moments like this happen in real life completely by accident, it is important to stop and celebrate. Hearing “Riders on the Storm” in the hippy-dippy grocery store reminded me that my time in Santa Cruz was limited, and that I should get to work enjoying myself. I also felt reassured that the previous five ridiculous years hadn’t been a waste; that there had been plenty of moments of epic triumph, personal growth, and dancing in the aisles. There was no reason to feel that I was returning to Southern California because it was time to start over; it was time to continue. As Maude would say, it was time to, “Go and love some more.”

I listen to the wind

To the wind of my soul

Where I’ll end up, well, I mean,

Who the Hell really knows?

It has now been about a year since my one-woman dance party, and while I still miss my beachside shack (and the enchiladas at Taqueria Las Palmas and the Hemp Ale at The Poet & The Patriot and the psychic cats on Pacific Avenue...) my suburban situation isn't so bad. There have been some great times, and some not so-great times, and, in the grand scheme of things, I can’t complain. Sadly, the last few months have been of the not-so-great variety.

Fuck that, they’ve been shitty.

The shitty time started in March when I had a terrible panic attack while getting a haircut. I had experienced panic prior to this attack, so I wasn’t too distraught by what happened. What shook me up was that unlike with previous episodes, I couldn’t figure out where the Hell this one came from. Sure, I would rather not have had to trim my wild mane, but it was nothing to panic about.

Days later I had another attack while lounging -- yes, lounging -- with some of my best friends, drinking beer and watching On The Waterfront. It was a Sunday afternoon. We were all wearing bathrobes and had just finished feasting on some seriously sexy food. Even in this downright Dionysian situation, my body still found a way to go into adrenal overdrive. Things became scary when I started panicking in cars pretty regularly. No matter where I was going or whether I was the driver or the passenger, I inevitably felt like jumping out of my skin. Again, I am no stranger to panicking while driving -- most people who have driven on the 405-S in rush hour traffic have probably had similar experiences -- but panicking while riding shotgun on the way to the damn mall that’s a whole ten minutes away from my house was something new.

There’s a Callas on the road,

Her brain is squirmin’ like a toad...

I'll spare you the details about the drug peddling doctors and brief, yet powerful feelings of total despair. In short, I got help from someone who doesn’t deserve to be reported to the Board of Behavioral Sciences, and the panic eventually waned. Despite my noticeable improvement, the threat of "When will the next attack hit?" was always present in my mind. I arrived at a point where I could comfortably enjoy a movie in my bathrobe without having a fit, but panic-free car rides still eluded me.

Worse than all of that, I couldn’t write. No matter how hard I tried to sit down and scribble something halfway intelligent, my writing was mostly limited to what Allen Ginsberg referred to as “unpublishable private literature.” Of course, his “unpublishable” scrawl was about drunken nights in Chinatown and wild sex with Neal Cassady, IE: The Good Life. My Top-Secret portfolio of recent scribblings is so boring it doesn’t even deserve to be sacrificially burned.

And they brought me their comfort,

And later they brought me this song

O I hope you run into them

You, who’ve been scribbling so long...

One evening not too long ago, I was feeling exceptionally down in the dumps. Work sucked, my writing sucked -- I was tired and lonely and just wanted to go to sleep. Before hitting the sack I took a quick look at my facebook (Duh), and I saw that my friend Zach was going to be hosting his last radio show on KZSC Santa Cruz that night. Out of respect for Zach, KZSC, and Santa Cruz as a whole, I decided to tune in for at least a little while. At first, hearing Zach read the corny Underwriting Announcements and play the corny Public Service Announcements just made me miss my radio show, and I briefly considered giving up on the whole thing. In the five seconds I contemplated turning out the light, Zach, that beautiful, bloody bastard, put on a tune called “Last Song” by an artist named Jason Webley.

Imagine if, while floating in the pool the day after sleeping with Mrs. Robinson, Benjamin Braddock actually heard "The Sound of Silence" playing somewhere in the distance. It would have blown his mind, right? Well, I hadn't slept with Mrs. Robinson and I wasn't in the pool, but dammit, when I heard "Last Song," I literally felt something inside me shift. Or stretch. Or break. Regardless, I felt profoundly healed. Did I think Jason Webley was singing directly to me? No. I'm not deranged. All the same, the song's message of hope told through images of imminent apocalypse and waking up in alleys was exactly what I needed to hear that night.

And he shows you where to look

Among the smell of urine, alcohol, trash and gasoline

And the flowers...

In search of Jason Webley's discography, I visited his website. The first thing I discovered was that he's been around for over a decade, which made me feel like a total dork. Where the fuck had I been? I clicked "Concerts" to see if he was going to be touring at all in the near future. He was on tour, all right; almost smack dab in the middle of his farewell tour. There were no L.A. dates on his website (there is one now...I'm so there...), but there was a San Jose show on the schedule. My first thought was, "San Jose? Right by Santa Cruz? I have to go!" Sure enough, my second thought was, "How the fuck am I going to get there if I can't drive more than a few minutes without panicking?" I thought that maybe I could fly, but then I wondered how panicking in an airplane would be better than panicking in a car...

I eventually decided that there was no way I was going to miss the show. I would spend a few nights in Santa Cruz with some of my favorite people in the world, and then I would see Jason Webley perform. Who was I to forbid myself from doing all that?

If I go there will be trouble,

And if I stay...

What happened? I spent two amazing nights in Santa Cruz with some of my favorite people in the world, and then I saw Jason Webley perform. T'was unlike anything I've ever seen. I know I should probably say a few things about the show, but true to the nature of the writing beast, I am suddenly at a loss for words. I'm hesitant to dissect the evening as if I'm trying to convince people that he's worth checking out. I also don't want to make any grand assumptions about his artistic intentions -- who am I to say what his songs are about, or to draw parallels between him and other performers? I will say there was an interesting moment where he took a break from playing music and just talked. He thanked us for our support, he thanked the gallery owners for letting him play, and then, for some reason, he talked about how some people in the audience may have recently had their "lives turned inside out," and how neat it was that we were all together baring witness to that. Of all things to say, right? And then, Jason Webley, the ever-brilliant music supervisor, played "Last Song."

(I'm aware that I keep writing his full name. I wouldn't write, "Cohen," I'd write, "Leonard Cohen." I wouldn't write "Reed," I'd write, "Lou Reed." I wouldn't write "Smith," I'd write "Patti Smith." And so on. And so on.)

Yes, I got to meet him. Yes, I got a picture. Yes, I was terrified I would say something that would make me sound stupid, and yes, I'm sure my terror was obvious. He asked me if I had ever been to one of his shows before, and when I told him I hadn't, I somehow managed to mention that I had driven up from L.A. He paused a moment, and said, "You drove all the way from L.A. to come to the show?" I managed to nod and utter a nervous, "Yeah."

I'm not the kind of person who chalks everything up to fate or destiny or God's Great Plan. I don't think that I was "meant" to find out about Jason Webley in order to take a roadie to Santa Cruz and prove to myself that I had the strength and the ability to fight this whole panic thing. Regardless of my own beliefs, that is what happened. In my opinion, the idea that it happened completely by accident is awesome. If I hadn't decided to look at my facebook on one bummer night before going to bed, I wouldn't have heard "Last Song," and I wouldn't have gone to his website, and I wouldn't have read that this was his farewell tour. More importantly, I wouldn't have found an excuse to get in the car and see what happened. Low and behold, what happened? Nothing. Nothing, except I had a great fucking weekend and I got to see Jason Webley.

(By the way, in case you were wondering, he has more than one great song. For sure.)

Bravo, Jason Webley. Bravo, Zach. Bravo, hippy-dippy grocery store employee who wanted to hear "Riders on the Storm." Keep doing what you're doing and continue to accidentally provide killer driving music and poignant road signs to weary travelers everywhere.

And Allen, "unpublishable private literature"? Maybe not.

Just maybe.

My Thoughts On "Blue Valentine."

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I Guess I Must Be Having Fun

It is the evening of January 17, 2011, and I am now 24 years old.

As I typed that second clause, I imagined a camera zooming in, à la Sex and the City, capturing the words as they appeared, one at a time, to emphasize their gargantuan importance. Well, the words “I am now 24 years old” may not be as substantial as anything Carrie Bradshaw ever wrote (“Are we sluts?”), but I’m feeling rather, I don’t know. No, I do; I feel vulnerable. I feel vulnerable. I’m in control of very little, and that scares me a little. Happy birthday to me.

Having a birthday at the very beginning of a new year is strange. New Year’s resolutions aren’t just about how Next Year I Will Be Better At Such and Such -- they’re about growing up. “This year, I’m going to lose 20 pounds.” Well, that’s cool, but for me that resolution sounds more like, “This year I’m going to lose 20 pounds because it looks like I still have my fucking baby fat and I’m an adult now and I'm another year older and for as long as I have a chubby little face I’m gonna look like a fucking teenager as opposed to a mysterious, grown woman and FOR FUCK’S SAKE, YOU KNOW WHAT ICE CREAM TASTES LIKE!”

Did I frighten anyone, just then? Good.

I had a fantastic time this weekend. See?



So, what’s my damage, right? Well, I decided in December that 2011 is going to be all about working towards The Next Step. For as much as I’m enjoying living with my parents and working at an office part time, I realize that life cannot, and should not, go on like this forever. I do not wish for that to be the case, either. I have no doubt that some substantial changes are going to occur. Eventually. Meanwhile, I need to help get things moving. At least a bit. Right?

Just who am I talking to, and just what do I expect him or her to say to me?

Last week, I attempted to “get moving.” I thought to myself, “What kind of job would I be willing to settle for that somehow involves doing things that I like to do, and may possibly lead me down a rewarding, somewhat [if not extremely] lucrative path?” I narrowed it down to a few choices, and then got to Googling. I came up with nothing. I found no information on how to break in to any of the fields for which I searched. Feeling downhearted, I decided I had three options: go to bed, cry, or watch a Peter O’Toole movie. After choosing the third option, I realized I had three new options: The Ruling Class, What’s New, Pussycat? or something I haven’t already seen five times. I went on Netflix, and found a movie called The Creator, a comedy from 1985, where Mr. O’Toole plays a wacky scientist. Having very little expectations and wanting nothing more than an escape from the very real reality that I was feeling very, very sad, I hit “Play.”

The sub-plot just had to be a love story, and it just had to be a sweet one that really got to me. My mood suddenly went from, “I feel rather bummed that I’m going to live in Agoura for the rest of my twenties,” to, “I feel rather bummed that I’m going to live in Agoura for the rest of my twenties and be single for the rest of my Goddamn life.” I cried. I did. The sight of young Virginia Madsen naked in the shower with a dude didn’t arouse me -- it made me insanely jealous and sad. I’ll say it again -- I cried.

Hey, at least I was alone. I wasn’t bringing anyone else down with my wackness.

I continued watching the movie, because even though it wasn’t exactly serving as the greatest sanctuary, it was better than nothing. Plus, I find that crying while watching a movie is so much better than crying yourself to sleep. (How SAD is that sentence? FUCK!) A scene ended, and suddenly I was looking at Mr. O’Toole sitting at a table on the patio of the fucking Stevenson Coffee Shop at UC Santa Cruz. Not only did I go to UCSC, I lived at Stevenson College for two damn years. The patio at the Stevenson Coffee Shop was my favorite place on campus, and remains one of my favorite places in all of California. The patio is incredible -- it’s elevated, and all the tables are surrounded by majestic trees that are several hundred feet tall. If you sit at the table in the middle of the most elevated part and look up, it’s like you’re looking through a tunnel to the heavens. I spent many days of my life sitting at that table socializing, studying, and daydreaming, always accompanied by a cup of dark roast coffee and a feeling of immeasurable tranquility -- a feeling that I was very much not experiencing whilst watching The Creator... until I saw Peter fucking O’Toole, the current object of my idolatry, sitting at my table. I’m not entirely superstitious, I don’t completely believe in fate, and I’m pretty much Agnostic, but dammit, I know that I get markedly nervous when I see people open umbrellas indoors, I know that my “random” decision to borrow Blonde on Blonde from my dad when I was 14 was meant to be, and I know that the Stevenson Coffee Shop scene in The Creator was a message from the universe.

A few hours ago, I treated myself to yet another viewing of What’s New, Pussycat?, and a homemade banana split, consisting of non-fat frozen yogurt from Golden Spoon, an organic banana, and fat-free Reddi-Whip. When the movie ended, my dad decided it was time for the two of us to watch YouTube. We watched The Rolling Thunder Review version of “Tangled Up In Blue.” We watched Tom Waits sing “Pasties and a G-String” live in Germany. We watched Patti Smith being interviewed by Tom Snyder. We watching Jason Mraz sing “Blitzkreig Bop,” and when he said, “I first heard this song when I watched National Lampoon’s Vacation," my dad exclaimed, “That shows just what a total DORK you are.” Then my dad put on “This Must Be The Place (Naive Medley),” by Talking Heads. It brought tears to my eyes.






After a few more videos and a few technical difficulties, dad gave up on YouTube and realized it was time to watch the Lakers, anyway. I went upstairs, thinking I’d finish the evening with some reading. Before cracking open my book, I went on facebook to read all my birthday wishes. Then I decided I needed to hear “This Must Be The Place” one more time. I guess I could say it brought tears to my eyes again, but that would be an understatement. The flood gates opened, and sweet Jack Guerney, they did not close for a good long while. I finally had to stop crying and run to the bathroom to wash the melted mascara out of my stinging eyes.

It is the evening of January 17, 2011, and I am now 24 years old. Old enough to know better, and young enough to still make a few stupid mistakes. Old enough to look for a grown-up job, and young enough to work part time. Old enough to set goals for the future, and young enough to escape with the help of a Peter O’Toole movie. Old enough to have a place of my own, but young enough to live with good ol’ mom and dad for a bit longer...

Home is where I want to be
Pick me up and turn me round

I can’t help it when I feel uncertain. I think that goes hand in hand with being in your twenties, not to mention being in your twenties after eight years of George W. Bush’s master plan. If there's one thing most liberals and conservatives can agree on, it's that things suck right now. My paycheck isn't huge, I need to save money, and yet my fear of pesticides and Dollar Menus compels me to spring for organic lettuce and other luxuries.

When ya think about it, though, isn’t it really kind of exciting? Struggling through uncertainty, I mean?

I feel numb - born with a weak heart
I guess I must be having fun

It’s true, Google failed me the night I watched The Creator, but Google also fails me when I try to find copies of rare Marlon Brando movies. I can’t let an internet search engine dictate whether or not my life has any direction. Direction! How could my life possibly have NO direction?

God, I’ve been told over and over, for so many years by so many assholes, that it’s all about The Future, The Future, and The Future in that order, but what about right now? No, that question is not cliché, it’s legit. Is it not better to enjoy today with your eyes and ears open than to miss today entirely for the sake of a day that hasn’t even happened?

The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along...

Fuck all that. I’m only going to be 24 once. I’m only going to be 29 once. I’m only going to be 35, 48, and 64 once. Yes, I’m sticking to the idea that 2011/24 will be about moving towards The Next Step. Yes, I know that I can only do so much to control what happens to me in The Future. Yes, I know that there will be many more moments of crying on my couch, thinking If Only I Had A More Stimulating Job, or If Only I Had A Boyfriend, or If Only I Had Been A Dancer All These Years, but I know that moments like these are par for the course.

So what if there’s a bummer of an evening in my future? Peter O’Toole enjoyed a beautiful afternoon at the Stevenson Coffee Shop, sitting at the table where nothing can hurt you. And so did I. Many times.

Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It's ok I know nothing's wrong...nothing...