I couldn’t decide on one particular song, as I have been pleasantly inundated with all forms of music during my bloggy break, so, I’ll just pick the top four rotating in my headspace. Enjoy!
Genre: Hip Hop Emotion: Pissed Off Rationale: Yet another shooting in Killeen, Texas.
Genre: Blues Emotion: Smug Rationale: She called me ‘intimidating.’ All I did was show up.
Genre: Jazz Emotion: Focused Rationale: The goals I set for myself trump what others set for me.
Genre: Dance Emotion: Accomplished Rationale: My psych ward terror stories and poems WILL BE PUBLISHED!
Go ahead and pop your Molly, baby. No need for me. I’ve got wings.
Going in like a pro, like a club bunny, like a skater bum, like a B-girl, like a hype man.
It’s inherent, innate. Insert my ear plugs, shut my eyes, deep breath, and soon, Terpsichore arrives.
Muse of Dance clasps my hands and leads me towards the 808s.
Suzy Solar sends me sailing, speeding over curious lands, spinning, dipping, playing.
My toes tip the highest spire of Angkor Wat. Bāt waves from the courtyard.
I salute the boddhisattva before descending back to the bar for a non-alcoholic drink.
What a lovely trip.
Look up and lo, there’s HODOR!!!
Kristian Nairn, who plays the giant protector of the Stark boys on Game of Thrones, is a super hot DJ and producer on his off time. He graced Florida with a multi-city tour, stopping in nearby Tampa, which meant a grand EDM fix, Hodor-style! After this experience, I can’t watch Game of Thrones without his beats etched in my brain.
2015 is off to a great start! Bunch of new readers, new follows, Facebook activity is relatively paying off. Good stuff! Appreciate your responses and affections!
Preface: This is not directed at a specific person. You know me…if I have a problem with you, you will know! I have, within the past four months, experienced this very scenario more than twice, which provoked me to prepare this letter. The “You” in reference is an amalgamation of the culprits of this terrible, divisive behavior. Do you recognize someone in your region like this? Do you recognize…yourself? Here we go…
You and I haven’t met personally, but I was in the crowd that night you were the featured author and speaker for a literary event. I love these; they allow me an opportunity to kick back and absorb a fellow literary artist at play, as well as allow me to learn while being entertained. I drove quite a way to get to the venue, and I made it to my seat the moment you stood at the microphone.
You either weren’t in the mood to be there, or you didn’t care if anyone was there to hear your art, for the moment you started speaking, you felt compelled to tell us all we were the unfortunate ones. We fellow composers, we choreographers of words, us language artists fiercely painting the scenario behind the eyes, are nothing without a major publisher. Huh?
Hardbacks of literary interpretations of your world sat on the stool beside you as you extolled the virtues of a true writer: literary agent, book deal, major publishing label. I recall arching an eyebrow, waiting for the punch line, then widening both eyes once it was clear you were being serious! Artistry, soul, technique, a talent for storytelling? None of these attributes came from your smug lips. You admonished those (me) who have gone the route of self-publishing, claiming, “There’s no real style in those works.” To stand there and boldly state the art form has been cheapened by the advent of digital media, sounds much like a person resistant to change.
Dear guest-speaker-turned-hyperbolic-lecturer, pure artistry is change agency. What we plume or type or swipe can never be un-experienced once it leaves our writing surface. Regardless of format delivered in, an accomplished author should savor the fact that there remains, rather strongly too, a voracious reading community, and we should honor their appreciation for our beloved art form by publishing in whatever gawddamn format they want!
Sorry, that seemed a bit proselytic.
The second slap to our faces was when you asked for a show of hands, “Who in here is serious about writing?” Don’t take the bait! I remembered thinking, then cringed when I saw slow wriggles into the air. You told those earnest raised hands they needed to come out of pocket. Invest in conferences. Arrange meetings with agents. Travel out of state to the big conventions. There I felt a bit of relief, because in that moment, you exposed your cards. You’re not an artist, you’re an elitist! How dare you burn those fingers hailed towards you? They, like me, are expecting your wisdom, but in your pomposity, you demonstrated you are a fraud.
You know what you could have done, featured acclaimed author? You could have exercised some compassion. Instead of coming off as Ayn Rand’s disciple – I’ve got mine, you better get yours! – you could’ve relayed some of your challenges when you were at our low level. You could’ve shared with us how you managed your personal affairs while preparing your manuscript. You could have shared how you kept the romance alive with your physical lover while deeply engaged with your spiritual lover. Instead, you jangled your hardbacks triumphantly over your head, as if car keys in the air at a football match, indicating game over, time for you busters to go home.
Were you really that surprised when you asked for closing questions, and nobody asked any? I do have a question for you now, sweet, delusional sage upon the mountain top, and I’d really like your honest answer: What do you value most…the commas separating words, or the commas separating numbers? Such is the indicator of a true literary artist versus a true schlub of an entertainer.
Quality speakers or headphones very much recommended! (Crank the bass and flat the treble slightly)
It was in front of him the whole damn time!
You’d think with his constant facing toward the television console, he would’ve caught on.
We agreed on celebrating Valentine’s Day this year, but Book of Mormon was in town only until February 2nd, so I asked to push up my segment of V Day to last Wednesday. He wanted to know who/what/where/why, but I, fully invested in being an awesome GF, told him nothing!
What I did tell him was exactly what to wear, when in the day he would need to be dressed in such clothes, and that he’d need a proper sport coat.
Now, granted, Broadway shows don’t require structured dress in this century, but I’m of the school of thought that, if you are an aficionado of the arts, you need to look the part.
As I predicted, BF looked like Christmas morning once dressed and coiffed. He’s got those awesome eyes which change color depending on his wardrobe, and that evening, his eyes were solid blue.
Myself, I found a lovely red wrap dress to compliment my blood red dye job, then affixed a classic pair of high-heeled shoes to my feet, nicknamed “Run To Canada”! :D (great story there…some other time.)
Over the bridge and to the Straz Center for the Performing Arts, its facade beautifully bathed in majestic purple. We journeyed a bit to our seats (hey, I’m an artist, not a pharmaceutical rep) then immersed in the brilliance that is Robert Lopez, Trey Parker and Matt Stone.
This show, right up our alley. We enjoy South Park and regularly engage in the meta of the show (PEWWDEEPIEEE!) and we also share an appreciation for live performances. Since I met BF, we’ve done outdoor concerts, classical music conciertos, and way more movies in our six month tenure than I’ve watched in the last six YEARS. I absolutely love that I have someone in my life who equally enjoys culture and crass as I do!
No, I won’t indulge you with a review, other than to say, GO SEE BOOK OF MORMON AND LAUGH YOUR BALLS OFF.
As it was late, and we hadn’t made definitive dinner plans, and we were in Tampa, Florida, the BF made an executive decision:
“We are going to The Penthouse.”
Stunned to silence by this glorious declaration, I eagerly surfed their website and hurriedly placed a dinner reservation for 11pm. We arrived on time, and with no wait.
Well, that’s because everyone was around the catwalk!
Ladies freaking out about eating at a strip club steakhouse: do not be alarmed. The poon is well away from the service area, so no lap dances into the lettuce!
We ordered two 12 oz New York strip steaks medium – mine smothered in roasted whole garlic and bleu cheese – then dined to contentment as sparkly skinny women shimmied against gold poles before us.
Blue eyes met brown eyes and agreed to get home. QUICKLY.
I believe I have Valentine’s Day mastered.