Diversions- Mad at the Dirt

This diversion is dedicated to the wonderful Mister Jason S. of D.U.M.B.O. Brooklyn and comes courtesy of the Yeast Radio where it recently was used as the opening song.
In case you are unfamiliar with that filth, Yeast Radio is a very twisted and slightly "racist"-for-"racist"-sake podcast that features True Dooty, the highlarious highjinx of the whorishly nasty Cheryl Merkowski.
I shouldn't admit that I listen to this grum, but I must admit that I'm rather addicted to it and the envelope pushing it employs.

Anyhoo. here's The Joans with Mad at the dirt. enjoy.

Cooking and Cleaning and Scrubbing the Tub

Yesterday I went into a cleaning frenzy the likes of which hasn't been seen in our apartment in quite some time. I enlisted the help of K and dove headfirst into an all day scrub fest. Bucket of bleach and soap with yellow rubber glove in tow, I scrubbed every inch of tile and swept like a crazy person. We gave the apartment a very thorough head to toe cleaning. We took a break to make a brunch of sorts with poached eggs, steamed spinach, oatmeal and my good friend bacon.

We completely rearranged the living room which does double duty as my office/editing suite. We decided to part with two chairs that the cat has basically destroyed. They were these beautiful danish midcentury modern molded plywood chairs that someone had thrown into the trash. K and I had found them when we first started dating and he helped me carry them home. We carried both chairs out to the curb and ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the cycle was complete and they returned to the place from where they once came. There is a new zen quality to the space and everything is so much more open and flowing. It feels good to get rid of some of the clutter and get the space to a place where it can breath again.

The desk used to face a wall and now it faces a window. It seems so much more inspiring to sit looking out the window rather than staring at the cold plaster wall.

I feel like I'm going through my own personal spring. Doing the spring cleaning and preparing for my own garden to start blossoming. Lord knows it feels like spring with how much rain we've been getting. It never seems to stop. I know it will soon enough though. There are good things ahead.

In Heat

There's something I'd like to share with you.
It seems almost obscene to share this with you.
Ok. Here goes. Are you ready?
Oh, I'm not sure if I can tell you.
Ok. I'm going to just say it.

I have a black pussy.

Those are words I never expected to come out of my mouth.

No, seriously. I have a black pussy.
I've even named my pussy, I'm so fond of her.

Her name is Sheba and she is a sleek black cat with angular features.
She's the kind of cat that inspired Egyptians to carve statues.
So, I have a black cat constantly crossing my path, sitting on my lap and purring. I'm fine with this. I'm ready to break mirrors and dance under ladders inside with my open umbrella. I laugh at superstition. ha ha ha.

One evening while K and I were in the kitchen we heard a cat meowing. This was the beginning of the end for us. I previously posted how she broke into our aparment and refused to leave. We didn't so much pick her as she picked us.

All was fine in our little world with the addition of our new friend. After a while we noticed that her nipples were kind of big and pink, a feature found in cats that are around 3 weeks pregnant.

We found ourselves in a moral dilema. Do we take our lady friend to the unplanned pregnancy clinic or let her carry the litter to term? I could not handle a cat abortion. The thought of it made me ill. There are two schools of thought. We face a cat overpopulation problem with thousands of strays mating unchecked. There are cats in shelters waiting for homes and when a person brings kittens into the world, they are more desirable than adult cats, so people tend to take the kitten over Grizabella, the skanky old tabby sitting in solitary confinement at the cat clinic, waiting for the guillatine to drop.

K ended up at the local petco speaking with a crazy Brittish woman who is a volunteer for the Kitty Kind cat rescue and adoption organization. She ended up running him out of the store screaming that he was a murderer as she was convinced our cat had already given birth to kittens that were in the alley and we had taken her away from them. We are almost absolutely sure that this is not the case. For the first few days she had the ability to leave the apartment freely but stayed inside. She was also not lactating.

So, we've been anticipating the birth of kittens and even started to find homes for the unborn offspring of our super sexy kitty.

And then...

A few days ago, Sheba began to act strange, constantly meowing, the meowing getting louder and sounding more satanic. After checking her food and water and litter box, we could not figure out what she wanted. Then she began raising her ass up in the air with this longing look of painful desire. She discovered that the fridge had a vibration to it and began doing things I dare not repeat.

The other morning we woke to find that she was gone. Just as she had broken into the apartment, she broke out. I called out into the alley and heard her meowing back. She climbed over a fence and climbed back up to the window and came inside.

I dare to think of the brutality she must have faced out there in her state of unbridled arrousal. We were cooking the next day with the kitchen window open and discovered how she had escaped by shimmying her way between the window and the screen, climbing up the screen and pushing her body against the glass to pop open the top and climb free. We thwarted her attempts at running away for another night of premiscuous alley sex. Not while she's under my roof, I thought to myself.

Deprived of the alley, she entered a desperate needy state, rubbing up against anything she could, howling like the damned. A lesbian friend had suggested something involving a cuetip, but I won't go into that. I will not go there. I refuse to be part of that dirty little solution.

So, we made an appointment to "fix" her little problem. However, it isn't happening for 4 weeks. I'm crossing my fingers and praying that she didn't get knocked up the other night. As previously stated, I refuse to subject my pussy to a 2nd trimester abortion.

Who knew that having a pussy would bring such moral dilemas?

Hey, nice top

I was mindlessly wandering through the local Brooklyn Target looking to buy things I didn't need. We all have to do our part to plug the holes in this rotten boat that is the US economy. Unfortunately everything you buy is made in china, so stimulating the US economy is a bit trickier these days. You have to seek out lesbians by the side of the road with signs that say "will macrame for food" selling organic fruit and hemp bracelets made at their weekly knitting circle.

Just an FYI...If you need a guitar case to toss your $600 IRS check into, I have one. Just let me know the street corner where I should stand on to serenade you. I'll even wear my jeans with holes in them and something that looks slightly hipsterish. Art is cool. Suffering for art is soooo cool.

I've decided I need to buy a sewing machine. Apparently watching too many episodes of project runway makes me think that I might have that special undiscovered talent to turn left over cheetos bags into one-of-a-kind couture creations.
No. I'm serious. I have sewing fever people. I made a skirt out of an old pair of jeans once, using a dinosaur of a singer sewing machine from the 1950's.

Now I find myself reading sewing blogs from crazy old women complaining about bobbins and tension and things that matter most when your body hasn't been touched in a desirous way for years. These are the people who are eaten alive by their 20 cats, lying motionless next to a half opened can of fancy feast. I trust their opinions beyond the shadow of a doubt.

I like the concept of vintage sewing patterns, but I noticed an odd recurring theme. The men's patterns are really gay. I showed one to K and he said it reminded him of a Tom of Finland print. This brings about very chicken or egg questions.

Was it the sewing pattern that made him gay or was it the gay that made the sewing pattern?

Discuss.

Rambling

Friday was exciting with the news that my music video had climbed to #1 on Logo. How awesome it felt to be in the top spot on a national countdown. I reveled. Yes, I reveled as I should.

Lately for some reason I have become sort of obsessed with the song, Cherry Falls, a track that has not been officially recorded unless you count the lo-fi demos I've been concocting in my apartment. There is something about this song. I know that it will turn some people off by its graphic nature, but it is very real to me. It is something that I think needs to be heard whether it makes people squirm or not.

I've been distracted. We moved into a new apartment which seems to put my life on pause. We haven't even hung all the curtains. I can dance in my underwear in the living room, but perhaps I am giving people a show they don't want to see.
K and I have been dating for 10 months. Relationships must add to my body like the rings on a tree, showing its age by how bloated I feel. The comfort of love makes one more prone to lying around eating much too much shephard's pie. Laura has been studying pastry arts at culinary school. She has been creating these amazing things, but every time I see her, she gives me a plate, bowl, basket or tin filled with bleeched white flour demons. I consume them. I ly around. I kiss my sweet and add another ring to the tree.

My nephew was diagnosed with a rare chromosonal disorder and has started growth hormone treatments that the insurance will not cover despite the fact that they are necessary for his development and some semblance of a normal life. My sister called last night to let me know that her husband fell from 12 feet of scafolding, breaking his pelvis, requiring surgery.

I went to Karoke last night, one of my least favorite activities of all time. Graham Norton was there. how odd.

Well, I feel spring pecking at my window like an overly zealous bird. With it, I am feeling this renewed sense of purpose. I don' t want to say that I've been floundering, but rather I've been thinking a lot. I've been allowing the world around me to just kind of flow as it may. Now, I feel very determined to create, to kick the world in the butt....to kick myself in the butt.

I'm searching for a drummer and a cellist. I'm getting ready to dust off my yoga mat. I have a sudden craving to catch up on sleep and eat salmon in the countryside. This weekend is Easter. We are going upstate to Jason and Simon's house. I'm planning on dying eggs and hiding them around the property. I'm planning on drinking and sleeping more than I shoud.

A night without sleep

Photo by Carrie Thomas

Last night K cooked a chicken and we curled up to watch Notes on a Scandal. I had heard both negative and positive reviews of the film, so was not sure where my opinions would fall. The acting was amazing and overall, I enjoyed the film.

I could go into more detail, but my brain is fried this morning. The radiator has been making this buzzing noise that is like a Chinese torture devise. Well, not necessarily Chinese in quality, but torture all the same. There is a nob which is broken so I can't do anything to stop the incessant buzzing. If that wasn't enough to drive me mad, there was music blaring in the bathroom. I thought it was from an upstairs neighbor, but I know my upstairs neighbor and the hip hop flavor of the invading sounds didn't seem to suit his taste.

I wiggled and weaved my way through a half sleep,The buzzing of the radiator and the booming of the bass between me and the sweet release of rapid eye movement and the world of bizarre dreams I've been walking through lately.

at 4:20 am, I snapped.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

I put on a bathrobe and slipped on tennis shoes, heading out the apartment door, not sure even where I was going. I thought of calling my landlord. I thought of buzzing all the ground floor apartment buzzers until I found the offending party. I'm so not confrontational. I noticed that the door was ajar across from my apartment. It is not another apartment, but rather the super's "office" if you could call it that.

I walked across the dusty concrete floor to find a stereo blasting. I guess the super had left it on. I turned it off and then contemplated retaliatory avenues I could pursue. I thought of taking the stereo to my apartment and leaving a sticky note telling the super that his listening privileges have been suspended until he can show a baseline level of respect and responsibility.

I contemplated pulling the cords out from the wall and dragging the stereo into the street, throwing it to the traffic as a sacrifice to the gods of the sleepless and disgruntled. Instead, I shuffled back to bed, half awake and slightly fuming.

There is no amount of coffee to make this day right.

Biscuits,Paddleboats and 2am Riots

Photo of the Prospect Park Boathouse by Carrie Thomas

K and I decided to host a brunch on Sunday at the apartment. Actually, I guess I coerced K into being my accomplice, but he didn't seem to mind.

As a tribute to the art of procrastination, we found ourselves at the local pathmark at 2am, waiting in line. I needed this cheese grater very badly, but when we were checking out, the girl couldn't find a code for it, so she refused to sell it to us. It was extraordinarily traumatic and at that point I was seeing double. After arguing with her, we left pathmark loaded up like pack mules, mutually exhausted, and lacking the much needed cheese grater.
We dropped to sleep exhausted and woke up too late, scurrying and hurrying to make ourselves and the apartment presentable for our guests.

Our feast was prepared in record time.
As, I tend to do with such things, I went a little overboard.
There was fruit salad, miniature fritata with mushroom,spinach, tomato and Gruyere Cheese. There were home fries,biscuits,bacon and sausage.

We ran around like headless chickens getting everything ready, but we both love the domestic bliss that comes with cooking up some love in the kitchen.

We had a lovely brunch with Steve, Matt, Marc and the lovely Danielle Flores who is gracing our city with her presence at the moment. I'm sure LA is a sad place without her, but we aren't complaining.

After brunch had ended we build a mountain of dirty plates in the kitchen and admired their grandeur before flooding them in suds to soak.

We decided to head over to the park and visit the Audubon center. Whilst crossing a bridge we noticed a lovely Hispanic family riding a paddle boat. We decided that we just simply must also ride a paddle boat. Despite standing feet away from the boathouse, we had no clue as to where we might rent said paddle boat, so we ran along the shore yelling at the family, trying to find out where they got their boat.

Seeing as the family only spoke Spanish, this was a fruitless task. I learned in the process that having a last name like Flores does not mean you necessarily know Spanish. What a disappointment. We finally discovered that we could rent a paddle boat at the boathouse, an idea that was too obvious to be fact.

We got our boat after waiting for an hour and traversed the waters of Prospect park. It was great to see the swan family that K and I have been watching for months. The babies have gotten so big.

I had a very intense discussion with a Canadian goose, which decided to swim along side us quacking at me while I quacked back. At one point, it was decided that I was upsetting the goose and should refrain from talking to it. With hesitation, I bid my feathered friend adieu and focused on my paddling.

after returning the paddle boat, I discovered that my legs had turned to jello and that the only solution was to drink a margarita. I'm not sure that it was the only solution, but I'm going to keep telling myself that it was necessary after slaving in the sun, paddling ms. Flores around like a goddess. All she needed was a parasol to make it a perfect day.

We hung out with Danielle and Laura for the rest of the evening, walking home after hanging in Park Slope. Walking by the park we passed an army of hundreds of NYPD officers lined up as if they were preparing for war. It was the West Indian Parade the next day. I had been told that things get crazy, but I had no idea. We went to bed thinking nothing of it.

At 2am, the sound of a marching band and drums came pounding through our windows. We stepped outside to see hundreds and hundreds of Caribbeans running through the streets screaming and waving flags from their respective islands. It was as if every single building and opened its doors and flooded the street with people. There was something beautiful and unsettling about it. We ran back inside and hid, not exactly sure if this was supposed to be happening, not exactly sure if the police were going to start beating people. We finally fell asleep to the sound of drums. I woke at 4am to hear a similar sound to the 2am commotion, but decided to ignore it. I woke again at 10:30 and made myself a quick breakfast of toast and jam before rushing out the door to be at the studio by 12.

I was surprised to see that the streets were calm and quiet as though nothing had happened. I walked to the subway with tribal drums in my head. Upon arriving to the studio I began to record a beat by hitting my stomach layered with hand claps. Something primal from the early morning energy had found its way to my soul.

With the help of the Greek

With the help of the Greek,
I salvaged a solid wood side table from the
garbage heaps of the gentrified holy lands of Park Slope.

We made a pilgrimage to the hardware store asking for guidance. The table's only problem was a bit of sharpie on the tabletop and two loose legs. I tightened the legs and we sanded off the sharpie exposing the beautiful light wood.

We sanded the legs and the underside. The Greek handled sanding the legs. I focused on sanding the top. We stained the table a beautiful dark Walnut. The richness of the grain astounds me. One person's garbage is now a beautiful table with a grain like the sand by the ocean. I can almost see the ripples, the tide, the motion in it. It is so awe inspiring. I am amazed.

Reduce, Re-use, Recyle....oh I've become a collector of plastic. I cant bare to throw it away. I re-use it until I can't anymore. I've begun to contemplate making my own furniture from salvaged pieces. I'm thinking of making my old cutting board into a centerpiece. I looked at antiques in the street over the weekend. I went into two antique stores and I bought a baby gift, well two...oh they are so very cute.

I'm going to be an uncle very soon. It's so crazy.

"Did I show you this picture of my sweetheart, taken of us before the war, of the Greek and his Italian girl one Sunday at the shore? We tied our ribbons to the fire escape. They were taken by the birds, who flew home to the country as the bombs rained on the world. 5am, here i am, walking the block to table talk. You could cry or die or just make pies all day. I'm making pies"

-(The amazing) Patty Griffin

Listen to Making Pies

Ride on, Ride on

I haven't slept well for three days.

On the night of my birthday, the cab that was taking me back to Brooklyn pealed away with my guitar still in the trunk. With the help of K. we have called every cab company in the city. We've called every police precinct. We've filed reports and frantically paced.

I woke with a startle at 3:30 am and started scrubbing the tile in my shower, just trying to get rid of the nervous energy. I feel disoriented and foggy and unable to breathe or swallow.

I am worried about black swan. I feel sick to my stomach, to my head, to my crawling skin. I want to claw at the walls, claw at my ears, my face, my eyes. I want to curl into a ball and cry until there is no moisture left in my body.
I can't though. I can't get a single tear to come. I just feel empty and numb and disjointed.

I don't know what to do.


"Ride on, Ride on Friends of the black swan. Ride on Ride on. Do you know where she's gone?"- Tori Amos' Black Swan

Spring cleaning

Today I went into a cleaning frenzy. I rolled my pants up and got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the kitchen tiles. I lifted every piece of furniture and removed an entire family of dust bunnies from the living room and released them into the wild so they can roam free.

I took a break and went into the studio for 4 hours to work on three tracks for the album.
-open wide
-follow me home
-Marlboro Man

I have reached the extremely nit picky phase where I will focus on one tiny thing that bothers me. I am making mole hill mountains...lots of them. I'm worried that I'm missing mole hills...that some will slip through and I will be crucified for them.

After the studio, I called my mother to tell her how much I appreciate her pushing me out into the world and feeding me until I learned to hunt and gather on my own. I also apologized for being a horrible son who did not send some sort of pastel hallmark masterpiece accompanied by daisies, carnations, and other mother appropriate flowers.

I have somehow bruised my hand. At 3 am, I was on a pier in a drum circle with earthy hippy people wailing at the top of my lungs as the ships passed by. I got very intense with the drumming and I think this might be the cause for the bruise on my palm. I can not think of any other palm heavy activity that I have recently undertaken. I did attempt some sort of bastardization of breakdancing which only someone of my pastiness could muster. I was in a "dance off" on a rusted metal light boat, the location of my friend, M's very happening birthday celebration. This was my only contribution to the day other than sleeping and playing guitar.

Well, I bought a new mop, the kind you use to swab a deck. I love real mops. They make me feel like a lunchlady or a kick-ass janitor at a Midwestern middle school. ya know. I feel like I could ask someone for their hall pass or slop mashed potatoes onto a plastic tray with an ice cream scoop.


photo credit-Carrie Thomas