Dispatches From The Red Room (#1)

13 Songs For All Hallow’s

Jimi Hendrix-Born Under A Bad Sign
Nina Simone-I Put A Spell On You
Tom Waits-A Sweet Little Bullet From A Pretty Blue Gun
Tegan & Sara-Walking With A Ghost
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds (feat. Kylie Minogue)-Where The Wild Roses Grow
Rob Zombie-How To Make A Monster
The Stooges-Gimme Danger
Ween-Voodoo Lady
Santana-Black Magic Woman
Jeff Buckley-Nightmares By The Sea
Switchblade Symphony-Gutter Glitter
Type O Negative-All Hallow’s Eve
Tom Waits-Don’t Go Into That Barn

Dear Summer:

I can’t believe you never even showed up. What a jerk.

I had such high hopes for the time we were supposed to spend together—times filled with sunshine, prosperity and music. Instead, you’ve left me here by myself with this gray bullshit weather and these gray bullshit people and no damn money.

There were a few times when I was sure you were about to show up. I had that stupid pre-emptive joy feeling (like you might get before you find out whether or not you won something BIG), and I let it get the best of me. I let it convince me.

But of course, the bottom dropped out of that feeling every time and I was left with a great big emptiness where you were supposed to be.

Near the end of August, I was sure that I saw you. Even though you were two months late (and therefore probably not coming), I was convinced it was you. Every day for two weeks, there you were —- and then like that, you were gone. I’m pretty sure now that it wasn’t you at all. If it was you, it’s pretty clear that you came to play golf with the President, not to see me at all.

It’s difficult to express how disappointed I am. In twenty-nine years, you’ve never let me down like this. Not that I can remember, anyway. Maybe I’ve got selective memory issues. Regardless, I thought I could at least count on you to show up at some point.

I guess you can never really completely count on anyone, though, can you?

I wish I could say that I won’t wait for you again next year, but we both know that I will. I’ll anticipate your arrival for months, sitting around like a goddamned fool and daydreaming. By the time you finally do arrive, it will feel like I’ve been waiting for years. Then you’ll be gone too quickly—or maybe you won’t arrive at all. It wouldn’t be the first time.

I hope I’m wrong. I hope it was just a fluke or a freak accident this year, and maybe you’ll show up early next year, feeling all apologetic and guilty and bearing gifts.

In either case, I’ll be waiting.

Sincerely,
Martha From Martha’s Vineyard

P.S. If you don’t show up next year, I’ll have no choice but to chase your ass down.

Every Time We Do This Dance

This afternoon I was standing in my kitchen stoned, spreading cream cheese on a bagel. The house was filled Pink Floyd, I was craving a cup of coffee, and in my bedroom, my worldly possessions were slowly making their way into boxes. I was singing softly along with the music when suddenly I stopped and thought to myself, “I’ve done this exact combination of things before.”

It’s not deja vu. At some point in the last twelve years, I really have eaten a bagel, stoned, listening to Pink Floyd while I was packing to move. It might have been the day I packed to move out of my Dad’s house two days after I graduated high school, or perhaps it was in Eugene, Oregon, when I moved from my familiar ratty studio on 14th Street to a beautiful 3-bedroom across town, which I was evicted from less than a month later.

Maybe it was one of the many days it took me to disassemble my room in my favorite ex-house, The Pink House in Monterey. The house was huge; a compound, really. There was a diner booth for a table in the kitchen, and the roof could hold at least thirty people comfortably. Bands practiced in our living room. And it was a ten minute downhill walk to work, coffee, town.

Moving is a time of reminiscing, reliving, rediscovering and rejecting. As you sort your things, you inevitably find things (photographs, trinkets, post cards) that you’d entirely forgotten about. Even the things you did remember take on new meaning when you take the time to decide their fate and destination; in contemplating each thing you remember its history, where it’s been, what it has meant to you. For example, the spraypainted-silver mary jane crocs I put in the Dumptique bag today reminded me of the Halloween costume they were painted for, and the party I wore it to. A ratty brown pair of Reef flip-flops (that made the “keep” cut) brought me to Vieques, Puerto Rico, where I wore them nearly every day. Two worn paperbacks about blues music that I bought for my father took me both to the used bookstores where I’d bought them, and to my father’s living room at Christmas, when he opened the packages. And then I was in the hospital, saying goodbye.

The cup of “camp coffee” I made this afternoon reminded me of camping trips, and broken coffee makers, and all the crappy apartments in which I’ve found myself without enough coffee left to make a full pot.

Memory is so fascinating. Our minds constantly relive our histories, repeating moments that are special (or terrifying), and gradually eliminating the ones that were meaningless. I find that moving is sort of a fast-forward roller coaster ride through the moments. In one afternoon, you can go everywhere you’ve ever been.

And every time we move, we do this familiar dance again: the sorting, the packing, the labeling, the deciding, the remembering. Some things are pored over for several minutes and delicately packaged, while others are jettisoned outright without a moment’s thought. A few things sit in a sort of limbo for days, awaiting the results of an internal debate as to their worth. Sooner or later, you find yourself standing in an empty room. You get in a car, you drive for a bit, then you wind up in another empty room, and you start to do the steps backwards.

The setting and the players and the feeling may be different, but the motions will always be the same.

I Just Wrote The Best Blog

and then when I went to post it, my computer wasn’t connected to the internet and it got sucked into the ether forever.

FUCK.

Keep The Lawyers & Guns, Just Send Money

Oh, August, five days of you and I’m exhausted.

Partly, it’s the weather. This clingy wet haze that’s been hanging around is like a voice in the air whispering, “You want to take a nap now…” So what did I do for three hours this afternoon? You bet I took a nap. Unfortunately, when I woke up, the haze was still there and I wanted another nap.

And the assholes. God, there are so many of them, and not a single one knows the appropriate way to walk down a sidewalk, or park, or order a drink in under thirty seconds. (“Um… I want something… um…blue?). They travel in packs of about seventy, half of whom are usually incapable of walking (the other half tend to be incapable of shutting up).

And because the money’s not here, the natives are ornery. The bartenders, waitresses and other industry people who are used to rolling around in piles of cash in July and August are just as poor as the retail jerks, and we’re a bunch of stressed out crazies, desperate for any way to make just a fraction of the cash we were expecting.

And the poor, poor retail jerks. Granted, they have only themselves to blame for their choice in profession, but I still feel sorry for them because there’s no gray area in a slow Martha’s Vineyard retail season. Either you’re bored to the brink of going braindead (and likely forbidden from reading a book or a magazine or sitting down), or your stupid little store is chocker-block full of wandering tightwad morons (who are of course incapable of talking without shouting). And when they leave, the wake of destruction is almost a godsend, because you have something to do…

September, I’m ready for you. Please come soon, or if you’re unable to, send money. In the meantime, I’ll be waiting impatiently, cursing the weather and perpetually fighting the urge to nap.

Hangin’ Only Steps Away From Genius

About an hour ago, I was ten feet away from one of the coolest people I’ve ever seen, watching with a giant grin on my face as he played two pianos at once, tapping his white alligator shoes and giving the crowd a sly smile.

I knew Dr. John would be cool–he was damn cool in 1978 when he played with The Band in The Last Waltz, which is the only other live performance of his that I’ve watched, and we all know great musicians get better with age. But when he came on stage in a green suit (complete with green-banded hat with a green feather, green socks and old-school suspenders), great big sunglasses and white alligator shoes, I was so impressed that I just nodded my head. He wore a huge wampum and seashell necklace, among other talismans, and his grand piano was adorned with skulls, giant lobster claws, an alarm clock and other trinkets, and when he entered and exited the stage, he did so with the assistance of a beautiful hand carved cane, also decorated with feathers and other hoodoo.

I’ve been trying to find a way to describe his voice for a while now, and I’ve finally got it–it’s the vocal equivalent of an overtly suggestive wink, particularly when he sings lines like, “You came in with my best friend Jim–and here I am, to try and steal you away from him…” His songs are sexy and mischievous, an ethical grey area that’s chock full of temptation and pleasurable as hell. It’s the kind of music that makes you smile even when you’re trying not to.

Alas, I did not have my camera to capture the incredible green suit and seashell necklace reflected along with his dancing fingers in the polished black of the piano–or the stage just before the encore, blue-lit and empty, with the two pianos, the skulls, the feathers and the claws all bathed in indigo light.

Throughout the show, I thought of my dad. He would have loved it–I can practically hear his voice in my head, and what he’d have been saying (“Man, he’s cool. You see? Most kids your age don’t even know who he is, and they’re certainly missing out tonight”). If the two of them could have met, it would have been a collision of geniuses, and the conversation would have gone on for days. There would have been a rhythm even to the talking–the gravelly, buttery N’awlins drawl of Dr. John, and the deep, deep, relative monotone of my dad. If there’s a heaven, I bet they’ll hang out when the Doctor gets there.

Midnight Wisdom

A friend of mine told me yesterday that I should get a tattoo of an anatomical human heart on my forearm, because I have a tendency to wear my heart on my sleeve.

I gotta stop doing that.

The Perfect Midnight Snack (or a great 5 minute dessert idea)

The Salt Girl’s Lazy Strawberry Shortcake

Ingredients:
2 Eggo toaster waffles (Buttermilk or Homestyle)*
Butter**
Fresh Strawberries
Breyer’s Natural Vanilla ice cream

Preparation:
-Toast the waffles to a deep golden brown–maybe a touch crispier than you usually like them.
-Spread a generous layer of butter on each waffle, then stack them.
-Finely slice several strawberries, covering the waffles completely.
-Add two average sized scoops of ice cream.
-Garnish with a strawberry and a sprig of mint (if you happen to have mint).

*You may want to be wild and use blueberry or cinnamon waffles, but I’m a purist on this one.
**DON’T SKIP THE BUTTER!

[There'd be a picture here, but I ate the shortcake before I thought to write about it]

Nightmares & Dreamscapes

So I’ve been pondering dreams lately, since I’ve noticed some trends in mine. I am a vivid dreamer, and I often remember my dreams because I’m a snooze button glutton, and often reset my alarm ten times before I get up (and we all know you only remember your dreams when you wake up from them, right?).

I have realized that my most satisfying non-sexual dreams have to do with winning a fight, or fully expressing my frustration or anger without consequence. For example, I’ve dreamed of punching people in the face twice within the past month–one was a coworker I couldn’t stand, and I punched him repeatedly, like I was hitting a speed bag; the other was a guy grabassing me in a bar, and after telling him to stop touching me twice, I punched him square in the mouth, to everyone’s surprise. These dreams are so satisfying because in them I succeed in something I would probably never attempt in real life, and because they are the direct opposite of my normal fighting dreams, in which I swing and swing and I’m too slow or uncoordinated and I keep missing and eventually get my ass kicked.

The other trend among good dreams is dreams in which I get to talk to or hang out with my dad. They’re very infrequent, and often we’re debating something, but when I wake up, it’s like I’ve just seen him, and it makes the year and a half since he died disappear for a moment.

As for nightmares, those have trends too. The most common one is a work-stress dream in which I’m the new waitress or bartender, I’ve been given no training as to where anything is or how anything works, and I’m left on my own in a slammed restaurant with the boss breathing down my neck and no help from anyone. Pretty self-explanatory.

But there are other recurring nightmares too, and these are the really terrifying ones: 1) My teeth are totally rotten or have been knocked out–sometimes they’re dissolving and I’m involuntarily swallowing them; 2) Lice. Head lice. They freak me the fuck out, and I’ve had several dreams in which I was either trying unsuccessfully to get rid of them, or surrounded by people who have them and trying not to get them; 3) Spiders. A room filled with spiders and egg sacs, all huge, the egg sacs spitting baby crunchy spiders out all around me, and web so thick I can’t move, 4) Heroin. I’ve had several nightmares in which someone is forcibly injecting me with heroin and I can’t get away from them, or it.

It’s interesting that the first three are among the most terrifying nightmares that I have, since I’m not as afraid of lice, spiders or losing my teeth as I am of other things (skunks, religious hysteria, throwing up). Number 4, however, makes total sense–I’m downright terrified of heroin. I’d be less afraid of someone chasing me with a knife than I would of someone chasing me with a heroin-filled syringe.

Oddly, I never dream that I’m swimming, or that I’m drowning. I often dream that I’m falling–for a second–but I jolt myself awake and am grateful for the minute glimpse at what it would feel like to fall from great height.

All in all, I suppose this post is a ramble, but it’s what I’ve been thinking about. Dreams are weird. And apparently, so am I.

Paying Homage To The Troll

When my father was alive, I talked to him almost every day. I still do–only now it doesn’t involve a telephone or takeout burgers, and he doesn’t talk back. Most of the time now, it’s some sort of inside joke that we had, or something I’ve observed that entertains me in a way only he would understand. Sometimes, it’s like a confession. If I’m really upset, I’ll stand outside in the dark and talk to the air–and imagining what he’d say back to me somehow makes me feel better.

On that note, some Dad-isms:

1) “Yabba-dabba-doo!” Every summer when I was a kid, my father would take me to Provincetown, where he and my mother met, and where later in life he told me he’d spent his best youthful years. The road into town was peppered with little beach shacks, which he loved. Each time we’d cross into Provincetown and see the cottages, my dad would throw his arm out the window of the car (the old blue Impala when I was really young, then the Jeep Comanche pickup) and he’d yell as loud as he could, “Yabba-dabba-doo!” His eyes would twinkle and his grin would widen, and then we’d both yell it again, just to make sure we were heard.

2) “Pay the troll.” Although it wasn’t necessarily the healthy thing to do, my dad usually bought me a package of candy when we went to the grocery store. He had a sweet tooth, and he indulged mine, too. Often he’d pretend he wasn’t going to get me anything, but he usually would anyway, and once we got into the car and I ripped open the package (usually Skittles), he’d thrust out his big, calloused hand and say, “Pay the troll!” Reluctantly, I always shared. Occasionally I thought I was being clever, and I gave Dad the flavors I didn’t like–the purple and black Necco wafers, the green Skittles–but he was onto me, and always called me out. “Oh, give me a couple good ones, for Chrissake,” he’d say.

3) “I’m gonna give you flying lessons!” When I was being mischeivous, but not downright badly behaved, my father would scold me gently, laughing, “If you don’t cut that out, I’m gonna give you flying lessons… off the end of my foot!” And when I’d protest, he’d say, “To the moon!” and he’d swing his foot like he was kicking something heavy, an unruly towheaded child, perhaps.

4) “OUT!” Usually this one was directed at the cat, when she was in a place she wasn’t supposed to be, but sometimes it was directed at me, if I was in his way. With a big grin, he’d say loudly, “Out!” and shoo either me or the cat away dramatically; I’ve noticed this tendency in myself recently, as the bar gets more crowded with staff, and I’ve been careful to explain that I’m not angry, just channeling Dad.

So Dad, I miss you. And it’s comforting to hear your voice come out of my mouth sometimes. It makes me laugh, in a way only you would understand.