Strange Pulse

Someone seems to get a kick out of my self-disclosing tendencies. Well, brace yourself.

I’ve already shared some stuff about how crazy my family is, and some other misc stressful stuff I’ve dealt with. But that’s not even close to everything. This won’t be either, unfortunately. But here we go.

I was born a poor black child. OK, not really.

When I was born, my oldest brother was put in a foster home. He was 13, and deemed what was considered back then incorrigible. My older siblings were all really wild and there was a lot of turmoil going on back then. And all throughout my childhood.

My mom had to stay in the hospital after having me to have surgery on her thyroid. That left my dad at home to deal with one wild teenage girl (my oldest sister, who he caught sneaking a boy into her room), an “incorrigible” 13 year old, an 11 year old (my other sister), a 2 year old, and a new born. My dad had only been married to my mom for three years–the three oldest kids were his step-kids. Must’ve been really hard, at age 31, for my dad to take on such a wild bunch. (I always kinda related to the Brady Bunch as a kid.)

So it was a stressful time, the first two weeks of my life.

My earliest memory is of my oldest sister being pregnant the same time my mother was. I would’ve been about 3 years old. My younger brother has a niece that is a few months older than he is.

When I was about 5, I would mope around on the swing set in the backyard (I liked being melodramatic and feeling sad as a kid), making up songs about my oldest sister, who is 15 years older than me, and her husband, who was 16 or 17 years older than her. (And one year younger than our mom.) The songs were sad because they had to be separated. Separated, because he had to go to jail.

When I was a little bit older, my oldest brother and his pregnant wife were in a car accident. Me and my brothers were sent across the street to a neighbor’s house while my parents rushed to the hospital. No one would tell us anything that was going on. We just knew it looked bad. I can remember waiting and waiting to hear what was going on. They had sent us out into their backyard to play. I stood by the sliding glass door, next to the flowerbeds, waiting for the phone to ring. Finally, my parents came home and told us the brakes had gone out on my brother’s car, while they were driving down an extremely steep and curving hill, and they’d crashed into some trees. My brother’s wife had been thrown from the car. But she and the baby were ok.

My other sister would babysit us often. I only remember when she lived with us–I don’t remember when my other oldest two siblings lived with us. Well, like I said, my oldest brother moved out when I was born. And my oldest sister got married when she was 17 (I would’ve been 2). When Jenny lived with us, she was an older teenager, and I used to watch her put makeup on. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to shave my eyebrows and paint them back on, too. I would sneak into her room when she was gone and try on her platform shoes. We would sit at her vanity and she would paint my nails. Then I’d go out into the yard and spin around with my arms out wide to dry the nail polish.

But Jenny would babysit us, and I think most of my memories of that was when she was an adult and married with her own baby (probably around 18 - 20 years old). What I know for sure was, she was on drugs. And she was crazy.

She became mentally ill. I think maybe I sensed it before anyone knew what was going on, I don’t know–but I can remember her being crazy. It’s hard to describe, if you’ve never dealt with anyone who is mentally ill–I’m talking paranoid schizophrenia, here. Full on hallucinations. Accusations of people plotting to kill her. That’s one of my biggest childhood memories–my sister being paranoid, crazy, and on drugs. While babysitting us.

I didn’t know at the time she was on drugs. I just knew her behavior was irratic, weird, and occasionally completely insane.

There’s not a lot you can do to force someone who’s having mental problems get treatment. It doesn’t matter if they’re out of touch with reality, as long as they’re not a threat to themselves or anyone else. But the first time she said something about wishing she was dead, my mom took her to the hospital and told them she was threatening to kill herself, and she finally started getting some help.

She was mentally ill for the rest of her life, though. Not able to live on her own, in and out of halfway houses, attempting suicide, etc. Her kids were raised by her in-laws, because she was crazy, and her husband was in prison.

Different brother-in-law than the one I mentioned earlier, when I was moping on the swings. Both my sisters had husbands that went to prison.

What else from my childhood…My grandpa died when I was 8 of lung cancer. One big reason I’ve never picked up smoking. I’d only met him once or twice in my entire life, so it was kinda weird when my mom told me he’d died. I thought I should feel sad, but I’d never really known him, so I didn’t really feel anything, except guilty that I didn’t feel very sad.

There was a lot of other drama and trauma going on when I was a kid, but it’s all kind of a blur. I remember a lot of yelling and chasing and craziness, between my dad and my older siblings. I remember once my sister showing up at our house with a fat lip, and maybe a black eye, and a big scene, but I don’t remember who was there or who gave her the fat lip.

Oh yeah–when I was about 6, my oldest brother came over with his girlfriend and a baby. I can distinctly remember watching from behind a dining room chair as they talked to my mom on the other side of the table. I don’t remember anything that was being said, but I somehow knew that the baby was my brother’s baby. (This wasn’t the woman he later married, but it may have been the woman my oldest sister’s husband ran off with when my sister was pregnant with their third child–I’m not sure.) After my brother died (when he was 32), my mom and I were talking about how many kids he had–I guess he fathered a couple as a teenager before he got married–I don’t know how many. I asked her about that memory I had, and she told me his girlfriend had been calling her Grandma, and that upset my mom and I think they had a fight or something. Which is probably why I remember it. My brother later claimed he didn’t think the baby was his. I’m not sure if that was the 14 year old who called my mom just before he died of cancer, trying to find her real dad. He was too ill to speak to her, so she didn’t get to meet him, but she came to his funeral.

Well this post has gone into a bunch of stuff I wasn’t really expecting to, and I’ve got stuff to get done, so I’ll continue it later. Next up: my young married years in the ghetto. Good stuff, don’t miss it.

I had a dream about Bob Mould last night. Singer/guitarist for Husker Du. I think I’ve raved about them here before. Yes, I have. I recently missed seeing him do a solo show in LA, and I’d heard he’d been doing some Husker Du songs, including my favorite.

AND I DIDN’T GO!

But I got to see him in my dream. It was at a small venue, reminded me of one in Seattle. Like just a small restaurant with tables in booths and an open floor. He and his band were playing right on the floor, with people in a circle around them, and they were doing Husker Du songs.

I know why I had this dream. One reason is that I missed that show the other night I was supposed to photograph for the band’s record label (they wanted a live pic to use as their cd cover) because I was sick, but mainly because my car broke down. And the venue they played in was basically a room with a very low stage, kinda like in my dream.

The other reason is that Bob Mould writes a blog, and I read it all the time.

I love the Internet.

Check my radio.blog for a Husker Du song.

Don’t play Jeff Buckley before a band’s set. Ever. Because anything after that is going to be a let down.

My very favorite bands are the ones that, like Jeff Buckley, are really emotional. The Waterboys (at least, emotional for me), the Frames, Calexico. Maybe it’s the fiddle? Or in Calexico’s case, the trumpets. No, I think in their case, it’s Joey Burns’ voice.

I seriously cannot listen to these bands all that often. It just gets too overwhelming. Especially live. I have several bootlegs by each band, and I rarely listen to them. If I do, it’s usually a song or two here and there–I can’t do a whole show. (Am I pathetic?)

I’m gonna share the love. I’ll post some live bootleg versions of songs to the radio.blog. Because these are boots, you might have to turn the volume way up on your computer. But check them out.

Calexico’s “Sonic Wind” is the song that finally made them click for me. This live version is incredible. (And um, it’s not actually from a bootleg, but a live album.)

The Frames song I’m gonna use, “Fitzcarraldo,” is a version that actually has *two* fiddle players–unbelievable. And what Glen says at the end just makes me so happy…that’s what it’s all about.

The Waterboy’s song is one of my favorites (ok they’re all my favorites), “And a Bang on the Ear.” It’s just so sweet. And the fiddle so awesome. (I know I’m the only person on earth who cares about this, but the fiddle player, Steve Wickham, played electric violin on U2’s WAR album.) Listen for when an audience member makes Mike Scott laugh.

Now, I’d post some Jeff Buckley for any unfortunate souls who’ve never heard him, but this is all I can handle at once. Just be glad I didn’t post the live cover the Frames did of his “Last Goodbye.”

Maybe tomorrow.

I’m a web developer in Los Angeles (Marina del Rey, to be specific). I’ve had this job for less than a year. (Maybe 9 months?) I describe myself in my blog description as a Mormon housewife, because that’s what I like to think of myself as–a stay-home mom. This working thing? It’s only temporary. (And will probably last till my kids get out of college…)

I worked for five years in Seattle as a web developer while my husband went back to college, and I figured once he graduated and got a job, I could stay home with the kids. It hasn’t worked out that way.

When we first moved to California, I was on unemployment and occasionally doing some freelance work for my old employer. But when my unemployment ran out we started hurting (we were already only barely scraping by). I looked and looked for a job, and nothing was right. There was one I figured I’d get, because it was the only thing that looked feasible, and we were literally about to not make our rent.

It was photographing coins for a company that auctions coins to collectors via the web. Sounds kinda cool for me, right? I love photography and all. Except that this is the kind of photography it would’ve been.

UGH! Sooo boring, plus it didn’t pay anywhere near enough to what we needed me to be making.

I realized something when I was trying to get that job, though. I didn’t want a job that was so uncool. I *liked* being able to tell people I was a web developer. I realize everyone and their dog thinks they’re a web developer, but I really was one, professionally, for five years, at a graphic design firm.

“What do you do?”

“I put a plastic container on a table, click a button, and then do it again. For EIGHT HOURS a day.”

And I wondered, is this prideful of me, to care about something like that? I guess I figured if I had to work, it should at least be something I enjoy and I’m good at, and would feel good telling people that it’s what I do.

Then I applied for my current job, got it, and it’s a really awesome one. Not only do I get to tell people I’m a web developer, I get to tell them that I do a lot of work for a very well known videogame company. Layers of geekiness upon geekiness…it’s heavenly.

I do wish I could stay home with the kids though. I figure it’s God’s way of making it up to me–that I have to work–at least it’s a job I really, really enjoy.

It was really eye-opening for me, how much I identified with my job. Maybe it’s just because I spend so much time at it?

I saw a woman with a really great butt today.

When I was at lunch. Am I the only female who notices stuff like this? I never check out men, but for some reason women with great…various body parts…jump out at me.

Usually, what I notice first about someone (male or female) is their shoes. Yep, I’m a shoe person. And that’s how I often remember people too. My husband will be talking about someone we knew in high school, and I’ll say, “You mean the girl who only wore either really tall, spiked heels, or completely flat ballet slippers?”

He’ll look at me like I’m insane.

Anyway, this woman at Rubio’s had a terrific backside. It wasn’t huge, wasn’t small, was just exactly an incredibly perfect shape. She wasn’t stunning–or even especially pretty, but she did have gorgeous hair. And truly, an amazing butt.

I think what I notice most about men is their hair. Well, not really. I mean, I don’t go around checking out men’s hair. But if they have beautiful hair, it jumps out at me. I think the most amazing head of hair I’ve ever seen on a guy was a teenage kid at a metal show I went to recently. I also happen to have a picture of him:

(His locksy curls aren’t done justice in that shot, though.)

Why do so many men have such naturally beautiful hair? Ever noticed that? So many men have curly, gorgeous hair. It’s not fair. My husband has gorgeous hair. He’s sensitive about the topic in general, though, since he was a redhead growing up.

That’s a line from a Mountain Goats song, video for which is located here:

This Year

I didn’t think the Mountain Goats were popular enough to warrant a video, but maybe indie bands are always making videos, I wouldn’t know.

Anyway, that’s the kind of humor that runs all through one of my all-time favorite books, Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. I haven’t read it in forever, but just thinking about it can crack me up. Here’s some random quotes.

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, that specified that a concern for one’s own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn’t, but if he was sane, he had to fly them. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of the clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.

“That’s some catch, that Catch-22,” he observed.

“It’s the best there is,” Doc Daneeka replied.

Colonel Cargill was a forceful, ruddy man. Before the war, he had been an alert, hard-hitting, aggressive marketing executive. He was a very bad marketing executive. Colonel Cargill was so bad a marketing executive that his services were much sought after by firms eager to establish losses for tax purposes. Throughout the civilized world, from Battery Park to Fulton Street, he was known as a dependable man for a fast tax write-off. His prices were high, for failure often did not come easily. He had to start at the top and work himself down, and with sympathetic friends in Washington, losing money was no simple matter. It took months of hard work and careful misplanning. A person misplaced, disorganized, miscalculated, overlooked everything and opened every loophole, and just when he thought he had it made, the government gave him a lake or a forest or an oilfield and spoiled everything. Even with such handicaps, Colonel Cargill could be relied on to run the most prosperous enterprise into the ground. He was a self-made man who owed his lack of success to nobody.

The Texan turned out to be good-natured, generous and likable. In three days no one could stand him.

The colonel was certainly not going to waste his time and energy making love to beautiful women unless there was something in it for him.

They were the most depressing group of people Yossarian had ever been with. They were always in high spirits. They laughed at everything.

He had decided to live forever or die in the attempt.

She was the epitome of stately sorrow each time she smiled.

What could you do with a man who looked you squarely in the eye and said he would rather die than be killed in combat…

The case against Clevinger was open and shut. The only thing missing was something to charge him with.

Yep, I made it through disc one, now we’re onto disc two.

Tori Amos: “Silent All These Years”

I got into Tori Amos the same time I was discovering a lot about who I was and what my talents and abilities were. Really starting to gain self esteem. I was really discovering my “voice”–and it did seem like it’d been silent for years.

This entire album is really excellent–and very much a woman’s album. She lays it all out there bare. And her lyrics are very poetic–one reason I love it so much. Here are the lyrics to the track I used on the comp:

Silent All These Years by Tori Amos

Excuse me but can I be you for a while
My dog won’t bite if you sit real still
I got the anti-Christ in the kitchen yellin’ at me again
Yeah I can hear that
Been saved again by the garbage truck
I got something to say you know but nothing comes
Yes I know what you think of me, you never shut-up
Yeah I can hear that

But what if I’m a mermaid in these jeans of his with her name still on it
Hey but I don’t care
Cause sometimes, I said sometimes, I hear my voice
And it’s been here, silent all these years

So you found a girl who thinks really deep thougts
What’s so amazing about really deep thoughts?
Boy you best pray that I bleed real soon. How’s that thought for you?
My scream got lost in a paper cup
You think there’s a heaven where some screams have gone?
I got 25 bucks and a cracker, do you think it’s enough?
To get us there

But what if I’m a mermaid in these jeans of his with her name still on it
Hey but I don’t care
Cause sometimes, I said sometimes, I hear my voice
And it’s been here, silent all these years

Years go by, will I still be waiting for somebody else to understand?
Years go by, if I’m stripped of my beauty and the orange cloud’s raining in head
Years go by, will I choke on my tears till finally there is nothing left?
One more casualty, you know we’re too easy easy easy

But I love the way we communicate
Your eyes focus on my funny lip shape
Let’s hear what you think of me now, but baby don’t look up
The sky is falling
Your mother shows up in a nasty dress
And it’s your turn now to stand where I stand
Everybody lookin’ at you, here take hold of my hand
Yeah I can hear them

But what if I’m a mermaid in these jeans of his with her name still on it
Hey but I don’t care
Cause sometimes, I said sometimes, I hear my voice
And it’s been here, silent all these years

I’ve been here
Silent all these years

Song is posted to the radio.blog, top right.

A guy who runs a small independent record label asked me to go see a band I love (the Atomic Bitchwax), and photograph them. They might use some of the photos on their cd artwork for the new cd they have coming out.

I love it when that happens.

I just wish the band wasn’t playing on a Monday night.

The Atomic Bitchwax:

Actually, I wish I could stay out late seeing bands all the time, but it’s not even remotely possible!

This Saturday, another awesome band is playing (Torche), and there’s no way we’re missing it. Since we just missed one of our favorite local bands, Fu Manchu, last night, due to being sick. And the band even promised us if we went, they’d play one of our very favorite songs that they haven’t done live in a looooong time! That killed us. We’ve been hassling them to play it forever.

Fu Manchu:

Other stuff coming up: my parents are coming down for TG weekend, which will be awesome. They really wanted us to come home to Seattle for Christmas, since both my brothers will be there (one lives in Philly, the other in Taiwan). I wish I could! But there’s no way we can afford to go, and afford to do Christmas for the kids–and Daniel can’t get the time off work, and I’m not sure I could, etc. At least this way my parents won’t have to be alone for either holiday.

I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas.

It’s a nasty, lingering one though. Ugh. I left work early today (stayed home sick yesterday) and I’m feeling sooooo yucky. But here’s a plug for the best cough syrup in the world:

Buckley’s

It tastes like you’re swallowing liquid Vick’s vapor rub. Seriously the grossest tasting stuff. But it works! It rocks! It rules.

Their website even has a photo gallery of faces people make when taking it.

Their tagline is:

“It tastes awful. And it works.”

Somehow, when I’m sick or have a headache or whatever, I feel like complaining about it will somehow make me feel better.

I’m not actually looking for sympathy, pity, or attention–I just feel like if I can express how bad I feel, maybe I won’t feel quite so bad.

I feel horrible. My husband’s been sick with this cold for a couple days now, in fact he had a fever when we went to see Exodus and Three Inches. I don’t know how he did it. He didn’t take any time off work at all. And his job is very physically demanding.

I guess I’m just more fragile. Or wimpy. I’m really bummed because I missed seeing Isis on Saturday, and the band had even given me a photo pass for the show. But there’s no way I could’ve gone. The sore throat I had was so bad, I was worried I had strep. Today, I feel like I’ve been run over by a steamroller.

OK, no more complaining. Once Steve, our friend who is staying on our couch, gets up and heads to work, I’m gonna go lay down and watch daytime tv. Or maybe read.