9:27:22 PM    sro home /

I've been sitting up waiting for my sugar to show
I've been listening to the sirens and the radio
He said he'd be over three hours ago
I've been waiting for his car on the hill
He makes friends easy
He's not like me
I watch for judgement anxiously
Now where in the city can that boy be
Waiting for a car
Climbing
Climbing
Climbing the hill

He's a real good talker--I think he's friend
Fast tires come screaming around the bend
But there's still no buzzer
They roll on...
And-I'm waiting for his car on the hill
It always seems so righteous at the start
When there's so much laughter
When there's so much spark
When there's so much sweetness in the dark
Waiting for a car
Climbing
Climbing
Climbing the hill

- Joni Mitchell

8:16:18 PM    sro home /

GAMEBOY

“Show and Tell’s
just a game I play
when I want to say
I love you.”

He hated this song because it reminded him of trains whistling far away. When he was a small boy and spent the night at his grandmother’s house, she would leave the radio on in the room where he slept and he heard trains wooing in the background like a lonely off-key singer wanting to join in the current hits.

Gary, on the other hand, loved it and because Gary was dying he had aural rights. Gary owned the 45 and played it on his ancient Hi-Fi over and over, laying in bed and swooning over the crooner’s bravado. When he was taking care of Gary, he would be forced to listen and not think of trains carrying people away to some other place.

“Play it again.”

Gary couldn’t get up to change the record and while Gary laid in bed, he’d sit next to the phonograph and routinely replace the needle without being asked. He’d lift the clumsy arm and place it on the outer edge of the black vinyl like a weaver with a loom, like a mother patting her baby after a meal. Again. Again.

“How do you even play Show and Tell?”, he once asked Gary. “What kind of a game are we talking about?”

Gary would pause and he wasn’t sure if it was because Gary was having trouble breathing or if Gary had even heard him.

“Well,” Gary would finally answer,”I’m pretty sure it involves dice.”

He rolled his eyes and looked out the window at the pigeons who’d gathered outside, pacing back and forth like fat attorneys in a courtroom foyer debating the validity of this claim. Yes, they’d seem to be weighing, dice would be logical.

“So”, he asked,” you roll the dice and then what? Is there a board?”

Again, Gary would pause and seem to go away, imagining (he assumed) a couple sitting around a table, dice in hand, and whether they were also hovering over a board.

“No board.”

One time in the middle of restarting the song, Gary’s wheezing stopped and he was so startled, so aware was he of every breath Gary took, he dropped the needle. It skittered and made a sound like a large cloth being ripped in half. Gary gasped and opened his eyes, shocked back into life over his concern for the safety of the record. There was a long silence as he gently replaced the needle to it’s perch and examined the record for damage. The yellow plastic disc in the center hole made an “Oh” of surprise as they all waited tensely for the prognosis.

Nothing on the surface. He replaced the record and gently lifted the arm and sat it with utmost care on the revolving black plastic. With the first roll of the drums, they all sighed in relief.

How, he wondered, could a Love Song make him so sad? Sometimes when Gary slept he’d play the song hoping it could keep them both alive. Gary would breath softly, dreaming (he hoped) of dice and games while he’d listen and softly cry, chewing his sobs like Flintstone vitamins in his mouth, the chalky sweet taste coating his tongue. The cooing doves helped him swallow and he’d reach over to start again.

“Here is the man
who used to know where he’d stand
Don’t you know
I’ve done all I can”

He had no idea how death came. He thought it might be like a movie, the fading light, the soft pillows, the pale face full of grace. Instead he’d fallen asleep in his chair by the stereo, by the window where doves marched over and over from one end to the next. When he woke, the record was endlessly turning and trying to remain a song with one last shush and click. Again. Again. Gary was clutching the hem of his blanket, gathering the fabric like two dice. He returned the needle to it’s stand, letting the silence settle and the doves, finally realizing the song had ended, flew off and away to another place.

5:34:09 PM    sro home /

Susannah Breslin is doing something at The Reverse Cowgirl's Blog. Something which she hasn't really explained or talked about in her Blog but I'm going to go out on a limb here and make a guess. She's apparently been involving herself more in the "Blogosphere" - she's Guest Blogged at boingboing, appeared on some panels about Blogging and is in the process of creating a TV show (tentatively titled "Oh Sussanah") which sprang from the RCGB. She and I have talked together in e-mails about the potential of this comparatively new medium and I'm guessing she's doing what an artist does, she's pushing some boundaries for herself and exploring some new language for how to use the venue of Blogging.

Her strengths are many. She's a witty, clever writer. She's a smart visual artist. Rather than taking the Easy Route (which for someone of her looks and savvy wouldn't be hard to do), she's pushing the envelope and, like jumping down some wild Internet Rabbithole, she's looking to land in Wonderland.

Currently on the RCGB, she's eschewed words altogether and uses a visual - like a media flashcard - which links to another site. As a reader, you're given some options. You can just appreciate the pic she's posted (which are almost always gems in themselves) or you can continue on the path she's marked and click the link. The links might not be so obvious at first but she is, in a way, challenging you to find the connection and to do that requires you to put yourself in her mindset, even if just for a second. Sometimes this is, for lack of a better word, the "joke". The verbal or visual play between the picture you're first given and the link has made me laugh. Other times it's made me think. Either way, I'm humbled at being allowed to see an artist at work and she is, without a doubt, an artist.

In talking about the death of Herb Ritts awhile back, I mentioned that my personal criteria for "art" was it needed to be a Mindfuck. Even thirty years ago when I first began Art School (I have both an Undergrad and Grad Degrees in Fine Arts), I felt the same way. Susannah continues to be one of the most innovative and funnest lays on the Internet. Check it out, think about it, let yourself get a little freaky. Surprise yourself and how you think about Blogging. Afterwards, if you're so inclined, lay back and think about life while dragging on a Dunhill. I know I do.
3:55:06 PM    sro home /

Call Us Crazy:The Anne Heche Monologues

It's readings and performances from Anne Heche's autobiography, "Call Me Crazy" but think ala Vagina Monologues.

The Hudson Avenue Theater
6539 Santa Monica Blvd.

After a sold-out run at the Knitting Factory, Call Us Crazy: The Anne Heche Monologues created and directed by Pamela Ribon, and music by Brently Heilbron and Adam Blau moves to the Hudson Avenue Theatre with special weekly guests including Alex Borstein, Jill-Michelle Melean, Megyn Price, Joan Van Ark, April Winshell, and Andi Teran.

Fridays and Saturdays at 8pm
Jan 10-Feb 22 .
reservations: (323) 856-4200
MENTION THIS E-MAIL FOR $5 OFF

for more information go to www.dammitray.com

Sounds totally hilarious, huh?
10:51:15 AM    sro home /

9:45:37 AM    sro home /