Showing posts with label Oceanside. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Oceanside. Show all posts
9.28.2011
9.27.2011
Johnny Mañana's pt. 1
I felt at home and lazy eating a burrito at Johnny Mañana's this weekend, laughing with Matthew about the night out before and planning to see Drive at the movie theater across the street later that evening. It was sunny and warm and relaxing on the patio until an idiot kid drove by and threw a M-80 firecracker into a stroller on the sidewalk. The baby who belonged to the stroller was being held at the table next to ours when it exploded. Our waitress investigated and laughed. The father inspected and came back calmly. I felt jumpier than everyone else at lunch was acting; maybe I'm not as relaxed as I thought.
I've been ON for months so coming home and unwinding is easier said than done. I want to calm down deeply. I don't want to portray calm so as to project an image and encourage those around me to feel confident, I want to feel it in my own motherfucking marrow but it takes time.
I got a massage in Manila. A tiny woman straddled my back and chopped up my butt cheeks like she was mincing vegetables. She wound my legs around sockets I wasn't aware of, stroked my scalp, and paid so much attention to each knuckle on my fingers, I could have kissed her. Instead, I tipped her big. I slept eight hours on the 13 hour flight home, drank wine like water, and saw everyone safely on their way. This would be my cue to take a deep breath.
Matthew: "Hey! I'm not an American Idol! You don't have to fight me!"
Me: "What? Oh."
Matthew: "This is a discussion, not a battle."
Me: "I'm sorry, you lost me."
One of the Idols was cracking me up, telling me that she's going to have PTSD, Post Traumatic Signing Disorder. She's caught herself smiling for cameras as she's falling asleep in that half-in/half-out state, alone in bed in the dark, flashing her teeth and cocking her head to the side. Another found herself murmuring to herself in her sleep, "Thank you, thank you so much for coming to the show..." We are all of us firmly anchored to what was required over the summer and now it's time to lift that. (It's heavy).
Have I mentioned that I'm grateful? I am. It was a great group to work with for many reasons. Part of the reason that it's harder to settle down right away is that I'm jumping quickly onto another project. It's smaller and more sporadic but still enough work to keep me from cartwheeling down the beach in my free time. Make that "free time". I'm grateful for this new work too, it's just hard because it feels like I'm losing the balance war.
Do you remember the time I asked Geoff, my old boss, how you balance home and work?
His answer was swift.
"You don't."
I found that depressing. I've never ever thought that work was worth destroying personal life and I still don't. Yes, we make sacrifices in the short term but - for us, until now - it's been okay because overall we've come out ahead. The minute that reverses itself is when I start reevaluating everything. Until then, each walk in the park is a gift.
I've been ON for months so coming home and unwinding is easier said than done. I want to calm down deeply. I don't want to portray calm so as to project an image and encourage those around me to feel confident, I want to feel it in my own motherfucking marrow but it takes time.
I got a massage in Manila. A tiny woman straddled my back and chopped up my butt cheeks like she was mincing vegetables. She wound my legs around sockets I wasn't aware of, stroked my scalp, and paid so much attention to each knuckle on my fingers, I could have kissed her. Instead, I tipped her big. I slept eight hours on the 13 hour flight home, drank wine like water, and saw everyone safely on their way. This would be my cue to take a deep breath.
Matthew: "Hey! I'm not an American Idol! You don't have to fight me!"
Me: "What? Oh."
Matthew: "This is a discussion, not a battle."
Me: "I'm sorry, you lost me."
One of the Idols was cracking me up, telling me that she's going to have PTSD, Post Traumatic Signing Disorder. She's caught herself smiling for cameras as she's falling asleep in that half-in/half-out state, alone in bed in the dark, flashing her teeth and cocking her head to the side. Another found herself murmuring to herself in her sleep, "Thank you, thank you so much for coming to the show..." We are all of us firmly anchored to what was required over the summer and now it's time to lift that. (It's heavy).
Have I mentioned that I'm grateful? I am. It was a great group to work with for many reasons. Part of the reason that it's harder to settle down right away is that I'm jumping quickly onto another project. It's smaller and more sporadic but still enough work to keep me from cartwheeling down the beach in my free time. Make that "free time". I'm grateful for this new work too, it's just hard because it feels like I'm losing the balance war.
Do you remember the time I asked Geoff, my old boss, how you balance home and work?
His answer was swift.
"You don't."
I found that depressing. I've never ever thought that work was worth destroying personal life and I still don't. Yes, we make sacrifices in the short term but - for us, until now - it's been okay because overall we've come out ahead. The minute that reverses itself is when I start reevaluating everything. Until then, each walk in the park is a gift.
Asylum
Short video featuring Oceanside, Asylum skate shop and Pablo, Matthew's co-worker:
http://theberrics.com/field-ops/asylum.html
http://theberrics.com/field-ops/asylum.html
6.16.2011
Top Gun, 25 years later
I knew that Top Gun was filmed in Oceanside and imagined riding my moped down the same stretch where Tom Cruise sped on his motorcycle. I heard that the bungalow where Kelly McGillis lived in the film was still around but I didn't know where, nor that I'd walked past it 25 times. Pacific Street looks different than in 1986 and the house itself is pretty haggard but it's hanging in there.
The newspaper said that it sits on land slated for development and that they're hoping to incorporate it into the plan. Please let it become a coffeehouse, cozy with sturdy wooden tables and a wine list. Please don't let it become a gift shop that sells puka shell necklaces and flip flops. That's all I ask for this house and its second chance.
Top Gun made an impression on me when I re-watched it three years ago. It wasn't necessarily a GOOD impression but it stuck. I was crashing with Matt Sperling in LA and we had Top Gun night. I have no real idea why but we bought aviators and cut off our jeans in honor of the beach volleyball scene. We watched the movie and laughed and laughed some more. The homoerotic undertones we were oblivious to in elementary school, the overall sweatiness, the aggressive gum chewing.
A week later I was in Cincinnati visiting my family and met Matthew by accident. My cousin Mary Beth invited me to a pub quiz because she wanted to set Matthew up with her friend from school. I went too, a tag-along, because I happened to be in town and we named our quiz team Top Gun. Maybe that's why I continue to cling to the movie, because it was a part of the night that I met my husband. Maybe Top Gun bound us together that first evening in a way my reserved hard-to-get exterior didn't do on its own.
Fast forward three years to now. We have just made our first move together, to the town where Tom Cruise and Kelly McGillis lounged on wicker furniture that lazy late-80s Sunday, drinking wine and not sleeping together. In Quentin Tarantino's take on the film, the whole subplot of Top Gun is whether to be gay or not-gay? Give in to the gay or stay straight? After the movie date that culminates in the characters' not sleeping together, Quentin posits that Kelly goes butch for a scene (in the elevator, wearing a bomber jacket, hair pulled back in a baseball hat) to attract Tom to her and away from Val Kilmer. Quentin Tarantino's argument is, in my opinion, VERY CONVINCING.
Top Gun came out 25 years ago and Oceanside celebrated over Memorial Day weekend. It was the last weekend I was home and I knew there were events but forgot because when I was making dinner and a fighter jet flew over my house, I almost shit the kitchen floor. I was slicing zucchini when I heard the noise, the noise that you hear right before fuselage busts through your roof and you are killed on impact. I froze with the knife in hand, my head vibrating. I stared at the front door, fully expecting to see the nose of a fiery jet. When that didn't happen, I snapped out of paralysis and craned my neck at the window.
"It's for Top Gun," Matthew said, figuring it out before me.
"Oh my God," I said.
My hands felt shaky and my heart was clanging like a drum but I'm glad I didn't hit the floor and start crawling to the door, screaming, like my boss during the Seattle earthquake. THAT would have been embarrassing.
The newspaper said that it sits on land slated for development and that they're hoping to incorporate it into the plan. Please let it become a coffeehouse, cozy with sturdy wooden tables and a wine list. Please don't let it become a gift shop that sells puka shell necklaces and flip flops. That's all I ask for this house and its second chance.
Top Gun made an impression on me when I re-watched it three years ago. It wasn't necessarily a GOOD impression but it stuck. I was crashing with Matt Sperling in LA and we had Top Gun night. I have no real idea why but we bought aviators and cut off our jeans in honor of the beach volleyball scene. We watched the movie and laughed and laughed some more. The homoerotic undertones we were oblivious to in elementary school, the overall sweatiness, the aggressive gum chewing.
A week later I was in Cincinnati visiting my family and met Matthew by accident. My cousin Mary Beth invited me to a pub quiz because she wanted to set Matthew up with her friend from school. I went too, a tag-along, because I happened to be in town and we named our quiz team Top Gun. Maybe that's why I continue to cling to the movie, because it was a part of the night that I met my husband. Maybe Top Gun bound us together that first evening in a way my reserved hard-to-get exterior didn't do on its own.
Fast forward three years to now. We have just made our first move together, to the town where Tom Cruise and Kelly McGillis lounged on wicker furniture that lazy late-80s Sunday, drinking wine and not sleeping together. In Quentin Tarantino's take on the film, the whole subplot of Top Gun is whether to be gay or not-gay? Give in to the gay or stay straight? After the movie date that culminates in the characters' not sleeping together, Quentin posits that Kelly goes butch for a scene (in the elevator, wearing a bomber jacket, hair pulled back in a baseball hat) to attract Tom to her and away from Val Kilmer. Quentin Tarantino's argument is, in my opinion, VERY CONVINCING.
Top Gun came out 25 years ago and Oceanside celebrated over Memorial Day weekend. It was the last weekend I was home and I knew there were events but forgot because when I was making dinner and a fighter jet flew over my house, I almost shit the kitchen floor. I was slicing zucchini when I heard the noise, the noise that you hear right before fuselage busts through your roof and you are killed on impact. I froze with the knife in hand, my head vibrating. I stared at the front door, fully expecting to see the nose of a fiery jet. When that didn't happen, I snapped out of paralysis and craned my neck at the window.
"It's for Top Gun," Matthew said, figuring it out before me.
"Oh my God," I said.
My hands felt shaky and my heart was clanging like a drum but I'm glad I didn't hit the floor and start crawling to the door, screaming, like my boss during the Seattle earthquake. THAT would have been embarrassing.
5.28.2011
San Luis Rey River Trail
In my tradition of getting nostalgic for things that are not yet in my past, I'm already missing the bike path in Oceanside.
I started out riding my bike on the path but realized in the last month that I prefer to walk it. Not all nine miles each way; I walk two and a half out and back and its become one of my favorite routines. It marks a break in my day from being at the computer, especially if I go out in the late morning. If I go in late afternoon-early evening, it separates the work part of my day to the eating dinner and watching a movie on the couch part. Sometimes I listen to music, sometimes I make phone calls, sometimes I'm silent.
I started out riding my bike on the path but realized in the last month that I prefer to walk it. Not all nine miles each way; I walk two and a half out and back and its become one of my favorite routines. It marks a break in my day from being at the computer, especially if I go out in the late morning. If I go in late afternoon-early evening, it separates the work part of my day to the eating dinner and watching a movie on the couch part. Sometimes I listen to music, sometimes I make phone calls, sometimes I'm silent.
5.11.2011
5.02.2011
Sunday meandering
Sunday: read on the patio, coffee, bicycling, writing, Hill Street Cafe, talk to new friends Aaron and Wayne, sit in the grass, homemade sweet potato fries for dinner. The only thing missing was the New York Times.
5.01.2011
4.30.2011
4.27.2011
The so-called ghetto
I've been wondering how different people define ghetto because of remarks I've heard since moving to Oceanside. It came up again when someone recently asked Matthew, "Why'd you guys move to the ghetto?" It's the same question put to me my first year in Seattle when I lived in the Central District.
"What are you doing down there?"
I had to laugh because while the Central District wasn't as lush as Queen Anne or Fremont it was still more or less teeming with rhododendron bushes. It was, by any standard I'd witnessed, a flourishing and glorious example of a ghetto. Before I left Cincinnati, my experience was of the inner city and I associated 19th century Italianate brick buildings, crumbling stoops, and piss-stained alleys with gunshots and poverty. I was confused when I moved to Minneapolis and was warned against neighborhoods made up of houses with vinyl siding and chain link fences. To my eye it looked too residential to be dangerous.
Here in Oceanside it is, as elsewhere, relative. By San Diego and Orange County standards, Oceanside has been considered a pit. I was working for a couple of days in Michigan last month and got to talking with two security guards at the venue. Both of them had lived in Oceanside in the past - in 1975 and 1985 - and they flipped when I said it's my new home.
"Oceandive?" one of them asked.
"We used to call it Oceanslime," the other said and then pulled up his sleeve to bare a blurry blue Marine tattoo on his bicep.
"Nice," I said, "that's nice. Yes, I live there. But you know, it's changed a lot."
"I hope so," the older one said. "Back when I was stationed at Pendleton, it was all titty bars and pawn shops."
Within Oceanside, there is further delineation. South of Mission Avenue is considered more prosperous and historic and charming with its mix of modest homes: bungalow, ranch, cottage, adobe. Inland are the hills and bigger homes, many of them newer. And north of Mission, where we are, is the so-called ghetto. I gather that it was rougher in the past, like the rest of the town, but that our pocket has held on longer to its grit. And I'm not sure, but I don't think the word ghetto is being used here as a euphemism for racial color because it seems like the whole town is a blend of black, white and brown.
In any case, not only are there way more white picket fences north of Mission than I am personally comfortable with but there are several boats parked down the street and that does it for me. I know it's geographically relative and I'm aesthetically biased but I kind of think if one of more of your neighbors owns a boat you cannot technically be considered a ghetto anymore. Time's up.
"What are you doing down there?"
I had to laugh because while the Central District wasn't as lush as Queen Anne or Fremont it was still more or less teeming with rhododendron bushes. It was, by any standard I'd witnessed, a flourishing and glorious example of a ghetto. Before I left Cincinnati, my experience was of the inner city and I associated 19th century Italianate brick buildings, crumbling stoops, and piss-stained alleys with gunshots and poverty. I was confused when I moved to Minneapolis and was warned against neighborhoods made up of houses with vinyl siding and chain link fences. To my eye it looked too residential to be dangerous.
Here in Oceanside it is, as elsewhere, relative. By San Diego and Orange County standards, Oceanside has been considered a pit. I was working for a couple of days in Michigan last month and got to talking with two security guards at the venue. Both of them had lived in Oceanside in the past - in 1975 and 1985 - and they flipped when I said it's my new home.
"Oceandive?" one of them asked.
"We used to call it Oceanslime," the other said and then pulled up his sleeve to bare a blurry blue Marine tattoo on his bicep.
"Nice," I said, "that's nice. Yes, I live there. But you know, it's changed a lot."
"I hope so," the older one said. "Back when I was stationed at Pendleton, it was all titty bars and pawn shops."
Within Oceanside, there is further delineation. South of Mission Avenue is considered more prosperous and historic and charming with its mix of modest homes: bungalow, ranch, cottage, adobe. Inland are the hills and bigger homes, many of them newer. And north of Mission, where we are, is the so-called ghetto. I gather that it was rougher in the past, like the rest of the town, but that our pocket has held on longer to its grit. And I'm not sure, but I don't think the word ghetto is being used here as a euphemism for racial color because it seems like the whole town is a blend of black, white and brown.
In any case, not only are there way more white picket fences north of Mission than I am personally comfortable with but there are several boats parked down the street and that does it for me. I know it's geographically relative and I'm aesthetically biased but I kind of think if one of more of your neighbors owns a boat you cannot technically be considered a ghetto anymore. Time's up.
4.24.2011
Felix
A few days ago I got mail from Gunnison, Colorado, from my friend Taryn's daughter's kindergarten teacher. Kiora is in kindergarten, what the hell! The last time I was in Colorado, Kiora was six months old. She was scooting around the kitchen, laughing in one of those rolling baby walkers and Taryn was chasing her. And now she's in kindergarten. Aging! Why are you always such a surprise?
Inside the envelope was a paper bunny that Kiora colored and a letter informing me that the bunny is named Felix. Kiora's teacher is reading a book to the class about a rabbit that gets lost in an airport and ends up traveling all over. Felix sends pictures and postcards back to the class and writes about where he is and the kids learn about geography. So Felix was in Oceanside this weekend, something I did not take lightly.
Matthew made a cardboard-cutout backing for Felix and glued them together so that he wouldn't be so flimsy. This also left us with a Felix stencil which is RAD. If I ever learn how to spray paint without getting it all over my hands, I may start leaving my mark around town. If you ever hear of some cool new bunny tagging by a street artist named Felix, please do not tell on me.
As I brought Felix around, I really started thinking about how to make it educational. Flora, fauna, genus, species. Totally tapped into the kind of Montessori project I grew up on. Obviously, Felix went to the beach. You know that is expected from a place called OCEANSIDE. I then countered with a marsh. Ha! Wetlands! Weren't expecting that were you? I took photos of the scientific names of trees that were handily displayed courtesy of the local Audubon Society and had to keep reminding myself that the kids are only six years old and not in AP Biology. I will be sure to tell them, however, that the Oceanside Pier is the longest wooden pier on the western US coastline.
Not all the photos I took will be sent to the teacher, like the one of Felix riding my unicorn statue. They might go to Taryn or be the start of a new Felix comic.
Inside the envelope was a paper bunny that Kiora colored and a letter informing me that the bunny is named Felix. Kiora's teacher is reading a book to the class about a rabbit that gets lost in an airport and ends up traveling all over. Felix sends pictures and postcards back to the class and writes about where he is and the kids learn about geography. So Felix was in Oceanside this weekend, something I did not take lightly.
Matthew made a cardboard-cutout backing for Felix and glued them together so that he wouldn't be so flimsy. This also left us with a Felix stencil which is RAD. If I ever learn how to spray paint without getting it all over my hands, I may start leaving my mark around town. If you ever hear of some cool new bunny tagging by a street artist named Felix, please do not tell on me.
As I brought Felix around, I really started thinking about how to make it educational. Flora, fauna, genus, species. Totally tapped into the kind of Montessori project I grew up on. Obviously, Felix went to the beach. You know that is expected from a place called OCEANSIDE. I then countered with a marsh. Ha! Wetlands! Weren't expecting that were you? I took photos of the scientific names of trees that were handily displayed courtesy of the local Audubon Society and had to keep reminding myself that the kids are only six years old and not in AP Biology. I will be sure to tell them, however, that the Oceanside Pier is the longest wooden pier on the western US coastline.
Not all the photos I took will be sent to the teacher, like the one of Felix riding my unicorn statue. They might go to Taryn or be the start of a new Felix comic.
4.10.2011
The tortoise & the pig
Our neighbor, the tortoise.
Every time we walk by this house and the tortoise is in the front yard, we say hello.
"HI TORTOISE!"
The other day the pig was out instead of the tortoise, a rare occurrence. I'd never actually seen the pig in broad daylight, only heard about him and seen his shadow at night which, frankly, I found a bit spooky.
As soon as I saw the pig that day, I went home and woke up Matthew from his nap by jumping on the bed, "The pig is out!" He got up and we went over to take another look and say hello.
"HI PIG!"
The pig is not small. He's not a toy pig or a pot-bellied pig or any of the breeds that people buy because they think it'd be a cute alternative to a dog. It's a full-blown farm animal. When Matthew said hi through the chain link fence, he snorted and heaved himself to his hooves, took a shit in the grass, and shuffled away as fast as he could which was not at all fast. Oh well.
3.14.2011
2.28.2011
2.27.2011
Banksy in Oceanside?
Apparently I have a knack for unknowingly taking photos of street art by well-known artists. I'll just innocently like how they look until Matt Sperling sees my photos and says, "Dude, that's a Barry McGee! He's my favorite!" and I'm all, "Barry M-who now?" That happened here and just the other day with this Banksy.
So it was fitting when I went to breakfast on Saturday with Matt Sperling, Marisa and Matthew and saw a crowd of people in the parking lot across the street taking photos of something on the side of a taco shop. We had to wait for a table so I decided to go across the street to take photos of all the people who were taking photos of the wall.
I don't know why I like to do this but I do. When I went to the Statue of Liberty, I took photos of people crowded at the end of the ferry, arms and necks craned up to the statue. In Las Vegas, I took photos of people crammed against the railing by fake Lake Como, photographing the fountain outside Bellagio.
Turns out everyone was abuzz this Saturday with the idea that the rat on the side of Bull Taco is a Banksy work. Banksy may be / probably is in Southern California right now since his documentary "Exit Through the Gift Shop" was up for an Oscar and he recently left new marks around LA.
It hasn't yet been confirmed if this kite-flying rat with the sign that cautions drivers to watch for immigrants running across the highway is a legit Banksy. And I don't know if I would have even taken its photo had I just been walking down the street and noticed it. More than the painting itself, I'm kind of stunned by the reaction. Reported by every news agency out here - TV, print, and online including TMZ - they are all buzz-buzz-buzz about Banksy.
Was connoting rats with tacos a good idea? Is this racist? Is it too drippy to be a real Banksy? People were scoffing, marveling, posing, flashing peace signs. One man held a video camera and was making his own documentary. Would you like to comment? How much is this wall worth now? Did Banksy stop in Oceanside on his way to San Diego? Does Banksy even like Mexican food? Is he a mere mortal or a graffiti god?
So it was fitting when I went to breakfast on Saturday with Matt Sperling, Marisa and Matthew and saw a crowd of people in the parking lot across the street taking photos of something on the side of a taco shop. We had to wait for a table so I decided to go across the street to take photos of all the people who were taking photos of the wall.
I don't know why I like to do this but I do. When I went to the Statue of Liberty, I took photos of people crowded at the end of the ferry, arms and necks craned up to the statue. In Las Vegas, I took photos of people crammed against the railing by fake Lake Como, photographing the fountain outside Bellagio.
Turns out everyone was abuzz this Saturday with the idea that the rat on the side of Bull Taco is a Banksy work. Banksy may be / probably is in Southern California right now since his documentary "Exit Through the Gift Shop" was up for an Oscar and he recently left new marks around LA.
It hasn't yet been confirmed if this kite-flying rat with the sign that cautions drivers to watch for immigrants running across the highway is a legit Banksy. And I don't know if I would have even taken its photo had I just been walking down the street and noticed it. More than the painting itself, I'm kind of stunned by the reaction. Reported by every news agency out here - TV, print, and online including TMZ - they are all buzz-buzz-buzz about Banksy.
Was connoting rats with tacos a good idea? Is this racist? Is it too drippy to be a real Banksy? People were scoffing, marveling, posing, flashing peace signs. One man held a video camera and was making his own documentary. Would you like to comment? How much is this wall worth now? Did Banksy stop in Oceanside on his way to San Diego? Does Banksy even like Mexican food? Is he a mere mortal or a graffiti god?
2.14.2011
The landscape of where you are not
This Southern California landscape is redundant in its beauty. Several times I've been riding my bicycle north as the sun set to my left and dropped behind the water line. A cascade of pinks and orange dust the skies, glow in the underbelly of the clouds, and ping diamond-like off the water. Without fail, I'm wowed and then laugh to myself because it seems like such a joke. It's predictably postcard-perfect and really, really pleasant.
Writing about what I hang on my walls made me recall a conversation that Matthew and I had with Jane when she was here last week. I don't remember how it came up but Matthew told Jane that he doesn't hang pictures of himself standing in front of utopic scenes. He used the example that a photo of ourselves on an Icelandic glacier in hail and high winds with snot frozen on our upper lips would be acceptable. Arms around each other on warm sands, palapa and beach volleyball in the background would not.
Which just gave me an idea: what if there were a volleyball league that played exclusively on top of glaciers? It could happen! I'd hang that photo.
I remembered the Alaskan glacier photo I thumbtacked to my cubicle wall when I worked in New York. That glacier reminded me of the beauty outside of New York, a perfect contrast to the beauty of city mayhem. I just hung photos around my desk here in Oceanside, shots I took in Berlin, Prague, London, Houston, and Iceland. Most of them are streetscapes, graffiti and art on public walls. One is through a window from an ancient turf roof house in Iceland. Another is a bathtub that I caught sitting in someone's backyard in Reykjavik.
Why did I hang that bathtub over my desk and not glaciers, mountains, and waterlines? I think because there is so much landscape in California to see. I get my fix from the Santa Rosa Mountains to the east and the sunset that is practically tedious with its allure. I understand why so many people live here. So I turn my mind to other questions, like does anyone bathe in that tub?
Writing about what I hang on my walls made me recall a conversation that Matthew and I had with Jane when she was here last week. I don't remember how it came up but Matthew told Jane that he doesn't hang pictures of himself standing in front of utopic scenes. He used the example that a photo of ourselves on an Icelandic glacier in hail and high winds with snot frozen on our upper lips would be acceptable. Arms around each other on warm sands, palapa and beach volleyball in the background would not.
Which just gave me an idea: what if there were a volleyball league that played exclusively on top of glaciers? It could happen! I'd hang that photo.
I remembered the Alaskan glacier photo I thumbtacked to my cubicle wall when I worked in New York. That glacier reminded me of the beauty outside of New York, a perfect contrast to the beauty of city mayhem. I just hung photos around my desk here in Oceanside, shots I took in Berlin, Prague, London, Houston, and Iceland. Most of them are streetscapes, graffiti and art on public walls. One is through a window from an ancient turf roof house in Iceland. Another is a bathtub that I caught sitting in someone's backyard in Reykjavik.
Why did I hang that bathtub over my desk and not glaciers, mountains, and waterlines? I think because there is so much landscape in California to see. I get my fix from the Santa Rosa Mountains to the east and the sunset that is practically tedious with its allure. I understand why so many people live here. So I turn my mind to other questions, like does anyone bathe in that tub?
2.11.2011
Ominous design
I've been writing about Elise a lot lately. I hadn't hung hardcore with Elise before moving here but we knew each other in Cincinnati and I could tell she was awesome. Seriously, though, drive in a car with someone for about twenty times longer than you want to be in a car and get deliriously tired and low blood sugary and slaphappy and wake up grumpy and make up stupid jokes that really should never be repeated because they wouldn't be funny in any other context and you KNOW you're cool with someone.
Also, part of our road trip was a barter. We took Elise out here so she could visit a potential grad school and in exchange she gave us one of her original paintings, a self-portrait that we chose. We hung the painting over our couch so there's a big Elise on our wall. It's wonderfully creepy. I'm getting used to seeing her all the time but in those first few days sometimes I would talk to the painting, "Oh, hi Elise," and "Quit looking at me, Elise." Maybe one day I'll be lonely and I'll look up and think, "Naw, it's cool. Elise is here."
The painting itself is eerie. She is painted laying on the floor and I'm just not sure if painting Elise is okay. She looks like she might be tripping, over her own feet or on acid. But I was instantly drawn to it and it fits perfectly because we've inadvertently started collecting creepy art. Not on purpose, apparently that's just what we like. Andrew Morison thoughtfully sent us a housewarming present and it arrived today, an original print from a guy named Jeral Tidwell who is part of Crackhead Press in Louisville, KY. We took it to a framer and on the receipt, he called it Wicked Bunny.
This will actually be the second wicked bunny print in the house, the first being a silk screen from a set of 20 that Evan made for the Rabbit Hole club's opening in Cincinnati. I loved this on sight and it's been hanging over my dresser ever since.
I tried hanging Evan's bunny in the living room for a day but it was too much paired with Elise. It felt aggressive, as if the walls were trying to tell me something I didn't want to hear, like the rug is fluffy and the sunlight is streaming in the windows but the apple cider in the fridge is cyanide. Then I put the Evan bunny back over the dresser, hung some inoffensive figure drawings that I bought at an estate sale in Oxford, OH and peace and balance was restored. Why has HGTV not hired me yet? I totally have a niche.
Also, part of our road trip was a barter. We took Elise out here so she could visit a potential grad school and in exchange she gave us one of her original paintings, a self-portrait that we chose. We hung the painting over our couch so there's a big Elise on our wall. It's wonderfully creepy. I'm getting used to seeing her all the time but in those first few days sometimes I would talk to the painting, "Oh, hi Elise," and "Quit looking at me, Elise." Maybe one day I'll be lonely and I'll look up and think, "Naw, it's cool. Elise is here."
The painting itself is eerie. She is painted laying on the floor and I'm just not sure if painting Elise is okay. She looks like she might be tripping, over her own feet or on acid. But I was instantly drawn to it and it fits perfectly because we've inadvertently started collecting creepy art. Not on purpose, apparently that's just what we like. Andrew Morison thoughtfully sent us a housewarming present and it arrived today, an original print from a guy named Jeral Tidwell who is part of Crackhead Press in Louisville, KY. We took it to a framer and on the receipt, he called it Wicked Bunny.
This will actually be the second wicked bunny print in the house, the first being a silk screen from a set of 20 that Evan made for the Rabbit Hole club's opening in Cincinnati. I loved this on sight and it's been hanging over my dresser ever since.
I tried hanging Evan's bunny in the living room for a day but it was too much paired with Elise. It felt aggressive, as if the walls were trying to tell me something I didn't want to hear, like the rug is fluffy and the sunlight is streaming in the windows but the apple cider in the fridge is cyanide. Then I put the Evan bunny back over the dresser, hung some inoffensive figure drawings that I bought at an estate sale in Oxford, OH and peace and balance was restored. Why has HGTV not hired me yet? I totally have a niche.
2.07.2011
Agent Orange
I must be in the mood for bar brawls right now because I was straight-up giddy after my first visit to the Royal Dive. A recommended local bar, the Royal Dive is off the well-lit path and tucked between a canyon and an industrial area. I'd gone out for sushi with Matthew and his friends from San Diego and we decided to check out the Royal Dive.
Dude.
Agent Orange was playing. As in the punk band that started blowing tunes up when I was still regularly pooping my pants (1979). Before I veer too far into poserville, let me say that my past forays into hardcore music were not recent nor extensive but for some reason I was thrilled to pay the surprise $12 cover at the door. There were three opening bands, 8 Ft. Face, The Secret Samurai and The Aggronauts and before we heard them all and Agent Orange was on, there were several fights, two guys thrown out - one of them by headbutt - and my sandal feet were bathed in beer.
The best were the two guys who circled each other slowly, so slowly that the movement was barely discernible. They were like two gorillas at a slow dance if it were the kind of dance where you kill each other. I couldn't hear them but Matthew told me the conversation was along the lines of,
"Who are you?"
"I'm nobody. Who are you?"
"I'm nobody too."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
A bouncer came up behind me and warned that he might have to rush past me at any moment and it might get crazy. I told him that yeah, we'd noticed that. At one point one of the gorillas got bored or dizzy and peeled off to the sideline. The guy remaining fixed his jaundiced eye on Matthew and busted out some more nonsense like, "What would you do if I came lookin' for ya?"
"I don't think you will," Matthew said.
"Do you think I could kill you?"
"You've got no reason to."
Again, I couldn't hear what they were saying, I just knew that Matthew had his arms crossed, his legs planted wide, and was talking really, really calmly. I, on the other hand, was busy getting the giggles which in hindsight was fairly inappropriate given that the guy really did seem bananas. Eventually he got bored, left, and the music came back on. The bartenders were super friendly and most of the audience seemed so too.
Surf punk, I approve.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
