After writing about a long while ago about how a job wasn't something I minded doing then ending up in the position of not working for a period I feel at a loss as to my next step. I don't want to end up working a job that takes my energy away from my passions, but welcome to the real world. If I only were strong enough to pause my consumption and live more minimally I'd be able to survive on very little, but I've been spoiled by the type of paychecks that come from hustling and working myself to the bone. Gone are the days when I make my rent in a single week's pay. And as I get older I feel myself financially regressing. I'm nearly 27, unemployed, and don't know where to go next. But strangely, being broke is somewhat of a relief. It sets boundaries for me that I've previously been unable to set myself.
At some point I have to swallow my pride and remember no one cares what I do for a living. This is a different generation, careers don't necessarily define us, nearly everyone I know has a different agenda from their job. I have to be okay with that. I just can't get buried in a career path again, unless it's one I actually care about. I'm a hard-working, loyal, and dedicated employee, but at the end of the day, none of that matters if deep down I don't give a fuck. I've got a case of the recession blues as much as the next person, but that isn't what's crushing me. It's the overwhelming uncertainty I've felt long before the stock market went into free fall. But the emergent financial crisis leaves me even more fearful and doubtful.
And perhaps I could weather part of this storm in graduate school. Bury myself in academia. But you can't get a doctorate in creative writing, so I'll only be able to hide so long. But maybe a MFA will buy me time and space to work, but then again, unemployment should do the trick and thus far it hasn't. I haven't been writing the way I've expect to. I've got a mental block and the timing couldn't be worse. Fiction isn't flowing and the non-fiction as most of you have noticed has fallen time and again into the "bitching is my birthright" category, the only thing I seem to excell at these days is lamentation.
My position in life has always been tenuous. I think of myself as an artist without the passion or the balls to really go for it, similar to my art major mother who decided she wasn't going to be a painter because she didn't have the drive to really go for it and feared the risks. And despite my reckless lifestyle, ultimately I am not a risk taker. I won't put myself out there, the fear of failure is too great. To fail would be to negate what I've put lip-service to my entire life and to admit that it's been nothing but lip service aside from this goddamn blog.
So what do I do? What do I write? Songs for a band that doesn't exist, or at least that's what I call them...because lord knows I don't want the fate of a poet. A frustrated poet is even worse than a frustrated actress. And at one time I was a somewhat legitimized song-writer, lyrics printed in the album insert and everything. And what humiliation I suffered when I heard our label's staff spent at evening on the front porch of their headquarters doing a mock poetry reading of my Battletorn lyrics. Even though such a gesture wasn't necessarily negative in intent, the thought of being potentially mocked was enough to awaken the hibernation instinct. I've always been hyper-defensive and when given a reason, the mechanisms really fly.
So what is the solution here? I guess just to say, productively this time, "Fuck it dude," and try. Let my creation of what real world is and the fears it holds slip away and dive into an alternate reality where failure doesn't matter and attempts are more valuable than results. I hope I can do that, because right now my mechanisms are so intricate that I am not even creating. Because if you don't have any results to put out there you can't get rejected. It's a default way of living that's pretty pathetic. But if you have nothing to submit the fear of rejection is nil. You really can't argue with that.
It's hard to put the pressure on when you've got no one to be accountable to but yourself. But maybe I need to matter more.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
Children of the...
Forgot to mention I went to the Vice/Colt 45 party at Glasslands. Pissed Jeans and Children played. After hearing all the hype I was realitively let down by Pissed Jeans, they didn't really interest me. Children riffed hard as usual and as usual I forgot to take pictures until the fun was almost over.
Colt 45's product placement in these pics is sublime.
Okay, these pictures happen to illustrate a huge pet peeve of mine. Why, at every show, when a performer steps down into the crowd to rock out does there have to be that guy right on his balls pointing at him and ruining every picture? The guy follows the performer every step he takes pointing at him or standing directly behind him throwing up the horns as if the performer is doing this especially for him. Yeah dude, that's right, Johnny from Children will lose his ability to rock out if you don't extend your arm and point down at him continuously. In fact if you waver once he'll lose his ability to shred and the show will be over, just keep pointing, everyone wants to you to obstruct their view of the action.
This isn't exclusive to off stage performers. At the Lita show there was a dude front and center with his arm raised pointing at her the entire set. No joke.
Yes sir! There's Lita! You've done us all a favor by spotting her. You'd better keep pointing her out because if you lower your arm for one second we won't be able to see where she is any more. You are a hero.
Colt 45's product placement in these pics is sublime.
Okay, these pictures happen to illustrate a huge pet peeve of mine. Why, at every show, when a performer steps down into the crowd to rock out does there have to be that guy right on his balls pointing at him and ruining every picture? The guy follows the performer every step he takes pointing at him or standing directly behind him throwing up the horns as if the performer is doing this especially for him. Yeah dude, that's right, Johnny from Children will lose his ability to rock out if you don't extend your arm and point down at him continuously. In fact if you waver once he'll lose his ability to shred and the show will be over, just keep pointing, everyone wants to you to obstruct their view of the action.
This isn't exclusive to off stage performers. At the Lita show there was a dude front and center with his arm raised pointing at her the entire set. No joke.
Yes sir! There's Lita! You've done us all a favor by spotting her. You'd better keep pointing her out because if you lower your arm for one second we won't be able to see where she is any more. You are a hero.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Bloodletdowning
Saw Watain and Krallice last night at the Knitting Factory. They played with Book of Black Earth and Withered both of which left me underwhelmed, although everyone around me seemed to dig Withered.
After hearing about all the glorious antics that Watain has exhibited (flinging dead rats on their audience, pig's blood, etc) they were surprisingly unperformative. It still took them about about 20 minutes to set up the stage and I'm not talking amps and drums, I'm talking candleabras and chains. Once the candles were lit they finally took the stage postitioning them in stances that were appropriately evil
Angela dubbed the singer "the little bloody dude" which made me laugh. That was all the stage antics he had, a cup of fake blood which he poured over his face. The wardrobe was pretty awesome although his above the pants chain g-string was a little weird.
Apologies for the lack of variation in these pics. I was up in the balconey and there wasn't a better view than the one I had.
And here are some pics of Krallice. They played first and brutalized as usual. Officially my favorite local band and the nicest dudes to play black metal ever. We were talking to Colin and Mick after the show on the balconey while the freshly showered members of Watain grumbled by us. Little known Krallice fact, Mick Barr was a high school track star, to quote him, "I never had to practice or anything. I'd just show up, I was like the Fonz." Metal. Also never heard anyone in a metal band self-describe as "twerpy", way to go Colin.
This picture makes me laugh, maybe not a facial expression meant for immortalization.
It's hard to see but the full extension of Colin's headbang (on the left) is pretty epic.
After hearing about all the glorious antics that Watain has exhibited (flinging dead rats on their audience, pig's blood, etc) they were surprisingly unperformative. It still took them about about 20 minutes to set up the stage and I'm not talking amps and drums, I'm talking candleabras and chains. Once the candles were lit they finally took the stage postitioning them in stances that were appropriately evil
Angela dubbed the singer "the little bloody dude" which made me laugh. That was all the stage antics he had, a cup of fake blood which he poured over his face. The wardrobe was pretty awesome although his above the pants chain g-string was a little weird.
Apologies for the lack of variation in these pics. I was up in the balconey and there wasn't a better view than the one I had.
And here are some pics of Krallice. They played first and brutalized as usual. Officially my favorite local band and the nicest dudes to play black metal ever. We were talking to Colin and Mick after the show on the balconey while the freshly showered members of Watain grumbled by us. Little known Krallice fact, Mick Barr was a high school track star, to quote him, "I never had to practice or anything. I'd just show up, I was like the Fonz." Metal. Also never heard anyone in a metal band self-describe as "twerpy", way to go Colin.
This picture makes me laugh, maybe not a facial expression meant for immortalization.
It's hard to see but the full extension of Colin's headbang (on the left) is pretty epic.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Funemployment
Again, the blog has been neglected for several days and at this juncture I don't have that much of an excuse. I've had friends in town and have essentially been in vacation mode with them since I am still not working. I have a few prospects on the horizon job-wise so we'll see how everything pans out. It's daunting after seeing so many friends lose their jobs around me. I promised myself I wouldn't go back into retail after I helped close The Good The Bad & The Ugly this summer but alternate options are slim to none. I doubt any media companies are hiring and the world is already full of struggling writers. I've got a bad case of fear of rejection holding me back from attempting to embark on a quest to get published. Then again, I also have to finish a work before I can even begin to get there.
Unemployment has been good for me in a way. It has taught me to live on very little money every week. My lifestyle has been pared down extremely and I like it. Survival is far easier for someone who doesn't smoke or drink and who has relatively cheap rent. It's not as though I am budgetarily attaining monk-like status, but for the first time in years I am doing things like cooking all my meals, saying "no" to social engagements that cost money, riding my bike everywhere in Brooklyn and avoiding the regular temptation to hail a cab. The basic things that many budget-conscious individuals have done for years. I'm not saying I've reached an enlightened state by giving up a few luxuries here and there, but it's been a long time since I've been in the position where something that costs $20 is something I really can't afford.
In the past few years I've done fairly well for myself financially in my field. Not that I was rolling in it (okay maybe during the Barneys era) but money hasn't been a problem in a long time. I worked 40+ hours a week for a long time and made a decent weekly income thanks to that. But thanks to my paychecks I've lived irresponsibly for a long time. There were, of course, plenty of things I couldn't afford, but I don't aspire to own anything that costs a significant amount of money. My concept of what "expensive" is became very skewed during my time at Barneys. When you are surrounded by $250 jeans and $60 plain white t-shirts and yours is the cheapest floor in the whole building, your mind adjusts. The more over-priced items you sell the more reasonable they seem. Luxury items become regular and assisting people purchase the more beautiful designer items day in and day out makes you covet them, makes you want them to be accessible to you as well. And so in your mind you make them permissable. The first big purchase is daunting, especially because as an employee you have to pay in cash or with a Barneys card which I never applied for. The prospect of owing my job money was a scary one and thankfully I held back.
It's scary how the luxury-centric mentality of this city can creep up on you. Former punk rockers owning $300 jeans. Way to go New York. I like fashion, I like exclusivity, I like owning things that no one else has. I am not going to deny that. But I also hate conspicuous designer items. The "it" bag or shoes. Things made covetable by the masses. I much prefer a secret vintage stash of beauties and logo-free modern dazzlers. I once had a second-hand Fendi bag. I sold it. Same with my Marc Jacobs bag. I don't like being that conspicuous, my clothing loudly hollering a price-tag. It's not for me. But I still made some mistakes while at Barneys and I'm happy to own the items, though when I think back on how much I spent while an employee there I want to burst into tears.
So here I am. Unemployed with no savings and a significant credit card bill thanks to a trip to Alaska followed immediately by one to Texas that I assumed I would pay off steadily through my weekly paychecks. Oops. My bad. Generation Debt, living up its name. Irresponsibility and poor planning have my been MO for a long time. Losing my job has been a swift kick in the ass, hopefully in the right direction.
Unemployment has been good for me in a way. It has taught me to live on very little money every week. My lifestyle has been pared down extremely and I like it. Survival is far easier for someone who doesn't smoke or drink and who has relatively cheap rent. It's not as though I am budgetarily attaining monk-like status, but for the first time in years I am doing things like cooking all my meals, saying "no" to social engagements that cost money, riding my bike everywhere in Brooklyn and avoiding the regular temptation to hail a cab. The basic things that many budget-conscious individuals have done for years. I'm not saying I've reached an enlightened state by giving up a few luxuries here and there, but it's been a long time since I've been in the position where something that costs $20 is something I really can't afford.
In the past few years I've done fairly well for myself financially in my field. Not that I was rolling in it (okay maybe during the Barneys era) but money hasn't been a problem in a long time. I worked 40+ hours a week for a long time and made a decent weekly income thanks to that. But thanks to my paychecks I've lived irresponsibly for a long time. There were, of course, plenty of things I couldn't afford, but I don't aspire to own anything that costs a significant amount of money. My concept of what "expensive" is became very skewed during my time at Barneys. When you are surrounded by $250 jeans and $60 plain white t-shirts and yours is the cheapest floor in the whole building, your mind adjusts. The more over-priced items you sell the more reasonable they seem. Luxury items become regular and assisting people purchase the more beautiful designer items day in and day out makes you covet them, makes you want them to be accessible to you as well. And so in your mind you make them permissable. The first big purchase is daunting, especially because as an employee you have to pay in cash or with a Barneys card which I never applied for. The prospect of owing my job money was a scary one and thankfully I held back.
It's scary how the luxury-centric mentality of this city can creep up on you. Former punk rockers owning $300 jeans. Way to go New York. I like fashion, I like exclusivity, I like owning things that no one else has. I am not going to deny that. But I also hate conspicuous designer items. The "it" bag or shoes. Things made covetable by the masses. I much prefer a secret vintage stash of beauties and logo-free modern dazzlers. I once had a second-hand Fendi bag. I sold it. Same with my Marc Jacobs bag. I don't like being that conspicuous, my clothing loudly hollering a price-tag. It's not for me. But I still made some mistakes while at Barneys and I'm happy to own the items, though when I think back on how much I spent while an employee there I want to burst into tears.
So here I am. Unemployed with no savings and a significant credit card bill thanks to a trip to Alaska followed immediately by one to Texas that I assumed I would pay off steadily through my weekly paychecks. Oops. My bad. Generation Debt, living up its name. Irresponsibility and poor planning have my been MO for a long time. Losing my job has been a swift kick in the ass, hopefully in the right direction.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Village of the Bland
The blog has been a little slow as of late due to a variety of ailments the author has been suffering. After a tentative diagnosis of acid reflux which served as my doc's explanation of my three week long sore throat last month I was then struck down with a mighty cold, one that seems to have been making the rounds. Frustrated that my OTC acid reducer wasn't working when the cold went away but the sore throat persisted I went to see a Ear Nose and Throat specialist today and promptly had an anesethic spray blasted up both nostrils and a camera shoved through my nasal canal and down my throat. Above my vocal folds she spotted a cyst but dubbed it a red herring saying it wasn't the cause of my pain. I was too shocked but the suddeness of the maneuver to remember to look on the computer monitor for the view into my insides, something I regret. Still after a fateful visit to the obgyn where she flashed me a view of my ice-covered cervix (TMI for everyone I'm sure, but at age 20 I learned the terrors of cryotheraphy - a barbaric and thankfully relative obsolete procedure outside of Planned Parenthoods in Lincoln, NE that most women no longer have to endure) I'm a little traumatized at seeing parts of my body the good lord never intended me to view.
My doctor said she wasn't completely sure but diagnosed me with the foreboding sounding, Silent Reflux clinically known as the relatively unpronouceable Laryngopharyngeal Reflux aka LPR. Yeah, I'm calling it silent reflux too. Except those with LPR don't usually experience heartburn but I do. Oh well, why quibble with the doc, right? I now have to take two different acid reducers a total of three times a day, 40 mg of Prilosec before breakfast and dinner and 150 mg of Zantac at bedtime. Adding that to my Claritin (allergies), Loestrin (birth control), Clonazepam (anti-anxiety/sleep aid), and Citalopram (anti-anxiety) that puts me at a whopping 6 medicines a day, 7 pills total since I have to take the Prilosec twice. Two months ago I was on nothing, maybe ever an ibuprofin once a month maximum. How times change.
Not only am I significantly medicated, I have a slew of foods I can no longer eat. At the advice of my nutritionist (yes, I have a nutritionist) I already gave up caffiene and all carbonated beverages at the initial doc's diagnosis of acid reflux. That was torture. No more Diet Dr. Pepper? Not even a Diet Coke? What the hell is a sober gal supposed to drink at a bar if she can't have her glorious seltzer with or without bitters? I always joked that while I didn't smoke or drink I was still probably going to get cancer from all those chemicals I put in my body with the diet cola drinking, but damnit, I wanted that danger! Still, I am coping, although water isn't the same (and I shouldn't even squeeze that wedge of lemon into it.)
My doctor gave me a handy pamphlet with cartoon drawings of all the foods I should no longer eat, the cutesy drawings mocking me. "To Reduce Reflux Avoid" it states, "nicotine, caffeine, alcohol, fatty meals, chocolate, peppermints, tomatoes, onions, citrus, avoid late night snacks, eat smaller meals, avoid eating three hours before bedtime." Some further internet research also warns of the dangers of cheese, eggs (!), spicy foods, garlic, salad dressing, a variety of baked goods, mashed as well as french fried potatoes, ground beef, mac and cheese, buffalo wings (duh) and even cranberry juice. After six weeks with a nutritionist trying to normalize my eating and make it more varied and less prohibitive this is one hell of a roadblock.
Not to mention (although I know I risk sounding like a pussy, I am sure there are many fates far worse than reflux) the fact that I am pretty much in consistent pain. That said, there is something strangely grounding about health problems. As someone who spends far too much time worrying about the abstract, the intangible, the existential, it is almost freeing to place all those worries aside in favor of the immediacy of my body. It isn't a masochistic impulse, it is indeed an innate need for self-preservation. Take pause from worrying about the imaginary foes and follies (though I worry that my worry may have in part brought this on) and stay focused on the real hard responses my body makes to my life. This is an especially acute experience for someone like me, with a history of addition, who tends to find ways to force the emotional to manifest itself physically. As one who tries with all her might to thrust her insides outward (as in her thoughts into her actions) having her actual innards in chaos is a fine firm reality check.
Oh and p.s. the unfortunate side effect to this is that when I burp it tastes like CornNuts. I wish I could make shit like this up, but reality is punishing.
My doctor said she wasn't completely sure but diagnosed me with the foreboding sounding, Silent Reflux clinically known as the relatively unpronouceable Laryngopharyngeal Reflux aka LPR. Yeah, I'm calling it silent reflux too. Except those with LPR don't usually experience heartburn but I do. Oh well, why quibble with the doc, right? I now have to take two different acid reducers a total of three times a day, 40 mg of Prilosec before breakfast and dinner and 150 mg of Zantac at bedtime. Adding that to my Claritin (allergies), Loestrin (birth control), Clonazepam (anti-anxiety/sleep aid), and Citalopram (anti-anxiety) that puts me at a whopping 6 medicines a day, 7 pills total since I have to take the Prilosec twice. Two months ago I was on nothing, maybe ever an ibuprofin once a month maximum. How times change.
Not only am I significantly medicated, I have a slew of foods I can no longer eat. At the advice of my nutritionist (yes, I have a nutritionist) I already gave up caffiene and all carbonated beverages at the initial doc's diagnosis of acid reflux. That was torture. No more Diet Dr. Pepper? Not even a Diet Coke? What the hell is a sober gal supposed to drink at a bar if she can't have her glorious seltzer with or without bitters? I always joked that while I didn't smoke or drink I was still probably going to get cancer from all those chemicals I put in my body with the diet cola drinking, but damnit, I wanted that danger! Still, I am coping, although water isn't the same (and I shouldn't even squeeze that wedge of lemon into it.)
My doctor gave me a handy pamphlet with cartoon drawings of all the foods I should no longer eat, the cutesy drawings mocking me. "To Reduce Reflux Avoid" it states, "nicotine, caffeine, alcohol, fatty meals, chocolate, peppermints, tomatoes, onions, citrus, avoid late night snacks, eat smaller meals, avoid eating three hours before bedtime." Some further internet research also warns of the dangers of cheese, eggs (!), spicy foods, garlic, salad dressing, a variety of baked goods, mashed as well as french fried potatoes, ground beef, mac and cheese, buffalo wings (duh) and even cranberry juice. After six weeks with a nutritionist trying to normalize my eating and make it more varied and less prohibitive this is one hell of a roadblock.
Not to mention (although I know I risk sounding like a pussy, I am sure there are many fates far worse than reflux) the fact that I am pretty much in consistent pain. That said, there is something strangely grounding about health problems. As someone who spends far too much time worrying about the abstract, the intangible, the existential, it is almost freeing to place all those worries aside in favor of the immediacy of my body. It isn't a masochistic impulse, it is indeed an innate need for self-preservation. Take pause from worrying about the imaginary foes and follies (though I worry that my worry may have in part brought this on) and stay focused on the real hard responses my body makes to my life. This is an especially acute experience for someone like me, with a history of addition, who tends to find ways to force the emotional to manifest itself physically. As one who tries with all her might to thrust her insides outward (as in her thoughts into her actions) having her actual innards in chaos is a fine firm reality check.
Oh and p.s. the unfortunate side effect to this is that when I burp it tastes like CornNuts. I wish I could make shit like this up, but reality is punishing.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Ride the blade*
A miracle has happened. I went to Santos Party House on Monday night and had a fantastic time. I know...I know...I'm slipping from my curmudgeon status. I thought the days when I could get down and let go at a club like that were gone. True, I did bitch about how the smoke machine was aggravating my sinuses and my acid reflux has limited my drink options to straight water (no seltzer, doc's orders...seriously, how do you tell a sober chick she can't drink seltzer? That's like telling an alcoholic she can't drink...well...you get it) but I managed not to be too much of a downer.
The good time had was thanks mainly to my favorite Jewish Leo DJ, Jonathan Toubin, and we sure enough did have a fantastic New Year. Preacher and the Knife played as did the Bellmer Dolls. I didn't get any pictures of the Bellmer boys due to my temporary wave of camera forgettin' retardation, but they wailed through a warm-up set for their upcoming high profile gig opening up for Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. So proud of my boys.
Preacher and the Knife are fast becoming one of my favorite local live shows. Daniel is an exemplary leading man and the music is hypnotic, it's not a backing element but a driving force. Incantations both holy and profane with a hint of swamp muck humid sweat, I do declare Preacher and the Knife to be a force.
These pictures are grainy because the amount of smoke being pumped into the room made me unable to use my flash.
Will and Natalie ghost dancing
Chuck
Keith and Chuck looking rapt-ish
And then after the show...things got dirty and dicey and fun.
*10 points to whoever gets the title reference
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