Let’s start this out by saying I am not a columnist anywhere, I am not an expert of ANY world – let alone the world of dance, and my review isn’t going into any fancymag or you know, going to be read by a whole lot of people. I do my writing thang for me, in hopes that someone somewhere (besides me) gets something out of it, gets a laugh, feels uplifted, whatever. I’m just sayin. Also, I’m no dancer.
But I fucking used to be. I was a dance minor for a hot minute in college, actually. I don’t talk about it a lot because it was short-lived and I gave it up pretty quickly. Ever since I was a small child, dance has been a way for me to express everything from joy to sorrow. I may be older now, but I’ve never NOT loved dancing, or watching those that do it a million times better than I ever could.
Enter Keone and Mari Madrid. I don’t watch network TV all that much, had no idea they have been quite the dance sensation. We’ve lived in San Diego since July and are finally getting settled, and I heard about this performance called Beyond Babelthat was calling San Diego its home through November on the local NPR arts segment. I looked it up and watched the posted videos about how they basically turned a warehouse-type small building into a theatre, how they came up for the concept for this show, and I didn’t care how much the tickets were anymore. I was instantly captivated by the creators. This show. Holy shit. If you live anywhere in Southern California or are coming to visit anytime soon, you need to see it. If it goes on tour, which I hope it does, buy tickets as soon as you hear about it. But I mean, let’s talk about why. Because me just saying it’s great is all nice and everything, but if I felt so strongly to write about it the minute I got home, there are clearly things you gotta know. IMMEDIATELY.
I appreciate a lot of different forms of dance, and hip-hop is among the most demanding – grueling level changes, impeccable isolations, high energy – I can say, even when I was young, this shit kicked my ass and it wasn’t even super prevalent yet at that time as a form you could learn in a class. What Keone and Mari have done in Beyond Babel is create a story through their choreography that is both timely and timeless – the story of a wall, the soldiers of that wall, of love torn asunder and separated, of death and life, and of the divisions of the world we live in today. Set to contemporary music, every piece is crafted in such a way that you feel this story, not just see it and hear it. The rest of the ensemble, in muted shades of street clothes for most of the numbers, shine – no matter that they are wearing grey. The use of six pieces of tall, rolling chain-link fences, various crocheted designs adorning most, is so inventive and adds a dimension to the story and the dancing that is hard and cold when necessary – bright and joyous at other times, with all of the crochet work on display. The rolling fences, some wooden crates for levels, and crochet yarn – very few props are needed to depict what the performance intends to get across to the audience.
While Keone and Mari created the show along with production company Hideaway Circus, the other dancers in the show are undeniable in their force, their love of what they are doing, and their sheer power demonstrated through every move. The subtle nuances in their upper body movements especially are just fucking amazing. If you are a fan of syncopation and dance being choreographed to more than just the obvious rhythm of a song, you will be amazed. The slower pieces are simply beautiful, with sustained movements and long, slow, controlled expressions. The amount of effort it takes to perform the slow pieces, as any dancer will tell you, is just as intense as a fast and energetic piece.
So I could talk for forever about what I can remember of each piece, but I think what’s more important – and what I think the creators intend – is for me to talk about how it makes me feel. From the opening sequence, I felt hope, pride, beauty at these performers who are 100% emoting all that is happening right now in the world and giving those emotions back to the audience. The producers were sitting behind me and to the left, and I’m pretty sure they thought I might have been nuts – but checking their Instagram feed, I am not the only person that evidently cries during this show. There are movements that are so dynamic, so expressive, so fundamentally a depiction of everything many of us are feeling during the times in which we live that one can not do much else but cry. I have seen a lot of live performances in my life. I have been part of a performance a time or two. I can honestly say that this was like nothing I’ve ever seen and it has made a lasting impression. I want to see it again. And again. And again. Thank you to these amazing dancers that have created something so powerful that people can’t help but talk, write, and think about it for what I think will be years to come. Thank you for taking a snapshot of where we are in history and making it personal – more than that. Making it pivotal.
I have started this post about 20 times in my mind. The original effort keeps coming off as snarky, shitty even – and worse yet, I managed to once again get real comfy with doing what I do best: Belittle myself and all the trappings that come with that. Make light of my accomplishments. Poo-poo my struggles. Minimize my insecurities and my vulnerability.
To which I say, Fuck that.
And I can probably only write this from a place of honesty right now because a little podcast that is now absolutely ginormous and epic has saved my life and thousands of other lives. This post may or may not turn out to be about that.
Shit’s hard, y’all.
My husband and I packed up and moved across the country. That was not easy. Being new, in a new job, in a new city, in a new state, Is not easy. If anything, being new is definitely one thing: It is vulnerable. I have had to get over saying “I don’t know how this works here”, I have had to get over being in the wrong lane 1000 times, And I have definitely had to get over not having enough room for all my shit. If anything, I need less shit. I want to go explore my new city, but I am so fucking tired. It is literally all I can do to drag myself off the couch to eat something. Which is another thing. As tired as I am, I still have had plenty of energy to gain 10 pounds. No, we have not eaten healthy anything since we’ve been here, but time is of the essence and sleep is a hot commodity. Cooking anything, healthy or not, has not been a priority.
None of my friends are here.
But I knew all this before we started. I knew what I was up against. I guess I just thought I wasn’t too old to do this, or if I was, I wouldn’t feel it. Trust me, I feel every bit my age lately. And It’s not like I regret the decision to move. I don’t. I know it was the right move to make. I’m really glad that we did it. I know that it will get easier in time. That being somewhere 100% new doesn’t get comfortable overnight. I know that I will have time to explore and do all the kinds of things that I used to, and not be so tired all the time. But right now, I can’t see the light at the end of this particular tunnel. Yesterday I woke up at 4:45 AM (my new wake-up time, SUPER NOT AWESOME) with a giant sleep wrinkle in my face, and it did not go away until 1 PM. Everybody said DRINK MORE WATER! Newsflash, I’ve been drinking lots of water. The problem is I am almost 50 years old. My skin just doesn’t do what it used to do. It’s OK, I’ll get used to that too.
I’ve cried a lot. Sometimes it’s a release. Sometimes it’s because I’m sad. Sometimes it’s because I’m frustrated. I know I need to find someone to talk to – I was used to going to therapy every other week and add Find a Therapist to the list of Shit I Need to Do. So many things are not the same. All the old things were so…familiar. Comfortable. Easy.
And despite all of this, I am happy. I do love it here. It’s going to be great. I’m just impatient, and I want it to be great right the fuck now. I know it’s going to take more time then I’m giving it. So when I feel this way, I just have to slow down and think about all the great things. It’s beautiful here. The ocean is right the fuck there. I see it everyday when I’m driving to work. I can walk outside at lunch and barely break a sweat. There are a million things to do. The food is fantastic. I have not had a bad taco since I got here, and I have had many tacos in a month. But I am tired. And my perfectionism Is really trying to take over. I won’t let it. Things are not perfect. They are not going to be perfect. My need to show you something different – in writing, in what I say, or on social media – the need is strong, but keeping it real seems more important. I’ll show you a tree. I’ll show you the beach. Occasionally you’ll see Tired Old Me. And that is who I really am right now.
And oh, how’s this? WE MOVED ACROSS THE FUCKING COUNTRY. We sold half our shit, sold 2 vehicles, packed up the rest of our shit, packed up 2 cats, drove across the motherfucking desert, lived without most of our belongings for 12 days, started new jobs, got drivers’ licenses, insurance, an apartment, HOLY SHIT WE DID ALL THAT!!! I have to remember, this was a Big. Fucking. Deal. Don’t play it off like “oh yeah well people do it all the time blah-dee-blah you’re not special.” True, I am not special, and also true, people do it all the time. AND YET STILL. It’s a huge accomplishment that we did it. Or even thought of doing it. CELEBRATE, and FUCKING HOORAY.
I think sometimes my penchant for needless worry makes it hard for me to want to do anything outside of stay home and try to make the apartment look neat and clean, or do other things that really aren’t adding anything to my personal enjoyment. So, circling back to that little podcast that grew into a monolith: Every Murderino knows exactly what I’m talking about. Karen and Georgia have made it possible for me to just do the damn thing, and not think about it. WHO CARES IF IT’S NOT PERFECT. IT IS PERFECT BECAUSE IT’S NOT PERFECT. I was trying to live by this philosophy already, but then they came along and made it OK for everybody to do it. I’m just so grateful that they talk to their listeners about mental health the way they do, And make it OK for us to feel whatever we’re feeling, whenever were feeling it. No one can dictate that. I wanna tell you that this life that I have moved to is Instant Awesome. It is less than that at this time. And it might not be awesome for a while. Right now, I’m just trying to roll with the punches, get some sleep, drink some water, not go crazy.
As I stood in my bedroom folding towels while listening to thunder in the distance and rain actively – well, raining – I had a deep thought: There will be a time in the future where my consciousness may or may not exist, or know what it feels like to fold towels while it’s raining outside, or what listening to thunder feels like. Yeah, it’s that kind of Sunday.
I just finished Shit Town, which got me to this exact plane of thought, I think. If you have not listened to it, go. Just stop reading this. See you in about 7 hours. It is an amazing look at one man’s life, a man who possibly understood both the finite and terrifyingly infinite concept of time better than many. A man whose mind was, to say the least, tortured and complex.
It made me think about where I am now, in this very moment in time, in my life. I have read hundreds of amazing books. I hope to read hundreds more. I have laughed so hard with friends that tears spilled from my eyes and my breath was hard to catch. I have spent countless hours balled up in a small, dark place in my heart, paralyzed by failure, crushed by unrequited everything, unable and many times unwilling to dig into the marrow of what might be the cause. I have witnessed selfless acts of encompassing kindness; I have put myself square in the majesty of Redwoods; I have lived sometimes too cautiously and done enough reckless things to at least have some stories.
As I listen to the purr of the cat on my lap while the rain softens, thunder hums and a bird cries out nearby, I know I am changed. I am changed by this moment, and every moment. I am beyond grateful that I get to experience these changes. I am in awe of sometimes every leaf I see, every duck I watch land on water, every time my cat snuggles up to me and lets me rub his belly, and the feeling I get when I hear my husband’s voice.
I don’t always show my gratitude for these moments, but I’d like to think that overall, my life, this journey that can be so frustrating and yet so inspiring all at the same time – that my life is full exactly as it is. I would not alter one minute of this life.
I will do my best to be aware of the minutes remaining, and to always, always realize that the “big picture” is right in front of me. All I have to do is be still and open my eyes.
When they told us that we might be able to get our copies of The Audacity of Hope signed at a rally in Dallas in late 2007, we knew that there were a host of long shots involved. We all piled up our books with sticky notes inside them with our names, and then went on to do the work of the volunteer: Hand out stuff. Talk to people. Pretty much all the things I hated to do because, as outgoing as I seem, I do not enjoy foisting myself on the general public. I was committed to getting him elected, even if he didn’t have a chance.
We stood in a large room at Gilley’s and listened to him speak. I remember it was a weird time, early, like 5 or 6 pm on a weekday. The room was packed, his mic wasn’t that good, and the crowd was energetic. A few minutes before he was finished speaking, the volunteers were told to go out in the hall to anticipate the crowd as they left, to hand out flyers regarding when and where to vote, and how to encourage others to do so during the primary. All of a sudden, a very stern-looking, diminutive but strong woman in a navy suit and short heels was headed straight for me. It was hard to miss the fact that she was wearing a gun and an earpiece. She said, “We need all the volunteers out here to line up! He wants to say hello.” And we did. Quickly. Before I had a chance to figure out what I was going to say, he was standing in front of me, holding out his hand for me to shake it, and he pointedly said, “And what is your name?” I barely got it out. It was a moment I will never forget. We left with our books, each signed.
The night of the election in 2008, my husband and I went with a group of friends down to Bishop Arts where they had the streets blocked off and big screens in several locations to watch the returns. I remember almost sinking to the pavement when they called it for him. I had been an election judge for the primary. I had never worked so hard for anything in my life. I had risked my job by standing up to a boss who deemed Obama a Muslim terrorist openly and publicly. My husband lost his job because he took a day off to work the primary with me. I remember standing in a burger joint that night in Bishop Arts, tears streaming down my face, while watching him speak in Grant Park after the election results.
There is nothing I can write about President Obama that hasn’t already been written. He had ups. He had downs. I spent the first few years hoping that he would not get shot. He was not perfect. He could not accomplish everything he wanted to do. He had a hand in some things that were not good. Despite it all, I was proud on the whole to have a very intellectual and thoughtful person in the highest office in the land. I was proud that I had an incredibly small role in getting him there.
Given what we are facing tomorrow, I am – if nothing else – amazed and honored that I was alive to see the first African-American President of the United States serve this country in the best way he could for eight years. I will miss him. I will not watch the inauguration of an ill-educated, misogynistic, racist businessman. I will set my thoughts to a higher purpose. I will attend a Women’s March the next day.
I am unsure about where we are headed as a nation – the progress we have made in the last eight years seems vast. Can it all be undone? What I know is this: There are those of us out here who are ready to fight, march, vote, and speak truth to power. We will not let go of the idea that progress is something only we can forge. That regression is not an option. That this country, for all it’s failed experiments, is still ours to try to make succeed.
Well kiddos, it’s been a beautiful nightmare. So much (fill in the blank with your favorite expletive noun) has happened this year that it only makes sense to count it down, say goodbye, write retrospectives, and come up with an all-time winner for worst fucking moment of 2016. I’ve got quite a bit of reflecting to do, so go make your tea or grab a snack and sit on down to read one more piece on why so many of us have had pretty much the roughest year psychologically and emotionally in a long time. If you read all the way to the end, maybe I’ll throw in a good moment or two. Mmmm. On second though, fuck that. This is about setting fire to this piece of trash.
I give you the 10 worst moments of everyone’s 2016. These are NOT in order of importance in impact to the universe or myself, because sometimes you just can’t rate losses of this magnitude (Although #1 really is #1, and the winner.) Don’t think that if I leave your personal worst moment out, I am doing so on purpose. I just think that this is a fairly comprehensive list of our collective groan into the void.
10. David Bowie
While I wrote a short piece on how Bowie’s death affected me here, so many great writers and musicians wrote volumes around me about how his music spoke to them. I was fortunate enough to see Henry Rollins when he came to Dallas for his spoken word show, and he also told an amazing story of an encounter he had with David Bowie while he was on tour. Even though Starman was ill and knew his time had come, none of the rest of us were ready. Leave it to David Bowie to be ahead of the rest of the world on everything, even his own mortality. If you’ve never really listened to his music, I urge you to really put it in heavy rotation. Decades of greatness await you. He was and will remain an icon, and while it seemed TOO SOON! for the rest of us, there is a part of me that will always know that his star-dust is somewhere in the ether, just beyond my periphery, waiting to shower the world with a life that will last beyond the ages. My gratitude overflows for all that his life brought to mine.
I haven’t been able to write about the death of Prince yet due to the outpouring of emotion about it every time I fitfully start and stop again. I am 46. To say I grew up with Prince is an understatement. Before I even knew it was Prince, I undulated in a Utah basement to “Do Me, Baby” in whatever way a 12-almost-13 year-old girl can undulate. Barely understanding what all the innuendo meant at that age, I learned soon enough that it was bad, bad, bad when my mom found the lyrics sheet inside the 1999 album. Mortified, she freaked out, and it cemented my absolute infatuation with him forever. An accomplished EVERYTHING player, writer, musician, style maven, I can’t say enough about what his music did for me – nay, to me, as a weirdo teen that didn’t really fit in anywhere. There is a sense of freedom through pain in many of his songs, even if that pain is not evident. Whenever I listen to “Last Night I Spent Another Lonely Christmas”, I am filled with a sense of heartbreak as if it were my own. Parade was another full album filled with nonstop hits, meaningful snippets, gorgeous writing and overall mastery of the exact moment in time in which we were all living. From the super fun even if overplayed “Let’s Go Crazy” and “Little Red Corvette”, to the gospel vibes of “Seven” and “The Ladder”, to the sultry funk of “Erotic City”, “DMSR” and “Sign o’ the Times”, dude had a catalog of unending magic and rawness and ability. The unrelenting wizardry of a generation’s anthem in “Purple Rain” will be covered, coveted, revered, and praised for years to come. I could list songs for days. Suffice it to say, people who tell me “I have never been into Prince”, for them I feel kind of sad. You are missing out on an a musician that only happens once in a great while.
I think about what pain the Artist himself must have been in toward the end of his life, and I will for eternity be gobsmacked by his death. I never wanted him to stop making music, producing, having other people tell crazy stories about meeting him – I never wanted it to end. Like Bowie, he was an influence beyond time – and goddamn if I can figure out how to evoke all that his music meant to me. His lyrics, and more even still his feeling – his use of dynamics and his vocal histrionics have a way of reaching through the space between me and the airwaves, and his voice pulls me through to whatever place he inhabits.
Give “Lady Cab Driver” a listen sometime – because the last line in that song will always speak to me:
“Not knowing where I’m going is galaxies better than not having a place to go.”
8. Alan Rickman
Goddammit, Alan Rickman. I was not and still am not ready for him to be gone from this earth. A superb, versatile acting talent with a voice that was at once distinctive, at once arresting, how can we count the ways and roles in which we have loved you? Hated you? While his portrayal of Severus Snape was the role of a lifetime, stuff of legends, I first fell in love with Alan Rickman in a small movie that I’m surprised even came my way in Closet Land. It is a powerful, raw film of startling lasting power – I watched it some 20 years ago and will never forget it. With only two characters in the entire movie – Rickman as a cruel, deft police interrogator and Madeline Stowe as a children’s author and Victim of the State, it is definitely an actor’s and screenwriter’s film – one based solely on acting talent alone, no scenery, no graphics, just two people giving forthright and intuitive performances. Panned by critics at the time for its stark settings and overall in-the-face-ism regarding subject matter, independent films were not nearly as widely accepted or acclaimed then. Had this film been released today, I would imagine a better reception. Give it a watch if you can find it. But beyond this little-known performance of Rickman’s, he enjoyed success at so many levels of his long career – accomplished stage actor and Tony award winner, hated villain Hans Gruber in the action classic Die Hard whom we are all too happy to see fall off a building,director, Snape. Whether you read the books first or not, he at once assumed the picture in your head of Snape, a character we find out so late of his goodness, his purity, his devout love, and his frailty. I have no doubt in my mind that Alan Rickman, were he to have lived longer, would still add to the massive list of career accolades. His performances in so many films will continue to be among my favorites. I have a friend who often says she would listen to Alan Rickman reading the phone book. I concur. That voice will stay with us even as he goes to whatever realm classically trained actors aspire toward. I can only imagine a land filled with vast expanses of scenery for him to describe, other great legends who have left us to act with, and one unifying director that is the Universe to call him up.
7. Carrie Fisher
We have been hit hard in the last week or so. Luckily, I will never ever forget standing in line in 1977 with my reluctant mother to see Star Wars – A New Hope at the age of 7. The first images of the Princess as a hologram were figured into my childhood psyche and when The Empire Strikes Back barreled into my life with full force (heh), I was changed forever into the deep-seated nerdling I am down inside. Her on-screen relationship with the debonair Han Solo, the back-and-forth quips, her outright femaleness in her portrayal of a strong, smart, gender-defiant rebel caught in love and in war, is a performance that will last a lifetime for me. To learn later of her struggles with mental illness and to discover her prolific writing is a gem that I will just keep taking out and polishing. And because When Harry Met Sally was a movie which spoke to me personally, her easy yet embattled depiction of Marie will always be one of my favorites. “You’re right, you’re right, I know you’re right.” I don’t know how many times I have uttered that phrase, trying to have the exact same intonations as her character. But to digress to her more famous role, what young brunette girl didn’t dream of looking like Carrie Fisher in a golden bikini? I know she hated it, and I was much more jealous of her General Organa outfit, but there’s a reason why men my age swoon at the thought of Leia and the idyllic embodiment of poise, strength, and flat-out sexiness. She truly is gone too soon. I feel like she would have had further roles in upcoming episodes of the Star Wars legend, and I hate not getting to see this come to fruition.
6. Debbie Reynolds a DAY LATER
At this I just say, what the fuck. I mean, I guess it stands to reason that the death of her daughter was an event that she could not withstand, and while I am of a generation a little too late for the genius of Debbie Reynolds to have truly grasped me, I appreciated her long-standing performances in Singin’ in the Rain and The Unsinkable Molly Brown from a young age. She has an extensive filmography, one that I will relish looking back on, and more than anything, I am saddened by her loss for people of my mother’s generation who grew up and older with all of these performances. I suck because I can’t write paragraphs about Debbie Reynolds, but I know enough to write that her life was filled with talent, stardom, and constant work – a presence among female actors and a role model for many aspiring young women of her day.
5. George Michael
I had a poster – this poster – on my closet door (ha!) at age 15:
Look, I have vivid memories of loving Wham! even if all of their songs weren’t giant hits in the US. I was listening to “Young Guns” a couple of days ago and heard the line “this young gun says caution pays” BUT I REALLY THOUGHT HE WAS SAYING “ABORTION PAYS” and who knows, MAYBE HE IS, although that would be weird and you know, not pertinent to George Michael. When I was in junior high, I was a cheerleader (gross) and had the everlasting pleasure of doing a choreographed dance routine at least one million times to “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” and will remember parts of that dance until I am old and grey (much to my chagrin). But as I got older, George Michael’s solo work had great prophetic meaning for me – his amazing cover of Stevie Wonder’s “They Won’t Go When I Go” haunts to this day. His popular, mournful “Waiting For That Day” and “One More Try” are beautiful tributes with a voice that is like pop-soul honey. Listening again to his who-knows-how-platinum hit “Father Figure”, it is a) beautiful, b) possibly creepy and mostly c) delivered with pure feeling. Again, a master of dynamics, Michael soars and ebbs just when we need him to do so. I didn’t know where he was for the last 10 years or so, but I sure as fuck didn’t think he’d just vanish. A man whose voice was praised by Elton John and Freddie Mercury, don’t take George Michael for a pop star lightweight. He has plenty of soul-wrenching material that only he could have delivered to us. I don’t think it’s easy for many Americans to really understand the significance he had on British popular music, but his is a voice I will miss and revisit repeatedly for the rest of my life.
4. Leonard Cohen
Let’s face it, Cohen was also a little bit before my time, but I always have been in awe of his incomprehensibly vast amount of writing he has left with the world. There is shit that is Cohen that you don’t even know is Cohen. I can’t write a retrospective of 2016 and NOT include him, as there is a generation directly in front of mine who saw decades of the volume of work Cohen published. Writer, poet, lyricist, singer, producer – Cohen was enigmatic and all-encompassing. Delving into the heart of his subjects with a deft hand and an unflinching eye, his words span years of heartbreak, longing, joy and sorrow for all who dare to go with him on his journey. Worldly, religious, introspective, prominent – his influence is one too great to ignore. At 82 when he died, Leonard Cohen accomplished enough for 5 lifetimes. Like Rickman, his voice is one that you cannot but peg, so distinctive and deep that it sounds as if it is coming out of the bottom of the ocean up through decades of gravel, mud, water and waves, until it breaks over us with the realization that life is finite and infinite all at once, and we are pulled back down into his undertow.
I am not sure where I read or heard this first, but it is beautiful, tragic, and exactly Cohen:
I heard of a man
who says words so beautifully
that if he only speaks their name
women give themselves to him.
If I am dumb beside your body
while silence blossoms like tumors on our lips.
it is because I hear a man climb stairs and clear his throat outside the door.
From Let Us Compare Mythologies, 1956
3. Gene Wilder
I am quite sure that my first memory of Gene Wilder, even though his career was already in full swing, was the enigmatic and eccentric character that only Wilder could have pulled off in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Could I write paragraph upon paragraph about that performance alone? Absolutely. The somersault, the boat ride, the off-hand snide remarks to children (CHILDREN!), his effortless demeanor and his flawless physical presence in that role is incomparable. Only later in my life did I come to appreciate his genius in Blazing Saddles, Young Frankenstein, and Silver Streak. He turned to writing in his later years, and kept his condition of Alzheimer’s a secret from the public – but at 83, Wilder died with an outstanding career to his credit and fans of every age due to his roles.
2. Muhammad Ali
I can’t write more than has already been written about Ali. I came to enjoy watching boxing in the last 20 years or so, long after he had fought, but the reverence with which people speak of this man is so deep, so prevalent, that I was drawn to listen to his memorial service which aired in full on NPR after he died. Not one but almost every recounted tale from Very Famous People of how Ali was a presence in their lives brought me to tears. Fighter in so many more ways than one, we can’t imagine the significance of the role he played not only in sports but socially, culturally – a poetic server of justice, a fearless yet real and rough man of morality and complexity, a Bearer of Truth for all who dare to look at it in the face. I am not the one to write this. He is eloquently eulogized by the one and only President Barack Obama:
“But I actually think the world flocked to him in wonder precisely because, as he once put it, Muhammad Ali was America. Brash, defiant, pioneering, joyful, never tired, always game to test the odds. He was our most basic freedoms – religion, speech, spirit. He embodied our ability to invent ourselves. His life spoke to our original sin of slavery and discrimination, and the journey he traveled helped to shock our conscience and lead us on a roundabout path toward salvation. And, like America, he was always very much a work in progress.”
1.5 Sharon Jones
It was like I just found this voice, and then she was gone. From the opening moments of “Stranger to my Happiness” I was very much SIT UP IN THIS CHAIR AND WTF FUCK THAT LET’S DANCE HOLY SHIT. A female James Brown. Everything I had been waiting to hear. And fuck me, she’d been around for a long time and I was JUST hearing it. Where had I been, where did this voice come from, who is she and how can I get more? Just wow, if you have not listened to Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings, you are missing some amazing music that will grow to be a permanent mainstay in your listening habits. She is the embodiment of soul, funk, power, and unabashed joy for her art. And stage presence? Jesus. It is a crime that I did not get to see her perform. Even in her advanced illness, she did not give up or in. What a fucking voice. Unparalleled. Standing – no, dancing amid the upper realms of what the Great Aretha created, the world gave us, for a brief, shining moment, this powerful, strong, gorgeous woman who sang her heart out Every. Single. Time.
1. Worst Moment Winner: Trump for President
If we all don’t agree on that, get off my blog.
One more day, everyone. Let’s get through it together, in one piece, and always remembering those who went before.
When contemplating what to serve gentleman callers, you can offer many refreshing choices – bougie mixed drinks, plebeian beers, or the ever-popular yet completely monotonous water. What that guy sitting on the couch waiting to fondle you really wants, besides your boobies, is a beverage that is the Essence of You: A trashy act in a classy package. Let me present: WINE. In all its forms. Here are just a few out of a veritable plethora of choices, but the wines listed below I can personally guarantee are winners all around, and any and all will land that aspiring doctor/actor/television thief directly in your, ahem, bedchamber.
First, how the guide works:
$ – Probably bought it off a bum
$$ – Common grocery store prices
$$$ – I am a rich whore and want to impress people
– it will take 2 Solo Cups to achieve your dream of speaking more slowly
– it will take 3 Solo Cups to contemplate listening to Creed or 3 Doors Down
– it will take 4 Solo Cups to make out with literally anyone in the room
– Coffee will totally cure this
– Pretty sure these bites are from a human
– I think I was hit by a car last night
So without further adieu, here is your list. Carry it with you on all shopping trips. Or just commit it to memory. You don’t need any other kinds of wine but these. To try more is simply foolish, unless someone else is footing the bill.
BRAND: TARGET CUBE
FLAVORS: CAB/SHIRAZ BLEND, WHITE SANGRIA
Allow me to propose the notion that there are few things more enjoyable than a delicious 7-11 Slurpee cup full of Target Cube wine. If you have not yet dropped a Jackson for this little box of heaven, go immediately to your nearest bulls-eye logo and get you some. Not only is it super-convenient, your man will know you mean business when you buy the box that’s the size of half a cinder block, yet HOLDS 4 BOTTLES OF WINE. Also, this wine has won awards, y’all. Get with the damn program. Buy some sandals and pocket-tees while you’re there, and you’re good to go.
BRAND: FALLING STAR
From the moment you twist the cap off of this decadent crimson bottle of glory,you are hit with an aroma that is surprisingly tangy yet slightly reminiscent of a night during your junior year of college, a night on which you had a blast until someone threw up behind your couch.
Then you remember you have purchased this at the dollar store for $5 (little misnomer there, non?) and now, you will serve it. Because you do not actually care how this date goes, you are ready to get schwasted. Tip o’ the cap to Wreckliz & Dangerous for coining that little term. I added the “c” for intellectual purposes.
FLAVOR: PINOT NOIR
Well well well, what’s this? By name alone, I think I need you in my stable, Firesteed. Clearly you promise hours of pleasure, or headache. Whichever. At about $9.99, this prevalent bottle can be found while grocery shopping, or on your hasty run to QuikTrip to buy prophylactics. FIRESTEED delivers – it’s not too pungent, not too subversive – it’s just the right amount of both. You’ll have him eating sugar cubes out of your hand in no time. You will also wake up to an amalgam of throbbing noises in your head if you insist on drinking the entire bottle by yourself. You might wish you were actually kicked in the cranium by said Fiery Steed, because that is absolutely how harsh the climb off really is. Own it. Try not to pee in a closet. Just sayin.
BRAND: BOTA BOX
If nothing else, I can certify that if you’re looking for a wine that will make you say “I loooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvve you” without any prompting whatsoever, STOP LOOKING BECAUSE YOU’VE FOUND IT. If you are willing to serve and/or drink it out of a coffee mug, this is the method preferred for superior enjoyment. This tastes great with ice cubes, 7-Up, and really any other non-alcoholic beverage you have in your possession. You will not regret drinking this in mass quantities. You will eat everything put in front of you to get rid of the hangover that will ensue. Wait until your man-friend leaves the vicinity for the inhaling of homemade nachos made with stale tortillas and cheese made out of nuts. That’s what I said. Remember your mom bought it for you at the fancy organic store? Exactly. Put some broccoli on top. Wash it all down with some Raspberry Zingers. Fucking yum. Go vomit immediately.
BRAND: CARLO ROSSI
FLAVOR: PAISANO (Literally, “Peasant” but could also mean “Gullible Asshole”)
HANGOVER INTENSITY: ZERO – IT WILL NOT BE IN YOUR BODY THAT LONG
It was YOU that night in college. YOU threw up behind your own couch. YOU DRANK A GALLON OF THIS. Don’t ever do that again. Stop at half a gallon.
As mentioned previously, you cannot go wrong with these choices, as they are all stellar and will no doubt get you laid. EVEN THE LAST ONE.
In our next installment, we’ll discuss mixing vodka with 4 Loko. Don’t worry, I do not advocate that you offer this concoction until date #2.
I might not be McSweeney’s, but I can damn well talk about things that we all buy that are dumb, dumb, dumb. You know you have bought something, you get it home and either start reading the package or start using it and think “OMGWTFBBQ.” Clearly there are many industries in trouble, and cannot hire writers of even my mediocre caliber to write descriptions for their shitbag items, or make sense of what truly is a product’s intention. Let’s start in the bathroom, how every morning is started.
NIVEA FOR MEN PLATINUM PROTECT DEODORIZING BODY WASH
This bottle is confusing. It appears as if it should be on a spaceship. It’s silver color denotes seriousness, though, so while I am peeking out of half-awake eyes into which I have unwillingly shoved contacts, I see that the bottle is…ridged? Ribbed? Down each side. My guess is, this is in case you are barely awake like I am currently, and decide to drop your space-soap onto the floor of your immaculately stainless showering pod surface. However, if you think the bottle is confusing, just fucking wait, because your mind is about to be blown up like Hiroshima: THIS SHIT HAS SMART DEO TECHNOLOGY. While I am sad it does not have “SMART DIO TECHNOLOGY” because there is nothing more I want than to wash my limbs to “Rainbow in the Dark” while reading Nietzsche, I must find out what this technology is all about. Well, my friends, it says that is what it uses to “remove odor-causing substances.” Funny, I thought that’s what SOAP DOES. I didn’t know it required technology. Just, you know, the ingredients you have listed here. Putting those ingredients together isn’t technology, dudes. It’s MAKING SOAP. Ok, if the DEO technology was not enough to drop your drawers over, it also comes equipped with HYDRA IQ. To which I say:
Also, it says it is for showering, shampooing, AND deodorizing. Really. Oh that’s right. I forget that guys cannot possibly need more than one magical bottle to take care of their every hygiene need, but I thought it was called JAMESON, not body wash. My rating of this product: Fucking 3. Technology for soap is a damn insult.
TONE “MY GIRLIE STUFF IS NOT EEEEEEEVEN AS EXPENSIVE AS YOUR SPACEWASH” FRUIT PEEL BODY WASH
This doesn’t promise much. It smells citrus-y and at the very least, makes me have a sense of cleanliness about myself. It is definitely not made out of either fruit or peel. I doubt its claims of “alpha-hydroxy fruit acids” but I don’t care. It was $3.99. The bottle is yellow. It makes me happier than my usual Dawn Troll self. My rating of this clearly superior product: 8, because it’s totally humble about its properties.
Tomorrow, we’ll move on to the kitchen. I bet you can’t wait.