& day windows, and windows into yesterday, today & tomorrow. lots of windows. all looking out onto something, or nothing, & sometimes not looking at all.
nausea created by any or all of the following ingredients:
1. crap cab driver with either a heavy braking foot (that caused the car to stop suddenly...ALL THE TIME) or a penchant for alcoholism (he did mention carrying a flask at all times to make drinks stronger-a great thing to hear from the man driving your mom, sister & yourself-yowza.)
2. junior mints that i didn't want
3. THE WORST ACTING I HAVE EVER SEEN (thank you a.c.t.'s rendition of charles dickens' "a christmas carol")*
*i really can't put into words that would accurately describe the horror of this play. my mom, sister & i agreed that we realized the potential for awful within the first 2 minutes. the set? blah. the screenplay adaption? boring. the acting????? i can't stress how bad (sorry to any a.c.t. actors reading this...but i can't sugar coat here).
you all know the story-scrooge, tiny tim, the 3 ghosts...a story whose popularity could really only be topped by maybe santa & the reindeers or the birth of jesus. so you are asking yourself...how crap could it actually have been?
within the first couple of minutes, i turned to my mom & say "this is not going to work. it's bad"...little did i know the extent of what that word..."bad"...would later come to encompass.
let's put it this way-after the first speaking lines were "delivered", and after the cooperative (lame) audience had doubled over at the "funny lines"...i mouth to ana "fake laugh"-@ which point ANY TIME there was anything the audience started chuckling at-ana would throw her head back & bust out in a raucous, mid-westerner-at-a-comedy-club type laugh, that trailed off at the end (aaaaaaahhhhh) & the words "great stuff" (the reader should realize ana's performance would last far & beyond the audience's chuckle fest...meaning everyone got to enjoy it's ridiculous quality). at which time mom & i would cry from laughing so hard-& then all three of us would fall apart until the next time. sadly, we are all fairly certain the people unfortunate enough to sit around us thought this was really her laugh-and they were highly annoyed that they were sitting next to "that girl".
& then came the side comments from the 3 of us-the peanut gallery-which can't exactly be categorized as "heckling" since we only whispered them to each other...but the fits of silent-i-shouldn't-be-laughing-now-laughter that would follow these comments only kept the momentum going...we decide we are most definitely going to be leaving early...this is agreed upon with merely a look we pass between the three of us...ana later described this look as meaning "i would pay the full price of the ticket again, just to get the f* out of here".
the "commentary" we were delivering from the sidelines really came to a head when the ghost of christmas past appeared...a larger man...on a swing from the top of the stage...painted all in gold...wearing gold lamee tights...singing..."don't you remember"...
i look at my mom with a look on my face similar, i believe, to something that could be classified as pure & sincere shock. "mom...let's be sure we are clear. is that a larger man, in gold tights, dangling his large calves off a swing, flying from the sky? is this really happening?"
this apparition's entrance was really the point of no return-it was just a matter of when we would be pulling our gypsy exit...because this ghost-this central part to the lore of a christmas carol, was not the ghost of christmas past meant to remind dear old ebenezer about how happy he once was.
he was the queen of the big-thigh-gold-tights club. he did leaps, he did jazz hands, he did spirit fingers (yes, like what you would see at a high school football game mixed with what you would see at a senior citizens water aerobics class), he kicked his feet in what some would call a "jig dance step" (others would call it feet convulsions). he spoke with an acting style something like what is seen on the outtakes of american idol.
now, when the curtain went down at the first half, we looked at each other & say (again, still in a semi-comatose shock) "maybe we should stay...at least to see the ghost of christmas present..."...our reason for saying this is what is known as "rubber necking". human being's base desire to watch a train wreck & see actual carnage (or at least a really jacked up car). we were morbidly curious as to how much more awful this little play could deliver...
we go to the bar to get water (we are beyond being able to use alcohol to numb the wounds)-and we collectively realize how impossible it was going to be to get back in those seats & sit through a single additional minute of the performance.
what a night.
latin for "out of nothing".
in a sentence-the animaniacs made for fantastic tv...without a real "theme", basically ex nihilo they conquered syndicated cartoons (lame sentence...i'm brain dead...let it go).
and on that note (really the reason i am bothering to post at all)..albeit outdated now by political boundary standards...
without further ado...
i love xmas, don't get me wrong. i think it's great-spending money, wrapping gifts, the food, all of it.
my first xriticism, however is...
the american motto? buy stuff. lots of stuff. buy buy buy buy buy buy spend $$$, buy, charge it, buy buy buy.
then why in the name of everything santa, do department stores force all this crap into your hands to buy...and then give you the jankiest carry-away bags ever made? obviously the money spent on clothes/shoes/sheets/peppermint bark @ crate & barrel isn't put back into the "shopping bag" fund.
twice, i repeat TWICE since christmas shopping, i have had handles rip right off the bag.
and am forced to either steal bags from unsuspecting non-shopped stores, or shove everything into my purse, and not look like i'm stealing.
i'm beginning to think santa really is a fat SOB with a penchant for breaking in & rummaging through sorority girls unmentionables drawers...maybe he really is a totally pervy weirdo.
grrrrrr......it's almost enough to force me into the ebenezer-corner.
if it happens again before my shopping jollies are over, i will ever be an online gifter from here forward.
i've said my peace.
amen.
my question is-Who Burns Books?
a gun moll.
wikipedia definition:
"A gun moll was the female companion of an American gangster of the 1920s and 30s. Moll, from Molly a diminutive of Mary, was a euphemism for whore or prostitute. These women for the most part were unremarkable except for their association with some of the most notorious killers of the times and organized crime mobsters. . The word "gun moll" can also mean a female companion of a robber or terrorist, and not only just a gangster."
wow. information is fun.
i'll admit it-i drank the kool-aid. when stars' torquil campbell asked the audience to sit down on the last song & just listen, i sat indian style with the lot of them. i stared with melancholic ambivalence/depth at my feet or the grungy carpet, or my neighbors glaring white ass crack.
whatever.
point is it was fun. for 4.5 minutes i was a part of a group that i didn't despise (namely because i didn't have to actually converse or actually get to Know any of them-whew...)-and we participated in a "team" activity-and collectively shared a little something i like to call a "moment." & it was good times. & everyone got up a little cheerier than when they sat down. it was fairly enlightening to let just the slightest tinge of pollyanna effect my generally morose sensibilities.
try it sometime, fellow cynics. stand in line, and wait for your little paper cup full of kool aid...and while its a little bitter at first, you will warm right up to it...trust me.
to the kind person who left the cd in the zipcar...may you learn what music taste is (none of the songs on your cd constitute "good taste")
*africa, toto
*steely dan (anything)
*maneater
*sailing, christopher cross
on what kind of yacht were you intending to listen to this type of music? a boat that would take you magically back to the early 80's? if that ship exists, it would be wise to never get on it.
ever.
i await your response with bated breath.
wtf?
so if one can assume that by bait we are talking about fishing...then my breath has fishing line with a worm on it, waiting for someone to reel it in? this signifies anticipation? we are supposed to be relaying that feeling of nervous waiting that a fisherman has before pulling in a soon-to-be-blobby-dead-fish?
that is the stupidest saying ever.
fact.
could this dog be any cuter? the answer is no.
shameless dog cuteness ... it's nauseating...really...
a weekend recap, for those suffering from the affliction of boredom:
the highlights:
*gills & i all suited up for a dinner date, our date (andrew, you mook) pulls a gypsy no-show, so we go to rose pistola...a little fancy for the two of us (as we are used to a more casual sitting-in-the-living-room-eating-plain-yogurt-with-almonds-in-our- pajamas kind of dining situation). we are all set for the standard fare (italian margherita pizza & a salad, wine for me, coke for the sister) when what, to our wondering eyes doth appear? as a special treat from the kitchen staff (that know gills from the other restaurant)? a steaming hot plate of mussels.
(vomit rising even in the retelling of this event)
it's an open kitchen. they can see everything i do. & there are 3-5 eager faces awaiting our approval. for the stranger to these pages & my dietary situation, nothing with a pulse for me. & gills/bg doesn't eat anything from the ocean.
we are So Alike in so many ways. but at this moment, where we differ becomes deafeningly evident.
i figure, for courtesy's sake, we have to eat at least 1/2 of this plate of flesh. so, even though I DON'T EAT MEAT, i crack open the carcasses & anchors aweigh. no looking back. i have downed about 5 of them, when i realize banana is still fiddling with the first one. she looks at me & in all seriousness says "i don't think i can do this". short of reaching across the table & gutting her like a fish, i say in my most even tone, through very clenched teeth, "I Don't Eat Meat, You Will Be Eating These F*ing %*#$@$ Starting Right The F* Now".
i think in total, she ate four, all swallowed whole with lots of water (it's sunday night @ 2 am, and as of right now, she still complains about them being lodged in her throat).
the pizza was crap & the salad had an exciting factor of "meh". but we got a story out of it, so, totally worth it.
*movie plans to see the darjeeling limited otra vez. bg & i are all guns go to meet sweet lime, at which time she calls to say she is running late (all is forgiven, sweet lime, don't fret). we decide to venture out right then anyway, in hot pursuit of coffee & breakfast (granted, its noon, but i have not been up to grocery shopping yet again, so there is not so much as an oat flake to eat @ 1429 kearny street, apartment no.3).
again, the dietary situation of one molly e. mundt & the aesthetics situation of one ana f. laub plays a major factor in what happens next.
if you know me, you know i have a food repertoire of about 10 things. one of them is the peaches & raspberry yogurt thing at starbucks. it's the only thing i like to eat there, other than the cookies (to clarify, i like the following cookies-the peanut butter & the snickerdoodle...Not, i repeat, Not the chocolate chip or the oatmeal, i hate the latter 2 cookies, gross).
if you know gills, a place has to rate higher on the aesthetics scale than "depressing". this adjective, "depressing", means it is unsuitable to be in said establishment, or even to walk past it.
we enter starbucks #1, on montgomery & clay. no yogurt breakfast for me. we move on. starbucks #2. "too depressing". starbucks #3. no food for me. starbucks #4. environment ok enough to get ana's food, but alas, no breakfast for me, and still depressing enough to not get the coffee & stay there. starbucks #4. closed. starbucks #5. disco.
yes, that's right, gentle reader, 5 f*ing starbucks until we actually got coffee & breakfast.
after consuming & walking out to meet sweet lime for the movie, bg thinks it would be really funny to hide. she is ridiculous. she finally comes out, and is walking behind me. i know this because all of sudden i hear loud running footsteps & then feel what seems like a gunshot in my right ass cheek. ana has decided as retribution for me spraying raid in her eyes in the lawn & garden department of wal-mart when we were NINE, she will select this time to punch me close fisted in the ass & with a running start.
i scream & nearly buckle, to the amusement of starbucks patrons & tourists alike. she flees the scene & hides around the corner.
i would keep recounting weekend highlights, but i have to re-inflate the ass doughnut i am sitting on before the swelling starts again.
thanks bg
(ps-the reader should note that this sister-of-mine does not yet have a bed yet, and sleeps an arm's length from me, if that...revenge is a #&$^#, banana. for sound effect purposes, the reader should insert a scary laugh track here, as i will be super-gluing large male tidy whities to her right calf later tonight)
(pss-happy birthday, art! enjoy manhattan!)
to my friend, that i almost lost. that i misjudged & misunderstood & wrongly made the villain.
for your ability to let the past go, to forget words spoken in anger....for seeing beyond the silence & the screaming...& knowing that buried inside i was frustrated & disappointed. that i felt like a marginalized victim, forced to sit on the sidelines & watch the demise of the world from the bleachers, arms tied behind my back, gagged & blindfolded. forced to wait in agony while the arena crumbled around me. that you understood & (present tense) understand me, is one of life's sparse miracles.
shadow passes, light remains.
is it just a simple matter of matter over mind? is that all it takes? can you force your mind to ascribe to something by going through the motions like you already believed "x" thing? i mean, does "build it & they will come" really work when kevin costner & james earl jones are nowhere to be found?
let's give the audience an example of when this technique could prove useful (though the author has zero proof that this works, but hopes that it works, which in this case will have to be enough).
messy break-up? found your partner f*ing around? is the other person "just not that into you"? is your heart broken & shattered into unrecognizable pieces on a dirty sidewalk in detroit? do you find yourself unable to move past the pain? all you have to do is ACT as if you are over it-through your actions...meaning, you go about your day AS IF you are not desperately melancholy (in a style reminscent of vincent van gogh cutting off his ear, whilst listening to the smiths) & EVENTUALLY your brain will catch up with your body. now, i am in no way advocating sluting around-that's not exactly what i mean by acting as if...more like go about the day-to-day stuff as you did before you were sad (but without mr. or ms. x).
another example that could bring this one home (yes, this is the 2nd lofty attempt to use sports metaphors in writing...my hands tremble with nausea.) are you depressed (ok, disclaimer-if you are really depressed, like in a clinical way-go to a psychiatrist & get some medicine, i mean in a "it's been a week, and i hate myself & i'm bored with my life"...)-you go about the day PRETENDING by your actions that you are totally fine...and eventually you WILL BE fine. some call this the power of visualization. i don't. as i am not asking you to repeat some chant to yourself, using your rotted brain to imagine a better place for haggard body. no, no, no. (always group repetitive words in odd numbers, it's more aesthetically pleasing for the reader-a fun fact brought to you direct from "writing wranglers", local chapter 94133). no "envisioning" propaganda here. i'm saying actually go through the motions of not being where you are, and after some time has past, your mind/thoughts/blah blah blah will join the club.
hey, can't hurt.
for those unfortunate to not be in the know regarding this philosophy: basic summary - "nothing exists outside my own mind"
they say infants are solipsists @ birth. all infants. as they cannot yet identify anything outside their own mind
solpsism syndrome? (of course)...when one feels that everything is a dream & not real
isn't the state where everything is imaginary where you want to be? sometimes reality is nothing to write home about, and hardly worth waking up for
i have nothing else to say, today, life's a play, pimping the night away, hiding from the fray..i'm still really bad at this (freestylin', not life, geesh. i am heavily medicated to prevent jumping from cliffs-no need to worry, gentle reader)
yowza.
a show, giving wedding cake to a homeless man in washington square park (who had no idea what we were offering, but said yes anyway...life lesson, maybe?), meeting on fabrics, coffee with the INDIAN LOVE OF MY LIFE (yes, sharayu-sp?-that's you), vanity fear/fair, mama's on washington square, a taxi service, and drum lessons.
& i think i was sick for most of it. oh, the power of the mind.
other big drama rolled like marbles down a hill (how's that for metaphysical lyricism?)
i learned the word "vitriolic" too, which is a good one to carry around in your pocket & use in the most tedious of situations.
i used it 3 times this weekend...
beirut
8-9.october
herbst theater
the tragically hip
10.october
the warfield
rogue wave
12.october
bimbo's 365
matt pond pa
16.october
gamh
say hi (to your mom)
17.october
bottom of the hill
friends, romans, countrymen...lend me thine...eyes?
just finished reading the fountainhead. thumbs up to objectivism. although she only used her philosophy to write books & indoctrinate a few people, she still stands near the top of the "kick ass thinkers of the century" list (yes, i would be the type to have one of those). it's nice feeling like striving to be successful, at all costs, is not something to be ashamed of.
yes, i enjoy words. i enjoy reading them, memorizing them, painting them, eating them with frosted mini-wheats for breakfast...i love words. always have. if there is a blank scrap of paper in my life, it only exists because i haven't found it yet & scribbled on it.
but i couldn't write books as she writes books...i am too distracted, i guess-as i am so very much attached to the stream of consciousness style (meaning one random thought always leads to another) to stay that focused on one thing. describing a scene between two people, rand writes:
she reached over & took the cablegram off the mirror. she crumpled it, her fingers twisting slowly in a grinding motion against her palm. he stood listening to the crackle of the paper. she leaned forward, opened her hand over the wastebasket, and let the paper drop. her hand remained still for a moment, the fingers extended, slanting down, as they had opened.
now, if i, molly-as-writer, was describing this scene, i would have written the following:
she took the cablegram from the mirror & destroyed it in the palm of her hand. the sound was deafening, in that this-paper-stands-for-something-really-important metaphorical way. he stood listening. for added effect, and perhaps because she was so caught up in the moment she didn't realize the telenovela/OC weekly sitcom quality she was giving to the entire scene, she dropped the crumpled paper into the bin & let her hand freeze-frame over the wastebasket for much longer than was necessary. drama queen.
so there you go. mine was actually longer. but does anyone see what i am talking about? i could have written 3 pages about that little nothing scene-by rewording it in my own way-and by the end of the 3rd page, the reader would have been lost entirely inside the aimless wandering of my mind-the original scene thrown along the wayside as i recount some story of how the english call waste receptacles "bins" & how we americans call them trash cans.
who is john galt? that is the only question. until next time, keep it interesting.
happy birthday to the sister who has it all - namely, 4 dogs & me as a live-in companion. companion is the wrong word...too spaced to think of something more appropriate (snuggles? yes, definitely snuggles)
(thanks for vacuuming while i try to work, too...no, not being sarcastic, really-it's great times, i feel my head being sucked in through the top of the nozzle attachment you are using to clean all the hair off the baseboards in every single room. i'm serious, i mean it-thanks. i'm using that obnoxious hoover-ing sound as the real reason behind my lack of productivity. when it stops, not sure what i am going to fill the void with.)
peace, love & peanut butter frosting from love @ first bite.
her space holiday
(xoxo, panda & gruff rhys)
2.october
cafe du nord
the shins
5.october
bloc party, justice, satellite party
la weekly de tour
6.october
los angeles
while perhaps not the most aesthetically handsome band in the world, still fun. gotta love that supernatural something...for regular guys to stand up on stage & rock their shit (& be good at it) & have people begging for more-more dorky dance moves, more hips gyrating...just more of everything. offstage? these guys look like the trolls that work in the dmv, do your taxes, or ask for money in the haight outside of amoeba music.
onstage? magic.
best part of the night? the symmetry of seeing this old crackhead lady outside of the gold dust before we went to the show (waiting for ken, of course) - she tried to sell me a dolphin necklace made out of concrete or shells or something...and then having her reappear at the end of the night when we are getting into a cab...& ken telling her he wouldn't give her money because she was going to buy "crack rock with it".
i love balance in the weird sphere-makes it seem like there is a rhyme (though clearly no reason) to the ambiguity of the everyday.
(that sounded wise-don't be concerned, it wasn't).
while i normally try to refrain from blatantly using quotes here (lies, all lies), i can't help myself on this almost-full-moon-night-1:25-am.
categorization, an amateur's guide to identifying types in the city
part 1
*hipsters & scenesters
my definition would pale in comparison to any of the ones found at urban dictionary. these two could be broken into 2 groups, by why waste an unnecessary amount of time here? in general, a group whose identity is defined primarily by the fact that they are NOT, i repeat NOT a group, they are too non-conformist for that. my favorite definition:
listens to bands that you have never heard of. has hairstyle that can only be described as complicated...definitely cooler than you...often complains. always denies being a hipster. hates the word...claims to be in a band... always on the list...name-drops...takes photos of self in mirror, in car, in sunglasses, from above, of boobs, of hips, of feet, of self drinking alcohol, of self making kissy face, of self looking like a hyperactive toddler, of self doing illegal things, of self passed out, of self and friends joined at the head and making faces..
best website to better understand scenesters& their copious varieties...actually, just a great place to waste time & laugh..your scene sucks. enjoy
ok, folks. i'm over this concept of type-casting "types". best advice? don't date a type, anyone who clearly fits into any of the above categories...it's a world of nail-biting agitation.
(music that inspired this casting call? new young pony club- now you know everything. goodnight & beware of lame with a cape, which lies waiting for you, around every corner.)
the lucksmiths
23.september
12 galaxies
maps
24.september
bottom of the hill
!!!
the field opens
25.september
mezzanine
midlake
27.september
gamh
i want to give tonight's concert a proper review, but early meetings in egypt *aka, mill valley* tomorrow, so have to try and bribe myself into sleep with the idea that tomorrow i will give this excellent show it's proper write up (short story? it killed)
highlights to explained later-carlton dancer, lord of the rings guy, 4 bouncers (the biggest man ever with what he called his "3-man back up") following me through the crowd (back to andrew, who probably figured me for dead) to get michael flateley kicked out, heroin chic lead singer with a wicked love of emoting, and with that quality that can only be categorized as "lead-singer-je-ne-sai-quoi"-fell ridiculously in love with him after about four bars...and lame with a cape.
more later, enjoy the ambiguity.
a true story.
walking to meet rory for lunch, @ a tres chic eatery, le creme-traipsing through the financial district, past all the men in business suits (hotties, no doubt)-and there seemed to be a whole in my belly. a void of sorts. what was it? what was missing?
i need to do something. anything. molly-of-leisure, enjoying her time off is over. i can't sit idly by while the world around collects the exhibition fees to my boredom.
i need to get my core creativity back. it's been on vacation, but time is of the essence.
so i am seeking a way to get pass the road block, bypass the obstruction, jump the wall of my own making.
no more trolling random bands from last.fm. it's time to find the way to make my millions.
have to jet, my life is waiting.
grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...................................
great times, shitty picture.
the standard people were there...the group in front that knew every word to every song (tragic) pumping their teenbeat fists in the air to every smack of the bass drum (again, no other word but tragic)...pre-pubescent man/boy-mustaches & dried up old dudes...the groupie, whose whole existence is for this one moment-being with the band that defines their identity...
the couples-girl in front, guy in back, his arms wrapped around her while they collectively close their eyes & sway to the melody (at a rock concert, this can prove especially lame-go to sarah mclachlan, tools, or stay @ home & watch the jt special on hbo...geesh)
bearded guys from oregon, web 2.0 posse, the button-ups, aka "oxfords" (NOT gay, they are quick to inform you), angry lesbians, the assailants-with-a-heart (& a tattoo to prove it)...
the whole gang.
the new pornographers
17.september
the warfield
peter, bjorn & john
18.september
the warfield
editors
20.september
the fillmore
arcade fire
21.september
shoreline
funny that the word "booty" was originally used by nefarious sea-thieves to refer to stolen property.
& now it refers to asses.
wonder what the OED has to say about that word's evolution.
treasure island show-what to say?
pirate's booty is the best way to sum it up.
unfortunately, for those in the audience, i am insurmountably intoxicated (with the idea of sleep)
my new haircut is machiavellian.
night night.
like show business.
fact.
saw guster, on a whim...because i was tired of cleaning the house for the sister. ..last night of "single" me and that...
it rocked & i got in for free.
some times spontaneity pays off.
(& of course, sometimes it kicks your ass and steals your iphone)
i'm back, loyal fans.
i know the length of my departure was extremely trying on all of you, but know i am truly back-body, mind & spirit & ready to be all yours, once again.
you can sleep easy tonight.
(you're welcome)
here's to trying something new...
backpackers of the world, unite (dios mio, what am i doing)
& no, banana, i didn't sew a flag to my life-on-shoulder-straps (aka backpack).
not yet.
my assault on the world begins now (thank you, lloyd dobler).
(remember to pay the meter)
"i done told you once. stop cryin'" (mom to her 2 year old)
a woman using an eyelash curler (see torture device below) while Driving on the bay bridge.
a man or woman (not sure which) dressed like a silver trooper from star wars-counting change from a 7-11 plastic cup.
its been quite a day.
so, that's all i have to say...a few random pictures that truly show who the "real molly" is. hope you, dear readers, find these pictures illuminating as to the inner workings of my character. especially the last one...that jackie wong, she's got cred.
