reflections on a post-modern society

or "why i hate san francisco public transportation."

decided to let the green infiltrate my soul & not, i repeat, NOT drive my car to the castro where i needed to pick up prints-but instead take muni.

i wanted to really try my hand at not consuming/expending so much energy & gas. all the ads & radio spots & large, alien recycle bins finally worked to make me aware of my carbon footprint, blah blah blah.

reader, please note. i love public transportation in other cities-the metro, subway, the T, MTR, metropolitan-all of these are great systems that make it possible to easily get from point a to where ever you're going much quicker & much more efficiently than on foot. sf muni is like none of these systems.

i digress.

so i get on muni. going about 15 blocks. in theory, i always loved the idea of sf muni trains-they're kind of retro, and look awesome tooling up & down market street.

worst 25 minutes of my life. & i had to do it twice. there & back. the city was really showing its dirty butthole without any attempt to mask the stench. i can't even begin to describe...the horror, the horror.

in a nutshell:
*psychotic asian woman screaming obscenities at the very overweight woman in a wheelchair that slowed down the already tortuously crawling train. this woman shouted awful things-as if the appointment she had to get an even less-natural colour glued in 3" strips on her forehead as a stand-in for eyebrows was so so so so so urgent. it almost came to blows, as everyone else in the rail car was mortified that this woman was being such a dick...or were we all horrified that she even existed? shorthand lesson? crack. kills.

*not to be outdone by nutter lady, we had at least 3 of the foulest smelling MFs on the planet dispersed throughout. this was to create a united front of an odor so powerful, it melted the brakes of our little F-Market train. at one point, i am fairly certain i opened the cap to a sharpie & shoved it in my nose. there was sadly no alternative.

*on the ding-ding trolley back to union square, a fight of epic proportions almost broke out between 2 homeless madamoiselles. one of them was totally cracked out & trying to befriend this vitriolic big lady. the big lady did not like this. she finally backs down & begins to talk chummily about free breakfasts with fat sausages & grits that can be obtained after "group." my stop finally is nearing when the big lady starts shouting about how ted kennedy had an illegitimate black daughter in kentucky that was involved in racketeering. (?) she then starts on a vociferous rant on how mr. kennedy's current medical condition is dominating the news & getting on her damn nerves. (commentary here is just too easy)

as i stepped off the train into the sunshine, i came to three conclusions:

1. san francisco public transportation? not so much.

2. though i have lived here for 6+ years, i am just starting to realize this place has a SERIOUS homeless problem. gavin, stop greasing your fucking hair & do something.

3. hungry around 10am monday-friday? i know a place that serves a kick ass breakfast. obligatory 1 hour "discussion" prior to the meal is required.

robots & republicans

i am molly the maneater.
my assault on the world begins NOW.

it looks like that is what the nation wants to choose between come november. the droid & the white guy. at least the robot is a female version. progress? we shall see, gentle reader.

i'm still rooting for the n00b. he makes me smile the wide-eyed grin of optimism. i even contributed to the campaign. shhhhh. my republican mother is likely to fly across the fiber optic ocean & gut me like a fish. let's just keep this between you & i.

i got called a traitor today by a high school person. hard to use the word friend. what is the statute of limitations of friendships? if you were friends during those tender, adolescent, ugly-duckling years, don't talk for a decade, and then pick up where you left off (well, not really...where you left off was asking your parents for permission, paying for health insurance was a test question-not something that came out of your paycheck, and drinking meant refilling your dad's marked-where-i-last-drunk-to liquor bottles with water to disguise the missing drams that went straight down your throat, up to your head, back down to your stomach, and then right back up again, hopefully outside where you could cover over it with wood chips or hay.) so no, not right where you left off, but let's say you converse (retro-runners are the best...i have a blue & orange pair, love 'em so much they are really skeevy looking & stink now. which is how you show love to kicks.)

do you call this person a friend?

for a DECADE, a third of your existence you have not been in contact. i find it a stretch. because really, when it all comes down to it, you are trying to be friends, but you can't really ever go back. you won't ever be spending new year's eve together parked in a toyota corolla on grand parkway, drinking mad dog 20/20 you got a migrant worker to buy for you at the local stop-n-rob, smoking swisher sweets you bought @ randall's. because at 30, this would be incredibly tragic.

but at 18, well, it was...well maybe it was sad & tragic then too, but in a entirely different genre.

you can't go back & that is SO GOOD-hence my quick & sure elation at being called a benedict arnold to the state & community of my birth. that is maybe the best part. you can wax nostalgic-listen to journey, drink boone's & feel insecure about what you're wearing if it feels right. but otherwise, great to be able to start over.

let's pretend we're bunny rabbits

THE MAGNETIC FIELDS.

that's right ladies & worms.
& the show's tonight & i am as giddy as this kid.
seriously-my face is pretty much frozen in that exact position...FIVE HOURS TO GO.
giddyup.

impervious to absolutes.

6 o'clock pm, saturday, the 23rd of february.

my fingers are mildly frost-bitten & my apartment windows are about to shatter into a thousand chards of glass. right in my face.

there is a tree dancing a saucy lambada (the forbidden dance) directly behind this open notebook computer. i can see the movement using my nifty & quite perceptive peripheral vision. the leaves appear to be holding hands & shimmying across the television-like screen of a single un-insulated windowpane.

tonight has full moon written all over it. the malevolent, rainbearer clouds drip ominously from the sky. the red aura that encircles every brakelight, the fuzzy tractor beams of headlights, looking out at the city from the rain-streaked windows inside my apartment...people dressed like mongolian herdsman or yetis (hoodies, random pieces of clothing thrown together to block out the driveling drizzle that is san-francisco-"rain", the rainboots & turned-inside-out-umbrellas that look like weapons of mass destruction...all thrown together haphazardly into a maddening milieu of what more posh people might call the "homeless aesthetic"-making this nomad fashion catastrophe sound even charming & philanthropic.)

this weather does not make me want to conquer the most miniscule of tasks-nothing can motivate. not even aaron copeland's "rodeo"-which at any other time can inspire me to do even the most mundane chore...when i listen to this song at any other time, i feel capable of lifting a bus in the air, whirling it around & tossing it effortlessly out of harm's way. i can always count on "fanfare for the common man" to pull my ass out of whatever self-deprecating state i have wandered into & Take Over the World.

but copeland is no match against this full moon weather situation.

so instead, i will sit inside, staring...half grimacing at the thought of ever having to leave & "pen" madly away on a story. any story. i just need that first line. that killer intro-clause to get me off & running on some tirade or another (it doesn't matter which).

i got it.

"it was a dark and stormy night..."

(thank you, charlie brown)

night-night buttercups.

resevoir passion

& back from the other side, the warrior has returned. obviously wiser for the wear. most definitely victorious (was there ever a doubt?).

first post of the new year. albeit belated, fundamental nonetheless. vital. impervious. insidious. magical manifestations of mindlessness.

will this year be different? will 2008 hold the answers that 2007 failed to reveal? will this new set of 12 perfectly un-lived & untainted months carry with them success, satisfaction, beauty & love-love-love? 52 weeks without emergency vet visits? 365 days mixed with calm & frenzy-but only when you want the extremes? will the time be endless ah-ha moments of self-improvement & awareness?. will i learn more, give more & live more freely? will music sound better, concerts be more spectacular & albums be produced by the thousands that change-enrich-catapult our auditory senses into the seventh level of heaven? will food be only fresh & full of vitamin-y goodness, yet devilishly delicious? will the winter be time for somber reflection & summer time for sun-filled spontaneous serendipity?

well.
we'll just have to see, won't we?

that's the best thing about the new year. that we don't know.

whether the next 12 months, in hindsight, were the worst-and we chalk this year up to be forgotten in the archives of absolutely awful...who would want to know that in advance? that would make living it twice as bad, because the anticipation of dread means you would be going through some version of hell twice. and if this year turns out to be the BEST YEAR OF YOUR LIFE-the year that on your death bed you proclaim to the loved one holding your hand that "2008 was the most fantastically magnificent 365 days of my whole life"-who wants to know that on 1.january? that's like finding out someone's throwing you a surprise party before you're surprised.

the mystery is the best part.
enjoy it.

(see you when the sun goes down)

ps-(i tried to push the button shown in the photograph...and was br00t@lly attacked by squirrels..achtung, baby...)

nausea created by...

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.

xmas xomplaints

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.

slipper-staring with aplomb

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.

yacht rock

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.

photobooth monday...

i don't do crowds

could this dog be any cuter? the answer is no.

shameless dog cuteness ... it's nauseating...really...

apologies. you wouldn't be able to help yourself either, if these were your ridiculous emo dogs.

what's the hold up? where's the fire?

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!)

solipsism & me

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)

showy shows recap, week of 8.october

beirut
8-9.october
herbst theater






the tragically hip
10.october
the warfield






rogue wave
12.october
bimbo's 365

showy shows recap, week of 14.october

matt pond pa
16.october
gamh






say hi (to your mom)
17.october
bottom of the hill

showy shows recap, week of 30.september

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

melodic mania

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).

a small setback to a great comeback

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.

"act out being alive, like a play. and after a while, a long while, it will be true."
john steinbeck, east of eden

one foot in front of the other, it's the only way. even if it's just baby steps (thank you, bill murray), @ least there's movement, signs of life.

working again feels like i can fully inhale for the first time in 4+ weeks. deep breaths, like after a 10k, after you stop feeling like your insides are melting.

oprah-book-club-reading-culture jump off a really, unimaginably tall building. dr. phil? go f*@# yourself. i am going the way of john galt, francisco d'anconia & howard roarke. the road less traveled (cliches are handy, carry this one around with you for quick reference during slumber parties, coffee dates or meetings with relatives you don't like). horatio algers? be damned, man. i want domination, not mediocrity.

i want infamy before ideals, ingenuity more than innocence, ironic intuition above imaginary inertia.
(and also a dictionary that goes beyond the letter "i")

kismet is for the optimist. i'll take failure over fate (& her cold, clammy hands) every day of the week.

showy shows recap, week of 23.september

the lucksmiths
23.september
12 galaxies






maps
24.september
bottom of the hill






!!!
the field opens
25.september
mezzanine






midlake
27.september
gamh

i put the "metro" in metronome

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.