enough about me

OK this is a weird time of year, but also kinda fun if you're into baking and parties and what not. People do all kinds of crazy things this time of year. And I, in turn, feel some of that ambivalence, some of that excitement. Click on santa to watch the video. Aram did the music and recorded the self-motivational talking picture frame you hear in the background. Thank you Aram ep
Or try me on for size

Things We Don’t Understand and Are Definitely Not Going To Talk About

Things We Don’t Understand and Are Definitely Not Going To Talk About,
Miranda July

An intern at my work copied for me a CD full of covers of Joy Division's Love Will Tear Us Apart. Now, I can't think of a thing out there that will cheer you up more than listening to that song over and over, each artist with their own unique interpretation of pain, suffering and humiliation as individually experienced. The world is never short of grief. Nor, does it seem to me today, are our lives.

James Kim was found dead. I recently watched a documentary about the incurable neurological disorder, Dystonia, where those afflicted loose control of their muscles. The sun was bright this morning, but I, trying to soak up its rays, was not. It's proving to be one of those days. You know the kind I am talking about. The emotional kind. I would like to call it pesado, because the word feels right in my mouth, but it turns out pesado really means boring...which might not, after all, be that far from the truth.

James Kim was my age. His wife and children survived only because his wife was able to breast-feed both their children and burn the car tires to keep them warm when the gas ran out. Those with Dystonia can implant a device in their brain that uses a remote control to stimulate neuro-transmitters to keep their muscles from spazzing. When the battery in their remote control dies, they go back to being hunched over or wheel-chair bound. Last night, the sun set at 4:45 and there was nothing I could do, but watch it slip away.

When I'm 64

Felix Gonzalez-Torres, Untitled (Portrait of Ross)

Today I bought a package of Werther's Original at Ye Ole Bed Bath and Beyond. For reasons still inexplicable to me, I opened the package and poured it's conveniently wrapped contents into a small bowl. I then preceded to place that which you might call a candy bowl on that which I do call the coffee table. It was at that exact moment I realized that my fear of turning into my mother had instantly suddenly changed into my fear of becoming my grandmother. Mon dieu! What had I just done? What person of my age in their right mind would do such a thing? OK maybe candy in a bowl. Something neat like an obscure Japanese candy. But Werther's? That's like, so, Florida. It's the kind of candy that's so unloved, no one, not even the most sugar-starved two-year old would reach for. The kind of candy that stays in the bowl—which is precisely its purpose—well beyond the expiration date...
...of its original purchasers.

Sigh.

Sometimes I wonder. Just how dotty am I gonna be? I mean, how bad are things gonna get? I can handle cutting out newspaper articles on any possibly relevant subject and mailing them incessantly to my descendants and I could deal with becoming an old crank who cusses up a storm in line at the bank teller to anyone who is willing to listen. But what if I decide 2 dozen feral cats is an appropriate number of roommates? Or what if I start seeing the Virgin Mary in my pancakes? I mean, what if I start turning to Talk Radio for an answer?!

I already have no qualms about using expired milk for my cereal. And I do have a tendency to hoard. For chrissakes, it was only today when I caught myself gesticulating wildly while talking out loud in search of the perfect salad spinner (not found!) It can't be too much longer now!

Granted, there are things to look forward. Mostly they consist of finally not giving a shit: about what you say, the way you look, or what people think about you. So what if I wanna wear a Real People t-shirt over a hot-pink track suit with alligator cowboy boots? Who cares if I decide the local PTA meeting is an appropriate podium for my erudite theories about pasteurized cheese? And really, who would mind if I zydeco danced my way down the aisle at my only daughter's wedding?