When I left Philly for Indianapolis the other day, it was 35 degrees out, there was snow on the ground, and I packed a heavy coat, a scarf, gloves, boots, and ear muffs.  Today it was 60 in both cities. 

Mrs. Elia, my 4th grade teacher, taught us that "March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb." I think the lion has finally taken a hike.  

I am SO FUCKING HAPPY this FUCKING WINTER is now over.  I'm so ready to open the windows and get outside and watch the trees branches turn red and grow buds. 

Tonight as I stood outside abandoned Terminal B for Matt to pick me up from PHL, I almost cried I was so happy because I was wearing a T-shirt and a light jacket, and I was comfortable. My cold has pretty much ended (I'm about 87% better now, which is better than I've been in weeks (save for this past Friday night), and I feel like we're all gonna be allll riiiiight.

Here comes the sun, little darlin'... and it's all right.

 Today I can turn the heat off and open the windows to let in fresh air. 

Squeaky had her first grooming of springtime. She's gone from one stinky, itchy four-legged dreadlock to a streamlined dog. 

I heard this song for the first time this morning while I was making coffee, and it put a spring in my step. 

This also makes me happy. I hate it when people put their feet on the dashboard, but I like the song. I know some of the people in this video, particularly the girl who's driving around with a gorilla. 

I read February by Margaret Atwood, and it resonated pretty strongly. 

That's pretty much it for now. 

I am moving next week for the first time since 2004. This is a happy thing and an exciting time dampened only by the humiliation and judgment that accompany accepting financial help from a family member. Otherwise, yay! For the first time in my 42 years, I will own a single home. Bonus: I'll be sharing it with someone I love deeply, his son (at least in the months of December and July), 2 cats, and a dog. So, we are packing.

This is difficult for me, a person who is sensitive to surroundings, comfort, and having my "things" nearby. The disorder, disarray, and extra dust flying around have me and my partner sneezing and snapping ever-so-slightly at each other. The furkids have a constant expression that can be interpreted as, "Please don't leave me here," "Please don't put me in a box (dog)," or "Please, put me in a box! (cat)." 

In acknowledging the stress this packing and moving process puts me under, I am hoping to contain the more irrational and emotional reactions that tend to be my defaults. Success varies by the hour. In the midst of packing hell, I did smile at a surprise last night: when cleaning out the contents of a low corner cabinet into which things seem to disappear (Honey, did you know we have a food processor?!?!?), I found the lid to an adorable little plastic container that fits a perfect cup of ..... whatever. The lid has been missing for sometime; turns out it was there all along, just waiting to be rediscovered.

I have always wanted to see what it looked like inside.

The Pink Building--or more properly known as the Scottish Rite Cathedral--at the corner of Paseo de Peralta and Washington has been there, thankfully unchanged, my entire life. Iconic, mysterious, pink. A Santa Fe landmark that I've driven or walked by a million times. On Saturday I finally got a glimpse of what lies behind those pink walls when the temple was opened to the public. The Moorish-Revival style building has been around as long as NM has been a state (1912), modeled loosely after Spain's Alhambra, and is home to the Scottish Rite Freemasons.

Inside it's as though time has been suspended, from the most lush ornamentation to the plebian workaday features. I'm drawn to vintage, so I noticed little things like the push-button light switches, 50s atomic-era bathroom sinks and faucets, gorgeous metal radiators. Furniture, from the 1930s era oak chairs to the 1950s era lamps and tables. The door handles. A lavish auditorium. A to-die-for costuming room. A light-filled ballroom. An enormous kitchen. Narrow staircases. Wide staircases. Closed doors. Rooms and rooms and rooms. Just...so much. It was a lot to take in.

One reason why I wanted to go, besides getting to peek inside at last, is that I hoped to learn more about my great-great grandfather, who immigrated to the United States from Latvia in the mid 1850s or so, ending up in Texas. He was a high-ranked and highly-involved Mason, according to his obituary and the newspaper articles about him that I've been able to find. Maybe if I knew more about Masons, I thought, I would know more about him. And indeed that is how I now feel. I came away from Saturday's experience (listening to an introductory lecture, speaking one on one with several Masons who were there to answer questions, wandering around the place) with a lot more than just having my curiosity about this building satisfied; I now think I know a lot about what kind of a man he must have been, and I feel even prouder to be his descendant.

I can't seem to figure out how to get my vertical photos (taken with cellphone, not The Real Camera (I should have brought it)) to post vertically. They all end up sideways. This first post of mine here is a test anyway.

So, until I figure it out, please to enjoy this vintage postcard of the outside of the building. It doesn't even begin to capture the Pinkness of this place.

We played a 15-minute gig to open up the Homey Award Show on Friday.

Jill was awesome, and I say that with as much objectivity as possible. She nailed it. Me, I was eh. Made only one "mistake," really, and it wasn't major (of course, I nailed it in rehearsal). But I wasn't particularly on - I was a little too self-conscious to really play.

But I've certainly been a lot worse, and on those occasions I never gave it any more thought than "hey, they can't all be your best show" or "sometimes your fingers have minds of their own" and other musician clichés. For those who've never seen us, there's a lot of "act" in our act, which gives us a little cover, making it easier to fake-till-ya-make. So a flub here and there is no big deal, right?

Well, maybe it's because we were in a room of fantastic musicians, or maybe it's because my panic attack last week was the first strike of a deep-seeded, long-planned Revolution of the Brain, but my first thought after taking our bow (to a semi-standing O, no less) and running off stage was, and I quote: "I am a fraud."

Not "I  kind of sucked tonight," or "that was disappointing," but "I am a huge fucking fraud, and everybody knows it."

Not exactly fair, brain. 

                                            You used to be cool, dude.

Look, those aforementioned clichés are true - little flubs happen, and no one cares. I'm experienced (read: old) enough to know that although my guitar acumen is just barely strong enough to justify my presence on a stage, my strength is in performing, in connecting with the crowd, in being Kage to Jill's Jables. But when we tell people "what we lack in talent we make up in cheap theatrics," we're only joking about one of us. I can write, but I lack the performance skillz; cheap theatrics is all I got. 

Before I go further: this post is not a plea for praise and attention. That's not why I'm sharing this, I promise. In fact, I fear such responses, well-meaning and sincere as they are, can sometimes make my problem worse.

So to be on the verge of tears of humiliation after an ultimately successful, borderline triumphant gig - especially considering how few people in the room were even interested in live music - is to know that some neurotransmitter ain't transmittin' right. And to have that "FRAUD" feeling only triple in size and volume after winning the "Best Live Act" award means this might ultimately be a job too powerful for Xanax. 

Speaking of: after we won that trophy, I texted this to Joe Trainor (who was happily sharing our table): "I seriously cannot shake the feeling like I'm a fraud" (apparently whatever synapse zapped my confidence was also responsible for grammar). He walked up next to me and gave me a "what the fuck!?" look, telling me the show was strong (I trust him to be 100% honest about that) and I was being ridiculous. I explained the feeling the best I could, asking him if he'd ever felt that. 

He thought about it for a bit, and said "not really. But I think I'm objective enough to know that I'm a good player and singer, and subjective enough to really like and believe in my songs. So, fraudulent? I've had moments where I felt like I wasn't performing up to my own standards, but I never felt fraudulent. Disappointed? Sometimes. Disillusioned? Definitely."

He's right - he's one of the few musicians/actors/writers I know with an accurate assessment of his own talent, which is a rare but vital skill for those of us in the biz. But I think I'm pretty good at that too, and that's not an entirely comforting feeling right now. 

I dunno. I got over it before the night was over (one Xanax! Two Xanaxes! Ah, ah, ah!) and ended up having a great time. Our performance earned us at least three potential gigs, and I could not be prouder of Hot Breakfast! and all we've accomplished. And even though I'm writing this on maybe three hours of sleep, leaving my filter filled with holes, I'm still having a hard time conjuring up that "fraud" feeling I keep talking about. So maybe it was fleeting, and this, like All Things, must pass. 

But still, I'm gonna keep one eye on my brain for a little while. Just in case it's up to some old (and new) nasty tricks. I'm too happy for this nonsense. 

I got sick two Tuesdays ago and was sick up until Wednesday of this week. That's two solid weeks of sick.  I was supposed to be teaching in Indianapolis last week and by the grace of jeezas my flights out got cancelled so I couldn't go. Seriously-- someone from The Great Beyond was lookin' out for me, because it gave me a week to be sick. I spent that Sunday through this Wednesday in bed. Thursday (snow day) was the first day where I felt like maybe I was better. Friday was the Homey Awards Ceremony/Concert at which we were performing for our peers so the stakes were high, and thanks to adrenaline, we did a good job (and even won "Best Live Act" which was the only award we really cared about).  Today (Saturday) we were in the studio all day and had an event in Arden that we had to cancel because my body just failed. We didn't get to lay down lead vocals on the new tune in the studio because my throat was too sore, and we knew there was no way we'd be people-worthy tonight in Arden. I felt bad for canceling, but nobody cared really, and I've gotta fly tomorrow (Sunday) to Indianapolis again. My throat feels like I've swallowed glass that's been coated with Sriracha sauce. Talking hurts unfathomably. I need to be better.
Looking forward to 12 hours of sleep starting NOW.
(x-posted to xtingu.livejournal.com)

This morning, I was really, really angry. 

Last night I worked on the podcast, and I got a lot done, but I was feeling very, very dark. 

I planned to work on the podcast some more this morning, but I was angry. I read this article about this rich guy who bought himself the right to have his play professionally produced at a regional theatre in a major city. I also read about Larry David's new play on Broadway. 

I was so angry that I got an image in my head, and I started writing a play about how theater is not a meritocracy, and how it's okay to suck if you have enough money. 

Eleven pages later, Vince came home and took me out for lunch. 

I just finished revising it and condensing it down to ten pages. On its surface, it's now about the fashion industry. I'm taking it to a playwrights' meeting on Sunday. We'll see how it goes. 

I haven't had a writing day this good (balls-out, spark-to-completion)  since probably last May. 

I don't know if it's good, but I like it. 

Thanks, Matt!

yesterday afternoon, I wrote longhand at The Last Drop for 3 hours. It was productive, but almost not. 

There were two men sitting next to me having a coffee date. One looked to be in his mid 50s and the other seemed like late 40s-early 50s. They both set off my gaydar, but lightly; you could tell they were men who'd lived in the quadrant between Vine & South, Broad and Front since maybe the 90s. Both of them had high-quality clothes and silver in their hair. I tried to ignore their conversation, but it was difficult.

They were talking extensively about properties they'd bought and sold, properties they'd bought and wanted to sell, properties they were trying to buy, properties they owned, in the city, in the burbs, how the city had changed, and all of this in a way that indicates money was not an object. Some of their details seemed fuzzy, like they weren't sure about whether or not certain businesses still existed or not. I know there's a lot of turnover in Philly's real estate market, but it was as if they were out of touch with real life.  Still, I got the sense that they were guys who'd bought property in Center City back before or in the early days of the Street administration, taken advantage of tax breaks, and done well enough to now look down their nose at newer housing trends.

"It's nice. It's trendy, but not hipster. You know, not like... Fishtown."

"Remember back when Old City was nothing but us and Mulberry Market? We were pioneers. Pioneers."

The ease with which they talked about buying things was off-putting. I finally put my earbuds in and cranked up Pandora to block them out. After an hour or so, I took a bathroom and coffee refill break, so I took out my earbuds. When I came back, they were still talking about real estate.

"Oh, I LOVE New York. You know what I really want? I want to be able to have a place here, and then have a little place in New York."

"Huh. A little place? Like, two thousand bucks a month for a cubicle?"

"Oh, well, yeah."

"That's what a friend of mine has. He pays two grand a month for a room. That's it, just a room. It's like a hotel."

"Well, sure, but if you're out all the time, what do you need?"

"It has two windows. That's it."

(I wondered if the residents shared a bathroom, like in a dorm.)

"But you're out, you're going to museums, eating in restaurants, the art, the culture-"

"Oh, sure, sure."

"I'd just go up there on Thursday, stay there all weekend, come back on Monday, go to work."

I wanted to take notes on their conversation, and I wanted to dig in my purse for my emergency orange earplugs. I wanted to tell them that if they're so nuts about art and culture and able to work only 4 days a week, they should be throwing their money around here instead of spending it up there. 

On the one hand, for example, I think it's great that The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Night-Time and The Audience and Hedwig are playing on Broadway. I think it's great that there's off-Broadway shows that are unusual and cool and might even star someone you've seen on TV. But their proposed system makes you not so much a master with two servants, but a tourist with no home. If your own city doesn't seem good enough, maybe it's because you didn't invest in it. Maybe if they quit looking for happiness and money elsewhere, they'd find it were they are. Click your damn heels, Dorothy.

and, as Jarvis Cocker said, everybody hates a tourist, especially when it's all such a laugh and the chip stains' grease will come out in the bath.

The guys decided to leave to have cocktails at about five minutes to two. in the afternoon. cause, what the hell. first they thought about going to Dirty Frank's, then Woody's (wondering if it still existed), and then Uncle's. They finally settled on Dirty Frank's.

I hope they remembered to bring cash, because Dirty Frank's doesn't take American Express.

I'm still working on my game project. The AI programming language has kind of grown, though. I have become rather enamoured of it and am making it more of a general purpose language. Once I can rewrite the game engine itself in SAI (which is what the language is called) I will return to it.

Right now I'm working on interoperability with Javascript, which is the hosting language -- SAI code is transpiled into Javascript code that does the exact same thing, which can then, because it is Javascript, be run just about anywhere.  

I don't know if I can really justify what I'm doing. It seems these days everyone's got their own framework or preprocessor or whathave you. I'm doing this mostly for me, and mostly because whenever I go to use Javascript I become extremely frustrated not only at its syntax but at the abuse that other people perpetrate upon the language and other programmers using it.

It's like Javascript is just this wide open sandbox of "hey you can redefine anything anytime go nuts!" and then people do, and suddenly no one knows what the fuck is going on any more because all the fruits mean wibble mustang dope run-on sentence and good luck charlie. Kapisce?

I'm not saying I'm locking it down, but I am saying that a little bit of rigor and formalism would not be inappropriate. And if defucking the syntax further encourages clear and straightforward coding, then maybe it will be a useful tool for others too.