Hungry? Eat your clothes. Not kidding.

Just ran across this bizarre site.
Edible clothing.
yep.

Like this hat.

Okay, you might be saying, Linda, be serious that is just a chick with a cinnamon bun in her head. Oh yeah? Well, what about this from a recent fashion show where all of the

 elements were made of chocolate?

 I am thinking it could be the next Project Runway challenge.

Sure, we have all seen candy underwear. Those sheets of nasty green stick to your teeth "candy" and even some made of the strung candy necklaces or Smarties. But what about knitting up a pair yourself, with licorice laces?

   
Oh, what the heck. Let's go all the way. Give me a meal. Give me a spaghetti dress with a meatball necklace.  In the words of Tim Gunn, "Designers!??! Make it work."

One Thing That Didn't happen This Weekend

Lessons from the beach

Well, the first lesson should be: don't post your blog via text without knowing how it will appear, and then get in a car for 6 hours.





If the sun is shining when you arrive, hit the beach immediately. You never know what tomorrow brings.

When someone wants to meet for a meal. Always say yes.

If a shopkeeper is trying to make her way back to her home country next month, you can negotiate 20% off sale prices of anything in her store.

Most people live in a bubble. Proudly carry a large supply of pins. Don't be afraid to use them.

Women in ten gallon hats who arrive at beach bars alone after dark, are probably bald. And horny.

Fish is good. 

No matter how hard you try to separate life from fiction.... you can't. 

And the best lesson from the beach?

There are a lot more beaches out there.

How to Hack Facebook.

Got your attention, didn't I?

We all know the power of social networks. They're great ways to promote yourself, your product, your business, your band... You can meet new friends, reconnect with old ones, relive your youth, spread good news and bad.. find a job, a lost purse, that scarf you left behind.
Photos can be uploaded in an instant, and you can share your adventures with friends who had to stay behind. Or taunt those of us too poor to do what you're doing.

If you're famous, your fans will follow you. If you're not- you might become famous- though not only in the best way. Some people have suffered from slander and libel and "re-branding" and had stalkers and imposters and even had their houses robbed when they posted they were on vacation... oh... all that stuff we hope never happens to us.

Sure, you may have typed some comments you've regretted- only to have them show up the next morning- but there is the DELETE button. Whew.
THAT IS....  Until someone wrote a program that allows you to view all deleted photos, comments and friends... hmmm. Somebody out there just HAD to know.

There have been posts that are the equivalent of  "drunk dial" regrets.
But of course there will always be that.

 Unlike Myspace, on Facebook, frequent status updates keep everyone in the know. Breakups announced via status updates, affairs uncovered via photos and comments linked to accounts you thought were private. The birth of babies, the first turn of the key in the new house. the divorce papers. A new puppy.


The strength and ease of such a network drew me in. Imagine? An aspiring novelist, yearning to make her mark on the literary world- on the world itself- launches a page with the goal to surround herself not with family or neighbors, but with writers, readers, book buyers.
Yes, it all started innocently enough.

Until all the hardwork ( 2725 frineds, 170 groups, 50 pages, 7 photo albums, 3 videos)-- POOF! disappeared with the flick of a button. I shit you not.

 A button owned and operated by FACEBOOK Administrators.

And WHY? No one's talking. It must be a SECRET.

 Those Men Behind the Curtain, issed a blip of a warning, then within seconds- made a computer decision  to tell me in no uncertain terms that posting 4 website links in 4 minutes to a writing contest:

was a no-no.

"your account has been disabled"
 which kind of sounds like:
 It's not you, it's me.
Things just aren't working out.
I'm sorry. I'll always love you.

Yeah.
 Not sure I'm feeling it Facebook. What do I do now? I made another account.
 Which brings up the "I closed that account, so eveything is gone, right? cover your ass mentality.
 well.. NOT SO MUCH.
 Look here.
  I'd rethink sending any messages via facebook that you want to keep private.

 Even UNFRIENDING isn't that simple. If you don't go in and remove your posts, photo comments and photos from the person's page that you are unfriending... they will still be there. yep.


 So, after a week of appealing to the unresponsive customer service/ diasbled facebook wizard... and hearing nothing, I took the advice of a commenter on a facebook fix-it forum who said he got his page back by slamming over one million emails to the appeals address.

Funny, how the very same activity that got me thrown off facebook, may very well get me re-activated.

It was a black Friday, a social Saturday and somehow I ended up in Detroit in Sunday

Those are all great excuses for missing three days of November Shoe Posts. And if you have stuck with me this long, then you will be glad for this gift I'm going to give you.
Call me Mrs. Claus.

1. A Black Friday secret. NOVEMBER 27
Buy something- anything days in advance of Thanksgiving day at the store you plan to visit for the great deals on Black Friday. Return this item on Black Friday, and use the opportunity to also make your super duper sale item purchases at customer service, where there will little to no line.

2. Endless.com. NOVEMBER 28 Shop for shoes here- at home in your pajamas with a 100% price and happiness guarantee, free overnight shipping and free returns.

3. wi-fi inflight. NOVEMBER 29 Delta has it free right now, hosted by E-Bay.
I am shoe shopping at 12000 feet.

what do you think?

Evening shoe from Piper Lime or this one?

All needed to match the vintage dress my sister found for me in the attic room of a tiny downtown eatery and craft shop in Central New York.

Might have spoke too soon...

Yes, I am trying to move the blog to the new website... but...
there are a few glitches.
So let's just stay here for now, shall we?
Pull up a chair and tell me something funny.

I'm going to post about last weekend and books and writers and crazy fun folks in costume, but first I have to finish 3 segues, because Lord knows we all need help with our segues.

Plus, I just learned that I AM A SHIPWRECK!
hahhahahaha.
No really.

check it out.

I kinda like it.

He's a Magic Man.

Everyone knows this guy: He's MAGIC.
I met him once.
I used to do promotional modeling in California. One of my jobs was to appear at a David Copperfield Show in San Diego. This must have been around 1986-1987 He was in his hey dey then, and me? I wasn't impressed. I'm the girl who likes to expose the tricks, watch the hand they don't want you to watch, see the angle to camera can't. So, of course I went backstage.
What I found was a David Copperfield double.
Right after his "I've disappeared from this part of the stage and reappeared in the back of the audience trick." yep

Still, I thought he was hot. And a guy with magic hands? well. 'nuff said.
But I was in a relationship and I declined the drinks and backstage sit-in and instead went home and pretty much forgot all about it.
I followed his rise to fame- him becoming the 57 million dollar man.. a man with a private island.

As with most celebrities, he ran into a bit of girl trouble.. some claims washed away and some are still sticking around. Like this one from 2007:

A Seattle woman has filed a lawsuit stating that illusionist David Copperfield repeatedly sexually assaulted her two years ago on his private island for two days. The woman, 22, claims the magician raped her and sexually assaulted her on two other occasions and even threatened to kill her. Two years ago, David Copperfield invited the woman to his $50 million private retreat on Musha Cay after meeting her at a show in Washington state. One of Copperfield’s assistants invited the alleged victim backstage, where she was told about potential work on the island that might lead to “modeling opportunities,” according to the suit, filed on July 29.
When the 22 year-old woman on the island, that is only reachable by private boat, on July 27, 2007, “she realized no one else was in attendance other than . . . Copperfield,” the suit states. They had dinner and then went to David Copperfield’s room to watch a movie.
“Copperfield then attacked [her] and sexually assaulted her” and “threatened to kill her,” despite the victim’s attempt to fight him off, leaving her “extremely traumatized,” her filing charges.

“This lawsuit is extortion for money, plain and simple,” Copperfield’s lawyers say. “Unfortunately, false claims like this only hurt the women who really have been abused, women who really need our help.”

TMZ.com reported that other women have claimed that Copperfield uses his shows to target attractive women. The woman took photographs of the alleged crime scene with her cell phone and did not bathe so as to retain DNA evidence. Upon her return to Seattle, she went directly to a hospital and a "rape kit" was assembled. Some of her clothing was taken as evidence. FBI agents arranged a

Sting operation in which the woman met Copperfield and he allegedly offered her a US$2 million bribe, if she would drop her rape charge against him.

Magic Man? maybe not.
Odd how I mistyped his name first off-- coming up with Copperfiend. And because I like to expose truths...
here's a sneak peak at the way one of his "magic" tricks is really done.


David Copperfield Revealed - For more of the funniest videos, click here

I am SO GOOD, that three years later, I can still annoy you.

You can bow and chant that you are not worthy.
And I'll blush and Aw- shucks you while kicking up dust....
but seriously?
I think it is FANTASTIC that I can continue to piss people off about something that I wrote way back when...
Here's the original post and comments


Note the latest comments as like- last week, and totally off the mark. C'mon people? if you want to rant, at least get it straight what you're ranting about. Haven't I taught you anything?
Geesch.
Funny how I get a whole bunch of hits from employees at that unmentioned company --daily, as well as a whole bunch of nervous insurance switchers using the key words, sucks, stinks, crappy, worst, awful, bad news, and dude, for real?!?

One of a few things I'm trying to not dwell on.

Here's the backstory if you're new here-
or if you're like my husband who only hears the words that come after steak, beer, bed, free or panties.
I wrote a (steak) novel- actually three, but here- to minimize dwelling potential- we're only talking about the one my agent read, liked, edited and last week pitched to a bunch of (beer) hot NYC editors.
It's summer, so of course I have plenty to do to keep me busy (panties) during the waiting period- which I have been told can be three days, four weeks, five months, six years or somewhere short of forever. So I wait. And I check my horoscope and the tarot and throw chicken bones like rune stones. It's just that, I am so freaking good at dwelling... that I've about given myself a (free) crazypersonbreakdown- which is good for prepping a body for bathing suit weather, (steak) and pretty good for sleeping long periods of time or drinking large bottles of wine.

I blame the crazypersonthing on (panties) travel, planning, packing, (beer) kids and all their messes and friends and problems and arguments, money difficulties, (steak) the IRS, running another literary business, (beer), replacing household appliances, hiring workers and (bed) prepping our house for sale, while trying to figure where to move, how much to spend and when. Add in (free) difficult work and personal relationships and a growing dislike for (panties) your location in the world, and you pretty much have a recipe for disaster. Or at least the perfect combination of events that lead someone like me to buy a first class ticket on the train to crazypersonville, Xanax included.
I'm not complaining. really, I'm not. I'm just stating the facts. I'm just sharing in the way one might share one's thoughts, feelings, ideas and current status with her loving caring extended family over a Sunday Dinner. (though in my family? We ignore all the bad shit, only talk about the done deal stuff that won't hurt anyone's feelings and definitely never mention hopes or wishes or desires because that's all just dreaming and God knows where dreaming gets you... nowhere little girl with her head in the clouds, and guess what? No one ever wins the lottery or beats cancer either.)
( beer, panties, bed, free, steak)
Mostly it's my fault for taking too much on. For feeling superior over normalcy, for desiring more and more- not the material stuff, just the wrapping up of the regular stuff. If I had a real job in a real office I would be the one with the uber-neat cubicle, the one who was never late, who stayed overtime and always always cleared her desk before she left for the day. You, as my co-worker would hate me for making you seem incompetent, and I would spend all my free time trying to get you to like me. Going places with you I never wanted or needed to go, planning events that would please you and offering, always offering to pay, to drive, to negotiate, to make things simpler. In my head, you'd be my friend, and I'd think it was all normal, sane.
But it isn't. Which brings me back to dwelling- which makes me think I have way too much brain time on my hands because I now have twenty pages of new novel experiences and insight to the characters in the work in progress, all from my crazypersonville experiences of the past few months, and honestly? This may be some of the best work I have ever done- and that's not fucking crazy to dwell on.
Is it?

Trimming the Hedges

I thought it was just me who found those new Schick Quattro Trimstyle Razor & Bikini Trimmer TV ads funny and a bit naughty.

The online and European ad looks like this:


and the American ad?
Looks like this.


All those commercials and the music... just makes me laugh and remember this:

Adam Sandler Music Video: Secret - watch more funny videos

Only in a restroom in Cusseta, Alabama.

Writers see the world... differently.
It looks kind of like this:
EVERYTHING IS, HAS, WAS, WILL OR CAN BE A STORY.

Just as everyone you meet is a potential character and every conversation you hear may be stored away for later use. Having a writer as a friend can be dangerous, partying with fellow writers fills my well. (Hello Southampton friends!)
It is so nice when people "get you," when explanations are unnecessary and when you can experience truly witty parlay.

So, it will come as no surprise to my writing friends that I found a story in a restroom in Cusseta, Alabama last week.

Stopping for gas and potty break with 2 gal pals, I waited in the dimly lit white washed pine sol scented back hall for my friend to finish up in the "one seater." It seemed like an ordinary gas station/convenience mart, gas pumps, checkout counter in the round, coffee, energy drinks and steamed franks for the road.

And trust me there was nothing special about the ladies restroom. Single unlidded toilet, one sink, electric hand dryer mounted to wall, small waste basket...
All details I took in mid squat, until my eye was drawn to the small yellow bag littering the floor. First thought? Why didn't my friend who was just in here pick this up?
Then I noticed the receipt under my foot.
I finished my business then picked up both. The bag was from Dollar General. The receipt went with the bag.
First thought. Some lady was in a hurry for feminine hygiene products.
But no.

Receipt was for the Dollar General on Hwy 29. Store #10320.
Purchase: one Early Pregnancy Test Kit
cost:
$1.00
tax .07
paid in cash

The plot thickens.

I'm seeing in my mind's eye the harried girl who ran in here, the first stop before she had to go home, before she had to return to school. The worried woman who filled up her car, then made her way to the restroom before she had to go home to the husband she's cheating on? The hopeful and excited single woman who hopes a one dollar test is just as good as the real thing because this might be the answer, this might change everything...

and then, you KNOW what I want to do.

I washed my hands, took my time with the dryer positioned over the full waste basket, watched as it blew the loose paper towels, saw it uncover the purple and white box, and something else beneath... and then I thought about what I would say to my friends- and I hesitated. I thought about what people would think about me if I ...
and I left.

Because as much as I wanted to reach in that trash can and find out if the pee stick said yes or no... I would rather never know, because now I'm able to write two different endings for two different women, a multitude of stories. (and seeing as I have this horrible problem with manipulating truths- I don't do it well- I don't have that ultimate statement standing in my way.)

Odder still, was that the 3rd girl in our group who was waiting in the hall for her turn in the ladies room was regaled by a story of confusion, sadness,and despair told by a woman who'd found this gas station by mistake. She'd left a divorce counseling session and was crying so much and was so upset that she had been driving in the wrong direction for miles.
It was a good thing she needed gas and a bathroom, she said, or she might have ended up in Florida.

Lordy. I love Alabama.

When it rains, it pours.

Not only did Morton salt jump on the idiom, but apparently Rapper 50 Cent thought it was meaningful enough to use in a pretty nasty song that you can even download as your ringtone- if you're into that.

Around here, we have had the literal problem with the rain. Downpour conditions, referred to by some locals as "gully washers" should have been a welcome respite from years of summer drought conditions, yielding the lowest levels in our lakes in decades and a whole crapload of rules and regulations we had to abide by when watering our yards or washing our cars, even taking showers.
But no, we complain. Because that is what we do.
We say the commute is longer and more dangerous. We say we can't do our yard work or repair our houses.We say the soccer and baseball game schedules will be forever screwed up. People who need to work can't and those of us easily depressed by gloomy weather don't want to.

On the other side of the saying, there's the idea that when one bad thing happens, a bunch of its friends join the poo-poo party and the shitstorm is on.

Or maybe that's just how it happens for me. Never a bunch of good stuff joined by happiness and butterflies, nor in small tidy bunches of threes like for some people. No for me, it's more like a snowball at the top of a very tall mountain, set loose by a two year old.

It may be household related: the new ac unit and hot water heater issue and water leak and sprinkler system shitstorm of last year. Joined by the dying microwave attached to the built in oven which was preceded by the death of its stovetop counterpart...
Or the way I can blow light bulbs by merely touching the switch. My best day? Three bulbs, one flood light and then I shocked the crap out of myself just by touching the metal mailbox. My doctor says I am highly electrical.

The shitstorm may be family related: a sister tells another sister who tells the other sister... and so on. Something is bound to fall out when you play telephone that way. And even in my small immediate family: the he said, she said, don't tell Dad and why did you do that? all roll into one very large and dangerous ice ball heading for the pretty chalet.

It may be financial, business-related... the stuff we don't talk about. Money and jobs and what we want to happen. How not holding on so tightly makes losing something easier.

It may be school for the children, weight and body issues for everyone, food and provision for the bread-winner, relationships for the mediator... we all have our shitstorms.

It may be predicated by something you said.
Most times ...it's something I said.
or did.
or didn't do.

As a writer, I spend a lot of time in my head. I make my own shitstorms daily. I need the downpour. It feeds me. I live many different lives and if you join me in any of them, at any given moment, you will need an umbrella.

Some days, I wish God had had enough sense to install an off switch when he made me, and given me the brains to know when to use it. And legs fast enough to outrun a speeding ice ball.

From the Old People Amuse Me File

On my street, three- okay- four, if I include myself, people are going through a mid-life crisis sportscar driving phase. Though, to be fair, the other three are white-haired/ balding men who chose convertibles and they all did it after me- so maybe it's all totally unrelated...
but I still find it amusing when the Miata, the Boxster and the Z4 all follow me down the street, with our "best of the 70's" music blaring. We are quite the parade.
Most days I think we are not weird or odd. We are youthful and finally at a place in our lives where we have enough confidence and authority to say, " Screw it. I'm going to live MY life now. It's finally MY turn."

Until I read stuff like this.
Two entries from one of the only sections I read- the world and nation section of my local newspaper:

INDIANA WOMAN DIES TRYING TO STOP SWORD FIGHT.

A 77 year old woman suffered a fatal stab wound while trying to break up a sword fight between her grandson and brother in law....
sounds terrible, right? read on. notice the ages of the men

An autopsy determined Franziska Stegbauer died of a wound from one of the swords, police Sergeant Matthew Mount said. Both men were hospitalized with stab wounds, and one was critically hurt.
"We're unsure yet who started this fight, how the swordplay got involved," Mount said. "We're not sure who it was who stabbed the woman. We'll have to do some testing on the swords and figure out who had which sword, whose blood is on which sword."
One weapon was a World War II-era Japanese officer's sword with a thin blade, and the other had a thicker blade, Mount said.
Police placed Stegbauer's grandson, Chris Rondeau, 39, under arrest on a preliminary charge of attempted murder. Stegbauer's brother-in-law, Adolf Stegbauer, 69, suffered several serious stab wounds, police said.
Adolf Stegbauer was listed in critical condition at Wishard Hospital, a spokesman said.
Rondeau also was taken with stab wounds to Wishard.

Now you've got to be wondering about the conversation behind that episode.

THIEF SWIPES 66 YEAR OLD BIKE.

LEWISTON, Maine— A thief in Maine stole a 66-year-old bicycle that belonged to an 83-year-old woman. Ruth Slovenski got the blue Huffy bicycle as a gift when she was a teenager in 1943. The bike was stolen after she left it unlocked Saturday during a visit to a nursing home in Lewiston, a southern Maine city of about 35,000 residents where Slovenski lives.

Police said Slovenski had left the bike near a mailbox. When she went back to it two hours later, the bike was gone.

The bicycle has wide fenders and a large metal basket. A nursing home security video shows a man wearing a hat and dark clothing riding off on a bike that fit that description.

Police said Slovenski told them the bike had great sentimental value

Of course it has sentimental value. Don't you want to go to Maine and find her bike?

The danger of using your IPOD as alarm clock.

Songs I Woke To This Week That May
Also Be Titles to Children's Picture Books


Magic Bus
You Had a Bad Day
All Fall Down
Buttons
Satisfaction
Men Without Hats
I Love Baby Cheesy


Songs I Woke To Last Week That Are Oddly Prophetic

One Way Leads To Another
Red Red Wine
Holiday
Hot Child In the City
With Arms Wide Open
Ain't Misbehavin'
Poker Face

When TWITTERING gets creepy- WITH UPDATE

I saw this twitter today and it totally creeped me out.

I know how some people are joking on there, and how some are looking for attention and how some are marketing themselves.. and how some of us use it to connect with friends.
But that whole cry out touched me, and I wonder if there is something there and how would you help and how would you know.. I mean are there Twitter police? A Twitter Emergency squad?

Someone who will arrive at your designated Twitter-fied GPS location to pull the knife out of your hand, the pills from your mouth, the nasty screw-you email from your send finger? Would they rush you fresh coffee when yours ran low? Take your kids to school when you overslept? Take care of the abusing spouse in a way only abusing spouses can be taken care of?

Or am I making the whole thing more twitterific than it really is?

Oh, and yes. I do. Frequently.

UPDATE:
THAT POST WAS REAL! And I blogged about it first.
Check it out here.

3 Death Cards in my Tarot Today=Obituary Post

Another person I wished I'd had the pleasure of meeting.


From the NYT 3-20-09 By WILLIAM GRIMES (read complete here)

“We are not after all intended to be consumed.”
So begins Lionel Ziprin’s “Sentential Metaphrastic,” a “poem in progress” of more than a thousand pages. “I reduced it to 785 pages,” Mr. Ziprin told The Jewish Quarterly in 2006. “I call it the longest and most boring poem since Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost.’ ”

Mr. Ziprin, a brilliant, baffling, beguiling voice of the Lower East Side and the East Village in all its phases — Jewish, hipster and hippie — died last Sunday in Manhattan. He was 84. The cause was chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, his daughter Zia Ziprin said.

For decades, Mr. Ziprin, a self-created planet, exerted a powerful gravitational attraction for poets, artists, experimental filmmakers, would-be philosophers and spiritual seekers. He ran his apartment, on Seventh Street in the East Village, as a bohemian salon, attracting a loose collective that included the ethnomusicologist Harry Smith, the photographer Robert Frank and the jazz musician Thelonious Monk, who would drop by for meals between sets at the Five Spot. Bob Dylan paid the occasional visit.

"He was larger than life and so far beyond a certain kind of description that I am bamboozled,” said Ira Cohen, a longtime friend. “He was much larger than a poet, though that’s hard for me to say, as a poet. He was one of the big secret heroes of the time.”

“I thought I was living in the Bible,” Mr. Ziprin said in a documentary produced by Jon Kalish for public radio in 2006. “ My grandparents were like biblical people. The only problem I had as a child, I looked outside, and there were automobiles. There’s a big contradiction.”

While undergoing a tonsillectomy, young Lionel — called Leibel or Leibele by his family — was badly overanesthetized. After emerging from a 10-day coma he developed St. Vitus’s Dance and epilepsy. He was seized by fits of uncontrollable laughter and experienced hallucinations. For the rest of his life, he saw visions and conversed with the spirit world.

A man of many words, he managed to write his self-portrait in just a few:

I have never been arrested. I

have never been institutionalized.

I have four children. I am in

receipt of social security benefits.

I am not an artist. I am not an

outsider. I am a citizen of the

republic and I have remained

anonymous all the time by choice.

Insanity is super sanity.

"For me, insanity is super sanity. The normal is psychotic. Normal means lack of imagination, lack of creativity."
Jean Dubuffet


I love that. After a week of writing, getting lost in alternate worlds and spending more time in my head puzzle solving, inventing and musing, it can be hard to bring myself back to reality- in whatever form. Though I will never be as bizarre as the artists below, I love them for their creativity, for their imagination, for their bravery. I wish I had more friends like that, people who understand that it's much too easy to be sane, to conform to a societal mold, to dismiss all of God's gifts by putting human restrictions first.
It's the artist who breaks free that intrigues me, that wins my respect.

( From 1942 to 1985, Dubuffet found himself drawn to the art of children and madmen, which he endowed with legitimacy and credibility as Art Brut. This in turn inclined him towards extreme forms and the expressive scrawls and scribbles of graffiti, and prompted him to begin experimenting with materials such as bitumen, sand and plant fibers, which made him one of the earliest and most prominent Matter artists.)

Manoir d'Essor, Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, Denmark


Jean DUBUFFET, Galeries Lafayette, 1961, gouache sur papier

of course I'll mention some well-known experimental writers: Italo Calvino, James Joyce, William S. Burroughs, Michael Ondaatje, Gertrude Stein, E. E. Cummings, and Julio Cortázar.
they will change not only the way you read, but the way you think.
As will Robert Olen Butler if your read his book, Severance.
(a sequence of monologues from decapitated heads working on the concept that a head can live for 90 seconds after decapitation and humans speak at a rate of 160 words a second when in a "heightened state of emotion," for a grand total of 240 words for each monologue)

I won't even go into all the other literature devices ( read more here) but I do thank Shannon for introducing me to oulipo. A form that gave me a new exciting place to play, opened up a piece of me that needed exploring.


Musicians - way too many to mention in way too many fields- you know who I mean.. and we may not agree... but each one in their way changed the course of music by going out on a ledge with their ideas, by rocking the norm, by choosing to believe in themselves. And then there are musicians that take chances like this:

I love to discover quirky new music, watch odd, smart independent films and challenge myself every day to see something from someone else's perspective, to ask, "What if..."

With that thought, I'll share what I found this morning- how one guy found music in the ordinary


.
Diego Stocco - Music From Sand from Diego Stocco on Vimeo.


Creativity seems to emerge from multiple experiences, coupled with a well-supported development of personal resources, including a sense of freedom to venture beyond the known.
Loris Malaguzzi

It appears my bottom line may be a great deal higher than other people's bottom lines

As I sit down to pay the monthly bills, organize our files and accounting information, I glance at the dusty budget book shoved behind the seldom used fax machine.
I used to be so good at that.

When we lived in NH, where most everything was cheap-- probably their way to entice people to move there-- I was on a budget/money clinging kick. I kept track of every penny that came in and went out. I had a household budget book with designated categories of expense from frivolous entertainment to fuel. I kept every receipt and was able to submit my husband's travel expenses within hours of him deboarding a plane.
It was early in the marriage, and we had agreed that each of us would do the things for the family that we were good at. For me, it was being the Mom. It was organization, decorating, shopping, and planning- from meals to trips to birthday parties. I'm like a mini-Martha who doesn't cook as much.
For my husband, it was earning the paycheck, dealing with corporate assholes and generally anything that had to do with large machinery.

Since NH, and CA, and CA and PA... we have had our share of financial ups and downs, and even when it it took every bit of our savings to move to GA, we still never worried. We never went hungry and we never thought we wouldn't or couldn't succeed. We may have had a few battles about what was budgetarily important, but in the end, we never stressed about something as stupid as money.
After all, it's the world's most renewable resource. You can just make more. (says the woman who has not held a "real" job since 1993, worked 3 jobs so she could take 2 months off and backpack through Europe, filed bankruptcy after an ex- beau ripped her off and left her with a house and a dog and 2 Iguanas, and has been through 2- count 'em 2- tax audits)
Yeah, what the hell do I know?

Recently, it came to my attention, that our lack of stress and lack of concern about money means we have more of it. God is mysterious like that.
Not balancing the checkbook, not cutting coupons, not being the guy in the grocery store with the calculator figuring out the best value per ounce... NOT doing those things allowed the positive energy of wealth to flow our way ( f you want to go all new- agey on me). Whatever the case. I am free from the money worry. Either it's there or it isn't.
We pay off any credit cards monthly, have one car loan and are paying down the house. We put money aside for kids and school and odd bills. We don't think about retirement funds or shitty stocks.
We are hopeful for a future chunk of change that will foot future bills and buy us into a better area, but we aren't sitting around thinking it will come from a lottery ticket or a casino trip... or from some tax change/government help.

Know this. You can't buy love or happiness or health. You can buy the way TO them, you can even buy "band-aids" that look and for a short while might seem to be the same thing. But at night, alone in your bed when you take that minute to rewind your day... it isn't hard cold cash you'll remember.

I know people who are so focused on their money that it constantly eludes them. People borrow and don't repay, people steal and people owe. The money is scared to go back. All that negative energy... that kind of person will always struggle, and probably not just in their finances. Some people are so conscious of their bottom line, of their gross and expenditures, that it cramps them. They are like the woman who waits so long to wear the fancy dress, that it no longer fits her. Me, I'd mow my lawn in it.

Sure, there are real money issues, and we have some concerns with Obama in office. Seems like we may be penalized for our 'free' money values, for my husband's hard work in a growing and quite lucrative field. For our restraint in incurring senseless debt.
In these belt-cinching times, our pants are hanging loose, but that doesn't mean we're bending over and asking for it.
I just know that when I pulled out that dusty budget book and read the entertainment column, I wasn't ready to give up my $19 Blockbuster membership or the $26 gym, but in May, after my year is up? I may feel okay about dropping the $39/month massage.
Because it will be sandal season, and girl? Everyone knows shoe shopping cures all money woes. Especially when there's a two for $39 sale.

Still Chasing the Dream

While packing for my recent writing conference in Florida, I did the three things any smart gal does: check weather.com's extended forecast, choose the prettiest shoes, and bring lots of books. I was ready for some sunshine, as Atlanta's teaser of Spring went from 60 degree days to 30 degree days and I hate being teased.
The conference was called Sleuthfest, sponsored by the Mystery Writers of America, the Florida Chapter and was geared to the detective/police/PI/thriller/suspense market... more suited for the novel I'm almost done with, not really the one I wanted to pitch, but the agent list was very respectable and I had at least one friendly face in Florida to look forward to seeing, an author pal who told me most of the business gets done in the bar. SO that was one thing I could look forward to. He also promised to show me this cool place. Vizcaya.
One of the statues at the entrance. Boob Anole extra.

Of course, I enjoyed the workshops, learned some new stuff, made some new friends, got the requisite author photos and signatures,
Big name to watch out for and a great guy, John Hart.
Super funny and talented Brad Meltzer, who taught me the value of giving.
did some shopping and went to the beach where we saw this guy catch a snapper, though he had no idea what kind of fish it was until someone told him.All the things you cannot do on the Pier. And now you KNOW I wanted to do them all.


Yes, it was a great trip. Fun times, good food, a bed to myself. Coupled with the fact that my reading of a chapter of We're Not Waving, We're Drowning was very well-received by my peers and I didn't choke on pitch day, nabbing me two agent requests, while two others came in electronically. I also scored some points with a positive and encouraging critique of the work in progress. It's always good to know you are on the right path.
It may have cost a bit of money, time away from the family, and the bitch of a delay getting home on blizzard day... a delay in a terminal where some guy almost died- when no one could heimlich the chicken sandwich out of his throat.
I am dead serious. That guy is going to have the sorest most bruised chest when he gets out of the hospital. Freaked me out. All I could think about was Palahniuk's book, Choke.

When the people near me invited me to join them for dinner before we flew out, I declined saying there was no way I could eat after seeing what happened with that guy.
"Are you sure?" they asked, "We could bring you back some chicken wings."
"Great," I said. "Chicken bones. Thanks."


So, to wrap it up, I'll say this. I'm glad I went, though coming home in high-heeled sandals to snow drifts and my son's Hooters Snow Girl was a bit unexpected.

Anyone who has spent any period of time with me knows I am stubborn- though I prefer to call it "determined."
I knew a guy once who made his Queensland Blue Heeler attack a deflated soccer ball hanging from a tree on his farm in Southern California with a simple whistle command. That dog ran and leapt into the air, snagging the ball and clamping his jaws onto the scarred leather. His hind legs hung two feet off the ground as he spun in slow circles.
We sipped our beers and watched, waiting for him to understand his predicament and give up, until the guy said, "He'll hang there all day. Once he's locked onto to his prey, until it gives, he can't open his mouth."

I'm like that dog.
I've been swinging under the publication tree for seven years. It's what I want and it's what I'll get. Sure, along the way there have been a fair share of hits and accomplishments for my short stories and essays, but my deflated soccer ball is the elusive book contract dangling from the branch of the perfect literary agent.
And after a few years of hearing, "It's not for us." and "Great writing, but..." my jaws are getting tired.
But here I am. Sending out the novel to a bulldog of an agent, another who wears pink and two secret links, continuing to hope for the best.

Weekend wrapup. Old Dogs, Flowers, Fish and Football

My parents were in town for the weekend. Not a big event for most people, but my parents took 2 days to drive to Georgia from Central NY, stopping in on us on their way to a short vacation in Florida.
It was a busy few days. Not only did my old dog turn 13. Happy Birthday, Kid Kallahan.

My Mom turned 73.
Happy Birthday, Cookie.We went out for Greek food after a day at the Aquarium.
We also went to a flower show. My dad and I liked the butterflies from South America
and I got to see more of the weird orchids I love.
creepy aren't they?

Then of course there was THE SUPER BOWL. Though, it was kind of like the super disappearing act in our house, as some people crashed on the couch, some holed away in their room with a video game and others escaped to a book. We did make a betting pool and had lots of snacky food and martinis, so sure, it was a party. Just more sedate than usual with lots of texting going on and lots of waiting for the funny commercials, then dvr'ing the great play so we could see the catch again and again.
If only I had a life dvr.