Godammit, I’m Mad!

Whenever I walk to Whole Foods with friends, we have an adventure, and not just the one where tall thin women ram you with their shopping carts.

This time, it was a guy with an enormous didgeridoo.  We had been drinking coffee, watching the circus that is Whole Foods, Venice. My friend asked the guy if he had made his didgeridoo, and he said Yes. He added that he used it for Sound Therapy.

Just a couple of weeks ago, I saw a documentary called Kumare, about an American-born Indian guy who decides to pose as a guru, to see if people will fall for it. Sure enough, everywhere he goes, people lap up his idiotic impersonation of a Mystic, exclaiming how they can feel his powerful energy, etc, etc. I found it depressing. People are so stupid. Or as my husband put it, more charitably, “People want someone to follow.”

Anyway, there is a Sound Healer in Kumare who uses a didgeridoo, and he looks alot like the guy at Whole Foods. “Were you in that Kumare movie?” I asked him accusingly. He seemed baffled and said no. He wanted me to sit down and let him demonstrate his therapy. He instructed me to focus on “an intention.”  I asked him if he was going to find out what’s wrong with me, secretly thinking “If he only knew!”

A handsome Black man intervened cheerfully, “Why does there gotta be something wrong with you?” He was wearing a fedora and eating a cup of Whole Foods ice cream. He looked as contented as a human being could be. I didn’t want to spoil his mood by answering him.

The Sound Therapist started blowing into his didgeridoo, moving it slowly up and down my back. It felt great! I could feel the sound waves vibrating through my body and I pretended they were evacuating evil spirits. It was extremely pleasurable.

When he was through, he asked me if I had pain in my lower back, noting that he could sense this with the didgeridoo. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I told him that while I had pain everywhere, my lower back was a place that sometimes hurt.

The truth is, my lower back is probably one of the few places where I don’t feel pain. I don’t believe in any kind of New Age healing. I don’t believe in gurus, gods, angels, the I Ching, the Secret, Tarot Cards, reiki, colonics, or anything else.

Time doesn’t heal either, as we know. But coffee is wonderful and so is Whole Foods, if you don’t buy your groceries there.

I’m too old and sad to enjoy mocking death the way I used to. But Death Row trivia continues to fascinate me, even though it’s politically incorrect to express anything but outrage on the subject of the death penalty.

Photographer Henry Hargreaves has recreated the last meals requested by some notorious killers in a project called No Seconds. Looking at the photos, it’s hard not to form conclusions about each meal and the man who chose it. The meal above, for example, increased my disdain for John Wayne Gacy: “What a pig,” I thought.

Timothy McVeigh, on the other hand, limited himself to his favorite ice cream. Clearly, he was more focused and less self-indulgent.

Look at what Victor Feguer asked for. What a cunt. Or maybe he was being a smart-ass. I can’t decide. I ‘d like to have told him ‘No way, buddy. You’ll eat a pitted olive or nothing at all.’

My reactions probably say more about me than the meals say about the convicts. That’s why this is art.

Here’s more to think about:

In Louisiana, the prison warden traditionally joins the condemned prisoner for the last meal.

In September 2011, the state of Texas abolished all special last-meal requests after prisoner Lawrence Russell Brewer requested a huge last meal and didn’t eat any of it, saying he wasn’t hungry. His last-meal request was for two chicken-fried steaks with gravy; a triple-patty bacon cheeseburger; a cheese omelet with ground beef, tomatoes, onions, bell peppers, and jalapenos; a bowl of fried okra with ketchup; one pound of barbecued meat with half a loaf of white bread; three fajitas; a meat-lover’s pizza; one pint of Blue Bell Ice Cream; a slab of peanut-butter fudge with crushed peanuts; and three root beers. The abolition followed a complaint by Texas Senator John Whitmire, who called the meal “inappropriate.”  (Thanks Lawrence Russell Brewer, for ruining things for everybody else!)

You can read more about last meals here.  If I end up on Death Row, I plan to ask for a Fatburger with fat fries and a vanilla milkshake.

Feel free to place your order or rant about the death penalty.

Look at this crazy ring! I love the concept of a ring that looks at itself. You can buy it here.

Now look at Kitty, Daisy and Lewis. They are siblings from England whose band includes their mom on bass. They don’t want to be pigeonholed as Rockabilly, so don’t use that word if you meet them. Their style is reminiscent of East L.A and the Ronettes. I can’t stop looking at them. They are flat-out gorgeous. Watch their latest video here.

I think it’s time for me to trademark this feature, that’s how much I like it.  Remember the last time we played?

My first reaction to this guy was YES! I might have even made some kind of noise. My brother-in-law used to groan aloud at the sight of his favorite female news anchor, and it drove my sister crazy. I have to find out if he still does it.

Anyway, this is my type of man to ogle: young, androgynous, provocative. But on the other hand, guys who wear hats are pretentious and douchey. I’m not crazy about little (or big) beards, either.

And yet.

What is your vote?

My friend Jane threw a great party for her birthday, instructing her guests to dress as characters from a Beatles song. The creative challenge was enough to make me accept the invitation and even more noteworthy, to get up off my ass and actually go.

As you can easily see, I was Baby from the song “Baby’s in Black.”  I am even wearing a bib that says ‘Mommy Loves Me.’ Please note that I’m wearing a flared satin evening coat; I am not really that fat.  It was pointed out to me that I could also be the title character of “Lady Madonna.” Thus, I  unwittingly achieved a double Beatles reference!

Anyway,  it was a uniquely entertaining evening on the grounds of a stunning mansion, Beatles karaoke blasting, baby-boomers mingling and asking each other stupidly: “Who are you supposed to be?”

We were advised to bring our own liquor, so we brought a bottle of white wine someone had given us for some occasion. We added it to a large group of bottles near the pool area. A lady walked up and asked: “Is there any good wine here?” I told her, “We just brought this, you are welcome to have some!” She looked at our bottle and shook her head in disgust, remarking “No, that is not a good wine.” After she left, my husband and I shared a moment of stunned delight at encountering such a rude bitch.

Much later, my husband pointed out a person in the distance and said “You have to check out those pants, they’re printed with the Maharishi!”

Look at these fucking pants and scream WHAT THE HELL?!?

I  stopped the pants-wearer, who was pleased to explain how she got them. You can take any picture to Wallgreens and they will make you a pair of pants with a pattern of your image!

Obviously, I fell in love with this wonderful woman. My heart went clunk. Isn’t she lovely? She even asked if I was an artist, which was so flattering. I had to explain, “No, I am nothing.” But still, I think I have made a new friend, and the pleasure in connecting reminded me that in certain moments, life is almost worth living.

Inner Vision is a computer game created by a college student who has given some thought to suicide. The goal of the game is to convince three people not to kill themselves. As a player, you interact with them, choosing the advice you believe will help them most.

It’s a simple game but it offers a surprisingly intense experience. It might be useful as a way to combat suicidal thinking. It could  also be a tool for stirring compassion and teaching us the importance of listening.

For me, it was a chance to get it right, to save three imaginary people from taking their own lives and breaking innumerable imaginary hearts. It was comforting.

You can play the game here. If you’re impressed, don’t thank me, thank Sunil Rao at his website here.

For the last two nights, we have been watching a new documentary about the Eagles. I have tested my husband’s patience by repeatedly asking “Which one is that?” I still can’t tell them apart. I always thought Don Henley was the other guy, Glen Frey.

The sound of the Eagles triggers a cascade of uncomfortable emotions. As an entity, they make me sick.  The “laid-back” sound, ugh,  awful. The song “Tequila Sunrise” represents everything painful about the 70′s. The mustaches and bad hair, the bandannas, the glowering expressions, the very idea of the Eagles is just lame. The 70′s marked a divisive era in rock music and I was repelled by the “Southern California Sound.”  I recall being contemptuous of my upstairs neighbors who loved The Doobie Brothers.

Remember being young and taking music so seriously that it could be a deal-breaker if a new person in your life turned out to have bad taste? An awful record collection was nearly impossible to forgive. If someone owned an obscure record that I loved, I probably slept with them. Actually, I slept with them, regardless, but that’s a whole other topic.

The Eagles wrote such catchy songs that when I hear them I can’t help singing along. But familiarity is no measure of quality. The Eagles evoke nostalgia without being exciting or satisfying. It’s just elevator music. I don’t care if they’ve sold a billion records. I wouldn’t take one to a desert island even if was my only choice.

The 70′s were the decade of my young adulthood. I had a baby, in the happiest moment of my life. I also had a bad marriage,  a two-pack a day cigarette habit, and little capacity for self-examination. Music was the background for everything. Elvis Costello, Patti Smith, and Townes Van Zandt were the rays of light in the bleak cloud of my domestic life. Bands like the Eagles remind me of anomie and macrame.

Some punk band wrote a song called “Don Henley Must Die” and I still admire the sentiment. even if I can’t tell him apart from Glen Frey or those other guys. Now that I’ve seen the documentary, I hate the Eagles with a deeper sense of their awfulness as people who can’t stop arguing about money and their own importance.

Eagles fans or detractors, jump in!

Years ago, I read the story “A good Man is Hard to Find“ at the recommendation of a friend. I remember staying up late to finish it, and fighting the urge to call my friend to berate her for failing to warn me about the story’s brutal impact.

Now I’ve just read Flannery O’Connor’s second novel, “The Violent Bear it Away“ with no prompting from anyone and no one to blame for my distress except for the writer’s merciless vision and brilliant prose. Her writing is peculiar, terrifying, and exhilarating. (If you’re thinking about writing fiction, it will certainly take the wind out of your sails.)

Flannery O’Connor is now officially my idol. She is fearless in going after her characters and relentless in probing their twisted relationships with god and/or morality.

Here’s what the poet Robert Lowell says: ”Much savagery, compassion, farce, art, and truth have gone into these stories. O’Connor’s characters are wholeheartedly horrible, and almost better than life. I find it hard to think of a funnier or more frightening writer.” 

I could not agree more. If you’re looking for a book to remove you from your everyday reality and you’re not afraid to explore the dark Southern Gothic heart of the heart of darkness, you could not do better than “The Violent Bear it Away.”  

Let me know if you read it, or if you have any recommendations for me.

If you’re shopping for a poseur, this is the best coffee table book ever (not counting the billion dollar Mohammed Ali enterprise by Taschen, of course.) At $1,450, it is a lavish waste of money, the better to showcase his pretensions to coolness.

How awesome is it to add a studded leather cover to this book about leather motorcycle jackets? The only thing better would be to add the word “Moto,” which has somehow been overlooked. Oh well, you can’t have everything, even for $1,450.

Would you like to hear these two douches talk about their book? The one on the left reminds me of Bruno, and the other one is a classically annoying and self-important Brit with a fetish for punk. Go here.

Isn’t it funny how the harder you try to be cool, the uncooler you are?

Martine Roch is pure delight. Let’s love her!

*Picasso