giggity!

YAAAY!
I'm getting gigs! I have two this month out of the blue. Fantastic! Maybe I can get a substantial crowd out to see me.

I will be brilliant, I will be flawless, I won't let ANYTHING prevent me from enjoying my time on stage!

I will rehearse this time!

I will make people want to come back and see me!

I had a reunion with an old band that I used to Jam with on Sunday. We hadn't practiced and we were all three-sheets to the breeze by the time we hit the stage, but we had a blast! I'll miss those guys. Time for lil' Emilem to spread her wings and jump.

Bonzaiiiiiiii!

friggin ouch

man. It's been a while.
It's also three in the AM and I can't sleep. I am so sore. My whole body is numb. But not numb in the "cozy, I just pollished off a bottle of wine" way. Numb in the "I just spent and entire week in the gym getting my ass kicked by a guy in Nikes and and old soccer jersey."

The first day of this 12 week program we did an hour of pushups and pullups. Let me say that again. An HOUR of pushups and pullups. After which my arms swelled to twice their size and people literally stared at them. My friend Michael actually grabbed my arm and said "whoa!" It made me feel like I had accomplished something.

It's a good hurt. I'm not complaining. By the end of this program I'm going to be tight. TIGHT! Then I'm going to turn in to THAT person. You know. The person who goes around telling people "go ahead, hit me as hard as you can, I can take it." But I'll only ask people whom I know won't hit me that hard and I'll make a lot of noise and scare them.

Tomorrow is Friday and it's my first Friday "off". Now, that I'm a badass in my new job I get to take part in my company's 9/80 program where I work 9 hours/day instead of 8 and end up being able to take every other Friday off. It evens out at the end of the year. It's now 3:30 and it looks like I may be sleeping away my free day.

OOoh! Maybe I'll go get that digital camera I've been yearning for! I'll finish writing that new song. May go for a run...But i'm going dancing later...looks like another full day.

I may need a day off soon.

poetry for poetry's sake

This little girl can't come out today
she's trying something new

She's got a pistol in her pocket
that she's hoping she won't use

cause you never know what's safe these days
and you just can't trust the news

and she never does smile quite as wide
as when she dances to the blues.

This little girl has a wicked little curl
spinning down the center of her forehead

and she's got this false sense of disconnect
that renders her often missled

performing a calculated swan-dive
into Anybody's bed

and she'll drink to her forgiveness
or just to clear her head.

This little girl wants to change the world
valentine by valentine

while Mr Guthrie laments the undoing
of this land of yours and mine.

If "all you need is love", she thinks
then "love will find a way"

So, I shall make myself a prophet and
die this way.

absinthe

Wormwood is a hell of a drug.

I'm not dead

...no, not dead. Just training for a new position in my company after being promoted.

Yes, promoted. cause I rock.

More about that when I'm not being a bad ass.

Muah!

Down Home Blues! (farewell RA Blues)

Yet another reason why I should have a digital camera.

I went to a Blues Dance workshop this weekend to expand my knowledge of the vintage art form and, hopefully, get a little exercise so I can fit into my brand new jeans a lil' more comfortably.

Although I was not disappointed by ANY means, I couldn't help but feel a bit, how should I say this, frustrated? Stifled?....Stagnant!

Anyhow, they were amazing classes taught by some of the most amazing teachers from around the nation.

I was thrilled to be taking classes from our local(and nationally recognized) blues expert Damon Stone. He taught styles that I had been dying to learn after months of seeing folks such as Dexter, Mihai and Damon himself do them on the local scene.

However, after seeing the manner in which we were asked to register, I should have realized what I was in for partner-wise.

Beginner, Intermediate, Advanced.
Seems pretty simple right?
Never done it before, or done it a few times and what to get more involved: Beginner.
Done it pretty regularly for a while and want to get more involved:Intermediate.
Done it for year and may even be teaching it but want to get more intensive: Advanced.

So, when do you know when you've gone from want to get more involved, to want to get more intensive?

When do you get to learn the cool shit? Or, when do you know enough cool shit to get to the REALLY cool shit?

I'll tell you when, when all of the leads in the classes keep asking the same fundamentally mundane questions over and over and continue arguing with the instructors about socially esoteric bullshit(because, lets face it, the reason why men social dance is to meet chicks) so that the whole class is derailed for a half an hour.

They should teach a class on the social etiquette of partner dancing just to cover all of that stuff in an allotted amount of time and leave the rest of the classes to actual dancing.

What really kills me is when leads (or follows for that matter) don't get a concept like "you are responsible for your follow and knowing where her feet are and her weight is at all times." And keep asking questions like "Why doesn't the follow go where I tell her to?" or "She keeps stepping on my feet, why is she doing that?"

I PROMISE you that most follows, even baby-fresh beginners, do NOT want to be standing on your feet all dance long. It's probably what you're telling her to do. How about this, how about you learn how to dance before you ask her to connect with your groin?

One of my three favorite classes of the weekend was a teachers forum that was held over lunch. I figured, since I had been asked to teach a small class at RA blues in Mountain View and had a blast despite the fact that I had NO idea how to teach blues, I needed to know how the experts did it. How do you teach something so complex and subtle? How do you teach French without a textbook or audio Cd's?

It was fantastic. The questions and comments flung about in the forum actually helped me grasp the technicality of the dance better. The teachers were just as exploratory about the concept as I was as a fledgling dancer.
How refreshing! We weren't so far removed that we didn't ask the same questions.

Which brings me to one specific question that brought about the above question "When do you know when you've gone from want to get more involved, to want to get more intensive?"

Thanks be to the lords that my dance partner is a loud mouth. "How do you layer your classes so that you don't lose your intermediates?"

To which the whole group concurred with intakes of breath "oohs" and "Ahhs" and "good one!"s

Damon Stone obliged from his throne at the front and center of the room with "That is a fantastic question that I will answer this way;" (or roughly how I remember it, wish I had a tape-recorder)

"Most intermediates think they are advanced. You can never know enough fundamentals. There is ALWAYS something to learn from beginning classes. If you have a dancer that will skip out on the fundamentals classes and only come to the advanced classes, he/she is an intermediate dancer despite his/her depth of vocabulary. If you have a dancer that comes to all of the beginner classes despite his or her depth of vocabulary, you have an advanced dancer."

Is it me or does this seem like a catch 22?

He then illustrated his point with a great story about the Boston Scene. He moved to Boston for a period and observed that most all of the "Advanced dancers" were actually "intermediate" dancers that didn't feel the need to continue learning forward. Damon then proceded to demonstrate this to the crowd by turning the beginning dancers into advanced dancers in four weeks.

Brilliant.

So, I say again, "How do you know when you get to progress to the cool shit?"

I take all of the beginning classes offered in my area 2x a week. There are NO classes taught locally that progress except for his classes in SF. The only times I am able to get to the more advanced classes are during forums like this where they are offered.

I PROMISE I will continue to take the fundamentals classes. But can I PLEEEAAASE learn something in an environment that is like-minded?

Because of this I have decided to forego my usual Monday night haunt in Mountain View to attend Damon and Heidi's classes at Roots in SF. Although I will miss my fantastic partners at RA Blues, I need to know more!!

Back to how I wish I had a camera......

I had some AMAZING dances with some AMAZING people and I wish I had pictures.

I could post said pictures on web pages like myspace and my blog---->Family and friends would marvel at my fabulous, fullfilling life, my wonderful friends, my travels, my amazingly hot lovers(dances)---->bliss.

bliss-misery

I need a digital camera!! I want one! If I had a digital camera, my life would be so much better!

HERE'S HOW:

I could take pictures --->Said pictures would reflect utter joy at having camera and photo-taking ability---->bliss.

I could look at pictures--->Said pictures would reflect utter joy at having camera and photo-taking ability---->bliss.

I could upload said pictures into computer and look at them there--->Said pictures would reflect utter joy at having camera and photo-taking ability---->bliss.

I could send said pictures to friends and family--->Family and friends would marvel at my fabulous, fullfilling life, my wonderful friends, my travels, my amazingly hot lovers---->bliss.

I could post said pictures on web pages like myspace and my blog---->Family and friends would marvel at my fabulous, fullfilling life, my wonderful friends, my travels, my amazingly hot lovers---->bliss.

So, as you can clearly see as per the diagrams above, it's a win-win situation.
I mean, who WOULDN"T want a digital camera.

Of course I would probably have to take unsavory photos from time to time. Like when my car was broken into. I might have to take pictures of that for insurance purposes.

I might also have to take pictures of a future pet that will eventually die and then I'll have photos from my digital camera to remind me of how happy I was until they died.

Or when I have a boyfriend that breaks my heart or whom I have to leave because of my fabulous jet-setting lifestyle and I'll have to look back a photos from my digital camera of "the one who broke my heart" or "the one who got away".

Or when I accidentally delete a photo that I didn't want to delete.

Or, when one of my fabulously hot lovers steals my camera after we've taken naughty photos and posts them on the web for all to see then I have to leave him because he broke my heart and then I'll end up with the camera with the unsavory photos.

.....

I guess I need to put some serious thought into this.

fuckity fuck fuck.

I hate people sometimes.

This is one instance where the few fuck it up for the many. One pathetic fuckface destroys my faith in people.

I was out at my usual spot Friday night in San Francisco at Studio Gracia. I was having my usual night of Blues dancing bliss. Then Jamie comes walking up to me and says "I have bad news for you." As soon as he directs me out into the street I know what happened.

"Shit, not again." I whined.

I round the corner to see my poor car's rear driver-side window smashed and my vibrant Timbuk2 laundry bag gone along with my clothes for the weekend, my $20 conditioner (which I need for my fragile hair), a pair of awesome jeans that I didn't even get a chance to wear yet, a bunch of dirty gym clothes(ew), underwear (ewx2) AND my bloody ipod.

I keep getting this image of a homeless old geezer or crackhead in a pair of brand new designer jeans with a brightly colored timbuk2 bag slung over his(or her) shoulder, a t-shirt that says "Cute Little Fuckers" and a pair of dirty underwear spread across his face(I know, gross, but he broke into my car damnit!)

fucker.

This is the SECOND time in two years that this has happened. I told myself "serves me right for leaving my bag on the back seat." But then I think to myself..."Hold on Self...The last time this happened, the ONLY things in the car were some cds and a pair of shorts (they took the shorts but left the cds, go figure).

It doesn't matter what the fuck I left or didn't leave in the car, people are fucking LAME!

I once saw a sign on a truck window that said something along the lines of "to whom it may concern, please don't smash the window. If you can find something worth stealing, please just open the door. I promise there is nothing of any value in here. But if you feel you must check for yourself, please spare me the extra expense of fixing a window."

I may just do the same and leave the fucking car open.

But, then they could hot-wire the car or jack my stereo, which would REALLY tick me off.

It's really not a big deal. As Jamie says "It's all replaceable." It true. But those are just symptoms. My mom says "I hate the feeling of violation that you get after something like that." And that's true as well. But, even though they took a bunch of dirty undies along with my bras and tampons I don't feel NEARLY as violated as I feel like I want to give the person who did it a long lecture over a thorough ass kicking.

Something along the lines of "GET(whack!)A(bif!)JOB(smack!)YOU(tweak!)LAZY(thud!)GOOD FOR NOTHING(crunch!)CRACK(slap!)HEAD!" STOP...STEALING...SHIT...FROM...HARD...WORKING..PEOPLE...AND...LEARN...A...VALUABLE....SKILL! SAVEYOURSELFANOTHERASSWHOOPING!


But how karmic would that be really?

Breath Emily. He/She probably needed it more that I did. How true. How else is he/she going to pay for his/her next fix? I mean, whenever I need a fix, that's the first thing I do. Sell laundry I mean.

alcohol

So, I've noticed something about me when I drink past the wobbly point.

I become my father.

sigh...
I know that we all become our parents at ONE point or another. I've come to terms with the fact that I have become my mother(when I obsess over the mintuea of the mundane)years ago. But I WISH it wasn't during the times I am inebriated that my father manifests through me.


Now, my father isn't one of those horrible drunks that becomes violent or abusive. He may get angry or sad once in a while, but that all depends on what he's drinking and what is on the news at the time.
He's mainly just jubilant and chatty. Sometimes he may lecture. But again, it all depends on current events and his immediate surroundings. I absolutly adore my father.

Sometimes, when he drinks a bit too much, he starts digressing and contradicting himself.

This is the point where I realize my genealogy is soaked in spirits.

Last night I went over to my parents' house (sans parents) and spent the evening with my sister, Celia and good friend Kyli. We clucked it up in good ol' Zisman style with wine and bubbly and cheap talk about boys. I love that combination. Strong, intelligent women (with just enough personal drama to make for great storytelling), good food, great music
and alcohol.

There is a mechanism that I built for myself last night. No-one can see it because I placed it right in front of the speech center in my brain. It didn't take me a long time to construct. About half a millisecond to be precise. I built it directly after I said something stupid.

I don't remember what it was, and luckily I am smart enough to choose friends and family to get drunk with that will exonerate my miss givings in a flash. I don't even think it was that BAD. I think I just contradicted myself and noticed Celia and Kyli throw each other a confused "ummmm...." kind of a glance. In that instance I was coherant enough in my haze to design and install my own personal "Shut-the-fuck-up" button.

Yep! It sits directly between the speech center of my brain and my mouth and all I have to do is press it in time to keep the thoughts from exiting my face. I'm sure it's not fool-proof. Especially with THIS fool behind the controls.

But it's worth a shot. Because if there is ANYTHING other than my compromised conversational skills that I have inherited from my father, it is NOT wanting to look like a fool in front of two brilliant, beautiful and feisty young women.

Sweet Solitude

I love living alone.

I love it. I love it so much that I'm going to say it again.

I love living alone.

Even when we had that earthquake that woke me up at 4:22am, I LOVED that I woke up alone in my apartment and the first thing I though to myself as I rolled out of bed was "Gotta put clothes on! I don't want people to find me naked if this 1930's building comes a-crumblin' down around me."

But you know what? I DO! I DO want someone to find me naked amid the rubble. I've got a pretty decent little body, I'm young, I've got great hair and skin and a brand-new tan (post peeling phase). What would they say when they found me?
Here's what they'd say:
"Damn! this bitch was fine!

"Look at her all naked and fine."

"She lived alone too, that makes her one independent, naked, fine-ass bitch!"

*Sigh* yes, that is what they would say.

But other than the fleeting tremor, I must say that spending the evening cooking fabulous, specialty cuisine of sheep's milk gouda, teryaki sesame rice crackers and roasted asperagus and playing guitar naked does wonders for the psyche. A lil' vodka (yes! I drink alone on occasion!)
a lil' dancing, a nice long bath in a claw-foot tub....heaven hath no clouds in MY apartment.

*Mr. Clean ting!*

test...

sweet.

I'm not a complete fuck-wit.
I managed to figure out how to post a
picture without causing myself permanent brain damage.
Now, please understand when I write this self-deprecating diatribe
that I don't actually think of myself as dim or tragic. In fact, I think rather highly of myself. That's why I don't take it personally when I am hard on me. You know, it's just my own personal issues that I'm projecting onto myself. It's not actually ME that I have a problem with. It's really just myself and my "story" if I may.

It's really rather cosmic.
Molecular-level psychology.

Now if I could just figure out how to change the font on this bitch....

whoa

So...

I think I'm gonna try this blog thing. I mean, I don't have to tell anybody about it, right?

Nobody has to know.

This can be my little secret. My "special place" If you will.

It's free, so I SHOULD be taking advantage of it right? Everyone and their dog has one! It's therapeutic, holistic, rejuvenating and my god-given right as an American.

Shit! I'd be crazy NOT to!

So, if I don't like it, can I return it? What if it's too small? What's the manufacturer's warrenty? How many days do I have to decide before the offer expires?

Do I have to sign anything away, like my first-born?
I just tried to post a picture and I don't think it worked. Is that going on my permanent record?

GOD this is intimidating!!!