beautiful, funny, sad & true

A couple of mornings ago, I was walking to work and it was really foggy and beautiful. It was about 8:00 a.m. The sun was just coming up, and it was shining onto the KOIN tower, thusly:

I wished I could have walked by around 8:30, because the sun would have been up a little higher, and relected off the KOIN tower like a beacon. Around 9:45 I took a break and ran back up the street to find that it looked like this:

They’re both okay pictures, but I don’t think they’re as exciting as they would have been if I could have stayed out there for the whole morning.

(note to self: Boy, do I need to get a little tripod!)

This entry is a combination of two entries that I combined into one, and I’m re-posting them from my MySpace blog. This happened last summer, by the way.

I was out walking around yesterday, and I overheard two womens’ conversation, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. One said to the other, “I’m such a bitch in a relationship.”

The other person just took that in stride. “Oh, I KNOW. Relationships are SO hard. . .”

I wanted so bad to just turn and ask the first person, “Why?”

What’s the point of being in a relationship if all you’re going to do is make the other person miserable? Or allow them to make YOU miserable? Like the second person said, relationships ARE ‘so hard’, even under the BEST of circumstances. Everybody’s got issues. Yes, even me. har har

But at least I can say that I genuinely want the best for myself and whoever I’m with, and it makes me so sad to hear about people who seem to want nothing more than to leave a trail of destruction and heartbreak behind them.

Remember that you’re with the person you’re with because you LIKE THEM. And they LIKE YOU TOO. Why be together otherwise? Reinforcement of each others’ pathologies? Is that the basis of love? I have to believe it’s more than that, but sometimes I wonder. . .

Genuine deep connections with other people are extremely rare, and it seems to me like so many people don’t appreciate that, and they take the other person for granted.

And who am I to comment on all this? I have plenty of faults of my own, but I’m just sayin’. . . I want a real person to care about me for the Real Me, and I want to care about and connect with the Real Them in return. It seems like such an easy request. . .

and here’s part two:

Upon further reflection and re-reading, I felt the need to say that what I wrote earlier sounds more ‘intense’ than I meant it. I meant all that as a bit of questioning, not as a diatribe, which is how it kinda comes across. :) But that wasn’t my intention, or what I was feeling when I wrote it. More confusion than anything else.

Her phrase had been buzzing around in my head, and you got to witness my thought process, that’s all. LUCKY. :)

But anyway.

Man, is it a beautiful night or what? I wish my building had a roof (meaning one that people could go up onto; it obviously HAS a roof), or at least a fire escape, ’cause it’s the perfect night to sit out and look at the stars.

And for gawd’s sake, if you’re with somebody, appreciate them. Give them a hug or something. Try it now. . .go outside together, look at the stars or the city lights, and just hug for a while.

:)

While I was out eating sushi the other day, I saw a car that belonged to one of my neighbors from two apartment buildings ago.

She was the one who, when my cat would catch a mouse, would knock on my door and say angrily, “Katrina’s caught a MOUSE.”
“Of course she did, she’s a cat.”
“Well, you need to train her or something.”
“How am I supposed to do that? She’s a cat. She eats mice.”
“Well, she’s torturing it. . .playing with it and teasing it.”
“They all do that. I cant train that out of her, it’s cat nature.”

or this:
(knock knock knock) “Katrina’s caught a BIRD.”
“Oh, good for her. . .she doesn’t have any claws.”
“. . .”
“I’d rather she didn’t do that, but I can’t really stop her.”
“Well, maybe you could TRY.”
“OK. (lol) I’ll try.”

Yeah, so I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her today. Luckily I didn’t have to.

That was a great apartment, too, by the way. 1915 Tudor-style building with French doors, 11-foot high arched ceilings, and hardwood floors; nice courtyard where we’d all sit outside drinking wine and talking until late into the night. . .such a nice place. Sure was a shame when some of the original people moved out and were replaced by older, slightly more neurotic people.

Like the lady who would shift every conversation into one about rats. More specifically, HER rats. You could be talking about the AIDS epidemic in Africa and she’d say, “Oh yeah, and I heard that too and it reminded me of something the rats did. Rats are very susceptible to disease, and if you feed them blahblahRATSblahblah–” You’d just want to strangle her. You may think I’m exaggerating, but she would really turn sentences around that fast.

Anyway. . .that was about five years ago, and it feels like a completely different life ago. I wasn’t playing in a band or anything, I had ONE crappy guitar, ONE crappy little amp, and a couple of cheap keyboards. Every time I’d play one of my songs for someone, they’d kinda go, “Enh. . .” And I’d say, “Yeah, the sounds suck, but the melody sure is nice. What about that? And y’know, I played everything on there. I was thinking of this French movie I saw recently. . .” “Yeah, well, it’s not really my thing or whatever.”
So after a while I’d just stopped sharing that stuff with people. I had my little regular job, and just was going about my life. And if you’d asked me, I’d have told you I was happy.

Until one day, I made a new friend who would turn everything upside down and change things for the better. . .

It’s all very exciting being a member of a cool rock band, but sometimes it’s just plain hard work. Take last night, for example.

The show was at the Art Museum, in the ballroom on the 3rd floor of the new wing. It started at 5:30 and went until 7:30. I left work early, at 4:00, walked home in the pouring rain, and loaded all my Dirty Martini instruments into the car (guitar, amp, pedals, bag, accordion, keyboard). Then I had to change my pants, because the ones I’d worn to work were completely drenched from the walk home.

So by this time it was 4:40 before I could even leave. Show started at 5:30. Wish I could have been to the soundcheck (which was at 4:00), but with the day job, soundcheck is what usually has to give. So I finally left, and caught every single red light on the way downtown. Rush-hour traffic was in full effect, and with the rain, it was even worse than it usually is. Once I finally got over the Broadway bridge to downtown, traffic was even heavier, and it took until 5:25 to get to the Art Museum. I don’t think I’ve said “Fuck!” so many times before in my life. I parked in a 15-minute loading spot, and just then Steph called. “Where are you?”

“I’m here, I just pulled up. Traffic is nightmarish.”

“We’re going on in like 3 minutes. . .I guess we’ll have to have you on in the second set.”

So I took one load of my instruments up, and realized at that moment that in my mad dash to pack and leave, I’d forgotten the keyboard stand. Grrr. So I shoved the keyboard in the trunk and headed inside, steam coming out of my ears. “Is this the Mark Building?” I asked the front door attendant.

“Yes,” she replied. “And you’re with the musicians?”

“Yes. Where would I find the ballroom?”

“Third floor.”

“Thank you very much!” I grabbed my stuff and headed into the elevator, looking forward to thirty seconds of alone time to breathe and try to feel like a human being again.

Just as I got in, a fifty-ish guy came running to catch it as well. He saw me, smiled and said, “Hey, I like your hairline.”

“. . .?” I’m sure I must have had the strangest expression ever on my face. “Thank you. . .? I grew it myself.”

“Yeah, well, I’m losing all mine too. I saw you guys down in Lake Oswego, actually.”

“Oh. . .great!” I said, trying to rally some enthusiasm.

“I just thought it would be interesting to do a photo essay about hairlines and the way different men lose their hair.”

“And don’t forget the women. . .some women have it happen too.” We both laughed.

Then the door opened, and it was freedom, at long last. He told me to “have a good show” and I asked the door person where I should go. He said that “the performers usually go back there. . .” so I went back there. If you’ve ever been to the backstage area in the Art Museum, you know that it’s frickin’ HUGE back there. I threw my stuff in the green room and tried to find the stage to let the band know I was there. I heard them being announced on stage, and peeked behind the first curtain I came to, only to find that the stage was up another level, and around the corner. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” I whispered, and headed back down to park the car for real.

Once I got outside it was 5:35, and now it was the REAL rush hour. That, combined with the tons of people trying to get to the museum to come see our show, plus with the driving rain, the darkness, and tons of extra pedestrians, made for an extremely stressful driving situation. After circling around a few times, I almost hit a person, dressed in all black, as he and his girlfriend ran in front of the car. He jumped back and fell on the ground–in fright–but got right back up. I opened the door, stood up, and said, “Are you OK?” He kicked the bumper and said, “Man, you’re FUCKING STUPID!” He brushed himself off and they walked quickly down the street, looking back to flip me the middle finger. I went through the intersection and pulled into a no-parking zone to take a breath and fight back the tears that were starting to form in my eyes. No time to cry, I thought, this is ridiculous. I just want to pack my shit up and go home. I kept driving around, fruitlessly searching for a place to park. Finally at 6:15 I found one and parked.

This time, the elevator was packed with middle-aged women who were there to see the show. They saw my instruments and asked if I was in Dirty Martini. I said I was, and that the show was already started. We all agreed that it was ‘ugly out there’, but I told them I was really glad they were there. When the elevator got to the third floor, we could hear the music from the ballroom. (It was “Marmalade,” by the way.) I dropped my instruments in the green room backstage and followed my nose to the back-stage area. I met Keith and Ned, who were standing offstage while the three girls sang “When Doves Cry.” I apologized for taking so long, and they each gave me a hug and said, “Oh my GOSH, we’re SO glad you’re here!”

Then the girls came off for intermission, and we all decided that the best thing to do would be to just have me just plug in the accordion and that would be it. So we did, and then right up on stage we went. It took a few songs for me to relax and start to have fun, but I did have fun. The venue was beautiful, and there was a dance floor, and people used it. It was a great and successful show.

We came off and each of us had a piece of cake that was backstage. It was a huge, yellow pyramid-shaped cake from the Egyptian exhibit that just opened. We stayed around and talked for a little while, then started packing up, only to find that the elevators were not in service anymore. So we carried all our gear down the three flights of stairs and out into the rainy night. I walked the two blocks to get the car, and then it was back up and down the stairs a second time to get the rest of my stuff.

I got home at 8:30, ready to crash, feeling unpleasantly like I had been drunk. To quote Douglas Adams, “What’s so unpleasant about being drunk?” “Go ask a glass of water!” (ha ha) I got out of my wet clothes, put on my pajamas and a T-shirt, and collapsed on the sofa to watch the second half of “The Princess Bride.” Fell asleep ON THE SOFA right after it was over, and woke up at 12:30, when I went to bed for real.

Why am I telling you all this?

Because the next time someone tells you how glamorous it is to be in a rock band, you can tell ’em that sometimes it ain’t all glamor. The real show goes on backstage, and behind the scenes, and it takes a TREMENDOUS amount of work. And I hope it also shows how much we all love what we do, because if we didn’t, we would stay home and have a much easier–but MUCH less fulfilling–life.

These pictures are from a MySpace blog entry in November. It was the day that Dirty Martini played at the Sunset Tavern in Seattle. Before we left, I drove around taking pictures like crazy, ’cause it was so beautiful. In the order they were taken:

1. A very pretty day in Portland, looking toward downtown by way of the Fremont Bridge and the industrial Swan Island area.

2. Underneath the Fremont Bridge. I like this one particularly.

3. Ballard Avenue in Seattle, right next to the club DM played. It seems to be a very bustling, and still slightly seedy, up-and-coming neighborhood.

4. Also Ballard Avenue, a little bit later, when it really started getting busy.

This one could have been taken in the 1950s, when you see it in black and white.