leaning into the sharp points

Words on the Street

2009-10-31T08:52:00.000-07:00

I recently watched Slumdog Millionaire with my mom and sister, and much to their surprise and bemusement, when the movie was over, I burst into tears. When they asked me why I was crying, I couldn't explain it. I felt ridiculous.

The film starts with a multiple-choice question: “In Mumbai 2006, Jamal Malik is one question away from winning 20 million rupees. How did he do it? (a) He cheated. (b) He’s lucky. (c) He’s a genius. (d) It is written.”

I wasn't crying because I enjoyed the movie - I didn't. (I have a low tolerance for violence in my entertainment.) And it wasn't the love story that got to me, with it's choreographed, dance party resolution (although admittedly that was my favorite part.) What really, really struck me, were the simple, white-on-black words on the screen – the answer to the opening question: "It is written."

Those three little words seemed huge. They encapsulated the idea of destiny, of struggle and redemption, of biblical importance. If that tiny sentence had not been at the conclusion of the movie, I would not have been blubbering into my popcorn. That is the power of words.

I especially love the random words of people, sometimes in unexpected places, expressed through graffiti, flyers or signs. With my cell phone camera (and sometimes my Nikon) I try to capture the occasional phrase, warning, exclamation or opinion. Here are some samples from this growing collection:

To see the entire set, go here.

Reckless Abandonment

2009-10-27T07:52:00.000-07:00

Since abandoning necklace making, community gardens, and drumming, you'd think I'd have plenty of time to blog. But I have abandoned that too. Here are the things taking up my free time instead: taking pictures, pro bono design projects, and making copious amounts of crock pot food. When it went from 85 degrees to a brisk 80 here in San Diego, I put on my warmest sweater and got a hankering for hot stew. I should take pictures of these concoctions, bringing my current loves together, to be abandoned at a later date.

In the mean time, I will share with you some of my recent photo and design endeavors.

My friend Jason (producer of the not-ubiquitous Secret Life of Spiders) asked me to do the artwork for his band's first CD. I have long been obsessed with macro photography featuring miniature people, so I thought I'd give that a shot for this project. I went to the model train store, acquired some tiny things, and rented a macro lens. Here are some of the results:

To see the entire set, go here.

I was also recently asked to help a friend polish up a poster for a play he had written. Initially, I was just supposed to take photos of the existing components for the poster, which consisted of some hand-written lettering and many dismembered doll parts, (my specialty) and sort of clean it up. Instead, I steamrolled the project and rebuilt the whole thing. Because I am a control freak. But I had so much maniacal fun doing it.

And then, just when I thought I had run out of things to do, my old friend Stacy asked me to design the CD artwork for his steel drum band, Tobago Bay. This project is still pending, and I'm not sure I nailed the right cover for them yet. But what we have so far involved a photo shoot, a suitcase, and a fake airplane ticket:

(With special thanks to my pal Tawnya for all of her photo shoot assistance.)

Some other creative things come from the wedding of my good friends Tone and Melissa, who were joyously married on October 17th. First, I had the honor of doing their wedding invites, using a design borrowed from Martha Stewart's Super Rad Weddings You Can't Afford Magazine. It was a lot of fun to create, and we were very happy with the way it turned out:

On the wedding day itself, I wanted to capture some magic moments, and maybe get a feel for what wedding photography is like. Unfortunately, I am lacking the proper equipment. But with my pee-wee built-in flash and slightly decrepit Nikon, I pushed onward.

This is my favorite shot from that day, and as Melissa said, it captures their relationship beautifully:

Yes, that is the groom in the background, daintily enjoying a delicious chocolate cupcake provided by the Burger Lounge.

I really love the look of high-key photography, which I know nothing about. I found a Photoshop tutorial intended to produce that effect, and tried it out on this photo of one of the wedding attendants:

I think it's blown-out and lacking in detail, but I love the dramatic effect on the eyes.

Thanks for making it to the end of this lengthy update. I hope to have more photography efforts and creative projects to share with you soon.

My first voice-over.

2009-09-01T12:09:00.000-07:00

My good friend Lexington Wolfcraft, the creator of Switchyard's Hybrid Moments video, has a new animation he created with his brother Joe. They were kind enough to invite me to be the voice of the young Republican daughter, Deanna. She only has a couple of lines, but I had a really great time doing it.

I present to you, Like Father Like Son.

Check it out and rate it if you can. You never know, they just might get to turn it into a full-fledged TV show.

Spread love, jerks.

2009-08-07T17:28:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've listed anything new in my Etsy shop. But today, fueled by caffeine and inspirado, I posted the item I intend to save the world with.

I present to you Feel Good Squares

Saving the world at $3 a pop. What more could you ask for?

I Heart My Tripod

2009-07-13T17:25:00.001-07:00

Since stealing my mom's tripod when I was in Las Vegas, the world of night time photography has revealed itself. For example, if you sit very, very still, it doesn't matter if there is only one tiny lightbulb in the room.

Portrait Practice

2009-06-02T13:49:00.000-07:00

In my quest to take better pictures, some friends and family have been kind enough to loan me their faces. Here is a sampling of first attempts.

Katherine:

Jake:

Tone:

Melissa:

Carly:

Justin:

Tom:

Jessica:

Robert:

And no collection is complete without Cooper:

More to come...

Community Garden Update

2009-03-10T13:37:00.000-07:00

So Ann and I decided Spring was close enough, loaded up on seeds and stuck them in the dirt. We're growing all vegetables, a selection so vast I can't remember which. But radishes are involved. Red, crunchy radishes.

We divided the plot into small squares to contain each variety, using the rocks we'd been collecting to create borders and two small paths. When we dumped out the bucket of rocks, every imaginable kind of insect scurried out, including a giant green and orange centipede that made my arm hair stand up. I thought he was a menace but Ann felt he was a friend, because Ann is cool like that. I wish I'd had my camera on me so you could see just how creepy this thing was.

I did manage to bring my camera last week to document our progress. We have some tiny sprouts, nothing dramatic, but still pretty neat. Everybody else's plot looks amazing right now, with things sprouting up right and left. Here are some of the highlights.

When do creatures rape your face?

2009-03-06T16:51:00.000-08:00

Even though I love this song and decided to cover it, I never felt quite right singing, "when do creatures rape your face." But it was originally a punk song, and who am I to shy away from what the original artist intended?

When my friend Lexington Wolfcraft, who is an animator by trade, offered to make a video for my version of Hybrid Moments in the style of cutesy anime, I was delighted. It makes the transition between deplorable and adorable complete.

Lex was even kind enough to let me have input, and when I requested he give me bigger boobs, I got some. He even made my hair look fantastic. It's the best makeover I ever had.

I present to you a kinder, gentler version of The Misfits' Hybrid Moments.

Pixel Girl Presents

2009-02-17T08:26:00.000-08:00

Last week I was delighted to learn that the design I submitted to Pixel Girl Presents was included in their gallery of very cool desktop backgrounds. If you are a Mac nerd like myself, you'll want to check out their sweet selection of desktops, iphone backgrounds and icons. It's a great site, run by one woman who obviously has great taste. :)

Your ears are delicious.

2009-02-05T09:26:00.000-08:00

Meet Parti. She's the one on the left.

Parti is a "parti poodle," aptly named for her coloring, and she belongs to my good friend Katherine. Katherine and I often watch each other's dogs, and over time, they have formed an immense bond. Some would even say, a romantic bond. And because we are all progressive thinkers, we totally support our dogs in their alternative lifestyle.

Last night Katherine had an event to attend, so Parti spent the night with us. The real crime here is that the lighting was terrible, and these guys never stop moving for one second, so most of the shots were blurry and dark. I did manage to vaguely capture of few moments of what took place in my bed last night.

Parti thinks Cooper's ears are deliriously good-tasting. These pictures really don't capture just how much she loves Cooper's ear flavor. She doesn't just lick them, she puts the entire things in her mouth and sucks on them, like a nursing kitten. By the time we went to sleep last night, Cooper's ears resembled two soggy rodents.

These two are so intimate, you almost get the feeling you should leave the room.

Parti's ear fetish all began several months ago when I took a trip and left Cooper with Katherine for a couple of nights. The first night, as it dawned on her that I wasn't coming to pick her up, she started to tremble all over, in that very heart-breaking way that only Cooper can. In an attempt to comfort her, Parti came over and gave her ear a lick. Then another. And another. Then she was like Eddie Murphy in Raw, saying, "That wasn't no Saltine. That was...that was a Ritz. That wasn't a Ritz? God, that was the best cracker I ever ate in my life. Can I have another one, please? Please, one more."

And before long it was a full-fledged addiction.

On another, completely random note, I finally got one of those wall decals I've been lusting after.

It looks cute, yes? I do like it a lot. I just can't understand why they are so expensive. Up close, it is really choppy-looking, and kind of a pain in the ass to apply. Luckily this one was small, but I can imagine larger decals being an absolute nightmare. Nonetheless, this was a generous gift from my friend Korie, to thank me for donating my graphic design skills over the years. You're welcome. :)

There's a shelf for us.

2009-02-01T13:04:00.000-08:00

Citizen Video is now offering retail space for local crafters, and I have my very own shelf.

To celebrate, here are some pictures of Cooper from our field trip to OB last Wednesday:

I left my sea legs in my other pair of pants.

2009-01-27T13:17:00.000-08:00

This Saturday, with the help of my good friend, Ann, we busted serious ass in the community garden. With the recruitment of Ann, who is a seasoned gardener and ferociously hard-working, we were able to get a lot more accomplished than we would have on our own. After turning our soil into "chocolate cake," we had enough energy to stick a tiny tomato plant in the ground. 4 hours of shoveling, sifting rocks and mixing compost had me beat. But it felt good to work that hard, and I like the idea that some day I might have a muscle.

Needless to say, on Sunday I was ready for a long day of relaxation. But Ann and her dear husband decided it would be a great idea to go on a whale-watching expedition on a boat, and would I like to join them? Their treat? If I was smart, I would have said "no." I was tired. But it seemed like the kind of thing only a lazy nerd would turn down, and Ann assured me we'd only be gone a couple of hours. So I said, "Sure, I'd love to go."

They got me a ticket and we drove down to the bay that afternoon. I took one look at the boat and said, "Uh oh. Is this going to make me throw up?"
"Nah, you won't get sick on a boat this big," was the reply.

So we got on board and wandered around. I amused myself taking tons of pictures and tried not to choke on the thick exhaust fumes from the boat. Then the captain made his welcoming speech, mentioning that we'd be going out to sea for 3 and a half hours. My stomach sank. I looked at Ann and said, "Three and a half hours?" She shrugged. Everyone knows that a "three hour tour" always ends badly. My first instinct was to get the hell off the boat and take a cab home, but I stuck it out. It was a beautiful day.

The first hour was fun enough. I managed to take some cool pictures of seagulls hovering overhead. As the waves got bigger and walking became difficult, Ann got the giggles and we teetered around like drunks, laughing.

But that was where the fun ended and the nausea kicked in. I spent the next three hours trying desperately not to throw up, clutching one of the "seasickness bags" that were kindly provided on every railing.

This bag should obviously say "Chunk Blower." As my stomach tried to shove itself out of my mouth, my inner dialog went something like this:

I hate the ocean. I've never cared less about whales in my life. I'll never step foot on another boat again as long as I live. Damn you Ann. Wait, I should be meditating. What is my mantra? All is well in my world. All is well in my world. *burp* Please don't throw up in front of these people. All is well in my world. This is what hell is like. I hate you, mother nature.

When I went on deck to get fresh air, the arctic cold penetrated my ski jacket. When I went in the dining area to warm up, it was impossible not to inhale exhaust fumes. The experience sucked on so many levels, I was surprised to see only half of the boat's occupants puking and looking as miserable as I did. At one point, when I saw just how far away we were from land, I found a nice quiet corner to hide in and wept. It was pathetic.

Ann, who was impervious to the rocky ride (she said it was like being rocked in a cradle) felt pretty bad about it. Between her husband and I, she had her hands full of sick people. By the time a whale made an appearance, I was too green to walk to the other side of the boat to witness it.

When it was all over, we hugged and laughed and made fun of ourselves. But like I told Carly the next day, if a whale had jumped out of the water, into my lap, and read me a poem, it would not have been worth that trip. But that's not entirely true. If you ever see me on a boat again, it will be because I'm on my way to see snuggly whales who talk.

I Heart My Monkey

2009-01-23T20:37:00.000-08:00

I am learning a little more about photography all the time (mostly from my friend Anthony, who works with Tom at Velo Cult.) Thanks to digital technology, I'm able to take hundreds of terrible photos without wasting any film (or money.) But regardless of how they come out, I love taking pictures. And every now and then, I get one that makes me really happy.

Speaking of awesome photos that make me happy, this one is from photographer Erin Tyner.

A few days ago I discovered her Etsy shop, and these brilliant images inspired me so much, I haven't stopped thinking about them. I love tiny things, and taking pictures of tiny things. So I started thinking about the kind of stuff I can make to take pictures of, and it gave me new motivation to work on my people sculptures.

So I better get to it.

The creation of something new is not accomplished by the intellect but by the play instinct acting from inner necessity. The creative mind plays with the objects it loves. — Carl Jung

A thousand words.

2009-01-18T19:28:00.000-08:00

In the world of Etsy, they say your blog is the gateway to better business. And because my Etsy shop is like a ghost town where not even a ghost lives, I decided to put a little more energy into my blogging efforts.

But I'm not real chatty lately. My brain hurts. I'm like a ghost town where not even a ghost lives.

I've been taking some pictures, however, and you know what they say about those.

These are from a Saturday walk with Miss Cooper.

Until words return to me, stay tuned for more pictures of Cooper and flowers. :)

Starting from Scratch

2009-01-11T16:36:00.000-08:00

This Saturday I attended my first community garden meeting. There were a lot of nice folks, sitting around in a circle, talking about garden stuff. I tried to be attentive while keeping Cooper, who was sitting on my lap, from barking, whining or wandering off. As much as I want her by my side, I don't think she'll be a popular visitor in the community garden. She's like a little Godzilla, trampling over everyone's carefully planted little vegetable villages. I apologize for that, and I'll be leaving Coop at home until I can get her to understand plot boundaries.

In the mean time, we've made some small progress. Carly, impressing me with her strength and determination, spent the last two days digging through infinite rocks and stubborn roots in preparation for laying down the gopher wire. I helped a little, and when we were done today, she looked at the impressive pile of dirt and said, "I think I dug too deep. I'm a lunatic." But then reminded herself that you reap what you sow, and determined we were going to sow something immaculate.

And speaking of growing stuff, check out the new art for my Etsy store:

I showed this to my mom, and she said, "That's nice, dear." When I asked her why she wasn't more impressed (because I was mightily impressed with myself) she said, "You drew that? Oh, I thought you stole it off the internet. Kudos!" Thanks Mom. Anyway, stay tuned for more new art and new shop stuff.

Cooper the Great

2009-01-07T17:25:00.001-08:00

Today I taught Cooper to fetch my car keys, which will come in handy on a daily basis, as I am always looking for them. We've been working on this one for a while, and it was an awesome feat for her. We were both really excited.

There is nothing like that moment when you and your dog completely understand each other. It's like cracking open a safe, or solving a puzzle. A brilliant, fuzzy puzzle.

Now if she'd just get a job.

Community Gardening

2009-01-04T18:23:00.000-08:00

My good friend Carly called me the other day to say that, after a year and a half on a waiting list, she was finally called about an available plot in the Golden Hill community garden, and did I want to participate. I said "yes, please." It's high time I learned about growing stuff. Here is a photomentary of our first introduction to communal gardening.

I drove to pick her up on a rainy Saturday morning.

The area surrounding the garden is beautiful, especially in the rain.

We wait to meet Dave, the garden's curator, to let us in and show us our plot.

Dave arrives and shows us around, along with a couple who are also getting their share of dirt. We discuss the perils of attracting ground hogs. Everyone is real nice.

The place is very tidy. I let Cooper run around and sniff things. She was really into eating grass that day. It'd be cool if she ate only weeds. Like a little cow.

Everyone has a crafty sign to mark their plot. I've been assigned to come up with something for ours. A pirate flag comes to mind. Something bloody, with skulls, to scare off the ground hogs.

Carly signs the papers and makes it official. She says it's a monumental occasion, like the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

We can't wait to grow stuff, and then eat it. Check back for more community garden updates!

Viva La Resolutions

2009-01-02T18:19:00.000-08:00

I have the classic collection of new year's resolutions: get in shape, stop eating junk food, be less of a dick, etc. But I still feel compelled to list precisely what I want to accomplish in the new year, and maybe give my goals a little more substance.

1. Ride my bike more

Tommy G built me a really beautiful bike, and if I don't ride it, I am both flabby and a dick. So in riding my bike, I kill two birds with one stone. More importantly though, is the magic perspective you get of the world from the seat of a bicycle. It is a very worthy endeavor.

2. Understand the mechanics of taking a decent photo

Tommy G also enabled me to purchase a camera for Christmas (generous soul.) The Nikon D70 is at last in my possession. You don't need to know a lot for this camera to take a fine photo. Nevertheless, my goal this year is to take great pictures because I actually know what I am doing.

3. Kick the sugar habit

This needs no explanation. Sugar is the devil.

4. Get more exercise

This goes along with riding my bike, but bears repeating. I have a box in storage labeled "skinny pants" that contains just that. I would like very much to fit into those pants in the near future.

5. Sharpen my entrepreneurial skills

Graphic design and I are getting a divorce, but not until I find another way to feed myself. It's time to throw some enterprising veggies in my capitalist crock pot and see what kind of stew I get.

That was a pretty corny metaphor. I must be hungry.

I'm off to eat something lean and sugarless. Happy new year!

I got a Nikon camera, I love to take a photograph.

2008-12-20T22:22:00.000-08:00

I finally got the camera I was lusting after (thank you Tommy G), and I am celebrating by taking copious amounts of Cooper photos. Look at her. She is so damn pretty.

Merry Christmukkah.

Pretty. Shiny.

2008-08-30T16:02:00.000-07:00

I don't know what happened, but this year I realized I was a girl. I also realized that I like girly things. They don't have to be expensive, just as long as they mesmerize me with that special, magic sparkle. Seriously, it's like I'm having a late puberty. About 20 years late.

Anyway, I'm experimenting with the creation of such items, such as this, one of my newest glass pendants.

I haven't really been selling them (although I now offer a couple in my Etsy shop.) Mostly I've been wearing them. They look nice with everything. And they're shiny. I like shiny things.

Nintendo - nurturing addictive behavior since 1985.

2008-07-14T23:37:00.000-07:00

If you've seen the commercials lately, you may have noticed that Nintendo is trying to turn girls into "gamers". When I happened to look through my junk email and found an invitation to host a Nintendo party for ladies only, I was intrigued. When they mentioned that it included free electronics for me and all my friends, I didn't hesitate.

Dangling the proverbial electronic carrot was a marketing firm (www.brandabouttown.com) who had read my blog and decided I was the perfect demographic for this marketing experiment.

Their invitation stroked my ego gently, applauding my coolness, and suggesting that I must have a wide range of influence over my friends. Because a party sounded like fun to me, I did not correct them.

I must start out by saying that, once upon a time, I gave 2 years of my life to a dark world of Super Mario Brothers, Tetris, and speed. Imagine a young me, living at home, an unemployed, unshowered tweaker on a 3-day Mario bender. Not unlike this:

On one such day, my sister walked into my room and quietly observed me playing my one-hundred-thousandth game of Tetris. I was doing that weird thing that people on drugs do with their mouths (we called it 'eating invisible sandwiches') and thumbing the controller violently. Scrutinizing my deranged state, my sister said simply, "Are you serious?"

Not too long after that, my mother hid the controllers from me (only back then they were called "paddles") and demanded that I get a job. With that, my extended bout of loserdom came to an end.

Today, I am a model citizen. I haven't done drugs in many, many years, and my Nintendo habit has long been kicked. Until now.

So my job as party hostess was to gather up to 30 of my closest female friends and invite them to my 'Girlfriends Guide to Gaming' party. I had to employ the assistance of my friend Tawnia to round up some bodies, because, contrary to what I let the marketing folks believe, I have only a handful of girlfriends. And like me, they are all agoraphobic. But between Tawnia and myself, we were able to round up a very nice bunch of ladies, all lured by the promise of a free Nintendo DS.

The event was held in a cool little loft-type space downtown, which was thoughtfully decorated and stocked with ample food and beverages. Upon walking through the door, each guest was provided with a gold charm bracelet. The room was divided into 4 stations, each featuring a different Nintendo DS game. We were instructed by the lovely assistants how to play each game, and upon completing a round or two at each station, you were given a charm. Once you had collected all four charms, a shiny, new Nintendo DS was yours to take home. Make no mistake about it, it is their hope to turn all of us women into video game addicts. Fait accompli.

It was a lovely, stress-free soiree, completely planned and orchestrated by the Nintendo/marketing reps. So pleasant was my party, that I won't even begrudge them the fact that this happened downtown during a bloody Padres game, and the traffic made me want to go home and hide under the bed.

I am not under any obligation to promote or blog about Nintendo, but I am now considered an "enthusiast." And as an enthusiast, I do hope I get more free gadgets and accessories sent to me. Otherwise I'll have to score them on the streets.

To see all the pictures from the party, click here.

Lifting the Curse

2008-04-19T13:58:00.000-07:00

As long as I can remember, I've wanted a tattoo, but kids with protective Jewish mothers typically don't get them. My mother told me specifically, "If you get a tattoo, it will kill me." I am grateful now, as I would have been covered in bad, homemade tattoos by the age of 15 had I not respected her wishes. But I still want one.

Recently, my mother made a friend at her knitting group who is adorned with many lovely tattoos. She talks about her friend's artwork with great admiration, so I asked her if it would still be traumatic to see her child's flesh marred with ink. She replied, "Go ahead and get one." And with those few words, the curse was lifted.

The trouble is, I am deeply ingrained with the notion that getting a tattoo will kill my mother. The only way I can get one now is if she draws it herself. That would be the ultimate blessing. So now I am waiting for her to actually complete the design I requested, or perhaps she will sneakily put it off until we are all dead, and then HA! She wins!

In the meantime, my talented mum has only recently begun to hit her stride as an artist. For example, this amazing tree she drew, which is now available for sale in my Etsy shop.

The tattoo I want will hopefully look something like this, if she in fact ever does it. To be fair, she will soon be too busy to do my artistic bidding, as she was recently asked to illustrate a book of Tibetan deities.

So, Mom, before you're neck deep in graphite dust, hurry up and draw me some trees. Quick, before I change my mind...

Inhuman Remains

2008-04-08T21:18:00.000-07:00

I have always been a walker. I walk the dog, I walk to the store, I walk when I'm pissed off, and I walk when I'm cheerful. One day, many years ago, I noticed something that was consistently lying around in the suburban streets where I lived: doll parts.

G.I. Joe limbs, Barbie heads, tiny plastic shoes, arms and legs with bendable joints, small plastic fists that held nothing - all these things I have found while taking a neighborhood stroll.

I started keeping a collection of these wayward appendages in a glass jar. It was never a goal of mine to collect plastic body parts, but the proliferation of doll carnage made it a pretty easy hobby. (Not to mention the fact that early in my adolescence, I made it a habit to steal the hands off of mannequins at the mall, so this collection was only a natural progression.) Before long, finding a dismembered action hero or dirt-smudged Barbie arm became something of a huge score. My jar of parts overfloweth.

When you move a lot, as I do, you start to look at your stuff in terms of how easy it is to pack up and move, and how necessary it is to keep. During the last evaluation of my belongings and their importance, the jar of parts just didn't make the cut. It was time to pass it on.

Fortunately, I was able to find them a good home on a friend's shelf where they are quite happy. That was a few years ago, and I stopped finding doll parts after that. Until recently.

Several weeks ago, Cooper and I were out for a stroll when I saw this, lying innocently on the sidewalk:

Yup, that's a finger. And then, a few days later, down a different street, I stumbled upon this:

The fingers of mannequins were suddenly littering the streets where I live.

By force of habit I collected them and left myself a mental note to call The Keeper of the Jar. I was excited to have new items for the collection.

Then a week or so ago, Cooper and I were on one of our Saturday marathon walks, when we passed a sunny neighborhood alley many blocks from my house. Imagine my absolute shock and delight to see this:

The rightful owner of those fingers stared eerily at me as I stood there transfixed. But because of my rule regarding frivolous junk and the space required to store it, I walked away. This was unthinkable for me a few years ago, but alas, I guess that's what people mean when they say, "Grow up." It means you must resist the urge to take home creepy, mangled mannequins. Sigh.

But then! Later that week I remembered that I needed a nice, smooth neck upon which to model my new line of pendants. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!? I MUST GO BACK AND GET HER RIGHT NOW!

In a panic, I hopped in my car and sped to the alley where I'd seen her propped up against that fence. But sadly, she was gone. Someone got to her first. Damn my slow thinking.

But the story doesn't end there. Two days ago, Cooper and I perused the streets again, looking for a place to poop. No, not for me, silly. We turned down the alley behind my apartment, and Coop wandered into some weeds that run along the side of an empty building. There I saw a new wonder. Bones.

A big pile of them, bare and filthy and covered in dirt. Unbelievable! Is that a femur? An arm? Are those cow bones? Dog bones? PEOPLE BONES?!?! Then I saw a piece of skull and got ready to call the police. But I had to make sure what I was seeing was real, and bent down to pick up the piece of skull that for all I knew was once one of my neighbors.

Drat. It was light as a feather. Bones are heavy. Further inspection revealed the truth - the damn things were made of styrofoam. Who leaves a pile of styrofoam bones in an alley? I won't lie to you - I was terribly disappointed. I really wanted to be the walker that found the remains of a missing person. And no small jar would hold a collection of parts this big. I heaved a sigh and continued with my walk, wondering what on earth I might find next.

In My Uttermost Bones

2008-04-03T15:48:00.000-07:00

"There will always be times when you feel discouraged. I too have felt despair many times in my life, but I do not keep a chair for it; I will not entertain it. It is not allowed to eat from my plate. The reason is this: In my uttermost bones I know something, as do you. It is that there can be no despair when you remember why you came to Earth, who you serve, and who sent you here."

Clarissa Pinkola Estes
American Author, Poet and Psychologist

Who do you serve?

...the tough get crafty.

2008-03-27T09:48:00.000-07:00

A wonderful way to kill time when you suddenly have loads of it, is to make stuff. This I learned in kindergarten, from whence was born a slew of macaroni pictures and finger paintings.

I come from a family of women who, when the going gets tough, get crafty. Divorce, financial woe, misfortune of all kinds, is merely fodder for our creative juices. My grandmother, may she rest in peace, left behind a treasure trove of her creations and craft supplies. She was a brilliant seamstress, but her primary inspiration was hats and hat pins. An incredibly fashion-conscious woman (a trait I did not inherit), she loved all things sparkly and pretty. Her hats were big, glamorous fedoras and stetsons, extravagantly decorated with hundreds of tiny Swarovski crystals.

For a brief time, I worked with JR (we were not to call her "Grandma" but by her initials,) helping her to assemble these awesome hats. The thing I loved the most was using the small tweezers to delicately place the crystals on the hat brim with a dot of glue. I loved looking at JR's hands as she worked, her carefully manicured nails and fingers moving so expertly. I was always glad that I inherited, if not her sense of style, her small hands.

My sister, in addition to being talented musically, has always had a special genius for what I like to call "mental patient projects," such as making lamp shades out of chop sticks and drawing fairies. She also inherited the sewing gene, another attribute that passed me over. (Let us not forget that she was the only one in our family capable of programming a VCR.)

My mother has only recently realized her immense talents as an artist, and is in the process of putting together pieces for her first art show.

She recently drew a tree that is blowing everyone's mind, and it will soon be for sale in my Etsy shop, which brings me to my original point:

I have an Etsy shop! Etsy, for those of you who are not familiar, is basically a store front for artists and crafters. It's a venue for people to sell their hand-made goods, and the amount of talent showcased there is completely overwhelming.

My store, Legion Creative, features my latest creative distractions: polymer pendants, small heads, illustrated books and small 'zines. Over time I am going to feature my mother's art prints as well as other creative projects conjured up by the talented people I know and love. It's been a great excuse to use those tools that JR left behind.

Have a browse, drop me a note, get a gift for your sister or a pal who isn't speaking to you. And if you're feeling blue, go play with clay. It's pure therapy.

Fun with Mental Health

2008-02-08T10:47:00.000-08:00

Remember that time my best friend stopped talking to me, my apartment flooded, I became homeless, and then my boyfriend and I broke up? That was, like, the most fun I've ever had.

Self pity is a marvelous luxury, one that I have indulged in often. Right now, I want to hide in bed (if I had access to my bed) and wallow in it, along with some chocolate ice cream. But it isn't productive, and it's just not as fun as it used to be.

When things fall apart, what do mature, well-balanced people do? I am now going to do my best imitation of one of those people. Just as soon as I'm done crying and breaking things.

The long dark hallway...

2007-11-09T13:58:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when I walk into an unlit room, or when a room becomes abruptly dark, it fills me with the feeling of some "other" thing. I don't know what it is, but I like it. A long time ago I wrote a song about it called "Hallway."

Recently, my friend Michael Dunn needed music for a short film he created called The Bet. Considering that the entire film takes place in a hallway, I thought that song was the obvious choice. I had to twist it around a little to turn the song from intriguing-mysterious into dark-hopeless. This is a well-crafted but grim little movie.

When I revamped it, I asked my sister, Justine, to collaborate with me. I liked her voice more for this song, and I also needed her to help me with the overall composition and technical stuff. We fought bitterly through most of the process, because she says I am a "nazi" and there is no such thing as a "collaboration" with me. It's probably true, but shut up. She also complained that there was no reward for this kind of project, and in my annoying way I tried to convince her that art was it's own reward. As a participant in many thankless artistic endeavors, I can attest that I really believe in that little altruism.

Eventually we made it into the studio, Michael handled the post-production, and the end result is pretty cool. The accompanying video that Michael made to go along with the DVD is awesome. Justine had a lot of fun making it, and in the end I know she was glad to have been part of the project. I also think she has the face of a jerk.

Hallway

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Hopeless (Romantic)

2007-11-05T21:45:00.000-08:00

I hope he finds her. I hope they fall madly in love and make many happy babies that grow up to be well-adjusted political activists who live on raw vegetables and save the world. I really do.

I hope that when they meet, they don't feel obligated to stay together because everyone has turned them into the poster children for romantic love, and that their few initial bouts of hot sex don't turn into mild annoyance and a mutual low-grade depression. I'm just saying.

Words to Live By

2007-10-24T16:00:00.000-07:00

I subscribe to daily quotes from Inspiration Peak, because they always seem to send the right words at the right time. Considering the recent fires around here that have stolen homes from thousands of people, I thought today’s quote was perfect:

Everything you see has its roots in the unseen world. The forms may change, yet the essence remains the same. Every wonderful sight will vanish; every sweet word will fade, But do not be disheartened, The source they come from is eternal, growing, Branching out, giving new life and new joy. Why do you weep? The source is within you And this whole world is springing up from it. – Jelaluddin Rumi 13th Century Persian Poet

On a similar note, last week Tom and I were walking past our favorite restaurant, Jyoti Bihanga, and there was this note taped to the door:

It made us very sad, and not just because we wouldn’t be eating vegetarian meatloaf for a whole week. Sri Chinmoy seemed, well, like a super guy, full of love and compassion and great recipe ideas. His followers make really, really good food.

It is sad that he “passed behind the curtain of Eternity,” but the sari-clad servers at Jyoti Bihanga need not be disheartened – he merely went back to the “eternal, growing source from which the whole world springs.”

When everything seems lost, I will try to remember that.

Switchyard News

2007-10-24T14:20:00.001-07:00

This blog was supposed to be an extension of Switchyard music news, but music has been so far off of my radar that I forgot. Well, rejoice, my three fans, because I have news.

The first item is an interview I did with Short End Magazine. Interviews make me almost as nervous as performing live. I did this one over the phone, while sitting in my car, and I babbled breathlessly for what seemed like eternity. I was happy that she was able to make me sound coherent. You can read it here.

The next item is that the video for Salt of the Sea will be featured as Paste Magazine’s video of the day. This is very exciting to me, because Paste Magazine is sold at my local Henry’s, and it’s cooler than Rolling Stone.

These are both thanks to Our Stage, a music site that lets people vote for their favorite music. Salt of the Sea won the jazz competition for the month of September, and I got $100 and a tshirt! Yay! They also hooked me up with all this other stuff. Lucky for me I am agoraphobic, which frees me up to do things like enter online contests. To hell with touring! The internet is All Powerful!

David Lynch meets Gucci?

2007-10-02T15:45:00.000-07:00

I didn't know David Lynch made commercials. But apparently he does:

I don't get it. Am I missing something here? If silly and uninspired is the new dark and unsettling, then my hero has gone and done it again.

(found at notcot)

Back from the grave and ready to party!

2007-10-02T13:37:00.001-07:00

It is 4am, and I am lying on the cool, marble floor of a hotel bathroom in Reno. I am clutching my stomach, thinking that now is the worst possible time to get sick. The pain, just under my ribs, is unbearable. I can’t figure out what’s causing it. If I was vomiting or had the shits, it would be easier. At least I’d know the end result of my stomachache. But this is a different kind of pain – a blunt, gripping stab that hovers right in the center of my body.

My best friend is asleep in the next room, unaware of my situation. My hand is claw-like at my belly. I start breathing hard, Lamaze-style, hoping that it will get me through this mystery contraction.

The pain lingers for about 20 minutes then fades away, and I’m exhausted. I crawl between the cool white hotel sheets and fall asleep.

An hour later I am awake again, my stomach wracked with painful spasms. I get up and go back to the bathroom, where I can make hyperventilating noises without waking up my friend. This totally sucks.

And if that isn’t bad enough, lately I have been suffering from a case of hives that makes poison ivy seem like fun. My flesh, as of late, is a hot, burning mass of itch that will not go away. My body has become a map of every place I’ve been touched in the last 10 minutes, because I have what is called “dermographism”. My doctor tests me for this by lightly dragging a pen in a crisscross pattern over the inside of my arm. A second later, giant, red welts appear where the pen has been.

“Your immune system is very angry right now,” my doctor said. Apparently, I was allergic to something. My immune system wasn’t just angry; it was murderous.

My skin was being invaded by a circus of traveling hives that relocated every 5 minutes to a different part of my body. First, it would be the back of my head. It began with a tingling heat that would explode into a blazing fire and an unrelenting itch that was impossible to ignore. I would scrape my nails over the area again and again, experiencing the illusion of relief, while it got worse with every scratch. Then, just when I thought the episode had passed, it would spread to my ears, and then inside my ears. Then it would migrate to my arms, my ass, the bottoms of my feet, the palms of my hands. And so on. This itch would haunt me all day until I took an antihistamine, which only made the hives calm down a bit.

So there I was, in a nice hotel in Reno, on the bathroom floor. I didn’t want to wake up Gina, who brought me there on a gambling adventure. It was my ambition to win a few extra dollars to get me through my many months of unemployment. Gina, the gambling professional, was to be my blackjack coach.

Despite having grown up in Las Vegas, I never once sat at a blackjack table. When I was a kid, being on the “floor” or anywhere near those half moon, green-felted tables, was strictly prohibited. So the feeling of the table being “forbidden” is permanently ingrained in my mind. When I sat down to play for the first time and picked up the cards, my hands visibly trembled.

Gina preferred to “work” during the small morning hours, and I wasn’t used to being awake at 2am. There I sat for two days, nervous, exhausted and itching, the pain in my stomach coming and going. At one point during this trip, Gina looked at me and said, “When did you get so fragile?” Yeah, when did I?

Despite all that, the trip was a success. With Gina’s help, I won enough money to buy groceries, pay bills and impress my boyfriend. When I finally got home, I took a few extra benadryls and crawled into bed.

Stomach pain. It woke me up like an evil alarm clock. The cramping was worse than ever, and the hives were still raging their hot, angry tour of my body. I sat up, the room warm and bright with the afternoon sun, and clutched my gut. It was at that moment that I made the correlation between my stomach pain and the benadryl. I had taken a lot of them.

Irony of ironies, I am allergic to allergy medicine.

Over the course of the next year, I saw three doctors and took a lot of pills. I sampled every variety of antihistamine until I found one that didn’t hurt my stomach. I spent a lot of days in bed, dopey with medication and scratching myself. The hives took up residence with me for almost a year and a half. That was two years ago.

I had many suspicions about what was causing them – wheat, sugar, my boyfriend – but their origin remained a mystery, until now.

About three weeks ago, I got a bladder infection – the result of dehydration and excessive sexual activity. I went to urgent care, where I was prescribed Macrobid, an antibiotic. A week after finishing my prescription, I had a familiar sensation. And then, oh, hello hives.

That first episode had also followed a prescription for a bladder infection. Newsflash - I am allergic to antibiotics. I don’t know why it took my body more than a year to recover, but there are worse things. Like the plague, or cancer.

For six blissful months I did not itch. The offending eruptions receded into obscurity and vanished, I thought, forever.

But now they are back.

When I was a teenager, I had a movie poster in my room for The Return of the Living Dead, featuring several green and mangled zombie punk rockers. The tagline warned, “They’re back from the grave and ready to party!”

Imagine that, only instead of zombies, picture my flesh – red and welted with a mob of reborn hives that are all too ecstatic to have found their host again.

It’s funny (but not ‘ha, ha’ funny) how you take your health for granted when you’ve known nothing but health. My father always says, when somebody complains about something, “At least you’ve got your health!” I thought this was just a catchy phrase that old people used to make you feel guilty about their arthritis. But now I understand, and I cherish the days when I feel good.

The allergic reaction was worse this time around, as was the accompanying drug-induced stomach spasms. This time, as a last resort, I was given steroids. First, an oral dose that made me ravenous. One dose made me so hungry that my stomach could not even register food. It sent a constant message to my brain that I was starving, and that I would die if not stuffed endlessly with starchy carbohydrates. I gained 5 pounds in two days and threw the rest of the pills out.

Finally, I was given a shot of cortisone. That was 5 days ago, and it has given me a lot of relief. I’m still itchy and dopey (famous as the two dwarfs who also suffered from allergies), but better.

One of the worst things to do when you have any ailment is to go online and read about your ailment. You are guaranteed to find a handful of horror stories from people who had your symptoms exactly, or took the same prescription drugs, and ended up gaining 600 pounds, or losing their hair, or growing another arm.

According to my research on “chronic urticaria” – better known as “itchy welts that won’t go away” – I could potentially be hive-ridden for many more years, possibly the rest of my life. There is no more frustrated group of individuals than the ones who share this condition with me, and I’m a little worried.

But I vowed to myself that this time I would not take it lying down. I will see a healer, get hypnotherapy, or consult a shaman. Yesterday I saw an acupuncturist.

I have two words to describe acupuncture: weird and boring. Weird, because, come on, they stick you with little pins. And boring because then they leave you lying on a table with these little pins for 30 minutes while you stare at the carpet and listen to a CD of birds chirping.

But let me tell you what, if my “urticaria” disappears within the next 24 hours, I will become a crusader for acupuncture.

In the meantime, I will slather myself in cortisone cream and visualize the hives/zombies returning to their graves, done with partying and ready to move on to the next world.

Cooper Listens to Jesus

2007-10-01T17:18:00.001-07:00

In lieu of buying a fancy camera (a Nikon D70, to be precise) I am experimenting with Photoshop. I don’t know that Photoshop editing can replace having a really nice camera, but there is still plenty of cool stuff you can do to a regular old photo. Here is my first serious attempt at photo editing. I call it, “Cooper listens to Jesus.”

Mostly I just bumped up the colors and added subtle lighting effects. I was inspired by my favorite blogger, Dooce, who posts an amazing photo of her dog every day. While my dog can not balance a pumpkin on her nose, like Chuck can, she is still a fine looking animal, and you can expect to see more of her in the future. In the meantime, if anyone has any great Photoshop tricks, I'd love to hear about them.

ANNOUNCEMENT

2007-09-28T22:38:00.000-07:00

Today, after some pondering and pontificating, I had a great realization. A spark went off inside me, and I thought, "Aha!" I got up from my chair, and marched into the next room to announce this revelation to anyone who would hear me. With my head raised high and my index finger pointing upward (a gesture that goes with 'Aha!') I cleared my throat and announced:

"I will no longer be making grandiose announcements!"

It was very liberating.

Genius Sculpture

2007-09-13T11:21:00.000-07:00

Speaking of art, holy shit. Look at these:
The Sculptures of Ron Mueck
This guy makes my sculpy heads look like something the cat coughed up.

Cute and Brutal: Art that hurts

2007-09-07T16:01:00.000-07:00

Good art should make you feel something - it doesn't matter what. This series of paintings by Luke Chueh really makes you run the gamut of emotional knee jerkery. Clever, sad, disturbing, poignant, smart, and did I mention sad?
Paintings of Hope and Hopelessness

Shopping Under the Influence

2007-09-05T22:13:00.000-07:00

If I may impart some wisdom to you right now it is this:
Do not indulge in online shopping when you are high on valium.

I had a difficult day, resulting in the consumption of aforementioned valium. The result was an online spending-spree involving the purchase of many retro shirts covered in birds and butterflies. I have no idea what sort of fashion atrocities I am about to commit. But in my present state, I find images of butterflies, rainbows and birds irrationally comforting. Is that so wrong?

It might be. When you see me in my green butterfly shirt, try not to judge me too harshly.

If I look fantastic, go get your own shirt: Frecklewonder.com

The Crazy Dog Lady

2007-04-10T18:05:00.000-07:00

My dog is controlling my life and everybody knows it. They all think I’m crazy, but I don’t care.

Here is my logic: I do not have children. If I did, I would be less likely to think there was a person trapped inside my pet and treat her accordingly. If there was a human child in my life, I would be too busy to anthropomorphize my dog.

I am an unmarried, childless adult, and as a woman, I am hard-wired to want to nurture something. What a lucky dog I have, that she is the recipient of every ounce of mothering I possess. This means daily walks, gourmet dog food, doggie day care and a fierce reluctance to leave her alone for more than an hour. This translates as me spending exorbitant amounts of cash on her, staying home nights to be with her, and many dedicated hours of wrestling on the rug.

That’s a lot of effort poured into something barely the size of a human head. Cooper is 8 pounds of spotted pink flesh and chaotic, wiry hair. She suffered from mange as a puppy and never recovered her hair fully, leaving it sparse on her head, and completely naked on her chest. She has the appearance of an expensive jacket that was left in the dryer too long, shrunken and disheveled. Once, I passed a woman at the dog park who said to me, with slight distaste, “What IS that?”

To say that she is energetic is a ridiculous understatement. Imagine a manic, woolly, gremlin hurling itself at you as it frantically tries to stick its tongue up your nose. Imagine a small blur of black and white fuzz as it gleefully chases a ball for the thousandth time. But also imagine an intelligent and perceptive beast, who peers into you with the most guileless brown eyes you have ever seen. That’s Cooper.

When we walk down the street together, people stare at her. She inspires squeals of delight from children, and soft cooing from grown women. I’ve heard teenage miscreants marveling at how fast she runs, and tough looking men in leather jackets talk to her like a baby as they scratch her ears. Nearly everyone smiles when they spot her trotting along by my feet (or yanking me defiantly down the sidewalk). She, in turn, welcomes everyone equally, eagerly, with an unrestrained joy that is hard to resist. I have seen Cooper turn a scowl into a grin on dozens of faces.

If she were a human child, she would be the kind of kid who shaves her head and joins a band, but still wants to please her parents. She would sneak out of her room at night to hang with her friends, only to confess in the morning. I would catch her smoking, but not be able to bring myself to punish her when she starts crying. That’s the kind of kid she would be.

But she’s not a kid, she’s a dog, and aside from myself, she’s the only responsibility I have. That is how I justify treating her like a human being. If, in my life, she is the only creature that ever depends and relies on me, I damn well better do it right. However small and simple, that dog gives my life an added sense of purpose.

When you’re a kid, you hear the tale of the crazy cat lady, a mousy old spinster who prefers the company of animals to human beings. So what if I’ve become the crazy dog lady? So what if my friends roll their eyes when I announce that I cannot go to dinner, because Cooper needs company? At the end of the day, what makes me happy is knowing I did the best I could for my small family of two.

Mushroom at Large

2007-04-10T18:02:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago, I had a particularly bad day. The kind that makes you feel like you have a hive of angry bees in your chest. Like your head is a helium balloon, headed for a ceiling of spikes. That kind of day.

I needed to get out of the house, so I decided to do what I refer to as “driving therapy.” I got in my car, put on some music to match my mood, and started driving. I had not been living in my neighborhood for very long, and it calmed me to explore the unfamiliar streets and houses.

There might have been some primal scream therapy involved, or perhaps some tears were shed as I pounded the steering wheel of my car with an indignant fist. Still, I am a safe driver, and I cruised slowly up and down the streets, wearing my safety belt.

Turning a corner, I saw something that made me stop. It was nothing extraordinary, but it gave me a sudden sense of wellness. There was a house on a corner lot, with many old trees in the yard, putting it in shadow. It looked particularly wooded and rustic, the kind of house a hobbit might live in, or a hippy. And there, sitting on the front edge of the yard, right in the corner, was a giant mushroom.

The mushroom, carved entirely out of wood, stood about 3 feet tall and was polished to a high sheen. It sat sparkling in a little divot in the ground, where it had clearly stood for many years. The wood reminded me of those old driftwood coffee tables that were popular in the 70s. It immediately conjured memories of some elf-populated, fairy-ridden, flower-strewn, secret magic dominion of my childhood dreams. I was charmed.

I pulled over and sat staring at it for a minute or two, admiring the knots and swirls of the dark wood. It made me feel much, much better.

Several months later, I was walking around with some friends on that same street, and we came upon the mushroom again. By now, I had passed it many times during morning walks with my dog, Cooper, and it had become a familiar landmark. This time, the people living there were having a yard sale.

“How much for the mushroom?” I joked. I spoke with a young woman with long, dark hair, wearing hippy-ish clothes. She explained that it was her parents’ house, that her brother had hand-crafted the mushroom, and that many people had offered to buy it throughout the years. Obviously, it was not for sale. We chatted amicably for a few moments before my friends and I walked on.

A couple of weeks ago, my dog and I were on our morning walk. As we drew near the now-familiar house, I saw that something was terribly wrong. The mushroom was gone. In its place stood a sign reading: “Please help find our mushroom. 619-925-2611.”

Somebody stole it. It was bound to happen. You can’t leave a thing of magic out in the open forever. Someone is bound to feel a greedy and corrupt desire to possess it for themselves.

I wanted to go on a man-hunt. I had a hero’s impulse to find the mushroom and return it to its rightful place, not resting until it was recovered and placed gingerly back into the now-empty hollow where it existed for so long. My head swam with images of young hoodlums, sitting around the mushroom as it sat awkwardly in their crack den, surrounded by smoke and empty beer cans. It made me very sad.

I continued walking with Cooper, feeling a little less chipper, wanting to tell the mushroom people how sorry I was for their loss.

I like to think the mushroom is now on a journey. Perhaps it was tired of sitting in one place for so long, and would magically return when it had its fill of sight-seeing. Or maybe the people who stole it would suffer a series of terrible karmic events, forcing them to believe they were being punished for their error in judgment, and would bring it home just to break the curse.

Most likely, it is lost forever. Damnit. I really liked that thing.

The Death of a Dream

2007-03-09T12:16:00.001-08:00

Music has always been my one great love. I never fantasized about marriage or kids – that would have been too easy. My daydreams were always limited to visions of rock stardom and large amounts of wealth. I believed my band and I would write sweeping, epic masterpieces and tour the world performing them. I would have a giant house, and buy giant houses for every member of my family. I would meet fascinating people, and they would find me fascinating. I would become that elusive, magical thing that I heard in every piece of music I loved. From the age of 8, that was the only thing my heart desired.

In retrospect, it’s possible to see how the dream was lost from the beginning. For one thing, I didn’t even like my own music. (My mom did, that seemed like enough.) For another, I hate performing live. I have the worst stage fright known to man, and shake like a Chihuahua when you put me in front of an audience. What kind of masochist wants to be a rock star when they hate being the center of attention? When I break it down, what was it exactly that I wanted?

Growing up, I was obsessed with the radio. My clock radio/cassette recorder and I spent many long hours together, me waiting breathlessly with my finger on the “record” button so I could capture my favorite song when it came on. When the song did finally enter my ears, I was transfixed and elated – I felt joined with something much bigger than myself. It was this feeling that drove me to dream so hard, not the love of performing. I wanted to become that feeling, for it to be permanently fixed in my heart and mind. Believing anything outside of myself would make this possible was perhaps my first mistake.

When it finally dawned on me that my life-long dream of becoming a famous songwriter was not going to come to fruition, I went to bed. Not for the night, but for 3 weeks. I was heartbroken. All around me I saw people succeeding with their music, and it made me miserable. Why couldn’t I have my dream when it seemed to happen to people all the time?

Later on I would tell my therapist that I equated music with God. Somewhere in my 8-year-old mind, I connected my musical heros with that great mysterious power. Call it God, or divinity or whatever, but that is what I was pining for all along.

I think this is true of everyone. Whether your prevailing desire is love, success, money or fame, the underlying hunger is to be deeply connected with something. Regardless of life’s circumstances, this connection is possible. The trick is that it isn’t something you can chase after. What’s the point in chasing something that is with you all along?

So the dream is forced to take new shape, and the path becomes something a little more obscure. For some people it’s religion or meditation. For others it’s immersion in a hobby or a sport. For me, my great joy (and still sometimes sorrow) remains music. Whatever the thing that brings stillness or awareness to your mind, the ultimate goal is complete acceptance of every waking moment.

I’ve since accepted that it was not my fate to become a rock star, or to be obscenely wealthy. Instead, my fortune is a series of small revelations in the department of personal evolution. Instead of the trappings of fame and fortune, I have managed to gain some wisdom. And if wisdom leads me to a greater peace and happiness, then absolutely nothing has been lost.

Checkered Taxi?

2007-03-08T14:24:00.000-08:00

I am a musician, and I shamelessly want people to like my music. But if I have to try and start one more band or pass out one more flyer, I am going to hang myself.

Two years ago I recorded a CD with very high hopes. Anyone who has ever tried to promote their own music knows what a frustrating endeavor it can be. And if you have a strong distaste for rejection, you are going to become discouraged very fast. In my case, that is exactly what happened.

Once my CD was complete, I naively thought all I had to do was move to Los Angeles, form a band, play some shows, develop a following, and attract label attention. The rest would be history. So that’s what I did. But my band mates needed to be paid, the venues were disappointed in our small draw, CDs weren't selling and I was running out of money fast. It didn't help that I was getting a parking ticket every other day.

Call it a lack of perseverance, but after a year in LA "chasing my dream" I threw in the towel. There's nothing like following your bliss to make you really depressed. Feeling defeated, I moved back to San Diego.

I thought, 'there has got to be an easier way to do this'. This line of thinking led me to find Taxi, "The World's Leading Independent A&R Company." I was skeptical, but it didn't take much convincing.

I went to their website and read the listings placed by major labels, program directors and management companies:

"Amazingly talented SINGER-SONGWRITERS are being sought by the Program Director of a remarkably influential L.A. radio station..."

"SINGER-SONGWRITER/AAA ARTISTS are wanted by an LA-based Management Firm. They want to find talented artists ready to be shopped to indie/major labels."

At least a dozen of them were looking for me exactly. ME! I read the 'success' stories with hope in my heart. Bands getting signed, musicians getting publishing deals, songs placed in TV and Film. Drooling a little I thought, oh, they’d totally play my music on “House”. This should be a piece of cake. I'll go back to my day job. Hey Taxi, let me know when I can put in my two-weeks notice, I'll be ready.

So I paid the membership fee and started submitting my songs to these listings. I was furious to find out that not only did I have to pay for my membership, but then I had to fork over five whopping dollars for EVERY song I submitted. And if I wanted to submit online, I had to go to Broadjam.com and pay yet again to have my music hosted.

With Dawson's Creek in my peripheral, I sighed, accepted, and got out my credit card. At the very least, I thought, it will be nice to get the reviews from industry professionals.

The first time my music was "returned" (read: REJECTED), I cried. Proof, I thought, that my music just wasn't good enough. The accompanying review read roughly like this:
"The lyrics are too vague."

"You aren't giving the listener enough detail to really draw them in to the song."

"The harmonic progressions and the melodic choices at times are awkward and interrupt the song flow."

"Be careful about trying to be too heady musically."

Then came the anger. Who are these effing people anyway? I'm an ARTIST! They obviously know nothing about my ART! I learned right away that these "screeners" were not my friends.

And then I got my first "forward". It read roughly like this:
"Your vocal here Rachel is strong, engaging, seductive and haunting...all at the same time."

"Nice effort. Specifics in the verse lyrics really do create a nice sense of imagery."

"For the right situation or project, these songs can be a nice fit. It's a forward!"

Wait, maybe these folks aren't so bad after all? But then I was returned again, then forwarded, then returned. I grew a thicker skin, and waited for my reward. It never came.

It has been almost two years since I joined Taxi, and I have been forwarded about 20 times. Each time I'm forwarded, I have a rekindled hope for my floundering dream. Every time I read: “Congratulations Rachel! Your songs were forwarded to..." I still get excited. But a little less every time.

The last time I was forwarded I decided to contact the label. I know this is frowned upon, but I was starting to feel very suspicious. How come I haven't received a single phone call from these supposed "forwards"?

I contacted this particular label. I sent them a little note saying something like, "Hey, my music was just forwarded to you via Taxi, I hope to hear from you."

I got a note back that gave me the impression that they had not even solicited Taxi for artists, and that additionally my music was "not really what we are looking for."

The little wheels in my head starting turning. Are my "forwards" really being heard by anyone? Am I being scammed by Taxi?

So I sent Taxi a letter that said, in so many words, what the hell is the deal?

A couple weeks later, and to my surprise, I got a letter from Michael Laskow, president and CEO of Taxi. In it, he gave me a brief explanation of the forwarding process, the time it takes and the many levels of people involved. He said, "But I admit, that from the member's perspective (and that's the only one that counts), it looks like we're not forwarding your material." Yeah, it does look like that.

But the letter was enough, in my mind, to effectively exonerate Taxi of any foul play. The letter concluded by inviting me to Taxi headquarters to investigate for myself. No computer, filing cabinet or database, I was told, would be off limits to me.

Hey, that's pretty cool, I thought. But I believed him enough and was relatively satisfied by his explanation.

Then I read, "you can write about it for our newsletter." Because I like writing and road trips, I agreed to go. Besides, maybe there was something fishy going on. I told everyone I was going to LA to do some 'investigative journalism."

So I called Taxi, and Michael was on the phone within 30 seconds. The first thing I noticed about Michael is that he is well suited for his job. By that I mean he is charming and personable. I liked him right away. He made sure that I understood he was a family guy, and that he was on his way to a theme park with his kids. This made me suspicious. Only people with an agenda are this nice.

We agreed to meet the following Friday.

A nice woman from Taxi named Tina arranged for me and a friend of mine to stay at the local Marriot. My friend, Carly, and I drove up from San Diego late Thursday night, then drove to Taxi’s headquarters the next day.

We met Michael outside. He was smoking a cigarette, which is a great bonding agent, as it allows you to discuss the evils of smoking from one addict to another. We shook hands, smoked and chatted about quitting smoking. Then I put on my 'representing the starving artist' hat.

I told him how much it sucked to pay a membership fee only to get a negative critique from some nameless screener who maybe used to manage a hair metal band in the 80’s. OK, I didn't say that exactly, but that's what I meant. Michael understood, and he wanted me to understand that Taxi was not the bad guy, that they were working FOR the musician, not against them. This was the whole reason I was there. Apparently a lot of complaints similar to mine had cropped up recently, and he wanted me to see the truth and spread the gospel.

Michael led Carly and I into a tidy brick building full of different businesses. My first impression of the Taxi offices was that they were nice - professional and clean, with just the right amount of rock-inspired art. It's hip, but not too hip, with the kind of clutter that says, "People work here." Nothing too fancy, but certainly not the bare-bulbs warehouse I had sometimes imagined. My second impression was that I did not get the creepy, 'this is a scam' vibe that I get when I meet a telemarketer. Everybody was nice, everybody was working, and nobody seemed “prepped” in anticipation of our arrival.

As we walked through the different rooms, Michael explained their function.
"The is the meeting room, this is the receiving room, this is the listening room." The listening room impressed me the most. It is a large room featuring a library-style row of about 20 listening stations. Several people sat in the stations, wearing headphones and jotting down little notes. If you go online to http://www.taxi.com/abouts/webcam.html you can actually see it for yourself on the "Live A&R Cam." Have no doubt; people ARE listening to your music.

But what are their qualifications? What makes these people eligible to decide if my music is going to the next level? I asked Michael, and he told me basically that not just anyone can be a screener. They have to have real "industry" experience, whether it's songwriting, producing, engineering or managing. And those that do qualify go through a rigorous training and screening process themselves. This training teaches the screener what to listen for, and what they are often listening for is the catchy song formula. Well no wonder, I thought. I don't write songs for their catchiness, I write them for their moodiness. This gave me much food for thought.

Indeed, nothing was off limits to us, and we could clearly see what looks like a legitimate operation in progress. People hustled about, doing their various jobs. Michael introduced us to many people, including a guy named Chris Baptiste, who has been with Taxi for eight years, and is currently Sr. Director of A&R. Clint McBay who is also a Sr. Director A&R joined us as well.

Chris, Michael and occasionally Clint sat with us for more than two hours, explaining in great detail the ins and outs of the entire process. We learned about everything from the listings database to the mailroom. I saw first-hand the way the listings come in, and the way they are sent to the screeners, complete with special instructions that say stuff like, "they are looking for a polished act," or "Music library wants radio-friendly ballads," or "No crap." By "no crap" they mean, be very selective. Some clients will say, "Let us hear it all. We want to find that gem in the rough." And then they are irritated to find themselves having to sift through the, uh, crap. That is why submissions are screened so rigorously.

One thing that was made very clear to us is just WHY it takes so long to hear from a label or publisher after it's been forwarded. Initially, it's because it can take up to a week of processing after you've been notified for the to be sent. There’s a lot more to that process than you think.

After that it comes down to something very simple: people in the music industry are busy. Nobody has time to waste. I get the distinct impression that these people don't even call their own mothers, let alone some songwriter who they may or may not be interested in. Simply stated, if you've been forwarded by Taxi, smile and forget about it. Not because it isn't going where they said it would, or because it won't be just what they were looking for. But because after your music leaves Taxi's hands it goes through a brand new process entirely, where it can very well sit in somebody's in-box for a year before it's listened to. And if they're not interested, you simply won't hear from them at all. So, seriously, let it go.

OK, let’s say you can’t let it go. It’s perfectly natural. So you contact the label and they have no idea what you’re talking about. That’s probably because the person you’re talking to is not the one who placed the listing. But now you’re pissed off and feeling swindled. So you contact them again and ask to speak to the person in charge. But they won’t call you back (because, like I said, these guys have no sense of urgency to return phone calls.) So now you’re really freaking out. You’re thinking, “My very future is in their hands and I must KNOW what’s GOING ON! Are they gonna sign me OR WHAT?!?” So you call again. And again. Apparently this happens all the time. Eventually, the person who placed the listing calls up Taxi and says, “We’re not running listings with you anymore. Your members are crazy.” I guess what I’m saying is that it just isn’t productive to contact these companies. For your own peace of mind, take up knitting or soccer and keep your mind in the present moment. Learn to trust that your music was delivered where it’s supposed to and let them come to you. I liken this situation to meeting someone you really like. Nobody wants to date a stalker.

When it was all said and done, I found that I'd had a good time. I left with a positive feeling, if only because I got to meet some very genuine people. The agenda I had imagined Michael would have was only to show me that, "We are not the enemy. We do what we say we do." And they do.

I think a lot of people are at the end of their dream by the time they get to Taxi. They are looking for that one last push after an endless stream of fruitless efforts. It can make the world feel like a very vicious and unwelcoming place. Once you've reached that point, it's easy to find evidence that the entire world is out to get you. The most important thing to remember is that there are a million avenues toward success. Do not think that Taxi is the only way, and give them the power to single-handedly crush your dream. Even in my advanced state of bitterness, I still believe there is a home out there for my music.

The bottom line is this:
Is Taxi legit? YES. But don't expect to get your money back if they don't think your music is ready for human consumption. Sometimes what you are paying for is just the critique (and two tickets to Taxi’s yearly convention). It IS possible to grow as a songwriter with Taxi's help, if you truly absorb and apply the reoccurring theme in their critiques. And I bet, for some people, that alone is worth the membership fee. It can be hard to accept, though, when you've worked hard at something, only to be told that it should have been done differently. If you are looking for validation that you are a musical genius, you are not going to get it from Taxi. Call your mother for that.

Will Taxi make you a rock star? It could happen. Will it earn you a royalty check? Maybe. But your chances of getting one as an experimental math-rock band are far less than if you're a spit-polished pop songwriter. But, as Michael said, even so-called 'alternative' bands have used the catchy song formula. You can be artsy or edgy and still be catchy. Regardless of the kind of music you play, if it's memorable, it can potentially put money in your pocket. If you're like me, you'll say, "This isn't about money. I'm an ARTIST!" Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, the music business is about money, not art.

The fact remains that if you want to succeed with your music (and by succeed I mean make money), you probably still have some flyers to pass out. There is no substitute for hard work, determination and real-world interaction (as opposed to sitting in front of the computer all day like I do, waiting for the email that will change your life).

As for me, I won't be quitting my day job any time soon.

Getting Over Getting Over It

2007-03-08T14:22:00.002-08:00

There comes a time after every breakup, when you learn that the other person has started dating someone else. Unless the person you were formerly dating becomes a monk, this fact is practically inevitable.

So it should have come as no surprise to me when I learned that my recent ex-boyfriend had a new lady friend. I knew on some level that this would happen, but I was not prepared for the way it would make me feel. This person, who had shared his love and affection only with me, was now sharing it with somebody else.

This is a marvelous way to discover just how human you are. I don’t know what made me think that I was above jealousy, but it turns out I am not. When I heard the news that my ex was ‘seeing’ someone, I suddenly understood the term “jealous rage”. This rage manifested as a long bout of crying, followed by a frenzied attempt to distract myself with other things.

In the process of trying to distract myself, I was introduced to the friend of a friend. Where I could not fathom the idea of dating just a few short weeks earlier, I was suddenly open to the idea of meeting someone new. Discovering, after such a short time, that my ex had already “moved on” was the equivalent of shooting me out of a canon into the dating world. Oh, he’s dating? Fine, I’m dating too.

What I was not prepared for was the possibility that I would meet someone I really liked, and that things would progress at warp speed and land me square in the lap of yet another relationship. I’m not sure if this is good or bad.

On the one hand, it’s great; how can I complain about being in those dreamy early stages with someone, where everything is exciting and new? On the other hand, I probably could have benefited from a few months, or even years, by myself. Just as I was settling in for the long haul of single life, here comes Mr. Wonderful.

If there is one thing I have learned during all of this, it’s that people can absolutely not be replaced. I imagined that when I found someone new, I’d be blissfully ensconced in the prospect of new love, and that would be a panacea. Instead, I’ve discovered that there is no avoiding those relationship wounds that are still so fresh. New man or not, I still have to deal with some very scary emotions, and mourn the life that I knew.

So I find myself between two worlds; the shiny, new one and the old, comfortable one that I still miss. I often compare these worlds to each other, and wonder if I’m doing the right thing. Is it too soon for new love? Did I make mistakes with the old one? Do I need to spend a year alone? I don’t know. I can slap a bunch of labels on my situation and drive myself to misery, or I can embrace this life without reserve. The most interesting part is that happiness can scare you every bit as much as sadness. So what’s the point in struggling against any of it? The best thing I can remind myself is to “be here now.”

So the challenge is to stay in the present moment, and accept that things are unfolding exactly as they should be. Perhaps I will discover something completely unexpected – a happiness independent of any person or situation. One I can take with me anywhere.

Mission to the Void

2007-03-08T14:22:00.001-08:00

My boyfriend and I recently broke up. We lived together in a big, beautiful house on a corner, near a park. Together we rescued a puppy, got ourselves a propane grill and enjoyed many hours of pay per view movies on his big screen TV. We shared all the comforts of life for four years.

Ultimately, we agreed that we were mismatched. It was the usual things – I’m a bad housekeeper, he is a republican, I am a dreamer, he is a realist, etc. So we called it quits. He bought a house and moved out. The dog and I stayed in the big, empty rental we shared until I found a tiny condo to live in.

The day I picked up the last of our debris and left the house empty was a very, very hard day. I stood in the kitchen, staring at the dust balls of our shared life, and cried. Not just a few tears, but all of them. I cried the way people cry at funerals, until my eyes were swollen and my head ached.

I cried because I couldn’t watch Oprah on his big screen TV, because my dog would no longer have a yard, because there was no one to ask “what’s for dinner?,’ and because I missed him. During moments like that, I find it impossible to remember exactly why we broke up. I tried to conjure up the feeling of irritation I get when he’s being annoying, but all I could feel was loss.

Breaking up is just not fun. It’s a death of sorts – the death of that enigmatic entity called “The Relationship”. But people break up every day - it’s not a tragedy. So why does it feel like one?

I once read that if you can conquer loneliness, you can conquer anything. As I unpack my belongings and try to squeeze them into my tiny condo, I begin to understand my mission, and accept it. The object of this mission is to become friends with that awful, aching feeling of being alone.

People stay in bad relationships for years to avoid this feeling. It’s like staring into a dark and endless abyss. You look into your own future and all you can see is a lifetime of Saturday nights reading, and people telling you to “join a club”.

I told a friend recently that I wanted to fall in love – with myself, so that I would never need another person to make me happy. That isn’t going to happen. Unfortunately, I’m a human being, and I’m never going to get over my desire to connect with other humans. But I can stop averting my eyes every time I feel empty. I can look directly into the void and see what it is I’ve been hiding from all these years. It’s like a mysterious old closet, piled high with the ghosts of everything I ever tried to avoid.

Here, with life stripped of all familiar distractions, is a beautiful opportunity to look into the face of the void, and make it a place of refuge. It’s a chance to be comfortable in silence, and know myself. I suspect that was the mission all along.

To Breed or Not to Breed

2007-03-08T14:17:00.001-08:00

By my age, most people are married, or at least have a solid divorce under their belt. They also usually have children, mortgage payments and at least one good suit.

I am 34 and none of these things apply to me. It’s as if my adulthood has been indefinitely postponed, except for the fact that my body is starting to wear gravity like a light shawl, pulling on me gently. Before long it will be on me like a heavy winter jacket.

There are times when I feel bad for not having these “adult” things. Not because I want to have kids, or that I even need a good suit, but because I feel that I SHOULD. Wouldn’t it be more acceptable to have the trappings of family life by now? Toddlers that will grow up to be trusted companions? A 401K plan? A husband? Yeah, it’d be nice.

Or would it? When I was growing up, the only examples of family life I ever saw included a lot of unhappy adults who felt trapped. This is the model on which I base my life. Commit to nothing and you will never be stuck in a bad marriage or disappointed by divorce. You will never be that red-haired woman sitting at my parents’ kitchen table, crying after signing her divorce papers. I must have been about 10 or so when this friend of the family came over to share the news with us. She was smoking a cigarette, and when she leaned over to put her face in her hands, she singed a bit of her red hair. When I think about marriage, I don’t see a blissful union between two people. I see her.

As for having children, I am torn. I like the idea of having grown kids who bring their friends and spouses over, who fill the house with life and activity. But that’s the problem – I imagine grown kids, not little kids. When I think of small children, I imagine restless and shrieking animals who demand attention, and then later, money. As a kid myself, I never daydreamed about having my own family, or played with baby dolls while fantasizing about motherhood. To this day, I have trouble picturing it. And as for that “ticking biological clock” thing, I don’t hear it. Not even the slightest tick.

Sure, sometimes I see happy families portrayed on TV and feel a slight pull. And I know my ovaries have an expiration date on them, so if I’m going to spawn, I’d better do it soon. But that strong desire just isn’t there. Shouldn’t kids be something you desperately want, or even need?

I do think about adoption. There are plenty of kids who need a loving home already, without me filling the planet with more of my own. This idea appeals to me quite a bit more. But as it stands right now, I’m just not ready.

My mother says you are never “ready” for children. She also says it’s best to have them when you’re young, and still too naïve to understand all the myriad ways you can screw a child up. Having children at a young age also means you still have that exuberant, youthful energy it takes to chase them around. Seeing as I’ve never had a whole lot of energy, even as a youngster, that’s one more strike against me as a future parent.

Another strike against me is this telling fact: children, more often than not, really annoy me. I’m told that it’s different when they’re yours, that you’ll love them because they are a part of you. But when I go to the park and a half a dozen kids start chasing my dog while shouting and grabbing for her tail, it makes me wonder if I am completely unsuited for parenthood.

I can see my 80 year old grandmother, wringing her hands and making that “tsk tsk” sound she makes when she disapproves of something. I see her clutching her chest, groaning, “Oy,” as she imagines her granddaughter as a barren old maid. But I am not daunted by those outdated views. There are times when I feel the pressure to catch up to my married and pregnant peers, thinking “What a sad, grown woman I am, single and childless.” But then I look around. I know just as many people my age who are un-tethered, and make no apologies for it. It seems, as the generations evolve, that more and more people are choosing not to have children.

I recently read an article in a feminist magazine about childlessness as a sort of “movement”. Many women are angry and feel stigmatized by society for not being a parent. There is a sense that they have to “explain” their childless status to a society who looks upon them with judgment or pity. These women firmly embrace their decision and want the world to accept it, too. It made me realize that there are a lot of women choosing not to procreate, and that it’s ok.

Understand, I am not a baby-hater. I think being a mother is one of the great, noble callings in life. The only thing that makes me feel regret, is that I might not get to experience the true selflessness of being a parent. I worry that I won’t mature to full capacity, or that I will become increasingly selfish. But these reasons alone are not enough to inspire me to run out and find a donor.

I am open to the possibility that one day I will hear the ticking of the proverbial “biological clock.” If that happens, I will embrace the idea of raising a family of my own. For now, I pour all those unused nurturing instincts into my 9-pound dog and feel content.

narcissistic rambling

2007-03-08T14:01:00.000-08:00

Due to the lack of Switchyard news, I have decided to use this blog as a resting home for various ramblings, articles and random photos. It will keep me off the streets.

Switchyard's First Video

2006-08-14T21:48:00.001-07:00

Saving the world is much too daunting a task, and so my most lofty ambition in life has been to make a music video. Award-winning director and filmmaker, Tom Barndt, has finally made this happen.

For artistic reasons, we decided to edit out all the scenes of me writhing around on the hood of an expensive car in a bikini. But it still came out pretty cool. I hope you enjoy it.

To see more of Tom Barndt's work, please visit http://www.myspace.com/experiment52.

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

The Jazz Suite

2006-03-23T18:09:00.000-08:00

I got an email from a polite fellow named Norvell, asking if it would be ok to play some Switchyard on The Jazz Suite. And I said, of course.
Check it out and hear a host of undiscovered jazz artists:
http://thejazzsuite.mypodcasts.net/

Jazz is an intensified feeling of nonchalance.
-- Françoise Sagan

If you have to ask what jazz is, you'll never know.
-- Louis Armstrong

I'll play it first and tell you what it is later.
-- Miles Davis

It's like an act of murder; you play with intent to commit something.
-- Duke Ellington

It's taken me all my life to learn what not to play.
-- Dizzie Gillespie

I hate straight singing. I have to change a tune to my own way of doing it. That's all I know.
-- Billie Holiday

Blyss

2006-02-08T07:42:00.000-08:00

I played drums in a band called Blyss for 10 years. We were a 3-piece band, William, Steve and myself. Now Steve is in the hospital recovering from brain surgery, and William is about to have his first child with my best friend from highschool. I miss them right now.

William took all of our old demos and live performances and put them online. They make me a bit nostalgic. We weren't great, but we put a lot of love into these songs. Check it out some time:

http://www.sportwurx.com/music/

I recommend Fruitless Child or Hollow Sun. Down Again was our first experience as a band in the studio. Dark Hallway is one of my first attempts to sing and write my own stuff. It's god awful. :)

Meet Agent Cooper

2006-01-29T21:27:00.000-08:00

cooper6
Originally uploaded by ripchord42.

Meet the latest addition to the Switchyard family. She initially wanted to play bass but I think for now she'll just sing backups and eat the occasional electrical chord.

late night, early town...

2005-12-31T09:48:00.000-08:00

These lyrics from Lloyd Cole's new CD, Music in a Foreign Language, say it all:

oh Los Angeles, how do you sleep?
you seem so full of cocaine and self-belief
if I could get me some, I'd take it and I'd run
just another late night, early town.

Pod People

2005-12-08T07:13:00.000-08:00

I love people and their podcasts. Here is list of podcasters who have added Switchyard to their playlist:

DJ Latola on December 9th at http://www.breakthruradio.com

Jason Brock and his "Podcast for Peace" at http://jlbrock44.audioblog.com/rss/podcastingpeace.xml

Renato and his jazz show at http://nightpassage.blogspot.com/

I love technology, always and forever.

ready for our closeup

2005-11-11T08:23:00.000-08:00

Check out this promotional photo of Switchyard wearing the latest designer fashions and feeling good.

Switchyard T-shirts

2005-10-19T07:50:00.001-07:00

Bright, bold and out of control, Switchyard shirts are now for sale. (purchase link coming soon). Better yet, buy a CD (www.cdbaby.com/switchyard) and get one for free.

Tower of Power

2005-10-13T08:03:00.000-07:00

Check out the music of Carolyn Hudson: www.carolynhudson.com. A top seller at cdbaby.com, Carolyn is a dangerous combination of talent and brains. We like her a lot.

On the Cover of Rolling Stone

2005-10-10T19:27:00.000-07:00

I thought you would appreciate this very attractive picture of me on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. This was back when Switchyard was famous for death metal, before I became a sensitive singer-songwriter.

Courtesy of Stephen Kam, photoshop magician.

Along Came a Spider

2005-10-04T22:40:00.000-07:00

Little Miss Muffet was a real girl who lived in England about 2 centuries ago.

Her dad was a doctor who made her swallow crushed-up spiders as this was thought to be a cure for the common cold.

Dr. Muffett wrote several books including a cook book that explained how to use local plants and insects in food as well as medicine. Dr. Muffett experimented on his daughter by having all the different types of spiders in England bite her to see if she had any reaction. Thankfully there were no poisonous spiders in all of England and there still aren't any today. Dr. Muffett used his daughter in this way because he considered her expendable. Sons can pass on the family name, but daughters do not, so no harm in using her in this potentially dangerous experiment.

Dr. Muffet had another friend named Elizabeth Goose. She and her husband ran a publishing company in London. Elizabeth Goose also wrote childrens poems and later bacame known as Mother Goose.

stolen from spiderzrule.com

The Listening Room

2005-10-02T17:00:00.000-07:00

These kind folks sent me an email letting me know that Switchyard would be featured in their 'listening room', a place of relaxation and singing along. This site also offers daily singing tips, informative articles and a general sense of niceness.
http://www.lovetosing.info/listen.htm
Vote for Pedro, I mean Switchyard!

Archived Switchyard CD Reviews and Interviews

2005-10-01T17:52:00.000-07:00

For anyone interested, here are some past reviews and interviews for your reading enjoyment:

CD review at agouti.com:
http://www.agouti.com/band/switchyard/thesecretlifeofspiders/review.aspx

CD review and interview for site dedicated to female musicians:
http://www.femalemusiciansonline.com/

CD review for Estrogenius, internet radio:
http://arhythmius.com/pblog/index.php?entry=entry050518-170609

Interview on The Ryff (www.theryff.com) 12.2MB
http://www.switchyardmusic.com/downloads/03-23-2005.mp3

Here is a brand new CD review and interview for the Dogwood Journal:
http://dogwoodjournal.com/Music.cfm

Cd Review for Collected Sounds:
http://collectedsounds.com/cdreviews/secretlifeof.html

Wipeout

2005-09-27T07:32:00.000-07:00

Tony Baloney, my partner in crime, about to be taken down. This photo was taken by a woman sitting on the beach in Costa Rica, who makes her living capturing moments like these for tourists. Viva enterprise.

Welcome to the Bloghouse

2005-09-25T09:07:00.000-07:00

Hello humans. This is my blog. If you find yourself here it is because
a: you arrived via the Switchyard website
b: you googled 'taxidermy' and this link popped up
c: you are here on accident and will quickly make your exit.

Whichever the reason, this is a place you are welcome, no matter your attire or your hygiene. You are probably here to kill time during a tedious work day, and don't mind narcissistic rambling.

So feel free to post your comments, leave anonymous insults, or hide this window in a hurry because your boss is coming.

Your pal,
Rachel