My New Bag. A Dream Come True.

Today I think I received my dream handbag. It is a "Junco" by Ashley Watson, an enterprising, green-sensible young woman residing in one of the most wonderful cities in our hemisphere, Vancouver Canada. She makes remarkable handbags from old leather jackets. At first, I was skeptical of what the quality would be. I thought, "OK, they'll be ironic and goofy" or "They'll be poorly constructed and reeking of amateur seamstress." Neither of my cynical assumptions were correct now that I took possession of my fabulous, small (it is actually rather large at approx 16"wide and 12" tall) JUNCO tote in a forrest green leather. Ashley is an artist, a sculpto-seamstress. One would never suspect this jacket once likely warmed some high-class Canadian prostitute circa 1990 or a wealthy teen of the same era with a penchant for shocking her parents with her scary taste in color and leather. Yes, the leather is super soft, super strong kid and Ashley took full advantage of the diagonal, topstiched front pockets of the jacket, which are now the diagonal, topstiched front pockets of my handbag. And did I mention, it is RECYCLED? Go get yours (no two are exactly alike) or another design more to your taste at www.beklina.com.

Denwave Saves Lives.

Put together a lil $$$$ for some new Fall threads and while browsing the damn internets, checked out Hazel and Genevieve's goings-on (yeah, OK, I miss PDX) and noticed several new items that had to be owned. For starters, the above handmade cotton yarn and brass necklace by the inimitable Hazel Cox. $68 please. Hazel also had a killer $28 copper and cotton yarn necklace I had to have; I mean, IT'S $28! Then, of course, there is Genevieve Dillinger to be be reckoned with. I bought a flowing, light grey rayon tunic/tee ($68) and was easily talked into a gorgeous linen dress; best I can describe the major signature of the fabric is "bed ticking". It is just like everything from Genevieve: Simple, elegant and completely chic.

OH MY.

Bad, bad lady! I have taken quite the extended blogging vacances, so now I am back with that odd Guilt Post formerly known as the Guilt Entry when I used to actually use a device with ink to scribe my boring goings on.

Ryan and I hit a serious wall with St. Pete/Tampa. Bottom line, we bored of it here. I love the beach, the tennis courts, the skies, the big rain and whatever, but what was happening in this area when I was last here (early 2000's) has been replaced by a glossy, suburban ideal. Independent "funky" business were displaced in the hopes of making big condo dollars; this never happened in certain areas so an entire block sits abandoned. The new businesses may be owned by locals but many smack of a chain; almost like they hope and strive to one day be a chain. I can't get into this. And what the fuck happened to the screens that would show the indie/foreign/unusual films? None are around. I love the people I have met so far, but I am not quite sure if it is all enough to make it worth sticking it out for the long haul.

Sad but true. We'll see what happens. We are here for another year anyway and hell if I am not going to enjoy it to the fullest.

Martha Quinn Returns.

When I was in 9th grade, following the top row of braces being removed from my teeth, following the back part of my brown, golden-flecked hair growing out into a nice wavy rug creating a gorgeous mullet before there was such a thing, before I was unceremoniously deflowered as my boyfriend's father watched a John Wayne movie in the next room as I worried every time the headboard banged against the wall, before I dated men who were uncircumcised and caught hell from other boys about this (Why? I still don't know. Uncircumcised penises can still reach orgasm)...I resembled a spritely, adorable original MTV VJ, Martha Quinn.

For the first time ever in West Memphis, Arkansas, I had a cool cultural touchstone. I took on cachet and had acceptance from cute, sexy boys who had heretofore ignored me and girls who pinched my cheeks in crude disbelief when I swore I wasn't wearing any makeup. "Yew look jes lak MARTHA QUINN!" "Yew oughta be ah VJ!!!!" Ah, popularity.
Martha returns. Saturday night August 25th.

Theresa Duncan and Jeremy Blake

Image from Zero Zero, CD-ROM by Theresa Duncan and Jeremy Blake.

Read THIS

Really sad but really fascinating too. I have read her blog also, The Wit of the Staircase.

She so much reminds me of my friend P. (and so many brilliant female clients I have had over the last 10+ years with Bipolar Disorder)--that special girl who also will eat you up with that same brilliance. You want it so badly, but you also realize that being inside of it eats up whomever you are. Maybe I am overstepping here, but I can imagine that is how Jeremy Blake may have felt after she was gone--once you agree to be usurped by these people, even though the usurping is L-U-V, you give up yourself. To him, what else was he to do with her gone? Who really knows how much of himself was wrapped into her?

My biggest disgust in looking into the internets following this sad story are the multitudes of people enamored with Theresa and Jeremy (rather, their image) who seem desperate to believe in conspiracy theories over what seems more than apparent to me as a mental health therapist, as well as a fucking HUMAN, that these two were mentally ill and wrapped up resolutely in their illness, with only each other reinforcing their most desperate delusions. The ridiculous propensity of these message board/blogosphere twits wanting to want to believe that the CIA gives a shit about two gorgeous, creative, intelligent, but not-threatening-to- anyone-but-themselves young people, to the extent of ignoring what is obvious (Ah HEM. They were very paranoid and deluded)...well, it doesn't surprise me that the mental health system is forced socially to operate in a shadow world. It is just a much less glamourous and compelling shadow world than the CIA and Cointelpro for hipsters and glamour pusses to acknowledge.

Sorry T & J--you guys were sick and frightened and often, no one can help out with all that. R.I.P.

Turner Classic Movies.

I vaguely recall in the 1980's a minor scandal erupting when Ted Turner purchased many old films, particularly black and white films from the Pre Code era, and decided to color them and broadcast them on his new cable movie channel, Turner Classic Movies. Filmgoers collectively let a very Margaret Dumont-esque "Well I NEVAH!" which seemed to just egg Turner on and he actually broadcast a few colorized versions of classics like Casablanca.

Well, Turner Classic Movies (heretoforward, TCM) is still on cable and has become my favorite cable channel, bar none. I no longer see any threats of colorized classics, simply threats of a drunken Carrie Fisher arguing film with the ever-likeable Robert Osbourne (who seems to handle his alkie-hall much better). The secret behind what is now the best movie channel on TV is their extensive library of Pre-Code pictures. Go look up Pre-Code on Wikipedia if you don't already know what I am going for, but TCM on a very regular basis showcases such gems as Night Nurse starring Barbara Stanwyck and Joan Blondell as salt of the earth, fun-loving, private nurses devoted to saving the lives of young poisoned children...poisoned by a junkie doctor in cahoots with a shady chauffeur played by a whiskerless Clark Gable! You cannot get better than this.

I plan to begin reviewing some of these classics here on this blog as it is my belief that once this infamous code came into place, American film never quite recovered. Sure, we all know this as college-educated little intellectuals, right? WRONG. Somehow we believe that the Golden Age of Hollywood was the early 1970's when the hotshit, renegade directors like Altman were smoking a bunch of weed and making their wackadoodle extend-a-movies or when every other movie was some paranoid freakout starring Gene Hackman (I love him too, but hear me out here)...sure, that stuff is great, but trumpeting that mess in your 30's is truly akin to a 17 year old reading The Dharma Bums and then going to the mall and talking really loudly so everyone can hear you about how intense it is. Psst... I cringe thinking about me or you doing that. I really do.

So, do yourself a favor. Scan TCM for a Pre-Code film sometime and hell, if you must smoke a joint to enjoy it, go ahead, I'll give you that. Watch the glossy mouth of Joan Blondell as she smacks gum and tell me if you don't have an epiphany right there. Just tell me that isn't as incredible as Gene Hackman breaking down that tape in The Conversation any day.

Summer Reading Mach II

I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence, Amy Sedaris 2006. This is seriously my new Bible. How did I miss this kookball's genius until now? Well, it is actually OK because I have lots of material to catch up on. I checked this gem out of the library and bought it on Amazon the same night. Pure and utter brilliance aka insanity. I have been known to carry this book to bars in town and force it's message on other drunk people. It has worked with gays and smart people. Addendum to the last sentence (7/9): And apparently, swingers.

Turn the Beat Around: The Secret History of Disco, Peter Shapiro 2005. I am obviously digging the book with a subtitle (is that would you'd call that?) I always think it makes your book or article or essay look as if you are really smart and telling us something important. Sometimes you actually do. So far, Mr. Shapiro is. I like his background info that makes NYC seem like it was a scary hellhole a la The Warriors. He isn't really talking about disco yet, but I can tell he is getting around to it. Tres bien, Mr. Shapiro! Please do not spare details on sex and drugs while sounding smart--you can do both.