Hiatus & House of G

The Mischief and Mayhem of the Moneyless authors are going on hiatus. However, GB will continue to blog on her own at House of G, or http://gb-houseofg.blogspot.com/. Please follow her over to her new house for new musings on music, and not on music.

May the force be with you.

My Diversified Portfolio Ain't Made Of Cash

Sometimes there are times when we bear witness to moments of such acute beauty, and feel such a subsequent rapture (maybe it's quiet, maybe it's in technicolor) -- if only for a few potent seconds. These are unplanned moments that send us heaven-bound, briefly breaking the gravitational pull that keeps us vertical, feet firmly planted on Earth. When a rapturous moment really gets my attention it's like an imprisonment to just seal it up for myself. I want to share . . .

. . . The way it felt to float in water, just off a Greek beach, shocked by how it felt to be in a body with no tension; the nightly thunder+lightning storms in Puerto Vallarta, more thrilling than a prohibited motorcycle ride -- more intoxicating than a glass and another glass of inky red Malbec.

Lately, I've had a string of these rapturous moments. I'm still not sure what to call these episodes. Some last a few seconds, and some stretch on a bit longer. Are they teeny-tiny epiphanies? Little bursts of illumination? Are they the result of a brain chemistry lapsing from a lack of electrolytes, or an armada of neurons firing without cause?

On the surface, on paper, I might appear to be a down-on-her-luck victim of a world gone stupid broke -- a world that highly educated MBA graduates can no longer count on conquering with a mere flick of a resume, and a breezy, self-assured interview performance. But, I don’t feel like a pauper. Not in my mind and not in my heart.

The truth is that these days my distractions are few. I am free to fall down a well of introspection at will -- without the pounding of a 9 to 5 job, and the creeping fatigue of a workweek. The result: I’ve experienced a calm that had eluded me for some time. I’ve let it take me by the hand. It has shown me that the world around me is constantly offering up little lustrous pearls, little time-shaped anomalies, in cracked open shells – to anyone interested in looking.

These moments, these pearls, are what make up my diversified portfolio.

. . . The 24-second guitar riff that stops me cold, and then heats up the tops of my ears . . . and the auditory luster of it is so strong I don’t know if I should move, or cease breathing for stillness’ sake just to capture it and house part of it inside of me.

. . . The way little kids, unmarked by artifice, can speak remarkably candid truths, revealing their perspectives: unwarped, all love, all hope-filled.

How about this: On a walk, in my hometown, cars passing by, people walking their dogs, teens in Emo gear walking home from school, all on an ordinary afternoon, on what's been an ordinary day, when a mere glance westward reveals a motley blanket of clouds, and a fiercely orange orb languidly dispersing its diminishing rays through the gathered condensation. It casts an array of celestial pinks wide, wide across the sky. How does that not speak to you if you really stop to look at it? How does that not lift you outside of yourself – no pharmacology required?

This is when one finds the rules of physics grow momentarily cold, and Earth's grasp on you is momentarily less than it was . . .

. . . And every time I have a transfixion, even in my beat down Converse, and tangled hair, I am humbled. A resonant gratitude swells large in my heart . . . and it beams out to my fingertips, alighting the corners that surround me.

Open Letter To My Future Job

Are you there Job? It's Me, Gabi.

I looked for you today.

I tried to find you on LinkedIn, and I thought I might have found you at Google, but I think it was a false alarm. I thought I was close to finding you on the UNICEF website, but if you were there you didn't make it very easy for me to find you. Then, I really thought I found you at d.light, but you can't be there because even though the job description fit me like a tight sweater making the most of what I have to offer, I don't speak Mandarin. Like, not even close. But you know, I would really go to Shenzhen, even though I don't like Chinese food. My friend Matt works in Shenzhen, and hates Chinese food, too. But, the fact that the local WalMart there carries "fine" red wines at reasonable prices more than makes up for his dislike of the local cuisine. I digress.

Just wanted to remind you that I am still looking for you.

For reasons I have yet to discover, I haven't found you yet. We have been like star-crossed lovers (I'm Juliet). Perhaps, if I meditated daily I would find some answers. Perhaps, if I dabbled elbow-deep in the black arts I would find some answers (but, to be clear, the idea of participating in a ritual involving the bloodletting of an animal, especially a cute one, is not something I can get behind).

If you could be so kind, please provide me a few clues as to your whereabouts. I don't know your name, company, or industry, but I know you are out there. And, I'm sure you are looking for me, too. Maybe you haven't broken up with your current employee? Maybe you don't exist yet due to delayed budget negotiations?

Well, I'm here. I'm writing you at the local Starbucks. I just saw a chick wearing a dark blazer, white shorts, and four-inch stilettos. It's about 47 degrees outside. WTF? As a sidenote, dear Job, I will dress appropriately for you. I will iron my shirts, and dry clean all wool items dutifully. And, wear pants. Regularly.

OK, well, have a great week, and if possible, could you appear to me in a dream tonight so I might receive some cryptic clues about how to narrow my search for you? All the best!

Affectionately,
Gabi

Why, hello 2009!

It has been awhile since I’ve written for this blog. I’ve been too busy with Facebook [insert cutesy emoticon]. Not much has changed since the last posting. However, due to a few minor updates, I feel compelled to enlighten my readership (all five of you) of the latest haps. Let’s proceed.

• If you subscribe to Vedic astrology then you can appreciate that Jupiter – a benefic planet of good luck and fortune – is now on my side. Suck it, Saturn.

• I chucked my 11 a.m. wake up time for 8:30 a.m. I figure if I am to be receptive to golden job opportunities – even in the grim climate that is our economy on this February 5, 2009 – I need to be awake for more hours to maximize the time in which I can breathe my receptivity in and out. Thoughts are things and vibes travel. My vibes can travel further if I am *awake* longer to generate energy for them. I realize this sounds batshit crazy. But, if this works, I will only confirm that I’m not crazy, and I’ll have a job that doesn’t involve sweatshop editing (see below) or constantly granting permission to kids who want to sharpen their pencils (see below). [What is it with kids and sharpening their pencils?]

• I am now a part-time editor. Let’s not discuss the specifics, as they are not exciting and I almost quit today. I will offer up that it is tedious work. My friend Stephen, upon hearing the description of what I do, remarked: “Gabi, it’s a sweatshop!”. My description of what I do – in my head – includes some F-bombs, but “sweatshop”, in a word, is really the proper term. Anyhow, so I work for an editing sweatshop that employs MBAs and other highly educated people looking to make a few bones in this shitatious economy and [willing to take it up the ass] willing to put up with – and I’m going to use the most erudite word possible here – “sketchy” expectations, and a "sketchy" pay rate. At least I can work from home and mutter without stares.

I’m a meticulous editor; there are parts of the sweatshop experience I like. (Maybe this is like finding out that Pepsi ONE is available in the soda machine in the cockroach-infested employee kitchen.) The major drawback: I am slow. The company expects its editors to turn around error-free transcripts in three hours or less. It once took me almost nine hours to edit a shitatious raw transcript, in which the main speaker was a CEO from Taiwan. Her ability to speak English well on a scale of one to ten was a resounding three (and I’m being generous).

An editor who is capable of turning around an error-free product in three hours or less is one of three things:

a) A superhero worthy of a celebrated graphic novel.
b) A talented, quick-as-lightening master of editing who is a fucking dumbass for allowing such skillz to be exploited by a low-paying, spirit-sucking, sweatshop-promoting transcript company.

OR,
c) The very definition of a masochist – with a fetish for editing quarterly earnings call transcripts.

Moving on…

• I became a substitute teacher. I prefer only to speak on this subject when I’m either holding a drink, or drunk. That is not the case at this time, but I will say that there is no way that teachers get paid what they deserve.

I bow down to Kindergarten teachers. I’m not wired to deal with people that little. I find them challenging, but cute. Sometimes. I wonder if this is similar to training baby elephants for a circus show?

I have found that Kindergarten and 7th grade are equally challenging. 7th graders are a pain in the ass. BUT, they are at a point in their formation as human beings where they haven’t totally left childhood in the dust, and they also haven’t yet taken on a wearying cynicism that high school sometimes engenders in full-blown teenagers. It is a fact that 7th graders are slaves to the nuclear explosion of hormones in their bodies. They can’t help it. They are frighteningly awkward, but can also be very, very funny (some have been very curious about me, and have asked if I have kids; I kept a poker face, but on the inside laughed uproariously). It is also weird to be on a campus with both kids who look like they just passed 4th grade, and almost full-grown-looking dudes who *must be* shaving every day.

The times I’ve subbed for junior high I’ve had flashbacks to the war zone of my own hell-on-Earth adolescence. I am guessing this is much like how war vets fall prey to their damaged psyches and involuntarily flashback to those blood-letting battalion days (for me the catty fights at recess), the smell of napalm (for me the smell of Aqua Net), the images of mangled body parts (for me the confusion and betrayal of a body I didn’t want to be in, and which seemed to operate without my consent), and the brutality of an innocence lost and scared shitless (for me the emerging consciousness of the end of childhood…and the tantalizing and appalling beginning of adulthood).

Where was I? Right. I’m a certified substitute teacher. Not my idea of a good time, but in a bad economy it's a gig that is easy to get and pays decently for the psychological torture involved. This is my update.

Coming soon…an open letter to Kanye West, my top 10 on Rod [Crazy] Blagojevich, and a personalized analysis of the Madonna/Whore paradigm.

Music Saves, like Jesus Saves*, Like Lip Balm Hydrates Lips, Like Quiet Reflection Recharges the Soul

Some traits are just chalked up to genetics. I look like my Mom, I have scanty eyebrows like my Dad, I don’t believe in buying children designer jeans like my Mom, and I am obsessed with music like my Dad. A friend recently asked me if I had any tunes to recommend, which I am always delighted to provide. Most of the time my friends appreciate suggestions because they either don’t have time to troll for new music, or have things like jobs and families and relationships that take up the time I usurp for researching new and old music alike.

So my music-seeking friend, referred to as “Bedazzle” from hereon out (in retaliation for his denigrating treatment of my French recommendations), didn’t simply accept my list blindly and move on with his day. He was already familiar with some of my recommendations and felt inclined to comment on them. And even if he wasn’t, he commented anyway. It felt a bit like handing a little kid a piece of chocolate cake and being told: “But did you not get this cake at La Patisserie? No? I’ll try it but I don’t have to like it.” Bedazzle knows I say this all in love of course.

I had been meaning to post some of the tuneage that has provided the soundtrack to my recent spate of unemployment (otherwise known as the latter half of 2008, or the equivalent of two fiscal quarters) for friends interested in some (new to them) tracks. These are just a fraction of the tunes that have inspired, cheered, and successfully flipped the mood switch during those inevitable phases of gloom a job search engenders (kind of like forced bloodletting). Bedazzle has kindly allowed me to include some of his comments below (in blue), for those who are inclined to seek both sides of the story.

1. Imogen Heap - Goodnight and Go/Speeding Cars/Hide & Seek.
The ethereal music doesn't really resonate with me. I'll make exceptions for Portishead and Ryskopp, but not much else.

2. Donovan - Get Thy Bearings.
Wow. Just wow. I felt like such an old man when I bought Hurdy Gurdy Man. Get Thy Bearings is clearly the best song on the album. Great minds.

3. Muse – Starlight.
Catchy tune, but it always had a hint of Tears for Fears mixed with a touch of The Killers.

4. New Order – Ceremony.
Radiohead covers this song. You should really get into Joy Division. The one drawback is it is hard to find good re-mastered Joy Division music so it always sounds 'tin-y'.

5. Band of Horses - The Funeral.
Spectacular band, great song, see them live if you can. They were based in Seattle, toured a lot in SF, then moved to South Carolina and don't come as much. Get both their albums if you haven't already.

6. Feist - Feel it All.
Don't know much about her besides the iPod commercial. She did a great set on Letterman, you can find it on YouTube, with Grizzly Bear, the lead singer form The National, and a bunch of other great performers. Look it up.

7. Brandi Carlile - The Story
Pass.

8. CSS - Music is my Hot Hot Sex.
Great title. Great song. Little known alternative title: Music for Eunuchs.

9. Greg Laswell - Sing, Theresa Says.
I'll be Switzerland on him. I like Sing, Theresa Says.

10. The National - Mistaken for Strangers.
Have all their albums. They have some amazingly textured and layered music. Saw them live and they were great. One guy played a violin.

11. The Notorious B.I.G. – Juicy.
RAP ATTACK! Do you realize I actually wore a red and black lumberjack in Alaska? Not ironically either.

12. Angels & Airwaves – Sirens.
Uh-oh. I've always felt they are the EMO version of Blink-182. I'm not sure if it is worse for you that I've compared them to Blink-182 or worse for me that I have a Blink-182 point of reference.

13. Carla Bruni - Quelqu'un M'a Dit.
Title seems French. And these colors don't run. FREEDOM FRIES OR DEATH!

14. Tinariwen - Matadjem Yinmixan.
I think your fingers were over one set of keys when you typed this. Did you mean Justin Timberlake - Sexy Back?

15. Magic System - 1er gaou.
I do like magic. But ultimately it is a Dark Science. And I'm not sure if '1' is an appropriate start to a word. Maybe a little hangover from the prior artist.

16. Easy All Stars & Citizen Cope - Karma Police.
I detest reggae. And I think Radiohead is the most important band to release music in the last 20 years. You can see where this is going.

17. The Toadies – Tyler.
Don't know them and I'm still a little steamed about that last entry.

18: Frou Frou - Only Got One.
See Imogen Heap.

19. Passion Pit – Sleepyhead.
Wasn't the Passion Pit the diner on Beverly Hills 90210?

20. Mark Farina & Sean Hayes - Dream Machine, my current favorite song. Love.
High praise. I'll give it a listen.

21. Modest Mouse - Truckers Atlas.
Lonesome Crowded West should be mandatory listening for every 13 year old child in America. Between this and Donovan, I'm convinced we share a soul. The James Brown kind of soul. Not the kind associated with St. Paul, or Peter, or whomever is at the Pearly Gates.

22. Yelle - Je Veux Te Voir/Tristesse Joie.
Sounds French...

*This is catholic blog with a lower case “C”, as in topics explored herein are liberal, broad-minded, wide-ranging, and universal in nature, if you please. Feel free to believe that JC (as in Jesus Christ, not Julia Collins the other author of this blog, although the latter is pretty freaking awesome in my opinion, much like Christians in general view the original JC – and I’m not trying to be flip here) saves, or doesn’t. It’s totally up to you. I’m just trying to make a point here by drawing upon my Catholic upbringing -- in a humorously irreverent way without being excommunicated, although since I don’t go to church anymore I probably already have been and just threw the notice away thinking it was junk mail. I am so not showing this post to my Mom.

Did you catch that?

Shhhh! Listen, in the silence, did you hear that? Never mind. It is too loud in here. Wait, there it is again. Did you hear it? I hear a voice. I hear the voice. Everywhere. In May, the voice was the humming below the din of the noisy restaurant. In July, the voice was behind the laughter of kids jumping in the pool. In September, the voice was between the mutterings of the sputter of the motor. In October, the voice was among the wind as it rustled the leaves and trees. I hear the voice everywhere. There it is again. Did you catch it?

At first, I cannot make out what the voice is saying. That is not really true; at first I am ignoring the voice. And then I am fixated on it. I am trying to understand what the voice is saying. I wish silently that I could ignore it. I cannot figure out to whom the voice belongs, nor from where the voice is coming.

The voice just is.

And then I catch it. The voice is not slower, or louder, or more obvious. Nonetheless instant clarity, I understand completely. Could I not understand the voice because of my own internal thoughts? Were they arguing with the voice so loudly and for so long in hopes to distract me from the central message? Yet, once I hear the truth, I can no longer pretend. I catch it. I get it.

“You do not belong here!” And then again, “You do not belong here!”

But the voice is hospitable and says at the time, “relax, have fun, enjoy the day! Here is a great meal and a fine wine. But, remember your journey has not reached its conclusion. Of course if you are tired, you may stop for awhile and rest but don't get comfortable, you cannot stay.” Of course the voice can also be a cheerleader and says, “Keep going. You can do it and there is only one solution. You can do it!” But, the point is always the same.

“You do not belong here!”

And so, I keep searching. Repack the suitcase, reload the car, and start again. Not defeated, but relieved. I don't know if I would like to stay. I could make this version of a life work, but I am gleeful that it is unnecessary. And I gratefully continue the search.

Yet, I continue to listen. I agree, I do not belong here but I do not want to miss the change. I do not want to miss the moment when the voice’s message changes to the new message. When the voice says, “Welcome! This is where you belong. You are welcome to stay, as long as you need. This is where you need to be.” I will be listening. I will catch it, the first time. Shhhh.

~Julia

Reconciling The Urge To Nest With The Desire To Be A Kick-Ass Professional

The urge to nest is a common compulsion, especially if you are a human of the female persuasion -- and pregnant. But the overwhelming urge to clean, organize, and decorate is not limited to pregnant women alone. I should know. I’ve felt it, and continue to feel it a couple times a year, despite never having been in a family way. And I rarely ever admit it. Many of my single and female friends, who themselves have never been expectant mothers, are overtaken by the nesting instinct in a powerful way, and more than just a mere week or two out of the year. Many of these women have jobs/careers, and possess strong desires for professional success. So how does one harmonize the desire for career advancement and the hankering for a cozy place to nurture, if not a child, one’s own dreams and goals?

Metaphor time. Have you ever walked by a Kentucky Fried Chicken on an empty stomach? (or a pizza place, or a Chinese restaurant, or a hot dog stand) and suddenly imagined holding a bucket of golden deliciousness with a side of mashed potatoes + gravy, and a few biscuits, and satiating yourself silly in solitude so that no one can hear the animal-like scarfing, or witness the smears of grease and loss of pride? And then being called back to reality upon hearing your stomach growl, so that you run home to make yourself dinner because a KFC meal does not align with your objective to fit into that dress you plan to wear for that New Year’s Eve occasion you don’t have scheduled yet, but you know you will? Imagine that once you’re home you find the fridge empty and the cupboards bare. So you settle for some leftover Halloween candy at the bottom of your bag and a stale bag of Sun chips -- for dinner. Unsatisfying. So what happens when nestiness sets in and you suddenly start thinking of painting borders in your bedroom, or get teary over the itty-bitty cuteness of the holiday toddler outfits at Target, and you don't do anything about it? This is why women go on chocolate binges and buy expensive handbags, purchase animal-shaped cookie cutters, engage in RomCom* marathons, go crazy buying up succulents in plant stores, and make ambitious proclamations about making homemade gnocchi.** They are trying to fill that empty nesting hole with either some form of domesticity or mask it with new slouch boots and a faux reptile clutch.

Fighting hormones is like fighting the Taliban in the peaks and crevices of Tora Bora: difficult. A friend of mine recently brought up that she is feeling nesty. She dismissed it with a figurative wave, and labeled the phase “stupid”. I can understand the instinct to apologize. Nesting instincts aren’t exactly encouraged in single women lest they be branded clean freaks for washing walls or just plain freaks for buying label makers. But, I say to women everywhere: give yourselves permission to feel your nesting instinct to the maximum! Explore the heart of it -- all the way to the outer reaches, without shame, without apology, and with the pride that your body can produce such a beautiful urge to build, protect, and nurture.

What follows is a bit of a stretch, but…

At the core of South African culture is the concept of Ubuntu. It's a bit tricky to explain, but the fundamental idea is that "I am because you are." In other words, I am OK if you are OK. If you don't have your good, I will provide. And, if I don't have enough, you will help me, because in doing so we help each other and our community...and by helping each other, by nurturing our communities, we make a better world. I think at the nucleus of the nesting instinct are some of the basic tenets of Umbutu – to nurture, to provide, to comfort, and to create a safe place. What if we all took spoonfuls of Ubuntu on a daily basis? If we subscribe to the idea that we hold in ourselves a microcosm that reflects the macrocosm, what a beautiful move it would be for us as women to lay out our nesting instincts proudly like a string of sacred blankets and offer up their warmth and comfort to the world.

*Romantic Comedies

**Don’t do it. What a m+&^%$f@@@ing nightmare.