Holy crap I have a new podcast, y’all. It’s called Love Will Tear Us Apart.
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been captivated by dramatic love stories.
When I first read F. Scott Fitzgerald in high school, I became obsessed with the complicated relationship between the author and his wife, Zelda, and how their relationship problems fueled their work.
At 14, I remember seeing Stevie Nicks on Vh1, singing her heart out to her former lover, Lindsey Buckingham. The song was “Silver Springs,” a Rumors-era b-side that found chart success in 1997 when Fleetwood Mac reunited for The Dance. That performance was the beginning of yearslong research into the decades-old soap opera that is Fleetwood Mac. I remember buying every Fleetwood Mac album I could find, carefully listening to Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham’s lyrics and then running to the Internet to read other people’s interpretations of their songs. (I still do this…shhhh.)
To this day I still gravitate towards the personal (more…)
Last week I realized my site was gone.
Sent to the graveyard of neglected blogs.
I contacted my hosting company, Bluehost, who said, “Sorry you missed a payment and your blog is gone-gone. Like, we totally put it on a row boat, set it on fire, and pushed it out to sea.”
Upon hearing that my blog was dead, a calmness washed over me.
I wasn’t angry or sad–I was mostly stunned.
I’ve had this blog for at least 12 years (I’m too lazy to see when I started it) and losing it felt like a little piece of me drifting into the ether. It is the digital record of my early days as a single, emotionally loud twenty-something assistant living in Los Angeles who moved to Austin to become a writer. It chronicles my slow evolution from working three part-time jobs seven days a week to becoming a working professional to meeting my partner (who I’ve now been with for 8 1/2 years) to writing a movie with him to becoming a full-time writer. The blog is also my repository of pop culture ramblings, (more…)
Like many of you, I was moved by the unmasking of actor and teacher Geoffrey Owens as a Trader Joe’s employee by the Daily Mail.
My emotions were stoked further when I read Owen’s response to this unsolicited revelation.
“There is no job that’s better than another job. It might pay better, it might have better benefits, it might look better on a resume and on paper. But actually, it’s not better. Every job is worthwhile and valuable.” — Geoffrey Owens
In the same People Magazine interview, and numerous interviews Owens has given since, he has asked us not to feel sorry for him. “I’ve had a great life. I’ve had a great career. I’ve had a career that most actors would die for. So no one has to feel sorry for me. I’m doing fine!”
I don’t feel sorry for Owens; like many of you, I feel admiration.
I see a man of integrity who takes pride in being a productive member of society.
I see a man who is an artist and who will do whatever it takes to ensure he can continue to create his art (more…)
Since my grandmother’s death, I’ve found myself wanting to immerse myself in nature for many reasons.
First, I want to escape my daily routine — to get out of my head, which has become a very manic place— and second, because I want to be surrounded by life. To hear the conversations amongst birds and prairies dogs. To watch the deer, and the bighorn sheep, and the elk scavenge for food, mate or relish the sun. To see the leaves turn from a morbid brown to a thunderous green. To watch the Western flowers burst from beds of dirt and parched grass.
This want has brought me all over the valleys and peaks of Colorado as of late, with trips to Rocky Mountain National Park, the Flatirons of Boulder, the mesas of Golden and the red rocks of Colorado Springs.
Leading up to now, my view had mostly been of hospital walls. My grandmother — my dear, beautiful second mother — had been ailing back home in Upstate New York, and I wanted to see her as much as I could. A broken hip in August (more…)
My beloved grandmother passed away recently, and my mother and I have been going through old photos. We rediscovered photos my grandfather took while stationed in Africa during WWII. Here are some of my favorites.
*As far as I can tell, these were all taken by my grandfather. I’ve tried to verify the accuracy of the photos as best I can. These photos were snapped with my iPhone, hence the added fuzziness.
This is my grandfather Carl. He was an airplane mechanic in the Army Air Forces during the North African Campaign of WWII. During the war, he had a pet monkey named Jocko, he was stabbed and he contracted malaria. Those were the only things he shared with my mother. He died in 1974, before I was born.
This is him with one of his favorite planes, 1943. (Possibly a B-25?) *I* wonder why it was his favorite…?
Here he is in the beginning of the war with some of his Army mates.
Here’s another. Grandpa is in the lower left corner. 1945.
I don’t remember the first time I truly listened to Joe Strummer.
It may have been when I heard “Clampdown” off the band’s seminal 1979 album, London Calling. The song warns young men of the inherit soul-crushing nature of capitalism and reminds them that they — not the government, not The Establishment — have control of their lives.
“Let fury have the hour; anger can be power — do you know that you can use it?”
That line was my driving force in 2016, during the height of the presidential primary cycle. At the time I was volunteering for Bernie Sanders, a self-described Democratic Socialist and agitator of the status quo. I found parallels between Sanders and Joe Strummer of The Clash: Both were champions of socialism and the proletariat, and both were vocal critics of injustice and the oligarchy.
Though The Clash became my soundtrack during that tumultuous political year, the band hung with me long after Sanders lost the primary, Hillary Clinton lost the general and Donald (more…)
While growing up, we didn’t discuss being Jewish. We practiced no religious rituals, and no family member went to temple. A Yiddish swear word or phrase of exasperation often spilled from my grandma’s lips, something she picked up in her youth, or an occasional Jewish dish was prepared for family gatherings, but that was about as tribal as we got.
Our lack of Jewish cultural identity was not decided for us. It was chosen by my Eastern European great-grandmother Sophie, who upon coming to America erased any trace of Jewish identity. As I’ve aged and attempted to connect with my Ashkenazi roots, I’ve had to check my frustration with this woman I had never met. Why did you erase your past? I often ask out loud to her. And why did you decide that your kin would never know the truth?
These questions I’ve searched for in public records, DNA results and photos and documents hidden in my grandmother’s house to little avail. What facts I have been able to dig up often conflict with one another — Was (more…)
However, I admit that I don’t know the correct answer to “Should we punch neo-Nazis?”
Therefore, this essay will have more questions than answers
And it’s not about the ethics of punching a neo-Nazi, or if a neo-Nazi deserves to be punched or not (they do), but rather a study on whether or not punching them is the best method to bring about positive change
P.S. I hate neo-Nazis
Inlight of the events in Charlottesville, I’ve seen a large uptick in support of punching neo-Nazis.
This support is coming from thoughtful, intelligent thinkers I respect on the left and it’s got me questioning whether or not we’ve arrived at violence being the only way to achieve peace.
But as a pacifist, writing the above sentence makes me cringe; it feels like the ultimate oxymoron.
How can violence be the answer to peace?
We hold up our non-violent leaders — Martin (more…)
When I say she’s become the center of my universe, I mean I’m obsessed with her. Like, people keep telling me I should have a baby instead and I respond with “NO WHY DON’T YOU HAVE A BABY?!” and they say “I do have a baby” and I’m like “Whatever. At least I can leave my cat alone for a day and she won’t die.”
FatFace is a remarkably low-key cat considering she spent her entire life on the street. Though she’s still skeptical of most humans, she will not bite or scratch when handled and our vet constantly praises her passivity. It’s because of FatFace’s chill demeanor that I decided it was a smart idea to drive her to 18 states of America.