Puzzles

Another year older, but not wiser. That man confuses the crap outta me.

The question is mirrored back: Why don't you read it in reverse, girlie? With the birthday behind me and the new calendar year before me, it is more than time to shake the confusion and bewilderment. It happens now or not at all.

Yawn Baby, Yawn!

I'm not the kid I used to be.
I got a kid. I'm 33, baby!

Credit The Pretenders for tag above. No, I have not withheld info or love children. Basically, I'm whooped. There's this Christmas thing that has shimmied up my leg and I'm just less than on it -- again. Nonetheless, for the first time ever a tree of pine stands in my apartment. This party is the reason for the fatigue. It also explains the tree. It also explains why I am absolutely and totally broke -- perhaps for the next three months.

A girl drops her head in shame. This is not the way to enter a new year. Am I showing a greater sense of financial management? Am I demonstrating a keener understanding of investing for my future? Do I have a pot to piss in?

Dang.

But yes, I did say party. A self-pitying author is having a get-together this very Saturday night to toast the blessings of the past year and welcome those yet to come. She celebrates her arrival to this very apartment that was an emergency escape pad a year ago. It's also a holiday party -- c'mon, it can't be avoided.

Parties are nice to attend. While I've done events for years, throwing a party in my home is a different kettle of fish. Stressful to say the least. No words other than stress. The positive side is that the apartment is looking better the closer we get to "the day."

fatigue -- time to crash.

Coda: Ike Turner

Ike Turner, dead.

Not a beloved man by the pop music masses due to the pain, anguish and ass-beatings inflicted upon a former spouse who will go unnamed. Nonetheless, a gifted musician and producer. Ike was conceptual, genre-bending, and just epic. Sure, he wasn't a nice guy, but there is a price for brilliance.

As much as I love Credence, Fogerty, and the unnamed spouse, it is without question Ike's contribution to the legendary "Proud Mary" that will forever have a spot on my mental audio track. His deeply rounded baritone delivery on the intro and throughout the work were richer than Georgia red clay. Earth, baby -- pure Earth! Ike's delivery packages the essence of the Negro spiritual seeking salvation by hook or crook. Brilliantly, he then uses the power of the spouses electric kick to fire up something far removed from the era of spirituals -- along with powerhouse horns, guitar, percussion and back-up singers. The stage show choreography never hurt, either.

Yup, it was Ike on "Proud Mary" who comforted me during a weird transition in a chaotic work environment.

Left a good job in the city
Workin' for the man, ev'ry night and day.

My intrpretation of his contribution is a bit comic, complex and political. The power of the "workin' for the man" line was at once, taunting as well as cathartic. It was a wake up call to professional strain that I felt could be overcome and forgotten. The lyrics only offer one aspect to comprehending the impact of these few lines. In the Ike and spouse version it was both the delivery and intensity.

The world changes so much within such a short window. While this writer is less than forty,I am old enough to have "Negro" as a racial identifier on my birth certificate. Knowing the Earth as only a Negro can, I related to the power summoned by Ike. Even the song's reference to "rolling on the river" offers a quick tie to Hughes' "The Negro Speaks of Rivers."

Again, I nod to Fogerty and the work of Credence -- they make me smile, bob head and shake a foot. But alas, Ike cold-cocked their work as they never could.

In spite of his less than noble behavior, Ike Turner must be lauded on his musical contributions, creative discipline, and commitment to artistry -- regardless of the ocassional absurdity found within it.

Vive Ike!

No Sleep in Brooklyn

Shifting slowly from being unconscious to groggy and fogged, I was hesitant to open my eyes. I was thankful for feeling tired, as if I could drift back to sleep. No luck.

After a bit of Googling, I found that one of the side-effects of my wheat/gluten-free diet is insomnia. Averaging three hours of sleep per night over the past week is taking its toll. Fighting an allergy flare-up that could be a cold really requires the body to fight off the goo. Without the ability to sleep aside from downing a horse-pill like Benadryl, the body is weakening. Sure, I managed to hustle a run the other day, but the fatigue is something I feel and see in my eyes.

Reading the gluten-free and celiac blogs, it seems this ailment is one frequently kept hush-hush by most of the dietary activists but common. Those affected seem to medicate with sleep meds as well as drowsy-formula antihistamines. I did read a few listings detailing foods that enable sleep: almonds, banana, warm milk, wine. Perhaps I'll stock a few bananas for these 3 a.m. disturbances.

Nonetheless, I'm curious why the insomnia is kicking now. I've avoided the wheat for five months or so. The gluten adherence is still being understood, so perhaps there was the slow-adopter factor that helped. Still, I was averaging four to five hours at that point. Catching a six hour snooze sounds so delicious.

Brush Your Breath

Catching the screening of Salo, or the 120 Days of Sodom was certainly not the chore I projected. Since being hipped about this film in grad school, it's been on my must-see list. While it is extreme on many levels, I found it brilliantly executed. I'm considering reading the actual Marquis de Sade text to determine who should receive credit for framing the film as a horrific political satire. As filthy and debauched as he was, de Sade is not celebrated for being a gifted satirist.

The settings of the two works are different: Sade wrote of libertines during the court of Louis XIV and Pasolini places his film with Italian Fascists with libertine ways during WWII. Regardless of the period, this story masterfully captures the degree to which absolute power can be corrupted, depraved and indifferent. As we near the final year of the Bush administration (Abu Grahib, anyone? Do I hear Guantanomo?), I felt this extreme satire was far ahead of its time.

The wit is biting and purposely over-the-top. While awkward jokes that aren't funny are inserted into the story, ones that are just mean-spirited do force occasional chuckles. As violent and disturbing as the film becomes, using the term "black comedy" seems ill-placed. Nonetheless, the undertone humor was constructed in characters not necessarily the lines. A Dietrich-like "narrator," Signora Castelli, offers debauched episodes, including her molestation as a child. It's not the what, but the how that gives a mixed tickle -- part of the brilliance of the work. Additionally, having the libertines indiscriminately molest their captors serves as an amazing parallel to the exploitation of poor and indigent peoples throughout the world who are pawns and/or slaves within conflicts or as in this work, for the amusement and comfort of others.

Without question, a memorable film that will lead to my brushing the teeth tonight. Ick!

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Weather change -- first winter storm of the season. Since spending Thanksgiving in Chicago in a house of sneezing and coughing children and adults, I've feared my plummet into feeling miserable. While I haven't quite reached the worst, waking at 2:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning with an insane thirst and clogged head is less than good.

My failure to buy groceries has returned to bite me. My water jug yielded a final glass before resting with the recyclables. The orange juice bought prior to the trip to Chicago AND that last work-related journey to the Jersey shore seems to have expired a few days ago. Noting that my last attempt to drink expired juice offered a day in the bathroom, the still sealed container was left in the closed fridge. At 2:45 a.m. on an icy cold night (26 degrees F/wind chill of 17 F), strolling to either bodega one block away is not going to happen.

Two cups of tea later, the laptop is now a resource for an alert and drippy gal. From my perspective, this might be a cold. More than likely, this is a sinus flare-up -- explaining the wooziness that I experience when lifting head from pillow. In effect, too much juice in the head. Ears have been gooey. Eyes have been red and scratchy. Nose trickles. However, no body aches -- just woozy.

The clock now reads 4:12 a.m. With this energy, it makes sense to engage in the housework avoided yesterday. These chores were most likely skipped due to the wooziness, tendency to grab something to drink, and just getting distracted between nose blows, racing to the bathroom, and general wooziness.

Drugs on board: Cingulair, Zyrtec-D, Sudafed. Ungh, I hate this time of year. If I respond like I did last night, drifting to sleep will occur just shy of 7 a.m. Lucky I'm not working. Lucky there are no parties affected by my nocturnal activities. Lucky the sinuses aren't infected (yet).

Noting the list of things to do from yesterday including grocery shopping, will I be able to complete these tasks? In addition to the sudden plummet in temperature this week, Sunday promises rain and snow. That type of combo fails to account for the condition that makes it all the more interesting -- ice. Shuffling in the conditions with the grocery buggy and umbrella with tissue to nose seems like work.

Aighhhhhh! Yikes, I have a ticket to a movie this afternoon: Passolini's Salo at Walter Reade - Lincoln Ctr. Shuffling seems to be happening, early. Dang...it's always a chore to get uptown. Now I've got to do it in "weather" and sick. [insert pout here] Noting the extremes of this once banned film, I doubt that I'll recover tonight's lost sleep during the screening.