I just put a load of beads into the kiln to anneal, and then I'll have some raw stuff to work with. Yay.
Maybe I'll post a necklace photo here during the day on Friday.

To my utter delight, the day at last has arrived when Imogen Heap will perform in Dallas. Excited is not a big enough word. I'm all wiggly and giddy and about to drop my transmission. I'm going to bed now. May be up about noon. May not be able to sleep. *bliss*

I'm grateful for too many things to name them all. I hope everyone has a nice time with loved ones, good food and glorious daytime napping. Heaven!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

8:30 AM addendum:
You know, I typed this post before I went to bed a little before 1 AM, but I want to add something.

I'm very grateful for the community we have here in blog. Of course I have my friends and work and creative imperative and family that keep my days full, but blog really is the amusement I treasure that keeps me tethered to an idea of community that knows no boundaries. I started my blog in 2002 and only posted sporadically as inspiration would strike, but more than a year ago I worried that I was languishing creatively and I committed to myself to blog daily to have something creative to show for each day. Now, though, this is not simply me tapping the old plastic in my fuzzy slippers and tossing it out into the ether never to be seen again--you wonderful people respond and when necessary commiserate and indeed make this a community. I love the conversational aspects of the comment section, and I appreciate all of you who participate in that forum.

Through this I've conversed with people who share my passions for music and glass bead making and fiber arts and books and popular culture, and I've discovered much life-enriching stuff through many of you, so thanks for the recommended publications and music and creative references. Thanks for the encouragement. Thanks for the information. Thanks for being here. Thank you for your blogs - they amuse me and I often tell you so.

Not so terribly long ago, people in my family would travel from Arkansas at harvest time out to California to fruit tramp. They would pick fruit all summer, following the harvest up or down the coast, and then head back home. Sort of Grapes-of-Wrath-ish, only maybe not so classy. As a result, flotsam-esque bits of the family branched off and stayed in California and Washington, and I now have some relatives out there. So the trips to California morphed over time from an economic imperative into a familial custom.

There was an old joke that said if you see a car heading toward California with a mattress strapped to the roof, it's an Okie (Oklahoman). However, if there's a mattress on the roof and bare feet sticking out one or more of the windows, it's an Arkie. Yeah, that's how we roll.

Anyway, a great-aunt of mine was named Inez, and she was a bit of a fruit-bat, and would ride back and forth on the California trip with whomever was heading out that way. Nezzie, as she was called, had a strange compulsion. When the group would stop to eat along the way, she would ignore the people at her own table and sit, raptly focusing on the conversation in the booth or table behind hers. She was so obsessive that she would neglect to eat her own food. When they'd get back out on the road, Nezzie would proceed to regale the family with the gossip she'd heard about these random strangers. Invariably she'd cry because she was famished and no one felt sorry for her.

Anyway, for all of you who come here daily and don't comment, I think of you as my Nezzies. Whether you're enjoying the onlooker slow-down aspects of my crash-in-slow-motion life, or if you chuckle wryly, nod appreciatively and think you simply don't have anything to add to the discourse, thanks for stopping by and thanks for reading my blog, and remember to eat something or you'll be hungry later on, and we're not stopping again!

Once upon a time in Dallas... [bad taste alert]

The mining ship Red Dwarf has run out of curry powder and so they time travel back to 20th century earth to get some, and blunder into a Dallas scene on a certain occasion. The episode is Tikka To Ride, and one of my all-time favorites of this sublimely silly, well-written series.

Sunday I went to Waxahachie [pronounced woks-uh-hatch-ee] and I took some photos of the old red sandstone Ellis County courthouse which dates from 1895. Click here for a virtual tour of this structure.

Here is a history of the carving as I remember it:

This masonry was commissioned of a noted Italian carver by a local enormously wealthy businessman. When the Italian arrived in town, Cupid smote him with an overwhelming desire for the comely daughter of the businessman. In tribute to her, he rendered her likeness in sandstone on one corner of the building. Over time, however, she spurned his advances and the now embittered Italian vented his spleen in the remaining curlicued embellishments of the courthouse. As you view the other 3 corners of the courthouse, her face morphs into a bloated cavalcade of grotesques, each more hideous than the last.

Also, legend has it that one particular carving on the structure is the spitting image of the place where babies come from. Uncharacteristically for me-- I've never tried to ferret out the outrage, and I probably never will. I'm content to live with the mystery.

By the way, I misspelled that last "and" as "nad." Coincidence, or psychic phenomenon?

Brave Little Toaster

This video is hilarious, as much for the guffaws of the announcer as for the sheer delight of seeing someone drive a vehicle that sports a bit too much engine. That's a Chevy 350 in this VW Microbus. Fair dinkum!

Ruth Brown
Mama, He Treats Your Daughter Mean

Bit by bit I've been making the blog rounds, but still haven't caught up because I continue to be busier than a whore in church. (yeah, it took me 41 years on earth to come up with that one - I'm a little disappointed in myself - not so quick these days.)

In February 1994, I was in London and happened into Ronnie Scott's Jazz Club on a momentous occasion: Ruth Brown, venerated high priestess of American R&B was making her London debut. Considering she was about 66 at the time, well, it was about time.

[If you're not already familiar with her impressive blues career, you may remember her from the John Waters film Hairspray in which she played DJ/record store proprietress Motormouth Maybelle.]

Anyway, Miss Brown sang the stuffing out of the blues that night, and it was a sparkling evening. I'm so glad I happened to catch it, because it was a rich musical experience from the git-go. Arriving just before she took the stage, we took the last two available seats at the very back of the house. I remember being a little surprised because we had to check all bags/purses at the door-- security, I suppose.

She sang lots of the standards from the R&B catalog, including some killer Bessie Smith (Ain't Nobody's Business) and lots of great cry-in-your-beer kind of music. It was golden.

Now, one thing I've always admired and greatly respected is the way people in the UK recognize the traditions of blues/jazz and how they are part of the DNA of modern popular music. It seems the mainstream American audience forget good music as quickly as it passes through town, and there is no regard for tradition. In England, on lots of stations you'll hear the latest pop tune, then something from the 80s, then Motown - good music has real staying power there.

Where an American audience has it all over the Brits --at least an American audience that's schooled -- may be observed in the call-and-response tradition of channeling feedback to a blues performer. There has to be a natural ease and flow to this exchange, there has to be a sense that the audience is saying "yeah, we know you're driving, and we're coming with you." I see this as intrinsically related to the dynamic of any performer who is setting a musical mood and reliant on the pliability of an audience.

From the audience came occasional rather polite utterances of approval, but it seemed to me something a little less vague was in order. (Caveat: this was before every body and their dog was saying it, including Oprah guests) As the band played some low-profile intro to her next piece - Lover Man by Billie Holiday, Miss Brown started talking, and I could tell it was going to be good, so I waited for my moment. She said, "you know, love can be hard," followed by a lengthy pause as the music played on. I hollered out "YOU GO, GIRL!" in that idiotic way we Americans have of acting too at home in the world. (I promise, I'm not normally obnoxious abroad. I'm just an obnoxious broad.) To my everlasting delight, Miss Brown responded into the microphone: "That's my relative."

Miss Brown died Friday, aged 78. I feel badly that I never took time to write her and tell her what a power-house performance that was and how privileged I felt to hear her at her London debut. She wrote in her 1999 autobiography of how edifying it was to be recognized and so well received in London after so many years in the business. I'm glad she had that, and I'm glad I was a tiny part of it. Even though I was embarking on my training as a classical vocalist, I'll always feel a teeny whit of kinship with her and her abiding love for music.

Miss Brown was a songwriter and song stylist of note in her younger years, but was paid almost no royalties for all her great efforts and acclaim. In spite of this vile exploitation, she never let that steal the joy she found in making music. This speaks volumes of her character and her true motivation in performing, and if it's not about the music, why bother?

So in 1994, Miss Ruth Brown stood there in her spangly sparkly dress, with the wig and the fake eyelashes, and sang about the themes of love and loss that are as ancient and newfound and timeless as any other concept we pitiful humans have ever come up with, and she made it fresh. Not bad for a life's work.

So wherever you are Miss Brown, long may you wave, and you go, girl.

Now that we live in Andy Warhol's fabled future where everyone has their own tv show, one starts to see familiar tv personalities more routinely and in unexpected places. You might run into the first chick voted off the island as she's at the store buying tampons, or you might run into Kayne from Project Runway at the Gypsy Tea Room as a friend of mine did recently.

But here's the eerie, peculiar encounter I had today, and this is one Emily Post never covered: what if the person you see out & about was the feature on a Discovery Channel surgical gender reassignment special? This happened to me today, and I really tried not to be obvious that I was having an emotional conflict. Is it rude to observe "I saw you on television" if the nature of the sighting was so intensely personal?

I realize I don't know this person at all and having seen them on television in no way connects us. However, I have seen his/her manly/womanly bits through a filmy haze of blurred dots, and it sort of seems that if someone has put themselves on such display, well, I'm guessing modesty is not a factor.

Anyway, the bizarre part is that although I'm pretty much opposed to plastic surgery, I found myself thinking that if they were going to bother with the rhinoplasty (which they did in order to render the specimen more feminine in appearance), they should have thinned the bridge of his/her nose a bit more dramatically.

Strange times, these. What's the old proverb? May you be blessed not to live in interesting times. Quite.

Top Chefateria.

Please tell my I'm not the only one who has noticed the similarities, both physical and mental. Marcel IS Syndrome, und hee veel rrroool zee vorld!


Oh, about this week's top chef episode - I really liked Josie and was sorry to see her go, but about Marisa? That bitch HAD to go - she was annoying me from day 1.

Ritsuka and Soubi - This Sun hasn't Set

Lyric of the day from Frou Frou:

I'm a slow moving accident
Lost in coffee rings and finger prints

Anyway, the point is the song - I love it, but what is up with all the Anime done to the music of Imogen Heap (she's part of FrouFrou)??? I know it's dreamy and gorgeous. Well, anyway, have a great day.

Well, I've been too busy with a big bunch of navel-gazing to share it, but the prescient Tam had a brilliant post-election post followed by a flurry of empassioned commentary a few days back. You can read it here.

Then there's some deliciousness over at the always-brilliant Law Dog Files where some New Zealand rugby guys are doing something called "Taka" which some of you may have seen in that New Zealand band I posted here a couple weeks back. Good stuff. I may have to take up rugby-watching.

I have made so much jewelry I'm almost sick of it. Almost, but not quite. Sometimes in a state of fatigue I'll make something that baffles even myself, and tonight I'm near to soiling myself with delight. NOT that I've ever soiled myself with delight. I said "near to."

I was just brushing my teeth and for some reason I suddenly had an olfactory memory of the Goop from my Thingmaker Fun Flowers from about 1969 or 1970. My brother had the Creepy Crawlers Thingmaker. Now THIS was from the time when a toy was a toy, and so much more exciting because there was the added element of risk: electricity, and a boiling-hot little baking tray to cook your little deadlies on.

These days, the fun of toys is utterly quashed by a generous girding of foam-padded safety rails and low-voltage battery operations. How is a kid supposed to learn about life and that sometimes a person needs to be careful? Gosh, no wonder people are so disturbed these days!

Anyway, I'd love to get a whiff of that Goop one more time - it had an interesting smell, and I always loved the excitement of making my big useless rubbery flowers in dayglo pinks and oranges. Perhaps my obsession with wonky, flamboyant beads stems from just such experiences, that and being born smack in the middle of the sixties. Who knows?

Anyway, this over-child-proofing of toys reminds me of what John Waters always said about all the padding and gear that football players wear: "What's the point of all that violence if you're prepared for it?"

Yeah, kids need to break stuff, learn how not to break stuff, and even have the occasional boo boo. This way they won't be so helpless in a big scary world.

I haven't told a family story in a while, so here's a new one.

Along about 1991, I was driving along a street in Dallas and I saw a sign that said that extras were needed for a large tent revival scene in a film, and that the pay for extras would be donated to the Montessori Schools in Dallas. This sounded interesting, so I called up my parents to see if they wanted to go with me. I suppose I was such a spaz about it that they thought they'd come along because they felt sorry for their retarded daughter, or maybe like me they were curious about how it all worked.

The film turned out to be Leap Of Faith with Steve Martin. The scene was shot in a soundstage in Las Colinas, which is West of Dallas near the airport. We were inside the tent, inside the building, with blazing lights, so it was quite hot. This was the scene when the storm finally comes to the drought-blighted community and the cynical fake preacher Steve Martin finally starts believing in miracles, and all heaven breaks loose on the wet folk at the tent revival.

Well, it was hot and muggy in the tent, and we stood for what seemed eternity as things were shot over and over. I have to say the whole trip was made worthwhile by the magnificent 100 strong black full gospel choir who were singing their brains out at the front of the tent. To hear that many good singers singing full-voice is a hair-raising experience, to say the least.

We were near the back of the tent, with two rows of chairs in front of us with an aisle in front of them. Most of the time was ours to play tiddly-winks. We were hot and restive, but everyone stayed in their spots because the film people were running around losing their minds, and somewhere, a director was yelling. Finally, some production assistants came through the humid masses with bottles of water to hand out. I took two. Mom sat quietly in her chair, but Dad and I were standing, looking around, and truth-be-known, probably itching to instigate a riot.

There was a mouthy heifer two rows ahead who also took extra water bottles. Dad and I were standing, taking a swig of our water when the bitch stone cold turned around, let out a "whoop" and flung a big ropey splash of water onto me and the people behind me. I was filled with the need for revenge. I pulled out my second bottle of water and began to remove the cap, when Dad said "don't do that," and took it from my hand.

Dad, always the clever one, pulled out his pocket knife and bored a small hole in the lid of my water bottle, rendering it a precision weapon by which I could exact my revenge on that nasty bitch. I crossed my left forearm across my waist to hold my elbow, and waited for my moment. As soon as I got a clear bead on her, I sent a quick projectile of liquid vengeance to douse her neck. By the time she reacted and turned, my left arm was still in place, right arm upturned and holding the (seemingly) capped water bottle casually, not looking at her. We had fun this way several times but I stopped before she figured it out. Her sputtering impotent fury made me glad she'd been such a jerk. Needless to say, we laughed about it the entire rest of the day.

I never saw the movie, so I don't know if we are visible, and I really don't care. I certainly know there is no entry for Phlegmmy in the credits. Like I said, it was worth the discomfort to hear that choir. But to have an opportunity to have my pop act as efficiency expert to my mischief-doing was absolutely priceless. You rock, Dad!

OK, I'm sure you're going to be sick of my beads before this is over, but here's a few from the Sunday batches. The cranberry and purple beads have the colored glass in the core and a casing of clear glass around that with 24K gold leaf on top. The heart bead is my favorite of the day, with that ropey twisted stringer of pale pink with orange stripes. It's about an 1 1/4 inch long. I decided not to melt the stringer in all the way because I liked the way it looked in relief.

Since the move to a house from my last loft, I haven't listened to music while on the torch, but sessions have been so protracted and fatiguing this weekend that I simply HAD to kick out the jams. I've been listening to Black Holes & Revelations by Muse - a superb cd even if I think they are a little full of shit. The guitars are nasty and just what you want from your Rock N Roll, if you're doing it right.

Then there's the cd from Frou Frou which features "Let Go," that song I linked to here last week. Love this one, and in all the best ways it reminds me of hypno/dreampop like Cocteau Twins and Curve and Lush, but with a more lighthearted sensibility. Love the instrumentation on this one.

Here's hoping this cool weather lasts through Monday night, and by then I should have enough beads done for all my immediate commitments. I can't tell you how disheartening it is to know you have to make about 100 beads and by the time you've finished the first one, there's a happy trail of sweat running from the nape of your neck down to your posterior regions - not comfy by a long shot. Funny to think how much dirt and grit and oomska goes into making something so girly, isn't it?