There are many sad, tragic and/or ironic endings bespotting the relatively short history of pop music. But one that, ahem, flies under the radar is the story of Otis Redding’s death.
It came a mere days after he recorded what would be his most famous hit, “Sittin’ On The Dock of The Bay.”
A stormy night. A plane crash. Dead at 26 years old.
It’s so sad to me that he didn’t get to see how soothing this song would be to so many people. It’s a hit, sure, but it is my favorite kind — a sad song wrapped in a melody that makes you feel good, that reminds you why you keep going.
I’ve been thinking about this story lately. Mostly because I am amazed at how young Otis Redding was when he died. It makes me worry that I’m not doing enough. Accomplishing enough. Am I wasting my time on things that may not really matter? I worry that I spent my twenties to fast. I know I didn’t, technically, but I worry about it as I start to settle in a new, greater sense of self-awareness.
“Where have I been this whole time?” I wonder. “Because I finally feel like I have arrived in this body, this life.”
While the back of my brain was gnawing on this yesterday,”Sittin’ On The Dock of the Bay” came on my playlist. At first my anxiety deepened because, damn, he died right after he recorded his most famous song — a song about wasting time! How many people have missed their opportunities like that because of timing?
Mmmm… That song though… I couldn’t stay in a state of panic too long if I tried… Not with Otis crooning his cathartic beachy blues…
I could look at this the other way, I thought: It’s a miracle he even recorded this song when death was so close. So many things nipped on the heels of people like Otis, but he made it, even if things were cut short. Every moment is a miracle, really. Whether we spend it sitting by the bay or knee deep in dream making. Worrying about it all is the ultimate waste.
After all, this is my first Valentine’s Day as a wife, something I became after walking down the aisle to another Otis song. However it all turns out, I have a lot of moments to be thankful for.
Eve uses poetry, visual art and narrative prose to explore black girlhood and America’s unique injustices toward people of color, taking readers from the streets of ’90s Chicago where she grew up to a future yet to be determined. How will we determine it?
Hanif is a Columbus kid! He writes about this Midwestern life (with shoutouts to Columbus and Chicago alike), music, and so, so much more in this book published by Two Dollar Radio. I remember watching Hanif perform slam poetry while I lived in Columbus and being blown away at how deftly he could cut a sentence. Keep your heart there. Then fly you forward. My Chicago friends, come see him do an author convo with Jessica Hopper (“The First Collection of Criticism By A Living Female Rock Critic”) at Women & Children First next month.
The subtitle here explains it all: How to change the world with your wardrobe. Justin and I have instituted a no-clothes-buying policy until spring. April, to be exact. We’ve set a budget and are working on lists of what we want to buy. It’s been surprisingly relieving to have this self-imposed boundary. I am being very thoughtful about what I want to buy in the spring — not just because of the budget we’ve set but because I want to think of my wardrobe as a whole thing, versus a million cheap little pieces I replace on a whim. Having a shopping strategy has forced me to be more thoughtful about where I buy my clothes too. This book explains the basics of sustainable clothing, fabric and shopping, as well as the general arguments for why fast fashion is harming people and the planet. I don’t expect to change the world, but I hope to live a little more thoughtfully.
The venerable newspaper is proving its digital storytelling could be as revolutionary as the kind that sealed its print legacy. Three films from the paper’s Op-Docs series were nominated in the 90th Academy Awards’ documentary short subject category. Here’s a convenient roundup of all three short films so you can watch them! They’re around 15 minutes each and are great for a short commute.
True Story
Speaking of great things to do on a commute: I recently ordered a subscription to True Story and am loving it! This pocket-sized mini-mag features one nonfiction piece a month, selected by the editors of Creative Nonfiction magazine (which I also just subscribed to and am kicking myself for not doing it earlier). The longform narrative medium that’s explored in True Story is a cathartic antidote to the numbing (and dumbing) world of 140 characters and bite-me click-bait headlines.
Black Mirror
The “Hang the DJ” episode on the new season of Black Mirror
I was perhaps particular to this episode because it is one of the few Black Mirror episodes that didn’t leave me in a state of hives and high anxiety. Or maybe it was because I love the actor Joe Cole so much for his bad-boy-baby-brother role in Peaky Blinders that I think he can do no wrong. Or maybe it was just a happy ending in a dystopian world. Either way, I dig it. It’s on Netflix now.
[schwing!]
The Post
The more I learn about the Pentagon Papers and the heroic story about the presses brave enough to publish them, the more I’m surprised this story isn’t more famous than Watergate. Queen Meryl Streep and Tom Hanks are, of course, perfect (and I loooooved Bob Odenkirk and David Cross as hard and bulbous nosed reporters!), but this new movie worth watching for its tense, well-timed drama and presentation of women who pushed the boundaries of business ownership. Oh, and also, you should know why the press matters and what democratic values can be accomplished when newspapers and the public value good journalism. This film is dripping with media morality. I needed that. Warning: The beautifully shot scenes of newsprint presses churning out issues will make my fellow former journalists cry.
Here are the details and where to get tickets for my appearance with You’re Being Ridiculous at 8:30 p.m. Saturday, Jan. 27. I hope you make it out to some of these other events throughout the weekend too.
You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll fume. You’ll hate life and love it in the same breath. Basically, you’ll experience the daily ~*emotional roller*~ coaster experienced by all your creative friends! See you soon.
When you live in a small but comfortable apartment in a major city, you forgo some at-home amenities for the sake of living somewhere super cool.
It forces you to get creative. For example, Justin and I have turned what’s supposed to be our living room into our bedroom and what’s supposed to be our bedroom into our home office and recording studio.
I long for the day I can own a couch again, as well as cute, meaningless baskets set up around each room for visual effect and no real purpose other than to carelessly throw the occasional magazine. But for the most part, this set up is awesome. We won’t be here forever, so I can still Pinterest home décor ideas without fear that my mid-century modern dreamboat dining room will never come to fruition. Not owning a home allows you to live in, metaphorically, the space where you can dream to your heart’s content.
The only bad part is that space is at a premium. And as one half of a couple willing to compromise, I have to give up a few fights.
Like, the one about why we don’t put the tool bag in a closet instead of having it on the office floor (no more room).
Or why we can’t put the dust spray with all the other cleaning supplies instead of leaving it on the bookshelf. (He “likes it there” because we use it all the time to spray down our TV trays and no one visits us anyway. That’s another nice thing about living in a city — you rarely host friends because there are too many other, better places to meet and hang.)
Our apartment lifestyle is focused on function. Not form. For better or worse. Or at least until we’ve saved up enough for a down payment on a house.
Or a Westy.
#livingthedream
Because we’ve committed to this way of life for the time being, we have saved a lot of money… which we sometimes spend on stupid things.
Like Justin’s latest purchase: A freaking in-home sauna.
He heard about these on Joe Rogan’s podcast. (Lol. True story.) Something to do with “heat shock proteins” and reducing inflammation?
Justin knew a JRE recco wouldn’t sell me on it though, so he came up with a good sales pitch:
“We would have a sauna! How cool is that! These are the luxuries we can have before a baby gets made.”
“It’s to help us feel healthy and good and it’s cheaper than buying a membership to a place that has a sauna.”
“Look how funny I look when I’m in it.”
I blame you, Joe Rogan.
Number three was definitely the dark horse angle in this race. I can’t help but giggle when I turn the corner to find his head sticking out of this stupid tent thing, like he’s buried under sand at a beach.
But what really sold me was when I tried it the other day after a run. Damn it, I thought, as I began to relax, a warm hug enveloping my body. Uggggh. I think I like this.
I agreed we could keep it (like it’s a puppy he brought home or something) but I just have two rules.
That dumb thing gets packed up and put away after it’s aired out and we’re not using it.
The other person has to be home while it’s in use. I do NOT want to be the subject of an episode of some “Wacky Ways to Die” TV pilot because I got trapped in a zipper-clad polyester pressure cooker.
I’ll get a couch again someday. And, thanks to our stupid freaking sauna, I’ll be able to swoon on it with my proteins fully engaged… K, brah?
A few weeks ago, Justin and I went out to a show with some friends, but first we hit up Replay, a bar in Lincoln Park that has nostalgia on tap. Retro arcade games, pinball machines and Skee-Ball tourneys await after you’ve grabbed a drink at the bar.
I don’t drink anymore, but I can still appreciate reading a loaded menu of throwback craft cocktails spiked with a pun. Try, for example, the Salt-N-Pepa: House made strawberry and jalapeño infused tequila and lime with a chili lime salt rim.
Justin, earning the pinball wiz-ard title (you’re not the only one who can do puns here, barkeep), had to pee out his nostalgia cocktails an unusual amount of times. So we’d put our KISS pinball competition on pause, and I’d saddle up to a table and watch the video playing on the big screen while I waited.
They show old music videos, action flicks, Christmas movies. I hope old TRL episodes make the rotation. Remember when you had to wait for TRL to come on to watch a music video? Dark ages.
This night, though, they were showing WWE footage from the late ‘90s/ early Aughts, particularly matches that featured The Rock as a buffed and polished 20-something.
Uh waaaay back! (You think that fanny is nice, wait until you see what the one in back is packing.)
I chewed on my straw and tried to figure out what was bothering me about this imagery—beyond Jake the Snake’s super amazing man tights and desperate flopping. (I like to think of older era Jake the Snake more as Jake the Lovable Lost Sea Turtle.)
Something was off here. Something I needed to notice.
This happens to me sometimes. My visual intuition knows something is different and I can’t leave until I figure out what it is. I blame all those “Spot the Difference” game on menus I played as a kid, back before parents had, you know, cell phones to distract us.
I once spent a dumb amount of time in front of a black and white photograph at a tractor machinery museum trying to figure out what about it, exactly, was scratching the back of my mind. The photo showed a row of stern looking men in suits sitting in a dusty office. They were the executive leaders of some machinery factory in the early half of last century. Looking. Scanning. Taking in their creviced faces with mine, a mere century and a few inches away.
I caught it eventually: Despite their fancy mustaches and serious-looking jackets, they were all wearing beaten up boots, covered in dirt and dust. Quite different from the imagery of CEOs and executive leadership you see today. You don’t expect to see genuine evidence of their presence in the actual plants like their workers.
I knew it was something similar with this wrestling match. It was something other than the glitter and spandex and jacked bodies.
Boom.
There it was: In the audience.
Every single person in the stands was watching with rapt attention. These people were actually watching what was going on in front of them! In real time!
I watched for a cell phone in front of someone’s face. I watched for a smartphone hoisted in the air to snap a photo. I looked for a head down, typing on a tiny screen. But while I watched them, they watched the action in the ring. The whole time. Their whole selves invested in just one thing.
IT WAS SO BIZZARE. It was almost too intimate. I kind of felt like I needed to look away.
During another Justin pee break, I watched two burly wrestlers body slam past the ropes and throw themselves into the audience. Dear GoogleGod! Can you imagine if something like this happened today? No one would actually be watching the action right in front of them. Instead it’d be seen, witnessed, through the screen of their smartphone. But during this late ’90s romp, not a cell phone was in sight. It was charming, actually, to see the crowd physically interact with the wrestlers, undistracted. They patted their guy on the back, yelled at their foe. The closest it got to anything like you’d see now was one woman in mom jeans squaring up to take a flash photo on a film camera.
Guys, this was barely 20 years ago!
I watched in shock. Compare this scene to that of Kendrick Lamar’s recent halftime performance at the National Championship. So many people were on their cell phones, they looked bored. The camera operators eventually stopped panning to the audience because it kind of looked bad when you’re going for a jubilant reaction shot to see someone typing on their phone, likely sharing a photo of themselves or Kendrick on stage.
It’s no wonder some performers and musicians have started barring cell phones from their performances.
Oy. And this not a post meant to judge these people. I AM these people. I do the exact same thing. That’s why watching people *not* doing this felt so foreign to me. That’s why watching people *not* doing this was more fascinating than The Rock twirling a man in underpants above his head.
I bought the dress I wore to the New Year’s Eve polka party we attended SPECIFICALLY because I thought it would look hot in an Instagram photo. It did. But… maaaaan, is that who I am now?
I never turn my phone off. I check my email 24/7. This is a choice I’ve made after a lot of thought—a choice that makes my freelance worklife possible, a freelance life that comes with a LOT of freedom—but how many people do not have this luxury? I can feel the difference of personal attention I get electronically—or lack there of—since I joined Facebook 13 years ago. (Yes, 13 years ago. They sent me a Faceversary notification the fall day it happened.)
Yikes. Untag.
People I email are so slammed with added responsibility, expectations and, ironically, emails, they don’t respond as quickly or as diligently as they used to. Just writing emails for others is now, literally, a full time job you can get out of college. It’s no wonder direct mail (read: mail mail aka paper mail aka snail mail) is making a comeback. I, too, am more likely to trust and actually read paper mail than the seemingly worthless junk that shows up in my Gmail “Promotions” folder. Deleting it before I even read the subject line feels like an accomplishment.
I’m 100% pro technology. It can equalize our society in ways never possible before. Hell, it already has! But we have to take personal responsibility for how we let it affect our own lives. There is a social media mental health crisis looming and we’re responsible for protecting ourselves while it goes down.
Does your opinion matter if it’s not liked a hundred times on Twitter?
Does one really run if said run is not recorded during run into a running app?
Does the patriarchy truly fall if no one hears it in the streets at a Women’s March?
Speaking of the Women’s March, I didn’t attend this year because I had a nasty head cold and wave of the blues, but I did try to spend my time doing something more productive than posting photos and fighting about it on Facebook, which was super tempting.
Instead, I worked on a short story that I originally started from the viewpoint of a female character… then changed to the male character’s point of view… then changed back again to being told by the female character. That’s because I realized my own internalized misogyny in thinking that a male’s POV on a subject was more believable than a female’s instead of trusting my gut.
Saturday, I also read a great article in the February issue of Writer’s Digest about how to subvert your characters that are actually really destructive romantic tropes, like the Manic Pixie Dream Girl or the Sensitive Intelligent Alpha Male. This is where I think our power in making change lies—in our everyday actions and internal examinations beyond the screen. As a feminist writer, I can change how a little girl or boy thinks romance, consent or dating works, just through a story. I have more power to change the world there than on a Facebook post trying to get likes.
TLDR: I feel totally drained by social media. Scrolling through Facebook feels emotionally violent, right? The news is all alarming. No one is listening to each other. We’re too quick to break each other down, rather than the opposing argument. I don’t long for the late ’90s or the mom jeans or the film cameras. But I do think there’s something beautiful about not being on your phone all the time — visually and intra- and interpersonally beautiful.
I really want to put an effort into taking more time off my phone this year. Time to to put my cell phone away. Time spent IRL, paying attention to just one thing.
Join me won’t you?
I think we could all make this world a better place if we gave ourselves more time to stop and smell, well, what The Rock is cooking.
Oh shit! Go get this book! Tudor’s debut novel is a hell of a ride. Nothing preachy, nothing to learn. Just a good old heart pumpin’ and jumpin’ psychological thriller.
Opposite here: Lots to learn in this baby. Written by an Argentinian writer, I can’t even find it on Goodreads. But my local library recommended it as one of the best of 2017. Indeed, I’ve never had a book affect me physically until I read this one! It’s more than frightening. My skin crawled and itched from about page 20 onward. It had me checking and double bolting the doors. But, alas, the real terror was all around me…
Here’s another one I couldn’t recommend more. I needed to read Jessa Crispin’s argument about how the feminist movement has gotten off course in its attempt to commodify and convince all women they are feminists. I didn’t agree with every point she made, but, as she so convincingly writes, that’s the whole fucking point.
I particularly appreciate her call out of feminist righteousness and how we need to center it back to human rights (ALL human rights, not just female human rights):
“No one talks about toxic femininity, but certainly if we look at certain feminine modes in contemporary culture, it exists. But we would prefer to think of toxic masculinity as innate, and any problems with women’s behavior as being socially created. It’s convenient. Saying or believing that women are special also, by default, dehumanizes men. If we are special because we are caring, then men must be uncaring. If we are special because we are compassionate and nurturing, then men must be emotionally dead and destructive. And if these qualities are innate, then we can dismiss the entire male gender.”
This book is brutal but brilliant. Proceed with caution, but certainly proceed. Marzano-Lesnevich took ten years to write it and it was worth waiting for. She changes the genre of memoir. “The Fact of a Body” intertwines her story of family secrets, hidden crimes and ignored molestation with the story of a child molester she learns about in law school. What I liked about this book was that it questioned the limits of empathy.Is the death penalty humane? Are there limits to empathy? Should victims be allowed to have that? These are tough and personal questions. But it’s a relief to see someone asking them — and asking them in a new way.
I’ve been on such a Roxane Gay kick lately. This month I’m returning to where I first fell in love with her: in her comforting gray worlds of fictional short storytelling. She’s the best at uncovering darkness and enchanting you to look. No really, look at it. See their scars. These tales are for and about those whom a careless world made brave hearted.
NDT 4-Life! Neil DeGrasse Tyson makes nerding out about the wonders of the universe fun and fast in his latest book. I like how little it feels in my hand. My hand made of stars. 😉
I did some Google searching and I’m still not sure what this sign means. But it’s definitely attention-getting. Thank you, Charley? I think?
Sometimes it’s hard to see. But love is there.
Remember that!
And that.
When I first read this copy on our monthly electric bill, I thought it meant they would actually come pick up the gross old food containers I have in my fridge or freezer. Ha! Maybe my subconscious is trying to tell me to do some cleaning…
This sign hangs on the door to the milking parlor of our family farm.
A helpful reminder on my first commute back to a work gig in the new year. You know, when you don’t even remember what email is.
I know your newborn nubbers be but as bitty and tender as an earlobe, but please pause that Little Drummer Boy mixtape and see to this, my latest request.
Please, oh heavens, please… do not let this little throat tickle and creeping-up cough be the first sands of many to tinkle through the hourglass of time to be spent recovering from a cold. Bedridden, miserable and relentlessly unproductive/ therefore unAmerican (destined to be older you’s least admired trait, OK?).
May the golden nectar of this Airborne dissolved in tap water have the healing power of a Eucharist washed down with wine on your fave day. May this shimmering orange liquid ensconced in a DayQuil pill behold the power of holy water disinfectant.
Through the marble gates where your cousin goddesses reside, babble to them my wish to be as whole and bright as their Supermoon. Turn on that otherworldly, childish charm to which they so easily succumb and convince them to grant your wish, widdle baby savior of the world!
Next, spirit up to St. Blaise and, like, just humor his conspiracy theories. You don’t have to stay long; I know your swaddled clothes always stink when you leave. When he hits the holy pipe for the third time and the clock strikes three and he starts talking about aliens, ask him to send healing waves down to my earthly throat and lungs, his specialty. (Also, if possible, the burner number to reach “his guy.”)
Finally, coo to your mother, who always knows how to make everything better when the world feels shitty–from the chicken noodle soup to the tea with honey to you, young prince.
Today begins 2018. Hello! Yay! I hope your headache wears off soon and you get to eat nachos in bed and watch Netflix! (Might I recommend the new Dave Chappelle specials? Controversial, yes, but those headlines aren’t doing it justice. Perhaps we may all dig deeper this year? You’ll notice the beginning of a theme here.)
I love New Year’s Day. It’s an overachiever’s dream holiday. “You mean, we get to be applauded for our outrageous efforts to do/ achieve/ improve/ get better at whatever it is we dream? We get to spend the whole day setting up lists and spreadsheets and myriad assortment of other technological trackers designed for successfully marking things off our to-do lists?”
Yasss, bitch! You’re scratching me right where my neuroses itch. Get. Shit. Done.
Via a Google search for “overachiever problems.”
I’m very aware of the pros and cons of being a “trophy hunter,” as Justin calls me. He and I are complete opposites in this area of our lives, so his c’est la vie attitude is very helpful for me when I need to remember the little things matter most and, well, chill the fuck out.
This year, I’m committed to finding a balance between the two. I don’t want to completely give up my go-get-em mentality, but I don’t want it to push me to extremes anymore either–or, more specifically, I don’t want it to push me to extremes on paths that I don’t give a shit about. Do you know what I mean? When you end up *nailing* the 200-word freelance assignment because you spent six hours on it instead of spending a sane and appropriate three hours and channelling your other two hours into researching for a creative essay you want to write.
There’s gotta be somewhere to rest in the middle, right? Somewhere that I can focus my extremes into achieving my ultimate, singular, soul-igniting goal?
Via a Pinterest search for “overachievers get shit done.”
Well, I think I’ve found a solution. This will be the year in which I attempt the impossible for my extreme perfectionist brain: Consistency.
Here’s an excerpt from my Best Self Co. journal workbook that explains why this works/ why I’m putting faith into trying consistency over achievement:
“If you want to crush your goals and reach greatness, you must focus on consistent and long-term personal performance.
In the book Great By Choice, author Jim Collins shares the story of two explorers, Amundsen and Scott, who each led separate teams on an expedition race to the South Pole in 1911. The journey there and back was roughly 1,400 miles, which is equivalent to a round-trip from NYC to Chicago.
While both teams would travel the same distance through extremely harsh weather conditions, each took an entirely different approach to the journey.”
OK PAY ATTENTION THIS IS WHERE THE GOLD CAN BE MINED:
“Scott’s strategy was to walk as far as possible on the good weather days and then rest up on the bad days to conserve energy. Conversely, Amundsen’s team adhered to a strict regimen of consistent progress by walking 20 miles every day–no matter what the weather. On good days, Amundsen’s team was very capable of walking further, but Amundsen was adamant they walk no more than 20 miles–to conserve their energy.”
WHICH TEAM SUCCEEDED? YOU SHOULD KNOW THE ANSWER BY NOW BUT STAY WITH ME:
“It was Amundsen’s because they took consistent action. And this same principle will be true for your goals.”
We are what repeatedly do, which, like, I know. But this anecdote clicked that knowledge into place somehow. It offers some relief: If I dedicate an hour a day, for example, to writing for my book, or promise to run one mile, and only one mile, every three days at the gym, I take the decision making out of it. It becomes a habit. And, I can’t push my work or goals off to a day when “I feel like it” and then, when I finally “feel like it,” feel overwhelmed by the 48 hours of work and 10 miles I expect from myself in one day.
Patience. Restraint. Courage. That’s what’s going to get me across the finish line. These are skills I haven’t cultivated in my past–and haven’t really needed to. But not knowing how to be truly patient with myself and others and situations has proven a detriment exacerbated by my trophy hunting perfectionism.
It’s probably affected you too, this fast-paced immediacy and expectation of comfort. I think we could all benefit from taking a step back, reading the whole article, watching the special, getting our hot take from something more thoughtful than a tweet, seeking out the facts, embracing the nuance intrinsic in waiting, letting others have opinions different from our own.
See also: We won’t elect a new, non-idiotic president until 2020.
So buckle up, loves. The life you’ll be changing this year is your own–and if you do it right, you’ll do it in a way that the change lasts for years to come.
