I always knew I was different. In school, all the kids came in Black and white, with beautiful full foreheads, pronounced bridges, and big lidded eyes. On TV and in the movies, too.
If I didn’t look the way I did, I would’ve become an actress. The Oscars in the early ’70s were a revelation to me. I wanted to be on that stage accepting mine, instead of sitting on the couch next to my chain-smoking parents, watching from the sidelines.
But every time I dared to dream outside my race, I needed only to pass my garish face in…
“I’ll have you hooked with a single taste. When I’m done, you’ll never walk away. ’Cause you won’t break something you wanna keep. And I’ll make sure this stays in one piece.” — “Bet You Can’t,” introducing Aly Cutter
Kinda erotic, kinda explicit. Kinda awesome.
Bass composer Jon von Boehm’s upcoming album, Hustle, oozes sex appeal, thanks to Aly Cutter’s lyrical hits. Her silky voice is all you hear, all you wanna hear, enveloped in Matrix dance moves, follow the white rabbit Neo, and bomb-ass bass solos. Lust and love at first sight.
von Boehm records his first vocal pop…
in my dreams
I look for a key
already in my front right pocket
next to the plane ticket
and a taped picture of you
and I, together in one of those funny
yearbook poses of the ‘70s
a window is always open
to the other side
storms and dinosaurs, seas and ice caps,
happy, shiny people in Eddie Bauer ads
sipping lattes in gleaming white cups,
their eyes peering over designer glasses -
celebrities, elusive, vibrant, and slightly vacant
when you ask them for the time -
as if they’ve seen a ghost, pass the scones, darling,
where was I…
aging is watching the people you love
slowly begin to hate and resent you,
because you can no longer keep up
you can’t even pretend to try anymore
they bang their pots and pans and water bottles,
the ones you carefully put in the recycling bin every Sunday night without fail,
and clean in the dishwasher, long before you lay your head on the pillow each night,
worrying yourself to death about every detail
you’ve already forgotten before the first dream wafts through you
you’re far away underwater on another island,
one surrounded by death and disease, maggots, lice, and ticks…
I woke up in my own private hell this week. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?
This is no ordinary bad mood. I feel physically fine. I’m not sick. Maybe a mild allergy to this Timothy grass as the weather warms up.
After spending 24 years in rain-drenched Seattle, the constant Idaho sunshine’s quite a change of scenery — and jolt to my senses. And, we’ve only been in Twin Falls since March.
Major moves at my age (56) can take a toll, I guess.
My circadian rhythm’s all fucked up. Early morning hours, dull afternoons, forgotten evenings, and a strange…
I know I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating (isn’t that what everyone always says in casual conversation?): life feels like a revolving, never-ending, ever-cycling show, where nothing — not even your well-intentioned, well-trained reflexes and responses — is real. Theater.
Kentucky Senator Rand Paul accused Biden medical advisor, “Plandemic” star, and all-around bullshit artist Anthony Fauci of pandering to this “theater” during coronavirus hearings, aka, more government studies.
In the 1603 play, “As You Like It,” Shakespeare wrote:
"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;..."
Part of the shrapnel of abuse, not just racial abuse and other forms of trauma, unfortunately is self-loathing, a kind of body dysmorphia, I've learned. I've learned, very very snail's pace slowly, to appreciate the many sides of myself that come through for people. I grew up wishing I could look like the Marcia Bradys of the world, until I started seeing more minorities in the public eye. Even then, I knew I could never be as physically beautiful (white-like) as those hapa-haole Asian celebrities who, let's face it, don't represent the rest of us serfs. I look NOTHING like…
Jazz Medium©: Feeling the music, one review at a time.