Hallowe'en : My way.

look here for more of this guy.

A gypsy fire is on the hearth,
Sign of the carnival of mirth;
Through the dun fields and from the glade
Flash merry folk in masquerade,
For this is Hallowe'en!

They're back...

*stumbles onto yet another soapbox*

I really need to watch my step.

I got myself into a slightly warmed over discussion on twitter because I have a big mouth and even bigger opinions.

Thus began the "Celebutard" debate.

SO here, for my seven followers, I will explain my position in full.
Because I am THAT stubborn.

Quickly - a definition of  "celebutard" from Urban Dictionary:

A mash-up of the words "celebrity" and "retarded," the word celebutard refers to any of a crop of famous people (mostly young, mostly filthy rich) who are unable to form complete sentences in a public setting. In fact, they probably couldn't even grasp the concept that "celebutard" is made up of two separate words.

 The really awesome thing is that the usage-in-a-sentence bit just after this used the word "erudition". Sweet. And for the record- I DESPISE the "R" word. But, such as it is, I'm letting it go.

So. This all started based on a debate a friend was having with coworkers about Val Kilmer.

I, personally, am not a fan. He's not my favorite actor (he's had some fabulous moments in his career), but more importantly- I don't like him as a person. I have heard too many horror stories about his nightmare ego and disrespectful attitude to have any respect for him.

I believe in paying your dues. I want to spend my life creating art, on a stage, every day. But I don't want someone to hand it to me. I would absolutely hate if someone gave me a collection of never-produced original songs, new instruments, and a venue and said "have at it, you're a celebrity now". I want to work for it. I want to work in a dingy bar in downtown LA, and send my demo to 40 producers, and work off the same Yamaha keyboard til it falls apart.
But most celebrities that we have now... I won't bother naming names, fill in your favorites here... haven't done any of those things. They get handed their record deal and their clothing line and their nationwide television debut and are instantly the most watched thing on the planet. The problem when this happens is that the "artist" in question doesn't learn how to be in the public eye, and their ego overtakes their passion.

I have great respect for art. Always. I respect artists... almost always. I have seen actors lose their jobs because they were disrespectful to their director or the stagehands or whatever the case may be. As much as I have disagreed with people I have worked with (and will much more, I have no doubt) I have never disrespected them, because I know that's a trust you can't regain. So I don't understand why we don't care how "celebrities" act because we'd rather take the "art" without question. Kanye West, as an example, should have absolutely NO career anymore. He destroyed it not just once, but several times. But we take it anyway. People still buy his stuff and follow him on twitter and listen to what he has to say. He made a mockery of himself and called it an "apology", which I think is a big old "F-you!" to the music community. It's disrespectful. If he wasn't a celebrity, he would have had to work his way back up the ladder, fighting against his ego and reputation. What he did and continues to do through his own attitude and idiocy, is disrespect his own art. If your art is truly what brings you fulfillment, then why would you put it on the line to fuel your ego? I believe in taking chances, and making mistakes - but I also believe in holding art to a higher standard.

So yes, I listen to the Dresden Dolls. They're one of my musical icons and an absolute comfort to me at all times. Genius work by two people I love. But somewhere in the back of my mind I still know what Brian did to Amanda, that led to their break up. I love him as a drummer - but I don't love him quite as deeply as a person. Simple. I still want to see them on tour. I still buy their merchandise. Half of that is because I KNOW they paid their dues, and it shows in the way they carry themselves. They take nothing for granted. His ego got the better of him, and his big-break-band broke up because of it. Yes, he's worked since, but it hasn't captured the same electricity the Dolls used to. He's paying his dues. (And read what he said in regards to the above link, in the "info" panel. He knows he screwed up and he know he was cast with a fittingly bad light).

Maybe I'm contradicting myself. In fact, I'm sure I am. But that's part of it. This isn't as black and white as all that. All I know is, I'd like to not have to ever hear the name "Justin Beiber" again so long as I live, and the fact that he has now released a book makes my stomach hurt. He doesn't know anything about real life. He's a spoiled brat who has said some of the stupidest things I have ever heard anyone say in a very very public forum. If Miley Cyrus wanted to be a celebrity, why doesn't she carry herself as a role model? She knew what she was getting into, and yet it's "not her job" to be someone young girls can look up to... um, yes it is, honey. You signed up for it. You got it a thousand fold. "Growing up" doesn't mean being a slut and "being approachable" doesn't mean being an idiot. You instantly lose my respect.

Now, as I'm writing this, one of the parties of said slightly-more-heated-than-when-I-started-this debate, said that I, YHN, "see the artist as the art" Wrong, says I. I hold them separately. I don't love Lady Gaga, but I appreciate what she's done for pop culture. I love Constantine Maroulis' voice and music, but know he's a real jerk in person. John Mayer is an incredible musician, but isn't so great with being respectful (or smart). Taking it back even further, I love Ben Vereen as a dancer and performer, but know he's also one of the biggest egos to ever make its way onto a stage (same applies to Ann Reinking, oddly enough). I mean... even Bing Crosby abused his kids. There are so many Lindsays, Parises, Britneys... but if I like their art, I will put their ego aside and enjoy it.
My question is- why aren't they expected to do it themselves?

To me, being an artist is about touching people, not yourself. Ya dig?

"Oh, I'm gonna get letters..." -Charles Nelson Reilly

"When a man cannot choose, he ceases to be a man."

Last night I finished reading A Clockwork Orange.

While this isn't my copy, this is the printing I read. 1963 United States printing, with the full Nadsat glossary in the back, and entirely devoid of the last chapter.

Now. I'd seen the film. It's also been very much a part of my life over the past year or so, so I'd watch bits and pieces online (it's never on TV... have you noticed?), as I don't own the dvd. I'm very familiar with the language, the story, the theory, the statement, and so on and so forth. That being said, however, I have been thrown into a tizzy over this book, and the last chapter in particular.

I'll start with this.
I believe the film stands just perfectly on its own two feet. It's one brilliant man's interpretation of another brilliant man's work. It's not the be all and end all, but it works. It's good. The feel and aesthetic fit the plotline quite nicely, and without a doubt the directing is beyond measure. Malcolm McDowell, while a good ten years too old for the part, is electric, and perfect for the part in every other way.

Here is a case in which I feel the film deviates from the book aesthetically but for the better. Cinematically this is much stronger than a 15 year old boy laying on his bed listening to records. While the dialogue from the novel is almost entirely intact, the situation differs just enough for it to be more than the novel intended. As is the case in Kubrick films, it's rife with symbolism. Each frame is a photo and each photo means something.

I do so love that Kubrick and Burgess' screenplay maintained the position for Alex as "Your Humble Narrator". He is made to tell you every bit of the story. Nothing is handed to you. Which... to be honest... creeps me out. It's disconcerting to have someone force-feeding you their version of a story.
The choice is taken away.

Music is wildly important in this film, as it is in the book. It's clear in the previous clip. However - in a brilliant Ludovico-style twist, I can't listen to this without thinking of this. The choice isn't mine, but I think of utter nastiness if I pause and reflect on the music. That's not to say I can't enjoy Singing in the Rain, it's a wonderful film, but the song raises my hackles just a little bit, until of course I realize why and push that from my mind.

I joke around with people close to me about the ringtone on my phone for the same reason. It's part of the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. You know, this part. So when my phone rings... what's my first thought? Nazis. Of course. Not by choice.

Of course there's this, straight out of the book and perfectly acted. There were choices made, clearly, by Burgess and Kubrick alike, to maintain the tension of the novel as best as they could. This is one of my favorite examples. This is another. Several details are amiss here- the woman herself, her call to the police, her home, her "vesches", but the tension is through the roof, and as always the Kubrick cinematography is incomparable (and also makes me a little bit sick. Clever, eh?) 

Another scene, here, doesn't work as well in the film (to me) as it does in the book. The book makes Mr. Alexander far more unaware of who Alex really is, and Alex is the only one completely aware of the situation. I think this interpretation flips the tension of the scene, and somehow weakens it. I'd love other opinions, so send them along. 

All in all I find the film to be a perfect story arc, vastly disconcerting and disturbing, and fascinating to look at. Yes, the "heighth of fashion" is different. Yes, he's too old. Yes, the setting is a bit more dated than this futuristic (er... the mid nineties, according to Burgess) Orwellian society deserves. But it's all there. Everything cinematically needed to make this piece really horrorshow.

Now we get into the real grahzny gritty stuff, brothers, as I'm bringing the book back into the picture.

I'm a good reader. A fast one. But it took me 3 months to read this book. Much like reading Mark Twain, even though I know and understand the language, it's difficult to read a language differing from the one you speak in your day to day life. Burgess was a linguist, and did a brilliant job of combining Russian with British slang to make the "nadsat" language. Of course, this is an incredible tool. It throws you off balance right from the off, but as you settle into the story it becomes nearly natural... until Alex gets excited and he's throwing so many "slovos" at you that you're flipping to the glossary every third word (or that's what happened to me). When Alex returns to his parents' home, in part three of the novel, his speech is overtaken by the nadsat like we haven't heard for several chapters. To me this represents two things: 

• a return to home
• high anxiety 

When tensions are high, Alex falls back on his defenses - a disconcerting manner of speech and a quick, nasty wit. As I reader it brings you into his world, but is off-putting enough that you stay just outside his emotional reach. You have no choice but to be brought to a higher tension level along with him. 


There are theories floating around on the internet (and I'm sure they've been around as long as the book has) that Alex is a psychopath. I think the entire point of the novel is that he isn't. It's clear that while Our Humble has a impulse control problem, he is not free from self control, as he mentions several times throughout the novel (both before and after treatment) choosing to put thoughts from his mind, and to wait to act on his violent impulses. He obviously uses sex and violence to mollify his personal needs, but just as often as not he's burying guilt or anguish, two things a psychopath doesn't feel. He's aware of the ramifications of his actions. 


This, oh brothers, is where the final and oft-disputed final chapter comes in. 


You can read it here. 


I'll wait. 


*twiddles thumbs* *whistles a bit of the old Ludwig Van* 


You done? Cool. 


Okay SO. That chapter obviously takes psychopathy out of the picture, that goes without saying. It strongly enforces the point that it's our choices that shape us. Obviously, the biggest point is "people change". 


But... 


Maybe I don't like that. I feel like it throws the entire story arc out the window. So he was just going to come to it of his own accord anyway? He was going to figure himself out? The treatment and rehabilitation mean absolutely nothing. So he grew up. Fabulous. Now what? As a movie goer, and sinny freak, I think the film did just fine as is, thank you very much, and I'm glad Kubrick never read this chapter to begin with.


Psychologically, and from a writer's point of view I love this chapter. It brings it all back to where it started. And it proves the point- he ISN'T made to be a clockwork orange. He makes a choice to change and "cure" himself. As a political/societal satire piece, it needs this chapter. It needs to prove the point that you can't change people just because you want to. The government didn't help him. The judicial system didn't help him. The Minister of the Interior or Inferior didn't help him. He was left to his own devices, and chose to become (theoretically) just what they wanted. An upstanding member of society, with a child and a job and a family. 


But... his family. He's already anticipating and projecting an identity onto "his son" 

"But then I knew he would not understand or would not want to understand at all and would do all the veshches I had done, yes perhaps even killing some poor starry forella surrounded with mewing kots and koshkas, and I would not be able to really stop him."

This is, I suppose, a very mature thought. But at the same time... why not let it stop with him? Why does he think he can't shape a child to know better?

Because it's not about him.

It's about society.
I
t's the way he was forced to behave, through necessity, to keep his head above water.

In the end... it's not his choice. 

We're all made to be clockwork oranges.

Go Go Gadget Drum Rack!

Doc Ock meets Anthony Burgess meets Ringo Starr?

"You have really got something... special."

I love the internet.

One of the reasons I love the internet is because I have so many beautiful friends there.

This is about one of my beautiful friends.

Her name is Dominique.

I have never been so confident in the term "soul sisters" as I am with her.

She shines like a beacon in this dark world. She is true kindness and beauty and love. She is depth and passion.

She has saved me from myself more times than I can count. Whether sending me a virtual hug or asking just at the right time what's wrong, or what I need.

We laugh together. A lot. Surprisingly often.

We have that perfect in depth conversation-through-silence relationship.

She is the perfect example of what I think every woman should be. Smart, witty, sensitive, strong, vulnerable, beautiful.

She's become a part of my day to day life, and if we don't talk, I miss her.

I often miss her.

We were meant to find each other, and I believe that. There's a theory that a "soul mate" isn't someone you should be romantically involved with, or even only one person. You have several, throughout your life, who are there to change you or teach you something.

I think Dom is one of my soul mates.

And the funny thing is... we've never met.

a picture's worth a million words

(and that way nobody gets hurt)

photo by jennifer broski

The World is Full of Beautiful Things.

Everything is a potential instrument, it depends on how you use it. I remember I was doing Swordfishtrombones and somebody took a stool -- a metal stool -- and started dragging it across the studio floor to move it out of the way. And I said, "That's really thrilling. Do that again and abundantly and carefully and repeatedly, please." It sounded like bus brakes on a big city bus. So I like things that fall outside of the spectrum of what we consider traditional instruments and acceptable sound. I love all that. - Tom Waits

This is a blog about hair.

Well. Sort of.

This. Is Sxip Shirey. 

Who is Sxip, you ask?
Well according to his website, Sxip Shirey is a "composer and performer who lives in New York City. His music is beautiful, surprising, deep and will twist your head right around. Ecstatic melody, unimaginable sounds and deep sexy beats played Industrial Flutes, Bullhorn Harmonicas, Regurgitated Music Box, Triple Extended Pennywhistls, Miniature Hand Bell Choir, Obnoxiophone, Glass Bowls With Red Marbles, human beat box and a clutch of curious objects"
According to his twitter, he's... um. "mutant harmonicas, industrial flutes, regurgitated music boxes and pretty melodies.", apparently. (Hey, that's what his "about me" says!"
According to me, he's a true artist. The way artist's are supposed to be.

I mean- who do YOU know who plays the obnoxiophone?

Watch this. Just start here.

This reminds me of those amazing Russian sand animation things... only in music form.
Which... is sort of the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I actually first heard Sxip's work in this film,  written by Neil Gaiman, and starring Bill Nighy (And Amanda Palmer, if you ask me). Listen- I'm  a cinema nerd. I am. But I have never so appreciated a score as I did here. It's haunting,  and beautiful, and just the slightest bit disconcerting - which really drives the whole piece.

So I started paying closer attention. Amanda Palmer certainly was chatting him up, and so was Jason Webley. And then the whole Evelyn Evelyn thing happened (have you seen them?) and I missed out on seeing that live, but I listened, and watched videos, and started really really digging this crazy guy's stuff. Also --- his hair had a twitter account. That's how amazing it is. No really. @sxipshireyshair. In a traditional Team Chaos fashion, they were breaking the mold, and starting a twitter account during a show. Amanda, Sxip, Jason, everyone involved.

And that sold me.
So I requested  Sxip on facebook (after asking his permission on twitter. I'm no stalker) and sat back to enjoy the show.

Sxip's profile pic when I added him. Neato, huh?

I mean - watch this. Listen to every piece. The driving bass reminds me of "Big in Japan" by Tom Waits, but then the vocal comes in with a hip hop/soul sort of vibe. Then there's crazy tuba, and this wild harmonica and... wait. Listen for the sirens.

Yeah, really, you want to buy the album.


Who IS Sxip? He's angst, he's passion, he's art, he's pain, he's love, he's joy. And yeah... he has really flip hair.

feast your eyes.

Sometimes...

via deviantart

"She just likes playing hospital"

Watch this.

A video taken by my friend Jay, at Amanda Palmer's webcast extravaganza last week. This is the first AFP song I ever learned. I cried... no. I sobbed the first time I heard it. And then I put it on repeat for (I am not joking here) 8 hours. We've all had those songs, I'm sure. Or at least I hope. I think it was the first time since I heard Idina Menzel's Heart on my Sleeve that I really felt that electricity of completely and totally connecting to a lyric. I actually am having a hard time putting my emotions into words at this moment. Which is silly. I write. But ... I guess you just need to listen. And know that the song captures my soul. This woman knows my life, and somehow makes art of it.

I owe her a lot. Maybe one day I can tell her.


Here's the original video, released as part of the Who Killed Amanda Palmer video series, directed by Michael Pope. Watch her. Breathe her in. Feel it.

And further- y'all remind me to post about AFP someday, alright? Thanks.

And... get it all out. It's good for the soul.

A Little About Your Humble Narrator.

I am a living legacy to the leader of the band.

Dresden Droogs...

Passion. Compassion. Empathy.
Music. Art. Love.

We've only just begun.

The one that started it all...

I posted this to facebook a few months ago. THIS is when I decided to blog.

It's been an interesting year. I wouldn't go as far as saying "bad"... okay wait maybe I would. But this isn't a pity party. Everyone has their moments. Things got a little screwy starting around March of last year, and have been an incredible roller coaster ever since. I have lost and gained so many people this year. I lost and rediscovered myself. I found my ambition, lost it, and found it again. I learned a LOT. I'm kind of proud of myself, and at the same time feel like I'm somehow missing out on something really important. If anyone knows what that is, please let me know.

First and foremost... I AM THANKFUL. In the past year I've discovered and re-discovered some people who really really mean the world to me. I got closer with my best friend and creative partner and crazy twin brother, Josh (for really screwed up and convoluted reasons.). I found an incredible friendship with Ally, who is beautiful and wonderful and reminded me that not all teenage girls are terrible people to be around (also for really screwed up and convoluted reasons). I rediscovered our old family friend Henner, who is now all I could ask for in an unclegodfathercrazymaniacfriend, and that's a miracle. You all know-- ALL of you who I've reconnected with or met or gotten close with recently -- how much you've changed my life. I unfortunately lost touch with a few people that really mean a lot to me still, but I'm afraid to reach out to because I dropped the ball. I lost an important father-figure in my life through no fault of my own, and I'm still working on coming to terms with that. Having the incredible support system I have with Josh, Ally, Henner, etc etc etc, has helped me there a lot, but I know I have more work to do. I'm eighteen now (finally), and some of this stuff I have to do on my own. That's exciting and scary and I can't wait.

I'm going to have to start applying to colleges in a few months. If you're asking - I love Sarah Lawrence and Wesleyan , and those are my top choices. In reality I'm probably taking a year, maybe two, at C of O and taking it from there. That's my reality. It's not what I want, but I'm too proud and ambitious (Slytherin) to let it slide or to stay home or to miss out on what I really want. I don't know anymore what I want to do. I love theatre. I really love music (and I'm working on getting my stuff together to start up a two-piece. We've got an artist's statement and everything. Keep an eye out and an ear open.). I love psych. I love being a human.

It's weird but I would rather spend four years of my life going on adventures and ending up in random places and taking random jobs than sitting in a classroom studying. I will study. I'm a hard worker. But I sort of just want to go to Boston and work as a living statue, and go to France and learn the language and stay in some random tiny dingy flat with 12 other girls, and then maybe join the circus, or design comic books, or be a massage therapist, or a political activist, or... what else heaven knows. I want to do it all and I already know my time is running out. I'm waiting for the adventure to start, and I have to start it. I'm going to keep writing music, and learn a language or two, and take the SAT and maybe get a job once that nonsense is done. I'm going to go to Missouri for the birth of my GODSON Leo and maybe stick around for a while. I'm going to make the most of what I've realized is a really precious commodity - My life.

I love people. Well... no. I love people's potential. I love listening and observing and being. Breathing is fun. Touching and feeling and seeing and tasting are amazing. Hearing is a miracle. I want to be around people. But alone. But with people. I want to spend my time surrounded by the kind of people that I get, and the kind of people that I don't. I want to have dinner with Sxip Shirey and Brian Viglione and Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman and Ben Folds and whoever else decides to show up. I want to go for a long walk with my best friends and end up miles away from civilization. I want to be stuck on a tour bus in the middle of nowhere fighting with my band and crew over who gets the under bench spot (the winning spot). (And I'll win it - I hit hard.) I want to host art parties. I want to own that silly little theatre in North Hollywood and LIVE IN IT.

I want.
I need.
And... I will.
Watch me.