There’s the “funny misheard lyric”—There’s a bathroom on the right, etc.—and there’s the possibly profound misheard lyric, where your interpretation gives new meaning that the writer didn’t consciously intend. For 23 years or so, I have believed the Replacements’ song “One Wink at a Time”…
Best Long Beach Bar Long Beach speakeasy the Exhibition Room opened last year. It’s located inside a former storage unit for an upholstery company, and is connected to the neighboring Roxanne’s Lounge only by a 1940s-era phone booth. It is not easy to gain entry, however. Keeping in mind that it’s open only Thursday through Sunday nights starting at 8 pm, this is what you do: First, send a text to the number below, and you will receive a password. Then, go to Roxanne’s and enter the phone booth, which is embedded in the wall by the back pool tables. Pick up the receiver and tell the voice on the other end the password. If you’re on the list (and you’re dressed appropriately), the other side of the box will swing open to reveal a musty-smelling, 40-seat bar, replete with vintage church pews for seats, boozy ephemera courtesy of the Long Beach Historical Society (thus, the “exhibition”) and a house cocktail list featuring imaginative uses of everything from whiskey and gin to amaro and bitters. Complicated, yes, but well worth it.
I’ve been thinking about brains a lot lately (because meta is so hot right now) and been wondering why most people, including myself, can’t just fire the narrator that lives in their heads and tells them stupid stories like: there’s no point and you’re making a fool of yourself and I can’t handle this and it will always be this way. Plenty of intelligent people can hear the voice and single it out as an asshole that they didn’t invite to the party but at the same time feel obligated to cater to all of its demands. Then because we can’t kick the jerk out we have to pretend we like him or actually are him and then project all this crap onto other people and walk around saying ugh other humans and ew so glad I’m not like her.
I think it’s probably because our brains have evolved and are built to resist self-compassion. Maybe it’s because the word sounds like a spoiled wimpy latte fart. Maybe it’s because self-compassionate early humans got eaten by larger animals because they weren’t quivering balls of vigilant anxiety and quick deadly judgement. Maybe if we call it “taking a moment to view yourself and the situation together with a wider angle lens through a patient, more realistic eye” that might be better but that’s hard to fit into an ankle tattoo. I don’t know.
List of things that, if their was a superhero whose power was creating a black hole that sucks up blogs and their related projects into a void, totally erasing them from all human consciousness while simultaneously giving their creators hiccups every day for about a month, deserve it:
Since I was on a tear a couple weeks ago over someone calling Andrew W.K. a “complete fake,” I might as well add that I just read a review of Lena Dunham’s new memoir from a high-profile magazine wherein the reviewer calls Lena Dunham, the person, “not real.”
I’m not going to link to the review, because it is truly a garbage attempt at criticism. How emotionally, psychologically, or creatively stunted must a writer be to make such an assessment of someone who grew up in artistic circles and performs and creates for a living? How smug must one be to draw that line and declaim from their own relative obscurity that he or she is one of the “real people”? Why do these authenticity police keep getting paid to do this? Is it just so people who are equally stunted will keep buying magazines?
Say what you will about Lena Dunham, I really don’t care (I mean, don’t be a sexist piece of shit about it), but if you go around deciding that certain people walking around our streets and breathing air are “not real” people, you may be an actual sociopath.
One of my favorite chores back at the dog hotel was preparing dinners for the dogs. After a while, it was easy to memorize what all the regular boarding dogs ate. A lot of the time, it was just scooping cups of kibble into metal bowls for some rando dogs. The regulars usually had some canned food, or high end kibble the owner brought and baggied out with the days labeled and treats inside. Every now and then the minutiae was what seemed to me at the time, absurd. But that’s the stuff that has stuck to me the most: 1/2 cup of kibble with 1/8 teaspoon of steamed carrots mixed with 1/3 cup of ground turkey and one rice cracker, broken up, all soaked in 1/4 cup of warm chicken broth and a dab of yogurt, for example. Anyway, this is all to say, when I feed Melissa’s cats at night, I break up little chunks of dried salmon treats and sprinkle them on their food to which I add about an eighth of a cup of warm water, either because I miss that part of that job, or because I now get what I once mocked and dismissed as unreasonable. Doesn’t really matter which of these is the reason.
Been pretty bummed this week! I haven’t had a job for about eight months. I’ve been living off savings and some help from my dad which I feel very fortunate about. When I moved down here, I told myself no way, no how am I going to work at a dog daycare again. I felt burned. But as fewer places I applied to got back to me for even an interview, and as I started to feel the crunch of a dwindling checking account, I figured I could fall back on dog daycare work as something to do while I look for something else. Had an interview at a place last week, and as far as I could tell, it went really well. The dogs there were really keen on me, the other candidates were timid (some of them had never worked with dogs), etc. Anyhoo, on Monday I found out that they went with someone else. It’s hard getting rejected for a job you have limited experience doing, but it fucking SUCKS to not get a job you’re really good at, especially when it was kind of your go-to, last resort option and you were very certain you would get it. Anyway, no real point to writing any of this other than to get it off my chest I suppose.