Yesterday I declared in a very permanent way my admiration for and devotion to Pittsburgh's best member-supported, commercial-free public radio station, 91.3 WYEP ("Where the music matters!") by getting their logo tattooed on the back of my left calf. That was my fourth--but certainly not my last--tattoo. (Did I mention that tattoos are addictive, that you'd better be mindful of that fact when you wander in for your first one?!) I plan to write more extensively about this fourth tattooing experience in a few days. The tattoo itself looked like this moments after it was finished:
My newest little baby currently feels like a bad sunburn, but that's an understood consequence that must be accepted if one is going to have ink forever needled into one's skin. As long as it heals well without too much color dropping away with the dead skin, I'll be happy!
Last night I dreamed, among other things (including Legos, soaking in a wintertime swimming hole a la the Polar Bear Club, wading through a muddy creek, and exploring a most interesting woodsy landscape coated in ice-melting salt residue) that I was watching Fleetwood Mac rehearse for a comeback tour--but all was not well. Stevie Nicks sat on the stage floor next to me, beautifully made up with her pleated suede knee-high platform boots, but tired and showing her age; she wanted me to sing harmonies on 'Rhiannon': Dreams unwind, love's a state of mind over and over again. I sang two different low harmonic parts for her and she told me exactly which one I needed to stick to--and I could not creatively alternate. She was hurt by Lindsey Buckingham's constant biting comments and passive-aggressive behavior. He just couldn't or wouldn't let the past die, or so it seemed. When I sat next to Christine McVie in a folding chair a bit later, she was sarcastic and bitter; I could imagine that she would've taken comfort in a cigarette just about then. She might have said something to the effect of--and I take great liberties with embellishment here--"This whole bloody tour's going to implode. Bunch of dysfunctional sixty year-old babies. I should have stayed at home in the English countryside with my dogs and my cooking." I think that John McVie (Christine's ex-husband and Fleetwood Mac bassist) and Mick Fleetwood (Stevie's onetime lover, wild statuesque band namesake and percussion virtuoso) would've been happy jamming away together, the other three and all their drama gone for good.
This morning, after brewing some coffee, I finally finished my latest Kurt Vonnegut foray, The Sirens of Titan. People, listen: if you're wondering what to read next, give Vonnegut a try. If you're a fan of political satire, or scathing black comedy, or social commentary, or heart-prodding tragi-drama otherwise, or particularly of well-crafted science fiction, read this Vonnegut work first. The story was deeply moving and an enthralling piece of Earth-rooted Sci-fi fantastica spanning millennia and most of the geographical universe by leaps and bounds. I actually cried a bit near the end--but then I'm an overly emotional, sentimental sap on Wellbutrin, so what do you expect? A few lines really caught me in those last twenty pages, and I'm compelled to share them. First, "It took us that long to realize that a purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved." (I've been thinking about love and all its residuals lately, so that line really pierced my wicked little heart.) Later, referring to a Tralfamadorian (fictional planet) spacecraft, "The controls were anything but a hunch-player's delight in a Universe composed of one-trillionth part matter to one decillion parts black velvet futility." Black velvet futility to describe outer space. Exactly.
I spent most of this afternoon exploring the wonderful Homewood cemetery, less than a mile from where I currently sit. (By extension, less than a mile from where I've been living for the past four years.) How, oh how, could a morbid brooding zombie-loving cemetery enthusiast let so much time pass without exploring a magnificent cemetery so close to home filled with the rotting memories of some of Pittsburgh's most famous (and criminally wealthy) citizens and the ridiculous architectural creations that house their bones?! How, having passed this cemetery over 100 times, could I have ignored it for so long? These questions and their necessarily rhetorical admonitions are irrelevant; what matters is that today, on the last day of the last month of 2010, in unseasonably warm weather under blue skies, I finally ventured into the place with my camera and took approximately one zillion photos. I braved idiotic dog-owners ignoring the "leash at all times" rule, foul-mouthed Emo teenagers up to a whole lot of no good (common in city cemeteries, in case you didn't know), and the inevitable unpredictable mystery of companionship with myself and myself alone in the name of art and adventure, folks! I will post more about this experience, and share a photo or two, a bit later.
In the meantime, I'm going to wrap this post up, finish my first glass of New Year's Eve wine--a flavorful deep-red vintage called Seven Deadly Zins (thank you Matt Goodman, good buddy!)--and get the hell downstairs so that my friend and housemate Josh--and I--will not be totally alone at midnight.
FUCK YOU and thank you my beloved, deceitful bipolar mistress 2010! I know well that 2011 will be a much better companion. She simply has to be.
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