Containment, deportment.
Good breeding: listening to someone, or a slew of someones, report endlessly about themselves and instead of screaming for mercy, or running for the nearest bottle of booze, smile merrily and use all energy to maintain a body language of interest - all the while ignoring the inner badass suggesting a karate chop to the speaker's forehead.
Last stop of samedi soir (Bay City Rollers title song to you non-frenchyphiles) was at a joint with a swingy 50s-loving band and I'm watching these rascals thinking how there's a community of these folks with tattoos, hush puppies, hair swoops and the wardrobes, smiling maniacal 50s smiles and generally gesticulating in a way we irony-minded tribesmen recognize as such.
So the lead man, Pete Worden, is out there playing the hell out of his guitar and I'm watching the band when suddenly I flashed back to Japan, in a scene amid thousands of Americana-loving Japanese youth. Revelation: these 50s-loving people are doing the same thing half a world away. Just because one network is born of the culture doesn't mean there's any greater affinity. It's all about the style, lifestyle.
Swept into the indie record shoppe with Jen and Laura and instantly had R.S.A. (record store amnesia), the running list of must-gets gone in a poof.
Laura raved, lifted from shelf, handed into my hands and exclaimed about Sigur Ros's new one.
It's on now, an instrumental minimal maze of introspection. It's a landscape covered with deep snow and if in the wrong mood it'd be nearly lethal.
I was going to write about the bong filled with white wine in lieu of water at last night's holiday gathering of old friends but I'm censoring... and still coughing.
Holiday pots of love.

I travelled this week and discovered that many servers are not compatible with that of Blogger, the SF-based wonder that makes epinw a reality, a major joy in your life.
So that means intrepid me wished to blog only to get a sad sorry message saying Nope.
Was shocked and stunned to read on cnn.com that Moby of all little bespectacled fuckers was coldcocked outside of a Boston club by three thugs. Poor Moby, on his blog he writes that he wants to know the reason why why why and that he's curious so would the assailants please write to him to let him know.
I think he'll turn it into a song and then sell it perhaps to Bandaid or the makers of Bactine. The headline for the Moby bashing story was surprisingly hip: We are all made of Scars
Last night jetted back into the Middling City, raced home, ditched luggage for camera gear and was back out the door in record time to attend a group art opening for yours truly et al and to go to the annual drunkfest that is the work holiday cocktail party where sushi, laughs and booze flow like melted snow in May.
The rooms were teeming with a whole buffet of favored people that I work with and who were guests of those who I work with and just regular neato people who should be at the party.
At the art opening I invited all the remainders to be my posse and attend the work fete and they all showed. Most excitingly was the arrival of a tv guy and his artist girlfriend (both friends) who handed me a Happy Kwanzaa present and lo and behold inside was the mini crossbow that I encouraged him to buy this past year at the ARTVOICE Street Festival for $10 and it was a minor regret all those days.
And now it's mine.
It shoots steel-tipped long darts. The party host and hostess, Betsy & Craig (or Cretsy and Baig, if you've had several)_would not let me shoot it in their kitchen, at a wall.
Several people in the kitchen marveled than anyone would give Yours Truly a crossbow of any size.
Did I mention it's mine?
So instead me and some rock boys cocked the thingamajiggie back and loaded up the crossbow with mini carrots which flew about fifteen or so feet at a not very high velocity but it was satisfying enough.
Onwards to recuperation and more mayhem.
All of my crossbowed love.

As an interesting side mental project du jour I've been trying to decide which song or recording artists best illustrate/soundtrack this day. Something frenetic with some quiet flourishes - perhaps a collaborative song featuring Bjork and Rob Zombie. A little diabolica, a tough spriteliness - jubilant schizophrenia.
A strange happenstance, happening at 845AM today.
I was reading the Middling City daily (mainly looking at the pix made by my boy colleagues) with an ice pack on my left shoulder after physical therapy and I was deep into a soccer mom's musings/editorial on Eminem.
More smarmy writing attempting to tug on my tarpit heart's heartstrings. It was not working.
This woman was stating Marshall I'll never call you Eminem, do your friends call you Eminem...
and on and on.
She dubbed him a brilliant wordsmith (that he is) and she was disagreeing with all the bandying of fucks etc in 8 Mile and in the lyrics she researched online when
*WHAM*
another physical therapy person, a member of the shoulder team (we failed shoulders know each other by the exercise routines we keep), hit the back of a chair next to me blustering, at me
Forget the poor, forget education Let's Go to WAR WITH IRAQ. That's what Bush wants.
I was looking at him for a moment before muttering, paper still in hands
Well, he's not MY president.
We were all, in that physical therapy capsule, deep in the suburbs where I assume the vibe is mallish, hawkish and righteous.
The chair thumping sales shoulderman type went away and then I was left to wonder
How in hell did he peg me as a member of Team Liberal?
Lack of appliqués on sweater? Lack of cheery disposition? Lack of layered haircut?
Now all I can think of is the image of Zombie and Bjork crowding together cheek to cheek to share a mic, the crowd is happy and I'm shooting underneth neither gelled blue nor red but a warm yellow and it's coming from two sides and the stage isn't too high and after the set me and my boy colleagues are invited to go backstage for some hospitality.
Onwards.
Back to multiple deadlines, attempted greatness, caffeine forays.

Santa Secrets,
the titillating topic of this day's blogpost as it snows and NPR is confirming my sense that Bowling for Columbine is truly a movie I never need to sit through. Well, actually, I have a difficult time sitting still through any movie for ninety or so minutes.
Yesterday I had the pleasure of getting into the head of a man who doesn't simply play the role of Santa Claus, but Believes he is Santa, who has believed he is Santa for over three decades.
The man's real name is Scott and he was laden with silver and turquoise jewelry and had a small sense of humor. He bragged about having had friendships with several members of the glitterati, including John Denver. I asked several questions before I could get to the creamy nougat question:
So do you think he was loaded when he crashed his plane?
Santa's answer after a pause, pause, pause?
(hey, that makes me think of that Xmas tune:
Up on the rooftop the reindeer pause, out jumps good ol' Santa Claus. Down through the chimney with lots of toys, all for the little girls and boys.)
Ohabsolutelynot, he drank a lot, but not when flying.
Santa then went on to tell me how John Denver had a driver to chauffeur his drunk self about in his Porsche.
Santa let out a few of his own secrets.
He was frying-panned once while hearing toyly wishes of inner-city children.
I asked How was that possible, where did the kid get a frying pan?
The line of kids was at a community center which are all seemingly outfitted with kitchens. The kid had been beaten up by someone in a Santa suit so the kid seized the day, seized the op, seized the pan and let loose his hatred and fear upon poor Santa's head, sending him to the hospital for six stitches.
Similarly,
Santa Claus, this very Santa, was stabbed and he showed me the scar in his Santa jacket which he's patched with unmatching fur.
A drunk man, again a hater of Santa, attacked him instead of sitting upon his lap.
Oh, you wonder, Precious Perfect Nancy, why were you hanging with Santa?
Well, epinw readers, I enlisted myself for three hours of Santa time so little kids et al could have a non-suburban Santa experience - my idea. It was not publicized by the event producers but Santa and I rustled up some business.
Santa lives in a house on Abbott Road just outside the Middling City which is over 200 years old and is full of secret passageways that were used for the Underground RR. Faux walls, a ladder built into a wall and a ceiling over the true ceiling with large rooms for those en route to the big free north.
Santa painted this house bright red, of course.
Now put that all in your snowman's corncob pipe and smoke the shit out of it.
Secret Love.