I walked again today, this time down another street in Oakland, listening to the IDLES, thinking about all the paths I could’ve taken in life. Every store I passed, every building for sale, was a question mark–what if I had opened a local artisan boutique, a vintage clothing store, a plant shop? What if I had stuck with bookselling after working at Borders and opened my own indie bookstore? What if I had saved all my money and invested in real estate?
When I dropped off a recyclable metal container at my favorite Middle Eastern restaurant in the neighborhood and absolutely no one seemed to notice me (a round of applause would’ve sufficed), I thought about the triple whammy of not only being a middle-aged lady, but also Gen X, and how we have so little representation in today’s culture. How lame that is, considering all the accomplishments and adaptations of this generation. (Although not mine, obviously.)
As the album ended, then restarted, I thought about my friend Elan. He died a few weeks ago. It was sudden and tragic. I still find it hard to believe that he’s gone, as he always seemed to be the most invincible dude I knew. But of course, that was the story I told myself. We shared a love of music, hard rock especially. How I wish I could share this album with him.
It was February
I was cold and I was high
He wanted love
He wanted soul
There’s not enough
To make him whole
“MTT 420 RR,” IDLES
Also, James Caan died last week. For some reason, this news really bummed me out. It’s not like I knew him, other than admiring him as a truly great actor and enjoying so many of his films, like everyone else. But I was dazzled by him in person once…
It was 1981 and I was visiting my Beverly Vista Elementary schoolmate, Dana. Her mom was sick in bed–she was dying of leukemia–and I remember thinking she looked angelic, with her pale skin and long hair draped over the pillows. We hung out in the kitchen downstairs when Dana’s uncle, James Caan, walked in with bagels and lox. You could feel the sadness in that gigantic house, but he swept in full of life and good uncle energy.
It was just a moment. But I think James’s passing–other than the larger loss to the world–represents to me another life that connected with mine, however briefly, that is now gone forever. And that feels unquestionably lonely.
As usual for the daytime, the Hotsy had just a few regulars and an employee or two hanging towards one end of the bar. I sat at the other end after politely showing my ID and vaccination card photo to the sweet dog who greeted me, and again to the bartender. After much deliberation with the cocktail menu, I ordered “Feeling Fizzy” and settled into the ambiance, which (deja vu?) included a discussion of a bar patron’s new haircut.
“I get my hair done at So-So Cuts,” he said.
“I get my hair done at Mildly Okay Cuts,” said another.
The banter continued, and my mind drifted to the work I had completed for a local nonprofit earlier in the week. I’d left my last cannabis licensing job at the end of 2019, vowing not to return to that industry, given cannabis legalization’s trend toward corporatization and fiscal dominance instead of the plant’s wellness potential and “safe access” for the medical cannabis patients of yore. During the many pandemic months of unemployment that followed, I explored the possibility of doing nonprofit communication work–something that I thought would allow me to contribute more positively and directly to my community.
I ended up accepting a position that taught me the ins and outs of nonprofit development. And while the organization was doing good work within its community, I left feeling somewhat uneasy about the inherent power structures and “culture” of philanthropy…
“You’re still at the age where masturbation standing up is an option,” said an older guy to another at the end of the bar. By now, multiple conversations and hilarities ensued.
“I have an irrational fear of death by coconuts in the shower,” said the man sitting closest to me. “Death by coconuts–it’s a real thing. Look it up!”
Obviously, I engaged this man in further discussion.
He said something to the bartender about how he’s rethinking his vocational desire to do good in the world, that nonprofit work is not what he thought it would be. When I inquired further, he wondered aloud if he had it wrong all along.
“Maybe I should’ve worked to make a lot of money first when I was younger,” he said. “And then I could’ve given some of that money to charities.”
He told me that he did “nation-building” work overseas, as part of the military. And while they did good work, it was also a grind, complicated, and didn’t pay very well. Now he has a wife and two daughters, and he’d desperately like to add a second bathroom.
“I’ll do what I have to, I’ll put on the suit,” he said. “But I’d just like to find a job that I can tolerate, that does the least amount of damage possible, and I get paid well. You know?”
We talked about how the pandemic showed us what’s most important, and that there’s life outside of work. That there’s a flaw in identifying ourselves so tightly with what we do for a living. We talked about our parents, how they navigated work and home life, and whether they were happy or not.
“My dad never seemed too concerned,” he said. “He was a family man, and he had a job.”
“Well, the next generation often rebels against doing what their parents did,” I said. “For us, it was about finding satisfaction and meaning in what we do for a living. But maybe that’s not quite right either.”
“I don’t know…”
“My problem generally is I think too much,” I said. “I see you have that same affliction.” He nodded, and we both looked down at our drinks.
Meanwhile, another conversation from across both ends of the bar erupted over psychedelics and microdosing. “It makes you feel connected, like you’re at one with the universe,” said one guy.
“It helps you detach from your ego,” said another guy.
Often when I’m feeling stuck I take a long walk on city streets close to where I live in the East Bay. Recently, my potential wanderings were thwarted when construction trucks were blocking my car and I didn’t want to ask them to move, figuring I had the freedom (i.e., fresh unemployment) to do all I wanted the next day. But then the next day my mood/vibe was off and I felt myself just going through the motions. Anyway, to kickstart the malaise I got a deliciously fluffy and not-at-all overpriced vegan cinnamon doughnut at a great plant-based coffee shop. The barista was also not impressed by me or my forced cheeriness. Thankfully carbs and sugar never disappoint.
It was a beautiful, sunny day with a winter chill, and lots of folks were walking, some with dogs or friends, some masked, some awkwardly avoiding other pandestrians (aka, pandemic pedestrians, or people walking as an escape from the last two years) on the sidewalk. I like to stroll College Avenue because it has a Mayfairian mix of stores and restaurants down one long, straight road–perfect for walking without needing to navigate or plan.
I popped into one of my favorite boutiques to find a t-shirt for my friend’s cute kid, complimenting the shopkeeper on her store’s ability to lighten my mood. I was feeling especially chatty with strangers today, as I also confessed (somewhat generously) to the young guy selling me a Dim Sum Cookie at the tiny French-inspired, Asian-American bakery that I had made up an errand in the area just so I could buy this very cookie.
“Are you working today?” he asked.
“No, I’ve been newly freed from work!” I gleefully replied.
“Nice!” he said. “Enjoy!”
Then I wondered if he thought I’d been fired or had recently retired, and I got irrationally offended at both thoughts.
A few minutes later I roamed the aisles of a wine shop I liked solely based on the witty, irreverent newsletters they send. Again, I chatted up the purveyor, praising the wine descriptions (more kudos to their in-house writer) and admonishing him for making the decision process so hard. He sold me a few bottles of no- and low-alcohol wines (shh, a topic for another time), encouraging me to attend Saturday’s comedy night in the alley. I didn’t have the heart to say that I never go out on Saturdays anymore, but the booze-lite purchase should’ve been a clue.
Bottles of wineless wine and cute tee in tow, I headed to the Hotsy Totsy in Albany. I love visiting Hotsy in the daytime and I was actually required to do so this week by my therapist. She had advised me to “do something that makes no sense,” after my challenging year of work ended the week prior.
“Like, tell Andrew you’re taking the car and then drive to Monterey,” she said. “Just for the hell of it. Or…”
Or, How Writer’s Block Makes You Super Fun at Parties
The blessing and curse of being a creative person is that everything you do depends on you doing something. You are the underlying force in everything you make. Your thoughts, your feelings, your experiences, your desires, your fascination with competitive mooing or Oscar Wilde’s wallpaper — this is what fuels your art. But when you’re stuck, when you’re staring at a blank page or screen or canvas for hours/weeks/years, when you’re reaching into the annals of your mind and all you hear are crickets and the gentle swoosh of a tumbleweed rolling past, when you’ve convinced yourself you have “nothing to say” creatively anymore, what do you do?
I’ve tried just about everything. I’ve read and re-read my favorite books on writing: Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird; William Zinsser’s On Writing Well: The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction; Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir on the Craft; Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones; Adair Lara’s Naked, Drunk and Writing, among others. I’ve attended countless book readings and the perennially packed, annual Litquake festival in San Francisco. I’ve taken a few one-day classes, and a far-flung workshop with a lovely lady writer and editor who has since become a friend. I even made the pilgrimage back to the place where my writing career began, only to realize how much a decade can change a person (namely, me) and a place (in this case, Maui) so much so that you can never really “go back.” I know, right? Duh.
And I’ll keep trying anything to help me get unstuck. Here are some things that work for me…
1. From Arias to Ziglibithy: Never underestimate the power of music.
When I’m working steadily on a creative project, I like listening to classical music or instrumental hip-hop. But when I’m stuck or having a hard time getting started, I have a playlist for the music that reconnects me to who I am — my all-time favorite hits: these are the songs that make my soul sing.
In “blocked” times, I think it matters less what kind of music you listen to — it’s more about using what might inspire you or change your perspective in that particular moment. Sometimes that’ll mean cueing up Liz Phair’s Exile in Guyville to recall happier days spent in Doc Martens and babydoll dresses. Occasionally it’ll require a cathartic cattlecore screamfest via Hank Williams III’s Straight to Hell or an impromptu private dance-a-thon of The Chemical Brothers’ Dig Your Own Hole. Whatever music you choose, the point is to stop the lonely hamster wheel of rumination by giving your mind something else to focus on and hopefully, kick out those jams.
2. Exploitation: That’s what friends are for.
When I’m feeling low or like the Grisly Goblin of Self Doubt has been sitting on my head for too long whispering terrible things into my ear with its talons wrapped around my throat giving me a serious neck cramp, having a quick chat with a friend should take that kink right out. Like music, a talk with a good friend can remind me that I am interesting and/or funny and/or smart, that I did manage to have a life before the blockage, and I will likely live through this, too.
BONUS TIP: I don’t know about you, but my friends are infinitely more interesting, funnier and smarter than me. I use this to my advantage. When they say clever shit, I write it down. This works especially well when there’s drinking involved. (My friends are used to my creepy behavior lurking about at parties and bars writing things down in my little notepad, and they’re cool with how I exploit — er, pay homage to their brilliance. Be sure you have some kind of similar agreement with your friends. Or at the very least, teach them the difference between saying, “Off the record” vs. “Not for attribution.”)
3. Take a Hike: Be like Nike and just do it, homie!
By stepping outside and engaging your senses — breathing in the fresh air, feeling the breeze on your face, smelling the faint aroma of honeysuckle or eucalyptus or cannabis (I live in Northern California) — you are getting out of your head and back into your body, even just for a moment. This acts as a refresh button for your brain. The effect is greatly increased by doing something active out there but that’s up to you. No pressure…
No, really. Do it NOW.
4. Learn Something New.
Although I’ve long ago given up pursuing a career in marine biology, I’m still fascinated by science. I regularly study social and life science books, articles and podcasts as a way to discover and examine the world around me. I’ll read anything by Mary Roach, Diane Ackerman, or Natalie Angier, and all of The Best American Science and Nature Writing book series. I’m addicted to podcasts like NPR’s Invisibilia, Hidden Brain, TED Radio Hour, Radiolab and Revisionist History.
I’m also attempting to learn Spanish — or I should say, picking up where my high school education left off — on my Duolingo app. Because we recently bought an old house, I often DIY light repairs and beautification projects by researching techniques online. (I also lurk in hardware and paint stores.) And because I am not a natural in the kitchen, I frequently follow recipes with the precision of a neurosurgeon.
I think when we’re stuck, we tend to play the same loop in our heads. Learning something is a way to literally change your brain. Introducing stimuli can potentially trigger new patterns of thinking, and voila! Discovering how ant-made antimicrobials could help humans fight diseasehas suddenly freed your mind for some creative bioengineering of its own.
5. Forgive Yourself.
Yup.
Personally, this is the hardest one. If you’re like me, you will beat yourself up relentlessly over having any kind of mental block. In Buddhism, they call this the “second arrow of suffering.” The “first arrow” is whatever malicious malarkey is going on; the “second arrow” is how you react to that awfulness. Generally speaking, the first arrow comes with its own pain, so why add more suffering on top of that? Why stick yourself with another damn arrow??
Meditation, or just some methodical breathing, can help with this kind of radical acceptance. The truth is, everyone gets stuck or faces a crossroads at some point. In a creative life, it’s all part of the process.
In conclusion (and also, Note to Self)…
When stuck, try one or more of the following, in no particular order: Listen to music. Talk to somebody. Learn something. Go outside. Smell some weed. Dance. Let it go. Everything has the potential for inspiration — including you! Nothing lasts forever, including this creative paralysis. Relax. Breathe. It’s going to be OK. It might even change you for the better.
It’s Wednesday, agonizingly middle-of-the-week, thank-god-it’s-not-Monday-but-it’s-still-not-Friday-yet, Hump Day–like if you can make it past the “hump” of today, you’ll be well on your way to the glorious weekend.
It’s also my birthday. Only I’ll be over the hump of 45; just past the middle of my 40s, arguably the very middle of middle-age, well on my way to the very middle of a fucking century. I feel more than slightly uncomfortable about this number. (By the way, this article doesn’t help. Nor does this one.) I find it incomprehensible to be 46, given that I “feel” mostly like I’m still in my mid-30s, only not as messy. Let’s be honest, some days I feel like a highly functioning 15-year-old. But I’m so not. In fact, I’m more than THREE TIMES that age. Shouldn’t I feel like I’ve evolved some kind of super power?
Anyway, I don’t wanna be one of those ladies who refuses to turn another year past 39, unable to say her real age out loud. I want to own it! I want to celebrate it! I want to recognize that I’m still alive and in good health and happy and isn’t that amazing isn’t that what all my deceased beloveds would want for me? But even as I plan out the fun of my day, I’m also noting that it’d be a good time to start taking a multi-vitamin. And to try and remember to bring my reading glasses with me.
In an effort to be okay with today’s birthday, I looked up other ladies currently who share this age (or will this year): J. Lo. Sheryl Sandberg. Tina Fey. Sarah Silverman. Padma Lakshmi. Shonda Rhimes. Queen Rania. So yeah, okay…
Also, further research on the number yielded the following fascinating facts:
It’s the number of human chromosomes.
46 is the largest even integer that can’t be expressed as a sum of two abundant numbers.
It’s the atomic number of palladium.
It’s the code for international direct dial phone calls to Sweden.
It’s the name of a defense used in American football, which prompted coach Bill Walsh to say, “I had to use every bit of knowledge and experience and wisdom I had to come up with game plans to attack this defense. It’s really the most singular innovation in defensive football in the last twenty years.”
The underlying message seems to be that I’m now at an age that warrants more dancing in my PJs while my newly adopted dog friend stares at me in confusion. Without further ado, here’s the morning edition of today’s living room dance party playlist:
“Ascension (Don’t Ever Wonder)” – Maxwell
“Town Called Malice” – The Jam
“The Passion of Lovers” – Bauhaus
“Babel” – Massive Attack
“King Cartel” – Hank Williams III
“Everybody Loves the Sunshine” – Seu Jorge
“New Rose” – The Damned
“Losing My Edge” – LCD Soundsystem
“Villain” – The Duke Spirit
“To Catch a Thief” – Lovage
“Go To Sleep” – Radiohead
“Fun Does Not Exist (New Mix)” – Natacha Atlas
“Safe From Harm” – Massive Attack
“Ave Cruz” – Ceu
“Mer” – Chelsea Wolfe
“Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve?)” – Buzzcocks
“The Flipside – Radio Edit” – Moloko
“Lovely Head” – Goldfrapp
“Love Will Tear Us Apart” – Brazilian Lounge Project
“Under My Sensi” – Boozoo Bajou
“Ghetto Rock” – Mos Def
“Amen” – Leonard Cohen
“Motherfucker” – Faith No More
“The Look of Love” – ABC
“New Kind of Kick” – The Cramps
“Unfinished Sympathy” – Massive Attack
Happy birthday to me. And to all of you who also share this magical number this year!
“THERE’LL BE NO BUTTER IN HELL!” — Sir Ian McKellen as the fanatical preacher, Amos Starkadder, in Cold Comfort Farm (1995)
A couple months ago I experienced a bout of cannabis industry fatigue. Luckily (and with the help of my friend, ex-coworker and writing beast Matt Stafford) I was assigned an A&E story for my previous employer, Pacific Sun, which enabled me to take a break from canna-everything and get back in touch with what I love to do: go out, talk to people, observe/learn stuff, write about it.
It’s been a few years since I’ve worn a press badge, and a few years more since I’ve attended Mill Valley Film Festival. I’d invited Andrew to come along, as I figured his theater background could be of use, and we both admire Sir Ian McKellen‘s work. Also, you know, I enjoy ‘drew’s company. But not-so-secretly, I was looking forward to having him be MY wingman for once–for Andrew to see me in my element, working the scene, reporting, and not just hanging by idly at some cannabis event in quiet (albeit proud) support of his leadership in the industry.
The festival had grown in size since my last venture to Marin, and a long line of attendees wrapped around the Rafael Theater. After checking in at the box office, I was shuffled from one walkie-talkie toting handler to the next, who were all concerned about my lack of a press badge. Ultimately they gave me somebody else’s and obliged my knee-jerk request for photo-taking (with my iPhone) by throwing me into the photographer’s pen at the end of the red carpet with all the professional paparazzi checking game stats and waiting for the star to arrive. I stood in my spot directly behind a petite, braces-wearing schoolgirl wielding cumbersome photo equipment and my face flushed with embarrassment as I slipped my lowly “camera” into my back pocket. I was feeling very 2006.
I wasn’t kidding…
Sir Ian was extremely charming, witty and dynamic–the consummate entertainer. I relished his stories, teetering on the edge of my seat with my digital recorder and notepad, furiously scribbling his tastiest bon mots, my hands cramping themselves out of retirement. And then, of course, I was enchanted to learn that the venerable thespian also co-owned a 400-year-old pub in London a couple doors down from where he’s lived since the ’60s. My kind of guy.
I was also moved by his take on the 2015 movie, Mr. Holmes, in which he played the title character.
“Mr. Holmes turned out to be a film about a little boy, and a film about widowhood, and a film about friendship and love and most of all, most precious to me, the certainty that it is never too late… You can be 93, you can be puzzled about yourself, you can have regrets, self recrimination. But it’s never too late to sort it out. By yourself or with friends, or however it’s done—go to a shrink but sort it out and your life will be better. Not only your life but the lives of people who know you.”
Good stuff, Sir!
Following the tribute, we attended a semi-swanky after-party at an Italian restaurant in Corte Madera. Sir Ian arrived with an entourage, including a bevy of handsome young men and the San Francisco novelist, Armistead Maupin, who I kinda geeked out over, but couldn’t–wouldn’t–elbow my way through the hordes of bedangled and bayalaged Marin doyennes commandeering their attention with selfies and small talk.
Taken by the world’s worst paparazza… Featuring Armistead Maupin, Sir Ian McKellen and friends at a Mill Valley Film Festival afterparty.
Since this month marks the 100th birthday celebration of Frank Sinatra, I’ll share Sir Ian’s story (in his words) of his first time working on a bigtime movie, and with the bigtime star, Ava Gardner, in Priest of Love (1981):
“I was cast as DH Lawrence. Ava Gardner was cast as his patron. The scene was sent in Santa Fe but we were filmed in another part of the world—we were actually filming in Mexico, Oaxaca. And I went off for the first time, first class air. I arrived in Oaxaca and was shown into my suite—I’d never been in a suite in a four-star hotel before. I went out on the balcony, there’s Oaxaca and the hills beyond. Below, there was a lovely swimming pool with palm trees around it and just a lone figure in a one-piece bathing costume, bright green… Ava Gardner. And she looked up at me and she said [dreamily], ‘Hi, Ian!’ So I thought, ‘Oh, this is the movies.’
“The next day, we’re in a dusty little village where we’re filming Lawrence’s arrival by train, where he’s met by Ava Gardner. She’s having to dress and get changed in a little trailer—by little, I mean, little. Not only is she there but other actresses and [other people]… and it’s used by the Mexican crew to relieve themselves. Ava Gardner’s trailer used as a public toilet?! Well, I was appalled—we all were. And as we drove back in the same car to Oaxaca, I said, ‘Ava, this really won’t do.’
“[Mimicking Ava’s voice] ‘Now don’t worry, dear.’ I said, ‘Well, no, I do worry—we must do something about it.’ ‘Oh, no, it’s fine, it’s fine.’ I said, ‘Please, will you not promise me that you’ll call your agent and get a decent trailer?’ She said, ‘No, I won’t call my agent.’ She said, ‘I’ll call Frank.’ Now if you’ve been married to Frank Sinatra, you don’t need an agent. Two days later the biggest trailer in the world arrived in Oaxaca to the exclusive use of Ava Gardner.”
“Being sent away on summer holiday meant leaving behind our social lives in Brooklyn, where we grew up, and where pebbles were embedded in concrete and streetlights relieved the darkness and one would see and smell, on summer nights, acrid children in striped T-shirts, musty earth in vacant lots, rusting car parts in vacant lots, older children sitting in those nonautomotive cars smoking cigarettes and pinching the small nipples on small-tittied girls whose long legs in their Bermuda shorts or denim cutoffs were like osprey legs in that they would have trod delicately through bay water, had there been any as lapidary as the bay water edging toward my feet moments before I recalled visiting Barbados as a child, which was not the great adventure some parents, like my own, expect their children to have, especially if those parents are interested in geography and are familiar with the terrain they are sending their children off to see, partially in the hope that their past experience will make their children, whom they cannot see, behave in a way that is responsible to the landscape that the parents themselves used to have their wildest dreams of escape on, but wont’ admit to, needing to believe in the fiction of family, of geography, in order to maintain some sense of who they are.”
“[O]nly that which bears the imprint of our choice, our taste, our uncertainty, our desire and our weakness can be beautiful.” — Marcel Proust, on language and writing… but really, it could be applied to deeper thinking and living, too.
From How Proust Can Change Your Life by Alain de Botton
