Audiophilia

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Timezone: EST
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E-mail/GoogleDocs/etc.: fine by me
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OOC chat: I'm a friendly lady
Mature scenes: We're all grown-ups here, allegedly.
Third-person/past tense: Si.

Music was my refuge. I could c r a w l into the space between the notes & curl my back to loneliness( . )

Make Sweet Word Love to Me, townsquare




Make the Love 𝄞 Paint the Picture 𝄞 Write the Song
.spam.|.voicemails.|.texts.|.emails.|.love.notes.|.hate mail.

Hey, you sexy motherfuckers. There's a pernicious rumor about how much you all miss me. Or about how I'm a "fucking sell out" because I've done that "obnoxious blogger thing where I get a book deal and ditch the blog in the first place." Which seems to garner the response "WTF are you talking about? She's already written two books. She is Jamie Stein."

( To Respond: )

You think you know about Baby Einstein.

It may be the case that Einstein ain't got nothin' on this kid

This is an OOC post.

Hello, ~Seattle Members:

After gaining clearance from the modly folks, I am posting to ask you all a huge favor. First, some background:

My sister from another mister, Melissa, is that person who always has a smile on her face, even though life has dealt her an exceedingly unfair hand. In May of 2009, her son Aiden passed away just seven months short of his third birthday. Last summer, we were all surprised and delighted to hear that she was pregnant once more. My nephew, Noah, was born on April 16, 2011, and it immediately became apparent that something was very wrong. After months of tests and more than a few extended stays in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU), he finally has a diagnosis. Noah suffers from the exceedingly rare Optic Nerve Hypoplasia (ONH). Worse yet, he suffers from an extreme case of the condition, born with each and every possible symptom. His optic nerves are grossly underdeveloped, his brain structure is seriously malformed, and his pituitary gland barely functions.

Melissa has spent the past four months tirelessly caring for him, including the host of daily injections he needs to make up for his severe hormone deficiencies (good thing she's an RN!). With Noah's diagnosis, comes a glimmer of hope. Despite the condition's rarity, there is a doctor in the US who has expertise, and is willing to see Noah! Unfortunately, ONH, M.D. is in LA--a whole continent away from Noah's home in rural northern Vermont. While Melissa and her fiancee, Adam, have no shortage of love, they can't fund the trip themselves. As such, they have posted on gofundme.com in hopes of raising the necessary cash ($5,000.00).

I know that times are tough. I totally get that most RPers belong to a demographic that means they aren't financially established, and that it's likely that many of you, like me, often find yourself sighing wistfully at that latte you can't afford. So, I totally understand if you can't donate any cash (though if you can, donations in any amount can made through paypal via the above gofundme.com link). What I'm really asking you guys for is advertising space. If you are comfortable and willing, I would really appreciate anyone who could post the link on their personal blogs. If you would like a more concise explanation/plea to go with it, I can provide it. Melissa, Noah, and Adam could really use the help, and I can't think of people who deserve it more.

If you can't help/are uncomfortable posting this sort of thing, I fully understand. But, with such a dire situation involving people I love so much, the least I can do is be a little bit tacky and ask.

Thanks for your time,

Lu-s

Don't let the cute fool you

( I. Am. Awkward. )

"Footloose". It's been remade. There's a 100% less Kevin Bacon. And 100% less Kenny Loggins. I'm pretty sure that renders it unacceptable and unwatchable. I will not be getting footloose, nor will I be kicking off my Sunday shoes. Geez, Louise me all you want. I don't gotta cut footloose.

In wandering the internet, rather than doing any form of productive work, I found this, and thought it was quite entertaining:

on july 20, 1969, as commander of the apollo 11 lunar module, neil armstrong
was the first person to set foot on the moon.
his first words after stepping on the moon, "that's one small step
for man, one giant leap for mankind," were televised to earth and heard by millions.

but just before he reentered the lander, he made the enigmatic remark
"good luck, mr. gorsky."

many people at nasa though it was a casual remark concerning some
rival soviet cosmonaut. however, upon checking, there was no gorsky in
either the russian or american space programs.

over the years many people questioned armstrong as to what the "good
luck, mr. gorsky" statement meant, but armstrong always just smiled.

on july 5, 1995, in tampa bay, florida, while answering questions
following a speech, a reporter brought up the 26-year-old question to armstrong.

this time he finally responded. mr. gorsky had died, so neil
armstrong felt he could answer the question.

in 1938 when he was a kid in a small midwest town, he was playing
baseball with a friend in the backyard. his friend hit the ball,

which landed in his neighbor's yard by the bedroom windows.

his neighbors were mr. and mrs.gorsky. as he leaned down to pick
up the ball, young armstrong heard mrs. gorsky shouting at mr. gorsky.
"sex! you want sex?! you'll get sex when the kid next door walks on the moon!"

true story.

(please forgive the lack of capitalization. The version I found was in all caps and I assumed that everyone would rather read in strictly lower case)

Before I begin, a disclaimer. I do not intend, in anyway, to discount or diminish the fact that domestic violence is not a burden borne by any one gender or sexual orientation. It is by no means the sole struggle of women at the hands of male batterers. I can't, however, ignore the fact that domestic violence and our culture's approach to it is indicative of and largely informed by the unique experience of women. After all, many if not all of us invoke the colloquialism "the rule of thumb" with little, if any thought given to its origin (namely, the common law rule that allowed a man to beat his wife with a switch so long as said switch was no thicker than his thumb).

"But wait!" You proclaim "I came here to read about music, and food, and beer, and all of the amazing shenanigans that go with it!"

Fear not, Dear Reader! I haven't strayed too far. I just couldn't allow the Parents Television Council and Industry Ears' criticism of Rihanna's "Man Down" video to go without comment.

I don't disagree with statements like "first degree murder never solved anything" or "the depictions of gratuitous violence that have become ubiquitous in our popular culture desensitize us and thus make violent acts easier to commit". I can't really agree with the idea that either is a valid objection to the "Man Down" video, though. Somewhere along the way, people have forgotten that violence in art can make a powerful and important statement. Like demonstrating how sexual assault makes women feel. Like that women aren't shrinking violets that require the protection of big burly men. Like violence against women is unacceptable and worthy of condemnation.

What I find more disturbing, however, is the accusation that the "Man Down" video doesn't qualify as an artistic statement because Rihanna is just shamelessly exploiting her own experience with domestic violence for pecuniary gain. "Come on, she's done three things that are related to domestic violence or the nexus between sex and violence and now she's really just beating a dead horse." That's what the Parents Television Council and Industry Ears are saying when they question the integrity of her message. Georgia O'Keefe painted vagina flowers for decades. Before I have a bunch of Art History majors pounding on my door screaming about the falsity of comparing the artistic integrity of these two women, pause. Think about what we're really talking about. What we're talking about the willingness of these watchdog groups to minimize the impact that Rihanna's experience had on her worldview and her passions.

What they are saying is that she has to be engaged in wanton economic exploitation because she should be over being ruthlessly battered by a man that supposedly loved her by now. They are implying that she couldn't possibly continue to have some valid emotional stake anymore. That, my friends, is simply bullshit. It reinforces the message that domestic violence just isn't really that big of a deal. It desensitizes their children to the long term impact battering another person has on that person. It is the antithesis of their alleged mission. Instead of applauding an artistic exaggeration that forces people to confront our culture's failure to take a strong and unwavering stance against batterers and in support of the battered, the Parents Television Council and Industry Ears have sided with the batterers. I suppose, though, I should let you judge for yourselves.

Man Down

The phone rang early. Too early for a Sunday morning. As soon as it tugged me fully from my dream the panic set in. The type of moment that, in retrospect, makes me contemplate whether I've chosen to surround myself with people who live too hard. I learned a long time ago, there's a danger zone in the hours just before dawn when the sun is threatening to show itself. Too late for a drunk dial, too early for a pre-work check in. The time of the morning when someone's calling because something's gone wrong.

It makes your heart buzz like a hummingbird, all gulping for air and trying to get every nerve to stop firing at once. Set aside panic and prepare yourself for the worst. Who's deployed overseas? Who's been having a rough time? Which old acquaintance always did get behind the wheel after one too many? Get ready to roll out the old mournful favorites. Weave them together with the playlist from that one summer when the two of you were inseparable.

I was fourteen when I met Jake. He was in my brother's band. Played bass, like me. He was tall and lanky with shaggy brown hair and green eyes that said everything you needed to know about him. Back then, his Adam's Apple looked like it was about the size of my fist. He loved Les Claypool and anything by Zeppelin. We kissed once. My first. It was awkward and fleeting and we never spoke of it again after we jumped apart at the sound of my brother's foot steps. Took us years to tell him the truth. And the better part of a bottle of tequila.

He was always the early adopter out of the three of us. Always the first to try out the new high. Never grew out of it, either. He'd been running that game for so long that his name didn't even make it onto the shortlist. He had that sort of luck. When I was twenty, he walked out of a pick up truck he'd torn in two. Somehow, that rendered him invincible in my mind. Apparently, in his own as well. We both should've known better. No one can sustain that sort of luck.

I made sure flowers were on the way to his mother. I'm not good at these sorts of things. No matter how many times you go through the motions of it, it never becomes routine. I'll make the long drive on darkened, narrow highways with Rita in the passenger seat and the Jerry Garcia Band on repeat. Pull over to let her have a bathroom break. Tomorrow, I'll be surrounded by his family, and we'll all alternately sit in silence and laugh inappropriately hard at some idiosyncratic thing Jake used to do. I'll sit with his brother and empty glasses. Sit through the funeral, listen to the hollow thump of dirt hitting hardwood before we're back in the bottle. We'll clean things up, and we'll go for breakfast, and I'll get back on the road. And I'll miss him less than they do, because his absence isn't as sharp.