Summermoon Coffee Bar

When it comes to coffee shops I was until recently, strictly a Starbucks guy, and I felt (feel) dutifully guilty about it.  But I can't help liking the dark brown interiors, dim lighting, and cozy, yet clean and predictable wrap you up experience.  Other places seemed to revel in their unkempt glory.  They proclaim their shabbiness, roll around in it, shout it from the roof tops.  And if I did venture out to them their tables always seem chock full of the squatters who have been there for hours holding down one  spot, and scattering their belongings in a wide swathe to mark their territory, which usually  left me sitting outside with the smoker's on rusty lawn furniture, shielding my eyes from the sun  for as long as I can stomach it.

Yes, I'm a baby.  Yes, my friends occasionally call me Princess, but I'm ok with that.  I am who I am, and I do sometimes venture out of the castle to explore the surrounding kingdom, which is how a friend of mine and I discovered Summermoon Coffee Bar. 

The interiors are dark, woodsy and warm, the baristas friendly, there is liquor for those who want it, and from the moment you step in you feel enveloped by stone and wood peppered with orange and teal hues.  I ordered the "Summermoon Latte" which was like a velvety coffee flavored hot chocolate (probably due to the cream they use which is like melted vanilla ice cream) and they do offer the "Half Moon" latte for those who like it less sweet.  The place itself makes you feel like the owners care deeply about their craft, their shop, and yet it skirts feeling "precious".  In short, I highly recommend it.

 

Unanswered Questions

Writing can be so frustrating.  New ideas swirl about, fragments.  Little bits and pieces of pleasure that grab me for a moment.  But they are trifles.  Too insignificant to grab onto.  Diaphanous.  Taking them down?  Catching them?  I could make an occupation of trapping them, have distracted myself for hours by printing articles of interest, organizing pages of notes, cutting out images from magazines and putting all of this into a 3 ring folder, but in the end doesn't it all come down to distraction?  Distraction from the real work? 

I distract myself with books.  A cover crosses my path and I am instantly bewitched, besotted with what I imagine in the contents, but once I open the pages, hunker down, the truth of what between the binding?  It almost always disappoints.  It's the same with ideas.  Once fleshed out, once completed, the finished project always disappoints.  It can never be as good as I imagined it.  But what is better?  To thoroughly digest an idea, a story, a work?  To read it to its completions, imperfections and all?  Yes.  Of course, the answer is yes.  It's not the distraction which is meaningless, it's the amount of effort you put into the distraction.  Unfortunately, that means risk.

I have to risk my time, my emotional investment, risk relinquishing my superiority and doubt so that I can investigate the book, or work (both when consumer and producer) to really know if it's worth it.  But not taking that risk means risking so much more.  It means possibly flitting from one thing to another like a distracted butterfly seeking the perfect pollen and never taking anything in, because nothing is perfect.  Everything is settling.

Do I do the same thing with relationships?  There was a time when I was always the person left behind.  I was too afraid to break up with anyone because I didn't want to risk losing something wonderful.  So I would wait, slog through the mud of a relationship until the person I was in it with decided to unlace their shoes, step out of them and take off. 

And then, I gained some confidence, grew, and the proverbial pendulum swung.  Then I was almost always the one who left first.  Afraid of being hurt, afraid of settling for less than my one true love.  I only really regretted the decision once, but should I have regretted others?  Maybe.  Maybe I didn't give those others a true shot, didn't give them enough time to break the surface into the depth of what they truly were.

Someone I dated recently wrote me, trying to reconnect.  I was welcoming, but careful.  After all, I'd broken off the relationship for a reason and didn't want to get caught up in it again, didn't want to give him false hope.  He'd said he would call, he wanted to talk, and then he never did.  Which left me thinking "was I not enthusiastic enough in my response"?  If I had been, would he have called?  And if he did would I want to see him again?  Not really.  The feelings hadn't been there.  But could they have been?  Would they have been?  If I went back in, figured out just how deep the incompatibilities were, would they have seemed a trifle in comparison to the others out there?

Is the truth of the matter that eventually you just have to find something good enough and land on it, grab hold of it, get entangled and stay?  Stay for the good and the bad?

Questions That Keep Me Awake

Fact: It's 3:23 AM as I am writing this post. 
Fact:  I cannot sleep, because certain questions plague me into the wee hours.  For example?  Please see the photo below:

This photo depicts a very boring portion of my apartment.  It's that wall that most apartments seem to have that houses things like a/c vents, the thermostat, the water heater, and that random lightswitch way at the top.  My question?   What does it control.  Seriously.  What?  It' s so high up there that most normal people would need a ladder to reach it.  Luckily, my ape arms allowed me relatively easy access and I flipped the switch on and off several times, but nothing in the apartment changed.  I flipped other switches on and of to see if they're being on changed anything.  It didn't.  The only light that it might control is the overhead light fixture by the entrance, but that's already taken care of  by the multi-switch panel relatively close by which does not sit inches away from the ceiling.    If I can remember to call my apartment's office tomorrow, perhaps this question will be resolved.

True Confessions

I've titled this post "True Confessions" because nothing is more freeing than letting go of secrets.  It's liberating.  And as one who vacillates between not caring what people think, and caring to the extreme, it's a good exercise in the art of putting truth out there.  A word of warning.  These are very random, being written as I write them, and I'm not out to shock, but some of these may be considered "TMI" and will very likely mean that some of you reading this will never sleep with me, or never sleep with me again.  And you may be thinking that you weren't likely to sleep with me anyway.  Fine.  But, possibly I didn't know this, so in writing the truth I am giving up on that sliver of hope I still held that we might enjoy connubial bliss.   

Confession 1.  When I used to live in a very small apartment in Los Angeles (a studio apartment) I had a little cat named Ira.  I still have this cat.  Unfortunately, living in such a small space with a cat caused some problems.  Mainly?  Kitty litter in the bed.  Yep, it's fucking disgusting, I agree.  And I did as much as I could to stop it-  no track litter, little rugs for him to scratch it off on, but nothing worked.  And sad as it is, I got used to it.  When a girl in a romantic clinch (yes, I used to date girls) thought the crumbs were crackers in the bed, I kept my mouth shut. 

On a side note, I am very particular about cleanliness in my apartment now.  And thanks to a much larger space, and a habit of making my bed every morning, my bed is as pristine as an angel's cloud in Heaven.  I know you were wondering.

Confession 2.  Sometimes while masturbating, my cat has been in the room.  Occasionally he's been asleep next to me on the pillow, or nestled at my feet, and while normally I would kick him off the bed, I will admit that there have been times when I didn't want to disturb him, so I just let him lay there. 

Confession 3.  I still go through the index of every show biz book I find, seeking out "Judy Garland" to see if she was considered relevant enough to mention, and to see if she's treated well within it's pages.  If she's not, the author will forever be on my "shit list" to one degree or another.  Furthermore, if I read a story in which some person treated her badly, they are also on said list.  As a result, people people I have at least a small disdain for include: film critic David Thomson, Cloris Leachman, Elizabeth Taylor, Angela Lansbury, Mel Torme, and Lucille Ball.  Conversely, if the author or a certain subject of his or her tome loves Judy and treats her well, they have won my complete and eternal respect.  So kudos to you Marilyn Monroe, Katherine Hepburn, Fred Astaire, Tony Bennett,  Tori Amos, Tennessee Williams and Julie Andrews. 

Whew.  I don't know bout you, but I'm beat.  A little truth goes a long way.  But fear not, I'm sure the mood to confess will hit me again at a later point. ..

A Trip to "Blahs" and a Thorough Scraping

So I've apparently been "scraped".  This, which I'd never even heard of before, is what happens when a site steals your content and then directs all keyword searches for your post to their site.  In this case it's something called "broken controllers".  Needless to say, I wouldn't recommend a visit.  They charge you to join and fill you up with spyware.  Not pleasant, I'm told.

I was able to get them to remove my post, but so far any keyword searches are still leading people to the non-existent post.  Ugh.  I'm not through, though.  I'm currently accepting submissions for possible new titles to the blog, and am sending notices to the big search engines that I was thieved from.  Unfortunately, I dealt with that rather than compose a new and post, but I'm back on the horse today.  They won't keep me down.

In other news, last night a friend of mine and I went to a preview of "Oz: The Great and Powerful".  I went in with low expectations, but still hoped for a good story.  I didn't get it. 

The film's creators didn't go deep enough into their characters, didn't fully flesh out the characters and elements they added, and because of restrictions in dealing with a film that's still under copyright, could not use the fully fleshed out characters that someone else created, as much as they would have liked.  As director Sam Raimi said in an interview with Entertainment Weekly, "...finally we came up with designs that were not too close, but not too far either".  So what you get is a cutesy, cloying, cut and paste job, with a lot of the same plot devices and visual references as the original film (there's a rainbow reflection in almost every splash of water) but none of the  depth, or heart.   

Like the wizard's tricks, this film directs your eyes toward the flash of special effects, hoping you won't realize there's very little behind their technical achievement.  Believe me, if you can tear eyes away from the green skinned wicked witches drag queen eye brows long enough, you will notice.   

A fun diversion on the way to "Blahs"

Joan Crawford, paella, and Pepsi

 

Found this odd and oddly affecting promotional video for Pepsi from 1969, thanks to Lypsinka, by way of Michael Musto's blog http://blogs.villagevoice.com/dailymusto/.  I know I'm supposed to laugh at it  for how bizarre it is by today's standards (and it is bizarre), but mostly I feel awash in the type of mid-century wonder and goodness that is like a balm to me.  It is a communion with the graceful power of Joan Crawford.  Like a mouthful of Wonder Bread and a sip of Pepsi, it makes me feel whole and, believe it or not, proudly American.  Thank you, Joan.  I'm glad that conventional housewife and mother let you borrow her daughter to take her on a tour of the grocery store and buy Spanish sausage.  I just wish it could have been me. 

In other news, I've changed the background.  I can't make up my mind, so expect it to change again once or twice more before I settle on something.  I admit to being a complete novice at this medium...hell, I can't even figure out why my royalty free photos from prior blogs have gone awol.  If you have thoughts or opinions, feel free to share 'em.

Stumbling

Why is blogging so frightening?  For me?  It's essentially the newest and quickest form of self publishing, and while it's an exciting way to get one's thoughts, hopes and vision of his corner of the universe out to others, for me it has a lot in common with the stumbling, slightly slurred speech I gave last night at a bar to a group of about twenty friends and former co-workers on the occasion of my last day at work.  They both share the same steps as any other act of creation:
 
1.  You are called.  Friends are encouraging you, you are encouraging yourself, and thoughts of "Hells, yeah, I have something to say" peek up from the desert like little prairie dogs.

2.  It seems like a great idea.  You are primed for it.  All of your life experience has been leading to this moment!  Out will spill words of majesty and warmth, irreverence and mirth.  Just you wait, friends.

3.  You open your mouth to speak, and realize you are a whole lot less certain than you thought you were.  Shit.  You should never have trusted those feelings.  Traitors.  You are abandoned and now, forced to speak. 

4.  And out it pours.  Some of it true, a lot of it calculated to please your audience, who can see the blatancy, much of it aching with the need to be liked and accepted, and maybe eighteen percent of it  hoping to help, to serve, to provide encouragement, and thanks. 

5.  Once you've spoken, you immediately wish you had invisible fingers that could reach out from your mouth and snatch those words back.  They were imperfect, they were pretentious, they were beneath you, and worst of all, they didn't express all the magic you hoped they would.

6.  You spend moments of the next day wishing you'd never spoken at all.

7.  And yet, you believe it's a good thing you listened to the call.  Any damage done was probably reversible, and you would have regreted letting the moment pass so much more than you regret the imperfections of the answer you gave.  And your words and thoughts and ways of expressing them have merit.  Most people say so.  And you trust there's a reason the call came.  There was a purpose to it.  You trust that.  And speak again, at some later point, in spite of the pressure of that.