anagram of brat

Old school Valley goths'll understand why I'm more likely to lose my shit and fire up ALL the industrial/synth/goth in my collection on Tuesdays. 'Course this week I've been on a synth binge since Sunday. Discovering that there's a club in the midwest somewhere dumping their old playlists onto demonoid hasn't exactly helped, nor has Pandora's industrial channel, so for the first time in a while i've had some new (to me, anyway) stuff to listen to. How the hell had I been going to Haven intermittently from '96 almost on up to its demise last year (when a club night goes to one Tuesday every 3 months, it's dead, who are we kidding) and completely missed "Annie, Would I Lie To You?" i have no idea, but it must qualify as a minor miracle.

It's funny, I have most definitely outgrown the "eyeliner! eyeliner! Interminable angst!" and "Bloody flowers and thornkisses!" bits of gothiness, but the music has definitely stuck with me. VNV Nation, Covenant, Wolfsheim, Assemblage 23 and Apoptygma Berzerk are all in my top ten groups, which, if you consider the fact that that's five bands right there, says something. Something about stompy stompy üntz üntz music just... eh, resonates is a bad word for it, but it does fit. Also it's WICKED fun to drive to. Do yourself a favor and don't be in the car with me if Das Ich's "Destillat" (specifically the VNV Nation remix) is on. The speedometer will quite probably crack 95mph, and you quite probably will die.

An interesting side effect of the goth rabies was staying up late(r) after working until damn near midnight on job #1 stuff (ugh, responsible adulthood) talking music with cell23 after catching him singing a snatch of Beborn Beton (goth rabies is apparently highly transmissable) and being momentarily flummoxed. Cue an hour or so going through my music collection and discussing the aesthetics of groups like Front 242, London After Midnight and Einstürzende Neubauten, and how I still have a lot of unlistened-to garbage floating around from the dumping of other people's music collections over the years. (Inexplicably, I still have an album or so's worth of morlock's ICP. Yeah, what, IDEK.) And then we got into weird/outsider music, including Wesley Willis and Songs in the Key of Z and the various out-there music that's come to my attention via various mix tapes extrajoker and I have exchanged over the years ("She was chopping broccoli!"). It was nice - cell23 and I tend to get lost in our own separate spheres/rooms/computers so being able to connect and giggle over common music taste was an unexpected treat.

Man, I really should do my podcast again sometime. All this blather about various and sundry just makes me want to dive right back into the Mixmeister mines.

I'ma get dressed and go vote in a few.

I wish it was because I truly gave a shit (I'm on the fence), but really, it's because Sunderland Elementary usually has a pretty good bake sale going on Election Day and the prospect of home baked cookies will usually get me to get dressed and go do just about anything. I am nostalgic for the bake sale the Northampton Senior Center threw for the presidential election though. Grandma baked goods >>>>>> Mommy baked goods. Truefax.

Anyway go vote. There may be cake.

I must not LJ.
LJ is the time-waster.
LJ is the blog that brings total oblivion.
I will face my LJ.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when ...
it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the LJ has gone there will be no time left.
Only I will remain.

h/t sixswordsamurai.


IRL news: It goes. Head is noisy. Stressed. You know, what has become standard parameters. *sigh* Really just want to crawl into bed and not wake up until September. Well, maybe a short break in hibernation for the Scott Pilgrim movie.

>

I often feel a little bit like I was brought up without a culture. I think a lot of this comes from going to UNIS, where I was one of a handful of American kids and therefore didn't get to say I came from anyplace "cool" or "different." This was especially evident in grade school where most of my friends got to show up in kimono, boubou, hanbok, quipao, dirndl, daishiki, sari, sarafan or whatever else and I had to wear a boring old dress for class picture day.

But all that aside, that's actually not true when I really think about it. It took moving away from Brooklyn (twice) to realize it, but there are a few things I grew up with, both in my house and family and also in my neighborhood that are pretty firmly West Indian, if not exclusively Guyanese. A little bit of attitude, sure (I definitely picked up Dad's seriously odd sense of humor), but mostly it seems whatever cultural heritage that made the biggest impression on me was the food.

West Indians don't play when it comes to three things: sweets, alcohol and pepper. I've posted before about Dad's infamous pepper sauce (the family is still a little astounded by cell23 eating it straight out of the jar by the spoonful and surviving). I may or may not have mentioned the black cake (this is a dense, extremely rich, smooth fruitcake that's allowed to soak up its weight and possibly a bit extra in rum before icing and serving - usually trotted out for weddings... a one inch square of this stuff will require a designated driver). And I know I've gone on and on about tennis rolls and how I miss them when I'm up here to the point where I'm thinking of taking a Saturday sometime soon and trying my hand at baking them (there is only one recipe for them to be found on the internets.) But even apart from those things... there's just a world of other stuff I don't realize I miss when I head down there and walk along Flatbush Ave - calypso and soca pouring out of storefronts, the smell of jerk chicken and roti wafting temptingly from corner restaurants competing with the smell of burnt hair from the salon next door, little old ladies selling bulk spices on the sidewalk... I think I'm going to be heading back down to New York a little more often this summer, now that I, you know, can. Just so I can soak up some home. And, you know, grab a few bags of tennis rolls from Sybil's to bring back and freeze, if I completely fail at making them (or, more likely, never get around to trying).

It's funny how this whole ramble started from me pouring evaporated milk into my coffee this morning instead of using cream and having it occur to me that I've only ever seen West Indians do that. Pity, the rest of the world don't know what it's missing there. Evap is awesome in coffee, being thick, sweet and 79¢ a can.

You know how the scent of rose oil is associated with Christ? I've just decided that all things that are evil, annoying or generally anathema to Andees are now associated with lady-scented bodywash.

What, you dont learn your life lessons from old spice commercials?

I really honestly wonder why the hell I don't cook more. I make delicious happen when I do.

Also? As I was cooking the thought that the sauce could have used a dash of Dad's pepper sauce in it crossed my mind. Either it's a brisk, nippy day in Hell, or cell23 might be slowly converting me to the gentle art of gastrointestinal masochism. Pepper plus Crohns? Yeah I see this ending well for me, lol.

I resisted the temptation to photoshop "Melange" onto one of the jars there, but it was kind of a struggle.

Part of tonight was spent running around cell23's apartment taking pictures of stuff. I'm planning a bit of a scavenger hunt for Kidzilla on Saturday and this shot is part of it.

Between roommate's new meds and her compy issues plus unexpected email from one of the exes this afternoon and general life tweakiness, I'm still running pretty low on spoons. Getting to say hi to a couple of small people on skype definitely helped though.

My hair is doing something ridiculously cute right now. Basically I pulled out all of my twists this evening because I NEEDED to occupy my hands (I know some of you know what that's like) and suddenly I've got a head full of absurd little ringlets.

Right, off to find something to wear to work tomorrow so I can justify being too out of it to do laundry tonight.

One man's "eh, that's not that spicy" generally equals my oral inferno.

owwwwwww

There are two culinary areas where West Indians do. Not. Play. I've talked often about the baked goods... Sugar (and sometimes lots of rum) is srs bzns.

The other thing is the hot sauce. I promised cell23 I'd pack him some of Dads, and just to make sure I had the right stuff I touched my pinky to it, then to my tongue. Yeah, pro tip: this was a bad idea. My pinky AND my mouth are burning. I'm reminded of the time Roy Sr unwittingly poured this stuff all over a plate of food since he didn't believe us when when we said this stuff was _hot_ and we all just watched him snickering when he took two bites, turned a shade of red blackfolk should never turn, and bolted for the kitchen for about a gallon of cold water.

Could be worse... Could have rubbed an eye.

Hitting the road. Catch y'all on the flip.

ETA: four hours, two states and at least two handwashings later I unwittingly stuck the same pinky in my mouth... IT STILL BURNS OH GOD fucking capzaisin