The Prophet Bruce Springsteen

“The type of fame that Elvis had, and that I think Michael Jackson has, the pressure of it, and the isolation that it seems to require, has gotta be really painful. I wasn’t gonna let that happen to me. I wasn’t gonna get to a place where I said, ‘I can’t go in here. I can’t go to this bar. I can’t go outside.’… I believe that the life of a rock ‘n’ roll band will last as long as you look down into the audience and can see yourself, and your audience looks up at you and can see themselves—and as long as those reflections are human, realistic ones. The biggest gift that your fans can give you is just treatin’ you like a human being, because anything else dehumanizes you. And that’s one of the things that has shortened the life spans, both physically and creatively, of some of the best rock ‘n’ roll musicians—that cruel isolation. If the price of fame is that you have to be isolated from the people you write for, then that’s too fuckin’ high a price to pay.”

-Bruce Springsteen, 1984

Favorite 80’s song…GO.

In happier times: the 1980's.

Yesterday’s celebrity news inevitably led to today’s 80’s overload.

Which got me to thinking: What are my favorite 80’s songs ever, ever, ever? Being an 80’s kid, this is my bread and butter. And so,

GREATEST 80’s SONGS EVER AS DETERMINED BY PISH DE LUXE

- Star to Fall, Boy Meets Girl
- Break My Stride, Matthew Wilder
- Everyday I Write the Book, Elvis Costello
- How Will I Know, Whitney Houston (edging out “I Wanna Dance With Somebody”)
- Your Love, The Outfield
- Gypsy, Fleetwood Mac (so good it shouldn’t even count.)
- Hungry Eyes, Eric Carmen
- Eternal Flame, The Bangles
- Our Lips are Sealed, The Go-Gos
- Everlasting Love, Howard Jones
- No One is to Blame, Howard Jones (couldn’t choose!)
- I’m Alright, Kenny Loggins
- Human Nature, Michael Jackson
- Dancing in the Dark, Bruce (the only 80’s song by Bruce that I consider an actual 80’s song)
- Borderline, Madonna (doubles as my favorite Madonna song, edging out “Live To Tell”)
- Little Red Corvette, Prince (“You must be a limousine!!!”)
- We’ve Got Tonight, as sung by Kenny Rogers and Sheena Easton
- Against All Odds, Phil Collins
- Don’t Lose My Number, Phil Collins
- Easy Lover, Phil Collins and Phillip Bailey
- Phil Collins catalog
- If Ever You’re In My Arms Again, Peabo
- King of Wishful Thinking, Go West
- Africa, Toto
- Private Eyes, Hall and Oates
- The Stroke, Billy Squier (which I don’t love that much but damn if it don’t make me dance!)
- Goonies Theme Song, Cyndi Lauper
- Sister Christian, Night Ranger (emotional!)

Maybe I should stop. A friend just said, “Who creates a “favorite 80s song list”? Are you crazy?” Well to quote Dan Akroyd in my favorite movie, Ghostbusters II, “I guess so, Pete!”

Oh sheez, how could I forget:

- On Our Own, Bobby Brown (Ghostbusters II Theme Song)
- Every Little Step, Bobby Brown

But anyway. What am I missing?!?

Great Quotes: On Campire Love

For all the summer loves out there!

“When we first started hanging out together, this morning, we were just friends; but things change, and I’ve fallen in love with you. I just know that if you gave me a chance, I could make you feel so good. So I am coming, not as your buddy, and not as a co-counselor, but for the first time as a man – a man who loves a woman, and who wants to hold her and provide for her and, yes, have sex with her; but no, seriously, Katie, I love the way you laugh and I love the way your hair smells and I love it that sometimes for no reason you’re late for shul, and I don’t care that you’re bowlegged and I don’t care that you’re bilingual – all I know is that I would have said no to every single person on your list because I’ve always wanted you.” –Coop to Katie, Wet Hot American Summer

Notes From a Birthday Girl

Unabashed in her birthday zealotry

Today is my 26th birthday. I am the birthday girl.

I got to thinking about what that means today, with near tragic results. As I was walking to work (20 mins late cause f*ck it, I’m the birthday girl), I almost got run over by a rogue cyclist. I could see the crime scene play out in front of me: I’m laying there in my bright red dress and lipstick, x’s over my eyes. The trenchcoated Detective 1 takes a deep drag from his cigarette and, exhaling, murmurs to Detective 2, “Goddamnit. She was the birthday girl.” “Hate to see that, Roy,” says Detective 2.

So it’s a special thing. But not only do you get the presents and the fanfare, you get excused from pretty much all liability.

Things You Can Get Away With When You’re the Birthday Girl:

- Breaking plans (“Sorry, I have other plans now, being that I’m the birthday girl.”)

- Breaking your BF’s Phillies 1980 World Series commemorative mug ([sobbing] “I’m so sorry, what have I done, I broke your favorite thing on my birthday.”)

- Stealing fries off your friend’s plate ([mumbled] “Wha? I’m the birfday girl.”)

- Listening to “Almost Paradise” from the Footloose soundtrack. (“Almost paradise, we’re knocking on Heaven’s door, cause I’m the birthday girl.”)

- Wearing an outrageous outfit to work. (“Oh is that your birthday sweater?” “Yes, I’m the birthday girl.” [special thanks to J.E.M.])

- Throwing tantrums and generally making an ass of yourself to your family. Who’s going to yell at you? (Mom to sister: “Leave her be, it’s her special day, cause she’s the birthday girl.”)

It goes on and on! I’m looking forward to 14 more hours of this.

How I Do

Rawle: would a pat’s/geno’s lover use words like ‘opulent’?

me: if they’re mary they might

Cribs: Mary’s Place

I was wining and dining some friends this week when the question came up: What would you do if you struck it rich?

“Well,” I said, “I’d buy a house with a huge writing room. Lots of books and a dope sound system. Plus a wet bar.”

My suggestion was met with “ooh”s and “yes, you’d love that”s — until my friend Kyle (ever the devil’s advocate) argued, “Why don’t you just write in your apartment?”

“My apartment sucks. There’s a goddamn hole in the ceiling.”

“Mary! It’s a great apartment. Just sit down and write something and stop complaining.”

This got me to thinking about my Center City abode, generally lauded by me and, apparently, my landlord, who refuses to do anything about the hole in said ceiling. But for all its shortcomings — size, pitifully small refrigerator and terrifying basement — it’s a tiny spot in the world that often enough feels like home.

Let’s have a look.

Open the door and you’re immediately overpowered by chartreuse, thanks to the painterly efforts of Rawle and (to a lesser extent) me!

One of the apartment’s main selling points was its large window. The ledge is perfect for perching oneself with a cocktail and a good book.

Being an uncontrollable collector of stuff, I love my mantel (even more than the now-defunct fireplace beneath it). You’ll notice here that I’ve got quite the beer sign, which my dad stole from a liquor store in Aruba when he was a kid. As my friend Abby said in high school, “What idiot spelled beer wrong?” Classic.

Here’s a spelling bee trophy I won in 5th grade. First place, alright! Then in the district final, I lost when I forgot to say the ‘o’ in ‘comparison’ like a jerk.

I love to ski. When I went on a ski trip a few years ago, I was so excited that I said to my friend Kristin, “I wish I had a button that said, ‘I am going on a road trip!’” She said, “Gimme five minutes” and came back with this.

Here’s a passage I love from The Unbearable Lightness of Being. (I’m aware that I spelled the name Tereza two different ways.)

This is what you call a kwihi table. Kwihi trees, native to Aruba, are bent in the direction that Aruba’s famously strong tradewinds blow. This leads to some seriously gnarled branches and a good conversation starter.

Hey, everybody has a first love. I doodled this when talking to mine on the phone my senior year of high school.

My dad made this stool in 8th grade shop class. Don’t sit on it.

Across the studio is Bookshelf Central. The spot between the twin bookshelves has been the topic of much discussion. When my parents recently bought a grand piano, I inherited the old upright I’ve been playing for 20-odd years. This is where it would have gone, had I decided to pay hundreds of dollars to move a piano to a semi-permanent home. So a collapsible sofa it was, and a piano is once again on the wish list.

A quick close-up look at Bookshelf 1 (left):

I’m a Dutch girl.

And Bookshelf 2 (right):

Here I am playing piano with my brother Andrew (left) and my niece Charlotte about 15 years later (right):

Here’s my dad playing hoops at Georgetown (right), somehow not getting called for over the back:

A boy once gave me this Deputy Dog piggy bank on a first date. The boy didn’t last but the dog sure did.

And now, the closet. My closet is the ballz. It’s my Carrie Bradshaw closet.

It’s almost palatial!

I’ll take this opportunity to draw your attention to my whale bag. My irrepressibly talented friend Lan (Lesley to you) made this for my birthday. She’s also a renowned metalsmith, gardener, carpenter, ferret corner maker (you’ll have to ask her) and dog outfit designer. She’s a real find.

My bathroom isn’t miraculous or nothing. But it packs a punch.

And now, the various doo-dads. My Dutch grandfather was made an officer in the Kingdom of the Netherlands, and everyone in my family has a reproduction of the original commendation, which hangs in my parents’ house:

A rosary hangs next to my bed in true Catholic fashion. (But I still ate chicken on Good Friday.)

I was given this Dewar’s candle by Steve the Bartender, famous for his work at the fallen Kelliann’s (now Local 44). So dawn goes down to day, nothing gold can stay.

My masterpiece: my first-grade autobiography. It reads, “My haer is brown but it is tenning black. and I’m a rock star. and I have Three watches.” Check out my sweet side pony and L.A. Gears! N.B. The ‘Christina’ bit was completely made up. I went through a renaming-of-myself phase for a few years there.

Alas, those shortcomings. Here’s the famous hole in my ceiling. Apparently the problem is with the bum roof. What’s the point, says the landlord, of patching up your ceiling if the roof isn’t fixed? Because I’m breathing in raw ceiling, I say. It’s never ending.

But don’t let that deter you from stopping by! I have vermouth and toothpicks. Vodka’s in the freezer (the two-inch frozen space inside my mini fridge).

OH I sincerely hope you enjoyed this photo tour of my home. It’s no dream house, but it’s my life for the here and now. And who knows: If my friends are right and this is my dream writing room, this shack of a studio may inspire me to write the Great American Novel. Starring: a girl who discovers the 5th dimension in her ceiling.

Let’s Not Fight!

Early on Sunday evening, Rawle could hear a man and a woman bellowing at each other with thick South Philly accents outside his window. So we peeked outside and there they were, hootin’ and hollerin’ and even hitting each other.

So of course we taped it. (Audio seriously NSFW!)

Rawle’s saying “That’s not safe” at the end. Even less safe, I think, would have been for us to interfere. That girl is scary!

Oh I do hope they work it out.

D.C. Trip: Free to Be You and Me

When our anniversary rolled around (conveniently close to Valentine’s Day), we had some ideas about how to celebrate.

“Let’s so skiing!” I said, excited by the prospects of hot chocolate, hot tubs and the inevitability of my black diamond skills looking very impressive to Rawle.

“No skiing,” he said. Apparently it isn’t fun for a 6′7″ man to fall on his butt. “Howabout New York?”

“Too expensive!” Much as I love The City, the exorbitant cab, hotel, restaurant and cover charges didn’t sound like my idea of vacation. I thought about the other cities in our midst: Boston, too far; Baltimore, too frequently visited already; Pittsburgh, too cold. Then I thought about D.C., where I’d recently attended my cousin Martin’s wedding in its newly effervescent Chinatown. I proposed our Nation’s Capital and we shook on it.

During the trip’s planning stage, we discovered that D.C. trips are practically recession-proof!

First, while booking our stay at Hotel Rouge (a boutique hotel in Dupont Circle), we were offered 30% off our total stay if we booked an extra (3rd) night. So we basically got a night free.

Then, once we found out a one-way train ticket from Philly to D.C. cost $150, we went the way of the Chinatown bus. Total cost: $29 round-trip.

So on Friday the 13th (!) of February, we hopped on the bus and made the three-hour trip from Chinatown to Chinatown.

We checked into the Hotel Rouge, and rouge it was indeed. Redness everywhere, down to the free Bloody Marys (and cold pizza!) offered every weekend morning.

Lo and behold, Room 909 was made for us. I shrieked to discover my man Bruce gracing the wall next to our door.

Being young and fun, we saddled up to Bar Rouge, a Sex and the City-esque lounge just off the lobby. The clientele included: screaming, just-barely-21-yr-old (presumably Georgetown) students dressed to go clubbing in Berlin; middle-aged couples necking and drinking appletinis; and Rawle and me. It was totally weird. And the prices! At $6 for a Yuengling, even Stephen Starr would be impressed by Bar Rouge’s audacity.

Anyhoo, we bought some extra beers and proceeded to have a hotel room party, Led Zeppelin style. Without the sharks and groupies.

Ever seen Rawle party? It’s a real treat. This is also what he looks like when he’s hungry.

And then it was Valentine’s Day! Hotel Rouge, believing that sex sells, really “nailed” it home, hahaha:

We did some research in the name of brunch and came up with Cafe Luna, just a few short hops and skips from our hotel. As their front door suggests, they’re into food, arts and politics. Us too! We loved it here. Sports on TV, $3 mimosas, huge omelets and an artsy crowd lured us back the next day, too.

We walked around the neighborhood some more, almost getting run over several times by smart-but-awkward-looking teenagers in suits and dresses (must have been a smart kids conference in town). Then we took the metro to the Mall.

The Metro is just super. So easy, a caveman could ride it. That would be true of Philly’s SEPTA system, sure, if it would ever arrive on time.

Now. We’d planned on spending Saturday at the National Gallery of Art, then going back to the International Spy Museum in Chinatown. But we wound up just following our curiosities all day. First, they took us to the Treasury Department, where Alexander Hamilton (never a president!) stands guard.

The White House is right next door. Eyeing the gate that separates the sidewalk from the White House lawn, Rawle asked, “I wonder how long it would take you to be attacked by dogs if you hopped this fence?” He smartly chose not to find out.

It’s easy to feel patriotic standing in this spot — I commented to Rawle, “It’s amazing that we got to determine who lives in there.”

We took a minute to plot our course. In lieu of a museum-filled day, we decided to just visit all the monuments in the Mall — that way, we could spend the whole day outside without spending any money! Unbelievable.

Our next stop was the World War II Memorial, erected in 2004. Rawle took great pride in photographing the Pennsylvania statue, standing in honor of soldiers like his grandfather.

Next up: the Lincoln Memorial. Look at these lucky ducks who get to live there.

Once we made the trek past the Reflecting Pool (where I got a little choked up thinking about Forrest and Jen-nay), Rawle took this beautiful shot of the Washington Monument.

And then there’s Honest Abe. The crowd was surpisingly respectful in reading the Gettysburg Address and Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address, both of which are reproduced on the Memorial’s interior.

Finally, we walked the length of the Vietnam Memorial. Out of respect, we chose not to take any photographs of the families tracing their fingers along the wall, looking for names. The Wall is tremendously moving and beautifully done.

After walking five or six miles, we figured we deserved a drink.

Then we walked back in the direction of Cafe Luna to Skewer’s, a Mediterranean restaurant offering a prix-fixe Valentine’s Day dinner full of booze, chocolate and belly dancers! Sign me up!

Turns out we missed the belly dancers. Oh well. We had more than our fill of wine, kebabs, scallops, chocolate cake and more wine anyway.

Lookamego!

In light of our failure to enter any museums on Saturday, Sunday was devoted solely to the Smithsonian and neighboring museums. First up: The National Gallery of Art (actually not part of the Smithsonian), which begins with its sculpture garden and skating rink.

The Gallery had several exhibitions that piqued our interests: Looking In: Robert Frank’s The Americans, dedicated to the photographer’s Beat-era chronicle of jukeboxes, parades, funerals, shady characters and lonely travelers; Pride of Place: Dutch Cityscapes of the Golden Era, which did fill me with a certain Dutch pride and a yearning to return to Amsterdam; and Pompeii and the Roman Villa: Art and Culture around the Bay of Naples, in which artifacts taken from the Pomeii ruins were displayed alongside artistic depictions of the disaster.

The Gallery also houses the only da Vinci piece outside of Europe.

Rawle liked this depiction of Daniel in the Lions’ Den. Look at those big lions.

The Pompeii exhibit was a crowded mess. We were nearly trampled several times by mothers running after their kids. Our fault — the Sunday of a three-day weekend was probably not the smartest day to come here.

We emerged from The Gallery to find some frisbee players. I thought it was too cold to play frisbee. Doesn’t it hurt your hands, hippies?

We tried to go into the Air and Space Museum. Too crowded; smelled like little kids.

So, at Rawle’s suggest, we went to the American Museum of Natural History. Site of dinosaurs, caveman reproductions and the Hope Diamond.

(And I have to say — the mass of people cramming to take a picture of the Hope Diamond was one of the most embarrassing things I’ve ever seen.)

I was surprised to see no one taking pictures of these guys.

Or me, for that matter! (Plz don’t call me a hippo.)

Another look at the hippo (or, as my nephew Henry would call it, a rhinosopotomus):

And then it was Closing Time. Too bad — we missed the Newseum, the Castle (below), the Holocaust Musuem, the National Museum of Crime and Punishment, the Air and Space Museum and the National Museum of American History. At the exception of the Newseum and the Crime/History bit, all of these cultural institutions are free — yes, free! — to the public. So we have tentative plans to come back and take it all in (not to mention hang out with our family/friends who’ve made their homes here).

Before we retired for the night, we went back to Dupont Circle to get some Mexican grub and do a little shopping. The incredible bookstore Kramerbooks is open all night (24 hours of books!) on Friday and Saturday, so we took our time picking out a few volumes to take home. (I bought my rave-fave Joan Didion’s collected non-fiction works, plus The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao; Rawle, inspired by the Vietnam Memorial, got The Things They Carried and a few others. The cashier said “Good choices man” and I was jealous.)

Come Monday morning, it was certainly time to go. There were neither Bloody Marys nor cold pizza in the lobby. And I was sick of the earrings I’d brought. So we hopped back on the bus and, three hours later, landed in Chinatown, PHL.

For young folks like us, D.C. is a fun, affordable town. An intellectual vibe underscores all of Downtown, from the brunch spots to the overwhelmingly great Smithsonian. So if you’re like me — a broke-ass kid looking for fun on the cheap — I suggest you get on the bus and explore our Nation’s Capital.

But if you’re going to Bar Rouge, you best pre-game.

Next up: Pish de Luxe grins, bears it and forks over the cash for a few days in NYC with her big sis. Stay tuned!

Adventures in Artistry

Hey guys. I didn’t forget you! Big things are coming.

In the meantime, please enjoy today’s foray into Photoshop/time theft (where I would be considered a novice and an expert, respectively).

Short-haired Mary and big-horned iguana in A-R-U-B-A

Here’s another look:

He's a big'n!

Sorry for that complete waste of time! More to come!

Metric – Help, I’m A Fan

Twitter usually leads me astray. Typically, when I scroll through it — which, as habit would have it, I do throughout the day — I’m watching my friends battle over friend-ly things, or I’m reading headlines of articles I’ve already read, or I’m alerted to emotional crises plaguing people I don’t know that well.

Metric plays Philly. Thanks to Twitter, we were in on the surprise.

But today, I got some genuine news when scrolling through those 140-character accounts of boredom: According to Philly’s CityPaper, Metric (lead by the incomparable [and Canadian!] Emily Haines) was playing at World Café Live at 8.

“Rawle!” I typed to the guy who’s been raving about Ms. Haines’ live show at the First Unitarian Church for as long as I’ve known him, “Metric’s playing tonight! At 8! We have to go!”

So, we went.

A few words first. This was a super-secret show. Wasn’t mentioned on Metric’s Web site, wasn’t leaked on bulletin boards (that I know of). Just popped up on CityPaper today.

Secondly: I’m kind of jealous of Emily Haines. First of all, she’s super hot. Nobody doesn’t want to bone her. And she’s crazy great at writing pop songs, not to mention an ivory-tickler of Nina Simone caliber. So. Piano-playing- and leather pants-wearing-wise, I want to be her.

Canadians in our midst: Emily Haines and James Shaw.

Disclaimers disclaimed, here’s the show:

Emily Haines and Jimmy Shaw (Metric’s two Canadian members) strode onto the stage. They played the majority of their upcoming album, Fantasies, on electric piano and acoustic guitar — that is to say, not with the crash-bam-boom rock soundsystem that is Metric’s trademark. These were very stripped-down, “campfire” songs, as they called them; and the audience, seated at tables and lining the walls, was in awed silence throughout. Here in Philly, I’d never seen anything like it.

They started with “Gold Guns Girls,” presumably the first track off Fantasies:

Then they played Help, I’m Alive, which laid the groundwork for this awesome vignette about the album’s creation.

I especially loved the fourth and fifth tunes. Guess I’ll have to wait for the album to drop in April to catch their names.

In the center of the show, each took a stab at a solo at piano. Shaw played a lovely tune in the unrequited love realm (something about his own redeeming qualities getting nullified by an unanswered phone call); Haines played a Buffalo Springfield cover (Expecting to Fly, to be specific, which has slayed me many a time…Neil Young’s seen me through my own unrequited loves).

The pair’s penultimate (what! that’s the word!) offering was called Give Me Sympathy (which asks, “Who would you rather be: The Beatles or The Rolling Stones?” Depends on the hour of night, for me. And if whiskey’s in the cards.). Couldn’t quite get it on camera, but here’s a great video. I’ve been listening to it the whole time I’ve been writing this thing.

They finished with Live It Out, harmonizing till the end:

The encore was Monster Hospital. Everybody freaked out! And then the house lights went up, and it was The End of the Show.

We hung out for a while, breaking down the show, guzzling down our beers, sucking out the last bits of freedom before a new work day began.

But what do you know. We emerged onto Walnut Street and there’s the band. And then there’s Rawle doing his “You see, kids…” bit and making friends. And then there’s this picture:

Between this and having Bruce Springsteen point at me in October, I’m well on my way to being the next Band-Aid. Tryin’.

Fantasies will be released on April 14, 2009.